The Second Chance (Round One: The Fitzpatrick Center)

The Timekeeper walked the halls of the vast necropolis, its stone walls towering next to him. How much time had passed since he had been re-animated, he did not know. All he knew was that the kazoo jammed in his heart was corrupting him. Turning him into something horrible. And he had to stop it, before he could destroy the fabric of reality.

His thoughts turned inward as the dim torchlight played off his grim face—half metal, and the organic half becoming ever more rotten, it was a horrible sight. That battle… where I first got this kazoo. That is the solution. He smiled. I shall find eight who used to be in them. They will not be missed; they have already disappeared, and died somewhere else. No one will notice. And then, when only one remains, he or she will have proven his or her value as a warrior, who can take me down. And then, once more… He clenched his fist, doing his best to suppress the burning hunger for destruction and flesh that lay within every aspect of his monstrous being. I shall make the ultimate sacrifice to save the universe.

He smiled as he approached his lab. More of a dungeon with a generator and various scrapped mechanisms, there was nonetheless enough here for his genius to create a rudimentary dimensional portal. And whoever does the deed… shall receive their Second Chance.

What the hell is this supposed to be?
Glad you asked, my friend! This here is a Grand Battle Spinoff! Specifically, it is dubiously canon to the standard Grand Battles. and the contestants won’t be eligible for All-Stars. However, it can still be fun if we keep up with it!
The theme of this battle is “Characters from canon battles that died in Round One.” Any character that fits that description can be entered here, for their second chance-- they don't even have to originally be yours! It’s your choice whether they’re the same they were at the beginning, or whether they’ve clearly been reanimated; just post the relevant profile using the form below, and let’s get this thing rolling!

Entry Form
Most of this will likely be the same as the previous entry form, but you can always rewrite it if you like, so long as you don’t go from, like, a fire-breathing chameleon to a robot cactus, or something—the main character concept must be the same!
Name: Name of contestant.
Previous Battle: Please provide a relevant link to either the forum thread or wiki page.
Gender: Male/Female/Not Applicable/“Other” (please specify)
Species: Species of Contestant
Associated Color: Probably the same font color associated with your contestant in the previous battle. Only change it if it’s too similar to somebody else’s, or to this’n right here.
Weapons/Abilities: List contestants’ distinguishing skills and/or equipment here.
Description: Distinguishing characteristics, both physical (e.g. height, build, eye color, hair color/hairstyle, scars, missing limbs, extra limbs, clothing, etc.) and mental (mainly personality). Again, this could have changed since the last battle, but that’s not mandatory by any means!
Biography: Contestant’s life prior to (and, if relevant, after!) being considered for the battle.

Contestants: The following I'm almost certainly going to put in. Others I might debate over a little more.
1) Dekowin -- DragonFogel
2) Dr. Anarchy -- Wojjie
3) Greyve -- Ixcaliber
4) Hatman -- Lord Paradise
5) Professor Armidillo Reccxer -- TimeothyHour
6) Also Quantos -- XX
7) Dorukomets -- Not The Author
8) Sereno And Steinwaffe -- Schazer

BLUH

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SpoilerThis profile is left untouched. My writing for Laura will hopefully be a bit better.

Username: Piester
Character: Laura Scourge
Died in: Fatal Conflict
Gender: Female
Font Colour: Red on a black background
Race: Demon
Weapon: An Electric Guitar that when played can control the elements themselves.
Abilities: She has a pair Of Giant blood red Demon wings growing out of her back.
Description: Laura wears what a punk rocker would wear, a t-shirt with ripped off sleeves and loose shorts, she has Albino skin, Blood red eyes and Long Brown Hair
Biography: Laura was a Huge Rockstar in the Distant future, she was Raised from the Depths of hell because she was a metal Demon, a Demon literally made to rock, She was meant to work for the evil Pop Industry that raised her from the dead, but she Killed them all with her bare hands and flew off with a Guitar that she got from them and hexed it so it was able to control the elements themselves,She then started a heavy metal band that went on to make over 50 successful albums and gain a literal cult status, until she decided all of that was getting boring, so she decided to leave in a spur of destruction and return to hell.

I decided on Dr. Anarchy instead. You can find her profile a few posts down.

I think I may join up with Dekowin. Going to reflect on this for a bit.

Edit: Okay, I'm in. Here is the original profile. Too lazy to paste it in at the moment.

Edit 2: Now I am not so lazy. This is for Intense Struggle Season 2.

Name: Dekowin
Gender: Feminine
Font color: I arbitrarily choose this one
Race: Volkhanbet - A self evolving artificial race, it could be said that no three volkhanbets are the same. (Actually, they're always born twins, so every one has another exactly like them, but still) Though they usually assume a humanoid form, all kinds of biological features and natural abilities have been known to occur in Volkhanbets.
Weapons: Natural abilities are all she needs.
Abilities: Has a pair of retractable claws, made of a biometal roughly consistent with steel. Some degree of conscious control over the acidity of her saliva. Flight via extremely fast fluttering of her wings.
Description: As with all volkhanbets, her body is based on that of a human- in her case a fairly tall human girl. She herself is young, about 14, and her body reflects this. The pigments in her skin have been adjusted, causing her almost look like she's in a black and white photograph. The majority of her body- including her right eye- is covered in an exoskeleton, which she wears in lieu of ordinary clothes.. She also has a pair of six dragonfly wings on her back.

She is a warrior at heart, and one with a short temper, and a low tolerance for weakness. She's particularly enraged at the moment, for reasons detailed below.
Biography: Volhkanbet royalty has a peculiar obstacle to overcome, what with every member of the race being born with an identical twin, it becomes difficult to decide exactly who will be the next king or queen. Dekowin, being first born into the royal family, had to compete with her sister Grewin for the throne.

Today was the day that it would be decided who would become the heir to the royal family. Dekowin had trained all her life, becoming a proud warrior. So when it was her sister chosen instead, for her charismatic charm and ability to unite the people, Dekowin descended into rage. She had torn her way through the royal guard, and was fully prepared to rip her sister to shreds when the Monitor interfered, and yanked her across dimensions.

If I do join (and I'm not sure that's wise to do just yet) it'd be as either Professor Armidillo Reccxer or Xeno Photon.

I'm thinking about joining as James Raven. I'll have to make sure I'll actually be able to commit any kind of time to this first, though.

