You fill your hands and charge forward, the Gatling whine and the creature's screeching in near-harmony. You hear sand burst behind you as your gunners scatter, then erupt in the Orphan's path beneath an onslaught of bullets and arrows. Undaunted, it picks up speed, bent so low its chin nearly carves a furrow as it weaves. Placenta-club over its shoulder, it leaps forward like Jordan from the free throw line, intent on posterizing you with authority.
Unfortunately for him, you are also well-versed in the art of slam-jamming and unleash that most fearsome of sick moves: the killer crossover.
You angle off as the thing buries the club worryingly deep in the sand. Rather than wallow in its shame at being so righteously juked, however, it instead pivots and brings the thing around in a widening arc that forces all three of you to hit the deck. Just the pressure of its passage sets your collar a-fluttering; the fact that the Orphan has shoulders the size of its head suddenly makes a lot more sense.
Before Djura can get his gun spinning again, the Orphan jerks the club back into its hand and bears down on you with mad swings that you struggle to meet club-to-club. The creature is faster and stronger than it has any right to be and its raw aggression forces you into the shallows.
You've dealt with fast tonight. You've dealt with strong tonight. You haven't dealt with anything like this. To paraphrase an old boxing analyst, your opponent fights like a fish swims. Its attacks are wide and inefficient, but there's an instinctual understanding of momentum and flow that leaves your martial mastery scrambling for answers. This style is the opposite of Logarius' mechanical efficiency; it's improvising with every blow, lashing out with hands and feet whenever you parry or duck his weapon and filling all possible openings with relentless violence.
Neonatal care has never been this intense.
Djura rumbles into the fray with his Stake Driver cocked, while you catch Simon scrambling up the cliffside out of the corner of your eye. Makes sense; firing into melee was easy with Ludwig, who was roughly the size of a barge, but he'll need a better angle for this lanky fuck.
Unlike some assholes you've Double Impact'd with, the old man knows how to make close quarters combat a team sport, staying clear of your swings while finding angles for his boxing combinations. He just doesn't have enough reach to get past the telephone-pole limbs that never seem to stop moving. The Orphan somehow manages to chain an overhand smash that sends spiderweb cracks through your forearms into a back thrust kick that launches Djura a good four meters.
Point-blank isn't working.
"Back up!" you yell to Djura, crossing your fingers that Fishface's language centers aren't as well-developed as his biffing centers. "Give Simon room ta shoot!"
He gives an affirmative grumble and makes space while you do the same, circling off to put the Orphan between you and the sea as it roars after you. You beat a full retreat, sending volley after volley of bayonets towards its face. Its pursuit falters when the Gatling gun resumes its song and the arrows rain down. Apparently deciding it would rather deal with the roving stream of tracer rounds than the arrows, it unspools its umbilical cord and hurls the club towards Simon's perch.
The bowman's leaping ability and grip strength save him from a pasting as the blow obliterates the spot where he stood. He dangles just at the edge of the impact crater, suspending himself with one hand and flopping wildly to avoid the minor rockslide that ensues. Heedless of the fact that he just flattened dozens of kilos of solid rock, the Orphan continues the arc with a leap towards Djura. He scrambles back to avoid the placental piledriver and, not one to waste perfectly good kinetic energy, the Orphan drags the whirling bludgeon back your way.
Perfect.
You leap towards your foe with bayonets held high. Blessed steel bites into taut umbilical cord and, with a little help from centripetal force, shears through. The Orphan's screams take a turn for the guttural as the detached placenta careens into the rocks and sends a fresh wave of debris tumbling towards Simon.
You're not sure what the bowman's yelling, but you're just going to go ahead and assume it's "thank you."
[] Write in...
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CURRENT STATUSES:
Anderson: Slight blunt trauma from deflecting blows.
Simon: Currently trying desperately not to fall off cliff.
Djura: Getting his wind back after a kick to the gut.
Orphan: Cord cut.
