NationStates Jolt Archive

After three hours gearing up in the darkness of the underchambers, the light of the arena, bringing into focus a quarter of a million cheering spectators, was blinding. The convict had been allowed to choose from the lesser weapons only- baseball bats full of roofing nails, sledgehammers, oversized power tools, and others. He finally settled on a set of hunting knives and a machete.

The crowd cheered, anticipating blood. These were the [/I]morituri[I] fighters- those who were about to die. Underequipped, mostly untrained, doomed against whatever horror the Arena would unleash this time. The loudspeakers blasted the announcer's voice into the teeming crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen! I present, for your entertainment, Convict 646!"
The crowd roared. These men had no names. They were prisoners of the state. This was how the state got rid of them.

The loudspeakers roared again: "If the convict would make his way to the center of the arena sands!"
Slowly, gripping the black leather handle of his machete, 646 moved warily towards the arena center. And then, the gates opened. The crowd burst into louder cheers. Whatever came through those gates- it was going to be monstrous.

646 beheld a scene of horror. From six open gates, they came, squirming, muscular bodies teeming with anticipation as a strength-enhancing drug made them quick and numb to pain, transforming them into monstrous fighters before it inevitably slew them. They were thick as a man's waist and at least fifteen feet long, their eyes black diamonds, their bodies quivering with every motion as they moved with lightning speed and bloodthirsty anticipation towards their kill, tongues flickering out as their whole bodies heaved. These were boa constrictors- and they were beyond nightmares.

Each one was encased in a fantastic body suit. Were it not for the drugs that now flowed through their veins, they could not survive wrapped up like this. As terrifying as the creatures were, 646 almost felt a spark of pity for them, seeing what the cruel orchestrators of death had done. The suits were made of wire that had been twisted round and round the animals, with vicious spikes and razors welded on from the neck all the way to the tail. Behind them, trails were cut into the sands. Whatever they touched, they sliced. And 646 looked appetizing.
(OOC: This is a story between me and the nation Christac. If anyone wants to join, TG me and you can create a character.)

093 was sitting on a bench next to the door of the cage. He was next in after 646, but he was not afraid. He was the 93rd prisoner to be sent to this place and the only one who was still alive out of the original 100 men. This was his claim to fame around fellow prisoners, and many saw him as a mentor.

He hated this. He was not a mentor, he just wanted to survive, and that’s what everyone there wanted to do. He was just better at it than others. He had a few noobs looking at him now. One was shaking Ha! He wont be able to fight with that fear, damn noob!

093 looked round to make sure none of the guards were watching. When he was sure they weren’t he lit a cigarette he had been keeping. He took a small puff and handed it to the noob. "It will calm you down mate"

OOC: Sorry for not TGing, Christac, but it looks like you found the thread just fine.

IC: 646 lifted the machete high as one of the snakes coiled up, tongue flicking in and out, sunlight glancing from its spiked plate helm. It lunged forward, the muscles in its body striking like lightning, each working in unison to form an attack that was accurate to a fraction of a centimeter.

646 had been waiting. He was not as stupid as the men upstairs would like to believe. His machete still raised high, he moved quickly to the side, arching his back so the first wave of spikes cut only through the air, not through the flesh of his belly. Just as the gap between helm and suit approached, the machete was brought down, so quickly it was no more than a flash of light between the snake moving quickly and powerfully and the snake lying lifeless in the sand, a geyser of blood squirting from the stump of its neck.

646 turned, adjusting the crude, obviously used metal helm, whose grill protected his face from glancing blows, but little more. Breathing heavily, he lowered the machete dead center, between his eyes. He lowered the tip, pointing it at another serpent, undaunted by his comrade's defeat. The snakes were slightly intimidated. They had fear for this man. 646 was only alive because they had not yet attacked together, wildly slicing at him.

The snake 646 had selected let its mouth open wide for a horrible hiss and lunged, its body turning even as it moved through the air, in a fashion that would normally catch the victim for squeezing- but in this case would cut 646 clean in half. 646 thrust his machete up, through the roof of the snake's mouth and into its brain, falling on his back in the same motion in order to avoid the razors and spikes, sliding along the sands as the momentum from the blade pushed him forward. Just as he cleared that serpent, another lifted itself over him and prepared to fall and wrap around him. Of course, he would be mutilated before a constriction kill could be made, but the snake didn't know that.

