Daikessoshen
Davies
Legend
Interlude
"You shouldn't fight."
Sitting on the bench, looking up at the grim-featured woman who just told him this, Zuwen spends a moment preparing his response. When at last he speaks, he is quite calm. "Is this medical or moral advice?"
"It's both," says the Lancet. "But more the former." She pauses, continuing to evaluate him. "But I suspect that you've already been told this."
"I have," he says, with a short nod. "And I have enough medical training to recognize some of the symptoms without being told, as well."
"There's a saying about a doctor who treats himself --" she starts to say.
"I have not." His interruption is firm. "Are you going to refuse me permission to continue?" he asks after a moment.
The brightly-clad medic lets out a long, disgusted sigh. "I don't have any authority to do that. I'm not the official physician of this fiasco, just a self-appointed medical vigilante. And it would be both grossly immoral and counterproductive on my part to try and force you to retire, so all I can do is ask you to reconsider."
"I have one more fight," the old man says. "I do not imagine that I can defeat this opponent, but I would disgrace myself if I did not try. So one more fight."
"You're bargaining," the Lancet says. "That's a sign of grief."
"I suppose that it is, at that."
She shakes her head. "I said that no one was going to die here. I would really appreciate it if you did not make a liar of me, shū shu." With that, she turns and goes, leaving him with his thoughts.
And the hand that comes up to rest over his heart.
"You shouldn't fight."
Sitting on the bench, looking up at the grim-featured woman who just told him this, Zuwen spends a moment preparing his response. When at last he speaks, he is quite calm. "Is this medical or moral advice?"
"It's both," says the Lancet. "But more the former." She pauses, continuing to evaluate him. "But I suspect that you've already been told this."
"I have," he says, with a short nod. "And I have enough medical training to recognize some of the symptoms without being told, as well."
"There's a saying about a doctor who treats himself --" she starts to say.
"I have not." His interruption is firm. "Are you going to refuse me permission to continue?" he asks after a moment.
The brightly-clad medic lets out a long, disgusted sigh. "I don't have any authority to do that. I'm not the official physician of this fiasco, just a self-appointed medical vigilante. And it would be both grossly immoral and counterproductive on my part to try and force you to retire, so all I can do is ask you to reconsider."
"I have one more fight," the old man says. "I do not imagine that I can defeat this opponent, but I would disgrace myself if I did not try. So one more fight."
"You're bargaining," the Lancet says. "That's a sign of grief."
"I suppose that it is, at that."
She shakes her head. "I said that no one was going to die here. I would really appreciate it if you did not make a liar of me, shū shu." With that, she turns and goes, leaving him with his thoughts.
And the hand that comes up to rest over his heart.
Davies
Legend
The old man has rarely encountered something like this before. Generally, regardless of how well-practiced or experienced the opponent, he has always been able to discern some flaw in their defense, some weakness upon which he could capitalize. On some occasions, the foe has been cunning enough to realize what he was about, and able to conceal those flaws. He hopes that is what is happening this time as well. He fears that he might be facing a genuinely invincible foe -- perhaps even the actual Stone Monkey.
"Let us begin, then," says the ape as the buzzer sounds. And with that, Zuwen watches in stunned horror as he swells into immensity, his head almost at the top of the arena's roof, the staff he holds in one hand now the length of a train car as he lifts it up and prepares --
No! Some small part of Zuwen's mind holds on to its rationality. He might be able to grow in this manner, but how would the rod grow to match him? How would he stand in the exact same stance if his mass shifted like that? This must be an illusion! Not fully believing his own desperate hope, he shouts out. "Enough of this trickery!"
"Trickery?" asks Wukong, having rather abruptly become his normal size once more. "I prefer to think of it as a deeper truth. Had I perhaps used it before the match began, that might be considered trickery." He lets the words hang in the air a moment, gazing steadily at Zuwen.
Despite himself, Zuwen flinches at the implied rebuke. "I contend with gods and living legends, and I am but a man," he answers, relying on anger to cover his sense of shame. "I will use what tricks I must."
"And to what end? What is even your goal --" Wukong begins to say.
No opening had he seen when he used his odd talent, but now there is one. Pushing himself to his utmost, Zuwen takes advantage of the minute distraction that his opponent now experiences to wrench the gold-hooped rod from Wukong's grasp. He is surprised by how light it is, how much like the staves he'd trained with half a century before instead of the wonder weapon that he might have expected.
