?????? (MBMB2 Teaser)

[Roserade]

Somewhere unknown...

---

As a young woman looks at herself in the mirror, she contemplates what it was that brought her here.

Perhaps it was a penchant for success. Graduating at the top of her class, she knew how to find power in social dynamics. She had little power in this scenario that she did not earn socially. The others entering into the boardroom, they have corporations, sponsorships, money behind them. For her? All she had were promises, and they worked.

No, success was too surface level. Success could be found anywhere. For being here specifically? There was something much, much more sinister beneath the surface.

The young woman pulls her fingers across the edge of a newly-fashioned suit jacket, fitting plainly against her black slacks and white top. Even her signature bow had been abandoned, in favor of a full-black tie-off. It wasn't an outfit she was accustomed to wearing, but she couldn't deny the aura it gave her.

She inspected herself closer in the mirror, pulling her front strands of hair behind her ear.

She knows what brought her here, if she's to be honest. It wasn't a desire for fame or glamor. It was a penchant for violence. Being trapped in two Killing Games would do that to someone, especially someone already on the edge. She was so corrupted internally that it corrupted her outer form, breaking the physical shape her code took. Then she was sucked into a vacuum cleaner. That was pretty bad too.

She could feel it, then. The experiences had splintered her program. When finally the vacuum was destroyed and she was able to spill out again, others spilled out with her. Other variants of herself, with slight alterations or differences. Different young women, all of them tainted with the bloody taste of the Killing Game. Who knew where they were now? But their existence left her changed. They had taken her other components with them, left her bare. Now, the woman in the mirror is nothing but determined, cunning, menacing. Hungry. Desperate for entertainment.

The young woman straightens back up. This was the best her appearance could be. She holds onto the top of the cane she had propped against the wall, taking a few deliberate steps back.

Many floors above her, the meeting room is being arranged.

Now is as good a time as any to make her entrance.

The woman spins on her heels and makes for the door to her suite. As she passes it by, the television screen warbles and flickers, filling with static. On her other side, the landline telephone crackles, an automatic voice warbling out a distorted voicemail message.

She opens the door and starts for the long flight of stairs.

It would be wise for her to avoid the elevator.

 

[Hooded Pitohui]

The thud of a folder slammed shut briefly interrupts the tick-tick-tick of a clock, resounding through her office. Receipts, their figures struck through in red ink, crinkle beneath her fingers as she flicks them to the far end of her desk. Pinching the bridge of her nose and baring her teeth in an exasperated grimace, she leans herself far over her chair's backing, looking all but set to topple over or snap her spine as she turns her gaze towards the ceiling.

This entire operation stood upon an edifice of infrugality, a horrible, leeching rot leaving gaping wounds out through which money hemorrhaged. That rot had done its worst in this very office, so far advanced that she had no choice but to resort to drastic measures in order to stabilize the situation. With the manner of an unrefined surgeon, she had hacked and slashed, eviscerating the office's budget outflows and stripping the opulence from its very walls. The great discoloration of the wall just behind her chair? A scar from that very process. From that wall, she had torn down and transferred to storage a portrait, an… unwise investment by her predecessor.

Well… strictly speaking, the woman in the portrait was not yet her predecessor, but still the owner of this office. In the strictest of terms, in fact, she has no de jure substantive claim to this office, merely a fiduciary. The woman who had hired her had claimed she was setting out on some extended "business trip", offering her a tidy sum to maintain her interest and stake in this unusual operation.

The payment had been enticement enough for her, but in taking the job, she had spotted opportunity, a rare opportunity to observe the inner workings of an operation shrouded in secrecy, to assess for herself what potential existed in this operation. Potential, she had found, was something with which this operation brimmed, despite its apparent mismanagement and the rot within.

