Culwych1

Chapter 1 [[Introduction: Epic introduction music as the camera pans over a fiery kitchen.]] “This isn’t just a cooking show,” booms a voice so deep it seems to resonate in your bones. “This is THE cooking competition of the multiverse.” The shot cuts to a grinning SpongeBob SquarePants, his spongey arms a blur as he flips what appears to be 100 Krabby Patties at once. “Ten legendary chefs!” Next, Mr. Ping is shown folding dumplings with the grace of a calligrapher painting a masterpiece. The dough swirls and noodles twirl as if they’re extensions of his hands. “One interdimensional kitchen!” The camera zooms in on Willy Wonka, who unveils a glowing chocolate volcano. Without warning, it erupts, sending edible marshmallows shooting into the air like sugary fireworks. “Ingredients from across the multiverse!” Hannibal Lecter appears, smiling serenely as he sharpens a glinting knife. The shot lingers just long enough for you to wonder about his choice of meat before cutting away. “And of course… the most terrifying judges in the multiverse!” The camera pans across the judges’ table: Gordon Ramsay is mid-shout, veins bulging as he hurls an insult at someone offscreen. Lord Beerus points lazily at a contestant, his energy flickering ominously around him. Mary Berry takes a delicate bite of cake, shaking her head disapprovingly. Garfield, slouched in his chair, pushes an empty plate away with his paw and deadpans, “I only judge lasagna, and this isn’t it.” The fiery logo blazes back onto the screen, and the words The Great Kitchen Wars glow as if forged by the gods themselves. The arena quiets, and the host’s voice booms out: “Welcome to The Great Kitchen Wars! Contestants, please make your way to the arena!” First to enter is Hannibal Lecter. He strides in as though he owns the place, his three-piece suit impeccably tailored. His eyes scan the competition, calculating, while his thin smile suggests he already knows how this will end. “I believe,” he says smoothly to the camera, “that cooking is the ultimate expression of artistry.” He glances briefly at the glinting knives at his station. “And precision is everything.” Behind him comes SpongeBob SquarePants, bouncing into the kitchen with boundless energy. “I’m ready! I’m ready!” he chants, wielding his trusty spatula like a sword. As he passes Hannibal, he pauses, gives him a cheerful wave, and says, “Hi there, mister! Let’s have fun!” Hannibal’s smile tightens as SpongeBob zips off to his station. Willy Wonka is next, floating in on a candy-powered hoverboard. The camera tracks him as he tips his top hat, tosses chocolate coins into the audience, and winks. “Let the games begin!” he says with a mischievous grin, his candy-striped coat flaring dramatically as he steps off the board. The towering figure of Casey Ryback is next, silent and brooding. The former Navy SEAL surveys the arena like he’s preparing for war. His knives are laid out with military precision, and his every movement is deliberate. When the camera lingers, he says only, “Let’s get to work.” Mr. Ping bursts in with a dumpling cart, shouting, “Who’s hungry?!” He immediately begins organizing his station with the precision of someone who’s served ten thousand hungry customers. As he works, he mutters, “My noodles will speak for themselves!” Then comes Chef Julian Slowik, moving with the eerie calm of a man who sees all life as a perfectly orchestrated menu. He surveys the competition with faint disdain. “Cooking,” he says to no one in particular, “is not just sustenance. It is control.” The Swedish Chef tumbles in next, juggling knives, bowls, and what appears to be a live chicken. “Bork bork bork!” he exclaims as the chicken escapes, squawking, across the arena. Chef (from South Park) saunters in, belting out an impromptu song about chocolate salty balls. “Hello there, children!” he shouts, grinning as he sets up his station. “This is going to be one delicious competition!” Last comes Monica Geller, clipboard in hand, already inspecting her station. “Are these counters even sanitized?” she snaps at a hovering kitchen bot. She begins rearranging her equipment, muttering about the lack of structure in the competition already. The judges take their seats: Gordon Ramsay slams his hands on the table and yells, “Right, listen up! If you think you can come in here and serve us garbage, you’re wasting my bloody time!” Lord Beerus leans back, unimpressed. “I don’t care who wins. Just don’t bore me, or I’ll destroy this entire dimension.” Mary Berry offers a serene smile. “Let’s focus on the heart and balance in your dishes, shall we?” Garfield yawns, already pawing through a menu. “When’s lunch? And is there lasagna?” The first challenge is announced: “Chefs, you have one hour to create your signature dish! Show us who you are!” The kitchen explodes into motion: knives flash, flames roar, and chaos reigns. Hannibal meticulously prepares a pâté so velvety that the judges are stunned into silence. Gordon mutters, “Where the hell does he get his meat?” but no one dares ask. Remy (hidden under Alfredo’s hat) orchestrates a perfect ratatouille. The sight of Mary Berry tearing up as she takes a bite becomes an instant meme across the multiverse. SpongeBob flips Krabby Patties with cheerful gusto, stacking them into a towering burger sculpture. Lord Beerus reluctantly admits, “It’s… oddly satisfying.” Willy Wonka presents a chocolate fountain that self-assembles into a glowing sculpture of the kitchen arena. Mary Berry calls it “utterly delightful.” Meanwhile, The Swedish Chef accidentally sets his station on fire but somehow produces a dish involving half a chicken and a tennis ball. Gordon screams, “WHAT IS THIS RUBBISH?!” Chef serves a rich soul food platter while serenading the judges. Even Garfield stops napping long enough to murmur, “Decent.” As the timer runs out, chaos subsides into tense anticipation. The first day is over, and everyone readies themselves for the next day . ---- Chapter 2 The next morning, the Interdimensional Kitchen Stadium glistens under the glow of countless galaxies swirling overhead. The contestants shuffle in, some more enthusiastic than others. SpongeBob bounces to his station, humming a jaunty tune, while Hannibal glides in like a shark sensing blood. Mr. Ping is already muttering under his breath about dumplings. The judges take their places, with Gordon Ramsay immediately slamming his hands on the table. "Listen up!" he bellows. "Today's theme is A Dish Your Mom Would Be Proud Of! We want nostalgia, heart, and flavour. If you bring us anything bland or pretentious, you’re done." Lord Beerus yawns, lazily resting his chin in his hand. “And if it’s boring, I might just destroy the lot of you.” His eyes flicker with a dangerous light, and a hush falls over the room. Mary Berry clears her throat delicately. “What we’re looking for is something that tells a story. A dish that captures the essence of where you come from.” Garfield glances up from a nap. “Does anyone’s mom make lasagna? Just asking for a friend.” The contestants dive into action, each racing to craft a dish that honours their roots. SpongeBob, true to form, starts making Krabby Patties. He sets up an entire assembly line, flipping patties and humming to himself. “My mom didn’t actually cook much,” he explains to the camera, “but she always said a Krabby Patty could fix anything!” Across the arena, Casey Ryback is moving with deadly precision. He slices vegetables with military efficiency, the blade flashing so quickly it almost hums. “Mom taught me discipline,” he says, dicing onions with the intensity of a general planning an ambush. “Cooking is just another battlefield.” Hannibal Lecter works in silence, his station eerily calm. A simmering pot sends fragrant steam wafting into the air, and he hums a classical tune as he delicately assembles a dish. "I don’t like to talk about my mother, but she had good taste," he murmurs, placing an artfully carved garnish on the plate. The camera catches a quick glimpse of a perfectly seared cut of meat, though no one seems eager to ask what it is. Mr. Ping twirls dough with the grace of a master, folding dumplings so quickly it seems his hands are a blur. "My mama always said dumplings bring people together," he says, smiling wistfully. "Every fold is a memory." Monica Geller, clipboard in hand, is working with military precision. "I’m recreating my mom’s pot roast," she announces, her voice tinged with determination. "But better. Because let’s be honest, my mom couldn’t cook to save her life." Meanwhile, The Swedish Chef is wrestling what looks like a live lobster, screaming, "Bork! Bork! Bork!" as it escapes his grasp and skitters across the arena floor. Gordon Ramsay shouts, "GET A GRIP, MAN!" but the Swedish Chef is too busy flailing to respond. Willy Wonka, on the other hand, is crafting something magical; a dessert that seems to shimmer with light. "My dear mother adored sweets," he explains, sprinkling edible glitter over a towering cake. “She always said, ‘A little sugar solves everything, but I was never allowed sweets - oh no, definitely not.” Chef Julian Slowik, with his unnerving calm, prepares a minimalist plate of foam and mist. “This dish represents my mother’s intangible presence in my life,” he says cryptically. Gordon squints at the plate and mutters, “It’s *beep*ing air, mate.” Chef croons a soulful tune as he fries chicken. “Mama always said love was the secret ingredient,” he sings, tossing seasoning with theatrical flair. Alfredo, as always, struggles to look competent while Remy does all the work. They’re crafting a ratatouille so vibrant and aromatic that Mary Berry looks teary-eyed just watching. The clock ticks down, and the judges begin their rounds. First, they approach SpongeBob, who presents a tower of Krabby Patties. "They’re like hugs from your mom!" he says brightly. Mary Berry smiles kindly. “Charming presentation, but it’s… very one-note.” Beerus takes a single bite, frowns, and says, “Pathetic.” SpongeBob’s face falls. Casey Ryback presents a hearty meat-and-potatoes dish with perfectly seared steak. Gordon Ramsay nods approvingly. “Technically flawless.” But Beerus takes a bite, grimaces, and spits it out. "This lacks imagination." Casey protests, “I don’t think you know who you are talking to. I’m a master of all arts; culinary, martial, zen, I can play the guitar as well as stop terrorists and…” Before he can finish, Beerus flicks a finger, and Casey is launched into the sun. “Next,” Beerus says with a satisfied smirk. The Swedish Chef presents a dish so chaotic it defies explanation. There are crunchy bits of toast, a screaming lobster, some chocolate goo, a turnip and what looks like contents from the bin. Gordon screams, “THIS IS A DISASTER!” Mary Berry winces as she prods the plate. “It’s… crunchy?” Beerus incinerates the dish with a single glare, and the Swedish Chef is disqualified. He flails his arms, shouting, “Bork bork bork!” as he’s escorted out. Willy Wonka presents his glowing dessert, which dazzles everyone. “Interesting,” Mary Berry says diplomatically, though Beerus raises an eyebrow. Mr. Ping’s dumplings win over Mary Berry, who sighs happily after a single bite. "This is comfort food at its finest," she declares. Gordon Ramsay nods. "Simple, but brilliant." Finally, the judges reach Hannibal, who unveils an intricate plate of tender meat in a rich reduction. Mary Berry takes a bite and gasps. “This is… divine.” Gordon stares at the plate. “What is this meat?” he demands. Hannibal simply smiles and says, “An old family recipe.” Beerus takes a bite and purrs, “Delicious.” Alfredo (with Remy) serves their ratatouille, which Mary Berry declares, “Perfection on a plate.” Gordon calls it “absolutely stunning,” though he squints at Alfredo’s odd mannerisms. As the contestants step back, the camera catches Hannibal leaning toward Willy Wonka. “You must come to lunch sometime,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. “I’d love to discuss your work… in detail.” Wonka chuckles nervously and nods. “Tonight then” murmurs Hannibal. The judges deliberate. Casey Ryback is gone, launched into the cosmos by Beerus, and