1368/Here Comes A New Challenger

Here Comes A New Challenger
Date of Scene:	09 July 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Phoenix, Ares

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Phoenix has posed:
If one knows where to look, one can find just about anything that one can imagine in New York City: entertainment, companionship, illegal fighting rings, historic sights, dozens of cultures worth of food, diverse art...

Anything at all.

Tonight - guided by an undercurrent of comingled aggression and hope that somehow cut through the ambient noise of the city to sink its hooks into her - Jean Grey has found herself on an abandoned subway platform amidst a crowd baying for blood and riches.

"LAAAAaaaaaAAAADIES and GENTLEMEN!" a wiry, middle-aged man shouts into a portable PA system while pacing the inner perimeter of the circled crowd. "After a TRULY memorable night of fights, it's time for the FINAL! BOUT! OF THE EVENING-- and it's gonna be a HOT ONE! We've got ourselves not ONE! But TWO! NEW! COMERS! SQUARING OFF to see WHO has got what it takes to be the KING! OR QUEEN! OF THE META CRUCIBLE, TO-NIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!" Bets continue to fly the entire time; it's only the few poor bastards whose wallets ran dry during the early matches who bother to pay the announcer any mind.

"To my RIGHT!" he continues, thrusting a hand towards the private school vice principal with a green hood drawn over her face, "we have the ASTONISHING-- UNCANNY-- GNOOOOOOOOSIIIIIIIIIIIS!"

Utilizing a mixture of hand to hand combat techniques and telekinesis, the newcomer made rather quick work of her opponents on the way to the final bout, where she now finds herself staring-- way-- up at...

"And to my LEFT, we have a man who's proven himself to be a SAVANT-- a GENIUS-- a PRODIGY of the ART OF COMBAT! Give your love and your money up for the AMAZING, INCREEEEEDIBLEEEEEEEE-- "

Ares has posed:
    The INCREEEEEDIBLEEEEEEE-- " The voice trails off and then finishes, "ORRRIIOON!" As he sweeps his hand over towards the tall man in the other corner to show the six foot six well build man in his loose jersey grey shorts and those fingerless gloves with the red grip. He's there standing at a certain amount of ease, the noise of the crowd seeming to wash over him. His dark brown eyes meet hers from across the way. The other people she's faced tonight, she's seen disdain, anger, seething rage, but from him all he does is turn up the corner of his mouth slightly and gives her a nod.
    When the ref signals for them to advance to the middle of the ring that tall man listens to the steady spiel about the terms of the fight, about what is acceptable and what isn't. Through it all she'll get a subtle feeling from the man that might surprise her. For it's calm. Just a settled level of ease, as if this moment were in his control, as if he has nothing to prove. There is no tension in him, no fear, not even an once of trepidation.
    The referee's voice might then draw their attention back to the here and now, "I want a good clean fight, alright touch gloves go back to your corners and come out when you hear the bell."
    And that was that. Some of her prior opponents wouldn't even do that for her, but he extends his gloves and whether or not she meets them will seem to make no nevermind to him. Then he's back to the corner.

Phoenix has posed:
Black and yellow MMA gloves meet the larger man's as green eyes momentarily narrow in an bemused analysis. The negative emotions roiling around the other competitors were commonplace, easy to understand-- and exploit without much further probing, as fighting beneath a veil of rage has a way of clouding one's vision.

'Orions calm is something else entirely, however-- something rare and dangerous, especially given his performances throughout the night. It tells her that he knows exactly what he's doing here, and why-- and, worse still, that it's seemingly unrelated to a want for anything more than the violence to come.

Jean swallows hard and makes herself maintain the iciest grill she can muster after mashing her knuckles briefly against his, then pivoting away to wait for--

*DING!* *DING!*

"Splitting the pot's still an option," she calls across the 'ring' while dropping her stance and slooowly edging towards him as the corners of bright red lips rise. "For-- let's say the next five seconds? Because I'm nice."

Dropping her stance, slooowly edging towards him, and instantly regretting trying to taunt the guy who seems to be having another ho-hum Sunday morning right now.

