The Big Damn Fight

Stars filled the sky.

No, not literal stars, these stars were much more beautiful. They were the Wyrgyrd Slimesisters, pustules of slime famed across their galaxy for their acrobatic stunts. Zaiza drove into the audience as soon as they started. Nobody noticed the sudden huge mechanical monstrosity, as they were too enamored with the Wyrgyrds. Zaiza was no exception. He was so enamored, he moved closer and ran over a few entities, possibly killing them. Nobody cared.

~~~

"Who am I? Are you telling me that you've never heard of III☆? Ah yes, I knew that would ring a bell. Yes, it is none other than I. Scourge of the skies, bane of the land, despair of the deep. The fastest and most dangerous Multitech racer, III☆!"

~~~

"Hey, dolls."

Zaiza was in a smaller mech pull-out, made only for walking around in casual company. He was currently backstage, accosting the Wyrgyrds. How did he get there? Shenanigans, of course.

"Nice show y'all put on there. Real nice. Why, even my Multitech couldn't have done that, and I am a famed Multitech racer, after all."

They giggled, a blurbing and pleasant sound. None of them knew what Multitech racing was, but it was too late. III☆'s famous charm had won them over already. They chattered to each other in a foreign language, their eyestalks looking back at him. He was looking back at their appealing lumps, and their sexy undulating eyestalks.

"What do you say to me giving you a show of my own?"

He pulled apart his mech's faceplates, just so he could give them a roguish wink.

~~~

"My motivations? Well, I'm just here to [bleep] around and have fun, honestly. This thing you've got going seems like a good way to kill time. Hate to admit it, but a life of fame and glory gets a bit boring sometimes. So I came here to this charming little planet, and here it was! Some more opportunities to show off. Well, why the hell not?"

~~~

Yes, he decided. This was heaven. Who cared about the Big Damn Fight? Let that gross slug do whatever she wanted. As tendrils of slime caressed his body, he knew that this was all he ever wanted, a life of decadence.

~~~

"What I can do? Like, my talent? Kicking some [bleep]ing ass, of course. You'll see some truly thrilling and grisly fights. All in the name of entertainment, of course!"

“Would you look at this?”

Before the Executive, the silvery sphere smoked, black patches marking the shrapnel arms where enemy fire had ripped its weaponry apart. The hatch lay hanging off invisible hinges, and cables snaked from within to without, magnetic eddies powering…

A laptop.

The corpse of William William William, in fact, not that Raime knew or would care if she did. It hummed with a nanotechnological prowess - a potential untapped. Page after page of spreadsheet unrolled before her, extrapolated from her wrecked mech’s sensors and turned into action reports and executive summaries.

And frankly, it was a mess. Raime hadn’t much in the way of background when it came to the management of the entire multiverse, but the eleven-dimensional flowcharts hovering onscreen suggested a level of complexity orders of magnitude more than the minimum required - criminal inefficiency, if she did dare suggest it herself.

“What do you think?”

“I think,” Ex-Private Cole began, “that we’re all bloody [bleep]ed up the [bleep] with a [bleep]ing [bleep] without a [bleep] [bleep] [bleep] and a [bleep] for a [bleep] [bleep] [bleep] [bleep] [bleep] [bleep] [bleep] [bleeeeeeeeeeep]“

“I am absolutely glad I didn’t understand any of that!” Raime said brightly.

In the hatch, the princess sat weeping quietly.

“Shh.” Nova stepped around the royal, clambering out from the cramped mech’s interior. In one hand she still held a bright pink autogun barrel, scavenged from her own mech, which lay in a smoking heap some distance away. “Where are we?”

“Backstage, I think.”

“We’re not entered?” A faint note of panic entered the superstar’s voice. “I’m not in a talent show?” Casually, she scooped up Raime’s head and locked eyes with it. “What kind of a crazy world is this, anyway?!”

Raime tapped at a few keys from across the room. “I could get you in, if you’d like. This place is criminally undermanaged.”

SpoilerShow

One week left in this round! That means five days left until an eliminee gets chosen. Happy writing!

“Talents? No, I fear that you are mistaken. K’tishians use talents. Jarlanders use pennigs.”