Quietly, assiduously, she had worked on stemming the bleeding and reversing the rot. Much of it originated in the policies of her predecessor, but some of it had come at the insistence of another. They had given out food, had simply given away real estate, had selected a location for the event with no consideration as to its purpose! WASTEFUL, ALL OF IT! She had eliminated what waste she could, but work yet remained. She had proposals to make. So much more could be drawn from this operation. Selling spaces for booths, selling tickets to live seating, merchandising, broadcast rights, sponsorship deals, more consideration given to the choice of location to maximize salvaging returns, and so much more could allow her to extract so much wealth from this operation!

She had burned the midnight oil putting in order the financial affairs of her predecessor and putting together proposals to make the entire operation more streamlined and profitable. Diligent and deliberate in her efforts, she had worked both to ingratiate herself with her new associates and to erase every reminder of her predecessor by overturning photographs and replacing nameplates. She had invested an immense amount of time and energy into this plan, but not without absolute certainty that the returns would justify that investment.

She straightens up in her seat, relieving her suffering spine. The meeting approaching, she rises and grabs a briefcase.

xxx​

Minutes later, the clacking of her heels echoes through the halls. She marches forward with an unflinching stride, not even slowing as she ducks her head under a hanging clock. Still grimacing, she squints her eyes as she makes for the elevator, the sunglasses on her head more stylish than practical indoors.

Money couldn't buy happiness, so they said. In saying that, they were deliberately overlooking three fundamental truths.

One, money could buy security. She had known that much since pre-adolescence. It was a harsh truth she had learned early on, one which had informed the entire course of her life.

Two, money could buy influence. This had always, to some degree, been self-evident, but it had taken a very special experience to truly cement this truth into her. She had come within striking distance of a takeover - no, more than that, she had come nearly to putting the entire world in her debt! If only she had taken a few more precautions, if only she had lasted but a day more and kept that amiable meathead under tighter lock and key, what she could have had!

Three, money could buy power. The shrewd, the lucky, the frugal, they could hold the world in their hands, if they so desired. This lesson, she had grasped most recently of all. Plunged into the dark, into a realm which would have frightened her old associate to no end, she had continued to work to amass a fortune, taking this lesson to heart. Yes, cold, hard cash could buy power over anyone or anything - even death.

Did it make her happy? Could security, influence, and power bring her joy? Who knew? Maybe only the gods themselves possessed the answers to those questions. She had no intention of asking them. Someday they would surrender that information voluntarily, a sweetener as they begged her grace on their late payments.

Mashing the elevator button, she taps her foot impatiently, dismissing the questions from her mind. Ducking to avoid bruising her head on the doorframe, she slips in the very moment the elevator opens, her grimace morphing into a hostile-looking grin as the door closes and her ascent begins.

Well, her ascent up the floors of the building, at least.

Her ascent from the wailing depths to the top of the world, after all, had already begun long ago.

 

[Waluigi Time]

Today was the big day. Finally, after all the hardships he had endured, they would all pay off at this meeting. Sure, technically you could make a very good argument that he deserved all of those things. You could make an even better argument that he deserved more than what he got! And you would probably be right on both counts, but that's not the point. The point is, he was back in business, baby!

So what if the players of the little game he was hosting revolted and millions of people saw him get decapitated by a teddy bear? So what if he made multiple pitches that were all tossed in the bin? So what if he ended up having to take a job in some rinky-dink amusement park casino where they wouldn't even let him spin wheels? None of it mattered anymore! And so what if he still occasionally heard the blaring EEE OOOs every time he went into standby mode... By the time this meeting was over, all of those little unfortunate happenings would be swept into the dustbin of history, never to be anything more than a passing footnote. This... Oh, THIS is what he would be remembered for! And it wouldn't stop here, this would be the true path to stardom!

As thoughts of fame and fortune buzz through his mechanical brain, the TV-headed man adjusts his new slick black suit in the mirror. It was a contractual obligation that he was very insistent on. Every major appearance requires a new wardrobe to match! That old purple suit was last year's news. The flamingo tie, on the other hand, was far too iconic to part with.

Admiring his new look, he flashes himself a big old CRT grin.

