TotF: K-Zu-Ziro vs Redford

[Hysteria]

“Dammit, get it done man!” shouted Jack as he slumped back in his chair.

It had been weeks since his failed attempted at earning a few extra coins, and Jack had spent nearly everything he had deflecting the local law from throwing a noose around his neck and hauling him half way up a tree. The golden haired tiefling pushed himself up out of his chair and tugged on the lapels of his jacket to straighten the lines. This current venture would claw back some of his lost funds until he landed a bigger score. People loved to gamble, and throw in a bit of uncontrolled contraband sales and a knack of manipulating odds and one could make a pretty penny. Jack’s furled face twisted into a broad, toothy grin as he walked to the door and two words slipped from his mouth.

“Show time.”

“Welcome lovers and fighters to the first annual Tournament of the Fist!” Roared Jack to as he thrust his arms into the air to solid cheer that greeted him.

The crowded that gathered were a mixture of citadel regulars and pro-spectators. Like most shows that occurred at the citadel, it promised more than broken teeth and mercy rules. When one’s opponent would be brought back to life, it allowed one a bit more freedom than would otherwise be granted in polite fighting circles.

Jack twisted on the spot and waved his arm over the small rings that had been set up behind him. Each was a standard boxing ring with thick ropes enclosing a fifteen by fifteen foot ring. Spectators were free to move around the outside of the rings, but only the chosen combatants would be allowed to enter.

“Those of you competing listen for your numbers, I don’t want any of you arses to miss your call. For those spectating, go and bet to your hearts content!”

Ring 24 was marked with its namesake in two large blue numbers. The ring was the same as the others, fifteen feet long wide with thick ropes surrounding it and a slightly padded floor. The monk in charge of this ring was an young man with thick glasses and a look of confusion plastered over his face. In truth he had been thrown into looking after the ring after one of the older monks had a meeting with a bottle of Alerar spiced rum. Another monk was busy running around the outside of the ring and calling for numbers 87 and 15 to take their spots.

The rules had been drummed into everyone that entered, ‘No magic and no fancy weapons’. Knives, swords, shields and the like were carried openly by competitors, although a few seemed to carry theirs under thick cloaks for reasons unknown.

Feel free to add more detail to the spectators, but don't use them to intervene in the fight directly! Thread is open now and you have until the 5th of September, so make it good!

[K-Zu-Ziro]

Alerar's plains rolled with ancient infinity. The windswept grasslands watched the puffy clouds sailing with whimsy through the cerulean expanse above. Passing travellers stopped, hands to hip, to appreciate the remarkable horizon separating the sky from the prairie. If the heavens could protest and the earth concur, they would echo a curse on every such traveller. Together they longed for the jagged passion of snowcapped peaks or the flowing rush of bottomless valley. Twice a year, the roar of a million migrating hooves through the poppy peppered plains settled their discontent.

That day's heaven idled over a peculiar visitor, it was K-Zu-Ziro crossing the empty grasslands in its ongoing scouting mission. The open skies illuminated the awful creature. Its rigid body was encased in a calcareous shell with a matte black finish, its bug eyes were glossy by contrast, bulky pincers made for menacing weapons while its gait was made a spindly curiosity through the acute to obtuse oscillation of its narrow legs. Ziro was an unusual arthropod in that it only had four limbs, two had been amputated by its parent, T-Zu-Hosto, as a reminder of its crimes against the rodentine civilisation with which they lived. Digsy, a representative of the aforementioned rodent people, was one of Ziro's travelling companions. The rotund fuzzball rode the insectoid's shoulder, adding a twist of warmth to their otherwise harsh silhouette.

Rumbles loomed across a hundred miles, heralding the threat of a violent storm. “Uh oh,” warned Digsy with words whistling through his insurmountable incisors. Equipped only with slobbering mandibles that scissored horizontally, K-Zu-Ziro was inescapably non-verbal. To circumvent this handicap, Ziro had command of a mild form of telepathy. This ability allowed the bug to create a mental space in which it could communicate with Digsy. “Do not worry,” Ziro's words droned like a machine. “Looks like a bad one, old bean! Maybe we should take shelter?” a third voice shared the telepathic communion. The words belonged to Mux Drik. Formerly, a human diplomat representing Corone in the international arena; currently, a disembodied prisoner held in K-Zu-Ziro's mind. Mr. Drik had resigned himself to being Ziro's colleague, a voice inside the creature's head offering valuable advice and giving knowledge of the wider world's languages. “We will go through the storm,” K-Zu-Ziro had the luxury of the final word coupled with the luxury of an underdeveloped sense of empathy.

