RE: The $300,000 Fight-A-Thon! [Round Two: Toyetic!]
06-26-2013, 12:09 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-21-2013, 02:09 AM by !?.)
A strip of brilliant blue light from what could only be a sky-dome assailed Brawler as his eyes slowly opened, and he could only squint and wait until they adjusted. When he could see clearly, he sprang to his feet and found himself in a dirty, overgrown alleyway between two skyscrapers—and had to wait again as his eyes adjusted once more to the dark grey wall he was now facing.
He’d been sedated. His eyes grew wide with panic as the realization settled in. He’d been sedated and left in this arena with no knowledge of who he was fighting or why he was fighting now or which arena he was in—no, that was wrong. He could smell something like paper on his snout. Pulling it off and reading what he could, he relaxed only a small amount, but it was enough. Heart still pounding, Brawler forced himself to snap out of it and tackle one question at a time.
First, and most importantly, why the hell was he in an arena now? Last he remembered he’d been on a tour with Channel Eight, resting and recovering from the battle in Three-Rivers Stadium, told he wouldn’t have another for several weeks. Had he not seen the note and it’s familiar—though quite oddly written—instructions, he might’ve assumed he’d simply fallen out of the company van. Of course, none of that answered his question, and it looked like nothing in the immediate area would do that for him, so the best he could do was push that one out of his head for now.
The next question was a matter of what arena he was in. The walls around him were made of a grayish-brown plaster, and flakes of it fell occasionally, speckling the dirt around Brawler and sticking in patches of weeds. The sound of an air conditioning unit buzzed somewhere above him. From where he was standing, this seemed to be a pretty standard cityscape, if a bit shabby… until he saw the road.
As he turned to take in the environment outside of his alley, still not entirely prepared to walk out, he first noticed, with a good bit of horror, the building sitting across the street from him—if ‘sitting’ could mean slumping over in defeat and covered in gaping wounds as it waited for death to finally overtake it. Closer to him, he could see the numerous cracks and dents in the road where something—he wanted to believe it wasn’t one of his opponents—had torn up the pavement. He looked down at the note and decided now would be a good time to deduce the nature of his competitors.
Brawler immediately assumed that these descriptions had been donated: unless his agent was being cruel, only a very young fan would think that this was at all helpful. And while he adored the children, as they did him, the first line led him to believe that the kids who submitted this were products of bad parenting… unless this was truly a fight to the death. All at once the glint in Brawler’s eyes changed to evoke nervous perspiration. He would have to kill again.
He pushed that awful thought out of his mind for a minute to look over the minimalist synopses of his opponents. Confidence in his benefactors waning, he couldn’t tell if he was seeing spelling errors or names. But, with that in mind, there was one that he recognized. And it confused him immensely.
Clok was one of the first battles he’d truly lost: an oversized timekeeping device with tired eyes and a handlebar moustache doesn’t look or sound intimidating in the least, and it certainly doesn’t evoke the kind of foe who runs (or, rather, rolls) after you at blinding speeds and stabs you in the chest repeatedly. So, he surmised, these were either long-time fans who thought him evil simply because he’d defeated their idol, or he should look out for a more aggressive Clok with a darker color palette.
The others, of course, were even less helpful. Cats had a ridiculous undying appeal, and the demographic for dragon girls had only recently started to wane. Girls in armor, even, numbered at least two dozen. The word “Tinas” narrowed it down quite a bit, as that was clearly a name, but it was one he’d never heard before. But most confusing of all was “Ironjaw (smell).” Ironjaw was a name, of that there was no doubt, but… did he smell? Or was he actually a living smell? More abstract creatures were all the rage these days but… naming a smell “Ironjaw?”
With no more certainty than before and a bit of a headache, Cockfighter Brawlmite felt defeated, and decided there was nothing more he could do trapped in this alley. So he did his best job of folding up the note and started into the road.
His first steps outside were tentative: whatever had torn up the road like this could easily still be there. And if it was Sciince (obviously the dragon girl’s name), she would probably be hidden on a rooftop, waiting to ambush him as he walked into the road. But no: the sight that greeted him as he stepped onto the often chipped and torn sidewalk was quite a bit more terrifying.
Sticking up over the sill of an electronics store’s broken window, accompanied by a soft whimpering, was a mop of blond hair—if Brawler wasn’t mistaken, human hair. As he approached, preparing to hop over the low sill, he saw a fleshy, pink nose and a clearly human profile. He expected the worst.
What he got was Ward. Practically bathing in his own profuse sweat, the young man was scouring the closed shop for a working device to call the police with—not in his right mind, he’d only thought to check the shelves. He’d tossed aside at least five devices before he heard the small creature land on the carpet right next to him.
Needless to say, looking at the thing that had just come in did nothing to calm Ward, and he backed up a decent bit, continuing to make unintelligible noises as he crawled backwards toward the door. Brawler, meanwhile, had no idea what to make of the live human who’d somehow ended up on the battlefield. To himself, he made an expression with an inexplicable resemblance to a man sighing and cracking his knuckles, felt the poorly-folded ball of crinkled paper in his hand, and prepared to ask some questions.
***
Just above the outer atmosphere, quite far above the underwhelming Toyetic skyline, a pragmatically-designed sphere of off-white metal stirred, answering a distant call.