While the Host, ever-smiling and collected on camera, laughed politely at what she took to be a glib remark, Call-me-Cadel tilted his head and mouthed a silent slew of what might be curses or prayers. The Host, choosing to ignore him for now, pressed on.
"Well one of your friends certainly thought that you had a fair few. And boy, with a life like hers, she's seen her fair share of winners and losers alike - that was Peppi, of course. Quite the story on that one."
"One can imagine."
"Well, why don't you tell us some of what you can do then? We've got our fair share of singers this year, but one of your other friends said he was a mean fighter. How about yourself?"
"I can do both of those, yes."
“Why don’t you give us some more details then? How do you fight? How do you sing?”
Also Wilhelm paused, as though her question required due consideration. After a moment of thought, which Cadel just knew would need to be cut, Also responded. “Well.”
Call-me-Cadel made a motion with his hands to pause the filming. Cameramen leaned back in their seats and microphones were lifted away as the producer walked over to try to level with this strange, strange man.
“Look,” he said, placing one hand on the table between the host and the would-be-contestant. “Talent is only half of a talent show. The other half is, obviously, show. That means we need a story. The audience needs to know what makes you special. Tell us what makes you you. What have you done that would make anyone care whether or not you can sing worth a damn?”
“Very well then. I am the twin brother of Wilhelm, who was called the Great. Before I served the Carp, it was by his side that I earned my glory. We fought Sidhe and Dokkalfar, Fomoiri and Jotnar, and bested them all in honorable combat. We sang the warrior hymns for the Leopard, the welcoming songs for the Stork, and the dirges of passage for the Carp - the goddess that I now serve. Since becoming her servant, I have hunted necromancers, ghouls, ghosts, and all others that would seek to use fel magic to defy death’s embrace. I have been called, at one time or another, the strongest oar in Jarland, the most silent of the wounded to be under a barber’s knife, and the greatest shot since Lokfar of the Strings. Will that suffice?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely yes. Now say all of that - whatever you just said about carps and sids - say that for the camera.”
Also Wilhelm blinked. “But why?”

Raime lead nova down a long hallway. She paused. “Ok, I’ve got you all signed up over the network. You’re up... Right now! I had to push back another entrant, but i'm sure they’ll be fine with waiting a few more hours to be on intergalactic tv. ”

She opened a door for Nova. “Right through here are the auditions! See you on the other side!”

Nova walked through, then turning around to ask a question, “On the other side of what?”

At first there was nothing but white, then suddenly she was in her childhood home. Nova was sitting at the piano and she felt small, much like she did all those years ago when she had first begun learning how to play. Over her shoulder were the people who called themselves her parents, looking upon her with a stern expression.. What was going on? Was Margot done with her?

A voice, detached and omnipotent spoke from nowhere in particular.

“Alexandria Albright grew up singing, playing classical music and dancing. She made it to regional competitions several times, and won a national competition for piano playing in the nation of America, on the planet Earth, of dimension C018Y.”

The scene shifted to the clubroom of her high-school. She could see herself in the full-length mirror. She was about ten years younger, and dancing. She stopped when she realized the absurdity of her situation. “What is this? Where am I?”

“But Ms. Albright wasn't interested in classical music, her heart sang for hip-hop and pop. In secret, she would practice these style of dance-moves and music for over four hours every day after school and her usually scheduled dance classes. She never missed a single class.”

Nova realized they were in her memories. Whoever who was in charge of this, they were going to get a rude awakening as soon as she figured how to get out of this. Another scene transition took place. She was on the stage of American Talent, at her audition.

“This is not the first time Alex is on Tv, no, she inspired millions of C018Y-earthlings with her beautiful renditions of popular music on the national show AMERICAN TAAALENT. But as you all know, American Talent is small time compared to MULTIVERSE’S GOT TALENT in which every dimension under the multigalactic alliance tunes in quad-weekly. How will Alex Albright hold up under these stakes? Will history repeat itself? ”

She was standing on the ledge of the roof of American Talent. This was the moment after she had learned the truth of her parentage, at a time where she could no longer live in denial, but also unaware if she was capable of living the lie. Standing behind her was her high-school sweetheart. Another scene transition. It was the night of the finale when everything changed for her. Nova’s heart dropped to the floor. No, not here. If i'm on Tv, i can't let people see this. I dont even want to relive this moment myself.

