Description: On the rough West Side of Metro City, a couple of lowlives all gather together for the next chapter of a (barely) organized tournament between Italian trident- and net-wielding gladiator Marco deLucca, and young two time South Korean war veteran Chegal Kyung-sam at a particularly seedy dive. Wait, what do you mean the title says the first guy fights someone els-- dude, that's spoilers, not cool. Let me guess, you put that in the cast list too, didn't you? You're a jerk. No, really, that's a dick move. Well, forget him then. In any case, it's that Marco guy's debut to a less than savory audience and an even less savory opponent (and a totally unsavory guy who titled the log with spoilers, seriously).
Good ol' West Side of Metro City. Mayor Haggar and friends might clean the streets every so often, but the garbage has to be filed away somewhere. It's always an uphill battle to really sweep away the filth of Metro. Like those Mad Gear stragglers.
Even after defeat after defeat, beating after beating - often within five minutes or less between thrashings! - some just keep within the dark seedy underbelly of Metro City. Especially when they've decided to take hold of a local dive with a busted neon display out the front door.
A man in red shades, a gray hoodie, and blue jeans mumbles something on a cell, looking nervously over his shoulder every so often. At least, until a morbidly obese goon pats him on the shoulder.
"What?" He asks, startled and annoyed.
"Got ourselves a couple a new guys, ol' pal," smiles the fat-ass thug. His teeth are... well, no, let's not talk about the teeth.
"Yeah. Sure, I'll get this rolling," he says with just a small hint of resentment and reluctance, murmuring something inaudible to the phone and closing it up as he steps towards a rowdy crowd of Mad Gear thugs who, frankly, are just impatient.
"All right, assholes, c'mon, we got a show about to roll here," the hooded man speaks to a series of jeers. Jeers not of hatred, but of men that had shared some sort of kinship amongst one another for years - even if some of it isn't returned so much, rolling eyes hidden behind those red lenses, hands extended to either side, "couple of real hard types, heard one of 'em has been in some wars."
Some whistle. That gives them high expectations.
"Awright, so, yeah, Chegal Kyung-sam, something like that, I'm gonna call him Sam if he doesn't mind," the hooded man beckons to a relatively tall young man of Korean descent, dressed in loose trunks and a muscle shirt with a trim, lean build. He has taken especially good care of his hair (or he is from the early 3D era where all hair was obnoxious spikes, either or), stepping into the center of the bar with a few kickflips for show.
The hooded man gestures with a hand outward. "Yeah, that's the first guy, right there. We got another, uh... crap. What was his name? You best step up right now, man, don't think this crowd wants this guy to walk away without a fight, not after I brought up the whole war thing."
"I'll make sure you don't forget me!" The young Korean man boasts, with way too much enthusiasm and vigor for a dive like this. The wooden floorboards are creaky and rotted, the tables are cracked (some broken and not even repaired), broken glass, blood, puke, and possibly some other fluids are littered all around the floor.
It's a friggin' dive, but someone's gotta start somewhere in the hard world of fighting...
And then there's one figure sitting at one of the tables off to the side. Obviously too young to be in a bar, much less one this unsavory. His chair is tilted onto the back legs, resting against the grimy wall. At least the young man sitting in it is smart enough to keep his head rolled forward and away from whatever stain has slowly been spreading along the off-white paint. His feet are perched on the table, crossed at the ankles, his baseball cap pulled low. Very spaghetti western, but that might just be the look the kid is going for.
At least it would be the look if not for the full length metal sleeve stretching up the length of his off arm. Nor if it were for the very conspicuous trident leaning up against the table with what looks like a mass of tangled rope danging from the tines. He lifts his head as the voices start, the back of his hand going to his mouth to cover a wide, jaw-creaking yawn.
