Dante's Abyss Spectators

[Jak Mar]

The eco warrior stepped up from the toilet area, his eyes now aglow with light blue as he knew what he must now do.

Daxter looked up at his buddy, and noticed the tinge of blue in Jak’s eyes.

“Hey Jak, what’s with the bluish eyes, the Nobel Hero got you going right now?”

Jak smiled a bit and nodded “Dax, don’t worry. I need to protect Ash, I can’t let her get hurt like that again.”

Daxter crossed his arms and frowned “What? You failed Ash?” Wait, oh yeah. Protect our Ash, she protected you last time, do the same.”

Jak avoided looking at Daxter, a bit sad that he brought up their loss against the first opponents.

The ottsel tried to put a smile on Jak’s face “Come on, Jak.. That green being with the funky tail is too weird for our tastes…

And that furry is just like me, he’s harmless.”

The eco warrior tried to force a smile, after trying to feel better “Thanks Dax, but I have a job to do.”

Daxter groaned “Hey Light, air and peaceful, we can’t have you walking out there with blue eyes lit up like that.”

The wastelander sighed and shrugged “Come on Dax, we gotta find Ash. The quicker, the better.”

The men’s bathroom door opened and out strolled a confident Jak and Daxter watching a man from a distance interview Ash.

The ottsel suppressed his urge to run out and hop in the limelight but the translucent like eyed eco warrior walked closer to the hallways, finding the Storm demon staring at her holodeck.

Daxter hopped down “What are you studying, Ash?”

Jak looked down as he blinked, translucent eyes still glowing “I’m willing to protect you this time.”

As almost the Nobel Hero was talking through Jak’s body.

[PepsiWhirda]

“Ms. Windstrom?”

Whirda marveled at the tiny metal device she held in her hand, from which the cool voice of the PepsiCo marketing director emerged.  At her side, Yuuka, familiar with the device which she had called a ‘cell phone,’ wore a broad grin as she watched Whirda’s wide-eyed expression.

The last hour had been a whirlwind of frustrating and unfamiliar terminology.  Just when she figured out what a ‘marketing director’ was, they produced a ‘cell phone.’  And soon after that, she was learning how to ‘dial’ and ‘turn on speaker phone,’ and being reminded to express admiration for the ‘PepsiCo brand’ and the cool, refreshing taste of Pepsi… a phrase she expected to hear a great deal in the coming months.  How she longed for the simple days of slaying shades and tarrasques and drow in the Pale Moors, before her life had collapsed in on itself and led her down the path to… whatever this was.

“Ms. Windstrom?” the voice emerged again, patient yet insistent.

“Y-yes, greetings PepsiCo marketing director,” Whirda stammered.  Yuuka stifled a laugh.

“A pleasure to meet you,” said the voice.  “As I’m sure you know, PepsiCo is looking for a new brand ambassador following PepsiMan’s… unfortunate situation.”

Whirda glared at the phone, frustrated by the way the man danced around his meaning, presumably to maintain the civility of their conversation.  Never one to mince words, she blurted, “Unfortunate situation?  He took a gods-damned sword through the chest, PepsiCo marketing director.”  The green-haired Youkai blanched, frantically motioning for Whirda to shut her mouth before she caused further damage.

To both their surprise, the voice inside the phone burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the walls of the small office.  “Please,” the marketing director gasped, “call me Jim.”

“As you wish, Jim,” Whirda replied, frowning at the unusual naming conventions of the more civilized Verses.  

“He sure did take a sword through the chest,” Jim continued when he had recovered from his laughter.  “Great for ratings in the short term, but we’re gonna need a replacement till he’s back on his feet.”

“And that’s where we come in?” Yuuka piped up, leaning in closer to the phone.

“Ms. Kazami!  I didn’t know you were on the call.  Hell of a performance out there!”

“Thank you.”

Whirda took note of Yuuka’s respectful tone and the practiced ease with which she addressed the cell phone, and gingerly handed it over to the green-haired Youkai, backing off a step.  She considered it best to leave the negotiating to her more experienced partner.

“Yes indeed, that’s where you come in, we hope!” Jim said.  “Having two competing Primes wearing the Pepsi brand would give us a hell of a boost, I have to say.  Most of you people are so serious, all blood and guts and no sense of ratings and profit.”

“Us people?” Whirda snapped.  “What is that supposed to mean?”  She reached for the cell phone, but Yuuka skipped back and silenced her with a glare, shaking her head vigorously.

Jim, for his part, seemed unperturbed by Whirda’s outburst.  “A figure of speech, Ms. Windstrom, nothing more.  I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” Yuuka said quickly.  “Now, I imagine you must have some questions for us?”  The Youkai swept a hand toward Whirda and then raised one finger to her lips, indicating she would do the talking.  Whirda offered no objection.

“A few,” Jim said.  “Between you and me, you’ve got the job.  But I’ll have to run it by the CEO, and he’ll want to see that I’ve done my due diligence.  So… what draws you to the PepsiCo brand?”

“The cool, refreshing taste of Pepsi, of course,” Yuuka replied coolly.  “There’s nothing better than a Pepsi after a bloody battle.”

Jim laughed again.  “Hell of an answer.  Just what we’ll want to see in front of the cameras.  Do you have any notable talents?”

“You’ve seen the footage.”

“I guess you’re right.  Any prior experience as brand ambassadors?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Do either of you have a catchphrase?”

“I talk about flowers,” Yuuka said.

“Brooding silence, mostly,” Whirda added, trying and failing to inject some levity of her own.

“I see,” Jim said thoughtfully.  “Well, between Syntech’s referral and this very… candid conversation, I’m pleased to say you’ve got the job!  Let me just confirm it with the man upstairs, and we’ll get you two fitted for jumpsuits.”

“Jumpsuits?” Whirda echoed blankly.  She looked worriedly to Yuuka.

[Retane]

Round one was over. There were winners, losers, plenty of blood shed and pain delivered, but there were no deaths. No deaths! Everyone walked away, to come back and play another day. None had succumbed to her wrath and offered their life to appease her. She was angry and he could feel her calling to him, demanding her thirst be sated.

He reached across his chest and felt where there Malefactor once was. An evil grin careened his visage. Without it, he could hear her calls clearer. While both, The Essence of the Abyss, and the orgosynth seemed to have malicious intent, hers seemed much purer, and he had known her much longer and more passionately. It was almost as if the orgosynth was just a toy for them to entice the moment. Deep down though, he didn't need it. He was more than enough Namekian for her and she knew it.

He looked on at the brackets, staring at the stats of his next opponents. They were amateurs. They knew nothing about the true meaning of entering the Abyss and the risks it entailed; Watching your closest friend die in your arms; Stabbing innocent one's in their back for the sake of appeasing the darkness and having a closer chance of sitting upon her throne; Having your best friend try to kill you and you having to sink your own claws deep into his chest and watch the light go out in his eyes, again.

Dante's Abyss. It was from his Universe. It's where he found his one true path, an explanation for what he was, and everyone here took it too lightly. It was time for him to remind them all of the cost of entering the Abyss. Jibril and Harely Quinn would be the only the first example.

[Shantotto]

Pouring a small amount of the large beverage down her gullet the pine sized mage set the flask like receptacle aside and quickly resummoned her Stardust rod. Whatever was in the drink seemed to help revitalize her body, even the pain of her broken arm seemed but a not so distant memory.

