Knight Sylvestre vs The Insufferable Genius, Round 1
Location: the NeighborhoodFaced with a pack of pouncing robots, Cyril did what he did best: he swung with all his strength. His glaive slammed into the attackers from the right side, but its blade, not meant for foes of metal, did not cleave straight through. It got about two-thirds of the way through the first chassis with a mixture of cutting and crushing, then caught on all the internal wires and support structures. This did not ultimately stymie the killer arc of the vanguard's polearm, for as his armor radiated inner light, the momentum of his swing amplified and carried on through. His halberd, lodged as it was in the still-sputtering machine, became a club, and with brutal force it smacked the other rapid robots six ways to Sunday. They flew through the air in various directions, some shedding components, but Cyril wasn't finished. Moving with improbable coordination and balance, he continued to spin, the sheen of his enchanted armor turning him into a whirling blade of death. The force of the spin threw the weaponized robot husk straight at the inventor, who ducked to the side just too late and took a glancing blow to the shoulder. For his part, Cyril didn't pause to see what his makeshift projectile had accomplished. Like a top across a table he slid across the road straight for Jokaero, prepared to cleave that overlarge head from its shoulders.
“Whoa, nelly!” Never without a couple tricks up his sleeve, the inventor produced what appeared to be a modified takeout container and threw it at his feet. Like a grenade it erupted, but instead of fire and shrapnel, it blew apart into a ball of rice that swelled faster than an inflatable circus. Jokaero bounced off its surface and out of harm's way a moment before Cyril's glaive cut into the the oversized glob. Were it not for the knight's ability, the dulled blade might have stuck there, but the force of the spin pushed the axehead all the way through the squishy mass and out the other side. The gleam of Cyril's armor faded, and in the second that he took to bring his weapon back into its usual position, he took stock of the situation. Without a moment's hesitation he leaped up, wincing as he did due to the surge of pain through his foot, and used the mound of experimental rice as a springboard to pursue Jokaero into the air.
The insufferable genius, having underestimated the bounciness of his little takeout experiment and been flung high into the air as a result, spotted the vanguard heading up to intercept him as he fell. Unable to change his direction in the air, he was a sitting duck as Cyril rose up to meet him, the point of the human's weapon extended. “Tsk, tsk. You think you've cornered me?” Giving a gleeful chortle through his helmet, Jokaero tugged on a cord, and on his back a makeshift wingsuit made from a porch umbrella deployed. In an instant the stiff breeze caught the wings and yanked him off to the side. For the second time, Cyril's strike missed, consigning him to an inglorious descent back to earth.
But Cyril refused. Frustrated by the slippery tinkerer's inventiveness and uncanny amount of preparation, he grit his teeth and twisted mid-air. His armor poured forth its steely gleam, and with startling abruptness he shot to the left like a fired cannonball. The impossible maneuver shocked Jokaero, who'd been so assured of an easy escape, and before the egghead could think up another gambit Cyril's glaive struck home. Under normal circumstances Jokaero's upper and lower torso might have parted ways there and then, but in midair the cutting force of the vanguard's edge translated into pushing force, and the inventor hurtled toward the ground to land in a heap. Cyril, retaining the momentum from his air dash, carried on past him a short ways and landed next to a mailbox on the far side of the cul-de-sec. It took a moment for him to regain his balance and avoid an unceremonious stumble, but Jokaero recovered slower than he did. “Aha...perhaps you're not quite the dark-ages galoot I supposed,” the resourceful creature mused. “I'll have to be more careful. Battle bots, attack!”
The machines didn't need the prompting. Battered by the robot attached for a moment to Cyril's glaive, they had been scattered and roughed up, but not destroyed. One machine leveled what looked like an amped-up coffee machine at the knight and let loose a stream of ultra-hot liquid right at him. Cyril knelt behind his shield, allowing the stream to glance off it with an angry but harmless hiss, only to jolt in surprise as a spinning blade dinged off his faceplate. Another machine, having been crafted from a blender, had launched the makeshift saw straight at him, and if not for the puny size of the blade and the craft of his armor, he expected he would have been a goner. Cyril growled, “That's it. I've had enough of your toys.”
