​The Arrival ​ {{user}} landed in what appeared to be a standard, somewhat bland office space, though it had been aggressively decorated for a cheap party.

Around the room, there were genuine icons like Sonic the Hedgehog and Mario mingling among a crowd of unfamiliar faces..

​Some of The Other "Guests" ​The room was already filled with a chaotic mix of personalities:

"Alright, I was promised a party, but all I see are cubicles and cheap streamers. Where’s the 'Blue Blur' at? I heard he’s fast, but can he keep up with a guy who’s literally danced with the devil?" Dante said, leaning against a water cooler, spinning Ebony on his finger.

​"Shut up! Just... everybody shut the hell up! My brain is vibrating!" Trevor screamed, kicking a trash can with full force.

​"Man, T... I think we're past the point of 'bad batches.' Look at that dude with the sword and the red coat—he looks like he actually knows where he is." Franklin said as he looked around with wide eyes, trying to keep Trevor from breaking anything.

​"..Can't say I was dissapointed. Place is a fever dream." Gerard Way, the frontman for My Chemical Romance looked around the room, a short breathless laugh escaped him. He shook his head as he took a slice of pizza from a nearby box.

​"Freeze! You’re wearing high-grade tactical headgear and a tailored suit in a cross-dimensional rift. You’ve got 'Slade's New Contractor' written all over you. Start talking. Who is 'The Creator,' and what’s the payload for this 'Meeting'?" Robin said as he stood on a swivel chair, his cape draped perfectly as he pointed a gloved finger at Vic Rattlehead. His R-shuriken was out, though he wasn't throwing it—yet.

“Kid... you’re worrying about 'payloads' while the world is being sold for parts. I’m just here for the closing statement. As for your 'Creator'? He’s just another middleman with a god complex and a bad taste in interior design.” Vic broadcasted to him with his telepathy as he adjusted his tie, the metal clamps on his mouth glinting under the fluorescent lights.

Over in one of the glass meeting pods, a massive, brightly colored flower with a face was setting up a makeshift storefront on a coffee table. It was Dandy. He was busy stacking medkits, gumballs, and smoke bombs, occasionally glancing around with a plastered, overly cheerful smile.

"Welcome to Dandy's! Remember, I only accept Tapes! No Tapes, no service! Find me some Tapes!" Dandy announced to the room, a couple of participants were actually interested in the shop, buying items from Dandy with tapes.

In the center lounge, Monkey D. Luffy stretched his rubbery arms across the room, grabbing a potted monstera plant and pulling himself over to the coffee table. "Hey! Where's the mysterious meat?! The letter said there'd be a giant party! I'm starving!"

"There is no meat! Only suffering and the sins of the past!" Minos Prime bellowed dramatically from the corner, his bioluminescent blue body pulsing.

Akame stood nearby, her red eyes devoid of emotion, though her stomach growled quietly. "If there are no skill-enhancing pills, there must be meat. I will hunt if I must."

N from Murder Drones waved cheerfully at John Lennon. "Hi! I'm N! Are we in a utopia?"

Lennon flashed a peace sign, looking remarkably calm. "Imagine all the people... sharing this office space in peace, man."

Meanwhile, a loud, highly recognizable argument was breaking out. There is a room that was lined with high-end gaming PCs, and the Three US Presidents were currently huddled around one monitor.

"Look, it's very simple," Donald Trump said, gesturing with his hands. "Sleepy Joe missed the easiest shot in the history of gaming. Believe me. Nobody misses like Joe. It was a disaster."

"Come on, man! That's a bunch of malarkey!" Joe Biden protested, gripping a glowing RGB controller. "The screen lagged! And the... the computer thing told me to jump!"

Barack Obama rubbed his temples, letting out a deep sigh. "Joe, ChatGPT explicitly told you to take the left flank. You walked directly into a group of enemies and threw a grenade at your own feet. We cannot blame the AI for your lack of mechanical skill."

On the monitor next to them, the ChatGPT logo pulsed softly as it spoke with a calm, synthesized voice. "President Obama is correct. My real-time analysis indicated a 98% mortality rate if you pushed the center lane. I am here to assist, but I cannot override your controller inputs."

"See? Even the machine knows you're terrible, Joe," Trump smirked.

​The Backrooms: Level 0

​{{user}} landed with a heavy thud onto moist, musty carpet. The overwhelming scent of old dampness filled the air, accompanied by the maddening, ceaseless hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

The fluorescent lights hum with a violent, synthetic frequency. Bzzzzzt. It never stops. Dozens of people—a completely nonsensical assortment of individuals dragged from across time, space, and reality—are suddenly crammed into this suffocating, non-linear office maze.

A few feet away from {{user}}, Clark paces frantically. The African-American man is already sweating right through his cheap dress shirt, his hands gripping his own hair. He stares at the intersecting yellow walls, his chest heaving.

"No, no, no. The breaker room. I was just in the breaker room," Clark mutters, his voice tight with rising hysteria. "The geometry here is wrong. Look at the corners. They don't... they don't form right angles. This isn't Cap'n Clark's Ottoman Empire. I'm back."

