(Preshow) Registration (Where you Sign up IC)

[Sterling Archer]

Entering from Darkshire, Pale Moors. Thread link

I continued down the uneven brick boulevard, noting the veritable deluge of derelict denizens. The alley itself measured approximately five feet across for as far as I could see--which wasn’t very far--with hundreds of people crammed in like sardines. The town’s inhabitants, or at the very least a large number of them, all seemed to want to move down this particular avenue, for reasons that escaped me. The nauseating aroma of sweat and rarely-washed cloth and flesh stung my nostrils, nearly causing me to retch. Something told me this town’s people had seen better days.

“Man, what the hell is happening down here, anyway?” I ignored the sounds of protest as I forced my way though the throng, jamming my elbows between city-goers to wedge my way past, while forcibly grabbing at shoulders to move some of the slower citizens. I’d definitely have to wash my hands later.

“’Ey, ‘ands t’ yerself, pal, these tickets ain’ cheap and I’ll be damned if I miss ou’ ‘cos o’ some soggy bloke who can’ wait ‘is turn.” The stench issuing from the speaker’s gaping gob nearly knocked me backward. The man looked quite malnourished, his clothes torn and resown numerous times, the cloth stained various shades of brown. I suspected that they had not originally been that color.

“Ugh, take a step back, Cratchit” I choked out, doing my best to cover my mouth and nose. “You smell like you’ve been surviving on cow feces. Which, now that I think about it, isn’t exactly a stretch given the general ambiance.”

“Bugger off,” Smelly retorted, the black and caramel-colored remains of his dentition flashing in his best imitation of menace. It was hard to feel both disgusted and afraid at the same time, even if he had any weapon aside from cholera at his disposal. “I’m gettin’ me tickets fer th’ big show, an’ iffin ye’ wanna push yer way pas’, you’ll ‘afta knock me ou’ ‘ere an’ now.”

“Tempting,” I returned, at this point resorting to breathing through my sleeve. “What’s this big event? Did someone bring their prized pig into town? The butcher’s daughter lifting her dress?”

“Pah,” the guttersnipe spat. “Don’ act like ye’ ‘aven’ ‘eard o’ Dante’s Abyss.”

“Okay, I won’t,” I sassed, at this point resigning myself to simply move with the crowd. “Because I don’t. I’ve been here for a grand total of like, two hours.”

Smelly released a vile burst of repugnant breath that passed for a sigh by definition only. He fished for a moment in the pocket of his burlap trousers and retrieved a crumpled-up piece of paper, forcing it into my non-stench-stifling hand before turning around and pushing through the crowd, away from me. What a hypocrite.

“Power. Fame. Wealth.” I read what remained of the mutilated pamphlet to myself, attempting to ascertain what exactly it was advertising. It seemed to depict various scenes of warriors locked in heated combat, wielding all manner of strange and powerful weaponry to slay their opponents. More than a few corpses of fallen entrants were featured prominently, the editor apparently having no shame in showing off the end result of losing such a competition. “This looks awesome.”

I waited with apprehension as the line moved, ever so gradually feeding into an enormous violet pavilion that rose head and shoulders over the rest of the buildings in the district. I could only assume I had found myself in the poorest part of town if a large tent was impressive in comparison. Slowly yet surely we passed, until finally my soggy loafers crossed the threshold.

“Attention all, for pre-sale ticket purchases please proceed to the left! Please don’t block the entrance for those wishing to sign-up!”

My ears perked up at the announcer’s words, my gaze skimming the crowd for a few moments before I spotted him, standing atop a podium beneath the center of the awning, some four feet above the rest of the crowd. I blinked hard, furrowing my brow as I stared incredulously at a man who could not have been taller than two feet. A snowy white beard clung to his face, hanging down to drag beside him as he paced from one end of the platform to the other, shouting orders and directing traffic. His clothes were over-sized, an indigo polo shirt hanging over a tiny pair of slacks of a matching hue. They could have belonged to a toddler.

“Excuse me, Doc,” I called, finally parting from the crowd as they funneled to the left. “How do I join this murder contest?”

The gnome stopped his pacing and glanced down at me, lowering his tiny spectacles to get a better look at my charming face. “You’re looking to enter, my boy?” A small smile played at the corners of his lips, his soft brown eyes leveled on me.

“You’re aware of the irony of calling someone three times your size ‘boy’, right?”

The bearded official’s face soured at the remark, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and gesturing to my right. “Over there,” he commented with indifference.

“And do I just fill out a form or something, or…?

The officiant offered no response, turning away to resume his task of directing the flow of traffic.

“Fine, then pout," I said, turning away.

I waved dismissively at the gnome as I strode toward a lavishly decorated booth labeled ‘ENTRANTS’. Aside from the large digital display overhead showcasing brutal battles from previous events, it was not unlike the kind of booth one might find at some expo advertising a fancy new variety of riding lawn mower or an annoying multi-level marketing scam. The woman seated behind the booth looked to be older than my mother, her hair well past graying and tied up in a loose bun. She, like the director gnome, wore glasses that rested on her nose, though hers appeared approximately three sizes too large for her face. He attire too matched the color scheme of the tent, a deep purple long-sleeve dress, pinned with a shiny gold broach. A placard before her on the desk indicated that her name was Candy. She sat up in her seat as I approached, an expectant look in her eyes. “Are you looking to join, sir?”

“You bet your ass I am,” I said, staring up at a vivid depiction of a caped man being electrocuted. “Awesome.”

“Alright. Name?”

“Sterling Archer,” I blurted, not even bothering to assume a pseudonym.

“Where are you representing?”

“...Earth?”

She sighed. “Normally entrants represent their faction or the verse at large.”

“Oh,” I replied, scratching my head. “Well, I’ve only ever been to wherever this is, and that white place where I woke up. So far it sucks here, so I guess I’ll just take the other one.”

“A-alright,” she muttered, scribbling on her clipboard. “Nexus it is then. Not often we hear that answer.”

“I get that a lot,” I replied, smirking.

“Uh-huh. And what’s your occupation?”

“Secret Agent,” I responded confidently. “I’ve killed like, a lot of people.”

“...Right,” Candy murmured, quickly jotting down my answer. “And why do you want to participate this year?”

“That whole ‘Power, fame, wealth’ thing is a pretty strong motivator.”

“Fair enough,” she returned, scribbling once more. “And what do you bring to the Event?”

I paused. “A pistol and alcoholism?”

“Um...no,” she said, looking up quizzically. “I mean why would people root for you to win?”

“I mean look at me,” I responded, doing my best approximation of a GQ cover model pose. “That question answers itself.”

“Oh...kay,” she said, her pen conspicuously not moving. “Anything else? In years past we’ve had legendary heroes, ninjas, ferocious beasts, deities, vampires. Just today we’ve had a murderous demonic warrior and the honorable hero of our fair city. And that’s just from here in Darkshire.”

“Wow,” I remarked. “That sounds pretty awesome. I’m...gonna level with you, I kinda just walked in off the street on a whim. I just want to beat the shit out of some people and win the adoration of my audience.”

“Well, you certainly seem arrogant and unpredictable,” she said.

“Right?”

“You should fit right in, Mr. Archer.” She produced a stack of paperwork and a highlighter, flipping through the various pages and highlighting required fields. “Just sign and initial where I marked, waiving your right to pursue legal action under any circumstances. After that you’re good to go, just head through that teleporter.”

“T-teleporter?!”

“...Yes?”

“This is so awesome!”