The Final Cage

[Rheawien]

Pavel Enders wasn’t a personal friend of Mister Kinnity, but that little detail faded in comparison to the laden coffers that jangled with gold pieces. There was more then enough in them to make an anonymous donation to the battle organizer and his chintzy theatre organization. As a direct consequence, Pavel Enders – also known to Rheawien as Pavel the Fucking Shylock – got a complimentary place in the first row of the bleachers, almost close enough to smell the dirt of the cage floor. It made the sallow-faced man smile. If he was lucky and his insurance played it as arranged, by the end of the day he would taste Rhea’s sprouting blood and see her face cringing in deathly pain. Next to him, the fat, dumb-faced grotesque was holding popcorn in one hand, the other protruding the index finger and poking at the slimy contents of his oversized nose.

The crowd was already warming up, cheering for the combatants, but far from the elated roar that was bound to start the very second the final fight officially started. Juxtaposed to the mass, the pair once again looked insipid, business-like, like a pair or referees that weren’t allowed to have feelings about the whole matter. But there were emotions boiling in their eyes. For the muscle-bound brute, it was excitement that was hidden, mostly from the eyes of his boss. But in Pavel’s eyes there was ominous anger, a tension of expectance that made his fingers tap ceaselessly on the wood of the bench.

“So, this is a done deal, boss?” the fat thing asked, putting in a mouthful of popcorn into his mouth with the hand that just prospected for whatnot in his nose. A wrinkly hand knocked him hard enough to spill half of his popcorns.

“Idiot. How many times do I have to explain it?”

“Sorry, boss. It’s just that this... this... elf man doesn’t seem too impressive to me.”

Suddenly, one of the combatants saluted the audience and the crazed people responded heartily. They knew her from the last round. Four she killed before dying herself and four meant gallons of blood and a plethora of agony and death. And that was what they paid for.

“Shut up. She’s here.”

***

The crowd loved her. Her little escapade in the first round gained both sympathy and adoration amidst the fans and countless time she was approached while resting in the infirmary by nitwits that wanted her autograph. She mostly scolded them away, threatening to send them away with a scar as a memorabilia, but deep down inside, she was flattered by the attention. She was their executioner, their provider, their dealer of blood and guts and tears, and they returned the favor with affection inspired by bloodlust. So now, when Rheawien stepped into the cage and lifted her katana towards the surrounding mass, she got the largest confirmation of the worthiness of her efforts.

Strangely, during her recuperation times, she wasn’t visited by one person that she knew would pay her a visit, one person that she knew wouldn’t be glad to see her alive and passing through the first round. The loanshark was nowhere to be seen, despite the dire threats that were made prior to the first round. A part of her hoped that the man let the whole matter drop, but that optimistic part of her was one hundred percent foolish. Men such as Pavel Enders didn’t let things slide. He had something brewing and she knew she would have to be watchful in the final battle for some kind of treachery.

Still, instead of keeping a low profile and measuring the other foes with studious eyes, the roar of the mass was like a wind beneath her wings, ruffling up her feathers and lifting her high enough to lose sight of the logic and reason. Rhea knew that the love of the crowd was a frivolous thing, a scale that tipped this way and that at the slightest misstep. They loved her now. Would they still feel the same way if she died within the first minute? Of course not. That’s the way the fame worked. When you got on top, all you really could do was stay there as long as humanly possible and roll down when the bigger, meaner fish took over.

Rheawien spun her blade and bowed courteously.

“Let the fight for the top of the hill begin.”

[Storm Veritas]

All wound up for one big swing at the championship, and I suppose you can’t win from the sidelines.

It was a gruesome realization that he would have to run headlong into the fire. Whoever there was in the cage, whoever was left to sit and scratch and claw with, they were all lethal. Not a single pushover in the whole lot, and more than a few familiar faces. Damon, the puffball, the demon thing and he had all moved in from the last round, where he was fortunate enough to escape serious injury. Of course, as he avoided injury, he did so by biding his time and engaging in as little combat as possible.

