Description: It's a constant of this universe. Angry women, possibly one of the most dangerous forces in physics. Before going off to Southtown, someone thinks that a certain someone frustrated with their turnout in a recent tournament - Senna Chaiket - just might be a valuable asset... but is it really a good idea to ask another angry woman - Varvara Economou - who ranks about bottom in cleanliness, etiquette, and overall intelligence, to get her to come along? (The owner of one particular dive bar disagrees.)
It's not too long after that fight with Katsuya. A week, maybe a little more. But something about it... dispirited Senna. She'd never taken losing well--something of a sore loser, to be certain--and she'd been taking it out on the randoms in Metro City. Kicking up quite a fuss, raising hell, going from bar to bar... getting drunk, punching faces, getting thrown out (sometimes), just plain ol' effin' up everyone in the bar (less times). Not a performance her family would be proud of...
...not that she would profess to give a rat's ass. Oh, sure, she's got some money socked away. She can live comfortably--more comfortably than she has been, renting by-the-day rooms in shitholes around Metro, to be closest to the bars and the hangouts she knows best, or at least, feels the most comfortable in, but it isn't about the -money-. She should've -fucked up- that pretty boy gangster and in the end, he did for her. That burns. It burns bad, and it's what's on her mind every night as she grabs a fistful of dirty, crumpled cash, stuffs it in a pocket, and heads out for her nightly rounds.
Well, round; rounds one, two, three, and four were whiskey, in a shit little dive bar that supposedly caters to boxing fans but is really just a dive, owned by a former boxer sunk so deep into his glory days in a haze of alcohol that he wouldn't notice if his bartenders were chargin' double for the piss swill they sold and pocketing half. (They are.) He's seen Senna fight and so she's always welcome at the bar, which is good, 'cause she's been nominally banned from a few others already--not that she couldn't, or wouldn't, or hasn't, walked back into them the next night and -dared- those fuckers to throw her out.
"Fuck," she says, hazily, contemplating the fifth glass of cheap, but effective, whiskey in her hand. She might be drunk, but goddamn if she isn't still pretty steady--a testament to her fortitude or her skill, or both.
Seems like almost yesterday (perhaps it in fact was yesterday) that a strange man with weird hair and that green suit put up a really big show about getting her to go beat up someone or some people in Southtown. All the great food she could imagine (or that she couldn't, as the case would be). The few cozy comforts that can be afforded to brigands who brave the dumpsters for sustenance and surprisingly intact luxuries are but a small temptation to stay put and continue being a scourge upon American soil.
So the Greek-Cypirot gets it in her mind to have one last good night on the town... the same way she always has a day or night for whenever she isn't spotted and thrown right back out of the United States. The same selfish, greedy acquisition of pretty much anything she can get her grubby hands on. Sometimes things in other peoples' hands.
Her entry into that shitty little boxing-themed dive is quiet enough. Aside from any turned heads (and stomachs) about the scarred, clearly steroid-ridden lady, there's little to distinguish her as a genuine troublemaker. This may be owed to how little she sees that's worth grabbing on the onset. Her nose wrinkles at the smell. Varvara, wrinkling her nose at the smell. That's... some standards.
An obnoxious electronic-sounding tune - the default for some cellphone brand or another - cuts through the air of pirated digital TV broadcasts from Argentina, the sounds of idle conversation, and someone throwing up very loudly.
Digging something from her pocket, her filthy thumb pops open a dirtied top to a scratched bright screen with a certain enthusiasm not always seen from her. She squints for a bit.
IF YOU SEE THIS WOMAN - ASK HER TO COME TO SOUTHTOWN
There's a picture of the bloodied Senna from the very end of her fight with that other guy, whoever it was. Huh. What's the odds of finding her in this city just like that? Probably slim.
Incidentally, Varvara comes up close to where Senna is sitting to reach out and snatch a handful of peanuts from a bowl that does not belong to her without any real grace or precision. Peanuts noisily spill out of the bowl and onto the counter as she shoves a whole handful of them into her mouth, shells and all.