The chair drops all four legs back to the floor with a loud enough crack that it draws attention his way, his feet hitting only a moment later, though sandals hardly make the same sharp noise. He stands up slowly, stretching his arms overhead and arching his back. Taking his sweet time as he works out the kinks in his muscles from the odd resting position. "That would be me." His speech heavily accented in obvious Italian. He snatches up the trident with his gauntleted hand, tipping it against his shoulder as he walks out onto the floor of the bar, the weights hanging from the tangle of rope dragging along the ground.
He stops and peers from under the brim of his hat at the other man, tilting his head this way and that. "I suppose he will do." One corner of his mouth twitches upwards in a cocky half smile. He reaches up and twists his cap around, clearing the brim from his field of vision.
He drops the but of the trident to the floor with one more loud thump, leaning on the weapon like an old man relying on his walking stick. Either that or a slightly tipsy young man who's having a wee bit of trouble keeping his balance.
"Uhhh, right." The hooded guy takes a few steps back when the guy with the large trident steps up. The intimidation is palpable - as is the sensation maybe he'd just wait for his back is turned to punch him in the face. The kind of man who is a total rat, as he pushes his red-lens glasses up his face while he takes a couple steps back.
"Okay, that guy," he jabs a thumb towards him, "fighting that guy," he points to the Korean guy, "you guys know how it all works, the loser's the one who goes down and stays down." Is there ever really a winner in these circles when it comes to it? "So yeah, you guys know what to do, when I say g--"
"GIVE ME BACK MY BAR!" A rough female voice screams. Heads turn, but it's almost a blur as a short woman wearing predominantly blue (so one could gather) suddenly lunges at the Korean guy, knocking him down to the floor with nothing to defend himself but a surprised yelp as an unopened candy bar slips out of his pocket and onto the dirty wooden floor. The hooded man's already stepped way back.
The thugs all around are all equal parts amused as that crazy lady - that is a lady, right, that's not the sort of build you see on a woman - punches the Korean man's face to a pulp, balances her foot against his chest to stand up as she takes the wrapped candy bar, and sticks it in her mouth without bothering to unwrap. She starts chewing.
"Holy shit, lady, c'mon--" the hooded man waves his hands defensively, "you don't wanna start shit, some sorta tournament thing going on he--"
"Yeh?" She asks with a muffled voice as she lifts the Korean man by one arm and slams him down over her shoulder into the floor nearby so hard that he outright craters. He yelps pathetically all the way down. There's laughter all around and immediate derisive comments about South Korean military guys.
"Uh, well, if--" The hooded man stammers.
The muscle-bound brown-haired Greek-Cypirot woman raises her arms up, palms pointed downward, with a knee raised as she glares at the six foot tall Italian man with unwavering eyes - never faltering to the size of that trident as she chews up the candy bar, wrapper and all. It disappears into her mouth in an alarmingly short amount of time with a hard swallow.
"Erroso," she murmurs to DeLucca.
"Okay, fine, uh, you two go fight, sure, guess military guy there wouldn't have been much of a challenge, huh," says the hooded guy, clearly afraid to step back into the ring, "all right, yeah, go, go, have at."
She stands there in wait, stance unwavering.
COMBATSYS: Varvara has wandered into a fight here.
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Varvara 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: DeLucca has joined the fight here.
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Varvara 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 DeLucca
The Sicilian just looks remarkably bored as his eyes remain focused on the Korean man. His body may be slack, using the trident to keep himself upright, but his eyes bore holes in the man across the floor of the bar from him. He mutters something rather, well, derisive under his breath as his eyes flick away for a moment. Obviously not to impressed by the other man.
Even as the muscle-bound woman comes screaming into the bar, shouting like a banshee, he barely twitches a wisker other than to follow her movements. Nor does he lift a hand to help the Korean as she begins to soundly pummel him into yet another red smear across the grimy wood floor of the bar. In fact, he finds a smudge on one of the tines of his trident and begins to polish it with his thumb and a little bit of spit. He waits patiently for the Greek to finish with the other man, pulling himself upright once the spikey haired Korean is discarded off to the side.
