Link to article: Let the Games Begin.
:scp-wiki:component:license-box
:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end
[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Junior Researcher Marcher was not having a good day. His favorite parking spot by the door had been taken, leaving him to drive all the way back to the end of the lot to find a space. His coffee had burned his tongue, and his pen had leaked, getting him tackled by an overzealous new agent who had heard about [[[SCP-505]]]. Granted, running for his life from an ancient war god/murder victim gooned out on the [[[SCP-619-J | "ancespirits of his forewarriors"]]], as he had screamed it, made the other mishaps seem almost pleasant by comparison, but that was the //only// good thing about today. He turned a corner, and slammed into Dr. Biltmore. //Okay//, he thought as he helped her up, //maybe there are two good things about today.// "What the hell is happening!" she screamed over the alarms. "76-2's broken out and he has the belt!", he shouted. "What‽" "ABLE HAS THE CHAMPIONSHIP BELT!" "Oh, god! How many casualties‽" "About half of this wing is dead," Marcher told Biltmore as they stumbled into a nearby closet. The alarms were a bit quieter here. "Only half?" she asked. "It would have been more, but he stops every five minutes to throw taunts at you at the top of his voice. That's the only reason I'm still alive." "Jesus..." she muttered. "Do you think that security-" "Most of them were in the cafeteria when he broke out," Marcher said soberly. "Everyone in one place, it was a slaughter..." They were silent for a few moments, the solemnity of the occasion calming even the little voice in the back of Marcher's head informing him that he was alone in a closet with the love of his life. It was Dr. Biltmore who managed to get herself together first. "So," she said, "how do we take him down?" Marcher stared at her. "We? Are you joking? //We// need to wait here for reinforcements." "They won't get here fast enough," she said calmly. "It'll be suicide!" "If the situation out there is as bad as you say it is, then the first priority of the Task Force that gets here will be the on-site nuke, not to look for survivors," Biltmore said in the same bland, matter-of-fact tone. "It's suicide either way, unless we find another way to end this." "And if we don't?" he demanded. "I'm Level 3. I know the codes, too. I'd rather not die today, but I won't hesitate if that's the only option." There was another moment of silence, this time clanging with the unheard sound of two people's minds working desperately to think of a way to not die. Marcher happened to glance into a dark corner of the closet. "Hey..." he said slowly. Biltmore turned and looked at the dusty old thing that had drawn his attention. Their eyes met. "Not that thing," she said. "I read the documentation. It creates a pacifistic mind, it said. It already worked on Able once." "Did you read about what else it does?" "The effects are supposed to be slow to develop. We can deal with them when we're safe." "...Fine. Who's going to distract him?" "Not it." "Shit." ---- Able worked his way down the hallway, laughing at the pathetic weaklings attempting to defy his mighty eagle heart and tiger blood as he cut them down. "THIS WILL BE THE FIRST OF YOUR MANY DEATHS AS I CAST YOU DOWN INTO THE LAND OF BLOOD AND HELLFIRE TO JOIN MY DAMNED ARMY!" he screamed as he tore a man in two. Then, as the crowd cheered in his eyes, a ridiculous female in a lab coat without any sequins at all dared to step out in front of him. Dr. Biltmore looked behind Able, and saw Marcher getting into place with the [[[SCP-1550-J |wheelchair.]]] He nodded and she nodded back. Then, trying to remember those hazy weekends with her father spent in front of the TV, back when she was four years old, she opened her mouth and shouted at Able. "Hey, uh... Able! You can't handle the truth! That you, uh, suck at wrestling! Can you smell what I'm cooking‽ No, because you are Un-Able! Because... you're unable to do anything! And I had sex with Torrie last night!" Able's face became incandescent. He pulled in a mighty breath, then //screeched// at full volume. "//YOU SNIVELING WORM IN THE GARDEN OF THE SPEARS OF VIKINGS BROUGHT DOWN BY MY VENGEFUL GOD! I AM THE FIRST TO KNOW DEATH, AND I HAVE MADE MYSELF HER UNHOLY PRIEST. I SHALL SHARE HER DEMENTED WHISPERS OF BLOOD AND VENGEANCE WITH YOU, YOU-//" but he was cut short as Biltmore caught him in the chest and heaved him into the wheelchair. There was silence for one perfect, frozen moment, before a wave of pure, testosterone flooded energy burst from the belt around Able's waist, and rippled across the entire Foundation. ---- Deep in Site-93, [[[SCP-1917 |a colossal machine was hard at work]]]. After a few hours, its latest creation rolled out of it, covered in spikes, belching flames, with a gun that was only capable of firing folding chairs. Printed on the front, in a dainty cursive script, were the words, "Relanceur de l'enfer." ---- A researcher snuck into the [[[SCP-348 |soup bowl's]]] testing room, sniffling miserably. His heart brightened, however, at the delicious smell of chicken that suddenly began to waft from the bowl. As he picked it up, ready to slurp every last drop, the liquid began to bubble and steam. He leaned closer, puzzling over the boiling chicken-noodle soup, when it exploded from the ceramic receptacle, splashing every inch of his body. As the poor man rolled on the floor, clutching at the many heat blisters forming on his bright red skin, words formed on the inside of the bowl. They read, "C'mon, slugger! I barely tapped you there! Be a man and let's go again!" ---- [[[SCP-2041-J | The machine woke,]]] listening to a glorious song. The music called to it, singing of carnage and death and shit blowing up. It followed the song, knowing in its engine that, whatever was about to happen, it was the very reason the machine existed. ---- Junior Researcher Marcher woke up in the middle of a ring, wearing a black and white striped tee shirt, with a handful of red cards. He turned, to see a beautiful, buxom woman in a black bikini with way too much spray tan holding a card that said "Round 1" on it. //Nothing out of the ordinary here//, he thought as the crowd filed in. In the center of the ring, sitting in his wheelchair, Able adjusted his tuxedo, patted his porcupine hairdo, and grabbed the microphone in his lap. He raised it to his lips, paused, and then spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, skips and girls... Let's. Get. Ready. To. [[[http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-1150543/scp-foundation-march-madness-deathmatch-bracket-challenge#post-2253130 |RRRRUUMMMMMBLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEE!!!]]]" @@ @@ [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]