Katana was in the lobby, after winning his previous match, decked out in the General's own kaiser armor with the arsenal of weapons armed. Loyalty still had the thermal energy it had absorbed in the previous match that was transferred by Sodom, now. Gomorrah was attached behind him, on his back below where the waldo-arms retract, fully activated and running while Sodom was sheathed at his side. He had loaded a clip of four FMJ rounds into the LAC R-13 rifle, ammunition that he had found - more goodies he had grabbed off of the General. He reloaded regular assault amunition into the Backlash that was still intact, and reloaded the cylinder of the Mateba. Within the shotgun he had loaded six shots: chaff round, DU, chaff, DU, DU, chaff. The Matador, fully loaded, every weapon completely stocked out while he was still in the lobby. With that Katana stands up, there was one more finishing touch he had to make before he would be completely ready, though. Katana delicately lowers the thick nanoweave fingers of the exoskeleton to the rim of his hat, then, picking it up he sets it down atop the dome-shaped helmet that encased his head with a soprano chime. He placed closed fists against his hips, while striking a magnificent post just before he was caught up in a blue aura that whisped him away to the match - to his final match.

If Katana's head had gotten any fatter it wouldn't fit in his helmet, and if he won this fight... his ego would present him with nothing less than apotheosis. The microcosm of this fight that was the finals was derived from eleven invitations out of a thirty two person brawl, and this was taken from 127, which was out of 547. Pressure on? Hell naw. Our egocentric protagonist thrives when the pressure is on, self-centered as he is, Katana loves being up on a stage - and actually prefers it. Within a blue flash he is taken to this new, and strange environment, spawning on one of the actually more-stable platforms, it holds his weight... for now.

He is cautious, and arms himself immediately upon entering the arena, even though his adversary has not even arrived. The waldo arms spring out, in one, it takes the R-13, with a bullet already chambered, placing the butt against a blocky shoulderpad. The other waldo-arm supports the heavy Matador over top of his opposite shoulder, Katana scans the surroundings by swaying side to side, in his left hand he pumps the shotgun once by the action, then flips it up to the palm of his hand, if need be he could quickly drop it and unsheathe Sodom, since the shotgun was slung over him by strap. In his right hand was a concussive grenade, and down within an arms reach was the Backlash. Katana was no cowpoke, but he did have a quickdraw for his sword, so he reckoned he could do the same with the machine gun.

One thing bothers me, here, though. I haven't heard a -damn- thing about the guy i'm fightin'. I've seen his name progress through his rankings, and it looked like he had some pretty weird opponents, but hell, I haven't even seen him step into the lobby for a drink. He didn't look all that threatening... but neither did that Ichi-gou character... Katana shuddered at the thought of having to go through that fight again. I suppose even if he were that bionic, I have enough gear now to be able to deal with his craziness. After all, there is no finer sword/gunman than Robo-Katana. Come to think of it i've fought 2-3 robots... and now I have become one. Ironic. Whatever... he'll be here, soon.

So it begins, the last match that Katana has in this alternate-dimension within a fitting precipice, where he will live a champion or die a martyr.

Spencer was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of -- what? Spencer is there, not dead. Tarnation! This isn’t some dag-nabbit Christmas Carol. Infectious, ethnocentric Brits. If aliens ever read science fiction, they’ll think London is the center of the galaxy. Anyway, back on topic.

Spencer is there: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Furious over the imbecilic idiosyncrasies of his retarded (archaic) adversary, Spencer opts not to leave the damnable, gurgling toilet of a coliseum. Why bother? He waits, leering at the genuflecting carcass caught between a blast of steamy water and a dancing fire nymph (homomorphism) until it finally disperses like a freakish confetti bomb chock full of spit, hair, and ass. Although the diminutive detonation leads to the fool’s mock resurrection in the ‘lobby,’ at least the nasty little display of translocation extinguishes the fire, which earns an approving nod from our hero.

Then again, after a second thought, he screams, “WHAT NEXT, FAGGOTS?” Of course, by that time, most of the spectators are busy violating the public service areas with the product of their foot-long chili sausage snacks, and what is the oath of a single warrior against the sound of a thousand anuses rupturing in volatile agony? Not only that but, as he snags his rifle, the landscape begins to vigorously morph around him.

“I WAS BEING SARCASTIC!” Spencer laments, albeit hostilely so.

Zinger after zinger of water and oil and god-knows-what gush at Spencer, escalating horribly until the setting degrades into some type of LucasFilms® hair studio damned to the hell of metallic aerosol paints and burst colostomy bags. Were it not for the shades Spencer had pinched from the face of that hallucinogenic furry fuck, Kiyoshi or whatever his name was, the shit might have put an eye out. Fortunately, Spencer’s eyes stay in their sockets, and the terrain condescends to a restless homeostasis; just enough so that Spencer can sit down without experiencing an awful, slimy baptism.

That’s when there is another blast of confetti. Only this time, instead of placenta chunks splattering the nearby bits of marble, Robocop materializes. ‘Oh, this is just rich,’ dashes through Spencer’s mind. Already on his seat, he leans back against some type of uncomfortable mesh and is immediately glad for his undermail. Then, with his rifle across his lap and the warsword laying next to him, he relaxes and waits. Maybe Robocop won’t notice him in all the mess.

The fans cheer and the combatants appear one last time to engage in a battle that will re-write history, if not redefine what it means to be a warrior altogether. Though what they don't realize is that, all their efforts, all their struggles are to be for naught, for there is something lurking in the rear, something indescribable. It is capable of feats that are truly out of this world, simply because it does not belong in this world; it was never meant to interphase the physical and the metaphysical; nor was it meant to even do anything at all, other than drift in the vast emptiness of space?