Bands of rain hammered a pelting chorus on the insectoid's exoskeleton, adding a slick glisten over its dull finish. The storm clouds bore a dire contrast, charcoal at their base fading into a platinum peak. Flashing cracks of thunder rolled long enough to hint of nature's doomsday. The swollen clouds billowed into a mountainous mass. Regardless, they pushed westward. Ziro's feet, often the cause of its lack of grace on artificial surfaces, found utility in stabbing the wet ground. Sudden squalls trumped gravity's grip, sending the downpour into torrents of sideways rain. An hour's drenching chilled the insectoid's body temperature by such a degree that it became noticeably sluggish.

“Uhm, I feel as though this dreadful journey may be coming to an end,” Mux aired his thoughts in silence as he observed, with concern, the unnatural valley opening up between the clouds. Explosive bolts crossed the gulf with exponential frequency. This moment's culmination came with the formation of a crackling sphere of webbed static. The electric field's substance broke when a series of equine outlines flashed into reality. Each horse proved itself an abnormality beyond the obvious, hulking in mass and galloping through the stormy sky with non-existent mud caking their titanium hooves. Totaling four, they had riders. No, no riders—rather, they comprised a herd of rampaging centaurs. Men from the waist up, horse from the waist down.

With a snarling touchdown they pounded onto the trail, setting to flight a maelstrom of spray and turf left and right. Frothing lips of blood and spit peeled to show jaws armed with lines of broken glass, each shard was cemented mercilessly into their rotten gums. Their neck's bore the teeth that had once occupied their rancid mouths, threaded with pride through a simple string. No words needed, K-Zu-Ziro turned and broke into a leaping stride over the sodden prairie trail. With its body temperature reduced, the centaur outriders closed in on their prey with minimal effort. Ziro watched the ground ahead without looking back to see the ornate scars written on the lead hunter's horned face. Two of the raiding party split and flanked Ziro. Once parallel, they each pulled bolas from their satchels and span them overhead. Before throwing the weapons they exchanged congratulatory words over the sound of the storm, it was a language alien even to Mux Drik. One deft toss after another and K-Zu-Ziro felt the rope of the bolas wrapping around its ankles, pulling the genderless creature face first into the anaerobic mud. Digsy fell with Ziro, but stayed close to his commander's shoulder thanks to the leather straps securing him. A thick net tangled the bug with an unshakable weight, pinning it to the ground.

K-Zu-Ziro, Digsy and Mux Drik were dragged back into the static of the storm and flashed into nothingness along with their captors.

~

Digsy's furious scratches crumbled a line of damp mortar in the wall. Stagnant air settled around the barred doors and slate floors of their current circumstances. Water seeping walls bred a film of slime, brown algae. K-Zu-Ziro hunched in the blackest corner of an unlit prison, cramped under a low ceiling while tending to a mess of freshly picked bones. The insectoid's mandibles slobbered at the bone barrow in a snapped femur. “We wondered if you'd do that,” said a guard jangling her collection of keys. “That was his name, so it was,” the guard pointed at one name amongst many names carved into the moist brickwork. P A C K S T E E N. “He was Packsteen. And I'm Ovshi. Does a fucking creature like you even have a name?” she waited for a response and then continued, “We were going to execute old Packsteen anyway, you saved me some work!” her stern lack of empathy hinted at sociopathy. Without warning, K-Zu-Ziro fell into a death-like slump. Its bony snack hit the floor with a hollow rattle. The creature's telepathy extended to the ability to take control of Digsy's voice, but to do this Ziro had to abandon control of its own body. Immediately, the rodentine boy stopped frantically pawing at the cell's walls. His claws were down to bloody flesh anyway. “Release me,” the rodent's whimsical voice was unfit to carry the gravity of the K-Zu-Ziro's request. “Ah, so that's why you keep the rat boy with you! The monks will be glad to learn a little bit more about you things, they thought you might be a telepath,” the guard realised that K-Zu-Ziro was non-verbal. A flush of distant light partnered the awful whine of a hinge in need of grease, this signalled the opening of the hallway's gate. Freshly illuminated, a cockroach rushed for the remaining shadows but instead found the crunch of Officer Awe Ovshi's boot, “I just hate bugs,” she eyeballed Digsy and pushed down for a follow up crunch. “Given the opportunity, I will kill you,” Ziro explained matter-of-factly through the voice of his companion. “Well, time to go!” the guard held her hand on her weapon and smiled at her approaching colleague.

