Conan, Mewo, Arabmogus shared template

🌙 Scene 1 — King Ping’s Spectacular Unemployment Blitz

The Fragments’ remnant camp sits in a brittle circle. King Ping prowls, crown glowing. He’s been humiliated twice now by the island’s chaos and decides to reclaim authority the only way he knows how: bureaucracy meets tantrum.

He steps forward, grandly, and declares:

King Ping (thunderous): “ORDER! STRUCTURE! REORGANIZATION!”
He raises a wire-finger like a gavel.

A pebble sits in his path just so; he trips over it with a graceless stumble. He rights himself, hair-wire crackling.

King Ping (indignant, pointing at the pebble): “YOU’RE FIRED.”

The pebble does not respond. The act, however, has unlocked something in him.

King Ping (voice escalating): “YOU’RE FIRED—MIKE! MIKE IS FIRED.”
He points at Mike CrowFone, who is literally here and also not — Mike freezes mid-gesture, eyes wide.

Mike (flinching, flaring his voice like a badly tuned speaker): “W̴̷H̡̛A̢̨T—? NO—NOT—YO—U—CAN’T—M!—”
King Ping (delighted): “I FIRE THE WORD ‘FIRE’!”

He claps. The word rings like a bell. Somewhere in the trees, letters tumble.

King Ping (continuing, giddy): “I FIRE THIS SENTENCE! I FIRE THE FOURTH DIMENSION! I FIRE 17 RED ANTS!”

A tiny rumble — seventeen red ants scurry away from under a log as if startled by an imaginary boss. The forest stares.

King Ping (breathless, crowing): “I FIRE SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T EVEN EXIST! I FIRE—GOKU—WHO ISN’T EVEN IN OUR REALITY! I FIRE PLANET NEPTUNE!”

Somewhere, the sea does not notice, but a gull blinks twice. Mike clutches at his head and whispers nonsense to anyone who’ll listen.

Mike (shaky, half-laughing): “Th!s 1s @n ǝldɯɐxǝ — I’m fired from everything but my own head! Brilliant! SIGN ME!”

Zap (from his leaf-pile, very serious): “Ping angry. Ping fire pebble. Pebble sad.”
King Ping (proud): “Yes! That! That’s discipline.”

The camp oscillates between laughter, eye-rolls, and rising worry — because King Ping’s tantrum, however nonsensical, is a sign that the wire-king is spiraling and that unpredictability is now another weapon.

🎶 Scene 2 — Sasha & Lazarus Try to Play; Koffin-K Interrupts

Sasha and Lazarus decide tonight will be about memory. They set up lanterns, tune, and promise a quiet, solemn set for the fallen: Meowl, the Hornet, and everyone else whose name still hurts to say.

Sasha (soft, fingers on strings): “We do one slow, then lift. For them.”
Lazarus (sticks tapping a heartbeat): “Keep it simple. Keep it honest.”

People gather in a ring: Oliver’s team, some of The GREATS who still feel shame, Scampton with watery eyes, and a few of the Fragments who didn’t like what Kueen did. The song begins — slow, an aching groove — and for a few minutes the island breathes together.

Lazarus (sings, rough and true): “We remember the small things / The hush after a laugh—”
The music swells.

From the edge of the light, a shadow twines into the glow: Count Koffin-K, magenta sparkles trailing, hat tipped like a villain stepped out of a noir film. He doesn’t clap. He does not wait for the end.

Count Koffin-K (soft, theatrical): “Forgive me, darlings. But this dirge — so sweet, so thin. Permit me to contribute a little—flourish.”

He flicks a card. A fan of translucent blades arcs through the air. Cards are his ballet. The cards slice the night and something catches on one — a note of Lazarus’ beat, a string, and then a shoulder.

Lazarus (startled): “What—?”
A card glances, precise and cruel. He staggers.

Sasha (horrified): “Lazarus—!”
Lazarus tries to sing it away, but the wound is clean, quick. He keels and hits the earth. The drumstick drops like a metronome stopping mid-click.

Lazarus (voice small): “It… stopped.”
He looks at Sasha, reaches for the vibraphone… and the light drains from his face.

The circle erupts. Sasha’s hands collapse into strings, a soundless scream twisting through the chords. Scampton flips from grief to rage in a heartbeat.

Scampton (screaming): “[YOU—KOFFIN! YOU—]”
Count Koffin-K (applauding softly): “Bravo. A note of terror always improves the performance.”

Sasha (on her knees, voice cracked): “Why—why would you—”
Count Koffin-K (crooked smile): “Because the audience demanded it. Because I wanted the hush.”

The scene collapses into panic. Someone lunges at Koffin-K; he is a hat and a coat and two pairs of eyes that blink like a conjurer. Bats explode from his collar, a swarm that shears at the edges of lamps and hair. They bite and disappear into the night like thrown punctuation.

⏰ Scene 3 — The Clock Keeps Ticking

Somewhere in the clearing, the Clock stands as it always does — tuxedo immaculate, hands precise. It does not move from its post. It does not speak. But tonight its ticking is louder to some: a metronome that counts the rhythm of a dying camp.

Cassie (whisper, eyes on the Clock): “It just… keeps time.”
Scampton (between sobs): “[IT JUDGES NOTHING—]”
The Stranger (bitter): “It reminds us we have limits.”

The Clock’s impartiality is almost cruel; while murder and madness ride the air, it continues to tick: an indifferent counter to chaos.

🍉 Scene 4 — Token Mistakes Doctor Mario for a Watermelon

Doctor Mario, bless his ridiculous coat and worse morals, had been prowling the field all night, hawking pills and making people queasy with his smiles. He wanders into the same clearing where Token is pacing like a caged animal.

