Work Text:
The hum of the energy field was the first thing Malcolm Wilkerson registered, a low thrumming that vibrated through his very bones. One moment, he was meticulously calculating the trajectory of a rogue paper airplane in his living room, the next, he was standing on a circular platform of cold, grey metal. Above him, a cyclopean eye pulsed with an indifferent blue light. Around him, nothing but a vast, inky void.
"What in the hell is this?" Malcolm muttered, his mind already racing through possibilities: advanced VR, an alien abduction, a particularly elaborate prank by Reese. He instinctively scanned his surroundings, assessing exit strategies, potential threats, environmental variables.
Across the platform, another figure materialized with a distinct pop. He was lean, slightly gangly, with an expression of bewildered innocence that was quickly morphing into wide-eyed terror. This was John Dorian, M.D., surgical resident (or so Malcolm’s suddenly enhanced brain seemed to know).
"Turk? Carla? Dr. Cox? Is this… is this one of my daydreams? Because if it is, it's really dark, even for me! Oh god, am I in the hospital? Did I fall asleep during rounds again?!" J.D. babbled, clutching his chest, his eyes darting frantically around the impossible space.
A booming, disembodied voice echoed through the void, reverberating directly inside their heads. "COMBATANTS, ATTENTION. YOU ARE IN THE CRUCIBLE OF WORLDS. THIS IS A DEATH MATCH. ONLY ONE MAY EMERGE VICTORIOUS. ELIMINATION IS PERMANENT. THE MATCH BEGINS IN SIXTY SECONDS."
Malcolm's breath hitched. Death match. Permanent. He looked at J.D., who was now whimpering, tears welling in his eyes. J.D. looked back, saw the calculating glint in Malcolm's gaze, and flinched.
"No, no, no! This is wrong! I'm a doctor! I save lives! And... and you look like you're about fourteen! We can talk this out, right? We can find a loophole! We're both good guys, mostly! Well, I'm a good guy, you just have that intense, slightly deranged stare, which honestly, I've seen on patients before, usually right before they try to bite the nurse!" J.D. rambled, taking a nervous step back.
Malcolm’s mind was a supercomputer in overdrive. A death match. One must die. It wasn't a game. It wasn't a test. It was absolute. He had to kill this… this man. The thought was sickening, a cold dread colder than any calculus. But then, the primal instinct screamed: Survive.
He quickly analyzed J.D. Not physically imposing. Highly emotional. Prone to distraction. Likely to panic under pressure. Malcolm, on the other hand, was small, but he was quick, resourceful, and his genius intellect was his greatest weapon. He’d survived a household run by Lois, a brother like Reese. He knew chaos. He knew how to adapt.
"THIRTY SECONDS."
The platform began to shift, jagged industrial components rising from the floor, forming makeshift barriers, potential weapons, and treacherous obstacles. A narrow, elevated walkway spiraled around the perimeter.
J.D. let out a small, terrified squeak. "Oh god, oh god, oh god. Turk! Elliot! Somebody! I need an adult! I am an adult! This is terrifying!" He tripped over a rising metal strut, sprawling awkwardly.
Malcolm saw his chance. Panic was an exploitable weakness. He darted towards a section where a thick, rusted pipe jutted out, broken cleanly, leaving a sharp, serrated edge. His hands closed around it, the metal cold and heavy.
"TEN SECONDS."
J.D finally scrambled to his feet, eyes wide. He saw Malcolm with the pipe. "Hey! Wait! We can coordinate! We can break the system! We can... we can just refuse! Like, a double KO! Or we hug it out! I give great hugs!"
"MATCH START."
J.D. took a step forward, arms slightly outstretched in a pathetic plea. "Malcolm, right? Look, you seem smart. We can figure this out! We're not animals!"
Malcolm didn't hesitate. He charged, not with brute force, but with the calculated precision of a coiled spring. He wasn't strong enough to just bludgeon J.D., but he could outmaneuver him. He feigned right, then ducked low, sweeping the pipe in a wide arc towards J.D.'s legs.
J.D. yelped, leaping back with surprising agility, his hospital reflexes kicking in. "Whoa! Reflexes! See? I'm nimble! This is not going to be easy for you, kiddo! I've dodged more flying scalpels than you've had hot dinners!"