Fuck it, motherfucking Hatman


Yeah

Username: Lord Paradise
Name: Hatman
Previous battle: Political Correctness
Gender: Male
Race: Symbiotic Human (type: hat)
Color: This one seems nice.
Inventory: A variety of hat-based weaponry, as well as a gentlemanly tuxedo and a top hat!
Abilities: He has the ability of hammerspace, but only to get small non-hat based weapons.
Description: Hatman is a lanky british man sporting a top hat, he has a buttoned shiny black tuxedo with a tie coiled around his neck. He wears frayed long black slacks with a fancy leather belt keeping it up. He has fashionable black tapdancing shoes laced carefully and precisely with fine silk. He has slicked back brown hair and eyes with a spirographic green iris. He has a watch, and he usually smokes a pipe.

Hatman has a great gentlemanly personality, often speaking out such things as, 'Old chap!'. He freaks out when he sees something uncleanly such as spilled tea. He enjoys scones and long walks on the beach. He rather hates rain and cats. His hobbies include chess and resting. He has a verbal tic, 'mate.'

Biography: His full name is Timothy 'Hatman' Callman. When he was just a baby, he was adopted by a rich family, and was taught literature at the age of 4. His older brother, Jonathon had taught him sword-fighting at the age of 9. All was peaceful.

However, the idyll in that was shattered when both families, the one who adopted him and the one gave birth to him fought. At the age of 16, he ran away and became Hatman, a crimefighter. After that, is a mystery.

Username: almost-there | Not The Author

Name: Dorukomets

Previous Battle: The Grand Battle (Wiki) | The Grand Battle II (Wiki)

Gender: Male

Species: Spectral Entity

Associated Color: #BF0000; fourth box down, top-left. Because three greens is one too many.

Description: Dorukomets was a boastful, overconfident failure: egocentric and quick to anger, but never anywhere near as successful as he claimed. He is not like this any longer, though Dying thrice has made him uncertain of his abilities, and thinking about his past accomplishments (or lack thereof) tends to send him into a funk. He is also slightly paranoid schizophrenic from having been ten-thousand people at once. He tries to maintain a facade of confidence, but his oft unfocused gaze and subtly awkward movements give him away for the emotional wreck he has become.

Physically, Dorukomets is something of an idealized caricature of himself. He stands six-foot-eight, has flowing golden shoulder-length locks, hazel eyes, a deep, authoritative voice, chiseled features, and a cultured stubble. Everything about him shouts I Bleed Money And Power, from his solid diamond pavise with an obsidian etching of him slaying seven dragons at the same time, to his platinum armor with gold trim and embedded rubies. His greatsword is particularly ornate, with a golden hilt and a slab-'o-metal blade forged of meteorite and engraved with glowing crimson runes. The blade's original mother-of-pearl luster has been tarnished red from long-dried bloodstains.

He used to think he glowed with an inner light, but in reality the glow is because he's a ghost. This is also how he survives with a jagged, sickly wound down his back (he doesn't).

This over-exaggeration of his characteristics also carries over to his...

Weapons and Abilities: Dorukomets is now as strong as he once liked to claim, and wields the aforementioned multiple-ton greatsword with ease. He could probably cave your skull with just his fists, though. The runes in his sword channel fire magic, though he only learned that these powers go beyond setting the blade alight very shortly before being summoned to The Grand Battle. Additionally, he has all the benefits of being a ghost, including flight and intangibility - though he tends to ignore these, as he doesn't like to remember that he's dead.

Biography: Firstborn in a family of knights and heir to the undisputed greatest knight of all time, Dorukomets constantly boasted of his ancestor's exploits as a child, convincing himself and everyone else that he would surpass even his father's glorious exploits. Such high expectations proved unsustainable, however - Dorukomets had no patience to learn combat techniques or the laws he was supposed to uphold. He only managed to qualify for and maintain his knighthood due to his father's untimely death and the king's abundance of pity. Repeatedly failing assignments due to a combination of inexperience and poor judgement, most of his time was spent in taverns spinning wild and obviously-exaggerated tales of his exploits. He eventually met his end when he was shot in the back during one particularly out-of-hand barfight.

In death, he was plagued by the guilt of all his failures, and constantly wandered the lands trying to prove himself. He actually did much better than he had while alive, since he couldn't actually die - but fame in death isn't the same as fame in life. He was a rumor at best, and never referred to by his true name; no one believed the incredible Lost Knight could be someone as pathetic as Dorukomets.

Then the Grand Battle happened.

Thoroughly disoriented by the sudden shift in existence, but confident that this was his chance to finally atone for his past life, his first act was to try killing the most dangerous contestant, Lutherion. He failed predictably, and was absorbed into Lutherion's necromantic Wightmaw Arm. Dorukomets lay dormant until a series of bizarre circumstances forced him out of the arm, all the residents of the arm into him, and that whole conglomeration of souls into The Grand Battle II.

At this point, Dorukomets had little of his sanity. He'd shared Lutherion's arm with thousands of constructs the necromancer used as his undead minions - mentally taxing in its own right - but now he was vying with those spirits for control of his own body and, predictably enough, failing miserably. The realization that he had beaten the Grand Battle in spite of "losing" was of little consolation. Even that small victory was short-lived, as he was once again killed and consumed, this time by an interdimensional supersoldier mercenary robocop known as THE SUNSET, who was driven insane by the same spirits that had infested Dorukomets and killed shortly thereafter. Dorukomets presumably super-died when the spirit energy absorbed by The Sunset was consumed in an attempt to repair his chassis.


Legacy Version:

Spoilered for size.

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SpoilerUsername:almost-there
Name:Dorukomets.
Gender:N/A.
Race:Spectral entity.
Weapon:Sword
Abilities: Limited telekinesis, super strength, limited pyrokinesis, flight, ability to pass through walls
Description: (Physical)A glowing ghost with very shiny decorative armor, a stern expression on his unwavering face, a blood-red sword, and an inexplicably pulsating shield. Hs armor is very intricate, with spiked shoulder plates, a gauntlet of pure diamond that is covered in shining rubies, some boots made of solid stone with tribal etchings upon the toes and heels, an iron chest plate bearing his royal symbol, and a glowing helmet of undescribable beauty.

(Mental)An egotistiocal jerk, as well as a sore loser. He always shows himself as a great hero, despite his inability to kill even the smallest creature. He hides his failings and flaws, always hiding behind his intricate and fancy armor, letting that prove his greatness and worth. He tries to come off a hero by talking in a deep voice and telling tall tales about how he slayed all sorts of non-existant beasties.

Biography:A knight born into a wealthy family, who inherited his fancy armor and swords from his father, one of the greatest knights in his time. Even though he always failed the missions and tasks given to him by the king, he was kept simply because the king always felt sorry for the lad. His last task given to him was to defend the castle from invaders with the other knights. He was killed there by a stray arrow, piercing his backside and heart. He now haunts the living world, still trying to prove his worth.

