Private Fists > Pens

[Mercy]

KELADA
​

What was the planet called?

Kadana?
Kellodo?
Kelly?

Mercy wasn't sure what this chithole planet was called. Something with a K and pretty sure there was at least one A somewhere in it too. Anyway, things were kinda rough after Nar Shaddaa, but that was to be expected. Nar Shaddaa had been heaven in the flesh. A steady income from being a Sith, drinks and food and flesh all day and night. It had been... beautiful. Then one day you find out that the Sith Empire had collapsed.

Income? Gone.

Oh yeah, bounty on your head too.

So you have to duck out and try to survive on the lam. Not an easy thing to do, that's for sure. Either way, that's what Mercy was trying to do these days. Kelada was a ways from Nar Shaddaa, she had been approaching the Core closer and closer each day.

If you were trying to hide from Sith-aligned bounty hunters... well... then Coruscant would be the best place for that. Sure, the Alliance was a pain in the arse, but Mercy would rather dodge a Jedi any day. At least they were dumb and tried to fight you with 'honor'. Face-to-face and with sword in hand. All that jazz. Bounty hunters just gunned you down in the back, before you even knew they were there.

Anyway.

Mid-transit her ship had broken down.

Repairs and all that were necessary, but it wasn't like the Sith had a lot of spending credits on her. Luckily the space port seemed rife with criminality in all the best ways. It hadn't been hard to find her way towards a fighting circuit. Underground. Dirt. They had taken one look at her arms and shoulders. Just one was enough to write her down and start placing bets. Apparently there hadn't been any real competition in quite a while.

So they were going to put her up against some hotshot that had been cleaning out the cages for weeks if not months now.

That was fine for Mercy. She wasn't planning on sticking around long. Just one win.

That's all she needed.

She rebinded her knuckles with practiced ease. Eyes closed. Just focusing on the feeling of texture against her bare knuckles. It brought calm, a centering of being, while the crowd around the cage was going wild. Clearly it had been a long time since they had been able to consume some real bloody entertainment. A moment later, Mercy was announced. Just like that. 'Mercy' and everyone laughed.

Then the reigning champion.

Sam Rodarch .

And the crowd went wild.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was a spark.

The cage was where Samantha Rodarch felt right. It was a way of life, a state of mind, a part of her soul. Violence, blood, sweat, fury, pain, victory, defeat. These things flowed through her veins, made her feel karking electric and like the galaxy was worth living in after all. This was her real home, this was where she felt real.

Alive.

A person.

But life had gotten strange. Between Sult, a Sith and grievous bodily wounds she had ended up here, on Kelada, fighting down and outers who were getting paid a couple of credits just to get slaughtered for entertainment.

It wasn't the same.

We got you a real fight.

A spark and they called the flint Mercy. A name like that elicited laughter from the crowds but Rodarch had the experience to know not to kark with a person that carried a stupid name like that. Some of her most brutal losses had come at the hands of people with irony in their step. It wasn't to say that Sam was smart, but at the very least, experienced. Those bloodthirsty apes outside the cage didn't have a clue, they were drunkards that hooted and hollered, revelling in the agony of others, all the while being too scared to step up.

They were disgusting, and yet they cheered her name.

She never looked at the crowd, always keeping sullen eyes locked on her opponent. Their builds were not too dissimilar but this Mercy was bigger, it was the price one paid when living off a crisp-based diet. Sam wasn't too worried, it was a meaty galaxy out there and when her fights were of a more professional nature she was used to being the little guy.

Hadn't had a real and proper fight with her new arm yet though.

Crush the throat.

She could hear it, still, even over the din.
He was a person, a fathe-not now, not in the FUCKING RING.

Sam radiated deep-seated rage from underneath her skin, it was stiff and it sat in untrained postured. Rigid form, set jaw, solid shoulders. It was almost a trap, looked like a rookie that didn't know what she was doing, could have been credited as smart, deceptive but in truth Rodarch was always rough and ready, even after over a decade of doing this. She didn't bounce on her toes as most did, no, she stood statue-still and stared. Like she was waiting for that spark to come and set her off like she was gonna blow up and take Mercy down with her.

"That's a stupid karkin' name."

The bell rang, and Sam raised her fists.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

Where Sam was all tight focus, Mercy was all peace.

