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bzarcherQuint vs. Blues, in a no-weapons fight to the finish!
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "I SAID KEEP ON
PLAYING YOU FREAK OF NATURE! PLAY! PLAY!!!"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint AUGHS! "Don't SHOUT, DAMMIT! My
-ears-.."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Abernathy transmits, "He only has two
volume settings, you know. Shouting, and not."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Don't forget
caterwauling."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Abernathy transmits, "Three, then."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Retro Packrat transmits, "Someone
should set him to 'not' then and save some people the trouble..."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint transmits, "Don't you have
something you could be doing right now? Whittling? Washing your
scarf? Sledding? Commiting suicide?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "F*ck off. Playing
music and ending it before the finale is a crime."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "Outlawed by the
Geneva Convention I think"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Actually, I -could-
use some more uses of Sakugarne, Quint....volunteering to give me
them?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint snarls, "Keep dreaming,
Protoman. You got *lucky*."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Scribe Robin snerks.
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Retro Packrat transmits, "The song WAS
over."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "3 times?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Would any Master
care to box Quint up and mail him to me?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint transmits, "Afraid to try to
find me yourself?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "That's a pretty
crappy song then. Play Vaugner, dammit."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Do you -really- want
me to come track you down, Quint? Really?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint mildly, "Why yes, I do. Come
play."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "Can I watch?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "I think Gutsss
would be upssset if you broke hisss favorite punching bag, Protoman."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Stellar Jay transmits, "Outta simple
curiousity, why do ya all beat up on Quint?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "I'll make you a
deal, Quint. Let's entertain people."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "Sweet!"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint transmits, "Because they have
nothing better to do. -- Entertain. Somehow I don't trust this
particular 'deal'."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Tartarus."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn sings, "Where everyone knows
your name."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "If they want to see,
I might as well give them a show."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "Ok, let'sss have
sssome oddsss. I'd sssay 2:1?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint growls, "I have nothing to
prove to the world, Protoman. If you want to show off for the camera,
become a porn star, and leave me out of your perverse little
pleasures."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Tsk. Pity."
Moscow - Production District
Unlike much of the megacity Moscow, this district lacks the winding
roads and omni-highways, and the buildings are dramatically different
here. Like the industrial district, this entire section of the city
serves a single purpose, to provide food and supplies to both Moscow
and the surrounding cities. Massive silos stand as megaliths here,
filled with food replicators and producers. Fields, hovering in the
sky on massive platforms, house animals and grow crops needed to feed
the hungry and the masses. Perhaps a marvel of modern science, this
district prevents the risk of famine.
Contents: Contents:
Quint [Armor] [RM]
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "Hey, I'd like to
be entertained. Isss that a quiver of fear, Quint?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Remember. Fear /is/
the Quint-killer."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Stellar Jay audibly shakes his head.
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "No sssurprissse
that Quint isss a pansssy."
There's a chance, however small, that Quint had actually not made
his 'challenge' in complete arrogance. This part of Moscow was
certainly not a warren of roads and hiding places, but it would do.
There were still bits of snow on the ground here and there, the
evening air still quite cold .. and the littlest Elite himself,
seated quietly on the edge of one of the floating platforms that held
the massive fields of fallow earth that would eventually hold crops.
For now, it's simply a perch. Sakugarne is conspicuously missing..
The whistle floats through this place, resonating slightly with the
silos, and echoing away. Protoman stands, foot up against the edge of
a roof, the light glinting from his shades. "Hello, little man..."
"You're late." If Blues expected terror in the little clone, he'd be
sorely dissapointed this time. Quint stands up smoothly, dusting
himself off a little, and spreads his arms wide, smiling faintly.
"So, come on then. Prove yet again you're allmighty or whatever it is
that gets you off at night."
Blues falls to the ground, the pavement crackling slightly around
him. "You seem to have left your better half. Feeling your oats?"
Quint crosses his arms over his chest, head tilted lightly.
"Absolutely not. That would suggest that I have some secret all-
powerful unstoppable plan, wouldn't it?" He's apparently still quite
unimpressed with his template.
Blues smirks at his pale copy. "I'm sure you have unstoppable
something. Heartburn, perhaps." Then, he raises his Buster to a ready
stance. "Since you seem to be at a disadvantage beyond your normal
existence, though....please. Take the shot. I'm curious if you've
really improved."
"That's it?" Quint's voice holds an edge of very clear disgust to
it. "That's all you can say? Don't you think I already *know* I can't
defeat you in a physical fight? Are you truly that *stupid* as to
think I'd let you try that venue of combat again, already knowing I'd
lose? I'm not an idiot." Pause. Frown. Well, foolhardy would be a
good one. Frown shifts to smirk all too quickly, and Quint raises one
hand, to beckon lightly. "C'mon, then. If all you can do is point
guns at people and shoot them to prove you're so special, get on with
it. I have better things to do then stand here all night."
Blues snorts. "You invited me here, remember?" Then, he smirks, and
crosses his arms. "So. What -do- you want."
"To defeat you," is the amused response, "On my terms. In my game,
not yours, since the good doctor seems incapable of keeping us on
even footing physically. Think you're up to it?"
Blues raises an eyebrow beneath his glasses. "The question is, are
you good enough to win your own game."
The smirk grows marginally. "Of course. I invented it. So, is that a
yes?" Quint was up to something, that much should be perfectly clear.
Blues is quite aware Quint's up to something. "It should
be...entertaining." But then, that's why he's decided to play.
"Excellent." Mirrored blue shades flash as Quint glances downward
briefly. "There's rules. No buster, no shield, no teleporting. I
won't use Sakugarne. You catch me within a half-hour without using
any of those, and ... well." Smile. "We all know what'll happen
then." And the smallest Elite, coward and pansy, jumps lightly off
the edge of the flying field of dirt.
Blues actually grins, and laughs lightly. "Now...that is a game.
Let's play." And using his legs to powerfully spring him from the
pavement, he follows, buster converting back to a hand, shield acrost
his back.
There were advantages to being mechanical; the impact with the
ground below is absorbed easily enough, and there isn't a moment's
pause before Quint's off and running -- something everyone had always
said he was very good at. But while Blues likewise jumps, it'll give
him a bit of a headstart for the moment, armor vanishing in a brief
flicker of emerald energy. Metal, after all, could catch on light,
and that would be inconvenient.
If Quint was willing to play this kind of most dangerous game, then
he most certainly has some sort of nastiness in mind. Battleground
chosen, and entered quickly and quietly.
Cornmeal processing plant. Industrialization is good.