An ethereal entity delivers one hell of a bitchslap to the face of reality, and as mother turns her head away in shame, the little runt makes its get-away - off to wreak more havoc - off to cause more chaos and destruction - off to well.. break the law.

--

Flashback to events preceeding Round #4

Situated in a rather large room are two physicists, both working around the clock to make sure the GT dimension remains stable, and untampered with. They already had a close call, when that freakazoid hybrid-monster suddenly revived itself, and almost killed half the audience. As much as they wanted to boot the motherfucker from the dimension, they had to focus on their original task:

"Why the hell haven't the parimeters been set back to normal yet!?"

"I don't know, sir. Ever since the arena suddenly shifted, there's been an 25% increase in gravitational pressure. It's really been interfering with our ability to manage the tournament."

"I suppose that explained how that beast was able to manifest that sub-plane right into the center of the arena during the third round, eh?"

"Correct, sir. Something has been placing massive amounts of pressure on the GT fabric of space, which has in-turn created a dip, allowing these strange anamolies to occur."

"Just what we need. And how do you plan on getting the fans out of here safely?"

"I don't know yet, sir. All I can say is that, this dimensional disturbance is beginning to tear apart the fabric of this reality, and we have things leaking through that we really don't need right now."

"Shit! This means everyone here including us could be in grave danger."

"The equivalent to getting ripped apart at hyper-speed in all directions, sir."

"I need to go out and have a smoke. All this talk of reality getting fucked with is really starting to scare the fuck out of me."

With that, the rather large man got up out of his seat and proceeded towards an electronic door, placing his hand on a soft gel-pad, designed to take blood-samples in order to determine no unauthorized personel were allowed in. It was supposed to give the bastard a little prick and send him on his merry way, though the little bastard on the "other side" had managed to shove the thing straight through his entire arm, and out through the other side of his neck.

"Sir! Sir! I need you to ge-WHAT THE FUgh-agghghgh!"

--

Back to the arena.

Right before the announcer is about to kick off the final fight, his attention is caught by something else. The sun seems to twist and contort, almost as if by some gravitational pull, ripping apart the sky like a sheet of paper, revealing the entire space-time continuum. A captivating sight indeed, one that alludes towards what is truly happening here.

A transparent tentacle suddenly begins to make its way down from the rift in space-time, possessing one orange orb in the middle of it, opening up to form a red-slit that it uses to view its surroundings. At least several dozen more do the same, prodding at some flabberghasted fans as though they were children in a mueum viewing the latest exhibit. One particular individual is unfortunate enough to be backed up into a corner, only to be probed by at least four tentacles, injecting him with some green fluid that made his entire body swell up, before simply exploding all over the place.

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

Panic ensues and the creatures take that as their cue to attack, hardening their very tips as they relentlessly impale, blow-up and even consume members of the crowd in their malicious assault. No one understands the reason for the creature's presence, nor does anyone really give a damn at the moment. The only hope they have is that somehow, and maybe, just maybe, Katana Ashigaru and Spencer will put aside their match to play the role of hero.

Before they even have a chance to decide, two basketball-sized blobs drop from the tear in space, standing on hardened tips which they use to skitter across the arena-floor and leap at Katana and Spencer; their eyes color shifting to a parasitic gray. At the same time, the rift is becoming wider and wider, until eventually, the sky no longer exists and all there is that infinite celestial darkness.

The Plasmolysists began their assault

Where is he..

Katana's vision pans left, then right, passing right over the seated Spencer, a moment of weakness, which would very well end this match, Whoop, waaaaaaaait a minute wait one minute! after looking far right he focuses in on Spencer. No kidding? Shit! This is easy pickings! at this point he raises the backlash to train it on the seated opponent, when all the sudden he heard shrieks in the crowd. Are they that excited to see me? Now, now, ladies, there will be -plenty- of me to go around after the match, donchu worry 'bout ole Katana, daddy's gotcha covered. Suddenly he hears the crowd shrieking in uproar, and to be quite frank, it's kind of ruining his concentration.. Keep your eye on the prize... eye on the prize.. eye on the prize..

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

Okay, so that set Katana off, he whirls around dropping his trained arm, completely oblivious to the gigantic monster that had literally ripped open the fabric of space/time above him and looked to whoever was throwing him off. "HEY, LISTEN FUCKER, I'LL GET WITH YOU IN MIN-" it was at that point he saw this giant gelatinous blob, forming tendrils of itself to probe into some terrified overweight crowd members posterior and drain him of all the fluids in his body. It is likely that Katana completely assents to the uproar, "What the fuck?!?!" he shrieks, just as the monster leaps out of the stands all the way to where Katana is, the second blob is nothing more than a blur that moves towards Spencer. Katana sloppily raises his right arm, firing a haphazard blanket of shots into empty stands and hopefully at the creature, all of which harmlessly splatter through the membrane and exit uninhibited. The creature jumps him, goopy extensions slither over the carbon-duerenium plating on his armor as it begins to dissolve the thick carapace.

Katana acts with little more than a cold sweat and a motion of his left, in desperation, jamming the barrel of the shotgun into the creature while pulling the trigger. What it releases is a flak rounds, which ususally does nothing in terms of offense, however it seems quite effective in this scenario. The spread explosion of all the shavings disperses the gelatinous goop, causing it to splatter all throughout the unstable arena. "What the fuck is going on?!" Katana shrieks from the confines of his helmet. He leans back a little bit to see nothing but a blank canvas of cosmos, then looks back to his 'opponent' the tinted helmet suddenly- and finally goes back so fast that it allows the wide-brimmed samurai hat to float on down atop his noggin.

