The Temple of Artemis(Pre-Event/Intro Thread)

[Simon]

Tony Redgrave, as an alias of a human mercenary, generally proved to be some measure of happy-go-lucky. Those who knew the man might describe him as a kid in a mature body, between his large appetite, magazine collecting, and distribution of sensible chuckles. Further upon that idea, one witnessing and describing how the devil hunter did his job was akin to describing the super-powered fantasy play of a child- and yet it was the truth. That was how Tony was, a guy who wore a smile like gold gilding on a blade - even as his identity had ceased to exist over 20 years ago.

A human heart pumping demon blood: power regulated by emotion. The tables were turned every so often, But then he was fortunate to have not remained that way long. Halfway through that aforementioned era, he lost the battle within for the last time... for it, he lost his family again.

That was the time when Dante fell. And here he had been, so close to getting out, to settling his troubles once and for all, only be flung into the Omniverse, exposed to its denizens, and caught up in an unfortunate fate.

At the time, Dante couldn't have realized just how much Zangetsu would affect his time here in the Omniverse- it certainly wouldn't be for the better. Who knew if Zangetsu was even still alive at this point? But then again, who could've imagined that picking up a sentient weapon forged from a corrupt soul would prove so ruinous? Even that sort of thing had never been a problem to Dante before, when he had been strong enough to overcome such an incident whenever it happened. That was just it, though- he no longer had that strength within the Omniverse. He had been vulnerable without realizing it, and now he was trapped in a foreign world with a tainted consciousness attempting to dominate his mind like some spiritual parasite.

Well, it also may have mattered that devils (and by proxy, Devil Arms) are simple enough to submit to anyone stronger than them, rather than giving their user a damn riddle.

Still, as if this all wasn't bad enough for Dante yet, now he was being abducted again to participate in a deadly fetch-quest for a fragmented soul. Not that he knew just yet.

---

Dante's first indication that he had been plucked from the brink of death was him nearly breaking his neck on the marble floor. The resulting, resounding flop was somewhat painful to hear, if only the wounded man could still hear right now.

His second indication, after unconsciously croaking in pain for half a minute, was his successful attempt to pry open his eyes and scope out just what had happened to him. The Son of Sparda's vision was greeted with the pristine-kept architecture of the Greek empire, a mere ambient light giving a fine sheen to this temple interior. Not that the modern-day devil hunter could appreciate that kind of beauty, but it at least communicated to him that he was somewhere different.

As Dante managed to coax his body to start removing himself from the floor, he became aware of the ghost in the room; the floating aura of azure gave off the image of a man, yet it appeared faded like an old photograph. Fitting, for how long the soul had been trapped here. The devil hunter grunted, pushed, lifted, and finally stood up from the ground, and seeing this, the ghost began to speak.

The message was brief- an explanation that in another time, he had been the hero Teucer, slain in battle but cursed to be bound within six magic relics, scattered across the land and protected by guardians. The spirit had summoned the extent of his power to bring Dante (and about two-dozen others) to this place in hopes that they could free him. To everyone else, the speech was redundant and worn thin well enough already.

But then Dante, who had just been standing there cross-armed with a judging look on his face, stuck a pinkie finger into his left ear and began to dig. After twisting a few times, teeth gritted, he yanked the finger free, releasing a small spurt of blood from his canal to trickle down his lobe.

"...ah, there we go. Run me through that again- my hearing just popped back in."

Someone sighed.

-----

"An undead spirit cursed into six objects, huh? Well, ain't that a handful..." Dante rubbed his chin, as if pensively. What was really on his mind, however, was the incident that the devil hunter had just been dragged here from. Never mind the the fact that he had gotten his butt royally whooped by that demon- he could just chalk that up to not yet restoring all his power. There was that headstrong rage he had been thrown into, that absolute desire to see his enemy destroyed- that could prove to be a problem if it ever became a repeat occurrence.

Really, there's was no point in getting angst-filled over it. So he had been infected with a sinister incarnation of his own pure instinct known as a hollow- so what? That world he had seem within his spirit seemed like a good place to start. He'd just go there and find a way to get rid of it. Dead easy.

As soon as he got out of this, of course.

