[ROUND ONE] GUILT VS Kirk Douglas

*ROUND ONE Dark Tournament Primary Stadium*

*Team Guaranteed Ultimatum In Limited Time VS Team Kirk Douglas*

Arena Specs The arena itself, which actually sits below ground level, spans one hundred feet in diameter with walls six feet high before the stands begin. The floor of the arena is sprinkled with just enough sand to cover up the stones beneath, but not enough to be significantly detrimental to footing or traction. Gates at the northern and southern end lead into the arena, through which contenders will enter upon being summoned from their quarters in order to compete in the designated match. The platform is risen only four feet off the ground.

Weather Conditions and Bonus Effects The weather is slightly overcast, the distant roar of thunder booming from above ever so often rumbles loudly over the massive array of demons that fill the spectator stands. The crowd constantly screams for blood, regardless of who's is spilt; demons seem to be happy as long as someone's going to get torn to pieces. The fight is broadcasted on large screens, so every spectator in the stands and viewers watching at home can get a close-up of the brutality. An announcer reports all the gore directly from the ring with overflowing enthusiasm, and a ten count from her will end every match.

Who will win? And who will walk out alive?

Striding forward first with obvious purpose, Team G.U.I.L.T. member Omi Barsait was walking out of the western gateway with an almost fanatical grin in stark contrast to his normal calm demeanor. It was inevitable; the roar of the crowd which had last spotted him within tournaments prior surged, always those eager to bet on a man who could do battle with demons & beasts and survive, others whom wanted him buried once and for all. The standard fanfare, truly.

However, standing straight up whilst a glimmer of light from a distant thunder bolt danced across his glasses' lens, Barsait commented back to his emerging team without so much as turning: "Well! I am disgusted. It would appear we have been matched up with the circus freaks and clowns of the tourney; what a waste of my time." Left hand safely tucked away in that same side's pant pocket, the right was a tightly forming fist at chest level - his sharp-edged teeth in full view for that wild grin, amber eyes peering towards the eastern entrance with a kind of fury.

(COMET)

The Teeth of Ignus gauntlets groaned with the stress of that right hand, ever more forming a tighter fist whilst the fighter's two snake-head pauldrons swayed with every slight movement. Almost growling through the weather's swaying of his shoulder-length hair, he pronounced: "I dislike wastes of my time. You guys alright if I get my kill's worth done and over?"

Everyone had entry music. Normally, Edward found the theatrics annoying, but out of spite picked the first thing that came up in Hexinea's cyber brain. The leader of Team Kurt Douglas thought it absolutely appropriate. And ghetto.

Intro

Following behind J., and allowing Hexinea to take the rear, Ed entered the arena rubbing one of his eyes, his hair up in a multitude of cow licks. Fuck style. He wasn't here to impress bitches. A white poster, the words written upon in black marker, hidden from all as he held it the other way around. It was an end match thing, for the purposes of humiliation.

The cyborg wore a pair of long, black denim shorts, yellow sneakers, a black long-sleeved oxford, and a yellow tie. A pair of round sunglasses, with a checkerboard frame covered his eyes. Some of the demons and humans in the crowd would be able to catch a glimpse of the red wrench hanging from a belt loop on his back. He looked to the armored figure that Parts hilariously referred to. Ed rolled his eyes behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. Armor. The cyborg wasn't here to pussy out.

Dropping the poster, Ed patted J. on the shoulder, "To think... That you'll forget about Ice Cube on the morrow." It was a reference to Private's excessive bipolar disorder. The captain lifted himself into the ring and approached it's center to have a meaningful chat with Team GUILT's captain. He gave the opposing team the one fingered salute. Hilariously, his face was completely blank while doing it.

He wanted more sleep, not that he wasn't ready though.

(([[X]](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyymqQdFdXg&translated=1) Wilian Dawnmorrow strode in after his team member, a smirk on his face."Not just your time, I assure you." He had been eating an apple, the core of which, now finished, he threw into the throng of roaring demons. He chuckled as they fought over the scrap. "Slightly more intelligent than our foes, eh?" Over his normal shirt of black samite, with leather panels sewn in, he wore a red jacket. Besides the jacket, the thief was all in black, except for his eyes. The icy spheres met each of his foes' in turn, the smirk never wavering. His staff was on his back, his daggers were hidden, and a coin pouch lay at his waste. He had downed a metal vial before this, and he downed another now, wiping his mouth with the back of a leather-paneled hand. He leaned against the wall of the stadium, hands in pockets, waiting for their group leader to show himself.

I'm an author and here's my story...

Wilian chuckled at his team mate's comments. The man certainly was direct about things. Wilian had lived long enough to recognize someone like him, someone he did not want to mess with. Good thing he's on my side, the thief thought. As the man threw his glasses, Wilian burned iron. Pale blue lines sprung up, going from his body outward to sources of metal. The thief wasn't really burning it, more he was smoldering it, or at least, that's what it felt like. He noted, pleasantly, that metal pylons surrounded the arena, and that there was a foundational support directly under the center of the stage. Those would be most useful in the bouts to come. He saw the thin line that went to the glasses, and gave it a mental tug, iron pulling it to him. This time it did burn, not a painful burn, but a pleasant warming burn in his stomach. His eyes, as always, scanned the enemy for hostility. ...My life's been full of pain, now where's my glory?

The cyborg nodded too. His facial expression unsure as to what to make of Team GUILT's stand-in leader. He looked like he could fight, sure, but good fighters were a dime a dozen at fighting tournaments. All Ed could say was that this Omi was getting a bit too close. He wasn't sure whether his opponent was displaying his bravado, or if he was trying to score a smooch from the prettiest girl at school? Like he thought, this guy was just awfully close, and the tired cyborg was just uncomfortable. His right hand attempted to rub out the itch that had no cure with a few awkward scratches across his left bicep.

Edward stared at Omi's eyes through his huge, sunglasses; adjusting his crotch inappropriately before opening his mouth. "Hmm.." It was certainly the best way to let every know you were thoughtful, or stoned, but some could argue that both words could be used interchangeably. Omi's proposition sounded fun, but the chip attached to his biological brain which forced things like responsibility to take the forefront came forth.

"Sounds fun. But we'll just have to agree to disagree.." Swagger, just swagger. "The Mood Stabilizers isn't going to keep the big guy over there still for much longer. I need to give him something to do and soon. You'll fight the big guy." He turned around without anything else and walked away. The two teams would just have to go default this round.

Fuck it. Hex was already on the ring and nothing was getting it off it.

The cyborg would walk over to the much larger cyborg, tapping it on it's trunk of an arm. "Stop practicing for the spelling bee and fight THAT guy." Ed pointed at Omi.

He promptly walked over to Private, "It's nice day, huh?"

[#1]

Breaking his concentration at Edward's turn, Barsait shrugged lightly while offering the retreating leader's back a final word: "I didn't think I could bluff my way into taking you out right off the bat, anyway. Ah well, you live to fight another day." Snickering as the man with two snake-headed pauldrons gazed upon his apparent opponent - a mechanical monstrosity looking nothing if not unstable, Omi removed his hands slowly from his pockets..

.. and outstretched them fully at shoulder length, the left to the south, the right to the north. Fingertips at their peaks, his laughter now a full chorus aimed directly at the far larger opponent; more words following to acknowledge his consent to the hell-machine's intentions: "Well! Come on over, friend. Here I am, after all - my warm red blood ready to spill. Smash my bones and rip my flesh apart!"

