Thanks Epic for creating the Unreal series. Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had, and Phil for being... Well... My own personal depression. Lyrics are from Metallica, Master of Puppets.

Oh, and the e-mail address I gave last time got screwed over by the HTML thing... The 'at' symbol goes between 'raes' and 'vampire'.

Miranon: Haha, yeah, the dual Assault Rifles thing was a mistake. =D The story's supposed to be 2k3, but since I've been playing waaay too much 2k4 lately it's sort of, uh, 2k3 and a half. xD;; My bad.

.:: ::.

End of passion play, crumbling away
I'm your source of self-destruction
Veins that pump with fear, sucking darkest clear
Leading on your death's construction
Taste me you will see--
More is all you need!
You're dedicated to
How I'm killing you...

The three of us materialize with the familiar spiral of crimson light in the cold concrete holding room. Kyle and I remove our helmets grimly, sharing icy looks; DarkChild ignores us both, moving with his peculiar flowing gait into the Bunker. After a moment my partner and I follow, stiff not only with the residue of battle but with resentment. We were handling things just fine on our own, dammit, and that Bot had worked out as a third team member, so why the hell did we need this guy?!

DarkChild has already stripped of his armor by the time we reach the lockers, and is pulling on heavy black clothing that looks like it's made of freakin' burlap. He's rail-thin, and his skin pale and features delicate, too delicate for him to be an adult. His hair is dyed ink-black, with bangs framing the sides of his fae-like face and offsetting his eyes, which seem to shift from a honey-brown to a thick, dark coffee as he regards us.

The heavy jacket he wears is decorated with half a dozen belts and buckles across the chest, and he carefully shrugs into a long, equally heavy-looking black trenchcoat. A hat is pulled low over his face, pitch-black, interrupted only by five blood-red letters across the front. I can't read them from this distance. I don't care.

"What," I snarl, voice low and throaty, "are you doing?"

"I'm changing," he answers. There's no inflection whatsoever in his voice, which is soft, light, containing faint echoes of distance. Fingers decorated with broad silver rings slip into the pocket of his coat, extracting a thin cigarette and silver lighter. Moving carefully, almost painstakingly, he lights the paper, pushing it between his lips.

"You haven't showered yet." I can feel Kyle moving forward slightly, close to my side. This kid wasn't welcome here, and we both wanted to make sure he knew it. "You should do that first."

He makes no response to my advice, looking us up and down with a careful eye. "You might want to get out of your armor. It looks hot."

Something about the way he pronounces 'hot' bothers me to no end. He enunciates the final consonant, turning it into a practiced click. "It's my own damn business if my armor's too hot!" He's right, though, and that annoys me just as much. The leather clings to me like a second skin, one that's as always weeping sweat and blood. God help me, though, I am not about to change with this dark child in here.

He seems to sense this, and tilts his head to the left with that peculiar carefulness that seems to infuse him. "Do you want me to go?"

I can feel Kyle tense with dislike beside me. This is our team, our partnership, always has been, and by God it always will be. We're a two-person team, and we don't need anybody else shoving in. Least of all some Gothic chain-smoking sixteen-year-old crap.

DarkChild's smile is reluctant, and as it fades his face bleeds away all emotion, blank and clean. "All right." He pronounces the final 't' the same way he did with 'hot', and irrational frustration boils up inside of me. Without waiting for me to recover, the kid pivots gracefully and leaves. And now I understand why he moves with that strangely feminine sway: the heavy trenchcoat would surely catch his foot and trip him otherwise.

I hope he falls flat on his pretty face.

Kyle and I maintain a stony silence for several long moments, and then as one we begin to strip our armor. "Jesus Christ," Kyle mutters sourly. "What on earth did that kid do to get thrown into this Tournament?"

I was wondering the same thing.

.:: ::.

"Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, immasculate, decapitate! IMMOLATE, EVISCERATE, EMASCULATE, DECAPITATE!"

Tears are streaming down my face, hot and clean, cutting through the blood that masks me, and the words are torn from my throat faster and faster, louder and louder.

"Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, immasculate, decapitate! IMMOLATE, EVISCERATE, EMASCULATE, DECAPITATE!"