Ares has posed:
    To most the man's eyes had little in them beyond that casual aplomb. But her, she can perhaps read the subtlest of gleams, some sort of hint or window to the man's thoughts even as he steps towards her. When her mind gently caressed across those thoughts, not probing, not digging too deep she could feel that affected calm, the control. It might be remarkable in some ways compared to the minds that she had faced earlier. But there is the faintest hint of something else beyond, something that would give the mental equivalent of a warning growl at such proximity.
    Yet in the real world he advances on her, his hands held up and forwards before him, shoulders hunched a touch and squared. Then her words reach him and his smile comes to the fore, "But then I'd never know who was better, the regrets would dog me for the rest of my life." His voice is deep, a low baritone, but she can hear the smile in those words if not see it upon his lips.
    hen once they're close enough he'll throw a few jabs at her, to keep her honest as he can and to gauge the distance. Just steady trade of punches boxing style. He's seen her fight the other rounds, seen what she's done to the others. But each fight is different and he's curious what she'll throw at him.

Phoenix has posed:
For the first time tonight, a shiver slithers down Jean's spine and coils right 'round it when she hears his smiling reply and feels the very edges of the shadow lurking beneath his eerily placid surface. At once forbidding and irresistable, the enigma draws her focus-- tempts her to dig a little farther, just far enough to understand what - exactly - she's gotten herself into, even as her every instinct screams at her t

"Aauw--!"

The vice principal's head snaps back when the first of those jabs catches her mid-reverie, drawing a soft *krnch!* and a spurt of blood from her nostrils. She staggers backwards a couple of steps, which saves her from the follow-up-- but the God of War gives her no time at all to nurse her wound, stalking just close enough to force her to duck, then roll out of the way of several more jabs, leaving her at his side.

"Fair enough," she hisses as she then twists into a punch aimed at the side of his knee, then rises -- and jumps, a little -- to throw a second at his jaw, just to test it. A mental thrust serves to make each punch greater than what a woman of her size should be capable of, to the tune of a few extra hundred pounds of force-- just enough to make them count against the cavalcade of preternaturally brawny fighters she's had to deal with instead of leaving her with a broken hand and laughter ringing in her ears.

Ares has posed:
    At first there seems to be nothing there, darkness, perhaps the hint of eyes in the light giving her the feeling of something akin to dread... as if those eyes were the ones that ancient man would see just beyond the safety of the campfire. Eyes that promised nothing more than an end to anything else.
    But it's only when she fails to make the block, when her nose gets that small spatter of blood that she'll /feel/ the first touch of its spirit, /feel/ the surge and slither of that ancient thing as it sees that blood... and it smiles.
    Yet the man opposite her, there's still not hint of it on his features. Concentration is there, focus. But no malice nor anger. He makes that second punch and she's able to shift it aside and then she's going for the side of his knee. He grimaces and raises his leg to take it on his side, then she's _leaping_ and she takes that swing towards his jaw and she'll feel the jolt of impact lance up her forearm. It's enough to snap his head to the side and get him to stagger back a step, but more than that...

Phoenix has posed:
The hooded redhead's right arm jerks backwards after impact and her teeth bare in a grimace. Her landing is rougher than she may have wanted, leaving her in a three point stance with her right arm dangling to the side, numbness flowing through it in waves. A few ruby locks tumble free as her head falls and breath is sharply drawn into her lungs.

A predatory gaze pierces the darkness beyond, but there is no ancient man, no campfire-- just a woman ablaze who refuses to look away, even when the Predator shows its teeth.

Especially when the Predator shows its teeth.

As the educator exhales, her grimace becomes a determined snarl and she hurls herself into his midsection, aiming to bring the paradoxically calm warrior to the ground via the element of surprise and a little telekinetic assistance. If she manages that, she'll begin-- essentially-- slapping at his arms and legs as she tries to take control of the incognito deity's limbs in the hopes of making him submit.

Or grinding the control out of him.

Right now, she isn't terribly picky.