Stepping backwards as each word was spoken, his hands remained in that scarecrow position - only the long-haired gentlemen's thumbs moving, twirling themselves in circles. It was deliberately slow movement backwards, those uneasy eyes now coating the surface of the monstrous cyborg.

It was a straight line between Barsait and Hexinea. The far smaller fighter, standing at 5'11'' and not even reaching 200 lbs. was presumed to be at a terrible physical disadvantage against the titan of steel and death; yet then again, fighting opponents four times his weight with the sole intent of ripping his spine apart was where Barsait was in his element. It was nothing new, after all. Dragons, ogres, he-men, giant demonic turtles - a cyborg would just round out his arsenal of felled Goliaths.

Roughly 150 feet. That was the distance between platform edge and the center Barsait stood upon; all Hex need do would be to traverse the radius. Still, even if the titan was faster than the fury of hell, it gave Omi plenty of time to analyze the opponent's approach..

.. or more importantly, cross his left hand over in a dramatic punching of his own right snake pauldron.

"HERE!" Striking a point on the flat-head side of the pauldron, the entire snake-head fell from the shoulder, before his fingertips slid into the under-base. Crashing into the pauldron, the Teeth of Ignus gauntlet and the Holocaust Brace pauldron locked together via a series of magnets within the material of each.

When all was said and done, Barsait now had a free right hand still in its gauntlet, a pauldron-free right shoulder.. and a left hand now obscured by the open-mouth head of the pauldron, ornate 'fangs' first whilst the fingers twittered about inside.

First, Omi wrenched the left arm ahead, the snake-head facing Hex; then he smashed his right palm over the forearm, fingertips lacing over tightly - as though steadying the left arm. His right leg arched back, left leg tensing itself and straightening forward.

Then? The G.U.I.L.T. fighter was still.

((I didn't agree, actually.))

Ed looked up at Parts with a perplexed look on his face, entirely due to the other cyborg's response. He didn't pay much mind to the match, not having much of an opinion at any rate, or generally being in disinterest. Hex was a monster. If the thing won, then it was expected. If the cocky man won, then a congrats were in order. Omi would have to prove himself within the ring, but even then Edward was unlikely to respect the man, as if Omi wanted some anyhow. The cyborg wasn't as presumptuous as to believe people wanted or needed his respect. But as his cyber brain picked up on the potential for magic, Edward couldn't help the words that came out of his mouth. "Fucking Meta."

He brought his attention back to the tall cyborg next to him, "Are you still thinking about the girl you threw in the lobby?"

At the moment that Omi was launching his attack at one opponent, another.. creature, was entering the arena. It started with loud thuds that couldn't really be heard over the roar of the crowd that was begging for blood to be shed. Or, in the case of the robotic opponents, for sparks to fly. Anyway, the thuds continued until the creature was in the open, at which time, there was a metallic shearing noise and a loud roar which masked the roars of the crowd for just a moment.

"AWRRRRHGGGGGGGG!"

Then, there was another loud smash as a large metal ball attached to a thick, eight foot long rod, smashed into the ground outside of the arena. What had happened, with the metallic shearing, was the beast had ripped off the restraints that binded its arms, two large metallic chains which attached the wrists together. After that, the creature was able to use the massive club weapon to create a loud bang. Now, if people were to look, they would see what this creature really was.

An ogre with pasty white skin, which was standing to 11'2" and weighed about 1,050 pounds. The ogre was massive, it's arms were long and built, and though it's legs were short, they were also built. Those legs would be the cause of some devastating attacks, as well would his arms, and the massive club that he carried. After a moment of standing there, looking around wildly at all the people in the stands, the beast moved over to its respective side of the arena, awaiting its turn to fight.

Little would anyone except for Omi Barsait know, that the beast was capable of thought and human interaction. Hence why it had a tuft of blonde hair, and why its skin was human looking.

(-1-)

Across its vision a blinding white lid blinked closed, and the behemoth twitched. Fingers as long as Omi's legs flexed, digging into the ground as the runes scribbled into their lengths throbbed and crackled, straining to keep the pseudo-corpse from tearing its own body apart. Stone cracked beneath both hands a second before it came apart, and a chunk roughly three times as large as human head was in both grips. Almost gingerly, it lets it clunky, brick-like feet touch the ring... and then it lifted. Servos whined in protest and pneumatics hissed angrily as it whipped its arms up and them smashed them downward, pulverizing both handfuls of stone into jagged, dusty rubble. It wasted no time in hurling one of them across the ring, sending a dense, random spray of high-speed, fist-sized projectiles fanning outward. If only one of them struck a bare limb... or even a rib protected by chain mail... something was more than likely to break.

OOC: I know. I'm a minimalist, 'sides, posts are supposed to last at most five seconds of combat time, anyway. Not a lot that can get done at this range.

[#2]

This would not be an opponent bested by submission, clearly. Barsait was fortunately well aware of the dangers of leaving open flesh exposed; the mesh was expansive. Yet still, as the bulky chunks of the skewered platform sailed towards the G.U.I.L.T. fighter in fist-sized portions, Barsait had a split-second choice to make.

There was choice A: the obvious, focusing on defending himself from being stoned like medieval times and left on the ground crippled, at the cost of the initiative and more than likely allowing Hexinea a clear route forward whilst Omi frantically attempted to clout each and every rock in his immediate proximity..

..or choice B: go eye-for-an-eye with reckless abandon, metaphorically trying to skewer his opponent's sword to reach their head. It was a reckless move, as the interior of that left hand's snake-headed pauldron glowed bright red at those last crucial moments. Hexinea was nothing if not a titan of steel; his motifs or lack there of did not matter, for in the cyborg lied the strength to rip the unwary in two. It did not even begin to take a trained eye to notice that.

After all, there was a reason over nine special forces elite units world-wide have made it their motto: "He whom dares, wins."

One would have to note, normally, the Manipulation Art was usually just that. Rather than a mage firing the furies of hell out of their palms, Barsait controlled, maneuvered, and navigated his strikes in a lofty manner to trap, ensnare, and compliment his physical prowess.

.. In this case, however, he was going to go with the cliche' and attempt to conjure as many of the transparent-light serpents out of his palm, using the shape of the pauldron to guide the outburst of fire, and simultaneously spark as many as possible. It was a direct contrast to the dark-clad fighter's normal methods; rather than putting great thought into weaving patterns of death, he was going to blitzkrieg ahead with that left hand of his, barbaric or no - at whatever the cost.

It almost looked like those snake fangs vomited out flames - a mass of serpents, perhaps 20 in count, gesturing along the 6' long, 3' diameter gust of concentrated flames. A few of the stones were hit dead-on, maybe 12' away from Barsait's frame, and were practically blown back towards Hexinea before falling to the tourney ground, simmering in melted exterior. It even blew Barsait's frame back another whomping five feet with the force emitted. For deadly reference, it was traveling forward at about the speed that spray of stones did

Unfortunately, the speed of the fist-sized boulders and the random spray made for a concentrated blast stopping them all to be utterly impossible. Certainly, Omi had cleared the threat from his mid-torso and skull for the time being, and even launched a counter-offensive through it - a remote miniature nova. But.. as mentioned before, he had sacrificed defense for ushering in an offense.

150' initially, one had to note Barsait had been stepping backwards prior to the stone-spray being tossed; this gave a good bit of distance for the spray to lose some momentum. Not a whole lot, granted, but not enough to just skewer his armor. Yet, that last instant, all Barsait had the time to do was grit his teeth something fierce.

(*CRASH!*)

Upper-left thigh. The stone hit with such force, it blew Omi's outstretched left leg right out from under him, sending him unto an awkward knee with a screaming pain shooting up the left leg.

