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Skallagrim listened as other fighters were summoned to their respective matches, and yet his name was not cried out to attend to his arena. Turning he stalked back towards the seeding board and checked the names again, yes he was scheduled to face off against a Ryan Michaels.

Tapping the wide leather belt that carried his swords, Skallagrim stared intently at the board, the energy whorls flaring brightly. Casting glances to both sides of him, the muted roar of the other fights carried through the place, as the tournament had begun in earnest.

Twisting his body the Xindhi glanced down the corridor and saw nothing save the other competitors who were watching the various screens that displayed the fights that were in progress. Glancing at the steps that led to the berths along the upper floor, Skallagrim pondered the idea of seeking the missing warrior among the rooms upstairs. After a moment the choice against it had been made, with a shrug, he made his way back towards his tunnel entrance, and merely waited.

[ooc] So I mentioned Leeo looked at the match and ranking boards in my fight, but I didn't do it ic yet, so I figured I would. This of course is before Leeo's match.

Leeo had remained on the wall just observing as fighters and spectators came and went around him. He had kept himself amused with secretly making fun of nearly everyone he saw. Somewhere between ‘joking’ every passing hopeful and the ranking/match boards going on display he had sent a gloved hand into the confines of his trademark jacket retrieving a shiny red apple. A treat he had been saving for later, prior to him getting ‘zapped’ out of his world.

He weighed the fruit over in his hand before bringing it to his parted lips taking a chunk out of it. The Ken’tan was interested to see where he placed, and who would be the first “Scrub,” he had to put down, but both boards were packed with competitors and fans alike jocking for a better look.

The ginger waited a bit for the lines to die down then strolled his way over to them. Taking another bite he searched the rankings board for his placement. “Twenty-ine!” He said with a mouth full of apple. “Bull-hit!” he explained with beads of juice flying from his parted lips. Tandory swallowed the food and turned to a man next to him nudging him. “Twenty-nine? Who makes these rankings anywho?”The stranger looked at the Ken’tan wide eyed shaking his head as if to say ‘I don’t know, and why are you talking to me?’ Shrugging he moved to the other board.

Leeo rotated the fruit over looking for his next bite as he maneuvered throughout the others. Sinking his teeth into another piece he scanned the board for his first match. “Master? How did a guy with a name like that get ranked fourth?” he asked himself spotting his first fight while chomping on a mouth full of fruit.

He was about to turn and walk away when he overheard “Leeo who? Another nobody. Master’ll make quick work of a nobody like him.” A young boy was saying to a group of his peers. “Like, I hear Master is some sort of immortal, with really cool powers.” “Like what?!” one of his friends questioned eagerly.

“Like, like, uhh…I think he can shoot lasers out his eyes.” “Whoaaa!” the other boys explained. “Yeah and I bet that nobody Leeo doesn’t even have powers, I bet…I bet I could beat him even.” The little gang of youths all shared in a laugh when suddenly something smacked the boy, who had been doing the majority of the talking, in the back of the head.

“Ouch!” he cried out rubbing where the blow had struck as he turned around to see what had hit him. No one looked specious, but the object that had done the hitting was an apple core that was now down by the boy’s feet.

Leeo was some ways away with that wide smirk of his shaking his head lightly as made his way to fighters’ area. “Kids.”

Trish aimed a finger over her shoulder and at the desk that had a gleaming metal spike jutting from one of the documents on its surface. "Everything's got dotted i's and crossed t's. I just made sure that the family history and emergency notification information was accurate....As far as my covert mission was concerned."

Now to be clear, Trish’s impression of the General was that he was the type to be quick on the uptake. Given all of what had been said and what had been digitally manipulated so far she expected that Asimov would catch the implication she was making all on his own, but the mewthree was a little taken aback back just how slow to react the General was (granted, he was proofed against psionic probing, so aside from body language it was hard to get a read on him. There were too many people around all feeling too many different emotions for her to pick up his scent and any emotion-driven pheromones he was giving off to get a feel for him that way either).

One green eye a blank eye-patch, and a desultory slack face regarded her smug gaze for a stretched out moment before he responded, very slowly. "...For who?"

Trish’s response was considerably chipper, and punctuated with a sip from her champagne flute. "Why...Me, of course. I'm your wife, for the moment. The forms had listed Dr. Harrigen as your next of kin though."

Ichi-gou’s response wasn’t exactly chipper (since it more accurately just dribbled with condescension), but he made it clear he was getting a kick out of the General’s shell-shock. "Doooooooiiiiiiii....."

Asimov’s normal eye twitch, and it looked like he was ready to shove his chair clear across the room in the process of standing up and either lunging across the table at Ichi-gou, or wrapping his fingers around Trish’s throat. All signs that both Ichi-gou and Trish were taking far more than their fair share of enjoyment in stirring up. "Okay, let's get one thing straight. You are not my wife. We aren't married. Frankly, I don't even particularly like you. You're here because you have field skills I need. And if anyone asks, sure, whatever. But if you ever, ever refer to yourself as my wife again when speaking directly to me, then you are finished."

"Oh really?” The one to respond, surprisingly, wasn't Trish, but Ichi-gou from across the table. His quick query had cut Trish off from one of her own, and actually surprised her too, since she hadn’t expected any solid backing from a threat like that. “Betcha I can keep that from getting followed through with, real easy."

The General looked at first insulted, then profoundly confused. "Why are you on her side? Why are you even here? Since when is Shaddam in the business of sending his crack agents out on to this...This carnival of failure when we're on the brink of war?"

"That's even easier," Ichi replied, tapping the keypad in his hand a few more times, saving a few more of the pictures for later use, and sipping a touch more of his sake. "I'm here looking for anyone who might, just might, get to be a pain in our asses later on and to take care of them now, and to just cross my fingers a bit and hope a few of the people we already don't like are here, so I can get my hands around their necks real tight. But..." He took another sip of his drink, "I'm on her side just cause she's a pretty nice lady.” If anyone had been looking at Trish at that moment, instead of either the tempermental Gunslinger or the laid back and uniquely chivalrous android, they would have noticed Trish’s ears perk slightly at the compliment and just a touch of smile return to her cheeks. “Not much else reason. And since you're threatening the nice lady...Would it catch your interest to know I left a detail or two about you on Media in my combat report? Like you walking up to Kane and…”

There was a muffled ‘pop’, a flash of white light that momentarily blinded Trish both Trish and Pious (the mewthree slightly more, due to having both more sensitive eyes, and due to her leaning forward a bit with interest in whatever tidbit of the General’s history he’d been about to drop), and then Lt. Daemon, Ichi-gou, and the General had vanished from sight. The briefcase under her seat vanished as well, and for the moment the chain of polymorphic metal that bound it to her wrist retracted into the main mass of her body-armor.

Trish, slightly disappointed about the now dead-silence that cropped in over the table where before there had been nicely heated discussion and delicious revenge against her superior officer looked about, nudged aside the General’s chair to make room with her tail, and angled her head at it while facing Pious. “Care to take a load off? I figure that’s them being sent off to their fights, so we can just chat and be friendly a bit until they get back.”

Match 1: The Lobby

The attendant hurried up the stairs and down the hall. Her heels thumped across the carpet as she neared the bedroom of the fighter she had spoken to earlier. Arriving at his door, a smile—she didn’t know why she was smiling—graced her glossed strawberry lips as she brought her fist up to the solid surface of the door and rapped upon it. “Mr. Holy, may I come in?” she called.

The pillows shifted as two arms sprouted from beneath them to plop upon the blanket at his sides. The attractive face of the blond was revealed with his eyes sealed and hair unkempt. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered groggily, and then yawned heavily.

On opening the door, she was shocked to be greeted by the clutter that littered the floor of the Holy One’s room. There were empty pizza boxes that crunched behind the open door, burger wrappers, fry boxes, and circular trays propped against the bed, where the resting form of the fighter lay. With stunned coffee-bean eyes, the attendant stood there in the doorway, trying to account for any other garbage that she may have missed.

Holy’s eyes furrowed. He swore someone had come into his room. His hands pressed against the mattress as he sat up, the blanket sliding down his chiseled frame to his lap. The large cross, which he donned around his neck, twinkled in the light of the hall as his mysterious eyes settled upon the woman, “Can I help you?” the soldier queried.