The Swedish Chef is disqualified. The remaining chefs breathe a sigh of relief, though Willy Wonka’s laughter seems a little more strained than usual. As the camera fades to black, the voiceover intones, “Next time on The Great Kitchen Wars… FIRE IN THE BELLY!” --- Chapter 3 The morning begins with a strange silence in the Interdimensional Kitchen Stadium. The usual chatter and clanging of pots are missing. Contestants shuffle in, glancing uneasily at one another. Gordon Ramsay is already pacing near the judges' table, his mood sour. “Right,” he snaps, slamming his hands on the table. “Where the bloody hell is Wonka?” Lord Beerus, looking supremely uninterested, picks at a speck of dust on his robe. “He’s withdrawn,” he says lazily. “Withdrawn?” Gordon’s voice rises an octave. “*beep*ing withdrawn?! This isn’t a bloody day spa! You don’t just withdraw!” Mary Berry tuts sympathetically. “He left a note, Gordon,” she says, holding up a piece of paper with a neat flourish. “‘Dearest judges and contestants, I must attend to urgent matters in the Factory. Do carry on without me. Yours, Wonka.’” Gordon snatches the note and crumples it. “Factory? What is this nonsense?” Lord Beerus yawns. “He’s gone. Let’s move on before I decide to destroy something.” Gordon Ramsay steps forward. “Listen up! Today’s theme is Fire in the Belly! We want heat, we want spice, and we want passion. You’ve got one hour to deliver something that’ll knock our socks off, or you’re out.” “Or,” Beerus adds with a slow smile, “I’ll simply obliterate you. Saves time.” Garfield glances up from a nap. “Spicy lasagna? Anyone? No? I’ll just be here.” The timer starts, and the kitchen explodes into motion. SpongeBob SquarePants immediately begins assembling a mountain of Krabby Pattie, with spicy sauce. Mr. Ping twirls noodles in one hand while stirring a pot of spicy broth in the other. “My fire noodle soup will bring tears of joy, or at least clear sinuses!” he says confidently. Chef Julian Slowik works in eerie silence, assembling a plate of what looks like… mist. A faint reddish vapor rises from his dish, but there’s no actual food to be seen. “The spice,” he says to no one in particular, “is implied.” At the far end of the kitchen, Chef is frying chicken wings in a bubbling cauldron of molten hot sauce. He hums a soulful tune as he works, occasionally breaking into song: “Spicy wings gonna blodw your mind, they’re gonna set your taste buds on FIIIIIIIIIRE!” The clock winds down, and the contestants present their dishes. First up is SpongeBob, who proudly unveils his “Super Spicy Krabby Patties.” The stack of burgers glows faintly red from the sheer amount of hot sauce. Gordon takes a bite and immediately chokes. “WHAT IS THIS?!” he roars. “It’s like eating lava between two pieces of cardboard!” Lord Beerus spits his bite out dramatically. “This is an insult to spice. And to food.” Mary Berry, ever the diplomat, manages a polite, “Well, it’s… enthusiastic.” SpongeBob’s smile falters. “But… but they’re Krabby Patties!” “Get out,” Gordon snaps. “You’re eliminated!” The judges gather around Chef Julian Slowik’s plate, which is nothing more than a cloud of spicy mist wafting above an empty plate. “What the bloody hell is this?” Gordon asks, poking the air with a fork. “It’s a representation of fire,” Julian explains. “A sensory experience designed to…” Beerus growls and incinerates the plate with a flick of his finger. “This isn’t art school,” he says. “It’s food. You’re eliminated.” Julian nods serenely and walks away. “A fitting end,” he says as he exits. As he walks out, SpongeBob sidles up to him. “Hey, now that we’re both out, you wanna make burgers with me later?” he asks Julian hopefully. Julian smiles, an unusual expression for his normally intense face. “That would be… sublime” As the kitchen clears, the remaining contestants begin cleaning their stations. The camera lingers on Hannibal Lecter, who sidles up to Chef with an easy smile. “Your wings were impressive,” Hannibal says smoothly. Chef grins. “Thanks, baby. I’ve got the magic touch!” “Indeed,” Hannibal replies. “We should have dinner sometime. I’d love to hear more about your techniques… and obviously taste your seasoning.” Chef, oblivious, laughs. “Sure thing, man! Just name the time.” The camera pans away as Hannibal’s smile lingers, sharp and unsettling. As the contestants leave for the day, Gordon Ramsay turns to the camera, his voice heavy with frustration. “Two gone, and one quit - this is *beep*ing ridiculous. Whatever next! --- Chapter 4 The Interdimensional Kitchen Stadium hums with quiet anticipation as the contestants arrive, their numbers now reduced to four. Hannibal Lecter strides in first, his polished shoes clicking against the tiles, his posture as composed and unbothered as ever. Alfredo Linguini stumbles in behind him, nervously adjusting his apron while trying to look confident. Remy, tucked under his hat, whispers directions to keep Alfredo focused. Monica Geller follows, clipboard in hand, inspecting her station with laser-like precision. Mr. Ping wheels in his cart, grumbling under his breath about “fancy food” and “how dumplings are plenty elegant if you make them right.” But as the contestants look around, one station remains empty. The famous South PArk Chef is nowhere to be seen. Gordon Ramsay stands by the judges’ table, already frowning. “Right,” he snaps, “where the bloody hell is Chef?!” A kitchen bot whirs forward, holding a neatly folded note in its robotic claw. Lord Beerus lazily takes it, unfurls the paper, and clears his throat. “Ahem. ‘To the esteemed judges and contestants: Thank you for the opportunity to compete in The Great Kitchen Wars. However, I have decided to bow out of the competition for personal reasons. It’s been a wonderful experience, but I must follow my heart elsewhere. Yours soulfully, Chef.’” Gordon snatches the note out of Beerus’s hand, glaring at it as if it might burst into flames. “Follow his heart elsewhere? What kind of *beep*ing nonsense is this? He was bloody singing about spicy wings yesterday!” Mary Berry, ever calm, gives a sympathetic sigh. “Perhaps he had a change of heart, Gordon. We must respect his decision.” Lord Beerus shrugs. “He’s gone. Move on. Don’t bore me.” Garfield, who has been napping at the table, cracks an eye open and mutters, “Pretty sure he just went looking for lasagna.” Hannibal Lecter, standing at his station, smiles faintly. “It’s such a shame,” he says smoothly. “He was wonderful company at dinner last night.” Alfredo looks up at Hannibal, confused. “You had dinner with him?” “Indeed,” Hannibal replies, his voice like silk. “We shared fascinating conversations and I sampled his seasoning, but trust me, I’m sure his presence will still be felt in this competition.” Alfredo opens his mouth to respond, but Remy tugs his hair sharply, silently warning him to let it go. “Right!” Gordon barks, slamming his hands on the table. “Today’s theme is high cuisine. We want elegance, beauty, and absolute bloody perfection. Bring us something worthy of the gods, or don’t bother showing up!” Lord Beerus leans back, inspecting his claws. “If your food bores me, I’ll destroy your entire station. Consider that motivation.” Mary Berry nods serenely. “High cuisine is about balance, refinement, and heart. Make us proud, chefs.” Garfield stretches and mutters, “As long as it’s lasagna, I’m in.” The contestants spring into action as the timer starts. Hannibal Lecter works with the precision of a surgeon, slicing and plating with methodical grace. The aroma wafting from his station is intoxicating, though no one can quite identify the source of the meat sizzling in his pan. Alfredo Linguini, guided by Remy, scrambles to keep up. “Calm down, Linguini!” Remy squeaks from under the hat. “You can’t rush perfection!” Alfredo nods nervously, stirring a pot of creamy risotto. Monica Geller assembles her dish with the perfectionism of a sculptor, plating her ingredients as though they were museum pieces. “High cuisine is all about precision,” she mutters, adjusting the garnish for the third time. Mr. Ping, in contrast, works with fiery determination, stretching dough for dumplings and boiling a rich broth. “They want fancy? Fine!” he mutters. “I’ll give them dumplings so good they’ll cry!” The timer buzzes, and the contestants present their dishes. Hannibal Lecter unveils a plate so stunning it draws gasps from the judges. A perfectly seared cut of meat sits atop a truffle-infused purée, drizzled with a dark, glossy reduction. Gordon Ramsay takes a bite and freezes. “This… is bloody brilliant.” He looks up at Hannibal, his eyes narrowing. “What’s the meat?” Hannibal smiles serenely. “I took inspiration from a chef I knew.” Mary Berry dabs her eyes. “This is simply divine. So rich, so full of flavor.” Lord Beerus tilts his head, intrigued. “Impressive.” Alfredo Linguini steps forward with his wild mushroom risotto. Mary Berry beams after her first bite. “Oh, how delightful! So creamy and balanced.” Gordon nods. “Good job, Linguini. This is the finesse I’ve been waiting for.” Monica Geller presents her scallop tart with citrus foam. The presentation is flawless, but Gordon frowns after a bite. “Scallops are overdone. Good plating, but you need more balance.” Mary Berry nods politely. “A commendable effort, nonetheless.” Finally, Mr. Ping rolls out a stunning platter of dumplings shaped into a phoenix, complete with fiery chili sauce for the wings. Mary Berry gasps. “Oh, how creative!” Gordon takes a bite and raises an eyebrow. “Good. But it’s still just dumplings.” Mr. Ping bristles. “Just dumplings?! Do you have any idea how much heart goes into these?!” “They’re delicious,” Mary says gently, “but we were hoping for something a little more elevated.” “Elevated?!” Mr. Ping’s voice rises. “Dumplings are the most amazing dish in the world, you can ask my son!” Gordon steps forward “A dumpling is a *beep*ing dumpling, and who the *beep* is your son and why the *beep* are you talking about him? You are OUT!” “I cannot believe this!” shouts Ping as he storms out of the arena, wheeling his cart behind him. “My son will hear about this!” With Mr. Ping and Chef gone, the judges announce the finalists: Hannibal Lecter, Alfredo Linguini, and Monica Geller. “Next week,” Gordon growls, “is the grand finale. Bring your best, or don’t bother showing up.” As the contestants leave, Hannibal glances at Monica. “You must come to dinner sometime,” he says smoothly. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on my New York-inspired dishes.” Monica hesitates, then nods. “Sure… sounds nice.” “Maybe tonight then…” ----------------------------- And so we come to the final in the Interdimensional Kitchen Stadium. Hannibal Lecter stands at his station, his posture regal, his knives laid out as usual. Every movement he makes is deliberate, as though the competition has already been decided, and he is merely fulfilling the motions of destiny. Across from him, Alfredo Linguini, sweating profusely, glances nervously at his opponent. Under his hat, Remy is whispering frantic directions, pulling on strands of hair to keep Alfredo focused. “You can do this, Linguini,” Remy mutters. “Just follow my lead.” One station remains ominously empty. Monica Geller’s name card has been removed, her absence unexplained. Alfredo dares not to question these disappearances, particularly when Hannibal is around. Gordon Ramsay steps forward, his commanding voice echoing across the arena. “Right, listen up! This is it, the grand finale. We only have chefs today as once again, we have a loser who has withdrawn, but we will have one *beep*ing winner. Today’s theme: Your Favourite Dish. We want something that represents everything you are as a chef. You’ve got two hours. Don’t mess it up!” Lord Beerus yawns, his golden eyes flickering with faint interest. “And don’t bore me. The loser’s station might not survive.” Mary Berry smiles kindly. “Remember, chefs, this is your chance to leave a lasting impression. We want a dish that’s not only delicious but tells your story.” Garfield stretches and mutters, “As long as it’s not carrot lasagna, I’ll live.” The final….BEGINS!