Practically smashing himself to his immediate-right, he couldn't avoid a bit of the final wave of the spray; another rock scraped his right hip, causing the chain mesh to grate the exterior of the fighter's flesh in a torturous manner. True to their credit, the smith behind that armor was no novice; the tensile strength behind it was miraculous given the weight.

Hex had tossed one hand-full of rubble damned near like bullets, and had another one ready to continue the process where the first wave had failed. Furthermore, Omi was temporarily floored; this gave the lower body a little more protection from the next onslaught, but..

His skull was in line.

A skull with two wide-open eyes, still unblinking- though the flesh surrounding them was dripping with fresh sweat. Not just in launching an attack, but in forcing his body to maneuver in such ways, the initial strikes against his person weren't his last. Such was the way of two fighters who treated a non-lethal competition like a battle to the death; lethality was a given, and a fight can very easily end in seconds.

Yet, wasting no time collecting himself from the screaming pain shooting along his leg, nor waiting to see his own projectile's success nor failure- Omi Barsait suddenly outstretched his arms once more, lips parting into a chaotic smile.

As his arms parted, the flaming missile also parted into two distinct branches - like a two-pronged fork, ten of the air-born "serpents" each, all clamoring more flames from the airborne oxygen - surging ahead like suicide bombers towards the metal monstrosity of Kirk Douglas.

You could say, while Hex's ranged attack was improvised, lethal but linear and sufferer of whatever fate becomes it once leaving those massive hands - Barsait's was practiced, controlled at any point in its path towards the target, and branching to reach said target with a minimized change of failure.

It was a battle of whom could inflict the most shattered bones or the most scorched metal for the moment. The arbalest against the catapult.

Koto had to jump a few more steps back to stay well out of the way of the exchanged long-distance assault, scurrying backward to keep safe distance in the ring.

"Wow, Hexinea's giving him a relentless assault! Omi's not going to get through this one clean!" Koto shouted through the mic, holding it possessively to her mouth as her voice rang throughout the entire stadium, receiving excessive roars from the crowd.

"But it looks like Omi's quick on the retaliation! He's not going down without a fight!" the foxgirl exclaimed, her tail standing on end in her excitement. "Wow, what an incredible surge of flame from Omi's snake attack! Hexinea'll be feeling the heat now!"

Koto's attention turned directly to Omi as she saw him fall to a knee. **"Omi looks like he took quite a beating from that one! Doesn't it feel great?! Makes you want to shout in joy, doesn't it?!"** the well-known sadist called to the wounded human, although didn't really expect an answer.

[#3]

A well-known announcer was giving an enthusiastic uproar for blood, his opponent made a screeching noise that would blast your ear-drums out, a familiar battle-roar; yet instead of giving a sarcastic or dismayed reaction like usual, Barsait kept his senses focused solely on the prize, not even letting that which caused glass to shake uncertainly tremble his focus. A sign he was not taking this battle lightly, in the least.

Hexinea's elaborate transcendence into the air was impressive, as was the rain of death ready to pelt the dark-clad fighter's body into a bloody pulp. Everything was done with a commendable level of precision, and brutal to a fault, it was easy to see why the metal monstrosity could do well in such competitions. At a range or up-close, the cyborg could tear their opponents asunder.

.. But if Hexinea's actions were carried out with any sort of precision, then Barsait's were overly so, almost to a ridiculous degree whilst scrutinizing every fine detail. You see, Hexinea overlooked - or at the least, under-prioritized a key point that would need to be re-addressed.

Omi Barsait of Team G.U.I.L.T. was not the sort whom just gusted the elements ahead with wanton glee expecting them to strike like a bullet round to your common soldier's rifle. No, his technique was indeed called "Serpentine Manipulation" for an overwhelmingly distinct reason.

One would need to recall the flaming projectile had been split into two portions; a left and right prong, for simplicity. Ten snake-shaped projectiles ushering them along per portion.

So when the monstrosity managed to usher itself out of the path of the "first pass" of the flaming missile, before Hexinea even began his somersaults and arm ending - Barsait had noted the miss, and quite simply waved his left hand towards himself as though fanning his face- whilst weaving the man's left pinky in a 'U' turned 90 degrees. A far quicker action to be performed than say, performing bodily flips mid-air.

Now, Omi was not familiar with the sophistication in place behind his cyborg enemy. What sensors, if it even worked in such rudimentary ways, Hexinea might have. But one had to wonder if the airborn cyborg was even aware, just a second or so after he dodged the flaming mass, that it was going to be arcing right after Hexinea to greet him where it failed the first time - right towards Kirk Douglas' fighter's backside - now less dead-center and more aligned south?

As this crude diagram denotes, well before the debris would even have begun its raining down upon the kneed fighter below, prong #1 would be singing home towards the airborne metallic mass, whilst prong #2 would be heading around to arc into a frontward strike. If it appeared Omi was trapped on the ground in the face of a hellish onslaught from the sky, then one would have to also note Hexinea trapped himself in the air. Gravity would give him solace soon, but not near fast enough to grant the metal fiend a second escape.

So when the debris from hell began its descent, it would find a problem. Sure, 150' wasn't very much of a distance, especially once Hexinea closed a good several yards, but Barsait had notably moved backwards a good while prior to the first wave of stones cutting that short. So unfortunately, this meant the stones were about to have an unwelcome detrimental force at the least cut back some of their momentum in the form of prong #2 -

That combined with a still mild distance made the assault's bone-shattering future bleak.

Furthermore, prong #1 was, if Barsait had any say, blow the airborne monstrosity straight towards Omi; now that the 845 lbs. cyborg cut his advantage short by fleeing to the air at the cost of his center of balance, it was the G.U.I.L.T. fighter's every intent to bring that cyborg straight towards him along with the stones like a fiery ball from hell - at whatever the cost, even the risk of crushing the far lighter-weight fighter outright!

Why?

A dim, familiar glow began forming anew within the mouth of that snake-head serpent, both arms still in their familiar positioning ahead of his skull. A weakened rock shower hastily made by crushing pieces of the tourney floor wasn't going to put the fighter training half to death each and every day clad in resilient armor to an early grave, and a weakened rock shower was going to be what Hexinea would be procuring unless the fellow had jet-engines.

It was finicky, opportunity-driven, uncertain, and almost always deadly to himself and others - the essence of fighter Omi Barsait.

[#4]

Hexinea was an impressive construction! Or birth, whichever was more apt. All the same, all 20 serpents were decimated along with the flames in question; and there the cyborg was, closer to its prey with a fresh stockpile of death. It was an impressive show, to be sure; it would cue a "well played" from Barsait and a more lengthy analyzing of those bizarre ruins, if he weren't more preoccupied with not being stoned to death like a town martyr.

Prong #1 was a dud, for a lack of better terms. But, Prong #2 accomplished what it needed to, for the most part. You see, melting rock is not as simple as it may sound; in fact, for a conventional stone to reach the point of being molten, most would need to reach a horrifying temperature of near 600 to sometimes 1,200 degrees Celsius.

Of course, being pelted with molten rock wouldn't exactly be an improvement over being crushed by a boulder-shower either, so a moot point. However, one had to take into consideration this fact: the first two piles of rock Hexinea had procured were hastily made from the tournament floor. Crushed in each hand to be made a tad more aerodynamic, fist-sized in many cases, but it was still ultimately rubble with inconsistent sizes, more than likely cracks in various stones unless Hexinea crushed them into form with extreme precision, and varying weights depending on the estimated size of each portion of rock.

As prong #2 found its destiny being non-existence, it had passed through the stones. What did this do? The answer is two fold.