“If I am to lead us in this fight, we need to devise a plan that is utterly airtight!” A flippant wave of her hand, she slid the newly created stardust rod into the hoop on her robes. She was going to need to make the robes ones again, the fresh clothes she had painstakingly crafted for Dante’s Abyss were tattered, charred and covered in dust.

The not so whimsical clown eyeballed the drink sitting off to the side, It’s painted nose scrunched up at the repulsively fruity drink.

“I would feel better if we had a grasp of what each other can do, it would give us a strategic advantage most true.” Shantottos ears twitched unknowingly while she spoke, a side effect of the strong drink now coursing through her body.

The clown burst out laughing! It’s mandible unhindging as the denizen of the macroverse splayed row upon row of razor sharp teeth. “Oooh hoo Behold my dead lights and know fear!” the clown said, seemingly bypassing the rules of the tournament.The gaping maw snapped shut with the same force as a crocodile. Picking up the mouslike mage It seemed to sniff the very air, before placing the mage upon the tiled floor once again.

“You don't have fear?” The clown asked, a puzzled look upon its face.

“For one who has met defeat for the first time, Harboring fear would be the utmost crime.” The mage said flippantly, grasping a small inkling of what made the macroverse monster tick.

“If the scent of fear is what you seek, than our enemies of it we shall make them reek.” The mage said.

A twisted grin filled the clowns features.

[Deadpool]

This takes place prior to Round 2

The once bustling saloon was now hollow; most of the entrants elected to recuperate from their battles over washing down the sweet high of victory or bitter, lingering taste of defeat with a relaxing adult beverage.

This came as no shock to Oswald, the bartender, who had been around long enough to know that business boomed best prior to the start of Dante’s Abyss, when patrons still had inflated hopes of becoming the next champion. He could still remember their glistening eyes, filled with ignorant glee. They would come in droves, planting an ass in damn near every stool, crowding every table; their swarm always started at the center of the saloon, detailing the square bar counter with an assortment of faces and characters, before branching out towards the perimeters, like a threading spider web.

He’d be lying if he said those times were enjoyable. The tips were good, sure, but the headache of it all ran painful laps in his head--probably why he suffered from premature balding, only in his mid thirties, and maybe even the discolored blotches scattered across his caramel skin. He preferred the mellow environment of a quiet bar, where he could dim the lights low and do the more monotonous, yet less strenuous duties of upkeep, while listening to a playlist of his favorite childhood R&B artists (there was something soothing--no, therapeutic--about those old songs; Just My Imagination by The Temptations was one of his most cherished; his grandmother use to play it by pulling a large black disc from a hard envelope, and spinning it on wooden box she called a phonograph).

Only one patron remained. It was a brown-skinned, middle-aged man, wearing a full-length trench coat, which was a prune purple. He sat directly in front of the overhead monitor, suspending from the middle of the bar counter, taking mild interest in one of the fights.

To the dark-skinned man, the climax was the very end of the battle. One of the fighters substituted for a wall to protect his all. He was subsequently transformed into a shish kabob by one opponent; the other foe struck him with a tidal wave of energy, which turned him into a drunken surfer.

“Impressive,” Elijah murmured as he brought the lowball glass to his mouth. He took an extended sip until he felt the numbing touch of conglomerated ice kiss his lips, then pushed a subtle grunt from his throat when Hennessey’s distinct amber dropped in his stomach. “You can switch to another fight.”

“The other fight just ended,” Oswald replied matter-of-factly. He finished polishing a beer mug, flipping it around and onto a holder stick, then grabbed another mug from the frothing sink water adjacent to the holders. “There are some midday soap operas on right now, if you want to watch one of those.” Shoving a stained rag into the mug, he twisted it around, removing all of its suds. “They’re not all bad.”

“I’ll pass,” Elijah replied. He swirled around the diluted Hennessey at the bottom of his glass before downing it. “Now that the fight is over, I have some business to attend to. . . Oswald it was, right?”

“You got it.”

Elijah reached into his interior coat pocket, and pulled out a handful of bills--two Karls and a Jason. “I got my Omnillium exchanged for this currency; i trust that it’s usable for tips,too?”

“Only in Karl’s universe,” Oswald replied, “but he Mr. Karl can convert it into any currency I need.”

“Good.” Elijah slid them across the counter to Oswald’s side. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could you tell me how to get to the fighter’s ward?”

Oswald racked the now spotless mug. “Once you leave here, you go left; make a right at the end of the hall, and it’ll be on your right, two doors down.”

“Much appreciated.” With the assistance of his glass cane, Elijah got up from his stool and exited the bar.

* * *

“When I pass,” a raspy voice of an old lady said, “I’m leaving everything I own to you, John-Scott.” Her voice filled the hospital room.

”No, don’t do it!” Deadpool cried.

The mercenary sat at the edge of a cushioned chair, hunched over, eyes firmly locked onto the television mounted in the corner of the room.

Erik lay resting in the bed behind him, covered in taffy-colored blankets. Dried blood stained his head wrapping.  

The Old and the Relaxed was on the screen. A woman nearing the end of her life promised to leave her entire estate to her younger husband, but unbeknownst to the woman, he had three mistresses; two of them were pregnant.

”The entire empire you built--all the hard work you did--is going to be butchered by a bunch of Southside whorebags!” Deadpool jumped from his seat, right fist jolting into the air. ”Damn you, Margarette!”

“What’s going on?” Erik asked, woozy. He slowly pulled himself upright from the bed, rubbing his bandaged head.

Deadpool looked over his shoulder at the priest. ”This old bitch is really about to leave a shit-ton money to an unfaithful, Southside whorbag-fucking, slimeball.”

Erik gritted his teeth, and winced. “No offence, but lower your tone. When you just spoke, a violent red attacked my eyes.”

”Sorry, my Euro buddy,” the mercenary whispered. If it makes you feel better, I see the color red every time I talk. . . But colors aside, how you feeling?”

“My head feels like an anvil was dropped on it,” Erik replied.

Deadpool cut to the chase: ”Can you still fight?” Seriousness saturated his tone.

Erik nodded.

”Good. I don’t think Karl gives out paychecks for the bottom dwellers, and I don’t intend on finding out, either. And I’m almost certain that action figures aren’t made out of second round losers.”

“Action figures?” Erik furrowed a brow.

”Yes,” Deadpool answered. ”The royalties on those damn things is how I can afford to take long hiatuses--I finish well, I get an action figure, and then I barely scrape by until the next Dante’s Abyss. My narration isn’t consistent enough to have fun adventures, like the rest of you primes.”

“If I’m not mistaken, don’t you have ties with some of New Babylon’s crusaders?” Erik replied. “It could be mutually beneficial if you became an affiliate.”

Deadpool doubled over with laughter. ”I doubt there will be any ties left, once I kick their king’s teeth in,” he scoffed. ”We fight the golden boy next round.”

The scar crossing through his left brow and cheek stretched as his blue eyes widened. “We fight King Gilgamesh next round?”

”Yeah, so pop a goddamn senzu bean or something,” the mercenary said, ”because a telekinetic with a busted skull is like a porn star with a broken dick--flaccid and useless.”

