[Tapper]

Through space, time, probability and imagination, one message is sent to all those interested in bloodshed and glory. For the winner, glory beckons. For the losers, there is only death. For the spectators, there is the very thrill of being even more a part of the fight than before. This time, the stage is a city, and the spectators will be its inhabitants. And not just any city, but the very city that breathes the weird, birthed godzilla and tentacle porn, and embraces the odd with an eagerness that is unrivalled: Tokyo.

To become a contestant, go into the nearest dark alley and walk straight into the wall to your left hand where the shadows are deepest. To become a spectator, go into the nearest supermarket you can find, and do the following:
Drop your credit card in your shopping cart. Buy fifteen blood oranges, three passion fruit, a pound of red meat, at least half a kilo of sugar, baking soda and ten packs of cigarettes. Pay with the highest bill your nomination has. Your ticket will be sent to you.

[D'rek]

Darkness.



Eyes open. Lying down.

...dead?

Is this Heaven?

A face.

"Hello God."

He’s startled?

"Hello dear, we're all so glad to see you're awake. You've been asleep for quite some time. Had us all quite worried, in fact. But now you're awake and everything can proceed as planned. I'm sure you're disoriented and having trouble thinking clearly, but your motor functions and cognitive abilities will return to acceptable levels in time. But listen to me rambling on - ... - on - ... - do have - ... - dency ... "



Darkness.



Eyes open. Lying down. Sunlight coming in through the hotel window. An electronic buzz from the alarm clock, the phone ringing. A voice through the door " -oing to be LATE!"



Darkness.



Eyes open. Lying down. A face.

"I. I remember..."

"Really? I'm surprised. All our third-level subjects never remembered any of their former lives. But I suppose it is understandable that the advanced abilities of a fourth-level proxy would include some vague, inconsequential memories of your past life ... "



Darkness.



Eyes open. Lying down. Need to get up. Need to GET AWAY. Can't move arms. Can't move legs. Masks. Masked faces all around. Hands holding nee-no No NO stop please stop please stoPLEASTOPLEASE NO NO NO NU nguhl oh god hand on my mouth needles getting closer don't mom dad sa-



Darkness.



Eyes open. Lying down. The man in black is staring down at me. Cheek hurts.

"Wake up, little angel."

"I remembered. Why? What did I do? It hurt it hurt it hurt..." Lights blurring, details vanishing, water in my eyes. Don't cry, don't. Damnit girl, don't let him see you cry!

"You remember the operation?!" Why does he look so scared?

"There was a white room! There were knives and needles and buzzing and sunlight and blood! I don't-" SLAP

.

.

.

"No need for any more of that, little angel. Just terrible nightmares, there's no need to think of those things again. You're just a girl, allr-" Sudden stop? "Oh shit." Headache, so sudden. Pressure, feels like I'm going t-

A rush of memories coming back all at once while the room fills with blue light.

"Now now darling, let's just forget I said that particular combination of-"

"No! I remember! I remember concerts and backstage! Limo rides and autographs!" Pressure on my arms, he's holding me down but he's so weak. PUSH! and he flies away across the room. Blue light getting brighter. Memories getting clearer - standing in front of huge crowds.

"I remember the cameras!" He's shouting for guards. It's my arms! Why are my arms glowing blue?

"I remember the fans! I'm famous!" Men rushing into the room. Looking down - I'm glowing! Everywhere! Guns, swords, batons, maces, all pointed at me. The man in black is back on his feet.

Nothing. The rush is over. Confused by the visions - what are they?

"That's it. I don't remember any more. The little girls. The cameras. What do they want from me?!"

"Let's just calm down for a moment, Miley-" The name hits me like a physical blow. Another rush. All the memories of being Miley, this time clear as day, from infancy to my last show. And then the dark pla-NO! I don't want to go to the dark place. A last few memories of stark rooms and loneliness, catching me up to here and now.

Then still more memories arrive, these ones vague and hard to concentrate on. They're not Miley, not really mine. But in all the hazy images flashing past, again and again I get the impression of big crowds, of shouting out my emotions. All these memories, they're not just all lives. They're all singers! All performers! With this realization comes another; I don't know when it happened, but having them all inside me has reshaped my mind, changed the way I think even to myself. I feel like someone is listening to my every thought, and without any conscious effort my thoughts have changed from a stream of unfocused notations and ideas into a clear and concise monologue. I guess from now on I'll be performing for an audience inside my head, too.

All of that ran through my mind in an instant. The guards are still in a circle around me, weapons ready and unsure of me. The man in black is waiting to see if he's calmed me. He has. As Miley, this situation is cause for hysterics, but the instincts gained from the other lives within have calmed me absolutely.

The man is still waiting for a response, so I turn to him and say, "Don't call me Miley."

That certainly wasn't what he was expecting. Dumbfounded, he musters a weak "What?"

Matter-of-factly I reply, "Tapper's rules said no real people." I'm not really sure why I said that, I just blurted it out without thinking. I guess another side-effect of the extra memories. But there'll be time to think about that later, after I escape. I brace my legs, take a deep breath and then sing out at the top of my lungs. The notes are off-key, my voice jitters wildly, unable to hold a constant pitch. The men surrounding me all try to cover their ears immediately. In short, it is perfect. Without any sense of rhythm, I shout "I'm JUST A GIRL" and blue flame comes to life all over my body. The guards notice and try to bring their weapons to bear, but I shout "START PUMPIN' UP THE PARTY!" and the fire explodes from my body, outwards and upwards, pushing the guards off their feet and outwards into the walls where the pressue crushes them into sludge.

Five steps takes me to the man in black, whimpering on the floor.

"My name, asshole, is Hannah Montana."

Half way to the door, when suddenly my vision blurs and I can feel myself falling.



Darkness.

[Bauchelain the Evil]

It sucks to be dead. It sucks even more to be a ghost.