One fulfilled reserve, Nottles Will Not Shut The Fuck Up Edition

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Spoiler

Name: Sereno Dementis and Steinwaffe
Previous Battle: The Battle Royale S2
Gender: Male and Male
Species: Ghost and Gargoyle, respectively
Associated Color: Let's reach a nice compromise and say #208020.
Weapons/Abilities: Steinwaffe can fly, ingest rock, and has physical strength triple that of a human. His claws are tipped with silver; his horns, iron. Sereno is less a ghost who can actually do useful shit and more of a probably-utterly-confused spirit inexplicably bound to the gargoyle. He's got his own eyes and his own voice, but is completely intangible. Sereno harks from a more modern day and age than the golem, so can at least advise him on that kind of thing.
Description: Steinwaffe is a gargoyle - kinda-misshapen humanoid, made of stone, wings, claws, bit of an underbite. True to his original maker's intentions for him to be a guardian, he's naturally protective - especially of Sereno, who he vaguely remembers feeling sorry for when they suffered together in the snafu that was the Delicious Engagement/Battle Royale. He's somewhat lost his faith in benevolent higher powers and their cults after what the last two did to him (and Sirius may have had a smiting hand in it), but isn't the type to hold a grudge.
Sereno, understandably, thinks his life/whatever-the-hell-this-is is a godawful mess. He appreciates the fact Steinwaffe's a protector of a less psychotic/screechy variety than his previous one. He's still constantly looking over his shoulder, or freaking out whenever there's a twinge in his head - terrified of Umbra returning and ruining this rather pleasant existence he's found himself back in. Sure, it's weird - but most of Sereno's life has been weird.
Biography/Mortography: Steinwaffe kicked demon arse in a very whacky technomagical zombie-infested 20th-century Europe; Sereno had an abnormal childhood suffering while some kind of devil child hellbent on protecting him fought its way out of his headspace. Together, THEY FIGHT CRIME. In reality, they both fell foul of two douchey jerkasses (one with wings, one without) in the first "proper" round of BRS2. Steinwaffe was smote into rubble; Sereno fell/was not saved from falling into a colossal meat grinder. Somewhere along the line, someone either picked their souls out or just picked out Sereno's and pulled Steinwaffe from another battle or really I dunno what happened just insert weird time shit and bam a gargoyle and a ghost come out and they're totally gonna be bros.

Username: Yousodumb
Name: Professor Armidillo Reccxer
Gender: Male.
Race: Species. Human.
Colour: color=#800040
Weapon: The Cane of Materialistic Probability, it can change the composition or mass of any object. Takes some time to recharge, however.
Abilities: He is the scientist that made the Cane of Materialistic Probability. That's pretty much it.
Description:A Well built 1890's scientist with a top hat and a fancy suit. A little eccentric, but not too crazy. Has one of those Snidely whiplash mustaches.
Biography: once a normal scientist who was one day visited by Lord Reginald Quickington. The speedster helped The professor break the Materialistic barrier, enabling him to create The Cane of Materialistic Probability.

Name: Quantos Xodarap
Previous Battle: Glorious Championship
Gender: Male
Species: Messiah Cyborg
Associated Color: Dearie me. Matrix green seems like an improvement, don't you think?

Weapons/Abilities:Quantos's staff was destroyed in the accident that claimed his saintly life, and as such he is now reduced to gentlemanly fisticuffs. And the power of TIME ITSELF.

TIME ITSELF:
Quantos retains the ability to slow down and speed up objects, only better and flashier. No longer limited by a finite energy source, Quantos can draw on the energies of the SPACE BEYOND SPACE, NEEDLE AT THE SPIRE OF SOMETHING... TIME RELATED... CONTINUUM GYROSCOPE PLACE to power his chronomantic activities. That's not what chronomantic means! He can jump through time at the risk of losing his relative location in the fabric of time and becoming trapped somewhere else until he can figure out how to get back. Sadly, TIME ITSELF is kind of a dick and it has its own mysterious agenda that Quantos has to follow OR ELSE. He only has limited use of the incomprehensible mastery of the fabric of time that his powers give him before TIME ITSELF comes down there and tells him to KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF QUANTOS YOU ARE GOING TO WAKE THE NEIGHBORS SO HELP ME GOD I WILL HIT YOU WITH THIS BROOM UNTIL YOUR TEETH FALL OUT. TIME ITSELF isn't even Quantos' real dad!

His arm is no longer a cannon. It is just an arm.

Description:

Quantos is a man reborn. Except a cyborg, so like... half a man. And reborn in the spiritual sense. Also the physical one. Now partially possessed (some might say enslaved, but are they right???) by the power of TIME ITSELF, Quantos is 300% more glowy and his super cool Time Arm has been replaced by one made out of car parts. It does not do anything except be an arm made out of car parts. He has a look of deep and troubled sadness in his green eyes, one of which is mechanical. It shoots low-level beams of TIME ITSELF that are just strong enough to see the recent past or future of an object. If Quantos ever cried, he would cry streams of pure time. Quantos has never cried.

Ever since dying and then being un-died, the messianic cyborg has chilled the fuck out a little bit. He's read some Shakespeare. He's walked on beaches and picked up and shells and like, listened to them... I hate the beach so much. He heard the ocean in the shells okay. Jesus. It's just blood pumping around anyway, that's what I heard.

Quantos is mad cool and a better person than you, always. No exceptions.

Biography: wrote like twelve pages about this

Quantos was super cool and then he died to save drunk driving or whatever. And Anomaly was all "no XX you can't kill Cailean and keep Quantos that's dumb" and I was like "you're dumb", but I didn't mean it, Noms and I are bros. Best bros. I don't think I told him that oh my god he thinks I hate him doesn't he, oh my god

Anyways TIME ITSELF... split.... there were parallel universes involved. Like, several. Anyways this particular Quantos got resurrected Jesus-style, look, is this too sacrilegious? I went to Catholic school for seven years, I honestly can't tell anymore. Maybe not Jesus-style. Maybe just some guy who got resurrected. Quantos isn't even Jewish. I think. You know what, I'm just going to say he's not. He can be a Buddhist, Buddha was all about time travel.

TIME ITSELF has unfinished business, basically, and it needs at least one Quantos to wrap things up before he dies for reals this time. This Quantos is not the same as the one running the contest. He is not half a dead dude.