The ease with which he can swing it throws him a bit off when he actually makes his first darting blow towards Wukong's side, such that his opponent is easily able to dance out of the way. And dance he does, turning that evasion into a weaving, almost cartwheeling charge towards Zuwen, that he is able to evade in turn, yet the movement keeps the ape out of the way of another attempted strike. He finally has a handle on the weapon's weight, though, and is able to strike its butt into Wukong's chest a moment later -- though it is obvious that no harm has been done.
But perhaps the blow, dealt with his own weapon, outrages the pretender to the Monkey King's title, for he almost growls as he charges, this time employing both hands and both feet in a flurry of attacks. None of them strike home, but his method of shifting from one foot to the other so rapidly stops Zuwen from success in his attempts to lay him out upon the arena's floor. And these acrobatics prove to be a prelude to a ferocious punch from Wukong that leaves him coughing and sputtering.
Yet for all that, the thought that goes through Li Zuwen's mind as he incorporates the rod into his ultimate defensive stance, beneath the roaring that he can hear there, is that he has never felt so al--
And then the pain comes.
"Oh," he says, the rod slipping out of his suddenly nerveless hands as his legs give out beneath him and he drops first to a seated pose, and then the rest of the way to the floor.
Wukong sees this, immediately recognizes that this is no feint, and darts forward to lift his fallen foe up and carry him as rapidly as he can to where the Lancet has emerged from the entryway with a horrified expression on her face. They pass from view.
"... I suppose we should call that a technical knockout, too," muses the Thunder Dragon, giving a faint smirk at all this.
"Let us begin, then," says the ape as the buzzer sounds. And with that, Zuwen watches in stunned horror as he swells into immensity, his head almost at the top of the arena's roof, the staff he holds in one hand now the length of a train car as he lifts it up and prepares --
No! Some small part of Zuwen's mind holds on to its rationality. He might be able to grow in this manner, but how would the rod grow to match him? How would he stand in the exact same stance if his mass shifted like that? This must be an illusion! Not fully believing his own desperate hope, he shouts out. "Enough of this trickery!"
"Trickery?" asks Wukong, having rather abruptly become his normal size once more. "I prefer to think of it as a deeper truth. Had I perhaps used it before the match began, that might be considered trickery." He lets the words hang in the air a moment, gazing steadily at Zuwen.
Despite himself, Zuwen flinches at the implied rebuke. "I contend with gods and living legends, and I am but a man," he answers, relying on anger to cover his sense of shame. "I will use what tricks I must."
"And to what end? What is even your goal --" Wukong begins to say.
No opening had he seen when he used his odd talent, but now there is one. Pushing himself to his utmost, Zuwen takes advantage of the minute distraction that his opponent now experiences to wrench the gold-hooped rod from Wukong's grasp. He is surprised by how light it is, how much like the staves he'd trained with half a century before instead of the wonder weapon that he might have expected.
The ease with which he can swing it throws him a bit off when he actually makes his first darting blow towards Wukong's side, such that his opponent is easily able to dance out of the way. And dance he does, turning that evasion into a weaving, almost cartwheeling charge towards Zuwen, that he is able to evade in turn, yet the movement keeps the ape out of the way of another attempted strike. He finally has a handle on the weapon's weight, though, and is able to strike its butt into Wukong's chest a moment later -- though it is obvious that no harm has been done.
But perhaps the blow, dealt with his own weapon, outrages the pretender to the Monkey King's title, for he almost growls as he charges, this time employing both hands and both feet in a flurry of attacks. None of them strike home, but his method of shifting from one foot to the other so rapidly stops Zuwen from success in his attempts to lay him out upon the arena's floor. And these acrobatics prove to be a prelude to a ferocious punch from Wukong that leaves him coughing and sputtering.
Yet for all that, the thought that goes through Li Zuwen's mind as he incorporates the rod into his ultimate defensive stance, beneath the roaring that he can hear there, is that he has never felt so al--
And then the pain comes.
"Oh," he says, the rod slipping out of his suddenly nerveless hands as his legs give out beneath him and he drops first to a seated pose, and then the rest of the way to the floor.
