SHhhlk

The sound a sword made when it drew out from the flesh of Katana’s skewered opponent. He kicked, his opponent off his sword, and began walking off, but before he exited the arena, he took sight of the shotgun that Discipline had been using, previously, and stopped. Katana stared at it for a minute, then walked over to it, picking up the gun, and slung it over his shoulder. Probably should grab some ammunition. He turned back and walked back to Discipline’s body that was in a crumpled heap and snatched a round of each type of the ammo he had used, the depleted uranium and the chaff rounds. Hell, why don’t I loot this bastard for all he’s worth? He thought.

Katana viewed over all the ‘stuff’ this guy had brought with him, and half of it he didn’t have the first clue of how to use. Something that looked like the hilt of a lightsaber laid next to him, and there was the sniper rifle that he had thrown at Katana, but he didn’t have nearly the finesse to use that. There were a pair of handguns, but Katana was already holding a lot of items on him. All these fuckin’ guns, guns, guns, I can’t use most o’ this shit.

Katana looked down at the bloody suit. Probably can’t use that, either.., he sighed. “Welp, it was a pleasure throwin’ hands with ya.” Katana said, and with that he really did walk off, but before he even stepped out of the arena, he was captured in a brilliant light and transported directly into a bar setting. He stood there, shocked shitless, arms out, legs spread and screamed “JESUS CHRIST!!” In an instant, he had left the budokai arena and appeared in what appeared to be a bar.

He stood there for a moment, then looked down at himself, his clothes, somehow through the transportation system, had been cleaned, his hair, no longer drenched in gore, even his hat was cleaned off. This wasn’t to say that anything was repaired, he simply had a better visual aesthetic. He looked behind him, he had hardly used any of his sake, and the spools were reeled up, what little was left of the needles were patched through his haori’s fabric. Things on him had been renewed, but not repaired, the needles that were taken by the magnetic disc and the metal plates on the bottom of his thick geta were gone, but he had come out of his last match pretty unharmed.

Guess I can check the match-ups for the next round, but first I think I’ll get a drink… He said, walking over to a barstool, before hopping up onto it.

He was sitting at the barstool, sipping on something mild when he heard over the many tvs. BOO-CCHHK Jesus, the sounded fuckin' hard. And he looked back at the larger tv just in time to see one guy knock the FUCK out of the other. Then it showed the one that did the punishin' standing over the other. He heard someone else in the bar say "Wow, Ichi-gou knocked the fuck out of heat." Katana squinted, then looked at the brackets and saw the name Ichi-gou vs Bastion HEAT it was right next to Katana vs Discipline, with Katana's name advanced.

So this is the dude that i'll be takin' on Katana thought, sipping at his liquor. he'd do well to intently pay attention to this match. Ichi-gou...

Once again returning to the Lobby, Asimov took a moment to look around. It was a hell of a lot less crowded than it was when he first entered. This mess was still only halfway through and the herd had been thinned to a fraction of the original entrants. They hovered on the outer edges of the Lobby, sitting at tables and drinking, meditating, or preparing their gear for the next round. All were alone. The General smiled as he looked over to Pious and Watkins. While everyone else brooded, they were drinking, talking, laughing and enjoying themselves.

Still, the match against Jack had left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d seen more than a man’s share of horrible shit, but seeing that dying gunman pull together the devil’s strength and lift his gun still struck a chord. He breathed deep the clean lobby air and marched over to the table.

“Game, set, match,” Asimov said. Once again the group had moved to a separate table, as the one they had been seated at before was nowhere to be seen. Laminated wood splinters littered the ground where it was though. He decided not to ask.

“Naturally,” Pious said. He nodded towards the General’s bullet torn clothing. “Looks like you didn’t quite get out unharmed this time.”

"Well," Trish said, this time ignoring the liquid metal armor at her wrist immediately lashing out and securing a bond with the handle of the case in Asimov's hand, and did her best to keep speaking as though it hadn't even happened at all. "Since you made out fairly unharmed," She gestured to one of the available chairs with the tip of her tail, and to the bottle of champagne and assembled glass on the table with her free hand, "Please do join us for a glass. Pious conceded to give the Cristal a try for the first time." Pious held up the glass in his hand.

“It’s not bad actually.” He took a light sip. Asimov grunted.

“No thanks. I’d prefer to save the bubbly stuff for when I get out of this place. And I already told you, I can’t get buzzed.” He slipped off his duster and hung it off his chair. “Pious, can you hand me a fresh shirt?” The boy nodded and reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a white shirt wrapped in plastic. Asimov removed his own, exposing the thin gray exoskeleton he wore underneath. He sat and started unwrapping it.

"You don't have to get drunk to enjoy it. It's an expensive indulgeance because it tasts good and is as complex a champagne as you can find. Not just because it gets people tipsy." Trish, with a nose many orders of magnitude stronger than either Asimov's or Pious', sniffed her own glass. "It's just easy to let that happen because of just those reasons though, if you're not adapted against it.” Asimov stood and put the shirt on. He buttoned it and fastened the leather bands around the upper sleeves and forearms. He cinched them tight.

“Well, you’ll excuse me for not being in much of a mood for indulging right now.” He sat again and withdrew one of his Matebas. He slid the cylinder out to the side let the spent shell casings fall from it. He peered through the chambers, ticking them by one by one. “That last guy was a real piece of work. More like an animal than a human being. And not the kind you like, Watkins.”

"Anyway, any of your equipment need a quick check-up?” Trish asked. “ I saw the boards change, and the opponent you're slated for next doesn't look like the type you'd want to have a malfunction against.”
"Oh yeah? Any intel on him?" Asimov asked. Trish pointed over his shoulder to the ladder brackets, and specifically indicated the glyph of the draconic xenomorph that was dribbling slime from razored jaws and viciously hissing at whatever had captured its image for posterity.

"That's him,” she said.

“Wonderful,” he said. All of a sudden, something in his coat started to make noise. A digitized melody, derived from the Technocrat folk song “All Along the Watchtower.” Asimov fished through his coat until he found his slim, black ether communicator (Lombardi Electronics R-Phone II). “Who the hell is calling me here?” he said as he navigated the device. His face lit up and he bolted to his feet. “Hey! Wow, I can’t believe that you can reach me here!” he said. He put his hand over the receiver. “I gotta take this. Be right back,” he said, and hurried away to an empty corner of the lobby. The remaining Technocrat exchanged puzzled glances.

Asimov took a seat. “Yeah, hold on a second,” he said as he continued to fiddle with the phone. He set it on the table and pressed a key on its face. In response it projected a square, holographic window a foot across. Asimov pressed one of its corners between his thumb and forefinger and pivoted the pane upright.

Smile back at him through the window was a woman’s face. Glasses. Cream colored skin. Perfect teeth, and eyes like emeralds. Straight, dark red hair, almost burgundy in its color. A digital caption under her face displayed a name—“Erin Harringan: Live Feed from Neuestadt”.

“You do know where I live, don’t you?” she asked him. “This is Media. If there’s a place where I can’t reach you, I don’t think you want to be there.”

“Alright, fair enough. Man, you are a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure. This whole thing is a mess like you wouldn’t believe. I can’t get wait to get out of here.”

“Awww, is the brave General having trouble playing nice with others?” Erin said, pouting her lips slightly. Asimov couldn’t help but crack a grin, but he pushed it back soon after.

“Tesla isn’t exactly helping!” he blurted out. “I swear Erin, I’m going to get her back for this stunt. It is the worst.”

“Ooooooh? What was it this time?” she asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh I think I do. Even more now.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is it….dirty?” She gave Asimov a sly smile.