“And There we go!” Exclaimed Raime, after clicking the button on the laptop.

A little clever rerouting of the intergalactic taxi was all it took and Jon-Jon, the famous Glorzack Crowned Prince of Glandoshir would be sent to the wrong solar system. Instead of arriving at Multiverse’s Got Talent as a judge, he would find himself in the deserts of Shanana, the homeworld of primitive life-forms for the local mating season festival. Needless to say, Raime was quite pleased with herself.

“I want to be a judge too!” The princess squealed with giddy anticipation.

“That would be very, very difficult, Princess Eris. Not to mention suspicious considering I just got rid of one of the judges less than a minute ago. ”

“No!” The princess became belligerent. ”You are going to make me a judge!”

Geraldine chimed in “Princess Eris, I don't know if that’s a good id-”

“I don't care!!! I want to be a judge! I was born to judge cool space talents instead of being cooped up in a [bleep]ing [beep]y glorified prison my whole life! Now I’m in a whole new reality because of some giant [beep]ing space worm, and you’re not going to let me enjoy it? Can’t I just do something fun for once without you [beep]ing all over it?”

Raime seriously helping the girl. This sniveling girl, a princess of a somewhat dystopian militaristic society, connected to the part of herself that she could have been had she been created as intended. Raime didn’t have any desire to be flawless, the fact that she carried her head around was more than proof of that. But, deep within Raime’s original genetic code, even with all it’s aberrations, there was something that still made her desire to serve demanding, heartless aristocrats. This princess qualified.

“Alright. Don’t fret Princess, I got your back. Give me a second to hack you in as a Judge.”

”See, Private! Unlike some people who don’t know their [bleep] from a hole in the ground, there are still some quality subjects in this messed up world.”

Geraldine bowed her head in shame. She was used to this sort of verbal abuse, but despite it she still loved her princess.

Raime got to infiltrating the new judge’s extranet information. Within moments, they too would be redirected far away. She just hoped nobody would miss the second judge she was sending to Shanana.

In the original course of events, Nova had been convinced to step down from the ledge by the boy. He taught her to accept herself, and told her that he would love her no matter what she was. She listened to him, but the limited experience of youth allowed for an interpretation was different from the intention of the boy’s words. The resulting betrayal was Nova’s one true shame.

“Though a shoe in to win, Alex Albright did not attend the finale, instead she-”

If this was being broadcast home, it would destroy her. Everything she and her people had been working to accomplish. She couldn’t let that happen. Instead Nova did the only thing she could think of to change the narrative. She stepped off the ledge. As she neared the pavement, she wound back her arm smashing it milliseconds before she made contact.

She broke through the ceiling and fell into another stage, and “ooohs” and “awws” resulted. It wasn’t the American Talent one from her memories. The audience was made up of many more forms than just humans, and behind her were the words “Multiverse’s Got Talent”

Host walked up to Nova, turning towards the audience. “Well usually I walk the participants out onto the stage but it looks like this one couldn’t wait.”

The audience burst out laughing.

There was a panel of four judges in front of her. One judge appeared Howie Mandel’s character from the film Little Monsters, in a seated pose floating above his chair by half a foot. Inexplicably, Raime and the princess sat in the second and third judges chairs. Raime’s placed her head on the table next to the sponsored coca-cola cup that every judge was required to keep in view. Raime winked at Nova, and gave a little wave.

The last judge was instantly recognizable as Simon Cowell, but at the same time, disturbingly different and indescribable. At a single glance Nova knew there was something unnatural and powerful going on with him, but the more she stared his direction the less it made sense. It was as if this Simon was the nexus of all Simon Cowells in the multiverse, linking them all through a single-minded purpose; judgement.

“Well.” Said Cowells “You’re some kind of singer?”

Nova took the microphone which had been placed out for her. “No. Im the voice of a generation.”

The blue horned Howie Mandel chimed in “She’s got attitude, that’s for sure!”

“I could have told you that from experience!” Said Raime.

Princess Eris “I like her!”

Cowells chimed in, already annoyed. “Let’s hear this ‘Voice of a Generation’ before we make any judgement on talent, please.”