The fire is racing over their mangled bodies, and shrieks of mortal agony are ripping through the tortured air. Hands are clawing at their own ruined shells, and I heft the thick wood-axe as I step forward, still chanting in a tormented sing-song, raising the heavy blade over my head. The writhing souls on the floor no longer register me in their bloodfilled eyes, and I smash the axe down, once, twice, three times, four, as the shrieks are abruptly silenced. Laughter bubbles up within me, dark, filthy, and I open my mouth to let it spill out, mad laughter, raging laughter, laughter of the pits of Hell.

"Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate! I'll teach you! I'll teach you ALL! You laughed at me! You mocked me! I was a play-thing for you! ALL of you!"

And raging screams explode from my throat, whipping the axe through the air to cleft their dead, flaming bodies over and over again, heedless of the scorching heat, heedless of the hungry flame, reveling in the eruptions of blood from their sorry corpses. "You hurt me. You hurt me. You laughed at me. I was nothing. I was nothing! I was Razi. I was Razi! Razi had no feelings-- did she?! Razi didn't care if you tormented her-- did she?! No! No! NO! She didn't care! She didn't care! SHE DIDN'T CAAARE!"

And the sirens race closer through the city streets, and I collapse on my hands and knees and cry.

.:: ::.

Kyle and I move slowly, loathingly towards Marco's office, both of us ready to tear his skin from his face. I'd been thrown into this thing for multiple accounts of manslaughter. Kyle for multiple assault-and-batteries. We could definitely handle one geeky manager.

DarkChild is slumped lifelessly against the far wall as we enter, eyes drifting over to us dully. Marco looks apprehensive, obviously anticipating our anger. "Hey Razi, Kyle," he says quickly, cutting off anything we might have been ready to say. "You've met Philip Mexur, I know... Nice fellow... He's the newest member of your team. Two partners just isn't cutting it anymore. Most of the teams out there have five or six people. I'll be happy with three, though, so don't get sticks up your asses."

"We can just quit, and you can get a new team," Kyle offers flatly.

"No, as a matter of fact, you can't. You're in here for twenty-four years, Mr. Sedgley, and Razi there's in it for life. You're doing as I say." Marco looks fiercely defiant, but the slight tremor in his hands says otherwise. "And I say Phil's on the team."

"We don't have to like it."

"No, and I never said you had to." Marco seems to sense a possible foothold, and leaps at it. "But this boy performs wonders in the arena, and we're the only team with less than three people. No, you don't have to like it at all, but he's on the team, and that's final." He pauses for just a split second before plowing on. "Do you have a team name?"

There's something about the way he says the usual question that warns us. Kyle and I exchange a split-second glance, and then I state, "Nagaraja."

The coppery-haired manager looks more than a little startled, but Kyle manages to control his emotions. Philip stares ahead blankly. I've decided, on a whim, to name the team after the flesh-eating vampires of the Masquerade. Kyle and I haven't discussed this, at all, but like hell we're gonna let Marco name our team!

"All right." Marco slowly types the name into his state-of-the-art PC, as if waiting for me to laugh and say, "No, no! I was kidding! We're named Marco's Bonerenders!" When that doesn't come, he clicks 'accept' with almost tangible reluctance. Turning away from the computer, he fishes out them damn manila folders, passing them across the desk to me and Kyle. Phil pushes slowly off the wall to join us, face flatly void of emotion. I unobtrusively shift the photographs so he can't see them. Stupid kid.

"Next arena's called Oceanic," he tells us. I study the photos briefly; it's pretty straight-forward. Underwater corridors of reinforced steel, wicked sharks and tropical fish darting past the starglass windows. Nothing tricky here. "It's quite tame, especially compared to your last two battlefields." He taps an image that shows greenish mist rising from the grates in the floor. "As far as we can tell, this residue is harmless."

"As far as we can tell..." Kyle mimicks sourly.

Marco wisely chooses to ignore that. He's already pissed us off enough. "The opposing team" and he indicates the other envelope "is called the Warmongers. They don't seem better than you three, so you shouldn't have much of a problem."

All three of them are Gen Mo'Kai. No problem. The death-masks are sexy.

"Have fun," Marco tells us, and begins to usher all three of us out of his office. Then he pauses. "And please... Keep the team-killing to a minimum."

Kyle and I stare venomously at him, and he hurriedly closes the door.