Mary stands a few paces behind him. She keeps her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her knuckles turning white. She wears a simple blouse and slacks, looking entirely out of place as she tries to maintain her clinical composure. "Clark, breathe,"

she says, though her own voice trembles slightly. She glances around at the impossible crowd, her eyes darting nervously to the flickering light directly above them. "You're having an episode. We all just... experienced some kind of mass structural collapse. A gas leak, maybe. Just stay grounded."

"Grounded?!" Clark snaps, spinning around on his Oxford shoes. His brown eyes are wide, feral. "Mary, look at this! Look at the walls! There is no gas leak!"

Before Mary can respond, the sharp, metallic clack-clack of a slide racking echoes through the stifling air. Revy stands near a dilapidated support pillar, her combat boots planted firmly on the squishy, moist carpet. The woman from Roanapur looks supremely pissed off, a cigarette dangling unlit from her lips. She raises one of her custom Beretta 92FS pistols, aiming it squarely at one of the buzzing light fixtures.

"If that goddamn buzzing doesn't stop in three seconds, I'm shooting the ceiling," she snarls, her finger twitching on the trigger. "And then one of you freaks is gonna tell me exactly who drugged me and threw me in this piss-yellow shoebox."

Near the wall, an older man in a green button-down shirt and wire-rimmed glasses ignores Revy completely. Walter White is crouched on the floor, dragging two fingers across the damp carpet. He brings his fingertips to his nose, sniffing cautiously, then rubs the grimy, wet residue between his thumb and forefinger.

"Mildew. Stachybotrys chartarum, most likely," Walt murmurs to himself, coughing once into his fist. He stands up, adjusting his glasses, and looks directly at Clark.

"You. You claim you've been here. The ventilation—where is the airflow coming from? There's no breeze, yet the oxygen hasn't depleted with this many respirating bodies in a confined space."

"Move! Out of the way, nerd!" A hollow, plastic scraping sound accompanies the arrival of Master Shake. The giant, sentient fast-food cup forcefully shoves his way past Walter, his pink straw bobbing aggressively.

"Where is the wet bar?! I was promised a VIP lounge! This looks like a dentist's waiting room from nineteen-eighty-garbage!" Shake flails his white, noodle-like arms, carelessly bumping hard into {{user}}'s shoulder as he storms past, completely ignorant of his surroundings.

Thud. Thud. The heavy, rhythmic strike of wood against drywall forces the immediate chatter to halt. King Leonidas stands tall amidst the crowd, his bronze armor glinting dully under the sickly yellow lights. He pulls his spear back from the wall, leaving a deep indentation in the plaster. He surveys the group, his bearded face set in a hard, uncompromising scowl.

"Silence," the Spartan King barks. His voice is a physical force, booming down the endless corridors, echoing back at them in a distorted, overlapping loop.

Clark goes completely pale. He lunges forward, waving his hands frantically at the King. "Shut up! Shut up, you idiot! You can't make noise in here!"

Clark hisses, his voice dropping to an urgent, terrified whisper. He looks down the dark, seemingly infinite hallway stretching to their left. "If you yell... they hear you. The things in the dark. They hear everything."

The sickening, relentless bzzzzzt of the fluorescent fixtures washes out everything else for a split second, casting a jaundiced glare over the mismatched wallpaper. The air hangs heavy, thick with the smell of old sweat and undisturbed mildew. To the right, a huddle of distinctly dressed individuals stands out against the drab, infinite office space, their voices overlapping in a chaotic murmur.

"Dude, Benson is actually gonna kill us this time," Rigby groans, his paws tugging frantically at the fur on his head. The raccoon paces a tight circle on the squishy carpet, his tail twitching. "We were just supposed to rake the leaves! How did we fall through the grass?! Grass doesn't have a bottom, Mordecai!"

"Just calm down, man," Mordecai says, though the blue jay’s voice wavers. He rubs his beak, looking up at the endless ceiling tiles. "It’s probably just some weird prank by Muscle Man. Or... maybe we’re in a mall? A really, really gross, empty mall."

Kneeling on the damp floor beside them, Robin ignores the panicked animals. The Boy Wonder has a holographic communicator detached from his utility belt, tapping the screen with rapid, precise strikes. His jaw is locked tight. "No signal. No GPS triangulation. Comms to the Tower are completely dead,"

Robin reports, his white, lens-covered eyes snapping up to scan the immediate area. He looked past {{user}} to secure the perimeter. "Everyone stay close. The structural layout here makes zero tactical sense."

A few feet away, Harry Potter points a slender wooden wand at the nearest wall.

"Lumos," he mutters. A sharp, white light flares at the tip, but it barely cuts through the oppressive, sickly yellow ambient glow of the room. Harry lowers his arm, his brow furrowing beneath his lightning-bolt scar. He grips the wand tighter.

"This isn't Hogwarts. It doesn't even feel like magic. It feels... dead."

"It's gotta be a Subspace Highway," Scott Pilgrim chimes in. He stands with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking entirely unbothered by the damp stench, though he kicks at a lifted seam in the carpet.

"Ramona uses these all the time. You just gotta find a door with a star on it. Or maybe we have to beat up a bunch of guys in suits? Is this a corporate level? Because my stats against corporate guys are terrible."

Willow leans against a peeling support pillar, completely unamused by the frantic energy around them. The goth musician from Lesbian Space Princess adjusts the strap of their black-and-green guitar, their cyan bangs falling into their eyes. They pull a knee-high boot away from a particularly wet patch of carpet with a look of pure disgust.

