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[DarkJuno]

Paradise.

That tends to be the first thing on just about anyone’s mind the second they stepped onto the lush, bright, deserted island situated in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean, which teemed with life everywhere one looks. From the fish lurking in the coral of the magnificent, dazzling cerulean waters, to the rich plant life on the land, spread from the water lapped coast to the impressive, extinct volcano in the center of the small island, life is everywhere to be seen. On this island, sits absolutely nothing, save one rather impressive compound, looking rather....odd. While most assuredly far from plain or Spartan, it almost seems underwhelming, given its status as the home of one of the richest individuals in the history of mankind – to say nothing of this person’s company. Even so, one cannot be anything but in awe of the home, right away. A visitor to the home, as one particular gentleman in a dapper suit is at this moment, is immediately struck by the sheer beauty as one pulls into the private miniature harbor. The dock was filled with an almost inappropriate amount of landscaping, which rather then shoe horning in a completely different sense of style onto the island instead blended seamlessly with the tropical location’s natural flora. Birds of Paradise, banana trees, kana lilies, amongst others, greeted all, as the small ship pulls into the bay.

Even before reaching this point, it’s obvious great care was taken to not disturb the natural life pointlessly – the breakers off shore that kept the waves from ravaging the island were placed strategically as to not bother the natural coral reefs and wildlife, and the waters were still notably clear and almost perfect, an oddity for surrounding an inhabited island. This is made even clearer as one exits the boat he or she arrives on, as immediately it’s evident that all waste is taken care of right then and there, as harm free as possible. All solid waste is either shipped off elsewhere, or better yet, turned into compost for the landscaping, and all water waste is cleaned and refined in the owner’s personal water treatment and desalinization plant. That in itself was a feat of technology, to have been miniaturized as such, and most can assume this is at least part of why the individual is so wealthy.

Whatever the case, the visitor will then find himself walking up a gentle, but fairly long, flight of stairs cut into the lush cliff side, narrow enough to make it clear it’s private, but wide enough as so several people can ascend or descend without feeling cramped. Friendly, quaint lamps scatter around the path, lighting up the trail at night at a comfortable level, as one’s feet step on the finest stone and mortar one can imagine, eventually leading to the house itself. A marvel of modern engineering with a contemporary style, the terra cotta roofed two story house is surrounded by a similar style of landscaping as the dock below, accenting the many large, unobstructed windows, used to let the bright tropical sun into the home. Off to the side of the house is a seemingly pointless five car garage, and even further off to the side is a more practical helicopter pad, currently occupied by the individual’s personal and, assumedly, most used ride. As for the home itself, again, while it was most assuredly a plush, loaded, comfortable home, it almost felt rather simple, despite all the amenities it had. The decorating style was fairly simple, and the vast, wide rooms managed to look full, without feeling cramped or with the air of a museum, where one would be afraid to touch anything. For all intents an purposes, it actually looked like a regular human being lived here, from the rather massive flat screen television hanging on the wall surrounded by some of the most cutting edge home theater equipment in the living room, to the opened box of simplistic cereal lazily left on a counter in the ultramodern, stainless steel kitchen.

This is where the man now finds himself, walking through the house at the bequest of one of the few servants on hand in order to meet the master of this island. Carrying a black briefcase and eying the rather comfortable home, the man swallows hard, nervous – despite having worked for the A-8 Group for nearly his entire professional career, working his way up from a lowly mail clerk, he had never even seen the corporation’s owner and president. Not that that was odd, as only a select few have ever even spoken with the person despite the size of the company. Even fewer were asked to visit the owner face-to-face in board meetings at any of the major companies that made up the massive group.

And it was a damned miracle to meet the individual on the private island.

While he was there to give the owner a final update on the progress on of the “personal project” that the A-8 Group had been running for the last month, he was still a little surprised at being asked to personally come and present it to the man himself. It had been a major gamble, this “Stroke of Death” tournament, but thus far, it had been a huge success – major profits had been made from the 8 venues across the world, from the broadcasts on the major networks alone, and the true tournament had yet to even begin. This final update was to assure the owner that the larger, nearby island merely minutes away by boat – also owned by this man, naturally – was ready for the tournament.

Ah, the other island – that was a different beast then this island. Alongside the massive 40,000 seat arena built for the sole purpose of holding the semi finals and finals of this massive tournament, a huge resort complex was also built alongside, with enough rooms to populate a town and every conceivable amenity possible for guests – for a price. Event hen, the lower tier, affordable rooms weren’t shabby, and had items that would make some of the other high class hotels in the world jealous. A town center-esque shopping complex was built as well, with an odd mixture of some of the most high class brands about, and rather...pedestrian stores as well. Heck, there was a restaurant with a 5-star chef personally hired by the master across the street from a fast food burger joint, after all. Everything anyone would want in their hometown, much less a vacation destination, regardless of financial situations or personal preferences.

Along with these, however, the island also had something more. While only so much can be done given the natural tropical conditions, sections of the island were terraformed into vastly differentiating environments – a bamboo forest, a desert, a crowded Southeast Asian market, a North American prairie – maybe a dozen or more. Hidden within these deceptively deserted sections of transformed land were areas for ticket holder to watch – each section was carefully crafted to be a completely different environment for each fight to take place. While certainly, anyone could watch the fight from the many theatres and other gathering spots across the island, or even from their own hotel rooms, watching it live, in front of one’s eyes were the most coveted spots for viewing. Certainly, all seemingly extravagant beyond reason, but the owner had insisted – besides it was “his money” so it could be spent however he pleased.

As such, the visitor was a little surprised by the rather...normal look of the house, albeit one in the higher range of normalcy. Stepping back out into the sunlight as he exits the open glass door leading to the house’s pool area, he’s taken aback by the sight. Another similarly manicured and landscaped garden area spilling out into a cliff side overlooking the blue ocean below, with the larger, yet unnamed island in the near distance. The focal point of this backyard of sorts was the large – but once again, surprisingly not huge – pool, with the elevated Jacuzzi area having a natural looking waterfall of sorts falling into the less then naturalistic pool itself, surrounded by the finest pavement and stones, kidney shaped and surrounded by a few fancy, outdoorsy chairs and tables, not to mention a few lounging recliners.

It is on one of these lounging recliners, facing away from the man and towards the ocean view sits a figure, to its side a low table with umbrella holding a laptop of sorts, as the individual seems to be holding a conference call with some of the higher ups in the company. Indeed, it was him.

...or rather, her. Dressed in a modest two piece bathing suit that still managed to accent her unfairly natural physical gifts, the light streaked brown haired woman speaks into a wireless headset sitting atop her left ear, with an impressively authoritative and very much in charge tone as her eyes, hidden beneath some fairly reflective sunglasses, barely leave the horizon of the view.

“I would have believed that by now that the profit we’ve already made in the preliminaries would have been convincing enough to ease any worries away about the financial risks of my little project, she assuredly states, “...but very well. Come and visit the island tomorrow, I’ll have the company jets scramble and be ready to pick all of you up tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. By then, I’m sure that the tour of the facilities will prove that even beyond this tournament, this resort island and its stadium will easily be an on-going source of profit. Until then...” Ignoring the multiple faces on the screen ready to speak up and interrupt her, she purposely presses a key on the keyboard daintily, enough so the web cam picked it up, and ended the meeting. Without missing a beat, she adds,

“You know, normally people are rather shocked and taken aback when they find out the powerful owner and leader of the A8 Group is a woman.” Realizing she was referring to him, the visitor is the one taken aback, but clears his throat and replies,

“Uh...erm, I used to read a lot of books and watch a lot of movies as a kid – half the time, the big corporation or empire is run by a woman, much to the characters’ surprise.” With a genuine enough smile, the owner stands, tossing a light, open, white button up shirt over her swimsuit, and nods,

“Yes, but in most of those stories, said corporation or empire is the evil force trying to take over the world, correct?”