Well, at least Katana found out how to retract his helmet, he was hoping this wasn't some strange trick Asimov's armor had on him when it wasn't the rightful owner piloting it. So he pulled back the helmet - you gotta see something like this with your own two eyes; so he did. It didn't make him any less appalled. A giant collaboration of writing tentacles pulled back the edge of the sky like it were a bed sheet being pulled off a mattress. Katana's arms fall down limp as the shotgun hangs by the strap, and the backlash clatters to the ground, uselessly. "H-H-holy... fuck." he stammers, fighting a super-armored General, a super-strong android with an ultimate gun, a technologically advanced mercenary, or a wizard capable of summoning horrible minions was one thing... but fighting a writhing mass of tentacles that probably wasn't even the entirety of the organisms body - much less that is capable of defying the physics of the GT League's universe and more or less - destroying those laws kinda struck a bad string with Katana.

He stands there for but a couple seconds, mouth agape as the slithering tentacles struggle pulling apart the fabric of space even more. Suddenly something that had gripped Katana firmly speaks to him, something that had kept him fighting throughout the entirety of this tournament. A thought? A memory? A spark? No, it was something much more.. it was a fire, it was a fire of thought, of memories, maybe of aggression? It was a warmth that emanated from the heath, but it had spread, it had become a raging inferno, now. He felt it once against Windsor... and again against Ichi-Gou. This fire devoured his fear as a hand slips down to the handle of the shotgun, lifting it. His right harshly grips onto the action, and with one pump a used shell is discarded from the shotgun. Katana's eyes narrow, his features become stern, his teeth grit.

"It's time to get messy, bitch."

“Pan left. Pan right. C’mon, it isn’t that hard. Now aim it at me. Good boy. Now, just pull the trigger,” Spencer whispers, watching his opponent intensely. His finger is practically twitching on the firing mechanism of his plasma rifle, which is resting across his lap with its butt snug against the inside of his elbow. He’ll wait for Robocop to commit, then swing his rifle forward and trigger the release of a narrow iridium bolt. With any luck, it’ll make a respectable hole in the oaf’s gorget, but even better is its raw stopping power; more than capable of tumbling someone into the slick mess below.

From his seat on a slab of marble partly-suspended over the arena, Spencer’s ass is pretty damn cold. Stone can be so darn numbing, especially for someone without sufficient padding. Rounding his shoulders and shifting his weight in an effort to get comfortable, Spencer scoots backward,. In the process, he catches a glimpse of the sky. His mouth drops open. It looks like a massive replica of something he’d seen once at an alien strip club, but seeping a whole lot more.

Tranquility. Spencer decides, regardless of whether a spray of bullets decimates his face while he sits on this ass-numbing chunk of debris or he defeats Robocop in a battle of less-than-epic proportions, that he’ll be on the receiving end of some. One-hundred-proof. It isn’t a particularly tough determination for him to come to as he glares up at the melting sky. The damn dome looks like a some masterpiece of realism washing away in globule-laden streaks to uncover an abysmal pit offering up a bouquet of slick tentacles.

“Bring out the dancing girls. This has to be some latent sexual desire surfacing through some unusually sick dreams,” he mumbles.

He glances down, noticing his opponent hadn’t taken the opportunity to blow his skull off his shoulders, but a commotion in the audience draws his gaze further back. A writhing tendril of chorded muscle whips out of the sky, lances a nursing woman’s back, and explodes straight out the tip of her free nipple. Any uncertainty Spencer may feel about the situation vanishes. Especially when the squealing baby in the woman’s grasping arms decides to suckle on the bloody thing instead of nature’s best.

“Eww,” he says, averting his gaze.

That’s when he notices something ugly is flying straight at him.

With one hand, Spencer lofts his plasma rifle from its rest across his lap and points it forward. As its nozzle drifts first to one side, and then the other, he wonders why he even bothers. ‘Is it instinct? Am I even awake? Would it really be that bad for an oozing satchel of amniotic fluid to splatter against my chest and liquefy my internal organs? Damnit, I’ve already pulled the trigger.’

To anyone paying attention, instead of doing the sensible thing and trucking it, he would appear as though he is undergoing a monumental exertion made worse by the edict of boredom. Followed by a shower of super-hot giblets.

So, it seems that the idea of a prestigious event; where one could rise above the rest, surpass the ultimate test and become the best has been abandoned. If not defiled by this creature's very presence as a universal parasite; something that could literally devour a planet like Godzilla swallowing a grain of dust. That was big this thing truly was, though due to the nature of this particular plane, it would be forced to take on a much smaller form.

It merely began to coagulate the already existing fluids within its body, and then hardening them to a point of being comparable to super-condensed bone mass. A massive orange orb appeared with that same red-slit in the middle, which it used to view its surroundings.

--

Back in the Lobby

"Get down now!" Screamed a guard clad in some technologically advanced, powered-armor similar to palladium, designed to fold in on itself whenever it took a hit. Their original objective was to remove the abomination from the GT Dimension, should he wreak any more havoc on their artificially designed fabric of reality. Some were armed with powered lances, whereas a few scientists had managed to gather a few samples of that dark substance that had manifested onto the arena where Alucroas had fought Asimov in.

Each and every one of their planet-sized brains had managed to formulate an equation designed to yank the beast back inside The Dark Realm, and lock it up; annihilating any chances of something like that ever happening again.

I said it once.. and I'll say it again.. Somebody...will DIE here..

Shivers went down his spine, as the monstrosity within began to spread its malign influence throughout the mind of Alucroas, amplifying the rage that festered within the beast. Skin furled up around the lips, as the abomination finally stood up; having spent enough time laying there throughout the entire fourth round to recover energy. Natural regenerative cells in his body did that, combined with the now fortified entity's presence, producing quite the challenge for the protectors of this dimension.

