The floor was clean.

That was the closest thing to a compliment Mereloco could muster for the penthouse suite of the Maricka Magnifica, where Halcyon Interstellar had seen fit to house him. He'd never cared much for luxury, but the lizards of the modern age seemed to care for little else. So long as he had a place to eat, a place to sleep, and a place to train, he was satisfied. All else was fat.

Even saying that, though, quiet would have been appreciated.

Since they'd arrived back at the hotel -- among the first to leave the opening ceremony -- the massive sitting room had been consumed by a flurry of activity. As Mereloco lounged on the absurdly long couch, looking out over Azum-Ha through a wall-length window, guards and company representatives ran back and forth, babbling and whining.

Someone had attacked Halcyon headquarters, apparently. Someone had killed that man in charge. Fine. It was one less thing for Mereloco to take into consideration. The woman had gone off somewhere to deal with matters -- clearly, the situation was of far greater concern to her.

One of the poindexters this age was inundated with ran past, brushing past Mereloco's arm as he did so. Mereloco glanced towards him in annoyance.

Unchai --

Before he got the chance to slap that particular fly away, however, he was interrupted. The lights -- all of them -- suddenly flicked out, plunging the room into darkness. Cries of alarm rang out -- and quickly, they became cries of terror, cries of pain. The reason for that was obvious.

They were now accompanied by the tearing of flesh, by gunshots, by death-rattles.

An attack, clearly, but from who? Another contestant? If so, they were a fool. They'd have been better served going after a weaker mark. Still… if this was a fight, it could end up being a potent warmup.

Mereloco cracked his neck, rising from the couch. As he did, the lights flicked back on -- and he saw that the room had received a new and crimson coat of paint. Each and every other person that had been in the room with him was now dead.

Cut in half, impaled, beheaded… their ends had not been clean. Curiously enough, he noticed, each and every one of them seemed to have been struck from behind.

“Why backstab those who can't see you anyway?” Mereloco muttered.

He glanced up at the enemy.

“That isn't rhetorical,” he continued. “Answer me.”

Some kind of alarm had activated, bathing the room in a crimson glow -- and sealing all the doors behind heavy shutters. There, silhouetted against the crimson, was a lanky and emaciated man, with but a few strands of black hair hanging from his scalp. He grinned with checkerboard teeth.

“I'd answer…” the man drawled. “...but you'll die before you hear me.”

Mereloco furrowed his brow, looking past the enemy. He wasn't alone. There was something with him.

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The Crimson Carnival wasn't an organisation that had been around very long -- and in all honesty, it probably wouldn't be around for very long. It wasn't even a cult of personality, as Nael Manron was loath to present personality. It was a cult of power -- killers coming together to grasp at the abilities their ‘leader’ demonstrated.

There had been a ship, dead, drifting in space since the time of the Gene Tyrants. Once a collection of frozen specimens, but the cryogenics had long since failed. The creatures had escaped, overrun the vessel, formed a new and fragile ecosystem. Monsters of every shape and size, waiting for them.

They had been ripe for the taking. Ripe for the taming.

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

Both of them moved at once.

Mereloco reached down, tearing the head off a corpse and hurling it at the enemy like a farball. In contrast, his adversary just grinned even wider -- and then spoke. Just a few words, as fast as lips could form them.

“Guardian Entity,” he giggled. “Hidebehind!”

The instant before the attack would have struck him, he vanished -- and the source of his giggling changed. Just as the name suggested, it was now coming from behind Mereloco, right behind him. Without a moment's hesitation, he swung his arm at his back, aiming to smash the skeleton to bits.

It was not a successful manoeuvre. For a brief moment as he swung around, Mereloco saw his adversary -- but immediately he vanished again, and the arm hit empty air.

“Sorry,” the enemy said, drawing out the words mockingly. “That won't wooork, I'm afraaaid.”

Once again, the voice came from directly behind Mereloco. Scowling, he turned his head to regard the annoyance.

He could now clearly see the thing that was accompanying his foe. A massive ball of brown fur, the size of a car, with one bloodshot eyeball -- eerily human -- protruding from the front of the mass. The beast stood on talons that seemed far too small and thin to support its weight.

All in all, it looked like one good hit could finish it off. But that was the problem.

“Whenever I attack you,” Mereloco said calmly. “You appear behind me. Automatic. Is that it?”

The grin widened. “You're smarter than people say, aren'tchaaa?”

A kick -- the fastest Mereloco was capable of -- failed to land. Again, the beast and its master repositioned themselves. The giggle became a cackle.

Stolen story; please report.

“Well, maaaybe not!” the enemy laughed.

Mereloco leapt away.

Unchained.

An Aether attack had much the same effect. The crushing gravity application of Unchained just caused the enemy to teleport once more -- moving in so close that Mereloco couldn't use Unchained again without hitting himself. So it didn't matter how fast he was or where the attack originated from.

With a sneering smirk, the enemy bowed theatrically.

“Jaison Mayran,” the pest introduced himself. “I'll be buuurying you tonight, you fuuucking fossil.”

Still…

…for the first time in two-hundred years, a sickly grin spread across Mereloco's face. It was a wide, ugly thing -- stretching out his features in all the worst ways, blowing up his face like a taut t-shirt. A threat display, not a show of joy.

…this will be fun.

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

The man called Chicken Punk wrestled himself free from the wreckage of his limousine, his costume shredded by the sharp metal. That didn't matter, though. His costume was designed to look good shredded.

