Description: Two of the most nebulously gendered World Warriors collide... CAN SOUTHTOWN'S NEW OUTBACK STEAKHOUSE HANDLE IT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
Alma Towazu is eating well tonight.
The recent opening of an Outback Steakhouse in Southtown has made few ripples considering the constant bustle of downtown, but one earnest young man in need of a hearty meal before the beginning of the Strolheim tournament did not fail to notice it despite his preoccupation. Reconstruction of the YFCC has been proceeding smoothly, and there is finally some time to take a break; for the past few nights, he has been ordering food into the center, or even forgetting to eat in his focus on his organizational activities. This is no good. He's been falling behind on his training-- and his protein intake.
"Yes, another, thank you."
The steak is good, but the bread is delicious.
The mild-mannered, androgynously beautiful blond is a methodical eater, and as he sits alone in his booth near the entrance there is a thoughtful look perpetually in his hazel eyes, chewsing steadily, his mind drifting from mission to mission. As always, his awareness takes in the auras of those around him, the ambience of the new Western restaurant blending them together into a jovial cacophony. What is the youthful executive thinking of now? The next step of the reconstruction phase? Who he might be teaming with in Strolheim, and what strategies he will need to employ? Whether or not he'll have any time to model amidst all this, or pursue his other personal goals?
~ But what /is/ Vegemite, really? ~
A true philosopher.
"Miss, no, it's -- no, it's the /rules/ of the /chain/, miss. I literally /cannot/ serve you any more liquor."
It's just as well -- the debit card in Poison's pocket is stolen anyway, so she would have ended up causing a commotion regardless. The debit card, it seems, is about all she can fit into the pockets of those little shorts, but that's neither here nor there. "Look, my money's as good as anyone else's," Poison says, looking up at the waiter. She's barely touched her food -- cheese fries have gone cold and she cut one piece out of the steak and pushed it around a bit. She has, however, been drinking nine-dollar Long Island Iced Teas for about the past hour and a half. This makes Poison ready for anything, where 'anything' is defined as 'ruining several families' evenings in the Outback Steakhouse.'
"Fuck off," Poison says, loudly, next to a booth containing small children. Her voice has a bit of an elastic slur. "If I want an Electric Blue Nipponita, it's your job to get me one, you teenage piece of crap. What are you, some kind of pussy? 'Bloo bloo the chain says.' Well, /I/ say get me another drink--"
"Ma'am--"
"--right the /fuck/ now--"
"Miss--"
"--or I will /fuck you up/ so /bad/--"
"MISS!"
Poison lets her tirade halt, although she stands up to face the waiter -- she actually has an inch or two on him, especially in those spike heels.
"Miss, I'm afraid you're going to have to leave. Outback Steakhouse does not allow this kind of disruptive behavior, and AUAAUUUGGHHGHG"
Poison, true to form, glassed him in the face.
Psychic senses indicate a surge of violent intent-- just as hearing senses indicate a swearing woman (?) totally glassing an Outback Steakhouse employee. Alma, heroic by nature, reacts instinctively.
At least, he does as soon as he finishes choking on a piece of Bloomin' Onion.
~ Wh, who is-- ~
Composing himself admirably as children in need of saving cower in their booths, the tall youth sweeps in to intervene, moving silently but purposefully, a calm and unhurried look in the one eye visible and uncovered by his stylishly unkempt bangs. As the employee staggers and flails and the others look on still-stunned, it is Alma, stylish and poised, who takes the initiative and steps in.
"Please," he murmurs, soft-spoken. "You are disturbing the dinner guests, M--"
...
His brow furrows, ever so slightly.
"...m..."
Auras do not indicate all that much, to be honest. They are best described to those without the sense as a representation of emotion through color; they expose little that could not be seen by a very sensitive and empathetic person, but they do so in an infinitely more vibrant fashion. Mind-reading, secrets-- these are not revealed. That a person is hiding something, even subconsciously, or a little intuitive touch that something is amiss-- these are not impossible to detect.
"..."
The fighting model trails off, now blinking bemusedly.
Something is... odd.