Adrenaline pumped through him, supplying him with the needed energy that would be vital in taking down these wretches. They just can't leave you alone can they!? Nobody can. Humans can't leave anything they touch alone, nor do they realize that they are their own plague. So...what am I, 'CROASY!? At that moment, his pupils dialated all the way to the point of shrinking, disappearing within their irises as Alucroas went into a state of blood-lust, and it was scaring the ever-living shit out of the guards.

They hadn't faced something like this before, and after watching the video-feed of what went on INSIDE The Dark Realm that the scientists had deciphered, their terrified looks only increased.

So...it appears there is a God after all...GET DOWN!

Evidently, the Plasmolysist from the GT Dimensional control room had managed to use its victims own blood as a means of granting it access to the main-lobby. And here it was, taking on a transparent red hue, utilizing muscles that it had stripped from the dead physicists body to grant it a more 'lively' appearance. At the same time, it was deciphering knowledge of how these creatures moved, hunted, fought; essentially operated, what they were made of..the works.



Suction cups formed along the tentacles it used to maneuver around, hardening at their tips like clawed toes, that carried it throughout the viscinity. Quite the loud clamoring sound was produced, as the now giant creature that was about twice the size of Alucroas made its way to the point behind the bar-wall. And the beast within the beast had sensed it coming. Hence - why it had demanded Alucroas to get down, because it was igniting the liquor on the shelves, which would've produced one hell of an explosion that would've shoved an inferno up his ass.

The explosion rocked the lobby, spraying glass shards everywhere as flames lightly licked the guard's armor, though Alucroas was perfectly fine, mostly due to the fact that the entity inside had warned him. He was now at the table where he had his brief confrontation with Asimov, and his little outburst with Ichi-gou. That monster came out out of the hole it had created, and locked its sight on both the guards and the hybrid-monster, its slit pupil narrowing to an even greater degree.

"Take your aim, men...It seems we have another threat on our hands."

"What about that monster?"

"It lost to that General, so obviously our weapons should be able to handle it."

"I guess that makes sense, sir."

"NOW FIRE AT THAT FREAK!"

A thousand plasma shotguns cocked back all at once and a group of ten men clad in the same armor began to unleash Hell on the Plasmolysist that had emerged from out of the wall. They managed to vaporize parts of its flesh, but they were quick to regenerate, as the thing slithered throughout their ranks at speeds, it shouldn't have been capable of. This was a testament to how well it could analyze a being's physiognomy and use it at its pique potential, impaling guards straight through the neck, before injecting them with a toxic enzyme, leaving them to suffer a very...excruciating death.

The day...just keeps getting better and better...

The Plasmolysist quickly slithered towards Alucroas at break-neck speeds, whipping its tendrils straight in the direction of the abomination's face. Though despite the parasite's awesome speed, Alucroas could move just as fast, if not faster. Coiling back his tail, and then launching it out like a spring-loaded viper, cleaving through flesh, before becoming intertwined with its unwraveling muscle-fibers. Alucroas was literally picked up off its feet, and hurled at a wall, producing a sickening breaking sound, as the wall crumbled underneath his weight.

So..far they seemed about evenly matched in the sense, that they could both damage each other greatly, but there was still more to come.

How sweet...new meat...

Let Darkness manifest and consume the rest..

Grab ahold...and rip apart its soul..

He may be a monster...but you're one too..

Do not...dread..he'll soon be dead..

But you'll be the one to die tonight..

IF YOU DON'T STOP COWERING AND FUCKING FIGHT!

--

Back to the Arena

Chemicals were being taken from the area, and were granted an infernal kick in the ass, as nitric acid vapor began to settle fill the lungs of an unfortunate section. They breathed in, and their wind-pipes were shredded. It also triggered a spark, causing the little fuckers to explode, showering the entire area in blood and gore. The gargantuan that had just finished preparing itself, applied the same method of consumption that the one in the lobby had; absorbing muscles and integrating it into its anatomy.

The thing fell to the ground in a rather large splash, filling the entire arena with its liquid secretions, producing one hell of an out-door swimming pool. The only difference was that, it wasn't water; flesh, blood, and a rather slimey substance, well over head-height. Katana and Spencer would have to start swimming, or move to higher-ground if they wished to combat the threat in its current state. There were even more miniature Plasmolysists now, and they too were taking in the flesh, allowing them to sustain more fatal blows, without being completely annihilated like the first time.

That baby from before wasn't going to get off with a break though, for that bloody tentacle it was suckling on, immediately went straight down the infant's throat and hurled it at Spencer, along with its mother's dead body. But that wasn't the only threat they had to face, for some of the tentacles were grasping at the cosmos, snatching a cluster of mini-refrigerator sized meteors, and and throwing them down upon the two warriors. The dead Plasmolysist had managed to retreive data on Katana's defense, and so, the creature thought it necessary to up the ante.

Both men were being put to their ultimate test, and it wasn't going to go easy on them, it wasn't just some mischevious creature that sought to wreak havoc here. It had proven that in the lobby when it began integrating living beings into its anatomy, and through that slit it, it was gathering vast amounts of knowledge about how this world operated. Those dead fans didn't go to waste, their brains were being probed, searching their memories of past-matches in order to formulate tactics, that would be useful in strategically dissecting their weaknesses.

Truly, it was a creature to be reckoned with, and not one to be fucked with.

Katana noticed how Spencer dispatched the smaller tentacle monster. He... he's a novice? How the hell did he make it this far?! Is he trying to get me to think that he can't fight or is he biding his time? Seriously he about bit the dust, his reaction times compared to the other fighters i've faced are impeccably slow, compared to theirs his weapons are a bit primitive and he hasn't resorted to using any powers... This guy's human, not just human like me, average human.