Always a strange contrast with the whole 'Sith' and passion thing. But that's the way things were. Oh, she felt hatred alright, deep freezing in her stomach and clogging up her veins around her heart. It was different for a combat round. This was... dispassionate. Maybe Sam would cave her face in, or Mercy would shatter her legs, but there was nothing personal about it.

It was business.

They both knew that and really there was no need to-

That's a stupid karkin' name.

Which caused a whooping from around the crowd. Clearly this one knew how to play to her audience. It drew a lofting eyebrow from beyond her shades (oh, yes, they were still on for now) and a tilt of the head.

A beat. Two. Then?

"Luck be I ain't extending it to you then, pretty gal." Mercy murmured all too pleasantly in return. "Gonna move that pretty mouth of yours some more or gonna move those fists?"

And there the smirk turned a quality of smirk that was positively dripping of filth.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Sam blinked.

"...what."

Her fists dropped slightly for a few seconds as if confusion had just taken all the wind out of her sails. Pretty gal. For a moment Rodarch felt inexplicably flustered, a flash of wide eyes and open mouth before nature took its course once more and that general sense of rage-based malaise eclipsed Sam's features once again.

Scrunched brow. Curled lip. Sneers and scowls.

She (perhaps wisely) didn't hesitate or stop for any further banter, knowing that she herself was the proverbial bantha to the red cloth on a good day. Stepping forward revealed a strange gait, one that suggested an old injury, but given the woman's posture so far it was difficult whether to tell if it was just the cherry on top of rampant unprofessionalism.

Test the waters first, something to set the tone and see what Mercy was made of.

Left foot leading, twist of body and her organic left fist followed in for a sting to kiss the woman's side in what was a conventional body blow. She wanted this to go the distance.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

In any other context Mercy might have seen the tragedy that was Sam Rodarch.

Her reaction?

It meant that nobody had ever told Sam she was pretty. Truly a cruel world. It was even crueler for the fact that in Mercy's ideal situation... people would be even less likely to tell Sam that by the end of this. Before Mercy could add anything more, Sam managed to scrap together her anger and fury, moving in the attack.

Probably for the best.

Mercy didn't move. This made for a perfect silent and complacent target. Her eyes behind the shades tracked Sam and followed the aggressively hard movements.

As Sam committed to her swing, Mercy breathed out and shifted her stance almost imperceptibly so. A subtle lean in and to the side just as Sam's fist connected with her body. It sapped some of the kinetic force that came raging at her like the strength of a shifting boulder. In its wake? Sam found a mountain that did not yield.

Two reactions came from the hook-

Mercy grunted.

&

Mercy was now within Sam's defenses.

Almost immediately, like a mechanized piston, her stance shifted aggressively. There was nothing elegant about the way her arm suddenly thrust out to punch out into Sam's solar plexus with all the force of building collapsing. There was only one intent behind this all: wrap Sam's gut around Mercy's fist before headbutting her straight in the nose if she bend over even slightly.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Oh.

Great.

When her fist collided with a certified wall of flesh little more than a damned grunt Sam already knew. She wasn't known for being chosen daughter of deep thought and sudden intellect, but it didn't take a genius to anticipate what was coming in that next second.

A hammer collided with her core one second, and then a brick to her face the next, caught by the headbutt as she doubled over.

She staggered backwards, hands instinctively going towards her face as her concussion-laden idiot brain failed to calculate the wind that had refused to get knocked out. There was a spasm in the fighter's guts, an odd intake of breath but nothing that signified that her cybernetic lungs had been critically damaged. Still stung like a queen but her busted nose seemed to take precedent, as eyes watered in chemical reaction.

Let's try that again.

Change it up, right hand this time, a synthskin-wrapped surprise. After about two minutes in Mercy's presence, Rodarch had a feeling she was over-confident enough to give her opponent another shot. Maybe not, given that Sam wasn't currently a gasping pile of flesh crumpled on the ground.

Right foot leading, wasn't as strong as the left but it didn't need to be for what was coming as her mechanised fist barrelled towards the woman's other side in a mirror body blow tha- a husband – that Sam pulled somewhat at the last minute.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

Usually that took down the young un's.