"Yeah, sure, I'll help you out. Might as well, right?" Dante spoke up once more, removing his hand from his chain and giving a friendly (if slightly dismissive) shrug. "Way I see it, you're either dead or alive- nobody ought to be stuck halfway. I'll see to it you get outta here in one piece." With a solemn, quite nod from the hero's image, Dante turned to glance over the other people amassed here.

There happened to be quite a motley and diverse crew, even among the individuals that seemed to know each other. The devil hunter looked over himself, seeing the sorry shape of his one-fine red longcoat practically torn away, and the rest scuffed rather bad. He didn't really start complaining until he realized the absence of familiar weight around his torso. Dante's hands nevertheless clasped at the empty straps and holsters, until he just stopped, and slowly but sternly looked back over his shoulder at the idle spirit.

"Would it have killed you to bring my weapons with me, though?" The red-coat sourly interrogated the fallen hero. He simply stared back, donning some expression that Dante couldn't distinguish between apology or forlorn. Several seconds passed with no other response, and finally Dante offered an exasperated exhale and turned back forward. "I guess it can't be helped, then.

"Well," he clapped his hands together once, trying to limber out his still-sore muscles, "Long as there's others around, may as well see if there's anyone I know..."

[Okor]

Jagged fangs, borne of an orthodontist’s most fevered nightmares, split open in a grin beneath the faceless helmet. Knowing that the pair would join them would greatly add to their odds of success. Even with the risks posed by Victor’s presence, victory was in their grasp. ”Deal.” He fought back an urge to extend his hand to seal the compact with a physical affirmation. Many mortals were reluctant to be downwind of one of Nurgle’s Chosen, let alone touch one. Schnee has shown spirit in the arena, and he was eager to see her put to the test in this strange realm.

Now, what was it this Colonel had said? The same way Omni greets everyone. That raised an interesting possibility. Unless this ‘Teucer’ was more powerful than the eldest primes in the Omniverse, possessed of skills and talents previously unheard of, his tale of tragedy was unbelievable. He was capable of dragging primes to this place from across the Omniverse, shunting them through space on a whim. No Prime had been known to possess that power. Even Karl Jak, the man who crafted a private universe for no reason other than the simple pursuit of entertainment, required Primes to join of their own free will.

This was no spirit. It was but a trick of the smiling one. He eyed the ethereal emissary warily, cataloguing the ghostly gear adhered to its translucent form. He would tear asunder the false god’s illusion. He allowed no such deceptions. Pain, Fear, the hypocrisy of the Corpse Emperor. He broke them all against the rock of his will. He had marched through hallucinogen-laden pleasure gardens, punctuating screams with the bark of his bolter, silenced sermons with a slice of his blade, and made the very deepest reaches of hell itself his home. He was Death Guard, and they brokered no falsehood. Even the self-denial perpetuated by all life, that their life would last, was abandoned.

Malformed, yellowing vertebrae, twisted with age and the mutating influence of the warp, creaked as they bent towards the uninvited newcomer, looking over the youngling. A hole-riddled lid blinked shut over an infested iris. No emptied scabbards or hollow holsters, a noted dearth of defensive garments, and a seemingly utter lack of confidence in the current situation. Maybe they would be of use to the Master, but they hardly seemed to be of use in the field.

He gave a rattling sigh as he turned to the task force gathered before him.

”Unite where possible. No need to strike at the others unless they... raise their blades first. Be cautious. This is not the world we know.” He took a moment to cough, gobbets of bloody phlegm forcing their way into his throat. ”Find one of these… Guardians, and light a fire. If the others fail to see reason, then fall back. Might as well let them wear down the beast first. I expect you to remember:

Pain is temporary. It can be overcome, and ignored. Death… Here, even death is but an inconvenience. Be broken, be beaten, be brutalized, but never... Bow. You can recover from anything short of being taken by hell itself, but you cannot heal Might-Have-Beens.”

A gauntlet slammed against a corroded chestplate, punctuating his statement with an affirmation of his own physical might.

”We are the Institute. We will march across this blighted existence, and trample the Smiling One’s warped world beneath our tread.

We are Legion.”

[Enzo Matrix]

Matrix looked across the room calmly and quietly, observing each individual as they arrived and interacted with each other and Teucer. Some alliances formed quickly and easily, while others seemed to have all sorts of pre-existing issues coming to the surface. He shook his head and ignored it, waiting on this to get started. Even though this whole scenario reminded him of the games, he'd never been in a loading screen this long before. The wait was the worst.

