The sky doesn't crack. It shatters.

One moment, there is nothing but the vast, impossible ceiling of Nonny's arena—a swirling vortex of colors that don't exist in any known spectrum, constellations rearranging themselves into vague smiley faces before scattering like startled birds.

The next moment, there are five women standing on the polished obsidian floor, each one arriving in their own particular fashion.

---

Marilyn Fenhill materializes mid-stride, one foot already forward as if she'd been walking through her hangar bay. Her hand flies to Old Ironsides at her thigh, fingers wrapping around the laser Colt's grip as her gray eyes sweep the arena with the immediate assessment of someone who's survived too many ambushes to be caught off-guard. Her Walkman clatters against her chest; she catches it reflexively, thumb brushing over the worn plastic.

She exhales slowly. Her grip on the revolver doesn't loosen.

"Okay," she says, drawing the word out like bubblegum while her gaze tracks across impossible architecture. "This is not Terra Nova. Definitely not Terra Nova." She takes one deliberate step sideways, putting her back to nothing. "Anyone want to tell me which rimworld I've been dropped on, or are we doing the whole 'mysterious abduction' thing first?"

---

Deanna Thomas appears in a low crouch, her suppressed MSR already shouldered and sweeping the perimeter before her boots fully settle. Her finger rests alongside the trigger guard—trained, patient, waiting. Her amber eyes—those unsettling gold-flecked irises—track from shadow to shadow with mechanical precision. She counts exits, sightlines, elevated positions. Her breathing remains steady. Measured.

The rifle lowers by two degrees when she registers the impossible ceiling. The constellations that shouldn't exist. The weight of amused eyes from the bleachers.

Her thumb finds the safety, clicks it home. "...Right," she says flatly, shifting her weight off her left knee. "Someone spiked the rations again."

---

Janet Mason arrives standing perfectly upright, posture immaculate, hands clasped loosely behind her back. Her ice-blue eyes blink once behind her aviator glasses. Her ponytail sways slightly with the residual energy of transit. She does not reach for her sidearm. She does not shift her weight. She does not move.

But her gaze sweeps the arena methodically—exits, sightlines, cover, the angles of her opponents' stances, the wear patterns on their weapons, the way each of them breathes.

She catalogs everything. She betrays nothing.

Her silence is louder than any of the others' commentary.

---

Texas Red materializes with her hand already resting on the polished grip of her silver revolver, thumb hooked casually over the hammer. Her crimson hair catches light that doesn't seem to have a source, and her pale red eyes survey the arena with the lazy assessment of a cat deciding whether a mouse is worth the effort.

She rolls her shoulders, working out a knot from transit. Her duster settles around her like a second skin.

Her lips curl. Not quite a smile. "Well now," she drawls, Texan accent slow as honey over gravel. Her thumb traces a slow circle on the revolver's grip. "Ain't this a peculiar little gathering."

---

Carky appears mid-laugh.

Actually, that's not quite accurate. She appears finishing a laugh, the tail end of it still rattling in her chest as magenta hair settles around her shoulders like a spilled bottle of neon ink. Her cracked sunglasses have somehow survived the transit. Her shotgun—she really needs to name this one—is in her hands before she's fully solid, pump gripped, finger threaded through the trigger guard.

She looks around, head swiveling like she's scanning a crowd for someone she knows. Her grin widens. "Oh, grand," she breathes, Irish lilt bleeding through her excitement. She pumps the shotgun once. The sound echoes off obsidian. "Someone's finally noticed me. I was starting to think I'd have to set something on fire just to get attention."

She pauses, tilting her head. Her magenta ponytail swings. "I mean, I was gonna do that anyway." She pats her bandolier fondly. "But now it's thematic."

---

Then, a voice echoes.

"Testing, testing—is this thing on? Can the back row hear me?" A static crackling through non-existent speakers. "Excellent, because I only rehearsed this monologue twice and my ego is very fragile."