“You could say that,” he answered. “Remember Watkins, the new transfer for the Black Dogs?”

“Yeeeeaaaah…”

“Well, she’s here as my support staff, along with Pious. And do you know how she got here?” Erin paused, then shrugged. “Because I’m married to her.”

Silence. For almost ten seconds. Just the two of them locked in a grave stare. Erin’s began to waver. Her grimace started to buckle. Finally she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Pfffffft pwa ha ha ha ha! Haaaah ha ha ha! Oh, Asi, Asimo- pah ha ha ha! Heee hee haaaah!” she couldn’t keep herself upright and she doubled over, falling from view. Asimov stood firm. “Ugu, ugu, ugu, uh ha ha ha ha!” It kept coming from off screen. Erin pulled herself back up. Tears were welling up in her eyes and her glasses were askew. She removed them and rubbed her face with both hands as she slowly regained her composure. She heaved for air. “Oh, oh, I can’t breathe, oh, oh Asimov that’s pffffft ha ha ha ha ha ha!” She leaned her head back in her office chair and couldn’t stop herself.

That was the last straw. His defenses were breached. Bricks and mortar can tumbling down along with a mass of twisted rebar. There was nothing left to stop him.

“Hee hee hee…ha…ha ha ha!” Asimov leaned forward and grabbed at his forehead and let it all come out. The two broke down for thirty seconds, barely restraining themselves from all out hysterical convulsions.

“I’m sure the two of you will be very happy!” Erin said. “When am I going to see the wedding photos?”

“I’ll have Tidus send them to you right away!” he said. “I’m sure Tesla wanted photographic evidence.”

“I just hope she didn’t want proof of consumassssha ha ha ha!” she couldn’t finish her sentence. “Okay, okay okay. Stop. Just, stop.” She paced her breathing to stem the hysteria. “Whooooo. Okay, now I’m really glad I called.”

“I’m glad you did too,” Asimov said. “Throwing the next match was starting to look like a good idea just to get out of this thing. You know how I hate stuff like this.”

“Don’t you dare, Asimov Tuscadine!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re fighting for my honor! Where’s your sense of chivalry?”

“I’m a soldier not a knight,” he answered. “Chivalry is what got the other guys killed.”

“Then duty! For love of country and country women!” She got right up close to the screen, so that her eyes filled the window. “Listen Asimov. If you go around moping and brooding then you aren’t going to be at your best and you’re going to get hurt. Then I’m sure it would be up to me to fix your sorry ass. So be careful, and be a man for godsakes!” She slapped the transmitter lens with her hand, shaking the picture. Asimov swore that he felt it on the back of his head.

“Yes ma’am!” he said with a salute. “I’ll bring you back a good wedding gift with my championship winnings!” Erin saluted back.

“Good soldier!” She looked off screen for a second and frowned. “Gotta go. I had to tap into a serious transmitter to get this far out. That’s not cheap, you know!”

“I know. I’m glad you called,” Asimov said. “Really.” She blew him a kiss and blushed slightly.

“Come back safe,” she said. “And go easy on Watkins, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“Bye-bye. I love you.”

“I love you too.” The line went dead. Asimov closed the window and stood. He looked over to his table, and around the Lobby. The challengers and spectators were all gathering for the next round. Time to do my duty, he thought.

He ran up to the table and grabbed his duster with one hand and the champagne with the other. Trish yelped in surprise, chiefly because he took it out of her hand. He slipped one arm through the coat, took a long pull from the bottle, tossed it to his other hand and finished with his coat. He used the free hand to draw his empty revolver

Asimov kicked his chair out and jumped onto it, Cristal in one hand and gun in the other.

“Listen up you mugs!” he shouted to all in attendance. “My name is Asimov Turscadine, General-at-Arms of the 45th Army of the Lombardi Corporation. I’m Technocrat, one of the three left in this gaggle of inbred lowlives and freakshows that passes for a Tournament. And right here, right now, I’m going to make you a guarantee: that I’m going to win this thing, and we’re going to make you all our bitches!”

As he exited the arena, he heard the shrill screams of fans, scared out of their wits at what the abomination had just done. Who would actually take a dead body, bite into it, then proceed to blow it to shit without the slightest bit of remorse or respect for the dead. A dragon-xenomorph hybrid with schizophrenic tendencies and a voice inside its head that made him randomly vomit as if it were a remake of The Exorcist.

Well, at least he didn't actually puke all over the place, although he came pretty close when he almost choked on one of the now dead noble's hairs. His inner-mouth protruded from the first and spat the thing out, gagging a couple of times beforehand, leaving a small glob of saliva for some poor bastard to slip on. For now the blood-soaked beast merely proceeded onwards into the lobby, using what sentience it did have to determine that he could get at least something to eat.

What's the matter, Alucroas? Dusk's hair not fleshy enough for you?

Alucroas grunted, clearly irritated before impulsive smacking his tail against the ground like he normally did when aggravated. Unfortunately for him, as fast as the rest of his tail would regenerate, he couldn't ignore the pain that shot up his body the moment it hit that hard marble floor. He tensed almost immediately, emitting a rather spit-filled growl audible enough to reach the bar-area where the other competitors had chosen to gather 'round.

For a moment he stood still, the exoskeletal plates opening up just slightly enough to relieve all the tension in his body, allowing him to carry his massive body the rest of the way through the darkened tunnel. His pupils dialated as a bright wave of light came right in his face, stinging his retinas, reviving his irritations; kicking his temperment into high-gear.

“Listen up you mugs!” Alucroas' face lit up momentarily, and not in a good way either, the skin covering his teeth furling up almost instantaneously. “My name is Asimov Turscadine, General-at-Arms of the 45th Army of the Lombardi Corporation. I’m Technocrat, one of the three left in this gaggle of inbred lowlives and freakshows that passes for a Tournament. And right here, right now, I’m going to make you a guarantee: that I’m going to win this thing, and we’re going to make you all our bitches!”

By the time Asimov had finished his speech, Alucroas was looming over him, raised up on his hind-legs which brought him up to a towering eighteen feet. He didn't even give the general time to react to his surprise appearance and gave him a piece of his mind, manifested in an abhorrent scream that combined the ear-piercing shriek of a xenomorph with the seismic roar of a dragon, shattering countless glasses within the vicinity.

DOWN BOY!

Since his abrupt reentry into the lobby of the Grand Tournament building, Bastion had been more or less quiet. Though it had been only moments to those who had remained inside the lobby or gone on to the matches, it had been literally weeks for him since leaving. In that time he'd been slowly growing accustomed to the new form he found himself in, testing its limits and getting over the initial clumsiness that went along with such a change. No matter how many tweaks and patches the technicians made in a mutate's brain and systems, it would always take time to get used to such a drastic change.

He was just so damn big now.

Bastion had grown easily over a foot in height during the change, though it seemed less due to the slightly curved shape of his spine now. His face was more stretched to the sides, his nose flattened and ears vanished. A massive tail projected from the base of his back with a thick, rock-like club at the end. Thick plates ran along the entirety of his back from the shoulders down, making him almost impervious to damage from that side, like some overgrown turtle. Spikes ran along his sides, and stuck out from the sides of his head as well. His hands and arms were thick and powerful, with hands that could crush stone to dust.

And then of course there was the added weight he now carried. Not that it was any problem for the body he now possessed to handle it, but still it took some getting used to. Overall he supposed it wasn't such a bad thing, and there were definitely some advantages and bonuses. He's been able to keep his PsiEdge by modifying it slightly to fit his hand, and he was planning to get a larger handgun to replace his Blacktail.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to pound the everliving hell out of Ichi-gou sometime in the future, though.