Sadly, he’d be afforded no such luxury today. In order to win, he’d need to be active and wild, spread his own breed of hell throughout the entire arena. The crowd would certainly approve. When the suit-adorned traveler was ushered into the ring, he saw it in their eyes. Wild, reddened, and battle hardened eyes, thirsty for a day off and some action. These weren’t the executive upper crust of Lornius, but rather the sun-bleached and time-broken blue collars. People like the ones he grew up around.

Pitiful, ambitionless pricks that I despise.

They hooted and hollered as he came in, a strong concentration of boos dominating the few perfunctory cheers of those who perhaps didn’t know him so well. That, or people that appreciated an opportunist. Storm had never fancied himself a villain as much as someone that new the value in loosening the slack of a moral code in the service of the greater good, or one’s own desires. After all, he felt that he would answer only to himself, as one with gifts such as what he had needed to answer to no god.

Those idiots who speak of gods will answer to me.

He took his place in the beginning, alert, alive, and enjoying only a small mouthful of whiskey to dull his nerves and keep him from being overstressed. His straight black hair pulled back taut against his head, and he smiled as his long, gloveless fingers flickered back and forth at his hips. He was the gunslinger again, daggers at the ready and more than a few plans frolicking through his head. Spotting all the assorted terribles throughout the cell, he was ready.

Come and get it, motherf*ckers…

[Arsenic Ruin]

I felt the ice thaw on my face. My body was moved about before I was given an official resting place. I was hardly dead just holding on as best I could to the edges of consciousness. The battle in my mind was far deadlier than the battle I was going through physically. Lack of air left me slightly in a dazed state, my eyes would open but nothing would register. I saw a blurred mix of faces, still seemingly staring through that spectral vision produced by the ice, coating my sight in a thin film that was hardly pleasant. But it faded with time, but for now I would just sleep fade back into my hovel which was hoisted up in my own mind above the barren lands of my imagination.

My mind worked over strategies, hearing muttered and incomplete sentences about Molotov and the blond passing into the final cage. Along with my own name, but the doctors say I might not be able to participate. To hell with that my mind said then my eyes jerked open. Looking around I looked into a mirror at myself, the same ol’ face but when I moved my whole lower abdomen wrenched with pain. I wince then stagger, hitting the ground with one hand, the other curled tightly around my midsection. But with another thought of not participating I found the strength to pull myself from the ground. My equipment was laid out on a chair; I had my trousers on along with my boots. But my tunic, shirt, armor, and sword were resting on that chair. Before dressing this pain needed to be dealt with. So I went to work, survival was the key, so I wrapped myself in bandages, shock absorbing thick bandages. The pain would still mill through my body but not as badly, or so I hoped.

Now on to dressing, within the next fifteen or so minutes it was about dressing effectively. Trying out several methods only ending up in further irritating my pained midsection, I slipped on my Iron plated chest, and shoulder armor, under which was my tattered shirt, and gloves for my hands. I held my sword tightly around the middle of the scabbard inclining my head forward as I said a small prayer. Asking for my mother, and fathers blessing for me to do well in this tournament, I knew both would be watching or would at least hear word of me passing into the final round. How could I let them down? So with a pained body, and my head raised high I ambled out of the medical tent. As I tried to make myself look as presentable as possible, the closer I heard the crowd.

Then I found myself inside the cage, the pain was on the back burner, all I could feel now was the adrenaline. Pumped with energy I opened my mouth to let out a sigh after inhaling deeply. Rolling my shoulders back as a wave of pain flushed through my chest, I had to convert this pain into malleable energy. I have to prevail; my shameful performance within the first round would hardly be acceptable. So I would have to watch for sudden moves, anything that would provide me a reason to move to dodge. I am the hero of this tale, so lets act like one and go down valiantly.

[Dissinger]

They had all emptied into the arena, Rheawien, a shock form his past. Storm Veritas from the Brotherhood, but with the exception of those two, he knew no one. The threats he had perceived in the last cage had killed themselves apparently, and now he had only these two new ones. As he thanked the gods for the mercy he had been given he stretched his tensed muscles looking at various people who seemed keen on sitting this one out.