"Uh," he manages, unusually disconcerted -- albeit still subdued, as usual -- but trying to rally, "please restrain yourself, out of self-respect if not respect for your fellow guests, M... M... to whom it may concern," he finally finishes, helplessly.
He doesn't know exactly what's up, but...
You have to be sensitive to gender when it's constantly uncertain which one you're a member of.
When Alma approaches, Poison squints, still holding part of the broken glass, a few drops of blood spattered on her thin, tight top. She drops the glass to the floor, where it lands with a small crash and some littler tinkles, as Alma speaks to her.
Poison folds her arms when Alma finishes, staring eye-to-eye with what would appear to be some kind of tightly focussed, barely restrained fury in her eyes. It's a shame that the aura she projects does not include a handy list of topics that should not be made light of -- or, rather, given the appearance of such, anyway. "Okay," she spits, so sharply as to render the word percussive.
There is a moment's pause, before Poison continues.
"You really need to get out of my face, like -- /right now/." The Mad Gear vixen unfolds her arms and puts her hands on her hips.
Alma spreads his hands, eyes softening.
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
This, at least, is more comfortable territory.
"I'll cease to trouble you as soon as you leave."
As long as he sticks to gender-neutral pronouns, he's fine.
"Please," he murmurs again, more gently. "You're disturbing the other patrons of this establishment."
In the quiet background of staring faces, a little girl turns to her mother. "Mommy," her voice chirps in the background, "are the ladies going to fight?"
To Alma's credit, his expression does not even flicker.
"I get it," Poison says to Alma, her glare speaking several volumes more than any aura in indicating general level of rage. "You're a hero type, right. Getting off on being the white hat. Am I right?"
Poison reaches behind her, producing what appears to be a Nazi officer's hat from the table she was situated at. When she puts it on, the pewter skull would gleam in the light, except it's lost most of its luster. "I hate white hats."
"And you know what," Poison continues, walking toward Alma, getting right -- up -- close. The kind of closeness that typically signifies intimacy -- Alma can smell the fruited-out liquor on her warm breath. "I don't really care about the 'other patrons.' I care about the white hat in front of me, trying to save the day. Why's that? You got a girlfriend here to impress?"
Poison's hand comes out -- to press against Alma's chest, as if to say 'I am going no further.' This doesn't really mean much, mind, considering how much space she has eliminated between them.
Oh, boy. This is no good.
Alma has fought evil dictators, crazed robots, heartless ninjas, and soulless genetic creations, but that was all very straight-forward. It was generally clear to him precisely who he was dealing with, and how he ought to deal with them. But this person, well--
"...White... hat...?"
Not only are they not disconcerted by him--
~ Is that a... /Nazi/ hat...? ~
He's more disconcerted than anything else.
Hates white hats? What?
"I'm... sorry," Alma manages, as sincerely as possible, but still looking a bit lost when Poison mentions their particular hatred and then continues on. It takes a few moments of tirade for Alma to start glancing from side to side, looking slightly abashed when he sees the continued stares of the rest of the impromptu audience, clearly waiting for him to do something. When a girlfriend is finally mentioned, Alma just heaves a quiet sigh.
~ I'm never going to figure this out in time. ~
And just as he resigns himself to the inevitability of his bemusement, the young man finds a palm pressed against his chest. Well-- he wasn't the first one to make physical contact, so--
"Let's talk about this outside."
His words remain gentle -- this person is intoxicated, after all, and not making any sense, clearly not in their right mind -- but a little wearier than before. There is nothing weary, however, about the way he moves, as his right hand snakes smoothly up to pull Poison forward, twisting himself so the troublemaker is unbalanced and pulled toward the door, Alma striding along by her side with a faintly embarrassed expression.
COMBATSYS: Alma has started a fight here.
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Alma 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Poison has joined the fight here.
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Alma 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Poison
COMBATSYS: Poison endures Alma's Quick Throw.
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Alma 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Poison
Poison is rather easily dragged -- in fact, she does not appear to really be struggling. "Big man," she coos mockingly as Alma pulls her toward the door. The way he yanks her, as well as her intoxication, results in her landing funny on one of her heels -- she actually goes /through/ the glass front door, shattering the pane and landing on the sidewalk amidst the mess.
