SpoilerSO WHAT IS THIS?
This is a Grand Battle. It is a collaborative writing contest wherein eight characters are forced into a battle to the death. It consists of seven rounds with one character being eliminated at the end of each round. Though it seems to suggest otherwise these battles are not really about fighting or who has the most powerful character. They are judged upon who is the best writer, and while some fighting is inevitable in a battle to the death, the thing I find more interesting is interaction between characters that would never normally meet, in locations they would never normally get a chance to go.

Here are some potentially helpful links:

• Season Intermission Organization Thread – Planning information for the rest of the battles in this season.
• Grand Battles Introduction/Planning Thread – Though it is primarily focused around a different continuity than the one featured in this season, the basic information it has on Grand Battles should still be relevant.
• Grand Battle Wiki

RULES AND SHIT
Standard Grand Battle rules apply;

• Do not kill off other competitors (unless I guess it is deathpost time and you have been authorised to kill off a character on someone else’s behalf).
• Do not inflict major injuries on other competitors unless you have spoken to them beforehand and they have agreed to what you want to do.
• Good co-operation is essential. Don't go around fucking up other people's plans just because, but on the other hand don't plan too rigidly that it makes it difficult for other people to do things.
• If you are writing a post you think will take some time you can post a reserve, during which nobody else should be writing for the battle so as to prevent conflicts. Strictly speaking these reserves last twenty four hours, after this people may hold off for a while after that, out of courtesy but if they wanted to post they could do so. If you’re going to take a long time on a reserve and you really don’t want people to post over it, the best way is probably to stay in touch with the other players; make it clear you are working on it and it is coming along and you will probably get some leeway.

HOW THIS IS JUDGED
As I mentioned before this is contest is all about writing well. At a very basic level this constitutes correct grammar and all that kind of thing (though that said I would prefer to see an interesting character with slightly dodgy grammar than a boring character with perfect grammar). Once you have that down it is mainly about a) making and developing an interesting character and b) interacting with and writing for other characters.

APPLICATIONS
I’m keeping applications open for a week. There may be a little wiggle room allowed for the fulfilment of reserves but broadly speaking this is open for a week. This is probably the only part of this entire block of writing anyone has actually read. Here’s the profile.

Username: Your username. Included here because it doesn’t feel like a grand battle profile without it.
Name: Your character’s name. What do we call them?
Sex: Male or female? Or more likely both, neither or undecided.
Race: If your character is of a non-standard race please feel free to include a description of their race in general.
Colour: Choose a text colour for your character. You can if you want go for a background colour as well. Do try to bear in mind that text colours serve little to no real function in battle and there’s very little point messing around trying to get the perfect colour. #DF8000 is taken.
Description: Here you write a description of your character’s appearance and their personality. Pictures can be used if you want but are not necessary.
Items/Abilities: What cool powers does your character have?
Biography: Tell us about stuff that has happened in your character’s life.
Writing Sample: This is an optional section. I guess if you are new it would help with the process of choosing who gets in, but it is kind of prohibitive and I'm certainly not going to disqualify you for not providing one. Essentially this section is here in case you want to do it, or if you feel that perhaps writing a profile does not do justice to your writing or your character (profiles are rarely representative) and you use this as a way to demonstrate what you are capable of, or something. If you don't want to do this section, just forget about it.

Spoiler

Spoiler"You want a fag, mate?"
The hooded figure didn't respond. The man slumped in the doorway looked up. "A cigarette, man. Do you want something to smo-"
"I'm fine, thank you. I don't actually breathe, so there wouldn't be much point."
The homeless man lit the cigarette. "Fair enough. Jus' trying to be friendly."
"I appreciate that." The robot faced down, his eyes and mouth visible even in total darkness. After a moment, he remembered to smile.

"So... you got a name? Family? If that's how it works for you types, I don't mean to offend ya."
"Yes on both counts, and no offence taken. They call me Weaver. My name is Weaver-sixteen. And there was a man I thought of as my father."
"Ah. I'm sorry for your loss. Was it..."
"Three years ago. More than half my lifetime, as it happens."
"Go on!"
"It's true. My brain was first switched on five and a half years ago. Most of my body is more recent than that."
"Huh. Well, just shows you never can tell, eh?"
Weaver considered this. "I'm not sure what you mean by that. I suppose not."
"Heh. I like your style. Name's Lance, by the way."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lance."
"Same here."