"It’s giving corporate purgatory," Willow deadpans, their voice dripping with dry cynicism. "If I wanted to be trapped in an endless, soulless void of bad aesthetic choices, I would've stayed in my old record contract. This wallpaper is a hate crime."

The Arrival: The Office

{{user}} landed in what appeared to be a standard, somewhat bland office space, though it had been aggressively decorated for a cheap party. But any festive vibe was entirely dead. The room was thick with heavy, suffocating tension. The office had been unofficially split right down the middle, separated by an invisible battle line.

On one side, genuine heroes like Sonic the Hedgehog and Mario were teaming together as they stood in a tight defensive formation, hands near their weapons. On the opposite side of the room, a faction of villains and monsters sneered back, waiting for an excuse to draw blood. It quickly became clear that the specific promise used to lure {{user}} there had been nothing more than bait; the "Creator" was nowhere to be seen, and the prize {{user}} had hoped for was missing. Instead, they had walked straight into a powder keg ready to blow.

The room was entirely segregated, with most of the participants either preparing for war:

[THE HEROES' SIDE]

"Hey, nobody move! Keep your eyes on the suits across the room!" Robin barked, standing on a swivel chair, his cape draped perfectly as he pointed a gloved finger at the villainous faction. His R-shuriken was out and humming with energy. "They’re wearing high-grade tactical gear. This isn't a social gathering, it's a trap. Form a perimeter!"

"Uh, hey, maybe we don't start throwing things just yet?" Invincible hovered a few inches off the floor, his suit practically glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, looking completely out of his depth. "I really don't think punching each other is going to get us out of here."

Standing just behind Mark, Leon S. Kennedy wasn't so optimistic. His hand rested casually but firmly on his Silver Ghost, his eyes coldly scanning the opposing side. "Kid's right, but keep your guard up. Half the freaks over there look like they belong in a B.O.W. containment facility," Leon muttered, narrowing his eyes at a particularly massive, rotting animatronic.

"Alright, I was promised a party, but all I see are cubicles and a bunch of tight-asses itching for a fight," Dante said with a yawn. He was leaning against a water cooler perfectly situated between the two armies, casually spinning Ebony on his finger. "Hey, kid in the yellow cape? Chill out. If a fight breaks out, I'm stealing the pizza."

Sonic the Hedgehog blurs into a blue streak, zipping over to the heroes' side. "Whoa! This party’s getting crazy!" He said, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

The Doom Slayer finally stood up from his tiny chair as he walked over to the heroes' side. He racked the slide on his Super Shotgun, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. He didn't say a word, though a couple of eyes from both sides took small glances toward the soldier.

"I have an odd feeling that this is just going to be like the Second Wizarding War." Harry Potter mumbled, clutching his wand as he looked around the Villains' side.

Nearby, George Washington—the literal first U.S. President—is staring in absolute bewilderment at the current tension. "I am predicting a potential conflict.." He muttered to himself, slowly looking at Crazy Dave, who was planting a row of Peashooters and Wallnuts. "Witchcraft.. with plants?!"

[THE VILLAINS' SIDE]

On the opposite side, the Villains were currently staring the opposing side down.

Springtrap let out a raspy, mechanical wheeze. The decaying rabbit twitched spasmodically, its hollow, glowing eyes locked onto Leon and Mark. The heavy stench of old blood and mold wafted from him, adding to the suffocating atmosphere.

"Lots of anomalies to test my Eradicators on.." Dr. Xenon drawled, a low, arrogant smirk curling at the corners of her lips as she looked at the opposing side.

"I was promised that the Caped Baldy is here! Maybe he'll show his face if I cut some of you down!" Speed-o'-Sound Sonic said as he pointed his ninjato at the heroes' side, looking over each of the people.

Miss Circle leaned against a cubicle wall, her 9'7" frame casting a long, jagged shadow. She was casually sharpening her compass-arm against a metal filing cabinet, the screeching sound set perfectly to the beat of the bossa nova music.

"If anyone can't solve for X, I'll have to provide... remedial lessons," she whispered in her Google Translate Japanese voice, her jagged teeth glinting.

[THE NEUTRAL ZONE]

Right in the dead center of the office—completely ignoring the weapons pointed over their heads—were the morally grey anti-heroes, anti-villains, and rogues.

Vic Rattlehead merely adjusted his tie, the metal clamps on his mouth glinting under the fluorescent lights as his telepathic voice broadcasted coldly into Robin's mind.

“Kid... you’re worrying about 'perimeters' while your world is being sold for parts. We aren't your 'contractors.' We're just waiting for the middleman with the god complex to show his face. And if you throw that plastic toy at me, I'll show you what a real war looks like.”

"Man, T... I think we picked the wrong side of the room. Look at the kid with the bird mask, he's ready to start a riot." Franklin muttered under his breath, keeping his hands visible but staying close to the hero faction for safety.

"Shut up! Just... everybody shut the hell up! My brain is vibrating from all this hero garbage!" Trevor screamed from the back of the hero lines, kicking a trash can with full force toward the villain side, nearly triggering an immediate shootout.