“Oh! No, I didn’t mean to...”

”Don’t worry Mr. Firavaugh, I was merely joking.” Grabbing the still confounded man’s hand, she shakes it, properly introducing herself to her own employee, “Nice to finally meet you, and while this will sound a little presumptuous, you’re probably at least a little curious to finally know the name of your employer, are you not?”

“The thought has crossed my mind...”

”It’s Sol, Sol Alcott. Now, I believe you have something to report...?

Solidad “Sol” Alcott was as much an anomaly as the A8 Group. While the company itself seemed to completely and utterly purposely work against all the stereotypes of being a huge, massive corporation, Sol, too, destroyed the stereotype of a child born with a platinum spoon in her mouth. As a child, she was raised by her grandfather, the founder of the A8 Group, and he saw fit to ensure that his granddaughter would grow up knowing the true value of money and have the responsibility to not only be the heir to his company, but have the integrity to be a good human being. As she was enrolled in some of the most prestigious schools in the world, she also traveled in the summers, learning the ways of many, from monks in the temples to the volunteers at a soup kitchen. As a result, she grew up to be an extremely compassionate, caring, and almost sickeningly moral person.

However, as the conspirators to try and steal the company away from her when her grandfather eventually passed on would find, the times she spent in school served her just as well. Needless to say, those chair people are...unemployed, as she rightfully took control of the company, and ran it with an almost eerie, intuitive knowledge. Whatever the case, she was a shoe in, with her eyes dead set on goals and keeping her grandfather’s company’s good name above all outer influences – despite what her advisors warned, it always turned out for the best.

As a result, this tournament idea came. While her reasoning is unknown to anyone but herself, Sol saw fit to hold it, waving it past her investors and such with the guise that it would make an enormous amount of profit – and in fact, it has. Sipping a soda – yet another thing that somewhat surprised Mr. Firavaugh – out of a tall, icy glass, she nods as he finishes, exclaiming,

“Great, things will be ready for my inspection tomorrow, and the tournament’s final stages next week?”

”Yes indeed ma’am, all our crews, security, and service people – everyone’s ready. I have to admit, even I’m getting caught up in all the excitement over this.” With a smile, she stands from the wooden chair and faces away from her visitor, slowly walking towards the wrought iron fence that separated the “yard” from the shrubbery and plunging cliff face below. Taking off her shades, she smirks at the island across the bay, her sapphire eyes twinkling with.....something somewhat unsettling if thought about in the proper context, replying.

”Yes, well, I’m looking forward to this much more then any of you can possibly imagine...”

Soon, she thinks, adding to herself, Soon...

Edited by DarkJuno, 05 October 2007 - 03:55 PM.

[Steel Samurai]

Isamu drove his fist into the neck of his burly opponent. The man's eyes bulged and a trickle of blood came out of the corner of his mouth as he sank slowly to his knees. Isamu brought his fist up just above his right shoulder and twisted his torso slightly to the left, then, in one fluid motion, brought his fist out and forward in front of him while twisting to the right. The bottom of his fist smashed into the right side of the jaw of the man kneeling before him, who fell like a rag doll from his knees onto the concrete floor of the arena. The fight was over. Isamu had qualified, barely. The announcer's shouts sounded faintly in his ears as he assessed himself physically. One, maybe two broken ribs. At least two gashes on his arms that needed to be bound within the next 5 minutes or he would faint from blood loss. Right shoulder out of joint. That, at least was easy to fix. Isamu set it back in place with a pop. He winced. Two. Definitely two ribs broken. That had been a difficult fight. He had been a fool to fight without a weapon, but his country had been insulted by a weedy chainsmoking Irishman, and it was an insult he could not ignore. Isamu limped over to the ring's exit. A tall slim woman with long curly brown hair waited for him in the prep room, a somewhat worried look in one of her eyes, the other having the strangely disconcerting glint of glass.
"Are you alright?" Her rather smooth and proper English accent was marked slightly by worried tone.
"Just a couple scratches. Fractured rib or two."
"Fractured rib? And those aren't scratches, they're more like gaping trenches in your arm. You need to get to a doctor, quickly."
"Just get me some bandages for now, please Marion. The doctor can wait."
She was an employee of the A8 conglomerate, assigned to him as an assistant and liaison with the company when he had been selected. Although initially turned off by Isamu's somewhat brusque manner, she had come to appreciate the man underneath the fighter, and, for his part, he was glad of a constant, familiar face throughout the preliminaries, which had taken place over several months here in London, a city completely unfamiliar to him. It had been 6 months since he left his grandfather's dojo in Hokkaido. The first night he was in Tokyo he had gotten involved in a bar fight over something trivial, and there a scout for a local underground fighting circuit had seen him and asked him to fight in a match the next night. Isamu had agreed, merely to see how strong the local fighters were. They were weak. Pitifully so. So, Isamu started going around to local Kenjutsu dojos, expecting a somewhat higher level of ability from them. Sadly, he was disappointed, but he had been seen by one of the scouts for The Stroke of Death, who had contacted him for the first time two weeks after leaving his home. And that was how he had ended up here in London, hoping desperately Marion would get back with the bandages before he passed out from blood loss.

Marion returned with a nurse several minutes later, and Isamu bandaged his arm quickly, staunching the flow of blood. A few minutes later and they were in Marion's rented blue Astra to the doctor's office.
"So. What now?" Isamu said.
"Now? Now we get you healed up, then head to the Island."
"Which Island?"
"I'm not sure what it's actually called, but it's where they're holding the finals for the Tournament. I'll make a couple calls once I get you home and in bed, but we should be leaving in a couple months."
"Right."

Two Months Later . . .
Isamu stepped off of the corporate jet onto the black bitumen of the tarmac. A shuttle bus quickly pulled up in front of him and the doors opened. He stepped inside, Marion behind him, along with the rest of the tourney participants who had arrived on the plane. The bus pulled away and soon arrived at a jetty facing the north side of the island, which was the island nearest to the Tourney Island which had an airport. A Large ferry bobbed in the water next to the jetty, and the participants were quickly ushered onto it, and up into the VIP lounge on the top deck. Isamu wandered over to the rail while Marion got drinks from the bar. It was strange, being so far from the simple, idyllic lifestyle at his grandfather's dojo, or even the seediness of the slums of Tokyo. These opulent companies were foreign to him, though his father had lived that sort of life. No matter. The salty air cut deep into his lungs as he took a deep breath in. May as well enjoy the trip.

The Ferry pulled up to the dock on the Island and Isamu stepped off onto the jetty. A transport vehicle with open sides, looking somewhat like a very long golf cart, pulled up and the tourney contestants got on. It moved swiftly through the central part of the island, through the shopping district, bustling with workers making last minute preparations, and up to the massive resort complex. The Golf-cart bus, as Marion referred to it, pulled up in front of the two large glass doors leading into the resort, and the fighters disembarked and lined up in front of the desk to get their room keys. Each fighter was double checked against a list and had his or her retina scanned. This would be the way they could access their rooms. Marion and Isamu went up to his room, number 19. His luggage would be brought up later.
"Where are you sleeping?"
"Next floor down, the assistants have rooms close by. Your luggage should be here soon, in the meantime I think I'll get some rest." Marion stretched and yawned.
Isamu nodded and turned to the window. He opened the curtains and looked out on the sparkling green sea. The door clicked shut behind him as Marion left. Tomorrow it would begin. Tomorrow he could test how far he had come.

[Goose]

"DUH, DUH DUH DUH, DUH DUH DUH, DUH DUH DUUUUUUUUUUUH!" Shazza sung to herself as she hit a guy over the head with a crowbar. Blood spattered all over the ground and the guy fell forward, barely managing to stay on his feet. He took a swing at her. Which missed. Not wanting to kill the bloke, shazza simply swung her crowbar at his chest, winding him and forcing him to the ground.