Katana's thoughts are interrupted by the following:

The heavens opened and as if a celestial dish poured out the antithesis of panacea, what once was revered and respected bore fruit of something horribly corrupt and detestable. Katana is at a disadvantage, and quickly moves to gain the high ground just as that primordial ooze sloughs down from open astronomy and torrents violently upon itself. He scales uneven ground as the tidal waves crash against the unstable rock, then manages to the top. Matador takes aim to the center of the arena, while the rifle takes aim at the small orb down in the newly-formed acidic bath. With one shot the rifle fires one bullet straight to the orb that Katana assumed to be some sort of nucleus of the creature. The waldo was used to the weight and recoil of the gun so it was factored out, and it was also used to aiming weapons with much greater precision than Katana could with his own two hands. In addition, the speed at which the bullet was fired could easily puncture through the epidermis of this parasite like a knife into rotten fruit.

The other waldo was doing something much more widespread, in case the first onslaught had failed. The Matador was slung up upon his shoulder and stabilized by that very waldo, then fired into the center of the arena. It was high-time someone pulled the plug on this basin, and if there wasn't one? A black hole phenomena of fifteen feet in diameter in the center of the arena should do it... at least until the spatial anomaly collapses on itself, Katana hopes that there is enough time.

Splat.

‘How unpleasant,’ mulls Spencer, his rifle back on his lap. He reaches behind an ear, sweeps his sunglasses free, holds them lightly by a temple, and uses his jacket sleeve to wipe the chunks of translucent flesh off. With satisfaction, he returns them to his face and turns that upward to the churning sky. Almost immediately, he receives a vile baptism of fluids reeking so tremendously that it is all he can do to not add his own bile to the mix.

Spfftgyek!

In the aftermath, Spencer blinks, spits violently, and claws the drapery of slime off his body. His little platform barely peeks above the pool of filth, and he can see gray, fleshy coils lapping at the sides of the thing like a swarm of eels breaking upon a shoal. No more motivation is necessary to propel Spencer to his feet, the rune sword firmly in hand and slashing at any tentacles probing too deep into his comfort zone. A futile effort, he swiftly realizes.

Scanning his surroundings, he immediately notes bodies being torn apart, a hail of bullets pouring from Robocop’s multitude of armaments, and bits of the landscape jutting through the noxious mire. There are also the great fangs leering above everything else, sans the … uh … the thing. Instinct or otherwise, he sees in them some potential. Leaping from his platform, Spencer wades his way toward the nearest spike, and activates the vibrating bayonet on the Chapel. He saws through the enormous metal beam, the micro-vibrations rattling his teeth in his jaw as he struggles to hold the damn thing straight with one hand, but, nevertheless, it makes short work of the situation.

The beam sways intensely, and in a few more minutes might splash downward. “Good enough. Now, let’s hope this is flammable,” Spencer growls, clutching the base of the fang with his arm, his fingers still white around the handle of Keefe. With a grunt, he fires three shots from the Chapel, straight down into the basin of nasty secretions. Its miniature explosive warheads bursts through the liquid, erupting into oil-rich sod violently. A series of detonations bubble their way up to the surface, and finally he and the beam-turned-javelin rocket upward, into the thing’s bowels.

The orb spins around momentarily, and the slit widens at the sight of Katana's rifle aiming at it, quickly swimming out of the line of fire, and avoiding injury. Unfortunately though, it hadn't paid enough attention, for the Plasmolysist's first eye took the round from Madator head-on, completely annihilating the nucleus and splattering its contents everywhere, giving it the appearance of a cherry-bomb going off inside a cantilope.

More and more tentacles began to spawn from the disgusting pool of gelatinous filth, and attempted to latch onto Spencer's cleverly made rocket, giving it a forceful shove, redirecting its course into the spire that Katana had taken refuge on. The danger hadn't ended there either, for both men apparently, hadn't noticed the meteor-shower that had come raining down earlier. And it was now wreaking havoc on the entire arena, splattering the bodies of fleeing fans, and setting the stands on fire. This was chaos, in its purest form, and it was about to get a hell of a lot more chaotic once those 'space-scrapers' began to collapse from being bombarded by meteorites.

--

Back in the lobby.

Alucroas was down, but out, shaking himself free of debris from the collapsed wall. The Plasmolysist was moving in, and fast, hardening one of its tentacles near the end, causing it to grow barbed spikes that would do a fine job at replicating the environment where the much larger Plasmolysist was fighting. The only difference, was that this particular thorn was alive, lunging directly at the abomination.

Alucroas quick to leap out of harm's way, shattering a few barbs along the way by utilizing the sharp bone at the end of his tail, coupled with his sheer strength, effectively plunging his tail into one of its defensive tentacles, pinning it to the floor. In response, the Plasmolysist began pumping that same green fluid out from before, creating a rather large burst of kinetic energy, sending Alucroas sprawling across the marble floor and into a few tables.

Well...this isn't very fun.. At this rate, I might as well commit suicide, just so I can say I wasn't part of the abomination that lost to jello..

That definately got him motivated. If there was one thing Alucroas didn't like, it was getting teased, by anyone or anything; he'd dealt with that long enough from dealing with the humans of Wing City. The abomination was starting to kick it up a knotch, gathering the power of raw electricity into his mouth, illuminating his fangs into a vivid, translucent blue. The Plasmolysist on the other hand, was coming in for a death-blow, mixing the green fluid with an orange-purple compound, causing its tentacle to swell up.

Alucroas didn't waste any time either, charging the Plasmolysist head-on and releasing his beam of electrical energy, as did the Plasmolysist, producing a violent teal explosion wrapped in electricity. The lobby was nearly crippled, and smoke from the entry-ways to the arena could be seen pouring out. As for the fate of Alucroas and the Plasymolysist, that had yet to be seen.

--

Back to the arena.

