Difference between revisions of "WMAT C1 Jeannette Thompson vs. No. 9"

Revision as of 19:34, 3 July 2014

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
Up in the commentator's box of the Devil's Hand arena, a single figure is standing, leaning against the wall with arms folded, head turned just far enough to look down on the landscape below. The Masked Knight cuts an imposing figure, and it seems that she (for it is probably a woman, albeit one with quite a low voice) has no intention of revealing her face today, either.

She has a glass of water sitting on the desk, with ice, and a microphone on a stand on the table in front of her. For right now, she's just waiting for the competitors to arrive.

"Welcome to Devil's Hand, loyal viewers. Our combatants have not yet arrived, but I estimate that they shall be here soon."

She pauses, and sighs a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Eventually."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
There's a crunch of gravel beneath heavy boots, and a figure strides out. An odd figure. An ugly, strange figure, head lifted, warped body held high this time, straight and tall. He steps to the middle, theme music an odd choice but oddly appropriate in it's own way swelling behind him.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuNTFGnVm4k

The Golem King throws a fist in the air, no small thing given the length of his arms, the size of his fists, holding it up simply and staring over at where his opponent would be coming forth, his eyes blazing a soft whitish glow in the stained sockets as the music pumps and fades behind him... No words, not yet. He seems uncertain for a moment, just a moment, before standing up tall, cracking his neck and waiting.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette waits just a moment longer. She wasn't the type to simply rush out and make a fuss of a duel like this. There was a time to walk out to the crowd, in makeup, a good dress, and sash, with a warm smile and a wave to cheering admirers. This was not one of those times.

She adjusted the uniform clock over her form, covering up her dress uniform and the well-polished 'leather' combat harness below. She remembered her last visit to this place. A battle with an unrefined style, barely holding her own. Sloppy. This was a chance to make up for it. Or. Well. Make a good show of it, at least.

Her eyes looked to the entrance as the opponent's... theme music started playing, as if this was a publiced bloodsport worth millions of... All right. Maybe she really shouldn't judge. She'll let it go on for just a moment. Waiting for it to swell down, to die off, and still, a few seconds more.

It's only then that her dress shoes start moving, softly clicking on the rock below her, as she immerges onto the Arena. No music accompanies her. Just her soft footfalls, and the rustling of the fabric around her.

She calls out. "You there! We are agreed. We fight to incapicitation, or yielding, not death. I know what the rules of this competition say, it's safeguards. I want your own, personal word of honor."

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"It looks as though Number Nine has arrived, and approaches the arena proudly. He would appear to have offensive noise of some sort following him," the Masked Knight adds, somewhat disdainfully. "We will pay that no mind, fair listeners. Once he arrives in the arena, he throws a fist into the air, though to what end, I cannot say. He would seem as though a statue once that is done; motionless."

The brazen mask turns toward the second competitor to arrive on the field, though she doesn't move from her position with folded arms, leaning against the wall. "And Jeannette Thompson has arrived, as well. Ah, and our naval captain is demanding a word of honour from Number Nine. Oh, dear," the Masked Knight adds in a mirthful tone, with another of those breathy laughs.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
He stares at her, his eyes flat, dead looking for long moments. "Yes, alright, I got disqualified last year for going crazy and trying to kill the other guy, are you happy now? I aint like that this time around, I aint... it aint like that. Not this time. Not again." He nods once, sharply, and SLAMS a fist to his chest, bowing a tight little bow. "You have it on my word of honor ma'am. I will hit you hard, so hard it'll knock your shoes off, but I will not go for death, I will not try to kill you. I promise." This from the guy who once kept a promise made to santa claus for an entire year. He gave his word, he means it.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette cocks her head, slightly, at Nine's admission, as he stands in front of her, Her arms are hidden beneath the cloat itself, at this point, her body looking deceptively languid. "I don't care what happened last year. I wasn't a part of it, and I didn't know the person you were fighting. All I care about is this year." She says, before giving her own bow. "And that should be enough for me. I expect you to pull no punches, of course, but a mutual agreement that quarter will both be given and received is the first step toward any competitve match. "I would certainly dislike having to... escalate things. That would hardly be enjoyable." She notes, before extended a gloved hand to him. "I beleive you have the honor of beggining. At your liesure, sir."