Leaning towards Orca on this one but honestly cannot recall the film at all.

There are plenty of reasons to start a battle: epic conflict, honour, revenge, good vs evil. This one? It happened because I misread @Dr_Manhattan_88's "Orca vs Jaws" fight as "Orcs vs Jawas." And once that mental image appeared, there was no going back. The Setup: 200 raging orcs, fully kitted out with spiky armour and oversized axes or swords, march on 350 Jawas. The Jawas, given just one hour to prepare, do what they do best: panic-build a defence out of junk and optimism.

Merry Christmas all, and all the very best to you and yours for a great 2025!

On a frosty Christmas Eve, beneath the starry light, Two mighty Santas prepared to fight. Slay Santa, fierce, with weapon in hand, A demon’s grin spreading fear through the land. Violent Santa arrived with his hammer’s might, A warrior’s heart, ready to set things right. Their eyes met, sparks flew, the tension grew, As the clock struck twelve, the cold wind blew. In darkest of night, Christmas cheer was no more, So began the clash of these giants of folklore, Blood flew in the air as they traded blow after blow, This Christmas we would long for a ho ho ho! In that silent moment, the world held its breath, Awaiting the clash between life and death, For in this legend, the fight’s not the end, But the start of a story yet to transcend.

Love it! A great combo which honestly should be done every Christmas. Giving it to Ghostbusters.

Great fight. Santa for the win.

No restrictions (Other than political, religious topics, or sexually explicit etc... ); well there go my plans for a story about a steamy encounter between republican nun and a democrat rabb... actually never mind. I'm in!

Thanks! It was a long run but we got there, and it was fun because I never knew who was going to be getting through to the next round. I certianly didn't predict this final - and there were some fighters who fell very early in the competition. A recap is a good idea actually - because there are some fights/fighters I wasn't sure about including.... so perhaps Apex Arena does have a final twist left in it.

<Mortal Kombat theme tune playing> FIGHT! Also leaning team 2. I think Ermac and Sub Zero could battle Scorpion and Noob to a standstill but it is so close especially given the latter teams teleporting powers, so we're looking at Rain v Reptile to make the big difference. Whilst I prefer Reptile as a character, I think Rain takes this - but it is certainly a close one.

Multiverse Blind Date Island: The Most Outrageous Reality Show Ever! [Opening Scene: A sweeping aerial shot of a lush, deserted island surrounded by crystal-clear waters. The camera zooms in to reveal hammocks, makeshift shelters, and three ominous-looking boats approaching the shore. The dramatic voiceover begins.] Voiceover: "Three couples. Three weddings. Zero introductions. Welcome to the most unhinged social experiment reality TV has ever attempted. This… is Blind Date Island!" [Cut to montage: Wild jungle animals rustle in the undergrowth. A hastily built fire sputters in the wind. A dramatic shot of a full moon illuminates the island as ominous howls fill the air.] Voiceover: "We took six of the most mismatched strangers from across the multiverse and bound them together in holy matrimony, sight unseen. Then, we did what any sane person would never dream of: we dumped them on a deserted island. The rules are simple: survive together, love together, or leave alone. The last couple standing wins not only bragging rights but a glittering chest of interdimensional treasures beyond their wildest dreams." ---- Meet the Couples Voiceover: "Now, let’s meet the brave souls who are about to discover just how far 'opposites attract' can go… or whether love really can conquer all." [Cue dramatic introduction music. The first couple steps into view.] Couple One: Mr. Hyde & Jessica Rabbit [Cut to Mr. Hyde stumbling off a rickety boat, his hulking figure silhouetted against the sun. His ragged clothing and lumbering gait scream chaos. Beside him, Jessica Rabbit poses elegantly, her red gown shimmering impossibly in the tropical breeze.] Voiceover: "First up, it’s the dark, unpredictable brute, Mr. Hyde, paired with the sultry, show-stopping bombshell, Jessica Rabbit. He’s got a temper to match his terrifying biceps, but will she see past his monstrous exterior to the man he could be? Or will her glamorous wit and charm prove too much for Hyde to handle?" [Quick cut: Jessica lounges under a palm tree, rolling her eyes as Hyde smashes a coconut with a roar. She mutters, 'I didn’t sign up for this... but here we are.'] ---- Voiceover: "Next, prepare for a tale as old as time, now with an outrageous twist!" Couple Two: Quasimodo & Power Girl [Cut to Quasimodo cautiously climbing out of his boat, his hunched back visible as he takes in the beach with wide, uncertain eyes. Power Girl leaps dramatically from the same boat, her cape billowing behind her, her radiant smile lighting up the shore.] Voiceover: "He’s a kind-hearted bellringer with a face only a gargoyle could love. She’s a dazzling superhuman powerhouse with a no-nonsense attitude and curves that could stop traffic. Quasimodo and Power Girl are opposites in every way imaginable—can his gentle spirit win her over, or will their differences make survival impossible?" [Quick cut: Quasimodo tries to climb a palm tree to retrieve a coconut, only to fall with a thud. Power Girl effortlessly grabs the coconut with one hand, laughing, 'Guess I’ll handle the heavy lifting.'] ---- Voiceover: "And now, the third and final couple—a match made in the most dramatic corners of the multiverse." Couple Three: Phantom of the Opera & Red Sonja [Cut to the Phantom stepping dramatically from his boat, clutching his signature mask. Red Sonja strides confidently onto the beach, her fiery hair flowing, her chainmail bikini gleaming in the sunlight.] Voiceover: "A tortured musical genius, masked and mysterious, meets the fierce and fiery warrior woman, Red Sonja. One is driven by haunting melodies, the other by the clash of steel. Can these two larger-than-life personalities find harmony, or will their tempers clash in the chaos of survival?" [Quick cut: Red Sonja sharpens her sword under the shade of a palm tree, smirking as the Phantom mutters, 'You call that subtle?' She grins, 'Subtlety’s not my style.'] ---- The Island Awaits Voiceover: "As the couples settle into their sandy new home, challenges await at every turn: wild animals, unpredictable weather, and, of course, each other. From crafting their own shelters to foraging for food, will their chemistry ignite into love—or explode into chaos?" [Montage: Hyde and Jessica bicker while building a shelter, Quasimodo nervously shares a meal with Power Girl as she offers him a reassuring smile, and Red Sonja fends off a wild boar while the Phantom plays a stormy tune on a makeshift flute.] ---- Behind the Madness Voiceover: "But Blind Date Island doesn’t stop there. Each week, the couples face high-stakes challenges to test their bond. From scavenging under pressure to overcoming fears, only the strongest partnership will survive." [Quick clips: Jessica Rabbit batting her eyelashes to distract a giant crab. Power Girl hoisting an entire raft while Quasimodo cheers her on. Red Sonja swinging her sword to cut vines as the Phantom critiques her technique.] ---- Who Will Win? Voiceover: "Will beauty tame the beast? Can sunlight and shadows find common ground? And what happens when a warrior teams up with a maestro? These questions—and more—will be answered this season on Blind Date Island!" [The screen fades to black as the logo for Blind Date Island appears, complete with the tagline: 'Love, survival, and just a little bit of insanity.'] Voiceover: "Coming soon. Don’t miss it."