"This is much better." His eyes find the man with the red sunglasses, that half smile still plastered across his face. "You should have brought her out first, si? IT is no fun unless there is a chance to lose."
His grip tightens on the trident, fingers dancing along the polished wooden haft. He raises himself onto the balls of his feet, finally looking serious about having to get down and dirty, which in this place is the ony result of getting anywhere down near the floor. Her singe word to him pulls up the other side of his mouth, his teeth flashing in a full grin. He clenches the fist of his free hand, pounding it across his chest in a salute. "Vale."
He bends forward slight, one foot shifting ever so slightly. As he launches himself forward, there's a faint scrape of wood against wood as the trident leaves the floor twirling at his side, net spreading out from along the tines like a banner.
He rushes in close, head ducked low in a full on charge. At the last moment the vertical spin of the trident changes into a horizontal one, the momentum carrying his own body in a spin as he makes a slight circle around the Greek's side to her back. As he finishes his spin, he lashes out with the shaft of the trident, to crack it straight across her backside.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca successfully hits Varvara with Anguilla.
-* CRITICAL HIT! *-
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Varvara 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 DeLucca
"Man, if I had a say in this," the guy in the hood just shakes his head, "I wouldn't wanna break a piece of o' that, that girl crazy! And, uh..." The man adjusts his specs. Now that he thinks about it, he's sure he's seen her before... somewhere, some years ago.
"Tch," the woman snarls, the speed of the modern day gladiator throwing her off as in the process of circling her, his foot bumps into one of hers, putting her into a stumble in a favorable direction that exposes her backside.
What a crack it is! People could hear the sound of spear shaft against bone all the way out from the street. Not even the sudden nasty-worded calls of the unsightly and unseemly men of the criminal underworld gathered can silence it as a guttural roar of pain escapes her throat when she hits the ground face-flat.
It's more a wonder that the blow doesn't just knock /her/ through the floorboards like she did to that Korean guy, whoever he was. We probably won't ever see him again.
Blood seeps down from her jaw as she rolls herself up to a standing position. No compliments on the Sicilian man's perfect timing and movement, just the sudden lash of one of her legs down low to one of his heels as she brings her arms up in front of her to cover her rise back to her feet, her sore back bumping into a splintered table edge that sure doesn't do her mood any additional favors.
"Aw shit, that's right, she was in the King of Fighters 2011!" The hooded guy in the red-tinted glasses exclaims out loud. "This ain't your normal crazy hobo lady folks!" She lost to both the opponents she faced in that tournament, but a pedigree like that has got to be worth something.
That, or she really really wanted that bar that guy took from her, but that aforementioned sweeping leg strike is probably of more immediate interest than any sort of tournament history.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca dodges Varvara's Swollen Foot.
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Varvara 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 DeLucca
There's no gloating from the young man as his opponent goes sprawling to the floor boards. The grin that was so clear on his face a moment ago is gone. His mouth forms a tight line, dark brows furrowed in concentration. He's gotten down to business, and just because business starts out good doesn't mean its time to take it easy. The fingers of his free hand twine in the net, hooking through the holes. Despite the tangled appearance of the net, when he spreads his arms apart it comes off cleanly.
The net twitches a few times as he twists his wrist. He rotates his wrist a few more times, moving the net from stationary at his side into a blurry swirl beside him, the weights whistling as they slice through the air.
But even those few moments are precious in a fight, he had meant this to be a show. Well, it was going to be a show, just of a different sort. No time for theatrics. Not the way this woman laid the beatdown on his would-be opponent. He has just enough time to react to the incoming sweep. He crouched at the knees, and kicked off from the ground, sailing over the attack.
He adjusts his grip on the trident as he reaches the apex of his jump, fingers twisting with practiced ease, tines flashing as the shift downwards. Then, as with all things that go up, he comes back down to earth. The net twirls over his head like a propeller, but it doesn't keep him up. Gravity does its job, pulling the gladiator back down to earth, the sharp points of his weapon leading the way.