Really, the only concessions to the bar's 'theme' are.. well, the name (though, calling it the Golden Glove is laughable at -best-), and a few trophies and some decorations. Dirty, dusty decorations. Otherwise the bar is populated by, well, the downtrodden and the losers. Neither Senna or Varvara can, reliably, not lay claim to either of those titles. Immediately, as Varvara settles into place...
Senna's nose twitches. Oh, god. That funk. Shit. She might be sleeping in dives and only showering like... once every other two or three days, but... goddamn. Maybe she's just used to the smell in here--that sour scent of desperation and listlessness... mixed with cheap beer and worse wine.
"... ffffffuck, Smitty, what'd you guys do, get in some new roadkill or somethin'? Jesus _Christ_, it smells like..." She turns her head. Sniffs again. Oh. Oh Jesus.
"... Smells like -loser-... goddamn," she mumbles as she steps half away from the exceeding apparition of ugliness, "get the fuck away from me before you go up in smoke or somethin'," she groans. First impressions are important right? Well, she's sure that she's not making a good one... but neither is Varvara.
Suddenly all that whiskey isn't doing so well, is it? She's already on edge. Won't take much to push her over.
"Fmmf mmh," Varvara spits back, er, verbally with some degree of muffled anger. She's not spitting out that handful of peanuts crunching around her mouth for sake of clarity as she moves to stick her hand into that bowl again despite not having finished her current mouthful of peanuts. She starts to turn her head back towards her prize--
Wait.
Hand still stuck in the bowl, she turns her head back towards Senna. Staring. squinting. The sorts of behaviors that are never conducive to avoiding conflicts when given a sternly worded warning to get away, punctuated with any number of foul words and other simple statements laced with the threats of bodily harm or worse in failure to comply.
She swallows the chewed mass of peanuts, somehow having mashed the lot of them to a fine, soft pace in a startlingly small amount of chews. At least, enough to somehow not suffocate herself on the spot by some sort of God-given miracle or obscure talent that ends up on TV shows with time to fill with complete nonsense.
That /is/ her, her eyes widen a bit. So surprised by this, even completely disbelieving, she gets out the cellphone again to flip it open to be extra sure with her other hand and check. Incidentally, she hasn't stepped away from Senna in the process despite the very politely worded request.
"This you?" She asks, turning the cellphone towards Senna. A picture of her shortly after Katsuya defeated her, sure to invite friendly conversation material. "Ya look a lot like her."
Fuck. Why'd it have to be -that- moment? Senna recognizes it immediately, the alcoholic haze lifting partly as the anger starts to take over. Her reaction is sharp and immediate; she tries to slap that cellphone out of Varvara's hand. She doesn't care if it breaks or not--bill her.
That should be answer enough, but she grits her teeth and, without even really realizing it, has her hands clenched already as she grinds out an answer. "Yeah... that's me... what of it? You gonna make fun too?" The first guy who did left without his teeth. The second guy is gonna be in the hospital for a while, having been heavily bruised in very sensitive places. People've been showing her that picture just to get a rise out of her, and she -hates- it.
Being reminded of her losses, particularly public ones, is about the worst (or best) thing to do to get a rise out of her. It's like teasing the Sasquatch in those Jack Link commercials--it might be funny to start but it always ends with pain.
"Get that shit out of my face," she snaps, perhaps unnecessarily. Some people in the bar back off--others? They start laying down bets. They know what's up when Senna has that look in her eye. (She almost always has that look in her eye).
Senna smacks the cellphone with a strength worthy of a fighter, and Varvara juggles her hands to stop it from hitting the floor with a bit of panic, having suddenly decided getting another handful of peanuts is secondary to keeping the cellphone from hitting the floor. Her hands slap themselves together to catch the phone in between, a brief shudder at the passing tension of possibly having it shatter on the floor.