Pardòn. Ghost is a derogatory term. The dead-but-not-quite-gone community prefers lingering afterimages powered by will and self-awareness. But that’s too long and frankly I don’t understand half of it. So, I’m a ghost and a strange one at that.

Because, you see, according to those mysterious Laws set at the Beginning of Time by the Powers That Be, I shouldn’t be here. I have no loved ones to take care of even past the grave. I do not have to expose my mysterious murderer. I do not have to set right some ancient wrong.

Basically my very existence is a kick right in the Great Powers’ teeth. Just by being my ghostly self I rend void those very Laws that bind the Universe. I’m a walking – well, floating - paradox and the Universe can’t stand paradoxes. So, it’s tearing itself apart.

Now, don’t worry, it’s not something that happens overnight. The Universe is so vast that not even the Guys Above know how big it is. I’ve been dead for over twenty years and we’ve yet to see signs of it happening. But still, when Reality As We Know It comes to an end, you’ll have me to blame. Marvellous, isn’t it?

Of course I do feel a bit guilty about it and recently it has been bothering me a lot. So I went to my shrink – some poor sod forced to wander for eternity to expiate for the suicide of one of his patients. He suggested I kept myself busy. You know, pick a hobby or something like that.

And that’s why I’m here now, thinking about this tournament, this Death Match. No better way, I always say, to lose some steam than to beat up robots, demons and anthropomorphic personifications.

It’s not as if I’m actually going to get hurt, anyway. I’m a ghost, after all, ain’t I?

This post has been edited by Bauchelain the Evil: 09 August 2011 - 01:42 PM

[Gust Hubb]

One could say that they rarely leave the Grove, and to some extent one would be correct. Truly the only things that seem to come and go freely are the birds. It is not that there is a paucity of fauna in the region. Massive herds of buffalo, flitting ground squirrels, swarms of grasshoppers with their odd music sawing on and on. Yet none of these simpler creatures ever even approach the Grove. There are occasionally less intelligent nomadic bipeds that enter the Grove, and I guess one could say they do enter freely...

That is why it is now unusual to see what appears to be one of these bipeds leaving the Grove, striding through the surrounding plains in the dusky light. From the current vantage, one can see that the stranger is wearing a robe, much like the sack-like garments of the less understanding cults in the distant villages and cities. There is definitely something off about the stranger, despite his drab appearance. Is it that he is tall? Perhaps but giants are not necessarily unheard of. Is it the purposeful stride that cuts through the grass like the scythe through fields of wheat, driving aside the straggling squirrel or the hapless rabbit? Well, attending to animal intuition and fear is often beneficial, but no, the thing's gait is not the most striking feature.

The fact is, he/it is definitely not human. The proportions are wrong. Arms are a little stubby for such long legs and torso. The head also appears quashed, almost like the thing is neckless, maybe more akin to a morbidly obese human where the head is more a lump merging with the shoulders. We probably could easily tell... if it wasn't for the deep set hood that obscuring any view of this thing's face.

And then there is the body itself. While the robes are loose and not even held together with a belt, the robes are moving far too much for to be accounted for by a puff of wind or the wake of it's stride. No, the robes are moving in a very disconcerting, almost nauseating fashion. That, and the knees bend backward (oh I didn't mention that did I...).

Oh, and one more detail: it's sack of "belongings" is trailing behind, powered by a pair of very muscular bird legs.

This post has been edited by Gust Hubb: 11 August 2011 - 11:53 PM

[Mott]

Lope was not a normal person; she was so talent less, so separationist and so unfalteringly logical that she had become as close to normal as any human being could get, because surely any human that was normal was considered sane and any human that was sane would stay the hell away from other humans if they wanted to keep any shred of sanity they had.



What about her parents? Surely she had family, everyone has family at some time or another. If no parents are involved then there is a wicked aunt, or kindly but distracted great uncle, failing this there tends to be a disinterested cousin. Lope had none of these. She did not even have a dependable and shady group of street urchins that she roamed with, stealing so they could feed and sticking together when times were hard mainly for reason of warmth rather than out of any desire to be loyal to one another. She must have had family at one time, otherwise how could she be here at all?



If you asked Lope – that is assuming you get near enough her to ask a question and that she actually answers it before kicking you where it hurts most and slinking off to be alone – whether she felt deeply the loss of her parents and lamented at having no one in the world to turn to she would reply: where was the point in being sad over the absence of people she had never know? They might have been nice and kindly after all and what was worse they might have liked other people. They could even have liked her. She fervently hoped she had been abandoned. These were parents with sense. If you managed to get in a second question – very unlikely and not advised considering the answer you would have gotten for the first -and asked how with no relatives and no one to look after her she had managed to get her name she would tell you that it was because she always loped away. She liked to slip away from gatherings of people if she could, she never would remain with other humans if she could help it.



No orphan girl is a hermit for long though because surely something will happen that will force her to interact with other people, as her destiny manifests. She might be a Princess, the last surviving member of her family that has to reclaim the throne from a dastardly uncle who has ordered her eradication; possibly she is the bearer of an object of great power that she must not let drop into the wrong hands for if it does it will destroy the world. And really just because she doesn't like people shouldn't mean they don't exist because you can't avoid something if it isn't there to avoid. She might just be a child of prophecy who many people want dead for many different reasons.



But Lope was none of these. She was merely the daughter of a God, which explains a lot about her; even a Goddess who does not know she is one despises the company of humans. By rights she should be living with other Gods high in the cloud covered mountain tops, but they had lost her and they supposed she'd turn up sometime, so in their overly relaxed way – they tended to be overly relaxed when family members went missing, it was one less to fight with and added an unknown element to the future – they let her be, they weren't even sure whose kid she was. They lost quite a few. Anyway what was there to worry about she was only about a century old by now, barely out of her metaphorical nappies, there was very little she could do to the world that it could not do back.