* * *

Elijah arrived at the medical corridor, clapping the bottom of his cane on the terrazzo floor as he walked. Doors lined the hallway on either side, each having a small window above the handle. He glanced into every one of them. First his eyes burned with zing, but when it became clear that whom he sought was gone, disappointment and vexation dampened them.

He had just missed him.

[Shantotto]

Shantotto was whisked back to the spectator area from the hellscape, her tattered robes little more than ash, modestly lost on her she made her way towards the infirmary . Her wobbly legs held a sense of fire in her every step despite the grievous wounds she had been inflicted. her back, not more than scorched bare flesh, truth be told there was not many places the mini mage did not hurt.

The dull white of the recovery room was a soothing touch, of course it held true to most things when involved with healing: it was always white this white that. Even so, the sterile environment was perfect for what the tarutaru needed. rest and relaxation.

the room held several smaller chambers separated by nearly plastic walls that made room for the patients, a few people moaned behind the curtain doors. "no need for modesty when there are wounds to heal, i must first settle down and devise a plan that is real." the mage said as she slowly began to remove the remains of her robes, blistered skin peeled off with it, giving the mage another dose of pain as she finally completed the removal of said rags she prepared to administer treatment to herself.

[Retane]

Retane and Victor both made their way out of the infirmary once again. They were flocked by paparazzi and a crowd of reporters. Wolfe seemed to respond easy to the crowd with his playboy attitude, but there was a single question that stuck out from them all. "Are you ready to fight Sasuke and Serraph next round?"
 
The two exchanged glances as they looked at the nearest screen as it showed their faces upon the bracket, and besides them were the images of the shinobi and someone Retane was unfamiliar with. The Namekian could only grin as he saw it was confirmed. He glanced back at his comrade who seemed to share the same visage. The Leader of the Horsemen didn't want to deal with any more questions at the moment and turned to the crowd.
 
"MOVE!!!" Retane shouted as he raised a hand in the air, an orange orb representing a Solar Blast rested in his palm as a warning of what would come next if they didn't disburse.
 
The crowd was gone within a matter of seconds and Wolfe had to chuckle, "Thanks. They were killing my vibe."
 
"Look away" Ret said, as he finally loosed the orb.
 
----
 
"Where are we?" Wolfe questioned as he scanned the alley way.
 
Retane pointed at the six little Namekians, two ninja and Jack Frost that stood there. "They wanted your autograph."
 
"Hold on! Are all these yours? How many mothers?" Vic chuckled as he was handed a pen.
 
"All are mine. I gave birth to them." Retane nodded in the direction of his children before looking back at the shocked face of Victor.
 
 "Wait!  I thought you were a dude! Are you saying you're a chick?" Vic cocked his head not understanding.
 
"'m a Namek. We are asexual beings."
 
"Oh! I get it!  You are green! So, you are like a plant! Do you guys just spring up out the ground?" The assassin flashed a grin as Retane glowered at the comment.
----------
 
As Victor and Retane parted ways, the Leader of the Horsemen turned back to his kin with a sigh, "Ok, give the scoop. What's going on?"
 

[Deadpool]

Triumpht moved to the head of the crowd. His smaller siblings parted like the red sea, watching as their brother walked towards Retane; Jack and the ninjas stood at the back of the group, spectating with crossed arms.

The God of Death stared down at his young boy. “Triumpht? What is it, my son?”

“Father,” Triumpht said, “I wish to stay here, and support Mr. Wade. Just for this round.”

A moment passed; the wind whistled by; then Retane nodded. “If that is what you wish, so be it.”

Triumpht’s brow ridges raised. “Really?” He tried to contain his glee, but it seeped through into his tone.

“Much to my chagrin, Wade has been more of a father to you than myself,” Retane replied. “But, once he’s done this round, you must come home.” He rested his palm on his son’s head, and gazed deep into the boy’s eyes. “I have been absent long enough, and it’s time for you to learn how to be a Namekian--to learn the depths of your potential, and then exceed them.”

“I promise,” Triumpht affirmed.

[Bandit With No Name]

The heat of the explosion surrounded the nameless combatant’s body. Her arm, the one she had left, clung to the lithe, chitinous frame that lay beneath her. She close her arms tight and grit her shattered teeth and the pressure of the blast wave compressing the rest of the air from her lungs with a voices huff. In that moment, all that mattered was holding on. Bearing the pain. Protecting Kerrigan.

All that mattered was protecting Kerrigan.

---

The steady digital beep of a heart monitor slowly dredged the woman from unconsciousness. Her bleary eyes wandered across the white tile ceiling and found themselves locked on the IV that was cranked wide open, the tubing leading into her left arm. A glance to the other side confirmed that her right one was still missing.

She groggily lifted it, only to hear the clank of the cuffs around her wrist. She groaned and shook her head. “Hey,” she moaned, voice and throat dry. “Hey!” she attempted again, a croak coming out when she had intended a shout.

A tall, lanky man in a Syntech uniform entered the room, bobbing along to some unheard beat. He took a long drag off the hand-rolled spliff and exhaled, unleashing a dramatic cloud into the air. He grinned, the gold of his grill glinting under the dry, emotionless fluorescent lighting. “Hey there sista’,” he said in a heavily affected accent. “Ya look a bit worse for wear!”

All she could manage was an agitated snarl.

“Aha,” he laughed to himself, and reached into his pocket. “Well I got just da t’ing ta cure what ails ya.” He withdrew a small, green bean, and twisted it between his fingers. “Dis here is a senzu bean.”

“Gimme your stupid bean,” the bandit groaned and momentarily strained against the padded cuff.

He chuckled and strolled in a long, loping gait to her bedside and leaned against the railing she was bound to. “Just open wide and say ‘ah’ sister.”

She huffed and her eyebrows stitched together in indignation. After a few moments of pouting, she bore her teeth and opened her mouth. The man’s skinny little fingers popped the tiny thing into her mouth, and she bit down with a noisy crunch.

In an instant a wave of energy flushed through her body, all the color returning to her cheeks, her lungs filling with a deep gasp of air. The deep cuts and shallow scrapes, the loose teeth and the boils that had formed around her eyes, and even the bone-charring burns on her back were all gone in the blink of an eye. She glanced over to her slump of an arm and opened her mouth to protest its absence, only for a new one to explode out in a spray of plasma and goo. Amazingly it came along with the clothing that she had been wearing before it had been hacked off, and she flexed her sticky, fresh fingers with wonderment.

“Ahhh,” the Jamaican man beamed with a snap of his fingers, “Omniphysics be a wonderful t’ing.”

[Retane]

As Triumpht ran off to watch the remainder of Deadpools match, the Emerald Warrior looked back to the Guardian of the Horsemen

"Well, you are against Sasuke and Serraph next." Frost gave a face that wasn't all to appealing to the idea of Retane having to face the Champion of Dante's Abyss 2015.

"I heard," the Namekian sighed as he folded his arm and looked down at the ground for a moment. "Doesn't matter in the end I suppose. New Babylonian's still strong in numbers even after three years? Did it have something to do with us?"

Jack shrugged, "Maybe?" The Guardian looked away as Retane looked towards him. "Look Ret, there are some things you should know. Serraph and Sasuke, are both actually New Babylonian members..."

The Leader of the Horsemen smirked, "So you are worried that I might wind up in a three-on-one situation? Makes sense. Should I be worried?"

