The Medic has an unusual job, that much is undeniable. It still didn't make it any less confusing when he suddenly appeared in a seemingly abandoned city street. And he didn't feel any more at ease when, seconds later, he found himself staring down the barrel of a futuristic shotgun, held mere centimetres from his face.

"I'm going to ask you this only once," barked Sarge. "Red team, or Blue team?"

"Vhat?" asked Medic in his comically thick German accent, his eyes widening under his small glasses. "Oh. Right. Vun moment." He grabbed the sleeve of his white labcoat and pulled it so as to see the cross emblem stitched on to the shoulder. "RED team?" he reported.

"Ah, excellent!" said Sarge, relaxing immediately. He sounded like a typical drill sergeant. "That means whatever spacial whatsit hiccup that I seem to fallen into has landed me among men I can trust. Unless you're not a Red," he addressed the third man, "but I'm guessing you are from that snazzy coat of yours!"

Auron's age was evident in the streaks of grey which ran through his short black hair. However, his stance and the huge black blade he leaned easily on the top of his shoulder clearly implied he was still perfectly capable of combat. One arm held the aforementioned sword, the other he rested against his chest in a sling of sorts. He regarded Sarge over his round, darkened glasses, examining his red armour, the same general model as Tex's. "If I say I'm not a 'Red', are you going to shoot me?" he queried in a quiet, husky voice.

"Yep," answered Sarge cheerfully.

"Red team it is then," said Auron in a monotone.

"Fantastic! And now with that question of loyalty out of the way – seeing as you're all unquestioningly loyal to Red Team, and hence me – we can move on to the issue of just in what in Sam Hill is going on here?!" thundered Sarge.

"It's hard to say," said Auron quietly. "I doubt we can figure it out so quickly."

"God dammit!" swore Sarge. "I'm always surrounded by webs of intrigue far beyond my comprehension! Why can't anything just be as simple as 'Kill this guy'?"

"Funny you should mention zat," said Medic. "Look vat I just found in my pocket." He waved a letter in the air.

Auron took it and read the text. "We have to find someone named 'Revolver Ocelot' and defeat him."

"Excellent! I have a desperate craving to shoot something!" announced Sarge. "It almost feels like a monkey on my back."

Sarge realized that Medic was staring at him in horror, and Auron had readied his sword. "What?" asked Sarge. He followed their gaze and saw a small gangly zombie had latched on to his back. The zombie gibbered and pulled ineffectually at him, unable to move him due to the extra weight his armour afforded him.

"Sweet sassy mollassy!" Sarge exclaimed in surprise. Then he shot it.

More zombies poured out behind corners and from buildings, angered by the sudden loud noise Sarge's shotgun had produced. The Medic, Auron and Sarge hefted their weapons and stood back to back.

Medic giggled. "I love Hallowe'en!"


Professor Layton was sitting despondently in a darkened and quiet storage room of the ship. His hat was pulled over his eyes as he considered his decision to argue for Light's life. The sight of Barry Burton collapsing to the floor was ingrained in his memory. He vainly formulated other plans of action for dealing with Light, which, with hindsight, worked with a useless perfection.

There was a gentle knock on the open door. Layton looked up to see General Iroh standing there, balancing a tray on his good hand. The tray bore a teapot and two cups, and Layton couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

"I understand you're not feeling the best," said Iroh slowly. "It's my belief that a bit of tea can be very helpful at a time like this."

To Iroh's relief, Layton managed a smile. "I couldn't agree more."

Iroh let himself in and set the tray down on a crate. He poured Layton a cup, then himself. Layton sipped it.

"Interesting."

"Ginseng," said Iroh. "I brewed it myself."

"My thanks." Layton took a long drain of the cup. Iroh watched him drink for a few moments, before clearing his throat.

"Would you like to speak your mind?"

"Not especially," said Layton, "but I appreciate the fact it might do me some good."

He sat the cup down on a box and cleared his throat. Iroh watched him expectantly, with an expression is belied the fact he was used to helping others in this manner.

"Put simply, Yagami killed one of my newfound allies, who I may also state was a minor," said the professor ruefully, "and thanks to my decision, he managed to not only escape, but murder my second companion as well. I am, as you yourself say, not feeling the best."

"I'm sure you acted in what you thought was the best way," consoled Iroh. "Many times in life, we become burdened with regret. But regret only serves as a teacher, showing you not to make the same mistake twice. Dwelling on the past in sadness is a mistake in of itself."

"Wise words." Layton sipped his tea. "I imagine the others weren't overjoyed to hear how things went for myself and my team," he murmured.

