Out of the Battle Arena (Everyone)

OoC: Good evening, everyone.

In the time-honored tradition of real-world/Battle Arena crossovers, I shall explain the opening plot and whatnot. The entire RPG will take place at WriterCon, a grand celebration of writers and asipiring members of the literary media. Here, you are free to name yourself whatever you want.

Our Battle Arena characters will cross over to WriterCon and possess us, lending us a portion of their powers, as we are after all only humans. We can't take the powers some of our characters have. So keep in mind their abilities will be severely inhibited. Our Battle Arena characters need our help, BAers. We must help them get back home, and fight the force that has sent them to our world.

BiC:

The Core shifted.

Out of the corner of his eye, the eternal mystic noticed something quite odd: his reality was beginning to warp against his accord. Normally, when he wished to alter something, a great many things needed to be taken into consideration, like the potential future ramifications of his actions. But this, this was something he had never seen before… Something was beginning to move, something was beginning to happen.

“What is this?” he wondered aloud, his disembodied voice vibrating through the fabrics of time and space that surrounded him. It was rearranging itself into something alien of the dimensions that Kenjin watched. And, somehow, it involved him. He could see his own strands of time and space being added to the new strain. But it wasn’t just the mystic, others were being added, several actually were crossing through this new pathway into something new. “A new adventure?” Kenjin loved new things, it meant that he got to experience something original, something one learns to miss over millennia of existence.

He felt himself beginning to sever from the Core, but in a physical sense only. His mind and soul were still bound to the Core, and his body was the avatar he used in the physical world… It was binding to something new, something alien.

Something…sleepy.

***

The alarm was buzzing from his cell phone. Yawning heavily, because it was not yet noon, the man’s eyes opened weakly so he could grab the phone and stare at the time. The digital readout informed him that it was indeed well before noon, half-past-eight. He groaned, and shut off the noise to get back to bed, but before he could do so a giant thud issued onto the bed. This thud, quite confident in himself, boldly began walking toward the man and proceeded to wake him in a much sloppier way: by licking his face.

“Aww…come on,” he muttered, and lightly shoved the little dog away. The animal, wondering what could possibly be inhibiting his master from taking him outside, pounced on the man and barked loudly in the direction of the nearest eardrum, shattering any hope of sleep and the man’s deep desire to return to his dream, where many, many fans were waiting for him. So he got up hazily, and glanced at the dog.

“You need outside?” he mumbled, to which the animal pranced about and replied with a confirmative bark. “Alright.” He brushed the hair out of his eyes, it was way too long to be dealt with this early in the morning, and lurched out his bed, locating his pants and his sandals and putting them on. He issued one more yawn, and proceeded down the stairs to grab his dog’s leash and take him outside. After several minutes of walking and staring at the local wildlife, the dog finally decided that he was done and allowed his master to take him back inside, whereupon he was fed and watered before the man lurched right back upstairs to go back to bed. Then, about halfway up the stairs, the man noticed something: his calendar was specifically labeled for the day: it was time for WriterCon. And he had to be there in three hours.

“Great,” he muttered. “Forgot about the Con.”

He showered and dressed quickly. When he finished, he looked completely different from the individual who had only woken up a half-hour ago. Now he was tall, confident, in dark pants and sandals, a red t-shirt and a blue Hawaiian shirt with tracings of tropical fruit along the back. He doubled-checked himself in front of the mirror and applied his narrow glasses to his face for the final inspection. His hair was long and golden-brown, but not long enough for all the hair to go into a ponytail quite yet. His eyes were the same color, and he grinned with almost-but-not-quite-perfect teeth.

“That’s good enough for me,” he decided, and abandoned the bathroom to grab his badge for the convention. He was supposed to do…something…he forgot what. The tag on the badge was labeled “Special Guest” which probably meant he was going to have to do something to warrant his special status. After making sure that his wallet and keys were in his pocket, the man who’s badge name read “Shot” went downstairs to consult his dog.