A. It was a force. While flames are obviously easy to pass through, they are not just 'heat.' Fire is a combination of heat, light, and various reaction products such as carbon dioxide or water; by rushing through the stones before meeting its dire end, they would have their descent speed, if only slightly, quelled just by the sheer force of the flames passing right through them like an airborne projectile.

B. The stones were aflame. If anything, this sounds even worse than normal, so why was this a factor? Simply put, a solid substance is made a liquid thanks to the particles being farther spread apart [gas even more so], creating less dense matter. Molten rock this was not, but the compact substances they once were, they now are not either. Being ablaze meant the particles were moving at a far more accelerated rate, breeding kinetic energy and making the rigid structure of stone lose its impregnable integrity by a degree.

So to sum it up: did the stones strike? Yes. The squatted fighter was pelted by the whole force of the stones, hand-first and beyond. But they were not the projectiles Hexinea released from his hands; they were weakened, makeshift projectiles that would when pitted against an armor-clad individual grounded on the cool, rigid structure of the ground below, hit.. but not crush.

Just as the stones were about to make impact, Omi gestured a single finger-tip for the final dismantling of the attack. Those flames were still in his control, after all; and off they sprayed from the rocks' surfaces, to the right-side ground.

Omi knew he could do nothing about being battered, but standing for scolding himself? Absurd.

ONE! Snake pauldron "snout." Fortunately, given it was the gear he utilized to help aid procuring flames, it was needless to say built to withstand the rigors of flame and physical stress. TWO! Nicking his right ear, Barsait felt fresh blood on the earlobe; it was small.. but a seared cut. THREE! His bizarrely-positioned left leg got pelted again, the boulder flat-out shattering upon impact; breath escaped his lips quite suddenly, suggesting the repeat striking of that leg was not going well. FOUR! Again the left leg! This time, lower calf; the rock only split in half this time, so it was more of a dull impact. It felt like someone was taking a hammer to his leg; it was agonizing to be sure.. but it could have been worse. FIVE! A larger chunk landed just in front of Barsait's crouch, scraping along the floor and bumping against one of his boots with no fanfare. They were in a spray, after all; not every stone would hit home. SIX! This time, forcing his body to act in retaliation at least once, Omi took his right elbow and rose it up sharply, the hardened bone reinforced by the mesh to crash into this mid-sized stone, denying it the satisfaction of singing home into where it would have - his right eye. The result was a numbed right elbow.. it didn't feel damaged, but it was hard telling.

Off-shoots of rock, bits of flaming brittle, and some dirt continued home. All of this happened in roughly the span of a golden moment or two, and when it ended, there Barsait "sat." The end result: a left leg that was killing him, a right elbow that was beyond fortunate it had protective covering, and several nicks & scrapes along the sides of Omi's face as a result of tiny rubble he could not maneuver his body to blockade.

Luck, fortitude, armor that wasn't designed to be penetrated by mere rubble regardless of the size denoted; if Hexinea's creators weren't stupid, Barsait's contact for gear wasn't shabby. It was created to withstand hours of punches even if the body behind it couldn't; to make a weary sword strike futile, not to break apart or absorb none of the recoil to a series of hastily tossed stones.

And so, as Hexinea made his re-entry to the platform below, Omi cordially returned the favor by taking that horrendously brief, bitter-sweet pause to bound up into the air with an irritated groan; he purposely shifted most of his weight onto the left leg, a stinging pain crashing up it immediately, almost as though spiting his refusal to give it rest. It didn't appear anything was broken; maybe a terrible bruising at this point that would make running full speed a bitch, but then again, he was no medic, and it really wouldn't matter regardless. Whether the leg wished to cooperate properly or not, he was going to force it to 'til the metal abomination made it do otherwise. Which was likely the intention.

Left hand outstretched. Right hand outstretched. This was familiar; the scare-crow stance of sorts again.

It seemed foolish. Before, it took some fast maneuvering just to keep himself from not outright dying to the tournament floor's new form; now, Hexinea was closer, and even had a stockpile built up ready for the skewering.

Yet, the moment the G.U.I.L.T. fighter's soles touched the ground.. his weight shifted to the balls of his feet. The heels. The toes. The sides. The heels. The toes. The sides. The left side namely causing a burst of pain every now and again, but nothing Omi wasn't used to in these tourneys.

He was weaving in place like a drunk; left pauldron's mouth more blatantly glowing crimson red, rather than go immediately for the strike, a low-base grunt escaped from the pale man's lips. The right hand was following suit.. this time, one could see it better since the right fingertips had nothing to obscure them: the pores of his flesh looked like they were expelling transparent blood, 'til it took the form of snake heads slowly ebbing out and orbiting the knuckles. Nothing developed yet, but a serpent per finger meant it was starting.

Weaving left, right, north and south, one had to wonder if his battle lust finally sent the fighter over the edge. Yet, the grinning Hexinea would surely notice even if paying no mind to it - the fact the wild, chaotic man the cyborg had been facing moments prior, now had a face of complete calm. Despite freshly forming sweat glistening down the long-haired man's brow, eyebrows furrowed in concentration..

.. Omi Barsait had the calmest look on his face imaginable, blood and all. Something was terribly wrong.

The crowd and Koto covered it's ears as the screeches rang through their ears. The foxgirl tried to put her hands over her tall ears, trying to push them down against her head to keep the noise out, cringing with the rest of the crowd as it screamed in pain. Koto figured that all those demons with keen hearing weren't all that glad to have that ability now...

Koto cringed as she tried to collect herself long enough to convey the battle through her microphone, but her ears still rang even when the noise died out.

"Omi's snakes are gearing up for another attack after taking another brutal rock beating, but it looks like he's got even more to worry about! Hexinea's going straight for his boys! I bet Omi's gonna wish he wore a cup to this fight!"

The demons cheered and thrashed about in their seats, seeming to have quickly recovered from the cyborg's nails-on-a-chalkboard-esque battlecry. The Dark Tournament allowed the low-blows and foul play, and afflicting such a type of dishonorable pain was always a favored spectacle amongst the demon crowd.

(-5-)

Interesting fact 1: Hexinea is not a machine-man built for war. Interesting fact 2: The insanity runes were, as noted more than once, etched along every square inch of surface area upon its metallic person. Interesting fact 3: Metal does not absorb kinetic shock waves. It deforms (sometimes to the point of breaking) and then deflects the energy, especially when that metal happens to contain titanium in it. Interesting fact 4: Hexinea's cybernetics are armored in a laminated carbon-boron-titanium alloy. This information is public. Interesting fact 5: Half a metric ton that is moving at a speed that crossed 120-odd feet in a few seconds has tremendous momentum. Interesting fact 6: If you throw a root vegetable at Hexinea, the runes would promptly transform it into an equal mass of albino mice. Interesting fact 7: They who made Hexinea were crazy, not stupid.

With all of that to consider, it was still caught with its vulnerably bare chest and face pointed straight at the arcing swarm of hot serpents. Runes scratched into the support rods lining the outside of its tucked-in legs could stop them form being a continuing threat, yes, but the baaaaaaaw!-ing symbols could do nothing to stop the aftermath of Omi's attack from being an immediate cause for concern. The shaped conflagration was, as before, robbed of its guidance and metaphysical sustenance, yet the behemoth's central body was still showered with dying, still incredibly hot embers and gasses. Paper-thin skin and infirm flesh were left scored and blackened in places not directly shielded by its legs. When it came down off of its artificially induced rage he would be feeling that later. Until then, however, it remained true to form and adapted its threat with ease.