"Is this how you get your kicks?" Poison continues to taunt. "Throwing girls around?" When she stands, it becomes more evident that she is bleeding from multiple small puncture wounds, bits of glass sticking here and there. She's either too drunk to feel it, or she just doesn't care. "Yeah, that sounds like a real heroic thing to do."
Poison stalks forward, closing whatever gap exists between her and Alma. "But what do you do when the girl fights back, hero?"
This sentence is punctuated by Poison's hand swinging out swiftly, cupped to maximize the pride-obliteration of a pride-obliterating bitchslap.
COMBATSYS: Alma endures Poison's Bitchslap.
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Alma 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 Poison
You'd think Alma would know his own strength.
"Oh... oh /no/!"
The mocking tone does not bother him; his pride is not at stake here. This is simply about getting her out of the restaurant as soon as possible, and out of sight -- and hopefully earshot -- of the families and children here. He might to guide her fully all the way-- but then she tripped, and then, well.
Looking sincerely horrified, Alma, the normally mild-mannered young man's eyes quite wide, turns to gesture frantically at the employees. "Um, I'll-- I'll pay for the repairs! I'm extremely sorry about this! I--"
Fight back?
Harried, Alma turns, arms still akimbo. "Miss," he says, because I mean screw it, who cares what this person's real gender is, he just threw them through a frigging door. "I must apologize, I didn't intend to--"
*WHAP*
There is a drawn out silence.
Did she just go there? She totally went there.
Aw hell naw.
"I may have deserved that," the tall youth finally concludes, his tone now even and measured, carefully maintaining eye contact with his racuous adversary. "But I must say, whoever you are, that if you're prepared to hit like that--"
That really stung. Far more than he expected.
~ I was so focused on how this person's aura was unusual, that... ~
He, for the first time in his life, failed to detect the telltale signs of a fighting spirit ready to ignite-- a worthy adversary in the most unexpected of places.
"You must agree..."
Lifting his right hand, gaze still cool and collected, a white flame is kindled there, sparkling and pure, its crackling the only other sound breaking the silence in the chill of the evening.
"You've earned this."
Thrusting out his hand, the flame darts forth, a roiling gout of spiralling spiritual energies; it may feel like burning, but the damage is purely mental, striking directly at an opponent's will to fight.
Which, really, is all he wants to get rid of anyway.
Maybe this will get... her... to take stock of the situation?
COMBATSYS: Poison fails to slow Sacred Wave from Alma with Knife Throw.
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Alma 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Poison
"What the--"
As Alma's flame charges, Poison has a knife out. The greatest mystery of this fight, perhaps, is where she was keeping it, considering, well, look at her -- there is not that much room to hide stuff, and if her aura is a reliable tipster, any hiding space her shorts may have is already busy. Still -- there we are, Poison flicking the rather large switchblade open and throwing it.
Poison's aim is pretty good, considering -- it's just that Alma's quicker on the draw, and the attack at her precious spiritual essence manages to throw it off course when the two collide, sending the knife scattering to the floor. "Aaa--uughhh!" Poison shouts, clutching at her skull when the searing pain runs through every nerve ending in her body. She staggers backward.
This, with a crash, takes her through the second of the two front doors, giving Poison a clean sweep.
"...uh... urrk..."
The eye not already covered by hanging bangs is now covered by a dusky hand as Alma covers his face in agony, shaking his head slowly.
~ N... no way... not again. ~
"I'll... pay for that... too," he manages, before taking a quiet breath, attempting to gather together again the tattered shreds of his dignity, and stepping forward through the ex-doors and outside. The air is brisk in the parking lot, and while there are unfortunately more than a few observers to stare at the ostentatious explosion of light, it's at least better than the middle of the Outback Steakhouse.
This fight is getting expensive.
Kicking the knife to the side unworriedly, Alma slips one hand into the pocket of his designer jeans and regards his fallen adversary with his typical mellow calmness, looking neither superior nor particularly sympathetic to her plight.
