The Outfield

[Sarge Potteiger]

Fondor​

Oridin Proving Ground​

"One unbreakable shield against the coming darkness..."​

​

0523 Local Time
Armory Zerek

It had been some time since Sarge had really felt the desire to meet with someone outside the small group of soldiers once referred to as the Inquisition, even though it was now forming into something entirely different. An armored spearhead - that's what the Protectorate needed.

His nation had never needed fanatics, not in that sense. It needed warriors. Stalwart ones. The same it had always produced, though better armed and armored. Force Users were ever increasing their powers, finding ways to get around their own natural weaknesses.

Such was the way of war. For every gun developed, an armor was created in counter. For every armor developed, a new round was devised. It was cyclical, and while things had stagnated for a long time as weaponry had reached its pinnacle, the Plague had seen fit to send them back.

So now people were finding new ways to reach a pinnacle. Until that equilibrium was found, however, they were going to have to keep researching, building and testing. To that end he'd contacted Major [member="Mao"] and had orders given to her to report her.

Unofficially, he knew most Protectorate employees knew better than to ignore him. He was not the sort of guy folk blew off around here, although he wasn't entirely convinced as to why that was. But he'd done his research. She was, in some ways, like him. A good soldier. Obeyed orders - but prone to telling people they were idiots if they were idiots.

Bit of an alcoholic but, honestly, who wasn't when you spent every day getting shot at?

Standing inside, armored fingers moving across various keys as he powered up the systems which would allow her to do what he needed to do. Test the new armor. His was large, bulky; impressive even. But it would never come anywhere close to being as easy to produce as armor like this would need to be.

So, rather than the tank-like armor he sported, he'd trimmed it down to a more reasonable shape, keeping a distinctly humanoid form while thinning down the armor to a more... practical size. It had been painted a brilliant sky blue, the inverted horseshoe of the Protectorate rendered in stark white on the left shoulderguard. Each piece was pulled apart, held in the robotic hands of a latticework of mechanical limbs which hung above a simple raised section of flooring with two bootprints drawn on it so she'd know where to stand.

If she were true to form, she'd be here in the next two minutes. Unless she was hungover.

Then he might be waiting a bit longer. Sighing, he went back to his work, black eyes scanning the readouts, helmet set atop the databanks housing.

 

[Mao]

Last night a little dancer, came dancing to my room. ​

A tightly clenched fist went pounding on hard durasteel door of Mao's sleeping quarters. The hungover wench did not stir.

Another barrage of loud knocks hammered into the defenseless and innocent access door, unaware of the beast that called it its domain. This time it worked as it was soon followed by a string of rapid fire curses and threats. That incessant hammering did not stop, and in turn managed to summon up the wrath of silver devil herself.

"SOMEONE BETTER BE KARKIN' DEAD!!"

By now, Mao's skin shifted from the usual golden hue to a shimmering molten silver, the tell tale evidence of this particular Firrerreo's wrath meter, one that many utilized as their gage to determine just how far of a circle to walk around her. The door hissed open and with it came the woman summoned in question, scowling with fury at the perpetrator of her ungodly and unwelcomed wake up call. She was in naught but a white tank top and skivies, a sight to behold as a silver hand went slamming against the doorway with a solid thump.

Like an avenging valkyrie of Midvinter lore in all her puckered scarred glory, Mao was certainly not in the mood to delight in an early morn.

"WHAT THA FRAK DO YA BLOODY KARKIN' WANT?!" she barked out, electric blue eyes blearily locking upon the poor soul in front of her.

There was silence, and then a male voice mumbled out. "A... a summons, Major!"

Mao pursed her lips, and studied the younger man with cold blood shot eyes. He was young, too young. Not much older than his late teens. Gods they reel them in so young these days. Green as goblin moss and with nary a morning shadow of a beard in sight.

Ya gotta me karkin' kidding me. That upper lip would curl up into a snarl.

"Tha frak?" her scarred right arm rose to motion for him to spit it out. The unknown cadet male swallowed, not knowing how to respond to the Major. No doubt about it, she was a striking female, not beautiful by any means, but there was something about her exotic features that made any man take a second look, at least until she opened her mouth. Catching his wandering thoughts, he found himself staring into steely blue eyes that narrowed in an intense warning and then gave a quick nod.