Shackled in iron, K-Zu-Ziro was dragged into the crowd of spectators, they parted at the prod of the Citadel guard's weapons. The insectoid's vertical extent enhanced its exotic appearance, at the peak of its stride it was eight feet tall. The gloss of Ziro's alien eyes reflected in them the faces bold enough to stare. Unable to hide his anxiety, Digsy gnashed his teeth. "Remain calm," warned K-Zu-Ziro, the giant bug was not prone to mammalian emotions. "I'm locked in!" whistled the rotund rat boy, referring to the securing straps on his commander's shoulder. Mux Drik, by contrast, had been mostly silent since their capture, "Ziro is right, you've got to keep it together Ratty," strategising was one of his favourite pastimes and provided some relief to their dire predicament.

Paused at the ring's periphery, there was a wait for the arrival of the shackles' key holder. Silenced in apprehension, the crowd burst out in a sarcastic cheer as a short man visibly affected by his various neuroses ran over to unlock K-Zu-Ziro's binds. Breath held, the guards backed off the creature and pointed their weapons at it. “Get in the ring,” it was Ovshi's commanding sneer. As a prisoner it was wise for the insectoid to oblige. One step brought Ziro across the threshold.

The guards dispersed around the ring, mingling with the crowd in a measure meant to contain the creature during the encounter. The second combatant was to be Sir John Albert Cromwell, a gargantuan man meant to complete what was billed to the public as a clash of titans not to be missed. Tickets to attend this bout had quickly sold out. Tension built while waiting for John's arrival. Boots in the crowd idly scuffed their heels at the stone floor, while an intermittent chorus of coughs and sniffles disrupted any prolonged moments of silence.

K-Zu-Ziro turned and snapped its right pincer at the throat of a guard, opening a gushing wound. While the mortally injured guard pawed at his gagging throat, the crowd piled over each other in the direction of the exits. The guard's remaining contingent froze, stunned a moment. The moment quickly passed. All but Ovshi, four in total, rushed the creature. Two came at once, Ziro's right pincer tore open another throat while its left pincer snipped at the second assailant's thigh. Once on the ground, the insectoid used its craggy foot to stab the prone guard in the neck. Ovshi backed away, watching her comrades fall. Of the two remaining, the first's helmet fell as he swung his sword inaccurately, K-Zu-Ziro countered by jamming the upper bulk of its claw into the man's unprotected ear. “Don't do it, please,” the final guard begged, and in begging mouth opened wide enough to receive the splitting stab of Ziro's claw.

Ovshi stepped forward, fear and fury marked her scowl. Their stand off oozed with the inevitable ferocity to come. Ziro was bathed in blood and glaring. Awe Ovshi had her drawn her sword and could crack open the glorified cockroach with one solid blow. As they rushed to close the distance they were suddenly interrupted. A whirl of robed finery unravelled from the thinnest of air and materialised in their path. “STOP!” Sister Moseley stood before them. Her delicate robes bore a woven emblem denoting her rank amongst the Ai'Brone Monks, she was a grand master and section leader of the monk's psionist discipline. Her focus pinned K-Zu-Ziro to the bloodied sand of the ring. Digsy whimpered under the invisible pressure.

Sister Moseley levitated over a fresh crew of guards arriving in the room and spoke with piercing authority, “Bring the crowd back, assure them that I will be present for the fight and as such will be personally responsible for their safety. Offer them food in consolation. Collect the bodies for reanimation. K-Zu-Ziro, by now you understand that I can and will kill you if you do not comply. It could be that nobody has explained to you what is happening here. You have been selected to compete in this competition. We appreciate you did not enter this competition, but nevertheless you are an enemy of various free nations around the world. Including this one. Consider this your punishment.”

[redford]

In a dark, smoky basement John sipped his whiskey, listening to the chaos. There was a great deal of shouting and grunting going on around him, and a cheer erupted from the far corner of the room as John took another puff from a smoldering cigar, following it closely with a sip of whiskey. The old man behind the bar busied himself with making sure the drink flowed smoothly into hands and down throats; he filled glasses, handed them out, and cleaned old ones with experienced fluidity. He even found a few spare seconds to speak with John, though John did not know why.