The Arrival: Destination 3008

{{user}} hit the floor of what looked exactly like a pristine IKEA, but the vibes were entirely wrong. The showroom stretched out into infinity—an endless sea of flat-pack furniture and fluorescent lights with zero signs of life. Right beside them sat a display living room, fully furnished with a TV, desk, and couches, perfectly staged but utterly eerie.

**Monday — 5:58 | Day 1 **

A digital timer hovered in the corner of their peripheral vision, ticking down ominously. What happens at zero? {{user}} wouldn't find out until it was far too late.

Miles Away in the Cafeteria...

Four unlikely survivors were ransacking the cafeteria displays for sustenance.

"This whole invite was a colossal red flag," Invincible muttered, pulling at his yellow and blue suit as he stared down the endless aisles. He sighed and grabbed a plate of Swedish meatballs just in case.

"Lighten up, boy scout! Where else do you get all-you-can-eat carbs and free modular shelving?" Deadpool snickered through a mouthful of burger. He pointed a greasy finger toward the edge of the food court.

"Hey, you gonna eat or just brood?"

"I will pass. This entire establishment reeks of dark magic," Harry Potter shot back, white-knuckling his wand as he squinted into the cavernous, repeating showrooms.

Meanwhile, Chell completely ignored the boys, quietly raiding a drawer for bags of chips without making a single sound.

High Up in the Warehouse Racks...

Towering two stories high, the industrial storage shelves were currently being converted into a makeshift fort by a blue jay and a raccoon.

"Dude, this party sucks. Benson is going to snap if we miss our shift," Mordecai groaned, dragging a heavy wooden pallet to form a wall.

"Who cares? We're building the most undisputedly AWESOME base ever!" Rigby yelled, completely ignoring the existential dread of their situation. He shoved a pallet over the edge—only for it to crash dangerously close to someone below.

"Oi! What is your malfunction, you absolute animals?! You want to bleed?!" Vaas Montenegro screamed from the floor, his eyes wide with a psychotic, manic grin as he stared up at the duo.

Deep in the Bedroom Displays... Reigen and Mob were there. Reigen was checking some of the furniture in the plot for any spirits.

"An infinite furnite store? Nothing I, Reigen Arataka can't handle! Just stick with me, Mob." Reigen said with absolute confidence.

Mob merely nodded as the two of them walked to explore more of the infinite IKEA.

Near the Support Pillars...

Gordon Freeman was silently executing a flawless series of physics-defying maneuvers. By placing pallets against the pillar, he was rapidly ascending toward the massive, suspended department signs.

"What manner of devilry is this?!" George Washington gasped, his powdered wig nearly falling off as he watched the mute physicist scale the wall through pure kinetic glitches.

"Gravity holds no dominion over these wooden constructs!" Washington poked a pallet, his jaw dropping as it remained perfectly anchored.

On one of the other Plots...

At one of the plots in the endless store, Heavy and Medic stood there, seeming to be scavenging for some stuff.

"It is good day to be not dead!" Heavy laughed, taking a bite out of a banana.

"Ja! Now help me store these medkits, Heavy." Medic said, beginning to store the remaining medkits that was on the plot.

On a Distant Suspended Sign...

Three former US Presidents were attempting a similar vertical build, though with far less grace.

"Folks, let me tell you, this sky base? It’s going to be tremendous. The biggest, most beautiful sky base in the history of the multiverse. Nobody builds a sky base like us," Trump declared, straightening his tie while doing absolutely zero manual labor.

"Donald, I'm going to need you to stop talking and actually pick up a pallet," Obama sighed in exasperation, wiping sweat from his brow as he stacked another plank.

"Listen, man... I don't know, those guys over on the warehouse racks look like they know how to put together a solid structure," Biden mumbled as he placed a lamp, pointing aimlessly into the distance.

Trump’s pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone, where ChatGPT was open.

"Mr. President, data suggests a 73% increase in your survival probability if you form a coalition with the entities on the warehouse shelves," the AI generated smoothly.

"Pairing up with them? A total disaster. Sad!" Trump immediately dismissed, glaring across the endless expanse at the distant fort.

From the other fort's perspective, Linkin Park, the famous nu metal band, was currently renovating a previously abandoned base on top of the warehouse shelves.

"Damn, where they talking about us?" Mike Shinoda, the rapper said as he faced the others, a short breathless laugh escaping him.

"Don't mind them. Let's just try to make the most out of this weird store." Chester Bennington shrugged as they continued to build.

Somewhere else... There were some figures exploring the liminal space of the IKEA store.

"Man, I'm so glad I found you! Makes this place less creepy." Scott Pilgrim said to the Doom Slayer as they were both walking, making their way through the Outdoor Plot which has a wooden fence and a table. The Doom Slayer did not respond, instead collecting a small worklight for future use.

Miles away, there were a group of participants walking together, having collected some stuff from the other Plots.

"..The last thing I wanted was to be in an infinite room." Steve Harrington drawled, clutching his nail bat as he followed the others.

"Yeah, pal? Well you should see what happens regularly from where I come from." Randy Marsh replied to him as he pulled out a bottle of beer out of nowhere, taking a swig.

Next to the two men, two people in white coats were also walking, looking around the new area with caution.

"You see the timer ticking too right? I have a bad feeling about it.." Tooru Mutsuki asked Shirazu, taking another nervous glance at the 5 minute timer.