Given Senna's strength, odds are good it's already broken, but simple minds cling to simple hopes indeed.
"The fuck's your problem," and nothing ever good comes when two women in Metro start hurling curse words at one another.
Oh yeah. It's pretty much on now. "What's my problem??" slurs Senna (a little slurring is normal), "What's my -problem-?!?" She's quickly reaching critical point, fueled by anger and alcohol and oh yeah, anger. "keep throwin' that goddamn pretty boy in my face and you wonder what my -problem- is... YOU'RE MY PROBLEM!" It can't be said that she has bad form--she's too well-trained for that--but it -can- be said that she's definitely got some sluggishness.
Added to that, she definitely hasn't spotted Varvara as anything but an (extremely ugly) fight fan, and so maybe her punch, while just as powerful as ever, maybe isn't her -best- punch. But it'll do to start clearing the bar, and even if she misses Varvara, she'll probably punch the guy behind her in the ear.
And knock him on his ass, cold. "THAT FUCKIN' GUY IS MY PROBLEM!!" she shouts, spittle flying, as she raves, following through a bit too much on her punch.
She seems to calm--just a little--her voice falling a few decibels. "And now I'm gonna take my troubles out on -you-."
COMBATSYS: Senna has started a fight here.
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Senna 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Varvara has wandered into the fight here.
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Varvara 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Senna
COMBATSYS: Varvara dodges Senna's Fierce Punch.
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Varvara 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Senna
Hands still full of cellphone that she hopes isn't busted, the reared back arm of a tightly wound fist is part of the universal language for 'get out of the way,' and the Greek-Cypirot leans just enough to the side that the fist sails past her and - as advertised - nails that guy behind her in his ear.
The sound of a collapsing body and whatever sorts of collateral that comes with it is the furthest thing from her mind, hands separated to keep her phone in her right hand as she balls up her fist with her left, legs spreading apart with a very slight stumble from sliding one of her feet on a slick puddle of spilled drink as lowers her stance. Spittle sprays in her face, left eye shut and a scowl of irritation.
"Shut," she punctuates this with her own fist, swinging straight for Senna's stomach to try and crumple her over, "up."
Adrenaline pumping from a flight-or-fight response drowns out that thing she was probably going to ask her before the fact - or if she'll even remember after.
COMBATSYS: Senna endures Varvara's Medium Punch.
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Varvara 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Senna
*SMACK* Senna doubles over around the punch from the Cypriot, having placed herself minimally-enough out of position that defending was, quite simply, not an option. Not that she was thinking about fancy footwork or using her training. The hit is enough to make her vomit--but expelling some of that cheap whiskey--onto the floor and onto Varvara, probably--does help clear the head some. When she straightens, after a long moment...
She's smirking. "Good," she grates, her voice made hoarse by the abuse of alcohol going down and coming up, "you're not gonna be some cream puff..." Like a lot of people in Metro City and Southtown, there's nothing she likes more than a good fight. And this close, there's really only one thing to do--
--grab Varvara around the neck with her left hand, pound at her stomach with the right a couple of times, and then, well, and then headbutt. Not -exactly- Marquis of Queensbury rules... but fuck that prissy bitch.
COMBATSYS: Varvara endures Senna's Violent Clinching.
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Varvara 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Senna
Her punching arm gets itself a nasty taste (arms can taste?) of whatever it was Senna was drinking, some of it splashing on her foot. There are no easily given indicators that this could possibly worsen Varvara's mood - she already looks positively ugly, dirty, filthy. What's one more bit of bile when there's no doubt blood stains (hers and others'), sweat, dirt, grime, and who knows what else?
If anything, she's more surprised she doesn't just collapse into a sad little heap like most people she guts (or gets in the nose, or wherever) as she is suddenly grasped around the neck and throttled, Senna's smirk met with a far less amused baring of teeth and snarling. Their physical strength comparable, maybe even matched, it may be Senna's alcohol-loosened inhibitions that seems to give the upper hand in the exchange as Varvara gurgles, chokes, and sputters while she's got that hold on her.