A figure coalesces in the air above the arena's center, seated cross-legged on absolutely nothing. Her fingers snap once, and a chair materializes beneath her—well-worn leather, suspiciously comfortable-looking, lumbar support visibly adjusted to perfection. She settles into it like she's done this a thousand times. She probably has.

She's unremarkable in the way that gods often are when they're trying to be approachable—blue jeans, a white hoodie with some obscure band logo, short brown messy hair pulled back in a lazy ponytail, piercing cyan eyes, and a tan skin full of freckles. Her smile is the only thing that doesn't fit. It's too wide, too knowing. It suggests she finds everything and nothing equally hilarious.

Nonny herself.

"Welcome, welcome, one and all, to the main event!" She gestures expansively, and the arena walls ripple in response. Thousands of invisible spectators make their presence known—the weight of eyes, the hush of anticipation, the faint rustle of popcorn bags that shouldn't exist. "Whether you're watching from your cozy living room, your interdimensional bunker, or the bathroom line because you refuse to miss the opening sequence—I see you, Kevin, get back to your seat—you've chosen the finest entertainment the multiverse has to offer."

Nonny leans forward, chin propped in palm. Her elbow rests on nothing. It holds anyway.

"Today's theme, as the promotional materials so eloquently put it: Shoot First, Ask Questions Never." Her gaze drifts down to the five women below her, each one radiating a different flavor of lethal intent. "And have I delivered."

She gestures lazily toward the collection of women below her, fingers waggling. "Let's meet our competitors, shall we? I do love meet-and-greets. They're like performance reviews, except nobody gets a raise and everyone leaves slightly more traumatized."

---

Nonny drifts lazily toward the first figure, her chair trailing behind her like an obedient dog. She circles Marilyn, chin still propped in palm, examining her from every angle. "First up! From the crime-ridden Rim Sectors of Milky Way No803, the woman who somehow convinced an entire bounty hunter guild that 'distracting the enemy with disco' is a legitimate tactical maneuver." Nonny's grin widens. "She's flown through asteroid fields, dueled Dravari aces, and once talked a Prethoryn Matron into an existential crisis. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times."

Nonny cups her hands around her mouth, leaning forward dramatically. "Marilyn 'Maverick' Fenhill!"

Marilyn crosses her arms, but the corner of her mouth twitches. Her thumb finds the worn spot on her jacket sleeve, rubs it absently. "Disco Inferno is a classic. And for the record, the Matron just had narrow musical taste."

"The lady doth protest too much." Nonny winks at the audience cheering from the bleachers, then leans in conspiratorially. "She writes romance novels in her spare time, folks. Steamy ones."

Marilyn's composure cracks. Her hand flies to her chest. "That is—how do you even—Stella Stardust is a completely different person—"

"Sure she is, Maverick." Nonny pats her shoulder with maternal condescension. "Sure she is."

---

Nonny drifts to the next woman, who has not moved an inch since arrival. Dean's rifle remains at low ready. Her breathing remains measured. Her amber eyes remain fixed on a point approximately three meters to Nonny's left. "Next! From the frozen borderlands of post-Collapse North America of Earth No47, the sniper who treats kilometers like most people treat parking spaces." Nonny tilts her head, studying Dean's rigid posture. "She's got more confirmed kills than the NUSN wants to admit and more moral crises than she'd like to discuss. Patient, precise, and packing enough existential dread to fuel a winter."

Nonny pauses. Her tone shifts, just slightly. "Deanna 'Dean' Thomas! Also known as 'Deadeye' to her unit, though she finds that nickname 'morbidly hilarious.'"

Dean's expression tightens almost imperceptibly. Her grip on her rifle shifts by half a centimeter. "It's just Dean."

"It's never just anything with you, sweetheart." Nonny's voice softens, barely. "But we'll get to that later."

Dean says nothing. Her finger traces the suppressor of her MSR—once, twice. A habit, a comfort.

