Description: When Kyle Travers takes it upon himself to keep his 'hood clean, he gets more than he bargained for after destroying the motorcycle of the leader of the very gang that has been running rampant in his city.
Finding where Crash himself is staying happens to be a remarkably arduous task; The Hellraiser's central hierarchy moves around so often that even Metro City police cannot pin them down enough to launch any strike teams, or for that matter fully tag the identity of the leader beyond his street name. Then again, they don't utilize tactics that might be quasi-legal in third world countries. The first thing Kyle has learned is that Hellraisers are obscenely tough. Taking on two of them at once would be a hell of an uphill battle, which might underline the sheer power this drug has. The other is that they are remarkably content to tell Kyle exactly where the man is. "You ain't nothing to Crash!" "We'll send you to your grave!!" Far too arrogant. All have two things in common. The black leather jacket with flame painting from cuffs to elbows and HELLRAISERS in red on the back, and usually vibrantly colored hair. They stick out like a sore thumb.
But the information was correct.
Within a street far in the warm embrace of the slums, about nine Hellraisers are loitering in the street. They are causing mild amounts of trouble amongst themselves, but little in the surrounding area. As a matter of fact, local gangs are utterly cowed, and even criminal elements do not openly show themselves in places Crash settles. A small amount of vandalism and street fights is a good price to pay, if one keeps their head down. It seems they are in front of a local strip bar; 'The Full Monty'. Crash is never directly visible, but how Kyle might plan to get past the entourage is another matter entirely.
Crack enough heads and you'll learn what you want to know every time. That's how it's always worked for Kyle -- survival and hood maintenance first, everything else later. If you gotta circumvent conventional police tactics a little, hey -- price of doing business. Worked for Cody, didn't it? Shanking his way through all of Mad Gear from Metro City's ass end to its well-decorated head? It's in a Travers's blood to do this kind of thing, and Kyle -- even though he's fresh, inexperienced, with all the potential in the world but not yet the knowledge of how to use it -- certainly carries that legacy well.
Kyle stays around the corner from the strip bar for a little while, looking over to the group of Hellraisers and thinking for a minute. He's gotta be careful if he wants to get them to scatter. Fortunately for him, these streets are his -- he knows them like he knows himself. The man the gangsters sometimes call 'Kung Fu' reaches around in a dumpster on the same corner he's on, and begins to rummage a little. He's got only one chance to do something like this, so he has to make it count. Reaching into the dumpster, he pulls out an empty bottle and a nasty-looking rag, sneaking a little deeper into the alley. His car's parked here, and it's no surprise what he does next -- he takes the spare gasoline in the back (Kyle hates waiting for a gas station if he's at less than 1/4), and pours some into the bottle.
The last step of Kyle's plan is supremely stupid and might get him killed just as soon as it'll work, but it might at least get some of the Burnouts to scatter. The young man climbs part of the way up the fire escape, looking for that nice, shiny motorcycle... and can't keep the grin off his face as he lights the rag on fire and gives it a good, hard whip toward that vehicle.
It'll certainly get the leader's attention, if nothing else.
Amongst the many detrimental qualities of Burn, being aware is not one thing granted. The loitering Kyle hasn't been noticed by the gang, a pair of whom have broken into a fistfight over the pronunciation of a slang term as the rest cheer and hoot, pumping fists into the air. They are rolling around on the ground before the flash of fire and smoke. For about five seconds nothing immediately happens. More interested in the brawl, after all. Then one mohawked head turns. Then another. Finally all of them are staring at the motorcycle, including the man straddling a fellow Hellraiser with his fist pulled back.
The sleek, black motorcycle is utterly ruined, decals peeling off and tires melting. "Oh!" "Damn!" "Th-That's Crash's wheels, man!" They look to be at a loss, skittering back and forth about three meters away and recoiling from the heat, one of them throwing a beer can towards it. One cannot fathom the reasoning behind this. They aren't scattering, but they are distracted. Not enough to get in the door, but if someone wanted to smuggle a few elephants past it would be prime opportunity.
KABOOOOOOOOOOM!