“Now you behave,” he ordered the animal, who gave a small gruff of indifference as he snoozed on the couch. “My buddy’s gonna feed and walk you while I’m gone, so promise me you won’t set the house on fire while I’m gone.” The dog promised he wouldn’t, in the same manner a child might promise not to steal a cookie, or Shot might promise to not stare at a woman with very noticeable extremities. “You stay away from the neighbor’s dog too.” The dog grumbled, then went right back to sleep.

After locking the door, he opened the door to his car, where all his overnight gear was stored for the three-day weekend convention. He flipped on the sunglasses attachment to his glasses, then fired up the engine and headed off to WriterCon. About halfway out of his driveway, he remembered that he had not eaten, which attributed to the bad feeling he had in his gut.

“A few burgers’ll fix that right up,” he said, and drove off into the rising sun.

Dybia laid there in the public bench, completely bored. This place had had an almost non-existant crime rate. No problems could be found here. He had sat there for nearly an hour just watching the people go by.

It wasn't that he'd want to break this lucky place's peace, but he just felt no place among such calm people. He simply stretched his arms out and laid his head back on the back of the bench. He saw nothing but red from the light hitting his eyelids. Suddenly he saw something different. He saw...himself. The image of himself began to disappear, and it was replaced by something different. Something...purple.

***

CJ was blankly staring forward at the Popsicle he'd been eating. He was just sitting there feeling tired, as usual, in his long blue jeans and black shirt that said "I'm out of my mind, please leave a message" on the front. He didn't stand out at all ,but some people would criticize him for wearing a black shirt and blue jeans all the time, and with his hair as thick and bushy as it was people usually though he felt hot.

He took another look at the pass he was wearing around his neck which had 'CJ' printed on it. He was just down the street from the building where the con he was going to was. "I wonder how this will go." He said, not having been to it before.

"Well, never gonna know just sitting here," He chomped down the last bit of his popsicle and stood up from the bench he'd been sitting at. He had to stretch his arms out for a second, but before he could he felt the brain freeze hit him. "Damn!" He just started walking after he made himself look a little stupid.

Wisp sat down underneath a pine tree overlooking the marsh-like forest in front of her, two weapons sat on a leather bag, on the rabbit girl’s right side. Two rabbit ears tucked into shoulder length brown hair as she yawned and leaned her head back. The shapeshifter’s eyes began to go out of focus as she looked at the blue sky and green leaves. Everything was getting fuzzy, even with her glasses on.

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A young adult leaned against a pine tree near a large building, This is WriterCon, huh? Never been here before… A plastic nametag hung from a black strap of fabric wound around her right wrist, which read ‘Quill’. This wasn’t her real name, but she didn’t mind, she liked it.

Her blue t-shirt flapped in the wind, which appeared to be too big for her frame, chin length brown hair moved as well. Her hair seemed to have waves that just stayed there, until she pulled it behind her pale ears. Quill’s blue jeans were blue and normal, minus the baggy legs. Gray and green sneakers adorned her feet, as she finally gained her courage and approached the large building looming over the five foot and three inch tall female.

Anna sat on top of a building, looking down on the small village she'd been staying at. Her sword was on its normal place on her hip, her hand to it. A piece of hair was in her line of vision making it hard for her to see, but the mage brushed it aside with her free hand and continued looking down. But, her vision started to fade, and all of a sudden she felt herself in motion, looking out at some trees.

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The girl had been in the car for hours, wondering when she'd get to her destination: The Writer's Con. She'd been looking foward to this day all month, and she wasn't going to be late. Her red combat-like boots were on her feet, the complete black shirt and faded jeans on as well.

Her shoulder length blonde-brown hair blew into a mess from the wind in the car, her nametag with the alias of 'Michalla', her middle name, flying around lazily on her jean jacket. The car stopped at the front of the building, the noisy brakes sounding.

Michalla stepped out of the car, covering her ears from the sound. As she sttod to full height, she shielded her eyes from the light, her blue glasses on. "Why'd I wear these things again?"