Everyone is playing bad characters whether ironically or straight, and I'm going to be playing a character I've already played. One who I like and all that but who isn't really going to be in the spirit of the thing. How about this instead:

Username: Mr.Gauss
Name: "Greyve"
Previous Battle: Inexorable Altercation (wiki)
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Oni
Color: FF8040
Weapons/Abilities: Greyve specialises in hand to hand combat. To facilitate this he wears heavy leather gauntlets studded with metal spikes, and matching greaves. Being a half-oni he considers himself to have the best of both worlds; the intelligence and cunning of a human and the strength and dexterity of a demon. One unusual skill that he possesses is what is known as muscle mimicry, not that he's ever called it that. It allows him to replicate any physical action after viewing it as little as once. This allows him to learn his opponents combat techniques and effectively use them as easily as he would use his own.

Description: Greyve has dark skin, a shade of pale grey. His hair is long and brown, he generally ties it back to keep it out of his way. He is quite tall and some would say a hulking body shape. He is in good shape. Over his right eye there is a visible lump where a small horn is covered with skin.

Outside of battle Greyve considers himself to be playful. However his kind of playful is the kind that leaves someone else worse off. He is always looking for opportunities to cause 'mischief'. Which is not to say that he lacks the capability for seriousness. If required he can be as professional as anyone. In the heat of battle his oni physique produces a chemical which puts him into what is colloquially known as an 'assassin's high'. Almost in a trance he will not stop fighting until the chemical wears off. In these highs he has no awareness of what is going on. It is as though he goes feral.

Biography: As a kid Greyve never really fit in, likely due to the fact that his father was a demon. He did not let it get to him though. He got used to being on his own and now he would say that he prefers it. When he was old enough he grabbed the opportunity to travel the world by the balls. He had no close personal ties; his mother was dead and his father a monster.

His travels took him to some magnificent places; he saw sights that he would not have believed. On the other hand he also travelled through some shady towns, and the local criminals were always quick to spot a tourist. He was targeted by thugs numerous times; sometimes they just wanted his cash, other times they were out for blood. He had no choice but to defend himself. This was the first time that he experienced an assassin's high. He loved it.

He sought out more combat in the hopes of triggering the chemical from his half-oni side. He attacked random strangers and applied to tournaments. In general he sought out combat wherever he figured it might be found. He was then selected for a Grand Battle, something that if he was aware of he would probably be pleased about.

Original Profile:

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SpoilerUsername: Mr.Gauss
Name: "Greyve"
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Oni
Color: FF8040
Weapons/Abilities: Wears a set of gauntlets and greaves. His race gives him higher-than average strength and agility. Can learn the physical moves of an enemy, and, to a very lesser extent, learn the non-physical ones as well.
Description: Greyve tends to be a bit playful outside of battle, with a somewhat whitty and mischeavious nature; although he does act serious when the time demands it. However, inside of battle, he seems to lose control and be put under a sort of assasssin's high, if you will. As for his looks, he has a long, dark brunette hair. He has a large body frame with toned muscles. His skin is a darker shade than normal, as if in a permanent tan. He is fairly tall, around 6 foot 3 inches. He has a small, skin-covered horn protruding from his forehead over his right eye, splitting his hair.
Biography: Greyve didn't really fit in as a youngster, but he never let this get the better of him. In fact, he finds this a blessing, as it allowed him to roam the world freely. Through his travels, he was often the target of passerby crooks who would tried to mug, or in some cases, kill him. These conflicts led to Greyve gaining a lust for combat. So to kill the boredom of his lonesome travels, he started fighting random strangers, applied to tournaments, and just generally fought anything he could..And now he's here, in a place with with what looks like competent fighters. Greyve couldn't be happier even if he knew what was going on.

If anyone wants Thatix to play with then go for it. Same for Dove.

After checking with Lankie, he said he's totally cool with me playing Anarchy. Yaaay!

Username: Lankie Woffie!

Name: Dr. Anarchy (Real name Jessica Vesper)

Gender: Female

Race: Human

Color: Blue! #0000FF

Weapon: A death ray! A magnificent weapon which can fire lasers and doesn't require ammunition. Used too much though and it will over heat. (the laser is like a pew-pew laser, not a constant strem kinda laser, think star wars)
plus a variety of mechanical doodads

Abilities: Dr. Anarchy is nothing short of a genius! She can create what many great minds thought were impossible in mere days, chemistry, biology, physics. Any type of science she is a master of it!



Description: Dr Anarchy is a blonde woman of age 23. She wears a scientist coat, a common t-shirt and a pair of jeans underneath. She sports industrial rubber gloves, a pair of converse and some industrial goggles on her head. Finally a backpack, full of scientific stuff of death! She looks like a pretty normal 23 year old. Stray bit of blonde covering one eye, quite pretty. Her eyes are a piercing green. HOWEVER, Dr. Anarchy is anything but normal, she is a scientist of the mad variety, although only by default. She wishes to rule the world, but only because the world is 'dull'. Effectivley she wants to live in a comic book, as such she is incredibally over the top and nigh on never acts her age, much preferring a childlike persona. Don't let that think Dr Anarchy is harmless though: She has killed alot of people and caused many a catastrophy all in the name of making the world a more exciting place, she openly welcomes heroes to do battle with her, so that she may execute her flawless plans, which are terribly efficient and terribly over the top. Because she is a hyper genius she sees the plots to take her down as simple games and after the first 100 times it got a bit samey for her. Dr. Anarchy wanted something more chalenging and fun; the Cultivator answered her call.

History: Jessica Vesper was a normal girl with a normal life. When growing up there wan nothing to say that she was going to become the (arguably) crazy mad scientist to come. She enjoyed comic books immensly and was quite a tom boy. When taking maths amd science classes she found that she was the top of her class everytime, she would get perfect scores in the hardest of classes and still say it was too easy. It was never really explained, it just seemed to click effortlessly with her. She quickly went through school, high school, college and University, never slipping up with anything, perfect grades every time (except for PE...she wasn't very good at PE...). Finally at the age of 20 she was working with a top secret government agency to develop new weaponry. Jessica did so easily, but found herself increasingly bored. She knew the creations she were making wern't going going to be used in years time, or for anything 'cool' for that matter. In a flash of memory she remembered all of the comics she read, the exciting worlds within them, the tales of heroes and villains. So, in a spontanious action, Jessica began stealling a variety of equipment and prototypes and began hiding them in a disuded secret goverment base. She didn't want to become a hero, because quite frankly, villains were much more fun to play as! At the age of 21, she pulled her first heist of a bank, armed with a jetpack and a death ray. Dr. Anarchy was born, all from simple boredom.

If schazer isn't going to make her reserve (because I remember her saying that she wanted to be Anarchy some time ago before this thread or summat) then I might enter as Keleth(who, just for kicks would be initially shapeshifted as Weo).
But that's only assuming that Schazer doesn't want in or something.