"Listen," he says softly, "I'll pay for the doors, and we'll call it even. Let's just... walk away, alright? I was almost finished anyway," he adds, which is kind of a lie, but it's better than sticking around here after allt his mess. "Please, relax. I'll get you a drink."
A thoughtful pause.
"...of water."
COMBATSYS: Alma focuses on his next action.
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Alma 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Poison
"Ugggh." Poison gets up, and there is more blood dotting her form, a few red lines running down her copiously exposed flesh. She looks over at Alma, putting her hat back on as he tries to be rational about the whole situation.
Unfortunately, he is facing Poison, where nothing is as it should be, from gender on down to logic in general. "What?" she finally asks, after he offers peace.
There is a moment where she could be said to be considering this, but then she notices that her cheek is cut. Poison's hand comes up to touch the very, very superficial wound -- it's barely a cut, more like a scratch -- but the expression on her face is as if Alma had just thrown acid at her. "No," she says, to his offer. "You officially took this too far, hero."
Outside, Poison has more room to move, and more to work with -- like the brick exterior of the building. Well, it's not really brick, but fake brick facades are still pretty hard.
Poison is counting on this as she lunges at Alma, attempting to grab him by the head and smash his beautiful face into the side of the building next to the recently-shattered doors.
COMBATSYS: Poison successfully hits Alma with Faceplanter.
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Alma 0/-------/=======|======-\-------\0 Poison
"Hrrghh!"
Gritting his teeth as he prepares for his adversary's assault, Alma, though not fully conscious of his surroundings, determines that backstepping will cause Poison to overextend her reach and give him an opening-- and were he as skilled at utilizing his environment as his worldly opponent, he might've been right. As it is, however, he accidentally bumps against the very wall that Poison is leading him toward, and the mistake costs him dearly.
His effort to clear his head after all the previous nonsense is mostly lost with the bone-jarring blow, his face crushing against the faux-brick facade. He manages instinctively at least to twist and save his nose, but when he twists free there are lines traced along his cheek, grit in the cracks, forming a nice contrast to the slap-print still on his other cheek.
Oh, that's it.
"And /you/," he murmurs quietly, shifting his stance in an attempt to circle her, "just took /this/ too far--"
He's a model, for goodness sake.
"--/whatever/ you are!"
Ouch!
Lunging in, Alma seeks to force Poison away from any further foreign objects, with which she clearly has the advantage, through a series of focused rhythmic kicks, body sweeping in fluidly to perform a dizzying dance that is not so much quick as difficult to predict. His effusive Soul Power, though not actively bursting forth, emanates naturally as he gets caught up in the flow of his own attack, and glowing afterimages of his own strikes at to the confusing nature of his strikes, his stance effortlessly poised all the while.
Only once he's finished does he realize the implications of what he just said, and blinks, concentration once more briefly ruined as Alma appears apologetic all over again.
"...Er... I only meant to say... as to your... role..."
Oh, boy. This is just too much for him.
COMBATSYS: Alma successfully hits Poison with Autumn Rain.
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Alma 1/------=/=======|=======\==-----\1 Poison
This fight can be considered a game of constant brinksmanship as much as anything else -- with every limit broken and taboo smashed, the challenge then becomes to offend further.
Alma has, with his comment, set an astonishingly high bar, such that Poison's abject, frothing rage leaves her unable to come close to dodging the flurry of kicks, head snapping this way and that with each impact, firm body seizing as the attacks dictate.
But she's still standing, and she's so angry that there is a chance Poison may spontaneously manifest eye lasers from the balefulness of her gaze.
"Ha. Ha." Poison's voice is blood-curdlingly cold -- and her leg shockingly swift as it swings forward, the pointed tip of her high-heeled shoe aiming directly for that holy grail of sensitive body parts. "Ha."
COMBATSYS: Alma fails to interrupt Cheap Shot from Poison with Divine Intervention EX.
-* CRITICAL FAIL! *-
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Alma 1/---====/=======|-------\-------\0 Poison
"I'm so sorry."
Alma's game, on the other hand, seems to be one of constant apologizing and deferral-- and it's not getting him anywhere good.
