Hall Of Fame!

Survival - 8 Wins!

Brutal - 2 Fatalities

AFFILIATION

Alignment: Villain

Team: Freelance Villain

VITAL STATS

Strength: Weak

Agility: Weak

Mind: Weak

Body: Standard

RECORD

Personal Wins: 8

Personal Losses: 3

Mr.S

The pain was intense, burning hotter than any flame he had ever felt. At the same time it was strangely cold, like the bite of a winter wind cutting through your clothes. He closed his eyes to try to block out the feeling only to open them a second later when the pain increased. He looked around trying to make sense of what was going on, he saw the arena and his opponent across from him, but the colors seemed off, like they were too bright. Sound also seemed effected, deep down he knew it should be loud, but everything had a detached far away feel about it. The pain was spreading and as it spread the world just seemed to bleed out its colors to white. Sound was all but gone now, and he couldn't make anything out but his opponent, the one he had so callously thought he beat with no problem. Images of a fight, of a sword slipping past his defenses, flashed through his mind as the world went totally whit and seemed to warp around him. There was nothing yet everything in this space, this tunnel of bright, bright whiteness that stung his eyes like the most dazzling light. After a few moments his eyes adjusted enough to where he could barely make out images in the surrounding whiteness. If he concentrated enough he could make out these images. These images seemed to be his family and friends, important events and memories long gone. It was like he was looking into his own mind, seeing himself as he truly was, not as he saw himself. He felt himself slipping through the tunnel, and fought, bringing up memories right and left, reasons why he was there, what he wanted to accomplish. He wanted to be champion so bad, he wanted to make his parents proud. He wanted to be able to settle down and have kids. To tell them of his experiences, and he couldn't do that if he were dead. He fought, and the white light lessened a bit. A few moments more the pictures started to take on focus. He thought then of his life, what he had accomplished. Growing up his first remembered triumph, walking. How happy his parents had been, he hadn't even been coaxed. Then he thought of the first time he rode a bike, how it took him falling and getting back on to do it. Of the first time he picked up a sword, of how good it felt to swing. He thought back to the mystic who took him under his wing and taught him to use his mind properly, taught him to read and write. He saw again the man who was his friend, who taught him to use his sword as part of his body. The memory of his love, dear, dear Isabel popped into his mind then. Of the first day they met, of the time they spent. Her last words still echoed in his mind. "Go out there and win this, then we can finally put this whole thing behind us." That was his biggest regret, not winning, not being able to be there for her because of it. But no one thought it would end like this, no thought he would die.

Many people's faces came at him then. They were all familiar, some he had just seen, some he hadn't seen in years, and even a few he had only seen once. Many were given voices. The images came faster and faster, telling him of himself. They were in a whirlwind now. Isabel, his father, his mother, best friend Vick. Back again, all saying things, things he had done, things he was proud of, things he wasn't. Isabel would come by talking of his persistence in wanting to fight and go all the way at the expense of their happiness. He saw his father now, talking about his stubbornness. Then came his mom talking about his generosity and sweetness. He heard Vick talking about his loyalty and friendship. Then saw Isabel, beautiful Isabel again, talking about his faithfulness to her and how impressed and honored she was. His father about the disappointment he felt when he chose this road for his life. There was his mom talking about her sorrow at his not calling as much as she would like. Vick saying that he was in need and his chagrin at his friend not being able to help. All these things making his head hurt, he felt himself slipping deeper and deeper into the torrent, then all of a sudden it stopped.

Body of the shade

     Energy Body: Ultimate

Just as you look up from your work to ponder how many lives had passed here, you are immediately removed. Not from the Arena. The Arena is still there, always there. You, however, are not there. There is no sight or hearing. You cannot feel anything whatsoever. Your body still may be where you left it, but you have definitely left it. Is this what it feels like? Death? You know suddenly you are a spirit, not a physical object to be touched by other physical objects. And yet you feel danger, immediate and lethal. You feel the rush and excitement and fear of a fighter in the arena.

Through the eyes of the shade

     Illusion Creation: Ultimate

• Auto-Hit Attack

You can hear the crowd in its tidal rumble. The stands are full of people greedily awaiting violence. The sawdust crunches under your feet as you go out to meet your opponent. Isabel wants you to win this, so you must win this. Who is Isabel? Where did this sawdust come from? There hasn't been sawdust on the Arena floor in years. There are no fights today, no crowds. And you are a janitor. This isn't happening. And yet you feel. You taste. You hear. You see. You know. You approach your foe with a steady eye and a balanced gait.

Results of our Lives

     Decay: Supreme

• Target Seeker

You cannot resist it. You feel control of this body, and yet know none. The approach is inevitable. You size up the opponent. A mech. Difficult to destroy, but not too maneuverable. It lifts off the ground with rockets and levels twin chain-guns at you. And the sorceress smiles with glowing eyes as the two of you circle, arcing energy leaping between you. She is weak of body like most mages, but powerful. It unleashes hot metal in your direction, but you dodge to one side and counter with your own attack. She dodges as well, counterattacking with a sweeping bashing attack. You feel a bullet rip through your thigh and you fall. A line of fire burns its way up your arm. You cry out and try to summon defense. The swordsman made just a small cut, nothing serious. He just has skill with a sword, nothing more. You smile and parry an attack with a chuckle, but he feints and you look down at the blade sticking from your chest. You sink slowly to your knees, hearing yourself think that you didn't think it would end this way. And slowly you return to yourself, a janitor gripping a mop on the Arena floor and bleeding from a mysterious chest wound.

Terrain Familiarity: Deathtrap Equalizer

     Terrain Familiarity: Standard

Your chest burns where the sword would have gone. And you remember the joke going around the maintenance staff. People had mysteriously been turning up dead with no explanation for years, they said. Mysterious burn marks under unscorched clothes, and bullet wounds without bullets. Sometimes the wounds varied but the cause of death was always a pierced heart. There were those times when fighters even keeled over during a match for no reason. They blamed a ghost, and you laugh bitterly, as you now know the rumor, the joke is true. You feel the burn marks on your arms, the empty burning in your leg and you see your shirt stained with the blood pouring from your chest. You feel the pain and the sorrow at the end. The Shade of the Arena had claimed another victim.