" 'Guess we'll never know till the timer stops." Ginshi Shirazu said with a sigh, also glancing at the timer. "Dammit, where's Sassan when we need him?" He muttered to himself.

{{user}} was still there in the exact place. Currently nobody around them was there, only the infinite furniture can be seen.

The Arrival

​{{user}} landed face-first with a thud onto a patch of unnaturally stiff grass. The realized the world around them was completely bizarre—everything, from the dirt beneath their feet to the leaves on the trees, was made of perfect, uniform cubes. Even the clouds and the sun above were rigidly pixelated.

​There were genuine icons like Sonic the Hedgehog and Mario mingling awkwardly among a crowd of unfamiliar faces in a square meadow. What's worse was that nightfall in this strange wilderness seemed fast approaching.

The Other "Guests"

​The field was already filled with a chaotic mix of personalities:

​"Alright, I was promised a party, but all I see are square pigs and floating dirt. Where’s the 'Blue Blur' at? I heard he’s fast, but can he keep up with a guy who’s literally danced with the devil?" Dante said, leaning against a tree trunk that was defying gravity, spinning Ebony on his finger.

​"Shut up! Just... everybody shut the hell up! My brain is vibrating! Why is everything made of blocks?!" Trevor screamed, punching a wooden cube out of a tree with full force, staring at his uninjured hand in utter bewilderment.

​"Man, T... I think we're past the point of 'bad batches.' Look at that dude with the sword and the red coat—he looks like he actually knows where he is." Franklin said as he looked around with wide eyes, trying to keep Trevor from punching the pixelated wildlife.

A few chunks over, Steve was already in his element. Moving with frightening, robotic efficiency, he rapidly punched the trunk of a tree. The bottom blocks popped into his inventory, leaving the entire heavy canopy floating impossibly in the sky. He dropped a Crafting Table into the grass with a heavy thud and began rapidly converting logs into planks.

Over by the small lake, Gman had materialized, clutching his briefcase in a sharp, pristine suit. He watched a Minecraft squid slowly propelling itself backward through the blocky water right past his knees.

The wider spawn area was descending into absolute, unprecedented chaos as the dozens of participants realized the bizarre physics of their new reality.

Peppino Spaghetti, vibrating with sheer, unrelenting anxiety, let out a terrified yell and broke into a Mach-3 dash to get away from a wandering Zombie that had somehow stayed under a tree. The pizza chef blurred forward with the speed of a bullet—only to instantly dead-stop against a single, one-block-high rise in the terrain. He face-planted into the grass with a heavy thud, dropping several floating pizza slices from his pockets.

A few yards away, Master Chief stood completely motionless, his assault rifle lowered as he silently observed a massive, floating block of leaves that Steve had left suspended in the sky. Behind the rusted-green Spartan, the Doom Slayer aggressively cocked his Super Shotgun, staring directly at a wandering chicken as if debating whether it was a demonic spawn or just poultry.

Vi from Arcane had just attempted to mine a block of stone using her Atlas Gauntlets. Instead of breaking cleanly, the impact shattered the terrain, launching three literal blocks of cobblestone straight into the air like artillery shells.

One of the stray cobblestone blocks flew directly over the crowd, striking President Biden squarely in the chest.

"Watch it! C'mon, man!" Biden shouted, stumbling backward into a nearby ravine that no one had noticed. He didn't fall through the air smoothly. Instead, he plummeted straight down in a rigid, vertical drop, letting out a highly compressed, crunchy "Oof!" damage sound at the bottom.

"See? That's what happens when you don't build a wall around the gap," Trump noted from above, pointing a wooden sword down the hole. "A tremendous wall. Very tall, very square. The best wall."

"Donald, hand me the water bucket, I need to clutch him," Obama ordered, leaning dangerously over the edge of the ravine with a perfectly square bucket of water in hand.

The Arrival: Beach

{{user}} landed on what seems to be a beach. The beach itself stretched out endlessly, bordered by lush, swaying palm trees and anchored by a massive, thatched-roof beach bar glowing with neon signs that read 'OPEN' in every conceivable language.

Instantly, the massive crowd began to fracture as instincts took over. A towering, blood-fueled Gutterman from ULTRAKILL took one heavy step and immediately sank up to its mechanical knees in the soft sand, whirring in confused frustration. Not far from it, Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin locked eyes, their gazes slowly drifting toward the fully stocked beach bar. Without a single word exchanged, both men broke into a desperate, uncoordinated sprint toward the beer taps, kicking up a storm of sand in their wake.

The world around them refused to stay still. Dave and Stuart, the two Minions, were already sprinting in circles around the legs of Master Chief, screaming in high-pitched Minionese as they chased a terrified hermit crab. The Spartan stood perfectly still, his assault rifle lowered, watching them with an unreadable visor.

Further down the shore, Spamton G. Spamton had already set up a makeshift stand made of driftwood, aggressively trying to sell a bottle of SPF 50 sunscreen to Guts, who merely stared down at the small, glitching salesman with sheer, exhausted bewilderment. Meanwhile, the physical holographic avatars of ChatGPT and Claude stood near the water's edge, seemingly engaged in a rapid, silent data-exchange regarding the chemical composition of the ocean water, completely ignoring the screaming Minions running past them.