"I-- I really didn't mean it."
Waving his hands desperately, Alma, looking completely mortified at this point, can only watch dumbly as his utterly infuriated opponent advances on him. Even one eye is enough to convey the magnitude of his shame.
"It, it didn't even occur to me that-- look, maybe if we just cleared up how-- no, no, never mind, it's none of my business-- I just didn't mean to--"
So much bad karma right now.
But it's too late, Alma. Your usual flowery eloquence has failed you utterly. Seeking to gather together what remaining focus he has left, the blond draws his power into his right hand, still despite everything in the poised stance his kick combination left him in. Time to end this--
But while physically he might be prepared, mentally he is all over the place, a situation Alma, being a man of great conviction and faith, is deeply unused to. He is way out of his depth here. Saving children from obscenity is a simple enough mission. Doing it without offending a-- a something-- er, someone-- I'm sorry!
He brings his left arm out to parry, but there's nothing to parry.
*THUNK*
The power fizzles and dies.
So to speak.
"...hn...hrrghh..."
The color drains from Alma's face.
Staggering backward, the elegant youth attempts to process all that's happening right now-- to no avail, as he teeters, blinking helplessly, and falls over, choking and coughing quietly to himself. Contrary to the dusky red of embarrassment his cheeks appeared as previously, there's a faint green tinge to them now.
"...s...seriously...?"
Oh, Divine Intervention, why hast thou forsaken him?
Poison stands over Alma.
No, seriously, stands over him. If there's any chance of seeing up those shorts (there isn't; they're honestly that tight) it's now. Still shaking her head from that series of kicks she ate, she pauses, putting the tips of two fingers in her mouth and pulling them back to realize that doing so coated them in blood. Poison looks displeased at this, and fails to speak -- instead, she appears to be swirling something around in her mouth.
And Poison's next move, then, is to spit a glob of red blood down at Alma's cheek. How disrespectful!
COMBATSYS: Poison successfully hits Alma with Thrown Object.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////// ]
Alma 1/--=====/=======|-------\-------\0 Poison
"...hrrn..."
The blood drops onto Alma's cheek, causing him to flinch briefly-- yet this, finally, begins to rouse him out of his psychic and social stupor. His mind has been overloaded with too much: this bizarre circumstance, the bio-feedback of his failed psychic attack, and, well, getting kicked in the majiggers with a spiked heel. Strangely, however, the overwhelming pain begins to clear his mind of all that has passed, all the mistakes he has been making. The blood strikes his cheek, and he recalls--
This is, after all, a fight.
Two fighting spirits, clashing full-force.
What does it matter what it takes to ignite them, what insults he inadvertantly stumbled into in order to reach this point? The fact remains that this person is fighting all-out-- and what more could he ask.
He rolls quite suddenly, with startling alacrity, away from his opponent and into a crouch again. His complexion has returned to normal; his eyes are sharp and clear. He has not moved to wipe the blood away.
He is silent-- but still only briefly.
When he lunges forward, the flames ignite again, the white now wreathed with pink and purple, plumes of energy forming around his fists as he balls them up and closes in, unleashing a blurring barrage of jabs that increase in force. Escalating his assault as he brings up the pressure, his passion increasing with his speed, Alma seeks to circumvent his opponent's defenses through the fury of his assault and, if he is successful, will finish with heavier blows to culminate in an explosive uppercut under Poison's chin.
"Hrrrahhh!"
Whatever she throws at him-- he'll just try to be ready.
COMBATSYS: Poison dodges Alma's Trial by Fire.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////// ]
Alma 0/-------/--=====|-------\-------\0 Poison
"Hgh!" The first punch hits Poison, but she uses Alma's momentum against him -- throwing her body so as to push past him, into a cartwheel. That she manages to pull this off while both drunk and wearing what appear to be distinctly uncomfortable heels is a fairly notable achievement. "You're going to have to do better than that," the Mad Gear member snorts.
