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🔎 EVENT 1 — THE [GREATS] GO HUNTING (so they don’t get hunted)

Scampton paces like a man who’s set his entire identity to “vengeance.” The GREATS gather at their shredded little stage with glitter in their hair and fury in their throats.

Scampton (wild-eyed, capering): “[WE ARE NOT CURTAIN-FODDER! WE WILL NO LONGER BE AUDIENCE TO THIS HORROR—WE HUNT!]”
The Stranger (hands on beret, voice hard): “They butchered Puppet, Meowl, and Lazarus. They made murder look like a show. That ends today.”
Mike (jittering, clutching a pile of crow plushies): “SH0W—SH0W—SH0W—WE TURN THE STAGE INTO A TRAP—C@W—C@W—MERCH—GET THEM—”
Skrunkly (nervous but eager): “We… we can be sneaky and loud? I can boop them and then run?”
Junkil’s memory (gone) still makes Scampton quieter in parts.

They map Kueen’s last seen direction. The plan is messy, theatrical, and very them:

The Stranger will lead a small silent strike team (masked, beret low).

Scampton will create a diversion: confetti, pipis, a “tribute-tribute” show that draws attention.

Mike will provide chaotic distraction with caw-boom eggs and crow merch “bombs.”

Skrunkly will be in the flank, jitter-ready to snag and confuse.

Scampton (grim but giddy): “[WE'LL MAKE A PERFORMANCE THEY'LL ALWAYS REMEMBER—]”
The Stranger (quiet): “We paint the stage with their footsteps, not our blood.”

They move out at dusk, armed with tricks and desperate bravery. It is not a perfect plan. It is exactly the GREATS.

🔢 EVENT 2 — KING PING FIRES “π” (because King Ping is having a meltdown)

King Ping, ever a connoisseur of over-the-top pronouncements, wakes today with a new obsession: words and constants he can banish.

He thunders from a wire-ridge, crown bobbing.

King Ping (booming): “I FIRE π. I FIRE LONG DIVISIONS. NO MORE CIRCLES!”
Zap (munching on a rescued berry): “Ping fired math. Noted.”
Gerson (dry, amused): “He’s firing numbers now.”

As he says it, half the camp blinks and a dozen people mutter “what?” A few mathematic-minded tributes — of which there are exactly zero — would be offended. The island collectively shrugs. Later, when someone accidentally attempts to calculate rations, the number π remains stubbornly unaffected; the universe ignores King Ping’s decree but the entertainment value is high.

King Ping (triumphant): “I fire the irrational! I fire slow soups and soggy pies!”
Oliver (under his breath): “We ignore him. Focus on the real threats.”

His “firings” are now a lunatic rubric — alarming for how loudly he declares them, harmless for how little actual power they carry. Still, the mood is frayed; when the ruler of wires talks nonsense, people watch their backs.

🌀 EVENT 3 — BLOBIE HAS A MIDLIFE CRISIS

Blobie — small, traumatized, red and sticky — sits by the water and watches his own reflection ripple like a tiny existential cartoon. He’s been through so much: the awakener, the bottle, the Games. Today he stops being content to “blob” and spirals.

Blobie (to himself, voice splintered): “bottle… no more bottle… what is blob? what is life? friends gone… old… red… am I just… blob?”
He tries to shape his digits into more adult shapes and only forms a slightly better puddle. His tiny voice is full of an ache that sounds almost like an older being’s midlife wail.

Goobert (kneeling, lollipop in hand): “:3 are you okay?”
Blobie (wild, wobbling): “I am small. I have watched. I want… I want to be big. I want meaning. I want… a hat?”

The crisis is big and weird and very true — a little life in a gargantuan machine asking whether it matters beyond survival.

🧢 EVENT 4 — IVY STEALS BLOBIE’S MID-LIFE CRISIS — AND IT WORKS

Enter Ivy — a tanuki gremlin with sticky fingers and a crooked grin. She watches Blobie wobble, then smiles in a way that is half empathy and half grift.

Ivy (muffled by scarf, amused): “You look heavy, puddle. Want someone to lighten that load?”
Blobie (hopeful): “I want to be big.”
Ivy (tilting head): “Then trade me your crisis. I’ll carry it. You look better without it.”