"Family, family... Well, if you count my brother, sure I've got a family. He's an asstard though. Otherwise nope, all alone. No job, no money, no home... "
"Don't you collect unemployment benefits?"
"Nah. Need an address to send the money to, and need money to rent a place. It's like one of those...", he paused to take a smoke, "turtle things. You know. Turtles all the way down. 'Cause, you got to have something to carry the world on, right?"
If Weaver had eyelids, he would have blinked at this point.
"'Cause otherwise it would fall down. So you got something holding the world up, say a turtle. Then what's holding the turtle? 'Nother turtle. And you gotta have turtles all the way down, and then the bottom one falls off, and then your whole life comes crashing down around your ears and you're left on the street."
There was an awkward pause.
"You're being metaphorical, aren't you?"
"Dunno, that's how I heard it. I know the world isn't really on a turtle. It's kinda, in space. Floating..."
Lance drifted off, staring at the sky. Weaver sat next to him and looked up. The hood of his stolen coat flopped down around his neck.
"Funny thing, the stars. Makes you feel all small. And insignificant."
"I know. Believe me, I know."
"You do, eh? You look at the stars too?"
"Almost every night. I sometimes wonder whether it'll be possible to go there."
"Yeah, I hear you. So many other worlds up in the sky, and we're still here. Messing nature up with radiation and quantum and whatnot. Don't think running away to another world is the answer though. Gotta make do with what you got, and all that."

"... no, that wasn't what I was thinking at all. I don't really want to visit other planets. I just want it to be possible, to have that kind of power. To leave our mark on the universe, to take control of the stars - I mean, it's not like they're much use to us now. It must be possible. I don't even mind if I die before then. I suppose... I hope that someday we can be in charge of the world, because it's really screwing me over at the moment."
Lance shifted nervously. "When you say we, you mean... humans and robots, right?"
"Any kind of sentient race would be fine. As long as someone who knows what they're doing is in charge of the universe. Robots probably have the best chances out of anything we know of, though." conceded Weaver.
"So... how come you're living rough in the first place? Don't you need electricity to live or something?", said Lance, changing the subject.
"Hm? No, I eat organic matter. Human food is fine, but I don't have a sense of taste so I mostly eat rubbish."
"Oh. So who do you belong to? Won't they come looking for you? Or - I mean - again, I dunno how this works-"
"I used to belong to a man named Gooden. He's the man I mentioned when you asked about my family. Then he died. Because of me, actually. I don't think I mentioned that."
"Er... no, you didn't."
"That's the worst thing any artificial intelligence can do. Asimov's First Law, you must have heard of it. I was meant to die, as part of the procedure that would save his life. I... didn't want to. In short, I've been on the run for murder ever since. Murder isn't actually the legal term - I'm not considered a sentient being any more, they're just shutting down a dangerous piece of machinery. They're worried I might do something worse. They're probably right. Anyway, that's why I wear this coat and trousers, and why I'm currently 165cm tall, so I look like a human from a distance", he added.
Lance stood up and discarded the cigarette. "I'm just gonna go buy some chips. You want some?"
"No thank you." Lance left at a brisk walk. "Of course it'll be robots that go to the stars. We're stronger, hardier, cleverer, and all-around better than humans. Even then, it'll take someone exceptional. Someone who can stand up to a universe where everything's trying to kill him, and still see the way it works and the way it should work. Someone crazy enough to believe in a better world, and clever enough to make it happen. Someone utterly invincible, who can get back up when entropy spits on his work. Not someone like me at all. But maybe someone I could become."

A pedestrian crossed the street. Weaver kept muttering. "Megalomania and talking to myself. I'm definitely insane. And murder by inaction clinches it. I can see where they're coming from on that point."
The pedestrian stepped under a light, and Weaver noted the uniform. "Excuse me, gentlebot. May I see your re-"
Weaver¹⁶ was halfway over the nearest wall before the policeman hit the ground.

SpoilerIt was November 3rd when Jimmy Seong, working for the Grand Rue Gazette, visited the main pavillion in the center of town. On that day, research scientists from the local university were unveiling their prototype time machine. Jimmy had been interested in time travel from about seven, when he first started reading the Pirates of Temporus: Based On True Events! series of comics, so he was incredibly excited over the chance to report on it. Unfortunately, the story he brought back was one of failure: almost as soon as the machine had activated, it exploded in a violent burst of teal, spraying shrapnel across the gathered crowd. The scientists who worked on the project were disgraced, several conspiracy theories were hatched by various groups, and Seong ended up with a large metallic chunk embedded in his face. Surgery would eventually remove it, but his face would be permanently marred, and he was blinded in his left eye.

