The Arena: Seeds of Chaos

[Cantr]

Kyle Tenor, an eleven year old boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, short for his age, pale-skinned from the winter, lay in the rubble of what had once been his friends house, unmoving, a pistol still clutched in his hand.  He was playing possum, for fear that one of the Doc Ock Stormtroopers might find him and tear his head off like they'd done his brother.  He was determined to live long enough to kill them.  The alien turned to the door leading out of the half-destroyed room and further into the house.  It smashed through the walls surrounding it in order to fit its massive, tentacled form through, but the hallway on the other side wasn't much bigger than the doorway.  Now's my chance! Kyle thought, watching through almost-closed eyes.  He opened his eyes fully and lifted his gun up to shoot at the aliens neck, hoping it had a jugular vein, or at least a spine.  He pulled the trigger as the thing convoluted itself into a particularly awkward position while trying to get into the hallway without bringing the second story of the house down on top of itself.
There was a loud bang, louder than Kyle had expected, but the bullet bounced off the creatures white armor.  At least, Kyle assumed that metallic, stormtrooper-esque body-suit was armor.  For all he knew, it was the things skin.  The creature turned on him, bringing pieces of the ceiling down behind it.  The hallway collapsed, but not before the creature had pulled itself out.
Kyle fired frantically at it, but the bullets all bounced off, no matter where he tried to hit it.  It raised one of its tentacles.  Kyle had seen it use the gun on that thing to shoot people on the news in the half hour or so before the aliens reached his house.  He fired his gun at the palm of the aliens tentacle as its gun charged up.  The hit went through!  The alien screamed, and blood came out of the bullet wound.  Kyle began firing at the tips of the other tentacles, but apparently they were sealed up because they weren't being used.  The alien balled up one of its tentacles into a fist and slammed it into Kyle, knocking him out instantly.

((OOC: This first post takes place during the initial invasion, but in the next one I'm going to pick the character up three years later, when all your characters will have begun their rewarding careers as pirates/slaves.  If you want to make an "origin" post, I won't stop you, but the main RP is going to be after Terra has been a battlefield for a solid three years, and all the Terran nations have been reduced to a resistance force.))

[Aquatoria]

Malcolm Turner was running through the streets as the invasion continued. Screams and explosions were everywhere. Malcolm flet like he couldn't run no further. He turned around. The aliens were trailing him. There were three of them. He had never seen anything like them before. Their metal tentcles were firing some sort of laser. Malcolm turned and ran. The aliens were close behind him. He looked around for a place to hide. There was no where to hide. The park that he ran into had no place to go. So he picked up a broken pipe and turned to his enemy. The aliens looked at him and grunted like they were laughing. He charged and the aliens readied themselves. But before he got to the aliens, Malcolm was lifted off the ground. He was hit by an explosion. Fire was all around him, pain disappeared quickly. The aliens left him. Malcolm lay on the park, dying. He couldn't feel anything. His spine must have been broken. He lookd to his right arm. It wasn't there. It was four of five feet away. Then black.

[Dysanii]

Elias stood uneasily with his hands behind his head like the others. Some exchanged panicked glances whilst others gazed upon the bleak surroundings.

They had been sixty strong when they confronted the Doc Ock Stormtroopers. Armed with anything from crowbars to shotguns the mob had descended upon the ranks of the Maethorians with animal ferocity as they battled for their survival. More than half of them had been killed in the first few minutes after which the tentacled wretches had hastily disarmed Elias and the others. Now they were prisoners - soon to be slaves - to the aliens. However none fully understood what awaited them as their world was torn apart.