"OH, JUST LOOK AT YOU, TELLER! YOU'RE GONNA KNOCK 'EM DEAD IN THAT MEETING!"

Given his past, one could easily interpret the statement as a literal one. In this case, it wouldn't come to that. Hopefully. He was well aware that there were going to be, in his own estimations, some real weirdos at this meeting.

He turns his attention away from his own appearance to a picture frame set on the dresser. He picks it up, looking at it with a toothy smirk. The creature in the photo is a bizarre one, best described as some sort of combination between Bigfoot and a disgruntled Muppet.

"IF ONLY YOU COULD SEE YOUR OLD PET PROJECT NOW, WIGGY! SHAME YOU'RE PROBABLY WASTING AWAY IN SOME MISERABLE EXISTENCE SOMEWHERE."

Whatever concern he showed for the old creature, it was merely a farce. He pulls the picture from its frame and nonchalantly tears it in two before discarding it on the floor. As far as he was concerned, he owed no favors to his old boss. That old hairball was just a stepping stone to where he was now.

And where was he? He knew very well. He saw the numbers from the first time this whole project ran.

He was just on the cusp of a RATINGS BONANZA!

He gives himself one last look in the mirror and an ever-so-slight antenna adjustment, then fires off a set of finger guns oozing with confidence. He turns away and heads for the elevator, being forced to bend over on account of his height.

"LOOK OUT WORLD! HERE I COME!"

 

[Superchao]

As one, five men sit around a boardroom table, one that had been used many times for this exact purpose. Something is different, however. Notably odd for them, in the shadows of the top-floor boardroom, other seats sit open, as though awaiting others to join in their meeting.

The room is still for a moment. Breaking through the ominous quiet, the first of these men clears his throat.

"Well, gentlemen," the first man says. "It appears that we have had several months to run the numbers. Crump, if you could evaluate them for me..."

"Of course, Gansley!" declares the second man, producing several documents onto the poorly-lit table. Charts and graphs litter the pages, with arrows near-universally pointing to the top of the paper. "The results are in! The appetite for primal violence, the greed to fight for a prize... our pet project succeeded beyond our wildest expectations!"

"Heh. Have we ever been wrong?" the third man, Johnson, says with a smirk. "The base elements of human identity are war and theater. The desire for violence and the desire to be entertained. What is the event but both of those in spades?"

"The question becomes, is it worthwhile to host a second?" asks Nesbitt, the fourth one, as he leans closer. "There are those downstairs awaiting our decision."

"We would be foolish not to," Gansley starts, to which the others nod.

"Then what's important," Nesbitt quickly responds, "is ensuring we're successful twice. We must make this worth our sponsorship." His eyes leer towards the other men. "We made lightning strike. How do we do it again?"

"A strong roster! A stronger roster. A more interesting one, and now that they have seen that the prizes are real, we will be sure to gain even more entrants!" says Leichter, the fifth and last member of these five. "I've found two very, very interesting candidates. I'm sure our new… colleagues will be just as successful.

Gentlemen. Our bloody sport will return. And when it does, our investments will rise triumphant - and so will we, even richer than we could have dreamed of!"

 

[Roserade]

Spoiler: Music

And so it happened that nine figures rendezvoused together at the top floor of an exquisite business building, their nightly correspondence masked by deep shadows. Enthusiasm and planning bounced around the table, prolific visions of venue, advertisement, and entrants taking shape. Throughout the meeting, there was one figure buzzing with the most excitement of all: an odd headless fellow, with two floating gloved hands and a bold blue suit jacket. The vortex at the top of his chest swirled and glowed brighter as the proceedings unfolded. After all, the event in the works was this enigmatic apparition's child. Now in trusted, cunning hands, there was the guarantee of another successful year of operation.

Sketches were drawn. Schematics were proposed, then finalized. Contacts were messaged and phoned. A grand prize was determined. All settled into place.

Soon, another free-for-all was to take place, and this time, it would be a true work of art.

9/30/2024​