COMBATSYS: Varvara blocks DeLucca's Pistris.
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Varvara 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 DeLucca
The hooded man whistles. If this were a theatrical shoot, there'd be a dramatic slow-down effect to the ambient music of that man's slowed down whistle as deLucca goes over the kick. The way the Greek woman looks up, snarl slowly giving way to shock as the business end of the man's formidable weapon comes bearing down.
"Ooooooh!" They all chant, thinking that he might've impaled her clean when she's bowled onto her back, head butting painfully against the base of the table behind her as it topples behind. Her left hand catches the middle prong as its very tip pokes her chest. Her teeth bared, she visibly twitches as it takes what strength she has to muster to hold all that momentum back.
The hooded man steps around the table to get a better look at what's going on, cutting off the view of some of the unsavory viewers who hurl curses and insults about wanting to see the blood. He's actually ready to count her out on first glance.
"Gkkh," she gurgles gibberish as her other hand tries to take the shaft of the trident, very visibly straining herself to try and jerk the trident in such a way towards the toppled table behind her and let /him/ deal with having a whole bunch of splinters to pick out himself later.
"Yeah, fight's still on people," the hooded guy reassures them as he steps back away from the two European warriors of differing disciplines.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca blocks Varvara's Medium Throw.
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Varvara 0/-------/----===|===----\-------\0 DeLucca
It's DeLucca's turn to look more than a little stunned. He clings to the shaft of the trident, like some sort of monkey, but even the added weight of his body doesn't seem enough to drive the point of the trident completely home. His quicksilver expression changes once more. The serious expression flits away in a moment, replaced by another grin. Far from the previous grin, the cocky 'I'm too good for this' grin. No, this one is pure enjoyment. And the way he bears his teeth, it's more than a little manic. "Bene."
He lets out a small "Erk." As he's toppled. He's not about to let go of his weapon, so he has one of two choices. Try to wrench it free, or ride it out. He goes for the second. He curls himself up as he goes flying into the table, hitting it like a cannonball. Splinters of wood go flying as it cracks cleanly in half where he struck it.
Surprisingly, the table comes out the worse for the collision. Or perhaps his shirt for the small breaking roll he's forced to do along the grimy floor.
He rolls to his feet, bouncing up and down a couple times. He didn't come out completely unscathed, a bit of blood trickling from a busted lip, but in the grand scheme of things, not too bad.
Then like a rhino with head trauma, he's charging in again. He lashes out with his trident, two quick stabs aimed at th Cypriot's shoulders. Though merely a distraction, as he whips the net around, the weighted ends fanning out, a dozen solid metal spheres on a direct collision course.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca successfully hits Varvara with Armed Combo.
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Varvara 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 DeLucca
Varvara, in comparison, is not all smiles - but in all fairness, who would smile when faced with the prospect of nearly being run through? A small bit of blood stains her shirt anew along what whatever other sorts of grime her shirt has accumulated throughout the... day? Week? Um, come to think of it, has she changed her clothes recently? Or... bathed? The foul scents of grease, long-spoiled booze, grime, and... miscellaneous scents that line this particular dive of the West Side may well be as effective as a strong deodorant for disguising one's scent.
Nonetheless, in the time the Sicilian gladiator takes to pull himself up for an assault, Varvara too stands at the ready with the same stance she greeted him with after showing that Korean military guy out, eyes narrowed. He shows enjoyment. For her, there's a certain... focus. Or perhaps she's taking offense to the smile?
She leans the wrong way when he starts to swing, mistaking the thought he'd twirl for another hard end with a sharp jab that pokes deeply enough to her shoulder that she recoils by twisting to the side. The second stab gets in a bit deeper. Panicked, she thinks to get her hand on one of the tines just in time to be battered by the metal spheres of the net across her chin, wrenching her free of a potentially serious laceration as she is knocked to the air.
