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Knuckle Brawlin' [IC]


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Mongrel Angel wasn't exactly what you might call a regular sight in the Fens, though she did come there from time to time. At least half the time she showed up in one of the neighborhoods that made up this part of Freedom she was looking to still some impulse or urge she couldn't placate with good conscience anywhere else in the city. Often this involved involved violence, and generally the local gangs managed to oblige.

This time looked to be little different, with her wings stowed, an inch or two taken of her height and a quick colour change on her hair she went from being a highly attractive super-being to just being a highly attractive young woman. Acting like she'd gotten lost, while a little (or very) tipsy, late at night tended to work wonders when it came to baiting low-lives. And right now it looked like a pair of most burly thugs had just stepped out of the alleyway, their red skin speaking of power-house boosting.

Not far away Michael Donovan was in what one might call a bad mood, it'd been far too long since he'd gotten to be in a proper fight. It'd been months since the last challenge in the Circuit, and even longer since he'd been put up in an arranged high-grade fight. Being one of the champions meant he got good fights, but not that many. Michael didn't like the that last bit. Well, at least he could go drinking with this here holo-field belt on. And maybe he could get into a fight, that'd be swell.

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She didn't really listen to the suggestive banter, she'd heard it all before. They tried to hem her in somewhat, and she kept up the act of being drunk. When she took a totering step backwards as if to start and try to get away one of the two made a move to grab her. Bingo. Suddenly abandoning all pretense she ducks slightly and slams her elbow into his gut, shifting her body so as to heave him up and away down the street with that blow, and away he goes.

Round the corner can be found Michael Donovan, bottle in hand and now with a bit of liquor in him he's itching for a fight. He thinks he might have found it when one of those youngling red-skins comes crashing down not twenty feet in front of him. The red lug's out like a light, but someone threw that sack of muscle an impressive distance. Looks like he might have found someone who could 'help him out'.

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Few of those who got their powers from the Power House where known for their brains, and these cheap American copies of Atlas were no exception. Having seen his buddy launched down the street by a single blow from the woman in front of him he tries to punch her out. The dark-skinned amazon simply ducks underneath the arm and hammers him like his pal, and similarly sends him flying. "Is that all you've got?!"

Down at the end of the street Donovan hastens round the corner to see if he can get in on the action and hardly has time to react before a second big red youngling comes flying, and hits him. Not particularly hard mind you, he rolls with it and lets most of the force go to the side. But the fat red bastard made him drop his booze, and messed up the belt somehow. It's throwing up sparks, and now his paws are showing. Well, at least he's got a better excuse than 'I felt like it'.

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Michael Donovan, more commonly known as Bear-Knuckle storms up the short street with fire in his eyes, a little liquor is his gut. He doesn't care that his opponent sees him, in fact he wants her too. It means a longer fight, hopefully. The mustache-sporting fighter slams his massive right paw into his opponents side, seemingly knocking the wind out of her and she staggers. Is that it? Is she incapable of actually taking a hit?

Evidently not, as she suddenly launches a vicious kick at his nether-regions. He twists enough to take the hit on his thigh rather than the rather more sensitive parts aimed at. Even through his vision and thinking is clouded by anger he recognises a canny and strong fighter, and gives her a little respect. He smiles, this was going to be good.

Alex also smiled, this was going be a lot better than those two punk atlas-imitators she'd just floored.

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Bear-Knuckle kept up the offensive, snarling as he goes, but swings wide and exposes himself somewhat. Mongrel keeps to the tried and tested, ducking and weaving a bit, feinting to the left with her corresponding fist before bringing round her right leg in a swift kick. The canny old pit fighter that he is Michael sees through the feint but is unable to fully dodge the kick, he braces himself with his right leg and brings up his right to diffuse the blow. It works, his durable body no worse for wear from taking a kick that cracked the pavement by his right foot.

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Donovan keeps up his unrelenting offensive this time going for a rather risky move, he steps up close and hammers in his right fist/paw just below the ribcage of his daintier foe. He feels in connect solidly, but notices that she seems to be overplaying it and steps smartly away. Not quite quick enough though as Maenheld's left elbow, given further propulsion by her right arm, slams into his right side nearly knocking the wind out of him. The two fighters now both quite bruised, but the fight is just starting.

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After the last couple of stinging hits Bear-knuckle reins himself in a little, dancing away a little he goes with a straight punch, and misses as Mongrel Angel ducks to the side of it. The young woman jabs at the mustache in front of her, and as expected it's a feint and the grizzled fighter notices her starting to shift her weight as if for a kick, and steps closer to her as to avoid that. But that was another feint and now she clocks him straight on.

With a split and bloody lip, and a few loose teeth, the brutal bear of a man falls over backwards groggily. As he struggles to regain coherency Alex decides to not kick the man when he's down, she throws a haymaker in his gut instead.

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Mongrel Angel was struggling to hold herself back, there was such a thing as excessive force after all. So she held back the part of her that screamed for more, howled for the pleasure of breaking bones, splitting skin and feeling the enemies blood on her knuckles. It was a part of her she loathed, and most certainly didn't want to loose herself to. Then the ruffian spat in her face.

"Is that it?"

That's it! Now she was actually pissed. Her wings flared out behind her as she assumed her proper form, her height increased by two inches as she strove to properly display just what the beast-armed thug had tangled with. In keeping with this she re-channeled her power into her hands, altering it into scorching holy light. Wordless she raised her arms above her head before slamming them downwards as if throwing a heavy weight at the ruffian. Rather than a weight a blast of searing light is emitted, and when it clears the hairy lug lies still apart from the faint movement of his breathing.

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Now what? After a moment Alex calmed down, and took stock of the situation. She's got three crooks on her hands, but only two arms. None of them looked like they'd fit in her pocket even enlarged like it was nowadays. Wait, maybe I can enlarge it still further, kinda like those few times I've made a single great leap with my teleport. Sure it'll be a little tireing, but I think it'll be worth it. So a few moments of concentration later, and an experimental pocketing of the ruffian with the admittedly magnificent mustache, and she proceeds to round up the other two and takes off into the skies. FCPD HQ should be able to hold these guys overnight at least.

And at least she'd let off some steam. Though I still can't get Moira off my mind. I really need to work up the courage to call her.

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