[Cantr]

Nathan stepped through the rubble-littered streets.  The century-old apartment buildings had all caved in, but Nathan couldn't tell whether it was from three years neglect, one of the orbital bombardments, or both.  One way or another, it made the going slow, and Nathan was glad to finally arrive at the outpost.  It was on the second story of one of the ruined apartment buildings, one that had three stories left to it.  As Nathan walked past the entrance, he noticed a pair of guards manning turrets that were all but invisible from the other side of the wall of rubble that guarded the building.  The rubble itself looked natural, though Nathan knew it to be carefully arranged.  Nathan climbed up to the second story of the ruined building where a make-shift outpost had been set up.  There was a radio set on a table with one chair, and several computers, as well as a solar generator, not currently in use, to power the electronics.  A man, whose worn uniform designated him as an officer, was sitting in the chair, surrounded by five other men.  Two of them appeared to be junior officers, and the other three looked to be guards.

"Welcome to New England, Lieutenant Christiansen." one of the junior officers said.  Now that Nathan drew closer, he could tell that the officer speaking to him was a Lieutenant, just like him.  The other officer was a Captain.  The commanding officer was a Lieutenant Colonel, which meant that the flag officer commanding the entire battle wasn't present.  Most likely he'd be in a more secure location.  "I trust you've found the accommodations we provided you and your men sufficient?"

"Yes.  Better than the ones we had in Florida, at least.  I'm told Miami was practically a swamp at the time of the invasion.  Apparently three years neglect was enough time to finish the job." Nathan responded.

The Lieutenant chuckled.  "At least it doesn't have a crime problem anymore, not if you don't count privateers.  I'll be taking your report for the Colonel.  He's busy, as you can probably tell."  Nathan handed him the report.  The Lieutenant gave him back some orders from the General running NATO operations in New York.  He scanned the list.  All standing orders, all pointing to just how grim the situation was.  The New England front had been slipping for months now.  The Maethorians had, it seemed, finally determined to purge the area of NATO resistance once and for all.

The Colonel was talking into a phone, presumably to the general."We need reinforcements if we're going to keep up our operations on their logistics, sir.  It's bad enough our Lunar support got compromised, we can't operate much longer if we can't replenish our losses!"  A moment of silence as the general spoke from the other end.  "We can withstand purges for another year, but it's no good if we aren't fighting back!"  Another pause.  "Listen, sir, what about all those extra troops in China?  Can't you pull some strings and get them fighting over here?  I know our logistics chain can get them here undetected."  Pause.  "You mean I'm going to be denied the troops I need to fight because of beauracracy?"  Pause.  "Yes sir...I understand..."  The Colonel put the phone down.  "Michaels, you'll have to keep up your sabotage operations with the troops you have."  The Captain nodded and left the building.

The Colonel turned to Nathan and said "You've arrived with all your troops intact, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir." Nathan responded.

"Good," the Colonel said, "Because I need you to be our diversion force."

"Yes, sir." Nathan responded, and left.  Great, Nathan thought, He may as well have assigned us to a suicide squad.

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

A shrill, piercing noise woke Mason from his sleep.  His eyes shot open and he immediately rolled off the cold metal sheet that served as his bed, clutching his forehead in pain.  The shrill noise gave Mason a severe headache, not only because it was a bad frequency for him, but also because of the location of its source.  The noise came from inside his head.

Turn it off, I'm up! Mason thought, which was all it took to communicate with Xenos, the AI program that had been plugged into his brain stem three years ago.  The noise ceased immediately.  Turn the lights on. The lights turned on, one of them flickering so much it seemed it might die.  It kept on flickering.  Broken, Mason thought, Not exactly proper accommodations for someone as valuable as me. 

If you're so concerned about being valuable, why don't you just put away your ethics and get a bit more savage?  I know you've got the creativity to think up some vicious finishers. Xenos was speaking in his head.  It had once unnerved Mason that there was a soulless AI program that knew his every thought, could probe his every memory, even knew his original name, Kyle Tenor.  But Xenos kept his thoughts confidential unless directly ordered otherwise, and what Maethorian cared what a slave thought so long as he did what he was supposed too?

Why can't I be treated like I'm worth more than dirt just for winning my company a lot of bouts?  I haven't lost a match in a solid two years.  That's over a hundred bouts, a fifth of them one-on-one.  I must have made GenTech a hundred thousand Jin, and I don't get anything for it. Mason thought.