The bar catches her. Drinking glasses shatter everywhere as she falls on her side against some of the stools. It's the sort of hit that would bring pretty much anyone to tears. Varvara responds not with a cry of pain, but an angry shout and the rumbling of a hungry, hungry stomach.
She mutters something that's probably Greek but just might be dazed nothings as she staggers forward, shoving the hooded man away when her staggering veers a bit too close as he starts swinging her arms wildly in a series of very fast, blurry punches at stomach-level, rapid fire, a furrowed brow and a teeth-baring frown suggesting she's more than happy to keep punching until she loses all circulation in her arms in an attempt to overwhelm his series of methodical strikes with many, many small ones.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca counters Binding Seeds from Varvara with Piscatorius.
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Varvara 0/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 DeLucca
The swing of the net contiues after striking the Greek aside. He twists his arm, carrying the spin over his head. He slowly brings his arm out to the side, the net spinning faster and faster as its own weight begins to help it's downward swing. A few on the bar's patrons back away, pushing to the wall, especially after seeing what those innocuous spheres hurtling through the air did to one much tougher than they.
He watches her approach, that manic toothy smile still spread across his face. Maybe it was time for a little show. The trident was all wel and good, but his prefered style wasn't names for the use of a trident. There's only a subtly shift to his feet as the Greek closes in, the only sign he's preparing to respond at all. Once the attack comes in his dips to the side, lashing out with the spinning net.
There's an audible snap as it spreads out, a spiderweb of ropes ready to catch the rampaging Greek. And in the manner of nets, it does it's job, collapsing about her once it's hit, steel spheres spinning together to lock her inside, at least temporarily.
His fingers still twined in the net, he tenses all the muscles in his arm. He twists at the shoulders, swinging the net and its contents around his side. A well practiced twists of the wrist and the momentum of the swing causes the net to spiral open again, discharging its contents at the nearest available wall.
Entangled and snared, Varvara doesn't make keeping hold of her easily as she struggles around the inside of the net as she's compressed and contorted into a cramp- and sprain-inducing posture. Even so, she violently wriggles around inside the net.
There might be teeth marks found on one of the steel spheres if the trident- and net-wielding gladiator inspects it after this fight, the hows and whys when measured against the Mohs scale of hardness probably best left not dwelt upon.
Especially not in the light of the laughter- and applause-inducing way he dislodges her from his capture as she hits the wall and collapses atop a table where two now-shocked lowlives are cursing the loss of their beer.
Her head's ringing. The vulgar and disparaging comments upon her are lost as she sees two of the Italian man standing there with that toothy smile. Her fingers twitch. Her teeth really ache (this one is her fault). Blood goes down her forehead, cut from when she impacted against the wall just moments before.
"Man am I glad they didn't ask me to handle the bets, shee-it," the hooded man says, knowing how much money got into the pot for the Korean guy. He mostly circles around behind the bar for his own safety after that previous shove, feeling relatively confident that he can duck in safety. Maybe.
"'m gonna take your teeth," she says dazedly, "and I'll chew them up," she crouches down before suddenly springing forward, arms outstretched to try and tackle into the gladiator and roll him across the shrapnel-laden floor before hurling him off into some undefined distance she hasn't really thought ahead about.
Probably, unfortunately, into where the hooded guy thinks it's safe to stand, if she has it her way.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca dodges Varvara's Fleeing Musician.
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Varvara 0/-------/-======|=====--\-------\0 DeLucca
The Sicilian flips his hand, returning the net to his side. He crouches lower, bringing his manica clad arm in front of his body, his forearm flush against the shaft of the trident. He's not about to go chasing in there after her, and he's more than content to let the degenerates scurry away to their corners. He wouldn't even be here if not for the winnings. His disgust with the place shows for just a moment on his face.
His thoughts never leave his opponent though, watching her through narrowed eyes as she once more comes stumbling to he feet. "Grande." His smile stretches even wider, threatening to push his cheeks off his face.