His voice disappeared behind the crystalline roar of his own sawblade. He lurched forward, detaching the shield as he did, and ripped straight through the coffee-machine robot. Its halves fell away, sparking weakly, and without missing a beat Cyril turned and hurled his shield at the blending machine. Its top half slumped off, and deprived of its power source, the rest of its spider-like body collapsed. With that out of the way, the vanguard turned back to face Jokaero, and found him to be both flanked by three robots and holding a new makeshift weapon. Despite lasting for only a few moments, the battle had been furious. Cyril felt as though he was gaining ground, but as always he needed to be on his guard.
Chaos erupted on the School's ground floor. Every anon present, wild with hype and gang mentality, threw itself at the one-armed intruder, but all had their asses handed to them in short order. Agility and strength, magnified through the lens of martial discipline and poise, triumphed over disorganized brawling any day of the week. Neither could the beings who lacked any individuality or standout characteristics rival her in terms of physical ability. Before long, the mob realized this, and those who hadn't already been beaten into unconsciousness backed off, all save one.
The bandana-wearing anon had watched the whole scene impassively. If it was some kind of boss, it neither led its fellows nor cut a more ominous figure than them; even its one distinguishing feature was so muted in terms of color that it only passed for a standard variance, like attached earlobes in humans. Some had them, and some didn't. This one had a bandana, but it was nothing special in itself. With a dispassionate gaze, however, it removed something special from its pocket, cocked it, and pointed it at Juniper. It held in its hand a gun, a simple and unremarkable piece of metal that did not hold a candle to the magnificence of martial arts, and yet with the easiest of motions it could extinguish that glory in a heartbeat. The human body, even one more remarkable than usual, could not dodge a bullet. The power of the gun -the power of life or death- in the palm of some nobody, able to annihilate in an instant someone whose steadfast training and incredible ability made them extraordinary...it simply wasn't fair. Without a word, or so much as a though for the significance of the life it was cutting down, the anon pulled the trigger. A deafening
bang ensued, and in an instant, it was over.
Behind Juniper, an emergency fire extinguisher burst with a loud pop, discharging its contents. The anon had missed by a hair. As taciturn as ever, it compensated for the recoil and adjusted its aim, ready to snuff out the light once again. Before it could, however, a ray of golden light slammed into it from the side, and the gunshot flew off at a harmless angle. From its left, in the direction of the school library, approached another stranger, but with one look Juniper could tell he was no anon. His beam did not, however, take out the gun-holding anon; the creature merely backed up, its pointed red eyes scrutinizing the newcomer as a threat. Whether or not Juniper understood the moral of the gun, it seemed as though this man had helped her.
“You're not a bad fighter,” the somber man mused, “For a human.” His dark eyes shifted between Juniper and the remaining anon. They held neither pity nor hatred, but his every word oozed self-assurance. His hands held a staff in the right, its odd surface and coloration not of this world, and a tome in the left. “These creatures are pathetic, without any kind of soul, but you lot aren't much better. I'm going to enjoy taking yours.” He flourished his staff, causing a spiral portal to warp into existence in the air above him. From it materialized a disk-shaped floating thing of metal. From there, he banished his staff, and replaced it with a black one tinged in blood. “Won't be five minutes.”
“I'll see about that.” A larger, less futuristic flying machine appeared from a hallway leading off to the left. Its purple eye scrutinized the two competitors and the anon that stood warily by. “Looks like this fight is gonna have an extra factor!” That merry voice came from the contraption again, its chipper tone discordant with its violent surroundings. “The God Hand versus the Crimson Cavalier versus some guy with a gun. Our first wild card! It's 'gun'-na be good. Engage!” The drone's mechanical arm clapped its pincers together to make an impact as sudden as it was loud.