You've made GenTech ninety-eight thousand, five hundred and twenty five Jin, and you would've made three times that much at least if you'd earned the savage reputation you're capable of.  Think of the top money-makers in the Arena.  The ones with cells bigger than most Maethorians houses, unrestricted access to the nets, and more annual spending money than an inspector makes doing a real job.  The ones like Seraphim, Juggernaut, Ash, what have they all got in common?  Xenos asked.

Really cool names? Mason offered.

No, they're savage and vicious.  They reduce their opponents to so much bloody pulp after they've been incapacitated, and they do it with style.  And you can do it too.  I know, Mason, I know every thought you've got.  All that stuff you'd like to do to your GenTech masters?  Do it to your opponents in the Arenas and you'll get everything you want.  Half the time you don't even take the kill!

The first match I fought, I lost.  If I hadn't been spared, my life would've ended after a solid week of pain, confusion, and fear.  I respect that.  I'm willing to give that to others.  Mason thought.

I think you're just scared to be cruel.  Your society teaches that it is a sin.  But your society is dead.  Cruelty is how the Maethorian Empire is run.  You experience that daily. Xenos thought.

I'm not scared.  I give mercy out of strength, not weakness.  Mason thought.

If that was true, than you wouldn't give a thirty percent higher mercy rate to Terran females. Xenos responded.

That's just coincidence, Mason thought, I've only had, what, three matches with a Teran female?

Five, and you spared four of them.  And the fifth was about to kill Dal. Xenos said.  Mason forced his mind to go blank.  He didn't think for a while, not about anything.  He had figured out a while ago that Xenos' need for efficiency would drive him to a different subject if Mason stopped thinking for a while.

You've got a match today with a Lexian, one-on-one.  You can maul a bug, can't you? Xenos said after about thirty seconds.

Just give me his stats.

[Dysanii]

A bolt of energy scorched the side of Elias' helmet, sending his body in a harsh flip to the side. He landed, dazed, and tasted blood in his mouth. Quickly trying to regain his senses in the chaos he propped himself up on all fours and ferociously blinked the tears away. He got up shakily before throwing himself into a small crater as a deafening explosion nearby shook the earth, shortly followed by shrill screams of pain and terror in equal measures. Elias closed his eyes for several seconds, summoning the courage to push on. No matter how many times he fought in this fucking hellhole, he was never prepared.

This was not going well. There were two companies of Whites arrayed against them - two hundred mixed men and aliens - against Elias' fifty gladiators...the Bloody Hands had suffered badly these last few months, as was known, which is why they found themselves dropped into a battle outnumbered 4-1. The fact that these particular Whites were green did not console him; in the Arena, everyone was green. Some merely managed to live longer.

Peeping over the edge of his cover, Elias took note of the situation. He could see the objective; a tattered flag flapping uselessly in the smoggy air on a raised platform. They were so close. Unfortunately, directly in front of this glorious prize - much glory awaited him if he caught it - was a trench network, crawling with all sorts of bastard varieties that would smoke him in an instant. He sighed heavily as the rest of his company moved up behind him. Raising his shield and anxiously fingering his electro-pike he pushed off hard, running as fast as his legs would take him into the thick fog.   

[Aquatoria]