Snapping out of her shocked condition, the attendant blinked and flicked on the light switch to her right before closing the door behind her. “I can’t believe you ate all of that,” she spoke.

With his elbows rested on his arched knees, Holy wiped at his eyes, “What’s not to believe?”

The attendant just shook her head dismissively before raising her hand to brush her maple bangs from her eyes. Taking two steps near his bed, she tossed upon his lap a small leather folder that to Holy looked like a menu.
His hands lowered from his face to pick up the pamphlet and open it to a list of rules, the arena layout, and it even had the name of the opponent he would be facing.

“You’re opponent is Ethan Harte,” the attendant informed, obviously, “He has arrived and is waiting for you.”

After a minute of scrolling through the documents, Holy tossed the pamphlet upon the floor and turned over onto his side, while mumbling simultaneously, “That’s nice. Give me five minutes.”

Snatching up the folder she had went through the trouble of making for him off the floor, she stepped up to his bed and irritably crossed her arms as she glared at him, “It is rude to keep your opponent waiting.”

Pulling the blanket up to his shoulder, Holy slipped his head beneath one of the pillows and countered, “Tell him that. I’m taking a nap. What? I got three hours to show up or I forfeit? Give me two hours of sleep, and I’ll be out there before the third hour is over.”

“Do you really think you’re opponent is going to wait there for two hours? What do you want me to tell him? I’m sorry your match won’t begin for two hours because your adversary is taking a nap?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I think not!”

Peeking out from under the pillow at the woman, he questioned, “Hey—aren’t you the maid? There’s trash on the floor, I’d be really grateful if you picked it up.”

“Urgh!” the attendant growled angrily as she snagged the blanket and yanked it off Holy’s bed.

“What the-?” exclaimed Holy peevishly as he sat up and quickly caught the folder that was thrown at him once more.

“I am Tournament Staff, Mister; so you will treat me with respect! I am not your mother, and maybe if you didn’t live like a pig, there wouldn’t be any trash on the floor. I didn’t have to come up here and warn you, ya know? It is not my responsibility to do so.”

Holy scooted to the end of his bed and rose to his feet, wearing nothing but his black pants. He stepped up to the woman as she gazed sharply up into his face and smiled at her with slight amusement. She didn’t look like she had the face that could wear a frown. He didn’t mean to condescend, but it was like watching a frustrated little girl. “Then why did you?” he asked, savoring the bewildered look that appeared on her face, as though he had asked her a startling question. Without giving her too much time to think about it, the blond informed as he headed for the bathroom, “I’m going to take a dump, and then shower. I’ll be one-hundred percent afterwards, and on that arena floor. Shut the door on your way out.”

The attendant grimaced. T.M.I., she thought. She watched as he slipped into the bathroom, wrinkling her nose as she noticed he took the pamphlet with him. I am so not taking that back. Letting herself out, she closed the door behind her and found herself smiling the same way she had when going in. Mr. Holy was definitely an interesting person.

Skallagrim grunted as he heard roars and screams of exultation, turning from the tunnel entrance that led to arena 11, the Xindhi made his way back towards the large board. To his surprise that two fights had already been decided. Allowing the darshan to caress the board he realized his opponent, Ryan Michael, had been removed and someone or something named Onatah had been inserted in his place.

Twisting Skallagrim looked at the man who stood nearby, he was one of the coordinators, when the man realized that the amethyst energies had focused on him, he began to visibly shake, his voice struggling to maintain composure, “Mr. Cughtagh…umm you have been assigned a new fighter as Mr. Michaels failed to show up for this tournament.”

The energies flared and cascaded from the eye sockets, bathing the man in a pale amethyst glow, the gravelly voice carried across the void, “Very well, I shall wait his entrance then.” With that Skallagrim stalked slowly towards the space he had waited, his mind raced as he mused on what an Onatah may be.

“Darion – come here.“

A child looked up to his father, gazing upon him with the clearest of emerald eyes. He was dirtied and brown, covered in the soot of his father’s stove, but no amount of grime could tarnish the clarity of his attentive stare. Every move the blacksmith made the boy watched, every hammer fall observed. He was a good boy, honest and brave, just like his father had raised him to be – obedient, also. As such, a very young Darion kicked once, falling from his perch upon a wooden stool and landing upon a packed, earthen floor. Silently he walked to where his father worked.

“Look here, son.”

He was a big man, the father, the type of man to fill a doorframe head to toe, shoulders against the frame. A smithy’s apron was tied about his back and patches of inky-black covered his visage, a blotch here, a smudge there, yet somehow his appearance remained utterly authoritative, wholly regal. The blacksmith turned to look down at his one-and-only with a smile upon his face. It was not a grin of excitement, nor was it a foreknowing smirk; the expression was simple and pleasant, a whisper of pride in nonverbal form. Within one hand he carried a hammer, rounded and worn, years of use marring its face. In the other hand he held a sword.

The weapon gleamed, sparkling as it perfectly caught the light from the window above. As the master craftsmen held it aloft a swathe of smoke from the oven churned and swirled about the blade, the grey serpent’s dance throwing shadows along the glowing length of steel. Never before had a sword been made like this one. Its blade was stout and of flawless length, a single blood groove running down its middle. The guard was simple and the handle was wrapped in leather, everything ending in a ball pommel. It was a masterpiece. The child’s mouth fell agape, a single sigh of appreciation falling away from him.

“Do you know what this is, Darion?” the father asked his son, patience in his voice.

He nodded.

The blacksmith smiled warmly, dark eyes softened by the earnest reply. He knelt, placing a coarse hand upon the young one’s shoulder, looking into the child’s face. That next few moments a father studied his son’s stare, meeting the youth’s gaze with his own. That next few moments a man studied another’s heart. And then, after a long silence, a massive, sinewy hand held thrust the weapon forward, holding it before the silent son. He spoke; a whisper that barely passed his weathered lips, yet a statement that would echo through the annals of eternity.

“Take it, Darion. This is your sword.”

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Leather moaned, the final belt protesting as it was pulled snug through its buckle. Darion flexed his hand within the gauntlet, metal the color of iron glittering in the candlelight. It felt good. Turning, the fully-armored warrior peered upon the bed, the last two pieces of his equipment resting upon the mattress he doubted he’d use: a helmet, winged and traced in platinum, and the seven foot sword. It took him a moment, his thoughts lingering upon the past. Moments passed, minutes ticked by; and finally the dragonslayer reached down to the sheets. He tugged the dragonsteel helm over his visage – the fit was flawless, his vision completely unhindered. And then, with all the finality of an axeman’s swing, Darion took hold of his weapon’s hilt. He slid the blade within the scabbard behind him, not wanting to tarry, deciding to appreciate the perfection at a later time.

Descending the stairs was difficult. It wasn’t that the armor’s weight or design prevented ample flexibility; no, the stares of the other contestants were what made the trek painful. Some gawked, some smirked, some laughed blatantly, and some nodded, but nearly all of them looked. The armor was a fantastic thing, he knew – he had made it with his own two hands. The darkest gray ringed in purest platinum, wings and feathery décor covering the entirety of the suit. Magnificent, to say the least, and easily intimidating as well. Darion knew well that the peering eyes would soon fall away from his armor, looking to what he considered the true thing of beauty: the oversized weapon, clothed in leather and strapped to his lower back. Whatever happened, the stoic blacksmith kept his jaw tight and his eyes ahead, passing by the bar and through the crowd, heading for the entrance to the arena and the tournament official standing nearby.

“Darion,” the blacksmith said.

“Ah, Mr. Ragnar, you have been selected to replace another contestant. What fortune,” smirked the official, “You are to face Miss Jessica Tell.”

A nod was the only response the man would receive.

“Are you prepared to do combat, Mr. Ragnar?”

“Honor, Discipline, Word…”

“What’s that?” asked the orchestrator, his face showing the bewilderment his voice betrayed.

“Nothing.”

And with that, the armor-covered soldier stepped past the official, leaving him to his confusion.

The glowing billboard chirped as the fighters occupying the lounge craned their heads to lay eyes on the roster’s screen. The name of one of the fighters had moved a few hours after the tournament had just started. Soft gasps escaped their lips and their brows creased to fight the anxiety fidgeting within them. The sound of weighted boots hooked the eyes of the male and female warriors in the direction of the tournament door to watch the cloaked entity, who had arrived last, stroll across the slick marble floor to the red carpet without a single scratch.