Blues leaves his armor on, enjoying the slight disadvantage.
Charging along, he kicks in the door into the processing plant, eyes
searching. "Messy little place..."
"Don't mock the Russians. They have big sticks." Quint's admonition
echoes in the currently-still factory, though the alert would likely
note that it came from the left ... and up. Though after that bit of
cynicism, the little Elite falls silent, padding barefoot across a
metal walkway, still intent on eluding his pursuit. A half hour is a
long time, for the hunted.
Blues looks around, searching. Was that....a foot onto metal?
Possibly...but with all the metal here...best to try to search from
abo...wait. Movement. Him? Perhaps. "Overcompensation is something
you'd be quite aware of." Then, he moves towards one of the
stairwells, heading to reach the upper level, boots making a nice
*Clak* as he goes.
Loophole number one. Quint never said they couldn't use other things
for weapons, and from one pocket is pulled ... a spool of fishing
line, which is quickly tied to a nearby heavy chain holding up an
equally heavy piece of machinery, strung thrice around the walkway's
railing, then several times across the path he'd taken, creating an
effective tripwire for someone wearing boots. Several small bolts on
the walkway are loosened by force alone, leaving the section right
after the tripwire very unsteady indeed. And Quint patters away once
more, not replying to Blues yet. This most certainly was a game Quint
intended to win.
Blues can't see the tripwire in the darkness, and unsurprisingly, he
drops, face hitting the walkway, and falls with it. But nobody ever
said that he takes problems laying down. Instead, he turns on the
falling platform, and leaps to catch the aforementioned heavy chain,
sparks falling from his hands until he can stop himself.
"Clever."
Quint wasn't a genius and didn't claim to be. There were more things
more important than book knowledge, and perched quietly on the
railing farther down the walkway on a stabler section, he watches the
flicker of metallic form trip and fall, then catch himself on the
chain. Some time along the way, he'd gotten the sense to stop playing
'fair'. And stop bragging, at least sometimes. "Is that the best you
can do?" Quiet taunt, from the dark of the factory. "Twenty-six
minutes left." The whisper of moving fabric, a quiet rattle of chain,
and Quint's off again, this time sliding down a bit of metalwork to
land on a bit of automated machinery, which moves and shifts under
his weight. A quick glance around. Hm.
Blues says, "You'll just have to see, won't you?" Then, hearing the
rattling, he slides down the remainder of the chain, sending off a
shower of sparks, until he lands and starts to move towards the
offending sound, and perhaps the offending soundee. "We'll see if I
actually need all of them."
"I'll probably be dissapointed. Again." The soundee has the
intellegence to not stay in one place as the shower of sparks mark
Blues' place, darting deeper into the factory quickly, ducking under
a conveyor belt and pulling out that fishing string again. He wasn't
used to working at speed, and with someone faster who was stalking
him, time was of the essence. A single bolt loosed on a free-swinging
peice of machinery normally used to stir great vats of batter,
lashing the string around it several times with a handful of
different strands and pulling it back, tying it on one of the wheel
treads of the conveyor, then moves on, hopefully before the Hunter
can locate him.
Blues catches the movement, and narrows his eyes, lifting off the
helmet so he...yes. The line is faint, but it can be caught in
reflected light, barely. Smirking, he tosses the helmet into sub-
space, and then makes a powerful leap to another one of the heavy
chains that span the factory floor, and starts to swing between them,
heading in what he hopes is the right direction.
Crouched in the shadows cast by an office door left ajar, Quint
listens intently, instead of watching, for his hated foe. The rattle-
clank of chain was enough to mark Blues' presence, and the little
Elite wondered idly if Protoman was not taking this little game
seriously. For shame. His own anger could very well lead to his being
caught, by doing something overtly foolish, but such were the breaks
of the game. Being armed with a pocket knife, fishing wire, and a
handkerchief wasn't exactly what he'd call 'well equipped'. Time to
see if he can make this game a little more serious.
Retracing his earlier steps, Quint locates his line by touch alone,
retrieving the spool quickly and pushing another bit of mechania in
front of the one tied back with a loud scrape of metal on concrete
flooring. Hissed curse, and Quint darts away from the tell-tale noise.
Blues catches the scrape, and jumps through the air, heading in the
direction, wanting to catch the Elite before he gets too terribly
far. His movements are almost a bit too careless, though. Perhaps
he's trying to provoke Quint? Perhaps...
Quint turns as he reaches another stretch of conveyor belt, pulling
out the pocket knife and flinging it blade-first not at Blues, but at
the fishing line he'd woven earlier, snapping it audiably as Blues
moves in pursuit. And immediately, the heavy machinery that had been
tethered moves swiftly to reclaim its previous place - right where
the elusive Hunter was standing.
Blues has a move ready made for the onrushing machinery, catching
the sound as it whistles towards him. Kicking out his leg, he slides
along the conveyor belt, body almost flat to the ground, and he
seizes a wrench as it brushes his hand, and flings it towards where
he heard the twang.
The impact of resettling factory peices is loud enough to obscure
the sound of Blues' movement, and Quint all but freezes in place,
waiting for some sign of eventual pursuit or counterattack. The flung
wrench was NOT expected, and he yelps in startled surprise as it
slams into a wall not inches from where he'd waited, eliciting a
quick scramble away by the little android.
Blues smirks as he hears the yelp, and gets up, grabbing a few
random objects as he dashes into pursuit. Screwdriver. Stirring
spoon. Coffee cup. Pack of twinkies. Twinkies? Twinkies. And so he
flings the twinkies into what he hopes is a sufficent lead to catch
Quint in his flight.
Twinkies? The sugary confectionry soars through the air with a
plastic wrapper-crackle, sidestepped by Quint to crinkle to the floor
noisily, and the Elite has to look twice to assure himself that -yes-
, Blues had just thrown a snack at him. ... WHY?! He hops over it
lightly, nearly stepping on it instead, and kicks it back in Blues'
direction, heading for the original walkway he'd climbed at a quick
jog. Everyone knew those things were indestructable anyway.
Blues looks to the sugar as it slides towards him again. "Not in the
mood?" However, even more, the slight coating of dust on the floor
now has a trail through it. And that is a guide. Taking the twinkies
up again, he changes course a bit, and lobs the coffee cup, this time.
"I told you to leave me out of your kinky activities." He hadn't
thought of the dust-coat on the floor. A potentially fatal error, but
one that won't last long as Quint locates the original walkway up and
darts up it, heading for the broken, dangling bit above.
Blues snorts as he hears Quint's footsteps on the walkway again.