The only way he knew to bide his time was to size up the other participants. He didn't fully understand if they were supposed to be friend or foe, since they were working towards a common goal. What he did know is that he didn't trust any of them. If AndrAIa were here she might have scolded him for that line of thinking, but he simply couldn't help it.

As he surveyed the crowd, he suddenly locked on to one individual in particular. The man was unassuming, being dressed in a common suit. In fact, he looked like he would blend into nearly any crowd seamlessly. Maybe that was the point.

Matrix's golden cybernetic eye flipped over in his head to display the large "M" and at the same time began to glow red. His systems were identifying this man as a virus. In all travels across the Omniverse, even inside the Dataverse, his scanning functionality had never revealed a single individual to have that designation. They had been rampant in his home world, but he assumed the functionality to detect one had been removed in his transition to this one. His first thought was that it was some sort of error, that this new setting was interfering with his systems. With a virus, though, he couldn't afford to take the risk.

His annoyed glare twisted into a snarl as he moved through the crowd. He approached Smith, his false eye glowing red and his real one showing nothing but hatred. Though his gun one no longer at his side, it didn't stop him from instinctively reaching for it. Settling for clenched fists instead, he stopped before the man. He had him beat in the height department, but knew not to underestimate this individual based on that. It was all he could do not to attack. Despite his hatred of viruses, he had to confirm it.

"Virus," Matrix's voice was dripping with venom as he confronted Smith. "What are you doing here?"

[Schwi Dola]

Desco looked back at the spirit. He made a good point when he offered something in return. Desco needed more stuff the make her stronger! However it was his reaction to others that was more reassuring. The spirit seemed to not care at all about those he forced here but rather only about his own reasons. Selfish and rude, he showed traits of a demon.

Desco started to not like having been forced here either. It sank in that she told Guu she'd protect Naturae. While she used to Prinnies to help, it was ultimately her responsibility.

However Ururu was here to distract Desco from all of that. She didn't habe as much going on but... "Isn't that Okor over there?" Desco pointed out where Okor was standing. He seemed nice to Desco, the strong silent type.

[Schwi Dola]

Desco turned back to Ururu though, and examined the pair she was talking to. One blonde, the other with white hair.. the first looked kinda like a Ninja. His getup seemed like it at least underneath the cape. But the other guy sold her. He was Ninja down to the letter including the trademark white hair!

Desco pointed at the two of them now. "Ururuchan, he has to be a demon ninja? Are these guys minions." Desco gasped as she leaped from one conclusion to another. "Are they your Ninja minions? Desco wants to get Ninjas too! Prinnies are okay but they always want to slack off!"

[Smith]

Smith considered the possibilities whilst the others conversed and bickered around him. It was obvious this was the Matrix. But things seemed strange. The hologram before him spoke of heroes and gathering artifacts. Like this was some sort of video game. It was strange… why would the Machines turn the Matrix into some sort of interactive entertainment?

Unless… unless this wasn’t a part of the Matrix itself. Of course. It was the only logical conclusion. The hologram… the scenery… the clichéd “save me from an evil wizard” speech. The Machines would never have let the ignorant masses of humanity into a construct this far removed from their collective memory of the old world. This had to be some sort of test. Smith’s eyes scanned the other people in the room from behind his dark glasses. And these were likely other programs, like himself. Perhaps potential Agents, or perhaps not. He’d not put it past the Machines to pit their creations against one another to determine who would be best suited to regulate the human population.

It was the most likely possibility, but it still didn’t explain why Smith was here at all. He had been deleted, that much was certain. Why was he back? Had his code somehow managed to survive? And even if it had, why would the Machines allow him back into the Matrix at all? Or could they not know? Perhaps… yes. That’s it. They hadn’t succeeded in entirely wiping his program from its hosts. One must have survived the deletion process and-

Smith’s internal musings were interrupted by an angry voice addressing him. The Ex-Agent calmly turned to regard his antagonist. It was a tall man, though his most striking feature was the unusual hue of his skin, a strange green color. The man’s eyes, one a solid red and the other a more normal color, shone in a sign of unrestrained anger. Smith’s recall protocols retrieved what the man had said in the awkward silence that settled over the two as they each sized the other up.