Now it is Poison's turn to lunge, from her position behind Alma. Few fighters are as conscious of Poison's gender status as Alma, and this may turn against him as Poison attempts to swing her arms up under his and pull them back into a shoulder-stretching full nelson. Complete with hip grind. It's brutal.
Fighting is hell.
COMBATSYS: Alma blocks Poison's Full Nelson.
[ \\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Alma 0/-------/=======|-------\-------\0 Poison
Impressive.
Now that he is paying attention to his adversary as an actual opponent -- a bit belatedly, to be sure, but understandibly so -- Alma is surprised at her agility, particularly considering the circumstances. Yet finally finding his rhythm, he flows quickly to the defense, turning just in time to face Poison as the reverse hold comes in-- and bringing his hands up, he is able to shove the mysteriously gendered assailant back.
Oh, it wouldn't have been so hellish, Alma just would have been terribly confused. Which appears par for the course, these days.
"Hmph!"
Eyes flashing as he pushes himself past his limits, the blond draws upon more Soul Power, reaching into the depths of the sea of flame that now burns renewed within him; finally, his purpose is clear again. Whatever his errors, victory is the goal. The real problems can be resolved afterward.
Thrusting forth toward her abdomen, a plume of flame issues around his open right hand, a lance of, er, raw passion, so to speak. If fighting is hell-- then this is the hellfire.
COMBATSYS: Alma successfully hits Poison with Self Expression.
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ////// ]
Alma 1/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Poison
The shove knocks Poison a bit off-kilter -- the price of heels in a fight, but she's able to correct herself just in time for a torrent of flame to accompany the lunge of Alma's hand toward her bared, bloody stomach. Poison is popped into the air by the roar of pure soul, sending her into the outstretched sign of a cell phone store.
Poison's head cracks off the frame of the sign with a noise like a pumpkin caving in, so sharply that she doesn't even utter a cry. It alters her trajectory groundward, though, a heap of a woman(?) landing with a rough smack on the pavement.
Poison's body jerks.
Then, just as the dust starts to settle, Poison throws herself upward, blood staining the back of her voluminous pink hair dark red. "Hhah," she gasps, in a choked, guttural noise. "Hn-- hrgh." It's as if she's fighting on pure instinct, conscious thought processes slowly stripped away or knocked out of her that she's a savage beast fighting in the form of a blood-soaked beauty.
Poison surges toward Alma like a demon, fist reared back for a Mike Bison style punch to the skull.
COMBATSYS: Alma dodges Poison's Power Strike.
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ////// ]
Alma 1/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Poison
She's tougher than he ever imagined, but--
"Hmmn!"
Alma has experience with rage.
Not so much experience fighting such worldly fighters, perhaps; there is a lot about the underbelly of society Alma would learn from Poison. But many of his greatest rivals wield their anger as their mightiest weapon, and his righteous fury almost always triumphs. This fight stopped being righteous before it began, but--
As he sidesteps that half-blind strike, sweeping deftly with the last of his grace into a low kick to take Poison's legs out from under her and send her crashing to the ground for what might be the last time, he is taking her seriously.
As a fighter, and as a person.
Gender, finally, is the farthest thing from his mind.
...Still, if they could just clear that up later, he...
No, maybe we'd just better let it lie.
COMBATSYS: Poison interrupts Light Kick from Alma with Heavy Kick.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\ < > ////// ]
Alma 1/----===/=======|=======\-------\0 Poison
"Ungh!" Alma's kick connects with Poison's ankle -- just the one, mind.
Because Poison's other leg is already up and swinging, with flexibility that would cause some to blush. As she falls, it just adds more thrust to the motion of her leg -- Poison twists her body with the fall to slam her foot toward the back of Alma's head, in the most makeshift ghetto enziguri imaginable -- all the same, she goes down, but not without trying to take a chunk of brain out.
"Hrrgnhh!"
This is... too brutal.
Dazed and confused, barely still on his feet, Alma staggers from the powerful and highly expected kick, his opponent proving to be infinitely more resilient than his clearly flawed aura sense seemed to indicate to him. There is a deep well of determination within his opponent born from experience, of a struggle altogether different than the kinds he is used to--
"Grrahh!"