Bastion sat back, having procured a reinforced bench style seat that could accommodate his form, watching the Technocrats as they talked and laughed. He was, perhaps, unusually quiet but then again he was trying to ignore the glances and embarrased thoughts that floated from each of them concerning his rather obvious alteration. It cheered him somewhat that what he was picking up from Watkins (when there was anything at all to pick up) wasn't of the same vein, but rather there was some sort of checked anger at the situation that might be said to be similar to his own feelings about the deal.

And he wasn't nearly as ugly as the massive xenomorphic beast that was even now hovering over the ebullient General Asimov, bellowing out its own brand of commentary. Utterly calm and penetrating gray eyes dropped to the general's face, and a the slightest hint of a smile curved his thick, reptilian mouth.

"Oh you'll have fun with this one, General."

“Listen up you mugs!”
“My name is Asimov Turscadine, General-at-Arms of the 45th Army of the Lombardi Corporation. I’m Technocrat, one of the three left in this gaggle of inbred lowlives and freakshows that passes for a Tournament. And right here, right now, I’m going to make you a guarantee: that I’m going to win this thing, and we’re going to make you all our bitches!”

Fuckin' drama queen. He looked back over his glass before thinking to himself, Technocrat? Hmm... A quick image from his first fight against that maniacal wizard flashed in his mind, A technocrat like that..? He stared back down into his glass, completely unaware of the xenomorph that had entered the room. One of three remaining, hm. Come to think of it, I saw him hanging around with that dude with the super-punch earlier, could he be a technocrat, too? He drummed his fingers against the counter So there were multiple of these super-powered freaks. That means i'm fighting another Technocrat, oh lord, here we fuckin' go again.

Oh well, the first one fell, so the rest'll- SCREEEEEEEECH A shriek so loud that it shattered his glass in his hand and almost caused his eardrums to bleed sounded throughout the bar, causing a series of glassware on the counters to burst and shatter.

"OKAY YOU MOTHERFUCKIN TECHNO-" he whirled around just in time to view this massive 18 foot xenomorph and was shocked, to say the least. Is that a fuckin' dragon? He glanced over at the board, seeing what looked like the creatures face on the matchups in the third round, matched up against the guy that was standing on the chair. "Oh, sucks for you one-eye." He said, with a grin. Gomorrah was still active, so luckily there wasn't a mind-reader in house or home that could tell what he was thinking, besides himself.

Of all the mugs in the lobby, his was easily the ugliest. Fortunately for the General, his was also the one that he had the exquisite pleasure of facing in his next match.

The monster- Alucroas according to the Tournament board- craned over him, dwarfing the cut of Asimov's first opponent by measurable degrees. He was a haphazard collection of reptilian and insect components, a patchwork abomination to science and nature. A creature designed for killing, and in the least subtle manner possible. Asimov took careful note, storing everything he could in the tactical computer that was his brain.

He didn't flinch, even at the invasive screech that bounded through the lobby. He held the urge to draw his Matebas and bring his next match to a premature end at bay. Alucroas wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, and certainly nothing that he hadn't killed before. That list was a long and weary read.

"I think you should back out of my face before something bad happens to you," he said sternly.

There was the anticipated burst of bluish-white light in the air above the bar, signaling to Ichi-gou that by the way the ceiling looked he was back where he was supposed to be for however long a break he was going to get. Since he was, at the moment anyway, a big chunk of Ichi-shaped steel, he understandably dropped like a safe in one of those old fashioned cartoons. Ichi fell like an anvil, back first, slowly rotating till his feet were pointing in the air as he gained a bit of momentum.

”Alright, lets see how many glasses I bust this time around.” Ichi looked in what equated to ‘up’ for him. Instead of a table, there was a…Big black thing headed towards him. Really quickly. And it didn’t seem to know he was on the way down.

”That’s not a table.”

When he hit it ('it' being the top of Alucroas’ headcrest and the back of his neck) Ichi also noted that the black thing didn’t sound like a table being broken when his metal body knocked it to the floor. It sounded kinda fleshy, but still hard. And it shrieked like a motherfucker as both he and it (the front half of it anyway) struck the stone floor with the sound of…Well…The sound of an anvil hitting something fleshy and then hitting a stone floor.

The impact knocked the General’s chair clean over, that in turn knocked over the table everyone was sitting at, and that in turn disrupted the aim that Daemon had been drawing on Alucroas’ head before pulling the trigger on Mercy (very likely saving the xenomorph’s life for the short term future). Trish, stunned as she was by the General’s abrupt turnabout and the ensuing destruction of the several thousand credits per bottle of Cristal, was thrown off from delivering a telekinetic punch to the beast’s head in conjunction with Mercy’s shot because as far as she could tell the General’s life was in danger in an area that was supposed to be combat free. So whether Alucroas knew it or not the braining received from Ichi’s impact had actually saved his life twice over.

Amid the silence following the impact and upsetting of chairs and tables, Ichi-gou reverted to his normal self, stood up, and brushed himself off a bit. "Hey hey! Anyone miss me?"

Back at the table he clearly heard the General stand up, brush himself of a bit in turn, and quip to Alucroas, “Too late.”

Well, that just felt so much better than getting a piece of your tail severed off..

Alucroas merely growled in frustration at what had just happened, not the fact that he had even gotten hit because the chances of him feeling much more than a vibration weren't very likely. Instead there was just a large indent on the marble floor, he just didn't like getting drilled into the ground out of nowhere. Despite not knowing that Ichi-gou's intent may have been to just get back to the arena, that didn't matter at all to the abomination.

Instead of just walking off to his next match like he should have, he immediately got up and whipped his tail into Ichi's sternum, sending the android flying across the room and straight in the drone-bot's direction. The collision definitely wasn't something to laugh at, considering the moment he crashed into the thing, the entire bar-counter had been shattered, leaving a rather messy heap of debris, along with a crushed drone-bot that had been serving the competitor's drinks the entire time.

For a moment he simply stood there, before immediately letting off another annoying shriek, straight in the direction of whom he assumed to be Asimov and his comrades. The smoking barrel of the one whom had fired off his weapon caught his attention at well, and a mere whiplash of his tail was given in response, flipping over a chunk of the table that had been blocking his view of him. Alucroas just stared at him, pointing his tail at him from a distance, one that had evidently grown back surprisingly fast due to a certain black liquid that he manipulated and controlled.

As for Trish, he did the exact same, contemplating which one to slaughter first before that annoying voice from before came out of nowhere, scaring the living shit out of him: "Katana Ashigaru! Ichi-gou! Asimov Turscadine, Alucroas, HolyUnknown! Spencer! Kiyoshi Kazami! and Leeo Tandory! Please make your way to your designated arenas!"

We'll kill them after we kill Asimov.. Hell, maybe their little friend the android will get taken out as well. It'd sure make things easier for us..

His gaze immediately shifted over to Asimov, no longer interested in murdering these people. His only goal was to do to Asimov what he did to Dusk, and so he took off at a trotting pace towards his assigned tunnel entrance.

OOC (note from Remaeus): The Grand Tournament is an invitation-only tournament that invites fighters from around the world with already established records, and it takes place just once every two years. The best way to establish an official record is to record the fights you've had using the GT League Hall of Records, which allows you to record the results from any fight, on any site, at any time.

I have removed your profile, and moved the other Out of Character posts to the OOC Discussion thread. You are welcome to continue discussion and questions about the Grand Tournament there.