So… he knew what Smith was, did he? That only reaffirmed Smith’s assumptions about the nature of this place. Of course… the man would need to be dealt with later. Information like that could be dangerous to Smith’s continued survival. But for now, it would be best to put the man at greater ease. Smith was no slouch, by any means, but he could hardly attempt to take over the man in the presence of all the others here. It would draw far too much suspicion, even if he was successful. For now, a more… diplomatic approach would be necessary.

“That’s… some greeting there, Mister…” Smith’s program struggled to come up with the entity’s name for an instant before simply leaving the honorary as is. Once upon a time, not long ago, Smith was connected to the Source. He’d had access to the nearly infinite knowledge contained therein. He could merely look at someone and every detail of his or her life, from the smallest bowel movement to their grandest accomplishments, would be laid out for him to peruse. After his separation from the Source, he had been forced to rely on his own knowledge of the world and its people. Still, he had never gotten used to not having that vast information at his fingertips.

“Are you this rude to everyone…? Or do you have some… problem with me?”

As he spoke, the Ex-Agent’s facial features, or his hand gestures would change in a way to facilitate communication. However, this would only happen during the brief pauses in his speech, a hold-over from a time when the processing power of the Matrix was unable to handle speech and movement at the same time. It made for a strange sort of dialogue for the Agents created by the Machines, but they weren’t really designed with communication being the point.

Smith’s arms hung by his side, his hands half-clenched into fists, not a position of aggression, merely one of being ready FOR aggression. He continued.

“In any case… I’m afraid you’ll have to ask that floating… man why it is I am here,” Smith gestured towards the Spirit as he spoke. “If he is to be… believed, then I am a champion, yes? A man of… honor. Someone who can save him from his… eternal unrest. Perhaps you’d be best directing your aggression towards… a more constructive purpose.”

The green-skinned stranger seemed a bit put off by Smith’s words, a slight twinge of his face belying an internal struggle of confusion. Smith’s words had been chosen specifically for that purpose. It is why he did not challenge the man’s assertion of his viral nature, as incorrect as it was. Everything about Smith was calculated and purposeful, his very nature left no room for the random motives of a living creature. He wondered if the man before him would be able to figure that out. And if he did, how exactly would Smith end his existence.

[Ada Wong]

While Koren was presumably busy inspecting his ridiculously chiseled pecs, Crowley decided that he really ought to make some use of the precious time he had. After fumbling around in his jacket pockets for a few seconds, he produced a blue ink pen he had pilfered from a street-side café on the sly and a gently used napkin. Once more his sunglasses were dutifully arranged so that they balanced just so on the bridge of his nose, and soon afterwards Crowley was ready to leap into action.

His snakeskin shoes papped softly against the stone floor as he sauntered over towards one of the more populated corners of the temple, beside a few ridged marble columns and a relief carving of snarling hounds sinking their fangs into a rather disgruntled stag. Pretending to inspect the drawing more closely, his thin tie and sharply-tailored suit dark against the lighter grey walls, Crowley listened as what appeared to be a living garbage pail prattled on about his glorified perception of death, pain, and probably more death.

It was true that Crowley had only dabbed a few marks on the leafy, brittle napkin, for about halfway through the animated garbage can's speech the demon surmised that the guy was positively nuts. Most of what he said was reasonable, sure, and the whole waiting for others to strike first tactic was great in Crowley's opinion, but no one who was one hundred percent there would let themselves be overrun with so many lecherous maladies. There had to be a million cultures of bacteria crawling along the big tin can's backside alone.

Backing away, his keen yellow eyes hidden quite nicely behind his shades, Crowley pretended to shuffle backwards so as to get a better look at the carving. Behind him, at the pinnacle of all the ambient light fountaining into the room, the luminous visage of Artemis looked on with the very same amount of divine interest Crowley reserved for the artwork. Which was very little, perhaps average at best. He was far, far too tired to appreciate much of the Grecian splendor around him, and any half-hearted attempts to do so felt pale and washed-out.

Still, something the enormous conflagration of sickness and disease had said rang true in the fallen angel's mind. You cannot heal Might-Have-Beens. Crowley could beg to differ— the Apocalypse That Never Was disappeared without a trace from the minds of at least half the world he once knew, swept away on the whim of a deviant Antichrist, and that was a pretty gargantuan Might-Have-Been.

