{{OOC: Just wanted to note that there were some things already written in this that with the hindsight of Flynn's rp, could be seen as a response promo. I've tried to edit it to remove those concerns. Hopefully that's been successful. All alt characters appear with permission.}}





1A: Rat Race


Scurrying and scampering and skittering and scuttling, the little rat bounds from cobblestone to cobblestone. A wayward boot stomps just to its left, and the rodent quickly darts in the other direction. It travels a few more yards only for the rattling wheels of a shopping cart to startle it again. Letting out a frightened 'SQUEAK!', the rat throws its body back towards the left and continues hurtling through the chaos.

These streets never used to be as busy as they had become, and the rat had been having a hard time adjusting. An entire city-within-a-city had sprung up seemingly overnight and every day it made for a more treacherous journey. Putting its snout down, the rat willed itself forwards. And sideways too! Veering around a corner (and nearly slipping on a literal banana peel!), the rat began to grow concerned that it wouldn't make it. It had to get creative.

A small ramp rises up from the alleyway to the back of a pick-up truck. The rat sprinted up it, cutting through the legs of two wiry men struggling with a sofa. One screamed at the sight, and a loud CRASH rang out, followed by a fair amount of cursing. The rat never saw the aftermath, however. Instead, it was busy soaring through the air. Having leapt from the truck, it tucks itself into a furry, aerodynamic missile, and flies straight onto a cold, metal fire escape attached to one of the buildings. 'Phew', it thinks, which comes out as another 'SQUEAK!' The rat wriggles its way through a tiny crack and begins to carve a path through a wallspace maze until it comes out onto another fire escape overlooking a laneway, void of the movement it had just fled.

It barely has time to try and catch its breath before its whiskers begin to tingle. The air in the alley below cracks. Lashings of indigo pierce through from somewhere other, leaving scars in the very air itself. They grow in number. More and more until a hole punches its way through the very fabric of existence. And in the middle of the vortex, a figure emerges.




















Ned Kaye.

But not the one you know.

"Curiouser and curiouser!" The Nefarious Scientist, of the FXW-verse exclaims.

The rat poops a little.

This grand adventure about a frozen universe, and one forgets to wheel out its progenitor? Whoops.

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1B: Sub-Optimal

"Hey Marko, do you have a light?

I figure a good chinwag over a ciggy should set us on the optimal path here.

Get it?!

HA!

You dork.

So what's the deal anyway, man? Your little goblin ass got all puckered up 'cause I took a few easy jabs at this really fucking long and inefficient path of yours to… uh… what again? The Universe? That's what you're after, right? Pretty sure words to that extent fell out of that wretched shit-eater of yours at some point. Well lookie-here, ladies and germs, the optimal path to the Universal Championship apparently involves going back to the tag team championship again and again! I mean, I guess Caedus did it. Thad too, so there's at least some precedence. Both of those douchebags kind of did the tag and Universal thing in one night though, but why let details get in the way of a good pipe dream, eh? Not when I could just slide on into that dream right now and blow that shit up good and proper instead.

You want to talk about optimal? How does six months sound? Shit, how about blinking out of existence for a hot minute and then coming straight back into the scene? That sounds a hell of a lot more optimal than whatever criss cross-applesauce labyrinth your ass has gotten lost in. But I get it! I really do!

This is your version of optimal.

A.K.A. the best you can fucking hope for.

My version?

Mine's fucking reality.

Mine is this entire goddamn world.

And you can get as pissy as you want about how bullshit I think this path of yours is but it’s not like I just plucked your name out of thin air to shit on. You're kind of topical, ya know? You did beat Peter Vaughn after all. Of course, even then you weren't able to translate that to getting a shot at the fucking crown. I guess the computer said 'no' or something.





I'm just saying that in my mind it made a hell of a lot of sense to start painting that bullseye on your booty before I got to ploughing it. I just feel a bit bad for you now though, because your dumbass mouth has gone and got you into a tiff with Big Daddy A before The Universe is even in my hands again. That, my dear, is only going to end one way:

You blowing whatever claim you could've had to actually getting a shot at the very thing that you've been craving.

Also known as The Charlie Nickles Special.

Optimal path, eh? Would've thought you'd have timed your run a bit better there.

What a crock of shit.

And the thing is, it's not just your win over king-bitch Petey Vee that drew my verbal eye-roll in your direction. Remember the Denzel show? I do."

A Man in a Noose Said:Alias? Mark snorts. Oh, I got his ass sorted!

"I gotta say, it's a bold move taking offence to my shots at you when you're puffing your chest out like that to begin with. I suppose you at least had the stones to take it to the next level when prodded, so I'll give you that. Let's break this down then, my guy: You've 'got' me, eh? Fucking really? How do you reckon? Because of your little computer rig? HA! I hate to break it to you, bud, but I am not Robert Main. I'm certainly not Ollie, either.

Mark… you need to understand.

This is not a simulation.