646 took the machete in his right hand and swung it forward, in front of him. There was a clang of metal and a small trickle of blood where the tip of the blade had broken through wire. 646 hadn't killed it, merely batted it away. His machete, now much duller and slightly bent, was a fairly useless weapon- so 646 took out two hunting knives, moving towards the fallen creature, jumping as another boa bulleted across the ground in an attempt to catch his ankles, and brought both knives home- into the snake's eye sockets, one each. He twisted the serrated blades around and brought them back up, yielding a mass of gore. The crowd roared, and 646 made the standard appeal- lifting his blades up and crossing his forearms into an "X" shape above his head, screaming at the top of his lungs: "Are you not entertained?" And sure enough, from above, a massive axe-scythe, leather handle protecting him from the spiked steel shaft, fell from the stands. 646 picked it up and prepared for the onslaught.

Aristocrats could not only afford front row seats, but could also afford to buy some weapons in the shop at the entrance. When impressed, they would throw them down to champions that were in a tight spot. 646 wasn't yet a champion- but he was a definite crowd pleaser. An underequipped, untrained prisoner, and he had taken out half the opposition in under a minute- with a machete and hunting knives.

646 let the massive steel head of the huge axe drag in the sands behind him, circling the pit as the three surviving snakes made false strikes, trying to destroy their foe psychologically. If animals do indeed feel emotions, then one would be led to believe that these snakes were about to jump out of their skins (whether or not that was a common event). Not only was this newbie proving himself quickly, but now he had a powerful weapon, something that could really do some damage to that flimsy armor they wore.

646 had already lifted the axe before the snake had even begun to strike. It coiled up and was gone from its place like lightning. The axe went up and then down again- but missed, striking the sands. The crowd gasped. The snake was on 646 in a second. He dropped to the ground in an attempt to escape, but the thin padding he had been given as armor was no match for the spikes. He was sliced on the chest and shoulders- the bone had not yet been penetrated, but it still hurt like hell. A thin line of blood slithered its way down from the wounds as 646's nerves came alive with pain.

In one fluid motion, he leapt up, using the momentum as his palms hit the handle of the axe, whose head flew up, and 646 reversed his grip, bringing the spiked club that tipped the bottom of the weapon down upon the body suit of one snake, smashing its bones with a sickening crack. The snake, angry, turned and hissed at him, flopping wildly. 646 did not hesitate. Twirling the axe over his head, he brought the blade down swiftly. It cut right through the helm, smashing into the snake's skull. He could already hear another snake behind him. He yanked up on the axe, whose head was still buried in the recently-deceased snake. The spiked metal shaft clubbed the ambushing boa's soft, unprotected chin, piercing flesh and smashing the throat. 646 grunted, pulling the axe head up, and thrust the bottom of the axe's shaft through the helm, impaling the shocked, glass-jawed snake through the top of its head. He wasn't about to waste this weapon by dulling the blade. If he was lucky, he might get to keep it. He was already getting a feel for it.

The final snake, the one who had cut him, left a trail of his blood in the sand. It hissed threateningly, and moved forward like a bullet train, towards 646's shins. 646 leapt up, over it, and twisted around in the air, bringing the axe down right at the snake's midsection, slicing it clean in half. The axe propelled him forward, and he tumbled to the sand, rolling in a somersault. The snake was going into convulsions when the axe sliced it again and again, dividing it into piece after piece, until, in a matter of seconds, there was not enough left for the snake to twitch. 646 looked up to a silent crowd and dropped his weapon. What was wrong?

In a second, he had his answer. The crowd had been awestruck. Fighters like this one were rare. He might even find a sponsor soon. The crowd soon got over that shock and realized they should have been applauding like nothing else. Cheers and whistles exploded from the crowd. This man was unbelievable. 646 lifted his fists into the air and basked in the praise. This was worth getting used to.

093 watched the new boy in the ring, shouting out loud when as he did. "Nice shot!"

"To your left! Nice!"

"Get that bastard!"