It's easy to get sidetracked when explaining the background of a lost goddess but I'll try to be straight to the point since as interesting as Lope is it really would quite boring to go on describing her days considering she doesn't notice the passage of time (she fails to even notice that she doesn't notice the passage of time). So she is going to be found by someone cause it's good to keep things lively but she'll have no reason to complain because these aren't normal mortals she'll be encountering, no they are so much more. Maybe if she survives she will even find her true parents or at any rate her family cause they sure as heaven won't find her.



The path to the Gods is filled with many dangers and she makes her way unknowing to the battleground, only one can ascend to the heights of the Gods.

[Cause]

Country, Clan, Family! That is what I was taught as a child, the individual was not even important enough to have a place in the mantra. From birth I was trained as a soldier, to be a warrior willing to live and die in the defence of my people, the same as all of my clan for six hundred years. I was given weapons and armour, powerful relics of artifice and magic, though ostensibly they belonged to the clan and by extension to all the people and were to be used only in their service. I was a slave to my clan, to my people and to the state, I never questioned it. I was born and raised in a nation of slaves after all. Though that is not how they saw it, but slaves we were. We had enslaved ourselves; there were no masters, just our ideologies and the state. Knowing that I think only makes it worse. I was twenty before I began to question my willing service. I was strong, powerful and sacrificed so much in the name of others; I felt I deserved greater reward. Slowly I swayed others to my way of thinking and when I thought we were enough I planned to strike at the clan leadership. From then on we would look to our own interests, govern ourselves and hoard our power for our own purposes. But I was betrayed, I never found out by whom but my conspirators were captured and killed. I was lucky! I managed to escape with my armour and weapons and chose to go into exile rather than remain to face trial and death.

In the inheritor states my armour and weapons were powerful, beyond the colonies in the new world, in the uncivilized lands they made me invincible. I had been powerful before but in exile I was a god. Still one man could rule over only what was within his reach. I may have rejected the beliefs of my home but I had taken from it many lessons. The true trappings of power came not from the strength of one’s own arms but from the beliefs in the minds of others. So I styled myself as a king and conquered a kingdom. Betrayal however it seems is destined to follow me. Dissatisfaction grew into dissent and then into rebellion. The people could never have had the strength to oppose me however; some of the lords must have been assisting them. I sent my judges out amongst them to root out the traitors and punish the guilty. Still the more I cracked down on the traitors the more lords decided to join with them. I learnt then that betrayal is not a poison that can be cleansed but one that needed to be cut out and burned.

I lost my first kingdom to betrayal and now I was about to lose my second. Even sitting in my throne room I could hear the din of battle and the screams of the dying. My castle would be overrun but I would not abandon it without a fight. I was geared for battle, the rebels would not have an easy time of it. “You have failed general, this castle will fall and my kingdom with it”.
General Markosh’s eyes widened in fear at my words“No! My lord please, we have loyal troops still in the north. The war can still be won”! So he was traitor. If only I had seen it sooner, only traitors had need to fear me. I would be even more vigilant in future.“Loyal general? Why are they not here then? Defending my castle, defending their king?” The emitters on my armour began to glow sensing my intent. I felt the burgeoning power as the charge began to build. I felt the armour grow lighter and strength flood my body. With supernatural speed I lunged from my throne lifted my sword and slew the general. “If the men’s loyalty is in question the fault lies with their commander, wouldn’t you agree general?”

Just then the doors to the throne room were broken open and the rebels poured in. Two had arrows drawn upon me whilst the rest were armed with spear and shield. “Give up your sword, and surrender Tyrant” they called.
“Surrender? I surrender nothing that is mine!”
The bowmen loosed their arrows and with a flash of light they broke against my armours wards. More light ran across my armour and charges flashed across it from emitter to emitter until the very aether broke and my image was blurred and scattered. To the rebels there would appear to be many false images of me even as those images faded into the colour and lights of what surrounded them. I would be difficult to see, even harder to track. Whilst not as an effective defence as wards it required less energy to maintain and increasingly I was learning to conserve my armours power. I struck at them with sword and armoured gauntlet. I slew any who fell within reach of my sword and cracked their shield walls with blows from my fist.

I left none alive but I knew more would come. My kingdom was lost, but I had lost one before and I could start again. For now though it was best to go. One escape remained to me, I walked into the shadows and emerged in the alleys of Tokyo.

This post has been edited by Cause: 16 August 2011 - 08:05 AM

[Illuyankas]

motherbranch110101

seedlinglostlostlostlost

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searchunsuccessfulfailure

researchrecommencebeginagain

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seedlingfoundaquaticresonanceminorsatellitecaressstar1001010101101010001111010101

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swordlingchord110101retrieval

arrivalaquaticsatelliteminorshroudpuncturingnow

pointofstrikeminimumheataverageproceedfromknowledge

retrievalwillbetruthandcertaintymysoulandsongonit

...


The dull thump barely roused Wilbur from his stupor. He had once marvelled at the stunning views of mountains and lakes from his remote cabin, but familarity had bred nearly as much contempt for the background vista as he had for his ex wife, and the drizzle smearing the distant rocks and puddles further ruined the brave landscape's attempts to cheer the stockbroker up. He trudged grudgingly up the path, stones spotted with the occasional raindrop as the beautiful and exquisite weather that Cathy adored and that persuaded him to buy the place moved in, sodden and miserable as ever. His face stared back at him, judging, from the reflection in the front door as he fumbled with his keys. The rain seemed to follow him in through the door, down the hall and into the living room, as he discarded coat and bags of shopping wherever he cared to. Wilbur discovered that this was, in fact, as he stared at the huge hole punching through from the roof and into his basement, due to the colossal rent in his house. As he watched, his bureau - already precariously close to the edge - finally succumbed to gravity, taking with it all of his whiskey and the last remnants of both his spirit and his spirits. Too exhausted even to speak, Wilbur slumped to his knees by the edge of what was his carpet, the pouring rain and creaking the only sounds audible, except... except there was a strange noise from below, from the cellar.

