Unarmedjune70viktorbones

The channels to get signed up for the tournament run through the trix Shadowlands. Initially there is no location given. A day later Viktor gets a text from the organizer stating that this evening he would have to fight. A picture of the opponent is given— a highly tattooed man, bald, with alternating blue and green eyes. The location is prompted on a mapsoft with a time. If the blip on the map is correct, it is on a street in South Sunrise.

Viktor's phone vibrates in his pocket. The elf jogs to a halt, leaning against a nearby lamppost to catch his breath. He pulls out the phone and flicks it open, sweat dripping down from his brow to fall on the phone. "Mean lookin' fucker," Viktor mutters after staring at the man's face for a few moments. The elf thumbs over to the mapsoft and then closes the phone. Turning back, Viktor concludes the run with a jog back to his place. Not bothering to shower, he grabs a duffel with a medkit in it and drives to the site on his Aurora.

As you drive up to the scene through the frayed urban landscane, it is what you might expect from a contested Warrens street. It teems with people with a sense of danger that is in the air. Some places are more concentrated than others. One particular density of fallen humanity focuses on a point in the street and creates a cell-like membrane around it. The people there are loud, screaming various obscenity towards the center of this circle.

"Get some," Viktor mouths, beholding the scene before him. The massed metahumanity begins the elf's adrenaline pumping and he opens himself to the bloodlust riding the air. The elf pulls his bike up nearby the circle and secures his shit. Hopping off, he hucks his duffel over his shoulder and heads over to the circle. Viktor's now wearing a loose fighting pair of thin black pants and a simple, black tank top. Pushing his way through the crowd, the elf drops his duffel at the edge of the ring and steps in…

The attempt to penetrate the cell wall of the group of degenerates is successful. After sifting through the people, the open center is seen for what it is. Currently a single man, bald, with red tattoos stands there and yells at the people here. They yell back. Its like most sporting events, only with more blood and less beer. The tattooed man wears what looks to be a plated vest over a full suit of skin-tight armor. Everything from the neck up is open. At the end of his hands are some thick gloves, possibly hardliners from the look of them.

Viktor looks the man up and down, his eyes beholding his armor. The elf frowns. "Fuckin' great." Not thinking to bring any armor at all, the elf begins warming up with an abbreviated version of the Iron Arrow set. Feeling his muscles and ligaments loose and warm, Viktor concludes the effort with the traditional gong fu bow, saluting his thug like opponent. His vision tunnels and the other man in the circle becomes the only thing on his mind.

"You gotta be kidding me," says the red tattooed man as he falls into a stance. A man in the crowd hits a trid projector— old and ratty— with a local broadcast to pocsoc, communits, and the like for the betting application. Right now it says that the odds are 2:1 in favor of Bones. "Your funeral, Mister Wu," says the opponent as he crashes those weighted gloves into each other in a boxer's preparation. He puts up a similar guard and advances. It's on!

Taking a deep breath, Viktor begins channeling his hard energy. Ignoring his arrogant opponent, the elf drops into a staggered horse stance, threading a bridge. Viktor seeks and finds the optimal tension/relaxation balance and summons the ferocity of the Tiger to his aid.

Bones closes the gap of space between Viktor and himself. Seeing as there is just a hookey stance, it is not threatening to him and he leads into the assault with a heavy reverse to end this engagement nice and quickly.

Amidst the crowd's leering, Viktor sits rock still, ready to bridge with his opponenet and get on with the violence. When finally the swing comes, Viktor's quite ready. The boxer generously presents the elf with an arm. Gratefully, Viktor accepts the arm, guiding the missile of destruction away from him ever so lightly. With a quick twist and crack, the elf cracks an elbow into the man's arm.

With a roar, Viktor lets the spirit of Tiger fill him and he fires the legendary Black Tiger Claw, striking the boxer's throat and diaphragm at the same time. Just as quickly, he hops away from his opponent, watching intently for any sign of recovery in a low cat stance.

A look of shock on the bald man's face, he tries to draw in a breath but finds that he cannot do so. Struggling, clutching his throat, he drops to his knees with a heavy thud, making half-gasping, wheezing sounds. Finally, he falls on all fours and then collapses with a clatter of armor, unconscious.

The crowd goes silent for a moment. Then there are a few that jump up and down with thier bet 'Woohoo!' they exclaim, before getting punched in the gut or face by the people that just lost some cred. Like a breeze, the group slowly begins to disperse as the fight is over. A single person in white goes to pull the tattooed man out of the way and check for vitals— must be part of the entry fee to prevent complete and utter death.

A few seconds of this go by before another text comes in: Congradulations. You advance to the next fight.

Viktor lets sleeping boxers lie. Standing straight, he presents the crowd and the fallen man with the same bow that he began the fight with, a fist pressed in a palm. Turning his back to the man, look of disgust on his face, he walks back to his duffel and withdraws a towel, tossing it about his shoulder. He arches his back and stretches. Suddenly quite sleepy, he looks around for a place to grab a quick nap…

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License