Napkin and pen in hand, Crowley continued to scribble as he wandered back over towards Koren. His head canted inquisitively to the side when he drew up alongside the Adorned Armor, nose downturned while he interestedly doodled an impromptu stick figure battle. Once he had finished, the demon slid the pen back into his breast pocket before crumpling the napkin up and stuffing it into an odd corner of his jacket.

"Nice conversations going on around here," he commented to Koren, who was mostly the only other person within chatting distance. "Absolutely riveting. I think we'll probably be better off as just the two of us, in any case. The dynamic duo, that'll be you and I."

[Minato Namikaze]

Minato sighed, relief in his breath as he sat on the marble coloured floor. His palms felt the smoothness of the material as he began to take in the situation he had been placed in. He knew he had been asked to help, and he had accepted Teucer's plea, but he didn't know where he was supposed to be going.

Were they already where they needed to be? Or were they going somewhere else?

These questions filled his head as the Spirit, himself, fell back into the blond ninja's line of sight. He was staring up at the statue, one of a woman. A rather beautiful woman at that. Minato, too, found himself staring up at the statue, she reminded him a lot of his own lost love, Kushina. 'Where are you right now?' The man wondered. He was a ninja, but when it came to love, he was just as weak as any man.

He missed her, and he missed his son. It was as if he had been separated into two halves, Kushina being his better half, the person that made him whole. He understood what it felt like, being away from the person you loved, from the person that made you happy. The golden haired ninja leaned back on his arms, his face staring up at the marvelous statue. The woman depicted through it seemed strong, like some sort of warrior.

Minato had been away from Kushina for what would accumulate to a total of three or four days, but the way this Spirit looked up at the statue told him that the spirit hadn't seen his own love for much longer than that. Not having Kushina around for a few measly days made him feel terrible, he could only imagine what sort of pain sat within the man that wished for his help. Minato had decided to help this trapped soul when he had first met the man, but after noticing his pain, his resolve had been strengthened even more.

'After we set you free, I'll find a way to see Kushina again.' The Fourth Hokage declared to himself as he stood up. He didn't notice it, but the determination that had begun to fill his body had caused his fists to clench. He wasn't one to back down from a promise, he would be following this through, right to the end. After all he was, at one point, The Fourth Hokage. He knew that meant nothing to the Spirit, but to Minato it was a sign of respect, a type of respect that went both ways.

'Have some faith, Teucer, we will help you somehow.' Minato promised as the voices around him drew the ninja back into his previous conversation.

[Red]

The bottom of the fountain disappeared, replaced with a black hole. It gulped the swordsman as if nothing more than a grain of rice, immediately regaining the limit of its depth afterwards like nothing ever happened.

Trunks grunted as he plummeted. His face throbbed incredibly. He may have only been hit by water, but it felt like a vicious tsunami compacted into a small wrecking ball of a fist—any harder and his nose would have taken the form of an 'S'.

With a sound similar to an electronic bass, the swordsman came to a stop when his body slammed against hard ground; a faint yelp escaped him (if days could get any worse Trunks didn't want to experience them).

“Greetings, champion.” a weathered voice said.

Trunks winced as he cocked his head and set his gaze upon an old man in a hoodless robe, his entity saturated in blue. Wrinkles carved themselves deep into his face, exaggerating his age a few decades beyond senior citizenship. His white—or the whitest form of blue possible—hair was parted down the middle, and braided on both ends reminding the swordsman of the indian people that lived under Kami's Tower.

Who the hell are—

As if the old man extracted the question from Trunks' brain, he responded:

“I'm the mighty Hero, Teucer, and I have chosen you to help me on this quest to release me, and let my spirit rest in peace.”

Trunks picked himself up from the marble floor. He took notice of the megalithic columns lined up in three rows within the building, all a handful of meters apart, adjacently and diagonally; all made out of the same material as the floor; most importantly, each of the columns were made from single blocks.

Behind the blue-tinted senior, stood a statue of some ancient female deity. She stood with her hands resting in front of her naval, and her head looking to the heavens. A bow and a sheathe for arrows crisscrossed her back.

“I was slain in this land, in a war, a long long time ago. I should be resting in the Elysian Fields, but that evil warlock cursed my soul onto six relics . . . that you must retrieve for me.”