As the other convict killed the last snake, 093 heard the applause. The cheers, the love they showed him! Nice! Very nice! A guard came up to the cage, and looked at 093. "Your up"

He lifted himself up and headed to the door, where another guard waited to open it. 093 walked through and brushed near 646 “Nice work kid! Talk to you in a minute"

646 knew 093's face well. He was a celebrity. Of every champion that had entered the arena- and the number increased every so often- he was the most famous. One of the original one hundred convicts sent here so that public executions could start making some money. The only one that survived. Sent in almost last, because he was not as large as the massive brutes they had hand-picked, who triumphed once or twice and made the papers. But after that, they were gone. Unheard of. 093 was effectively a legend.

646 pulled his helmet off and laid his weapons down, meeting congratulations with a stone face. He thanked those that praised him, but did not really look at them. He was focused on other things.

An x-shaped scar, from a knife fight he would rather forget, graced 646's right cheek, and his hair was long and white. His eyes were solid scarlet, but when people started to stare he hurriedly brushed his white bangs in front of them to mask them from view. People began to pay attention to him again.
"So- what prison are you from?" a large man next to him said, three golden teeth shimmering as he smiled.
646 kept his face grim, not really paying attention. Tight-lipped, he said: "Ninth Gate."
The large man was shocked.
"What the hell did you do that earned you a cell there?"
646 slowly turned his head, looking threateningly at the large man.
"I want to watch the show. We can talk later," he said, ending it there, practically daring the huge, muscular bald man at his side to start a fight. The man didn't. He turned too, to see 093 enter the arena.

093 slowly walked into the arena. The crowed started throwing no ends of weapons in his direction. The person who threw the one he picked up would be honoured and no doubt be telling his family and friends later, when he got home.

093 stopped next to a pair of short swords. He pulled them out from next to the other weapons and threw them both up in the air. He quickly jumped up and caught them in mid flight before slamming both of them down into the sand. These will do nicely

He stood there, swords either side of his face. It was a tough act to follow, but he was ready for the challenge. His heart was racing and sweat formed on his brow. The doors on the other side of the arena slowly opened...

ooc - Ill let you decide what it is

The speakers roared. The crowd hushed enough to listen, but still a wave of gossip pulsed through the teeming stands- about who this new fighter was, and of course, what 093, the greatest of them all, was set to face next.
"Not so long ago, this arena started with no champions, no reputation, and certainly no expectations of becoming the most profitable form of entertainment in the nation!" The speakers paused, allowing applause and cheers to come from the crowd. "But one man has been around through the arena's history, watched it grow, and become the greatest warrior of the modern day- I give you, convict 093!" The crowd went wild. This man was not just an athlete- he was a legend, a hero.
"And what kind of foe could face him?"
The arena began to shake slightly. 646 stood up and looked at the gates- was that a gleam of metal?
"I present to you today, for your viewing pleasure, the strongest, fiercest, and undoubtedly largest creatures that have ever entered this arena. Each one a living armored tank, I give you- the Colossal Legion!"
A snort was heard and suddenly, an impossibly huge rhino, its skin black as night, emerged from the darkness of the gate.
The glare from the metal armor that covered its body was almost blinding as it was thrust into the hot sun. Upon its head was gleaming steel plate. Sheathing its horns were long, pointed tubes of metal, their tips sharp as a needle. The sheer size of the weapons mounted on this beast's head made it clear that they wouldn't just impale what they hit- they would cut it clean in half. Behind the rhino, two elephants came, their tusks sheathed in gold, their trunks covered with a series of ornately decorated, riveted plates.
They had received chemical and surgical enhancements- IGF-1, steroids, testosterone, brain electrodes, the works. They could even have the aluminum bones- the men upstairs would do that, just to make them tougher for 093 to beat. They were huge. Gigantic. And strong. Increased levels of testosterone made them insanely aggressive, fast, and powerful. Any normal man would give up now.
646 stood up. This would be a fight worth remembering.

OOC: Bump

OOC: Bumpity bump bump bump

OOC: Here we go... bump

Ooc: Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuump

OOC: Can't keep doing this. Can't... keep... bumping!

OOC: Okay. Seriously. Soon this thread is going to be mostly composed of bumps.

OOC: Why do I even bother... bump...

OOC: Okay, I'm just going to end the story.

IC: 093 walked into the arena, looking at the rhino square in the eye. Chains clinked and rustled- a massive spiderweb of them, all necessary to keep the gargantuan beast in place. Behind it, the sound of a lever being cranked was heard, and promptly its collar burst, the chains erupting out. It was the first to charge. 093 raised his blades, hoping he could duck under the beast's horn and slice open its unarmored belly, but his timing was off. The massive blade hit home, impaling him. The impact kept him going along the horn, sliding on until his body smashed against the armored helmet and snapped in two.