Though, as she gets down in her crouch DeLucca's smile shifts to a slight frown. "That is not good. I enjoy my teeth, they're useful, no?" His lips peel back as he taps one of his chompers with a fingernail as if to demonstrate.
He lets out a small eep, as she comes charging at him. He's intent on avoiding that freight train of pain. He quickly slips to the side, getting out of the way of the onrushing Greek. As he slides away he dips the trident to the floor.
He scrapes the trident's tines along the floor, digging gouges in the old wood. Chi swells up around the head of the trident, pale blue, swirling like water. With one last flick of his wrist, the points break free from the floor, a waver of watery chi rolling along the ground after Varvara.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca successfully hits Varvara with Fluctus.
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Varvara 1/-------/=======|======-\-------\0 DeLucca
Skillfully, the whiffed dive is recovered swiftly from as she rolls atop the bar countertop. The hooded guy ducks and covers his head as he sprints off from another point of near-impact.
"Damn, lady, watch where you're goin'," he chides.
"Shut up," she snaps back at... well it's hard to say if it's at the guy she just missed, or the other guy she just missed. Strangely enough, the hooded man's head dips a little, like he's... looking down? His thumbs work on a cellphone as he only tilts his head up every so often.
As her feet touch back down on the floor, the oncoming splash of watery chi carries a distinct undercurrent that sweeps across her legs and takes her off her feet to another strained yell of pain, swept a short ways across the rotted, stained wood. She slides face-up across the ground until the liquid chi manifestation either fades back into the aether or seeps through the cracks in the floor - or some combination thereof, most likely, given how haphazard and dangerous it is to even walk around here.
Bloodied, drenched, and battered, her hand slaps down on a table as she rises up. She wasn't a pretty sight before Marco decided to fight this new opponent, but she's not about to model for calendars or magazines again any time soon. Not that she... appears the part of a model.
The crowd's cheering for DeLucca to put her away, among other more derogatory suggestions. Her arms suddenly cross outwards, fingers cupped as she shouts angrily once loud enough to silence the lot of them.
She's charging for Marco anew, tripping over a rolling bottle on the ground. She doesn't lose her step, looking to charge past the man and swing at the small of his back to put him off balance and - assuming she gets that far - try and get her hand around his face or throat to choke him while the other attempts to hook his arm behind his back.
It's utterly relentless - whether she gets a hold of him or not, she reaches up high for his head to lift him up over her shoulder and behind her for one hard slam, ending in a second before she finally lets go if she can finally get a hold of him. If she can only just get her grubby, dirtied, calloused hands on him...!
COMBATSYS: Varvara blitzes into action and acts again!
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Varvara 0/-------/-----==|======-\-------\0 DeLucca
COMBATSYS: DeLucca blocks Varvara's Chimera's End.
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Varvara 0/-------/------=|=======\-------\1 DeLucca
COMBATSYS: DeLucca dodges Varvara's Hill of Futility.
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Varvara 0/-------/------=|=======\-------\1 DeLucca
Lowlives, cheering for him? Well, that's a switch. But he only has a couple of moments to wonder at that fact. And to wonder if he even likes that fact, more than likely he'd be teaching one or two of them a lesson later. Sunglasses looked like he might need a quick lesson in pointy objects. He finally decides it does annoy him.
"Respect!" It's a sharp snap, directed at no one in particular, and more than certain some of the patrons would think it was directed at Varvara. Though the way his eyes slide about the room tell another tale.
Only one thought has time to shuffle through his mind as his opponent once more makes his way towards him, and he gives the thought voice. "Still? Dannazione."
He raises his armored arm, intent on taking what ever blow she sends his way on the steel manica, more than certain he'd have to get dents hammered out afterwards. His eyes go wide as she charges past him. The same trick he started the match with. With barely a second to spare, he shifts about, getting his other arm in the way of the blow. The unarmored arm. He winces at the impact, sure it's going to leave a bruise.