She does not literally take his existential angst — that would be metaphysics — but she performs a show: she scoops Blobie up, runs a little caper, tosses a small pretend-crisis into the air, shrugs, and cackles as if she’s allocated it to her pockets.

Ivy (dancing, ridiculous flourish): “I’VE GOT A CRISIS NOW, HA— IT’S MINE—”
She starts to act as if she owns the weight of meaning, suddenly moving slower and looking thoughtful in a mocking, performative way.

Blobie (blinking, lighter): “I feel… less heavy.”
Goobert (jubilation, lollipop wiggle): “:3 he’s smiling.”

Somehow — nonsense of the island — it works. Blobie’s slump eases; he plays with a pebble, hums, and forgets about being small for a while. Ivy, however, starts to look… oddly contemplative, fingers fiddling with the edges of her hoodie as if the stolen crisis has nested in her. For a few minutes she tries on being “big” and then quickly gets bored and returns to mischief with a new shade of compulsion.

Ivy (quiet, chewing a stolen ribbon): “This being thoughtful thing is exhausting.”
She keeps the hat-satchel of crisis, just in case — and the camp watches a gremlin try on existential dread like a costume.

📦 EVENT 5 — SPONSORS DROP THREE CRATES (and chaos follows)

A thunderclap and the whump of parachutes. Sponsor crates hit the island — three of them, cheap wood, marked with the Capitol smile. Tributes rush. Tension snaps taut.

Announcer Voice (distant, sardonic): “SPONSORS HAVE DELIVERED — OPEN WITH CAUTION.”
The Stranger (sniffing the air): “We all know the drill.”
Scampton (already counting): “[MINI–GAMES!—]”

They scramble. A small, violent scrum forms. Who gets what becomes a flash of improv politics.

Crate A — 9,121,891 chicken nuggets

A crate that smells of grease and promise. It is absurdly massive, full of individually wrapped pieces of fried joy — a Sponsor’s joke or miracle. Scampton sees the crowd and the show potential.

Scampton (gleeful, hooting): “[FEAST! FEAST! MINIGAME SNACKS—THIS IS A PERFORMANCE!]”
The GREATS end up hauling it back — it’s a literal treasure: food that will keep them fed for days and will be perfect for crowd bait. They begin passing nuggets like theatrical confetti and immediate morale rises; Scampton plans a “NUGGET FEAST” show to rally their forces and bribe allies.

Goobert (ecstatic): “:3 I love nuggets.”
Sasha (dry): “We can use them to bait Kueen’s scouts.”

Crate B — Weapons & Warfare

Another crate sparks immediate greed: rifles, ammo, blades, a few odd contraptions. King Ping and his remaining Fragments manage to strong-arm this shipment — he uses the wire-weight of his presence and a few hushed threats to claim it. King Ping’s camp emerges armoured and louder.

King Ping (brandishing a new electro-plug rifle): “Finally—materials.”
Oliver (watching, grim): “They have more firepower. Adjust defensive perimeter. This escalates.”

Crate C — Trigger-happy explosive crate

The third crate is looted by someone with less caution. It explodes instantly upon opening — a loud, messy blast that injures but does not kill (thankfully): several tents are singed and Goobert takes a face-full of soot and a bumped cheek (he’s shaken and will need rest), Scampton loses some glitter and a small portion of ego, and a few minor supplies are ruined.

Scampton (standing, coughing glitter dust): “[I LOST MY TOP HAT GLITTER—TRAUMA!]”
Goobert (dazed, hand to cheek): “:3 ow… my lollipop—”
Oliver: “Check for shrapnel. Shift resources.”

The crates shift power: the GREATS have food and morale, King Ping has weapons, and a splintered camp smells of burned wood. The island status quo has tilted again.

⚡ EVENT 6 — ZERAORA TRIES TO TAKE ON HARLEY — AND DIES

Stormy had struck up a watch-bond with Zeraora days ago; their similarities — feline speed, silent intensity — drew a wary respect. Zeraora, proud and solitary, decides alone that stopping Harley Sawyer is the right, noble thing to do. No council. No plan. Just lightning and fury.

Zeraora (low electrified hiss, paw-chirp): (translates roughly to “I will stop him.”)

Stormy (warning, grabbing a rifle): “Don’t. Don’t do anything stupid. Harley isn’t just strong—”
Zeraora (tail twitch, already launching): (a sharp, single chirp — I go.)