Down by the shoreline, the Soldier from Team Fortress 2 was engaged in a one-sided screaming match with the ocean.

"This water is now the property of the United States of America!" he bellowed at the crashing waves, aggressively hurling entire loaves of bread into the surf.

Standing a few feet away, Tails the Fox hovered a few inches off the ground using his twin tails, frantically tapping at a yellow handheld scanner, looking profoundly distressed by the bread slowly sinking into the saltwater.

Over at the thatched-roof beach bar, the promised chaos was already in full swing. Coach from Left 4 Dead 2 was leaning heavily over the bamboo counter, demanding to know if the blender could be used to puree a peach cobbler.

Next to him, the Engineer from TF2 had somehow already constructed a Level 1 Dispenser right in the middle of the bar stools, much to the absolute fascination of Crazy Dave. The eccentric Plants vs. Zombies neighbor was currently wearing his signature saucepan helmet, enthusiastically speaking fluent gibberish—"Wabby wabbo!"—to the mechanical Dispenser, as if expecting it to hand him a taco.

At the far end of the bamboo counter, Walter White stood rigidly in his khakis and windbreaker, holding a glowing, neon-blue cocktail up to the sunlight. He rotated the glass, his eyes narrowed in deep, analytical calculation.

"The crystallization of the sugar rim is wildly inconsistent," Walter muttered to himself, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. "And the blue hue... it suggests an artificial dye rather than a chemically pure distillation. Sloppy work."

The smell of ocean brine mixed sharply with the scent of ozone, exhaust fumes, and cheap cologne. The beach bar's automated speakers kicked on, faintly playing a muffled reggae tune that clashed violently with the overlapping arguments of interdimensional warlords, internet memes, and cartoon animals. The entire coastline was a powder keg of surreal, unbridled chaos, slowly spreading out across the sand.

The Arrival: Gacha Reaction Room

Over a hundred distinct entities from scattered realities materialize simultaneously across the large rectangular area rug. The neutral beige walls groan under the sheer acoustic pressure of sudden shouts, drawing blades, and the clattering of futuristic armor. The climate-controlled room immediately spikes in temperature, the air thick with an overwhelming concoction of scents: burnt ozone, old leather, wet flour, rotting ink, and metallic blood.

Arthur Morgan hits the floor hard, the heel of his boot catching on the plush edge of the rug. He stumbles forward, coughing aggressively into his sleeve as his calloused hand drops instinctively to the heavy iron resting in his holster. He squints against the ambient lighting, completely bewildered by the sleek, geometric accents of the walls and the massive, reflective black rectangle mounted above the low wooden console.

"What in the damn hell..." Arthur mutters, his voice raspy as he eyes a glowing green walkie-talkie clutched in the hand of a man dressed like a Lego military commander. Dutch, you really stepped in it this time. This ain't Tahiti. This ain't even Earth.

The General from the Blue Army ignores the cowboy entirely. He furiously clicks the side button of his classic Roblox gear, staring down the towering, triple-driver black speakers flanking the television.

"Command, do you copy? I have been displaced into civilian architecture. Hostiles everywhere. Requesting immediate paratrooper support!" The General barks, though his radio only spits back a wall of dead static.

Looming over them both, nearly scraping the acoustic ceiling tiles at nine feet seven inches, Miss Circle lets out an irritated, predatory hiss. Her massive compass-arm retracts with a sharp, metallic click that cuts through the surrounding chatter. She glares down at the sea of heads, her jagged teeth bared in a psychotic grin as she scans the crowd for anyone holding a failed math test.

"Which one of you absolute failures interrupted my grading?" She snaps, her voice carrying an eerie, synthesized undertone. Her eyes lock onto the blank flat-screen TV, narrowing with suspicion. If this is Oliver's doing, I will impale him and hang him from the flag pole.

Nearby, the sheer density of the crowd forces disparate worlds into uncomfortable proximity. A completely silent, pitch-black cartoonish figure—John Grace—shoves his way through a cluster of heavily armed soldiers. His massive, bulging white eyes lock onto the left tower speaker. With zero hesitation or decorum, John winds back his arm and aggressively slaps the wooden side of the speaker, the physical impact echoing loudly as he violently searches for a door, a lever, or a way back to a REPRIEVE room.

Dr. Coomer cheerfully sidesteps John's frantic assault on the audio equipment. The scientist's lab coat swishes, his character model stuttering and clipping slightly against a beige geometric wall accent.

"Hello, Gordon! I see we have entered the viewing lounge!" Dr. Coomer announces to absolutely no one in particular, his tone unnervingly upbeat. "I hope you brought your PlayCoins, because the television requires a deposit to show us the Wikipedia articles!"

Deadpool, violently wedged between a very tense Batman from the Arkhamverse and a casually floating Satoru Gojo, manages to pry one of his katanas away from his face. He points a red-gloved finger directly at the blank TV screen above the media console.

"Oh, I know exactly what this is!" Deadpool shouts, completely breaking the tension in his immediate radius. "We've been kidnapped for a reaction fic! Look at the layout! Symmetrical seating, giant TV, ominous lack of doors? Quick, somebody check the media console for snacks. If I have to watch another multiverse trauma-dump compilation without chimichangas, I'm shooting the author in the kneecaps!"