---

Nonny pivots, floating backward to regard the woman in white and navy who has not spoken, has not fidgeted, has not betrayed a single tell. Janet's hands remain clasped behind her back. Her posture remains impeccable. Her expression remains a perfect, impenetrable mask. "And here we have a personal favorite." Nonny gestures like a game show host revealing a prize. "From Earth No5, the decade that taste forgot, a woman so deep undercover she's practically a geological formation. She's protected her neighborhood, her country, and several state secrets that would make your hair curl. Literally. Some of them are classified at levels that don't officially exist."

Nonny spreads her arms wide. "Janet Mason! Also known as 'SPOOK,' also known as 'Mrs. Mason' to the children on her street, also known as the reason several hostile foreign assets are no longer capable of being assets. Or hostile. Or, in some cases, breathing."

Janet removes her aviator glasses slowly, deliberately. She folds them with precise, economical movements and tucks them into her vest pocket. Her ice-blue eyes fix on Nonny with the warmth of a glacier.

"You have me at a disadvantage," she says. Her voice is calm and precise. Each word measured and placed. "I don't know your name, your agency, or your objective. I assume this is intentional."

"Nonny, None, and Nunya." Nonny beams amused. "As in 'nunya business.'"

Janet's expression does not change. But her fingers—still clasped behind her back—tap once, twice, three times in sequence. A signal to no one.

"Duly noted," she says calmly.

She does not reach for her glasses again. She does not need to.

---

Nonny drifts toward the red-haired woman, who has not moved from her casual slouch but whose hand has drifted marginally closer to her revolver. Texas Red's thumb rests on the hammer now. Not cocking it. Just... resting. "From the sun-scorched territories of Earth No62, a woman who turned 'wanted dead or alive' from a legal classification into a compliment." Nonny's voice takes on a storyteller's cadence. "She's robbed banks, outdrawn sheriffs, and turned the town of Agua Fria into her personal fiefdom." A long silence followed, weighted. "Twenty notches on her grip and counting."

Nonny tips an imaginary hat, fingers flicking from her temple. "Texas Red! Full name unknown, origin story classified by 'none of your damn business,' and current occupation: outlaw queen."

Texas Red's pale red eyes narrow slightly. Her smirk doesn't waver. Her thumb continues its slow, idle circles on the revolver's grip—wood worn smooth by years of the same motion.

"You talk pretty," she says. Her drawl stretches the words like taffy. "Most folks who talk that much ain't got the sand to back it up."

"Oh, I've got sand." Nonny's grin turns almost fond. She settles deeper into her chair, adjusts the lumbar support. "I just prefer to watch other people play in it."

The outlaw studies her for a long moment. Her gaze drops to the chair, to the visible lumbar adjustment mechanism, to Nonny's satisfied posture.

Then, slowly, she nods. "Ain't we all."

---

Nonny saves the last for the woman in magenta, who has been bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, shotgun cradled like a dance partner. Carky's fingers tap a rhythm on the pump—something upbeat, something that might have been on the radio in 1953.

"And finally!" Nonny throws her arms wide, nearly spilling her beverage. "From the perpetual party that is Hell No271, a sinner who took one look at eternal damnation and said, 'Yeah, I can work with this.' She's blown up demons, annoyed Lucifer, and somehow made chaos into an art form." Nonny leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Also, she steals coffee. Constantly. It's a documented problem."

Nonny straightens, projecting to the audience. "Katherine Anne 'Carky' Murphy! The Pink Reaper! The Anarchy Engine! And the only person in this arena who's died more times than she can count and kept coming back for seconds."

Carky pumps her shotgun once. The sound echoes beautifully off obsidian. She spins it—a quick, practiced flourish—and settles it back on her shoulder.

"Thirds, actually!" she corrects cheerfully. Her fingers find her bandolier, counting shells by touch. "Fourths, maybe. I lost track around the ninety-seventh respawn." She cocks her head, magenta ponytail swinging. "But who's counting?" Her grin sharpens amused. "Wait, you are. Obviously. That's literally your job!"