He snorted in derision, today was a day of blood now. He realized sitting out was the stupid thing to do. In the end all it led to was saving a little bit of energy to deal with the massive headache of others. So, when Kinnity gave his speech he merely rubbed his temple feigning a headache. The reality being that it was an action to take people’s minds off his other hand, which was slowly pulling a lung popper from its place upon his belt.

It was then that the diminutive demon stepped forward demanding that the murdering begin. Seth chuckled hearing the crass words of the man, but ultimately he sighed as he waited for someone else to take the demon on. It wasn’t that he was scared, no, it was because whoever fought the demon first was at a disadvantage. While no one was acting, it was because they were in a rather precarious position. Whoever struck out first was the target, and everyone else was just fodder.

Perhaps that is why he held the lung popper a bit longer, perhaps it was the need for a twin, which he drew as well. The end of the story however was Seth had drawn the second, and was sizing up on his targets. There was a man with a Mohawk, who seemed to fit the description of the person who finally made the Gisela finals, all that time go. Raising an eyebrow he considered who would have ever made it that far had a strategic mind. He would have to be wary if that was the man.

Liliana meanwhile was watching the cage when something struck her, she was feeling Seth, but far stronger than she had in years. His presence was whole, where as earlier it had been far less prominent. He shone out much like the others in the arena now, rather than the dim candle amongst the stars. As she frowned she scanned out over the area, wondering just what was going on.

“What did you do Seth? How did you get strong again?” She said softly.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin was the first to break out of the stillness. He could only wait so long to burst into action, and as soon as he did, the crowd began to cheer. There would be more carnage than any one person could keep track of in this final cell, it was the perfect distraction from everyday humdrum life on Althanas.

The man across from him was his chosen target. The human's black hair was tossed away from his face, and looking at him, Izvilvin had the sense that the man was at least competent with his weapons. He had that calm, cool gait about him that a warrior possessed. The Drow hoped he would not be disappointed.

Feet stomping gently against the thin layer of sand that covered the steel floor, Izvilvin closed the gap quickly, his strides full of vigor and his eyes set. He would not be taken apart as he'd been before. The experience of the first cage had taught him much about this sort of battle. As much as he needed to focus on one person at a time, he needed to take as many chances as he could to do away with a fighter. Only the cunning would survive.

Izvilvin threw a sai before he got within fighting distance, hoping to either take the man in the chest with the weapon or simply distract him. A replacement was quickly in his hand, and the Drow was upon him, slashing from opposite sides with each sai, to try and slash the throat of the human between the main prongs of each weapon as they attacked in unison.

((Attacking Storm <3))

[INDK]

Damon wasn’t sure what to make of the finals. The boy had known that more than one person would be selected, but this was the first time that Damon was going to be in the middle of a battle without Ashiakin’s help. That made him particularly nervous, and had it not been for the stranger that Damon had met before the battle had begun, he might have decided to voluntarily offer his surrender in this round.

However, that was not the case. Less than an hour before he was supposed to report, a strange man had slipped a small note to him. There was a bit of gold contained in it, along with the promise of more. In addition, there was a small note, one that Damon now decided to review just before the battle started.

This is a simple offering of the rewards we’re going to lavish on you if you do as your told. There is a person in this final cage, Rheawien Lightbringer, who does not deserve to be this far. We know of your history with her and remind you that there will be no elaboration necessary. You know the kind of things she is willing to do. Keep that in mind when you think about this offer.

Damon had accepted the task. He felt it was the least he could do for Althanian security. Though the boy had been offered no formal way of responding, he had been told that there would be people among the spectators paying attention to what he did to the former Baneblade. Damon knew that he would have to fight both Asuka an Rheawien now, but it mattered little to the boy. Having found loss such a bitter pill to swallow in the earlier round, Damon had decided that he was just going to be content with setting himself something he had termed an attainable goal now. Taking care of Rheawien was just that.