So then proceeded to sit on him unitl he fell into unconsiousness.

"I AM THE TIGER!" she proclaimed to all her addoring fans. They were screaming for her. Once she'd been let out of gaol for this weird ass fighting tournament, she'd ended up with all these girls following her around and screaming at her. But they wern't running in the other direction, they were runnning at her. They wanted her autograph and what not. And she thought, "Why not? They love me, let them love me."

Nobody had expected her to come this far. They wanted her in the comp, because of her name, she could sell this thing by herself. They told her that if she won, she'd be pardoned for her crimes. She jumped at the chance.

"Um, miss shazza.." A little weedy voice said from behind the fans. "We have to go now. To an island."

"What island?"

"The ISLAND!"

"Oh.. The ISLAND!"

This weedy little guy was her minder. Thing is, she had to protect him. The papparatzi would bowl him over he was so little. But she kinda liked him. Reminded her of her nannny. He never used a loud word against her.

So off they went. To the Island.

[CID Farwin]

The stroke of Death.

Why did the name ring so clearly in Mark's mind the first time he had heard it? Why did it still have some unknown weight to it? And why, above all else, did it seem that there was no other options for him, As if he was compelled by some greater force to enter this tournament? These and other questions plagued Mark's mind as he sat, gazing at the sea through his window. His view from the heavens was surprisingly familiar, though he was sure, even with his fractured memories, that he had never flown in an airplane before, much less one such as this.

He still wasn't quite sure how it had all happened, almost as if his short-term memory suffered the same loss as his long-term. But this was different, he remembered specific events, waking in the desert, being approached by a man simply calling himself 'Diggins,' and on his advise entering 'the stroke of death,' A tournament hosted by something called A8, who Diggins claimed to work for. After entering, the only thing Mark remembered was standing over a defeated opponent, and Diggins telling him he had qualified for semi-finals. All this, yet the events between were lost to him. Only after the fight did the extraneous memories begin.

There were two other passengers on the jet aside from Mark. They were the other qualifiers, two that Mark hadn't yet faced. Diggins had not taken the flight, and simply said that he would be at the island when Mark got there. Mark ignored the other two, and they in turn kept to themselves. Mark didn't mind, not at all; the silence suited him, and allowed him to contemplate and piece together what had happened.

Mark's older memories had returned somewhat, and he remembered things he knew, yet as always, he had no idea why he knew them. Worse, he still had no idea who he was, his own history, or much else about himself. Mark had picked up along the way that the Jet had departed from Moscow. Moscow, that would mean that Mark had been in Russia. Russia would mean that the desert he had awakened in Siberia. How he knew all this technicality, and why he didn't know he was in Russia sooner, Mark wondered in futility.

Out of the window Mark spotted an Island which, given the drop in the Airplane's altitude, as well as the giant Colosseum, was obviously their destination.

[Poore]

Mexico City. Home to more people than any other single settlement in existence. Here was represented nearly every facet of Mexican society and culture. And one very upset Irish Catholic boy from the streets of New York. He was dressed lightly - faded jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of dusty, worn out Converse. "Listen, pal - all I want is a glass of tequila. That's it." The bartender ran a greasy hand through his thinning hair and began fussing in Spanish. He was a stout man, if short, and was leaning toward the far side of middle-age. "Señor, no servimos-" He's cut off mid-sentence. "Look, pal, I don't need any of your crazy moon-man talk. What I need is a glass of tequila. Comprende?" The bartender tried to explain, but his English wasn't very good. "Ah...we not have, uh, America money machine, si?" The young man shakes his head. "Stop calling me 'senior', pal. My name ain't no damn 'senior'. It's Benjamin. Benjamin Bowe." Benjamin cracked his knuckles menacingly. "B-e-n-j-a-m-i-n. Got it?" The bartender cringed. "Si, Seño-ah! Si, Ben-ha-meen." Benjamin stifled a laugh. "Ben-HA-meen? Who the hell is Ben-HA-meen? It's Benjamin. Ben-ja-min. Say it for me." The bartender was distraught. "B-b-ben...juh...juh...meen," he finally managed to stammer. Benjamin laughed and clapped him on the back. "Haha! That's right! And you better not forget it, pal." Benjamin gave the bartender a crooked smile. "Now...about that tequila."

"Hey. Gringo." The voice was deep, gruff, and distinctly south of the border. Benjamin smiled at what he saw. A burly young Mexican - maybe 20 - with greasy black hair and a sour look on his face. "Yeah, what?" He nonchalantly hocks something up and spits it at the newcomers feet. "You got something to say to me." The young Mexican scoffs. "Yeah, I got somethin' to say to joo, Gringo." His accent was thick, but his English was good. "Maybe, I think that I don't like joo pickin' on Roberto here too much." He took a step forward, his hand dipping into the left pocket of his jeans. "I think I should teach joo a lesson about respecting other people, eh, Gringo?" Benjamin sighed and shook his head. "How many times do I have to tell you people..." He locked eyes with the young Mexican. "The name's Benjamin."

The young Mexican was quick - the knife was out of his pocket and open in the blink of an eye, but Benjamin was ready. He dodged to the left and fired a hard left to the gut, followed by a quick right to the jaw. His opponent went down hard. Ah, what a waste. Benjamin sighed. "Wasn't even worth my damn ti-GAH![/i] The shot from behind took him by surprise. It wasn't a fist - something harder, like a chair. I t knocked Benjamin down to his knees. So, he wasn't alone. Bastard. The second shot caught him across the shoulders, but he was ready for it this time. From his kneeling position, he twisted around and punched his attacker in the groin, producing a rather disturbing crunch. The second attacker fell backwards, moaning softly in pain. That'll teach ya. Hittin' a guy from behind like that. But Benjamin didn't have time to rest. There were three more Mexicans emerging from the shadowy depths of the bar. the bartender was nowhere to be found. "Well, looks like I'ma have to dip into my little bag of tricks. Benjamin smiled and thrust one hand down his pants, producing some rather confused looks on the faces of his opponents. After fishing around near his groin for several seconds, the young man smiled devilishly and yanked something out of his pants - 5 feet of chain with a heavy lock on the end. "Let's dance, bitches." Twirling the chain and lock like a mace, Benjamin advanced on his opponents. They didn't have a chance to run.

From his hiding place behind the bar, Roberto - the bartender - heard the American laughing heartily as he fought. The fight was rather noisy - chairs and tables splintered from time to time, and occasionally there was a horrible cracking sound and one of the Mexican boys would scream something horrible. Needless to say, Roberto was scared shitless. After what seemed like an eternity, the noise quieted down, and all he could hear was the sound of the American breathing heavily. Slowly, Roberto heard footsteps advancing toward the bar. An arm reached across the counter and grabbed a bottle of tequila from the shelf. He heard it opened, heard the American drinking, and then heard him give a satisfied sigh and slam the bottle back on to the bar. He heard footsteps again, this time moving away. The door opened. The door closed. Roberto stood to survey the damage. The bar was trashed. The five attackers lay bleeding on the floor. And, next to the opened bottle of tequila on the bar, was 10 US dollars. Roberto reached out with a shaky hand and took the money "Ben-juh-meen...Bowe."

Later...
That seemed like ages ago, now. He hadn't known it at the time, but the whole fight had been staged. A test. A tryout of some sort. Benjamin still didn't understand all the details, but Rachel had explained to him that he'd be fighting in a big-time tournament with the best fighters in the world. In Benjamin's book, that was the very definition of perfect. She'd offered him the chance to fight shortly thereafter, and a few fights later he'd found himself on his way to this mysterious Island. He still didn't understand exactly why or how this thing was taking place, but as long as he had fists and faces to hit with them, he was happy. There had been a few more fights after that first "audition" battle - which was apparently something that was one of Rachel's own personal agendas - but they were all relatively uneventful. He still wore a shiner on his right eye from the last fight, but a little bruise was nothing to be worried about. All that mattered was the next fight. And the next. And the next...