For centuries, it had kept time seamlessly, waiting impatiently for this moment to arrive. There were two years left on its internal clock, it knew, but there was no doubt that its kind had finally been called. The wait may not have been over, but damn it if it wasn’t close enough.
With some concentration, and a groan miraculously audible though the vacuum of space, it began to descend.
He’d been sedated. His eyes grew wide with panic as the realization settled in. He’d been sedated and left in this arena with no knowledge of who he was fighting or why he was fighting now or which arena he was in—no, that was wrong. He could smell something like paper on his snout. Pulling it off and reading what he could, he relaxed only a small amount, but it was enough. Heart still pounding, Brawler forced himself to snap out of it and tackle one question at a time.
First, and most importantly, why the hell was he in an arena now? Last he remembered he’d been on a tour with Channel Eight, resting and recovering from the battle in Three-Rivers Stadium, told he wouldn’t have another for several weeks. Had he not seen the note and it’s familiar—though quite oddly written—instructions, he might’ve assumed he’d simply fallen out of the company van. Of course, none of that answered his question, and it looked like nothing in the immediate area would do that for him, so the best he could do was push that one out of his head for now.
The next question was a matter of what arena he was in. The walls around him were made of a grayish-brown plaster, and flakes of it fell occasionally, speckling the dirt around Brawler and sticking in patches of weeds. The sound of an air conditioning unit buzzed somewhere above him. From where he was standing, this seemed to be a pretty standard cityscape, if a bit shabby… until he saw the road.
As he turned to take in the environment outside of his alley, still not entirely prepared to walk out, he first noticed, with a good bit of horror, the building sitting across the street from him—if ‘sitting’ could mean slumping over in defeat and covered in gaping wounds as it waited for death to finally overtake it. Closer to him, he could see the numerous cracks and dents in the road where something—he wanted to believe it wasn’t one of his opponents—had torn up the pavement. He looked down at the note and decided now would be a good time to deduce the nature of his competitors.
Brawler immediately assumed that these descriptions had been donated: unless his agent was being cruel, only a very young fan would think that this was at all helpful. And while he adored the children, as they did him, the first line led him to believe that the kids who submitted this were products of bad parenting… unless this was truly a fight to the death. All at once the glint in Brawler’s eyes changed to evoke nervous perspiration. He would have to kill again.
He pushed that awful thought out of his mind for a minute to look over the minimalist synopses of his opponents. Confidence in his benefactors waning, he couldn’t tell if he was seeing spelling errors or names. But, with that in mind, there was one that he recognized. And it confused him immensely.
Clok was one of the first battles he’d truly lost: an oversized timekeeping device with tired eyes and a handlebar moustache doesn’t look or sound intimidating in the least, and it certainly doesn’t evoke the kind of foe who runs (or, rather, rolls) after you at blinding speeds and stabs you in the chest repeatedly. So, he surmised, these were either long-time fans who thought him evil simply because he’d defeated their idol, or he should look out for a more aggressive Clok with a darker color palette.
The others, of course, were even less helpful. Cats had a ridiculous undying appeal, and the demographic for dragon girls had only recently started to wane. Girls in armor, even, numbered at least two dozen. The word “Tinas” narrowed it down quite a bit, as that was clearly a name, but it was one he’d never heard before. But most confusing of all was “Ironjaw (smell).” Ironjaw was a name, of that there was no doubt, but… did he smell? Or was he actually a living smell? More abstract creatures were all the rage these days but… naming a smell “Ironjaw?”
With no more certainty than before and a bit of a headache, Cockfighter Brawlmite felt defeated, and decided there was nothing more he could do trapped in this alley. So he did his best job of folding up the note and started into the road.
His first steps outside were tentative: whatever had torn up the road like this could easily still be there. And if it was Sciince (obviously the dragon girl’s name), she would probably be hidden on a rooftop, waiting to ambush him as he walked into the road. But no: the sight that greeted him as he stepped onto the often chipped and torn sidewalk was quite a bit more terrifying.
Sticking up over the sill of an electronics store’s broken window, accompanied by a soft whimpering, was a mop of blond hair—if Brawler wasn’t mistaken, human hair. As he approached, preparing to hop over the low sill, he saw a fleshy, pink nose and a clearly human profile. He expected the worst.
What he got was Ward. Practically bathing in his own profuse sweat, the young man was scouring the closed shop for a working device to call the police with—not in his right mind, he’d only thought to check the shelves. He’d tossed aside at least five devices before he heard the small creature land on the carpet right next to him.
Needless to say, looking at the thing that had just come in did nothing to calm Ward, and he backed up a decent bit, continuing to make unintelligible noises as he crawled backwards toward the door. Brawler, meanwhile, had no idea what to make of the live human who’d somehow ended up on the battlefield. To himself, he made an expression with an inexplicable resemblance to a man sighing and cracking his knuckles, felt the poorly-folded ball of crinkled paper in his hand, and prepared to ask some questions.
***
Just above the outer atmosphere, quite far above the underwhelming Toyetic skyline, a pragmatically-designed sphere of off-white metal stirred, answering a distant call.
For centuries, it had kept time seamlessly, waiting impatiently for this moment to arrive. There were two years left on its internal clock, it knew, but there was no doubt that its kind had finally been called. The wait may not have been over, but damn it if it wasn’t close enough.
With some concentration, and a groan miraculously audible though the vacuum of space, it began to descend.