Wilbur struggled upright and staggered to the hall again. Kicking bags out of the way, he bulled through the basement door and down the stairs, turning at the bottom and stopped dead. Silhouetted in the pale light filtering through the many gaps in the building, some kind of huge multipronged crystalline structure lay embedded at an angle in the musty earthen floor. Like some strange faceted tree made of ruby, it glittered weakly in the gloom, surrounded by the detritus of this disaster area previously known as basement. The rain fell intermittently through the gouge in the ceiling, puffs of dust rising from the ground and dull thuds echoing off the back of the toppled bureau mixing with the gurgle of draining liquor and... that sound again. A gentle, almost hypnotic tone, like a finger circling the rim of the world's biggest wineglass, rang out from the crystalline structure. Wilbur moved closer, staring at the shard nearest the light. The downpour had intensified, and a thin rivulet of rainwater streamed and sputtered through the side of the hole above them. It ran down past the nearest outstretched segment of the crystal, and Wilbur watched the water splatter off, completely absorbed in the impossible sight of the shard rotating along the planes of its surface to best catch the water falling from above. It appeared to be rotating against each surface with the water trapped between seemingly seamless segments, and this was what was causing that enchanting sound. As he reached dumbly forwards towards the branch he missed a nearer limb rotate along and around a different plane, for all the world like a rubix cube made by Lovecraft, and spun around into his arm, retracting quite literally in a flash. Wilbur flinched back a pace as the two crystal spikes stabbed in and out of his bicep, and retreated a few more steps as the crystal... unfolded, each line and plane and crease in the red gem sprouting outwards into more spikes and limbs and shards and flouting every law of physics and geometry as it did so. A stretching, clutching morass of glistening shards and shining spears, a non Euclidean nightmare rendered in gemstone and grace. He saw the crystal fade from a glittering red to a dull rose tint as it left the stream of water. He watched it lift the limb that had stabbed him, his blood still dripping freely to the ground and feeling lightheaded from loss, and he watched it start to move parts of itself against each other with only his blood between them, to rub his blood between the gleaming knives that composed digits for the thing. There wasn't much free fluid left. It barely lasted a moment. Wilbur didn't care. The lurid blaze of light, the symphonic crescendo of aural ecstacy that erupted from the crystal was too glorious to comprehend. He ignored the pain in his arm, eyes shut against the brilliant crimson glare, mind solely on that wondrous, magical, perfect sound. He frowned momentarily when the crystal leapt upon him and pierced him more times then he could count, but that sublime orchestra recommenced and all was right with the world once again. For ever.

This post has been edited by Illuyankas: 16 August 2011 - 12:33 AM

[Grief]

The train slows to a smooth halt, the speakers under the train hissing to emulate their steam driven predecessors, one of several artificial noises designed to make the journey feel less unnatural.

Small cameras cling to the corners of the station. The air is almost odourless, the walls almost without a blemish.
Jack keeps a steady pace. He stands several inches above the crush, a fact that may have been more noticeable were it not for the spindly androids that picked their way erratically through the crowd, the natives long past reacting any time one of the liquid silver shapes suddenly twitch into the space beside them.

Leaving the station Jack squints in the reflected light as the clocktower rears into view, the stream of people splitting around its mirrored walls.

He takes a deep breath as he approaches the wall, preparing to submerge. The noise of the crowd fades, replaced by the noise of a thousand screeching gears.

His vision trembles, a familiar lurching sensation filling his stomach.

Lively chatter swells and churns around the packed theatre. There is little need to worry about any of the looks his apparel draws as he makes his way to the back of the hall, safe in the knowledge that he will soon be forgotten amidst the peculiar magic of the Silent Orchestra.

He makes sure to avoid crushing any of the rats that scurry around his feet, brows creasing in frustration at his slow pace. The music starts as he nears the stairwell. The crowd do not make a sound, some smiling, others jerking back in surprise.

The hall is utterly silent. The music spins inside his head, more instruments joining now, tugging at his mind.
He focuses, walking faster now. The music pulls harder, as if puzzled at his reluctance to let his memories slip, his insistence that he is not here for the music.

Finally - the curtain, and through, the warm veil embracing, suffocating. He opens the door, and stumbles forward, clumsily running down several flights of stairs. The music fades, and he shivers as its final remnants evaporate from his brain, wiping the beads of sweat from his face with his jacket.

Halfway down the staircase there is a door. It is shabby and green, the words “Authorised personnel only” faded upon its centre, visible only upon close inspection.

Jack prepares again, finding the razor edge of the dimension he seeks. Small crystals of ice line the key. The lock clicks cleanly. A sharp yank on the heavy iron handle and he is darting inside, to be met by a wall of gleaming teeth, then submerging again as the enormous mouth snaps towards him.

He retches as he returns to the clocktower, his throat still filled with the stench of rotten meat. A small wave of dust rolls out from the air around him, caught up in the wake of his travelling.

His reflection stretches along the metallic walls as he walks quickly down the hall. There is no adornment, no obvious source of the blue light that permeates the place, no time for him to react as an android draws itself up from within the metal floor behind him and lashes its slender fingers around his face, gripping at his eyes, his mouth.

His eyes snap shut instinctively. Pestilent green fire erupts from his fingertips as he turns, the android emitting a high pitches hissing sound as the flames tear into its chest, flinging it backwards. His eyes burn as he opens them to droplets of liquid silver. Vision blurring, he sees the androids chest begin to meld itself back together. Rather than twisting its body back around from its awkward posture, it simply stands straight back up, its knees bending over as what was previously its left flank now faces him.