The gelatinous beast may have lost its first eye, but hundreds more were about to take its place, gathering up the stringy optic-nerves of the humans that it had absorbed, granting it a much clearer view of its surroundings, by connecting their eyes to the ends of its tentacles.

The Plasmolysist still had a few tricks up its slimey sleeves, producing a few sparks of electricity that were followed through, by what appeared to be the stomachs of its victims, pumped up through its transparent tentacles. Surely, those fat fucks had something of use in those elastic bags of flesh, and indeed they did. It had simply increased the toxicity of their stomach-acids to the point of being able to eat away the spires as well as Katana and Spencer.

Each and every tentacle began to develop little cannon-sections, swelling up at the botoms and narrowing at the ends, before simply firing each and every stomach. It was like a one-sided water balloon fight gone horribly wrong, and if the parasitic monstrosity had a face, it would surely be smiling right about now.

For the most part the mini-black hole works, it creates the singularity needed and clears out a sizable portion of the monstrosity, just enough so they can comfortably move back down upon the arena without swimming in an ocean of the digestive fluids. Here comes the kicker, the beast doesn't even look phased by it, as a matter of fact, Katana has his doubts that the creature had even noticed the damage dealt. The flaming licks caused by atmospheric friction from the meteors startles Katana, but he is overly protected by his armor.

Another one of these flaming balls of death pass by Katana's flank causing him to jump and turn, just as the homemade explosive collides into the spire Katana is standing on. Katana loses his balance and begins to topple over along with all the rubble, falling down the crashing spire like he would fall down a flight of stairs. In his fall he loses the rifle and the matador, somewhere amongst the junk, leaving the waldos free. With a hard 'thump' he lands directly at the creatures feet (in this case the slithering mass of tentacles that are at it's base). Katana shook his head a little, bringing himself out of the induced daze, Shoulda worn a helmet.. No quicker than Katana finished that thought, a sharp tentacle comes stabbing end-down directly for Katana's mid-section, he rolls over a fraction of a second before it would have been too late.

"Oh fuck, OH FUCK, OH FUCK!!!" Katana says, rolling over a second time before a series of sharpened tendrils pierce through bedrock to his side.

He somehow, miraculously manages himself to his feet while the cannon-fire is going on above him, he isn't particularly too aware of the blasts that were fired off of the cannons because really they didn't concern him too much, Gomorrah was protecting him from any harmful bacterias or decomposing fluids that the creature might have by nullifying it's chemical effect within the meter viscinity and any electrical discharge from it, while the armor was good against kinetic force created by the blasts. Gomorrah and the kaiser armor made a great team, too bad they wouldn't stop the possibility of the tentacles impaling through his stomach, though.

Katana weaves through a few tentacle thrusts before he fires the shotgun like a madman, releasing the remaining shots that he had loaded the clip, Depleted uranium shells and flak shells, at the creature. Hopefully the heat of the du shells, and the spread of the flak shells would be enough to take out more of these nuclei that Katana saw spreading all apart this creature... hopefully.

While he's firing the shotgun faster than it's meant to be fired he looks up at Spencer who's casually wasting away somewhere behind the two and shrieks: "HEY YOU GONNA FUCKIN' DO SOMETHIN' ALREADY, OR ARE YA GONNA LET BOTH OF US DIE HERE?!" It was a convincing statement, but then again, Spencer was probably too worried about the cannon-fire that the beast had let off.

A tendril grasping from the swiftly-diminishing pool of ectoplasm snares the enormous spire on its careening upward path. Sinew shreds like flesh around a sword and metal splinters viciously impale the gelatinous limb, but the plasmolysist’s resolve tightens, suction-cups forming along its arm’s interior and latching relentlessly onto the metallic surface. With a tremendous heave from the conflicting forces, a groan emanating from the deep, the beam’s trajectory alters and its top abruptly dives downward. It shatters the platform at Robocop’s feet, toppling him into the murk and corkscrewing deep rills into the arena floor with erratic twists and turns.

Spencer can’t maintain his grip, and the swift jerking hurls him skyward like the contents of a trebuchet. From his inverted position between Hell and Earth, he sees his sunglasses drop from his face and, further down, Robocop vanish into a sea of translucent brown, red, and blue fluid writhing with innumerable featureless tendrils. His eyes grow wide as he notices a mouth of darkness growl fiercely from directly below, and the sea pouring helpless over its formless lips into the nothing beyond. A small, Durenium-clad arm stretches out in a plea for help, rolling along the wash helplessly. Then … then …

Smack!

Every bone in Spencer’s body burns agonizingly as he smash into the plasmolysist’s underbelly, back-first. He almost blacks out, and his mind recalls that time when Tersan threw him from a spaceship above some lake to teach him the merits of stealth reconnaissance. The idea is to go in with both feet, like a knife stabbing through a chink in armor, because if you belly-flop it really, really hurts. As the wave of pain washes over him, Spencer opens his mouth to take in a deep breath, but instead receives a mouthful of sticky substance.

Frantically, Spencer lurches forward, toward the distant ground, and thrusts Keefe and the high-frequency blade to the fore. The vibrations from the bayonet spread outward in rapid and visible oscillations, rippling through the plasmolysist’s gelatinous body and further increasing its permeability. Its outer-membrane liquefies, and melts into a curtain of rain.

Suddenly he has air in his lungs, but Spencer is also falling again. Down, down, down until a tentacle snares him by the leg and swings him about in wide, nauseating arcs. Wheeling Keefe around, Spencer cleaves through the limb, and without grace he smashes into the arena floor.

“HEY YOU GONNA FUCKIN' DO SOMETHIN' ALREADY, OR ARE YA GONNA LET BOTH OF US DIE HERE?!” Spencer hears while pulling himself uncertainly to his feet. His landing was fortunately in a pile of mush, so he isn’t hurt too badly. The bruises will look horrific in a few hours. However, his face is red, furious from Robocop’s statement. “WELL FUCK YOU, TOO!” Spencer calls back, only to turn and confront another tentacle, sending the tip flying after a heavy cleave of his war-sword.