Malcolm pivoted, his mind already three steps ahead. J.D.'s biggest asset was his unpredictability, but his biggest flaw was his emotional vulnerability. He was still trying to reason, to empathize. Malcolm wasn't. He was in survival mode.
He scrambled up a pile of metal debris, gaining a vantage point. J.D. looked up, still pleading. "Malcolm, think! What would your mom say? What would your dad say? What would your therapist say? Mine would say, 'J.D., you're projected onto this small genius because he reminds you of your own untapped potential, now give him a hug!'"
Malcolm ignored him, eyes scanning for environmental hazards. He noticed a section of the platform was less stable than the rest, a series of loose grates covering a dark chasm below. He grinned, a cold, humorless expression.
"Hear me out, Malcolm!" J.D. continued, trying to circle around. "We're both just… trying to navigate adolescence! Or, well, your adolescence, my prolonged adolescence! We should be bonding over mutual existential dread, not trying to murder each other!"
Malcolm suddenly feigned a stumble, dropping the pipe with a clatter. J.D., ever the empath, paused. "Are you okay? Did you twist your ankle? I know basic first aid! I'm a doctor!"
"Gotcha," Malcolm whispered.
As J.D. took a concerned step forward, Malcolm pressed a hidden switch on a nearby console (which he'd spotted while "stumbling"). A section of the walkway J.D. was standing on suddenly tilted downwards.
J.D. shrieked, flailing wildly. "Aah! Gravity! My old nemesis! And engineering! Also a nemesis! Oh god, I'm falling!" He slid, scrabbling for purchase, narrowly catching himself on a jagged metal beam. He hung precariously, several feet above the dark abyss, his legs dangling.
Malcolm moved quickly, picking up a shard of metal, sharper than the pipe. He approached the edge, looking down at J.D., whose face was a mask of pure, unadulterated terror.
"Please! Malcolm! Think of the hippocratic oath! The hypodermic oath! We could be friends! We could be nemesis-friends! You could be my younger, smarter, slightly more psychopathic sensei! We could get frozen yogurt after this!" J.D. begged, his voice cracking.
Malcolm saw the desperation, the pure, unmasked fear. He saw the humanity. And for a fleeting second, his genius stalled. This wasn't a problem to solve. This was a person. A scared, babbling, ridiculous person who saved lives.
But then, the chilling reality crashed back. Only one may emerge victorious. Elimination is permanent. If he hesitated, J.D., despite his pleas, might claw his way up. He had to finish this. It was him or J.D.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, picturing Lois, picturing Reese punching him, picturing the endless chaos that had honed him into this cold, calculating machine. He opened them. The empathy was gone, replaced by a grim resolve.
"I'm sorry," Malcolm whispered, his voice oddly flat. He wasn't sorry for what he was going to do, but for the universe that made him do it.
With a final, desperate cry of "Eaaaaagle!", J.D. tried to pull himself up, his fingers scrabbling. But Malcolm was faster. He plunged the sharp metal shard downward, aiming for a vital spot, not with malice, but with the chilling precision of a surgeon.
J.D.'s scream was cut short, a gasp of disbelief and pain. His grip loosened. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at Malcolm for a moment that stretched into eternity. Then, with a final, wet gurgle, he slipped, vanishing into the inky blackness below.
Silence. The hum of the energy field seemed deafening now. Malcolm stood, the improvised weapon still clutched in his hand, his knuckles white. There was no cheering, no fanfare. Just the vast, indifferent void and the pulsing blue eye above.
He felt sick. His stomach churned. He had done it. He had killed someone. His genius had led him to this, to murder.
"VICTOR: MALCOLM WILKERSON." The Arbiter's voice boomed, devoid of emotion, a mere statement of fact.
Malcolm dropped the shard. It clattered loudly on the metal platform. He looked down at his hands, hands that had just extinguished a life. He had spent his childhood trying to escape the madness, trying to rise above it, to be better. But here, in this cruel arena, the madness had found him, and forced him to embrace it.
He was the victor. He was alive. But he had never felt more dead. The Crucible of Worlds lay silent around him, waiting for the next match, waiting for the next victim, waiting for him to become even more of a monster. He just stood there, a boy who had just killed a man, and wondered if he would ever be able to breathe freely again.