Scrolling upwards, it seems that Schazer did post a character and that this has not started for some other reason.
WOOOOOPS

The Timekeeper paced back and forth in the room, his eight* contestants bound to their spots by energies unfathomable by anyone with an I.Q. of under 280. They all stared at him with expressions ranging from perplexed to irritated to bored. As he reached the gateway, still glowing with flux energy, he licked his lips in anticipation. Then, he turned around, and raised his head up high.

"You eight* may be wondering why you're here today. No doubt you assumed your trials were over. Alas, they are not, and I have brought you back to the land of the living... albeit in an especially distant location. You are, as you have been told before, in a fight to the death, lasting seven rounds. Whomever lives longest shall have the duty of defeating me. I look forward to the process."

He took a deep breath, then continued. "Now, for introductions. First, we have Dekowin. A warrior, of noble birth, young but powerful. You will note her form, technically humanoid but stretching the boundaries of what qualifies. Be careful around her.

"Next up is Dr. Anarchy. An intellect to match mine, and an appearance just as pleasant, and naturally she only comes along after I find myself dead." He sighed wistfully. "Anyway, she has a deadly laser weapon and various other bits of gadgetry, plus I'm sure she could whip something new up on the fly, so don't let your guard down.

"After that, we have Greyve. As you can see, he is very large, due to his father being an oni. He can get rather... involved in battle, if he bothers to pay attention to it, so keep calm and carry on.

"Here we have, um, Hatman." He jerkily strode over to a nearby desk and leaned over, grabbed a stack of paper and double-checked his research notes, then nodded. "Right, Hatman. He's very British and gentlemanly, and fights using hat-based weaponry. He's also experienced in swordfighting and fifth-dimensional spatial recall, though, so don't underestimate him if you wish to survive."

The Timekeeper stared at the second suited man, standing across from that one, and blinked. He checked his notes, and then blinked again, before clearing his throat. "Dear god. Here we have Professor Army-dillo Rec-kik-sker... wait, no, never mind. Armadillo Reccxer. That cane of his can change the chemical composition and density of any object, however he sees fit. As you can surely tell, that can be quite powerful, so remain wary at all times.

"Oh, and here's a Buddhist version of me!" The Timekeeper waved to the time cyborg, who waved back in an identical manner. "Before I died, anyway. I have the power of TIME ITSELF, and crazy boxing skills. I picked Alternate Me here because he's a good benchmark-- if you can kill him, you can probably kill me! That said, it's a big if-- you'll have to bring your A-game against him!

"And this is Dorukomets. Once a boastful fool, who claimed to be a great warrior so much that he began to believe it himself. He was wrong, and then he died, but as a ghost he gained the power he always claimed to... possess, as it were. Due to his experiences as a ghost, he is also likely completely insane, so watch out!

"Finally, we have contestant* eight*, Steinwaffe and Sereno. A creature created by a priest and destroyed by an angel, bound to the ghost of a kid tormented by a creature that only wished to protect them. I'm not sure what they'll manage through synergy-- to be honest, that was sort of an unintended consequence of their materialization-- but, in the end, one of them has very sharp claws and horns, so they aren't to be trifled with."

At this, The Timekeeper smiled slightly, forcing his rotting flesh into a rather disconcerting position. "Now, then. Your first round shall take place in the Fitzpatrick Center. A vast behemoth of shops, restaurants, theaters, and gardens-- if you can imagine it, there are three in the Fitzpatrick Center. Unfortunately, a major war has been going on in the area, and as a major industrial, commercial and residential hub, you can imagine there's quite a bit of conflict over it. That said, you'd best be on the lookout for military personnel. Now then!" He began leading the contestants one by one through the dimensional gate, which dissolved their bonds before teleporting them away. "Make me proud!"

Show Content

SpoilerSo I just noticed Dekowin's color is too close to Hatman's. Consequently, I'm going to try out #BF00FF instead.

Dekowin handled the news that she had been entered into a battle to the death against her will with characteristic grace.

"REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGG GGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

She lunged at the first person she saw, a tall, green-skinned man with pointed ears standing behind a counter. She grabbed him by the neck and continued screaming.

"Some stupid fucking asshole time guy with a fucking robot arm pulled me out of my fucking castle right before I was going to give my stupid fucking bitch of a sister a piece of my fucking mind. Now tell me why the fuck I shouldn't take it out on you and your stupid fucking store."

He glanced at her nervously.

"I'll... um... I'll give you a discount?"

She glared at him.

"Do you think I'm here to fuckin' shop? I'm here to fuckin' kill some people. Starting with that asshole's clone or whatever the fuck he was. Got anything better than that?"

The shopkeeper gulped.

"W-well... I do have a treaty with Frank's Hardware... I could see if he'd be willing to provide you with anything?"

"Why the fuck would I want hammers and nails? Are you a fuckin' moron?"

"Oh, I'm s-sorry. I'm so nervous I forgot the full name of the store. It's Frank's Military Hardware."

She smiled and put the green man down.

"Now I'm interested."

Show Content

SpoilerWith apologies to Draykon, here is a rewrite of the first Dekowin post from ISS2, adapted for this game.

"REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGG GGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Dekowin's iron claws ripped into the first thing she saw that looked breakable- some sort of computer system attacked to the wall. With a loud *CRUNCH* bits and pieces of circuitry were torn right off, leaving deep claw marks on the console.
"Just who... the fuck... DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!" Dekowin couldn't stop herself from screaming. Almost immediately after her sister had just... EFFORTLESSLY... made a fucking WASTE of her ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE, this asshole robot timecop just tore her right out of HER FUCKING CASTLE seconds before giving that little bitch a piece of her mind!
She let out another scream, as she thrust her claws towards the automatic door. The door however, opened just before she made contact, and she fell through into the hallway. This just made her scream louder.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO THE FUCK YOU JUST PISSED OFF?! I'LL RIP YOU TO PIECES YOU ASSHOLE! YOU AND ANYONE WHO GETS IN MY FUCKING WAY!"

Alice hated this stupid crappy war. Hated hated hated it.

She worked in an appliance store. She had the luxurious job of stocking the shelves and taking inventory now and again. Boring, but it paid fine. Or used to, at least. Not much demand for toasters or dishwashers when you don't know if you're gonna live another day. The shop was was out-of-the-way and not really prime territory by anyone's standards, though, so her boss had been letting them all sack out in the back room rather than risk going out and being caught by a patrol. It'd really been awesome about the whole war thing, all things considered.