The shots to her own breadbasket (and peanutbasket, and turkeybasket, the ominfoodbasket) earn a pained grunt each time. Her striking hand from before struggles to release Senna's arm from her neck, the other's still holding the cellphone...
She at least still has her feet on the ground, pushing up a bit against Senna's vicious headbutt with sheer cussedness to stay on her feet as she sweeps a leg outward to knock Senna's feet out from underneath her, bringing up the cellphone-bearhing hand upward in an afterthought to try and protect herself from some other strike to her now bruised face, blood starting to trickle out her nostril.
"Get off!!" Is all she's able to snap out with a wheeze as she sucks in more oxygen. Those shots to her gut didn't do her any favors in breathing.
COMBATSYS: Senna blocks Varvara's Swollen Foot.
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Varvara 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Senna
She's starting to wake up, the adrenaline starting to pump, clearing her mind a little more, letting her actions be more crisp, more fluid. Releasing her hold on Varvara's neck after the headbutt, she's still, especially in this enclosed space, in plenty of range for Varvara to try her little trick of trying to sweep her--but even though she's a boxer, she's learned to, as the kids say, watch her ankles. A quick drop and she's taking that sweep on her forearms, fists planted into the flooring for balance--and then, while Varvara is trying to protect her face...
Well, Senna tries to take advantage of that with a quick, two-shot combination, as she rises. She'll hammer a fist up into Varvara's stomach, her right fist--and then, as she's reaching standing height, she'll drive her left fist upwards in another uppercut, a chin-seeking missile that's targeted for Varvara's chin.
Perhaps deliberately misinterpreting the Cypriot's exclamation, the boxer grins nastily. "Beatin' people up does get me off, sometimes," she replies, almost... conversationally, as she throws the combination strikes.
COMBATSYS: Senna successfully hits Varvara with Body Blow.
- Power hit! -
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Varvara 1/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Senna
An expert shot to an already softened gut does wonders, sliding underneath her raised arm. Bits of peanut fly out of Varvara's mouth to a prolonged exhale of pain, just in time for that second shot to shut it up. Teeth clench together so tightly from the impact that one would expect that a tooth or two ought to be cracked, if not shattered, as the smaller (but probably bulkier) Cypirot goes flying off her feet into a nearby table.
Its patrons at those seats, previously enjoying the fight, get up out of their chairs and raise their arms defensively and take steps back. They don't want to be anywhere /near/ that filthy lady, given the smell and how they watched Senna take out a few people before - what if this one still has fight?
"Kffffssss," Varvara hisses as blood goes down the side of her mouth with the hand that continues holding the cellphone that probably ought to be crushed under the tension of her clenched fist, a deeper, wheezier breathing from aching ribs as she rises up to a crouch, vision cloudy to the grinning boxer.
"Friggin' punch like that," she mumbles aloud as she takes in breath again, "coulda taken out a bunch of people," but not her? Given the unsteadiness she shows in getting up, that's increasingly debatable. With a snort, there's a brief crouch before she launches herself into her, hands first - one open, the other still closed due to cellphone, but that probably won't affect the dynamics of it all much as she tries to dive into Senna, to bring her into a rolling tumble before throwing her off with her feet if she can get a hold of her.
Maybe even roll through that counter, or equally as likely end up tossing herself into or over the counter if Senna gets away.
COMBATSYS: Varvara successfully hits Senna with Fleeing Musician.
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Varvara 1/-----==/=======|=======\-------\0 Senna
Shit. Goddamn grapplers. Now, no matter what, Senna's gonna have to take a bath 'cause she's -really- not gonna want to smell like Varvara in the morning. Or five minutes from now. Or five -seconds- from now. Right now? She doesn't have a choice, as she's violently tumbled and thrown into the bar--smashing a few bottles when she hits, taking a few lacerations--which burn with cheap alcohol on them.