Doctor Mario (cheery, oblivious): “Step right up! A gentle sedative for your nerves — much needed after such a performance.”
He grins and lifts a peculiar satchel — the color and sheen catch Token’s eyes in a very wrong way.

Token’s face snaps into a hungry, instinctive grin.

Token (licking her lips, words clipped): “Watermelon? Good watermelon. I’m hungry.”
She lunges with the speed of someone who loves the dramatic and the visceral.

What follows is swift and terrible but not pornographic: Token attacks with the feral, animal quickness of a creature who has been unspooled for chaos. Doctor Mario doesn’t get a chance to scream a proper line. Token pounces, scoops him up, and begins tearing into him with rapt, terrible focus — thinking, in the small, fractured logic of her mind, that she’s devouring a melon. She chews. The noise is awful; people look away.

Mr AntTenna (face-screen stuttering): “THAT—IS—INCORRECT! DOCTOR MARIO!”
Scampton (nauseous rage): “[NO—NOT THE DOCTOR—]” (a lot of us hoped the doctor would just be an obnoxious figure, not a test subject)

Within minutes Token finishes. She sits back, a smear of very dark jam at her mouth, and licks her fingers like someone at a picnic.

Token (satisfied, burping): “Mmm. Watermelon. Tastes like malpractice.”
The clearing is horrified silence. Doctor Mario is no more; his coat is abandoned like a bad prop. No one is brave enough to approach the scene.

Gerson (softly, with the weary patience of an old man): “That was… an escalation.”
Cumulus (cloud voice small): “We must help those left behind.”
Sasha (vague and shaken): “I… I need to sit.”

🔁 Scene 5 — King Ping Fires the Last Four Events (and everyone’s patience)

King Ping, still high from his meta-firing spree earlier, decides to compound the chaos. He uses his pronouncements as a ridiculous form of crowd control and announces over and over that he “fires” tonight’s last four events — as if by decree he can revoke their reality.

He points a wire-finger at Token’s stunned, jam-covered grin.

King Ping (loud): “YOU’RE FIRED — THE LAST FOUR EVENTS ARE FIRED! I FIRE THE SONG! I FIRE THE DOCTOR! I FIRE THE BATS! I FIRE THAT CLOCK! I FIRE—”

He sputters through dozens of absurd firings: he fires the moon, he fires a bucket of rain, he fires a joke no one remembers — and the crowd goes from horror to exhausted, dark laughter. The absurdity is a pressure-release valve the island needs bad or good; it doesn’t change anything, but it makes people feel slightly less like they’re drowning.

King Ping (breathing hard): “You are all on notice. Fired. Fired. Fired.”
Scampton (furious): “[YOU CANNOT FIRE THE DEAD—]”
King Ping (fiery): “I just did. You are technically—”
The argument dissolves into something like a ridiculous pantomime. Someone claps slowly — it’s a nervous, hollow sound.

🌌 Aftermath & Reactions

The clearing is a ruin of emotions. People react in small and large ways:

Sasha sits with blood on her hands and a look that will not leave her eyes. She is the one who witnessed Lazarus fall. Her music is broken into a thousand jagged pieces; she will not play the same way for a long time.
Sasha (whisper, to no one and everyone): “He was… my rhythm. He’s gone.”

Scampton turns grief into incandescent rage. He rallies The GREATS into plotting a smear, revenge spectacle, or actual hit — any of which would earn the island’s breath.
Scampton (high, raw): “[WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED—]”

The GREATS: some of them, traumatized, want vengeance; some are terrified and want to flee; others want to build traps. The group splits along old lines.

Oliver’s Team: pragmatic, cold, and focused — they set new patrols, new trips to gather info on Kueen’s team. Oliver’s face is hard.
Oliver (firm): “We fortify. We do not engage unless we can win.”

King Ping: momentarily king of absurdity, now a dangerous presence with no clear restraint. The “firing” antics have undermined respect and increased fear in equal measures.

Grimm: delighted. He smiles a snake-smile and begins whispering new rumors about who will turn, feeding paranoia like a starving artist.
Grimm (soft, pleased): “The plot thickens. Delicious.”

The Clock: still ticking. Its cool metronome is a ragged heartbeat against an island gone mad. Some say it is waiting; others say it is counting down. No one wants to test which interpretation is true.

⚖️ Final Notes — Damage, Division, and a Darker Night

Deaths tonight: Lazarus (killed by Koffin-K’s interrupting blade-cards) and Doctor Mario (eaten by Token in a savage, frenzied instant). Both deaths are blunt, terrible punctuation marks. The island’s body count grows; so does the ferocity of retaliation rhetoric.

Sasha is shattered; she will either break or become a cold, honed thing.

Token is a living danger — nobody knows whether she’ll be contained or courted.

Kueen’s team has proven ruthless and efficient; Harley’s clinical horror combined with Koffin-K’s theatrical violence exposes a terrifying synergy of science and showmanship.

King Ping is now less a leader and more a walking absurdity grenade; his tantrums are unpredictable but unsettling.

The Clock continues to tick. It neither judges nor intervenes — it only measures.

Scampton (to the crowd, voice wanting to explode): “[WE STRIKE BACK. WE WILL SHOW THEM WE ARE NOT JUST AUDIENCE! WE WILL—]”
Oliver (quiet, deadly): “We do not strike blind. We gather evidence. We set traps. We cut their resources. We do not become them.”

The night is long and mean. Friendships fracture into jagged alliances; people whisper of strikes, ambushes, hidden traps. Someone lights a small ceremonial fire in memory of Lazarus; the song that rises is one of ashes and teeth.

The Clock (soft tick, as a last thing you hear): tick… tick… tick.