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette Thompson pauses once more, before turning to one of the cameras watching them. "And it is /Commodore/. I did not sign up for a battle here to be demoted in front of the viewing public." She notes, in a raised voice.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"It would appear that Number Nine gives his word of honour. What sort of honour this may be, I can only imagine it must be powerful indeed if Jeanette requires it before beginning." The Masked Knight only shrugs in the commentator's box, reaching for the glass of water and taking a brief sip; tilting the mask up only far enough to admit the glass, rather than take it off (the walls have eyes, after all).

"Oh?" Behind the mask, the Masked Knight raises her brows, perhaps amused by the indignance. "My apologies, then. It would appear there was an error in the literature I was given. /Commodore/ Thompson."

"It would appear that both combatants are ready to go, and /Commodore/ Thompson is allowing Nine the first strike."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
The Confederate thinks a moment... and then nods. "Fair enough." Nod. He taps his chin thoughtfully for a moment, before breaking out in a feral grin. "No punches pulled, on either side, full blood and combat, right! And we both walk away at the end of the day, as true warriors should! Fuck that dying for your cause thing, I wanna keep fighting!" And then he's nodding, once, twice, body gearing up... and charging forward, whipping his gunblade from it's sheathe with an arc of lurid orange, whipping it up and around with a soft swhsssh, whongg like a slightly stoned lightsaber, swish swish up- and then SLASH, trying to draw a red angry painful stripe right across most of her; not deep enough to maim, but deep enough to hurt like a bitch should it land! WHONGGSLSSH.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette gives a slight nod. Her own smile is small, constrianed... tightly controlled, to hide the feelings about having a fight, a proper fight. A painful one, if she could keep her hopes up. "There is something about dying well, you know. BUt I would agree-" She starts, before the golem zooms forward with a drawn gunbulade, pulling it out and cutting across her form with almost /finality, slicing through her cloak, uniform, and cutting through the armor hidding from underneath before she could even discard her outer layer of clothing.

She winces in the sudden rush of fire and pain that erupts from her chest, parts of her arms, but, almost before the slash is done, her armanant is revealed. Her own sword is drawn out of it's sheath in a muted flash of darkened, matte pattened metal, catching the gunblade as it moves to the side, preventing it from a follow -up shalsh, as her other hand presses forward.

The cybernetic blade attached ontop of the bones of her forearm slides out quickly, with the force of her arms motion, seeking to /jam/ it as deep as she can into his shoulder, before twisting it and attempting to press him toward the ground.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"It would appear that Nine has given his word of honour, and eagerly opens the battle with a slash of his curious-looking weapon. It would be a mortal blow, so I certainly hope he intends to pull his punches." The Masked Knight's low, feminine tone seems almost mocking; her low laugh breathy. On the bright side, that just seems to be how she is, and not any particular reflection against either combatant. "I expect that Devil's Hand will be seeing a fair amount of blood tonight."

She glances over, watching the reaction of Jeannette Thompson. "Commodore Thompson takes the blow across her front, unfortunately; Nine moves with surprising speed. She retaliates in kind, drawing a blade of her own and catching nine's weapon in a parry, pressing forward with her other hand. To strike? Ah, no, she would appear to have a blade of her own, sliding smoothly from the flesh..." Again, that low, breathy laugh. "Ah, well played. The commodore attempts to run Nine through the shoulder, twisting and attempting to drive him to ground. Well played, indeed."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
Nine's physiology is a little stubborn. Leathery muscle and heavy hide meet metallic meshwork and as the blade sinks in he tenses, trying to forcefully deny it's purchase on his flesh- before skipping back, wrenching the tip out of his flesh with a wet squlch and a dribble of blood, already bubbling mitochondrial orange as it dies (sanitation after all) before she can bear him down to the ground, and he circles, bleeding. "Oh no, I've kneeled before far too many, not anymore unless it's on MY terms." A growl, and he whips the gunblade around once more, trying for a quick whipping snick off of whatever looks relatively unarmored. His voice is low though, pitched so the crowd wouldn't catch it as he came in close. "Though, seriously, send me a bill for the clothing, didn't mean to fuck up your getup there, eesh." SLICE.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette knew how things were going, certainly. Contrary to thematic beleifs, sword fights and battles weren't epic dances that lasted for hours. Certainly there was a lot of art to fighting, but dances like these were maddingly brief. Because the first one to bleed in a knife fight was the one at an inherient disadantage. And she was bleeding quite a bit more than he was. "I would have been content with throwing you across rock." She says, the last slash leaving her leg limping slightly, light armor there causing more blood to drip down her leg, her sword defecting the blad as best she can. "I can afford it. I didn't expect to come in here and leave with perfect clothing." She notes, before her own sword comes into action, attempting a pinpoint slash up Nine's dominant sword arm, attempting to cut muscle, nerves, anything to give her something of an even playing field.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"The blade strikes Nine, but it would appear he is more resilient than previously thought." Things are getting interesting. The Masked Knight slides into the commentator's booth with fluid grace, eyes riveted on the spectacle below. "The commodore's strike appears to have affected him little; he wrenches the blade from his own flesh, and prevents her from bearing him to ground."