The Princess scoffed at Simon, clearly annoyed that he felt he had any right to tell her how to conduct herself.

“Is there any way I could get-” Before Nova could finish the sentence, a piano was carried out onto the stage by two thousand armed men. “Thank you.”

She sat down. Her fingers touched the keys, and music began to flow.

SpoilerShow

Sorry to say that this round’s eliminee is Noise. This round will continue for two more days during which time a deathpost should be made and all other business wrapped up, and then we’ll switch to a new round!

-Meanwhile, on Stage 12 out of Stretching To Televised Infinity-

"-and that's a tough break there for Beasts of the Back Streets! Just goes to show hairy scary helter skelter the competition can get here on Multiverse's Got Talent™. Let's see if our next entrant's up to the challenge-"

Peppi, backstage and on in 60-and-counting, fiddled with her clip-on mic. The Robe was making last-minute adjustments, prodding and squeezing at her torso and arms like a vicarious helicopter-mum.

It was antsy as accursed nonsentient raiment could manage, still somewhere south of "legitimately useful for the situation at hand." This was a trap, these smiling Hosts and Call-me-Cadels were not her friends, the stage and spectacle and spotlights sufficient to restore day to the Praeterwater (Peppi's homeworld with its slain suns and grotto-chic) were the fucking service entrance to all this dimension had to offer.

Peppi had fucking earned her red carpet entrance. If not by dint of actual royal blood, then at least by the amount of bullshit she'd been through.

She gripped, through one layer of Preysome vestment and several more of mundane cloth, the Huntsward's Dagger. Soon as she found herself in a nice hick world with a deep dark hole, she'd push one of the legger brats down it. Drop this shitawful knife after her. If that didn't break the Robe's curse and let Peppi dress in something that offered better sob stories than "I'm royalty bitches", she could at least take a breather. Stop being constantly mentally prepared for some dagger-wielding feral to screw her over.

That'd be nice.

"Princessssss Peppi Nephrite!"

It took a backstagehand's shoves to get Peppi front and center, where she gave the featureless applauding darkness beyond her winningest (toothiest) smile. She bowed, low and unblinking and bordering anatomically improbable.

"ＡａｌｒｉｇｈｔＡＡＡＡＡＡｎｄうぇっｌcome," screamsang the sentient aesthetic occupying Judge Seat #1. Obviously there was a/the Cowells in Seat #4, and some other cosmos-politan parodies of b-list glitterati who Peppi could give two fucks about. They were predatory - no, worse, they could care less if she lived or died on this stage right now. The only way out was to wow these Merr-dregs for all Peppi had.

Peppi put her best foot forward, planting it square atop a monitor speaker. The front couple rows of the audience enjoyed a scandalous quantity of leg. "Ah'm actual princess Peppi Nephrite, and ah'm here to offer yehselves a how-to of how t' really dodge responsibility."

"Are you certain you're on the right show, little madam-"

"Gimme a number!" Peppi shot back.

"... Four."

"Gimme four! Rude'n hostile securiters tryin'ter foist me off'n this stage!" She pointed, bam bam bam bam, and to her delight they burst into thoroughly-theatrical existence, suitably startled. "Give 'em four'a those gunsajiggers apiece while we're at it!"

16 assorted handguns later: "Righteous! Alrigh', down th' line, let's have me a righ' royal gauntlet of deadly death and such: startin' with Winterbreath Technicolor Rainbarf on m'left!"

SpoilerShow

After not very much consideration, I've decided to put BDF on a teeny quasi-hiatus and postpone the round transition another week. You can still post during this time.

Breathless, Nova finally raised her hands from the keys, and the sudden silence flooded through the room like a retreating wave, dragging with it a crushing homesickness. She’d chosen well: an instrumental solo version of Ostrovsky’s unreleased Second Act, Fifth Concerto - “I Am Sad, For I May Never Return Home”.

She cast an expectant glance at the judge’s panel. With satisfaction, she noted that Howie Mandel was upside down and going a particularly melancholy shade of chartreuse, while the spoilt princess was openly weeping. Only Raime and the Simon Cowells seemed unimpressed.

“...and when judging, it’s vital to keep a cool head,” Raime was saying, her own head floating in a champagne ice bucket. The Cowells nodded in agreement.