Apex Arena – The Final: Jason Bourne vs. Major Alan “Dutch” Schaefer The Apex Arena shimmered into existence, and with it, a battleground unlike any before. The Alien Council’s Coliseum, a monolithic amphitheatre of obsidian and silver, hovered above an endless void of swirling stars. Thousands of alien spectators pulsed with multi-coloured light, their formless bodies vibrating with anticipation. Thirty-two contestants had entered the Arena, two remained. Blood had been spilled, shots fired, and knives slashed, with the Apex having morphed into space stations, World War I trenches, a decaying tomb in a forgotten swamp, the Colosseum, the Starship Enterprise, a twisted Oz, the Death Star and more! The stakes were clear: the final match, the ultimate spectacle, a bloody dance lasting not just minutes or hours, but a thousand years. Jason Bourne and Major Alan "Dutch" Schaefer materialised in the centre of the arena. Bourne’s sharp eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the towering columns, shifting terrain, and warped air that rippled like heatwaves. His adaptive armament shifted in his hand, morphing briefly into a sleek pistol before settling into a curved dagger, guided by his will. Dutch stood a few feet away, his weapon transforming into a broad-bladed axe, heavy and deadly in his grip. The two men exchanged a brief, knowing glance. They had fought endlessly to get here, but now only one would leave victorious. Above them, a massive holographic scoreboard came to life. It displayed two names: BOURNE and SCHAEFER, both set at zero. The alien voice boomed in their minds, cold and detached: "The final trial begins. One thousand years of combat. Kill your opponent or slay the fallen. Every kill is counted. The one with the highest score at the end... survives." The meaning sank in like a blade to the gut. Bourne’s expression hardened, and Dutch’s jaw tightened. Before either could react, the arena trembled, and the battlefield reformed into the Roman Colosseum, its cracked marble floors and towering columns bathed in an alien light. The crowd roared with excitement as the first wave arrived: the undead versions of every previous contestant. The first attack came quickly. John Wick, his undead form jerking with unnatural movements, raised his handgun and fired. Bourne rolled instinctively, his dagger shifting into a pistol mid-motion. He squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet through Wick’s forehead. The assassin crumpled, and Bourne’s name flashed on the scoreboard. BOURNE: 1 Dutch wasn’t far behind. Rambo, clutching his iconic machete, lunged at him with savage ferocity. Dutch sidestepped, his axe cleaving through Rambo’s chest in one brutal swing. The scoreboard updated. SCHAEFER: 1 But no matter how many kills they landed, the undead never stayed down. Moments after falling, each contestant’s body dissolved into green mist, reappearing seconds later to attack again. Even the combatants weren’t spared the cycle of death and rebirth. Bourne was the first to die; an undead Bride drove her katana into his back. His body fell limply to the ground, but within moments, he respawned in the middle of the Colosseum, uninjured, his weapon reforming in his hand. Bourne wasted no time, driving his blade into The Bride in retaliation, adding another point to his score. Dutch fell next, gunned down by Leon the Professional and John Shaft in a coordinated assault. Seconds later, he returned, axe in hand, mowing them both down as the scoreboard shifted again. BOURNE: 8 SCHAEFER: 9 The arena shifted again. The Colosseum dissolved, replaced by the fog-choked streets of Silent Hill. The oppressive air clung to their skin, and grotesque creatures slithered in the distance, and the monstrous form of a giant Pyramid Head. The undead contestants followed, their glowing eyes cutting through the haze. Bourne’s weapon morphed into a shotgun, while Dutch’s axe transformed into a flamethrower. The fight continued. The scoreboard flashed continuously: BOURNE: 76 SCHAEFER: 76 But no matter how many they killed, the horde never dwindled. Every step forward felt like wading through quicksand, the air heavy with despair. Then, as if sensing their exhaustion, the alien voice returned. "One year has passed. You have 999 more to go." Bourne froze for a moment, his mind racing. Dutch straightened, the flamethrower in his hands briefly faltering. Overhead, a massive portal opened, revealing a scene of idyllic peace: a tranquil lake surrounded by green hills, the sky a soft blue. The voice whispered seductively: "Step through, and the torment ends. You will be free. Humanity’s survival is not your concern." The offer hung heavy in the air. Bourne’s hand tightened around his weapon as he stared at the portal. Dutch glanced toward him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, there was silence, save for the faint shuffle of the undead in the fog. Then Bourne spoke. “Humanity’s survival is my concern.” Dutch nodded, his grip on the flamethrower steadying. “We fight.” The portal vanished, replaced by the deafening roar of the alien audience as they were denied a final corruption of humanity’s warriors. The arena shifted violently, the fog of Silent Hill giving way to the cold, metallic corridors of a futuristic space station. Alarm lights strobed as horrid spider-like Xenomorphs burst from the walls, adding a new layer of chaos. Bourne ducked behind a console as Dutch fired streams of plasma into the oncoming horde. The scoreboard ticked upward with every kill. BOURNE: 150 SCHAEFER: 152 “Keep up, Bourne!” Dutch barked, his voice echoing over the cacophony. Bourne smirked. “Watch me.” The adaptive armament in Bourne’s hand morphed into an energy blade, crackling with blue light. He leapt into the fray, cutting down the horrid undead versions of Ethan Hunt, Casey Ryback and Martin Riggs in rapid succession. Dutch followed suit, his flamethrower lighting up the corridor as undead creatures and Xenomorphs disintegrated in its wake. As the hours turned into days, and the days blurred into weeks, the arena cycled through countless settings. They fought in a Victorian London street, where Jack the Ripper joined the fray, his knives glinting in the gaslight. They battled in a prehistoric jungle, where velociraptors stalked the shadows and undead contestants like Jack Bauer and Jack Ryan stalked them through the trees. They clashed in the midst of a cyberpunk cityscape, neon lights reflecting off pools of blood where they played cat and mouse with the undead snipers Mike Banning and Jane Smith in strobe filled futuristic casinos. The scoreboard remained neck and neck, their kills almost perfectly matched. BOURNE: 935 SCHAEFER: 935 Both men were battered, bloodied, and exhausted, but neither would yield. In the final hours of the thousandth year, the arena shifted one last time. The stars themselves became the battlefield, a void where gravity twisted and the undead floated weightlessly. Bourne and Dutch moved as if in slow motion, their weapons sluggish but deadly. They fought each other as much as the horde, their rivalry driving them to the brink. With seconds left on the timer, Bourne shot John Matrix through the eye, while Dutch cleaved through Adam Clay’s undead form with a huge knife. The scoreboard ticked one final time as the final of Apex Arena drew closer to the end. Humanity held its breath, not just in anticipation of who the victor of this deadly battle would be, but also in dread of what the Aliens had planned for them once Apex Arena was complete… ---------------- Summary The final battle of Apex Arena is finally here. Bourne vs Dutch, fighting for 1000 years in a constantly changing environment (Apex will turn into all the previous locations). Coming for our two contestants are zombie versions of all the previous contestants, and in their hand is an adaptive weapon that can take on the form of any gun or blade of their choosing. Each kill, whether a zombie or their opponent, will count for 1 point and whoever has the most after 1000 years will win. ----------------

Awesome setup. I don't know enough about Manitou to judge this properly, but he's going to have to be extremely powerful to go against Szass in his own domain. This is the Lich at his most powerful, with all the multiple levels of protection he'd have placed to keep his soul safe. It is as likely to all be a diversion in any case. This is a world dominating Lich who takes on gods, swats demons aside like flies and has legions of undead at his command. Definitely leaning towards him.

Created this purely on the fact I reckon they go to the same hairdresser...

