Match 15
#36 Nimia “The Shelled Tiger” Altamirano
Vs.
#35 Dietrich “Decker” Sawyer
Prelude
The summer sun beat down on a lone house out on the prairie. The breeze was gone, leaving only the heat as smoke floated up from its charred remains. The farmhouse nearby was similarly burned, and the fields surrounding it were soaked with blood.
Chicken feathers and goat fur littered the ground. On a sign that had marked the ranch, three severed heads hung. One was a goat, hung by its horns. One was a rooster, hung by its beak. And one was a young man, hung by a truck’s hook through his eye. Blood dripped from the hole going out his chin. His once well-kept hair was matted and dirty, hiding the entry wound the bullet had made.
A hand pushed out from the burnt wreckage of what was once a two-story home, cozy and cared for. It was a small hand, adolescent, yet littered with deep scrapes. Her nails cracked and bled as she dug her fingers into the dirt and pulled, her feet just barely catching enough purchase to get out. She took a deep, gasping breath, followed by wracking coughs as she continued, pulling and pushing, her hand digging deep into the dead and dry soil, while her bare feet pressed firmly against charred wood. It burnt bad, but she needed to get out.
She managed to get far too. Nearly to the sign, dragging and scraping the whole way. She was exhausted, her lungs hurt, and she could barely see through the tears in her eyes, but she wanted to live. Her right arm hung limp at her side, burnt badly and stabbed through with large splinters. It was broken, and she almost wished it would just go numb. As it was, the pain was very difficult to ignore.
She made it past the sign, and turned over, panting. She didn’t want to stop, she knew she had to get further, away from the wreckage, away from the blood, but she needed the rest. A drop of blood fell on her face. Seeing Marco didn’t hurt at this point. She’d seen him die. She’d seen what he looked like before he died.
By now, the bruises, the split lip, the eye he couldn’t open...they just made her hate.
Someone stood over her, blocking the sun. They wore a mask with a long beak, and dark, brown feathers hung over their rough traveler’s clothes. For a moment, she thought they were a vulture.
The stranger tilted their head. “Do you want to live?”
She looked up at the stranger, and moved her mouth. No sound came out, so, despite her protesting neck, she nodded.
Their head tilted the other way. “Do you want to kill the men who did this?”
That time, she nodded far firmer. Despite her exhaustion, she managed a hard, hate-filled glare.
Tilted back again. “Do you want to kill the man who ordered this?”
She nodded yes again.
Tilt. “Do you want to kill your brother?”
Yes. She very much wanted to kill Hector for everything he did.
“The man who ordered it is named Sante Brocato. He is a plantation owner. He wanted your land, and he is Ranked. Do you know what that means?”
“...” She nodded. She knew about the damned.
“So you know what will happen when you murder a Son of Cain."
She didn’t nod. She turned over, pressing her hand to the ground, and pushed herself up. She managed to get her feet under her. She nearly stumbled, but stood. She was far shorter than the stranger, at this point. The baby fat of adolescence hadn’t burnt off yet, but most of her hair had. Her blouse and skirt were burnt, bloodsoaked and ashy, looking almost black in the sunlight. Yet her green eyes were burning with furious determination as they glared into the amber lenses of the stranger.
Who simply chuckled. “Then let’s get started.”
And now, the Main Event!
Inventory:
1 Katana - "Darling" (Keeping the name)
2 .44 Semi-Automatic Magnums - "Sonya and Cleon"
1 .357 Seven-Chambered Magnum Revolver - “Lucky” [Passive Effect: Luck+; Active Effect: Bullets are more likely to hit targets, even by ricocheting]
1 M60 machine gun
1 MGL (Six-Shot Grenade Launcher)
125.3 million dollars - Note: Armor is expensive, but bounties and loot help a lot.
There was a cacophony as The Rapture rolled into town; the sound of its enormous treads rumbling over the brightly lit streets was drowned out by the song playing out over the speakers spread across the immense land vehicle, but no one could possibly miss its approach. Bright spotlights cut through the night, shining from on top the massive transport and leaving crescents on the clouds overhead.
The Rapture was, to describe it simply, a cross between a tank and a parade float, otherwise known as a GTC; it was heavily armored, yet stretched long and covered in numerous platforms where performers played their parts atop the great stage. Neon lights and signs advertising its presence spread across the massive vehicle along with looping tubes filled with luminescent fluids, casting glows in orange, teal, and magenta across the speakers and cages lining its sides.
There were three types of people on aboard The Rapture. The first were the dancers in those cages, moving to the beat pulsing out from every speaker. They twirled around poles attached to the ceilings and floors of their cages, accompanying the twang of guitar strings and rhythmic thumping of bass drums with forceful gyration and breaths of fire streaming from the stylized masks on their faces. With red lenses forming circular eyes and sharpened metal to form teeth over their mouths, the dancers looked almost bestial, and savage wasn’t an inaccurate descriptor. All of them had long, wild hair, or failing that, trailing wires decorated to mimic such, and most wore little more than heels, thongs, and fluorescent paint.