"Mother-FUCK-bucket," she growls, as she rises, her shirt torn, cut, awash in a suicide mixture of boozes, but she's not feeling the pain too much yet, with a delayed reaction setting in as she vaults back over the counter.
"Th' fuck you'd come lookin' for me anyways??" she demands, suddenly remembering that Varvara was actually asking her something before this whole thing kicked off and, for some reason, curious about it, as she attempts, somewhat, to repeat a manuever from before--collaring the Grecian woman(?). Only, this time, she'll throw a body shot, turn, hurl her at the bar counter, and, as she goes, just paste her in the back of the head with another fist. A lil' variation, for the crowd, what little is left.
COMBATSYS: Senna successfully hits Varvara with Swing Shot.
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Varvara 1/---====/=======|=======\-------\1 Senna
Varvara, for her part, probably learns really fast why it's a bad idea to roll on this floor at all as there's a basic stinging sensation in her upper back that she can't quite pick out when trying to get her free hand behind her. Probably a glass shard or two. The distraction largely robs her of any positional advantage she might have had, barely paying much attention to Senna as she vaults back over the counter in favor of picking whatever's in her back, well, out of it.
"Huh? What--" Does Varvara just have the attention span of a goldfish? She hasn't really much space or time to answer as she wriggles against Senna's grasp around her neck, bowing herself low and nearly slipping out were it not for getting /another/ shot to the gut, having said gut bump up against said counter (probably just cracked a rib there alone), and then dazedly turn hear head just in time to get her head knocked into the counter that might jog her memory. Or get it to crawl dazedly, as she collapses into a slump in front of the bar counter with her head pounding and her lungs struggling to draw in any sort of air resembling oxygen. Plenty of alcoholic fumes and other things that probably shouldn't legally /be/ in the air, if her lungs want it (they don't), but oxygen intake is becoming an increasing problem with her battered abdomen and how every breath makes /something/ sting.
"Tch, somethin' about you going to Southtown or something," she spits out. Her nostril and mouth hadn't stopped bleeding, and she certainly doesn't look any prettier - or healthier - for it as she pushes up with her free hand. Still, there's that look in her eye, the look in pretty much everyone's eye when they really want to just start (or keep) hitting something.
Or when they suddenly decide to push off their counter-crutch and try to slip behind Senna, bringing her free hand to try and pinch nerves around her bicep just by squeezing it as hard as she can while getting the cellphone-holding arm to fold up behind Senna's shoulder, an attempt to lock those arms in a simplistic hold (but certainly not painless, especially in the case of the one going for a straight-up nerve pinch) as she continues the struggle to keep bringing in breath.
"Like someone wants you or some shit," which probably doesn't narrow down who or why someone wants Senna for 'some shit.' Revenge? A job? Counterfeit Craiglisting?
COMBATSYS: Varvara successfully hits Senna with Medium Throw.
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Varvara 1/--=====/=======|=======\===----\1 Senna
Senna gets her arm twisted to go to Southtown. Quite literally. She sounds calmer now--and exasperated. "Shit. _That's_ what this shit is about?" she manages, between gritted teeth--because the pressure Varvara is applying is anything *but* gentle, and the pain's pretty extreme at this point. It takes a struggle to break free, but she manages, though it abuses her shoulders more, and she rotates her arms--one, then the other--noting the pain in them as much as her ability to still use them.
"Fine. I'll do it, whatever. Ain't got shit else to do anyways. You can tell 'em for me..." And then she lunges, looking to, well, probably to straight up just break Varvara--once again seeking that one-armed clinch.
But if she gets that, well... three pounding body blows with the right; switch arms, three pounding body blows with the left, and then, just to show she's not just some puncher--
--lock Varvara up with both arms, violently spin her around, lift, and release, to toss her into the bar. Pretty much right where Senna got tossed earlier. Hello more glass! Bloodied, bruised, beaten, panting... and absolutely, ferally enjoying beating the shit out of this girl.