[SL the Pyro]

"You're a... monster!"

The old man quivered at the feet of the massive Z, surrounded by corpses of people he'd dismembered. A sizeable bounty had been placed on his head for his crimes and actions, yet he didn't care. He still lives and fights as he always has. This old man had sent these men after him in the hopes of splitting the bounty amongst each other and taking him down through teamwork, but they underestimated him. Z didn't even have to use his massive claymore to dispose of these weaklings. All they managed to do was get their own blood on his black cloak and his metal gauntlets and boots.

"You... leave me alone! I'll give you anything you want!" the old man pleaded; he was wearing raggedy, blood-stained clothes due to the battle, and was probably only a 3rd of Z's size.

Z's crimson eye narrowed. "You have nothing I want." he said.

The old man didn't even get to scream before Z caved his skull in. After smiling with a savage glee, he reached into his cloak and pulled out his invitation to the Stroke of Death tournament. Now, this had something he wanted. It gave him the chance to prove his power to the world, and let them quiver under his might.

Two weeks later

The ferry carrying the massive, white-haired criminal pulled up to the island where the tournament was to take place. He smiled sadistically as he stepped onto the land; if he tried, he could probably shake it up a bit. "Soon, it will begin... I will show the fools at this tournament not to trifle with me..." he said, walking towards the residence building.

(Yeah, this was rushed.)

[Goose]

Awn yawned as he moved his pawn. It made it to the end of the board, and spawned into a Queen. H'ed learnt this fancy game called chess from the other mates on his ship. Yes. Ship. He'd ridden away from his home, and found that his horse couldn't take him any further, so he sold her to a good man. He'd used the money to purchase a ride on a ship. Little did he know that the ship was a pirate ship. After being beaten several times once they were out on the ocean, and having been found to possess next to nothing, Awn was left quietly alone.

He went and talked to the pirate captain. "Um, I'd like to present my services to you, sir."

The captain drew his cutlass. (He was an oldschool pirate captain, no guns for him. )

"Oh do you?"

The Cutless was pointed towards his throat.

"Um.. Yeah"

"and how do I know your worth it?"

Awn Kicked the captain in the nuts.

'Thats how."

The captain was lwrithing on the ground in pain. He picked up the cutlass, and pointed it at the captains neck.

"One move, and your dead. I like this.. sword. Its like a sabre."

The captain moved his legs and tripped Awn Over. Grabbing the weapon he said.

"Its called a cutlass, and its mine!"

"Well sorry old dude, have your stupid weapon, just dont kill me."


....



"Your slashing technique needs work. No not like that. Like this. "

The boy had become usefull instructing the pirates how to use a cutlass. Most of them preffered guns, but the captain being a weapons enthusiest insisted on them learning the old ways of the sea. The cutlass was a lot like a sabre, and he'd quickly picked up the method of fighitng with it. He could now butcher people with it, and had cut off peoples thumbs.

Then land was sturck, and Awn got off the ship. He'd arrived in Barcelona.

He saw a fighitng tonrament being advertised, and decided that it was for him. He had nothing better to do.


"AWN! AWN! AWN!" The crowd roared his name through the stadium. He had become a joy to watch. Instead of killing people, he would just cut off their thumbs.

And he'd made it thorugh, with some other person, but Awn dind't even notice the other. He was too busy staring at his own reflection, which was stunning. He hopped on aplane, and went to some island.

[CID Farwin]

Stepping off of the private jet, Stephen couldn't help but be completely overwhelmed. Being the only one to qualify in Yokohama, he got not only a company jet, but a private jet at that! But that luxury was nothing in comparison to what he was seeing now. He had heard descriptions of the Island before, but he never expected anything like this, it would put to shame many of the grand palaces, castles, and other Nobelmans' retreats he had formerly visited!

The qualifying was easy enough, he had faced much worse than that rabble of low-lives during his many adventures. Nobody else, Stephen thought, was worthy to move on. Except for that one samurai who had almost beaten him. Stephen was actually surprised, given there were no other qualifications, that at least that one worthy opponent hadn't made it as well.

But alas, things such as that were out of Stephen's hands, and he simply had to sit back and enjoy the private jet. Oh darn.

...

As he made his way off the tarmac, Stephen's mind wandered back to the main focus he had been ignoring during the flight, difficult as it was. The feeling had grown very strong through the duration. Mark was here, he was sure of it.

Edited by CID Farwin, 10 October 2007 - 01:13 AM.

[Keen]

Kyle sat quietly in the private jet, looking over some legal documents and filling out various forms he would need to continue in The Stroke of Death. He was sure there was something off-kilter here, but nothing he had read from international law had indicated that the tournament was, in fact, illegal. He bit down bit down on the eraser he'd been chewing, breaking it off and nearly swallowing it. He gagged for a moment, coughed, and stuck his fingers into his mouth and extracted the bit of rubber. What an awful, alien flavor. Kyle flung the eraser stub over his shoulder into the trash bin mounted on the back wall of the cabin. He started to raise the pencil too, but stopped suddenly, staring at the faint pink stain all about the tip. One of his used pencils. Something about this tournament made him so uneasy. He flicked the pencil over his shoulder so that it landed in the bin and lightly pierced the eraser stub.

The man sitting across the aisle from Kyle leaned toward the cockpit, just a few feet ahead of them both, and said to the admittedly rather shapely pilot, "Hey, sweet-cheeks! Flight's almost over! Sure you don't want to take up my offer? I'm sure your wingman there can handle the landing." The loud man was Nathan Raehl, Kyle's boss. Mr. Raehl was a vulgar man, no doubt. But he clearly knew how to get ahead in society. Yes, it made sense that a vulgar man would succeed in a vulgar world. Kyle thought that maybe he ought to speak up, remind his boss that everyone had to be seated and belted during the landing. Of course, Mr. Raehl must already know the risks. Certainly, there would be no reason to speak up after all. The pilot didn't respond, and Mr. Raehl chuckled. Kyle sank back into his books.

It was about thirty minutes later that the plane touched down at the island's airport. Kyle quickly packed his things and followed his boss off the plane, through the airport, into the taxi, up to the hotel, and into their suite. "I figured we could share a suite," Mr. Raehl said, "You only need a place to sleep, as you'll be spending most of your time practicing that arm of yours. So, I figure, you can take the couch." He waved to the smaller couch, over in the corner. "I'll expect you out of the room by nine each morning." Kyle nodded and went to set his bags inside the closet by the door. "Get to know your way around here. Maybe scope out the competition, all right?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I get started now?"

"Yeah, you do that," said Mr. Raehl as he straightened his tie. Then he rooted through his pocket, presumably for his comb, since his fine, short hair was a tad windswept. "Bah, it's packed with my toothbrush. Should have kept it on me," he muttered as he ran his hand through his hair and looked around the room. "Now where's my damned bags? Wasn't someone supposed to bring those out here?" Kyle smiled, just a bit, as he walked out the door and headed for the elevator. Mr. Raehl had forgotten to purchase that particular baggage-handling service while arranging their trip, and Kyle had noticed this silently. Of course, Kyle didn't want to interfere with his boss's system, even if it didn't appear to make much sense. Maybe a sprinkle of failure was just a natural ingredient of greater success. Kyle laughed inwardly. The elevator doors slid opened before him, and he froze in place as the woman in the elevator nodded to him politely. She had very pretty eyes, and Kyle stood there watching those eyes blink confusedly. They both stood there for a moment, Kyle's face burning ever redder, until the door closed, leaving them both quite perplexed. Then Kyle took the stairs.