Which meant that Sam was either a phenomenal actor, loaded up with upgrades, or a mixture of both. Either way, the little voice nagging at the back of her head to be careful was the only thing saving her from a collapsed lung and shattered ribs. Instead of tanking the second hit, Mercy stepped to the side and raised her arm to deflect it.

It still knocked her like a servo-hammer and made her bones inside shiver in pain.

No time to talk or tease-

Using the momentum of Sam's punch, she lashed out with her hand. Open palm. Slamming towards the side of Sam's face and pop her ear. Her other arm was getting numb already.

Immediately after that she danced backwards in all grace.

No, this one needed all the room Mercy could get, to assess the situation properly.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Unfortunate.

Instead of garnering satisfaction in a good blow given, Sam's efforts were rebuked by an errant arm. This was a catastrophic sign. Not because Rodarch thought that this might have been a one-punch and done scenario, but because it meant that her opponent could actually react and not get hit from time to time, much unlike herself.

In fact, sometimes her style of fighting boiled down to outlasting the other guy, which admittedly worked better when that other guy was just as immobile as she was.

A palm slammed into her ear, causing Sam to stagger away as the roar of the crowd half-faded into a chorus of painful ringing. She could already feel the heat in those blows, her core, nose and jaw all radiating heat and threatening to swell. That very same heat fed into frustration and rage that pumped out from her chest and into hands that clenched and teeth that snarled.

She liked it, always had done.

Back in Rodarch went, hands back up as if the idea that getting thoroughly battered didn't matter one ounce. Still heavy on the feet, seeming like she was just going to do the same thing over and over and over again, like some poor punch drunk imbecile just begging to be put down. Her left drew back slightly in what was to be a straight punch to her opponent's sternum but was actually a feign into a left elbow that would hopefully cut into the side of Mercy's face.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

And that's where Mercy's arrogance triggered to disastrous effect.

First of all, she was impressed, because most people would at least be slowed down at this point. Solar plexus, nose, ear, they were fragile weak points of the human psyche. Soft flesh and gentle bone that could trigger deeper pain inside. Yet, it seemed that instead of pushing Sam back, it only served to encourage her to come harder for her.

As Sam came at her with an obvious straight punch, she immediately reacted by deflecting it... and opening herself wide up to the left elbow coming in immediately in its wake.

It caught her straight across her face, sending her into a spin.

Rage immediately seeped into her veins. The pain real. The anger at herself even more furious. This little cricket had gotten the best out of her and it was her own damn fault. She caught herself in mid-fall, but if Sam thought she was vulnerable? This assumption would quickly be dissuaded as her leg lashed out.

Heel first, aimed squarely at the weak point of Sam's knee.

Fury and strength behind it to snap her knee in half.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was nothing quite like smashing an elbow into the face of your opponent, well, actually there was quite a lot like it. Generally, any other kind of strike to the face brought that same rush of exhilarative adrenaline but that wasn't the point.

Rodarch moved for the follow-up, but Mercy was already on the counter mid-recovery. It was funny, really, as that sort of tactic was one shared by the shockboxer. Not so much in the same method, but crippling a leg was a sure-fire way to end a fight pretty damned quickly. Sam preferred a snap kick to hyperextend the joint but that was pedantry.

She tried to hop back despite her own forward moment, managing to take a grazing blow rather than the full crippling force of the heel.

Sam felt a pop and cried out.

If she had gone to the ground right then there was little doubt that Mercy would have finished the job right then but Rodarch managed to keep upright, hopping back to the cage so that she could tend to her dislocated kneecap. There was little time to relish in the disgust of the spectator's faces as she hammered it back into place with a secondary yelp.

Unfortunately, this gave her opponent all the time in the world to strike again.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

And strike Mercy did.

Just not in the way that Sam expected.

Mercy couldn't help herself. She knew better. Knew that this was not a great idea. That Sam was better than she had first assumed from the woody stance and stupid comment. It was smarter to take her down as quickly as possible, before she was damaged in a more serious way. Sure, it would heal even without bacta, but that was time that she wasn't earning cash.

And yet-

"I offer her a moment of Mercy." The large woman shouted while grinning and spreading her arms. "Let her lick her wounds, so that the fight might go on for longer!"