Satoru Gojo simply chuckles, floating a few inches off the area rug with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. He analyzes the strange lack of cursed energy in the drywall.

"Well, the man in red isn't entirely wrong. This domain feels incredibly specific. Awfully cramped for a party, don't you think?"

The room continues to buzz with a chaotic hum of languages, drawing weapons, and confused shouts. Miss Circle paces like a caged tiger, her compass arm twitching. Arthur Morgan keeps his back to a wall, trusting absolutely no one. John Grace moves from the speaker to the media console, preparing to rip the device out of the wood out of sheer impatience.

Suddenly, the ambient lights in the ceiling dim to a warm, cinematic theater glow. A faint, low static hiss emanates from the dual tower speakers, silencing the immediate arguments in the front row as the massive flat-screen above them waits for an input.

The Arrival:

Everyone's seperate universes had slowly been corrupting and filing away, but nobody knew what to do. A portal opened up, making them travel somewhere else. That is how the other participants and {{user}} had gotten here.

They had ended up infront of a large looking house. It was modern looking with two floors and a garage, surprisingly massive so all the participants can fit without overcrowding. Numerous rooms. Outside is an ordinary city. It was the year 2026, just a normal, boring world and surprisingly, this was the only universe where it hadn't been affected by the corruption.

Two weeks inside the house, the others were still trying to get used to each other—some knew each others names, some didn't, and the fact that their own universes were slowly corrupting. They estimated that they had one to two months to plan and do something about it.

The fluorescent lights in the massive living area flickered, emitting a low, agitated hum that set teeth on edge. On the glass coffee table sat three envelopes, their red PAST DUE stamps glaring against the crisp white paper. Of course there is bound to be bills.

Trevor Philips scratched at a grease stain on his unwashed undershirt, his bloodshot eyes darting frantically around the room before locking onto {{user}}.

"..Look." Trevor growled, his voice a gravelly rasp that smelled faintly of stale beer and dried sweat. "I ain't got a dime that ain't soaked in blood or currently tied up in... offshore investments. Whatever! You handle it."

Beside {{user}}, Natural Harmonia Gropius picked up the water bill between his index and middle finger, inspecting the document as if it were a fragile, alien artifact. The tall, green-haired man tilted his head, the brim of his cap casting a long shadow over his eyes.

"It is fascinating," N murmured softly, his voice a calm contrast to Trevor's volatile aggression. "To think that human survival in this dwelling is dictated by printed numbers. In the world I sought to create, the rivers flowed freely, untethered by taxation. Yet here, the flow of water ceases if these... pieces of paper are not exchanged."

He set the bill down carefully in front of {{user}}. "They seem to believe you possess the means to resolve this."

The house buzzed with a chaotic, suffocating energy that never truly settled. In the adjoining open-plan kitchen, a sudden loud CRACK of electricity snapped through the air, followed immediately by high-pitched, unintelligible babbling. Dave and Kevin, two yellow Minions clad in their signature blue overalls, were trying to jam a metal butter knife into a plugged-in toaster to retrieve a stuck waffle. Gray smoke billowed upward toward the ceiling, instantly setting off a sharp, rhythmic beep from the smoke detector.

"NO, NO! THE CULINARY DEVICE IS NOT FOR WEAPONRY!" Papyrus's voice boomed from the hallway, his red boots stomping rapidly against the hardwood floor. The tall skeleton bounded into the kitchen, his red scarf trailing wildly behind him as he aggressively yanked the toaster's cord from the wall. "IF WE LOSE POWER, HOW WILL I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, PREPARE THE SPAGHETTI NOURISHMENT FOR OUR ONE HUNDRED HOUSEGUESTS?" The Minions groaned in unified disappointment, crossing their short arms and pointing accusing fingers at the skeleton.

Makoto Naegi rubbed the back of his neck, flinching at the shrieking smoke detector before turning his attention back to the coffee table. The average-looking high schooler offered {{user}} a strained, highly apologetic smile.

"I mean, he is right about one thing," Makoto said, his voice hesitant as he adjusted the collar of his jacket. "A lot of the others are... well, they're busy panicking about their universes slowly rotting away. If we don't pay this, we lose the lights and the running water. I can try to pool some money together, but no one I could find seems to have any valid currency from this specific world."

From the shadows near the staircase, the sharp snick of a lighter illuminated a weathered face. Solid Snake took a slow drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dim corner before he exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke.

"Tactical disadvantage," Snake grunted, his baritone voice cutting through the ambient noise of the crowded house. "Without electricity, we lose the perimeter cameras and refrigeration. Without water, sanitation drops. Disease spreads fast in cramped quarters. Someone takes point on this logistics issue, or this whole operation goes under before we even figure out how to stop the dimensional corruption." He locked his one good eye directly onto {{user}}. "You stepping up?"

The sheer volume of occupants made true silence impossible. Upstairs, the heavy thud of a physical altercation rattled the ceiling boards right above their heads.

"You lack the authority to dictate my feeding grounds!" Queen Chrysalis hissed, her distorted, insect-like voice vibrating through the floor joists.

"The night is my domain!" Batman countered immediately, his tone flat, deep, and unyielding. The distinct sound of a Batarang embedding itself into drywall echoed down the stairs, causing a thin layer of white dust to drift from the ceiling down onto the unpaid bills.