[Ken the Wandering Soul]

There was a knock on a dorm door, which was soon answered.

A young man in his early twenties looked suspiciously at fearfully at two intimidating, official-looking men.

"Are you Mr. Skye Monahan?" on the men asked.

"Aye, I am."

"We are here to offer you the chance to win a large sum of money, if you are willing to participate." the other man spoke.

"Uh huh, sure."

"It is a tournement which may interest you. If you wish to participate, looks at this envelopes contents. Otherwise, discard."

Skye reluctantly took an envelope, not quite sure what to do otherwise.

"Good day Mr. Monahan."

And with that, the men walked away.

Skye watched them walk down the hall for a minute before retreating back into his room, one scattered about with packages of cheap foods. After awhile of consideration, he opened up the envelope, and read.

---------------------------------------------


Skye sipped some soda as he stared out the window of the plane. He had been typing away at his laptop, continuing to work at the story draft he had been working on for so long. Eventually however, he found himself unable to think of how he could correct what seemed so wrong with it to him.

The waiter approached Skye, bearing a meal of sweet and sour chicken. Skye emmited a slight tick when it was set down.

"Uh, could you replace the silverware with chopsticks?" he asked.

"Of course sir."

Skye relaxed for a moment as the waiter took the silverware away. A announcement soon sounded, saying that their destination was about half an hour away. Skye looked back to his computer, staring the word document with a serious, hard look.

"This is going to hurt... And it's going to be scary... But I gotta do this..." he muttered to himself, thinking of what he went through just to qualify.

[Ransom]

Somehow, Okereke had managed to get fishing line tied on to each of the large African man’s ankles. Fortunately for Okereke, he hadn’t realised yet. All he would need to bring the man down was that magic moment when it was appropriate for the strings to be tugged, and in another few moves he would be victorious.
The man glared down at him menacingly.
“I don’t know how you got this far squirrel boy, but If you thought I could possibly lose the qualifying round to a little piss like you…” frustrated beyond belief, the man couldn’t even finish his sentence. Okereke wondered why the brawling sorts always had to have such low vocabularies. It is possible to be good at fighting and read books. He himself was living proof.
But Okereke wasn’t complaining, so far, this hadn’t been a hard fight; it usually isn’t when your opponent barely knows what day it is, much less a combat strategy.

But the man had good reason to be frustrated. His entire shirtless body was covered in small bleeding cuts and lacerations where Okereke’s knife had found its mark. His left arm hung dead at his side where a nerve had been cut, and a giant gash graced his forehead where he had been knocked to the ground by a surprise sweeping kick from his opponent. That crucial point in the fight was when Okereke had allowed himself enough time to get the fishing line around the man’s legs. His adversary, thinking himself clever, had thrown sand into Okereke’s eyes from the ground and used the moment to get himself up. Okereke, feigning defeat, had allowed the man to throw him down.
And there he was, a young dark haired Brazilian lying on the ground in front of a very large, very bald and very pissed black man.
Gavin, (as the man’s mother had lovingly called him) suddenly grinned with delight, he had surely won, and his ambitions of winning the tournament did not seem so far away as they had. He had gone through a lot to get this far, and he knew he deserved this win. Now just to finish the job on this bloody kid.
He clenched his brass knuckles and prepared for the finishing blow.

The crowd in the small stadium ooh’d and ahhh’d in shock at the realization of what Gavin was about to do. All of them guiltily looking forward to it.
The roman colosseum wasn’t ancient history after all, Okereke thought to himself.
Gavin, revelling at the attention, looked up at the crowd and let forth a harsh war-cry. That was the magic moment.
Okereke pulled as hard as he could, and suddenly Gavin found himself flat on his back with his opponent’s foot on his throat.

The victor grinned confidently at the man, as if it had all been too easy. However, it was only relief and potent exhaustion that Okereke felt now, he was going to need these next two months.


Okereke’s assistant was the probably the most annoying person he’d ever met. He thought maybe this was because he didn’t take time to meet many people, but then again, he couldn’t imagine how everyone could be like this.
No, Ling was definitely one in a million. Hailing from the Phillipines originally, ling was the classically cute, petite Asian girl. She was so childlike, that Okereke couldn’t imagine what twist in the natural laws had secured her such a prestigious position in a big company like A8. Nevertheless she persisted that she was actually thirty-two years old, and “still damn sexy”.
It had been a tiresome flight, with Ling chattering away to him the entire time, and then being immensely offended when he fell asleep or didn’t respond. Often the conflicts would end with Okereke hurt in some way, whether it be a meal tray frisbee’d into his eye, or a bruise on his head where Ling’s rock hard purse had struck him. But finally they were getting off, and Okereke would have his own hotel room. Bliss.

He stepped off the airplane onto the runway of the private airport. He smelled the air, and decided that the humid air and harsh sun reminded him of Brazil. He might actually like it here.
Ling strutted out behind him and pulled him along with her, breaking his short trance. “Hurry up Okee, we’re a day later then all the other contestants so we have to get organised!” he grimaced at the nick-name that she persisted on calling him, but said nothing. He had learnt what to say and what not to say with Ling, she could be very unpredictable.

They arrived in the hotel 15 minutes later and Ok (as I shall now call him because his entire name is getting tedious) was overjoyed to confirm that he would have his own room. As if reading his thoughts Ling interjected.
“If you just happen to get lonely or cold Okee… you’re welcome to bunk with me!” she stroked his chest, “We could warm each other up!”
Ok pushed her off, “No I’m sure I’ll be fine…”
She frowned at him menacingly, and then instantly cheered up. “Stop being so shy Okee! I know you want me!” She latched onto him again.
“I need to take a shower after that long flight,” he backed into his room, “ummm… seeya later!”
He slammed the door before she could protest and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He still couldn’t believe that she thought he loved her. No matter how sexy she thought she was, Okereke would sooner kiss a twelve-year-old.
It would be exactly the same after all.

[Showsni]

Gulls wheeled about the boat, their cries filling the air as the bright sunlight glittered off the waves. Ben leant against the railings, enjoying the brisk sea air. The two islands they were heading for had been slowly growing, and now they had almost reached their destination.

"Look! A black guillemot!"

Ben turned and smiled at his younger brother, Jack, who had his bird book in hand and binoculars pressed to his eyes. He was a keen amateur ornithologist, and relishing the chance to see some unusual birds.

"That's odd, though."

"What is?" Ben replied.

"Seeing a black guillemot around here. We're in the Pacific, right? You'd normally see them in Scotland and places."

Ben shrugged; his knowledge of geography was pretty shaky.

"Perhaps it was blown here by a storm or something."

"I suppose it could have been..." Jack frowned.

Ben turned to look at their destination again. He still couldn't believe it; it really was a miracle that they'd got here at all. When Mike offered him his invitation, Ben had thought it was worth a shot; the worse that could happen was getting thrown out for not being the right person, right? But for some reason the organisers had been happy to let him attend when he explained the situation. And actually sent them two free tickets to New York! He'd never dreamed that he'd be able to give Jack a real holiday after their parents died, let alone in a foreign country. Getting together enough money to pay for the passports had been hard enough, but somehow he'd managed it. He'd kept the news secret from Jack, and then surprised him at his fifteenth birthday party. The look on his face made the work all worthwhile.

Of course, he'd never expected to qualify. That was the true miracle. He shook his head, thinking about it. New York had been amazing; but Ben truly thought he'd be knocked out in the first round, and they could enjoy the rest of their free holiday. And he'd won. Not only that, but kept on winning. It was uncanny. Ben knew that he shouldn't be able to win against these people, that by rights he should never have got to this stage. He seemed to suddely have gained the most marvelous luck, though. His wild swings would connect when his opponent tripped into the path of his sword. His stumbles would fortuitously take him out of the path of kicks and blows. Two opponents had even dropped out before the match.