Oh, they hated the idea of MERCY, but a LONGER fight? They were completely on board with that. Where first there was jeering and laughter at her name 'Mercy'... now they were celebrating it. Calling out her name, making the floor boom with it and Mercy let that music soak into her skin. Already standing taller, already feeling the energy slide into her veins.

This was better than drugs, alcohol, or even sex.

"Have you had enough of me yet, Rodarch? Have you had enough of Mercy?!" Radiating pure pleasure and joy as the crowd went wild around them.

Nothing could brighten this moment to her.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

For feth's sake.

Within Sam's battered soul, deep down in the very depths, face-to-face, eye-to-eye the woman knew that ten times out of ten, in this exact scenario she would have rather eaten running knee to the mouth than put up with this kind of shet.

The crowd always ate it up too, and this was exactly why Rodarch loathed them just as much, if not more than her opponent.

Maybe not this opponent.

Still, she took the time to lick her wounds by gingerly placing her right foot on the canvas, grimacing as she carefully applied weight to the leg. Sucking the air between her teeth with a sharp wince she could make a confident diagnosis; the knee was karked.

But she had time before the adrenaline wore off and the swelling and immobility really kicked in.

Not just that.

She had that wicked Samantha Rodarch tenacity.

"Still a stupid fuggin' name," Sam seethed, her expression a violent blend of hurt and hatred as she palmed away the blood from her mouth that had trickled down from her broken nose, "showboatin' piece of karkin' shet."

Limping towards Mercy, Rodarch raised fists once more, her preferential treatment towards her left leg giving signals that she would punch from that side. Although she had feigned before and her right hand lowered slightly, indicating a sucker punch from that side.

And then she burst forward with an agonised yell, as Sam suddenly moved to knee her opponent directly in the crotch. Yes, with the dislocated knee.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

A hearty laugh at her response.

Oh, Mercy liked her.

Liked her indeed. Not enough to spare her, of course, but enough that she would feel bad about it. Maybe. Just a little bit. "Aw, darling and here I thought you-" Whatever Mercy was going to say next was lost to the moment. After all, she hadn't quite been expecting to be rushed by a woman with only one real functioning leg.

It took her off-guard and that was a mistake anyone would pay for.

All that she could do was take a step back. Just one. It saved her crotch but instead Sam kneed her (yes with THAT knee) into her gut. Air was forced out of her lungs and something snapped inside. With air and pain growling past her lips came something else.

A splutter of blood... directly into Sam's eyes.

Not on purpose, but Mercy would take anything in that moment. It was agony. Delicious pain surging through her fiber. Her concentration focused on a single point. The cold metal railing holding her up against her back. The only part that made Mercy lucky was with that kind of crash against Sam's hurt knee, she would need a moment or two to collect herself.

Not to speak of being blinded with her blood to boot.

"Yar a crazy schutta, but I like that." Mercy growled as she spit blood on the floor and wiped her mouth. Every breath was agony. Sweet sweet agony that kept her concentrated and focused. A just punishment in a way. She pushed herself off the rails and rushed towards Sam. First a punch towards her solar plexus again, but slower.

And if Sam moved to block? Her hands would snap up to try and gauge her eye out and break her nose.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was glory in the pain exchanged, making the damage done to her own dislocated knee absolutely worth the agony and hubris gifted to Mercy in return. Right in the middle of a sentence. A pity that said hubris didn't come in the form of a cracked pelvis but beggars could not be choosers.

The blood spat into her eyes gave cause for bared teeth as Sam limped awkwardly on landing, grunting as the already-damaged joint objected to needless further aggravation.

"Yeah yeah, keep fuggin' talki-"

By the time Rodarch had recovered and wiped her eyes, they were back at it, and all that she could think to do was brace herself as a more deliberate fist buried itself into her core, right in the same spot as before. This time was worse, made her realise just how strong her opponent was with all that mass supporting raw power. Felt like this bitch could have run her through with a fist if she really tried.

Clck-whrrrr.

"Sh-et," she half-coughed, half-gasped as her body seemed to fold around the fist, her momentum crumbling forward into her opponent. Blood and spittle fell from her mouth, decorating her opponent's arm and the individual mechanisms of her cybernetic lungs juddered and vibrated, struggling to keep function as a second blow hit them.

Was that enough? Was she done?

Another sudden movement, as Sam arched upwards and backwards, hoping to catch Mercy's chin with the back of her head in a violent teeth rattler.