"Man, I am unsure." The Guardian of Fun looked the Namek in the eyes. "But, you can't just take this lightly."

Retane nodded, " Who beat them?"

"Someone called Ass Kicker and Sarah Kerrigan." It was Krosst that spoke up with a smile upon his face as usual. "But, there is something else, father."

"What is it?" Retane cocked his head as he eyed his son, who never really stuck out.

"Serraph has an ability similar to myself and a few of the ninja from the village. He's able to copy moves and use them." The Mimic Namek had a grin on his face, because he knew he was the only one with the ability of the half-dozen.

"Well that's good to know. What else-" The Leader of the Horsemen paused as he looked at Reatus and Dante shoving each other for a few seconds mumbling to each other. They saw him staring and straightened up. After a few moments of silence Retane asked, "Well?"

Dante threw his hands up, "Well, I kind of got mission to do and I need Reatus over here to come with. He is just toscared to ask you."

"Go." Retane knew that his involvement of Dante Abyss didn't stop life. He didn't expect it to. He almost felt a bit of pride on the two's part for continuing their work but was also curious as to what they were up to. She snickered and looked back to the others, "Where were we?"

[Serraph Quarrere]

Getting the pale Arrancar into the med-bay was no small feat. Still, the ravenous disease destroyed his thin body. Parchment skin rotted and his ink blood boiled as his flesh transitioned into a bed of festering death. The medical staff took great care not to touch the Arrancar's flesh out of fear that the disease may spring upon them as well. The doctors looked at each other concerned but confidently nodded to one another. A transparent plastic cage was drawn over him, sealing the contagion away from the others in the medical ward.

 "You there, grab a suit and fetch a Senzu bean. No one is to go in there until all trace of that blasted disease has been purged" he commanded, waving his assistants on to their assignments. The doctor didn't sign onto such a prestigious job at Syntec to be eaten alive by the worse case of space aids he'd ever seen.

***

 Serraph stirred not to the sterile environment of the med-bay but to a dark place where dunes stretched as far as the eye can see. His thin hands reached down to sample the fine, powdery dust that filled to space. Slowly, he'd let the sand slip through the cracks of his fingers and the corners of his mouth curled upward into a nostalgic smile.

 "This is Hueco Mundo," Serraph observed, his grey eyes moving to the starless night sky. A single celestial body dominated the black firmament, the hollowed moon shining its dreadful light over the realm.  His head would level with the solemn terrain around him. "However..."

 He'd turn to look behind him, and his stomach sank. Before him, a forest of jagged onyx stakes stretched over the desert, each with a body impaled on its structure. He'd walk through the densely packed pikes as his curious eyes examined the features of each corpse.

 Eternity Larva was among the first he spotted. Her form was nailed to a cluster of pikes, her once beautiful wings were broken and shattered against the smooth surface. Along her once, warm flesh now rested in a cold existence. A hurricane of crimson stained her clothes and hundreds of shallow lacerations parted her already bruised and battered skin.

 "Eternity...", he'd whisper, his eyes flicking to the pikes behind her. The Queen of Blades was nailed differently to the glistening structures with her body held up only by a single oversized railroad spike centered upon her chest. Ass Kicker was held up beside her with all four of her limbs viciously torn from her body to be found nowhere within sight. Both were heavily decayed, no doubt inflicted by the same ailment that Serraph had suffered from.

 These opponents were strong, strong enough to best even the former Espada. How could they have been killed so easily? It would have been easy enough to remove their bodies from the pikes, but at the end of the day, this didn't move him. He looked over their features, but in the end, they were just lifeless bodies.

 Serraph's hand fell to  Libro's pommel, his hand squeezing it in amusement. So far those were the only three he recognized in this sea of decadent slumber. Bodies were mangled and weaved over the pikes while some were simply impaled. Each frame represented a death more gruesome than the average mind could comprehend.

 "My angel, have you forsaken sympathy?", A voice sang to him. Serraph turned to find the same woman he had dreamed of before. She stood by him her dimly radiating eyes of emerald piercing through his very soul. She'd brush the blood crusted hair from her face and stepped in front of him.

 "They've nothing to do with the one I serve, Serra," he'd reply, his eyes widening with shock. His hand moved to his lips. 'Serra,' he thought to himself. This was her name. He had said it with such certainty and confidence yet he had no memory of that name. The woman had spoken of his compromised mind in the past. Perhaps this is a side effect of that event.

 The woman's eyes twinkled, and she'd step in, enveloping him in a warm embrace.  He had felt this warmth before in Nippur and then in the Dante's Abyss preshow facilities. This was her presence? His expression remained unchanged, and his arms stayed at his side yet there was some comfort to be found here. She was so familiar yet so distant from him.

 "The time is almost here for you, " her gentle fingers traced about his shoulder blades, her nails digging into the fragile flesh there. "to sprout your wings. Just a bit more time."

 She'd grin and separate herself from him, but his eyes remained as they were, objective and stoic. 

 "You brought me here to say that? What of these bodies. What is the point?"

 For a single moment, Serraph watched the woman's demeanor change. Her face reddened, and the glow from her eyes intensified. She'd blink and exhale, returning to the way she was. 

 "You came here on your own accord."

***

 Serraph's eyes awoken to the incandescent light above him. His body hummed with energy and the pain he remembered his body having was gone. He inspected his body quickly and efficiently to find himself in perfect shape. Surprised he'd leap from his bed, pausing when he heard a voice he welcomed. He'd grin and pressed his ear to the curtain that separated the two patients from each other. His ears would ring with the pleasant couplets she spoke with.  Unfortunately, her tone was doubly tired and equally severe. 

 Tempting it was to enter but he could hear her audible train of thought. Plans were being generated, and strategy was being devised. Now would not be the time.

 "Sasuke Uchiha and Serraph Quarrere, please report to the teleportation deck.", A voice over the intercom played. He'd sight and step from his area, Libro secured at his side.

 "I indeed came here on my own accord."

[Shantotto]

A name on the loudspeakers caught the midget mage's attention.

"Sasuke Uchiha and Serraph Quarrere, please report to the teleportation deck."

Her paper swordsman had been summoned already, the fact he was still alive was enough reason for Shantotto to smile.

Then, the respectful tone of his voice filled the infirmary as he spoke, walking towards the doorway already dutifly heading back into combat.

The impish mage stepped out half dressed from behind her curtain door. "Leaving so soon? And without my blessing to boon?"

The swordsman, blade secured at his side stopped, turning his attention to the voice that called out to him. Of course he knew who it was addressing him, still his eyes alerted her visible flesh, politely her nodded his head towards the sterile tile below.

"I did not wish to disturb you. You seemed deep in thought." The arrancar commented in reply turning once again towards the sliding plasteel door. A loud HMPH! Stopped him, turning around to face Shantotto once more he found her tapping her foot rapidly arms crossed, waiting.

“My apologies.” Serraph replied as he knelt down as if to offer his ear to her, a moment late, warm lips pressed against his cheek, a new experience.

“For luck, please don't forget to duck.” The mage whispered into his ear, and with that she turned once again and went back into her recovery room to finish treating the massive burns on her body.

[Ricter]

The bump that was on his head was noticeable, being hit with a pepsi bottle hurt, and although it was much better than being stabbed he didn't enjoy it any more than he should. They had lost, and he tried his hardest to do something but it seemed like it all amounted to nothing, or at least as much as he could tell based on the result. Every time he was separated Cell was attacked two verses one, and he was either left behind or just knocked on his face.