Ares has posed:
    She might have sensed it, might have been able to tell that as she went down his guard slipped down a touch as well. A footstep brought him closer, on some level his thoughts touched a form of displeasure, this outcome not what he was wishing for. But that other side, the growling whisper seems entirely pleased at her show of weakness... for it bespoke of nothing more than a victory soon to be taken.
    Another step and then abruptly she is launching herself at him, her shoulder taking him cleanly in the abdomen and rocketing him back to slide upon the mats even as she seizes the mount and tries to get some control of his arms or legs.
    His own counter is to tuck, to twist. At times a short sharp jab will be fired as the small redheaded woman seeks to somehow gain the upper hand on this man. He shifts his hips roughly several times, bare foot sliding upon the ground and seeking leverage as he plants.
    Another punch is thrown, perhaps enough for her to get a grab and an angle on, perhaps not.

Phoenix has posed:
Displeasure strikes a sour chord between the hooded woman's ears and stokes a fire that blazes brightly in her eyes as she slams into his abdomen and sends up a brief pink flare from the point of impact. His greater size gives him advantages that no amount of telekinesis can fully surmount, his reach and leverage forcing her to move constantly in an effort to keep ahead of his counter-efforts. The disguised divinity would surely be able to tell: this is not her first time grappling with a man larger and stronger than she, even if it is, perhaps, not a regular occurrence.

The latter may be why, despite her attempts at staying ahead of him, she still winds up taking another jab to the face and a couple more to the body. Of course, it could also be that throughout the jockeying and the jabbing, her astral gaze has yet to waver from the lurking contradiction: her body is operating on no small amount of honed instinct as the rest of her contemplates his darkness. Luckily(?), that same instinct drives her to reply to each jab she takes with a snappy punch or elbow of her own-- to help wear him down, more than anything else.

Counter-counter-attacking doesn't leave much time for securing a grapple, though, so it was pretty much inevitable that he'd find enough freedom to plant himself for another punch. As he does so, however, pink light rolls visibly down the length of her arms, Judo training kicks in, and a sharp, "hhhhHHHHAAAA!" escapes her lungs, casting a few droplets of blood from her split lip his way.

{{What are you doing?}} echoes in the darkness, meanwhile. {{Where are you? I can feel you, but you're not out there!}}

Ares has posed:
    The way he deals with her attacks is to take shelter as he can behind his arms, letting the well-muscled limbs absorb more than she can usually dish out, his own biceps a good touch larger than hers and his gloved hands able to spread out more to accept each punch with a short slap of flesh to flesh.
    That pink energy distracts, faint moments, just glimmers of movement and light that cause him to turn at times. There might be an instant when he's about to strike that his aim is seemingly fouled by that ripple of the mind's energy, even as he abruptly shifts his hips to break her balance forwards even as he darts a fist at her...
    But that's when she makes that that exhaled shout, able to use that moment of opportunity to grasp his arm then, secure it in her hands even as he twists to the side on his hips. Whatever she wishes to do with that limb, she had better do it quick as he draws back his other fist.
    Yet through all of this, the touches of mind to mind, it is almost effortless for her. And she can feel that she is beneath that subtle veneer of calm, the focus of his higher mind to force himself to such a level of control. It is all for this one thing, this one thing she can feel now in her presence. As if two creatures were locked together in a prison of iron with the lights off.
    For a moment there's a whisper past her mental avatar's cheek, then the next moment she'll feel a whisper to the mind as it replies in its own way.
    // I am trapped girl. Much like you. I simply want out... can you not help me? //
    A brush of a breeze, like the swish of a tiger's tail even as she may sense its breath now, the warmth of his rage as it comes so very close.
    // Will you have no mercy for one such as a I, trapped so long? //

Phoenix has posed:
{{I didn't come all this way to be pitied,}} the hooded woman hisses in the space that isn't, the black iron prison where wings of fire glow warm in darkness. {{To be coddled, after beating on a bunch of short-tempered street fighters-- I saw you fight tonight!}}

Green eyes snap to the fist drawing back; to the even gaze of 'Orion'; to the ceiling--

{{I see you now-- mercy?? Fine--}}

-- which is where she tries to hurl him, a few pink sparks leaping between his body and his fingertips at the moment of release.

{{-- have it-- and then fight me!}} she demands, psychic fire lapping at the walls of his prison in the hopes of burning a way out.