"Although there is an exchange of words, I cannot say that I am privy to that. Nine is moving again, attemtping to flick his blade around to catch whatever is unprotected within his reach, while they remain in such close quarters."

"The commodore is limping after that, and it would appear Nine scored a blow against her leg. Down she may be for the moment, but certainly not out; she aims a precise blow to Nine's sword arm, looking to win for herself an advantage."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
She'd have to aim pretty high. His arm stops being flesh and blood about halfway down the forearm, courtesy of having all his limbs pulled off by Samael. Fun times. But as the blade hit, hitting that damnably leathery flesh, that damnably tough muscle, that interwoven mesh, high tensile fiber titanium alloys and all, her driving tip would still hit bone. And it would tink. You've got to be kidding, his bones are armored too? But she seemed to have hurt him, for his hand spasms all stupid-shocked, fingers flexing and spreading with little metallic zzhs and bzz's. His gunblade clanks to the ground, the lurid orange glow going out of it, leaving it an awkward as hell looking dumb clunky weird blade weapon thing, and the Golem staring at his suddenly stupid-spastic hand, still freaking out. Something in his arm sparks dully. "DAMMIT, how the hell am I supposed to- fucking BITCH." And his hand, his left hand is springing open, blunt metallic fingers curled- and tries to catch her around the throat. And oh what a fucking hard grip he has, those cybernatic fingers starting to hiss and whirr as they would try to clamp closed around her throat, crushing, only to try to lift her up high and SLAM her into the ground. "You don't want the blade? Fine... I have other means, little girl..." Hss!

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette hasn't fought too many biological war machines. That was a problem now, as the things she would do to knock someone down a peg, the anaotmy she was hoping to take advantage of reinforced, or simply not in the same position that it should have been. But her sword wasn't one smithed in the 19th century. It was form and function, and, perhaps the most important, /material/. High-strength alloys sharpened down to edges that were only a few monocules thick, meant to slice through materials that were more advanced than what Nine was /probably/ made of. And she at least had the satisfaction of seeing that blade dwoing to the ground. Her swordis up for a moment, as she looked at him. "Oh, that isn't sporting at all." She says, to his langauge, before she's gripped by that hand, squeezed, gasping, picking her up... and finding nothing to slam down as she, through some feet of reaction and a flecheete to the wrist, free. The pistol in her hand is briefly felt on his shoulders as she uses the golem to vault her self up, dancing over him, dress shoes gently on his back, before she's behind him, rolling, twisting... and sending a line of high-velocity, armor percing flechette rounds neatly up the Golem's probably armored spine. "And, what do you know. So do I."

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"Commodore Thompson's blade appears to strike true, meeting with bone, though she seems hard-pressed to find it; it would seem her opponent's hide is tougher than even appearances indicate. Nine appears to suffer for it, spasming, for he has lost his weapon." That breathy, low laugh again. "He does not appear to appreciate it, attempting to seize the commodore about the throat. I've no doubt that his grip is as iron."

She leans forward, watching, one hand rising to rest the side of her head against it; voice shifting a little from the way her face leans against the mask.