*'CRACK!'*

Bending its fingers, flexing its wrist, it attained a new grip. Digits throwing up five neat fountains of sparks. It had a new pivot-point for the universal wrist joints to scream around. And scream they did as powerful motors heated up far beyond their usual tolerances to torque and divert the rocketing mass from a straight strike into a swinging clothesline of terrific proportions, its body still tucked into a tight, folded over ball between its fantastically out-sized arms - the left of which was rapidly threatening to sweep him off the platformed ring.

What was less than a deep breath ago a simple case of immediate debilitating maiming had just turned into a full-body threat to ever being able to move the same way again when(if) Omi woke up.

[#6]

It was finally getting to him. The roar of the crowd faded away; even the appreciated roars of his comrades succumbed into nothingness. All that was left, was silence. Barsait had a moment, literally only a moment, of complete and utter tranquility. Adrenaline became moot, rage became sated, and all at once, the somber wisdom one could obtain just by giving their surroundings the time of day flooded into the G.U.I.L.T. fighter for the first time in ages. It was a feeling he had not known in what felt like centuries..

If only it had came earlier!

Hexinea was wounded, finally. But the monolithic machine-laden man known as Hexinea wasn't going to let that go unavenged. With tremendous torque, that arm with a horrendous reach was coming for the king of clotheslines; for the uninformed, a clothesline was a move in which one fighter runs towards another and extends his/her arm out from the side of the body and parallel to the ground, hitting the opponent in the neck or chest and knocking him/her over.

In this case, rather than knock Barsait over, it would send the young man flying into the distance, injured dearly - and would likely end the fight right then and there. You combine great mass with great force, and it's a recipe for disaster. Barsait, furthermore, could not avoid what was incoming. Right arm & left mid-air flailing to the north as fast in futility as possible, the metallic arm came towards the dark-clad fighter with terrible force.

Soundless.. soundless.. everything was soundless. It was so easy to let his senses fade now, and allow that arm to send Omi towards rest; granted, agonizing rest.. but rest. A brief period of pure agony, and then recovery. His team could always win the remainder of the bout, after all; why struggle? He could ride it off as bad card fate dealt him, learn from it, and return - intact. It all sounded so good..

"!!"

All in the next instant, color, sound, and that raging desire to succeed filled his skull once more. There was no point in this being a "team" tournament if he just allowed his team-mates to pick up his slack; there was no point in even being there if he just copped out to the risks that be. Improbable or no, a thought inaudible filled his every fiber of being: victory was the objective.

(CRASH!)

It was the sickest thud one could possibly imagine. Even hardened beasts averted their eyes briefly; "maiming" was an applicable term for that blow Hexinea landed. Even through his armor, Barsait was caught mid-chest; bones were broken. If it weren't for that armor, rather than being battered, that body would likely be destroyed; thankfully, Barsait was at a bit of an angle mid-lunge, ergo it didn't catch his rib-cage full-front. But one had to understand, just one arm of the Douglas fighter's was damned near 15' long!

The extents of the damage would be easy to see, just by looking at Barsait!

.. Except, where was he?

Expecting to see the man lodged into the opposite side of the stadium, spectators searched to-&-fro for the corpse of the long-haired fighter's remains. But it was peculiar; north, east, south.. nothing. Not even a mid-air ascent. Not a crater along the arena side.

It wasn't until some shocked cries in the stands focused right back on Hexinea, that the situation became apparent for all. Though surely, Hexinea and Barsait realized what occurred quicker than any.

Crimson, thick blood struck the arena floor, glimmering from the fighter's mouth. Over three pairs of completely decimated ribs. Blood from where the metal arm's impact was at its apex seeping through even the black fabric of that wild man's shirt; where in the gods was he?

The visual of the situation became full. There was fighter Omi Barsait, looking half-dead.. bear-hugging the very arm that struck him for dear life. Legs straddling it tightly, right arm dislocated from its shoulder for keeping the 5'11'' man from becoming a human cannonball, left arm tucked between his chest and the metal abomination's massive arm.

Barsait had embraced the strike. His shattered left arm, the snake-pauldron splitting apart, was slowly coming into view; fresh blood gorging along the gauntlet exterior. You see, Hexinea had quite a long arm, easily reaching 15' not including the hands, fingertips, or shoulders. And with such a massive arm to boot, it could support the weight of Barsait like child's play; fighter Omi Barsait was hanging sideways along the opponent's arm, battered to hell, half-conscious, but conscious!

It did not matter what Hexinea did next, truly. Barsait, almost as though operating by automatic function, flailed his right, numbed arm unto the span of the massive metal beam the very moment he could; so when the crowd had renewed their gaze towards Omi..

.. they would see a limp index finger sprouting a single crimson red serpent with all of the speed and force the man could possibly muster, the ring finger following suit even if the hand they were attached to could no longer move. Barely flicking his thumb, flames ignited along their paths; both winding about with slight gestures of those fingertips, #1 weaving left and #2 weaving under & over the massive arm, both keeping their distance to make it more difficult to prevent.

Their targets? Hexinea's unprotected, vulnerable, fleshly chest. It truly did not matter what those small, dimly illuminated holes Hexinea called eyes would gaze towards. It did not matter if the beast felt fear, or was completely unfazed.

[The Serpentine Manipulation] in all of it's difficult to track glory, was going to burn into the man's exposed chest thanks to their bodies now being one. And with so little distance, even along the massive body of Hexinea, to cover - it was not the fate for Barsait, to just be clotheslined into the dust.

Hexinea was his opponent. The future did not matter; all that mattered was he left this fight alive or dead knowing Hexinea's defeat was his pivotal, last intent!

[#7]

Air..? If in prime conditioning, Barsait would have been able to compensate for the error in the serpents' paths that small vacuum created.. but now, even with his dire will to succeed, it was becoming too much. Every limb, piece of flesh.. his body was shutting down without consent, and time to make fine corrections just wasn't there.

The inward-bending fingers would not have to worry about removing Omi, for the fighter already lost grip, and very gradually slumped to the left; falling off the metallic arm opposite the side he came, it was thanks to as simple an act as bending one's arm that led to the fall of the G.U.I.L.T. fighter. Consciousness was fading fast. He flicked his tongue back towards the chest of Hexinea, the serpents attempting to ride out the currents and make their way regardless.

A couple of feet, and the ground would be hit.

A couple of feet, and the world would fade to black.

A couple of feet, and the fight would end.

([AUDIO](http://haelstrom.net/audio/GUTS.mp3))

Suddenly crashing his teeth together in a final second, head craning at an ugly angle - Omi was not going to let it end without a final word. Jaw happily dropping wide open, the strength to keep it shut no longer present- fresh, oxygenated blood was what the man's tongue bathed in. It was from such blood, the serpents of the manipulation technique spawned from, for a lack of better terms.

Ergo, vomiting ingested, sickly hued blood forward - his mind itself made the final manipulation. A means of control that lacked focus, given one errant thought could make anything happen; out from that blot of blood stemmed what almost looked like airborne ants.

Serpents smaller than the average adult human's pinky finger, blotting out in a nice clean dozen arrangement and just wantonly suicide-bombing themselves towards the juggernaut's fleshly torso with flames igniting, weaving in completely random and undecided directions - they wouldn't even need control, given they were just going to crash ahead while splitting into even smaller fragments mid-stream.

Then, it happened. Barsait struck the ground.. and there he laid. His eyes were open, but no movement nor words followed. He was "conscious," but unresponsive in every definition of the term.

Fighting, he could no longer continue to do. Whatever the fate of his attack.. his participation in this bout was over.

