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Benjamin Damascus
Blood Sport (2)
Thu Aug 27, 2009 1:48am

"Well, I guess our next opponent is ready -- he claims he's the product of a lost desert tribe and that he uses their techniques, but it looks like regular old technology to us! Damascus is doing well, but can this up-and-comer stop him before he's out of the gate? Entering the arena now -- the Necromancer!"

Ben grimaced, thoroughly fed up with these entrants and their ring names -- and their lies.

He had little time to consider the matter, however, as his next opponent appeared almost immediately, charging eagerly through the gate. For a moment, Ben's hopes lifted, but then the man vanished, and two drones, shaped to resemble skeletons, appeared, rattling dramatically as they unfolded to their feet.

More theatrics.

Ben lunged forward, attacking the drones if he couldn't see their master. One lash of his fist later, the nearest drone crumpled, and his opponent's strategy was clear. Pain erupted along his ribcage, his armor clearly doing nothing to stop the blow when it came.

In fact, it seemed the weapon had torn through him as though he wasn't there, a concentrated beam of light exiting his torso to strike the other drone, causing an immediate collapse. Ben swore and lunged away, the impulse to clutch the wound barely a flicker at the edge of his consciousness. A drill?

His opponent had vanished, and the drones were staggering to their feet again, shuffling toward him with a speed that belied their outward appearance. This time he ignored them -- at least until one latched onto his arm, holding him in place despite repeated efforts to shake it off. The other he caught before it managed to catch hold, grabbing it by the head and tossing it roughly over his shoulder.

He heard a startled grunt and a clatter from behind him, and he bared his fangs in a sudden grin, whipping his body suddenly to rip the drone that held him from the floor. It swung wildly, connecting, as he'd hoped, with something solid directly behind him. His opponent squawked, tumbled and bounced once, cloak dissolving in a spark of static. The weapon -- a plasma drill -- hit the floor with a crack, bounced once, and went skidding away from his hand.

Ben was after him in an instant, drone still clinging gamely to his arm. He ignored it, bringing his foot down in the general area of his opponent's torso -- scans indicated he was a Reploid, so he imagined it wouldn't do lasting damage -- but the Necromancer rolled out of the way, scooting hurriedly toward his fallen weapon.

The bear swung his arm, and the drone came down on the other's back, sending him sprawling again to the floor. This time his boot connected, and there was a slight scream of metal before it crunched downward, eliciting a strange, choking squeal from his opponent.

"Disappointing," Ben said, a severe note entering his voice. "I've fought far more interesting opponents in the pits. He ground his foot down for a moment -- another squeal -- then lifted it and turned away as the drone slid limply from his arm.

If this was to be the quality of his opponents, then perhaps, he thought, he should thank the man for drilling a hole in him -- it would make a suitable handicap. He heard the man crawling away and sighed. At least his next opponent would arrive soon.

Hours later, he emerged from the arena, shuffling and weary. His armor was battered and rent, exposing several wounds, some dripping fluids more than others. His hammer, however, was still in place across his back, and a coldly triumphant grin curved his lips.

"Geez, baby, they did a number on you!"

He turned his head, gaze snapping into focus on the girl, who was watching him with a mixture of shock and pity.

His shoulders lifted in a slow, awkward shrug. "I was the victor," he said.

"Victor or not, you better get to the infirmary or you ain't gonna make it through your next fight." She folded her arms, and he wondered if she could possibly be unconscious of how it pushed her breasts into greater prominence. Perhaps after years of this work she was.

"Perhaps I will," he said, rubbing at his neck and wincing slightly when one of his injuries twinged. He turned to leave, and she called out again.

"Listen, baby --"

"Miss, if you please," he interrupted her. "My name is Benjamin." Then he continued walking, ignoring her apologetic call. The fights were for the morrow. For now, his only goal was to reach his quarters and rest.

  • Blood Sport (1)Benjamin Damascus, Thu Aug 27 1:48am
    NRP: Sorry it's so late. Ben's got nothing to do with the plot, at the moment. He's just fighting away. And lord if I'm in the wrong thread, forgive me. RP: Ben grunted, pacing in the waiting room as ... more
    • Blood Sport (2) — Benjamin Damascus, Thu Aug 27 1:48am
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