"And the commodore has, in a surprising twist, broken free. Not a moment too soon, either, for I'm certain he could have crushed her throat. An unpleasant way to go; and now, much as a dancer, the commodore vaults up and over Nine, and attempts to shoot him with a... firearm, of some kind." Silly futuristic weapons. The Masked Knight offers that creepy little laugh again. "We will see what kind of effect that has on Nine. Hopefully, a great one, for I do not expect him to react lightly."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
REALLY armored. She would've fucked him the fuck up a few years ago, leaving him broken and shredded on the floor, before the Confederacy had rebuilt him almost from the ground up. One of the benefits of being the sort who gets themselves hurt hurt hurt, had a lot of friends and was rather modular; upgrades. His spine is a series of overlapping plates with armor underneath with armor over the spine itself, so the bullet- mind, it's a high velocity armor piercer DOES pierce armor, actually punching through even that array of high-grade alloys and would lodge somewhere in his torso, but without the sparks or buzzing she might not've hit anything that's a game-ender, and he howls, turning around. He's all snarls, his eyes blazing and his teeth bared, left only with his left arm- and he'd try to backhand her, left handed, heavy and punishing, snarling, and batter her, punching her as many times as he'd be able to, bear her to the ground if possible.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette didn't have a frame of reference between what Nine was before, and what he was now. She just knew that the attacks she were using were just on this side of effective versus not, and, despite what attacks she could make, this war of attrition would leave with her broken before he was. And it was not in her nature to concede an early defeat. Not in a fight like this. The only advantage he has was that /he/ was angry. Someone who had given into the rush of pain and aderenline and was tapping into all the advantages and disadvantages it had to offer.

Jeannette had been like that a while back. The dripping blood her leg, the fresh, wincing pain at her chest and neck, all of it pressed her to give in to that delcious feeling in return. BUt no, no. Not now. Not here. Tight control was needed. It was all she had left, as her arms come up, reinforced bone absorbing the first hit, defecting it, before thaking the next two solidly, denting and taking punishment.

She does come to a knee as she's pummelled down, before she tosses her sword into the ground in front of Nine. Just in front of him, before the free hand grabs his attacking wrist.

And then the blade in her formarm comes out again. Slammed into the elbow joint, attempting to sever tendons at the source, and take his free arm away from him. "You weren't using that, were you? You can flail at me no matter if those muscles are attached to anything."

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"Being shot only seems to have enraged Nine. He turns to make every effort to backhand the commodore in a savage blow, surely enough to break the neck of a lesser opponent, I would imagine. I should not like to be in the commodore's position, given the choice."

The Masked Knight folds her arms, leaning back in her chair and cocking her head to regard the fighting. With evident interest, it seems; her eyes hasn't left the battle.

"And she's brought down to a knee, tossing her sword in front of her opponent. What? Is she yielding? Ah. No. She is in fact seizing the wrist of his sword hand, to slice at him with that curious weapon within her arm." Even the aloof Masked Knight has to wince a little. "Well played, indeed..."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
Given in to anger? More like lost to it. He's not talking anymore. No smirks or smarmy commentary. He's howling, wrenching his arm back. It's metal there too. Seems he's lost both his arms two third of the way up, and the rest is all metal- it sinks in rather well, and then the arm is hanging loose and useless, the other semi-working but with a spastic, useless hand and the left hanging dead and unresponsive, sparking and zotting softly. One of the disadvantages of cybernetics. He lurches, his eyes narrowing, and ROARS at her, head down and body hunched, arms hanging stupidly... before he rears up, and SMASHES her with his head, forehead to forehead, his neck thick and just long enough to give it a bit of a swing, sending his metal-reinforced skull forward and down like a wrecking ball, trying to give her as much of a headache as she's being to him.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette Thompson can't begudge the mental arms that Nine had. She'd seen it happen to many other people. Good people, who wanted to make themselves stronger. Faster. Better. Like her. But this... was excessive. Almost too much, and of somewhat poor contruction. None the less effective, however, as those arms were still active, and one of them can still be dangerous. But not as dangerousd as the head that lunges forward, cracking aganist her skull and sending a white flash of pain and sensation into her. It's all she can do to grab her sword before she falls back. Dazed, disorrented, and head hurting.