But that meant she had to work perpetual overtime in a shop with few other employees and barely any shoppers, except mooks from The Franchises who always hit on her and never paid for anything. Alice had managed fairly well by being aggressively stubborn about everything, but she wasn't sure how long it'd be until she snapped and accidentally kicked someone in the face.

Alice was once again blotting out reality with depressing punk music, when she was distracted by a neon glow a couple of aisles over. They didn't sell anything that glowed neon that she knew of. Everything was all chrome and glass and plastic nowafuck, someone was turning on all the arclight dusters again, weren't they?

As it happened, they were not.

*****

How long ago? Barely a day since this travesty began. Not moments ago he'd been d- been sure he was dead. For the last time. This time. However that worked. And now he was once again conscripted to fight against his will until he of eight stood alone.

"Oi, you. Can I help yah?"

How many had he slain in the past? The blood on his blade had always been there, it seemed. But that was after hisâ?¦ untimely accident. In the Grand Battle, the only impact he'd managed to have was to make way for the second round. Now he'd been thrown into combat with failures from other battles.

"Guy! You buyin', or just restin' ya legs?"

Is that all he was? A failure?

"Loiterin' ain't allowed nomoah, so unless yah goin' home widdat-"

"No!"

He took a deep, shuddering breath and stood, supporting himself on his sword. Only then did he become aware that he'd drawn his blade and slammed it into the ground; aware of the young girl he had frightened; aware that the vacuum he'd knelt staring at did not have a multitude of skeletal arms protruding from its chassis.

"I... N-no, I am... well. Your offer of aid is... no less welcome."

The knight rubbed the introspection from his eyes, shaking his head.

"Ah, I forget my manners. I am Lord Dorukomets! You may have heard of me."

The girl stared at him blankly.

"The Lost Knight? Protector of All that is Pure and Just? Slayer of a Thousand Beasts? Demon's Bane, Siege Weapon, One Man Army? ...Anything?"

She shook her head. The phantom sighed, bowing deeply.

"No matter. How may I be of service, m'lady?"

"Yah can 'be of service' by gettin' yer sword outta the floor and yer ass out the door."

While whatever the rules to which this battle conformed enabled Dorukomets to understand the language, he still had difficulty deciphering Alice's dialect, and his scowl came a few seconds too awkward.

"Well if that is my receipt I believe I shall away! Good day. Ungrateful wench."

The knight almost managed to storm out of the shop properly, but the effect was lost when he spent a good minute figuring out the automatic sliding doors.

Alice shook her head and went back to work. Even for an Exo, that guy was weird.

Upon arrival in this new location Greyve immediately collapsed to one knee. The last thing he remembered he had been in the backalleys of a lawless town known amongst it's inhabitants as Vice.

He had hung around these alleyways all morning, just waiting for some rube to wander down here, and he was getting impatient. He didn't need the guy's money, the cash to feed himself was a secondary concern to what Greyve wanted from whoever happened to be unlucky enough to cross his path. Eventually a dapper man in a top hat and black shirt with coattails and a cane happened down the dark alleyway. What an easy target, Greyve had to wonder how he had even made it through the gates of Vice without being descended upon by the myriad thugs that hung around in that district. But that was not something he cared about. Greyve let himself fall from the ledge upon which he had been perched, his fist flamming into the dirt floor, startling the man.

THIS WAS IT.

The man, to his credit, recovered quickly and pulled a sword from his cane. The two men circled one another, Greyve impatiently slamming his heavy guantlets together.

HE COULD FEEL IT COMING.

The man slashed experimentally towards him, a blow Greyve easily parried with one of his thick gauntlets. Immediately he swung forward knocking away the man's blade with his other gauntlet and then slamming into him with his whole body. Greyve stood over the downed man for a moment, savouring the build up of that delightful toxin.

HE WAS SO CLOSE.

His body trembled in anticipation, he raised a heavy fist and readied to slam it down on his prey. And then he was gone. Whisked away to this battle.

If he had been able to move or speak while being held in that room with those others he would have screamed and thrashed. To be so close to the high and to be denied it, it was so frustrating. Now, in the shop where he knelt he felt empty, drained of emotion and energy. And his need was still as potent as ever.

He stood up straight and examined his surroundings. It was all books, shelves and shelves of pointless boring books. He scrambled atop the nearest shelf and sat upon his haunches looking over the shop for someone to fight. Was this a good place to wait for someone to fight? Were there likely to be people he could ambush coming through here? Greyve could not imagine there would be, nobody worth fighting would be likely to wander into a library, and besideswhich the need was too strong. He was going to have to set out and find some prey to hunt, he couldn't wait for it to come to him.

One would think an omnipotent God-thing would be able to teleport a chap around the multiverse without the chap's accumulating any dust. But no, he could see it. A little chalky substance trying to hide inside the fibers of his coat. That wouldn’t do.

He carefully shrugged off the coat, dusted it off, turned it over, shook it out, turned it over again, shook it out some more, examined it further, and settled on carefully folding it over a hatrack. Perhaps it would be better if he marked the jacket off as a loss and fought in his shirtsleeves. He examined himself in a mirror on the wall. Without the coat he looked rather mismatched. Hmmm.

Hatman delicately put finger and thumb around his left shirtcuff and pulled it a few inches down, exposing an aggressive amount of wrist. The sleeve bunched up around his bicep, giving him a formidable look. He matched it with his other sleeve, shot his reflection a look that said, I may be in my cups and matched it with a pose that said I’m ready for fisticuffs. The overall effect was rather breathtaking. Hatman struck a devilish grin and tried not to break a sweat. “Well, sirrah, it looks like you’ve just about done it now, have you?” he asked his reflection, menacingly. “Took me for just another fop, did you? Your mistake, sirrah. I’m the Queen’s own Renaissance man, I am. I’ve the constitution of a Negroid, the discipline of an Oriental and the keen intellect fitting an Oxford man. Not to mention my hat.” He doffed his cap at the reflection. “You’ll find nothing up my sleeve, dear fellow. My hiding spots are far more—“ a rose popped into his hand, and his reflection gasped. “—Subtle.” Hatman offered the rose to his reflection, who waved it away. “No need to be modest, my good sir. A beautiful white rose for a most beautiful white gentleman.” He took a step towards the mirror and lowered his voice to a more intimate tone. “Would you care to dance, my good sir? In the ballroom as in the field of gentlemanly combat, I have both a God-given knack and the benefit of many years’ schooling. Why, the Shah of Iran himself once said that the desert lands had never seen such—“

“Sir,” came a voice. “You’re scaring away potential business.”