"You're the one going back to his old tricks." Then, he looks, and
finds a larger piece of equipment he can climb onto to try to look
for his opponent.
There's a method to Quint's madness, and he'd left some interesting
things up here. Like all that fishing line, and that peice of broken
walkway hanging on nearly by a thread. "Not quite," is the murmured
response. "Else I'd be easier to catch, don't you think?"
Blues grunts a little as he realizes what Quint might have in mind.
Remaining slient, he looks over, and finds a pile of cornmeal bags,
ready for shipment...and not that far away from the next intact
section of walkway. And so he lunges again, and lands onto the pile
of bags, hoping it wasn't too obvious to catch.
As Blues gets an idea of what the little lime android might be up
to, Quint studiously works on untangling his tripwire, winding the
coil of filament lightly around his hand and stopping at the broken
edge of walkway. A glance cast downward into the dark, where he -knew-
Blues was ... somewhere. Sight was of no help and sound was providing
few clues, and teeth grind in irritated frustration. Quick look up,
then back the way he'd come, reaching out to the thick chain that
Blues had used earlier and the walkway was tethered on, grasping it
and giving it a brief shake, the tremulous clink quite similar to
what it might sound like were someone quite suddenly using it to
climb. But he doesn't, simply balancing lightly on the railing and
listening for any sign of his opponent. What was Blues up to?
Blues hms... Kneeling on the bags of meal, he looks for
movement...and sees only the chain's residual shaking. Not quite what
he'd expect a full climb to produce...so instead, he tosses the spoon
a bit ahead and to the right of where he currently is.
Spoonclatter is not bootclatter, and Quint scowls fiercely into the
dark, puzzling over his options silently. The clock was ticking, and
he didn't especially want to be caught. He wouldn't mind trapping
Blues and doing some serious damage, but the chances of that were
slim ... so, continue planning. Think ahead, wasn't that what Enker
had always told him? The fishing line is tugged at a little,
loosening it slightly, the metal walkway groaning quietly as it
shifts. In another few moments it'll fall entirely, and loudly, to
clatter to the ground in a rattle of jerked chain and warping metal,
and -that- noisy little event used as cover as Quint jumps from one
walkway to another, landing precariously on the railing there like a
squirrel jumping from tree to tree. Wobble. Glance down.
Blues grunts as the clatter keeps him from figuring out anything at
all. "Well, now you're just being rude." So, instead, he looks to
find the next possible safe area to leap...and without realizing it,
leaps up to the same walkway as Quint, though a good bit down the path.
Quint's only hint of -that- is the sudden wobble of his perch, that
quite nearly knocks him right over. Paranoid mind suggests that Blues
had realized quite well just where his little clone had gone to, and
in the dark he remains right where he is, waiting intently, looping
the previously untied fishing line around the vertical beam that held
the handrails up quietly, tight enough and small enough to make a
good handle but little else. He'd have to go back down for his knife
in a moment or two, as soon as he knew where Blues -was-, and not
just guessing.
Blues slowly looks around, not realizing that both he and Quint have
their backs to each other. Closing his eyes, he lets out a soft sigh,
unable to see the Master, unsure of where to go next.
The soft rasp of moving chain not a moment after Blues' sigh might
be a good sign of exactly where Quint is as the little Elite
untangles a length of lighter, thinner chain from its place holding
up the walkway, snapping the links with quiet, audiable *pops* of
breaking metal, leaving him with a good six-foot length that is then
lightly coiled up. Was Quint aware Blues was so close? Nope.
Blues turns, agonizingly slowly, as the pops begin. And
then....yes...the movement...yes. Looking at the small, darker shape,
he takes the screwdriver, and checks. Flathead. Excellent. Then,
carefully, he attempts to aim for the shape that he fervently hopes
is Quint, and launches it.
It might be the devil's own luck that alerts Quint to the incoming
projectile, but perhaps unlucky that when he raises a hand to catch
it before it strikes, the damned thing punches straight through his
palm instead. The unexpected flash of agony draws nothing more than a
pained grunt for the moment, the wet *thud* of impact enough to show
that Blues had indeed struck his intended target. A target that pulls
the screwdriver free and tucks it into his beltloop, bloody mess and
all, grabs the sturdy loops of fishing line, and jumps from his
perch, using the loops as a handle to alter his drop into a light
swing; the drop to the ground not quite soundless and accompanied
again by a soft rattle. First blood went to Blues, but who would win?
Blues smirks at the thunk, the grunt, and the rattle. "Hope that
didn't cut too deep..." Then, he slips beneath the railing, and
slides off the walkway to land with a soft thud.
This time Quint's waiting, and orients on the soft thud quickly,
lashing out with double-looped chain in a vicious arc, quite intent
on slamming the metal links hard across his template's scantily
armored frame. As much as others often called Quint a weakling he was
nothing of the sort, and a chain makes an effective weapon indeed.
Blues hears the rattling of the chain in the air, and manages to
bring an arm up, though he then hisses in pain, the links cracking
into his arm and shredding into armor as the chain wraps around.
However, he uses that pain to his advantage, pulling his arm
backwards -with- the chain, and bringing his intact arm around in a
sharp punch.
Quint had to take care to not get *caught*. A fistfight was not
caught, an impromptu attack was not caught, but it could be very
easily, and he allows the pull on the chain easily enough, letting go
of it only enough to let it slip through his fingers until it neared
the end, ducking under the punch quickly. Only to rise again with the
same screwdriver that had torn into his hand, held in bloody grip and
driven forward to shove through Blues' chest, low near the end of
where a human's ribcage would be .. and then to abandon the field of
battle in a quick sideways skitter, intent on eluding any
counterstrikes and turning this back into a chase and not a fight.
He'd lose if he played -that- game..
Blues feels the screwdriver puncture him, but it fortunately hasnt
hit anything vital except for the drip of mechfluid onto the
floor...much like the trail that follows Quint. Looking down, he sees
the spatter from where Quint has evaded...and...yes. Charging, he
leaps over a pressing machine, readying to land with a brutal kick to
where he hopes Quint will be.
The soft, wet drip of mechfluid was enough to tell Quint that he was
leaving a trail, drawing brief pause to pull out white handkerchief
and wrap it tightly around still-oozing injury. It wasn't easy to
flex that hand .. bastard hit one of the main hydraulic lines too, it
seemed. A pause that costs him even more pain when Blues catches up
to him regardless, a low, muted *crunch* accompanying booted kick.
Quint reaches out a heartbeat later to catch offending boot and sling
Protoman into the very pressing machine he'd jumped over.