The sky bled red. That was the first thing I noticed when I crawled out of the wreckage of my car, clutching my camera like a lifeline. My name’s Ethan Ward, freelance journalist—or at least, I used to be. These days, I’m just a guy trying to make sense of the world falling apart around me. It started three weeks ago. A rupture in the heavens—a tear that seemed to stretch beyond space and time. Scientists called it a "Void Incursion," but the name did little to convey the sheer terror of it. From the gaping blackness poured creatures of shadow and malice, their forms twisting and writhing as if they were made of nightmares given flesh. Cities burned. Governments collapsed. Humanity, for all its bravado, was woefully unprepared. Today, I was in New York City, or what was left of it. Skyscrapers crumbled like sandcastles, their steel skeletons groaning under the weight of destruction. Fires raged unchecked, and the air was thick with ash and screams. The few people left were running, their faces masks of despair. I should have been running too, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Not when there was still a story to tell. I raised my camera and focused on a nearby block where the shadows were thickest. That’s when I saw her. She stepped out of the Void like a queen descending from her throne. Cassandra Nova. I recognized her from the news reports—the psychic terror who had allied with the invaders. She was impossibly pale, her skin almost translucent, and her eyes glowed with an otherworldly light. She wasn’t alone. Around her floated an army of dark tendrils, each one writhing as if eager to devour the world. The crowd didn’t stand a chance. A man screamed as one of the tendrils wrapped around him, pulling him into the air. His body contorted, his skin turning gray as if the life were being drained from him. Others ran, but the shadows followed, consuming them one by one. Cassandra smiled, a cold, clinical smile that sent a shiver down my spine. “This is what balance looks like,” she said, her voice echoing unnaturally. “Chaos, destruction, rebirth. You should thank me.” I snapped a photo, my hands trembling. She turned her head, and for a moment, I thought she was looking directly at me. My breath caught in my throat. But then her attention shifted to something—or someone—behind me. A golden light began to glow in the distance, growing brighter with each passing second. I turned to see a figure walking toward us, her flowing robes catching the firelight. The Ancient One. I’d seen her once before, years ago, when she’d helped fend off an attack on London. She moved with an otherworldly grace, her face serene despite the chaos around her. “Cassandra Nova,” the Ancient One said, her voice calm but firm. “Your presence here disrupts the balance of this realm. I cannot allow it.” Cassandra laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “Balance? Is that what you call this mess? Look around you, Sorcerer Supreme. Your precious balance is already broken.” The Ancient One didn’t respond. Instead, she raised her hand, and a golden mandala appeared, spinning in the air. The light from it pushed back the shadows, and for the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope. Cassandra’s smile faded. “You think your tricks can stop me? I’ve seen the heart of the Void. I am its chosen avatar.” The Ancient One tilted her head, as if considering Cassandra’s words. “Power without purpose is destruction. I will teach you purpose.” The ground beneath us began to tremble. The Ancient One’s mandala grew larger, its light spreading outward and forming a protective barrier around the block. Cassandra responded in kind, her tendrils lashing out at the barrier, testing its strength. I should have run. Any sane person would have. But I was rooted to the spot, my camera clicking furiously as I documented the clash of titans. Around me, the remaining survivors took cover, their eyes wide with fear and wonder. The two women stepped closer, the air between them crackling with energy. Cassandra’s tendrils coiled like serpents, ready to strike, while the Ancient One’s mandala spun faster, its edges glowing white-hot. The city seemed to hold its breath. “You are but a flicker of light,” Cassandra said, her voice dripping with disdain. “And I am the abyss.” The Ancient One smiled faintly. “Even the abyss fears the light.” And then they moved. Cassandra’s tendrils surged forward, a wall of shadow and fury. The Ancient One countered with a wave of golden energy, the two forces colliding with a deafening roar. The impact shattered windows for blocks around and sent shockwaves rippling through the ground. I was thrown off my feet, my camera clattering to the pavement. When I looked up, the two figures were locked in combat, their powers twisting and colliding in a kaleidoscope of light and darkness. Cassandra’s tendrils darted and struck, but the Ancient One weaved through them effortlessly, her movements as fluid as water. Each strike she delivered sent ripples of light through the shadows, pushing them back. I scrambled to my feet, my camera forgotten. All around me, the city was crumbling, its very foundations shaking under the weight of their battle. I didn’t know who would win, but one thing was clear: the fate of the world hung in the balance. As the Ancient One raised her hands to summon another spell, Cassandra laughed, a sound that sent chills down my spine. “You can’t stop what’s coming,” she said. “The Void will consume everything.” The Ancient One’s expression didn’t waver. “Perhaps,” she said. “But not today.” Their powers clashed again, the light and shadow intertwining in a violent dance. I could feel the heat of their battle, the sheer intensity of their wills colliding. And as the world around me descended further into chaos, I couldn’t help but think: if this is the end, at least I’m witnessing it. The last thing I saw before the dust enveloped me was the Ancient One stepping forward, her mandala blazing brighter than the sun, and Cassandra Nova meeting her with a grin of unyielding defiance. The sky bled red, but for the first time, I dared to hope.

Ah, didn't get to this in time. A great idea and I probably would have leant towards Lannister.

Introduction When the aliens first descended, they shattered the foundations of reality itself. Gods in form and power, they tore through our defences with effortless precision. Lightspeed drones ripped apart cities, beings of pure thought unravelled human minds, and omnipotent figures bent the laws of physics, annihilating entire armies with a mere gesture. Resistance was futile, but humanity clung desperately to survival. At first, our defiance puzzled them. Then it amused them. From this amusement was born a twisted form of entertainment: the Apex Arena, a tournament where 32 of humanity’s fiercest warriors, heroes, and legends were plucked from myth, history, and imagination to fight. The battlegrounds, living and shifting, became theatres of violence, where landscapes warped and traps blossomed like alien flowers. It was a show for the alien overlords, but for humanity, it was torment—a forced spectacle beamed into the minds of every living soul. As the tournament progressed, the aliens’ appetite for carnage deepened. They had become addicted to the screams, the desperate defiance, and the raw survival instinct of their human champions. Their laughter, if that is indeed what the noise echoing in humanity’s head was, echoed across the psychic waves that connected them to us. With every splatter of blood and final breath, their joy grew. Humanity’s hope, they believed, was little more than an exquisite plaything. Now, as the semi-finals loom, the aliens prepare to escalate their cruel game. The battlegrounds will become more vicious, reflecting not just their mastery over reality, but time itself. This is no longer a simple contest of strength or cunning; it is a test of resilience against chaos itself. The warriors who have fought and survived this far are more than legends—they are the embodiment of humanity’s refusal to break. The Apex Arena stirs, its alien designers eager to watch the last few battles unfold. Four champions remain, each more determined, more bloodied, and more dangerous than before. They step into arenas where time, history, and reality itself shift beneath their feet. They fight not just for survival, but for humanity’s last shred of dignity. The semi-finals begin now, and we watch powerless as our heroes go to war. -------------------------- Apex Arena – Semi-final: Luke Hobbs vs. Major Dutch Schaefer The Apex Arena crackled with energy as its alien creators reshaped it into a living nightmare. This time, the battleground was a trench torn straight from the horrors of World War I. Mud clung to the wooden walls, jagged barbed wire stretched overhead, and the air was thick with the stench of rot and acrid smoke. The occasional boom of distant artillery rattled the ground, and the dim, grey sky seemed to hang heavy with despair. Luke Hobbs stood in the muck, his boots sinking as he gripped a bolt-action rifle in one hand and a trench knife strapped to his side. Across the narrow expanse of the trench, Major Dutch Schaefer crouched low, his sharp eyes scanning the battlefield. Both men had been stripped of their comforts. This was raw survival, man against man, weapon against weapon. Above the trenches, a massive timer floated, counting down from one month, its pale light casting eerie shadows over the muddy ground. A faint voice, cold and alien, echoed in their minds. "The most kills wins." The rules were simple, but the stakes were cruel. Each time one of them died, they would reset in the trench, healed but forced to fight again. No escape, no reprieve, only death and revival, over and over. The alien whistle blew sharply, a sound pulled from a century-old memory of war. It had haunted men then as it was a signal for an order than nobody wished to hear; go over the top. Hobbs surged out of the trench first, his massive frame charging into no man’s land. The ground was uneven, soaked with stagnant water, and littered with debris. Machine-gun fire erupted from unseen bunkers, the bullets tearing into the mud around him. Dutch followed moments later, his rifle ready, moving with the precision of a soldier who’d lived through chaos like this before. The two combatants locked eyes across the desolate battlefield, their mutual understanding as clear as the weapon in their hands. Hobbs raised his rifle and fired, the shot slamming into the dirt just inches from Dutch’s feet. Dutch dropped to one knee, taking aim with calm efficiency, and returned fire. The bullet clipped Hobbs’ shoulder, sending him staggering backward. Hobbs recovered quickly, his jaw clenched as he closed the distance. Dutch fired again, but Hobbs ducked, hurling himself into a shallow crater for cover. The two men circled, their movements slow and deliberate, until Hobbs exploded forward, using his sheer size and power to slam into Dutch. The two men went down in a brutal grapple, mud splattering their faces as they wrestled for control. Dutch used his momentum to roll Hobbs onto his back. His knife flashed, catching the faint light as he drove it toward Hobbs’ throat. But Hobbs caught his wrist, holding the blade inches from his neck, his strength forcing Dutch’s hand away. With a roar, Hobbs twisted, throwing Dutch off balance and slamming his fist into the Major’s ribs. Dutch grunted, dropping his knife, but managed to land a savage elbow to Hobbs’ face. It was enough to create distance, and Dutch scrambled to his feet, reaching for his rifle. Hobbs followed, blood dripping from his split lip, grabbing the trench knife at his side. They met again in a flash of steel and fury. Dutch feinted left, drawing Hobbs’ guard, then drove his blade into Hobbs’ chest. The large man gasped, the light fading from his eyes as he fell to his knees. Dutch stepped back, breathing heavily, as the whistle blew again. [[RESET]] Hobbs blinked, standing in the trench once more, his chest unmarked, his injuries gone. Across from him, Dutch was resetting his rifle, his eyes sharp and ready. They exchanged a brief nod, acknowledgment, perhaps, of the absurdity of their situation. But, just as the soldiers had done back then, when the whistle blew they went over the top again. The second round was faster, fiercer. Hobbs stormed forward; his rifle firing shot after shot. Dutch darted through the chaos, using the craters and debris as cover. This time, it was Hobbs who landed the first significant blow. A well-aimed shot caught Dutch in the leg, sending him sprawling. Hobbs didn’t hesitate, closing the distance and throwing his rifle aside to engage in close combat. Dutch pulled his knife, but Hobbs was relentless. He grabbed Dutch’s wrist, twisting the weapon away, and drove a brutal punch into Dutch’s jaw. The Major staggered, dazed, and Hobbs capitalized. With a savage roar, he brought his knife down, burying it in Dutch’s side. Dutch’s breath hitched, his strength fading as he collapsed to the ground. The whistle blew again. [[RESET]] The third round began without hesitation. Both men reset, their bodies healed but their minds weighed down by the grim reality of their task. The timer overhead had barely moved, and already they were locked in a cycle of violence. This time, the battlefield shifted slightly. A thick fog rolled in, obscuring visibility and amplifying the sound of their footsteps. The distant gunfire seemed muted, and the air grew colder. Hobbs moved cautiously, his rifle raised, scanning for any sign of Dutch. The fog made it impossible to predict where the next attack would come from. Dutch emerged from the haze like a ghost, his rifle trained on Hobbs. He fired, the bullet grazing Hobbs’ arm. Hobbs returned fire, but the fog distorted the sound, and his shot went wide. Dutch closed the distance, his movements eerily silent. By the time Hobbs realized he was there, Dutch had already struck. The knife fight that followed was desperate and brutal. Hobbs used his raw power to deflect Dutch’s attacks, but the Major’s precision began to wear him down. A sudden explosion rocked the battlefield, throwing both men into the mud. They scrambled to their feet, knives raised and lunged at each other simultaneously. The scoreboard above them displayed the results: 1-1 as they stabbed and lunged. This would be their reality for the next month, each furiously determined to win this match of Apex. Battle after battle, reset after reset, grim determination and blood were the only constants. The Aliens laughed, and just as we had over 100 years ago, we cried as our heroes fought and died in the mud.