Ares has posed:
    
    Oh she can feel such a waft of pleasure from him, such a wild growling rigid abandon as she can feel that duality bursting free of its cage and surging forth to become one with that may she faced even as she unleashes her power and sends him /blasting/ back against the cage wall, the chain link fence complaining with a clatter as it accepts the full weight of his large body.
    And now his eyes are alive, now his lip is twisted into a wild growl as he steps forwards and then abruptly charges her, a stride, two and then into the air as he levels that shoulder at her seeking to take her down, to pin her with his hands upon hers, trying to /force/ her down as she'll see his wild eyes, almost crimson in their depths... and the subtle flaring of... a fang?
    But as quickly as that monster surges to life, she can _feel_ the powerful focus of the man as it becomes all the more important to him to lock that duality back into place. She can feel the man overcoming the beast as he struggles to gather himself and banish that which she caused to break free if only for a moment.
    And in that instant he sits up on her, bleary-eyed as if he had forgotten what he had been doing but moments ago.

Phoenix has posed:
Subterranean air grows a few degrees warmer when the divinity within surges to the fore of the man crashing into the cage and primal rage floods Jean's psyche. Green eyes snap wide open, glassy for a moment before her lips begin to curl into a taut smile. God and Phoenix share the smoking ruins of his prison for a beat more before an almost relieved, {{There,}} ripples through them.

Those green eyes then narrow as they refocus upon Ares, her body shifts into a defensive pos

"Fuuuuaaaaaaaw!" is driven from her lungs as the rest of her is driven to the ground by the power of a God of War unleashed. She learns far too late that whoever it is she's squaring off against now is in a place far beyond the carefully applied psionic trickery she's been using to give her an edge all night, and the lesson leaves her hands twisted awkwardly against his chest as pink sparks fizzle between them. Knees slam against his torso, but there's little room for them; all the while, shock twists into determined rage as she strains to pull a limb free, to flip him over-- to stare into the eyes of the Olympian beast without fleeing.

It's when she falters - briefly - in the third that she first notices the fang, at which point she bodily jolts and lets out a surprised noise.

Fire begins to roll along the length of her body and practically drips from her hair-- and then the man somehow manages to draw the god-monster back into its cage, taking its anger with it. The creeping flames vanish as suddenly as they began to appear and she sits up when he does, gasping, panting-- eyes frantically searching for a beat before settling upon his again with a confused squint.

Which lasts for approximately a beat more before she sucks in a fresh breath and jerks forward, initiating a fresh, bone-on-bone meeting of the minds-- sans pink flashes and psionics.

Ares has posed:
    There is that short sharp almost sickening crack as her head will likely take a good brunt of damage same as hers. Though he does reel, even as his own sense of duality shifts, his entire body still trying to remember what the limbs do, what is needed in this moment. Those dark brown eyes slide to meet hers, a glimmer of confusion... anger. Even as he's slipping to the side off and away from her, turning to almost collapse onto the mats with his senses reeling.
    He manages to arrest his fall, both hands reaching out as he tries to stop his flight. One elbow catches, the other palm flat upon the ground. He shakes his head blearily, trying to clear it. At least for the moment she's safe. And at least for the moment she'll have a straight angle at his back.
    He pushes himself up, lifting himself upright slowly... his head lolling back slightly as he again shakes his head. It gives her the angle needed to go for his throat, to choke, to twist, to seize the victory if she has the strength and conviction to grasp it.

Phoenix has posed:
Having met what lurks in the darkness, Jean doesn't protest or hesitate when 'Orion' hits the ground and shows her his back-- unless reeling and trying to make her eyes focus after flirting with a concussion counts as hesitation, anyway. In which case she does as much of it as he does, if not a bit more-- she doesn't have an Olympian skull, after all.

Either way, once she's able to stand up without the world spinning around her, she fixes her eyes upon his back - and more importantly, his throat - and lunges, angling to lock her legs around his torso for a nice, secure perch.

"Okay, well," she exhales in his ear while cinching her arms in around his neck and shifting just so to squeeze the carotid. "That got a little more intense-- than I expected, so-- sorry-- gonna-- just-- go ahead and-- choke you out-- now-- " she continues between the sharp, short breaths she forces herself to take despite the lightning crackling through her ribcage.

A split-second later, she tacks on an even softer, "Please?" punctuated with psychic pressure, just in case the god's still near the surface.