Finally the motorcycle explodes, and everyone was too stupid to get far enough away. All eight are knocked over, the shattered wreckage smoldering brighter. Testament to Burn, none of them are more then dazed, picking themselves up and laughing, losing sight of the severity for how awesome it was. "Man!" "Ahahaha! I gotta try a molotov..." "Who threw that, anyway?"
It's only then that the door bursts open, and an incredibly meek individual walks out. Five foot nine, maybe 160 soaking wet, with tossled blond hair and an oversized coat with the left sleeve cut off. He's holding a handful of dollar bills, and seeming incredibly aggravated. "The fucking hell are you guys doin--"
Then he drops all of his money and grips the side of his head. "OH! OH!! M,MY RIDE!!"
Crash begins to walk around about three meters off from the burning remains, exactly like the others had done earlier.
Man, Kyle thinks from his fire escape vantage point, these guys are completely out of it. They really have no comprehension of reality, pain, or really anything else -- they're just power tooling around, purposeless. They don't even care about survival. And this is the kind of shit that goes on three streets down from where he lives and fights and drinks?
Fuck that.
Travers knows the profile on these guys. They're big and dumb and think they're hot shit, especially when they're coked up. Either they hide behind their goons entirely or they want to do it straight-on -- either option's fine with Kyle. If he couldn't handle it he couldn't live here. He jumps down from the fire escape, looking to Crash and rolling his neck. "Hey, jackass!" he yells, drawing attention to himself immediately as he reaches over and picks up one of Metro City's myriad convenient discarded crowbars. "We don't /take/ your gang-banging in this city. You got half a minute to ride side-saddle out of here with one of your buddies before I put this thing through you." Ah, vigilante justice -- the best kind!
When Kyle makes his appearance, Crash looks up from the shattered motorcycle. And boy is he pissed. The yanked up crowbar isn't even registered as a threat. But there's a sharp contrast that might be noticed by Kyle, if he truly is perceptive. First is that the Hellraisers have scattered, giving Crash a wide berth with a genuine air of fear, piercing even through the muddled haze of nigh delusional and adrenaline-fueled high. He's almost revered akin to a cult in this gang, after all. The second is that Crash... ...is not high. His eyes are clear, sharp, and intelligent. Compared to the muddied glass of the others, it might be noted.
"You little... You're the bitch that torched my bike, huh?" Crash is not a hand's on man. He's content to have everyone else do his work. To sit on his throne of rubbish and lord over these fawning fools, at least until the scene is ready. But this... this is too far. He flexes his hands, narrowing his eyes. A few steps are taken to settle himself opposite Kyle, shoulders rolling in apparent preparation.
"Oh! Oh, man! Crash is--He's gonna open one!!"
"Damn!!"
"Woooo! You're a dead man!!"
The makeshift choir of Hellraisers continues to hoot and cry behind, Crash cracking his neck. He certainly doesn't look to be anything special. But Kyle won himself a direct fight with the head of the entire gang. Not an opportunity many would skip.
COMBATSYS: Crash has started a fight here.
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Crash 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Kyle has joined the fight here.
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Crash 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Kyle
COMBATSYS: Crash takes no action.
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Crash 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Kyle
... well well, isn't /that/ interesting. The leader of the gang of Burnouts, yet he's sharp, clear, focused. That's downright scary, and Kyle knows that that's the first sign that someone is more than they let on. The fact that the goons unintimidated by exploding vehicles are intimidated by Crash, too, tells him something -- he needs to take this slow, even, and methodically. He isn't just a thug -- there's a brain rattling around in that head of his.
Kyle stays back, like Crash, but he doesn't spend that time just staring. "So you're these guys' leader, huh," he starts, moving from side to side, getting ready for the worst. "Tell me -- what do you have that makes you any better than the guys Cody and Haggar ripped up? What've you got on anyone else?" (Poor Guy, he is forgotten.) Kyle starts to feel out every inch of the streets, catching everything in his peripheral vision. Weapons. High ground. Spots where the environment could easily cave on a man. Anything that could give him an edge, because he knows he's going to need every edge he can find.
"And yeah, I trashed your bike. Pity it was the only way I could catch your attention. That was a damn nice bike." Cracking a smile at Crash, he goes fully into his stance at last, now that he's satisfied with his grip on the environment. "Pity the quality of the rider ain't so hot."