So, more by luck than skill, here he was, in the semi finals. He knew Jack was proud of him, and was even entertaining the thought that maybe his luck could hold out just a few matches more...

[Stalfos]

Takashi had recieved a letter exactly a week ago informing him that he was to be picked up by a private jet for a tournament of some sort. He had been picked up at exactly seven o'clock in the morning a week after.
He had always disliked planes, so to keep his mind off of it during the plane trip, he pondered such things as the meaning of the letter, the liar paradox, and where he had left his socks.
Nearing the island, he was struck by its beauty. He had never seen such an assortment of foliage and wildlife. He decided he'd go exploring later, if he had the time.
He didn't get his hopes up. He hadn't been invited to travel throughout the island; he'd been invited here to fight.
He stepped off of the plane onto solid ground with a relieved sigh, and decided that he'd just follow the herd. Didn't want to get lost, after all.


------------------------------

Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry! *Is late* I had already typed this post--a much better version, at that; it was also...somewhat longer--but accidentally went back a page and deleted my post before I could submit it. And I haven't been able to get online much since.

Sorry!

Edited by Armed_Stalfos, 20 October 2007 - 04:46 PM.

[DarkJuno]

The night air on the island is filled with the utter anticipation and feeling of excitement, for tonight was finally the night. After months of preliminaries across the world, and at least a year, if not more, of planning from its earliest stages, tonight was the pay-off for the Stroke of Death tournament. The massive stadium is filled to the brim, from the rafters to the luxury boxed seats, with an audience excited with the prospect of the fight - and tonight wouldn't even contain any of that. Merely, this was the opening ceremony, as the stadium floor was covered in rich decorations and platforms for the event. Large bronze statues representing various disciplines from around the world line the floor, positioned purposely and deliberately, to flow with the carpeting and large screens for all to see. All in all, it gives the feeling and spirit of how near epic the fights toc ome would be, building upon all the preperation and excitement from the past year.

So much so, that even Sol herself feels a slight tingle as she takes a peek from behind the curtain where she prepares to give her opening speech. Some performers who were fans of the tournament were to perform tonight as well, not to mention demonstrations given by experts in eachof their respective fields, but there was a certain segment of the audience - particularl those who worked for the A-8 Group and its rivals and/or allies - who were also curious to finally see the mysterious owner and CEO of the prestigious company. Brimming with her self assuredness and usual self confidence, Solidad still couldn't help but feel a little anticipation in the culmination of her brainchild coming to life on this night. Dressed in a smart, professional yet still slightly stylish buisness suit, nevertheless hernatural beauty shines through, even with only the bare minimum of make-up applied in order to stay looking serious. Regardless, tonight was going to be fun for her, if only so she could finally see the 12 finalists in person. After all, Sol muses, she needs to find out if they truly have what it takes for what was in store.

Shaking her head, she nods at one of the backstage workers as she checks her watch, and with a flip of her hair, she steps through the curtain.

It was, indeed, time.




All of a sudden, at exactly 7:00 PM, the lights in the stadium dim, as a lone spotlight hits the stage dead center in the middle of the stadium floor. Confidently, the fight announcer speaks over the sound system, announcing,

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Opening Ceremonies for The Stroke of Death! Please welcome the President, Owner, and CEO of the A8 Group, Solidad Alcott!" Like sheep, the audience cheers, most not really kowing why other then being told to welcome the rather confident, smartly dressed woman seemingly rising out of the stage floor as she walks up the steps leading from the underground, the curtain to the not-so-secret passage beneath swishing behind her trail. Coming up to the microphone, Sol speaks,

"Thank you everyone for coming, and the first thing I would like to say is how glad I am for all of you, the fans, for making this event such a huge hit. When I first planned this tournament probably two years ago, the baord members of my company told me ti was a ridiculous venture - but all of you, here on the island, and out across the world have proved them wrong! And for that, I thank each and every one of you!" As the audience cheers more excitedly this time, Sol smiles to herself, silently commenting on how easy it was to get a cheap pop out of everyone - even if her feelings were genuine. Her words were isntantly translated and broadcast to each of the nations watching her - to someone in France, it was as if she herself in her own voice were speaking French, or Italian, or whichever nation the viewer was in. Lookign down across the floor at the particpants down in their seperate parties, all with one A8 representative along ith various masses of people, she continues,

"As our tournament's announcer has said, my name is Solidad Alcott, and I run the A8 Group, but more importantly, I am the one who instigated, planned, and produced The Stroke of Death behind the scenes. I did so in the desire to see the most basic, vibrant form of life that all humans instinctively know and can act out, and that is in violence. Now, don't misunderstand me - whatever connotations violence can have, I don't care about. The one basic instinct all of us, from all you in the audience, to the fighters worthy to be here tonight, and even myself, is to hunt, defend, and butt heads with others - how or why is merely dressing. As such, I wanted a place where this instinct can be displayed with the beauty and majesty it deserves, without all of the other context or baggage tainting it." She adds, looking at the fighters specifically, "Don't worry, the winner's still going to get the 100 Million Dollars." he smiles as a satisfactory amount of the live audience slightly snickers and giggles to the joke.

"But honestly, I know that some of that engative connotation is justified, but that's chalked up to only part of the population, not all. Here, we can see what it is in its purest form, and that is something any of us would like to see." She finishes her reason, nothing on her face or body language even remtoely giving away the fact that she's only half telling the truth. Clearing her throat, she continues, her speech,

"Now that that's out of the way, I won't take much more of your time - I'm sure people here are more interested in seeing the performances tonight. However, let me clarify a few things to everyone here - while most know this, I'll lay it out now so there's no mistaking." Turning her attention to the finalists, she continues,

"Now, the 12 of you have all qualified froma cross the world, and will all be individually highlighted to the audience shortly. First of all, congratulations are in order, and I thank you for being involved in the Stroke of Death. All of you ahveproven yourselves to be amongst the top fighters and combatants in the world today, and I know each of you isprepared to got he extra mile to prove yourselves to be number one. That said, you must remember the three rules that my representative has surely told you by now:

-Weapons are allowed, but must not be automatic or projectile, and are strictly hand to hand
-There will be no intentional killing
-Fight as if each match is the last the combatant will ever participate in, and act like his or her very soul is on the line

...to this, add these two rules - you may, under no circumstances, harm each other outside of a sanctioned fight. All combat is to be contained to within the seeded fights themselves. If you wish to spar, I have dozens upon dozens of the experts in various disciplines here on the island - several are fighters you may have seen or even defeated in the prior rounds, in fact. I realize you are all itching to get going, but please, remain civil." Growing more serious, she adds,

"And most important of all, none of the guests on this island are to ever come under harm, whether it be during a fight or not. If any sort of danger comes across any audience member during a match due to one of your actions, I will immediately have you thrown off my island, no questions asked. They paid to be here for a good time, not to have their lives put in danger." When Sol says this, there an unmistakable aded kick to her usual soothin, strogn voice, one that sends chills down the spines of some of the audience - at the very least, it accentuates her point rather well. Clearing her throat, she goes on,

"That said, once more, I thank all of you, and I expect nothign but the best performance from each of you. In fact, I know what each of you 12 is waiting for, so before the festivities, I'll give you what you want - the first match!" The crowd rupts in cheers at that point, as the light brown haired woman smiles and raises her arms for the audience to quiet down.

"Yes, indeed. I've gone through all of your files and have decided your fates, starting with these first two. Tomorrow, at 10 AM, in the Bamboo Field, the first match will take place between Stephen and Ito Takashi. Both of you will recieve information momentarily, and if you wish to prepare, go right ahead - we are all looking forward to an outstanding first fight. That said, enjoy your night, everyone of or tomorrow, the Stroke of Death begins!"