"Ah... C-Colonel P-p-"
"Spititthefrakout!"
"POTTEIGER!"
"Gods'avesithfrakin'mercyonmahbludysoul!" she said in a frustrated rush of an exclamation. "Frak off!" was puncutated with the slamming of the console to slide that door shut, leaving the struk cadet out in the corridor at a loss of what to do. Should he wait? Should he go?

"Major M --"
"ISAIDTAFRAKOFF!"
"Aye Ma'am!"

One about face and hurried steps would note his departure on the other side of the door, leaving a very pissed off and hungover Mao to mutter incomprehensible curses under her breath. Oceanic eyes would blearily look at the godsawful mess of a cabin she called home. Well, not much of a home really. Just the cot she somehow managed to stumble into at night after a heavy bout of alcohol that would make a Zeltron lose his cups.

A hand would brush the wayward strands of short blue hair off her face, nictitating membranes sweeping across to clear her vision but for a moment. What she saw made her grimace. Clothes were strung everywhere, cluttered among empty ale cans and near empty bottles of whiskey. Roaches of cigarras would litter here and there, some on an ashtray, others unfortunately snuffed in whatever lay near. The couch, the table, the refresher counter.

Her skin color slowly began returning to a golden hue. Long toned legs would bring her half stumbling towards that counter, hands coming down to latch at it's durasteel sides. The woman that looked back was an utter mess. Blood shot eyes would rim cobalt orbs and even though her skin was fading back to gold, it wasn't as lustrous as it once been. She'd always been a heavy indulger of her vices, but the past few months had seen her more than triple that score. She was thinner, one could tell by the high pronounced angles of her cheekbones and her face. Her hair, that which had once grown to almost mid back was now back to a short cropped rough cut bob that brushed just barely past her chin -- compliments of her trench knife, three bottles of whiskey, and a pissed off need to break from the past.

To forget.

To bloody frakin forget.

What was it with women and cutting their hair that made them think it would wipe away memories and the past? Gods I'm a karkin' idiot.

As if that would wipe away the taste of his lips. The heat of his touch.

Monsters don't get happy endings, Blue, they kill the girl and then they fall to the hero...​

The blue and black haired female gave a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers, banishing his voice from her mind.

Colonel Potteiger was it?

Gotta be karkin kidding me. -- it wasn't like the name didn't ring a bell. You can hardly ignore the space marine Lord Inquisitor in a mountain of metal enough to make a Jawa go on a bloody karkin humping spree. Ain't a more pissed off bugger than her out there, that's for sure. For while more than a few avoided the Firrerreo and Zero-Four, [member="Sarge Potteiger"] was on a whole 'nother league of arseholes waiting to tear a spine out. Reminded her of her Sith Slayer days, where everything was about gutting the big karkin bad and making 'em all pay.

Frellin' Colonel Potteiger. A hand bent down to take a half drunk glass of night old whiskey. She shot it back as the burn brought life and alertness to her groggy state.

Chit.

No doubt about it. She would be late for that summons.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Time ticked by at the snails pace he'd become accustomed to this past while, every minute an hour that threatened with storm clouds and memories. She had to have been hungover if she weren't here already; she was far too much a by the books soldier to be late without good reason.

Perhaps the messenger had been lazy.

He cared not. There was nowhere else for him to be. Time wasn't an issue at the moment.

Frowning, his fingers curled around a datapad as he detached its link cable from the bank of computers, digits moving down a list of simulated test results. Looking to the component pieces of the armor, the only real part that was about where it needed to be was the backpack. Thick cables were attached to it and it hung in mid-air at torso level, ready for the armor to be slotted in around and in front of it.

Overnight, the system had been testing power output, recharges rates and the like, and so far everything looked to be within acceptable norms. While this was going to get boring quick, he knew better than to go hunt down the Major for being late.

She'd show up given time.

Maybe.

[member="Mao"]

 

[Mao]

Last night a little angel came pumpin' on my floor...​

​

Half an hour later with her wet hair slicked back from her golden face, Mao came swaggering down what seemed to be half a dozen corridors before getting to the particular door she'd been summoned to. She had no stink of liquor from her early morning activities -- unless one got too close -- a curse worthy ice shower did that trick. She did, however, have an unlit cigarra hanging limply from the corner of her mouth.