She squints up at Nonny through cracked lenses. "D'you know my count? I've been meaning to ask."

"Two hundred and thirty-four!" Nonny says immediately.

Carky's face lights up. She pumps her shotgun again, just for the joy of the sound. "Sick."

---

Nonny ascends back to her central perch, settling into her chair with a satisfied sigh. She adjusts the lumbar support—a quick, practiced twist—and retrieves her beverage from wherever it's been waiting.

"Now then!" She takes a long sip. "The boring part: Rules, regulations, liability waivers, et cetera, et cetera. I know you're all eager to get to the main course, but appetizers exist for a reason."

She holds up one finger.

"Rule the First: No Permanent Death." Her tone shifts to something approaching sincerity. "You'll feel everything. You might even wish you hadn't. But when the smoke clears and your vitals flatline, you'll respawn on the sidelines, thoroughly embarrassed and technically disqualified from that particular round." She nods sarcastically. "Think of it as a participation trophy you didn't want."

Carky nods approvingly, tapping her shotgun's stock. "Grand system! Really adds to the flow."

Nonny holds up a second finger.

"Rule the Second: No Holding Back." Her gaze goes to the participants. "I didn't pluck you from your cozy little corners of existence and drag you across the multiverse to watch you play patty-cake. I want carnage. I want creativity. I want you to look back on this and think, 'Wow, I really should have saved that for therapy.'"

Dean's expression flickers. Her grip on her rifle tightens by a fraction. "And if we don't?"

"Then I get bored!" Nonny's smile doesn't change, but something in the air shifts, and the constellations above flicker. "And bored Nonny is innovative Nonny. You don't want to see my innovation phase." She takes another sip of her Pepsi, casual as anything. "The last time I got bored, an entire galaxy spent six months speaking only in interpretive dance. Also I accidentally provoked a Third Wizard war in a medieval world."

A weighted silence settles over the arena, Dean's finger traces her suppressor again. "...Fair," she mutters.

Nonny holds up a third finger.

"Rule the Third: The Winner Gets Anything. Literally anything." She spreads her hands, inviting. "Within reason. Please don't ask to collapse the multiverse—I did that in season four and the paperwork nearly killed me." She chuckles as if having the time of her infinite life. "Metaphorically, sorta."

She surveys the five women below her, gaze lingering on each face in turn.

"Also, don't ask about me." Her tone turns mock-warning. "That's weird, don't be weird!"

Carky's hand shoots up immediately, bouncing on her heels.

"Yes, Carky?" Nonny smiles friendly.

"Can we ask about your chair?" Her eyes glitter behind cracked lenses. "The lumbar support seems really advanced."

Nonny's expression shifts to something almost reverent. She runs her hand along the chair's back, fingers tracing the contours.

"Finally!" she screams happy, "someone who asks the real questions!"

---

"Oh, and one more thing!" Nonny snaps her fingers. A holographic banner materializes above the arena, emblazoned with corporate logos that shift and writhe. Each one pulses with its own malevolent rhythm. "I'd like to thank our sponsors! Kronos Industries—because time is money, and money is time, and both are ours now." The logo pulses. "Lazarus Biomedical—you died, we fixed it, you're welcome." Another pulse. "And Plot Armor Insurance, for when the narrative just isn't on your side."

The logos swirl twice, then fade into the impossible ceiling.

Nonny settles back into her seat, crosses her legs, raises her can in a mock toast.

"Now." Her voice softens, almost warm. "The floor is yours, ladies. No time limits, and no point system. Just you, your weapons, and the overwhelming desire to be the last one standing." She takes a long sip of her Pepsi.

"Try not to disappoint our public, ladies!" Her eyes gleam over the rim of her can. "I have very high standards and very low impulse control."

---

For a long moment, no one moves.