John often thought of himself as poor company, he was intimidating and difficult to talk to. Though the fact that he couldn’t speak well himself tended to also sour conversations. He took another sip of whiskey as the old man came back for a few words. He replaced the mug in front of John before he spoke though. His voice was as weathered as his skin, and though raspy, held a deeper timbre that felt...right, on the ears. Like a dark whiskey, it was rough, but it was deep and dark and excellent.

“You had a chance to look at the fliers yet, brother?”

John looked up and grunted in the negative. A few seconds after he did, the old man produced a small piece of paper and unfolded it. John reached out with a bare, scarred hand and lifted it from where the old man had dropped it on the bar. Stamped on the front was a huge fisted gauntlet, and below it was written:

Test your might against others in the Tournament of the Fist! Do you possess the strength and skill to crush your foes without lifting a weapon? Prove it in the tournament!

There were details below, as well as a hefty entry fee of four hundred gold pieces.

He looked up. He could likely spare the expense, but if he didn’t come out with more than he went in with, it would hurt his business, especially with how his wares had been selling lately. It was difficult for people to buy from the metal-armed giant that worked the forge on the edge of town. He heard the whispers about him. He was almost more an attraction than man, something that drew people to its freakishness.

The old man spoke, knocking John out of his thoughts, back into the present. The bar suddenly came to life around him, and John felt the grain of the wood of the bar under his fingertips again as he crawled out of the pit of his mind.

“You think you can do it?” The old man asked, and temporarily ignored the rest of the bar as he leaned in toward John, though having to look up since John was taller than he even sitting down. John’s eyes bounced from the old man to Logan, then back to the flier.

“Of course he can do it,” Logan piped in above the chorus of shouts as another combatant fell. He clapped John on the shoulder, smiling broadly. John wasn’t quite sure why he was here, but he’d said something about ‘male bonding’ and ‘paying for the first round’, so John had taken him to the weekly brawls. The brawls were some of the things John liked. Two men stood in a small circle and traded blows to the head by turns until one fell or left the ring. There was no trickery, no escape without defeat. It was simple, and John liked simple. He looked at the flier again. They had to have been circulated over much of Althanas, the Citadel did not put on tournaments lightly. And that meant some of his old masters would be there, the ones that had taught him the styles that he’d conglomerated into his own. His gaze met Logan’s eager one, and he spoke, more to Logan than the old man who’d asked him the question.

“Maybe.”

John set the glass of whiskey down as he finished it, then motioned to the old man that he was finished with it as he reached to the full bottle to refill it. Logan would certainly have something to say about this tournament, he certainly found no loss for words in other situations.

“Maybe? That isn’t how winners talk. You know you got this, so be confident. You’ll destroy whoever they throw at you.”

“Even winners know that they can lose. So,” John said, taking a puff of his cigar and blowing a smoke ring, “maybe.”

“I don’t sponsor ‘maybes’, so tell me you can win it so I can sponsor you.”

John looked sideways at Logan, who had a grin that was best described as mischevious. “It’s possible,” John said, conceding.

Logan nodded, “Damn straight. And when you win, you’ll pay me back.”

------------------------------------------------------

The clamor of voices over each other still rang in John’s ears, though now there was open sky above him and the floor was cobbled stone. There were dozens of rings set up in the courtyard and surrounding fields of the Citadel. Midday had come and gone, and John had developed a sheen of sweat over the parts of his body that were unarmored. His large form stood between rings 35 and 12, one of which he’d just come from. John had thought during the fight that the style was reminiscent of one he’d seen in western Raieria before recognizing an older gentleman who had been slowly approaching. He was displaced, as most were raptured by the arenas. John approached, placing one palm over a fist and bowing.

“Master Nash,” he said simply, and raised himself again. The older man was thin, but he moved with a practiced grace, a confidence of step, that was simply not found in weaker men. He was certainly more adept than his student, who had just received a few lumps on the head by John.

“You fought well, John,” He said, bowing slightly in return. “You have certainly learned from others such as myself.”

John could have smiled, but that would spoil the game. The old man knew John’s mannerisms, and knew how to draw out bits of speech from the otherwise silent giant.

“Yes. Your student fought well also,” John said flatly.