The second were the bandmates, playing along with the king at the top. Where the dancers stood out in sharp reds and pinks, the bandmates all wore black, highlighted with radioactive green. Their black gas masks had similarly green lenses and were dotted with spikes and fins to emphasize their menace. As they played on guitars, drums, whatever would work, their eyes scanned the streets and buildings, looking close for their target. Jackets and jeans were their style, but they hid the vests underneath. The studded pads at their elbows and knees were more obvious, but that could be more easily discounted as an attempt at style.
The third type was a single man, the king of The Rapture, reclining on his throne as he graced the unenlightened with his melody. Half his fingers were at work adjusting records and dials at his armrests and keeping the beat he was tapping his foot along with, while the other half strummed the guitar in his lap, providing the main sound that echoed out through the increasingly lively city.
How was that possible? Easy: Dietrich Sawyer had four arms. The two lower were focused on the guitar, while the two upper adjusted everything properly as he slouched on his throne atop the transport, one leg resting on the other. He added his voice to the song with a lazy passion, meaning every word yet so inured to them he couldn’t help but relax. The helmet over his head–completely featureless aside from the simple visualizer displaying the beat to his music in sharp teals and magentas on its curved, glass visor–concealed every expression he could make while letting his voice echo out perfectly, untainted and unmuffled by ambient noise.
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The rest of his outfit was somewhere in between the dancers and his bandmates. It was one piece, essentially a skintight, dark blue bodysuit highlighted with neon lines in teal and magenta, though it had gaps all across it, baring patches of his violet chest, his biceps and triceps, his thighs and calves, and definitely emphasizing the bulge at his crotch. Sawyer was a confident man, and one given to showing off to his growing audience.
As The Rapture passed through the neon-filled streets of Veracity, people poured out to join in its revels. It was the head of a parade, and here were the bacchanals following in its tracks, some stripping in the streets to match the dancers in their cages, while others simply cheered and drank, drunk on alcohol and atmosphere.
Through all the light and sound, a bandmate near the top, holding binoculars instead of playing, went stiff, and barked an order through the radio in her mask. The rumble of The Rapture sounded out loud, but the low roar of a rapidly approaching motorcycle almost cut through the cacophony.
Beneath his helm, Sawyer started to grin.
Nimia was dressed for the occasion this time. A thick, black jacket went over the ballistics vest covering her chest and matched the padded jeans and steel-toed boots she wore, along with the motorcycle helmet she had on her head.
Somehow, the press of bodies detected her approach, and parted before her, cutting a path from one vehicle to the next, and giving the bandmates a better shot. Most dropped or kicked away their instruments in favor of assault rifles, scoped and lined with an acidic green. This was a personal job for them, since their boss was once the 77th, and the Corroders didn’t appreciate being humiliated. They weren’t smart enough to stay away though, and as bullets rained down on the oncoming motorcycle, Sawyer stood from his throne, still bobbing to the beat.
His upper arms spread wide, then came together as a rifle of his own formed in his hands, long and steel-gray with lines of deep purple zig-zagging up its metal. He sighted the 36th as his tune turned towards the challenge, and a boom echoed out as a sonic round raced down ahead of her.
A second boom echoed as a tire burst and Nimia threw her helmet away, flashing a mad grin in the instant before a deep, blue armor covered her entire body. Engines ignited and she flew with the momentum, twisting and landing in a crouch on The Rapture with a blazing sword in her left hand and a club-marked revolver in her right.
Then the revolver snapped up and shot a bandmate through the head, and the violence started again.
Steel flashed red and lead flew green as Nimia ducked, weaved, cut and shot, blowing heads from their necks and slicing torsos from their waists. A hard cut bisected a close bandmate, before she ducked low to avoid another sonic shot that blew apart a speaker at the front.
She came up with Sonya and Cleon in her hands, firing up at Sawyer, who stood tall regardless, a king at his height. It helped that one bullet that got close pinged off his helm. Invincibility looked good, and he looked damn good as he pulled back the bolt and chambered the next round, still playing all the while.
More of The Rapture burst in noise, but Nimia was busy shooting the bandmates now, pulling her 50cal to get the job done quick. She could get to the top once they were done, and there weren’t nearly enough to take her out.
One did put up a decent fight though, one with red lines instead of green that came in close and nearly lit her up with an uzi. She kicked a speaker in the way though, knocking the dumb fuck off the float and sending him crashing into the now empty street. Some people had more self-preservation, and she paused as the bandmate near the top–the one with the binoculars–barked more orders.
Not because Nimia could hear her, but because she could hear the helicopters approaching and the cages unlocking.
Sawyer clicked his tongue, a little disappointed as the beasts were let loose from their cages, pulling themselves up in displays of acrobatics as their bodies burst with fur and their nails lengthened to claws. Ah well. That was the risk of having so many guest performers.
Nimia wasn’t quite expecting that though, genuinely wasn’t, but fuck it, she could adapt, and out came Lucky and Darling, swinging up to bisect a charging beast and firing shots that ricocheted through throats and into bared chests.