A rather hulking fellow bit his bottom lip as he fantasized the power this single man—if man was what he was—had. A hot bead of sweat rolled down his square jaw to cool at his chin. This mysterious man thought they were all peons!

Holy slowly blinked his hidden eyes. Man, all of these people are staring at me. Don’t they know the guy forfeit? he pondered and glanced to the large man that had been watching him so intensely.

The man tensed and his throat tightened as he mentally panicked, Shit! He noticed me.

Holy stopped at the foot of the stairs and faced the guy. What is he looking at?

The man’s eyes fled to the wall, and as the hooded figure observed the other fighters ,their eyes did the same. Whatever. Shaking his head, Holy headed for his room just as the maid was leaving with her cart. Excellent. He walked right past her and closed the door behind, treading the spotless carpet to resume his nap. Holy turned upon the balls of his feet and collapsed across the bed, sinking into the mattress before the springs rejected him. “Ugh, what a waste of time,” he yawned. “I should have gone with my previous plan.”

The blond’s bedroom door suddenly opened and the Tournament Staff belle returned just to freeze in the doorway to see Holy where she last left him. “You lazy bum! Did you even go to your match?” she asked.

Holy didn’t even open his eyes as he replied, “Yeah, I did. It’s over.”

The T-staffer raised her fingers to her throat as she felt her breath catch. Her brows rose in surprise as she just eyed the sprawled man before her. Was he really that strong?

Silence again. Holy raised his head to examine the expression on the woman’s face. “I’ve been getting that look too much. The guy forfeit. Thank you for wasting my nap time” said the blond as he plopped his head back down.

“You would have lost! Sheesh, are you dumb or what? For a second there, I thought you stood a chance in this tournament. You got lucky to get an easy win on your first match. Remember, the tournament is just getting started. You will run into…”

If there was one thing women were good at, it was talking. The room began to darken before his eyes, flashing black. Were his eyes closing? It was happening so fast. The next time they opened, the woman was bent in his face with her hands on her hips and screaming something. Desperately, and groggily Holy reached for her face pressing his fingers to her lips before his hand fell lifelessly from her face to spring off her breasts, and finally darkness overtook him…for a second.

Whack! The T-staffer’s hand met the side of his face hard. “Jerk!” she screamed, blushing madly, and then stormed out the room.

A low growl left Holy’s lips as he squinted at the wall to his right. How did he run into this chick?

Trish’s slit pupiled, heavy browed, and glimmering gold irises looked across the short space between them and remained locked on the eyes of Pious (which were considerably more human-standard-issue, and starting to water).

Pious was still standing where he’d been prior to the General, Ichi-gou, and Daemon getting whisked away by the power of the Tournament to their battles. The chair at Trish’s left was still pushed out (and her tail wasn’t in the way), but Pious had remained standing in what Trish could only figure to be his form of stoniness, rather than take the chair she’d offered him.

He’d also been trying to stare her down, and giving off (to the psionic mewthree) a palpable aura of mixed mistrust and uncertainty. She hadn’t gone so far as to poke inside the ex-Mystic’s mind yet, but Trish was willing to lay a scaled finger-tip on the cause of that being something the General had said. And as the eyeballing continued Trish was getting mighty tempted to peek at just what had one of the Black Dogs she actually considered tolerable so brusque.

But…It could wait just a minute or so longer. No biggie there. Pious was on the short side, and Trish most positively was not. Even while seated she hadn’t needed much recline in her head to meet Pious’ eye, and had a few advantages aside from that to give her the edge in this little social stand-off.

“You can tell I’m partly reptile, right?”

Pious started, but kept the jump at her words to just a twitch of his left hand. “I…Noticed that, yes. So?” Pious’ left eye was twitching a bit, the focus needed to talk was a distraction from keeping a 1000-yard stare into Trish’s.

“So you know I don’t have to blink anywhere near as often as a regular human, yes?”

“I…Didn’t know that…No.”

“Well, so you know, I don’t have to blin…”

The was a flash of light directly overhead, making both Trish and Pious blink reflexively and shield their faces, a yelp of surprised alarm, and the table with Trish’s champagne glass was violently upended and turned completely over in a crash of rending and cheaply put-together metal table legs as Ichi-gou fell through the air and hit the opposite side of the table in the progress of falling to the marble floor.

The table completed its flip and landed on-top of Ichi a moment after he landed on his ribs and the side of his head. Trish’s champagne glass and the liquid contained within it flipped through the air first one way, then made an abrupt about-face, flew to her hand, and the bubbly it had lost flowed through the air and back into the flute before touching the floor.

A few heads had been turned, but given that fights were in the progress of ending, none too many guests were surprised.

“Did you win?” Trish sipped her glass, crossed her legs, and looked down at the half of the android that was visible from the obscuring edge of the table.

Ichi’s free hand gave her a thumbs-up.

The three Technocrats maneuvered to an undamaged table, and they sat down. Pious dragged his luggage with him, and started rifling through his backpack once they were settled.

"Weren't you matched up against another Technocrat though?" he asked Ichi-gou, who was already calling in for a bottle of sake. Being the winner of his match, the tournament staff moved with all haste to treat him properly.

""Yups. Lieutenant Daemon, the guy that was sitting...Right there," Ichi-gou said, pointing away from them. "I tried to go easy on him and just set him on fire."

"Oh. Well....good then?" Pious ventured cautiously. He pulled out a manila folder and laid it on the table in front of him. He also placed a mighty tome there along with it, bearing the obtuse title "Studies on the Classical Histories: From Normanov to Traylene: 5,100 to 10,000, with Unabridged Commentaries." To cover was a replica of a painting that depicted a dead Technocrat marine holding up a flag bearing the Solidus.

""I guess," Ichi-gou replied. "Sucks that we got matched up so soon, but I'm betting Shaddam would dock my pay if I got removed from the Tournament before finding out if any of the fighters here could threaten us. So I couldn't just let myself get knocked around for show."

"I wonder how the General's doing with his match?" Pious said.

"Probably he's shooting someone. And probably they're dying," Ichi-gou said.

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Pious began flipping through the folder. He fished out one set of stapled papers and leaned back in his chair as he looked over it. Trish glanced at him with a terse look.

"Is the Lieutenant going to be okay?" she asked Ichi-gou. He seemed strangely perturbed at Pious's course of action as well.

"He's alright. He got out of the worst of it and the fight ended with a ring-out. Dunno where he's at though. Either the officials sent him home or he's just a bit behind me in getting back here."

There was an uncomfortable beat or two of silence as Pious opened his text book and started reading to himself. He flicked the cap off a felt tipped marker and started highlighting passages in the book. In a few seconds, he was fully engaged, and the uncomfortable beat stretched out into what seemed like a long, protracted minute. Ichi-gou seemed almost disgusted.

Ichi broke it after what he felt were a few moments too many, and being that his drink had not yet arrived, he had no other suitable distractions. "Soooooooo...Hybrid-division? Why'd you pick that?"

"Only set of core-world and travel-oriented orders that came to Halium in the years I was on the force." Trish replied. "I could have passed on them and pushed for something more standard, but Halium was so far out in the outliers and so much a civillian sector there wasn't a lot of interest in recruitment there. When the billet was up for grabs and got shuffled that way, and since I was tired of the civilian defense force back home, I took what I could get. This," Trish gestured to herself, "Was the model requested for acceptance and space-station duty. I figured there was worse out there, so I took it." She paused a moment, sipped her champagne, and looked to Ichi-gou with an eye-ridge raised. "You? You're the first...Well, you're the first of your kind I've seen."

"I'm not Technocrat-standard make, really. My world got hit by a Time of Calling, and I was converted to this to help suppress the dangerous mutations. But before the universe collapsed I got picked up by a Technocrat representative."

There was a moment of nothing between them, but then both turned and looked at Pious, each equally expectantly. Pious looked up form his book. He closed it with his finger inside to mark his place.

"I was a Mystic. Well, my parents were Mystics at least," he began. Despite the traumatic nature of the story he was embarking upon, he hardly seemed fazed by any of it. "Truth be told, I never really bought into that belief system. I mean, I tried. Really, really hard. I still remember most of the stuff I learned, actually, but I really had no talent for magic. I kinda remember one of my instructors saying I had 'stupid fingers' and then beating me with a bamboo switch.