That same November 3rd, several timelines away, James Seong attended a similar conference as security detail. There was considerable fear that the device might be sabotaged, forcing the police to set up a 24/7 guard for nearly a week; James wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the assignment, as he was rather unconvinced that time travel was possible or desirable. It ended up a moot point; evidently, a saboteur had managed to do his work anyway, as this iteration of the machine exploded as well. James, standing by the device at its unveiling, was this time struck repeatedly in the side by the shrapnel, receiving severe cuts. By the time he reached the hospital, they had already seemed to fully heal, and he headed out and back to duty within three days.

And on yet another version of that very November 3rd, Jim Seong, visiting a third conference with an identical subject-- simply for fun, as he had a weekend to kill and was curious if time travel could really exist-- stood in the fifth row from the front at the unveiling. As in two other timelines, the machine exploded; and as he fled, he was once again struck by shrapnel. Just as had happened with James, his wounds had healed before he knew it, and he quickly forgot about the event.

And so, life passed on for a few years, until one day when Jim Seong was mugged. He had no method of defending himself; as he reached into his rear pants pocket to retrieve his wallet, the only thing he could think of was how greatly he wished he weren't in such a situation. And, in an instant, James took the place of Jim, and before they could even notice Mr. Seong's sudden change in appearance, the muggers had been beaten unconscious and left in the alley.

SpoilerOne of the last but most significant scientific discoveries of the Khral race was the formation and manipulation of pocket dimensions, opening holes in space leading into weird places that didn't seem to obey the laws of conventional physics. To start with these were really only useful as exorbitantly expensive bags that couldn't fit anything larger than a thimble, but with time their scientists discovered that by messing around with the resonating frequencies required to open such a hole they could modify the conditions of the world inside; making it larger or smaller, messing around with gravity and (perhaps most excitingly) manipulating the relative flow of time so that a minute inside could become an hour outside, or vice versa.
Suddenly the applications seemed endless and they wasted no time in miniaturising the technology and sticking it everywhere they could manage, with the caveat that a lot of the mechanisms were so complicated it took a semi-sentient AI to operate them. Tiny handbags that you could hold your car inside, perfect fridges that could retain your food at its original condition indefinitely without even the remotest risk of spoiling, specialised beds that allowed sleepers to nap for as long as they liked and emerge fully rested only a real-time second later, five thousand man clown cars and gravity-free swimming pools. The fields of physics and robotics rocketed forwards at an unprecedented rate, leading into the planet's greatest golden age.

The very final advancement the Khral made was figuring out how to open more than one hole into the same pocket dimension, creating instant transit, ovens that connected directly to local butchers' shops, a whole new baffling set of crimes and the Krahl's first evidence that they weren't the only sentient species in existence. Completely by chance, one of their magical science holes linked up to the largest pocket dimension they'd ever seen, far in advance of what even their most powerful machines were capable of maintaining. It was a landfill site filled with alien rubbish.
Of course, the only logical thing to do in this situation was to start chucking all of their own rubbish in there too, at least until they could invent a vehicle on the correct scale to fit through one of their own tiny wormholes, fly through the alien atmosphere and reach the gates to a whole new world hanging on a ceiling that was only just in sight (and that would probably only be the size of a dustbin).

Unfortunately before they were quite done with that project, a new and terribly virulent disease spread from someone's badly calibrated time fridge (set to age their milk at an extreme rate rather than keep it permanently fresh), spread through the air and into the newly created intercontinental bin network, arriving in every densely populated area of civilisation overnight. In less than a month the global population was reduced to only those living in isolated rural areas, too terrified to approach the cities for fear of plague. It wasn't much longer before they passed away too, leaving only their sentient machines endlessly repeating their original tasks for lack of anything better to do or anyone to tell them to stop.

Until one of them vanished.