COMBATSYS: Kyle focuses on his next action.
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Crash 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Kyle
"So you're some punk vigilante tryin' to clean up the street?" Crash states, smiling in a predatory fashion while thumbing his nose. Palaver is allowed, mostly due to what seems personal amusement as opposed to anything else. "Every one of us is from Metro City. Born and raised. All of us fell through the cracks into a life they didn't want. Ignored. Overlooked. Stepped on, day in and day out, year after year. ...We got our chance to shine like a star, huh? And Metro City's gonna be our stage. If every one of us didn't have nowhere to turn, you really think we'd be usin' this stuff? Don't be blamin' me. Blame Haggar lettin' his town fall to shit." There's a few hollared agreements from the Hellraisers; Kyle probably just gave him more opportunity to be an orator as opposed to anything else.
But it seems Kyle is truly itching to find out just what Crash is capable of. Well, no matter. One hand opens, and sheathes with intense yellow chi, wisping akin to fire. Not nearly to such aesthetic ability as Kain or Kyo, but more then just wafts and paffs. "Lemme show you what happens to even Hell's Executioner when he knocks on my door..." Shooting forward in a sudden charge, there's a 'Tch!' as arms and legs pump. He's fast; Incredibly so. And suddenly launches himself into the air, spiraling once in a rather acrobatic fashion, before descending with his right arm igniting. In a flare of light he attempts a vicious strike, hard enough to crack the street beneath were it not to find it's mark. ...Remarkably similar to one of Terry's moves, actually.
COMBATSYS: Kyle counters Dynamite Impact from Crash with Stepping Kick.
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Crash 0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0 Kyle
"You know what?!" Kyle replies, as he hears Crash's little spiel -- he's a good orator, at least, but there's nothing that pisses Kyle off more than hearing someone talk shit about the big man. "You guys ain't the only ones stuck grinding their wheels here! But if you think this city owes you, and you want it to pay you in blood..." His stance instantly gets a little firmer, a little more vicious -- and most importantly, he seems to have his eyes more squarely locked on Crash's. He knows the man now -- they're not that different. Both of them were just average guys who could easily be said to have fell through the cracks. Even with his brother's fame, Kyle's a man who has to fight in sleazy pits to eat, and who celebrates by drinking beer in a back alley. They're both children of the 'slums,' the 'hood.'
But they're different, as Kyle's words no doubt make clear. Kyle loves the city in spite of the fact that it's a shithole, in spite of the fact that every madman on earth has tried to grind it down into the ground. He loves it because it's got people who're willing to defend it -- and tonight, he's one of them. "You always got somewhere to turn," he says, before locking his eyes on that charge. And as he leaps... Kyle steps forward, raising an arm dead-on into the path of Crash's fist. Energy or no, force or no, speed or no, in that instant, everything seems to grind to a halt.
It feels like they're locked in that moment for an eternity, Crash's Burning power stopped dead by nothing more than the arm of a 'concerned citizen' -- but that ends soon enough. "Maybe you could've fixed it up..." Kyle growls, before stepping forward into the opening in Crash's defenses he's created, whipping his foot right into Crash's breastbone with tremendous physical force. He's not the force of nature Crash is, but he's got something behind his fists and feet.
"... if you ever really gave a shit."
When his fist is caught, there's a look of almost comical shock upon Crash's face, before he's cracked in the ribs. Remarkably resilient for his build, but there was more then enough give to herald he's not a god. He slides backwards, managing to keep his feet with an almost violent stagger, hacking loudly. This show of weakness is not something the Hellraisers expected to see; He's fallible, which was first demonstrated by Duke himself. But he manages to laugh, a sound that's oddly genuine as opposed to something stemming from insanity. "You got skill..." Is finally said, once he's got enough breath back. "What about those who have nothing? Truly, honestly nothing? No money, no family... Nowhere to /turn/... Like hell I give a shit." Crash faces Kyle once more, licking his lips before adopting a somewhat makeshift stance, both arms lifting before himself. "I lived my whole life failing to do anything. You're a fighter. Don't you say a god... damn... /thing/ about what you can manage in even this small niche of the world!!"