In addition to that it didn't seem to help his self esteem now that he walked through the main tunnel again, looking up at the brackets as he was faced against people he knew little about. On top of this he had no idea what they could maybe do as he hadn't been examining the fights exclusively well on that front. He felt like this tournament was fun, if you enjoyed doing battle, but he was slowly realizing he should have stayed home.

Maybe fighting wasn't in his blood, maybe he was better off just living a normal live back in Ambrosia, sure that sounded boring but it was true. From what he could tell that is, so the stoat made his way around, looking for anyone, but mostly Marisa. It seemed her fight had ended and she was okay for now, maybe she had left already, he had no clue, all he knew as that maybe he should get some kind of contact information form her as he had no plans of really coming back here again.

Sure the outcome could change but he had a feeling that no matter what he might do next time he'd probably end up losing again. Just like the up coming match between what seemed like either a man in red tights, or a man in golden armor which was labeled as 'king'. Only making him wonder if he shouldn't have joined in the first place. Cell probably would have had a better team mate too if that was the case since his healing and power ups and defending only helped so much in the long run for this kind of thing.

It was easy to tell that he was wallowing in self doubt, thinking he couldn't do anything, or better yet couldn't very well fight to save his own skin much less someone else's. His powers amounted to nothing, and all the while these depressing thoughts circulated and just clouded his mind. Now, he just felt like this whole tournament was a waste of his own time, especially now, however he did find one interesting things. A contagion he never noticed before.

Whidra was interesting for that fact, and honestly he wanted to ask her a question, about what was maybe contaminating her, but he got the sinking sensation that she wouldn't wish to talk to him. Not that he wouldn't want to try right now but he just wondered the halls aimlessly, sighing as he remarked on how he hated fighting, losing, and over all just being useless.

[Skeletor]

Skeletor sat in his room, one hand held the strange red blob between thumb and forefinger. It wiggled slightly, the occasional pseudopod waving in the air. Skeletor thought he might have detected the vaguest humming, but it was unclear whether the sound came from the goo or simply the electric lights overhead.

“An artefact of power? Who would believe such prattle!” Skeletor muttered to himself, poking the blob with a clawed finger, a small tendril swung out in a futile attempt to retaliate, “You don’t radiate power of any sort! No magic glow, no aura to speak of, ‘the malefactor?’ eh? How pathetic! Karl Jak clearly doesn’t know what power truly is!”

Skeletor almost made to fling the pathetic goo ball into the corner of the room, when a small pseudopod managed to snag his finger. A strange feeling swept over him, and Skeletor’s hunched posture straightened stiffly. A curiosity swept over him and Skeletor focused his will. He had grown accustomed to voices in his head, that was nothing new, certainly. No, there was an undeniable… presence to this one that gave him pause. This was no mere echo of his own thoughts.

“What dark seed are you, my pulsing little friend?” Skeletor asked, his irritation now gone. The Orgosynth pulsed with a swell of excitement, shifting its mass to more firmly grasp his hand. Almost timidly, the voice established itself in his head.

I was called many things by many people, but for you I am a friend.

“I have no need for friends!” Skeletor sneered.

Or a tool. the voice adjusted without pausing I can help you achieve the victory that you seek, together our power will be far beyond what any foe can hope to overcome.

Skeletor cackled throwing his head back in a burst of laughter that likely disturbed anyone sleeping nearby. The Orgosynth paused, waiting to see which direction its newest host was headed.

“You have power for me to use?” the warlock spoke incredulously, staring down at the red membrane that clung to his fist, “Surely you must be joking! You look more pathetic than the child I took you from. You were of course quite helpful for her!” Again, the Malefactor’s response was smooth and immediate.

My power mirrors those who wield it. When they are strong, I make them legends. When they are weak… the Orgosynth trailed off, letting Skeletor draw whatever conclusions he would from the silence.

“Show me.” Skeletor said, standing up abruptly, “I am no weakling, let us see just how true your offer is!” The Malefactor was excited now, quickly sizing up its newest wielder. The crimson membrane slithered up Skeletor’s arm, to take its place on his back. The warlock shuddered, mostly convincing himself it was in anticipation and not unease.

This will need you too… the voice whispered as the membrane stretched tendrils along Skeletor’s frame, I can’t just give the power to you. You have to want it. Skeletor chuckled, head bowed forward. His skull vanished into the darkness of his hood.

“Believe me, I know what it means to want power.” Came his hoarsely muttered reply. Skeletor raised his havoc staff above his head with both hands, his voice growing loud and commanding. “Show me your power, Malefactor!”

You needn’t ask so loudly… the Orgosynth chided, though its voice betrayed its eagerness as its tendrils latched hard onto Skeletor’s back and limbs. The Havoc staff clattered to the floor as Skeletor staggered. The pain was his first response, followed quickly thereafter by a surge of power. Skeletor’s cackle once again split the dormitory, an eerie ringing who’s echoes hung in the corners of the room.

“INCREDIBLE!” Skeletor triumphed, flexing his fingers, “Not since I absorbed that nameless servant of Nebula have I felt such raw power!”

To be shaped and honed. the malefactor spoke, its timid front quickly fading as it better understood its new bearer, Together I can provide us with the power to achieve anything we dream of. But you must be the one to claim that destiny for yourself.

Skeletor clasped the Havoc staff with a newfound strength to his grip, and flung open the door to his room.

“Winning the tournament comes first, you putrescent puddle!” Skeletor japed, though the insult came more as a reflex than anything else. His thoughts were too scattered to put any effort into the putdown.

“Where is that bladed buffoon? I want to test just how much stronger we are now! If he’s still chattering at that clamorous Clydesdale then he will… ” The Malefactor hummed, pleased, but said nothing as Skeletor rambled on.

Barely any prodding at all. He had bonded their power just to see what it felt like.

This host would do just fine.

[PepsiWhirda]

The two Primes, still filthy and bruised from the battle in Bilgewater, gawked at the unfamiliar surroundings.  A dozen pairs of eyes bored into Whirda, whose legs trembled with exhaustion, knees threatening to buckle at any moment.  Blood trickled freely from the gash Cell’s tail had left in her thigh, already marring the pristine tiles of the boardroom floor.  They slid easily into the open seats, Whirda sighing audibly as the tension eased from her injured leg, accompanied by a fresh stream of blood.  

If the mess, or the brine-, sweat-, and smoke-laden stench of their triumphant mascots bothered anyone in the room, they didn’t show it.  Wide grins met them from every angle.  Slowly, the man with the lapel pin rose and began to clap, and the rest of the obsequious executives rose without hesitation to join him.

Embarrassed, Whirda glowered through the round of applause, accepting the unwanted praise stoically.  When the last resounding echoes faded, she asked, “Where are we?”  The room had no windows.  Whirda found herself growing frustrated, whether because of her inability to get her bearings in the increasingly bizarre Dante’s Abyss or her profound need for rest she couldn’t be sure.

“Ratings are up 18%!” the man with the lapel pin gushed, his enthusiasm overriding any sense of basic courtesy—even giving them his name.  “And sales by 12%.  You two ladies ought to be very proud of yourselves.”