"That is," she says, "You can tell 'em -after you come to-."
COMBATSYS: Senna successfully hits Varvara with Organ Pulverizer.
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Varvara 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|==-----\-------\0 Senna
Varvara wasn't too clear on what exactly her part was beyond the idea of 'asking her.' Senna's saying yes - and saying yes with her superior wingspan as she clinches her down, her one open hand struggling to get that hold off of her as she continues to throw bone-crushing punches to her bruised, battered, and no doubt at this point broken belly. There's no gasp of pain to go around with Senna's fist-enforced embargo on oxygen in Varvara's lungs. Eyes bulging, gaze seemingly unfocused, the daze is capitalized upon without any real resistance on her part. She starts looking less the part of someone who is capable of standing up to fight with every passing second, and more a human-sized training dummy whose body goes limp as Senna spins her into the bar.
Her hips hit the top of the counter with enough momentum to shatter it, flying ass over teakettle onto her head on the floor below as her leg clips a rack of almost-quality booze to dislodge a wooden peg and make a whole shelf's worth of alcohol collapse into a slurry of broken glass and wasted booze.
The owner's probably a screaming wreck, and yet too afraid to want to approach either woman to ask them to get out of their bar. No one who could be considered a bouncer wants to lift a finger to Senna. One of them shows at least a modicum of bravery to head over the counter and pick her up.
He's shoved back violently into the rest of the rack, one bloodied and dirty hand slamming down on the remains of the counter. The cellphone, free from her grasp, slides into the newly formed splintered incline. With heavy breathing, narrowed eyes, blood pouring out of her forehead and shoulder, bared teeth, and all sorts of other miscellaneous signs of 'woman is seriously pissed off,' her fist tenses. A growing run develops going up the respective sleeve from worn cloth barely able to contain the taut, bulging muscle, the strain cloth given relief as she slams it into the counter.
"I'm gonna drag ya by your hair," which is not perhaps the most definitive threat one could make in the English language - but it is a second one for her, words fighting with what little air her lungs can capture as she fights to stay conscious with the trauma and bleeding inflicted - as she springs over the counter with a snarl that goes over the oxygen budget and is cut off with breathy growling about a third of the way through, rushing towards Senna to grab her by her right arm and immediately throw a fist into the elbow to try and force it to bend in a way it shouldn't.
If Senna can't ward off this particular blow or otherwise elude her, that's not going to be the worst of it.
COMBATSYS: Senna Toughs Out Varvara's Macedonian Folly!
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Varvara 0/-------/---<<<<|=======\-------\1 Senna
For her injuries, swaying consciousness, and lack of air, the Greek-Cypirot moves with the blow quickly, shuffling behind Senna to grasp them around her midsection and suplex them behind her, rolling backwards on top to reach out and try to twist an ankle and her other arm in fairly rapid succession, to twist until hearing something snap or otherwise losing interest beyond the knowledge such a thing is probably dealing significant injury, and rolling up to a final stand to raise her leg up.
"Or by your friggin' throat with my fist in it," Varvara thinks to add as she raises her foot up, "haven't decided, pro'ly both," and to the chilling thought of dragging Senna by both shoving her fist in her throat and dragging her along as well as her hair, finishes the exchange by slamming her foot down upon Senna's head with such force that there runs a real threat of this part of the floor becoming a crater unto itself.
Could Varvara be counting Senna out too soon? Her stance visibly relaxes post-stomp, as much overconfidence as out-and-out mental and physical exhaustion, hands up against her face where she's bleeding, hiding her own eyes from Senna.