Ever see that kid in left field during a tee ball game sitting on his ass and pulling up all the grass? Well that was how Gel felt at the moment. The fight hadn't lasted that long, but he felt he had better things to do than watch Hex frolic with Omi for a minute or two. So he decided to sit on his ass and pull grass up until it was his turn to frolic with someone from the other team.

Koto was nearly stunned by the epic fight's finish, roars from the crowd screeching as Omi hit the ground. "And Omi's down!" she shouted, before dashing forward clutching her mic, and motioning for Hex to back away to give her ample room.

"I'll start the count!" the foxgirl announced, raising her hand above her head. "One! ...Two! ...Three! ...Four!" Koto counted, swinging her hand down with each numeral. "Five! ...Six! ...Seven!" She knew he wouldn't be getting up in time, passed out there on the arena floor. Nonetheless, it was required for her to continue the counts. **"Eight! ...Nine! ...TEN!"**

"And there concludes the first match! Will the next two fighters please approach the center of the ring!" Koto requested, hoping that someone would help Omi to the side to recover. The demons in the stands cheered for more, hoping that the next fight would be just as intense as the first.

Garok watched Omi's fall, and with disinterest, he moved from the side of the arena to retrieve his fallen comrade. Of course, he did so in a rather... angry manner. The ogre was rather infuriated that none of the other members of the team moved to help their ally, but instead, just kept going about their business as normal, even as Koto requested that they be moved to start the next round. Which was another fucking thing; that girl with her annoying announcements was getting on his nerve. Everything in this god-forbidden place was just working to piss the brute off, but first, he needed to pick up and deliver the injured man to the.. whatever that place was.

What happened was this: Garok threw the massive club into the ground with a giant smash, causing the ground in the general area around the weapon to shake, and then, his massive arms dragging infront of him, his hands almost touching the ground, he shambled towards Omi. Omi was not going to enjoy the torture that he was going to be put through, because even though he had injuries, Garok didn't care. He was rather pissed off that he had to go help the man in the first place, and so, he was going to be as rough as possible.

The beginning of the brutality started when a massive pair of hands wrapped themselves around Omi's frame and whipped him up into the air, where he would then be slapped against Garok's shoulder, and then held against it with one hand. Then, Garok began to roughly walk, allowing the injured man to bounce with each step he took towards the exit and the.. healery.

That would teach them to do that shit to Garok again.

Private Parts looked at Hexina and then at Edwards.

"I'll drag him to the infirmary," Parts said. He pointed at the enemy team captain. "You take that guy."

Parts latched his one good cybernetic arm onto Hexinea's tall bulk and said, "Come on and help me move you; daddy is waiting."

Kenji watched in respect as his team member was walked away. He had fought hard and well. No shame in that last fight but it put the score at 1-0 with his team on the losing side. A place he did not want nor like to be. And if he had anything to say about it his team would be taking the next win. The G.U.I.L.T. team leader would not step up but rather jumped in an energetic fashion landing on the already battered arena floor with the thud of a mere 200 and a few more pounds. He marched to the center of the ring and addressed the opposing team. "Alright Techno-Brats, you think your technology can stand up to my dads?!?" Ken raised his metallic right forearm into the sky and clinched it into a fist while it glinted rather cliche like in the sun. "Let's find out! Who's next!" He then pointed to the other side of the ring, the opponents side.

Some might call Ken cocky, Ken however, would argue that he is not cocky, merely confident. And loud.

I'm an author and here's my story...

Wilian was saddened at his powerful comrades fall. It was Norian's call now who went next and he looked to the leader for judgement. "Kenji. Don't let us lose again." There was an uncharacteristic hardness in his voice, a sharpness to his face. "I'm here when you need me." Then he walked to where Omi was being carried out. He said nothing, but only looked at his fallen ally, and barely breathed out, "I will get them." Then to Kenji, he shouted. "If you lose this, I swear I will hunt you to the end of whatever world you care to reside in! Win this, for Omi, and if you can't, let me win it for you. Or Garok."He had lost his jokes. ...My life's been full of pain, now where's my glory?

The cyborg shrugged his shoulders at Kenji's response, and removed his long-sleeved shirt and dropped it. He knew the disadvantage he'd be in without it, but neither did he care. It wouldn't feel right with it on anyhow. The wrench was retrieved from Ed's belt loop. Oddly enough, the cyborg did not brandish the weapon, choosing to launch the weapon onto the arena's lawn instead. He understood the disadvantage there as well, but he couldn't make out any weapons on Kenji either. That could be a mistake though. A guy once hid kunai in his pubic hair. Fuck it.

Edward brandished his fists, right leading, and nodded at Koto. "Let's just get this over with," He spat on the ground.

((Dude, for a second, I got creeped out by your armor groaning.))

((See, see! Pax knows what I'm going for lol. Sorry for the OOC post, I felt I needed to defend my armor while waiting for miss Koto.))

#1 Ken watched his opponent remove his weapon from his belt loop and out of honor and respect Ken felt he should do the same. Even though Ed could not see it, Kenji had his K-Bar military knife attached to his belt on his back just out of view. The knife made no sound as the G.U.I.L.T. fighter pulled it from its sheath, respectfully showed it to his opponent and tossed it out into the grass.

Then the fox girl hostess walked to the center of the arena and announced the match up then said the magic word. Fight! Ken flipped his open palm face up and closed his metallic fingers in on his right hand not only playfully taunting his opponent forward but also showing the dexterity of his own prosthetic. "Let's give these demons a reason to remember humans eh?" Ken shouted at his opponent and then cautiously shuffled forward right and left hands still up legs never crossing keeping his stance perfect.

This would prove to be a good fight, and even though he wanted to beat his opponent, badly, he respected him greatly. A man much like Kenji himself it seemed. Honor bound and a fighter to the last. If Kenji could not win, if nothing else at all, he would make sure his opponent and the crowd at least remembered his name just as Koto had announced it...

Kenji Hiroshima!

The slow advance of Kenji probably seemed like a time waster to many in the arena, it was in fact, anything but. Kenji was bidding his time, not wasting it. And with good reason. Another neon green LED light lit up on the underside of Kenji's right arm.

#2 Kenji found himself wondering just how much of the opposing fighter was mechanical. Probably more then Kenji himself was, judging from the fully mechanical left arm and the multiple scars on his person. This really did not matter other then the slowly advancing fighter wanted to know how hard it would be to break his opponent. It probably would not matter. The mechanics in every part of Ken allowed him to punch at just over 4000 psi and kick at just above 5500 psi. The punch more then four times the amount needed to break a steal bar and the kick more then four times the amount needed to shatter a human skull.

Ken's calculations were quickly put to rest as his opponent balls out charged him. A surprising tactic but the G.U.I.L.T. leader was less then surprised. The steady fighter stopped advancing and waited patiently for his opponent, and just when his opponent was in range of Kenji's leg he would attack.

Edward took the step forward that put him in range and Ken launched into action. Crouching low and spinning at the same time Ken threw out his right leg in a sweep kick that could probably have taken Hex off his over sized arms/legs. Ken aimed for just above the ankles of his opponent. If that attack missed a follow up attack would come just seconds later in the form of Kenji continuing his spin past the first rotation but on the second time around he would use his left leg to push off of the ground and jump up still spinning with right leg out. The result would be a kick following up the first merely moments after the first this one aimed higher for his opponents head. If Edward had done what most people do to dodge the first kick he would have jumped and if that was the case, the second attack would be damn hard to dodge in mid air and the only options left would be to take the surprising attack or block it. Ether would result in the deliverance of about 5500 psi to where ever Ed chose to take or block the attack. And if the first attack did land, then Kenji would simply end the spin and return to his base stance both palms open right in front of left legs forward ready to move right in front of left.