And with that he erupts into yellow energy now, whirling and emanating from him in frightful levels. A halo of bright yellow, enough that it might be somewhat uncomfortable to gaze directly at. There's a look of discomfort at this outlet, by no means having refined or mastered his own newfound abilities, but unlike almost every Burnout he's the only one to try to make something of what he's given, rather then ride the sheer base strength... "Now that I'm one also... I can do whatever the hell I *want*..."
COMBATSYS: Crash gathers his will.
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Crash 0/-------/-======|=------\-------\0 Kyle
Kyle is almost disgusted by this man in front of him -- just because he wasn't physically gifted and was born in Metro City, he hates the world, hates the city. It's disgusting -- a little farther from Kyle's experience, but no better. "You self-righteous, talky son of a bitch," Kyle hisses, starting to let Crash frustrate him, and that bright light doesn't help at all. "So you can't bust a man down without getting coked up! You're talky. There's lots of ways for talky guys to make their way. Talk to any of the guys who run bars out here." Not that Kyle has anything against the practice of bartending; it is an age-old, excellent art with a long history. (That and his girlfriend would plant her shoes so far up Kyle's butt he'd spit them as projectiles mid-fight the next day.)
He rolls his neck as that energy continues to flare, continuing, "And just because you're tough now doesn't mean shit. You're still the same self-righteous, talky son of a bitch you were before -- just now you can shoot fire out your butt." Metro's newest addition to its long list of vigilantes hefts that crowbar again, but doesn't come in close to the Burnout to hit him with it -- instead, he raises his hand high and gives it a fierce toss, trying to knock some teeth out of that yammering mouth. "Real marketable skill, huh?!"
COMBATSYS: Kyle successfully hits Crash with Power Fling.
- Power hit! -
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Crash 1/------=/=======|==-----\-------\0 Kyle
"Mad Gear didn't seem to care for my talkin'. Couldn't even get into that. Pretty low, ain't it?" He's laughing, and doesn't seem to think a hurled crowbar is anything special; Which is probably why it smacks him right in the face, knocking him flat upon his back as all the wifts vanish in a heartbeat. He skids a few meters, limbs splayed, droplets of blood showering around him thereafter as the crowbar thuds beside. Twitching, he rolls over with a hack, managing to gather himself back to his feet and feel his split lip with the back of his hand. "..." The Hellraisers watching have stopped cheering and hooting, looking to be a mixture of shocked and forebodingly intrigued. Slowly he turns back towards Kyle, before grinning again.
"Let's agree to disagree..." One hand lifts, summoning a huge gout of yellow energy, ballooning to almost a meter around. "...Once you see what I can manage now... Maybe you'll see just why I'm better off!!" And then he rushes forward once more, unperturbed by the daze the crowbar has inflicted. But he skids to a stop a couple meters off, hefting his gathered energy overhead, grasping his forearm beneath. And then with a mighty snarl snaps down the hand, and causes a literal wall of erupting energy to flash out, trying to entomb Kyle and blast him towards a nearby wall. It's got enough force and brightness that the voyeurs turn away, shielding their eyes for a moment.
Looks like Crash has skipped the middle man and decided to go all out...
COMBATSYS: Crash successfully hits Kyle with Burnout EX.
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Crash 1/-----==/=======|=======\-------\1 Kyle
"Why's it gotta be a gang?" Kyle asks, already rearing a fist back and getting ready to strike again -- but as that wall of energy comes forth, Kyle realizes instantly: he's messing with more than he can handle. A brawl? He can deal with that. But this energy stuff never quite made it with him -- he can hack it every now and again, but usually... well, what we see here happens, and Kyle goes flying off, actually cratering in that strip club wall. A beer spills on his face, rousing him back to fighting condition.
He can't see straight. He can barely /think/ straight. Needless to say, this means he really, really doesn't want to advance in if Crash has power like that at his disposal. Hanging back, Travers starts to circle around Crash carefully, trying to size up the man himself this time. He spent too much time on the environment, on everything before -- now everything's on Crash himself. He needs to feel out how that energy 'flows.' He needs to get a feel for how Crash himself throws the punches. It's all instinctive -- no cold, hard logic, no studied tactics, just the knowledge of the street. "I'm not seeing 'better off,'" he wheezes. "I'm seeing 'asshole in a candy shop.'"