Hatman looked around. Yes, he was in a haberdashery, wasn’t he? Hardly a place for such… autocamaraderie. He had a great respect for the hatmaker’s trade, for obvious reasons, although this institution in particular seemed a bit shabby. For one thing, there was nothing lining the walls or shelves that wasn’t a soldier’s helmet. Hatman strode over to the counter, the very picture of dignity. “In the headwear trade now, eh?” he asked, his eyebrows sort of quivering with what he hoped was amiability. “That’s a good business for a young man like yourself, yes, quite.” It was indeed a young man, soft of the face, with a dash of chestnut in his hair that hinted at an Irish grandparent. The poor fellow, thought Hatman. Plain as the freckles on his face, and I wonder if he even knows. Well, he’s no stallion for the racetrack, but there may be a space for him in my stables. “The vogue this year trends towards the hemispherical and bulletproof, now, doesn’t it? Speak up, lad, you’re not here for display purposes.”

“Well, sir, there’s a war on. I’ve adapted my business model.” As the lad spoke, his throat wobbled unappealingly. Hatman had a sudden urge to cut that unseemly Adam’s apple right out of him… but that wouldn’t do.

“Yes, lad, and there’s nothing wrong with that, a little war profiteering. See, I came hoping to have my top hat replaced—“

“Sir,” piped up the lad, rather rudely. “You teleported in here, panicked and confused.”

“Just so, and my hat’s been a bit tight around my skull. Such tightness may constrict the cognitive aether, produce sour thoughts. I spoke to a doctor once.”

“Well, sir, if you buy a helmet, then when you walk outside and get yourself shot in the head, you’ll get to speak to a doctor again, instead of St. Peter.”

Hatman sneered politely. “Quite the little silk merchant, aren’t we lad? Why, I’d almost take you for a Jew, if your face didn’t betray… other ancestries.” That ought to put him down a peg. He knows that I know, now. The rules of the game are laid clear.

Yet the impertinent chap persisted. “I’m going to have to insist that you buy something or get out.”

He reeks of root vegetables! Drastic measures are in order. “Now come to think of it, this hat might be a bit closer to your own size.” I hope he doesn’t have lice. “It might serve to cover up the ignoble shape of your head.” He put the hat on the boy.

The occult secrets underlying what happened over the next minute have never been properly documented, and if they had, it would be unwise and unChristian to repeat them.

As the proprietor found himself indisposed (unconsciousness has that effect, was the jest Hatman made to himself), Hatman took down the “open” sign from the door on his way out. A heavy-caliber bullet bounced harmlessly off his top hat and came to rest atop the brim. He heard the marksman yell “shit,” and drop into an alleyway. Hatman harrumphed at this cowardly display and looked up and down the street. Fitzpatrick center was rather bourgeois, wasn’t it? It mattered not. Being a man who stands on his own merits, Hatman had never been one to pay overmuch heed to where he was seen or in whose company, or so he told himself now. Besides, it would be a brisk afternoon walk, and he knew the way. Thanks to his hat, he now knew all the ways, and the way back besides.

Luckily for Prof. Armidillo Reccxer, he had been teleported inside a store that specialized in various kinds of paper, along with the organization and binding thereof. He reached for the fanciest-looking journal he could find, pulled out a pen, and began a new journal. He had a new objective.

It seems I lost my old journal before I died, so this one will have to do. I’ll miss it dearly, it was a fine book.

Strangely enough though, even though I can recall my death, gruesome as it was, my final breath in that grand battle… I am now alive once again. What great forces these are, so can undo the finality that is Death himself! I am not sure if I want to laugh or cry, to return to my grave or to dance on it. I am tired of the apparent endlessness of it all, and I simply want to rest.

However, I think I may have found a reason to live…

“HEY, YOU. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOIN’ WITH MY WARES!?”

The professor turned towards the rather indecent speech, to be met with the rage filled face of the storekeeper. He felt the jab of a pistol in his stomach, but Reccxer simply smiled at the rage-filled man.

“YOU HAVE TO FUCKIN’ PAY FOR THAT, YOU KNOW!”

“I know such things very well, sir, but thrusting your gun into my side isn’t a particularly good way to promote customer satisfaction.”

The storekeeper’s rage lessened a bit as he replied saying, “So you have the money to pay for that journal?”

“How much is it?”

“$4.99.”

“I’m afraid I only have a quarter on me, good sir,” the professor replied, checking his pockets.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?”

Reccxer shook his head.

“No, sir, such a time as this is not time for jest, I promise you.”

“What’s keepin’ me from shootin’ you, right ‘ere, right now? Ya stole my wares, and now you’re bein’ cheeky with me, you stupid upperclass dolt!”

In reply, the otherwise cheerful professor frowned. A fire burned behind his eyes, and his voice wavered with anger as he replied.

“Well, then, sir, I’ll inform you that today, I might have let you shoot me, in cold blood, allowing me to once again return to the earth I had began to become accustomed. Oh, I yearn for that soil, the precious embrace of death. I hear it calling to me, and I want nothing more than to die.

However, sir, today is not that day. Because, even though I may be imprisoned against my will, deprived of the honor of death, I have found something worth living for. Love, sir. That is what I have found. I sat across for him for about the span of three minutes, but now I must find him here, among this war zone, this wretched battle. For at first sight, I fell in love, improper though it may be.

And so, sir that is what is stopping you from killing me right here, right now. The name of my lover, the one I have been searching for all these years.”

Reccxer lifted his cane and smashed it on the storekeeper’s foot, changing its density to that of several apartment buildings. The concrete cracked under him, and he fell through the floor, tumbling into the darkness of the Fitzpatrick Center’s basement. The professor stood at the edge, looking into the infinite black, and spoke.

“And that name… is Hatman.”

The Fitzpatrick Centre’s branch of Pebblebrooks was in a prime spot. Located on the second floor it was at the top of the escalators, in front of the shop there was a small seating area with benches and planters filled with soil (though sadly no longer any plants). It might not be a prime spot in terms of attracting customers (very low footfall, nobody wants to read books any more nowadays), but it was a prime spot in terms of tactical value. Whoever held the Pebblebrooks held the second floor. It was for this reason that the seating area was now lined with sandbags and upturned bookshelves. Soldiers in Pebblebrooks logoed camo jackets were bunkered down enjoying a Meatles Ecstasy Meal, when suddenly from behind them there was a crash of glass, and the Pebblebrooks proprietor was flung out of his shop in an explosion of books and glass. Standing framed in the shattered doorway was a hulking grey man with huge leather gauntlets and a strange look upon his face.