--and he, while he can still stand, is determined to meet it with all the resolve he has as well, striking back with every ounce of power at his disposal.
His body blurs, conscious mind almost totally nonfunctional from the blistering blow he's received and fighting on raw instinct alone, his second sight focused on blurs of color and lashing out at breakneck pace. His body blurs again, but this time it is with just as much speed as innate Soul Power, and his foot slams down-- aiming for a single swift stomp to Poison's ribs, just as set on ending this as she.
But even this close to the finish, it's unclear who will remain standing at the end...
COMBATSYS: Alma successfully hits Poison with Spring Shower.
[ \\\\\\ < > /// ]
Alma 0/-------/--=====|=======\==-----\1 Poison
The stomp slams into Poison's ribs, and an audible crack can be detected. "Gu-uhh!" the brawling malcontent gasps, sputtering in pain as the injuries begin to not only mount up but start calling for their bills to be paid.
Still, something within Poison compels her to leap up. Fists swing, knees lift, heads swing forward -- it's a small, localized tornado of violence, a desparate attempt to smash Alma with anything possibly left within her bones. Her rush only lasts so long, however -- as she suddenly pitches forward, falling to the ground, spent.
COMBATSYS: Alma dodges Poison's Absolute Beatdown.
[ \\\\\\ < > /// ]
Alma 0/-------/--=====|==-----\-------\0 Poison
This is absurd!
Neither of them can seem to speak anymore, but Alma's eyes are wide-- with a kind of awed respect. From whence this ridiculous will? This may not be a sense of dignity he is facing, per se, but it is certainly the fiercest pride he's ever witnessed. What manner of survivor is this woman? What has she overcome to reach this level? These thoughts do not occur to him consciously, not exactly, but they rise up within him along with his sense of respect-- and perhaps later, once he is better able to think, he will consider this carefully.
For now, though, it is the most he can do to just barely weave out of the way of her final furious flurry of strikes, and with a loud cry of effort, the androgynous beauty lunges forward past the woman as she staggers and lashes out with a fierce chop to the back of her neck-- aiming to stun her one last time and accelerate her plunge toward the concrete.
COMBATSYS: Poison fails to interrupt Quick Punch from Alma with Headbutt.
[ \\\\\\\ < > ]
Alma 0/-------/-======|===----\-------\0 Poison
COMBATSYS: Poison can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-======|
The chop smashes into the back of Poison's neck. She spasms for a moment, jerking backward in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to smash the top of her skull into Alma's face -- but it goes nowhere, just coming off as one last seizure of pain before the Mad Gear mainstay collapses to the pavement.
In the end, her body is covered in bruises, cuts, and scrapes, a glorious testament to the artistic capacity of plastic surgery left in possible need of some more. Blood oozes and clots, having stained every item of Poison's clothing -- all two of them -- and left her looking like she's survived some sort of war. She's splayed out lewdly but at least has the relative innocence of unconsciousness, her eyes closed as she comas off her beating in la-la land.
"Uhn... urghnn..."
Eyes glazing over, Alma Towazu staggers back, his own face something of a mess, with brick-prints on one and a growing bruise from a slap on the other, that goblet of blood still staining his cheek.
The fight over, his adrenaline fading-- he starts to feel a bit bad about the whole thing again, really, that it had to end up so brutally-- but what an unexpectedly brutal opponent.
~ Who /is/ she...? ~
Yeah, might as well just settle on 'she'.
Sometimes, auras just cause too many problems.
Groaning faintly from fatigue and the pain setting in, Alma reaches up to grip at his temples, and sways as though about to fall right next to his adversary. He's exhausted. He's beat. He's probably suffering mild internal damage. Body and mind agreeing it's okay to take a brief break, or a not-so-brief one, Alma begins to fall--
"Oh!"
--before suddenly startling, eyes widening again.
"I forgot... to pay!"
And he promptly staggers back toward the restaurant.
Alma Towazu... a man with his priorities straight.
COMBATSYS: Alma has ended the fight here.
Log created on 00:11:14 10/29/2008 by Poison, and last modified on 01:23:49 11/08/2008.