“Oh, we are,” Yuuka chimed in, sensing Whirda’s mounting anger and grabbing the reins.  “Nothing makes us happier than PepsiCo’s success.  Right?”  She accentuated that last word with a nudge in Whirda’s ribs.

“Right.”

“Excellent,” the man said again.

Yuuka flashed a warm smile.  “Given you’ve seen so much success,” she began tentatively, “maybe we should discuss our cut?”

The man initiated a second quickly corroborated chorus of laughter.  “Your cut?  Your cut is notoriety, dear Yuuka.  By the time we’re done with you, everyone in the Omniverse will know your name.”

“That’s all well and good,” Yuuka said with a scowl.  “But I have a clown to put through college.  Coruscant University isn’t cheap.”

In a flash—in typical psychopathic executive fashion, Yuuka recognized—the man’s expression shifted from jovial to severe.  “The time for negotiation is long past.  Need I remind you that you signed a contract?”  From an unremarkable manila envelope on the conference table he produced a sheaf of papers, bearing the Youkai’s unmistakable signature.

“No need,” Whirda interjected.

But Yuuka was already standing.  “I don’t have time for this.  Keep your money.  I have a tournament to win.”  Tugging irritably at the cinched waist of her charred Pepsi jumpsuit, she brushed past the stunned congregation and, while she still had no idea where she was or how to get back to the Syntech facility, exited the room.

[Jak Mar]

The nobel hero carried Ash out just like she was the most important thing in his life, which was part way true statement. Light Jak blinked his eyes as he relished the new found air in his lungs.

The long eared man had literally killed a young boy with his signature Dynamite move from long time past.

Reporters scrambled to interview the Dynamite Kid and the storm demon, fans tripping over reporters to get a autograph from what looked like the long eared hero.

The translucent angel lifted a hand from the flashing cameras.

“Who is this, Dynamite Kid?! Is this...” Random reporter number one asked.

“No.” Jak muttered “Trade secrets.”

The eco warrior should be happy but he looked rather sad, holding the woman he protected. She laid in his arms bridal style, drunk and tired. He should get her to the people that can help.

“HEY Buddy! You did it! YOU WON!” Daxter waved, excited and sort of worried. He then launched himself up to Jak. The ottsel was spouting out words a mile a minute, talking about everything from “That was close, Jak. Almost too close.” His words filtered out the fear but he still worried about the pain they were both in. He looked up at the battered and bruised storm demon, concerned.

Daxter climbed up to the Light warrior’s shoulder as the soft steps of Jak’s boots could be heard on the floor as headed straight for the infirmary. He opened the curtain to softly place the storm demon could recover in for a bit from her drunkenness.

The ottsel sighed, saddened from Ash hurt so much as he crawled on her body. “Ash?! Hey! You hear me?” He snapped in the woman’s ear.

He looked over at the nurse, who was ready to give the bruised colored woman a senzu bean, which should heal her and help sober her up.

Just then the fan club pushed into the recovery rooms. Daxter leaped off the bed and tried to push them away. “HEY PRIVATE AREA! “

“Dynamite Kid!!! AHHHHH!!!” Girls were going crazy and if it weren't for Orange Lightning being just as famous they would have ran him over.

They held cute dolls of Daxter and Jak in hand. Some even had dolls that mimicked the Dark King or the Light Hero.

Daxter waved them away still but did little damage to the crowd.

Jak offered a frown but began to help when he was stopped by a hand taking his. “Light…? What about that kiss?” Ash teased softly. Her voice sounded hoarse, but she still had that lazy and lose tone.

The Light-Eco Warrior stopped where he stood and blushed brightly.

-

Internally Jak replayed the part about her mom in his head. A quick memory of his mother replayed in his head.

The last days of Haven City and the struggle to move to the Wastelands made the eco warrior freeze. He never met his mother, did he?

Baron Praxis and Damus, the current leader of Haven City were arguing about city affairs that day, but the straw finally broke the camel’s back when Praxis demanded Jak’s father was to be exiled to the Wastelands and his whole family was to join him. Jak was only a baby then. He didn’t remember anything from his babyhood and to his toddlerhood.

His mother held him but didn’t kiss him considering she was so busy surviving out there in the desert. And yet that was only for a short time before he was left in Haven city himself to the Underground between Torn, Young Samos and Ashelin. He was taken as a child back in time to prevent anything else from happening to him.

He hardly knew anyone in his family except who he saw more than once, Samos and Keira.

That’s all he saw for 14 years before he returned to Haven accidentally due to some playing around with precursor artifacts.

-

“Did you really not get goodnight kisses from your mom?” Light asked, sitting on the side of the bed even while Daxter struggled to hold the crowd at bay.

The nurse awkwardly stood there without a word.

“My mother wasn't really the compassionate type.” Ash offered, smiling a buzzed grin. Despite her smile though, the trio of personalities all felt pity for her. She laughed at him. Even drunk off her ass she could see the fight within. “Look, Jak. It was just a joke. Go help Daxter out and grab me a coffee on your way back.”

“Cream or sugar?” he asked, not sure what else to say to that. He felt she was too mad for a kiss now.

“I like my coffee light and sweet. Like you, Light.” she winked at him.

Light flustered a bit before untangling from the blankets. He almost tripped backwards as he began to leave. “Uh.. I think I can manage that.” he stumbled with his words and tripped over a trash can. He then turned his back to her, snatched up the ottsel and then ran for the doors. Leaving Ash where she laid, smirk on her face.

Daxter smiled and held a senzu bean in his hand “Jak, take one. It at least will get your injuries healed before the next fight.”

Jak eyed him “Where’d you get it?”

Daxter shrugged “It was easy once I asked for one to give you later.”

Light turned and nodded, slipping it in his mouth, healing all his injuries and damage instantly.

“Damn, these things are like green eco sometimes.” Jak smirked only a bit.

“Or like healing candy, that is.” Daxter smirked back at his friend.

“Now where’s that coffee.” The Light hero asked, more to himself than his furry friend, and made his way to towards the bar where they had food drinks, and most likely coffee.

[Ash]

Ash watched as Light and Daxter left, with them the crowd of fans and reporters that were disturbing more than just her solitude and silence. The nurses sighed and went back to work when peace came to the room once more. The demoness laid her head back on the pillows and relaxed her muscles so that her head jerked to a stand still facing the door. She closed her eyes for a moment.

The next moment she felt someone pushing something in her hand and she looked up. A man stood over her bed, pressing the healing methods into her palm. “You look like shit.” He said, pulling up a chair.

She closed her eyes again. “I’m sure I’ve looked worse.”

“Objectively, sure. I suppose. What’s worse than a few stabwounds? A chiansword through the back?” The voice said, and she could hear the creaking of the chain.

“I’m sure the Underverse has some ideas...” She mumbled.

“Ah. The Underverse. Apparently this Dante’s Abyss is the year of the Damned. Diablo just releasing his tormented pets, or he got something else in mind?” The voice asked.

“You’re asking the wrong girl.” Ash played dumb.

“I don’t think I am.” His tone took a dark twist.

Every fire in hell ever gathered at one point and one time, and that was the in the brand of Diablo upon Ash’s chest. Unimaginable heat seared into her chest, as lines began to glow upon her flesh. A palm sized brand burned its way to the surface of Ash’s bruised colored skin, making her cry out in pure bliss before hissing and panting. Arousal gently drifted through her without leaving much more of an affect on the masochist as she gripped the bean in her hand and the blanket in the other.