It was time to be less cautious. TO start vectoring some of that tightly controled adderenline out. Caution would get her no where if She lost. But she wouldn't let the feeling control her. She pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath. Clearing her head, before she moves to bring her sword up with one hand, and the still extended forearm blade with the other.

And then, with an exhale, she rushes forward, slashing upward, attempting to delfect a counter with the forarm blade itself, before using what leverage she could force with the blades to spin nine behind her, leaving him out of position. Hopefully.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
Okay stock of Nine. His right arm barely works. Elbow technically moves, hand is useless, arm is weak and prone to failing. Left arm is dead, something delicate in the elbow gone wrong. Taro's limbs are top-notch, but it still has to relay information from the upper arms to work, and something'd gone wrong. He's spun around, his hand trying to catch him, but as he tries to put weight on it it sort of goes into a hard clench, unbalancing him and sending him on his face. Now if his mind worked right right now, he'd carefully roll back, leaving his arms out of this and not worry about it, get to his feet and keep fighting. As it is angry Nine is more bestial Nine who's often as not seen on all fours as on two legs, and he keeps trying to get up. She might be a BIT too close to him because one of those flailings he'd shift and, in sheer frustration more than likely, try to kick her own legs out from under her with a rather ugly lurching spasm, boot snapping out. Let HER see what it's like! D:<

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"Perhaps Nine is a berserker," the Masked Knight observes, cocking her head the other way to regard the battlefield curiously. "Has he so completely lost his wits? It seems he's degenerated into howling brute force. Will this be enough to take down Commodore Thompson?"

"Evidently not. The commodore rushes Nine, attempting to carve him up with the two blades she wields." Again, that airy, slightly creepy little laugh. "Let's hope she has some success. I believe it will take some effort to bring Nine down in his current berserker state."

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette was done here. She was bleeding too much, and she was fighting someone whose limbs could be cut off and he'd still keep coming. That was proven by the fact that he doesn't fight like a man, now, but a beast, on all four and snapping toward her boot. Her weakened leg does give a sickening snap, and she /cries/ out in pain as the bone breaks, sending her to the ground. She couldn't move. She was still active, but Nine seemed to have limitless reserves. If she could have used her adrenline before, she couldn't now. Now, more than ever.

She needed control. And she would keep a hold of it to the end. If it wasn't victory, at least it was a personal one. She waits until Nine gets his two close, before reaching for the sword next to her. It wasn't a fancy attack. A bludgeon to opening up so much skin. Instead, she sinks the sword into Nine's chest, where she knows the stomach is, lancing forward, pressing through it... and, if the armor was weak enough, out the other end, her other blade looking to press into his flesh, pulling him close to her. "Finish this, beast. Finish this before I can."

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"Both combatants look as though they've nearly reached their limit. Nine appears to lose his balance briefly, and seems to be having some trouble getting back to his feet?" This is given in a tone of near puzzlement as she regards the battle, frowning a little behind her mask. "How odd. Perhaps Commodore Thompson did more significant damage than was realised... but he'll not pass up an opportunity to kick at his opponent, it seems."

"Neither, however, is the commodore, despite initial appearances of a broken bone from the impact of Nine's kick. Instead, she reaches for her blade, and attempts to run Nine cleanly through the torso, and with her other blade as well." The Masked Knight winces. "That is not bound to be pleasant."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
The blade goes down, into his stomach, pushing, punching through the leathery, mutated flesh. He howls, a wet, shuddering sound, the sound of blade on metal, muffled deep inside showing just how deep she was getting, and he was pinned, stapled to the ground...

He'd flail, thrashing and foaming blood, his eyes glowing points of anger and pain and his teeth pink, stabbed and impaled both in turn... his useless hand, still sputtering and zotting, clenching and unclenching suddenly tightens into a fist, and he'd try to hook her neck with the working part of the arm, making his wound all the more grevous in the meantime. It's like a meaner version of his chokehold from earlier, trying to vice her neck to an aching, bruised unconsciousness, snarling a bloodied foam as he does so, growling into her face as he tries to end it, holding even now in his diseased and broken brain to the promise. He'd lost his ability to talk, but he wouldn't lose that.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"Nine takes the blade in what sounds to be the worst way imaginable. There are in fact better ways to endure a sword, but it seems Nine did not stumble upon it today." The Masked Knight drums her fingers briefly on the table, watching the battle unfold below. Grateful, perhaps, that hers is over with. Battle can be such a messy thing. Glorious, perhaps, but messy. There are days she does not feel like enduring 'messy.' "Nine, it seems, appears to settle on throttling his opponent senseless." She lets out a very long, harsh sigh of what sounds like exasperation. "Very hopefully not to the /death/, because I do not particularly feel like interfering, though I shall do so if necessary."