Blues gasps in pain as the crash into the pressing machine drives
the screwdriver a bit deeper. But...now...they are in engagement, and
it's all over. Or so he hopes. Growling wordlessly, he lunges in at
Quint, using the damaged but still chain-wrapped hand to deliver
something that will hopefully be 31 different tasty flavors of pain.
Quint had lost track of time, and didn't care. Had the thirty
minutes passed? Or was there still time running, cycling backwards
still? Wordless growl responded to in equally wordless snarl that
bordered on feral, the chain-ensnared hand striking hard and dragging
with it a trail of link-sized bloody gouges. The Elite makes a grab
for the imbedded screwdriver, to tilt the handle and shove upward, to
try to drive it higher and do some actual, possibly serious damage to
internal systems.
Blues is vaugely fortunate. The handle has been wedged in well
enough that it hurts like hell, but no other damage results from
Quint's manipulation. Arching back in pain, the chained arm goes to
his side, attempting to protect him for a moment before he realizes
what he really needs to do, and his head comes down into a vicious
headbutt.
Too close to effectively elude, Quint staggers backwards and away,
senses briefly scattered and disoriented, a pounding headache and a
new source of pain added to the -rest- of pain that burned through
him. Shaking the disorientation away, he aims a short, quick punch at
Blues' throat, to crush the equivalent of an android's windpipe and
briefly cut off the flow of cooling air to internal generator, then
seize the chain and jerk it sharply free.
Blues can read more of Quint's moves now that the Elite replica is
staggering so, and takes the blow to his shoulder, instead, though
his wince indicates the pain is a lot greater than he expected. The
fight is taking it's toll. And so, both arms come out as he steps
onto Quint's foot, hoping to cut off his opponent's movement, before
using both intact and chain-wrapped hands for boxing Quint's ears.
Quint's evasion is brought to a brief stop by finding himself pinned
by one foot, ducking under what would have quite likely been a knock-
out blow and wrenching his foot free with no small amount of pain to
show for it. Barefoot against boot was not a fair fight. If he walked
away from this at all, it'd be with a limp. It doesn't keep him from
immediately seeking to lock that same foot around Protoman's and pull
sideways, to knock his enemy/brother/twin/template onto his stomach.
And if successful, pin him there with his not so considerable weight
and use that ever present scarf as a garrote. All's fair.
Blues knows that he's falling. Even knows the fall might be fatal.
But he also knows that Quint's not the only one to fight dirty. As he
falls, he scissors his legs onto Quint's left leg, using the fall to
help lend momentum, and as he hits the ground, his fist shoots up,
aiming to strike at Quint's crotch and help knock him off balance,
with any luck teaming the strikes to bring them both to the floor.
Unexpected. And ultimately exceedingly unpleasant, the blur of pain
from being struck not once but twice nothing in comparison to the
white explosion of agony that follows him hitting the ground. And
what had crunched earlier with Protoman's kick .. grinds. Enough to
draw a gurgling gasp of pain from the smallest of the Elite, not
immediately rising again afterward. Pain had its own way of stunning
an opponent.
Blues slowly drags himself to his knees, breathing heavily now as
his internal systems attempt to compensate for damage, overheating,
and stress. "Now...it's...over..." And with that message, he begins
to brutally pound his fists into Quint's prostrate form, relentlessly
attempting to crush his opponent into itty, itty, bitty pieces.
The first several blows fall entirely unthwarted, Quint unable or
unwilling to try to fight back again. He'd lost, *again*..
... or ...
He was not, technically caught. Yet. And that thought slowly worked
its way through pain-clogged thoughts, used the agony as a cleanser,
to twist and burn through the relentless assault. Right up until the
slender form twists and lunges forward with a defiant snarl, to plant
one foot on the stuck hilt of that screwdriver and shove, hard,
straight in, simultaneously hooking a sharp punch at Blues' face. It
would likely be the last attack Quint would be *able* to make, might
as well make it count..
Blues's head snaps back with the blow, and a scream of pain rips
from his throat as the screwdriver actually slams -through- him, and
a good bit of the blade can be seen protruding from his back.
However, while it rocks him backwards, he does not fall. And his
hands join together for an overhand blow to the bridge of Quint's
nose, going to shatter it, and likely a good bit of his face.
Quint has the sense to try to move from the incoming blow, twisting
like a pinned snake, the two-fisted strike slamming into shoulder and
collarbone instead, snapping reinforced metal skeleton like so many
gathered twigs and drawing from the trapped Elite an agonized shriek
that is remarkably ... not feminine. Likely thanks to Synth's help.
To his credit he's still awake and still more or less fighting,
though his efforts are less than up to par, internal injuries and
pain doing well enough to hamper almost everything but conciousness.
Not enough to keep him from cursing his precursor, mechfluid dripping
from split lips, and struggling with failing strength to get free.
"Get th'HELL off me!"
Blues grunts as the skeleton stresses and snaps under his blows.
"Not...until....you....lose." Then, his 'good' hand locks onto the
broken shoulder, and /squeezes/, while he moves to pin Quint down
even more, focusing as much of his weight as he can onto the Elite's
legs and pelvis. Then, slowly, ragged breath raising and falling, he
uses the chained up hand to *CRACK* Quint in the jaw.
"You are-" painful hitch of breath that turns into another scream of
pain as broken bones are ground together, nearly addling his senses
again. Almost, but not quite. "..an /idiot/ if you think.. *beating*
me means -winning-.." Not at all, for rage still burned in glass
green eyes, in features too similar to Blues' own, Rock's own,
defiant though failing. Again. Because he'd come back, and he'd do it
again. And again. Until he got it *right*. A wheezed grunt as his
legs are pinned, slowing his thrashing down quite a bit, the punch to
the jaw hard enough to slam Quint's head backwards against the
concrete flooring. A spasmed jerk of pain, and the Protoman-clone
lies still, though still quite alive, senses too far gone to register
coherent thought or action.
Blues raises his hand one last time...then pauses. Puts both hands
onto Quint's broken body, and scans Quint before accepting the weapon
data for his Buster. Then, with agonizing pain, he stands. Looks down
at him with a remarkable amount of pity as his body shifts colors to
a green on green colorscheme, and then returns to normal.
"No.../this/ is what means...winning..." And then, he disappears in a
flash of red light.
Quint forfeits his Sakugarne to Blues.
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Attention Robot
Masters."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Bolero, muffled: "... Wonderful...
What now?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Quint's broken body
can be scraped off the floor at the Vremycha Cornmeal Factory in
Moscow."
And, I gotta give all credit to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
greentease, for such an incredible scene.