I did have a thing for machinery though, which is not exactly an ideal talent for you to have on a backwoods planet in the Empire."

Trish irked an eye-ridge again, and the tip of her tail twitched underneath her chair. "What about...Day to day conduct? Wouldn't someone capable, like a craftsman, at least be looked to for building?"

"Well, sure, that's how I avoided being banished from the village. Which, is how they deal with people engaged in 'heresies' like technology. I ended up apprenticing for a metal smith, who was also the chief architect for the entire region. I figure that the only reason I got the position was because my father was the head priest.

"Oh, did I forget to mention that part?"

"You did." Trish replied, and by the look on her face was clearly and genuinely interested in Pious' story.

Ichi appeared interested, but rather than stick to simply encouraging Pious along he looked over his shoulder, pointed to his empty cup for the bartender, and waved a finger at the three seated at the table.

The bartending robot started to pour three cups of habu-sake, stopped when Ichi-gou waved a hand, and then when the android pointed at the jug it was hefting it took the hint. A moment later the service droid brought the entire jug, several cups, and a few napkins to the table for all of them to indulge in.

"That's kind of important, so keep that in mind," Pious said. "Oh, and I also forgot to mention the planet I grew up on. Sturgis. Probably won't ring any bells. There were a couple battles there, one in orbit and the other was a complete invasion. I guess you could say that I was responsible for the second attack."

Pious's audience refilled their drinks, and Trish offered a cup to Pious as well. He waved it off politely. "Er, actually I, uh, I'm not much of a drinker, thanks.

"Anyway, the second attack is actually connected to the first. There was some scuffle in orbit, and a lot of debris from the Technocrat fleet ended up falling to the surface. As per tradition, the Mystics salvaged it and had a big ceremony where they cast a destruction spell on it. But, I managed to sneak some of it away and kept it with me, where I guess I tinkered with it for a few months. It wasn't anything big, just some scraps of communication equipment and a database fragment. I didn't have any formal training, but what can I say, I have a knack for that stuff. The database was all technical stuff, which I used to work on the communication equipment.

It turned out that the equipment I found was the black box to some small escort ship, and I managed to reactivate it after fussing with it a little. A day later, my mother found it and almost had a heart attack. So, logically, my parents decided that the best course of action was to sacrifice me on Alter of War in order to bless our troops on the frontlines."

Ichi-gou choked on the sip he was taking, and spat it back into the cup. He blinked a few times looking at Pious across the table before exclaiming a simple (and probably expected/baited) "What the fuck?"

"Yeah, you see why I'm not exactly broken up about the whole thing," Pious said.

Trish held a considerably more composed demenure, and only set her glass back on the table-top. "Go on."

"I'm not exaggerating when I say that my father had the knife in his hand," Pious said, gesturing with his own hands the motion of a knife held high over his head, "and had me tied to the alter kicking and screaming when a particle beam from a sniper took off his head. A whole brigade of Marines had dropped from orbit and ripped the village apart. It was the gnarliest thing I'd seen until Red Sunday. Turns out the black box I activated had a distress beacon that called in an entire Advance Fleet that took Sturgis in less than a week. As far as I know, I'm the only one who was taken from the planet who wasn't made a POW. Hell, I'm probably one of .01% of Mystics recovered from invasions that actually wanted to go.

"So, to make a long story short, I ended up in the Academy, then I switched to the Military in my second year, though I'm still technically enrolled in some independent study courses," he said, gesturing to his reading material. "I guess the General saw something in my work that piqued his interest. It's probably because I shattered a couple of his aptitude records at the Academy. And I've been working with him ever since."

"Good place to be if you like being a target for the crazies."

Bastion slid comfortably into a chair at the next table over, turning the seat as he did so to face more properly towards the other Technocrats. With practiced care the Major let his left arm rest on the table to his side, the angle of its surface tilting noticeably under the weight of the appendage.

"The General is doing pretty much what everyon expected him to do: he's shooting things. A lot. He was pulling out a Matador when I decided there wasn't any need to keep looking."

The man's all too knowing eyes turned towards his android contemporary, eyes that had a distinct tendency to unnerve those held within their gaze for more than a few moments. Whether it was out of fear of what the psychic might know, or out of fear of not knowing what knowledge he could have dredged from their minds with them none the wiser. Humanity in general tended to distrust the psychically endowed, if only out of some misguided notion of mindraping voyeurs.

Not that those didn't exist, of course; just that they were the minority.

"So I take you won then?"

"Well that took forever," Lieutenant Reakaris muttered as he finally found his way back to the lobby. He still didn't understand why they had teleported Ichi-gou from the arena shortly after the end of the match and left him there. Sure. He lost the fight and everything, but leaving him there was just rude. It didn't really help matters that the various degrees of burns Daemon had sustained had started to hurt like hell after the adrenaline had worked it's way out of his system. In the middle of a fight you can push pain like that to the back of your mind. Use it to keep focused on more important things and keep your clarity, but once that battle's through it all comes rushing to the front to remind you of what an idiot you are. Daemon could swear his body was giving him a throbbing, painful reminder of his stupidity with every step as he made his way into the bar to do some heavy drinking.

The Lieutenant wasn't surprised to see Talisman back at a table with Staff Sergeant Watkins and the General's garishly dressed companion; although, he seemed to remember the table being closer to the door before he left. Daemon didn't recognize the other technocrat that had addressed the group before he'd walked up, but could tell well enough from the context of his statement what was going on. With a flick of his mind and gesture his hand a chair slid from an adjacent table into place between Ichi-gou and Trish. Daemon nodded at the assembly and plopped down with a wince before he turned his sight to the bar; specifically the top shelf. In general, the Lieutenant went for whiskey, the higher proof bourbons in particular, but nursing a defeat called for a darker liquor with a stronger flavor. And Daemon was pretty sure he'd spotted just the one.

There behind the bar, resting on it's highest shelf, was a brown, slightly ornate bottle with with deep brown liquor inside. The yellowing paper label and traces of dust on the bottle told the charred hacker more of it's age than his computerized glasses ever could. He didn't need to check his glasses to know what was in the bottle either. The subtle inlay of sugar cane on the neck of the bottle definitively identified it as rum. A particularly dark rum in this case. Daemon knew that this one bottle of rum would probably set him back more than the rest of his drinking expenditures for the last couple of months, but now wasn't the time to worry about that. He raised his bare right arm and with yet another Tether of telekinetic force sent the bottle sailing across the room into his raised hand. For most people that would be some show of theatrics, but the Lieutenant...

He was just being lazy.

The thing with a dark rum though is it's not really meant for sipping or chugging. The only way to really get full enjoyment from it was to take it in shots. Which meant Daemon would need shot glasses. Which of course meant even more fragile objects were about to sail through the air. Lieutenant Reakaris would've felt bad about that if the Bartender hadn't have messed up his first drink order. The guy had done fine after that, but Daemon didn't forgive such trespasses that easily. Thus. He placed the bottle on the table and raised his hand once again this time with the thumb and fingers spread apart. Four short connections later and a quartet of diminutive liquor glasses found their way over the bar and each into place between a different pair of digits. (The Lieutenant may have been showing off that time, but who's to say.) Daemon was then quick to open the bottle with little ceremony, save enjoying the aroma after removing the cap, and filled the four glasses before him. He picked one of the glasses up and stared at it for a moment before he knocked back the bittersweet liquor with a sound of obvious enjoyment. "Mmm... Cinnamon and Cayenne," the large technocrat whispered as he put his glass back on the table. His eyes then rose to sweep across the other three at the table and said a sardonic voice, "Whatever shall I do with these other three?"

(OOC: Backstory and a lot of struggling. Skip if you don't want to slog through walls of text.)

Sirocco's match had just caught up to him, now that he had switched from death back to life. He now felt heavily dazed and quite worn out, and was under the impression that he could faint at any moment. He attempted to find his way off the nearly obliterated stage, but everything around him was blurry. He proved to have lost too much energy, and suddenly collapsed, almost hitting his head on the ground. Luckily, he managed to catch himself at the very last second, ending up in push-up position. His breaths were shallow and varied in length, possessing no particular rhythm. Acting in a similar manner was his heavily taxed heart, which was beating quite irregularly. Sweat dripped down from his torso, legs, and face as he struggled to push himself upwards again.