Of course not.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

This little schutta just didn't want to finally drop.

Usually Mercy wasn't a cruel fighter. Her glee came from the attention, the praise, and glory of the moment. Not quite the infliction of pain on the other side. Not to say that she wouldn't if a situation called for it, but usually Mercy just didn't see the point in it. Usually was the key word. Right about now as her head snapped back at the force of Sam's head?

There was a reconsideration happening.

She growled and then howled. Oh, yes, Sam had most likely either broken or at least dislocated her jaw with that. This was the danger, Mercy was no longer seeing in normal colors.

It was all shades of black and pulsing crimson.

The pain dulled at the back of her head. There but absent in its importance. She stopped talking and instead began raining down punches on her opponent. Anywhere she could get at Sam, Mercy would. Elbows aimed at soft bones, fists towards vital organ areas. She no longer felt the need to hold back any more.

It meant she stopped covering Sam's rebuttals, but Mercy couldn't care anymore.

At the end of this she might die, but she would reduce Sam to a bloody wheezing pulp.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was a vindictive part of Rodarch that relished in the shared pain as the back of her skull connected with Mercy's chin. The idea of self-destruction to ensure the suffering of another found itself clawing at her soul from time to time, all too happy to endure what was needed to exact a pound of flesh in return. It usually felt justified, and in this case, it was no different.

Her opponent deserved to hurt.

And when the showboating ceased, and the real brutality began Sam felt that she had done just that.

They devolved in mirror manner, Mercy's superior strength and size giving her one edge of the blade but Rodarch's familiarity with undisciplined melee giving her the other edge. The crowd became frenzied, utterly incensed by the twin beasts of rage and violence that devoured one another. Stomping, shouting, swearing, screaming, spitting and soon there was no being alive in that room that hadn't devolved into animal nature.

She felt the blows rain down upon her like the heavy crashing of thunder, every birth of a new bruise, another lost tooth, a cracked rib, they were all sensations individual in agony but instantaneous in reckoning.

Sam gave back what she could, throwing heads, elbows and her left fist into any flesh that was offered, her cybernetic arm attempting to run defence but mostly to protect her lungs.

A particularly vicious elbow cut her open the hard way, and a vicious gash from her eyebrow began to piss blood over the pair of them. It was that hit that got her, made her feel sluggish and scrambled her brain, causing eyes to lose target and focus. She stopped thinking, all those messy inner processes turning to mud and her right hand moved to grip Mercy's throat.

And.

he was a

Squeeze.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

Animal instinct.

She couldn't feel the pain. She was above the pain. Floating in the air and watching the fight from afar. Like a cloudy dream. Cold calculating assessed the damage on a clinical list as it went on.

Broken ribs, shattered nose, cut teeth, fingers snapped, internal ruptures.

Strength and size aside, in truth Mercy would have given out some time ago, if it wasn't for one other benefit. Half her DNA was working overtime to stitch up the very tears that were rendered onto her in real-time. If Mercy had been a full-blooded Firrerreo it would have been obvious to Sam. The wounds would have been knitting together in front of her.

Instead the process was more insidious than that and drew her opponent deeper into the fight. Not realizing that any destruction she was inflicting? It would be temporary.

This was beauty and Mercy rejoiced.

Until the woman was shook from it. By the way of a cold hand clamping around her throat and squeezing. Her eyes bulged at that force. This is what Mercy had been cautious about. The reason why initially she had tried to keep a distance and wear Sam down. Sadly... this was one beast that wasn't willing to give up on her own.

Something crunched beneath those robotic fingers. And the crowd grew quiet there. It was not often a kill was made on their floor. More often than not it stopped before that. After all, these broken-down old bums fighting for drink money weren't exactly... thriving killers who kept going no matter what. Their bodies worn and torn already from endless alcohol-fueled binges didn't need that much to be put down for the night.

Then?

They all realized a sound was coming from the supposed corpse that is Mercy.

A wheezing chortle, rough and grinding like granite rumbling down the mountain hill. "Arrraharrahaah." The corpse rasped as its arms came to live and clutched at the hand holding her up in the air. "...not... a sssssoft boooy, prreeeetty lips." The corpse's voice continued in between wheezing laughter. Eyes snapped open and everything went fast from there.