“And if I win somehow, that’s fine,” Damon figured. However, as he moved along the perimeter of the cage, Damon knew that it was unlikely. There were too many warriors of great fame here, including the demon who had bested him in the last round. Perhaps beating Rheawien was all he could hope for without Ashiakin’s guidance.

Unsheathing his longsword, Damon offered not a single syllable as he approached Rheawien. While it was likely that the former Baneblade knew of his intentions from the solemn look on his face, Damon had made no offensive gesture towards her before he struck at her neck with a high horizontal blow.

(attacking Rheawien)

[Christina Bredith]

Christina awoke some time after the first round in the hands of Corone’s finest monks, many of whom had been given the task of healing the Cell’s poor combatants after they got bloodied up. Christina was, of course, one of those poor victims placed in the powerful healing hands of the warrior monks. Her initial reaction to waking up, however, was surprise at the fact that she was awake at all. It came slowly at first, and for the first few moments her mind was a complete blank. Nothing filtered through her head except the boring patterns of the ceiling, at which she stared lazily. Then the memories snapped back to her like the crack of a whip. I… didn’t die? But Damion had attacked her with such fierceness. He was so deceptive, blocking her sword and then slamming the butt of his halberd into her head with the same fluid motion. Everything went black! Her body was numb! That had to be death, right?

But all evidence pointed to the contrary. Here she was, lying in a comfortable bed wrapped in silk sheets. There was no mistaking the fact that she was awake. This room is way too ugly to be heaven. That was all the proof she needed. In her mind, if she was going to die, then she would be floating up to the big department store in the sky to shop for boots and nail polish with her mom for the rest of eternity. Now that’s heaven! This… was decidedly too disappointing to be the afterlife. Or maybe all angels really were just balding old men in brown robes. What a disappointing thought. Was this what she’d have to put up with for the rest of her lif—er, the rest of eternity?

“Ah, you’re awake,” one of the angels said as he hovered over her. Christina rolled her head slightly to the side to get a better look at him.

“You don’t have any wings,” she groaned through her exhaustion. “Were all the stories just a bunch of crap?”

The angel looked at her with a furrowed brow, displaying much confusion. “I… do not understand, miss.”

“Well, you’re an angel, right?” Christina raised her eyebrow and looked up at him a bit more intently. His confusion gave her a little bit of hope. “Angels have wings.”

The angel’s expression softened, and he laughed slightly. Shaking his head, he said, “Yes, but I am not an angel. I am a monk, and you are not dead.” The revelation widened Christina’s eyes and brightened her smile. She sprang up from the bed, nearly knocking the monk – apparently not an angel – out of the way. Pain? What pain? She was alive! She had a new lease on life! She was going to be more careful from now on, that much she knew. She was going to – “Hurry.”

She was going to hurry? Well, that didn’t make much sense. Hurry towards what? Christina looked at the old man and simply asked, “What?”

The monk gestured towards the door of the room, which was open and revealed a crowded hallway outside. People of all shapes and sizes were filing through it, headed towards a uniform destination. Christina looked back at him quizzically. “The finals. You need to hurry to the finals,” he explained. She looked at him with wide, surprised eyes.

“I—I made it?” The question only hung in the air for a second. The monk had been about to respond, but Christina was already bursting out again. “I made it! Oh, I’m gonna make that guy pay!” She swung her legs to the side, ready to hop right out of the bed. Her face was the epitome of excitement. The finals! The finals of her first tournament! Even if she didn’t win, this was a huge honour, right? Christina leapt from the bed and ran over to the opposite wall, where she could already see her clothing folded and her sword propped up. She was actually mostly naked right now, but modesty was the last thing on her mind. Besides, they were monks; this was probably the most action they’d get in fifty years. Once she was fully armed, Christina felt as one with the world again. Rosebite was safely in its scabbard, her mother’s uniform was wrapped around her body, and she was ready to kick some ass.

So much for a new lease on life, eh?