The purely metallic creature stoops as it runs towards him, arms elongating as it runs, neck unnaturally bent as its head sways back and forth.

Three shots ring out in quick succession. The first two bullets hit close together, severing its thin leg below the knee. The third slices into its face, where the left eye would be, as it stumbles to redistribute body mass and regain balance.

It crashes to the ground. Thin screeching noises rise as it slowly works the bullet through its head. It should be hours before it is able to stand again.

Jack breaks into a run, surrounding himself with fire drawn from a far off dimension as more and more androids pull themselves up along his path.

There is a door up ahead. It looms in front of him, large stone gargoyles on either side. He launches himself to the left, wall rippling.

He fights down the urge to gasp for breath. The silver lake is cool against his skin, and dense. He begins to drag himself forward, feet kicking out behind him, arms stretching forward.

His throat is burning, his chest caught in a vice.

He tumbles free, gasping for air and trying to shake the silver that clings to his skin.

A few seconds later, he moves over to the desk, and smiles as he holds up the small timepiece.

A possession. Got you now.

His target jumps up from his chair on the solar cruiser as he materialises. Four arms draw weapons. Jack simply strides forward.

No escape this time, friend.

They submerge almost at the same instant.

He follows the wake of thoughts, sensing their destination, straining to be the faster of the two.

Jack arrives nearly a second before his foe. It is easily long enough for daggers to be thrown, anticipating for the arrival of their target.

The man emerges into the air, spluttering as his body comes into being around the twin blades.

The letter rests deep within his victims left pocket.

“You are cordially invited to participate in the most esteemed competition in the known universe...”

Damn right I am.

[Silencer]

'Pragmatic', 'supremely rational'. 'Emotionless', even. Or so it had been said. Murderers, agents and assassins all. Hated? Probably. Feared? Definitely. But could you honestly judge that which you did not know? They too, after all, had chains strapped to their souls. Their price. The Remuneration. The cost was different for each, but few had one that was pleasant. Of course, that was mostly speculation; the wider population had no idea such things even existed, born of the Gates, and employed across the globe.

Well, not until recently. Before the Tokyo Explosion they were just rumours, specters in the night. No-one had known that the new stars in that alien sky were the very lives of these people, shining bright one moment, then falling the next. And how many had fallen. Heaven's War was first. Thousands dead, thousands of falling stars, disappearing from the sky forever. Then, a year ago, the Explosion at Hell's Gate. Hundreds more stars, falling, vanishing. And yet the revelations themselves...what should have been a world-changing event turned into a small-talk conversation topic, reserved for strangers at bars or used to scare small children. More people knew of them - though what they knew varied widely from the very accurate to the completely fictional, though all of it was possible, of course, thanks to the Gates. But that was all beside the point. Or, almost all.

You see, Saturday was one. A Contractor. She didn't need to worry about what people thought - she didn't care if people thought she was a murderer. She was, after all. And she didn't care if people thought she had to bay at the moon every month to stop herself from melting. She didn't, but the impression didn't hurt her capabilities. In fact, in her everyday life no-one could even tell she was one of those seemingly-mythical Contractors. The only time you could tell, in fact, was if a Contractor was using their power. And most 'normal' humans didn't survive seeing that.
All that might make you think - hey, those people got another thing right! Contractors are pretty damn pragmatic. No self-image issues or angst here. Well, again, that used to be true. Now? Well, who knows. But Saturday was a professional, and that was all that mattered. Right? Right. She spent most days undercover as a high school student - a happy and well-rounded, though not by any means brilliant, reasonably social...high school student. And she spent the rest of her time acting as an agent for the British Secret Intelligence Service - better known as MI6. A very competent agent at that.

Contrasting somewhat with her school uniform, Saturday tended to wear that vaguely cliche (these days) "highly visible assassin"-type outfit. Long black coat, over loose black trousers and shirt, replete with chest rig for her various knives, a pair of pistols in drop-leg holsters, and black leather gloves to complete the image. Yeah, lots of black, very ominous. Oh yeah, and a spiffing black mask to make sure she wasn't identified (and to terrify the poor souls who weren't Contractors themselves). Sure, it was a fairly obvious ensemble, but when the various concerned parties could backtrack who used their power based on star activity and Specter sightings, keeping her involvement quiet wasn't the purpose - keeping her identity hidden was. And, like some other long-lived Contractors she knew of, she didn't make the mistake of relying on her powers. That's what all the weaponry was for - not to mention the skills she'd honed over the years. Thus, she was put to good use.

Saturday, then, was quite a dangerous person. Competent, dedicated to her work - as long as she was compensated - and totally, completely rational. Just as you'd expect from a Contractor.

And this made her perfectly suited, when the contest arrived in town, to be a participant. There were plenty of others to be found around, I guess. But she was handy, she was ready - presently she was in the midst of gutting some hapless thug who'd tried to double-cross MI6, in fact - and she was...sufficient. Tokyo. It was time.

[Tapper]

She contemplated the city as it stretched beneath her, standing as she was in the penthouse suite of her hotel. In the glass wall in front of her, a grid was cut, a grid that was an abstract rendition of the city’s streets and buildings. The nails of her right hand swept over the glass, cutting scratches away, shaping a four lane road that swept across the city. Tiny drops of blood from where the splinters tormented her finger tips ran across the scratches, formed very little miniature cars. All but one formed crusts immediately, the one drop becoming her focus. She smiled, and reached behind her, for the game board sitting on its mahogany desk. A rosewood pawn nestled between her fingers. She placed it on the window, where, impossibly, it stuck. His move.