Wukong sees this, immediately recognizes that this is no feint, and darts forward to lift his fallen foe up and carry him as rapidly as he can to where the Lancet has emerged from the entryway with a horrified expression on her face. They pass from view.
"... I suppose we should call that a technical knockout, too," muses the Thunder Dragon, giving a faint smirk at all this.
Davies
Legend
Interlude
"This isn't your fault," says Zhang Xingxing.
"Isn't it," says Sun Wukong, not looking up at her. It's not really a question when he speaks.
They are seated on a bench outside the room that the Lancet has commandeered for her own purposes. Zhang's people have gently, and not so gently, pushed back the reporters who would normally be gathering around the area so these two can have their space.
"No, it's not," she says, just a bit heatedly. "Everyone who takes part in this thing did so with the understanding that they might face serious injury, regardless of what the Lancer or whatever her name is might claim. The match-ups were randomly determined. You did not choose to face this guy, so you're not responsible for what happens --"
"Except that I could have surrendered, once he succeeded in taking away the rod." Wukong looks at his hand, where the compliant gold-hooped rod would normally be. As far as he knows, it is still lying, abandoned, on the arena floor.
"What good would that have done?" She answers her own question. "None, that's what! He'd still have been sick, and then he would have been facing that hitman, Bravo, who wouldn't have bothered to try and help him!"
"Perhaps you're right," he says, still not looking up.
Zhang has yearned for that admission since she met this crazy hairy man. Now that she has it, she wonders why she did so. It is a miserable gift, really. "Then ... please don't be sad like this," she says. "I, I don't like it when you're sad like this. It makes me feel things I don't like feeling."
At last, he turns to look at his friend and patron, and finally gives her a small smile unlike his usual grin. "That is friendship, brilliant lady," he tells her.
She wants to say something more, but then the door opens, and the Lancet emerges. She looks at Wukong, and shakes her head sadly.
"This isn't your fault," says Zhang Xingxing.
"Isn't it," says Sun Wukong, not looking up at her. It's not really a question when he speaks.
They are seated on a bench outside the room that the Lancet has commandeered for her own purposes. Zhang's people have gently, and not so gently, pushed back the reporters who would normally be gathering around the area so these two can have their space.
"No, it's not," she says, just a bit heatedly. "Everyone who takes part in this thing did so with the understanding that they might face serious injury, regardless of what the Lancer or whatever her name is might claim. The match-ups were randomly determined. You did not choose to face this guy, so you're not responsible for what happens --"
"Except that I could have surrendered, once he succeeded in taking away the rod." Wukong looks at his hand, where the compliant gold-hooped rod would normally be. As far as he knows, it is still lying, abandoned, on the arena floor.
"What good would that have done?" She answers her own question. "None, that's what! He'd still have been sick, and then he would have been facing that hitman, Bravo, who wouldn't have bothered to try and help him!"
"Perhaps you're right," he says, still not looking up.
Zhang has yearned for that admission since she met this crazy hairy man. Now that she has it, she wonders why she did so. It is a miserable gift, really. "Then ... please don't be sad like this," she says. "I, I don't like it when you're sad like this. It makes me feel things I don't like feeling."
At last, he turns to look at his friend and patron, and finally gives her a small smile unlike his usual grin. "That is friendship, brilliant lady," he tells her.
She wants to say something more, but then the door opens, and the Lancet emerges. She looks at Wukong, and shakes her head sadly.
Davies
Legend
She has been hesitant about this strategy, developed when she learned who she would be facing in this round, but the results of the previous match have finally decided it for her. The best swords stay in their sheathes, and the best fights are those which are over before they begin, Trouble reminds herself, as she walks out to where the Avatar is waiting for her.
He greets her with a polite nod. "I now have a better appreciation for what you were trying to warn me about, yesterday," he says.
"Good," she says.
"However, I still choose not to employ my own psychic faculties in this conflict. My physical abilities should suffice."
"I believe so, too," Trouble says with a calm nod. "And I'm so I'm going to have to fight you like I would fight Paragon. With the techniques he himself gave me, against the possibility that someone might turn him into a threat to humanity."
The Avatar blinks. "Well!" He sounds both surprised and pleased as the count enters its final sequence. "This should be very educational."
"I believe so, too," she says as the count reaches zero and the buzzer sounds -- and in that instant, she whips up her right hand and a palm-sized chunk of reddish crystal emerges from her palm.
