[center][h3][color=138808]Knight Sylvestre[/color] vs the Insufferable Genius Round 2[/h3] Location: the Neighborhood[/center] “That shield of yours! What a marvelous piece of engineering.” Cyril raised an eyebrow, obscured though it was beneath his visor. For a moment he wondered if his opponent was going to go off on a monologue; that would be perfectly fine by him, as he already felt -much to his annoyance- a trace of haggardness in his breath. When the inventor's machines sprang into action the next moment, his hopes were dashed, but as it turned out he wasn't spared Jokaero's speech either. “It's been quite the problem. Deflecting attack after attack...it's almost like you don't want me to get my wish! I'll have you know that poor manners won't get you far with me.” He paused as the first robot's knife arm clanged off Cyril's shield, and smiled. The moment its first arm was obstructed, the machine unfurled a second, and is reached around the vanguard's defenses to sink its blade into his exposed neck. Recognizing the threat, Cyril raised his good leg and intercepted the incoming blade with his greave, then kicked outward. Deficient in stabilizing servos, the robot tumbled backward, and over it clambered a second, bipedal one. This one looked unstable, judging by the various flashing lights across its surface, and with reckless abandon it leaped straight at Cyril. He thrust with his glaive and speared straight through its plastic torso. “Aw, I liked that one. This heartless slaughter...brings a tear to me eye!” The third approached, and much like he had moments ago, Cyril swung his encumbered weapon at it. To his surprise, the rickety-looking machine dodged backward, and the increased weight of the halberd extended his swipe far enough to leave him open. Dutifully, the nimble robot hopped forward, and from its chest two makeshift missiles burst out to explode against the armor on Cyril's right side, hip, and shoulder. The impact and the heat made him gasp in pain and surprise, staggering. At that moment the contraption he'd impaled began to glow, a hissing sound escaping from its middle. The knight, flummoxed by what was going on, could only guess that it was preparing some sort of attack and acted accordingly. He swung his halberd with wild, panicked strength, and the bipedal machine flew right off. It sailed toward a nearby mailbox, but before it even got there it exploded in a cloud of vapor, sending shrapnel everywhere. Scraps of metal clanged off Cyril's shield as he steadied his breathing. The remaining robot, having spent its payload, dashed toward him and grabbed his leg, but couldn't budge him. Jokaero would not let his opponent rest. Having spent next to no energy so far, he approached Cyril as a fresh fighter. Chuckling, he leveled the doohickey in his arms at the knight and caused it to shoot forth a cylinder of metal in an arc, attached to the launcher by a cord. Cyril, never one to fix what wasn't broken, positioned his shield to block it, but on contact the launcher sent an electrical jolt through him that tore a cry of agonized rage from his lungs. “Alright, that's it! You want lethal? You got lethal.” The weapon, like a crossbow, appeared to have expended its one shot. Cyril tensed his muscles and launched forward into a sprint, teeth gritted. “C'mon!” “Not quite. Checkmate!” Jokaero flicked a switch on his weapon, and a spark traveled down the cord into the amp at its end. Without any warning it detonated in a spray of electricity, close enough to send power coursing through the forgotten robot still attached to Cyril's leg, as well as the leg itself. Conducted by the metal he wore and the construct, the shock caused his muscles to convulse and then go slack. The inventor saw him start to fall, and whipped out a little pistol. It hummed with energy, a green glare lighting in the container on its back. “And here's the big one!” Cyril's armor shone, and with hundreds of pounds of force he slammed into Jokaero head-on. “Buh!” He garbled, and in his surprise he discharged his pistol's laser into the sky before it flew from his hand. He hit the pavement, and the next second, Cyril landed on top of him. Before Jokaero could so much as condescend to him the knight punched him in the face. His helmet gave a resounding crack, but it held. Unable to use his halberd at this range, Cyril dropped it and whaled on his enemy with both hands. Indecipherable gurgles of pain escaped the helmet as it was struck again and again. Cyril, possessed by the feeling that he had the advantage, abandoned his technique to raise both of his arms above his head in order to deliver the finishing blow. Before he knew what was happening, a cloud of noxious purple gas exploded beneath him, and he stumbled backward out of the acrid cloud in a fit of coughing. It dissipated a moment later to reveal the vanguard and the tinkerer about twenty feet apart, each without a weapon. For a moment, all was silent but for the [i]cunk[/i] as the robot that grabbed Cyril's leg hit the ground. Beneath the fractured remains of Jokaero's helmet, Cyril could make out only shadow. His features were hidden by the poor light. During the last ten minutes or so, the sky had turned even darker; if the knight could spare a moment to examine the clouds, he would have guessed that rain was imminent. As it was, he merely glared at his opponent, who glared at him back and growled, “Damn...that's twice now. For all my tricks and traps, your one ability keeps surprising me.” Unable to discern a reason why he