Match 3: The Lobby

It was a pretty pathetic sight. The T-staffer was leaning against the wall with her hands folded behind her rear. Her black-slack-clad legs were straight and curved outward so she could aimlessly examine the stitchery of her slippers. She wiggled her toes inside them and scowled at the silence that had gone on for ten minutes and continuing. The hiss of the shower sounded as though it were growing louder as her nerves began to swell. Irritably, she turned her head over her shoulder and eased to the left until one brown eye could peek around the wall. A glance was all she wanted, and a glance was all she got. “Ugh!” she huffed and snapped her head straight as thin spirals of her cinnamon hair tumbled about her temples. The image of Holy sitting there hugging his legs in the shower burned upon the undersides of her eyelids. A soggy towel was about his waist and his wheat-colored hair plastered with moisture against his skull. Endless streams of purifying water rippled over his smooth and solid constitution, slowly purging the violation the poor soldier had experienced a half hour ago.

Pounding her fist once against the wall, the T-staffer crossed her arms beneath her breast and yelled loud enough so the blond would hear her over the water, “You’re such a wimp! I don’t even know how you made it this far—and will you come out of there? The tournament doesn’t pay for wasted water!” Not expecting him to do so anytime soon, she pulled from the black folder/menu in her hands a laminated card of Holy’s next opponent. Flicking it into the shower, the card flipped and landed before him, slumping against the tiled wall before catching the current headed for the drain.

The soldier lifted his head, his eyes peering over his knees at the card, drifting toward the drain with the face of his next opponent. His brows furrowed curiously and reaching for the card, he plucked it from the water and lowered his legs.

Again, there was silence but this kind was different. A smirk of accomplishment creased the T-staffer’s face as she raised the back of her hand to her mouth to muffle the mild conceit in her laughter. “I knew you would be interested in this one. He seems to bear some holy characteristics too—worried?”

There was a great shift in the building. The showerhead sputtered, the lights flickered, and unsecured objects tumbled to the floor. The T-staffer gasped, pressing her back against the wall and spreading her fingers—her fingertips raking along the plaster. The next jar sent her staggering forward, posting upon her hands and knees. “An earthquake?” she panicked.

Sudden warmth spread across her back and began to dampen as Holy’s stomach pressed against it and his weight made her sprawl upon the floor. Her cheeks flushed as he embraced her protectively and she hid her face against his bicep as the ceiling cracked and a curtain of powder piled upon the carpet. The earthquake ended and the T-staffer felt Holy rising off of her and she also felt…something else, pressing against her rear as he rose. Her whole being went stiff and her nails dragged along the carpet, curling against her palms. She began shaking as chills ran up and down her spine. “…that” she managed to breathe through the anger and humiliation stalking her voice.

Holy was inspecting the crack that ran along his room ceiling. An earthquake in a custom dimension? he mused. Something must have happened outside. Just then, the most disturbed expression contorted his face as a loud slap sounded from his back. A red hand-print revealed itself upon the wet and sensitive skin on his back and forcing a grin upon his face, the soldier slowly turned around to present his feign of happiness to the T-staffer. “What dah helll” Holy growled through grit teeth as he barred back a couple of curses and screams that were just dying to leave his mouth.

“You spooned me!” the T-staffer screamed.

The soldier was taken aback by the abrupt and random accusation. “…W-What? Are you crazy?—because if you are, then I’ll understand, seriously.” How did women like her exist? He couldn’t believe how such a vulgar topic surmised.

“You touch my breasts and now you spoon me! Just admit it, you’re a pervert!”

“I was protecting you incase the whole damn building came down and I just simply stood up. That other time was an accident. If your breasts weren’t-“ Holy stopped himself right there as soon as he saw the T-staffer’s eyes lower to her breasts and then rise back to meet his eyes as though just waiting for him to say something wrong. Narrowing his eyes, Holy ordered exasperatedly, “Get out of my room.”

Scowling, the T-staffer turned and stormed for his bedroom door. “I want to let you know that I will be watching your fight this time. I want to see you lose. This is Round 3. You can’t depend on luck anymore. This is where it gets difficult.”

Tilting his head to the side, Holy raised a brow and challenged, “And if I win?”

She stopped at the door, resting her hand upon the doorknob. “Then you’re taking me on a date.”

“What makes you think I will? I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Honoria, and I know you will. I read up about you. You can’t refuse good food, especially if it’s free and all you can eat.”

The words free and all you can eat did get Holy’s attention. Impressed by her ability to collect intel, Holy ran a hand back through the wet strands of his hair and whistled. A mental note was taken and he smirked mischievously, “All right. Deal.”

Honoria turned her back to him and slipped out the door. “You better win, you bum,” she whispered.

Katana turned back to Ichi-Gou whom was still airborn, poised at the edge of the dais, far too close to the crowd for him to use that zappy gun of his. "Oi, tinkerbell! You gonna actually come fight this time?" It was about time, too, that his foe descended, a rather rapid descent, using that baton it was all of one quick blur to take out katana's knees in one strike, hell, it probably could have even lopped his lower body off if Katana hadn't used his augmentation. With knees bent katana pushed himself over and to the weapon-hand side of Ichi-gou in the form of a no-hands cartwheel. Upon landing Ichi-gou came around a second time, this time aimed up high. Katana dropped down and summersaulted forwards, behind him, but Talisman was one step ahead, poising himself there before Katana even finished the summersault. At this point Katana used his coiled position like a spring and shot both of his feet to Talisman's chest, using the extension of his legs to outreach Talisman's arm.

Well, the result? Ichi-Gou bolted backwards directly into this gigantic vortex orb that had been culminated. This orb was formed because Katana had made this powerful vortex - so that no debris would cut him while he was going down to the subterrenean caverns - and so that no crowd members would be killed by Sprawlz city-destroying rounds. Once Ichi-gou hit the vortex there was a horrible crunching sound as the energies from Loyalty those that had been accumulated throughout the match, and released. Were interacting with Ichi-Gou's nanomatrix in a very unpleasant way, reforming the polymer and whatever mimics his skeletal structure into different shape.

Normally this big ball of chaos would expand until it exploded, as an exciting climax for a battle between protagonist and antagonist; it sure looked like it was going to. Instead, the big orb of destruction swelled, and swelled, then suddenly collapsed upon itself in an extremely violent manner. Katana didn't see Ichi-gou, but he saw a few of his items attached to a belt in the general viscinity.

Katana gingerly steps over towards the belt, there's still two concussive grenades, three plasma, some handcuffs and some other neat stuff attached to it. Wonder where hard-hands went. he says as his eyes saccade the setting, to no avail. He looks over and sees near some tattered wire and spires - his hat. Katana struts over to his hat, setting it back atop his head in front of a cheering crowd. The fan favorite was victorious once more, and this time he was bringin' it to the semi-finals. He found what scraps was left of his haori, and tossed em over his shoulder, buckling ichi-gou's belt around his waist, aside from the belt katana had also looted a couple of little knifes, they were kept in holsters, and katana was currently trying to attach them to his person.

What became of Ichi-gou? Looking down into the little pit that Katana had created Ichi-gou's nanobots went wild perhaps even re-activated when Katana shoved him into that vortice. His physical appearance had changed from twenty-four to about three, and there was a possibility that the nanobots had damaged some of Ichi's traitsphere, and plasma control, with a possibility of brain damage as well. But he was alive. That counts for something, right? Maybe. Surely if Katana seen him, though he would have busted a few wisecracks on him, but to ichi's fortunate luck, he did not.