The old man turned away from Trunks, and walked over to a small pool, to the left of the statue. In the middle of the pool a small table with a slanted top faced towards him. The swordsman was too far away to make out the table in great detail, but he could see the indentations on the surface of it. Probably to hold the aforementioned relics, he inferred.

“The relics are scattered throughout the island and are protected by powerful guardians who have been set forth by the Warlock.” He turned back and looked at the swordsman. “Please...help release my spirit by bringing all six relics here to the temple. Once I am released I will give whoever brings me all six one of the relics and will imbue it with great power. I chose you because of your valiance and honor as a fighter and I believe that you will be the one to free me. If you have any questions I will be here as long as I’m recruiting others. Please save me.”

Because of my valiance and honor as a fighter, yet you know nothing about me? Trunks wondered. If the old man had witnessed any the asskicking earlier he may not have said those words.

[Enzo Matrix]

"I'll give you a constructive..."

Matrix let his sentence trail off into silence. He had begun to raise a fist, but paused and looked around the room they were trapped in. Not knowing who all of these other people were, and not to mention the incredible power the Spirit had displayed in getting them here, he probably didn't need let this collapse into violence. Yet.

The glow in his eye dimmed slightly, but it didn't turn off completely. This matched Matrix's disposition fairly well, as he was doing his best to calm himself, but the anger was still there. It may have been misplaced and even unfair to direct it in this man's direction, but his systems had never been wrong before. Viruses had ruined his life, and he swore to delete every last one he ever encountered.

The man he'd painted as an adversary was calm and relaxed, however. That unnerved him even more, because no virus he had ever encountered had been so eloquent or collected. That is, no virus except the most dangerous one he'd ever crossed. For Matrix's blatant aggression to be answered with such composure wasn't something he wasn't used to. People were simpler than that, and emotion usually met emotion.

He let his fists relax, and the red glare from his eye vanished entirely. He took a breath to reel in his own feelings, and had to mentally remind himself that he had no friends or allies here to back him up. Admittedly, the man he'd just blindly confronted was the closest thing he had to a kindred spirit in this room.

And on that note, Matrix couldn't help but feel a little awkward. His actions had likely deemed him as an undesirable to any casual observer of this exchange. On any given day, that wouldn't bother him, but here he was unprepared and unequipped. He kept a stone cold, emotionless face as he stared Smith down, but that certainly didn't match the confusion and borderline panic he felt inside.

"Alright then, 'champion,'" Matrix spoke slowly, as he carefully chose each individual word. "I don't know what you are. I've hunted viruses all over the land I come from, but you're the first sprite to trigger my viral sensors since I arrived here."'

He paused briefly, taking his eyes off the man to quickly scan the room and observe the factions that were beginning to form. Matrix's eyes returned to Smith, and he snarled at what he was about to say, because it disgusted him to his very core.

"I need someone to work with, though," Matrix continued. "I've got a lot better things to do than stick around here. The sooner I get through this, the better. I can't imagine you feel any different."

Never would the renegade have guessed he'd be the one offering an alliance with a virus, but he had to keep a level head. For all he knew his eye was still malfunctioning and this person was completely normal. In the absence of those he trusted, he would have to be his own voice of reason. That might be the tallest order of all.

[Erik Vrell]

Erik paced around the temple, fretting about his situation. He had tried to sound as confident as possible when he spoke to the spirit but in actuality he was a nervous wreck.
"What should I do?" Erik mumbled to himself.
"I'm all alone, I don't what I should be doing right now and I can even think straight."
Erik almost fell to his knees there and then. He felt like lying down and allowing someone to effortlessly kill him.