646 slowly edged towards the weapons rack while the crowd was still in shock. Even the guards left their posts to look upon the corpse of 093, whose arms and legs were going now into wild convulsions. The beasts in the arena were being led away when 646 burst forward with a heavy spiked club and smashed a guard's jaw with it, yielding a shower of blood. The guard fell dead. Prisoners turned and saw his handiwork, deciding that there could be no better time than this. Charging to the weapons racks, a lead prisoner, branded with the number 649, shoved the heel of his palm into the bottom of the first guard's nose. The top smashed into the guard's brain, sending nerves exploding in his head like fireworks. The prisoner quickly pulled the shotgun from his back and tossed a handgun to prisoner 328- famously called the Archer.

328 lifted the gun and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet blasting through the left temple of a nearby guard. The prisoners made it to the weapons rack and charged into the center of the arena. Many were brought down by snipers instantly. A Claymore explosive went off, sending prisoners to the far left flying. The demolitions man in the skybox was set to detonate another charge when he saw the Colossal Legion rearing around, savage, about to kill the prisoners. They broke free of their masters and began a full, wild charge. There was no point in wasting explosives.

646 lifted the axe-scythe he had recovered from a passing prisoner and began charging forward at the rhino. The rhino bowed its head, lowering its deadly weapon to face the convict. 646 kept his run going and then leapt into the air, wrapping his legs around the horn and then swinging upwards as the rhino bucked its head, expecting him to be there but only stabbing through the air. 646 used the momentum, letting go and hurling himself onto the beast's back. He grabbed the outer layer of chain mesh and used it like a rein, while the axe ripped through it.

Below, prisoner 477 lifted a crossbow and used the blowtorch of a passing prisoner to light the steely, razor tip. Taking careful aim, he pulled the trigger. The string snapped forward, sending a deadly missile right into to the eye of the elephant on the left of the rhino. The elephant reared and went berserk with pain, its tusks dancing in the air. Finally, they found a target, accidentally sinking into the armor and then into the flesh of the rhino. Their diamond tips easily bested the plates the rhino wore, sending two powerful blades into the rhino's ribs and puncturing its organs.

646 cut through the gap between plates, severing the link, and brought his axe down firmly into the rhino, which reared up in pain- not only from his blow, but from its comrade's. The elephant that hit it was going into shock, charging at the high stone wall that separated it from the crowd. Driven insane with agony from the flaming bolt in its eye, it smashed again and again into the wall, until the armor's links broke under the strain and the elephant persisted in demolishing the wall with its head. A spiderweb of cracks grew in the stone, but the steel wire grid held it together. A steel wire grid held the elephant's skull together, as well, but its brain was shaken and rattled into a massive concussion, and finally, it collapsed, its flesh grotesquely bruised.

646 hit the sands with a thud. Groaning, he got to his back and screamed:
"Kill them! Kill all of them! Their game is over!"
He lifted his scythe as guards began to flood the arena. He swung and cut down one, then brought his axe down and smashed the blade through the head of another. Stripping them of their pistols, he lifted a corpse up, bulletproof vest still intact, as a human shield. Bullets thudded into the dead man. Some made it through the vest's front part, but none passed all the way the lifeless body. 646 took careful aim, firing into the face of a guard, then into another, and another. His next bullet slammed into the throat of a guard and passed through the back of his spinal cord. The guard collapsed, trying for words as his eyes went glassy.

646 looked about as guards and prisoners were slain. Nearby, one was run clean through by a longsword, while a prisoner was sprayed in the eyes with a can of mace. Molotov cocktails crashed into the guard's ranks and burned them alive. A stolen shotgun blasted a guard's face off and a combat knife slashed a prisoner's throat. But that was before the roar of an elephant was heard, and the last surviving beast charged forward. The prisoners were quick- this was their kind of combat- but the guards were not so lucky. While the prisoners gave the elephant wide berth, the guard's fell victim to its fury as it trampled them with the spiked soles of its foot-sheaths and mutilated them with its mighty tusks. It swung its razor-laden trunk about, slashing at guards as the prisoners made their way to the entrance and poured out of the arena- and into the largest square of Lictoria's massive nation-city.