“Come now! He is a novice and you know it. There is a reason you won in five moves, and it is not simply because of your ability, masterful as you may be,” He said, smiling. The wrinkles around his eyes tightened, and he laughed, showing a straight row of white teeth.

“Then why did you not enter yourself?”

He chuckled again. “I’m afraid these old bones don’t have much left in them.”

“Those old bones could best most of the fighters, and certainly best him,” John motioned to a cot beside the number 12.

the old man’s chuckle died, and his face hardened a little. Suddenly he adopted the visage John knew well, one of a veteran fighter who had seen battle countless times. He smirked a little. “Ah, the boy needed a lesson in humility. Besides,” he said as he turned to walk toward his student, who had stirred a little. “it would be terrible to lose to your own student, eh?”

A few steps later and he was out of earshot. John briefly mused that it was the highest compliment he’d received from the man before he heard Logan’s voice somewhere behind him.

“John! They say your next match is up!” he exclaimed, motioning for him to follow. John had noticed that the yards around the courtyard of the Citadel had grown a little quieter as of late, and the shouting was coming from the courtyard, which was incidentally where Logan was leading him. He stepped forward to follow, just now noting that there would need to be semifinals and finals in a tournament such as this. And John hadn’t lost yet.

Though nobody else that was in the semifinals lost either.

John set his mind on careful observation, knowing that there was likely a reason why his next opponent hadn’t lost yet. Logan stood at the arched entrance to the black stone courtyard of the Citadel as he approached, impatiently waving him through. There were several arenas that John saw over the crowd. Logan pulled on his arm.

“Come on, arena 24 is waiting for you to kick some ass in!” he exclaimed over the growing crowd. The stone walls reflected the sound, and a roar rose up from the throng as John approached the designated ring. Something had the crowd in an uproar as he approached, and he was quite surprised to see a large, alien form standing in one corner of the arena. He approached, and eyed the creature, who stared back at him intently. I suppose even these insane creatures must ogle, he thought as he simply stepped above the ropes bounding the arena. The creature before him now had some kind of rodent perched on what he might have described as a shoulder. It was jet-black, nearly shiny against the light of the sun.

A smaller, younger monk appeared beside him, his gaze darting back and forth from the blackened monstrosity to the human one. He inched a little closer to John, and John found a comforting sentiment in the boy, that there were creatures even more odd than himself. He took a deep breath in, and shouted above the crowd. It was a brave shout, even if it did only make it to the closest spectators.

“John Cromwell and K-Zu-Ziro, FIGHT!”

[K-Zu-Ziro]

Sister Moseley's watch over her unconsenting contestant endured.

Meanwhile, Ai'Brone's most recent initiates descended, ready to clear the morbid aftermath of K-Zu-Ziro's brutal outlash. The corpses along with their errant body parts were dragged with little ceremony by monks whose usual penchant for the solemn ritual was curbed through the urgency of the recovering audience. With bodies taken for reanimation, the Ai'Brone initiates returned. This time they were armed with solid broom handles, each stick found function with a broad head fitted with the stiffest of bristles. From inside K-Zu-Ziro's mental prison Mr. Mux mused, "I wonder if Sister Moseley's presence has made those bristles extra stiff," the innuendo was lost on his mechanically dour captor. Digsy, while still trembling with the duress of their predicament, contained a whiskery smile. Tranquility sometimes eluded recruits in favour of impetuous zeal, this case was one such example. No rhythm found its way into their frantic sweeping of the battleground floor. Blood, growing sticky as it dried, combined with grains of sand to form a gruesome batter. Having cleared the majority of claret and grain clumps, the freshly recruited monks exited the arena leaving only droplets of blood as testament to the moment's gore.

Sir John's prompt arrival amongst the re-assembling crowd triggered a shiver of concern for Mux Drik. The former diplomat could see everything K-Zu-Ziro saw. And the towering sight of their opponent dominating the crowd was most certainly unwelcome. Outstanding to Drik was Cromwell's angular jawline, the hallmark of excessive testosterone. It was fair, Drik thought, to conclude elevated levels of strength and aggression. Secondly, Mux Drik's attention was taken by the living colour in their opposite number's eyes, it drew out of him a melancholy sentiment concerning his own lost life, his own living eyes and those of his loved ones. “Blergh,” it was immaterial. Next for focus, the metal equipment possessed by the human giant. It appeared immediately unremarkable, its special properties were not apparent to a layperson.