Introduction When the aliens first descended, they shattered the foundations of reality itself. Gods in form and power, they tore through our defences with effortless precision. Lightspeed drones ripped apart cities, beings of pure thought unravelled human minds, and omnipotent figures bent the laws of physics, annihilating entire armies with a mere gesture. Resistance was futile, but humanity clung desperately to survival. At first, our defiance puzzled them. Then it amused them. From this amusement was born a twisted form of entertainment: the Apex Arena, a tournament where 32 of humanity’s fiercest warriors, heroes, and legends were plucked from myth, history, and imagination to fight. The battlegrounds, living and shifting, became theatres of violence, where landscapes warped and traps blossomed like alien flowers. It was a show for the alien overlords, but for humanity, it was torment—a forced spectacle beamed into the minds of every living soul. As the tournament progressed, the aliens’ appetite for carnage deepened. They had become addicted to the screams, the desperate defiance, and the raw survival instinct of their human champions. Their laughter, if that is indeed what the noise echoing in humanity’s head was, echoed across the psychic waves that connected them to us. With every splatter of blood and final breath, their joy grew. Humanity’s hope, they believed, was little more than an exquisite plaything. Now, as the semi-finals loom, the aliens prepare to escalate their cruel game. The battlegrounds will become more vicious, reflecting not just their mastery over reality, but time itself. This is no longer a simple contest of strength or cunning; it is a test of resilience against chaos itself. The warriors who have fought and survived this far are more than legends—they are the embodiment of humanity’s refusal to break. The Apex Arena stirs, its alien designers eager to watch the last few battles unfold. Four champions remain, each more determined, more bloodied, and more dangerous than before. They step into arenas where time, history, and reality itself shift beneath their feet. They fight not just for survival, but for humanity’s last shred of dignity. The semi-finals begin now, and we watch powerless as our heroes go to war. -------------------------- Apex Arena – Semi-final: Jason Bourne vs John Wick The Apex Arena hummed with a sinister energy, its alien architects conjuring a stage unlike any before. The Aliens were no longer satisfied with just an arena, they wanted to show humanity just how much bloodshed there had been throughout history. This was not a simple battleground but a journey through the ages, a living history of Earth’s violence and survival. Jason Bourne and John Wick appeared in the middle of a dense, prehistoric jungle. The air was thick with humidity, the ground damp and soft beneath their bare feet. Bourne glanced down at the stone axe in his hand, crudely made but sharp, and scanned the surrounding foliage with the instincts of a predator. Wick, a few paces away, adjusted his grip on a stone dagger, his sharp eyes already calculating the terrain. A deep rumble shook the earth beneath them. Leaves quivered, and the sharp cry of a pterosaur overhead pierced the humid air. The noise grew louder, a thundering rhythm of massive footfalls, until the trees ahead of them exploded outward, and a tyrannosaurus rex emerged. The creature roared, its breath hot and fetid, as its amber eyes locked onto the two combatants. Bourne and Wick exchanged a glance, their silent communication clear: the dinosaur was a shared enemy, at least for now. Bourne darted to the left, hurling his axe toward the beast’s flank. The stone blade bit into its thick hide, drawing a bellow of rage. Wick used the distraction to climb a cluster of rocks, leaping onto the rex’s back with his dagger poised. The creature thrashed, its massive tail swinging dangerously close to Bourne, who rolled out of its path. Wick drove his weapon into the dinosaur’s neck, but before they could finish it—or each other—the jungle shimmered and collapsed into nothingness. In its place, a Bronze Age battlefield materialized. The thick jungle was replaced by cracked, dry earth and smoke rising from distant fires. Both men now held bronze-tipped spears and small round shields. The air reeked of sweat and blood, and the distant clamour of battle rolled like thunder across the field. Wick struck first, his spear flashing as he hurled it with deadly precision. Bourne twisted, the weapon whistling past him and embedding itself in a nearby cart. Charging forward, Bourne raised his shield, deflecting Wick’s follow-up thrust and jabbing his own spear toward his opponent’s ribs. Wick sidestepped, the two men moving with lethal efficiency, their bodies a blur of motion. Then suddenly from over a ridge, a horde of warriors appeared, their bronze swords glinting in the sunlight. Their eyes were glazed with alien manipulation, and their shouts were guttural, almost inhuman. The horde descended on the arena, forcing Bourne and Wick to stand back-to-back, their duel momentarily paused. Bourne deflected a sword strike with his shield, spinning to drive his spear into a warrior’s chest. Wick parried another’s blade with a flick of his spear, then delivered a killing thrust. Chariots crested the ridge, their spiked wheels kicking up clouds of dust. Bourne dove for cover behind an overturned shield as a chariot tore through the battlefield. Wick rolled to avoid the charge, narrowly escaping the blades mounted on the wheels. The ground trembled again, and the battlefield shimmered away. The two men now stood amidst the towering sandstone ruins of Ancient Egypt. The heat was oppressive, the sun beating down on their bare shoulders. Both fighters gripped khopesh swords, their curved blades deadly and gleaming. Bourne moved swiftly into the shadows of a crumbling temple, his eyes scanning for threats. Wick followed, his blade at the ready. Inside the temple, carvings of Egyptian gods stared down at them, their stone faces seemingly alive in the flickering light. The fight resumed, the clang of their swords echoing through the ancient structure. Wick swung low, his blade whistling past Bourne’s knee as Bourne parried and countered with a slash aimed at Wick’s shoulder. Wick dodged, his movements fluid and precise. They were suddenly aware of Egyptian warriors watching them from the wings, eyes piercing and menacing. The hiss of a cobra broke their rhythm. From the shadows, the snake lunged at Bourne, its fangs bared. Bourne twisted, slicing the creature in two with a single strike of his khopesh. Wick stomped another underfoot, his focus unbroken. The temple groaned as a massive stone obelisk began to tilt, its base loosened by the vibrations of their battle. Wick and Bourne leapt in opposite directions as the obelisk crashed into the temple floor, sending debris flying. Before the dust could settle, the arena shifted again. A deafening roar filled their ears as the Colosseum of Ancient Rome appeared around them. The sun bore down on the sand-covered arena, and the sound of an unseen alien audience cheered and jeered from the shadows. Both men now held tridents and weighted nets, their tools of survival in this brutal, ancient sport. They circled each other, their movements deliberate and measured. Wick struck first, casting his net toward Bourne, who twisted away at the last second. Bourne retaliated, thrusting his trident toward Wick’s chest. Wick deflected the blow with his own trident, the clash of metal ringing through the arena. A gate creaked open, and a lion padded into the arena, its mane matted with blood. It growled low, its eyes darting between the two fighters. Wick feinted toward the beast, drawing its attention, while Bourne circled behind it. With a coordinated effort, they subdued the lion, Bourne’s trident finding its mark as Wick’s net tangled its powerful legs. The Colosseum trembled as the ground beneath them cracked, the sand falling away into a swirling void. The unseen audience roared with approval as the arena prepared to shift once more. Bourne and Wick locked eyes, both bloodied but still standing, each knowing the fight was far from over. Forward through time they fought – on and on as one age after another flew by, each age more deadly than the last. They question was not only who would fall, but when in time their body would lie for eternity…