The Avatar stares, then gasps. "Theonite!" He backs away, yet stumbles, collapsing backwards on to the ground. "My deadly weakness!"
'Deadly?' Trouble thinks, confusion she now feels not showing on her face. This is only supposed to neutralize his powers, so that I can defeat him normally. Roger said that it isn't a nice sensation, but never that it's painful. Staring at the way that her opponent is curling up in agony, she begins to suspect that she has made a terrible mistake.
And then, from behind the hand that is covering his face, one of the Avatar's visible eyes winks at her.
Oh. He is not the only one learning something here today. "Surrender," she says, in steely tones.
"Yes, yes, anything, just take that away!"
"Say the word."
"I -- I -- I surrender," the Avatar says at last, sounding thoroughly broken.
"... well, this was just pathetic," says Thunder Dragon from up above, as Trouble withdraws the theonite from her hand back into its shielded compartment in her shoulder. "Claim your --"
"I claim no boon," she says, holding up four fingers and then lowering two. "It was not I who beat him, but science."
"Pathetic," the host says again.
She doesn't pay him any attention, but 'helps' the Avatar to return to his feet. "You're not actually vulnerable to theonite, are you?" she asks, very quietly.
"No, I removed that weakness soon after I created this body," he says as they start towards the exit.
Despite everything, Trouble nearly stumbles at how casually he speaks of it. "Then why --"
"Because I have studied this place, this Thimpu, over the last night, and I think I do not really need to learn anything from its master, after all. Because I think I might learn more in the future if others believe I have that weakness." He pauses, just as they reach the exit. "But most of all, because I think I need your help. I have not seen Lonnie since before my match, yesterday, and I find myself worried."
Davies
Legend
Interlude
"You know, the most absurd thing about all of this is that you actually thought numbers were going to make things go your way this time," says Abigail Mason, staring across the dimly-lit public park (complete with statue of Thunder Dragon) at her assembled enemies, all collapsed on the grass and pavement. "Every time I've crossed any of your paths individually, I've made you do exactly what I wanted, and you thought there being a bunch of you would change that, somehow? Sheerest vanity, verging on hubris. And we all know how hubris gets punished, right, darlings?"
"Abby, please --" says her older brother, managing to push himself up from the all-consuming sorrow she's made him feel.
"Oh, you are the worst of them, Earl. I mean, I know you've shot people from ambush with that stupid bow of yours, and that would really have ruined my day if you'd done that to me. But oh no, it's vital that you confront 'the bad guy', face to face. And here we are, and here you'll stay. All of you have gotten ideas that are way above your stations in life." She concentrates, momentarily, and the man who's called Robin Hood collapses beneath the weight of his grief once more.
But as he does so, something like sanity momentarily emerges from the fury that has consumed Patricia Mason, aka the Red Archer. Not enough to let her stand up and challenge her tormentor, but enough for her to speak a few words. "Why --"
"See, this is what I'm talking about. Art does not get to interrogate the artist, and that's what all of you are, in the end -- just raw materials for me to create something interesting. But putting you all back down like this has put me in a good mood, for once, so I'll tell you why I did so many awful things to you, personally, baby sis." Abigail takes a deep breath. "You breathed my air."
Stunned by the petty cruelty, as much as by the anger that's far beyond her control, Patricia just stares.
"Well, now that we've got that all cleared up, I think I'll be leaving," Abigail says. "I finished my business here earlier today, and now I'm heading to Europe, where I'm going to contact some people who'll help me to finish destroying you, and all your friends, and, oh, I guess the entire superheroic community. This whole 'justice society' that the Institute started has gone on far too long, so we're going to tear it apart and --" For just a second, as she speaks, Abigail wonders if maybe their hubris has infected her, and considers that explaining her plans like this is a symptom. But then she reminds herself to remember her own place, high above them, and opens her mouth to continue.
That's when someone slams a rabbit punch into the back of her head that drops her to the ground, momentarily senseless and unable to continue projecting the emotions she has been. And Patricia surges up out of her fury to send a single arrow streaking in the direction of her right breast, hitting with a hiss.
"Ibuki?" gasps Maid Marian as she also starts to come around from the frenzied lust that she'd been made to feel.