******

All right guys, this is generally how my posts will go. The first half, which you just read, will be in character, whether it be from Solidad herself, or one of the random workers and officials I have roaming around. This half, however, is where I clarify things.

Anyway, like the lady said, the first fight between Armed Stalfos and Cid Farwin's characters will begin on Tuesday, November 13th, 2007 after 12:00 Noon Central Standard Time. From that point until Sunday, November 18th at 12:00 Noon CST only posts in the fight itself, as discussed up top in the rules, can take place. The participants will be judged the whole time, and the decision will be issued once the votes get talleyed up, and the winner will be PM'ed to finish the fight. Now, prior to that day, I encourage everyone to RP in here like a normal RPG - just remember the key rules:

-Participants may not harm one another when not in a sanctioned fight
-Solidad cannot be interacted with - storyline-wise, it wouldn't make sense

Anyway, this is free time. Get to know each other, the island, and maybe try to dig around and see what's going on here anyway.

Have fun.

[DarkJuno]

The normally perfect, sunny tropical morning on the Island was betrayed by the murmurings and rumblings of discontent amongst the guests currently occupying the grand resort complex. From the crowded viewing areas to the individuals who opted to view the match from their rooms, none matched the amssive irritation and annoyance as the live crowd in the bamboo forest arena. With the light filtering into the surpisingly man made forest, the dotted shadows creep along the forest floor as the wind sways, the crowd completely hidden from view in natural looking outcroppings of rock, tree, or earth. One particular individual, however, stays in plain view - the match's official. Grumbling as he looks at his watch, his annoyance grows even more as he sees the time - 10:15 AM.

The match had been scheduled for 10 AM sharp. Which means....yes, there it was. The silence of the forest was broken as a sharp ring echoes fromt he man's pocket. Knowing full well what it was, he takes out the somewhat ratty old cell phone and answers,

"Yes?"



A couple of miles away, on the smaller, private island, Sol sits in the living room, a bowl of cereal on the coffee table in front of her uneaten. With an obviously forced calm demeanor, she replies to the lone man she sees n the islan on her flat panel television, her other hand trying to keep busy and picking on the lint on her pajamas.

"Go ahead and make the call, they're late."

"Yes, Ma'am, and should I also ahve them..."

"No, she responds cooly, adding, "Let them stay on the Island. Let them bare witness to exactly what they completely blew their chance at attaining first hand."



With a heavy, regretful sigh, the official hangs up and speaks on his small microphone.

"Witha regret, I hereby disqualify Ito Takashi and Stephan from the Stroke of Death competition for failing to show up at the alloted time, even after waiting beyond what we were required to. Rest assured, each and everyone one of you watching will be compensated, an our next match, which will be announced tonight by Ms. Alcott, will proceed much more smoothly then this. Thank you.





******

Ya'll had almost an entire week to post. I didn't want to do this, but my hand was forced.

It's not my problem, so don't complain. I'll announce the next match, which will hopefully actually occur, on Tuesday.

[SL the Pyro]

(I'm sure this post has no place in here, but it's a suggestion; perhaps sending PM's would help?)

[Showsni]

Ben walked away from the stadium, disappointed. He'd been hoping to see some true masters at work, but for some reason the combatants hadn't shown up. At first the crowd had stayed in their seats, hoping the announcer would retract his statement, but after the massive screens displaying the "fight" to the stadium had switched off it was clear they wouldn't get any action today. Around him the crowd were muttering angrily - they'd clearly paid good money to see this show, and were feeling let down. Well, at least he hadn't wasted any money this time.

"When are you going to fight?" Jack was tugging at Ben's sleeve.

"I told you, I don't know, alright? Now, what should we do for the rest of the day?"

The brothers had spent the night back in their extravagant room after the opening ceremony, and then gone straight to the main stadium this morning, foregoing the chance of getting closer to the action by watching from the actual arena in favour of trying out the exclusive VIP box their tickets entitled them to.

"Why don't we explore the island? There's bound to be some great wildlife."

Wandering around a corner, the sound of a large crowd suddenly filled Ben's ears. This was where the individual bookies had set up stall, and angry customers were understandably demanding their money back. A few people were getting quite nasty, as the overworked bookmakers tried to verify each betting slip.

"Maybe we should go another way," Ben suggested.

[Steel Samurai]

Isamu, simply put, was bored. Neither of the two contestants from the previous day had shown up. Hopefully neither of them had been strong fighters, and hopefully the match today would take place as planned, but till then he could think of nothing to do save what he was doing already: leaning against the balcony of his room looking out to sea. A knock sounded at his door.
"Come in."
The door opened silently and Marion stepped in.
"Do you need anything? I feel silly just staying in my room getting paid for doing nothing."
"No . . . Thank you Marion, I'm fine."
"In that case, do you want to go to the market and look around? There's still a few hours before the battle."
Isamu paused to think for a moment, then shrugged.
"Sure."
He grabbed his wallet from the nightstand and they left.

The market was bustling with activity. The large crowd gathered near the betting booth seemed to be getting angrier. Isamu recognized Ben from the opening ceremony leaving as they arrived. So. He wasn't the only one bored today. A chance to observe a potential opponent more closely. Isamu started towards him, but all of a sudden a large crowd of tourists came around the corner, cutting between the two. Isamu sighed and turned to look at a small trinket in the stall beside him. Ridiculously overpriced of course, even compared to Tokyo, but interesting nonetheless. It was a small figurine of what appeared to be a Babylonion warrior wielding a spear and a shield, a bow on his back, overlaid with gold. Interesting indeed. Isamu fished a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the seller, an wizened Polynesian man who looked as though he had lived for nearly a century.
"Very nice piece that one. Picked it up from a fisherman who claimed he found it inside the stomach of a Bass."
"Strange . . ." Isamu turned the figurine over in his hand and put it in his pocket. He could take it to an antique dealer acquaintance of his in Tokyo and have it appraised.
He and Marion went to a nearby cafe to have lunch. He ordered a plate of cooked and peeled prawns on rice, a dish he had not had since he left Japan. It was delicious, but the portion was far too big. If he ate that much Isamu would have been barely able to move for the rest of the day, let alone fight with any degree of swiftness. He finished a quarter of it, and put the rest in a plastic container to take back to his room. He might have an unlimited spending account while he was here, but frugality had been trained into his being by his grandfather deeply. No waste, no want. His grandfather's favorite saying. Isamu had heard they had a similar one in the west, a saying which, from what he had seen in his travels, was rarely followed. He finished his glass of water and got up. Marion was only halfway through her Caesar salad.
"I'll be back." He left.

[Goose]

Shazza was preparing. She was cleaning her crowbar. Making it shine. Shine like DEATH!

So she looked outside the window and saw all the people walking past. They were all pumped to see the fight going to happen soon, this time, a real event. There was no wimping out of this little fight, at least from her. And if the dreadlord didn't show, she'd just track him and hit him over the back of the head with her crowbar, for the sheer fun of it.

Shazza wished her nanny was here. She'd give her a big hug.

Shazza wished her parents were here. She'd hang them up by their pubic hair and then choke them until they died. UNTIL THEY DIED.

The mere thought made her chuckle.

[Goose]

She was waiting for the fight to begin. Standing there. With crowbar in hand. Her other hand was pointed at the dreadlord and the little finger of the aformentioned hand was waving in the air.

As she taunted him, she stood, waiting for the signal to begin fighting.

[DarkJuno]

As clouds pass overhead, momentarily blocking out the sun but not its heat or light every couple of minutes, this particular match's official grumbles to himself as she looks at her watch. The not very attractive but not exactly ugly older woman murmurs as she looks out upon her surroundings. This was the rock quarry arena, where every single spectator was hidden behind or, indeed, within the many rocks and vegetation less "hills" on the somewhat mountainous center of the island. Modified and torn apart to look like a working rock quarry one might find in areas where humans prodded and poked for raw materials for building or riches, the place has a barren, near desert like quality to it. Naturally, much like the - unused - bamboo forest arena, the tropical breeze and the distant crash of waves on the beach were the only things that broke the illusion that's otherwise perfect and convincing, down to the rusty and used equipment and false mineshaft entrance.