* * *

It was so surreal, being back in the cage a second time. This one was larger and yet fuller than the last one – Christina could count thirteen other heads in here with her, and only a couple of them were even vaguely familiar. She saw trenchcoat-boy off to one side; apparently Molotov had advanced too. But what about— Hey, there was her knight in shining armour, the young Half-Drow who saved her from getting her head aerated by the mutant’s icicle. It was nice to have a friendly face here amongst all this scary competition. But seriously, what about… Her silver eyes flashed from face to face, but none of the thirteen was Damion! Was she to be robbed of her revenge? How cruel!

But suddenly, Christina realized this was the ultimate revenge. She had advanced to the finals, even though she had nearly died, and he had not, even though he had technically defeated her. Could it possibly get any better than that? If he had actually advanced, then Christina would probably just have gotten smacked down a second time; that’s not really her idea of revenge. This, on the other hand, was so sweet, it almost felt sinful. A victorious smirk played on her pretty red lips, and she placed her hand on Rosebite’s pommel. Even as the others began attacking each other, she would wait patiently to strike. Now this is heaven.

[Walter]

A man had entered the Cell not too long ago, a black-haired vagrant who only had a knife to his name. That man, Jon Walter, had managed to secure himself a spot in the finals. He'd done so while he was being dragged, thrashing and biting, all the way back to the main hall by a throng of men in robes who were tasked with preserving the peace and following the will of the tournament administrate.

Jon had died during the first round. To be frank, everyone had been pushing up daisies by the time it was over. But Jon had been the one person who couldn't be recovered by the powerful healers assigned to preserve the fighters of the Cell. A circle of monks waited for an hour, surrounding the cage, until the wounds on Jon's corpse simply vanished and the body revived itself.

"That is a very curious power you possess. We wish to be able to observe it." One of the monks had later explained to him. The vagrant's temper had finally cooled, and he was in a listening mood.

"...Whatever." Jon snapped back. "Am I going to get to fight again or what?"

The man sitting across the table from Jon broke into a surly grin. "We can certainly offer you that oppurtunity," he answered. "If you could put your gift to use during the match, that would be even more delightful."

Reluctantly, Jon shook on the deal. And now he stood again, shaking in anticipation. The Final Cage was beginning. He'd taken his time for a moment, gathering together the few ideas he had in mind this round. His knife was out again, and had been polished for the occassion. Jon thought himself ready.

But was anyone else ready? He was surrounded by 13 other people, and almost nobody had broken into movement yet. There was a tension that needed to be shattered first, and then the fists would fly. But Jon wasn't the catalyst. Instead, it was the drow he had managed to get a few "good licks" on in the previous round. The dark elf had dashed out of his own side toward a man across from him, the end point only a few placements away from Jon. It was enough to send the vagrant stumbling away from his spot on the cage like he'd done the first time.

The drow had reached his target, some tall black-haired man, and Jon found himself launching toward them. Last time he had jumped on the drow's back; this time he was going to tackle that black-skinned freak to the ground from the side. That really was his entire plan... except for the minor stipulation he had in mind.

(tackling Izvilvin)

[Ter-Thok]

Hans, contentedly nestled in the rafters high above the arena, carefully unwrapped the foil from around a chocolate bar, and inserted it into his central mass. The chocolate began going runny at the edges, and the ooze smiled happily. He was jarred from his confectionary ecstacy by a loud beeping; Hans scrambled, grabbing the small square of translucent blue plastic that he had set on a lump of drywall, and pressed the button on the top. Ter-Thok's face appeared on the screen, looking slightly upset. "Hans," the demon said, "Where are you?"

"OH, HI BOSS! HANS UP IN RAFFERS, LIKE BOSS TOLE HANS TA HIDE."

"Good, good. Were you able to get into the cage last night?"

"OH, TOTE LEE, BOSS, HANS HAD-"

"Great, awesome, whatever. Did you...bury the, uh...acorns?"

"YEAH, HANS BURY DOSE. DEM ACORNS GONNA MAKE PRITTY TREES SOMEDAY. OH, HANS ALSO BURY THE BOM-"

"Hans! Shut up!"

"OH. HANS SORRY..."