“Who wants a piece of Greyve?” He yelled, slamming his fists down into the ground, cracking the laminate floor beneath him. The assembled soldiers quickly grabbed their Meatles logo-emblazoned weaponry and opened fire on the Half Oni. His heart was pounding against his chest, his blood was pumping hard. The chemical began to flow.

THIS WAS MORE LIKE IT.

Fireworks smashed into endless tracts of leather, colourful explosions but oh so far away. Scarlet roses dripping water drip after drop along the thin mountain. Unending neon sun beat down over plastic valley. One had already ended, his remains drifting away before Greyve’s eyes, dust in the wind. They made such pretty patterns. Greyve danced. The trees they danced with him, stubborn and stable unwilling to move to his beat but wanting in on the grim tango regardless. Greyve was a lumberjack. His twin axes cleaving red sap from detached branches. And he was laughing, prancing through the cornfield on a sunny summer’s day. The corn ducked and weaved, and dust exploded where he laid his hands. And all the corn fled away from him, their spores leaving spinning trails in the air as they spiralled past him. Into the dead forest, into the babbling brook, Greyve followed.

“What the fuck was that?” Corporal Chang demanded, as they took shelter at the back of Pebblebrooks. Though they had seen what he had seen the rest of his squadron didn’t have an answer. The creature’s eyes had glazed over, turning as grey as his skin, and he had attacked. His movements were slick and unpredictable. Bullets were effortlessly deflected by his gauntlets, physical assault was as effective as punching a stone wall. The creature had been moving less like he was attacking, more like he was dancing, but with each dance step inadvertently causing harm to those around him. Hall lay dead, his chest sporting a hole where Greyve’s fist had slammed right through it.

“He’s coming!” yelled Simmons. “Oh fuck we are so screwed!” And the squadron opened fire again.

Water trickled underfoot, splashing merrily across smooth stones. Around Greyve the trunks of dead trees surrounded him, pressing down upon him. They were a fog, and this place was cut off from the sun. Dark and dingy, funguses dripped from decayed branches, splaying their leaves out upon the riverbed beneath him. Bickering goblins heard off in the distance, their words no more than cracks and pops, the noise of angry static snaking through the decomposing woods. The grey knight raised his hammers and threw them into the husks of felled behemoths. Splinters of wood circled overhead as the rotting forest collapsed around him. Swarms of grotesque green imps, chattering away. Greyve was the wave that washed them away, a foam of red staining the flow of the river beneath. Bleaching the cavern walls maroon, fists slammed into puckish physique, blow after blow after blow. He emerged from the cavern no longer grey but a knight ensanguined.

Time turned; empires fell. Quantos opened his eyes.

The river of Time flowed through the fabric of existence, burningly bright against his single remaining organic eye. Everything he saw was radiant with its colorless fury; shelves stocked with the trappings of a materialistic life glowed with their impending disintegration. He shook his head, laughing sadly; what use was stockpiling the debris of mortal existence? Everything would return to dust in time. Nothing was safe from the ravages of-

WE GET IT. GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR, QUANTOS, WE’VE GOT SHIT TO DO.

The noble cyborg winced slightly as the voice reverberated inside his head like a jet engine in a meat locker. He still hadn’t gotten used to this particular penance. Ever since Time Itself-

DON’T YOU TALK ABOUT ME.

Quantos narrowly restrained himself from gritting his teeth. Patience was a virtue, after all; there would be time enough for complaints when he was dead. Again.

“Are you, er…”

He turned in surprise to face a gangly teen of indeterminate gender in a disheveled uniform awkwardly holding a broom. Dust was gathered on the youth’s clothing, presumably from cleaning, with a battered pair of Chuck Taylors trailing dirt on the tiled floor. Holding the broom out like a half-hearted barrier, the newcomer eyed him with an even mixture of apathy and distrust.

“You looking for something? Cause you’re not s’posed to be back here. This is employees-only.”

“We’re all looking for something, child,” Quantos said serenely. He curled the fingers of one hand into an ancient warding gesture he’d learned on the plains of Africa. “I am simply a wayward traveler, just as you.”

The youth’s heavily-lined eyes narrowed. “Uh huh. Well, look, I gotta ask you to leave, I’m-”

“This has been pleasant,” the cyborg said brightly, staring at something invisible on the far wall. “I must continue on, though. The winding path of my many-threaded destiny demands that we must sadly part.”

“Are you-”

There was a boom and a flash of hideously green light, and when the slightly shaken androgyne dared to look again, the mysterious man had gone. There was only the slightest whisper of ABOUT FUCKING TIME to indicate that he had ever been there.

The youth sank to the floor, overcome by emotion and the sudden desire to admit that everything the cyborg had ever said was right.

________________

Boom, flash; Quantos was standing out in the open, labcoat billowing in a nonexistent breeze. Around him rose the white arches of modern commercial architecture, pocked here and there by cannonfire and laser burns and carrying the occasional sconce of depressed-looking flowers. Distantly he heard gunshots. A nearby barricade caught his eye, jammed between half of a bench and a gurgling fountain. It seemed to have been made from a number of storefront advertisements, and an array of women’s lingerie glowed happily at him as he strode toward it.

A metal arm forged from the remnants of an early 20th century car plunged behind the barricade and emerged with the collar of a highly startled soldier, who yelped in surprise and tried to sucker-punch the air. Quantos grinned at him reassuringly. “You see what I did there! Technically I haven’t moved at all; I merely jumped to a point in time where the earth’s rotation would bring this exact spot to where I had been a few minutes previously. Of course, taking into account the nature of time travel I had to adjust for a few years here and there, nothing major. I could do it in my sleep!” He laughed merrily. The soldier stared in horrified confusion.

“Please, I’m just looking for a paycheck-”

“Simplicity itself!” Quantos said gleefully, and dropped the soldier back behind the wall of bras. He strode off with powerful steps, calling over his shoulder, “You could probably manage it yourself, if you were me! Ha ha ha!”

The soldier sat frozen for a brief second as the cyborg’s booming voice faded off into the distance, confused as to why he suddenly felt deeply ashamed for not being the man who had just assaulted him. Nervously he fumbled for his radio; pressing a button on its side, he spat, “Position 13, reporting a potentially hostile individual, possibly in possession of teleportation fields, apparently acting alone!”

The radio snarled back with a rush of static. “You’re not the first to call in with a story like that, Private. Hold your position until further orders arrive. Report any other disturbances ASAP.”

“Yessir.”

“And Private?”

“Sir?”

“Heavy reinforcements are on their way. Between you and me, if you hear engines, run.”

“Good to have you on my side, sir.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and get back to shooting, soldier, this war's not over yet.”