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Katana just re-emerged the bar while letting out a loud "WOOO" like he had just jumped in a pool and was completely refreshed - he really wasn't - he was kinda tired actually, he had moved alot that match. Need a drink he thought as he trotted over to the bar, mumbling something nearly incomprehensible to the robotic bartend, and suprisingly it understood, sliding a glass to him on the rocks. Katana sipped it, feeling a bit better, he looked over to the wall and saw the other face marked out, his next match - Asimov.

He doesn't know the guy, by name, but the image of his face is definitely recognizable. That's the dude that stepped up on the chair and was flappin his yap about how he was gonna make everyone his bitch, oh their bitch, guess this guy's the head honcho of the techies. Wait a second, wasn't he paired up against that bigass alien demon dragon thing? Well, fuck, dude, if he took out something like that this guy's no joke. It had seemed like every opponent he fought throughout the duration of this tournament got more and more difficult.

First he had that godly wizard with the crazy sniper rifle that broke apart, then he had this robot dude that had all sorts of guns on him, just now he had what looked like a regular guy with a gun even more ridiculous than the both of them combined. Huh, since they're a part of the same posse it'll be safe to say that this guy should probably have a gun of his own, too. Bleh, this is pretty tedious, when am I gonna have someone who ain't afraid to fight me up close.

Katana sipped on his drink, allowing his muscles to relax for a while, he had accumulated a bit of gear in his last few matches. It was weighing him down, just a tad, but then again, he didn't have the gourd anymore, i mean, he still had one of the spools with the wires which he had now attached to Ichi-gou's belt, ghetto-rigged - might I add. Might as well drink up while I still can, next round starts soon.. he said, taking another sip of the sour liquid.

Asimov released the Matador from his hands, and his waldo lashed out and grabbed it, returning it to its rack. He ripped the metal gloves from his hands and let them fall, exposing tight black leather underneath. Alucroas streaked closer, filling the General's panelectric vision with color and searing stimulation. Snakes of electrical current exploded from his carapace, arcing in a tangled live field as the hybrid's snapping mandible tongues and claws zeroed in on his target. He let loose an earsplitting, predatory howl. Asimov pushed himself backwards and reached towards Alucroas, not with a weapon, but with his bare hands. The beast had managed to deflect all his other attacks, his vast array of weapons and ammunition, had found a way to counter his years of training and experience and his technology growing in his body. He'd not do the same this time.

The moment in time seemed to dilate, stretching apart the seconds like the space between stars in the night that appear so close but in reality are separated the breadth of a galaxy. In the vacuum of movement, the spectrum of feeling diffused as light through a prism, and broke into a rainbow of emotion from each, interlacing together to create the atmosphere of an instant never to be repeated. Alucroas's visage was one of rage, of animal might and a cruel, relentless intelligence, shaped like clay into a gargoyle's mask, horned and bloody and hideous and carved into a mockery of a smile, triumphant.

Asimov's mouth was a thinly drawn and stern line, but his eyes were wide and bright, and intense in their anger. The eyes of a soldier at the moment of the kill. Not concerned with victory or awards or accolades, but with survival, and the only survival that could be forged from the moment in time was steamrolling ahead rapidly as the moment closed up. His normally clean cut and upright hair was soaked with sweat and fell around his eyes, but there was nothing anymore that could obscure a vision so clear and resolute.

Then, the instant collapsed, and the sea of rage and fear and triumph and resolve boiled to a head and flowed freely, not in abstract words, but in actions.

Two streaks of red laser light lanced out from Asimov's palms, and instantly and effortlessly severed Alucroas's wings from his body. His roar of victory shifted tones to agony and outrage as Asimov drifted to the side and Alucroas tumbled in a spiral toward the smoldering ground. No control, no way out, no way to avoid the inevitablity of gravity and the ground rushing up to meet him. He discharged haphazard lightning bolts in all directions, curling and branching and raking across the sky with ribbons of white hot fire lashing around them, filling the air with ozone. The paths of lightning tracked the hybrid's terminal descent, down, down, spiralling down and down into the smoke and fire.

He hit the ground at high velocity and cracked his carapace, leaking streams and a pool of acidic blood into what remained of the arena floor. The fire had largely subsided but for isolated instances, and the oil had been consumed. All that was left were fragments in a sea of smoke and destruction.

Alucroas struggled to pull himself together, desperately reassembling shattered bones and exoskeleton in a working body. He loosed a blasphemous roar to the sky and at his attacker and rose to his feet, but a second later, Asimov crashed down upon him, plummeting like a meteor and driving his armored feet into Alucroas's spine. His powered exoskeleton absorbed the impact on his part, but the hybrid had no such luxury. His armor fractured and caved, shattered and splintered and organs and viscera within were obliterated by the force. Acid hissed away at the General's armor, but the Apex-Kaiser's deuranium metal gave no hint of yielding. Alucroas released a final, terminal howl, so loud and resounding that the ground seemed to shake.

With the killing glower still in his eyes, Asimov reached down to his hip and pulled a gun from his metal holster- a simple handgun, a revolver of polished steel with a wooden grip. His draw was instant and confident, and he twirled the gun before dropping it to position. He held it with both hands and drew a bead on the back of his foe’s head.

I do not kill with my gun. He who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.

He didn’t need to speak. His gun was the only voice he needed.

Six bullets. Six shots. Six tongues of flame exploding from the muzzle of the Mateba, leaping from barrel to brain and carrying with them their fire payloads. At that range, it took less than a second. The cylinder turned smoothly, the hammer fell without fault. Six bullets pierced the beast’s brain case and erased his thoughts and hatred and pain and mutant madness from existence, smearing them in a puddle of gore across the arena grounds.

A thin wisp of gunsmoke was all that was left, trailing like a phantom from the revolver’s muzzle. Asimov breathed slowly, calmly, belying the rush of adrenaline that had ushered in the preceding seconds. For a moment, he just stood there; staring with his two-toned eyes at his work, watching Alucroas’s blood seep away and his bioelectricity fade into darkness. The dying fires reared up around him, encircling him and shading him from the audience in the haze of the heat mirage. If there were any left standing, they didn’t make a sound.

“I’m finished,” Asimov said, wiping his brow and holstering his weapon. He stepped away from the corpse. He stopped again, holding still in the heat, his hands heavy with bloodshed and spent violence. He looked to the choked sky. “Erin…”

.
.
.
.

He appeared again in the Lobby, but now with a far different look than before. His armor was filthy. His hair was matted with sweat. A vicious gash had been carved through his chest plating, an inch deep. His face was dark with soot.

Trish and Pious stared at him in disbelief.

“That…” he began, “was not fun.” He stepped to the table where they sat, and began unloading his gear, laying first the heavy Matador on the surface. He didn’t dare try and sit down, lest he buckle the chair with the weight of his armor. He fingered the metal cut across his chest. “Watkins, can you patch this? I don’t need anything pretty, just something to cover it up.” They remained silent. Pious’s eyes were directed towards the scoreboard.

Asimov turned and looked up. The next rounds’s matches had been assigned.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

Honoria stood before her vanity mirror, swabbing her lips with bubblegum gloss. She examined her cola brown eyes, leaning into the mirror while rubbing her lips together that slowly began to curve into a smile. She was so excited about her date with Holy that she burst into a fit of giggles, her face glowing like an angel’s. Ringlets of her sugary hair were piled upon her head, and a few tumbled down her ears as she twirled upon her toes and plopped upon her bed. She situated her hands in her lap and patiently waited for her date to arrive.