Admittedly, the beasts had tough skin, though fire and steel could still sear and cut as easy as ever. She was still surprised one claw swipe actually took a chunk out of her pauldron though; sharper than expected, and yet she was still making her way up.
There were more bandmates up top, firing down, but there were dancers getting in the way now. Getting in the way for both sides, so it was even, but Nimia knew how to swing and shoot and it seemed bullets handled the band while a blade could put down the rowdy groupies. Her armor was already drenched with blood as she hopped up to the upper level–mostly because the beasts kept leaping at her and they had a whole hell of a lot of blood in them–and made a run for Sawyer, snapping of shots on the way.
Binoculars snarled under her mask, watching her troops getting cut down right in front of her, but fuck it, she was already prepared to put everything on the line for this gig, so she pulled the remote from her belt and slammed the buttons, all while Sawyer laughed as his ride burst with eruptions of acidic explosions. Setting mines wasn’t his first plan, but damn if it wasn’t a pretty one.
Not that Nim had it too bad. She sprung for good armor, the type Lawton had, and that meant she could take some corrosion on the way up, slamming her foot into one beast and then blasting her jets as she jumped, flipping to bring her sword–
Sawyer shot her straight in the chest, the boom echoing again as she flew back, not quite reaching him as she rolled to her feet at the top platform. Binoculars scowled, drawing the magnum at her belt when Sawyer swung out with his guitar and smashed it straight into the side of her head, sending her flying off the side in a burst of wood and strings as he beckoned to his main performer, who scowled at the sight.
Chunks of Nimia’s armor were dropping to the ground around her, but she still went in to meet Sawyer’s challenge, cutting at him as he twisted and twirled, using all four of his hands to spin his huge rifle like a baton, batting her hands away from any real damaging cuts or shots while taking swipes with the bayonet at the end. He was playing by this point, showing off for his sponsor. The Fangs, were overhead, ready to clamp their jaws shut on their prey. In practical terms, that meant the sides of their helicopters were opened and the masked raiders up above, wearing little more than paints and bestial accessories much like the volunteers that had joined his performance, were aiming their own rifles down, ready to join in.
So Sawyer gave them a lead in by summoning two skorpions in his lower hands, opening fire with the machine pistols and sending Nimia stumbling back before she caught her footing and tried to shoot him in the face. Decent shot, but it bounced off his helmet. Lucky shots didn’t mean shit if she couldn’t get through and he shouted as much as he kept on firing, along with a taunt about her lack of penetration.
So she fired for his chest next, aiming for the gaps in his clothes, and he laughed as he bent back, letting them fly over him and blow through his throne, just in time for the first darts to fire down from the choppers. To call them darts was to severely understate just how big the metal points crowned in false-feathers were, since they were designed to pierce through thick hide and natural armor.
Nimia took one in her unprotected shoulder and went stiff, before trying to shake it off and charge at Sawyer, only for more to pierce across her front and pump sedatives into her system. She was still damned determined though, and even a cocktail of drugs wouldn’t knock her down easy, especially with the nanites she got, so she pulled her grenade launcher and took some shots at the fuckers up above. She didn’t expect them to outright shoot the grenades out of the air, though the explosions added a fair bit of flair to everything ongoing.
Sawyer chuckled at the sight, but his job was done by this point, so he waved at his sponsors. A couple Fangs hopped down, landing behind Nimia with spears in their hands, which they promptly drove into her arms, knocking her flat and pinning her arms to the platform as she screamed out.
A higher ranked raider–a Tusk to their Fangs–rappelled down beside Sawyer, a harness over her tattooed chest. She pulled a phone from her belt as she nodded to him, confirming his payments with a few presence of her thumb. He grinned at that, ignoring the snarling rage Nimia was devolving into.
The Ranks didn’t have rules, but to be so completely fucked over and blindsided like this, even after all her prep...Despite all the sedatives rushing through her, she started pulling forward, her feet trying to find purchase even as one Fang put his foot on her back. He chuckled at the prey’s defiance, and ripped his spear from her left arm, preparing to drive it into her back. His fellow Fang reminded him that they were supposed to keep her alive, but he insisted he could get her somewhere nonlethal–
In an instant, Nimia ripped her right arm off in a screech of metal, leaving it pinned to the ground as she lurched up, smashing her elbow so hard into the Fang’s temple, his skull shattered into his brain. The second Fang had a second to blink before the revolver formed in her hand blew a hole through and out his eye, before she dismissed it and ripped the spear from the deck.
Sawyer turned, his eyes widening as the Fangs reacted, firing more darts straight into Nimia’s chest and finding enough cracks to land every single shot. That didn’t stop her from throwing the spear full force though, creating a boom of sound before it went straight through Sawyer’s helmet. For the briefest moment, he recognized the spearhead smashing into and through his nose, before his head ripped free of his neck in a spray of gore.
36 -> 35
Tusk stared. Soaked with blood and riddled with darts, Nimia breathed heavy, wires hanging from where her right arm was. Still defiant.
Then she finally fell forward, crashing facedown into the deck.
Tusk walked slowly and nudged the new 35th with her foot. Out cold, but alive.
“...Impressive. You’ll make a damn good Beastie.”