COMBATSYS: Kyle focuses on his next action.
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Crash 1/-----==/=======|=======\-------\1 Kyle
"That was only left handed..." Crash states, sneering openly. And with that single blow, the rest of the Hellraisers are hooting and cheering again, forgetting the two blows prior for that single one that most assuredly impacted with unbelievable force. This is true; His right one, the one missing a sleeve, hefts up thereafter. And then raises, fingers splaying, to aim towards Kyle as eyes narrow. Slowly it builds up another churn of energy, the ground beneath swirling and heating enough to warble slightly.
"Here's the encore..."
And then a ball of chi erupts outwards, spiraling madly. It's condensed incredibly, shooting forward with pinpoint precision, attempting to hit Kyle again within the chest with bone-shattering force. To send him backwards, preferably /through/ the strip club wall the second time around.
The wisps of chi surrounding his hand are literally blown away thereafter, with no small amount of flourish. "Still think Burn makes me weak, chump...?"
COMBATSYS: Kyle endures Crash's Blood For Blood.
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Crash 0/-------/------=|=======\=====--\1 Kyle
This time, when he sees that blast coming, Kyle shoves his fear into his gut. No pain no gain, Kyle, that's what your brother always said, that's what Haggar always said -- and the ring's for fighting, not dancing! The man reaches back a little into the hole in the wall he just left, and pulls something from the club: a table.
He then does the one thing he can: charge. The raw force of the wave slows his charge, sears his body -- as it passes over him he feels like he's about to die. Oh well, he tells himself -- it wasn't a shitty run, all said, though he would've liked to see his bro one last time. However, when he emerges from that blast of burn-powered chi... he's still up, still running?
He cracks a smile. That's another day ripped right out of death's hands, as far as he's concerned. He keeps on running with that table, before leaping up, trying to catch Crash before he pulls his senses back together from that enormous strike -- and slam the table right onto his chest, planting it (and him) on the ground.
COMBATSYS: Kyle successfully hits Crash with Improvised Weapon.
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Crash 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Kyle
Kyle plants that table dead-on, and can't keep from cracking a smile as he sees his opponent pinned beneath it. Scooting forward, he seems to almost 'sit' at it, finally addressing Crash's previous words, keeping the tone of a patron who's been denied his liquor.
"MORE!" he demands, pounding once on the table, putting the central pole from which the legs emanate hard into Crash's gut. It feels like having a war hammer slammed into his stomach. The impact alone is enough, even with the best bracing possible, to make a man want to vomit.
"MORE!" Kyle yells, again, with another firm pound on that table. This one is worse -- the area's already been softened a little, and the table rotates a little, creating a newfound grinding sensation in addition to the raw force of the pounding.
"I guess there /isn't/ any more!" he finishes, stepping up onto the table, hopping into the air and whirling his body to face down... and pounding his fist into and /through/ the center, tearing up his own hand a little but also putting every last ounce of force Kyle could ever manage right on that one point -- or more accurately two, as the table itself cracks and eventually /shatters/ under the downward force into Crash's gut.
"...!"
Oh, Crash is having a bad day. He might be one of the only Hellraisers to actually train, but he still has almost no fight experience. That's the difference here; Kyle earned his ability, earned his talent. Injecting it into your veins is a far cry from peak performance. Ah... it's a bit late now to take off the gloves. He underestimated too much; But regardless of the eventual outcome – VENDETTA. Hitting the ground, the first impact causes him to hack violently, shifting and trying to move. But he fails, underlined as it grinds further the second time. All he manages to do is lift up one hand, narrowing his eyes in concentration. The final blow hits dead on, blood flashing out of Crash's mouth...
But still, he manages to snap his fingers.
The result is instant. The area directly in front of him, including Kyle, is swathed in a coalescing inferno of chi, trying to send him flying backwards and hopefully out of his face. Such is more desperate then anything else, so he can roll over and curl up on his knees, and try to not expel his liquor. That was good liquor, damnit.