When she looked up she found an empty chair that was still spinning, and a room full of confused nurses. She took in a few deep breaths and touched her chest where it had been burning just a moment earlier.

She felt nothing, no raised skin, no carved holes, no heat..

She only felt confusion about what just happened.

She wasn’t sure if it was a dream, if it was she would blame the alcohol. Magical shit is what really fucks with you. It was one hell of a fun run though…

Ash popped the bean in her mouth and began to chew, curious to who she'd seen. But despite her memory advantages, she couldn't think of who it was. She shook her head and decided it was just illusions brought on by her tired mind and exhasted body. The champagne didn't help either. She really hoped they had a cure for hang over's here.

[PepsiWhirda]

Leaning back in the chair and interlacing her fingers, Whirda sighed. She relied on her unpredictable partner to provide the diplomacy in these meetings. If Yuuka couldn’t maintain her composure in the midst of their absurd gimmick, what hope did she have? Not for the first time, Whirda considered abandoning the game and focusing her efforts doubly on the battles to come.

The words of Tia Dalma and the Syntech doctor came back to her then, though, and she set her jaw with stoic resolve. Dante’s Abyss represented perhaps her only change at salvation, and currying the favor of Karl Jak only furthered that goal. While she had not encountered a true challenge—one that threatened her elimination from the tournament—yet, she knew her trials would only grow more arduous as they advanced. Perhaps, with some luck and the right amount of groveling, she wouldn’t need victory in Dante’s Abyss to achieve her true goals.

That thought renewed her sense of purpose. “I apologize for my partner’s behavior,” she said to the man with the lapel pin. “Please know we are committed to Pepsi and do not require additional compensation.”

“You sure you don’t need to discuss that with Yuuka?” the man asked, arcing one manicured eyebrow.

Whirda shook her head emphatically. “She is combative, sir, but not ungrateful. Dante’s Abyss can raise the hackles of even the most agreeable Primes, I’m sure you understand. The stakes are high.”

“You know,” the man said, nodding his agreement, “We don’t necessarily need two representatives. If Yuuka is… dissatisfied, perhaps that opens up more benefits for you to reap.”

The comment hit Whirda like a slap in the face. Her chance at redemption aside, Yuuka had fought beside her through two brutal battles—had agreed to the deal with Pepsi in the first place, despite her hesitance, for no better reason than Whirda’s vague hints at her personal benefit. The man’s dismissive tone, his callous disregard for the growing bond between Whirda and her partner, sent a shudder of anger coursing through her lithe frame.

When she looked up at the man with the lapel pin, her eyes crackled with barely contained, electric blue energy. Shadows gathered in the boardroom. The executives around the table shifted uneasily, some even rising to their feet, poised to flee.

But the man with the lapel pin didn’t seem concerned, even leaned in closer so Whirda could not miss his next words. “Take care, Whirda Windstrom,” he hissed, and Whirda sensed a mounting power in the man to rival her own. “The decision you make in this moment will define the rest of your life.” In that moment, Whirda knew the man had been baiting her—had tested the depths of her loyalty. And she had failed.

Rip him, the contagion implored.

Whirda fought to sublimate the urge.

Tear him, the contagion implored.

Whirda fought to sublimate the urge.

Kill him! No sooner had the savage compulsion climaxed within her than she was up on the table, crouched low in a sprint, daggers seeming to spring of their own accord into her waiting grasp. Rip him. Tear him. Kill him!

Without any control over her own actions, Whirda lashed out at a suit-clad executive who was foolish enough to reach out to trip her, to impede her progress. In the span of an instant, a dagger drew a fine red line across his throat and a booted heel splayed his nose across his face. He staggered back, with a gurgle, into the waiting arms of death. But Whirda did not see the man go down, for she focused fully on her prey, the man who would dare to impugn the character of Yuuka Kazami.

Leaping high, her daggers crisscrossing into her favored reverse grip, Whirda pounced on the man …

… and was promptly rebuked by an invisible barrier, taken fully by surprise, her taut form slamming helplessly into the unrelenting shield and falling back, gasping for air.

Throughout the entire ordeal the man with the lapel pin hadn’t moved a muscle—hadn’t adjusted his wide, expectant grin. The invisible barrier rippled and shimmered with red, white, and blue hues, made visible by the contact. To her bruised and battered dismay, Whirda saw it formed the unmistakable logo of PepsiCo, Inc.

The rest of the gathered executives, now standing far back from the conference table, held their breath as they waited for their leader to speak. The man with the lapel pin looked from Whirda to his dead colleague, then back to Whirda. In his dead eyes, she saw only the promise of death.

Then the man burst out laughing, tossing his head back and veritably spasming with mirth, spittle flying from his lips. “God,” he wheezed, when his laughter had subsided, “you really are the real deal, aren’t you. I just wish I could have aired that moment for all the world to see. Sales would be through the roof!”

[Kuzuru]

For the better part of the last half hour Kuzuru had been chattering incessantly. Like a kid at Disney World the demon was filled with excitement and wonder. His companion, however, was none too enthused with the demon’s nonstop gibbering. Had he ears he would’ve ripped them off. Were it not for the fact that they were bedridden and covered in wounds the lich would’ve simply left, but as it stood they were both stuck in the infirmary. As Kuzuru launched into his grand retelling of how he fought Amber one-on-one in his makeshift Thunderdome Skeletor groaned.

“You blithering buffoon, will you be quiet!” the overlord commanded.

Kuzuru paused for a moment and craned his neck to look at his partner, “well, jeeze, if you wanted me to stop you could’ve just asked.”

Skeletor opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted as the door opened. Both warriors looked towards the dark-skinned Syntech employee. Kuzuru cringed as his nose was bombarded by the man’s overpowering scent. A grin flashed across the employee’s mouth and he tossed them both a small green bean.

“Eat up mine bruddas,” the man spoke, “you’ve got a busy day ahead.”

Without another word the employee left them to their devices. Kuzuru pinched the senzu bean between his fingers and raised an eyebrow. WIth a shrug the demon popped the bean into his mouth and swallowed. Warmth rushed through his body and all the accumulated aches and pains disappeared. Bruises evaporated and lacerations stitched themselves back together. For a moment the demon was sure he even felt a vertebra shift back into place.

“Pro-tip skele-bro,” Kuzuru said as he crawled out of bed, “don’t get clotheslined while on horseback, s’not good for the spine, at any rate imma go see if I can’t get some souvenirs.”

--

Even behind the curtain Syntech took pride in its attention to detail. While not lavish by any means the backstage had all the amenities required for some leisure time in between rounds. Naturally everything had a price, but the hotshot primes of DA had omnilium to spare. Kuzuru had blown a good chunk of change on several commemorative trinkets. Bobbleheads of every contestant, posters of the various battlefields, novelty mugs, and a smattering other doodads. While he had to pay extra to have them shipped to the Steppes it was a worthwhile investment.

Donning a shirt emblazoned with the words “Enter the Abyss” across the chest and the names of every contestant across the back Kuzuru began to wander the facility. As he entered the main room his heart skipped a beat. Sitting at the small airport-style bar was none other than the legend herself. He had seen her on the scoreboard, but he had never dreamed he’d actually get to meet her outside of a battlefield.