shouldn't, Cyril walked forward, picking up his halberd on the way. Jokaero turned to the husk of one of his robots and removed its knife arms, holding them up like dual swords. “A melee, is it? En guarde!” The two clashed. Cyril leveraged the reach of his halberd to strike from far outside Jokaero's range, but the little inventor dashed beneath the slash toward him. Without missing a beat the vanguard pivoted around to kick, and it connected with Jokaero's torso in a solid blow that popped him upward. Like a seasoned batter, Cyril followed through with his initial swing to whack his foe across the ribs with the flat of his halberd's blade. Jokaero grunted as he hurtled away toward one of the houses. This time, however, he landed in a roll, and the momentum of his landing helped him sprint straight through the open from door. The sight caused Cyril's grimace to deepen. “Little freak wanted me to throw him away so he can escape. Bet there's even more wonderful stuff to deal with in there.” Even while grumbling, though, he began his pursuit. His boots smacked the cement walkway as he jugged up the path and into the house. Inside, he found the lights on, and though low they were a welcome change from the darkness outside. “Huh! Maybe I'll finally get to land a proper hit on him.” His pace slowed as he entered the foyer. A hallway lay to either side, and in front was the living room. It had cheap couches, a couple tables of assorted sizes, and a television. For a moment they caught his eye, but he caught himself after a couple of seconds. “Yeah, stare at the décor while that bright spark's still around.” He cast his eyes around, searching for any sign of Jokaero. “Hey, buddy! I've changed my mind. Turns out your wish is waaaay more important than mine, so I'm giving up. Come on out so we can talk about it.” [center][h3]The Lady in White[/h3] Location: Justice Hub [@Lazo][/center] For once, Oren was struck by silence. The drone floated, seemingly inert, watching Pithy. The gleeful manager of a gladiatorial fight, perhaps back in the half-elf's own world, might have heaped extra attention on the gruesome carcass of the loser, but the flying machine displayed a curious inclination to avoid looking at the fallen. After few moments of silence marred only by the whistle of wind, the lick of flames, and the distant screeches of bats, the announcer's image flared to life before the drone's 'face'. This time, Oren's indelible smile was a dry crack, and his eyebrows indicated no merriment. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose. Here...this is yours.” A series of clasps undid themselves on the drone's underside, not unlike those of a suitcase, and down fell the wooden box. It hit the ground a few meters away from Pithy and bounced twice before laying still, upside down. The drone, freed of its burdensome payload, shot upward into the air until its rotors recalibrated for the reduced weight and returned it to ground-level. This time, the distinctive whir of its fans was muffled, much like Oren's own boisterous tone. [center][b]You got:[/b] 22. [url=http://68.media.tumblr.com/23c6c73484ebb0467d6a7c58f83bc442/tumblr_inline_muo0yz8HDz1raqpn3.jpg]Polaroid[/url] [i]Taking pictures is savoring life intensely, every hundredth of a second[/i] Creates a protective shield of light around a holder who would have been killed by an incoming attack, and lasts for five seconds[/center] The little picture retrieved from within the case was difficult to discern even without the broiling dark sky above, threatening to unleash a downpour any second. Nevertheless, it bore the image of a young girl and her two parents on either side, figures that to Pithy might seem oddly familiar. A sigh, distorted through the microphone, escaped the drone. “I've often found myself wondering: do animals have noble souls? We think of them as so far beneath us, but in my experience, animals can be every bit as noble. It might seem silly to ya, but ya know, for a while I lived in the wild with 'em. Wolves, ravens, rats...neheh.” Oren caught himself, and his mouth stretched into a grin. “But, uh, hey! That badger was a right piece of work, huh? Your next opponent is somewhere in the next district over, and I hope ya haven't gotten your fill of guns, 'cause he's packin' way more heat than Jo did. Justice Hub's a dangerous spot, un-'fort'-unately, so I wouldn't stay if I was you. If ya go south over the base wall, that's outta bounds. East is Governance Hub, where yours truly spends his time, locked away in a tall tower like a damsel in distress! Also, that guy I mentioned. West and north is more city, but west enough is the beach. All sorts of fun things happenin' there, you'll 'sea'. Choice is yours, Miss In White!” Giving off a cackle, the drone began to rise, only to pause about ten meters up. “Oh, one more thing!” Oren's voice went lower. “There's something beneath this base. College people turned back in the generator room, right before the vault, on account of all the creepy crawlies. We'd owe ya if ya went down and found out what's what down there. Good luck...” The next moment, the machine beeped and went rigid, signaling that it had gone back to autopilot. [center][h3]The God Hand[/h3] Location: the School [@GreenGoat][/center] Not a moment when to waste as the ground shook beneath the force of Juniper's heel, kicking an obstructing cloud of dust into the air. The Crimson Cavalier, as named by the announcer, steeled himself for a sudden and intense assault. Instead, not only did his primary opponent