With one eye open, Sirocco limped back towards the lobby, which he had just located. His arm hanged, completely limp and burned. It was being tossed in every which direction as Sirocco made a huge effort to continue walking. His mind barely functioned, the only thing he could think about at the moment was water, and rest.

His throat was completely devoid of water and his voice was hoarse. He barely managed to whisper, "Guys... I... can't..." before his legs finally gave way, and he lay on the dirt, barely breathing. However, a voice emitted in his head, clear as crystal. In his mind, a perfectly defined figure appeared. It glowed with light, but in Sirocco's mind, it was impossible to tell who or what the figure was. His only guess was...

"Anabat?" He barely thought as he remembered the entity of the wind and air itself. Anabat was the sole entity which the Wind Guardians protected. Seldom did Anabat appear in any form to anybody, including the wind guardians, one of which was Sirocco himself. However, he was an odd case for one. Humans were rarely granted immortality by the wind guardians, and seldom granted elemental control at all, let alone control over wind. However, a lifetime of dedication to the winds proved to be a special case in the guardian's eyes, and thus, Sirocco was admitted to the Guardians of the Wind.

Sirocco's irises glowed with a bright turquoise as the wind swept danced below his feet, causing him to get up. They then blew at his backside, causing him to float into the lobby, where the wind held him still before disappearing. Before departing, Sirocco was granted a small portion of energy; just enough to prevent him from fainting and to regain his senses for about an hour or so. His irises ceased their luminous glow, and he scratched his head before emitting a gigantic yawn, wondering how he was in the middle of the lobby already.

Now the moment of truth was to come. Did Sirocco's efforts come with reward, which would be advancement? Or was it all for naught?

Asimov stepped slowly through the mire. The swamp, which only moments ago rang with deafening explosions, now uttered a requiem of silence for the Bagi warrior. Asimov returned the Matador to his metal case and reached down and removed one of the revolvers hanging at his hips. It was a modest weapon, silver with a fine wood grip. Firearm aficionados would likely recognize its unique characteristics at even the most casual of glances. Most profound was that it's barrel protruded from the bottom of the cylinder rather than from the top. A Mateba Autorevolver, specifically the 2008 Unica model produced following the revival of the Eartharms company with the backing of a certain Lombardi Financial Corporation and their shadowy representative Mr. Tidus Yeng.

In any case, it and its brother were Asimov's most prized possessions.

The Technocrat rolled the cylinder out and reached into his gun harness. His right hand produced six .442 caliber bullets, steel slugs jacketed in cobalt, the same as the ones that had crippled Asimov's opponent. As he approached he thoughtfully loaded each round into the cylinder, letting them roll across his fingers in a hypnotic sleight-of-hand. Pressed for time, he could do this in under a second. He was not.

He paused en route to gather up the duster he had hung from the tree at the beginning of his round. He swung it over his left shoulder.

Fully loaded and now standing above the Bagi's twisted form, he snapped the cylinder shut. He looked at the Bagi. At Reminiscence. Black blood seeping into the wetland around him, his rage seemed almost to distort the air with its heat. He didn't beg. He didn't cry out. He simply lay there, his howls and outrage muted by his shattered visage.

Asimov wordlessly shot him six times in the head.


The air sizzled for a second, then erupted in an instant of light that was gone in the succeeding moment. Asimov stood in its place, six feet from the table where his crew and fellow Agents were sitting and enjoying themselves. Their conversation halted at his arrival.

Before they could say anything he unfastened the case from his harness and laid it on the ground. He kicked it, sliding it across the floor towards Trish.

"Watkins, give the Matador and my R-12 a once over. My match took place in a wet environment, and I want you to make sure that there's no moisture inside." He still held his Mateba in his hand. He twirled it around and flicked open the cylinder, letting the spent casings tumble to the lobby floor like loose change. He tossed the empty and open gun to Pious. "I'm trusting you with that, Pious. You know what to do."

He stood a moment in thought, without a response from the others.

"This place better have a dry cleaners."

He stood quietly in his corner, his lips closed tight, brow narrowed. There had been an announcement for the two fighters to return to where they had started, which Kiyoshi had followed, but Xaul, who continued to empty his lungs with his incessant insult until his lungs, and heart pumped no more. The image of a medical team trying to move the large marble slabs from around the now dead, half-drow was reflected off of his dark lenses. As the announcement came that he had won, Kiyoshi showed no visage of accomplishment. His right hand finally moved away from his holstered side arm, the tensed hand now resting. The Half-Drow's body became free, falling forward against the unleveled surface. He stared for a brief moment, this not being the first time he had seen a dead body, so it was nothing new to him, but he knew the passing of his opponents life meant nothing in this dimension. It was all a waste of time. A pathetic display that Kiyoshi wondered if Xaul would remember when he awoke, alive again, wherever he had come from.

The crowd, never the less, roared with excitement as the two fighters disappeared in a burst of intense light.

-

The very next moment, Kiyoshi found himself in the bar. Seeing the General and the other Technocrats, he made his way over towards them. “Funny,” he remarked to himself, “I thought he would have threatened to bite my legs off before I left.”

Yami collapsed after his battle and passed out, the enemy, Subaru's corpse was dragged out of existence. Many hours had passed and Yami awoke in the medical bay, his wounds patched up and medicine flowing in his veins.

The fight, did I win? I have to find out

Yami leaves the medical bay and approached the main lobby, a large screen was mounted on the wall which showed the pairings for the next match.

Hmm, Holy Unknown versus Yami, I did win and this new fighter looks stronger then Subaru, looks like there's going to be no holding back the darkness this time

His eyes turned crimson and a dark aura surrounded him.

Don't forget Yami, you owe us one and we will collect it after your fights, your soul would make a perfect warrior for Chaos

The aura faded and Yami's eyes returned to normal just in time to hear the announcement

"The matches for Round 2 will now begin, all combatants please enter the respective arenas and prepare for the matches to begin"

Yami steeled himself, his sword tapping against his legs as he entered the arena.

Let this fight be in my favour, let the darkness give me victory

Match 2: The Lobby

The air smelt of sweet soaps and fragranced rubbing oils. It carried a light humidity from the whirlpool baths next door that clung to the soldier’s skin as he lie on his belly upon a massage table angled for his comfort. A small masseuse was mounted on his back, kneading her hands into his muscles, while two other girls were giving him a scalp and foot massage. The euphoria was present on his face. A pleasant smile was curled upon his lips as his cheek lay plastered upon the tabletop. The tournament was becoming a vacation for him, and it couldn’t get any better…or worse.

There was a sudden prodding at his skull that caused his brows to knit together for he was disturbed by the interruption. Upon opening his eyes, he glanced up at the black pamphlet being twisted against his forehead and then glanced to the one doing the twisting. “Round two of the grand tournament has just begun and your opponent is waiting for you,” the T-staffer informed.

The masseuse massaging her fingers through his blond feathery hair let up, taking a step back as Holy took the pamphlet and propped himself up on his forearms. The mini folder was opened like a book as his eyes scrolled over the lettering. There were the same rules, the information about his opponent, and the layout of the ring. “Yami…the same ring, huh?” asked Holy, his eyes giving the staffer a brief glance.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

Groaning as he set the pamphlet on the table, Holy’s hands pressed against the tabletop as he rose, curling his knees beneath him. “Yah!” the masseuse on his back screamed as she slid off to be caught under her arms by the foot masseuse behind her.

“Excuse me ladies” Holy apologized. Uncurling his legs beneath him, he turned and set them upon the warm floor and without a word headed for the door with nothing but a white towel at his hips and the cross around his neck.

Watching him, the T-staffer arched a thin brow skeptically as she said, “I hope that you are going to get dressed.” Holy slipped out the door and she frowned. She didn’t like to be ignored.

OOC: This is the result of AIM rps between myself, Asimov, Kiyoshi, and Wandering.

IC:

SNAP!

The sound of a bullwhip breaking the sound-barrier cracked through the lobby of assembled contestants so fast and so suddenly that the majority of the people near its origin jumped in their seats or nearly out of their shoes.