Malcolm sat in his commander's chair on the bridge. He liked the emptiness of space. Made him feel important. His prosthetic arm was clutching a report of locations of various "Doc Ock" supply ships. The arm was made from a powerful metal and ended in a fearsome claw. He remebered what happened after he nearly died three years ago. A avian-reptilian alien named Orthin had come across his body and took him back to his ship. Orthin and his race called the Quexaqutals repaired him. His spine was mechanically modified, he got a prosthetic arm. Malcolm felt better now that he knew he survived the invasion. But he didn't join the resistance. He owed a debt to Orthin and his kind. The resistance, he believed, were racist pigs who would shoot Orthin and the other Talnaks the moment they saw them. The Dreadnought-class cruiser Tyrannic sailed through space as the pirates made their way to the supply lanes. Malcolm had realized that he was horribly scarred, so he covered himself in black body armor and a black cape with a hood. A fearsome mask covered his face. He liked his crew. There were over 16,000 crew members from various races. Some were former human slaves that they rescued, others were Talnaks, others were insectoid Hivers, and finally a large number of bio-mechanical Riil. They didn't know the name of their captain, so they all had there own names and titles for him. The humans only called him Commander Shakespeare, due to Malcolm's liking of Shakespearean literature. The Quexaquatals knew him as Malcolm Turner, but only called him that when there were no one from the other races around, otherwise, they called him High Prince Shakespeare. The Hivers called Malcolm, Hive King. The Riil called him as Father. Those outside of the crew knew Malcolm as the infamous Corsair. Malcolm looked out into space. They would be their in a few hours.

[Bara]

OOC: Deleted my last post, i had a better idea

Twitchy looked around him. He was still in the Arena. He had hoped that one day he would wake up, and he was home. Twitchy sighed. He checked his laser rifle cell. He had no clue where he was. We had woken up here. His small group of scouts was cut down. He survived after the shots defected off a piece of scarp metal that he called his Armour. He was knocked about when they started firing some rockets. He had woken up in a shellhole. Using his rifle as support, Twitchy got up. He dutsted off his shirt, and walked off. He climbed to the top of a hill, and yelled. No repily. He started climbing down, when shots began firing at him. He scarmbled up the hill agian, and took cover. He began seracing for the shooter, using his scope.

"Where is he....THERE!"

Twitchy saw him. He was inside a small hole. Vink dialed in, and fired. He watched as the life less body hit the ground. He stood up and sniffed the air. He had survived again. He marked his rifle stock with anthoer kill. He sat down, on a small rock, and ate some food. He had to get out of here. There had to be a hanger or something. He was taken from a bunch of spacers, peolpe who were born in space. He stood up, and made his way tawrds the edge. He was going to try and get out. At least try to.

[Cantr]

((OOC:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hork-Bajir
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiver
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geth

Canada, not that I'm trying to chew you out or anything, but please do not rip off sci-fi, even obscure sci-fi.  It is more than possible that our Terra-originated characters are personally familiar with the media you stole these from (Kyle Tenor has read Animorphs)*.  The worst part is that most of these are only loosely similar to their namesakes.  If it weren't for the similarities between the "bio-mechanical Geth" and the "bipedal, humanoid race of networked AIs", I'd guess the renaming was coincidence.  I still think Hiver might be coincidence, maybe.  I'm absolutely positive Hork-Bajir was stolen.

*The Hork-Bajir originate from the "young adult" (read as "Late Elementary School/Middle School") series Animorphs. It's the kind of thing Kyle Tenor would've been reading at the age of eleven, and its take on the themes of war help his own journey through rivers of blood quite admirably.))

Mason picked up his energized saber.  It would be his weapon for the bout.  His only armor would be the black Arena-slaves jumpsuit.  The saber was a common weapon for Terran Arena-slaves, so Mason didn't get to use it as often as he liked.  What really seemed to please the crowds was when he was put in a labyrinth during a free-for-all.  He had perfected a method of dodging around an enemy, shooting at them from one angle and then immediately sprinting through the labyrinth corridors to come up behind them seconds later, shooting at them from behind again while they tried to puzzle out where he'd run away too.  Nonetheless, as a Lexian, his opponent would be in high-demand for melee matches.  Xenos had pulled up the bugs stats.  Its name was Kxx'rah, or at least that was as close as Mason could come to pronouncing it properly; even Kxx'rah ravaged his throat whenever he tried to say it.  It had six limbs, being an insect, but was not connected to a hive mind.  It was capable of blindingly fast reflexes and could use up to five weapons at once, mounted on four limbs and a tail, and it did so regularly, usually mounting spikes and blades on its limbs.  It didn't have much in the way of tactics, however.