You said it yourself when you busted it out against the Mains: you'll run it a million times to try and eliminate any flaws. Your words. (Then; not this week). But if you put lipstick on a pig, it's still a fucking pig.

It won't be enough.

I'll say it again, Marko:

This is not a simulation.

This. Is. ALIAS.

You could run a program a trillion times, and it still won't be enough to replicate me. I’m not driven by binary numbers and if-then statements.

I am not a decision tree.

I just am.

I just do.

I just overcome. Everything.

Because I am everything. I’m the inconceivable. I’m every failing and every success, all bearing down on you at once. I am the weight on your shoulders growing heavier with every breath that you fucking take until it crushes you into the dust that you are. You need to practice a million times to even convince yourself that you might have a sniff of a fucking shot, Mark. But I don’t need to. Because that's not how any of this works.

I am something else. I am incalculable.

I am inevitable.

All I need to do is turn up.

Set the table.

And Eat–"

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

A repetitive rapping snatches the attention of the World-Eater. With a CREAK, a wooden door swings open and ALIAS's BEST FRIEND Lance sheepishly pops his head into the room.

"Uh… sorry to interrupt," he says, eyes frequently flicking to the ground. "Hope all the tech is working fine. There’s uh… there’s something going on that I think you should see."

"What is it?"

"I don't think I could explain it if I tried." The frazzled expression on Lance’s face testifies to his unease. "It seems right up your alley, though."

ALIAS nods.

"Space Jesus to the fucking rescue," he facetiously grins.

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1C: Other


The sea parts. Throngs of feet step back, moving in unison like soldiers at the ready. A trailing cloud of smoke follows behind Lance and his BEST FRIEND as they cut their way through this easily optimised path towards the target (instead of going around in circles, you see). The glowing embers of a cigarette butt are tossed to the ground like a sacrifice to the swirl of colourful energy warping around a hole in reality.

“How long has this been here?” Friend of the movement, Dani, turns towards the question.

“About ten or fifteen minutes,” she replies.

“Has anything gone in or come out?” Lance hangs back by Dani’s side while the other investigates.

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“Well something’s about to.” The statement is matter-of-fact. As if he knows.

He guides the others back behind him with an extended arm. The eddy in existence whips into a frenzy. The light grows a more brilliant shade of crimson and a figure emerges within.





















“What the fuck?” With balled fists, the Label-Gatherer steps forward towards Andrew Logan. “You’re supposed to be in jail, you oversized piece of shit.”

“Well, well, look who we have here,” Logan says, with a snarl. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Been there, done that. Kinda overrated really.” His tongue runs across his lips. His hunger has been insatiable these past few months, and he never did get the chance to devour a whole Pale Horse.

“Congratulations on somehow cheating death.” Logan’s shoulders shift, anticipating the fight to come. “Even though you may have been able to kill The Baphomet, the world already belongs to The Left Hand. The end of your miserable life is just a formality.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…” Anger fades away. “I think there’s been a big ol’ misunderstanding here, buddy. The world doesn’t belong to you and your band of misfit cucks and bitches. The Left Hand? You fucking lost. Shit, you didn’t just lose, you shat the bed before the real fight even began. This world? This Universe?

This is my fucking Universe.”

The hulking frame of Andrew Logan stares directly into the eyes of his traditional foe.

“This isn’t my world…” he echoes, understanding. He looks back over his shoulder to the wormhole behind him.

“No siree,” the God-Killer shakes his head. “And you better mosey on back where you came from before I finally get the fucking meal I was denied.”

Logan thinks.

And he drops to the ground in a heap.

Dani yelps.

ALIAS crouches next to the fallen body. Studying this alternate universe Logan, he spies a bolt lodged in the side of his neck. Plucking it out, a couple of drops of glowing liquid drip from the end, dying the water on the ground a radioactive green.

The vortex surges again. Pebbles and trash levitate from the ground, and are sucked into the abyss. The War-Winner feels himself getting pulled in, and retreats to a safe distance as Andrew Logan’s body gets sucked back inside. With an absurdist POP! the portal closes.

Andrew Logan is gone.

And nobody seems to care.

“What just happened?” Dani asks.

“He’s gone back to whatever world he came from.” He studies the bolt in his hands, before tossing it in the air in Dani’s direction. “But before he did that, he was shot.”

“By whom?”

There is no time to answer. Lance turns away from a small group of apostles, concern painted on his face.

“There are more,” he says. “They’re opening everywhere.”

Once more, ALIAS nods.

“Let’s go.”

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1D: Lost


Lance had yet to get used to the Nexus as a mode of transport. It didn’t help that each of the few times he had travelled through its vast, intersecting corridors, it led to him throwing up the entire contents of his stomach. And when his belly was already empty? Dry heaves. Which was almost worse.

“You okay, buddy?” A reassuring hand rests on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Lance replies, wiping spit from the sides of his mouth. “At least we’re here before that thing closes.”

He points in the direction of another portal, dominating the spacetime in the middle of yet another decrepit backstreet.