((Ah my bad. But Titanium is actually a LOT stronger then industrial steel when its grade 4 and is a lot better at taking blows and keeping its form as well. o.o I don't know where you got that idea.))

Though the spinning kick combo would have been cool, it was only a plan, and plans could be change, as this one was about to be.

Even while spinning Kenji kept his eyes on his opponent by whipping his head around so he lost sight of him for less then a fraction of a second. Kenji saw his attack miss and was ready to change his plans accordingly even though he would have to let his effect albeit a bit flashy attack go. While spinning Kenji saw his opponent leave the ground sooner then he had anticipated and his knee moved into an attacking position. So Kenji would change to counter accordingly. Closing his left fist he pulled his left arm to the side of his body and held the gauntleted forearm parallel to his torso. Next he pulled his leg in swiftly increasing the speed of the spin to compensate for the speed of his opponents attack and now the new plan was to counter Edwards attack by colliding the side of Edwards knee or thy with his left forearm protected by the gauntlet. An interception of attack of sorts. The result should be that Edward was thrown off balance by the glancing block should it hit and Kenji would stand and return to his base stance once again. It made Edwards attack impossible to land he ether had to move his leg and forfeit the attack and his balance or take the counter and likely the colliding leg would be hurt by the significant force put into the blow.

Ether way by the end of it all, another LED light could be seen lighting up on the underside of Kenji's arm this one red.

Edward had thought himself a regular Clark Kent as he metaphorically soared through the air towards Kenji's unprotected head. It was like being a carrier pigeon, crossing through three counties to deliver a letter, and the letter simply stating, 'I'm going to knee you in the face.'

Then, Kenji came around faster than Edward thought possible and struck the side of Edward's cybernetic knee. The cyborg hadn't felt it, the piece of prosthetic not being real, and wasn't moved much by it. Perhaps half an inch of direction change at most.

Sure, Kenji WAS strong, but the attack had no forceful backing except for his strength alone, and Edward had an eighteen mile per hour run and leap (which meant he was going faster) behind his. Physics wasn't Kenji's friend today.

As per failing the attack, Edward still came on with slightly worse precision, aimed for Kenji's forehead.

Edward hadn't felt the impact because of the prosthetic that his lower leg and knee basically was, but was quite aware that the strike did take place via his sight and the fact that Edward had been pushed off to the side.

The cyborg would not land balanced unless he made some last second maneuvering.

The man spun into a messy roll, absorbing the force of the fall, and coming to his feet a fair distance away from Kenji. He turned around to face him and brandished his fists. Smirking, Edward couldn't help feeling great about the way the fight was progressing and advanced slowly on Kenji.

The cyborg winked at his fellow cyborg, "Terrible decision on your part, I guess.. Make another one and you might not be as lucky."

(P-P-P-PARADOX TIME!)

"The final match of the first round of the Dark Tournament is about to begin!"Koto announced with her arm raised dramatically over her head. The demons were roaring and screaming for more blood, anxiously awaiting the start of the next fight.

"Will the last two fighters please approach the ring!" the foxgirl requested.

((I'll make an announcer post for the second fight to it's current progression tomorrow. Foxy's tired. @_@))

[I do believe that both teams have agreed to a 2v2 for the final bout, Wilian and myself vs. Parts and Gelmax.

The post order can be determined from here, but I'll start it off, so I propose: Garok, whoever, Wilian, whoever.]

Garok stepped up to the ring after delivering Omi and getting lost on the way back; after-all, Garok was simple minded, and this arena was a confusing labyrinth of hallways and spectator rooms. Eventually, he found his way back, just in time to heft his massive weapon onto his shoulder and jump up onto the ring with a roar. The roar was nothing impressive, nor did it need to be at the time, because the fight between the remaining of the team's fighters had yet to begin. Garok, however, would not be the last member stepping in the ring for GUILT. Wilian would soon follow, and as agreed to before hand, the remaining fighters from both teams would step forth to meet them in a 2v2 brawl.

Not exactly Garok's cup of tea, so to speak, because he was animalistic in nature, yet, he had enough sense to make it work. So, with a look of minor rage on the ogre's face, he stepped up on one side of Koto, waiting for his partner, and waiting for his enemies.

The cyborg didn't respond, his facial expression fading back to it's usual sterness. The fight wasn't exactly over, although it's start was just terrific, and Edward wasn't about to let Kenji trick him into defeat. He approached, quite aware that Kenji was too flashy for his own good, and some flashy move was very likely to come whether he liked it or not. The skill, desperation, and speed of the sweep was enough for Ed to understand how reckless Kenji really was.

When his opposition commenced his attack, the first thing that caught the cyborg's organic and synthetic eye was the incoming "kick." Edward couldn't possibly know the intent of the strike, as the attack came on too quickly for much speculation, and went in with the first thing his cyber brain came up with.

Edward dived downwards for the leg as it was lifted for the 'kick'. His arms leading in the "shoot" for the legs, droping to his knees, and attempting to wrap his arms around the leg. The cyborg's attempt was to decrease the power of the kick by coming in too close, and declining the kick the space to move and reach it's full potential. Basically, Edward had transformed their three feet distance to less than a foot.

It went without saying that the elbow went over Ed's head, and even if Kenji went along with the kick instead of keeping it a feint it wouldn't have enough power to keep Edward from driving forward. He would continue forward with the dive, pushing his bare shoulder into Kenji's knee, Ed's face pasted to the outside of his opponent's thigh. He pushed forward, Edward's single leg takedown coming to fruition, as Kenji had his momentum on the elbow strike and still likely stood on one foot. It was more than enough to cause a loss of balance and a tipping over.

And if it was successful, the match would once again tip in Edward and his team's favor.

((Yea, I know that the post drags along and makes the move portrayed seem slow, but the single leg takedown is pretty fast.))

I'm an author and here's my story...

Wilian strolled out with his casual ease,all the former emotion of Omi's loss gone from his face. The bo staff was on his back, magnetically attached for easy drawing. He grinned, looking at his team mate. "It's time to toss the dice," he said his motto, with his characteristic charm. He was silent walking up, except for the comment; he was silent wherever he went. You learned that quick as a thief. He rolled shoulders, simultaneously cracking his neck, and secretly checking his knives. He wasn't particularly excited by the fight, but neither was he bored by it. He'd give up before he died, so that wasn't much of an issue. To the first of his foes, he shouted, "**Let's prove that real flesh is better than fake flesh**."

...My life's been full of pain, now where's my glory?

"Hail to the beef, bitches!"

Private J. Smalls leapt onto the ring from the side... and tripped somehow. He fell flat onto his face, but almost immediately sprung back up onto his feet with the help of his single arm. When he arose, his hat was slightly misplaced, and anyone looking closely could catch a glimpse of white far underneath of it, but then Parts adjusted his feathered fedora and nothing else could be seen.

"We will, we will, fuck you!" Private Parts began to sing in an obnoxiously off-key voice with the wrong lyrics that he sincerely thought were correct.

He pointed to the ogre.

"you're mine."

"You've always liked the bigger cocks, Parts." Gel said to his teammate. He made the assumption that he was going to be stuck fighting the other guy who had just wandered onto the stage and not Shrek. He looked less smelly, and he had a club. He remembered reading that someone on this guild could manipulate metal, which was bad news for him. His only weapon was a sword made out of metal. He gave his trusty tool a look and tossed out of the ring. He wouldn't want it to be a liability.