Introduction When the aliens first arrived, they brought with them a storm of terror so fierce it shattered our understanding of reality. Descending from the stars as unknowable gods, they wielded powers that defied comprehension. Lightspeed drones ripped through our defences like paper, beings of pure thought twisted human minds into shattered, screaming wrecks, and omnipotent creatures bent the fabric of existence to their whims, destroying entire armies with a flick of their fingers. We fought back with everything we had, clinging to the thin edge of survival. But our defiance seemed to entertain them. And so they proposed a new game; one that would test not just our resolve but our very spirit. They gathered 32 of humanity’s fiercest warriors, plucked from the modern myths of the screen and threw them into the Apex Arena, a living constantly changing battleground. It was a spectacle of violence, a playground of shifting landscapes and deadly traps that entertained not just their dark minds but tormented the billions who were forced to watch, powerless to turn away. As the tournament unfolded the alien overlords grew fond of the sport, savouring the screams, the splatter of blood, and the desperate glory of combat. And with every victory and death, their amusement grew. Their laughter, if that was what it was, echoed across the shattered remnants of humanity’s consciousness, a reminder that our survival was little more than their plaything. Now, as the quarterfinals begin, the aliens prepared to raise the stakes. The arena would not just shift; it pulsed with their dark joy, bending even further toward chaos and cruelty. They have become connoisseurs of torment, twisting the battlegrounds to reflect their own alien delights, eager to see how far human resilience can stretch before it snaps. The warriors know the truth: they are fighting not just for victory, but for humanity’s last, flickering hope. And so, the Apex Arena transforms again, dragging its champions into a fresh realm of horror and spectacle, where every blade, every gun, and every heartbeat could be their last. The quarterfinals have begun, and the alien eyes are watching, eager for the blood-soaked entertainment to continue. -------------------------- Apex Arena – Quarterfinals Group D: Major Dutch Schaefer vs. Ethan Hunt The Apex Arena hummed with a dark energy, the alien architects pushing the limits of horror and chaos for their own amusement. The setting for this quarterfinal match materialized as the interior of a massive, fast-moving spaceship, the Starship Enterprise, hurtling through the void at unfathomable speed. The walls were sleek and metallic, glistening with condensation and illuminated by the cold glow of flickering emergency lights. The low, insistent rumble of the ship's engines was punctuated by groaning metal and the hiss of pressurized steam. The whole ship shuddered as it constantly sped up, each increase threatening to start tearing parts of it away. Major Dutch Schaefer stood in the main corridor, muscles taut and senses razor-sharp. The combat veteran had seen more than his share of hellish battles, and the chill of this alien spacecraft almost didn’t faze him. He gripped a rapid-fire pulse rifle, a modern weapon that hummed with lethal potential, and his eyes swept over the unfamiliar, sterile interior with the practiced caution of a seasoned warrior. At the other end of the corridor, Ethan Hunt emerged from a shadowed alcove, eyes scanning and mind racing. The sleek agent was used to the unpredictable, and this setting played to his expertise in adaptability and quick thinking. In his hands, he held a custom rapid-fire SMG, its weight balanced and ready. He glanced at the emergency lighting and the mist curling along the floor, every instinct telling him that danger was imminent. The first sign of true horror came as faint, skittering noises from above and below, echoing through the metal vents and bulkheads. Dutch’s eyes narrowed, and Ethan’s jaw clenched as they both recognized the sound too late. A sudden screech split the silence, and a swarm of Xenomorph face huggers erupted from the grates, their pale, sinewy bodies leaping forward with terrifying speed. Both combatants knew through implanted knowledge that each of these spiderlike creatures would blead the deadliest of acid. Complicating matters further, the Enterprise’s dimly lit halls were populated by human innocents, abducted from across the globe, some moving about in a panic, and some unconscious against the walls. A cruel trick by the aliens, some of these humans were hosts, infected and carrying the next wave of death within them. Even now, subtle movements beneath their skin hinted at the horror waiting to break free. A sudden, panicked scream erupted as one of the captives’ eyes snapped open, their chest convulsing violently. A wet crack and a spray of blood later, a small Xenomorph burst forth, shrieking and dripping acid. Dutch dove to the side as a face hugger lunged at him, narrowly avoiding the creature’s grasp and firing a burst of rounds into its squirming form. Acid sprayed across the walls, sizzling and filling the air with the stench of burning metal. Ethan rolled into cover behind a bulkhead, eyes darting as another host began to convulse, unleashing yet another Xenomorph into the fray. The agent’s mind raced as he considered the innocents, calculating whether it was even possible to rescue them without sacrificing their chance of survival. The ship lurched suddenly, the floor vibrating as the engines surged with a deafening roar. The swarm closed in, hissing and clawing, as the battle for survival truly began. The cold, sterile halls of the spaceship rang out with the thunder of gunfire, the skittering of the aliens, and of course, the screams of the dying.

Introduction When the aliens first arrived, they brought with them a storm of terror so fierce it shattered our understanding of reality. Descending from the stars as unknowable gods, they wielded powers that defied comprehension. Lightspeed drones ripped through our defences like paper, beings of pure thought twisted human minds into shattered, screaming wrecks, and omnipotent creatures bent the fabric of existence to their whims, destroying entire armies with a flick of their fingers. We fought back with everything we had, clinging to the thin edge of survival. But our defiance seemed to entertain them. And so they proposed a new game; one that would test not just our resolve but our very spirit. They gathered 32 of humanity’s fiercest warriors, plucked from the modern myths of the screen and threw them into the Apex Arena, a living constantly changing battleground. It was a spectacle of violence, a playground of shifting landscapes and deadly traps that entertained not just their dark minds but tormented the billions who were forced to watch, powerless to turn away. As the tournament unfolded the alien overlords grew fond of the sport, savouring the screams, the splatter of blood, and the desperate glory of combat. And with every victory and death, their amusement grew. Their laughter, if that was what it was, echoed across the shattered remnants of humanity’s consciousness, a reminder that our survival was little more than their plaything. Now, as the quarterfinals begin, the aliens prepared to raise the stakes. The arena would not just shift; it pulsed with their dark joy, bending even further toward chaos and cruelty. They have become connoisseurs of torment, twisting the battlegrounds to reflect their own alien delights, eager to see how far human resilience can stretch before it snaps. The warriors know the truth: they are fighting not just for victory, but for humanity’s last, flickering hope. And so, the Apex Arena transforms again, dragging its champions into a fresh realm of horror and spectacle, where every blade, every gun, and every heartbeat could be their last. The quarterfinals have begun, and the alien eyes are watching, eager for the blood-soaked entertainment to continue. -------------------------- Apex Arena - Quarterfinals Group C: Luke Hobbs vs. Jack Reacher The Apex Arena groaned and shifted, conjuring an ancient, crumbling Roman Colosseum from deep within the annals of history. The stone structure, half-devoured by ivy and weathered by centuries of forgotten wars, loomed ominously under an unnatural sky crackling with electric storms. Flashes of lightning illuminated the gladiatorial arena, casting long, eerie shadows that flickered like ghosts across the blood-streaked sand. Luke Hobbs appeared at the south entrance, a hulking figure of muscle and determination. His eyes scanned the battleground, taking in every detail with the instincts of a warrior who’d seen countless battlefields. In one powerful hand, he held a desert eagle pistol, the metallic sheen catching the brief flashes of lightning. Across his back, the gladiator sword rested, its polished edge sharp and ready for close combat. Jack Reacher stood at the north entrance, calm, analytical, eyes narrowed as he assessed the chaos awaiting them. The familiarity of conflict was etched into his bones. Like Hobbs, he carried a gun and a gladiator sword; the SIG P226 in his hand felt like an extension of himself, and the gladius at his side gleamed with lethal precision, a weapon designed for quick, decisive strikes. The Colosseum was no ordinary battlefield. It was populated by soldiers from across time and place, brought by the alien overlords for their twisted experiment. SAS commandos, Navy SEALs, Spetsnaz operatives, Wehrmacht soldiers, and cartel enforcers stood shoulder to shoulder. But their faces were pale, eyes glowing a malevolent red, and their movements jerky and unnatural. Whatever the aliens had done had turned them into puppets of rage, driven only by an insatiable thirst for violence. A deep, resonant rumble reverberated through the ancient stones, and five Engineers stepped forward from the shadows of the Colosseum’s edge. Towering figures of marble-like flesh, their expressionless faces revealed no hint of mercy or hesitation. Their calculated, synchronized movements suggested a singular purpose: annihilation. Suddenly, a dense, rolling fog swept across the arena, cloaking it in a shifting veil of grey. The eerie silence was shattered by the chorus of metallic clinking and the thud of heavy boots as the bloodlusted soldiers sprang to life, weapons raised. Bullets whizzed through the fog, punching into stone columns and tearing through the soft, bloody sand. Shouts of rage and the sporadic crack of gunfire merged into a cacophony of chaos. Hobbs moved like a force of nature, ducking behind a broken column as a spray of bullets peppered the ancient stone. One of the cartel enforcers, eyes ablaze with alien-induced madness, charged at him, machete swinging. With a brutal twist, Hobbs fired the desert eagle at point-blank range, the echoing shot cutting through the fog. The enforcer fell, lifeless, as Hobbs shifted his attention to the next threat. Reacher kept low; his every movement calculated. He dispatched a lunging Spetsnaz soldier with a single, controlled shot to the chest, then pivoted to parry the strike of an advancing Wehrmacht soldier with the gladius. The clash of metal resonated through the swirling fog, the air thick with tension. Above, a crackle of lightning illuminated one of the Engineers striding forward, massive hand outstretched. Its eyes glowed with an unsettling intelligence, watching Hobbs and Reacher with an unblinking stare. The alien champion lunged, swiping at a Navy SEAL, sending him flying across the arena like a rag doll. The other soldiers, caught in their bloodlust, turned on each other and the combatants with indiscriminate fury. The ground beneath Hobbs trembled as an SAS commando, teeth bared and eyes wild, rushed at him. Hobbs met the attack with a brutal swing of the gladiator sword, the clash ringing out like a bell in the storm. Reacher, noticing another Engineer closing in on his side, planted a bullet in the creature’s chest, but it only staggered, its unfeeling eyes locking onto him as it advanced with terrifying resolve. The fog thickened, blurring the lines between friend and foe. Hobbs and Reacher, warriors from different worlds, found themselves battling not just each other but a tide of history’s most formidable fighters, their minds bent by alien manipulation. And above it all, the Engineers moved with deadly grace, their every step resonating like a drumbeat of doom. The Colosseum had become a hellish theatre, where only the strongest, the most cunning, and the most relentless would survive. And we, humanity, watched the blood flow in our minds and wept…