target the wildcard first, but also -after performing a slide kick that forced the anon to sacrifice its shot and dodge- she used her speed and momentum to escape into the library. In the span of a moment he'd been left alone with the anon, who fired off a shot at Juniper as she disappeared around the corner. He shared a dubious glance with the drone. With its own target lost, the creature turned to train its pistol on Westley, who'd ducked into Juniper's dust cloud. Seeing this, it began to back up, wary of a sneak attack, and fired a few times into the cloud. Its fixed its beady red eyes on the cloud, so ardent in its search for any movement that it didn't notice the UFO descending behind it until it was blasted in the back by a laser. The anon slumped down, and over its body stepped Westley, headed into the library to fight his opponent in the proper fashion. A few seconds after the Crimson Cavalier entered the library, the anon picked up its head. Wrath burned in its red eyes as it pushed itself, silent but in pain, to its feet. Still holding its gun, it began toward the battleground as well. [i](Begin your three-round fight)[/i] [center][h3]The Fungal Knight[/h3] Location: Amusement Mile [@Banana][/center] An inquisitive tone emanated from the drone to Bonesword following his explanation. “Huh? Why all the theatricality? Ya don't think I'm recording all this awful slaughter? Neheheh...what is this, pay-per-view?” Oren snickered in a somewhat obvious manner. His flying machine gave a clicking sound, and from beneath its fuselage the wooden box detached to plummet toward the skeleton below. Its safety catch, a simple metal mechanism, would give way in no time to reveal an especially strange piece of technology within. [center][b]You got:[/b] 46. [url=http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NTAwWDI2NA==/z/hMEAAOxySoJTViN2/$_3.JPG?set_id=2]Watch[/url] [i]A clock of many faces[/i] Creates an internal database of organisms by scanning ones in proximity. Selects an organism when the wearer turns the watch face. Transforms the wearer into the selected organism's species when the wearer presses down the watch face. Reverts a transformed wearer when he or she represses the watch face[/center] The drone was not looking at the loot or its winner, though. Its vision lay upon the sea beyond the extravagant pier where an amusement park stood above the lapping waves, where not too far away at all an outcropping of unsettling, alien architecture projected from the sea like a growing cyst. “Do undead feel sorrow? Or do you choose not to? He wasn't a pleasant man, of course...but isn't it sad for such a big spirit to be extinguished just like that? Like in 'Of Mice and Men'.” A contemplative pause came next. “Someone had to put Big Big out of his misery eventually, I suppose. I wonder if he'll go to heaven? He did not consciously choose evil, after all. He could only do what he was told.” After a moment, the drone span around to face Bonesword. “As for you, looks like ya have the entire Amusement Mile to yourself. Your next opponent's occupied in that weird place in the ocean at the moment. If ya weren't a living doggie treat, I'd tell ya to stay clear of the storm, but whatever. Won't 'rain' on your parade. In the mean time, you could do use College folks a little favor. Last time someone came through the Mile, she said she saw a couple of carnies 'clown'-ing around. Check it out, wouldja?” Oren's display went dark and the drone to autopilot, causing it to zip up and away. This time, it rose high enough to clear the strip of buildings along the seaside row, and it disappeared over them in moments. [center][h3]Blackjack[/h3] Location: the Village [@Deadnaut][/center] A tumult of images, each as full of chaos and deprived of coherence as the next, troubled Teller in his sleep. No stranger to nightmares, he nevertheless fell further and further through the twilight, reliving memory after memory until even they slipped away. Only murkiness came after, but after what felt like hours, the haze began to recede. For the third time that night, the captain found himself deposited by the nebulous fog in a strange and unknown realm. This time, he jerked into a sitting position on a stretch of road, and only a moment's examination would determine it to be merely a chunk of street atop a spire hundreds of feet high, rising like a mountain peak from a sea of fog down below. For thousands of feet in every direction, there was only empty space, but a ring of derelict buildings perched at odd angles beyond that gave the impression of a destroyed city with a massive hole in the middle, and Teller alone in the middle of that. Overhead, the vault of heaven stretched across the sky, the same hue of light gray above as below, though stars speckled it all the same. All was calm in this surreal landscape of emptiness and desolation. An eye turned toward the depths of the void, however, could discern the bizarre but undeniable coronas of stars down there a well. These seemed to move, their glows intensifying as they rose, and more cropped up by the moment. Before long, the motes of light left the foggy deep behind, and lofted like paper lanterns up and past Teller's perch. Whispers, faint and unintelligible, emanated from each one. A million sparks danced through the open air, serenely beautiful. [i]The first to sleep...tired soldier[/i] At once, it came as a voice, yet not as a voice. It was as if a thought interjected itself into Teller's own mind, not at all like the murmurings of the