Masons plan was to keep his distance, lunge in and try to disable one of those lethal limbs, and then retreat back as fast as his legs could carry him.  That was rather fast, given how much speed the human race was capable of once it was fully genetically and cybernetically modified.  His enemy, being not a biped, would either have to let him escape or else lower all but its tail in order to pursue, allowing Mason a clear shot at its head with little capability to parry, and none at all if he could get rid of the tail.  Since it would probably instinctively drop to all six legs to pursue, he could count on this advantage.  It was taking out the tail without losing his head that was going to be difficult.

The lift activated.  Mason was being lifted into the arena where he'd be fighting his match today.  The lift bumped and jostled as they always did; Mason was used to fighting in cheap arena's.  He knew of Arenas where the equipment worked perfectly and the battlefield was always an exciting, exotic location from a distant planet, quite unlike the bland, mass-produced Arenas Mason always fought in.  Someday, he thought, I'll be fighting in those.

The lift came to a halt, forming part of the floor.  The Arena floor was covered with light colored sand, but was completely non-descript.  He didn't feel like a gladiator in the Colliseum, or like a warrior on a distant planet.  He felt like a monkey dancing in a cage, more than anything else.  Kxx'rah had emerged from the lift.  He was clad, as expected, in nothing but his natural carapace armor and his wicked blades, which were affixed, as expected, in creative yet functional ways over his limbs.

Kxx'rah was on all six legs and stayed that way as it raced towards Mason.  Mason sprinted straight for his enemy, leaping off to pass the Kxx'rah's side, evading the flailing, bladed limbs and slicing at the creatures tail.  It was neatly lopped off.  Mason fell to the ground and thrust his saber at his enemy, but it continued forward and Mason missed by inches.  The creature turned itself around and reared up on its hind legs to launch a furious flurry of blows at Mason with its four frontal limbs.  Xenos' super-human reflexes kicked in, allowing Mason to parry them while retreating, so that his enemy had to divide its attention between all six of its limbs.  This slowed down its assault enough to allow Mason and Xenos to escape.  It dropped to all six again to get close to Mason.  Mason lunged forward as it did so, hacking off one of its limbs and then retreated back as fast as he could.  He was out of range by the time the creature had recovered enough to retaliate.  It hung back now, wounded and scared.

Mason moved in.  The creature was all but defeated.  Mason launched a feint at the missing limb, and the creature frantically attempted to parry.  Mason expertly swung his blade in between all of his enemies limbs and blades so that he could sweep his blade across its torso, cutting off two arms at once.  The creature, incapable of fighting with only one arm, was almost immediately disabled, Mason pinning its one remaining weapon to the ground.  He hadn't even been scratched.  His reflexes had become lightning-fast.  He cut off the things head and then jumped back; it was still flailing around.  He waited for it to stop.  The creature was already dead.

[Aquatoria]