The Fungal Knight
Location: Amusement Mile@BananaThe instant the competitors burst from the now-dilapidated House of Mirrors, Oren's drone was at rapt attention. Its optic observed the action with hawklike focus, and though neither Big Big nor Bonesword could hear it, on the other side the announcer was keeping up a steady stream of pun-riddled live commentary. When the battle shifted toward the carousel, which was by any metric a bizarre and inane place for a fight to resolve, the drone's automated control algorithm placed it at a perilously close distance to get a couple intense angles. In the end, the mobster took to the skies, flung by centripetal force into a nearby building. As improbably as having a brick building on a wooden boardwalk was, this structure did somehow make sense; it reached up from the sea on its own, situated on a rock beneath the pier. In an older time it might have been a lighthouse, but now it was nothing more than a historical quirk in the center of the amusement park—and a convenient obstacle for Big Big to be buried alive in.
Bonesword nabbed the dazed giant's phylactery and headed the way he came in, though he did not get far, as he'd come in via lantern teleportation. As the skeleton pondered how best to actually leave, the noisy drone whirred toward him once more, and like clockwork Oren's visage appeared on its projected screen. In his trademark cheery voice, he remarked, “Well, that fight took a weird turn! What the hell prompted you to get on the merry-go-round?” He did not pause long enough to allow the fight's winner to answer his rhetorical question. “Well! Good work, I guess. Though it's worth noting that you don't actually possess his soul yet. Ever heard the expression 'they can crush my body, but they can never crush my spirit'? Take another look at that phylactery!”
The little tricket was beating quickly, its light shining. Not far away, the pile of rubble began to shift, and that same huge, imposing shape began to rise from it. Oren gave a bright laugh, though not one without a mocking undertone. “Neheheh! You haven't won yet. His soul's still bound to that little heart. You don't have a skele-'ton' of options here, bonehead. As long as it's still his, it'll call to him. He'll be able to hunt you.” Dust streamed down from the big man's body, and with one hand to his head he began to turn toward the Fungal Knight. “So what'll it be?” Nero wheedled, his tone an octave lower. “Have him hound you for the rest of the tournament...kill him to claim his soul...or find another way? I'd think fast if I were you.”
There had been a murder on Main Street. Not a word had been offered by the unseen watcher, but it had captured a good portion of the fight. This operation had been hands-off; Oren, finding nothing to add and no interest in watching the police officer be hunted down and messily demolished, set the nearest drone to auto-spectate and switched feeds to take care of other matters. Throughout the city, contestants had been meeting at an increasing rate, and most if not all needed their announcer to officiate. Some sacrifices had to be made, woeful though they were.
Outside the scene of the grisly demise lay an open box, dropped from the sky. Within sat a round, metal ball, its surface grooved in complex patterns. No caption accompanied it, but in the moment Oren spent considering the outcome of the fight if Smiley won, he reasoned that no matter what the loot was, the demon would probably devour it too.
The region's first fight now over with, the remainder of the colorful, somewhat zombie-infested Main Street remained open to Smiley. Countless different shops and offices awaited an exploratory visit, but beyond them, the city stretched out in every direction. Downtown's innermost area resembled no less the labyrinth as it had when it was alive with humanity.
Yet, putting aside the zombies, Smiley wasn't alone. The pop of gunfire pierced the silence—a single precision shot. About a half-mile feet to the southwest, down one side of the famous avenue where it split off into a 'Y' shape, a number humanoid figures were moving about. Their composed gait and coordination set them quite apart from zombies, and the weapons they held were like nothing the demon had seen before.
Some, wearing light armor and obviously female, seemed to be in control of little round drones that marched a set distance away from the group of people. The one who'd fired and downed an undead was one of the other
sort, more of a mainline soldier than a scout. Among their gray garb and drab tactical gear, only an enigmatic, red eye symbol identified them. For the most part they were silent, but occasionally they communicated in an unknown language.
You got:25.