"Gonna... kill your ass..." is all he states, through blood and spasms. This fight isn't quite over yet. The Hellraisers surrounding let out a wince, but finally begin to approach. Some pull out chains. A couple crowbars. Others merely crack knuckles. Given that Kyle is already familiar with the pain of just one or two, let alone the leader... Well, is this truly a fight he's going to win?
COMBATSYS: Crash successfully hits Kyle with Flashfire.
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Crash 0/-------/--=====|=======\=------\1 Kyle
Sudden bursts of flame are not entirely out of Kyle's knowledge -- he saw them from all manner of Mad Gear thugs, albeit through more conventional means. That doesn't mean when they come from someone who's obviously got more power, if not more skill, than he has, they don't hurt. His body burns for that brief moment that Crash's heat explodes out from him, but in spite of it, he stays up for that one extra second. That one tiny moment that he's pretty sure is all he needs.
"... Not gonna' get the chance," Kyle spits back, allowing himself a grin. All right, just like your brother showed you, he tells himself. Except don't spin. You don't need it -- your punches are too even, they don't flow the same way his do. Just one after another.
He starts with the first punch, a simple little thing aimed right for Crash's face. It looks like nothing special, a little wobbly even, designed more to stun than to hurt -- the last ploy of a desperate man with nothing left to lose. But surely Crash -- big, mighty Crash -- won't fall to one little punch.
COMBATSYS: Kyle can no longer fight.
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Crash 0/-------/--=====|
COMBATSYS: Crash endures Kyle's Final Destruction.
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Crash 0/-------/=======|
That's not one little punch. They keep coming -- always in sets of three, but they never stop. It's not quite the Final Destruction that Cody is so famous for, for only one reason. Kyle never turns. His punches don't seem to vary. They change a little in terms of where they're targeted -- while the first nearly breaks Crash's nose, the next is a little chin strike, and the third is lower still, aimed for the throat. But it's sheer volume. They don't /stop/. Every time it seems like there's a reprieve, after every three punches, the next one comes from just the unexpected angle and it starts all over again, like some demented waltz of fists.
It only stops when Kyle's body finally gives out, causing him to slump to the ground, barely conscious, unable to move his arms and only barely able to pull himself along by shifting his legs.
"Show me what you got, punk..."
Crash merely takes it. Leaning forward, to actually allow Kyle better leverage, even if he's fully prepared. But the storm of blows is far beyond what he anticipated, staggering him backwards, already busted lip now a matching pair, nose squished inwards but thankfully not breaking, helpless to the flow. He's blacking out. Rearing backwards. But... it stopped. One more punch. Literally one more punch, and Crash would be now. Instead, his rearward fall turns into a stumble, foot sliding out in a rasp and stabilizing him as he rears forward and coughs up a truly monumental amount of blood. Not quite the bragging finale he had in mind. He can't quite talk. But he /can/ shift forward, and give Kyle one hell of a kick to the ribs. "N... Nobody...!!" is wheezed. If he talks any more he might pass out, though.
"Take... Take him in an alley and work him over..." is mused to the Hellraisers as he passes by, trying to hide the depth of his wounds. Any one of them bumping him might set off a cascade of agony that will end in him curled up crying for mommy. This is the world of a fighter, is it? Talent or not, Crash is beginning to highly dislike it.
But Kyle, as the leering, manic and wigged-out faces grin down in a halo of rusty pipes and beer bottles, is probably about to have a very, very bad evening...
COMBATSYS: Crash has ended the fight here.
Kyle's had a lot of bad evenings. Fighting in an environment where people bet is always a rough game, and even rougher when you win. He can't count the number of times that, fatigued from having just torn a man apart, he's been jumped for money or just for a good old-fashioned beatdown in any number of alleys.
All Travers can do at that kick is wince. There's no capacity for movement, even, after that -- he just starts to curl up slowly toward the fetal position, more out of pain than fear. "Nngrh..."
This is not going to be a good night... but it might shut Crash up for a week, and get him to move a few streets further away from Kyle Travers's hood. Good enough, for now.
Log created on 19:16:16 08/20/2007 by Kyle, and last modified on 22:26:05 08/20/2007.