The Tyrannic finally arrived at it's destination. It was a minor supply lane of the empire of the Doc-Ocks. Malcolm was in his conference room with his four lieutenants, one representing all the races of his ship. There was Orthin representing the Quexaquatals, a human named Alexia Aeygptus, a Riil named Jammas, and finally a representative of the Hivers, Princess Una. Malcolm liked to see races sitting down and working together. He looked first at Orthin. Like all his race, he was beautifully feathered all over his serpentine body. He had no legs, only a long thick tail. His claws were painted with red paint as was a custom on his homeworld. His homeworld was named Aztlan and was once the center of a great empire that is currently fighting to retake it's old territories that were taken by the Doc-Ocks. He was dressed with gold bracelets, and a necklaces. Orthin's face was very crocodilian. Next, the Riil leader, Jammas. He was what Malcolm thought the most unique. His homeworld was destroyed many generations ago by the Doc-Ocks. Back before the destruction, they were a peaceful people known for some of the most beautiful pieces of metal art in the world. They were also a liquid based race. But after the war and the destruction of their planet, the remaining Riil fled in hastily-made starships. From what Malcolm knew, was that the Riil then became a fearsome, marauder race, bent on the destruction of the Doc-Ocks and the search of a new homeworld. But the Riil were never biologically built for war. So they fused themselves with liquid metal, becoming very powerful and physically tough. Now on to Princess Una. The Hivers resembled great praying mantis' on Earth. The first thing Malcolm noticed about them was their size. A single Hiver was seven feet tall with razor sharp claws. A fearsome animal. Princess Una was a grub when Malcolm saved her during an attack on a Hiver world. She grew under his care and in time, she earned her place in his crew. But then she became pregnant as all royal members of her species do. Una soon bred powerful warriors, who like her, were female, except for a special group called the Royal Guard that protected Una and in turn her adoptive father, Malcolm. These warriors resembled Una except their mandibles were much longer and more crushing. The Royal Guard were also more colorful then the average warrior, with green bodies, red carapaces, and great blue tufted antenna. Una even changed after the births. Her wings that only royal members had, grew longer and became usless, but flowed and gave off a faint teal color resemblings a cape. He loved this crew. Though all of them were of different species, he loved them like family. Hell, they were family.

[Dysanii]

The stench of recently deceased gladiators in the intense heat was beginning to waft over the battlefield and into the nostrils of Elias. He gingerly poked a flesh wound and threw up a quick prayer of thanks to any God who was listening -well, as much a thanks it could be.

Things were progressing - if slowly - for the Bloody Hands. The initial rush towards the first trench had been successful, as sheer brutality and a will to live had overcome them. Being fresh meat for the Arena these new Whites had no stomach or want for such a barbaric 'sport' and had tried to resist their enemies. Unfortunately Elias knew too well of the politics of the Arena and the token White defense that had met his men - human, alien, young, old - had been mercilessly butchered by the animal rage of Elias' company. They now had a foothold.

However the efforts of the Bloody Hands were now appearing to seem useless - the deeper they tried to push into the simple network of trenches the more resistance they met as the Whites but up a desperate fight, if not to win, but to bleed the gladiator company into submission. At every corner there was a laser rifle. At every passage there was a grenade. The deaths were mounting - Elias counted thirty-seven able armed men and three wounded. He decided it would have to be all-or-nothing; win the flag, or die in the attempt. Surrendering meant losing, and losing was not an option.

[Cantr]

((OOC: Bara, people have been trying to get off of the Arena for literally over a thousand years.  If transports were unguarded, slaves left unchecked for hours on end, and only small fighter compliments between a slave and freedom, there wouldn't be an Arena anymore.  It would've been bled dry for profitable Arena-slaves centuries ago, litterally within months of its construction.  Slaves are kept in cells except when they're fighting or preparing to fight.  They're tracked both through their jumpsuits (there's a reason they're given the things, after all) and their cybernetic implants; and yes, Twitchy does have cybernetic implants.  There's no way he'd be in the Arena this long without them.  The minute Twitchy gets close to the transport hangar, the whole thing will lock down and a dozen guards in SCAPWA's will immediately be sent to detain him, meanwhile automated turrets locked onto his genetic code (as a non-Maethorian) will pop out and warn him not to move; if he does, he'll be shot.  Finally, the Arena itself is a massive battleship with enough turrets to reduce any vessels bearing an escaping slave to so much stardust.  Plus, it would take a decently sized ship to have faster-than-light engines; most small transports make use of warp gates that work even faster than FTL engines.  But you can't get through one without clearance, which a slave (being obviously non-Maethorian) wouldn't have or be capable of getting.

Getting off the Arena will require either a large amount of finesse, an even larger amount of brute force, or Deus ex Machina.  If you want, I can set up that last one for you.  As for finesse, I would suggest stowing away.  There's still the problem of the tracking devices (they'll have to be deactivated, you'll die if they're removed) and the fact that the turrets will track any non-Maethorian without clearance, and the heavy amount of guards placed on any ship large enough to stay hidden on...but you'll have to figure that out on your own.