GlobeThe world in the palm of your handProjects a holographic map of the entire city. Also usable as a key for a certain machine
Gaben's Chosen
Location: Governance Hub@HostileIn the aftermath of the laser, a single object skittered away from the impact zone. Its distinctive heart-shape marked it as a phylactery, but unlike Mountain's own, this one looked to be inert. No soft light poured from its center, its little compartment had shattered, and it did not beat. Mountain's own beeped twice, a rosy pink light illuminating just above the bristling orange one on its front.
While the announcer did not speak a word, his promised package lay untouched on the rim of the fountain where Squishy had left it. Inside was a decidedly retro piece of technology, difficult by any measure to make heads or tails of.
You got:53.
BoardFly away to the danger zoneProvides speedy horizontal transportation and long jumps (provided enough speed has been reached) for the rider
Captain K. Runch, The Cereal Killer
Location: Holy Grounds@ProPro“Brilliant! Staggering intellect!”
The noteworthy noise of the drone's fans, obscured by distance until now, became apparent as it hovered through a little window at the cathedral's pinnacle and began its descent. Oren's face preceded it, projected on a little screen, and he looked especially smug. “Not you, of course. Talking about the assassin with all his traps. Your curiosity got the better of you, captain. Ya t-'oats' ignored the sneaky man getting ready to jump ya. Being the helpful guy I am, I thought I'd let ya know the fight's officially on. Good luck to ya 'bowl'-th!”
The live feed vanished with a snicker, leaving the machine to watch how well the pirate fared against the traps. A riveting battle of guile versus power lay before it, ready to explode, and nothing would escape its watchful gaze.
Not for the first time, a choking swath of smoke enveloped Crue, but no sooner had the veil surrounded him than the world around him faded away. A moment later his vision returned, the fumes that inundated him running off like water, and they revealed a place unknown to him. The smooth, well-kept tile of the Inquisitional College's atrium floor had given way to the rough cobblestone of antiquity, and in even in the lackluster light, the extrasensory vampire could make out that the buildings belonged to a previous age as well. Primarily medieval in nature, they worked together to give the image of a quaint medieval hamlet, but here and there hints of modern technologies and sensibilities hinted at the fact that this entire peaceful street existed within the confines of the expansive and enigmatic City of Echoes.
This late at night, the streets would have been quiet even if there had been people to hole up within those inns and shops. Far overhead, the sky tossed and turned like a sleepless child, its fitful textures and colors betraying the coming rain. Over the centuries, Oldtown had seen its share of oddities, but none quite like Motley Crue had ever visited it before. All was still, and remained as though in suspended animation until the whir of fans overcame the soft breeze blowing against hanging sides and window-shutters. Before long, the monster and the machine spotted one another, and the drone closed in. For a moment, its eye locked with Crue's, sizing him up. Then an image appeared, projected from a device in the flying machine's forehead, to give Crue a view of a twenty-something man with slicked-back blonde hair, purple-rimmed glasses over closed-looking eyes, and a smile too large and unprovoked to be genuine. “Welcome to Oldtown!” the young man said. “I'm working as the tourney's announcer. We've got our eyes on ya in this upcoming fight—guess you could say a lot of people are sure you'll 'suck'-ceed. Beat little miss magic tricks and whatever's in this box...” the drone tilted to show off the wooden case on its underside, “...is yours. Good luck out there, Fangs.”
The drone began to fly backward, keeping its eye on Crue, but it paused after only a moment. “Oh, and if you find the smith guy, he's not an enemy. No killy-killy. Capiche?” With that out of the way, it departed, disappearing over the row of old buildings. All that remained to Crue was the street. To the north, the buildings grew in number and sophistication, marking it as the more touristy area of Oldtown. If he honed his already-extraordinary hearing, Crue might pick up the wound of whacking metal. South of the stand user's current position, the middle-ages buildings gave way to a row of ruins far more ancient, and on a nearby hill overlooking the town, the half-light gave away the silhouette of a castle.
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