Just as he was contemplating giving up, a small voice seemed to appear at the back of his mind.
'Are you really going to just curl up and die!?' It asked incredulously.
"Well... Maybe." Erik replied pathetically.
'You are a worm.' The voice spat. 'You are the most pathetic excuse for a warrior I've ever seen.'
Erik remained silent. For a moment, he agreed with what the voice was saying.
'You haven't even won a fight since you came here, every time you have failed to protect your friends.'
"B-but I..." Erik started.
'I don't want to hear it!' The voice snapped. 'Remember the museum?' It sneered. 'Those marines wiped you out completely, you would have died if those soldiers hadn't intervened.'
"What about my fight against that thief and that metal man?" Erik asked, searching desperately for a scrap of dignity to hold onto. The voice laughed, a short, harsh laugh that seemed to carry all of Erik's failures with it.
'Are you kidding me?' The voice sneered. 'It was four against one, and you still came out worse than the guy you were fighting!' It chuckled more. 'Oh, and don't forget the battle at New Babylon.' Erik almost his his face in his hands at the thought of that.
"Please don't mention that." Erik said meekly.
'What's wrong?' The voice jeered. 'Can't you take the truth. Can't you accept that you were the weak link that lead to he destruction of New Babylon.'
"Please." Erik begged weakly. "Please stop." The psychic was on his knees, his head hung low in shame. Erik could feel tears stinging his eyes but he blinked them away quickly. The voice laughed again.
'Don't tell me you're going to cry.' It chuckled. 'You're not a warrior, you're just a big baby.'
"What do you want?!" Erik shouted, causing some of the people around him to give him odd looks.
'I want you to stop being such a pathetic worm!' The voice shouted back. 'I want you to be the great warrior that you have the potential to be! If you curl up and die in the face of a challenge like this, how will you ever become more than a coward?!' The voice cried.
Erik rose to his feet and wiped his eyes dry. A look of anger and determination crossed his face. "I won't just keel over and die!" Erik shouted.
"I will fight to my last breath! I will put Teucer to rest! I will survive! I will win!"
'That's the spirit!' The voice roared with him.

Erik paced around the temple once more, but this time he was filled with determination instead of panic. "What's my best chance of survival?" He wondered to himself. "If I want to succeed I will need allies no doubt, but where will I find them?"
While trying to brainstorm, Erik failed to look where he was going. He accidentally bumped into someone in his plotting.
"Oh! I'm sorry." Erik started, but then realised that this could be a great opportunity. The person he had bumped into was a young looking blonde man in a green tunic and hat.
"Greetings. I am Erik Vrell." The pychic said, holding out his hand in greetings.
"I am currently alone in this competition." Erik said, foregoing subtlety completely. "I was wondering if you would be interesting in forming a group with me." Erik smiled and held his hand out, waiting for an answer.

[Jak Mar]

Jak eyed Link, and noticed the other was quite nervous. Was it really that hard to find a ally here? Jak sighed in frustration as he scanned the area once again. The eco warrior's eyes suddenly stopped on a familiar face, one wearing a red coat. A certain "Tony Redgrave". He hadn't seen the man since the Colosseum. Jak crossed his arms and turned at Link. "I'll be back soon. "

Jak started to walk toward the man with the red coat. Memories of the Colosseum seemed to flow through his mind at the time as he remembered the man had rendered him unconscious and didn't kill him. But they had caused considerable damage to each other. The knife eared man finally stopped and turned "Tony, it's been a long time."

Jak wasn't exactly sour about losing, it was the fact that Jak had a whole lot more on his mind from the injures that Daxter had sustained during his little "attack new Babylon for revenge" stunt and also Victor's hatred of him. He had a whole new problem on his hands. Victor was now part of a group and they could be dangerous.

Jak's father had returned as well. Things were getting very heated and chaotic for him, but he couldn't resist helping someone in trouble.

"Tony, .... We haven't seen each other since the Colosseum.

[Red]

While the old spirit projected himself as a victim, his presentation seemed staged, and almost disingenuous. The swordsman knew two sides existed to every story, and whomever bound this spirt to the temple probably did so with the conviction of strong reason. The true question was this a conflict between wickedness and righteousness, or just a feud between evil and a slightly less evil; Trunks never recalled a 'Hero' using shady tactics to request help, and it made him wonder how many Teucer arrested in the same fashion.

“I'll do your dirty work for you,” Trunks decided, reluctantly; without the convenience of an Option B, it felt more like an ultimatum.

The old man took satisfaction from the swordsman's response, and grinned. The crow's feet attached to his eyes stretched across his temples. “I knew I could count on you,” he replied. “While you're courageously doing battle, I will stay here. My spirit is bound to this temple.”

Sounds oddly convenient, Trunks thought, though he nodded in agreement. “Right.”

Teucer returned the head gesture and receded to the marble statue, gazing at the goddess with eyes of despair before closing them. He brought his palms together like a priest, and dipped his head to speak inaudibly to the deity.