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "I SAID KEEP ON
PLAYING YOU FREAK OF NATURE! PLAY! PLAY!!!"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint AUGHS! "Don't SHOUT, DAMMIT! My
-ears-.."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Abernathy transmits, "He only has two
volume settings, you know. Shouting, and not."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Don't forget
caterwauling."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Abernathy transmits, "Three, then."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Retro Packrat transmits, "Someone
should set him to 'not' then and save some people the trouble..."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint transmits, "Don't you have
something you could be doing right now? Whittling? Washing your
scarf? Sledding? Commiting suicide?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "F*ck off. Playing
music and ending it before the finale is a crime."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "Outlawed by the
Geneva Convention I think"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Actually, I -could-
use some more uses of Sakugarne, Quint....volunteering to give me
them?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint snarls, "Keep dreaming,
Protoman. You got *lucky*."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Scribe Robin snerks.
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Retro Packrat transmits, "The song WAS
over."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "3 times?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Would any Master
care to box Quint up and mail him to me?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint transmits, "Afraid to try to
find me yourself?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "That's a pretty
crappy song then. Play Vaugner, dammit."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Do you -really- want
me to come track you down, Quint? Really?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint mildly, "Why yes, I do. Come
play."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "Can I watch?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "I think Gutsss
would be upssset if you broke hisss favorite punching bag, Protoman."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Stellar Jay transmits, "Outta simple
curiousity, why do ya all beat up on Quint?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "I'll make you a
deal, Quint. Let's entertain people."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn transmits, "Sweet!"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint transmits, "Because they have
nothing better to do. -- Entertain. Somehow I don't trust this
particular 'deal'."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Tartarus."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Daryn sings, "Where everyone knows
your name."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "If they want to see,
I might as well give them a show."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "Ok, let'sss have
sssome oddsss. I'd sssay 2:1?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Quint growls, "I have nothing to
prove to the world, Protoman. If you want to show off for the camera,
become a porn star, and leave me out of your perverse little
pleasures."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Tsk. Pity."
Moscow - Production District
Unlike much of the megacity Moscow, this district lacks the winding
roads and omni-highways, and the buildings are dramatically different
here. Like the industrial district, this entire section of the city
serves a single purpose, to provide food and supplies to both Moscow
and the surrounding cities. Massive silos stand as megaliths here,
filled with food replicators and producers. Fields, hovering in the
sky on massive platforms, house animals and grow crops needed to feed
the hungry and the masses. Perhaps a marvel of modern science, this
district prevents the risk of famine.
Contents: Contents:
Quint [Armor] [RM]
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "Hey, I'd like to
be entertained. Isss that a quiver of fear, Quint?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Remember. Fear /is/
the Quint-killer."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Stellar Jay audibly shakes his head.
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Snake Man transmits, "No sssurprissse
that Quint isss a pansssy."
There's a chance, however small, that Quint had actually not made
his 'challenge' in complete arrogance. This part of Moscow was
certainly not a warren of roads and hiding places, but it would do.
There were still bits of snow on the ground here and there, the
evening air still quite cold .. and the littlest Elite himself,
seated quietly on the edge of one of the floating platforms that held
the massive fields of fallow earth that would eventually hold crops.
For now, it's simply a perch. Sakugarne is conspicuously missing..
The whistle floats through this place, resonating slightly with the
silos, and echoing away. Protoman stands, foot up against the edge of
a roof, the light glinting from his shades. "Hello, little man..."
"You're late." If Blues expected terror in the little clone, he'd be
sorely dissapointed this time. Quint stands up smoothly, dusting
himself off a little, and spreads his arms wide, smiling faintly.
"So, come on then. Prove yet again you're allmighty or whatever it is
that gets you off at night."
Blues falls to the ground, the pavement crackling slightly around
him. "You seem to have left your better half. Feeling your oats?"
Quint crosses his arms over his chest, head tilted lightly.
"Absolutely not. That would suggest that I have some secret all-
powerful unstoppable plan, wouldn't it?" He's apparently still quite
unimpressed with his template.
Blues smirks at his pale copy. "I'm sure you have unstoppable
something. Heartburn, perhaps." Then, he raises his Buster to a ready
stance. "Since you seem to be at a disadvantage beyond your normal
existence, though....please. Take the shot. I'm curious if you've
really improved."
"That's it?" Quint's voice holds an edge of very clear disgust to
it. "That's all you can say? Don't you think I already *know* I can't
defeat you in a physical fight? Are you truly that *stupid* as to
think I'd let you try that venue of combat again, already knowing I'd
lose? I'm not an idiot." Pause. Frown. Well, foolhardy would be a
good one. Frown shifts to smirk all too quickly, and Quint raises one
hand, to beckon lightly. "C'mon, then. If all you can do is point
guns at people and shoot them to prove you're so special, get on with
it. I have better things to do then stand here all night."
Blues snorts. "You invited me here, remember?" Then, he smirks, and
crosses his arms. "So. What -do- you want."
"To defeat you," is the amused response, "On my terms. In my game,
not yours, since the good doctor seems incapable of keeping us on
even footing physically. Think you're up to it?"
Blues raises an eyebrow beneath his glasses. "The question is, are
you good enough to win your own game."
The smirk grows marginally. "Of course. I invented it. So, is that a
yes?" Quint was up to something, that much should be perfectly clear.
Blues is quite aware Quint's up to something. "It should
be...entertaining." But then, that's why he's decided to play.
"Excellent." Mirrored blue shades flash as Quint glances downward
briefly. "There's rules. No buster, no shield, no teleporting. I
won't use Sakugarne. You catch me within a half-hour without using
any of those, and ... well." Smile. "We all know what'll happen
then." And the smallest Elite, coward and pansy, jumps lightly off
the edge of the flying field of dirt.
Blues actually grins, and laughs lightly. "Now...that is a game.
Let's play." And using his legs to powerfully spring him from the
pavement, he follows, buster converting back to a hand, shield acrost
his back.
There were advantages to being mechanical; the impact with the
ground below is absorbed easily enough, and there isn't a moment's
pause before Quint's off and running -- something everyone had always
said he was very good at. But while Blues likewise jumps, it'll give
him a bit of a headstart for the moment, armor vanishing in a brief
flicker of emerald energy. Metal, after all, could catch on light,
and that would be inconvenient.
If Quint was willing to play this kind of most dangerous game, then
he most certainly has some sort of nastiness in mind. Battleground
chosen, and entered quickly and quietly.
Cornmeal processing plant. Industrialization is good.
Blues leaves his armor on, enjoying the slight disadvantage.