“WELL FUCK YOU, TOO!”

Ah, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Katana jukes and weaves through a barrage of tentacles that seem to sprout off each other at a surprising speed in spite of the heavy armor donned. A few paces away from his position Katana sees the Backlash he dropped earlier, and just as the Plasmolysist rears it's mighty tendrils Katana uses the waldos to handspring away while snatching up the fully-automatic mid-flight. He lands in a crouched position while the sharpened ends of the appendages slam into the ground with a mighty crash that pierces straight through the rock and mass that he was once standing on. With a pull of the trigger he mows down these tentacles with a wall of bullets.

Out of the corner of his eye, through what dust and smog was kicked up in the mighty heave, Katana sees Spencer lofting an impractically large blade, hacking tentacles with more fervor than Jason at make out point. An overcommitted swipe hacks off a tentacle, where two more follow up to stab him through. Backlashes staccato chatter lets little more than chunks of flesh and goo reach Spencer. Katana smiles, resting the barrel of the auto against his shoulder, "Welcome princess," he says with a smarmy grin.

At this point a couple tentacles pull back revealing the epicenter of the creature, layers of membrane pull back like a reptiles eye and muscle retracts revealing a lamprey-esque mouth full of jagged gnashing teeth, just before it bellows right in the two's face with a mighty roar covering Katana (and possibly Spencer) in a baptism of phlegm and scuzz. Katana is still for a moment, absolutely appalled - and pretty damn disgusted.

The monster doesn't give either of them the reprieve they're looking for as two much larger tentacles (width of the tendril is even more than the height of Katana) come from either side of the two, aiming to squash them together like it would squash a fly. In much less than a blur Katana reaches both of the bulky arms forwards catching the tentacle by the the suction cups and his feet dig into the arena floor, arms wavering under the pressure, the waldos reach out behind him, anticipating the second wall-like tentacle to come crashing into his back.

"'Fits a fight ya want than world renown Katana Ashigaru will give it to ya, you damn big ugly-ass squid!"

‘Princess? What an asshole,’ thinks Spencer, somersaulting back from the hail of bullets and exploding flesh to land with a splash on a knee by Robocop, facing the opposite direction. A waldo sways overhead, unleashing another burst of high-caliber bullet from the madator. Beneath the canopy of ammunition, Spencer lets out a deep sigh of frustration, and assesses his surroundings. Then his gaze latches onto the train-size tentacle careening at him and his ears struggle to absorb the fleshy bellow of the beast as it spews its rage down upon them.

It appears their charm is making an impact. Full, frontal.

With little time to react, Spencer stabs Keefe into the ground in front of him, the cutting edge lining up with the oncoming battering ram of semi-solid horror. He can see trails of liquid pouring off the membrane as it cleaves ever-nearer through the air, like raindrops along a window of a fast moving vehicle, and his eyes close in anticipation as he braces for impact behind his blade. His hope is a ridiculous one, but he is a ridiculous person. The last thing galloping through his mind before impact is, ‘So Robocop has a name, eh?’

There is a tremendous rumble around him and he hears a series of expletives emerge from behind that he notes to store away for future use. Opening his eyes, Spencer sees smoke emanating from the sides of the bright-red sword, its individual runes juxtaposing the weapon with cerulean and tracer lights. “Cool,” he says, glancing up to see, hovering above him, Katana stuck in a pincer between three tentacles. The one that came right at Spencer had been split in half. What he also sees is a bit more terrifying: the giant, lamprey-esque mouth twitching and spewing bloody spit and bits of flesh as it lowers itself down upon the two of them.

“Oh, hell no!” Spencer shouts, crawling out from under Katana and reaching into the utility belt duct taped to his side. After a while he pulls out a plasma grenade, and without a second thought tosses it straight up into the gullet of the beast as hard as he can. For a while it hangs in the air, and then it unleashes a massive explosion of blue light…

Katana strains as the waldos waver under pressure, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Spencer scramble out of the way. Third degree burns and worse burn over the monstrosity as brilliant blue flames flicker across the gaping maw, a cloud of smoke shrouds it's open cavity for a moment just before a shrill roar is heard. Upon contact the creatures tentacles pull back, releasing some of the pressure on Katana. The grenade seems to be pretty effective and at that point, Katana gets an idea, with one of his free hands he grips onto the belt that has the two plasma grenades and two concussive grenades on it, he didn't have a technocrat combat pack, he blew that up in his fight against Asimov, but Spencer does, he seen it! He seen it with his own eyes!

"HEY!" Katana calls out, just before tossing the belt back to Spencer, "Beastie don't seem to like boomsticks, I'll hold it off, you just keep doin' whatever you did." Now the thing's pretty damn mad and Katana's standing just a couple yards away from the smoldering jaw of the creature, how does he deal with it? The way he shoulda' been dealing with it in the first place. Katana places an all-too bulky hand on the hilt of Sodom, just as the waldos reach onto his back, steadying Loyalty onto his shoulder, the gun is antique compared to the weapons he got from Asimov, but he's more accustomed to it than the others.

A wiry group of tentacles sling towards Katana's sword hand side and in a quick blur they are decapitated and drop to the ground behind him, writhing. Semi-gelatinous tentacles thicken at the end to appear like something of a mallet, it drops down on Katana, but with his two armored gloves he presses the flats against it, blade against the palm of his free hand, and once again he is locked into a power struggle with the monstrosity, as more tentacles grow off the creatures slimy body

Loyalty trains in on the creatures' center of mass. I got somethin' nice for ya, worm.

Goodbye, and Thanks For All the Fish!