This is the most brutal beating that this bar has seen in quite some time. Even the first night that Senna was here, just a week ago--the body count was higher but they were all creampuffs. There wasn't any joy in it, no artistry, no sense of challenge, and that bored Senna pretty quickly. This? This has her blood pumping; she can hear her pulse, or feel it thudding in her ears--as Varvara returns the beating in kind, in her own inimitable way.
There's a sound very much like a "GACK--" when Senna gets punched in the throat, and the sound that Varvara's stomp makes is somewhere between a cannon shot and an explosion. There's a moment--a brief moment--of silence, and then...
and then...
...and then the silence is broken with laughter. Oh, sure. It's rough, sounding like someone gargling broken glass and gravel, but it's there, raucous, loud.. and coming from Senna. Did she keep her feet? Not exactly--but by force of will, she kept her consciousness, and by force of rage, she kept her strength. Suddenly she's moving faster than she has -any- right to be moving, springing up, blood streaming from mouth, from nostrils, her face already beginning to purple under an enormous bruise... and as she rises?
She is punching. Her right fist is pistoning up, almost straight up, designed to smash through any guard from below, to break it and hammer that fist straight into Varvara's chin--and that? That's just the *stunning* blow, even though it takes Senna up onto her tiptoes--when she comes down, her left fist is arcing downwards, and it's aimed to take Varvara right in the forehead. The impact, if it's there, will be bone-jarring, perhaps the sound of a hollow log being thumped by a gigantic mallet. And Senna's voice, surprisingly quiet and yet full of venom. "Ain't down yet, bitch...!"
COMBATSYS: Senna successfully hits Varvara with Hammer Through.
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Varvara 0/-------/<<<<<<<|=======\=------\1 Senna
Who's laughing? Varvara scowls again, but her head is too addled with injury to really triangulate the wheres and hows of it. It's a series of haunting, enraging echoes that serve to part her hands away from her face, one clenched and one barely so from out-and-out wear and tear to her person, looking off to the side just as punch number one comes to her jaw. Her head snaps upwards violently, as though the force of the blow alone were just shy of snapping her neck outright.
Gurgling and dazed, Varvara's stance drops a bit as her head bows down low, which is more or less where Senna may have wanted it, even as her left fist may take an extra fraction of a second to make contact for it - and when it does, it gets her right in her scalp for where her head is positioned, and the resounding crack of fist against skull should earn a grimace from those who haven't yet run screaming from the violence of it all (it's Metro City, who does?).
They will when spider cracks form around the floor at a distressing length, as though a good portion of this ground could collapse at any moment with just how hard Varvara hits the floor, face down, a series of errant twitches all earning startled reactions from those watching closely. They half expect her to pop back up and start swinging again - the sort of thing Metro City fighters tend to do.
She doesn't. The twitching dies down before long, leaving them with another clear loser in Senna's series of frustration relief brawls following that tournament loss. Even so, none seem to have the courage to really approach either of the two women (and not because one of them smells like, uh, something very smelly and that's putting it about as kindly as one can).
COMBATSYS: Varvara takes no action.
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Senna 1/------=/=======|
COMBATSYS: Varvara can no longer fight.
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Senna 1/------=/=======|
There's something that a respectable fighter never does, really. Senna? Not so respectable. So she spits on Varvara's 'corpse', knowing she isn't really dead... and then she starts to feel the pain of her wounds, coming in now that the adrenaline is ebbing.
"Fuck," she says, then wipes at her face--cleaning off some of the blood. One thing left to do now, she supposes--take that cellphone. Yeah, it's broken as fuck but maybe the SIM card holds some information, or something... She's already beaten the Cypriot into senselessness, so she doesn't bother with a parting kick, just a low, nasty laugh. "Later, tater," she says, casually, then walks for the door--the crowd parting with something like respect. Only now, in the hushed silence of the crowd, can other things be heard--the dripping of alcohol onto the floor, and the bartender, futilely trying to get the cops to show. As if they would.
Log created on 20:08:51 06/19/2013 by Varvara, and last modified on 09:04:19 06/30/2013.