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Bonus Intermission


I won't lie to you, ladies and gentlemen, we're in a fucking crisis right now. We just lost power and lighting to half the command complex, and we're getting some seriously weird readings on Vault 12. I've had Lord Kelvin take a look at the data from down there, and he's stumped. The vault gate is still shut against our best efforts, so it looks like another night of mystery - the chances of anything getting in there are a million to one. Yet still, we will try. 

We have recieved a crate from the ripper, with the parts we need to repair Contestant #10 - possibly our best hope of breaking into the Vault. Our engineers are working overtime to get the beast online, and have promised me it'll be ready for midnight GMT. I will reveal it to you then. Then we can formulate a plan of attack for tomorrow night. God help us.

In the meantime, while we wait for #10 to be repaired, I will not leave you hanging. You have paid good money to be here, and the show must go on. As we speak, I have a dozen urchins scouring the complex for anything that we can goad into a fight for your entertainment, and they should be back within the hour. 

Fear not, noble audience, for you are not in danger. The menace of vault 12 will be seen to, and you will see bloodshed this evening. Everything is under control


Ah, those street urchins are back! let's get this show on the road...


From a gutter outside the arena...A C-C-C-C-CAT WITH ONE L-L-L-L-LEEEEGGGGGG

What the fuck is this? A fucking embarassment, that's what. Do you little shits mean to tell me you couldn't find anything more vicious than this piece of dried-up turd? I've got the finest minds of the Western world gathered out there in that arena, nervous as all hell because of that thing down in #12 and wanting to see blood, and you give me this. Get out of here. No wait, you - yeah, the one with the racking cough and the deathly pallor. You fucking stay and take this sack of cabbages. Don't ask me what it's for you useless little cunt, just run through that door when I shove you. Alright? Good.



From a house made of plasterboard and old fruit carts somewhere in East London... AN URCHIN WITH A S-S-S-SACK OF C-C-C-CABBAGES... AND CHOLERA!

Yeah, good luck with that one, son. 


Dear Diary,

My head is screaming. Usually it's just the dizziness or the nausea, but this time it's an ear-splitting whistle coming from inside my skull. Every time I look at the big door with the 12 on it, it gets worse. Worse. Worse. Screaming. I can hear millions of years and cruel fears and a cold, older form of love and hate and detached amusement and it's all said in a way I can't make out, but I know it's there. It's there. It's everywhere and everywhen and it comes for me inside again and I'm lying here on the ground staring at this goddamn diary and it hurts almost as much as the past and my sicknesses but in a different way.

Days. It's been like this for days. These days hurt. These days beg and plead to hurt me, and I can't refuse them because I feel so bad. I'm sorry. I'm sorry everyone.

I'm dying. It hurts. I'm not dying. It still hurts, though. I don't want to go near that door. I want to go somewhere else, near another door. That door. The one where my friend was. Where the red is. Where the pattycake is sticky and warm. Where the other sounds are coming from. The baker's dozen. That door will protect me from the screaming. That door will save me from the burning house and the dust and the rocks and the diseases.




Lilly Limbcake


Ladies and gentlemen, I'm fuckin' sorry. This is truly the most tragic depth this tournament has ever sunk to. The urchin keeled over in a gush of infected shit before he could even heft a cabbage, and the cat... well, I actually wonder if the cat was alive when those little bastards brought it here. I mean, I never saw it move. In any case, all bets are returned and I personally guarantee a whiskey on the house for every man woman and child in the stands. My way of saying sorry. The urchins will be apologising by bringing Project K his din dins. 


Things are looking tough, between you and me. There's been tremors in the catacombs, strange green lights in the dark, and I've got men up here telling me that whatever's in Vault 12 is sending bursts of coded static up and out of the earth's atmosphere. I have no idea what that means, but it's not good news. We need number 10, and we need him fast. He'll be here at midnight.


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