Catching the utility belt in one hand, Spencer slings it over his shoulder. Considering the sludge, phlegm, and slowly-drying spittle coating his clothes, it sticks there pretty well. Wiping off his forehead with the back of his hand, he can feel the slick residue and he knows his efforts are futile. The prospect of a bath is almost too good to be true.

“Ugh, I feel like I just crawled out of a giant, fucking used condom,” he mutters, wishing it was a host of hot, naked virgins rushing about in an effort to evade impending doom-by-penetration instead of him and some mechanized asshole.

It isn’t long before the aberration is back in full-swing. Three giant tentacles slam down around Katana and Spencer, vibrating the arena floor with their tremendous impact and supporting the beast as it heaves its ass from sky and plunks down atop the stands. The enormous metal bulwark collapses under its weight, and the unfortunate occupants are buried alive. Catching his balance, Spencer looks to his side, unable to see beyond the heaving, translucent flesh, and beholds the twitching multitude of tongues lapping at the inside of the many-fanged pit of a mouth. A gale of fetid air bursts from the quivering orifice, and Spencer’s gag reflex almost kicks in. Almost.

“I don’t suppose you have a plan,” Spencer caustically responds to Katana.

“The plan is to fuck this shit up!” Katana shouts back, leaping forward and slashing at one of the tentacles with his sword. It is one of those Delphic phrases, and as far as Spencer is concerned, it is probably coming true in more ways than one. As if to frame the point, as sharp as the weapon is, the tentacle is spongy and thick, and the blade only cleaves halfway through before getting stuck.

Then another creature comes out of nowhere and slams right into Katana as he efforts to extract his sword, pinning him to the ground like a rider beneath a fallen horse, only not as pretty. The thing looks like some sort of dinosaur with an exoskeleton and an ajar mouth that has, within it, yet another mouth. It twitches, laying prone on top of Katana, and random bursts of electrical discharge flicker along its teeth. The unnatural, fleshy tail had slapped Spencer across the chest on its way through, and sent him hurling through the air straight into the plasmolysist’s gulping maw. Tumbling along its countless rows of jaggy teeth, deeper into the shadowy depths, Spencer’s mind reels at the insanity that just happened. Gazing out, toward the light, it is like a window into relative safety. He can see a smaller version of the plasmolysist come charging in after the first creature, and suddenly burst apart under a hail of bullets.

Then the lips smack shut.

He realizes that his white-knuckle grip is still firm around Keefe, and Spencer plunges the weapon into the interior of what he presumes is this thing’s throat. Just in time. A host of tongues curl around his ankles and legs, wrapping up all the way to his thighs, trying to wrench him deeper. A tremendous howl causes the inside to ripple, spit and globs of flesh pelting him from every angle while the oscillating surface grinds sharp, numerous fangs against him. Fortunately, his clothing is a very durable nanofiber mail, resistant to tearing, piercing, and so forth. It can even withstand most projectile munitions. What can’t, however, is Spencer’s face.

Reaching for the chapel, with the high-frequency bayonet, his hand receives a nasty slice from one of the fangs. He recoils in pain, but the creature obviously relishes in the taste of blood and it redoubles its efforts to drag him down its gullet. Keefe begins to tear backwards, cleaving a furrow through the sinewy palate, its grip in the flesh failing as it and Spencer are jerked about.

In desperation, Spencer begins activating and hurling all the grenades he has down the monster’s gullet. He even throws Rhiannon by mistake. It feels like minutes, but somehow in the seconds before the explosion, he manages to unload the rest of the ammunition in the Chapel and, at the same time, the other handgun unleashes its fury. Set to fully automatic, with a bit of duct tape around the trigger, and thrown away as far as they will go. The rapid, random spray wreaks havoc on the thing’s insides. Meanwhile, Spencer grasps for his combat utility knife and, with Keefe, began stabbing into the inside of the mouth and pulling himself slowly forwards against the struggling, bone-crushing tongues in an effort to escape. He can feel the leathery tongues slap, grind, and probe across his exposed backside as they tear his combat fatigues off, and he genuinely regrets having gone commando. The story for his front is even worse, the merciless teeth grating his groin and belly to a bloody strip.

His howl of agony is lost in the gargantuan groan of the galactic man-o-war.

Inevitably, the explosion does occur. A mixture of noxious stomach fluids, plasma grenades, concussion grenades, bullets of all sorts - anti-magic, uranium-tip, buster rounds - and whatever Xindi sorcery Rhiannon has to offer up fulminate in an impressive display of guts, light, and smoke. Perhaps it is fate, or maybe dumb luck, but the one-in-a-trillion combination occurs, and the explosion binds to the plasmolysist at an intangible level, resulting in a chain reaction traveling along its tentacles and through its membrane in an unstoppable succession of brilliant sapphire blasts.

Chunks of flesh with partially-decomposed babies, mothers, fuckers, and lovers shredded to ribbons in them soar high into the sky, only to splatter on the serendipitous, lush field stretching as far as the eye can see around the main fighting complex of the “GT” Realm. When the dust or, in this case, gelatin settles, there is no arena left. Just dust with barely a single stone sitting atop another. Bones jut from the muddy, grassless terrain along with barb wire and unrecognizable slivers of marble.

Laying under a chard, but evidently still-breathing, monstrosity, is Katana Ashigaru in his mechanized armor, which protected him both from the weight of Alucroas and the tremendous upheaval that had happened around him. The helmet had closed again, and the hat he had been wearing atop of it had been totally burned. Inside, he really can’t feel anything, except a sort of sticky warmth pooling around his thighs and glutes. That’s when he realizes … he’s literally fucking shat himself.

Spencer is nowhere to be seen, but considering he was inside the tentacle monster when it went boom, he probably didn’t fare too well.