“Oh my God,” Kuzuru whispered and brought a clenched fist to his mouth. For a moment he paced back and forth before heading over. Taking a second to compose himself he sat down next to her. There was a half moment of silence before the floodgates broke.

“Oh my God, it actually is you, I’m a huge fan of your work, I loved your run in the Colosseum, especially when you fucken took Gildart’s arm that was just badass,” he paused and pulled out his phone. After a few swipes he pulled up a picture of an action figure made in Bandit’s likeness, “see, look, it’s limited edition and the arm even comes off; pretty neat yeah?”

"Yooo!" she shouted, "That's sick! I had no idea they did this! I was just looking back through some of the old DA stuff and I saw they did figures for... what was it, 6? But I had no idea they did them for the Colosseum run!"

Kuzuru chuckled and rubbed the back of his head, “yeah, I’m kind of a nerd for this stuff you don’t wanna know how much I paid to get that off a collector, hey, so this is kinda awkward, but can I take a picture with you?”

She nodded emphatically. "Hell yeah! But only if I can get one with you too, dude. I don't think I've ever had like, a 'fan' before. Gotta commemorate!"

They spent the next few minutes taking a series of pictures which Kuzuru promptly uploaded to the dataverse. As they snapped the final one Kuzuru leaned forward in his seat and asked, “so, you ever think about killing people for money? You certainly have the skillset for it.”

She laughed heartily, "Yeah, I've given it some thought. When I was a secondary I used to kill people for like, FOOD, so it's not outside of my understanding. I'd limit myself to primes nowadays though."

“Well if you’re ever looking for work hit me up,” Kuzuru said and passed her a blood-red business card, “I run a mercenary group based out of the Steppes, though we do double as heroes, I don’t mean to brag or anything but we single-handedly saved the verse from Nebula a while back.”

She took the card and turned it in her hands a few times. "Awesome! Thanks for the info my dude. What's your name, by the way?"

"Kuzuru," he paused and glanced up at the scoreboard mounted above the bar, "and it looks like we get to clobber the fuck outta each other next round."

She glanced up and cackled gleefully.

"Hot damn, it looks like it!" She held up her glass in a cheers. "To friends murdering friends for fun and profit!"

“Cheers,” Kuzuru answered and, lacking a glass of his own, simply flicked the rim of her glass with his finger. She shrugged and downed her drink. The demon smiled and stood up. “Well, I suppose I should go talk shop with my companion before this whole thing starts, oh, one more thing what do I call you?”

She struggled to remember for a moment before snapping. "Ass Kicker. I put down Ass Kicker this time."

The demon chuckled as he walked away, “alright Ass Kicker, just a fair warning just cause I’m your fan doesn’t mean I’ll pull any punches so you shouldn’t either, I’m going to be a bit pissed off if you turn out to be trash.”

--

“Blade man!” Skeletor shouted.

Kuzuru, who had been wandering around the Syntech facility froze in place. He turned to face his companion and raised an eyebrow. Something was off. The demon’s nose crinkled as he sniffed the air. Sure there was that familiar scent of foul magic and dried bones that Kuzuru had learned to associated with Skeleter, but there was something else present. A fleshy scent that the demon had only caught a whiff of on Amber. The turned and opened his mouth to say something, but a blue-tinged fist crashed into his jaw and sent him to his knees.

“Behold my awesome might,” Skeletor said and cackled.

Rubbing his jaw the demon glanced up at his friend and said, “what the hell has gotten into you?”

“I’ve harnessed the power of Malefactor and with it I will crush our enemies beneath my boot,” he shouted.

“Neat,” Kuzuru answered and stood up, “mind if I give it a whirl?”

“No! You shall not touch it, the Malefactor belongs to Skeletor and Skeletor alone!”

The demon chuckled and threw his hands up in mock surrender. He said, “alright, alright, at any rate we’re going to need every edge we can get next fight, our opponents are some tough customers.”

“With this power they’ll have no chance,” Skeletor answered.
“Still, you could use more power couldn’t you?”

Skeletor laughed and responded, “of course!”

Kuzuru bit the pad of his thumb and pressed the bloody digit against Skeletor’s forehead. The lich moved to pull the demon’s arm away, but the sudden surge of energy froze him in place. Hundreds of thousands of memories flooded his mind, each of them from the perspective of various warriors in various battles throughout time. This intense surge of thought lasted for only a few seconds before fading into the background. Clarity washed over Skeletor as his mind raced with an eternity of martial arts knowledge.

“Now you’re unstoppable,” Kuzuru chuckled and smacked a shoulder on his companion’s shoulder.

[Albert Wesker]

Slowly the world came into focus. Sound first, muffled and indistinct, lost among a wave of nauseating pain and aches as her body ran through a checklist of injuries and damage before settling into a general ache of "you messed up, but you're still alive". Not for the first time, and unless her luck suddenly turned right around far from the last time.

What did surprise her, though, was how remarkably well her recovery seemed to have gone. There was of course the lingering aches and pains expected of being injured so badly -- her head, especially, had a pounding, throbbing pain on either side, courtesy of being sandwiched between rows of stadium seating and bleachers; she was still in awe that she had actually survived that, likely in no small part thanks to whatever hardiness and durability Gildarts possessed and had brought to the table of that...strange, strange fusion predicament. But aside from distant aches and bodily reminders to not do that again she felt...fine.

The healing technology and means of recovery available here still amazed her sometimes.

She groaned softly, forcing her good eye open and hauling herself up into a sitting position. Not the first time she'd woken up from unconsciousness in a world of hurt, and again...probably not the last. She blinked away the stars and riot of swimming colors from her vision, looking around to orient herself. And as her gaze swept over the room what she saw made her blood run cold.

A white suit. Hat pulled low over an eye patch. Green hair, immaculately disheveled. And a single gold eye, staring. Piercing right through her.

Her heart jumped into her throat and she shook her head, blinking several times to make sure she was seeing right. And there was nothing. No sign of him. No sign of Mikado. The tension which had seized her entire body slowly, agonizingly bled away, leaving her feeling even more exhausted and worn out than she already was. "Of course he's not here...there's no way he would be."

As she took a shaky breath, the next thing that caught her eye was her phone, laying conspicuously on a table near at hand. And looking remarkably intact and untouched. There was a single unread message on it, like it was waiting for her. Leaning over, she picked it up and pulled up the message in question.

From an unlisted contact... 'That we can't have a perfect record is no reason not to strive for one, kid. I'll be watching. Let me see how well off you are here. Don't disappoint me.'

Again, it nearly made her heart stop. She knew very, very few people who would talk to her in such a manner. "Mikado..." The last of her direct family, as far as she knew. "You are here. You...you bastard..." She clenched her fingers around the phone, her lips pulling back to bear her teeth in a silent snarl. "You would end up following me, even here..." Always he had been there, looming over here and spurring her onward. A constant source of motivation, for which she was grateful, but in a way it had been a relief. Coming to the Omniverse, escaping his shadow. His expectations.

Years of being free of that, and now all at once it was right back again. Weighing her down. And really pissing her off. "I'll show you what I can do, old man..." she seethed, her good eye closing as she tried to relax. She needed rest, and to finish recovering before her next match. Getting worked up like this wouldn't do anyone any good.