Ares has posed:
    It's just as he's regaining the wherewithal of the moment, realizing what had just happened, what was causing him to refocus on the here and now. He turns his head to the side, eyeing the gloves on his hands...
    And suddenly there is a lithe athletic redhead leaping upon his back, her legs sliding around his waist and ankles linking together as her arm snakes its way around his neck, the other pressing against the back of his head.
    It's an amazing moment between two fighters, the intensity of it. The proximity of two strong athletes clenched together, each straining against the other, striving for the edge or victory. She can feel the blazing heat of him against her, the faint rasp of his skin against hers, the slickness of sweat and exertion as he reaches back to try and grab her head, forcing her to hunker down against him.
    He'll feel the brush of her breath against his ear as she murmurs those quiet words, and so close she can sense the subtle scent of him. Masculine, strong, somehow like blood and steel and sweat... with the faint coppery tang of blood shared between them.
    His arm reaches for hers now, trying to pull it down to break the choke, forcing her to tighten it down lest he throw her forwards off his shoulders.

Phoenix has posed:
Sneakered heels alternate between digging in and sharp, short strikes as he struggles. Blood and sweat mingle when her head tilts forward, smearing across his back and the better part of her face. There's no aggression in it: her chest is full of broken glass and trying to choke out a man who's just about twice her size is exhausting, and the steady stream of telekinetic force flowing through her arms doesn't help. Nor, as it turns out, do the calls of the crowd which have long since melted into the everpresent roar of a beast nearly as bloodthirsty as the one she baited, if nowhere near as dangerous. Now that there's no more fire creeping across and dripping from her, the heat he's giving off adds another straw to her back as she strains to maintain her perch upon his.

"C-- ngh-- mon-- !" she hisses when he grabs at her arm. Rather than resist, she goes with his motion, relinquishing her grip-- just long enough to drive that elbow towards the side of his head before trying to snake it back into position and lock that hand in against her other arm. It's risky, giving him an opening to buck her entirely-- but even while calm reigns, he's strong enough that she's hoping that the jolt will knock some of the fight out of him, rather than having to outlast him in a battle of attrition. Regardless of whether or not he's able to prevent her from cinching her grip back in, she'll try to follow the elbow with a psychic push against his knees in the hopes of bringing them down and making him bear ehr weight without his legs.

Ares has posed:
    It's enough to rob him of balance, first he goes down to one knee roughly, then the other as he tries to twist to the other side, to shift and hurl her off of him. But then he'll gather himself to resist. His hand finds her leg and for a moment she might sense the gathering of focus in his mind as he stiffens the finger of that hand as if about to strike...
    But then he'll hit the mats on his side and turn a bit over so it seems as if she's /pulling/ him atop her from behind. And instead of that pressure point strike he had been planning that she could almost read in his thoughts...
    She'll feel the short tap-tap-tap of his hand upon her leg, three quick slaps to signal the end of the fight as she gains her win by submission.
    The crowd surges with a roar, the people hollar for their bets and the organizers of the event rush through the door into the cage to haul her aloft, to bring her upright and lift her arm in victory.
    It's all such a tumult, psychic and otherwise the release of such emotions and so many so quickly. It might well be a heady thing for a young woman to endure and to be able to focus on around her. But then Jean is a unique woman...
    And chances are she might well notice her opponent pulling himself up off the mat, rubbing at his neck a little gingerly, then sliding out of the cage by the alternate door. Slipping fee of the limelight for now. Slipping away from the victory, from her... and from the attention. Perhaps later on she may find him in the losers area, the section in the cage fight stadium that's delineated for the fallen to recover, to rest, and to have their wounds looked after... all the while they drink a beer or two.

Phoenix has posed:
"AAAAAAaaaaAAAAAAND your WIIINNERRRRR..."

"Ah-- ah, Jesus-- !" Jean exclaims after completing the transition from frantically searching his form for some clue as to what angle the strike she feels might come from, to conflicted relief when he unexpectedly taps, to having her bruised and battered body jostled about by the organizers.

Like the crowd, the announcer melts into a static-kissed roar in short order; her squint-eyed attention is wholly focused on the man slinking away from the ring, covered in sweat and blood.