"When L found out Light Yagami had escaped, he fell off his chair," recounted Iroh, smiling despite himself.

"Yagami is known as dangerous?"

"He is to L. He's very concerned of what he could be doing right now. Which is why he wants you to come to the boardroom and help us."

Layton looked up quizzically at Iroh. "He does?"

"Yes. He says that as the only one here to have faced Yagami, it would be very helpful to have you on hand."

Layton thought for a moment, then he stood up. "I'm more than willing to rectify my mistakes."

Iroh gave him a smile. "Then let's go."


The three men wandered aimlessly through the streets. Sarge took point, gleefully using his shotgun to separate zombies into their component parts. The Medic kept behind him, and the few zombies that didn't fall by Sarge's hand were taken care of by his bonesaw. Occasionally, a bizarre zombie would spring from a corner – the monster with a huge arm that grabbed Sarge and began beating him into the dirt, for example, or the zombie in the hood that had leapt across the street to pin the Medic to the ground. In these cases, Auron would swing once with his heavy sword, which usually resulted in the zombie being neatly cleaved in half. Then, the victim would dust themselves down, and they would continue. It was an effective arrangement.

"Well done, men," complimented Sarge. "We're making excellent time. It's just a shame we have no idea whatsoever where we're going."

"At the very least, I am almost fully charged," said Medic, gesturing to his Medigun. It was a device of his own invention, which looked like a fire-hose made of dark metal. From its barrel, it fired not bullets, but a curious beam of healing energy.

"That's... nice," said Auron levelly.

Medic ignored him, something catching his attention. "Look, up ahead. A hospital."

"You think there might be survivors there?" asked Auron.

Medic laughed. "Haha. No. But I would like to rifle through their equipment and records. This zombie plague is simply fascinating!"

"Rifle, you say?" asked Sarge. "I'm in!"

The entered the front door and dispatched the few zombies standing dully in the lobby. Ascending the stairs, they found themselves in a thin corridor. They stopped collectively upon seeing someone on the other side. He was still human.

He was an older man with long, grey hair and a weathered face. He wore a large brown overcoat over black clothing. On each index finger, he spun a Single Action Army revolver nonchalantly. "Hello there," he said. "I thought you might show up here eventually."

"Ocelot?" queried Auron.

"The very same."

"Vunderbar!" said the Medic. "Our search is at an end."

Ocelot holstered his weapons mid spin, and folded his arms. "Let's begin. But first, I have a few words."

Sarge readied his shotgun. "Make it quick."


Light wondered, idly, if he was stuck in some kind of nightmare of his own invention. Maybe all the killing had caught up to his conscience and the guilt had manifested itself... unusually. Perhaps that was the true cause of his wounds, which still screamed pain unendingly. It was preposterous to think that God would feel guilty for making His new, perfect world, of course, but when Occam's Razor was applied, it was more likely Light had simply gone insane than he was actually in a magical tower's dungeon, being guarded by a talking snow leopard.

The dungeon was small, but it was large enough for its sole occupant. Light had been chained to the wall with two shackles on his wrists. He sat in a slight alcove carved into the stone. The room was dark in colour both naturally and due to the lack of light. Across from him was a thick wooden door. There was a barred window near the top, and it was through this that Tai Lung was grinning mockingly at him.

Light didn't look up, but he was well aware of his guard's expression. "What?" he said bluntly.

Tai Lung shrugged, leaning against the far wall. "It just amuses me, that's all."

"What does?"

"The fact that all that's holding you in place is two spindly chains and a door."

Light aimed his glare upwards so that Tai Lung could see it. "Are you some kind of escape artist or something?"

"You could say that," smirked Tai Lung. "If breaking out of a paralysing full-body cage at the bottom of a massive pit guarded by a thousand trained warriors, all specifically built for you and you alone, is artistic."

"Sure," replied Light, rolling his eyes. "And I once dated a well-known supermodel because she tracked me down and begged me to be her boyfriend. Claims are meaningless without proof."

"Guess that's why you aren't claiming to be able to break out of here, then," said Tai Lung.

Light was about to retort acerbically when Tai Lung looked away. He nodded humbly to someone, and then made an 'after you' gesture to the dungeon's door.

"He's all yours, Loki," he said. "He's quite a conversationalist."

Tai Lung exited Light's field of vision, and Loki entered it. The Norse god examined Light loftily through the bars. He bade farewell to the snow leopard and waited until he had left.

"Don't pay too much heed to Tai Lung," he smiled. "After all, he was defeated by a mere child from the circus."

"Imagine that," said Light flatly.