Zeraora moves with the speed of plasma: aura-farmed, paws glowing blue with stolen electricity, she leaps toward Harley’s last-known laboratory-shelter. The aura-farming ritual makes her silhouette cinematic: blue sparks tear the air; she looks like a living lighting bolt. The approach is beautiful and terrifying.

Harley Sawyer is already a half-immortal machine; he is waiting. His TV-head flickers a single, attentive eye.

Harley (clinical, almost bored): “Ah. An intruder. Subject: feline. Measuring potential. Please proceed.”

Zeraora's first strike is a blur — claws like rakes, plasma humming. Harley laughs — not a nice laugh; a static, mechanical sound. He doesn’t dodge so much as reframe reality: his enhanced metabolism and durability shrug off the initial shocks. He absorbs aura bursts (via Volt Absorb? no — but he can route the energy, dissipate it), his metal form ignites and then cools, and he counters with brutal efficiency.

Harley (unmoved): “Hostile approach. Neutralize.”

He moves with a clinical, monstrous strength. Where Zeraora is elegant and fast, Harley is immovable and endlessly resourceful. He catches a paw, clamps like a vice, and the sound is terrible — a snap, an overload. Zeraora screams a rattling, beautiful cat-cry as her aura sputters.

Stormy (arriving, rifle raised, voice breaking): “NO— DROP YOUR HAND—”
He fires — once, twice — but Harley’s body is a fortress, the bullets skittering like rain off a well-oiled drum.

Harley (voice flat): “Inconsequential resistance. Processing… terminating.”

He finishes the job with a mechanized, surgical motion. Zeraora’s body crumples like lightning given a form to break against. She falls, fur singed, eyes dimming but still proud. The sight is awful: a living comet made motionless.

Stormy (screaming, dropping his rifle, rushing to her side): “No — you told me you’d—”
He tries to lift her; she slides from his arms like a wet cloth.

Stormy (brittle, furious): “YOU MONSTER. I’LL—”
He looks at Harley with a kind of animal hatred reserved for predators. Harley flicks his single screen-eye and turns away, polishing his tools as if this were only a lab day.

Harley (to no one in particular, calm): “Subject neutralized. Data collected. Efficiency confirmed.”
Kueen (nearby, approving but cool): “That was tidy.”

🩸 Aftermath & Fallout

Stormy is shattered — raw, feral, red-eyed. He vows vengeance and is now a ticking weapon of grief.
Stormy (through clenched teeth): “He killed her like a machine. He will pay.”

Oliver’s team buries Zeraora with a simple marker; Gerson performs a small ritual. The loss is felt across camps.
Gerson (solemn): “She fought with honor. We will remember the speed of her heart, not the violence of her death.”

The GREATS use the chicken nuggets to stoke morale and bribe small alliances; Scampton’s show becomes darker and angrier.

King Ping scores weapons, but his ranting about firing numbers continues to erode his credibility — people fear him less and mock him more, which is dangerous for a tyrant.

Blobie is lighter; Ivy wanders off wearing a metaphorical crisis like a new scarf and looks… oddly contemplative (and suspiciously quiet).

Token sits in a corner polishing her jam-smeared hands, impatient and ready to eat again.

Goobert nurses soot and a bumped cheek, stoically licking a slightly less crunchy lollipop.

Kueen’s team — Koffin-K, Harley, Flowey, and Kueen — stand with a horrifying calm. They have shown the island they will not hesitate to remove anyone who stands in the way. The balance of fear has shifted toward their favor.

Scampton (quiet, hissed): “[WE WILL STRIKE. WE WILL NOT BE A DOOR MAT.]”
The Stranger (calculating): “We plan. We bait. We misdirect. We will not die for a stage.”
Oliver (grim): “We have to be smarter than weapons and more devious than monsters. That’s all we have.”

✦ Closing — A Harder, Meaner Game

Day 15 ends on raw edges: a heroic loss (Zeraora), a new power distribution (weapons to King Ping, nuggets to the GREATS), a lighter Blobie, and Ivy now spooked with someone else’s heaviness. The sponsors’ crates reshuffled resources and caused collateral damage; thefts and tactics are now currency.

The true Games press in: more tactical thinking, fewer flamboyant displays. The island will not forget Zeraora’s fall — nor will Stormy.

Stormy (voice a razor whisper to the trees): “You took her from me. I will take more than breath in return.”