The force of it does knock him off balance a bit, sending him stumbling, and across the same bottle Varvara slid across on her way to him. By plain stupid luck, his stumbling carries him out of the way of her grab.
He finally catches his balance, laughing a bit. By now it's certainly not amused, it actually sounds a little hysterical. She just keeps coming.
Fair's fair. He shifts on his feet and charges at her, trident spinning in his hand, net dragging along on the ground behind him. A few feet from her he drops to one knee and drives the trident into the floor. The water-like chi, bursts out from between the cracks in the floorboards under the Greek, hosing her from below.
COMBATSYS: Varvara endures DeLucca's Prester.
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Varvara 0/-------/--=====|=======\=------\1 DeLucca
Dannazione, indeed. The people who dare to walk around in the open - or barge into an underground fighting ring and beat the utter crap out of an opponent moments before their fights begin - tend to be made of something, well, tough. Metro City bleeds out the weak, the helpless, and lets the strong run roughshod over them until Haggar decides it's a great day to go out and keep the sidewalks clean (this tends to be almost every day, but the Mad Gear stragglers have proven near-impossible to wipe out completely).
Another growl escapes her throat as the Italian man escapes her angry, hungry fingers, though it is far weaker. Her breath is heavy. Tired. It's sheer bloody single-mindedness that sees her trying to channel her body's dwindling reserves of stamina and consciousness as blood gets in one of her eyes. She doesn't bother trying to wipe her face.
He comes at her. She keeps crouched low, clenching her right hand so tightly that flexing said arm ever so slightly causes a tear to develop on her sleeve. She is tense, ready to spring at a moment's notice if he thinks, so far as she can ever really think ahead, that he's going to be able to try and run her through again...
The stabbing stops short. She remains crouched, completely oblivious to the gathering moisture underneath her footing when it suddenly bursts up with such concussive, even lacerating force as she thinks to swing a leg outward in a small hopping forward roundhouse kick. On one hand, the sudden burst of sheer watery chi power underneath her no doubt is delivering enough of a sudden shock that her body might just up and give out on her, especially at the very velocity it's launching her at. She might knock herself out on the ceiling or fly right out the door. Physics are not in her favor.
The bad news is that her striking foot might still clip DeLucca's face yet as she is tossed forward by the geyser-like blast in his general direction.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca dodges Varvara's Heavy Kick.
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Varvara 0/-------/--=====|=======\=------\1 DeLucca
Heavy panting. That's the noise coming from the Italian right now. With the way he's dancing about, trying everything in his power to keep the Cretean, or rather Cyprian Bull away from him, is taking a drain on his endurance. His eyes are wide and once more his expression has melted into one of pure concentration. Soon he was going to mess up, and that ould cost him, if he was going to end this, it had to be now, and quick.
As the fury of watery chi splashes back down across the floor, dissipating back into light blue motes, he has just a split second to respond to the roundhouse kick launched at his face. He rolls backwards, his luck once more carrying him out of the way of the blow.
As he comes back up onto his knees, his hand whips outwards, nt spreading in front of him in a fisherman's cast. It doesn't matter what it entwines, as long as those ropes end up twisted around some limb of the Greek.
If his luck holds out, and he manages his catch, he waits for the loud clack of the steel spheres clicking together, sealing the net shut for a moment.
He circles his hand around, twining the net in his hand and gives a sharp tug to pull his quarry towards him. With only the wee problem of the sharp pointy trident he brings up between himself and Varvara. Spear fishing at its finest.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca successfully hits Varvara with Trygonus.
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Varvara 0/-------/=======|=======\===----\1 DeLucca
There's an increasing tension on the hooded man's face. Why isn't he looking at the fight as much... squeamish? He didn't really seem to be a man of much upstanding moral character to begin with, but squeamish? Bored? Inattentive? Mysteriously, out of the view of all involved, he still keys in a few more things on his cellphone.