And…Honoria continued to wait, scowling down at her gold heels. Raising her head, her eyes darted from wall to wall, dresser to dresser, searching for the time. They eventually found a small digital clock that jumped to the next minute. Twenty minutes had passed. He wasn’t coming. “That!...” Honoria exclaimed as she shot from her bed and right out the door. She marched down the hall with her fists clinched and heels violently stabbing the carpet. She traveled to his room and pounded on his bedroom door. “You blockhead! You promised. You better not-“

The door suddenly opened and Holy was standing there looping a metallic black tie around his neck. “Sorry; I had to search all over for a suit” he apologized. Honoria was speechless. Her lips were parted and cheeks glowing. There were so many conflicting emotions that her heart was pounding and brain going numb. Closing the door behind him, Holy offered his arm to Honoria. “Shall we?”

Hesitant at first, her fingers curled before her chest before reaching out to delicately take his arm in her hands. “Yes,” she barely squeaked. They started walking and her fingers pressed harder against his solid muscles and she leaned her head against his bicep.


The once spotless lawn was littered with Styrofoam boxes as Holy flopped back against the thick verdure that was like a cool mattress against the back of his neck. “Ugh, I’m stuffed” he moaned, hands grasping through his coat and undershirt to his tight, round belly. “I’m surprised I haven’t started bursting buttons yet.” His arms crossed behind his head and he closed his eyes.

Honoria was kissing sweet remnants of cheesecake from her fingers as she sprawled out upon her tummy and pulled at his tie. “You eat too much” she said, curling her slender cream legs above her bottom. She had freed her feet from her constricting heels as her hand wrapped into his tie. Holy’s eyes flew open when he suddenly felt his tie tighten against his throat, forcing him to lift his head from the grass submissively as Honoria pulled herself on top of him. The soldier’s eyes were wide and full of panic, his hands hovering that cocktail dress that hung off her hour-glass physique like vanilla.

“What are you doing?” Holy demanded uncomfortably. She bit her bottom lip, showing a bit of her teeth as she stared at herself within his eyes. She then leaned in and Holy quickly turned his head. Her sticky lips met his cheek, leaving a pink imprint of her kiss. Holy cringed with fear as she went for his lips again and evaded once more, hands trying to find a place to grab her and push her off. “No! You don’t understand!” he exclaimed and screamed when she nearly got his lips. Honoria burst into laughter and rested flat upon his chest. He made it sound like bloody murder.

Weak with mirth she rolled over to lie beside him and curled into a ball. “You’re such a baby!” she laughed.

Holy glowered and sat up, resting his elbows upon his knees. “You don’t understand. I can’t kiss you. There would be terrible consequences if I did” he explained sternly.

With eyes wet with tears, Honoria managed to squeeze out, “You sounded like such a wuss!”

“Ha, ha, ha, haa…” Holy mocked and grinned wickedly before jabbing his fingers into her sides and tickled her. Honoria began to scream and squirm, kicking at him helplessly. Her hair was a mess now.

Now you could call Enya a lot of things. You could call her obsessive. You could call her a stalker. You could even call her seriously deprived. I imagine that no matter what route you went, you’d be right all together. For, when it came to a certain something, Enya was obsessive, a bit of a stalker, and always – always – seriously deprived. There was usually only one thing in the background or forefront of her mind. Even when she was hungry, defending herself, or bleeding to death there was really only one thing she was concerned about. Well, it wasn’t so much a thing as it was a being. So it might have taken a bit longer than you would think, and it might be completely inexplicable – if you didn’t understand just how deep her obsession ran – but she was there. Where he was. This place of unending green lawns and everything else within sight comprised of marble.

She was standing under an arch just outside a portal, she was very confused as to how she had got to this place, but she didn’t get a chance to think on it too long. There was a loud, annoying, high-pitched laughter coming from somewhere close to her. She swiveled her golden eyes in the direction of the sound and…froze. Why, there was the very reason she was here. Her confusion evaporated, and was quickly replaced by a fury that set her blood to boiling. It was a bit of surprise that her skin didn’t turn green with the sudden jealousy that consumed her, eating her alive. Her left eye twitched, her hands tightened into fists, and a vein could be seen throbbing in the middle of her forehead.

Let me explain the situation in the eyes of Enya. A woman, in a dress that was much too skimpy for her own good, was the one producing the loud, annoying sound. She wore smeared, pink-colored lip-gloss, her hair was messed up, and Enya had no idea who this woman was, but she instantly disliked her. Why? Well, the reason that the unknown woman was laughing was because Holy was leaning over her, tickling her. The suit Holy was wearing was wrinkled from who-knows-what, but if the state of the other woman was anything to go by, and from the fact that he had some of that stupid lip-gloss all over his stupid face including – including – near his mouth, then she was going to guess that it was because he was doing something stupid with the stupid woman, and he’d never done anything stupid with her!

Her teeth gritted, her eyes narrowed viciously, she stalked toward the couple on the ground. She was going to scream. Well, first she was going to set them both on fire and while they burned she was going to scream. And rant. And rage. And make the flame burn hotter. And hotter. But when she was standing over them, glaring down at them, she couldn’t think of anything to say, and she couldn’t think of how to make a fire start even though she’d done it plenty of times before. The only thing that would perhaps make the two notice her presence was that her shadow loomed over them.

The grin on the soldier’s face slowly faded as he noticed the change in lighting. There was a shade mysteriously looming over him and Honoria and there wasn’t a tree for miles. His brows furrowed as he drew his hand from her waist and leered over his shoulder at…Holy’s body followed his head around, turning until he sat on his butt stunned. The woman standing before him was not only a familiar face, but a very close friend. How close was she again? His nerves were firing as he sat there before her completely oblivious to how suspicious he must have looked. Holy mustered a weak yet bright grin that looked as though he was staring at the sun. “Heeeey…” Holy greeted. He even added a brief wave.

Honoria was calming her laughter when she felt Holy no longer tickling her. She glared over her shoulder, and then up at Enya. “Oh brother” she moaned. The cinnamon-haired girl rose to her hands and knees and crawled over to Holy to grasp him possessively by the shoulders and gave Enya a look that would send a slap to her face if her words didn’t, “He’s mine tonight, skank. Go herd around with your fan-girl pack. There are still three other fighters left whose balls you can still grab.” She gave a satisfied smile to Holy whose sheepish expression transformed into pure dread. He looked as though he just sat on a cactus. Within his body a woman fell to her knees and crossed her arms over her head, shrieking for mercy. Anxiety was working up a perspiration that was gathering more under his arms than on his face.

She couldn’t…think. There was…red…in her vision and a…buzzing…in her ears, and she…she couldn’t…. The silver-haired woman was shaking with her fury. She was positively vitriolic. And for as angry as she was with Holy for his absolutely unforgiveable acts, the woman with him, because of her caustic words, completely drew Enya’s attention. She knew that Holy was nervous. She could feel his trepidation pouring off him in mighty waves, but for now, her eyes were centered on the strumpet who had her unworthy hands clutching at Holy’s shoulders. She lifted a hand and one finger extended to point at the tart, “Hands…off…” Her voice was a low, dangerous hiss, and she was astonished that she had even managed to get the words out of her mouth. She flipped her hand over and on the pad of her still extended finger a small flame that swirled in a circular pattern ignited. The fiery ball was steadily growing in size, and it was clear by the look on Enya’s face, and the way her entire body was obviously tense, that she had every, every, intention of burning this unknown hussy until she was nothing more than a pile of smoking ash at Holy’s feet.

"That's just sick and wrong..."

"You're telling me."

"Lets just be glad we're not the ones laying on the ground with half our livers sticking out our ass."

"I don't even think 'it' is the proper word to describe what that thing looks like right about now."

"And I thought what Ashigaru did to Arcanum was bad...but this one takes the cake."

"C'mon man, let's go get some snacks before the next match starts."

"You're one brave soldier."