At the very least, this time around, someone had othered to show up - though glancing at the fairly...odd woman pacing and amdly waiting for her opponent to show up, the official realizes that she herself maybe in danger if this other combatent didn't show up. Sighing, she glances at her watch - 15 after. Muttering, she speaks into her microphone, for all to here,

"The other participant of this, Round 1, Match 2, has exactly 5 minutes to appear. If he does not, Shazza will win by default, via forfeit by Dreadlord Z. No exceptions."



******

In other words, if Shadow Link doesn't show up by Tuesday, December 4th, 2007 prior to when I get home from work that evening, Goose wins because he actually followed directions.

No exceptions.

[SL the Pyro]

(SNAP, THAT WAS CLOSE! I owe Steel for giving me notice.)

"You don't have to worry about me missing this match, it's what I came here for after all..."

Z's voice practically boomed throughout the entire arena. From atop the highest point of the audience, he was standing, his cloak and long white hair fluttering in the wind. After a small moment of preparation, he jumped from that point, his cloak fluttering even more as he fell. Landed on his feet with a resounding a resounding crash that almost shook the Earth due to all his heavy gear. A lesser being would've been paralyzed by the impact, but Z stronger than that; this was what he was here to prove, after all. He slowly stood up to face his opponent; Shazza, if he recalled correctly from the tournament board. He practically towered over her.

"...And I care little if my foe is a man or a woman..." Z taunted, reaching under his cloak and pulling out what was probably the biggest claymore in existence, twice as big as his already gigantic form and plated black. With a single hand, he pointed the sword at Shazza. "I'll break you all the same."

Z slung his sword over his shoulder and got into a battle-ready pose, waiting for the match to begin.

"Come, Shazza, let me show you what true pain feels like."

(I'm very sorry about that, I've been quite preoccupied with schoolwork. It's all done now, so I can play.)

Edited by Shadow_Link, 02 December 2007 - 09:21 PM.

[DarkJuno]

******

Not a problem. Following the rules, but modified somewhat, you two have until...let's say this Thursday to fight, per the rules at the top of this forum. Remember to do your best, because the judges will be watching and....uh, judging.

Anyway, since Goose got her first, he's heads. And...

-flips coin in reality-

...Heads. Shazza, first post.

Have fun, both of you.

[Goose]

"True pain. How precious."

She looked at him. He was big. Too big. Like a man who was compensating for other things. He had heavy armour, heavy enough to make a crash upon landing. Her crowbar would have trouble pearcing that armour. And he had a sword. How special of him. His mother would be proud.

Shazza decided to emit a warcry that she had learnt. It was simple, yet scary. It had the ability to scare any male off. "RAAAAAAAAAAPE!" She charged at him with her crow bar. Not intending to hit him she swung above his head and used her knee and attempted to plunge it into where it might have hurt him...

[SL the Pyro]

Z wasn't at all fazed by Shazza's warcry -- he'd definately heard worse -- but more amused at what it was. merely tlited his body back a bit to avoid the crowbar, although he'd then realized that it wasn't aimed right at his head. "A trick?" he thought, before feeling Shazza's knee connect right where his masculine area was. It was where his armor was weakest, but still really tough, although Shazza had surprising lower body strength; what was he thinking not putting more armor there!? The crowd let out a "Ooohhhh!" sound as Z stiffled a hoarse groan of pain, but stood still. His pain was obvious though, just as mushc as his newfound anger for this confounded girl. "Why... you..."

Z was infuriated that his first opponent turned out to be such a dishonorable one; even he hadn't sunk that low! His body shaking with anger, he attempted to grab Shazza with his large metal fist, with the intent of giving her a quick strangling and then a hard throw into the arena wall.

Edited by Shadow_Link, 03 December 2007 - 01:02 PM.

[Goose]

She went flying into the air and smashed into a wall. Her back ached. She had a head ache. AND it was that time of month. The pain was just infuriating, like being surrounded by a mob of children who cant decide whether they hate you or like you and keep hugging and scratching you.

This guy seemed very strong. She was also very strong. He was stronger, it was simply the truth. This was not to be a battle where she could out muscle him, she would have to outwit him.

"Hey ... You... Dread...Thingy... " she spat out at him as blood came out of her mouth.

"You remind me of myself. Strong. Smart. Brave. Handsome." She was getting closer to him.

"Debonair...


Heroic....


Beautiful..."

She was almost at her goal.

" Cool....


Shrewd..."

Almost reached it

" and Devilish."

She was now standing directly infront of him. As she muttered those last two words, she stabbed him with her crowbar where the right eye would be on a normal person. Not knowing whether she'd hit, she still smiled at him.
.

Edited by Goose, 04 December 2007 - 02:19 AM.

[SL the Pyro]

Not that Z hadn't dealt with this kind of tactic before, but Shazza's crowbar still came bloody fast. He had the mind to move his head out of the way -- his heavy armor meant moving his whole body would take too long -- but the crowbar still scratched the right side of his face, barely missing the eye she was aiming for. Not a deep wound, but it still bled as a sign that he was hit. Thanks to the failed attack, the crowbar poked a whole through the other side of his hood; to anyone who didn't have a good enough view, it would appear that Shazza had impaled her crowbar right through Z's head.

Using the close proximity of Shazza's weapon to his advantage, Z grabbed hold of it and pulled it out of his hood, some of his blood slipping down it. He then raised his sword with his other hand with the intent of hacking off the arm of his foe that held the crowbar. If he were allowed to kill, the blade would be aimed for her skull instead of her arm, but he had to make to with what he had.

The plan remained the same, however; unless Shazza had another clever trick up her sleeve, she'd either have to lose her weapon or lose her arm. And she didn't have much time to decide.

Edited by Shadow_Link, 04 December 2007 - 06:46 PM.

[Goose]

His sword slashed down onto her shoulder. It ripped it in two , the arm and the shoulder. She could see her arm lying on the ground, with blood spurting out of where it used to be. She walked over to where there was something that could stop the blood but finding nothing, she took off her shirt and used it as a bandage, it wouldn't work too long, but she didn't intend the battle to last that long.

Shazza was standing there, wearing nothing but her sports bra, with her shirt covering her arm. Her crow bar was lost somewhere and she had nothing she could really use as a weapon. It just wasn't working for her, all this effort and nothing. She started to cry. She'd never free her nanny now, and never murder her parents. This guy was going to kill her. Or at least maim her. She may as well give up.

But she wasn't a quitter. She'd give him all she had, and if that meant charging at him with one arm holding the other as a weapon, thats what she'd do. And what she attempted to do, taking a swing at his head with her severed arm.

[SL the Pyro]

Although Z highly that a severed arm was going to do much to him, he decided not to take any chances. He didn't use his sword to stop the attack, however, but rather Shazza's own crowbar that he was still holding on to. The arm smacked into it and then went back to being limp. "Wow. I'll say this much, you have spunk. But look at yourself; even though you're fighting your hardest, you're still crying a river. Not to mention that you're now missing an apendage."

Z parried the arm away as if it were actually a sword.

"Pathetic."

He attempted to smack Shazza in the head with the crowbar; not with enough force to kill her, but at least break her jaw if she didn't react.

[Goose]

He went and attempted to hit her in the jaw, but she reacted and ducked. Her plan was working. He now thought she was little more than a crying girl. Even without an arm, she could finish this guy off.

With him holding that crow bar of hers, and his sword in the other arm, he was far too weaponed up for close contact, her plan was simple, tackle him and strangle him until he falls into unconsiousness.

So she dived at him.