Radkin had been walking around the city of his time for an hour now. And he was starting to get bored, surprised that there isn't anything to fix, like Loque or Xan being on the loose again. All of a sudden, he started to get dizzy, everything starting to fade, he felt himself walking, looking around.

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

The teen had been walking through this city for hours now trying to find his destination: WritersCon. He was dressed in a normal grey shirt, with slightly saggy blue jeans, some skater tennis shoes, and a name tag around his neck, aliased "Blade". He didn't mind as it was his middle name, which he loved.
Looking up, his eyes fell upon a huge building that was named "WritersCon."

" . . . 'Bout damn time I got here," Blade said as he stood infront of it, unsure whether or not he should go inside just yet, as truthfully, he was a bit nervous and shy. "Bah! What the hell?" He said as he walked through the door, he saw a few people already here. "Hmmn . . . "

OoC: I would like to remind everyone that there is no posting order.

BiC:

Shot parked his car in the lot given to hotel guests and retrieved his satchel full of extra clothes, overnight gear, books, and porn: the necessities of any good writer. From his bag, he retrieved a cherry lollipop and stuck it in his mouth, relishing the taste. Sure, it was bad for him, but after all it was nothing a good teeth-brushing wouldn't solve. The sun was high in the air, so he retained his shades as he stepped out into the light, throwing the pack over one shoulder and grabbing his lollipop’s white stick like a cigar. He took it out, savored the taste of sugar and fruit, then jammed it right back in as he headed forward to the hotel’s entrance.

Ahead of him, perhaps four kids, maybe more, were standing in front of him. All were waiting outside the hotel for some reason. “Hey,” he muttered, and glanced down at the group. “What’re you all doing waiting out here?” They turned to him, all four looked like teenagers and, if he were as short as they were, he might have too. He glanced them over, and noticed convention badges. “Registration’s inside.”

“You’re with the con too?” asked one of the group, one of the young men wearing grey. In response, Shot grabbed the front of his pants, where he had strapped his convention badge. It was of a slightly different color than the others, royal purple and with a picture of a book on it, whereas theirs had a piece of paper and pencil.

“Nice to meet you kiddo,” said the man with a smile. “Name’s Shot. You all in a group?” He looked left to right, it seemed that the four had just gathered together quite unexpectedly. “We’d better get inside. Gotta get hotel rooms and whatnot. Plus, the sun’s strong enough to melt titanium as we speak.”

Zryxan was sulking in his quarters, as usual. The other members of Ragnarok were beginning to wonder if he did anything other than sulk, and fight. They never asked though, about his interests or his personal life, he was too creepy. He knew they thought this about him, but he didn't really give half a ****. Let them wonder why I'm so ****ed up, I just want to do my job.

Soon though, sitting there got boring, and he rose to go take whatever jobs were available. As he got to his feet, however, a wave of nausea struck him like lightning, and he buckled to his knees. What the...? was all he thought, then he was...
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Running! Sprinting with all his asthmatic heart could take. "I'm NOT LAAAAATE!" He shrieked, Not to my first WriterCon! He had awoken to his emergency alarm(I.E. the third) to discover he had been conscious enough to disable, not snooze, the other two, but not conscious enough to remember doing so, or to realize he set an alarm for a reason. So, panicked, he had taken the fastest shower of his life and thrown on what he wore the day before. A white shirt with red Gibson Flying V guitars on the front, tattered blue jeans that were a bit too large in the waist, and too short in length, and his favorite red converse chucks.

He finished by flinging his "nametag" if one could call it that, onto his neck, and affixing his thin-of-frame-but-not-of-lens glasses onto his face. The ID bore his nom de guerre "Scholar" upon it, which suited him just fine. Briefly, he wondered if the name was too presumptuous, being that many writers presumed themselves scholarly, but he was the one who chose it as his pen-name. However, the only people who read anything he wrote knew him by that name, so all was well on his conscience. Dressing finished, he forwent breakfast and took off towards the Convention.