SpoilerERIC was designed to operate in dangerous areas and disaster sites, and is thus fully waterproof, extremely heatproof and generally durable, as you might expect from a large ball of steel. This is particularly fortunate because his spherical body was built to house a spacial anomaly that would probably be fairly dangerous if left exposed to the naked air for long periods of time. While he is technically a medical robot, ERIC is really only able to diagnose illnesses and injuries rather than actually cure them, though he is equipped to dispense painkillers and set broken bones. His main purpose is simply to transport people out of danger areas and into hospitals. Obviously carrying them there would be fairly impractical, so instead his spherical body can split in two, the top half hinging upwards, to reveal a pulsing purple rift to a specially controlled pocket dimension within which he can store a fairly large number of patients at a time.

The actual size, solidity, gravity and (perhaps most importantly) relative time frame of this pocket world can be entirely controlled by ERIC's dedicated computer systems, even so far as to make time flow faster or slower in different areas of the largely featureless landscape (though the more complex the interior gets, the less computing space he has left to actually think in).
This means that once he has identified the severity of a patient's wounds he can effectively store even the most critically wounded of patients for days or even years. While time passes outside, they are frozen in the state they were in when they entered until such time as they can be adequately cared for outside.

Currently sitting in storage are three members of his creator species, two of them infected with a particularly virulent plague and the third who had only a broken leg and lacerations to his left hand side when he was "rescued". These wounds have now entirely healed, but ERIC's programming doesn't allow him to release patients anywhere other than a hospital, and as he has been in contact with plague victims (even ones locked in time that couldn't possibly have given him the disease) ERIC is now treating his interior as a quarantine, refusing to let anyone out until he is 100% sure he has found a doctor who has a cure.

Spoiler
ERIC is a roughly spherical grey humanoid (standing just a little taller than your average man, but much wider) with two short, flexible tubes for legs and a very basic, nearly expressionless mask for a face. This mask can detach from its fitting at any time and extend several metres from the body on a long, flexible metal limb while using its eyes as torches (in order to investigate small tunnels in collapsed buildings) though as people tend to find this disconcerting it's not a widely advertised feature.
His arms are composed of a collection of tightly coiled steel cables that are capable of a remarkable degree of movement, though usually they're left wrapped around eachother simply to keep them out of the way. These limbs contain an extraordinary amount of strength, allowing him to lift chunks of masonry away from trapped victims of earthquakes, but also incredibly gentle and precise, allowing him to lift said victims safely without worsening any spinal injuries they may have acquired.

As he was only ever made sentient because it takes a sufficiently complex brain to run and control a pocket dimension, ERIC isn't the sharpest tool in the shed. Most of his brain power is directed to the task of running a small universe, rather than deep thought. On top of that he gets less intelligent the more complex his contained world is, so if he were to eject his patients he would become more intelligent, as he'd have more processor space to spare.
As a result of this his attitude is fairly childlike and inquisitive which is only bolstered by the fact that his programming still compels him to investigate damaged and burning buildings or respond to any cries to help. It's been a long time (centuries) since he's had any social contact though, so his interpersonal skills are more than a little rusty.

His one totally healthy "passenger" also experiences periods of conciousness during which he is understandably fairly angry about the fact that he is trapped inside an ambulance that refuses to let him out. ERIC's programming forces him to obey everything one of his creator species tells him to do, as long as it doesn't harm anyone else. As the Khral had never actually come into close contact with aliens, they didn't bother specifying whether that meant "don't hurt a Khral" or "don't hurt any sentient being" in their laws of robotics, so how he'd react to such a request is anyone's guess.

SpoilerJames Henway is not the type of person that stands out in a crowd. His hair, the most prominent part of his appearance, is a deep shade of brown about halfway between black and blonde, and its thick, wavy curls fall just below his ears. Muscular, but not blatantly so, the majority of Henway’s fighting prowess lies in his agility and vocal intimidation skills, allowing him to disrupt an enemy’s thought process (if any) and quickly strike.

As a regular user of the lighter breeds of armor, Henway generally wears a leather cuirass over a cotton shirt and pants, complemented by slightly reinforced boots and studded fingerless gloves for lending a bit of an edge to his physical attacks.

When not engaged in battle, James is generally amiable towards trusted friends, but sightly dim-witted and quick to see danger where none exists. He is especially willing to run into anything that looks like an opportunity to beat something to a bloody pulp.