"Normally, I love a good chat," continued Loki, "but I'm currently occupied with something else." He waved a golden sword in front of the small window. "Thus, you'll have to make do with me ignoring you completely."

"Oh no," said Light sarcastically, his bitterness evident. Loki laughed lightly and began examining his staff.

Once Loki's eyes had left him, Light had begun to silently strain his right hand through the cuff which entrapped his wrist. The irons were old and probably intended for someone larger than Light, and he eventually managed to squeeze his limb through, freeing it. He brought his expensive-looking watch up to his face. They hadn't thought to confiscate it. They were idiots.

Using his teeth, he pulled four times on one of the dials. A secret compartment of the watch opened out from the back. In it were two small items; a scrap of paper from the Death Note, and a pin. He grinned maliciously. Of course, just killing his guard was not, in of itself, an escape. Still, he felt that it was a good move. There would be one less person in the equation; perhaps he could even bluff his way out, based on his 'godly powers'.

Light sat both paper and pin on his lap, and then clicked the compartment back into place. He lifted his arm so that, in the half-light, it seemed as though he was still bound.

"You know," he said, "the other jailer had the decency to introduce himself."

Loki laughed, still inspecting his staff. "You're a demanding one, aren't you? Greetings. I am Loki, of Asgard."

"Loki? El-Oh-Kay-Eye? Is that your entire name?"

Loki's expression soured for a few moments. "Loki... Laufeyson," he said eventually, with little conviction.

"Interesting name," said Light. "I'm not familiar with it. What's the spelling?"

Loki gave him a quizzical look. "You're an odd one."

"So I'm told."

"Let's see... in the language most of the people here speak, it would be El-Ay-You-Eff-Ee-Why-Ess-Oh-En. Satisfied?"

"I am."

"Good. You're beginning to distract me, you strange little man." Loki returned to his work.

Light grinned internally. "You're not going to finish whatever it is you're doing, Loki Laufeyson," he thought. "You're just too generous with the information you give out. You never know what people can do with your name nowadays."

Once he was certain Loki was again ignoring him, Light took the needle and stabbed a finger on his trapped hand, drawing blood. He used this blood to scrawl Loki's name on the scrap of Death Note.

"Enjoy your last 40 seconds of life..."

Light counted mentally, eager to see his work unfold. He kept his eyes fixed on Loki.

Ten seconds passed.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Forty!

Fifty?

Sixty...

Light glared at Loki in confusion. Nothing happened. Loki didn't seem to be aware of anything effecting him, let alone a painful, lethal heart attack.

After three minutes, Loki gave a loud sigh. "I'm afraid I might need Doom's aid in repairing this," he remarked more to himself than Light. "As much as I baulk at the idea of an immortal like myself asking a mere human for assistance."

It was at that moment Light knew for a fact he wasn't subconsciously torturing himself.

His subconscious wasn't this far-fetched.


"...and truly, we don't always know where we are, or why," Ocelot was saying as he strode back and forth, "but we will always presented with an objective, and we know in our hearts it must be completed."

Both Sarge and Medic shifted uncomfortably, drumming on their weapons.

"When is this idiot going to stop talking? I'm dying for some bloodshed over here!" hissed Sarge under his breath.

"He has been speaking for vhat seems like hours!" agreed the Medic.

"Hush," chided Auron. "I'm trying to listen to this."

"Furthermore," said Ocelot, which elicited an irritated groan from Sarge and the Medic.

"That's it! I've had it with this constant philosophising!" yelled Sarge. "You want a battle? Then fight like a man, Sally!"

"Our battle will have to wait, sergeant," replied Ocelot.

"Oh? And why's that?" said Sarge venomously. "Feel another speech coming on?"

"The reason is a little more... physical," said Ocelot, pointing to behind Sarge. The red soldier turned to see a huge zombie, mostly muscle, sprinting down the corridor at a terrifyingly fast speed.

"Well shit," said Sarge quietly. Then the zombie barrelled into him, sending him flying away.

Ocelot whipped out both revolvers and let loose on the zombie, but failed to slow it down. Medic began firing on it with his syringe gun, but only a few came out before the gun spluttered to a halt.

"Ach nein!" screamed the Medic. The Tank ripped out a hunk of concrete and threw it at the Medic. The German yelped, but Auron grabbed him and pulled him to safety.

Sarge picked himself up from where he had landed. "Don't worry, men!" he called confidently. "You'll notice its head is hilariously tiny! One blast from the old shotgun will set things right." He raised his weapon as the Tank charged at him. "Prepare to be Sarge'd, zombie mongrel!" He fired, and was met only with an anti-climatic click. He desperately tried a few more times, to no avail. "Dammit Grif!" he yelled. "Just because I'm in another dimension is no excuse for you to not ensure my shotgun is fully loa-" That was as far as he got before the Tank grabbed him and threw him again, bouncing him against the floor.