Thankfully she was also more clothed than she had been before. Utilities would be a little bit wrinkled, but they would do. Honestly they were the most presentable thing she had beside her phrik armor -- and one didn't just go say hidy-ho Colonel in the gear she normally saved for slashing throats.

Then again, it IS Colonel slice and frakin dice, she mused with wry dry amusement, her tongue playing with the filter of the vice in her mouth. She was still groggy, hungover, and it would show in the bloodshot eyes. Ain't no make up here; she was all gold, blue, and black. Granted, with how thick her eyelashes were, one would wonder if she lined them. They were, by far her most striking feature. Daddy's eyes.

Too bad he was karkin dick.

The hiss of the door would announce her arrival -- after having badgered at a Rodian Second Lieutenant for the exact location the Colonel decided to kill his daily tribute. Heh, she thought it was a hoot. The bug eye didn't. Pity.

Her identification tags would bounce slightly between her breasts, just over the dark grey tank she wore under the utility blouse. Her steps were sure, steady -- for as much as she'd been drinking. There was still more than a bit of ornery in her, but well get woken up at fraking oh five hundred and see how peachy you were.

Either case, the man at fault for her piss poor wake up call was in front of her. Eh -- arch of a dark brow. Yeah, there was that over compensating armor he was usually identified with, eyeballing another suit in front of him. It was a color as bright blue as the streaks in her hair and a bit more normal. Well as normal as one might figure in a suit of armor that still towered a good foot or so from the top of her head -- and I ain't no damn bloody short woman either.

More playing with the cigarra with her tongue until she came to a stop. Two golden fingers rose to pluck the vice from her lips and here came the brogue.

"Colonel... ah 'ere ya been 'specting me?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The man's head lifted as the door slid open, the tell-tale hiss snapping him from what he'd been doing. For a man so known for his violence, he looked more lab rat right now than anything else. His head turned, casting her a look from the corner of his void-black eyes, chewed right cheek on display.

His lips quirked a little in a display of emotion that was impossible to place, but could perhaps be considered annoyance. After all, he always showed up at least fifteen minutes early. She was beyond that in being late. Giving a faint exhalation that could only be termed a huff, he motioned to the raised section of floor with the bootprints for her to stand on.

"Major." As ever, his voice didn't get very loud, and he hefted his helmet and set it atop his head, ice blue optics lighting up as the covering sealed at the neck. "Let's get started." All she need do was step onto the platform situated perfectly in front of his console.

The armor was already being pulled apart, small robotic hands pulling the pieces away and into the air. From there they were simply suspended in the air, waiting for the Major to take her place on the sacrificial altar. "You're going to help me test this." He says finally, mechanical voice devoid of emotion even as he double checked that her information had been input correctly.

After all, a miscalculation could involve the suit being assembled too loose or, in same cases, just plain wrong. To his credit, he'd not mentioned her being late. His displeasure had been noted, no more need be said. Not like he'd been a Colonel long anyway.

[member="Mao"]

 

[Mao]

She said "Come on baby, I got a licence for love
And if it expires pray help from above"​

​

​

"Tch." came the cluck of displeasure from her tongue. You have got to be gorram kidding me! Frustration and annoyance grew over her face; never say that one couldn't tell what was going on in that mind of hers. Her fingers began to play with the unlit cigarra as an annoyed tick.

"Come again?" came her response, watching him as he set the helmet into place. There came those azure optic eyes over at her direction, towering over her. Already stray tendrils of blue-black hair were falling over her brow, and her golden hand came up to brush them back.

Gorram it, she needed a bloody drink. It was oh-six-hundred hours, she barely had any sleep. She was sexually frustrated, had her own demons to battle, and hell if Mr. bloody metal codpiece over here was already well on his way on aggravating her.

What a swell morning to start.

Nonetheless, those heavy boots of her drew her closer up the platform, as if already frakin resigned to her bloody fate. Where the hell was Hardock to take this over? The bastard needed to get his hide punched every now and then to keep him in line. Granted, that task usually befell Mao herself.

Feth she needed a drink. She settled instead for shoving the cigarra back into her mouth, waiting for the Colonel's reply. Enter the brazen search for her lighter, hands sweeping over her hips, ass, then going up over the swell of her breasts on each and every pocket. She struck gold there to say the least.