What had happened? Chicken Punk had seen it, but even so the whole thing had looked completely absurd. A blast of water, like a fire hose, had struck the car in the side as it flew and smashed it into a neighbouring building. Punk staggered forward, the burning remains of the office surrounding him. Fortunately, it seemed like nobody had been inside the room at the time -- but still, Chicken Punk was no Chicken Fool.

This was an assassination attempt. They wouldn’t stop with just some water.

Punk Chicken.

He did not activate his Aether ability. For the first time in several days, he turned it off.

Chicken Punk was what people called an ‘invisible Scurrant’. Unlike most Scurrants, whose modifications were clearly visible, Chicken Punk was physically identical to a normal Crownless -- from the outside, at least. All of his alterations were on the inside, minor differences to his brain, nervous systems and musculature. The Gene Tyrant who’d created Chicken Punk’s line had done so with one purpose in mind.

To create a chicken-man.

Anything a chicken could do, Chicken Punk could do. He had a highly enhanced sense of balance. He could perceive UV reflections. Apparently, his grandfather had once laid an egg, but he’d never been able to prove it.

Neat, but not outstanding. That was where the seal called Punk Chicken came in. It was an Aether ability that was constantly active, sealing away Chicken Punk’s Chicken Powers for much of his waking day. That restraint meant that, when he deactivated Punk Chicken, his Chicken Powers were given an absurd boost. As he was right now, he could walk on walls. As he was right now, he could see the world as if through thermal goggles. And as for movement…

“I know you’re there, villain…” Chicken Punk growled.

“Guardian Entity: Squonk.”

A round projectile hurled itself out of the rubble and towards Chicken Punk, scattering debris as it flew through the air. With no time to dodge, Punk thrust his hands forward -- and pushed against the attack, sparks flying where palm and sphere collided.

Chicken Punk grit his teeth as he began to slide back on the floor, driven by the momentum of the ball, but his Chicken Power’s Chicken Balance went unimpeded. It was like he was a statue, fixed in place, resisting this attack with all the structure of stone.

Not only that, but now he could get a good look at the thing.

For one, it was hideous. It was a sphere, yes, and nearly transparent -- but stretched across the surface of that sphere was a gnarled and wizened human face, droopy eyes bulging out of their forced-open sockets. Tears -- or perhaps sweat? -- flowed copiously from every pore on the ball, freezing cold, biting at Punk’s hands where they made contact.

He was no fool. It was best not to let this thing make contact for too long.

Chicken Punk twisted his body, swinging his leg into the sphere as if he was breakdancing -- and his Chicken Leg Strength was enough to send it flying once again. It sailed off into the distance… but as it was about to fly off into the city proper, it was intercepted. Punk had expected as much. This was just a weapon; he was after the user.

A rotund fellow -- almost as round as the sphere itself -- leapt out from the rubble, caught the ball, and threw it back towards Chicken Punk.

Punk leapt out of the way before the sphere could hit him, but when it hit the wall behind him, it simply bounced off and began ricocheting through the office. He followed it with his enhanced vision, watching as its movements grew faster and faster, no doubt preparing for its next attack. A game of dodgeball, then, eh?

Chicken Punk grinned. He could work with that.

“Come on!” he cried. “Chicken Punk!”

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

Atoy Muzazi ran through the tunnels of the stadium, his gaze resolute.

What was happening? That strange display from Nael Manron -- and now he was receiving reports on his script of multiple attacks against the Dawn Contestants. Clearly, that had been some kind of signal. The Crimson Carnival was doing their best to cull the contestants before the tournament began proper. No doubt they intended to make passage through the Contest easier for their leader.

His fists tightened. Had that been why Manron had approached him as well, then? Sizing him up as an easy target? If that was the case, he’d show the King of Killers that he’d been gravely mistaken. Such a grievous attempt at cheating the Contest couldn’t be allowed.

“Ah… there you are, Mr. Muzazi.”

The voice, strangely resonant, came from behind him. Muzazi immediately whirled around, igniting Radiants from his palms and holding them at the ready. Smoke rose from the walls where his blades of light made contact, slicing through them like butter.

“Oh my,” the dignified voice chuckled. “I must apologise for startling you. Still… such a frightening response. It seems that tales of your prowess are quite accurate, Mr. Muzazi.”

Muzazi peered into the dark mouth of the tunnel, white Aether flowing into his eyes. A shape in the blackness. If he focused, he could just barely make out the… thing speaking.

At first glance, it was difficult to tell if it was an automatic or an organism. It was hulking, with long arms stretching down to the ground, terminating in three-fingered hands. No head -- but what seemed to be a triangular red eye rested in the centre of its chest, separated into three sections. Parts of its body were covered by what seemed to be grey plastic, while brown fur sprouted from other areas.

As Muzazi watched, it took a single step forward.

Boom.

That footstep alone made its power obvious.

“Who are you?” Muzazi demanded.

The thing did not have a mouth, but the smile was obvious in its voice. “Guardian Entity… Sasquatch. Yes. That is the name I have chosen for myself, Mr. Muzazi. Pardon my intrusion, but my user has sent me to eliminate you entirely. I hope that isn’t an issue.”

A humourless smile curled Muzazi’s lips.

“I see,” he murmured. “That’s a pity.”

Sasquatch blinked quizzically. “How so?”

“Your user has sent you to your death.”

And without another word, Atoy Muzazi charged.