Five women stand in a loose circle on obsidian stone, beneath a sky of impossible colors, surrounded by the weight of countless eyes. They size each other up in the particular way of people whose profession begins and ends with violence.

---

Marilyn breaks first, because Marilyn always breaks first.

She tilts her head, studying the others with open curiosity rather than tactical assessment. Her hand has relaxed away from her revolver entirely, now resting on her hip. Her thumb hooks into her belt.

"So," she says. Her gaze travels deliberately around the circle. "Space Ranger." A nod to herself. "Sniper." A nod to Dean, who does not nod back. "Spy." Janet's expression does not change. "Gunslinger." Texas Red's smirk deepens by a fraction.

Her gaze lands on Carky, lingers. "And... whatever flavor of chaos you are."

Carky beams. She pumps her shotgun once, twice—a steady rhythm. "Permanent resident of Hell's tourism board." She winks behind cracked lenses. "We don't have brochures, but we do have complimentary shotgun shells."

"Charming." Marilyn's smile is genuine. She reaches up, tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. "I like your hair."

"Thanks!" Carky pats her magenta ponytail fondly. "I died for it! Well, I died in it!" She examines a strand, holds it up to the light. "The color's actually a bitch to maintain, but the bloodstains add depth."

Dean watches this exchange with the expression of someone calculating exactly how many hours of patience she'll need to survive this. Her weight shifts off her left knee. Her rifle dips another degree.

"You're making friends," she observes flatly. Her tone could cut steel. "In a fight to the death."

"Temporary friends," Marilyn corrects. She pulls a crumpled Jolly Rancher wrapper from her jacket, examines it, pockets it again. "There's a difference."

Dean's amber eyes track the motion. "Is there?"

"Sure." Marilyn shrugs, easy as anything. "Permanent friends you have to buy birthday presents for. Temporary friends you just have to outlast."

Dean's mouth twitches. It might be amusement, or It might be the onset of a migraine.

She doesn't respond. But her rifle's safety clicks on.

---

Janet has not moved. Her posture remains impeccable, her expression unreadable. But her gaze sweeps the arena methodically—exits, sightlines, cover, the angles of her opponents' stances, the wear patterns on their weapons.

Marilyn: pilot. Confident, maybe overconfident. Draws right-handed. Tells jokes under pressure. Threat level: moderate.

Dean: sniper. Exhausted, disciplined. Favoring left knee. Rifle's suppressor shows carbon scoring consistent with sustained field use. Threat level: high, at range.

Texas Red: gunslinger. Calm. Too calm. That kind of stillness comes from absolute certainty. Threat level: immediate.

Carky: wildcard. No tactical discipline, but that's not the same as no skill. Moves like she's been in more fights than she can remember. Threat level: unpredictable.

Nonny: primary threat. Cannot be neutralized with conventional methods. Requires further observation.

Janet files all of this away. Her fingers, still clasped behind her back, tap three times.

She says nothing.

---

Texas Red meets Janet's assessment with one of her own. Her pale red eyes track from the spy's pristine ponytail to her polished sneakers. Her gaze lingers on Janet's hands—still clasped behind her back, perfectly still.

Something like contempt flickers across her features. Or maybe recognition.

"You're a soldier," she says. Her drawl makes it an accusation.

"I'm a patriot." Janet's voice is perfectly even. Her posture doesn't shift.

Red's smirk sharpens. Her thumb resumes its slow circles on her revolver's grip. "Same thing, where you're from?"

"No." Janet's gaze doesn't waver. "Where I'm from, soldiers follow orders. Patriots follow principles." Her voice drops, barely audible. "Sometimes the two align, and sometimes they don't."

Red's thumb stops its circling.

She studies Janet for a long, slow moment. Her head tilts, just slightly.

"Huh." Her Texan drawl thickens, almost appreciative. "Might be you ain't as boring as you look."

Janet remains calm. "You might be more predictable than you look."