Charging along, he kicks in the door into the processing plant, eyes
searching. "Messy little place..."
"Don't mock the Russians. They have big sticks." Quint's admonition
echoes in the currently-still factory, though the alert would likely
note that it came from the left ... and up. Though after that bit of
cynicism, the little Elite falls silent, padding barefoot across a
metal walkway, still intent on eluding his pursuit. A half hour is a
long time, for the hunted.
Blues looks around, searching. Was that....a foot onto metal?
Possibly...but with all the metal here...best to try to search from
abo...wait. Movement. Him? Perhaps. "Overcompensation is something
you'd be quite aware of." Then, he moves towards one of the
stairwells, heading to reach the upper level, boots making a nice
*Clak* as he goes.
Loophole number one. Quint never said they couldn't use other things
for weapons, and from one pocket is pulled ... a spool of fishing
line, which is quickly tied to a nearby heavy chain holding up an
equally heavy piece of machinery, strung thrice around the walkway's
railing, then several times across the path he'd taken, creating an
effective tripwire for someone wearing boots. Several small bolts on
the walkway are loosened by force alone, leaving the section right
after the tripwire very unsteady indeed. And Quint patters away once
more, not replying to Blues yet. This most certainly was a game Quint
intended to win.
Blues can't see the tripwire in the darkness, and unsurprisingly, he
drops, face hitting the walkway, and falls with it. But nobody ever
said that he takes problems laying down. Instead, he turns on the
falling platform, and leaps to catch the aforementioned heavy chain,
sparks falling from his hands until he can stop himself.
"Clever."
Quint wasn't a genius and didn't claim to be. There were more things
more important than book knowledge, and perched quietly on the
railing farther down the walkway on a stabler section, he watches the
flicker of metallic form trip and fall, then catch himself on the
chain. Some time along the way, he'd gotten the sense to stop playing
'fair'. And stop bragging, at least sometimes. "Is that the best you
can do?" Quiet taunt, from the dark of the factory. "Twenty-six
minutes left." The whisper of moving fabric, a quiet rattle of chain,
and Quint's off again, this time sliding down a bit of metalwork to
land on a bit of automated machinery, which moves and shifts under
his weight. A quick glance around. Hm.
Blues says, "You'll just have to see, won't you?" Then, hearing the
rattling, he slides down the remainder of the chain, sending off a
shower of sparks, until he lands and starts to move towards the
offending sound, and perhaps the offending soundee. "We'll see if I
actually need all of them."
"I'll probably be dissapointed. Again." The soundee has the
intellegence to not stay in one place as the shower of sparks mark
Blues' place, darting deeper into the factory quickly, ducking under
a conveyor belt and pulling out that fishing string again. He wasn't
used to working at speed, and with someone faster who was stalking
him, time was of the essence. A single bolt loosed on a free-swinging
peice of machinery normally used to stir great vats of batter,
lashing the string around it several times with a handful of
different strands and pulling it back, tying it on one of the wheel
treads of the conveyor, then moves on, hopefully before the Hunter
can locate him.
Blues catches the movement, and narrows his eyes, lifting off the
helmet so he...yes. The line is faint, but it can be caught in
reflected light, barely. Smirking, he tosses the helmet into sub-
space, and then makes a powerful leap to another one of the heavy
chains that span the factory floor, and starts to swing between them,
heading in what he hopes is the right direction.
Crouched in the shadows cast by an office door left ajar, Quint
listens intently, instead of watching, for his hated foe. The rattle-
clank of chain was enough to mark Blues' presence, and the little
Elite wondered idly if Protoman was not taking this little game
seriously. For shame. His own anger could very well lead to his being
caught, by doing something overtly foolish, but such were the breaks
of the game. Being armed with a pocket knife, fishing wire, and a
handkerchief wasn't exactly what he'd call 'well equipped'. Time to
see if he can make this game a little more serious.
Retracing his earlier steps, Quint locates his line by touch alone,
retrieving the spool quickly and pushing another bit of mechania in
front of the one tied back with a loud scrape of metal on concrete
flooring. Hissed curse, and Quint darts away from the tell-tale noise.
Blues catches the scrape, and jumps through the air, heading in the
direction, wanting to catch the Elite before he gets too terribly
far. His movements are almost a bit too careless, though. Perhaps
he's trying to provoke Quint? Perhaps...
Quint turns as he reaches another stretch of conveyor belt, pulling
out the pocket knife and flinging it blade-first not at Blues, but at
the fishing line he'd woven earlier, snapping it audiably as Blues
moves in pursuit. And immediately, the heavy machinery that had been
tethered moves swiftly to reclaim its previous place - right where
the elusive Hunter was standing.
Blues has a move ready made for the onrushing machinery, catching
the sound as it whistles towards him. Kicking out his leg, he slides
along the conveyor belt, body almost flat to the ground, and he
seizes a wrench as it brushes his hand, and flings it towards where
he heard the twang.
The impact of resettling factory peices is loud enough to obscure
the sound of Blues' movement, and Quint all but freezes in place,
waiting for some sign of eventual pursuit or counterattack. The flung
wrench was NOT expected, and he yelps in startled surprise as it
slams into a wall not inches from where he'd waited, eliciting a
quick scramble away by the little android.
Blues smirks as he hears the yelp, and gets up, grabbing a few
random objects as he dashes into pursuit. Screwdriver. Stirring
spoon. Coffee cup. Pack of twinkies. Twinkies? Twinkies. And so he
flings the twinkies into what he hopes is a sufficent lead to catch
Quint in his flight.
Twinkies? The sugary confectionry soars through the air with a
plastic wrapper-crackle, sidestepped by Quint to crinkle to the floor
noisily, and the Elite has to look twice to assure himself that -yes-
, Blues had just thrown a snack at him. ... WHY?! He hops over it
lightly, nearly stepping on it instead, and kicks it back in Blues'
direction, heading for the original walkway he'd climbed at a quick
jog. Everyone knew those things were indestructable anyway.
Blues looks to the sugar as it slides towards him again. "Not in the
mood?" However, even more, the slight coating of dust on the floor
now has a trail through it. And that is a guide. Taking the twinkies
up again, he changes course a bit, and lobs the coffee cup, this time.
"I told you to leave me out of your kinky activities." He hadn't
thought of the dust-coat on the floor. A potentially fatal error, but
one that won't last long as Quint locates the original walkway up and
darts up it, heading for the broken, dangling bit above.
Blues snorts as he hears Quint's footsteps on the walkway again.
"You're the one going back to his old tricks." Then, he looks, and
finds a larger piece of equipment he can climb onto to try to look
for his opponent.