SpoilerOne of James’s most cherished possessions is the Henway family heirloom, a Baggins’ Bags Belt of Holding™ purchased by Fitzgerald Henway during the Dragon Age. An upgrade from the more common Bag of Holding™, the belt consists of a system of trans-dimensional pouches that allow for nearly infinite storage capability, the only restriction being that the pockets’ capacities are limited to what can be stuffed into each individual opening.

Thanks to a lifetime of yelling at various creatures (and the occasional strength potion), Henway’s vocal cords have been strengthened to the point where he can mentally (and sometimes literally) disarm an opponent simply by being very, very loud.

SpoilerMighty Henway is currently the last in a long line of adventurers who have somehow managed to bear children before getting themselves killed. James’ father, Beauregard Henway, was once a rambunctious explorer but later settled down with his wife, Rosie Henway, in order to better raise his son. When James came of age,* he inherited the patriarchal nickname passed down through the family and became Mighty Henway.

* The Henway Coming of Age ritual is presented to a male heir to the Henway name every year following his second birthday, and a child is considered a man once he has been successfully able to down a bowl of strained peas. Francis Henway, James’ great-great-grandfather, celebrated his completion of the ritual at the age of 46.

Since his youth, Mighty Henway has proven himself many times over to be of the Henway heritage. He is quick to rush into danger without considering the potential consequences of his actions (though he is not totally ignorant of what may or may not be a trap), and he favors getting his point across very loudly. His strategy has proven to be ineffective on any being that is not intimidated easily, but he has resolved to circumvent that detail by training himself to yell louder than anything else can. His crowning achievement in this field was during the Great Cretaceous Time Schism, in which he successfully reduced a swarm of Velociraptors to a shivering pile of quantum phlegm.

SpoilerPeas are very envious vegetables.

A particular troupe of these disgustingly unsalted monstrosities had, upon being ignored in favor of a smugly buttered ear of corn by a rather forgetful wizard (who couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d left a life serum on the table right next to the salad dressing), became so angry that they knocked over a bowl of cinnamon-pecan sweet potatoes, took the salt shaker hostage, and declared that they intended to render the entire kitchen useless until they were allowed to go be eaten at some “high-end, respectable place” where they would “finally be recognized as constructive to a meal.”

The wizard refused, claiming that the peas themselves were entitled to nothing more than a salt and buttering. As a stalemate emerged, spectators began to arrive, taking both sides and generally making the whole ordeal more troublesome for everybody. Lawyers were brought in and compromises were made, albeit not without considerable argument from both sides. The peas wanted appreciation, the civil rights enthusiasts wanted justice, the wizard wanted everyone out of his house, and the vegetarians wanted a snack.

Soon, however, the issue was resolved as a giant, most likely having just woken up from years of hibernation, lost his balance as he was putting on his trousers, fell, and crushed the house along with its occupants.

Mighty Henway woke up amidst anger, confusion, and a broken table.

“Urgh,” he said, and spat a shard of porcelain out of his bleeding mouth. “What happened?” He wondered why he felt like blaming whatever was happening on the overturned bowl of peas that lay next to him.

“You ruined dinner, you fool!” screeched a voice as Henway rubbed a globule of mashed potato out of his eye. A woman, dressed in red and covered with what looked like onion soup, leaned down and glared at him. “I told you we were going to have company today! And now you’ve destroyed my last set of fine china, too!”

Henway picked himself up and brushed more of the foodstuff that was covering his clothing. “Sorry, Lady Saturday. I’m certain I had a good reason for barging in like this, but I really can’t remember it at the moment. Something to do with soggy chestnuts.”

He snapped his fingers. “Oh, right! Water chestnuts! I thought I should warn you about the water chestnuts! They’ve been poisoned by the new chef, you know.”

Several of the guests turned green.

“I guess I should go find a doctor, then. I’ll be back soon!”

A smashed window later, Henway was gone, leaving a scene just short of complete pandemonium in his wake. Lady Saturday was trying to figure out whether she should break down in tears or try to find out how much it would cost to repair the brand new hole in the roof, and a good number of people in the room were either panicking or deciding if they should trust the seemingly deranged man who had just informed them that they were probably going to either die or become very ill very soon.

In short, it was the best dinner party Henway had ever been to.

SpoilerBy the by, the Vio M I'm referring to is the GBS3 version, not the MSPA even though the GB is based off of it.

Spoiler This is Eris. She's here to cause Chaos and collect shinies. Except right now she can't do either.