This included Ichi-gou, Bastion, Pious, Daemon, Kiyoshi, General Asimov, and Trish, the last of which was exceptionally startled, since the sound originated from her. The tremendous crack had been on par with a gunshot, and had ripped through the air the moment Asimov had finished speaking, and the moment his case of weapons had slid to a halt near her chair. The moment it stopped a tendril of liquid quicksilver lashed out from her wrist, completely bidden by her control, shot towards the case, and formed a seamless bond with the metal of the attaché’s handle.

With a swift yank, the cable tugged the metal case through the air, and Trish (very nearly losing her glass of champagne in the process) hastily caught it in the air telepathically before it could knock her out of her seat in her armor’s haste to reclaim secure possession of it.

The was a moment’s pause as everyone at the table raised an eyebrow, and during which everyone else in the Lobby went back to going about their business. Trish, a little put out that there were still sub-routines not in her control worming around in her armor’s network, set the case down with an audible ‘thump’ on the marble floor, and looked around at everyone still looking directly at her.

“What? Sky Martial Tesla set it do that.”

Ichi-gou was the first to let his face return to normal, and sip his drink, followed shortly thereafter by the rest at the table that Trish had been socializing with. If she’d had hackles though, the General’s response would have probably gotten them to stand up a bit. "That's really, really alarming. Don't do that again."

“But I just said I didn’t do that. Ms. Tesla has my armor programmed to not let anyone but you touch the case and to reclaim it the moment you relinquish it. And it’s shut-out my access to the registry and to the protocols to override…”

“Down, kiddies.” Trish looked away from the General, who she’d been borderline whining to, and over to Ichi-gou. “Look,” the android continued, “he’s got a burr up his ass about the joke the Sky Martial’s pulling, so he’s gonna be a sour-puss no matter what, really. Just roll with it for now. Hell, you’ve got access to his accounts, so if you really wanna get some payback I sure wouldn’t object to seeing a few bottles of Cristal on the table when we get back from our next rounds.”

Trish, as had been said before, wasn’t actively poking in the brains of anyone at the table or adjacent seats. She kept out of people’s heads unless the situation truly called for invasive prodding, like an interrogation or the like. But she was subconsciously monitoring the emotions everyone was giving off (aside from the General, who was immune to such things, and Bastion, who was as well but to a lesser extent, and Ichi-gou, who was…Some kinda robot), and picking up what pheromone cues she could in the mix of scents drifting around the lobby air.

At the General’s next words, given just how much tension had so far cropped up every time he’d so much as looked at the mewthree-female, ground everyone’s thought-processes to a halt.

"I'm going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than champagne to get past the plugs in my liver."

Not a surprised halt, like the little whip-snap of her armor grabbing the weapons case had. That had an element of focused surprise and alarm carried with it. The sudden crash in everyone’s thinking processes was simultaneous, and exceptionally hard to conceptualize because Trish herself was as stunned as the rest.

Because everyone’s jaw was hanging open, and all eyes were on the man standing off from the group, Ichi-gou, the one furthest at the back of the group, closed his mouth, blinked, and piped up. “Did…Did you just make a joke?”

The General defeated the notion as quickly and efficiently as stepping on an insect. "Not really. I have bio plugs in my liver and small intestines that process alcohol too fast and cleanly for it to have much of an effect on me. Last I time I got much of a buzz on was with Hyperproof whiskey, which is kind of like drinking motor oil mixed with cyanide…It's not worth it."

Trish turned away without further comment, and telekinetically snatched the heavy revolver from Pious’ hand, and commenced disassembling the components on the table, scouring any of the pieces free of debris while Ichi-gou reached to a table at his back, grabbed a chair, and set it between himself and Daemon. “Well, since you’re at least kinda-sorta-maybe making an effort to get along with your wife in public, pull up a chair for a bit then. Act like this is a proper honeymoon and all, take a load off and relax till the next fights.”

Trish missed the rather nasty glance the General gave the back of her head as he circled the table while she was disassembling the various springs and bearings of the heavy gun in her grip, and Pious, in his part, neither mentioned it nor protested her taking control of the weapon, but Trish very clearly picked up on the begrudging aura he gave off when she handled it. It didn’t fade much at all even when he attempted to strike up conversation with his commanding officer as he took his seat. "So how did your fight go?"

Revolver cleaned, Trish began reassembling the pieces of metal on the table infront of her by just sliding them into their designated places with her mind in a complex floating cluster of puzzle-pieces as the General answered his protégé. "Big guy acted like he'd never seen a rifle before. He couldn't get within 10 feet of me."

CLACK!

The sound of the cylinder being snapped into place at the flick of Trish’s wrist met the end of Asimov’s boast, and Trish slid the revolver across the table-top to him. “Anything else, hon? Rifle maybe?”

"Yes. Cleaned and calibrated. It was off by a few nanometers. I think it was from when Totenkopf had it rechambered for Battlefield rounds. And don't call me hon."

Kiyoshi groaned as he pulled up a seat, more out of annoyance than anything else. “You know, I'm still in this,” the soldier paused to watch the various rifle parts moving in midair after interjecting himself into the conversation. He glanced at Trish for a moment, though no one would have noticed because of the sunglasses he wore, “Trish when you're done with that, I'd like to have my Chapel back for the next round.”

“I can multitask,” Trish replied, not quite as cheery as she’d like to be given how much of a dampener on a good mood the General’s bearing could bring about. But she twitched a hand at the open case at her feet, levitated Kiyoshi’s custom piece from its interior, and tossed it across the table to him. This being the first time that the mewthree and the super-soldier had met, Trish’s knowledge of him was scant. Very vaguely she knew he’d been involved in recent combat actions, some of which had been at the frontlines between the Technocracy and a recent power that had risen and shortly afterward faded from activity, the An Shin, the Twilight Empire. “You’re the ‘Halptide Hawk’, aren’t you? The one who fought the Sun King?” Trish, spending most of her life doing routine patrol work aboard various space-stations and long-distance transport craft to various worlds inside the Technocracy’s controlled regions wasn’t the most up to date on recent war-time engagements.

Catching the weapon, Kiyoshi held it in his right hand giving it a quick once over. He figured if Trish had been entrusted with the General's weaponry, surely his was fine. His eyebrows narrowed for a moment, a disgruntled look crossing his face at hearing Trish's words. The fight against the Sun King was one of his worst failures. While he had learned a lot from the ordeal that followed defeat, it was obviously a bad memory for him. Plus, having past failures brought up in the General's presence, not to mention around his peers as well, wasn't what he thought to be a good situation to be in. “Yeah,” he grumbled while holstering the Chapel on his left side, “That was me.”

“What was it like, what came afterward?” Trish’s eyes were in no uncertain terms probing at Kiyoshi’s. It was a touchy subject, she knew that much plenty well in advance, but in all frankness everyone here at the table had suffered their share of defeats and indignities in battle before. But out of everyone at the table she and Kiyoshi were unique in having lived in a body (Kiyoshi for far shorter a time than Trish) not the one they were born with. And it was really beyond her ability to resist learning a bit of what Kiyoshi had thought of the experience. His case in battle-aftermath was one that had circulated (through the Hybrid ranks at any rate) fairly quickly. It was the main reason she’d recognized him in any sense. “It took, from what I’ve heard, a while for a transmutation-reversal to be made effective, right? What was is like for you while you were…You know…A female?” There was a series of clicks and rasps over her head as the kaleidoscope of rifle components reassembled themselves into a single weapon, which Trish scooped out of the air, slid the bolt back, and let it clack forward again ready for action. Satisfied the weapon was in order, she looked back up and across the table. “It’s personal, I know, but just something I can’t quite keep myself from asking. I’ve had this body for…Decades now. I’m used to it, and I’m rather attached to it now too. If someone asked me to swap back, short of it being an official order, I’d probably turn it down. I know the Sun King forced that form on you, but…Any of it seem a positive experience, in reflection?”

Kiyoshi released a sigh as he sat back removing his sunglasses for a moment, his green eyes staring off nowhere in particular, “Afterwards? Odd. The cellular structure of my DNA had been highly transformed, but I had maintained my male identity for the most part. The first few weeks while I was in my female state, it was near hell for me, on a mental level. There was a lot to cope with. Not only had my gender been forcibly swapped, I was also raped, and impregnated by the enemy.” His eyes closed, his brow tensed with anger. “Add that anguish on top of my defeat and the deaths of the men under my command, and it added up to a lot. I hated myself. For a long time, I hated what I had become, so you would think when the transformation was reversed, there would be a sense of relief.” He stopped for a moment opening his eyes to look at Trish. “There was, of course, some relief, but by that time I had become accustomed to what I was, even if I wasn't happy with the situation. I guess sometimes when you're in a situation you don't like, you eventually either find a way to overcome it, let it destroy you, or make the best that you can out of the situation.”