Hands that clutched switched to ripping, inhumane strength as Mercy began to rip Sam's arm from her socket.

If successful?

She'd begin to beat Sam into submission with that same arm.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Tighter.

Squeezing.

Constricting.

Not thinking. Eyes hazy. Blood dripping. Heart thumping. Nerves screaming. Adrenaline fading. Legs failing.

C R U S H I N G.

The sound of Mercy's throat was the brutality that at last felled the noise of the crowd, their gullets now full with the suffering of both women they resigned themselves to shock and then a slow and silent judgment. The moment turned still in the sudden quiet and Sam's eyes focused for a moment, seeing her cybernetic hand around the throat of a brother, a husband, a son, a person, her opponent.

Rodarch's insides turned to glass, her hand around Mercy's throat loosening somewhat.

Not again.

No, she...

...wasn't dead?

The crowd remained in silent awe, and relief washed over Sam's broken body as Mercy rattled into life and laughter like a broken, old speeder. But the relief was short-lived as words began to drag themselves out of the dead woman's mouth. Pretty lips. Dread didn't have time to settle, and a universe that had been frozen turned to rapid chaos.

Nerves turned molten in her arm as Mercy wrenched and ripped Rodarch's prosthetic out from her flesh, the connection between circuits and nervous system erupting into cataclysm that overloaded thoughts with screaming, static agony. She screamed, just as much a spectator as the crowd as she witnessed her arm torn from its socket.

That same arm was then wielded against her, being brought down upon Sam like a morbid metal club. She threw up her remaining arm and wounded stump to try and block the blow but the sheer force was enough to cause her karked knee to buckle and sent her crumbling to the rust-stained canvas, but the assault didn't stop. The blows kept raining down upon her flesh with deep, painful thuds that snapped bone and ruptured internals and all that Sam could do was curl up and cover her head as best she could until she lost consciousness or was shown an ounce of Mercy.

 

[Mercy]

Sam Rodarch

Mercy stopped.

Barely.

It was the sharp pain in her palm - the edge of the prosthetic biting into skin against her own infernal grasp - that shook her out of the rage. The blood seeped down her arm just as she had raised it for another swing. On the floor the shape of Sam cowered in a curl. Mercy looked at that for a few moments, but it felt like eternity.

"Noooot b-baad, ssssweetlipsss." Mercy growled through the pain of her throat crushed and uncrushing itself all over again. "B-but... always. Alwaysss. Someoooone better."

She looked at the prosthetic thoughtfully... and then ripped off the index finger, before dropping the rest of the mass next to curled Sam.

"Ssssouvenir, yarrrr understaaan'."

The finger was shoved in a pocket... and thereafter Mercy unceremoniously began to limp out of the pit. Which probably surprised everyone, because they began to shout (disappointment, shock? who knew... applause? maybe) but Mercy ignored it. Everything was burning. It would take days for her to properly heal.

Unless someone (perhaps sweetlips) tried to stop her Mercy would go and collect her earnings.

Oh, yes.

The crowd would soon realize that betting on the surefire call had been a bad move.

Especially when her opponent bet on herself with seven to one odds.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It was unending.

Each thundering blow felt like it could have been the one. Every heavy thud brought about another mewling cry, as bones broke and fractured, errant blows shattering the lone hand that protected the back of her skull yet still rocked her with reckless abandon. The sharp edges of the metal tore through her tank top and flesh, giving birth to crimson that soaked into fabric and saturated the canvas beneath her prone form.

Yet still, she persisted in consciousness, as if the woman was literally too stupid to give in and embrace an escape from pain.

The blows stopped.

A voice rumbled, muffled by ringing and distorted by concussion. Her words were just sounds that accompanied her body's agonised protests. Her insides whirred and clicked like broken clockwork, each breath a torment, blood pooling beneath her.

Her mind fell by the wayside in the effort to stay awake, not entirely sure of where she was or who had done this. Steadily the former-shockboxer tried to piece it all back together again, but it didn't make sense. Glass in the lungs. Dirty Forcer. Where was Sult?

"You're going to die, Sam."

Rodarch groaned and attempted to crawl after the rasp that taunted in both present and in memory. Crippled limbs inched her across the mat upon her belly, smearing pools of red essence like grim pain.

"Nnnnnno."