"Don't worry about it, Hans. Maintain communicator silence until I call you again, comprendes?"

"SURE TING! HANS BE QUIETER THAN DEAD CAT. HANS HAVE PLENTY CHOCOLATE, AFFER ALL."

Ter-Thok closed the communications window, and brought up a second window. A timer appeared, counting downwards, with an "abort" button underneath, and a button labelled "now" next to it. The demon grinned, shoving the SpacePDA&#169; into his pocket. Apparently, the competitors had taken his advice and launched straight into an offensive. Anxious to get in on the violence, Ter-Thok let himself drop to the floor, scanning the room for anyone who deserved to have his ire focused on them. He saw the weaselly gentleman who had set the previous arena aflame, but someone had already launched an offensive against THAT particular oil refinery. The young boy who had created a tornado of lasers in the previous round was also an unsuitable target, for obvious reasons.

Scratching his head thoughtfully as melee began around him, the demon spotted what appeared to be a human female, with hair the color of...mustard. Or possibly one of those albino snakes. She had a sword, but in all honesty, how dangerous could she be? Ter-Thok trotted over towards her, craning his neck upwards to examine his pray more effectively. She may have been twice his height, but the demon was not one to let such things impede him in his quest for violence. Hefting his ElectroProd carefully, he analyzed the situation for a split-second, then swung the electrified spear at the back of her knees with a cry of, "LISTEN UP, BITCH!"

(Attacking Christina)

However, unbeknownst to the combatants...approximately six feet under the soil, clutched in the skeletal hands of one of the ancient inhabitants of Corone (whose spirit was probably upset at a tournament ground being built over his burial site), was a chemical bomb the size of a hippopotamus' head. The timer clicked down from 3:49 to 3:48.

The only trouble with a contingency plan involving explosions, was that the planner was almost inevitably to be found among the results; often in very small pieces.

[Witchblade]

Things were starting off rather slowly. It seemed no one was anxious to run into the fray and get a little dirty, or bloody really. An odd looking demonic creature demanded that the ‘murdering’ begin as he put it and he quickly got his wish as Izvilvin attacked some rather handsome looking fellow with slicked black hair, a boy attacked Rheawien and then the demon himself attacked some blonde chick. Things were starting to heat up, the blood was going to start flowing and the cries from the crowd were already ringing through her ears and into her skull, pounding against the walls.

No one came after her though and Witch did not see anyone interesting that she felt she wanted to attack. There was a human with an odd hairstyle she’d never seen before and a boy who looked like he was about to wet himself in this place. Witch had no idea what two children were doing entering the cage, but at least from the one attacking Rheawien she sensed power, but from the blue haired one she sensed pain and nervousness. He probably wouldn’t last too long, but then again, looks could always be deceiving and she knew she should not be jumping to any conclusions.

Someone broke from the mesh wall by her, a figure launching himself towards two already engaged parties. Witch’s eyes narrowed as she saw it was the human who’d attacked Izvilvin in the last round, and from behind, just like he was attempting to now. She thought he would have learned his lesson when she’d stabbed him in the back herself and then further when she’d used him as her personal human shield, clearly it was not so.

Acting quickly, Witch tensed and sprang from her position against the mesh of the cage. Rubber soles digging into the cage floor as she ran towards her target. Her hand reaching behind her and removing her Titanium blade from the sheath on the small of her back. She could have sent a telepathic message to Izvilvin to warn him, but she was confident she was faster than the human and she didn’t want to distract her ally. Telepathic messages could be jarring when they came from seemingly nowhere, even though he’d heard them before, and the last thing she needed was for her only ally in this cage to mess up and end up a bloody stump like he had before.

How she wished she’d been able to kill Rheawien for that one. But the elf was behind her now; this was a different battle in a different cage with different people and different enemies.

Right before the human reached Izvilvin, Witch reached him first. Using her speed she inadvertently did the same thing the human had planned for Izvilvin and lowering her shoulder, attempted to knock him back from his target and into the mesh wall. Let that jar his brains around in his skull, maybe knock some sense into him.

(Attacking Walter)