many lights. [i]Vultures gather above the dead city...from this world...and beyond. All hunger...for its secrets. When the sun touches the avenue of renown...a greater and more fleeting light...will open the path. You will not...be alone[/i] Rain, white as snow, began to fall. After a moment, it became apparent that it was not falling from the sky, but shooting skyward from below. The inverse rain grew thicker and louder by the moment. [i]Seek...souls[/i] The rain drowned out the dream, and when Teller awoke, he was back in his commandeered room. Outside, the rain poured down. [center][h3]Smiley[/h3] Location: 1st Street [@ScreenAcne][/center] The patrol moved quickly and quietly, eliminating any zombies that got in the way while keeping a close eye on its surroundings. Soon it left the visibility of the offshoot of main street behind, moving instead into a parking garage that went both up and down. Without much deliberation, the squad opted to descend, and in its characteristic organized and efficient manner it moved into the structure's depths beneath the glare of orange lights. Several minutes passed before the group of soldiers and scouts bottomed out at the garage's lowest floor, at which point the unknown intruders navigated to the center. Down here, there were few cars, but they remained ample enough to provide cover for any gelatinous sneaks in the vicinity. After converging in the precise middle of the floor, everyone paused a moment as a singular soldier opened a laptop computer, scanned the screen, and then gave a nod of confirmation. Four of the explorers then huddled together as the rest formed a perimeter. The technicians' toolkits opened in a series of smooth popping noises, and they got to work. One after another they put together various devices they'd brought, and in remarkably short order a fully-assembled gizmo roughly three feet tall and two in diameter lay between them. Still communicating in their unknown language, he technicians armed the device. Spikes projected from its bottom into the ground all at once, and a steady beep came from the terminal at he top every second. One final touch -a short-range motion tracker- went into its slot, and the technicians packed up their things. In a moment the group was on its way again, leaving the device behind. Once back on the ground, the soldiers picked up the pace. They moved away from the vicinity of Main Street with remarkable speed, gunning down zombies in their way while on the run, and their overall formation suffered as a result. Some of the intruders got ahead, while others, burned with heavier equipment, fell slightly behind, but the group remained fairly cohesive as it made in the direction of the Commercial District's hospital. [center][h3]The Book Keeper[/h3] Location: Oldtown [@BCTheEntity][/center] Tracking the source of the telltale noise of metalworking was all too easy for Motley Crue. With very little difficulty he arrived in Oldtown's gateway plaza. This area, littered with various stalls and carts that hinted at the jubilee of the fairs once held here, connected the historical place's main thoroughfare to a portion of modern city that itself bordered Downtown—or rather, it would have, were it not for a gaping cleft, hundreds of feet wide, that sharply divided Uptown from Downtown. Though nowhere near it at the moment, Crue would need only approach it to witness the total blackness down below, and grasp the impossibility of making it to the other side without some sort of air vehicle. Nothing of the sort, unfortunately, would be found among the archaic flavors of Oldtown, though the now-isolated buildings cut off from Downtown might prove more fruitful. Closest to Crue and most visible from his current position was the train station, situated closest to the City of Echoes' most prominent tourist destination and complete with a pedestrian crossing that led right into the plaza. A train, rather ornately decorated and appropriately antiquated in make, did reside in the station, though one of the branches of the track that lay before it veered off toward the dire canyon to the south. More pertinent to Crue's goal, however, was the man standing in an old-timey forge installed beneath one of the plaza's 15th-century French inns. At a glance, any onlooker could tell he was Japanese, and though he looked no older than 30, the tips of his scruffy black hair were silvery gray. He wore a modern hoodie, teal in color and adorned with a wavelike pattern that seemed to swim in the paltry lantern-light. An intent expression adorned his rough features, and heavy work gloves his hands, in which he currently held an axeblade. Still giving off traces of steam from just having been quenched in water, the hot chunk of newly-pounded metal was deposited on a rack to cool, and the smith turned his attention to a little handheld drill with which he got to work on a swordblade he had laying by. Unaware of Crue's approach, he carved runic sigils along the blade's surface, and somehow each one awoke with diamond-blue light after completion. It was a longsword, meant for two-handed use but both slim and light enough to dance in the hands of an expert, and judging by the smith's expression, he was very proud of it. An unlucky spark flew from the tip of his drill toward his unprotected face. Rather than burning him, however, it fizzled out as a jet of water lifted itself off the smith's hoodie to intercept it. The next instant the water was gone, and the metalworker showed no sign that anything unusual had happened.