“Wait… is that a good thing?’

A whirling emerald phospherance is already roaring around a black hole. Lance and his BEST FRIEND are alone before it, save for the rats. And whatever rustles from behind a dumpster.

“We’re about to find out,” the King-Slayer remarks in a hushed voice. He crouches down and starts slinking up to the source of the sound, all the while motioning for Lance to keep back. At the edge of the point of no return, he hovers, waiting carefully to make his move. A deep, quiet breath fills his lungs, and he steps around the corne–

WHACK!

A fist flies out of nowhere, connecting right into the bridge of his nose!

“SONOFA–!”

[gren]“Stay back, you piece of… hey, I know you!”[/green] A man steps out into the relative opening of the laneway.





















“Alias, right?” RL Edgar says.

“First of all, it’s ALIAS, you inbred savage!” The Soldier-Butcher clutches at his nose, periodically pulling his hand away to check if there is any blood. “Second of all, OWWWWW!!!”

“Oh shit, sorry!” RL apologises. “Can I have a look?”

The hand comes away from the nose once more, and RL clocks that for the most part there doesn't appear to be any damage.

“It looks okay,” RL says. “Again, so sorry. I uh… I don’t know how I got here. Last I remember, I was trying to come back from a future where BOB had taken over the world.”

“By yourself?" The Legend-Breaker asks, remembering how that affair should have ended.

"They…" RL's face grows grim. His head hangs low, as if waiting for the gallows. "They killed Betsy."

"Yeah, well, no loss there." The death is just… shrugged off.

"What?!"

Ugh,” he groans. “A lot's happened, bud, and my nose is still recovering from you saying 'hi' with your fist. Lance, catch him up, will you?”

“Uh… sure,” Lance says, returning from the hidey hole he found. “The short of it is that you seem to be from another world, and you probably need to get back before…”

RL Edgar furrows his brow.

And drops to the ground.

Like Andrew Logan, a bolt filled with fluorescent liquid sticks out of his neck - the chemicals slowly entering his body.

The D’Ville’s Bane springs into action.

“LANCE!” he shouts. “Get his ass into that portal before it closes. By any means necessary!”

“What are you going to do?” Lance asks as he immediately begins dragging RL across the dirty ground towards the portal.

ALIAS sees a shadow sprinting away from the scene of the crime.

With the most devilishly-glorious conditioned hair flapping behind it.

“Finish this.”

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1E: Worlds at War


"Ned, you rank cunt!" The Bastard-Tamer shouts, his voice pinging off the derelict walls of his kingdom. Before him, the first couple of golden wrinkles in everything have already begun to surface. The crackling energy in the air tells him there isn't much time before it bursts open completely. He calls again after his mark. "I fucking saw you after Edgar was shot. Logan too. But whatever it is you were trying to do, you failed! They’re back where they came from now."

"Back where they came from?" the Nefarious Scientist reveals himself in the damp backstreet. If the cadence of Ned's voice wasn't enough to give away his unreality, the bizarre, science fiction (emphasis on fiction) gun he aims at the Soldier-Butcher's head would be.

"Put that thing down before–"

"Before what?" Ned interjects. "Before you send me back where I came from too? No. I've seen too much already since coming into this world. The opportunities for scientific inquest are boundless! AND I'VE SEEN WHAT BECOMES OF MY OWN WORLD!"

An insanity fills Ned's eyes that can only be the product of coming in and out of a cryogenic-like state. (Obviously everyone knows what that looks like.)

"You want me to send me back!" Ned continues raving. "To be frozen in time forever! Well not me! Not the greatest mind on any planet, Ned Kaye! I don't know how I got here, but with the intelligent toxin I've engineered in these bolts, I have been able to learn everything that I need to know about the multiverse! And after I put one of these into you I'll… I'll… I…"

Ned stalls.

And drops.

There is no bolt in his neck, but a tranquiliser dart instead.

The tear in the tangible world rips open, just as Space Jesus himself turns to face it.

"Finally!" a voice calls from across the event horizon. A dart gun spills onto the ground, and soon after, a weary body collapses from the portal as well.

Aged eyes look up from the ground.






















"The portals worked! We finally found you!" an older Corey Smith gasps, struggling to get to his feet. He reaches for the nearest hand he can find and grasps it tight.

"Corey…?" With his hand for leverage, the aged Corey is able to be dragged towards a supportive wall.

"You're the only one who can–"

He doesn’t trail off.

He's cut off.

A razor sharp blade slices into his throat.

"COREY!!!" the Master of the Universe shouts. Behind him, the portal begins to draw its final breaths. The Nefarious Scientist's body starts getting sucked towards it.

And through its opening, two beady eyes leer through.


This version of Corey’s blood spills upon His alleyway. ALIAS looks down to where a small, humming stone has been deposited in his hand.

Those eyes remain in his mind.

They were older, like Corey’s, but he knows who they belonged to.























He swears to himself.

"I need to Eat Mark Flynn."