"Hi," says the German-Japanese girl, looking rather irate. "I'd say that I hope you're having a better day that I have, but it hasn't been much better, even if I got kidnapped twice."
"It's about to get worse," says Abigail, yanking the arrow out of her breast and speaking in a sing-song voice. And then she screams.
"Uh ... was that supposed to hurt?" asks Ibuki, stepping back and into a fighting stance.
"What -- what --" Abigail looks down at the arrow in her hand, and notes the syringe attached to its point for the first time. "What did you do?" she demands of her sister.
"Neurotoxin," Patricia says, coming to her feet. "It doesn't actually stop you from using psychics on people, but it will make doing so hurt." She smiles, grimly yet triumphantly. "And you don't handle pain all that well, do you? The guy who makes my arrows put a lot of thought into this one. I'd tell you who that is, but I'm still not sure."
"I might have an inkling," says Lonnie, emerging from the lassitude that had engulfed him.
"And now I think it's my turn," says Leah Blade, likewise emerging from artificial amusement to authentic anger.
"No, please, don't kill me," Abigail says, all bravado gone.
"Oh, don't be silly," says the second Songbird, smiling brilliantly. "I don't kill people. I just beat the hell out of them and dump them in front of a police station. I'm not sure where we'll find a police station in this burg, but phase one seems doable." And with that she starts punching down.
"You know, the most absurd thing about all of this is that you actually thought numbers were going to make things go your way this time," says Abigail Mason, staring across the dimly-lit public park (complete with statue of Thunder Dragon) at her assembled enemies, all collapsed on the grass and pavement. "Every time I've crossed any of your paths individually, I've made you do exactly what I wanted, and you thought there being a bunch of you would change that, somehow? Sheerest vanity, verging on hubris. And we all know how hubris gets punished, right, darlings?"
"Abby, please --" says her older brother, managing to push himself up from the all-consuming sorrow she's made him feel.
"Oh, you are the worst of them, Earl. I mean, I know you've shot people from ambush with that stupid bow of yours, and that would really have ruined my day if you'd done that to me. But oh no, it's vital that you confront 'the bad guy', face to face. And here we are, and here you'll stay. All of you have gotten ideas that are way above your stations in life." She concentrates, momentarily, and the man who's called Robin Hood collapses beneath the weight of his grief once more.
But as he does so, something like sanity momentarily emerges from the fury that has consumed Patricia Mason, aka the Red Archer. Not enough to let her stand up and challenge her tormentor, but enough for her to speak a few words. "Why --"
"See, this is what I'm talking about. Art does not get to interrogate the artist, and that's what all of you are, in the end -- just raw materials for me to create something interesting. But putting you all back down like this has put me in a good mood, for once, so I'll tell you why I did so many awful things to you, personally, baby sis." Abigail takes a deep breath. "You breathed my air."
Stunned by the petty cruelty, as much as by the anger that's far beyond her control, Patricia just stares.
"Well, now that we've got that all cleared up, I think I'll be leaving," Abigail says. "I finished my business here earlier today, and now I'm heading to Europe, where I'm going to contact some people who'll help me to finish destroying you, and all your friends, and, oh, I guess the entire superheroic community. This whole 'justice society' that the Institute started has gone on far too long, so we're going to tear it apart and --" For just a second, as she speaks, Abigail wonders if maybe their hubris has infected her, and considers that explaining her plans like this is a symptom. But then she reminds herself to remember her own place, high above them, and opens her mouth to continue.
That's when someone slams a rabbit punch into the back of her head that drops her to the ground, momentarily senseless and unable to continue projecting the emotions she has been. And Patricia surges up out of her fury to send a single arrow streaking in the direction of her right breast, hitting with a hiss.
"Ibuki?" gasps Maid Marian as she also starts to come around from the frenzied lust that she'd been made to feel.
"Hi," says the German-Japanese girl, looking rather irate. "I'd say that I hope you're having a better day that I have, but it hasn't been much better, even if I got kidnapped twice."
"It's about to get worse," says Abigail, yanking the arrow out of her breast and speaking in a sing-song voice. And then she screams.
"Uh ... was that supposed to hurt?" asks Ibuki, stepping back and into a fighting stance.
"What -- what --" Abigail looks down at the arrow in her hand, and notes the syringe attached to its point for the first time. "What did you do?" she demands of her sister.