Phil cursed his luck. He knew he needed to get to Narita as soon as possible, and the cabbie had guaranteed him he would be able to catch his plane in time. If he got out of Japan, the Pentagon would shelter him in exchange for the files he could bring them on dimensional manipulation. And now, the traffic just froze around him. Something was not right. And he needed to get away. The Corp had undoubtedly placed a very hefty bounty on his head and on the information it contained. The contract would be for erasure, undoubtedly. And he knew the kind of people the Corp worked with…. He needed to keep moving. He commanded the cabbie to turn to the next metro station. The man was not happy to take orders from a black skinned man, but hey, he was paid handsomely, enough to temporarily forget his racist nature.

She took a sip from her coffee, its nice vanilla aroma tickling her tongue. She contemplated the grid on the window, noticed her victim’s new direction. She glanced at the pawn, and decided all was well. Her red robe falling to the floor, she entered the marble bath tub and reached for the soap.

Phil paid the cab driver and ran into the station. Some small change for a ticket, on to the platform… where he nearly bowled an albino over, a man clad entirely in white with the physique of a boxer. “Philip Dechamps?” the man asked. “I have been waiting for you.” He smelled of roses. A pawn. He had seen these before, then dressed in ivory summer attire, accompanying the blonde assassin/strategist and sorceress known as the Mistress of Games. She had given a lecture on how her magic worked: the world as a game board with its own rules, and her as a player moving her pieces, different game pieces having different uses and capabilities. Phil turned, and ran. This was worse than he thought. The albino followed, unhurriedly. Her orders to the thing would have been to confront Phil, perhaps kill him, perhaps just to keep an eye on him. He needed to ditch the thing, and to do that, he'd have to outrun it.

She toweled herself down; saw the pawn moving across the grid and the little drop of blood speeding in front of it. He had made a move. Too bad it was the wrong one, one she had anticipated a long time ago. She could resume her breakfast, but where was the fun in that? For a moment, she considered the go board, then the checkers set, then the piles and piles of card decks. Then the sun caressed her naked body, and she smiled. It is a beautiful day, so why not indulge myself a little? She picked up the Playstation controller, and fired up Ninja Gaiden, controller aimed at the window instead of at the tv.

Phil looked over his shoulder. The white man was still chasing him, unhurriedly. If he entered the mall to the left, he would run into another metro station, and with luck, he could catch a metro without the thing following him. He never noticed the blade that severed his spine, but the next day, the papers were full with the impossible broad daylight murder of an American business man, decapitated by a sword wielding man dressed like a ninja, who had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared.

This post has been edited by Tapper: 16 August 2011 - 11:43 AM

[Dolmen 2.0]

It was a fog shrouded, autumn morning. Mr Simpson and his advisor, Jake, were taking a light walk deep into
the Litmus company forrest. You see such a walk was the best time to think through the schedule for the day
and Mr Simpson had a very busy day.

“…so Theres that high profile PA you have to fire. “ Jake continued as he consulted his PDA.

“Why would I need to do that?”

“Well A few odd things had been going on between her and the director.”

“elaborate.”

“ Witnesses keep coming forward with reports. most claim they see her leave his office with bruises and
a perverse smile on her face. Its gone too far for a simple screening sir. We can’t afford her
blabbing to the media.”

Mr Simpson scowled. Couldn’t let that sort of thing go on. It was bad for business.

“Fine, just have her killed and get the witnesses flash-drugged.”

“sir.”

After that, Jake continued, there was the merger he’d have to broker and a few middling
expenses to cover for a new company house in Nantucket. Company stock was doing well.
Litmus Pharmaceutical was on the verge of global expansion and soon Their private Bank
would make its wallstreet debut. Everything was perfect. Well, nearly perfect.

Ten minutes into the forrest they found him. Seated there in the middle of the park.
The one fly in the 5 billion dollar ointment. He sat hunched over facing away from them,
Naked from the waist up. His unruly black hair was thick with twigs, his flawless pale
body covered in sweat, grime and the cloying stench of blood. Everything about him screamed
madness, save those clear, calculating obsidian eyes.

“Good to see you Mr Simpson.”

“Good to see you too director.”

“ Brought Jake along huh?” The man rose as he spoke, standing half a head taller than
either of them. “this a business call?”

Mr Simpson cleared his throat. As the man had risen, He’d noticed Jake take a step back.
Ofcourse that was to be expected. This was his first time before the man. A deer knew
when It had come face to face with a Tiger.

“I’ve come to talk to you about a new business project.”

“That so?” the man sighed “Where to this time? Iran? Pakistan? Or is it Rwanda? I know
North Koreas been pretty compliant but-“

“No, not this time. It’s a project called UDM-V14. Blood money matches sir, good publicity
for the company and we’ve secured a lucrative sponsor.”

“I see. Simpson.”

“Yes sir?”

A blur to his left brought Mr Simpson round, just in time to see Jakes chest snap inwards.
The force of the blow sent him flying back so fast he ricocheted against the trunk of the
oak behind them, landing horridly in a pile of jarred limbs. The low growl immediately
besides him sent a jab of fear into Mr Simpsons heart. Cold brutality splintered off each
word that followed.

“It seems you were going to fire my PA?”

“No sir. Ofcourse not.“

“Good. Kill the rest of those witless bastards and send her to me.”

“Certainly sir”

“Good. Make sure she has a dossier on the Clients, targets and the location of this project.”
A light chuckle punctuated the order. “You may go now.”

Simpson carefully made his way back to the company buildings, not wanting to look back at Jake.
Not Wanting to look back at that thing he knew was watching his every footstep. “Will I need to
send a team for the boy?”

“Don’t bother. I'm starved.”

*

Mr simpson Left quickly, but not quick enough. He could hear the sounds of flesh tearing from bone.
It made him shiver. File 938 had been promising. Code named Project NightWalker, Litmus
Phamaceutical had attempted to isolate the fourty seventh Chromosome. Merging the bloodline of
one Lawrence C. Talbot, one Vladimir Dracule and one Bridget Bishop they’d succeeded in identifying
this anomoly. However If God offered man a hand, mankind would covet his arm. They’d run trials
to create a true immortal. Only four of the 12 million foetus subjects injected with it had managed not
to die immediately. The other three were dead within a month. He had made sure of it...