Breathless, tactless, and senseless from the humid air and his tired wind passages, he attempted to blend with a largish group headed inside, who were mostly teenagers like himself, albeit younger, or at least shorter, led by a taller adult with an air of importance, if only faintly. He failed miserably, his miserable wheezing lending a healthy decibel to his arrival. The leader of the group turned and regarded him slowly before asking, "You need an ambulance?"

"No...*gasp*... 'm fine... *wheeze*... WriterCon?" He ended with a question, gesturing to the doorway they filled.

"Uhh... yeah... We're just headed in to get hotel rooms and the like, sort of together for no particular reason, you're welcome to join us... You sure you're all right?" Shot asked, concern gracing his features.

Pushing some of his medium length brown hair out of his eyes, Scholar answered, "Yeah, fine. Jus' gimme a minute." He genuinely sounded better, but the wheezing continued with each breath, quietly.

And with that, the group collectively crossed the threshold and entered the realm of Conventiondom.

Simon was lying in a tree in his white ferret form, drowsing in the sun beams that passed through the heavy foliage, making the light appear to be dancing. Above, a squirrel was fiddling with a nut, with two more beside. It was late summer and the squirrel was in the process of hoarding nuts for the winter. Underneath, a pair of birds was whistling a happy tune as their offspring left their nest to find a mate.

Then the squirrel yelled out as squirrels do, as the nut it lost the nut it was trying to carry to its habitat. Quickly, Simon shifted to a squirrel himself and in a quick combination of jumps and flips; he caught the nut midair and hurried up to the other squirrel, offering the nut back. And whoever said that animals are stupid and cannot show feelings should be shot, as the squirrel was so happy he almost pushed Simon off the branch as it hugged him so much he almost blacked out. Then the squirrel stepped back, and offered him…

***

…a brownie and a cup of coffee. He grabbed it and sat down by the window. Things were definitely bigger here in America than in Norway, he thought and started on his cake. It tasted sweet, and not very much like what he was used too. Outside, the street was filled with cars as it was rush-hour, and he had much time to examine the drivers. Some were dull, some were talking in a cell phone, and some were obvious impatient as they were constantly hammering away on their horn. Over the street, a woman was walking fast, appearing to be followed by a man. He imagined the man assault the woman, himself igniting a lightsaber, using the weapon to shatter the glass and threatening the man to leave the woman alone. Then he started on his coffee.

It was time to leave, as the con was starting soon, so he paid and left the coffee bar. It was not a long way, but he was already warm and damp from the hot summer air. This was a time where one should sit inside in an air-conditioned office and program.

Axel had just reached twenty, but if you saw him, he would not look more than 16 or 17, due to his slender size, and blotchy face. But that did not matter to him. He was not the social type, preferring to close himself up in his apartment and read a book. He had just finished the Animorphs series, and was now reading up on the Star Wars literature.

He reached the hotel early and checked in before most others came. He looked at the papers, and his nickname, “White”, which had nothing to do with his real name, except he thought it fit with his skin color, as he was not a fan of wasting time just lying in the sun doing nothing. Taking a quick glance on his key, Room 0425, he looked confused around, as if he had forgotten something, but continued to the elevator, only realizing he forgot his bag with his belongings at the café when he reached the fourth floor.

OoC: My first RP!

BiC:
The wind was howling as Saser watched Zargin perform bizarre rituals. "Um...Zargin? What are you even doing?" the psychic swordsman asked. "If you must know," the crystal started, "It's an ancient Xiagru spell, to increase mental awareness." Suddenly, Saser's vision grew blurry. "Well, that's certainly not making me aware." Saser said, and he heard:

"Saser...I didn't even perform the spell yet."

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In an American city, a young boy and his sister were walking, pulling an overweight white cat. The boy said, "So, you're taking Winny to Josh's cousin's house?" His sister replied, "Yes. He wants to try a new treatment technique, to make him stop shedding as much."