“All right, Miss Albright: your performance was above average, but then again so many other performances are.” Simon steepled his many-dimensional fingers. “As such, we’ve decided to host a special event, as a decider.”

Raime added, “In fact, only one other contestant performed to your level, scoring a perfect 400 points!”

At this point the announcer cut in with a booming: “She’s loud! She’s proud! She’s… pure Noise!”

Now, as far as anyone had practically experienced, thunderclaps generally stayed at a comfortable distance on the edge of the horizon, belatedly heralding the arrival of lightning bolts and other storm-based events in a minimally helpful manner.

Thunderclaps generally did not, for example: slide visibly across the stage, slide visibly across the stage half-submerged into the plastic floor like a soundwave made of shark, slide visibly across the stage half-submerged into the plastic floor like a soundwave made of shark while exploding.

Noise, on the other hand, was not a thunderclap.

Noise, in fact, was a fucking voice from the fucking sky fucking giving out fucking pronouncements like fucking candy rain.

“Bitch, please.” The echo came rattling through the very molecular structure of the stage, knocking over mic stands and spilling cups of cheapass coffee. “‘Voice of a generation’? I’m going to be the only one who does any generating around here!” In one motion, Noise leapt from the floor and shredded a sick riff on a nearby guitar without touching it.

“It’s a battle of the bands,” Raime pronounced from her ice bucket, “and the winner will be given… what was it exactly?”

“Continued survival.” Howie Mandel supplied.

“Our two contestants will be going head to head for… continued surviiiiiival!” The crowd went wild. Raime giggled.

wub
Blue lights.
wub
Black bass.
wub
Red haze.
wub
He couldn't feel anything.
wub
"...Tri-Pentagram?"
WUB
"Fffuck. The beats. Turn them."
WUB
"Up?"
WUB
"FUCKIN'... For once, no! Down."
wub
Now he was feeling something. It resembled his worst hallucinations, only fed through a shredder then pumped directly into his forehead. He needed his downers. Where the fuck were they? Probably back in his Multitech. Damn. A nervous intern or five were hovering somewhere vaguely above his head.

"Tri-Pentagram? Wait, am I saying that right? Triple Asterisk...? 3☼?"

"...What? It's III☆. The fuck do you want."

"U-uh, um. The... talent thing..."

Oh, that. The thing, yes. What did he say he was going to do? Stage a fight? Ugh. He needed a suitable opponent, some backup dancers, pyrotechnics, his godsdamn drugs. Where was his Multitech? The intern(s) kept mumbling, so Zaiza ignored her/them.

Still on what resembled a ground, he sent out the call to arms. His signal rang out, echoed around his head, made some loop-de-loops. The signal fomed a red Multitech, flying in formation with around 4 others. He giggled. Everything flashed a pale yellow. The Multitechs swarmed around his face, screeching. He tried to swat at them but found that his arms were toxic eels attacking his shoulders. Everything flashed a deep lilac. He was melting away. He could make out his admirers in the distance, flashing obscene gestures at him. His Multitech, a bright yellow among the fuzzy purple, repeated those gestures.

He sighed. This was not a fun hangover. A crash echoed across backstage as the Multitech came out of hiding and soared towards him. It landed and made a dramatic pose, then transformed back into a 4-wheeled form. Weakly, he got up into the cockpit. He felt bad for the intern or five that had to watch this sorry spectacle. But, as soon as he got into the cockpit, his Multitech automatically adjusted his hormonocultural levels. That is to say, he got pumped full of drugs. He could think straight again.

"Damn, that was one hell of a party," he said through his Multitech's augmented speaker system. He took off towards the stage, or at least where he thought it would be. Fuck it, he thought. He'd figure something out. Perhaps a dramatic entry would seal the deal... Huh? There was already something going on.

"These two contestants have struggled through a very tough competition this year, but they've pulled ahead of the rest. Now, they will face off in the finals!"

Suddenly the interns (turns out it really was five of them all along) ran up to Zaiza, breathless.

"I tried to tell you... you missed your auditions. Sorry."

"...Fuck. Well, while we're here... I'll put down 500 credits on Nova. What do you say?"

A glissando poured its way down Nova's piano keys like liquid gold, her fingers striking each note fluidly down the scale; at the same time the superstar leaned into her microphone and crooned: "Ohhhhhhh..."