There's a method to Quint's madness, and he'd left some interesting
things up here. Like all that fishing line, and that peice of broken
walkway hanging on nearly by a thread. "Not quite," is the murmured
response. "Else I'd be easier to catch, don't you think?"
Blues grunts a little as he realizes what Quint might have in mind.
Remaining slient, he looks over, and finds a pile of cornmeal bags,
ready for shipment...and not that far away from the next intact
section of walkway. And so he lunges again, and lands onto the pile
of bags, hoping it wasn't too obvious to catch.
As Blues gets an idea of what the little lime android might be up
to, Quint studiously works on untangling his tripwire, winding the
coil of filament lightly around his hand and stopping at the broken
edge of walkway. A glance cast downward into the dark, where he -knew-
Blues was ... somewhere. Sight was of no help and sound was providing
few clues, and teeth grind in irritated frustration. Quick look up,
then back the way he'd come, reaching out to the thick chain that
Blues had used earlier and the walkway was tethered on, grasping it
and giving it a brief shake, the tremulous clink quite similar to
what it might sound like were someone quite suddenly using it to
climb. But he doesn't, simply balancing lightly on the railing and
listening for any sign of his opponent. What was Blues up to?
Blues hms... Kneeling on the bags of meal, he looks for
movement...and sees only the chain's residual shaking. Not quite what
he'd expect a full climb to produce...so instead, he tosses the spoon
a bit ahead and to the right of where he currently is.
Spoonclatter is not bootclatter, and Quint scowls fiercely into the
dark, puzzling over his options silently. The clock was ticking, and
he didn't especially want to be caught. He wouldn't mind trapping
Blues and doing some serious damage, but the chances of that were
slim ... so, continue planning. Think ahead, wasn't that what Enker
had always told him? The fishing line is tugged at a little,
loosening it slightly, the metal walkway groaning quietly as it
shifts. In another few moments it'll fall entirely, and loudly, to
clatter to the ground in a rattle of jerked chain and warping metal,
and -that- noisy little event used as cover as Quint jumps from one
walkway to another, landing precariously on the railing there like a
squirrel jumping from tree to tree. Wobble. Glance down.
Blues grunts as the clatter keeps him from figuring out anything at
all. "Well, now you're just being rude." So, instead, he looks to
find the next possible safe area to leap...and without realizing it,
leaps up to the same walkway as Quint, though a good bit down the path.
Quint's only hint of -that- is the sudden wobble of his perch, that
quite nearly knocks him right over. Paranoid mind suggests that Blues
had realized quite well just where his little clone had gone to, and
in the dark he remains right where he is, waiting intently, looping
the previously untied fishing line around the vertical beam that held
the handrails up quietly, tight enough and small enough to make a
good handle but little else. He'd have to go back down for his knife
in a moment or two, as soon as he knew where Blues -was-, and not
just guessing.
Blues slowly looks around, not realizing that both he and Quint have
their backs to each other. Closing his eyes, he lets out a soft sigh,
unable to see the Master, unsure of where to go next.
The soft rasp of moving chain not a moment after Blues' sigh might
be a good sign of exactly where Quint is as the little Elite
untangles a length of lighter, thinner chain from its place holding
up the walkway, snapping the links with quiet, audiable *pops* of
breaking metal, leaving him with a good six-foot length that is then
lightly coiled up. Was Quint aware Blues was so close? Nope.
Blues turns, agonizingly slowly, as the pops begin. And
then....yes...the movement...yes. Looking at the small, darker shape,
he takes the screwdriver, and checks. Flathead. Excellent. Then,
carefully, he attempts to aim for the shape that he fervently hopes
is Quint, and launches it.
It might be the devil's own luck that alerts Quint to the incoming
projectile, but perhaps unlucky that when he raises a hand to catch
it before it strikes, the damned thing punches straight through his
palm instead. The unexpected flash of agony draws nothing more than a
pained grunt for the moment, the wet *thud* of impact enough to show
that Blues had indeed struck his intended target. A target that pulls
the screwdriver free and tucks it into his beltloop, bloody mess and
all, grabs the sturdy loops of fishing line, and jumps from his
perch, using the loops as a handle to alter his drop into a light
swing; the drop to the ground not quite soundless and accompanied
again by a soft rattle. First blood went to Blues, but who would win?
Blues smirks at the thunk, the grunt, and the rattle. "Hope that
didn't cut too deep..." Then, he slips beneath the railing, and
slides off the walkway to land with a soft thud.
This time Quint's waiting, and orients on the soft thud quickly,
lashing out with double-looped chain in a vicious arc, quite intent
on slamming the metal links hard across his template's scantily
armored frame. As much as others often called Quint a weakling he was
nothing of the sort, and a chain makes an effective weapon indeed.
Blues hears the rattling of the chain in the air, and manages to
bring an arm up, though he then hisses in pain, the links cracking
into his arm and shredding into armor as the chain wraps around.
However, he uses that pain to his advantage, pulling his arm
backwards -with- the chain, and bringing his intact arm around in a
sharp punch.
Quint had to take care to not get *caught*. A fistfight was not
caught, an impromptu attack was not caught, but it could be very
easily, and he allows the pull on the chain easily enough, letting go
of it only enough to let it slip through his fingers until it neared
the end, ducking under the punch quickly. Only to rise again with the
same screwdriver that had torn into his hand, held in bloody grip and
driven forward to shove through Blues' chest, low near the end of
where a human's ribcage would be .. and then to abandon the field of
battle in a quick sideways skitter, intent on eluding any
counterstrikes and turning this back into a chase and not a fight.
He'd lose if he played -that- game..
Blues feels the screwdriver puncture him, but it fortunately hasnt
hit anything vital except for the drip of mechfluid onto the
floor...much like the trail that follows Quint. Looking down, he sees
the spatter from where Quint has evaded...and...yes. Charging, he
leaps over a pressing machine, readying to land with a brutal kick to
where he hopes Quint will be.
The soft, wet drip of mechfluid was enough to tell Quint that he was
leaving a trail, drawing brief pause to pull out white handkerchief
and wrap it tightly around still-oozing injury. It wasn't easy to
flex that hand .. bastard hit one of the main hydraulic lines too, it
seemed. A pause that costs him even more pain when Blues catches up
to him regardless, a low, muted *crunch* accompanying booted kick.
Quint reaches out a heartbeat later to catch offending boot and sling
Protoman into the very pressing machine he'd jumped over.