"What'cha mean by that?"

"Well, the fact that you're actually able to, let alone willing to eat anything at all after seeing that."

"What can I say? We did just get drenched in blood and gore watching Alucroas' last match with that swordsman, then you go off and buy the world's most suffocating vegetable known as jalapeno's with your nacho's..."

"Well... ya see there's this BLACK SHIT RAINING ALL OVER TH-"

"What in the hell..."

It sure as shit wasn't rain, rest assured. The crowd jumped back almost immediately, and it wasn't the kind of jump that got your heart pounding; more along the lines of one that involved you hopping out of your skin and exchanging it with your buddy sitting next to you. Then again, when you took the time to consider where Alucroas was about to head off to, you couldn't help but think to yourself: "Maybe Jeeper wasn't such a crazy fuck after all?"

In little to no time at all the subterranean environment beneath Alucroas' corpse had refilled itself with the oil-like liquid that came pouring down from above. Strangely enough, there were no clouds, but there was also no such thing as ink-rain. Each individual droplet from thereon would direct itself to Alucroas, and Alucroas only, slipping between the gaps of his exoskeleton before making their way into his blood-stream and other areas of his insides.

Not too surprisingly, this unidentified substance jutted upwards from all holes, easily exceeding the altitude that Alucroas and Asimov were fighting at earlier. And in a classically horrorific style, they took on the shape of transparent tentacles, snaking together like a group of octopuses duking it out, then sticking together, completely cutting off the flabbergasted fan's view of Alucroas, who were actually starting to get worried about the thing.

"IT'S DEAD, OKAY!? Who gives a shit what happens to its body!?"

"I damn well do!"

"What if that's the material they were using for the giant spires that came up earlier..?"

"I don't even want to think about that! If that thing gets blown apart..."

"We'll get covered in that blood of his. You saw what it did to the arena floor, and sure as hell wasn't very quiet either. Like putting a hissing cat in front of a microphone plugged into a movie theater-sized stereo!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you!"

"I don't care if I lose an arm. I just don't want it hitting me anywhere in the c-"

" 'mon! We gotta get out of here. I'm starting to get the feeling this isn't what happened earlier"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, before the match started the spires just tore through the ground and just stood there being well...spires! But now they're swirling around, and undulating as if they're actually alive!"

"Does that mean Alucroas is still alive as well? Hell, if I know. Maybe this is just some contraption that Asimov created to get rid of him with."

"Whatever, I'm surprised my brain is working this well. Let's just watch from the bar and come out when it looks safe?"

"Deal."

With that the two men joined the stampede of screaming fans, desperate to get the hell out of there, before they too were floating bodies in an ocean of darkness. Not too far from the truth either.

--



So..you thought you were capable of drowning me out and still winning the fight, eh? Well, look where that got you.. Now you're one of them!

Pitch black, yet crystal clear. Perfect for amplifying that soft, somber hue that so often appears in the eyes of a tormentor before igniting the very liquid-fuel that the victim provides for him. The iris contracts, preparing the frightened individual as well as himself for the procedure that Alucroas is about to undergo. This time there would be no torture, no smack to the face - no announcer screaming his name, only to be lynched by his own abhorrent vocal chords.

Orbs of darkness, microscopic in size and nearly undetectable flowed through the abomination's blood-stream, making their way to his vital organs, respiratory system, immune system, cardiovascular - the whole network. Like a swarm of insects defying nature's whims, they did naught but repair the broken beast, regenerating tissue and replacing lost organs as well as other damaged muscles.

At first, there was nothing more but a minor spark, leaping from his body and into the oceanic abyss, where clouds did indeed exist above and as always there would be a moon - poking its pale white face out into the vast, open realm and providing light to what would soon become a raging storm. Lightning streaked down, and touched the water, illuminating Alucroas' dead body only briefly, before becoming lost in the rain.

Wake up, Alucroas... Death hasn't betrayed you yet...

Slowly but surely, Alucroas' senses were returning to him, starting with his touch that felt more like being cradled by multiple, giant tendrils, manifest in the form of the ever-moving current. It eased his pain, for the entity inside hadn't finished manipulating this world's functions yet. He still had a bit more to go, but Alucroas' body wasn't prepared for the wait, despite pieces of his skull still missing, the instinctive urge to live coupled with anxiety caused him to swim up to the surface in a panic-driven state.

Alucroas nearly choked himself back to death as he struggled against the current, his tail acting as a rudder as he swam like an eel, suffering the hurricane's wrath. But at last, he was able to surface, bobbing up and down with the waves, scared out of his wits as the super-sonic clap of evil's hand clashed with the internal fear, manifest in the form of naught but thunder.

It scared the fuck out of him, and so he took a deep breath and descended back down into the darkness; and as ironic as it sounded... to Alucroas Hellwards was Heavenwards. All was evidenced by a giant arch of black spindly flesh, visible for only a few seconds before completing its dive back into the unknown. For about a few minutes he was able to keep pace with it, and this Hellish world had become a utopia that would provide Alucroas with what he needed.

Pfft.. She's died once before. Never knew how much fun this place could b-ITCH!

With some bullshit on the side.

A transparent outline revealed a distorted version of what had been lurking around inside Alucroas' head. It had a spindly tail, similar to his own, a semi-humanoid head fused with a dragon's, and it was grappling with the massive serpentine guardian. Alucroas could see his sanctuary being torn apart by the sharp-tipped tendrils, as well as his own... half(?) mother... sinking back into the depths. And while Alucroas knew she wasn't really going to die per se, it still pissed him off.

Instinct told him to charge the beast, but cognition told him to stay away, knowing full well what could happen, should he so much as touch the thing. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to decide, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why, either. Fortune may not have been on his side, but who was to say there was only one Lady Luck?

There were thousands of them, having been alerted to the threat the moment, they saw one of their own mangled companions, gently sinking passed them. All at once, they swam up to where Alucroas and the entity were currently located, taking him by surprise and roaring at Alucroas in a desperate attempt to get him the hell out of where he was. They too knew the dangers of this thing. It was why the Dark Realm had been restricted, and locked away for the tournament. It took something dramatic like death to create any instability.

Indeed, it obeyed the physics that dimension had set, and stayed within them. The Dark Realm manifested itself in a variety of ways, ranging from the physical to the existential and right now, it was merely a cubicle encompassing the marble ring. Not a sub-plain, nor another world, though on the inside one could logically say it was in fact, that. This was why Alucroas had to get away, he had to contain the monster while he had the chance, 'less he risk releasing its full fledged physical form into the GT dimension. There were more than likely guards for just these kinds of occasions - keeping fighters in check to make sure no harm came to the audience. Whether or not that was true, the answer to that question was something he didn't know.

--

The two men who were chatting just a few minutes ago, were now running in the opposite direction of all the other fans, spotting one of the few exits that wasn't packed full.

"C'mon, Jonathan, we're almost there."

"I know, and look on the bright side. We completely forgot that the match between Katana and Asimov was in arena.... #17?"

Then the unthinkable happened. That massive cube of death, released a kinetic burst of energy, slamming into the wooden support-beams, causing an entire slab of the stands to fall straight down. "JESUS CHRIST!" Screamed Nathaniel. Jonathan couldn't but scream when he briefly saw the constantly flipping sight of Nathaniel, then the cube of liquid, then Nathaniel again. First all the nacho's were starting to act up in his stomach, then a throbbing headache in his head from smacking his head against the marble stairs multiple times, and now Alucroas who bursted half-way out of the cube and grabbed at his legs in desperate attempt to pull himself free.

"OH GOD, OH GOD, OH SHIT, OH FUCK!"