“Baby can’t you see,” the multiverse heard, “I’m calling…”

On the opposite side of the stage, Noise picked up an electric guitar, momentarily missing the strings with a hand made of sound. Ears cocked, she listened to Nova's performance, and just as fluidly began to pick out a countermelody.

“Hands in the air”

An infinity of hands flew up into the air.

“Presidents, prime ministers”

A rather smaller portion of those hands came down.

“They said that we didn’t care”

The people turned on their rulers, tearing their flesh apart with their teeth.

“We’re the circle in the square”

And the noise played on.

Nova narrowed her eyes and bit her lip, a motion repeated on the massive screen above her. Her voice scooted up against the scale, reaching notes not formally encoded into musical tradition: “Too high, can’t come down -”, power chords, “losing my head, spinnin’ round and round,” out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raime smily wryly - “Do you feel me now?”

They did.

...and underneath them both, underneath them all, the bass rumbled on: “The time is now, our time has come;” Noise screamed into the empty black sky, “we show them how, what can’t be done…”

(“Actually,” said a spectator halfway across the universe, “that interpretation of possible states is fallacious…”)

“No matter what they say or they don’t say,” the riffs crawled bodily up and down musical conception, rejecting the masses, undertaking the bodies unto oblivion, “we make a way out of no way…”

(“What does that even mean?” Whole communities on the strange network that wired the multiverse together began to buzz, speculating, drawing battle lines and voting strategies. “Who do we vote for?”)

Nova’s hands crossed, uncrossed, traced patterns onto her piano keys. The force of her playing began to shift the entire Steinway on its base, and no one noticed when one leg slipped off entirely and began to float on thin air of its own accord. “With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride; you’re toxic, I’m slipping under…”

She slid under the now clearly-levitating piano, which against all odds kept playing, the keys clearly moving on their own. “With a taste of a poison paradise,” she crooned into a mike, “I’m addicted to you, don’t you know that you’re toxic?”

Half-lidded blue eyes met the camera and winked, and the multiverse swooned.

(On the other hand, a universe made entirely out of off-cast toxic sludge from other universes deeply objected to Alex Albright’s choice, and complained loudly about it on the network for anyone to listen. Votes swung one way, then the other. “Who do we vote for?”)

’Salacious’ wasn’t really in Noise’s stage vocabulary, but anger sure as hell was. “...planted seeds in silence” mingled in the air, followed by “granted meek compliance,” and along the line somewhere the spring rain exploded. Into a riot.

(Deep analytical analyses fluttered about the network, screaming to be heard, each seeming more in-depth and shocking than before. At this point the multiverse was at once inundated with and immunized against clickbait, but it kept replicating anyway. “What does it mean? Who do we vote for?”)

“It’s getting late,” and you can’t give her up. Nova’s eyes glittered on screen, singing to the watching world, don’t you know that I’m toxic?

“Party at the protest, rally like a rock star,” the strings sang, Noise phasing in and out of sound herself for maximum harmonic.

Nova dropped the piano down its crashing, lowest notes, repeating a motif over and over as she vocalized wordlessly in time.

“Hands in the air,” she screamed,

“With a taste of your lips I’m on a ride,” she sang,

“Presidents, prime ministers,” she shouted,

“You’re toxic, I’m slipping under,” she crooned,

“They said that we didn’t care” the two of them rising into a

“With a taste of a poison paradise,” cacaphonous

“We’re the” simultaneous

“I’m addicted to you,” contemporaneous

“circle and the square-” climax

“don’t you know that you’re toxic?” which echoed out into the multiverse, rippling across the worlds uncounted. Beings of every imaginable existence scrambled for their phones or communicators or organic flesh-network interfaces, casting their vote.

(“Who do we vote for?”)

(“Who do we vote for?”)

***

Raime tapped idly at her laptop-corpse, the other three judges peering over her shoulder at the wildly flashing shapes and colors on her williamy screen.

“Just off the top of my head,” her hand idly brushed her floating hair, which was now in a slightly warmer bucket in front of the monitor, “I think we’re ready to declare a winner!”