The boy watched the cat stumble around, as he stuffed a nametag with "Steven" written on it into his pants pocket. He was wearing a foreign sweater and dark blue jeans, along with his glasses and sandals. "You realize that you stick out like a sore thumb, right Steven?" his sister inquired. "Yes, but I'm going to a...a Taco Bell grand opening!" They both laughed. "That sounds like something you would do! Well, his house is around this turn, so see ya!" She pulled the cat down another road, as Steven looked ahead. "Finally!" he said as he started to run to a hotel where he saw a group gather just seconds before. "WriterCon, here I come!"

OoC: I did poorly, yes?

Hoch stalked his prey. He was a gambler who had apparently cheated someone out of his money. The assassin walked slowly across the rooftops. He'd been following the man for a few days and understood his schedule now. Soon he would walk into a dark alley. When he did Hoch leaped down and felt his sword sink into the man's neck. Then suddenly everything got blurry. It was like how a person sees when they're tired.

But I'm not tired. Could it be a higher being is getting tired?

***

The man typed away at the keyboard holding multiple instant messaging conversations at once. He looked at the computer's clock and saw it was almost one o'clock. He told everyone he had to go and quickly signed out. He jumped over the counter and walked past the rows of shelves to the exit. He saw his boss and said, "Hello sir."

"Seems early for you to be leaving," replied the tall bald man.

"I, um...er... uh," the man stammered.

"You can go," said the other man with a wink and a smile.

"Thanks!" he said and jogged out of the building. He quickly found his car in the mall parking lot. He fumbled with the keys for a moment but finally found the right one. He started the car and saw the digital clock that told him WritersCon would start soon.

***

After a bit of driving it was now 1:15. He parked the car quickly then clipped on his badge that simply said "Beh" and rushed into the hotel's lobby.

"Am I late?" he asked to no one in particular.

OoC: Sorry for relative badness. Did in a rush.

The hotel lobby was quite busy, thought Shot, as he headed in the direction of the check-in counter. To his surprise, the others seemed to be following him, perhaps because his height made him easier to spot in a crowd. Quite a number of people were waiting in line ahead of them, the majority of them with convention passes strapped somewhere on their person. About five people, in two groups, appeared to be ahead of them, so he was very grateful when it only took five minutes for one of the check-in ladies to wave him over.

“See ya in a sec,” said the egomaniac, and walked over. “I’m here for the convention.” He gave the nice-looking young lady a slight wink, and her face turned the slightest shade of red. He opened his wallet, and produced his identification, along with his credit card. “Here’s my card, I’ve already reserved my room for the weekend.” She took them from him and gasped slightly when she looked back up.

“Oh yes,” he confirmed. “Where will my room be?”

She typed up the information. “You’ll be having the executive suit on the fifth floor, room 0501.” She handed him two keycards and smiled. “In case you lose one,” she explained the second one.

“Or,” said Shot, as he pocketed the cards, “in case I’d like someone to visit.” He grinned, and left the desk, very aware that the check-in lady’s eyes were on his back, before she turned to the next guest. Shot meanwhile turned to the group he had become attached to, and waited as they processed their information with the check-in desk. It seemed to Shot to take forever, mostly because he wasn’t doing anything while he was waiting for them. Finally, however, they all seemed to make it thought fine, and gathered around him, whereupon the egomaniac consulted his watch.

“I’ve gotta get settled in,” he muttered. “Anybody wanna walk with me to the elevators?”

Michalla had already checked in, taking her jean jacket off from the heat. She'd been following the dude named Shot for sometime, along with teens just like herself, and looked at him like he was crazy when he asked, "Anybody wanna walk with me to the elevators?"

She looked at her key number that matched her room. "Room 0319? Oh, well." Michalla walked to the elevator, and opened it, motioning for the others to follow, before she lost her paitence and shut it on them, like she was sometimes known to do.

"So Shot, you're a special guest?"