Meanwhile, Varvara experiences the full consequences of her velocity through sheer whiplash as deLucca skillfully catches Varvara by her leg. HE may have damn near yanked her leg out of the socket just from the catch alone, eyes gone wide in brief as he yanks her close.
"Whoa! Holy..." The hooded man in the shades jumps as the point of impact between muscled belly and sharp pointy trident as Varvara is now suspended upside-down, a hard jab in her abdomen seeing the escape of what wind she has left in a gasp. She slips off the trident, bloodied and limp as her punctured shirt finds itself awarded with a whole new layer of bloodstains.
Even the crowd seems to wince sympathetically in pain, for what sympathy those people are ever capable of. They know a truly nasty blow when they see it.
"Uh, yeah, it's over, y'all, it's over." The hooded man jumps over the counter, equal parts horrified at this final exchange and the fact that this guy just more or less (wo)manhandled someone who made it to the King of Fighters tournament.
That's nothing to sneeze at!
The hodded guy in the shades deftly closes his cellphone as he tries to lift one of deLucca's arms up. "Here's your winner, you're gonna be seein' more of him, yep, ahh... what the hell is your name, fill me in here."
Varvara wheezes in a heap at his feet, nearly motionless.
COMBATSYS: Varvara takes no action.
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DeLucca 1/----===/=======|
COMBATSYS: Varvara can no longer fight.
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DeLucca 1/----===/=======|
DeLucca pulls the trident back before it does any real damage. Though he's not completely sure the woman could be stopped by anything short of some real damage. As she finally succumbs to the assault, all the tension bleeds out of him. He's left with the spinning head and weak muscles the sudden drop in adrenaline leaves him with. He winds the net back in, spins the trident and drives it into the floorboards, a little more property damage never hurt anyone.
He uses the weapon to drag himself to his feet, tilting his head back and letting a long heavy sigh escape. He tolerates the arm raising, at least for the moment, but where Varvara's grimy touch barely solicited a reaction, sunglesses gets a bit of a frown, just a touch. "Marco." It's all he offers, more is not forthcoming.
He snatches his arm away after a moment, fixing the man with a wide grin that's just a little pradatory before turning towards Varvara. He bends over, offering his gauntleted hand out to the Greek. "Molte Grazie. Was a good fight." It's a peace offering, even if it wasn't who he was supposed to fight, it's obvious from the expression he's giving her, that he, in some way, enjoyed himself.
COMBATSYS: DeLucca has ended the fight here.
"Marco! Yeah, Marco, good on ya," the hooded man in the shades pats him on the back, "all right, show's up tonight, you guys gotta g-- what? No! The hell's wrong with you, why would you wanna... pff. Whatever." Let's not elaborate on what comments from the crowd he's disagreeing with.
Varvara's vision is cloudy as she finally finds something resembling strength to try and stop the bleeding in her gut. In peaceful resolution for one, there's still tension in another. It's wordless - the last assault took any ability to say much anything in agreement, disagreement, defense, or awkwardly written in advertisement slogan (or some mix thereof). Distress? Anger? All there is to go by is by those eyes and her face, none of which suggest any sort of friendly outward feelings on the matter.
"All right honey, gonna have to drag your ass out," the man in the hood, "man I ain't even bein' paid for this much, you better be thankful."
Varvara doesn't respond, as the hooded man largely drags her out unceremoniously. The man shoos the rest off pretty readily as they hoot, holler, drink, and do whatever it is they intend to do with the rest of their day or evening after a fight like that.
Through a nearby alley on the way to some clinic or another, the cellphone rings. The man answers it immediately.
"Yeah? ...Yeah, it's 2-Ill, 'sup, I'm gonna tell ya this, I ain't being paid to drag sorry carcasses outta these fights, ya hear me? Really already stickin' my nose too deep in all this, 'specially around these people I don't roll with no more--"
This is probably someone else's story, at this point, and of no further concern... probably.
Log created on 19:25:04 05/03/2013 by Varvara, and last modified on 10:59:06 05/04/2013.