"Neurotoxin," Patricia says, coming to her feet. "It doesn't actually stop you from using psychics on people, but it will make doing so hurt." She smiles, grimly yet triumphantly. "And you don't handle pain all that well, do you? The guy who makes my arrows put a lot of thought into this one. I'd tell you who that is, but I'm still not sure."
"I might have an inkling," says Lonnie, emerging from the lassitude that had engulfed him.
"And now I think it's my turn," says Leah Blade, likewise emerging from artificial amusement to authentic anger.
"No, please, don't kill me," Abigail says, all bravado gone.
"Oh, don't be silly," says the second Songbird, smiling brilliantly. "I don't kill people. I just beat the hell out of them and dump them in front of a police station. I'm not sure where we'll find a police station in this burg, but phase one seems doable." And with that she starts punching down.
At best for the Mutant Families, such a scheme would lead only to Mutually Assured Destruction between both sides. At worst, total annihilation from the heroes towards them for trying such a thing and pushing them to such a point.
You really wanna twist the knife on Spectra, you give custody or just general influence of her children over to their Uncle Earl and Aunt Pattie, having them follow in their general footsteps and growing up to rebuke everything about their mother.
Davies
Legend
Unfortunately, right now it looks like their custody and general influence is going to remain with their father, of whom the best that can be said is that he's not a sadistic pervert.
Davies
Legend
Wukong finds that he has lost his taste for banter, and so the eerie silence with which he is confronted while facing off with Bravo comes as something of a relief. Still, his inability to see the face of his current opponent, could not evaluate this individual's health -- or anything else about them, really -- is a bit disconcerting. Wukong considers using his power to seek within the other's heart and mind, to find out what was there, but rejects this as the sort of cheating which had annoyed him in the previous match. To distract himself from such thoughts while the countdown comes to an end, he examines the arena.
And is somewhat surprised to notice a young woman perched on a space just beneath the roof, gazing down at them. Now what have we here? he wonders.
(What we have here is one Kanroji Shizuka, who has taken up a sniper position to observe this match. If it should happen that Bravo's helmet comes off in the battle to follow, or in its aftermath, she will take the shot to eliminate the enemy of the Shadow School, as soon as her team's commander, watching this affair from the cheap seats, gives the word that she gets from those who can identify him.)
Somewhat distracted by this, Wukong manages to whiff the first attack he makes once the buzzer strikes home, missing with embarrassing awkwardness and leaving himself wide open for Bravo to strike him in the stomach with a palm blow. The force of Bravo's palm, if you'll pardon the expression, is quite a novel pain for Wukong.
Despite that, he manages to smile a bit. "Well struck," he says.
Bravo does not reply. Instead, the armored figure shifts slightly, clearly preparing to receive a blow in return. Feeling the injury heal itself, Wukong answers this preparation with a wild swing of his rod -- that is intercepted and stilled. Once again, someone attempts to wrench the compliant gold-hooped rod from his grip. But this time, Wukong expects the move, and this time it is not made with nearly enough force.
"I think not," Wukong says.
Bravo does not reply. Instead, the stance shifts again, but so quickly that Wukong cannot follow it as his opponent lashes out with a powerful kick towards his abdomen. Again, the pain is unexpected, and Wukong's breath is knocked out of him as well. Yet he knows the pain will soon ease ...
... and then it does not do so, and Wukong recognizes that something has gone horribly wrong. As he retaliates with another wild swing of his rod, this time connecting and dealing some small damage to the surface of Bravo's cuirass, he attempts to understand his own condition. Some sort of technique has been employed, disrupting his ability to recover quickly. A secret move that he was not expecting, could not have expected.
This is a true challenge, he thinks, and smiles.
His last swing has left him open enough that Bravo's attempt to distract him with cunning moves is frankly superfluous, but the one-two punch that strikes him lacked enough force to worsen his condition. Wukong answers this blow with one of his own, directing a thrust of the staff's butt towards Bravo's armored jaw, something he would not do to an unprotected opponent. It strikes home, but not enough to truly disconcert his foe, nor does a follow-up blow come close to striking.
Bravo moves rapidly, then, striking three times in less than a few seconds, yet only once with enough power to affect the supernatural durability of the Monkey King. Wukong adopts a more guarded approach, and strikes only carefully measured blows -- until at last one of the forceful strikes from Bravo misses, and he unleashes yet another wild, overextended lunge that strikes into the opponent's chestplate, knocking him back and to the ground.