That's when the tug of war began. The entity lurking on the inside, digging those tendrils into Alucroas' exoskeleton and pulling on him relentlessly as he too was being pulled back in by the guardians behind him. Nathaniel was quick to charge down the stairs and help his friend escape from the nightmare that had manifested itself into reality.

Nathaniel managed to leap over a few dozen fallen fans and grabbed onto Jonathan's arms, scrambling to keep his head out of the way of Alucroas' mouth, having remembered the time where he used that inner-mouth to make a hole in Dusk's head.

"PULL YOU ASSHOLE, PULL!"

"I'M TRYING TO PULL. BUT APPARENTLY THERE'S A FOUR BILLION FOOT HIGH CUBE AND A BIG, UGLY, PIECE OF VOMIT PULLING THE OTHER WAY!"''

"C'mon, boy! You're not alone."

It was a stupidly bulky individual, dressed in standard Viking Warrior garb, wrapping his arms around Nathaniel's waist and pulling even harder. Must be one of the contestants who didn't make it here in time. And thank the fuck Christ he's on my side! A few more came in to help, followed by the remaining dozen on the staircase who were now cut off from all the other exits. Their best bet was to hope that they could pull Jonathan out of Alucroas' grasp and possibly shove him back in simultaneously, and maybe, just maybe, end this catastrofuck.

The bulky individual let go o Nathaniel, careful to exchange hands with one of his Viking comrades pick up the slack. He had bigger problems to take care of, removing a pair of dual-axes which he wielded quite skillfully, and with that skill he barely left a scratch on Alucroas' fully repaired exoskeleton. The beast was starting to break free of his the entity's grip, and Jonathan could feel himself getting further away from the black death, kissing the grass as he moved.

In the final moments, the Viking gave up using his axes and went crazy, biting Alucroas right on the hole where his ear was, and tearing a nice chunk clean out, which he immediately spat out, suffering a few lost teeth, courtesy of his acidic blood.

The result, was Alucroas getting slung all the way back into through the arena entrance and back to the lobby, skidding across the floor, straight past Asimov, straight past Holy and the two females, and about ten feet from Katana who was enjoying his drink.

His impressive speed shattered the counter and obliterated the drone, and leaving Alucroas in a daze as he wiggled only briefly, managing to get a few pieces of rubble off himself, leaping flat onto his face in a grunt.

And I thought just killing was fun..

The soldier grasped Honoria’s arms, trying to yank her hands from his shoulders but her fingers clung like glue, pulling his coat along with them. “Let go! Are you insane?” he exclaimed and his eyes shot up to the fireball that manifested in Enya’s hand. “Time to go!” Rocketing to his feet, Holy bolted across the grass, heading back to the lobby. Honoria was tucked under his arm and blinking in surprise.

“Hey!” she finally screamed and began kicking. “Put me down! Put me down right now!” A sudden fireball struck the grass just behind Holy, making Honoria’s eyes bulge in shock. “You better not put me down! Run fat boy! Run faster!” Holy was practically out of breath, swinging his left arm to power his sprint while Honoria occupied his right. The staffer glared up at him as she overheard his panting. “How can you be tired? We just started running?”

The blond scowled. “We? I’m the only one running here! And I’m not fat. I’m just full, all right?” Staring exhaustedly at the approaching doors, he held out a hand and burst through them to dodge around the monument and stop at the stairs. He set Honoria on her feet and she stood out of his hold.

“We’ll talk about that crazy bitch later!” Honoria quickly bade and she darted for her office.

“Will you stop calling her names?” Holy shouted after her and started up the stairs. Every step made everything in his stomach churn and made him feel like he was heavier than he should have been. His lungs felt like they were coated in nothing but cholesterol and he was sweating like a track star having finished a race. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone on a date with her” he panted and bent over on the steps, wanting to dog-crawl the rest of the way. He felt so ridiculous and out of shape that he eventually just stopped and sprawled out across the steps in defeat. “I give up…go ahead and torch me.” He was pooped and regretting ever had eaten so much.

She clicked her tongue, a soft, “Hm,” falling from her lips as her fiery golden eyes watched Holy pick up his woman and sprint off toward a building along the path. So…that’s how it was. The fact that Holy ran only further implicated him, only made him further guilty in her mind. After sending the fireball she had summoned flying after the fleeing couple, Enya stalked after them; presenting a rather picturesque homicidal-maniac persona. Her vision was still distorted with red, and she was still trembling.

The funny thing about all of this was…Enya wasn’t really Holy’s girlfriend. She imagined herself to be, as they traveled together, protected one another (all right, he protected her more than she, him), and they even occasionally shared a bed – not that that ever panned out -, but Holy had never told Enya she was his girlfriend. Honestly, he owed her no allegiance, but, well, it was stated before that Enya is obsessed.

When she finally reached the building, she shoved her way past the doors just in time to see Holy sprawling out on the stairs. She lifted a brow and smirked. He must have just finished eating before she’d arrived. Unlucky for him. Lucky for her. She was going to have fun burning a new hole into him. Marching across the entrance, around the monument, and up the stairs, she stopped right behind Holy just in time to hear him say, “I give up…go ahead and torch me.”

And all of the snow-haired vixens resolve went right out the window. She turned into a big pile of mush at his whining. It was her undoing, and everyone knew it. She sank down on the stairs next to Holy. Resting one elbow on her knee, and then her chin in that hand, she used her other hand to run her fingers back through his hair. She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. “Holy,” she cooed, “I’m not going to torch you. Come on. I don’t really want to hurt you. That woman, however,” her eyes narrowed and her voice lost its pleasant note, “who is she?”

God be with him if he gave her the wrong answer, and as she was woman, the wrong answer was everything but the exactly right answer.

The soldier felt Enya’s fingers through his hair and he opened his mysterious eyes to gaze up at her. He should have known he didn’t have to panic with Enya for too long. It was starting to become routine that whenever he acted helpless, she would become a sympathizing pile of mush. Holy grinned mentally; he would have to remember that next time. Sitting up on the stairs, he curled his arms behind him on the upper steps and answered the platinum-haired girl, “Her name is Honoria and she is a tournament staff member. She’s been making sure I get to all my fights.”

Speaking of Honoria, she boldly made her way up the stairs, donning her work attire with a maroon suit and white blouse. Without glancing to Enya, she knelt upon the step below him and poked his belly with the black-leather pamphlet. “Here is your next opponent, and Holy…this,” she continued to poke, “Isn’t going to work.”
Snatching the pamphlet from her, he scowled and grumbled, “Yeah, I’m aware of that. I was planning to sleep it off.” Smiling brightly, he raised a hand in Enya’s direction. “Honoria, I would like you to meet my uh…” He was about to say ‘good friend’ but he felt closer to her than ‘good.’ “My close friend, Enya. She’s from the same universe as I.”

Honoria wrinkled her nose at Enya and latched onto Holy’s arm. “Let’s get you to bed then.” She got him to his feet and began leading him up the stairs. “You somehow managed to pull off appearing in a bath towel to your fight, but I don’t think you would win being so out of shape.”

Holy smirked at the challenge. “I actually wouldn’t mind trying.”

“This isn’t a game, Soldier boy. You could die. This is as real as your life in your old universe is.”

“Yes, I could die, and I would make sure I’d give’em Hell trying, but I’m not here for fame, fortune, or the prize. I’m just having fun.”

The staffer stopped on the stairs to watch Holy continue his way up to the room. He was the first she had seen who wasn’t in the tournament for anything but fun. It was admirable, but then she didn’t want to see him go so fast. She had grown to like him a lot.