Blues gasps in pain as the crash into the pressing machine drives
the screwdriver a bit deeper. But...now...they are in engagement, and
it's all over. Or so he hopes. Growling wordlessly, he lunges in at
Quint, using the damaged but still chain-wrapped hand to deliver
something that will hopefully be 31 different tasty flavors of pain.
Quint had lost track of time, and didn't care. Had the thirty
minutes passed? Or was there still time running, cycling backwards
still? Wordless growl responded to in equally wordless snarl that
bordered on feral, the chain-ensnared hand striking hard and dragging
with it a trail of link-sized bloody gouges. The Elite makes a grab
for the imbedded screwdriver, to tilt the handle and shove upward, to
try to drive it higher and do some actual, possibly serious damage to
internal systems.
Blues is vaugely fortunate. The handle has been wedged in well
enough that it hurts like hell, but no other damage results from
Quint's manipulation. Arching back in pain, the chained arm goes to
his side, attempting to protect him for a moment before he realizes
what he really needs to do, and his head comes down into a vicious
headbutt.
Too close to effectively elude, Quint staggers backwards and away,
senses briefly scattered and disoriented, a pounding headache and a
new source of pain added to the -rest- of pain that burned through
him. Shaking the disorientation away, he aims a short, quick punch at
Blues' throat, to crush the equivalent of an android's windpipe and
briefly cut off the flow of cooling air to internal generator, then
seize the chain and jerk it sharply free.
Blues can read more of Quint's moves now that the Elite replica is
staggering so, and takes the blow to his shoulder, instead, though
his wince indicates the pain is a lot greater than he expected. The
fight is taking it's toll. And so, both arms come out as he steps
onto Quint's foot, hoping to cut off his opponent's movement, before
using both intact and chain-wrapped hands for boxing Quint's ears.
Quint's evasion is brought to a brief stop by finding himself pinned
by one foot, ducking under what would have quite likely been a knock-
out blow and wrenching his foot free with no small amount of pain to
show for it. Barefoot against boot was not a fair fight. If he walked
away from this at all, it'd be with a limp. It doesn't keep him from
immediately seeking to lock that same foot around Protoman's and pull
sideways, to knock his enemy/brother/twin/template onto his stomach.
And if successful, pin him there with his not so considerable weight
and use that ever present scarf as a garrote. All's fair.
Blues knows that he's falling. Even knows the fall might be fatal.
But he also knows that Quint's not the only one to fight dirty. As he
falls, he scissors his legs onto Quint's left leg, using the fall to
help lend momentum, and as he hits the ground, his fist shoots up,
aiming to strike at Quint's crotch and help knock him off balance,
with any luck teaming the strikes to bring them both to the floor.
Unexpected. And ultimately exceedingly unpleasant, the blur of pain
from being struck not once but twice nothing in comparison to the
white explosion of agony that follows him hitting the ground. And
what had crunched earlier with Protoman's kick .. grinds. Enough to
draw a gurgling gasp of pain from the smallest of the Elite, not
immediately rising again afterward. Pain had its own way of stunning
an opponent.
Blues slowly drags himself to his knees, breathing heavily now as
his internal systems attempt to compensate for damage, overheating,
and stress. "Now...it's...over..." And with that message, he begins
to brutally pound his fists into Quint's prostrate form, relentlessly
attempting to crush his opponent into itty, itty, bitty pieces.
The first several blows fall entirely unthwarted, Quint unable or
unwilling to try to fight back again. He'd lost, *again*..
... or ...
He was not, technically caught. Yet. And that thought slowly worked
its way through pain-clogged thoughts, used the agony as a cleanser,
to twist and burn through the relentless assault. Right up until the
slender form twists and lunges forward with a defiant snarl, to plant
one foot on the stuck hilt of that screwdriver and shove, hard,
straight in, simultaneously hooking a sharp punch at Blues' face. It
would likely be the last attack Quint would be *able* to make, might
as well make it count..
Blues's head snaps back with the blow, and a scream of pain rips
from his throat as the screwdriver actually slams -through- him, and
a good bit of the blade can be seen protruding from his back.
However, while it rocks him backwards, he does not fall. And his
hands join together for an overhand blow to the bridge of Quint's
nose, going to shatter it, and likely a good bit of his face.
Quint has the sense to try to move from the incoming blow, twisting
like a pinned snake, the two-fisted strike slamming into shoulder and
collarbone instead, snapping reinforced metal skeleton like so many
gathered twigs and drawing from the trapped Elite an agonized shriek
that is remarkably ... not feminine. Likely thanks to Synth's help.
To his credit he's still awake and still more or less fighting,
though his efforts are less than up to par, internal injuries and
pain doing well enough to hamper almost everything but conciousness.
Not enough to keep him from cursing his precursor, mechfluid dripping
from split lips, and struggling with failing strength to get free.
"Get th'HELL off me!"
Blues grunts as the skeleton stresses and snaps under his blows.
"Not...until....you....lose." Then, his 'good' hand locks onto the
broken shoulder, and /squeezes/, while he moves to pin Quint down
even more, focusing as much of his weight as he can onto the Elite's
legs and pelvis. Then, slowly, ragged breath raising and falling, he
uses the chained up hand to *CRACK* Quint in the jaw.
"You are-" painful hitch of breath that turns into another scream of
pain as broken bones are ground together, nearly addling his senses
again. Almost, but not quite. "..an /idiot/ if you think.. *beating*
me means -winning-.." Not at all, for rage still burned in glass
green eyes, in features too similar to Blues' own, Rock's own,
defiant though failing. Again. Because he'd come back, and he'd do it
again. And again. Until he got it *right*. A wheezed grunt as his
legs are pinned, slowing his thrashing down quite a bit, the punch to
the jaw hard enough to slam Quint's head backwards against the
concrete flooring. A spasmed jerk of pain, and the Protoman-clone
lies still, though still quite alive, senses too far gone to register
coherent thought or action.
Blues raises his hand one last time...then pauses. Puts both hands
onto Quint's broken body, and scans Quint before accepting the weapon
data for his Buster. Then, with agonizing pain, he stands. Looks down
at him with a remarkable amount of pity as his body shifts colors to
a green on green colorscheme, and then returns to normal.
"No.../this/ is what means...winning..." And then, he disappears in a
flash of red light.
Quint forfeits his Sakugarne to Blues.
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Attention Robot
Masters."
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Bolero, muffled: "... Wonderful...
What now?"
[Radio: (G) Global-Broadband] Blues transmits, "Quint's broken body
can be scraped off the floor at the Vremycha Cornmeal Factory in
Moscow."
And, I gotta give all credit to
greentease, for such an incredible scene.