“Advice?” Ziro demanded tactical input.

“Well, without meaning to sound absurd, don't get hit. He's almost certainly stronger and better equipped than we are,” Drik's evaluation was resoundingly bleak.

“I will focus on movement and unpredictability.”

Arena 24's ground may have been cleared, but Ziro's black body was still spattered red with the fluid of its victims. Brooms and bodies disposed of, it fell back to one of the initiates to signal the bout's beginning. The boy, draped in the simple robes of a low ranker, seemed to be favouring Sir John over K-Zu, he was standing closer to the man than the monster.

“John Cromwell and K-Zu-Ziro …"

K-Zu-Ziro raised its left claw, slowly separating the top and bottom portions of the pincer. The overgrown insect made a display of its natural born weapon with an intimidating hiss, a sound made by forcing air through the spiracles in its exoskeleton. The serrated edge of the calcareous weapon was its own horror show, but its murderous potential was made more arresting by the bloody remnants of the deceased guards dangling from the claw's tip.

"... FIGHT!”

Before the "T" in "fight" had escaped the diminutive brother's lips, K-Zu-Ziro flicked the dripping tangle of fat, sinew and muscle off the end of its claw and towards the eyes of Sir John Albert Cromwell. As the bony limb recoiled from the toss, K-Zu-Ziro stepped back and bent its limbs into a defensive crouch and prepared for an appropriately gargantuan response from Cromwell.

[redford]

John turned the creature over in his mind as the gore it threw fell short of his feet. It was bipedal, and roughly humanoid. There was a large rat chained to its shoulder. Perhaps it was a pet of some kind. Its black skin was more like armor than anything, that would make it more important that he strike hard. Attacking would require more certainty simply because it would be difficult to injure the creature. He briefly wondered if it was even capable of sentience before stepping forward. He flicked his wrists, and the shiny metal of his bracers seeped downward in rivulets, coating his hands, and began to crawl upwards to his shoulders. Hopefully his silver armor could best the creature’s black chitin. He saw no weapons that the thing carried, though it would likely be difficult for it to hold one. There was an incredibly strange sense of camaraderie he felt toward the dismal creature. They were both monstrous, more feared than admired, both armored, both unable to use weapons. It would have been funny under other circumstances.

What passed for the creature’s hands looked more like claws than anything, stained with the blood of either previous combatants or unfortunate bystanders. The claws would likely be dangerous if he allowed a strike at his unarmored points.

John knew little of insects, but if the creature before him shared traits with its smaller cousins, then it would be fast, strong, and instinctual; though John tried to remain cautious. He’d been caught off guard too many times in other citadel matches to rely on assumptions. Though in all of those matches he’d been fighting people, so there was an added measure of uncertainty to this fight. He gave another cursory glance up and down his opponent. He would need to fight the thing with his armored hands until he felt confident that he could dodge any strikes from its claws. The crowd quieted for a moment as neither he nor his opponent made any moves.

His analysis finished, John slowed his breathing, trading his strategic thoughts for baser instincts.

Two quick steps forward brought him within striking distance. John threw aimed a viciously forceful punch at the creature’s center, leaning into it. He prepared for the possibility of a dodge, and kept his right hand close to his body so he could block a strike or follow up his own. The crowd roared in excitement as the two monstrosities started their battle.

[K-Zu-Ziro]

Sir John's augmented assault pounded K-Zu-Ziro's upper torso with a metallic flash. A fault line broke at the point of impact, spreading veiny cracks across the creature's chest. "Whoooooaaaaa! Aaahhh! Chill out, buddy!" Digsy's whistling comedy was unwelcome. As was his incessant squirming. Staggered, the insectoid combatant felt no weakening in its ability to move. This meant that while the crack in its carapace was certainly serious, it was not a complete breach and internal fluids were not leaking. As an arthropod, any loss of bodily fluid would result in gradually slower and slower movement; a process similar to hydraulics supports the creature's motion.

An eruption of utter delight, aching with the noxious zeal of hatred, came from the edge of the ring. It was Awe Ovshi. "Fuck you, I hope they bring you back a thousand fucking times before they let you die. You're fucking scum!" her diatribe overwhelmed the ringside din. Sister Moseley stared at the headstrong guard disapprovingly. Officer Ovshi was so enthralled by K-Zu-Ziro's woe that she didn't notice. "Cromwell, don't fuck it up! You sack of fucking potatoes!" her overt, if insulting, support of Sir John made a mockery of the guard's supposed impartiality in the tournament. Her devotion to Ziro's demise was rooted in the knowledge that one night she might fall foul to its murderous essence.