“I don't doubt that this,” he brought his hands up to point to himself, “is who I'm supposed to be, nor do I wish that I was back in that state. It conflicts with my personal mental image, but through all of that, I learned exactly who I am; my strengths, my weaknesses, while learning and experiencing things that I could never solely in my gender.” He slid his sunglasses back on over his eyes, “I'm not sure if that accurately answers your question though.”

The General’s attaché closed with an authoritative and booming ‘whump’ when Trish put the finished rifle away and knocked the lid closed. She checked, just to be sure of course, that the automated locks were secure, but when satisfied looked back to the Hawk. “It does perfectly fine as one. Sorry if that was overly personal, of course.

If any of that had been overheard by Asimov (which wouldn’t have been hard, given that he was right next to Kiyoshi, he wasn’t commenting on the swapping of personal information, and instead he turned to Ichi-gou with a mask-like face.” You know that the way the brackets are arranged, we'll probably end up facing each other in the semi-finals, right? Presuming you don't get yourself killed, that is."

The android didn’t seem predisposed to make mention of much of what had been said so far either. “Ohhhhhh indeed I do. I promised the lovely lady across the table that I’d make it memorable.” Ichi-gou leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head, a smile tugging at his lips (only partially oblivious to Trish nervously gulping, and eyes closed.

“I’m not too worried about getting messed up by anyone aside from ol’ Bastion here. But while I’ve been hanging here I’ve been running a few communiqués back to Shaddam’s secretary, and from her to him. I’ve got some just awesome surprises set-up for the both of ya for after the fights are over with.”

"Gentleman. You're ruining good rum," Daemon said as he looked at the General then back at the android on his other side. His calm face and tone betrayed by the shift in his eyes from aquamarine to a feral yellow.

“It’s a talent.” Ichi-gou replied, as nonplussed ever. “Sides, I figure that since you and I had to hammer on eachother so quick into the tournament I kinda owed you a bit. A couple of my transmissions have been a bit of string-pulling with you in mind.”

The Lieutenant sighed at this, and said with a bit of apprehension "Do I even wanna know?"

“Maaaaaaaybe, but you should be seeing the results of it anyway in a few minutes or so. S’a nice little twist on any of the fights that me, One-eye, Bastion, and Kiyoshi there have coming up. Kinda like a…Raising of the stakes, you might say.”

Trish, hearing all of that while and not forgetting what he’d said earlier, couldn’t hold back a question. “What do you mean, raising of the stakes?”

“You’ll find out too. You’ll probably like the equal-op part of it.”

"At least that much sounds promising," Daemon chimed in before taking another shot of rum. He didn't know what Ichi-gou had planned, but after being set on fire by somebody your expectations don’t go too high on favors.

General Asimov, probably by this point a bit fed-up with the constant needling aimed his way since the start of the Tournament, audibly growled before grabbing Ichi’s shoulder. “What do you mean…!?”

There was a flash of light, and the General, the android turning to slug him, and Bastion vanished from their seats.

Trish caught a sidelong and suspicious glance Pious aimed at her, before the younger man looked away. “Alright, one, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Two, you and I, even if right now my whole job is to make your role-model raise his hackles, are on the same team and in the same squad. You know I’m psionic, so you know that even if I’m not looking at your thoughts I can at the very least feel what you’re feeling. I want to know, straight and honest, what’s up between you, me, and him. And if you try to hide the truth I promise I’m going to call you on it. Clear?”

Pious sighed and put away his books and paperwork away. They were alone again, so this time he wasn’t going to get out of answering a potentially unpleasant question. He ran his fingers through his pale hair and shook his head, getting his thoughts in order.

“Alright, here’s the deal. You have Asimov really, really upset right now. He may not be showing it, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough to be able to tell. I’m sure that any of the other Black Dogs would say the same. It’s really pretty fucked up, and I don’t think Tesla really knows how much this whole thing is messing with him.”

Trish maintained her predatory stare towards Pious, locking into his own gaze. Since the tactic had actually gotten something in the way of an answer she didn’t appear inclined to look any less menacing. “Ignoring that issue for the moment, that’s not what I asked you. What is going on right now? Here, at this table, in this Lobby.” Trish roughly, with each specification, tapped the top of the metal table with a fingertip hard enough to make it ring.

Pious shrugged, desperate to break the lock between he and her but failing utterly. A thought escaped his forebrain and probably made it through the air and into Trish’s perception. She’s probably not going to want to hear this.. “He doesn’t like you very much. I thought that was pretty obvious. This whole thing with Tesla probably isn’t helping. You might have blown your chances to have ever gotten into his good graces. I know it’s not really your fault, but this is a touchy subject with him.”

Trish leaned back in her chair just slightly, easing up the pressure of her presence on Pious a milligram or two now that he was being a little more honest. The expression on her muzzle wasn’t narrowed in suspicion any longer, but it was now almost lacking any expression at all as she stared him down. Pious felt a powerful urge to adjust his collar. Trish wasn’t the first reader he’d come into contact with, but she was the first at whose hands he had the pleasure of being interrogated by. Maybe that wasn’t what this was, but to Pious, that’s what it felt like. The vast lobby was getting a lot smaller a lot faster.

There was a stretched out moment of exceptionally uncomfortable silence between the two of them before Trish broke it by picking up her glass, sipping from it, and leveling another stare at Pious. “How much of my record have you heard, Pious? Specifically, how long have I been active in either military service or civil protection with a chain of command structure?”

“Tidus filled me in a bit,” he answered. “You’ve been serving for longer than the General has.”

"That’s right. Over 23 years of active duty. So what I’m going to tell you right now is something you, whether or not you’re the General’s protégé, is something you need to take to heart.”

Trish noticed Lt. Daemon doing his best not to intrude on the conversation/lecture, but given the size of the table and the noise of the crowd she had to speak at a particular volume to be heard by Pious, and that sound couldn’t be stopped from reaching the Lieutenant’s ears. She did her best to not be put-off by a commissioned officer hearing what she was saying and about to say.

“A commanding officer does not need anyone in their ‘good graces’. And no one in a chain of command, however small, should be; if you want to put a really fine point on it. I shouldn’t want to be on friendly terms with the General because he outranks me on several orders of magnitude, and I don’t have any intention of trying to be. Likewise he shouldn’t be developing a drinking relationship with anyone under his charge, regardless of who’s human and who isn’t.

“What he should also not be doing, and what this Hybrid equal opportunity project I signed up for is designed to discourage, is discriminating against or for any of the troops under him, regardless of his personal feelings. Because the company knows this is happening and they’re taking measures to counter-act it, which is why I showed up on Pacific State’s doorstep.

“I’ve been active long enough to have seen more than a few teams disintegrate or be killed off because they refused to work together. Not because they didn’t like one another, and not because they refused to socialize. Working together doesn’t require those things. All working together requires is that everyone in the group do what they do best, acknowledge what the others can do best, and make use of those skills. I don’t particularly care if the General likes me or not, and I signed up knowing just fine that I wasn’t going to be receiving a warm and gracious welcome because I want to prove that my corps produces soldiers just as good as any other branch. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to tolerate being berated and kicked around like a junior employee.”

Trish felt a bit of temper flaring up, and took a moment to wrestle it back. “I am, at the moment and likely in the near future Pious, part of your team and under the General’s command. This silly little prank aside, which I’ll be honest and say is just hazing on the part of the Sky Martial and borderline illegal, we all have the same goal. We work to further the Lombardi Corporation. I’m going to do that as best I can, and I’m going to look to the rest of the Black Dogs for either guidance in doing it or for support in doing it. If any of you need the same of me then I’m going to offer it as best I can, and I’m going to do this, I’m going to work alongside you all whether I like you all or not, because it’s my job and it’s what I signed on for. Do you know what could happen to the General if he, in the face of the kind of action the company is taking, refuses to acknowledge that?”