Introduction When the aliens first arrived, they brought with them a storm of terror so fierce it shattered our understanding of reality. Descending from the stars as unknowable gods, they wielded powers that defied comprehension. Lightspeed drones ripped through our defences like paper, beings of pure thought twisted human minds into shattered, screaming wrecks, and omnipotent creatures bent the fabric of existence to their whims, destroying entire armies with a flick of their fingers. We fought back with everything we had, clinging to the thin edge of survival. But our defiance seemed to entertain them. And so they proposed a new game; one that would test not just our resolve but our very spirit. They gathered 32 of humanity’s fiercest warriors, plucked from the modern myths of the screen and threw them into the Apex Arena, a living constantly changing battleground. It was a spectacle of violence, a playground of shifting landscapes and deadly traps that entertained not just their dark minds but tormented the billions who were forced to watch, powerless to turn away. As the tournament unfolded the alien overlords grew fond of the sport, savouring the screams, the splatter of blood, and the desperate glory of combat. And with every victory and death, their amusement grew. Their laughter, if that was what it was, echoed across the shattered remnants of humanity’s consciousness, a reminder that our survival was little more than their plaything. Now, as the quarterfinals begin, the aliens prepared to raise the stakes. The arena would not just shift; it pulsed with their dark joy, bending even further toward chaos and cruelty. They have become connoisseurs of torment, twisting the battlegrounds to reflect their own alien delights, eager to see how far human resilience can stretch before it snaps. The warriors know the truth: they are fighting not just for victory, but for humanity’s last, flickering hope. And so, the Apex Arena transforms again, dragging its champions into a fresh realm of horror and spectacle, where every blade, every gun, and every heartbeat could be their last. The quarterfinals have begun, and the alien eyes are watching, eager for the blood-soaked entertainment to continue. -------------------------- Apex Arena – Quarterfinals Group B: John McClane vs. John Wick The Apex Arena shimmered with a cold, alien brilliance, reshaping itself into a grand, opulent luxury casino in space. Crystal chandeliers dangled from high ceilings, casting fractured light across polished marble floors and the glowing holographic tables. Beyond the expansive glass walls, stars burned bright against the velvet void, while nearby asteroids drifted lazily, casting elongated shadows inside the casino. The atmosphere was electric, heavy with anticipation and laced with dread. John McClane appeared first, his sharp eyes narrowing as he scanned the lavish surroundings. The casino was busy, a surreal mix of real and projected patrons, their faces a blend of confusion, worry, and forced calm. Some humans, terrified yet resigned, clutched cards or dice, continuing their games with mechanical movements, knowing that to stop was to risk their lives. The orders from the Aliens to “enjoy the casino” were firmly embedded in their minds and only their eyes betrayed the absolute terror at their situation. Some darted glances toward exits that offered no real escape. McClane gripped the gun in his hand, the small weapon a stark contrast to the chaos that threatened to erupt. John Wick emerged across the room, stepping into the subtle glow of neon lights that traced the bar’s edge. He surveyed the casino, eyes cold and calculating. The eerie mix of gamblers, real and holographic, added to the tension. He could tell some of the human by the beads of sweat that dotted their brows and the fearful flicker in their eyes. They played on, as did the holograms, their motions smooth and unblinking. The environment was both beautiful and tragic, a perfect setting for a high-stakes battle. A low, guttural noise rumbled from above, drawing every eye to the grand balcony. The Thing emerged, an abomination of limbs and faces and other shifting features, a grotesque mockery of humanity. It moved with a sinuous, alien grace, tendrils slithering over the railing before retracting into its body. The crowd recoiled, some real patrons screaming while holograms continued their games, oblivious to the terror unfolding. Without warning, the room dimmed as an alert flashed: “Random EMP Pulse Activated.” The lights flickered, and a low hum resonated through the casino before everything went dark. The chandeliers ceased their sparkling dance, holographic games vanished, and electronic noises silenced. The patrons gasped, and the true humans scrambled, panicked and searching for the danger that lurked in the shadows. In the pitch-black stillness, McClane’s heartbeat thundered in his chest. He moved instinctively, shifting behind a nearby table and listening for any sound that would betray the Thing or Wick’s position. Wick crept along the floor, every sense heightened, eyes flicking to the human patrons who now milled about in terror. But when the lights and music and games sputtered back to life, The Thing was no longer at the balcony. Instead, it had taken a new form, masquerading as one of the humans in the crowd. The monster could be anyone: the dealer trembling behind the table, the croupier trying to stay composed, or the patron clinging desperately to their winnings. The combatants knew that with every shifting shadow, death could leap out at them from a familiar face. The battle had begun, and no one, neither McClane, Wick, nor the terrified people around them, knew where the real danger lay.

Introduction When the aliens first arrived, they brought with them a storm of terror so fierce it shattered our understanding of reality. Descending from the stars as unknowable gods, they wielded powers that defied comprehension. Lightspeed drones ripped through our defences like paper, beings of pure thought twisted human minds into shattered, screaming wrecks, and omnipotent creatures bent the fabric of existence to their whims, destroying entire armies with a flick of their fingers. We fought back with everything we had, clinging to the thin edge of survival. But our defiance seemed to entertain them. And so they proposed a new game; one that would test not just our resolve but our very spirit. They gathered 32 of humanity’s fiercest warriors, plucked from the modern myths of the screen and threw them into the Apex Arena, a living constantly changing battleground. It was a spectacle of violence, a playground of shifting landscapes and deadly traps that entertained not just their dark minds but tormented the billions who were forced to watch, powerless to turn away. As the tournament unfolded the alien overlords grew fond of the sport, savouring the screams, the splatter of blood, and the desperate glory of combat. And with every victory and death, their amusement grew. Their laughter, if that was what it was, echoed across the shattered remnants of humanity’s consciousness, a reminder that our survival was little more than their plaything. Now, as the quarterfinals begin, the aliens prepared to raise the stakes. The arena would not just shift; it pulsed with their dark joy, bending even further toward chaos and cruelty. They have become connoisseurs of torment, twisting the battlegrounds to reflect their own alien delights, eager to see how far human resilience can stretch before it snaps. The warriors know the truth: they are fighting not just for victory, but for humanity’s last, flickering hope. And so, the Apex Arena transforms again, dragging its champions into a fresh realm of horror and spectacle, where every blade, every gun, and every heartbeat could be their last. The quarterfinals have begun, and the alien eyes are watching, eager for the blood-soaked entertainment to continue. -------------------------- Apex Arena – Quarterfinals Group A: Jason Bourne vs. John Rambo The Apex Arena pulsed with dark energy as it morphed into its next battleground, manifesting a high-tech research facility that hummed with electric potential. The sterile corridors, lined with sleek glass walls and flickering neon-blue lights, seemed almost alive with anticipation. Monitors displayed fluctuating data streams in an alien language, and the sharp scent of ozone and disinfectant filled the air. The hum of machinery and the soft hiss of pneumatic doors created an uneasy backdrop as the fighters emerged. Jason Bourne appeared first, his eyes sharp and assessing as he took in the scene. The research facility was a maze of clear-walled labs, steel passageways, and upper observation platforms connected by narrow metal walkways. This environment was one that was familiar to him; its complexity, its concealed opportunities. His eyes showed nothing but determination and the glass walls reflected his image back at him. In his hand, the cold metal of the Derringer pistol felt solid, if not reassuring. The sound of distant machinery thrummed, and he knew better than to trust the silence. John Rambo materialized at the opposite end of the corridor, his rugged face set in stone, eyes scanning for threats with the seasoned gaze of a warrior who had survived countless battles. The sterile, mechanical setting was foreign, but that didn't matter. Rambo was a survivor, a soldier born for any terrain. The Derringer pistol in his hand looked out of place, almost toy-like in his massive grip, but he knew that even one well-placed shot could make the difference. He moved forward, muscles tense, eyes narrowing at the alien glow illuminating the walls. A sudden, distorted hum announced a new presence, and out of the shadows stepped a Predator, its cloaking technology flickering as it revealed itself, eyes glowing red beneath its mask. It roared in pain and anguish, as it realised that it had been blinded by the Aliens who had thrust it into this unfamiliar place. The creature’s gauntleted arm flexed, and a trio of blades extended with a metallic hiss. Even without its sight it could sense and hear the others in the room, and it was ready for slaughter. The game had changed, and both Bourne and Rambo knew it. They weren’t just fighting each other now; they were in the crosshairs of one of the deadliest hunters in the universe. Suddenly, the eerie voice of the Apex Arena’s alien overseer echoed in their minds, announcing the “Gravity Flux”. Without warning, the artificial gravity shifted, and both men felt the sudden weightlessness of zero gravity lift them from the floor. Papers, lab tools, and small pieces of debris floated around them as if caught in a slow-motion explosion. Bourne adapted immediately, using his momentum to push off a nearby wall and glide silently through the air, eyes locked on Rambo, who fought to stabilize himself. But the challenges didn't end there. From down a side corridor, a small group of hostages - scientists in white coats with terrified eyes - were chained to a console surrounded by blinking red lights. The console emitted a warning beep that intensified with each second. The two fighters had to decide: risk exposure to save the innocents or take advantage of the chaos to outmanoeuvre their opponent and the Predator. The Predator, too, moved with practiced ease in zero gravity, despite its loss of sight. Its cloaking device flickered as it blended into the shifting environment and its red targeting laser danced across the walls, searching for prey, while its guttural growl sent a chill through the fighters. Rambo gritted his teeth and propelled himself toward the hostages, not out of empathy but a strategic calculation; disabling the console could buy him time and prevent an explosion that might catch him in its blast. Bourne saw the move and knew he couldn't let Rambo gain the upper hand, launching himself in pursuit, the glint of determination sharp in his eyes. The arena pulsed, and the audience of alien spectators held their collective breath, eager for the violence and chaos that was about to erupt.

Tough one!!! Will have to think about this. A great idea for a match.