He's won. He takes no pride in it, but now he has a chance to do something worthwhile, here. And with that thought, he bends down to pull off Bravo's masked helmet.
"Do we take the shot?" Mizuki asks Kagome, seated beside her and watching the affair through a pair of binoculars.
Kagome just stares.
"Well?" the ninja leader demands.
"It's not him," Kagome says. "I don't know who that is."
"Who are you?" asks Wukong of the individual with long black hair who is lying on the ground, and who has just regained consciouness.
The answer comes in Chinese. "My name is Fa Xing-la," the individual lying there answers. "And that is all you get. I have given him the boon he asked for," says Bravo, much more loudly. "We're done, here." Then replaces the helmet, then rises, unsteadily, and walks away, ignoring all attempts to assist.
And is somewhat surprised to notice a young woman perched on a space just beneath the roof, gazing down at them. Now what have we here? he wonders.
(What we have here is one Kanroji Shizuka, who has taken up a sniper position to observe this match. If it should happen that Bravo's helmet comes off in the battle to follow, or in its aftermath, she will take the shot to eliminate the enemy of the Shadow School, as soon as her team's commander, watching this affair from the cheap seats, gives the word that she gets from those who can identify him.)
Somewhat distracted by this, Wukong manages to whiff the first attack he makes once the buzzer strikes home, missing with embarrassing awkwardness and leaving himself wide open for Bravo to strike him in the stomach with a palm blow. The force of Bravo's palm, if you'll pardon the expression, is quite a novel pain for Wukong.
Despite that, he manages to smile a bit. "Well struck," he says.
Bravo does not reply. Instead, the armored figure shifts slightly, clearly preparing to receive a blow in return. Feeling the injury heal itself, Wukong answers this preparation with a wild swing of his rod -- that is intercepted and stilled. Once again, someone attempts to wrench the compliant gold-hooped rod from his grip. But this time, Wukong expects the move, and this time it is not made with nearly enough force.
"I think not," Wukong says.
Bravo does not reply. Instead, the stance shifts again, but so quickly that Wukong cannot follow it as his opponent lashes out with a powerful kick towards his abdomen. Again, the pain is unexpected, and Wukong's breath is knocked out of him as well. Yet he knows the pain will soon ease ...
... and then it does not do so, and Wukong recognizes that something has gone horribly wrong. As he retaliates with another wild swing of his rod, this time connecting and dealing some small damage to the surface of Bravo's cuirass, he attempts to understand his own condition. Some sort of technique has been employed, disrupting his ability to recover quickly. A secret move that he was not expecting, could not have expected.
This is a true challenge, he thinks, and smiles.
His last swing has left him open enough that Bravo's attempt to distract him with cunning moves is frankly superfluous, but the one-two punch that strikes him lacked enough force to worsen his condition. Wukong answers this blow with one of his own, directing a thrust of the staff's butt towards Bravo's armored jaw, something he would not do to an unprotected opponent. It strikes home, but not enough to truly disconcert his foe, nor does a follow-up blow come close to striking.
Bravo moves rapidly, then, striking three times in less than a few seconds, yet only once with enough power to affect the supernatural durability of the Monkey King. Wukong adopts a more guarded approach, and strikes only carefully measured blows -- until at last one of the forceful strikes from Bravo misses, and he unleashes yet another wild, overextended lunge that strikes into the opponent's chestplate, knocking him back and to the ground.
He's won. He takes no pride in it, but now he has a chance to do something worthwhile, here. And with that thought, he bends down to pull off Bravo's masked helmet.
"Do we take the shot?" Mizuki asks Kagome, seated beside her and watching the affair through a pair of binoculars.
Kagome just stares.
"Well?" the ninja leader demands.
"It's not him," Kagome says. "I don't know who that is."
"Who are you?" asks Wukong of the individual with long black hair who is lying on the ground, and who has just regained consciouness.
The answer comes in Chinese. "My name is Fa Xing-la," the individual lying there answers. "And that is all you get. I have given him the boon he asked for," says Bravo, much more loudly. "We're done, here." Then replaces the helmet, then rises, unsteadily, and walks away, ignoring all attempts to assist.