He would begin walking over to the other guy who wasn't giving the place giant craters.

"I don't know, but your about to be an expert with mine."

(Since there was no clarification of what shoulder Wilian attacked, I'm going to assume he attacked his right one.) He pivoted his body slightly so he could be faced in the direction of the incoming staff. As he did that he would grab a hold of the staff at the striking end with his right hand with his palm facing downward and would immediately would grab a hold of the staff with his left hand at the lower end with his palm facing upward. He would then rotate the weapon out of the man's hands by pushing up with his left hand and pulling down with his right. All these moves would happen in one fluid motion.

1

For a second, Parts observed the ogre as it leapt through the air at a pace that defied its gigantic size. According to what Parts knew about physics and the weight of a giant ogre, it shouldn't be able to move that fast. Then again, Parts had seen stranger shit. After all, he was a one-armed cyborg with pink hair and a rabbit under his hat. No one could touch Mr. Flubbernubbers, though; no one could dare touch Mr. Flubbernubbers. This ogre might do i- THE OGRE WOULD TOUCH MR. FLUBBERNUBBERS.

"No one can touch Mr. Flubbernubbers MOTHERFUCKERS!" Parts screamed at the top of his lungs to the ogre, but the ogre wouldn't understand; that was okay.

When the ogre's hand slammed down, Parts went on the move and his cybernetic legs pumped away like hyperpowered pistons and he shot across the eight foot distance between him and Garok in a fraction of a second, almost instantly within the reach of the Ogre where it would be unable to attack Parts with ball and chain.

Instead of going for the obvious blow, though, Parts fell down and slid on his leg to where he would do a power slide underneath the ogre... and he reached his one good arm up that he would slap the ogre's balls quite hard with as he passed under to the other side of the ogre with.

The ball and club came down and Parts kept going, but not all went as Garok planned. Parts was sliding on his ass, not his legs, and the nature of his cyborg legs allowed him incredible flexibility not normally available to most people - as well as strength. As the ball came down, Parts brought his legs up above him in an almost fetal manner and caught the rod and ball with his legs. The cyborg's legs barely even felt the weight of the hundred fifty pound ball - even with the legs of a human, Parts would be able to squat twice or even three times that.

With the ball and rod firmly held with his legs, Parts brought his legs back and tossed the ball and rod - right into Garok's balls.

Edward was surprised momentarily, the strength that kept Kenji anchored to the ground was commendable, and it forced a swift hopping onto his feet while still staying in his crouched position. Being on his feet gave him a far better positioning for pushing and that's exactly what he needed in this fight. Although Kenji was obviously stronger for the most part, and Edward could not see himself besting Kenji in strength while on equal footing. He would have to drop him while his opponent was off in some aspect. And Edward would have to trick him.

He pushed at Kenji's left leg, although it seemed like he was beginning to tire, unable to push on with the same amount of power over a long (in fighting terms) period of time. Ed felt his opponent's hands on him, and knew it as a sign of one bracing himself. Cocking his head to his right, the cyborg caught a slight glimpse of Ken's right foot leaving the ground. It was then or it wasn't going to be ever.

At the very last second, literally, the cyborg gathered all the power he could muster and rather than push forward. Edward pulled back. He utilized his right hand, situated behind Kenji's ankle, to lift his opponent off the ground just as he performed the knee. Simultaneously Ed began to pull back as opposed to falling forward that would have been the case had he gone ahead with the take down.

Unfortunately for Edward, the knee did come in rather hard, almost becoming a glancing shot by less than an inch or so of skin. Pain erupted from his torso and he blinked his somewhat dazed. It was very likely that Ed either had a broken rib or a really fractured one. It hurt like a bitch, but Edward could not allow it to dominate him. Not now.

Not as Kenji flipped around in mid air, a full foot from Edward, and landed face first. The cyborg attempted to leap on his opponent, following it up with a serious of wild punches aimed for the back of Kenji's head. In and around the area where Edward's knee had landed.

His face looked livid!

((I uh, I read your profile a few minutes ago and I note that Kenji is a completely human character if I'm not mistaken, hence your entire team's boasting about "man vs. machine" and all that jazz.

You noted in the first paragraph of your post that you were flying through the air for "one or two seconds," which seems right enough. While simultaneously keeping your eyes on Edward save for "a fraction of a second," it seems you completed all of the following within that timespan:

1. Noted that Edward's legs were bracing, regardless of the speed you would be flying through the air if once again, it was only a "one or two second thing."

1. Formed a well thought out conclusion regarding what Edward was planning.

1. Decided a rational counterattack.

1. Prepped a fluid haymaker-esque punch despite "the landing hurting like a bitch and knocking the wind out of your chest," and shot a blast of nuclear energy from your knuckles. (Although I understand that you had been more or less charging this energy from the start.)

The judges in this competition seem to be quite busy, so I'm just throwing my two cents in hopes of preventing any ensuing argument.))

((The scarf is a lie.))

At this point, there were only two things that were worth mentioning. One, the all out attack on Ken was situation-dependent on Ken being in wrong place at the wrong time (i.e. on his chest while Ed was on his back). Then there was the second thing, Kenji had tourned over at the last second and subjected himself to Edward plopping himself from a leap onto Ken's midsection. Two hundred and ninety pounds had just fallen onto the gut/mid-section area of Kenji. From there, it went without saying that gag reflex and a general loss of more air came from the act. His opponent was already gasping for breath from the original fall. This just adds insult to injury.

Ed was on top of his opponent and his opponent faced him. Unlike his plans, where he attacked the opposition literally from behind had changed. This was a completely different ball game, and the reprieve from his jumping on Kenji (which would stun) would give him more than enough time to understand his position. The flurry of punches would not go, not at this very moment. He couldn't stop the first strike. His right fist whizzed by without much thought..

Of course, at around that time, Kenji's fist also let fly. Unfortunately for Kenji, his right arm was increasingly near Ed's brandished left arm. His Krav Maga-based set was fashioned in order so that one fist can be sent out while the other could defend just in case. And that's what it did.

When Kenji outstretched his right arm, the cyborg made a quick circular wipe motion with his left which if successful would knock the right "fist" off to the side and into air instead of Edward's bare chest.

The nuclear strike was likely to shoot out to Kenji's right towards the stands.

((That boasting was my personal fight, not the entire team. It wasn't the team's boasting, it was mine.))

Pax Ethenica > Snuffing out a thick cigar and setting the baby monitor down, Team Kirk Douglas Presents' muchly calmed sponsor got up again. Crossing the lushly furnished skybox suite, he glanced up at a small video screen installed towards the back of the room to make sure he couldn't miss a damn thing. His bloodshot green eyes staring fixedly at the temporally impossible events unfolding below him, he didn't really think it was that odd, and poured himself a drink.

The well-dressed Asian man walked into the preordained skybox suite. He had finished up with Hexinea at the medical ward, and this expensive, unnecessary luxury miniature apartment was much more comfortable.

He perused the two versus two battle on the large wide screen monitor in front of a coffee table, somewhat confused on why the Doctor himself decided to watch the action through such a relatively minuscule screen. Another source of befuddlement was the exact reason why his two fighters didn't simply choose gang up on the weakest looking member of the opposition and end the round with three foes defeated. After all, right now they had essentially won two. There was no point in upholding "honor" in a competition, at least to Sincere.

One of the Doctor's numerous bodyguards offered him Hennessy XO on ice, served in a highball glass. Sincere accepted the drink and took a sip. The lowered temperature made the alcohol a bit more palatable, but the burning was still apparent.