The Simon Cowells nodded. “Brilliant. I’m very happy to announce a winner for 20ei-BROADCAST-5151 “Multiverse’s Got Talent”,” he repeated the title again in several languages, some of which made everyone’s ears itch, “but first of all, let’s talk about the performances themselves.”

Howie Mandel readjusted a floating notepad before continuing. “I found both performances to be very engaging - Noise, I felt your entrance really summed up your personality and your play style, and it was a very good opener for the mood of your piece.” He turned a page. “Nova, your performance was absolutely stunning, with your remote piano skills and the levitation and the coming forward to really engage with the audience - that was an excellent choice of choreographic style.”

The princess thought for only a moment before speaking up. “Noise, you did kinda save me from a space monster, but don’t think that’ll affect my judging!” She pouted momentarily. “I felt… I thought your thing was a little over the top? I liked your act and everything, but I don’t think the music was the best choice. Like Howie said though, it did a pretty good job of establishing you, sorta?”

“Now the first thing I want everyone to get into their heads here,” Raime began, “is that none of this is personal. It’s just business.” Her body tapped away at a few ex-william keys, and brought up an extensive page of charts. “Speaking from a purely modal sense, the form of each performance was close to flawless. Not very efficient, but that’s show business for you. Still, Noise, I found your… oop, hold on,” her floating head slipped under the melting ice water, and she scrambled to prop it back up, bubbling all the while, “...all in all, I felt the two to be essentially on par.” Her body sat back in the chair, noncommittally, and her neck did a thing that might have been a chin thrust, had her chin not been in a bucket in front of her. Incidentally, the head did a somersault. “But, if you were to press me... my heart says Noise, but my head says Nova. Tehehe.”

The Simon Cowells took a deep breath. “I believe we have gathered enough judgement to make a decision!”

A drumroll began, rose in intensity, reached into the ultrasonics and smashed through the auditory ceiling, entering into a realm of vibratory nonsense enjoyed only by certain highly-moderated neutron lifeforms living only in certain nuclear reactors, and even then only for half-seconds at a time. It closed off with a cymbal clap that murdered entire civilizations.

“Noise, Nova, you both created stellar performances tonight.” He gestured up into the sky, where two stars winked into existence. “No, literally. The multiverse will remember you, winner or loser, as the brightest of these stars. They represent the very heart and soul of your participation here today.”

“In fact,” Howie Mandel interjected, “the winner of this contest will be awarded their star, in a nice little carrying case, as a trophy for winning the greatest and most needlessly complex talent show in the entire multiverse! The loser will be ejected from this platform, by means of an incredibly sproingy spring, directly into the heart of their star,” he added as a quick afterthought.

Tensions hushed as the Simon Cowells pulled open an envelope containing all the votes from all the sentient beings in all the universes all around them, summarized into one word on a piece of ordinary paper.

“Ladies, gentlemen, neuters, alien beings of mysterious and indeterminate gender, nucleons of incomprehensible concept thereof…” he continued on in this vein for a bit, during which Raime entertained the crowds by playing one-handed catch with her own head.

“The winner of Multiverse’s. Got. Talent. Is…………”

The multiverse held its breath.

“NOVA!”

sproing

The crowd went absolutely bonkers. Admittedly, that was what they were paid to do. They kept going on even after two judges, the winner, and several other backstage folks vanished into thin air in the middle of the awards ceremony.

***

The flashing lights and deafening sounds of the stadium flickered, and then faded into the gloom of endless, echoing caverns.

“Hrrruurggh okay I feel better,” the Abhorrent said, wobbling a little. Its mane had been messily braided and tied with ribbons. “You know I made bets on you. And lost. And now I don’t have fifty dollars.” It scratched its neck with a hind leg, surveying its captives blearily. It snuffled at them for a few moments while it thought.

“And good job,” it decided. “It’s time for a vacation. Not a very good vacation. You still have to pay for it. Fuck you.” It dragged its great mass forward with its many hands, crushing some of its slugs. In its claws appeared bright pamphlets which it threw out at no one in particular.

“Genesis Labs,” it burbled. “The hors d’oeuvres I’ve had there bring tearrrrs to my eye. But don’t eat too much. You’re looking a little husky.” It cast out a critical eye. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. I can always almost tell.”