Because, well, from up here, he still looks like a blood-crazed animal. And it's not like she has anything else to go off of but appearances, so hey.

She just drums her fingers on the table for now, though. No movement whatsoever unless a problem presents itself. The Masked Knight is skilled, but she doesn't really care for exerting that skill unless she has no other option. Lazy? Maybe a little bit. But she's earned that right.

"Hmm. It seems that the commodore has not yet given up, and even now attempts to drive her blades further into Nine. Will it be enough to free herself, I wonder?"

No. 9 (269) has posed:
She'd feel it; his body coils up. That's a neck breaking maneuver; he's going to snap her neck, or at least try... and then he stills, the tension going out of him. He clings to some things, even in this state, and his promise is one of them. The pressure is steady and constant, and almost gentler now, despite the choked howl that comes from him, his body shaking, shaking, shuddering, shaking, as the blades dig around inside him, scraping on metal and sliding through wet things, wet sliding things, and it's not pink at his mouth, it's red, and running... he was quivering, in real, genuine agonizing pain, bubbling softly as his eyes slide to a dim sage hue, the white dropping into a sickly green as he croaks... and tightens his arm, carefully, trying to ease her into unconsciousness without further pain.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Jeannette Thompson didn't know exactly how she was still up here.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Maybe it was the fact that the arm had, mercifully, eased off to try to press her gently, instead of brutally, into senselessness. Maybe he underestimated her resileance. A distant part of Jeannette's mind realized she had underestimated herself, as well. But she knew mathmatics, and she knew she had but seconds left. She couldn't wait for him to go down from the pain. She only had chance, and that was what she tried.

She pressed the sword into him fully, digging it in as much as she could, to cause the maximum amount of pain... before yelling with what was left of her air supply and /yanking the blades out/ of his body, tossing her sword out at an angle, ripping through nerves and internal systems to cut and bleed and cause the pain to cresendo afresh, along with the blade at her hand. HGambling on one, big, last strike.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
The Golem twists, howling a weak, thready little howl... and then there's a full-body liquid slump. His eyes are out, his face slack, blood just running, running, running, from his mouth, from his torso, running, puddling around him. And his arm drops from her, letting her struggle free if she can. He's out. He's done. There's nothing there. He's not dead, there's a soft steady little beep and a little light, just visible in the wet red ruined hole she'd left in him, so he's not /dead/ right? But he's stopped moving, finally. The tank is down, and done. Goodnight.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
Behind the steel, the Masked Knight's eyes narrow as she watches the battle below. She actually rises out of her chair, and her rapier is halfway out of its scabbard before it seems he lessens the tension somewhat. Even from here she can see that it goes from a life-threatening chokehold to something considerably less lethal, and only reluctantly does she return the blade to its scabbard, easing back down into her chair with a faint dubious sound at the back of her throat.

"It seems I do not yet need to intervene, for Nine appears to remember not to apply lethal force to his chokehold of the commodore. Whose endurance, I must add, is quite impressive. I would have expected her to lose consciousness by now, but she has not."

"In answer to Nine's prolonged attempt to strangle her into unconsciousness, she digs her blade in and then wrenches them free, with aim to cause as much damage as possible... it would appear that does the trick, against all odds. Nine has surrendered his wits and fallen unconscious."

"Hm. I am pleased to announce a winner. Jeannette Thompson has prevailed against Number Nine in a bloody and brutal battle to the bitter end. Nine fought viciously, however, and I would certainly not underestimate him in any circumstance." A low, airy, kind of creepy little laugh. "However, it will be Jeannette Thompson advancing to the next round. Congratulations."

There's a short pause.

"The medics may wish to retrieve Nine, now."