Pious had an answer, and an immediate one at that. This woman, Trish Watkins, wasn’t quite all that she had been advertised by his compatriots. If nothing else, he had to give her credit for having enough sense and insight to be able to see through the depths of nonsense that was surrounding this entire situation. That said, even Pious could tell that there was something else. Something lurking in her tone, like an assassin. He wasn’t a psychologist like Saul or a psychic like Trish was, but he had sense, and he had a keen perception that helped him to excel in what was still a drastically new environment for him. And it was all telling him that Sergeant Watkins wasn’t just out to advance her career. That was only a means to and end. She was there to prove a point to people like the General and Colonel Vonnegut.

Ambition, hot like a turbine engine.

Still, that didn’t make her any less of a firebrand from where Pious was sitting. Anyone who could get that worked up over the issue was going to make for an uncomfortable workmate, especially for the folks who, like Pious, were not the target of her ire but rather the collateral damage. Pious could feel a distinct pressure rising in the air, heavy as lead dew. All at once it vanished as Trish reigned in her influence that surged as she did.

“Hey, you don’t have to tell that to me,” Pious said. “I don’t really mind working with you. But I’m not the one you have to convince.

“I don’t think you really understand the General anymore than he understands what you’re trying to do either. Have you seen his psych report?”

"No, I haven't. What I came to the Black Dogs knowing was what was publically released. I'm telling you this, however, because since you sat down you've either been actively avoiding even talking to me, and I was under the impression the General had a hand in it."

“Well, see, his official report is about three pages long. But Saul? He has a five foot tall filing cabinet filled with papers just from analyzing him. You have no ideas the kind of issues he has. He has the decency and the professionalism to not let them interfere with his duties, but this whole thing with you posing as his wife? It’s…like…I…look, I’m no shrink but it’s pushing him somewhere where it could start affecting his decision making process. And seeing you and Talisman, and me I guess, taking it lightly is not going to help things.

“He’s not a delicate flower, but he’s been through things that are beyond the pale of what the Corporation expects its Agents to be able to tolerate. Christ, he was at Red Sunday, Nethlen, Solaria and Media, and that was just in the past 5 years. And he still manages to get up in the morning. What does that tell you about his dedication to the service ?”

"That he's to be admired for his courage, resolve, and ability to face things that would likely terrify me or anyone lesser. He's one of the few that can handle things like that. I know that good and well, and I admire him for it. Knowing what he had done was one of the reasons I signed up and accepting the position under his command. I wanted to learn from someone like that." Trish paused a moment to let that sink in. "What I've received is along the lines what I expected, but what he's been through does not give him the right to dismiss me as a no-count. I'll admit I shouldn't be taking enjoyment in seeing him frustrated by Tesla's prank...But I'm about as perfect as anyone else. I've had my tail in a corner tight enough now that since I have a bit of legal elbow room to strike back I'm not being shy about taking it."

Trish broke off, set her glass on the table, and folded her hands in her lap. "I can't force the General to accept me as a member of his squad. Sky Martial Tesla probably intended this as both a prank and as a way to drive home the point to him that these kind of policy changes are something he can't fight too much against. But between you and I at least Pious I hope you understand that I'm not playing a game of all-versus-one. Even if your tutor dislikes me I hope you, someone who I'm going to work with, don't get stuck in the same frame of mind."

The mood, thank Gaia, lightened up a bit at Pious’ reply. "Well, that's pretty much the plan. I think we'll get along just fine. Just, please. For his sake and for your sake, don't pour the 'Married' thing on so thick, or this is going to be a very, very long tournament."

Trish waved a finger to a passing droid carrying a service tray, pointed to her nearly empty glass, and then to Pious, indicating a second should be brought out. “No promises to start,” She grinned just enough to show a few of her pointy back teeth. “But if you make an effort at relaxing here and maybe trying a bit of the Cristal I’m sure the mood will be easier on everyone.”

The mood, relaxed as it was, changed in the briefest of instances.

Trish was familiar with the flash of light that accompanied the Tournament’s teleportations by now. And given that Ichi-gou’s return to the Lobby at the end of his last round when the flash occurred directly overhead of the table she was sitting at Trish’s survival instinct had the idea down that sitting still wasn’t in her best interest. So the moment there was a muffled ‘POP’ overhead, an eye-dazzling sparkle, and the cast shadow of something in the air (on its way down of course), she shoved back from the table as quickly as her chair could grate across the floor and for as far as her legs were long.

What pulverized the flimsy metal wasn’t the General, wasn’t the android, wasn’t Kiyoshi, and at first she didn’t particularly believe was Bastion. The table’s top and legs gave out with the sound of rent metal, and the whole assemblage collapsed to the stone floor with a brownish-green reptilian creature dressed in combat fatigues sprawled on its back ontop of it. It looked noticeably perplexed at its sudden change of situation, but otherwise wasn’t too phased by the drop.

Trish, gathering her wits and keeping herself from springing to her feet, and looked over the hybrid-agent who was sitting up and shaking his head a tad. At a species guess, based on the thick scaled skin, boney spikes that were spaced out all across the back about an inch and a half long each and protruding through the uniform’s neatly tailored holes, lengthy reptilian tail that was adorned on the tip with knobs of solid looking bone, reinforced boney coverings on the snout near the mouth, and horns on the side of the head, Trish speculated…An Ankylosaurus-morph? What was he doing here when as far as she knew all Technocrat agents expected to show up already had?

When the morph in question rubbed the back of his head and began to stand up, Trish got her answer, and her jaw dropped in realization. The hybrid’s right arm (the camo-fatigue top he wore lacked sleeves) was as organic as the rest of his body, fairly burly when it came the amount of muscle and tone, and ended in a hand that had 4 fairly thick fingers and one heck of strong looking thumb. But the left arm…Was entirely mechanical from the shoulder down. The construction was almost identical to the arm Bastion had been equipped with just moments prior, except modified to mirror the hybridized arm on the right side of his body in appearance.

Any doubts Trish might have possibly had about who she was looking at were immediately dispelled when the hybrid stood up, brushed the bits of crushed glass from his back where the cups on the table had been smashed, turned grey eyes to meet hers with a gaze eerily similar to Bastion’s piercing and calm demeanor, and apologized for his entrance in a voice a little deeper in base than it had been, but unquestionably the Major’s. “Sorry about that. Have I missed anything?”

"You fought well Mr. Tandory." the pretty clinic attendant mentioned as she struggled to unscrew a lid from a large jar. "Thanks darl'n." Leeo said from where he set on the side of the hospital bed.

"Wanna let me have a try?" he extending out a hand.

She smiled handing the container to him where he gripped it like he would someones head in a lock and twisted the cap with his other hand. The top screwed off with little effort releasing some sort of foul odor. "Dang! What is that mess." he said quickly passing it back to her.

The nurse giggled softly "Its whats going to heal your wounds."

"Super."

The medic dug her latex gloved hand into the jar scooping out a handful of the green gunk . "Go ahead and lean back a little," Leeo did so. "This is going to be -"

"Cold!" the Ken'tan blurted as she placed the jell like substance over the cut that ran across his chest just below his pecks and began to smear it in.

"So, where are you from?" she asked.

"Earth."

The nurse laughed a bit. "Which one?" "There's more than one?" "Oh yes, lots." "One of em, I don't know. This whole multiverse thing is pretty new to me, like today new to me." She laughed again. "That's to cute." Leeo shrugged.

The attendant continued to sooth the cream over his wound to the point where there was no point. The ginger glanced down at her hand arching a brow slightly then turned to her to see her smiling back at him with that look that was simply described as 'the look'. Every girl can give it, and most guys know what it looks like, what it means, and what it could lead to. That smirk of his formed over his lips. "What?" he played dumb.

"What are you thinking right now?" she asked while still caressing his chest.

"It would be inappropriate, I probably shouldn't say."

"Then show me."

Smirk.



"Good luck Mr.Tandory! I hope to see you after the second match!" she called to him as he exited the medical bay.

"That was worth taking a cut to the chest, for sure," he thought with a smile.

Though he still smelt of that green mess the nurse had applied to his wounds they were healed. She had told him the odor would fade, and before it had he would likely have gotten use to the smell "Yeah right," Leeo doubted.

The Ken'tan made it for the match listing taking a quick gander at his next opponent. "Jessica Tell. A chick, this should be interesting." he thought as he made his way to his arena whistling a little tune. Yeah, he was happy, he made it to the second round and just got 'some,' who wouldn't be in a good mood?