Without the dialogue between the old man and he, Trunks' ears were able to pick up the sounds of other voices. They conversed all around him, at low volumes, between the columns and within the clouds of fog shrouding the boundaries of the temple. The swordsman could only depict chunks and bits of bodies, unable to get a clear look at any visages, but was able to count over two dozen other people—detainees.

Seems like the geezer amassed quite a militia to apply his elbow grease.

Most of them had already segregated into groups, gossiping like high school cliques. Trunks tried to tune into the conversation closest to him, but it translated to mush with all the other voices overlapping it (if only he shared his mother's personality trait of rudeness, he could insert himself into one of the groups, and scrape some information out off someone).

[Simon]

Boy, this really was a handful.

Dante had just finished recalling what he was up to before he found himself sucked into a favor for a long-dead warrior. Or, rather, what he had been doing besides dying. The devil hunter, working with the Exorcists, had been making an effort to hold off the Akuma trying to besiege the creation of their Black Order. Then it all got awful blurry from there, what with that stupid-looking angel child thing gradually beating him into a bloody pulp. Since the Hollow dominated his mind until death's door, Dante had no idea what other events transpired in the meantime.

A hint of worry crossed his mind. If he didn't stand half a chance against that one Akuma, would Kanda even be able to drive it off? Dante dismissed the concern; that Exorcist had seemed rather powerful, from what he had witnessed of the man's ability. If anyone knew how to kill that one demon, it couldn't be anyone else but the swordsman.

Hopefully, anyways. It's not like the nephilim was given much more sway over the matter at this point.

So, where was he now? Something about finding anyone he would recognize here? A lot of the individuals gathered in this temple stood out of being... individual, for lack of a more respectful term, but there was nobody that personally resounded with Dante yet-

"Tony, it's been a long time."

Tony Redgrave. When was the last time Dante had ever used that name? Not as long ago as he had thought (or hoped, perhaps), but as a mere alias within the Colosseum. Then, that presented the next question- who had he met that recognized him by that alias?

"Well, well," the red-coat began, not even facing his new old comrade yet and still already cracking a smile upon his darkened, age-creased face. That act was a reflexive thing, but in some way, Dante couldn't help but feel a bit genuine about it. All too dramatically, he twisted around to get an eyeful of the speaker; the green hair, elfin ears, and gritty face stuck out well enough. "Fancy meeting the Dynamite Kid here, eh?"

"Please," the Eco Warrior held up a palm, as if he could make Dante's words stop in their tracks, "Just call me Jak. That title... doesn't suit me." His features seemed to scrunch up, as if recalling memories he would rather not.

Dante simply shrugged in response at the correction. "Whatever you say. But don't call me Tony, then," the devil hunter clarified, suddenly appearing rather insistent with his own request.

There followed a bated amount of silence, as the gears seemed to turn behind Jak's eyes. When his expression tipped into confusion, eyelids narrowing and an eyebrow raising, Dante clarified with a renewed smirk, "Let's just say that title doesn't suit me, either."

"...That's not your real name?" Jak half-asked, half-confirmed out loud. It was one thing to have some sort of nickname or callsign, but Tony Redgrave had seemed like a real name. Then, perhaps that name only served as a persona to cover up his real identity - which then implied he had something to hide. "So what is it- or, rather, what should I call you, then?"

Jak's former opponent tilted his head up and aside to think, but the exaggerated movement implied the action was illegitimate and just showy. The Eco Warrior remained patient, considering this was a potential ally, after all. After the moment passed, the white-haired man locked eyes again and answered, almost matter-of-factually, "Dante."

Well, didn't that name sound terribly familiar?

Dante himself, of course, had no idea of the dramatic irony in his reveal. At the moment, he wasn't even paying full attention, his vision craning past Jak's frame to glance at a handful of other 'champions'. Where he was looking, there seemed to be a couple of others with pointed ears, in some cadre of biological fashion. But the flowing cyan hair attached to one of them caught Dante's attention for some reason, and he himself couldn't quite place why.

Then the man glanced back over his indigo cloak, aware of someone's gaze upon him. The sorcerer and the devil hunter exchanged stares for a moment, Dante's visage narrowing into a grim look to match that of his old opponent.

"Sorry," the half-blood snapped his attention back to Jak, not aware if the young man had said anything more while he had been distracted, "I was just noting that you aren't the only 'old friend' around."