It took all of Drik's focus to put aside the frightening abuse frothing from Ovshi's mouth. Sir John's imposing bulk was to be the moment's only frightening factor. "Neck or cock. Your choice, old bean!" Mux Drik's bare bones advice proved a bold outline for K-Zu-Ziro. A quick counterattack ensued. The precious goop within the insect's shell shifted and pulsed. Its left pincer hovered, blocking the injured chest. Meanwhile, the creature's right pincer spread agape and cut into the rising dust of the arena. Neck or cock. Neck or cock. The natural born weapon emerged from the maelstrom, black and ruthless, and drove at the man's throbbing mammalian jugular. Sir John Albert Cromwell's neck was on the chopping block.

[redford]

Two things struck John as the insect made his move. First, the thing was much faster than he first anticipated; and second, its pet could speak. John thought freely that the latter had shocked him more, though the former would likely prove more detrimental in their fight.

The thing spread open a claw, striking at John’s neck. John’s estimation of the insect’s speed was still too conservative though, and as he shifted inside the strike, it hit him, slicing through his flesh and carving a gash into his shoulder. John grunted, pushing through it, and moved forward until he was face to face with the monster, its outstretched arm still extended over his left shoulder, which had begun to bleed. Adrenaline and intense focus kept the pain away from John’s mind though, and he brought his left arm up, bending it over the insect’s extended appendage, wrapping it around and placing his hand on its neck, if it was its neck after all. Hopefully he'd be able to avoid those dangerous mandibles in the process, though he had some worry that his armor wouldn't stand up to it.

Logan cried out from among the crowd in encouragement.

Hopefully he’d be able to get the thing on the ground, where his own size and strength would be more influential than the insect’s speed. His hips turned right, and he placed his left foot to the right of the insect’s legs, intending to use his strength, as well as his hold on the insect to throw it over his outstretched leg and get them both on the ground, where speed wouldn’t matter as much.

[K-Zu-Ziro]

"It's a hit!" Mux Drik cheered, his mood was buoyed by the V shaped burst of blood either side of K-Zu-Ziro's splicing pincer. The grim fluid splattered Digsy's fur, matting it. “Ewww!” complained Digsy. “SILENCE!” K-Zu-Ziro blasted Digsy's mind with telepathic venom. Ovshi slobbered angrily at her foe's good fortune. On withdrawal, K-Zu-Ziro realised the tip of its upper claw had snapped off when making contact with the nobleman's collar bone. A breach of the insectoid's exoskeleton meant leaking fluid which in turn meant a cumulative reduction in its ability to move. Ziro consigned itself to the fact that if it was to be victorious, then it would have to be a short encounter.

Logan's voice escalating over the din caught Digsy's ratty ear. “Pipe down, you old coot!!!” screamed the rotund right-hand rodent; his words bore so little gravity due to the quaint manner in which they tooted through his mouth filling incisors. While gripping his straps with fearful determination, Digsy tried to capture Logan's attention with a nose twitching glare. “SILENCE!” K-Zu-Ziro repeated its admonishment. Digsy cowered, sinking his head into his furry shoulders. “…..” Digsy frowned and held tight. The incessant distractions coming from Digsy were proving problematic.

Futty Bando fingered the nasty strands of his nicotine beard and elbowed a stranger in the ribs to get their attention. Old age was his excuse and no shame could temper his behaviour. “The fucken giant hybrid is bleeding already. What a fucken joke!” he said while flapping his wild unibrow up and down in what could pass as a display of seasoned charisma. “But, the bug, damn the thing, damn the bastard, the bug is doin' fucken worse!” Bando continued while the stranger tried to feign enough interest so as not to provoke the urine stinking granddad any further. Cherishing a bookmaker's stub between arthritic thumb and arthritic forefinger, Futty winked knowingly at Logan before nattering back at the stranger, “But this fight, see,” he paused, “this fight, see—it wasn't meant to be a technical fucken master class. This is a fucken bloodbath kinda thing. That's what all these punters are here for!” his analysis of the fight was spot on, thought the stranger. Futty Bando tugged on his ragged fishing hat, ornamented with colourful pins and buttons, pulling it tight to conceal the shining grease fest of hairless skin underneath.