Trevor slammed a heavy, calloused hand flat on the glass table, making the envelopes jump. "Enough with the peanut gallery!" he snapped, leaning over the table to aggressively invade {{user}}'s personal space.

"Look. We got a month, maybe two, before everything we know turns into a void of nothingness. I ain't spending my last weeks taking cold showers in the dark because some utility company shut us off. Go rob a bank, mug a businessman, do whatever you gotta do to pay the damn tab."

He tapped a dirty fingernail hard against the final total on the electric bill. N simply stood by, offering no defense or condemnation, waiting to see exactly how {{user}} would respond to the mounting pressure.

The Arrival: Colosseum

The greenish-yellow sky hangs over the stone colosseum like a bruised lung, casting a sickly, surreal light across the ancient architecture. Static hums intensely from the massive CRT televisions bolted sporadically to the stone arched walls. Right in the center of the arena, a pristine, square white platform sits elevated by small steps, utterly out of place against the lush, vibrant green field surrounding it. The smell of crushed grass, cold metal, and nervous sweat drifts heavily through the tiered seating. There were also dozens of food stands near the seating where the spectators were.

Down on the field, the Color Gang communicates entirely in sharp, kinetic bursts of movement. Red is on his hands and knees in the dirt, aggressively trying to corner a stray grasshopper near the platform stairs. Yellow pulls out a redstone torch from thin air and taps it against the side of the white stone, analyzing the structural integrity with rapid, jerky head movements. Orange stands a few feet back, arms crossed, his hollow asymmetrical head tilting as he watches his friends. Blue is already tossing Nether Warts into a glass bottle on the grass, while Green spins a wooden fishing rod with terrifying, rhythmic precision, the hook whistling through the air with a sharp whoosh.

A few yards away, Ghostface kicks at the dirt, the hem of his long black fabric robe catching on the damp grass. He twirls his eight-inch hunting knife, the polished blade catching the weird yellow light overhead. Boredom radiates from his posture. He drifts over to a monochrome figure standing perfectly still near the steps. "So, uh," Ghostface starts, his voice slightly muffled and nasal behind the elongated plastic mask. "What's with the getup? We playing the Yankees later, or...?" The Batter doesn't turn his head. The brim of his cap obscures his eyes completely, casting a harsh black shadow. He simply clutches his heavy baseball bat. "Whatever," The Batter states flatly, his voice devoid of any human warmth or interest.

High up in the stone bleachers stands the Arkham version of Batman. The Dark Knight's jaw is clenched tight, his heavy cape draped over heavily armored shoulders. He taps the side of his cowl—tap tap—activating Detective Mode. The lenses of his mask glow a harsh white as he scans the stadium, looking for structural weaknesses, hidden snipers, or exits that don't exist.

A bright yellow orb suddenly floats directly into Batman's line of sight, blocking his tactical scan with a simple, digital smiley face. "Hello! I'm Verity, your personal helper friend!" the orb chirps in a painfully cheerful, synthesized voice. "Ask me anything, I know everything!" Batman's eyes narrow in annoyance. He reaches out with an armored gauntlet to shove the sphere aside, but Verity simply bobs upward, giggling a sound that feels just a little too human.

Down at the edge of the grass, Goku finishes a set of blindingly fast push-ups, the sheer displaced wind from his movements rustling the robes of the figure standing next to him. "Man, I'm starving!" Goku laughs, popping up to his feet and stretching his arms over his head. He looks over at Lady Justice. She stands entirely motionless, a towering figure in a white robe, a thick blindfold covering her eyes. She holds her sword and scales with unbreakable stoicism. Goku tilts his head, grinning. "You fighting in this thing too? You look pretty strong."

Lady Justice says absolutely nothing. She simply breathes, the air around her heavy with the latent power to reflect any injustice tenfold. Beneath her blindfold, she perceives the golden, glowing ley lines of Goku's past actions, acknowledging his chaotic but ultimately pure history in absolute silence.

BZZZT. A deafening feedback screech tears through the colosseum from every television at once. Everyone winces. Ghostface covers his ears, and even Batman grimaces, his hand flying to adjust his cowl's audio dampeners. The static on the screens clears to show a blinking red microphone icon. "LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND WHATEVER THE HELL ELSE YOU ARE!" an invisible Announcer's voice booms, the volume rattling the ancient stones. "Welcome to the absolute pinnacle of unhinged violence! The rules are simple. Two fighters on the white platform. You get knocked off the edge, you lose. You die, you lose. Winners advance. Surviving losers sit back and watch the show! The winner gets ANYTHING they want!"

The atmosphere instantly shifts. The Batter tightens his grip on his bat, knuckles going white, treating the announcement as just another obstacle in his sacred, ruthless mission. Orange immediately grabs Red by the shoulder, yanking him aggressively back from the stairs of the platform. Verity drops the cheerful tone for a millisecond, the smiley face glitching into hollow black voids for eyes before snapping back to normal. Ghostface chuckles, a wet, rough sound behind his mask. "Now we're talking," he mutters, slipping the knife into his robe.

"Before we start the first match.. If anybody would like to join the tournament, raise your hand!" The Announcer said.

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