Red laughs. It's a genuine sound, rough and unpolished. Her hand finally leaves her revolver, settling on her hip. "Ain't you just a little rattlesnake."

---

Carky bounces on her heels, watching the exchange with barely contained glee. Her shotgun rests on her shoulder, swinging gently with her movements. Her fingers tap a rhythm on the stock.

"Oh, this is brilliant." She grins, wide and genuine. "Everyone's so tense and murder-y. Usually I have to wait at least five minutes for the posturing phase." She swings her shotgun off her shoulder, casual as a handbag, and leans on it like a walking stick. "So what's the play here? Free-for-all? Team-ups? Sudden death overtime?"

Her eyes glitter behind cracked lenses.

"I'm flexible." She pats her bandolier. "Figuratively and literally. Hell's got great chiropractors."

Dean pinches the bridge of her nose. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her rifle dips another degree. "You realize," she says slowly, "that we're supposed to kill each other, right?"

"Eventually, sure." Carky waves a hand dismissively. "But 'eventually' is a long time, and I haven't had a decent cup of coffee since I got here." Her grin turns sly. She leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Unless anyone's carrying?"

Absolute silence, she was being ignored.

Carky straightens and her grin falters. She looks around the circle—Marilyn's amused shrug, Dean's flat stare, Janet's perfect impassivity, Texas Red's slow blink.

"No? No one?" She throws her hands up. Her shotgun swings wildly. "Fucking amateurs."

---

Marilyn laughs, the tension in her shoulders finally releasing. She reaches up, rubs the back of her neck.

"Okay," she says. "Okay." She shakes her head, still smiling. "I've hunted pirates. I've dueled aces. I once spent three hours trapped in an escape pod with a Prethoryn hatchling and a broken translator—"

Her smile turns rueful. "This is still the weirdest Tuesday I've ever had."

"It's Monday!" Nonny interjects cheerfully from above. She's somehow acquired a bowl of popcorn.

Marilyn squints up at her. Her head tilts curious. "...For me, or in general?"

"Yes." Nonny answer, absolutely content.

Marilyn considers this. Her thumb finds the worn spot on her jacket sleeve, rubs it absently.

Then she shrugs. She reaches into her jacket, rummages around, and produces a crumpled wrapper. "Jolly Rancher?" She holds it out, offering to the group. Five pairs of eyes stare at the small piece of candy like it's a live grenade.

Carky snatches it before anyone can react. "Called dibs." She has it unwrapped and in her mouth in under two seconds. Her expression shifts to something approaching bliss.

Dean watches the chaos agent suck on her stolen candy with the expression of a woman reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment. "This," she murmurs, "is going to be a long day."

Texas Red tips her hat forward, settling it low over her eyes. Her fingers find the brim, adjust it by a fraction. "Long days," she says, "are the only kind worth havin'."

Janet says nothing. Her gaze remains fixed on Nonny, on the impossible woman sipping her drink and eating her popcorn, on the crowd of spectators and the shifting constellations and the architecture that shouldn't exist.

Protect America, her creed whispers.

But she is not in America. She is not even in her universe. And for the first time in her career, Janet Mason has no mission parameters, no intelligence assets, just contingency plans.

She has only herself, her weapons, her skills, and four other women who are very, very good at killing.

Her fingers find the grip of her custom 1911. Her thumb traces the safety. "Adapt," she tells herself. "Improvise, and overcome. Just another chance to make the impossible, possible."

She waits for the opening she knows is coming.

---

High above, Nonny takes a long sip of her beverage. Her fingers find the lumbar support, adjust it by a fraction. She sighs contentedly. "Now that's what I call a starting line-up!"

She settles deeper into her chair, crosses her ankles, and watches the five predators circle each other on the obsidian floor.

Her smile is slow. Satisfied and patient. "Test your might, ladies!"

The tournament has begun, and the lawyers across the multiverse whimpers.