The void rushed up once more-

SpoilerShow

Round Three: Genesis Labs! Our sprawling, state of the art laboratories are the perfect breeding ground for YOUR designer deity. Tentacles? Throes of burning light? An unstoppable hunger for innocent human flesh? You can have it all! Stop in today for a consultation with one of our licensed ApotheoTechs to discuss your custom order. Cost-conscious? Ask about our lease clauses! Don’t forget to mention the Daily Deity Discount!

[The pamphlets shows smiling scientists standing next to glowing amber tanks. Unseen horrors lurk within.]

At Genesis Labs, Your Creator Is Our Creation™!

This round will go on for three weeks to see if that’s a more doable timeline for our writers. Six days before the deadline I will announce this round’s eliminee. Good luck!

The waiting room was comfortable and largely clean in spite of the obvious lack of staff. With the entirety of the complex kept immaculate, there were no spiders to spin cobwebs to show just how long the room had been left vacant. No announcements were made over the intercom, the doors leading into the facility proper had rusted shut, and while the binder at the receptionist's desk still had a pen sitting on it, as though the attendant could come back at any moment, the ink had long since gone dry.

A pair of oblong screens played an advertisement in a loop, showcasing the creation and destruction of countless worlds. Grasses bloomed on desolate mountains, volcanoes burst from unbroken plains, and showers of stars carved furrows into whole continents. Species grew from the seas, were compelled to worship, and then were obliterated with the capriciousness that can come only from overwhelming power. The low-volume sound emitted from the speakers was mostly just dramatic music, with the studio's slogan stated in a charming voice at the end of each run.

The video was clearly intended to invoke awe in its viewers, to showcase just what power had been sold from these labs. No mention of price was made, but the sheer scope of the creation and destruction should have been more than enough to dissuade any but the most exorbitantly wealthy beings in all of existence.

Soon enough, however, an unmistakable voice spoke up as its owner pointed to the screens.

"I want one!"

SpoilerShow

Halfway mark!

SpoilerShow

Hi everyone! This is the time when I’d choose an eliminee as per the round description, but unfortunately no one posted at all this round except for Sai despite the extended deadline, so I have no choice but to call an early winner. Thanks to everyone who participated!

The Abhorrent sighed, shifting its thunderous mass. It scratched at its chin lazily with a sickle claw, flicking off a few scales. “What in the fuck was I just doing?”

A slug crawled close to whisper in its ears. The Abhorrent pulled it off and ate it. “Dicks dicks dicks dicks what was it? Oooh, it was important, I remember that. Was it?” It yawned. Its million teeth glittered. “Fuck me sideways, I’m just hopeless. Oh! Wait!”

Its muscles contracted and the rift above its carpet re-opened. The Abhorrent watched the little figures that tumbled out, picking its teeth. “I have decided,” it proclaimed.

A great claw came down, crushing the small crowd underneath. Bones ground and cracked as the claw twisted this way and that, a dark stain spreading on the carpet. The Abhorrent repeated this a few times until it was satisfied, and then examined the red paste of its handiwork. A single contestant had survived.

The claw pulled Also Wilhelm closer to The Abhorrent’s body. Up close, he could see it was a vast sea of tendrils, knotted together- or no, it was insects, billions of them, all crawling over each other’s bodies. It was a tide of putrid water eddying aimlessly in obscure currents. It was a bank of mist caught in little fits and gasps of movement. It was a great starry sky and whenever he looked away he could feel it crawling sickeningly about at the edge of his vision.

“Congratulations, asshole,” the Abhorrent said sincerely. It produced a tiny yellow ribbon and affixed it to Also Wilhem’s chest with pride. “You did it! You, uhh, you pulled through. Really good. Ace stuff.” It patted his head. “Primo quality.”

“I suppose since you won you want to go home. That’s a pity,” the Abhorrent said. Its gills flapped in a flattering manner. “You and me, uhh…. Well, we couldn’t be friends. We could be more like roommates that hate each other.”

Also Wilhelm was examining the organically-imbued carpet.

“No need to be rude about it,” the Abhorrent said, offended. “Shoo. Off you go.”

He disappeared in a yellowish flash. The Abhorrent paused in thought for a moment, and then dutifully returned to eating itself.