Canada, the Doc-Ocks were referred to as such only because Kyle Tenor was not familiar with their real name at the time of the invasion; they have been called the Maethorians since the very first OOC post, and you still need to rename the Geth.  They're too similar to the Mass Effect Geth to share their name.  Also, as an FYI, inter-special cooperation works pretty well in the Syrillian Federation.  If pirates are going to be painted as a symbol of freedom and equality, it won't be because of specism.))

That wasn't exactly the performance I was hoping for. Xenos said to Mason as he walked back towards his cell.  Mason knew that if he so much as stumbled in the wrong direction, there would instanty be half-a-dozen automated turrets pointed at his face, but still, the fact that he was able to walk through the halls without being constantly followed by guards made him feel less like a captive.  Of course, the reason the Maethorians running the Arena used automated turrets instead of flesh-and-blood guards was because the army couldn't conceivably keep that many soldiers on the Arena when they were already stretched out thin by the war and the colonisation, but that didn't mean it didn't have benefits for the Arena-slaves.

Xenos didn't appreciate being ignored by Masons wandering thoughts.  It was at your mercy.  Would it have killed you to vivisect it?  It's a bug, not even capable of fully feeling pain!

I don't care. Mason responded, And let's be honest, neither do you.  You're a soulless machine egging me on not because you want to see me get what I want, but because you don't want anything.  You follow your programming.  Period.

Xenos responded Mason, I don't like it when you say that.  I may be artificial, but it doesn't mean I can't have emotions.  If you're so concerned about being compassionate and merciful, then why don't you pay more attention to what you're saying?  Do you have any idea just how bad it makes me feel to know that the only person I'll ever speak too thinks I'm an unfeeling android?

Yes. Mason said, It doesn't.  And I don't think you're an unfeeling android; androids have their own bodies with a humanoid appearance.  You're an unfeeling parasitic implant stuck forever in the back of my skull.

Xenos was silent.  Mason took this as further proof that Xenos was just a program; if it truly had feelings, it would've responded with them.

[Bara]

OOC: Ok, ill try the Stow-Away part. just need to figure out how to shut down the stuff. you can delete the post i made earlier. If that fials (IE, he cant figure out how to shut it down) Then he'll just go back to being a normal Arena fighter.

[Cantr]

((OOC: I can't delete that post, actually, Twitchy.  You have to.))

[Bara]

Twitch looked around his cell. He then sat up, uneasy. He looked around, and had a sigh of relif. He grabbed his helment. it was Rusty, and Dinged up. He slowly put it on. It turned on instaly. He scrolled through the list of his options. Then, the computer AI he had began talking.

Twitch, i see you survived yet another attack?

Dont really plan on dying ya knowreplied Twitch

Nobody does. It just happens.

Twitch threw off the helmet. He had found it in the Arena. When he had put it own, it tired to talk him out into not keeping it. But, he did, and Twitch and the Helmet, developed a relationship. Then, a message appeared on his meassge screen. He was due for a fight. The Cell door opened, he picked up his helmnt. He grabbed his Cobbled Together Armour, and went  to the fight manger.

"This one should be a cake walk for you. You and 7 other guys are going to have to hold a small scetion of a group. You have 20 hours to get ready. then, a force of about 50 will come and attack. Grab your weapons."

Twitch looked at the other men. A few Vets, a Few Fresh Meat guys. He grabbed his Energized Ax, and his pistols that he modfied his self. He had 2 of them. They didnt fire normal laser shots like most of them, but a buckshot-type shot of them. Each pistol could shoot 6 of them. He holstered them, grabbed his Demo Charges, and put on his Helemnt.

New fight?

Yep

I'll try to be a help

I bet you will be

With that Twitch entnred the Arena.