“Whoa!” the distractions had proved too much for the cooperative trio of Ziro, Drik and Digsy. K-Zu-Ziro's narrow neck was wrapped up in what felt like the robust roots of an aged oak. Sir John's powerful assault had come on quickly and taken the creature without time to react. While appearing dreadful itself, the insectoid contender was very much capable of dread. In sensing its near defeat, K-Zu-Ziro wriggled furiously, slashing and snapping at Cromwell's gut while jerking free of the man's titanic grip. Escaping the grip meant tripping backwards, into the waiting arms of Officer Awe Ovshi. She shoved the creature right back at its opponent, wrong footing the ailing insect.

Futty Bando said, “Well, fuck.” with utter displeasure before crumpling up his bet on the bug.

[redford]

As John twisted his body to throw the giant insect, he felt it try to escape his grasp furiously. John tightened his grip on his opponent's neck, but it was no use, the thing was vastly different from any opponent he'd fought previously, and John's own blood slicked the bug's arm, allowing it to wiggle free. It leapt back and pain bit at John's side, just above the floating rib, and the bug stumbled back into the bravest of the spectators.

John breathed shallow, placing a hand over the wound the bug had given him. Luckily his opponent struck a rib, and that meant that John wouldn't be bleeding into his lung just yet, but it pained him mightily. It was likely broken, and if left untreated, could break further and pierce his lung anyways. This needs to end quickly, John thought as the thing was pushed back toward him. The crowd roared once more, their noise falling on John's deaf ears as his mind raced.

It's fast, too fast for close combat, and this rib won't be helping me any.

He called to mind the words of an old teacher, the master of his last opponent in fact.

"Appear weak where you are strong, and fight your opponent where he is weak. There may be little honor in these tactics, but there is no honor in losing."

As the insect charged again, John stepped back with his right foot, turning the injured rib away from the thing.

Separate the rat from the insect, use the reach to keep the insect from getting close.

His plan solidified, John leaned back on his right foot, bringing his left up in a powerful kick aimed at the crack in the insect's armor. Maybe the armor wasn't that important, but it was a weak spot, and that was good enough at the present. With any luck, he'd be able to snatch the rat off of the thing's shoulder, the shackle be damned; he knew his abilities enough to know he could pull on the rat until something failed, either the shackle or the rodent's foot.

[K-Zu-Ziro]

Doom's harbinger sickened the crowd with its cracking squelch; Ziro's carapace ruptured up and down either side of a hefty boot mark. Tacky fluid, a creamy yellow, seeped from the murderous opening. Time to call time, Sister Moseley thought. She gave the referee an eyeful of her authority, an expectant glimmer in the strands of her iris. The answer was the referee's jittery shaken head, rejecting her request. This was a fight to the death, after all. K-Zu-Ziro fell with the indignity of a flat back in front of a frothing crowd of ravenous strangers. Futty Bando was spinning in circles, muttering against his luck. Digsy scratched at his straps, hoping to free himself to continue the fight. "Oh dear, oh dear," he whistled.

Awe Ovshi violated the ring's boundary and stood over Ziro the instant its body hit the deck. Left and right, her leather boots flanked the bug's grotesque head so it was staring up at her crotch. She felt the vigorous rush of absolute dominance. Then a concoction of snot and spit flew from her mouth and into Ziro's failing eyes. All the while, John was no doubt moving in for the death blow. It was the last thing she did to her foe, she wanted it to see her sneering scowl as the lights faded. It was the last thing she did to her foe. It was the last thing she did to her foe. Ziro's vision failed.

Again, the sister in charge pinned her eyes on the referee.

“Old bean! Not like this, I want my own body one day and I'll be damned if you let us both fade away like this!” Mux Drik's words were unusually stirring for the typically emotionless creature. Ziro's pincer snapped at Ovshi's leering crotch. The pincer's snap tore through the fabric of her uniform. The serrated edge continued into her flesh with a marauding temper. Top and bottom met each other inside the remnants of her vagina, the creature had ripped it apart. Mux Drik gasped inside their mind, “I didn't know you had a penchant for one-upmanship!” She pawed at the gushing blood with wailing agony.

Sister Moseley dropped her head with frustration.