Thinking about the Contest Simpson whispered under his breath “God, I hope they kill him!”
he rushed towards the company building. A second later a deep Howl burst out behind him.
Mr Simpson fled.

“Fuck, I don't even know if they can!”

***

This post has been edited by Dolmen: 16 August 2011 - 03:57 PM

[Morgoth]

Like waves of an angry sea the roar washed over the thirty or so slaves standing in line. Every peak tugged at their sanity, every lull gave them hope.

Behind them yawned the staircase from which they'd come. It spiralled down into the darkness of broken rock. Into the darkness that had been their home for days or weeks. Maybe years.

Ahead a corridor led straight forwards into a circle of blinding white light. Even here, several dozen yards away the light seared their eyes giving the world a blurry look. The roar kept washing over them. The smell of urine lay heavy in the air.

A tall boy, maybe 15 years of age stood shivering at the head of the line. He was young but already muscles were beginning to bulge against his frayed shirt and leggings. Not to long ago ten or so others had stood before him but they were all gone. Hounded into the burning white maw. Piss had trickled down his legs leaving a dark smear and his eyes seemed locked to the light ahead.
“I said. You need to chose a weapon” A burly man stinking of cheap alcohol stood before the boy. He held a paper in his hand and seemed impatient, as if he'd been repeating himself.
“I don't.. I have never.” The boy stammered, never moving his eyes away from the light. A new stain appeared on his trousers.
“Look” the man sighed “You've done work, right? Before you was taken?”
“I.. I worked in the quarry b-back h-h-home.” The anguish in his voice was heavy but tears, it would seem, had dried out long ago.
“Well, a sledgehammer would be too heavy, even for you. I should however have a set of hammer and shield left over from one of the earlier ones.”
He patted the kid almost gently on the back.
“Get yourself through this and we'll see about fitting you with a proper armour. Get you a spear for those pesky animals. A big, strong lad like you. You'll be indestructible.”
“I.. umh.. thanks?”
The slaver grinned and nodded to the guards.

The kid stumbled into the light and the crow roared.


*

It wasn't that the room was particularly small. The man they'd come to meet simply made everything seem smaller than him. Even sitting down with his massive forearms resting crosswise on the desk, he still seemed to loom over both of them. Inja shook her head and sent a quick glanze to her companion. Orin nodded almost imperceptibly back. He felt it too. She knew strength never was as important as people made it out to be. Most men she had fought over the years had been stronger than her, yet here she was. Still, this man, Feren, had an aura of strength that frightened her.

“So” his voice was so deep it pushed against her like something solid.
“Your master wish me to fight for you”
“No” Orin responded with that infuriating smirk of his.
“He's ordering you to.”
The edge of Feren's mouth seemed to twitch into what could almost be a smile, pulling at a long scar stretching from his right temple through his graying beard and down beneath his white linen shirt.
“Can you not see” His arm gestured in a broad, slow circle. Encompassing within its powerful reach the fortress they were in and all the lands beyond.
“Here no will is stronger than mine”
Inja gave a little smile of her own. Her eyes fastened onto his.
“We have your daughter”.

Feren stood up. She knew of his size of course. Everyone did. All the same the shear size of him made her take a step back. Orin, she noticed from the edge of her eye, had done the same.
“No” His voice was cold. Assertive.
“You do not have her”
“We are not in the business of lying” Orin sneered, and added “Old man.”
Inja coked her head. There was no doubt in him. Not in his stance nor in his voice.
“How could you know?”
His cold, flat eyes met hers.
“You live”

Orin sighed and gave Inja a disgusting look. We'll talk about this later
“What about the glory? Don't you miss it all?”
He made a hand movement in obvious parody.
“Are you happy being the... big bad will of this shit hole?”
“Glory” Feren answered quietly, staring down at his scarred hands. At some point they had closed into fists.
“Glory is for younger men”

“So what do you want” Inja asked.
“There must be something.”
“Don't tell us you're afraid” Orin stepped in.
“I've seen that armour of yours. You must be like a fucking fortress carrying all that steel”
“Besides” Inja continued
“Our master doesn't take well to refusals. He might just decide that killing her would be easier”
“Don't make this har...” Orin started just as Feren's chair hit him so hard he slammed into the wall with a sickening crunch, leaving a smear of blood behind as he fell. Before she had time to even react, let alone draw steel, the big man was in front of her. She tried to get to her sword but he simple grabbed hold of her arm and broke it with contemptuous ease. She would have screamed then if his big hand hadn't closed around her throat. She kicked her legs furiously but they met only air.
“You would threaten me?” Feren growled, his face inches from her own.
“Technically” Inja gasped “We threatened your daughter”
“My blood!” He roared. Spittle splattered on her face and Inja knew that she was dead.
“Tell me” Feren growled. “Tell me the name of your master”.
“He told me” The world was growing hazy around the edges. Darkness seemed to squeeze her vision shut.
“He told me he could save you”.

An hour later Feren was gone. No one knew why he had left, but it was generally agreed that the two corpses found in his study probably had something to do with the whole thing. It wasn't the first time he'd left in a hurry. What was more worrisome, however, was that his armour and shield was gone. As was his ice oak spear and war hammer.

Feren had left dressed for war.

[Path-Shaper]

Judging Post 1. Deal with it.

[D'rek]

D'rek vs Mott - 1/4

---

The next time I opened my eyes there was no light. When I tried to move I couldn't. When I tried to speak, I felt steel holding my tongue and teeth rigidly in place. Blindfolded and bound, I couldn't do anything but think.