Auron and Medic watched this scene from a distance. "Ve are out of ammunition!" wailed the Medic. "Ve can't kill the monster!"

"What about that 'charge' you mentioned?" said Auron.

Medic clicked two gloved fingers. "Of course!" He hefted the Medigun, which was now crackling with red electricity. He stood behind Auron and began using the device on him.

"What do I do?" asked Auron, shifting his sword on his shoulder.

"Run towards the beast," said Medic. "I'll handle the rest."

"Are you sure this will work?"

The Medic laughed gleefully. "I have no idea!"

Ocelot was firing meticulously aimed shots which ricocheted impressively around the surroundings and then embedded themselves anti-climatically into the Tank's flesh, to no effect. The oversized zombie roared and thrashed. Sarge, out of bullets, had undertaken what was to him the only reasonable course of action. When the Tank's back was turned, he leapt on top of it, and wrapped his arm around its neck. With his other hand he clubbed the Tank on the stock with his shotgun.

"Take that, undead scum!" he yelled triumphantly, as the Tank unsuccessfully tried to throw him off. "Maybe next time you'll mutate some muscle mass on your skull!" The Tank howled and tried crushing him against a wall.

"Aus, aus!" said Medic, hurrying Auron. "Before your heart explodes!"

"What?!"

"Nothing, nevermind! It's probably fine!"

Auron ran at the Tank, his coat flowing behind him.

The Tank saw them approach and snarled. It grabbed Ocelot by the neck and threw him at Auron. Before impact, Medic flicked a switch on the side of the Medigun. Auron heard a sharp, electrical crack, and his vision quite literally went red. Ocelot slammed against them, but Auron barely felt the impact. Stepping over him, he continued to charge at the Tank.

From the Tank's back, Sarge watched in awe as Auron and Medic ran towards the zombie. Due to the Medigun's effects, both were completely covered in a film of red.

"My God," said Sarge quietly. "It's so beautiful!"

The Tank beat its fists against Auron, to no effect. The swordsman swung his blade once and cleanly decapitated the zombie, sending its overgrown body sinking limply to the floor. Sarge released his tight grip and slid down as Auron and the Medic began to flash red, and then return to their usual colour schemes.

"That's quite a gadget you have," noted Ocelot, who was standing up. "I'll take it."

"The device is not for sale," replied Medic stoically.

"Heh," said Ocelot. "Sale." He raised a revolver and shot Medic in the chest.

As the Medic fell backwards, his grip on the Medigun loosened and it clattered to the floor. He was already dead by the time he hit the ground. Redness pooled through his white coat.

Auron and Sarge both leapt into action. Auron was slow to move, but Sarge had time to pick up the Medigun as he sprinted towards Ocelot.

Ocelot fired to either side, the bullets ricocheting around the thin corridor. Many struck Sarge's armour, but he didn't slow. He caught up to Ocelot and smacked him in the face with the Medigun, breaking the device slightly. Ocelot lost his balance and fell against a wall.

When he looked up again, Sarge was crushing his Single Action Armies while Auron held his large sword against Ocelot's throat.

"Do I have time for last words?" asked Ocelot.

"Here're some words for you, you bastard," replied Sarge, discarding the small guns. "'Shut your damn mouth'."

##

Auron and Sarge appeared on the bridge, the latter holding the Medigun.

"We just keeping falling deeper," murmured Auron.

"At least this place seems a little friendlier than the last one," said Sarge. He failed to hear the heavy footsteps bearing down on him until a meaty hand grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a wall.

"Soldier!" roared Heavy. He pointed accusingly to the Medigun. "Where did you get this?!"

"Let go of me, Ruskie," growled Sarge. "You won't be the oversized first sack of flesh I've beaten to death today."

"Just try, little metal man! I will crush you like soda can!"

"Calm down," ordered Auron. His tone was quiet, but powerful. Heavy fixed him with a glare, but waited for him to continue. "It belonged to a team-mate," explained Auron levelly. "Called himself 'The Medic'."

"Where is he now?" asked Heavy.

"I'm afraid he's dead," replied Auron.

Heavy glared at Sarge, then released him. His breathing was deep and agitated. He abruptly stormed out of the room, pushing aside those in his way. Sarge and Auron watched him go.

"Um," said Deadpool. "So... hello?"


Heavy is sad. Not unlike I am when I don't get reviews. I really don't want to have to crush you all like soda cans. I'm not very physical.