When events are rushing past you too fast to comprehend, it's nice to sit and think them through. Going over the experience of waking up with Mr. Asshole-in-Black, I developed some ideas of who and what I had become. Despite what he called me, I wasn't Miley anymore - she was either dead or gone. But I was still Hannah. The alternate personality of a TV character played by Miley. I don't know why, but that seemed to be important. It must have been why they chose me, why they did these terrible things to me.

Which brought me to now. I had whispers of other lives in my head, my skin could turn into flame and at the end I had unleashed a huge burst of force outwards from myself. I tried to summon those powers again, but nothing happened. If they had altered me to have those abilities, why couldn't I use them now and get out of this prison?

Suddenly an intercom speaker buzzed to life nearby and a woman's voice said "Hannah. I am called Georgia. After your incident last week the decision has been made to test you in a more remote environment. You have been enrolled in the Ultimate Deathmatch. You are presently in the waiting area at the gate to your first round of the competition. I will release the clamps on your mouth now..." I felt the steel on my tongue and teeth suddenly lift up and out "...and release the body and ocular restraints in 1 minute. Your match begins in 2 minutes. Do you understand?"

"Nmmgh?" (*hack* *cough* *spit*) "Uh, what?" Eloquent, that's me.

"All you have to do is enter the arena and elimiante your opponent to advance to the next round."

"Eliminate?"

"Kill"

"What?! I'm not going to kill someone!"

"Then you must maim or disable it until the judges deem there is no chance of it being capable of recovery, or the duel will not end."

"What are you talking about? I don't want to hurt anyone!"

"You have no choice. Kill or be killed. If you fail, we will take what we have learned and create a new and improved prototype. Now, I will release the remaining locks. Prepare yourself, Hannah, and don't forget your songs."

The voice disappeared, and then the pressure holding me down all over lifted. I should have asked questions, should have tried to figure out who these people were. I should have tried to find out who I was. But I had the sense that she would not have told me anything important, anyway.

She'd given me what I needed though. It was the songs that gave me supernatural powers, ever since Mr. Asshole had called me just a girl.Sitting up and pulling off my blindfold, I whispered the refrain of Just a Girl and my memories of being Miley became clear.

The large doors to one side of the square, non-descript room I was in burst open, light flooding in while a large red arrow lit up on the floor beckoning me out. I had no idea what to expect, but discovering the key to my powers seemed to be very calming.

Whimsically, I strode out into the arena intertwining two songs to describe how Every Part of Me was so Mixed Up. The numbness of having been lying still disappeared and my legs and arms felt stronger with each step. Stray thoughts disappeared as I focused on this bizarre upcoming duel.

Surprisingly, as I entered the arena I saw across from me a little girl, rather than some hardened killer. Well, who knows, maybe she would turn out to be a Hannah fan.

"Let's Do This!"

This post has been edited by D'rek: 17 December 2011 - 03:16 PM

[Mott]

PLACEHOLDER

Round 1
D'rek vs Mott

Part 2 of 4

[D'rek]

PLACEHOLDER

Round 1
D'rek vs Mott

Part 3 of 4

[Mott]

PLACEHOLDER

Round 1
D'rek vs Mott

Part 4 of 4

[Path-Shaper]

Judging Placeholder

[Gust Hubb]

ROUND 2

Grief v Gust Hubb

Part 1 of 4

Drab, thought Jack, and what else was there to think? The Master of the Transdimensional versus the... what the fuck could you call it? Tall, dark Mr. Potato Sack? Pile'o'rags the Third? And what was with all that twitching under the robe like the thing had mutant scabies or something?

Speaking of flickering movement, Jack unconsciously danced a knife back and forth, palm to palm, the blade dancing in the light. He could bring out some bigger weapons, but hey, why waste the ammo. Might as well get medieval on this thing's ass.

BEGIN!!!!
Interesting, that thing can move right quick. Robes billowing out behind it, the thing charged Jack full tilt, long ice-pick weapons sliding out of its sleeves. Still, Jack almost yawned. Compared to dodging planes, this was going to be easy. A slight shift and he was slightly out of alignment with the arena's dimension, probably disappearing before the things eyes. When it was close enough, he could just step back into alignment and casually finish this monumental waste of time.

And it didn't even slow down. Jack let himself smirk and stepped back into dimensional sync next to the thing's right side, driving his wicked knife under its chin, giving the blade a dexterous twist. That's when it became complicated.

Feathers! Feathers everywhere, and a deep gash on the back of his hand from the razor-like beak of what appeared to be an eagle's head impaled on his knife blade.

Fuck. Jack instinctively dodged into another plane, or at least he tried. It was more than feathers swirling around him. Thousands of little brown birds were twittering all around him in a sickening vortex of beady eyes and fluttering wings.

Now Jack had been around for a long time, but never had he dreamed of the existence of pyschopomps. All phenomena wax and wane, sometimes at the whim of outside forces; more specifically, movement across the dimensions could be dampened. Lore spoke birds, such as the whippoorwills or sparrows, that were known to guide, or compel, spirits to hell. Mostly a literary device for Victorian horror authors, Jack never expected to be trapped on a single plane by such a myth. Damn.

The sparrows spun closer, tearing their little feet and beaks into his clothing, seeking to shred him like a combine. Barely panicking for a nanosecond, Jack quickly curled inward on himself before flinging out his arms in a dramatic arch of power, electricity crackling away from him as from a Tesla coil. The whirlwind became a crimson splatter of intestines, feathers and shredded meat.

That's when Jack felt something kick into his back with the force of a bucking horse. Twisting with the kick to minimize its impact, Jack spun around, skidding backwards through the still settling the cloud of blood to face an angry ostrich lunging at him with from a supple rope of muscled neck. Jack dispatched it with a couple of quick slashes, whirling around to gauge what else the fuck was charging him.

He should have looked up...

This post has been edited by Gust Hubb: 19 November 2011 - 04:16 AM

[Grief]

PLACEHOLDER

Round 2
Grief v Gust Hubb

Part 2 of 4