The glint of silver came next as the lighter shined in her hand.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"I hate bein' up at the arsecrack of zero dark nope."​

​

The Colonel's response to her query was instinctual, practically ingrained in his gutter of a mind. "Only when asked." His remark was so dry as to leave one to wonder whether or not he'd even realized he'd said it, but he looked up at her for a few moments before adding. "Arms out to your sides. Lighter away. Doubt the smoke will do the helmet any good but I knew going into this you'd likely be puffing once you showed up."

Giving a sniff, he waited for her to spread her arms as requested before starting the equipping process. Starting with the chestplate closing in and locking around her, the armor was added, bit by bit and layer by layer. From the breastplate to the greaves, to boots and gauntlets, everything was attached until she stood in resplendent blue.

The optics never left her throughout the process, making sure everything was slotting into place as it should. She'd find herself in a very uncomfortable position, considering the apparent weight of the armor - a side effect of the battery not being on yet - and the fact she had to stand there spread eagle.

"Alright." He says as the helmet was lowered into place atop her, twisting just enough to seal her in complete and total darkness. "I'll be activating the battery now." A whine from the backpack on her back heralded the suit powering up, HUD lighting as power coursed through the thick cables layered beneath the armor.

"In a few moments I'll be releasing you, and I want you to let me know how it feels. You're wearing titanium-durasteel alloy, but with the muscle fibers and your own strength you shouldn't feel too much in the way of weight. You can control the display through blinking."

She'd find herself with the usual indicators; a small map of the known area (if one wasn't available there just wouldn't be one), ammo counts (zero for the moment), comm frequencies, zoom function, and perhaps most interesting... his heartrate, ticking along in the upper right corner of her screen.

Considering it was green, it was safe to assume it was within his normal ranges. It spiked momentarily as the robotic hands pulled away, letting her arms fall to her side. If she were to start moving... she'd likely feel like she was wearing a second skin. Her fingers would reach to the end of the gauntlets; he'd hated Cater's idea of using little hooks to control them, so he'd changed that.

For all intents and purposes, the armor would fit her perfectly, it just added a few inches, mostly in the boots. "Any questions so far?"

Hungover she may be, but she'd likely have a wealth of questions. Unless she was just along for the ride, which he could deal with.

 

[Mao]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

Let's dance twinkletoes.​

Electric fire blue eyes would narrow in suspicion just before the helm went locking in. The cigarra remained unlit -- bastard didn't give her the time to light it before the confounded droids started to whine their hydraulic gears. At least they started from the feet down, giving her enough time to tuck the vice and light over her breast pocket before fethin' sprawling eagle again.

Oh, she didn't need to see him to know this much- The karker was enjoying it. Had to be. Call her suspicious but half a life spent fighting Sith, dealing with Norongachi, his bastard father, and TiCi was enough to make anyone a bit wary.

A metallic grunt of acknowledgment came from her voice modulator, fingers flexing within the heavy suit as she got used to it's weight. It wasn't that she hadn't been in a power suit before -- she had. This was just a bit more high tech than what she'd been used to.

A lifetime of being in the trenches gave her the physique of being able to handle her own carrying enough weight to bog someone down. However, it still took time to get used to the bulkier nature. Not to mention all the extra information that went spanning across her HUD.

Shiny.

Granted, the Colonel managed to do for the moment what she'd been trying to do the night prior. Forget. A trainer she was, even if she wasn't doing it for the Sith Slayers anymore, she was more at ease at tackling on a new device for a product of war. Her neck would stretch from side to side, an audible crack coming as the suit followed her lead. Toes wiggled and her legs braced only to relax. She had to get a feel for how heavy and just how much she was going to have to compensate for movement.

At the very least, she wasn't like Mr.Trandoshan Inquisitor in front of her.

Fraker really was seriously into this meathead business. She met those types before. Hell she'd trained them. Either way, she would cut to the chase.

That's what you could count on Mao to do. Be blunt.

"This be tha part we dance, Colonel?" there would come the whine of the movement of her powersuit as she gestured toward him with a thick gauntlet.

"Guess I can lead ya some round the room for a bit -- maybe even give ya a dip."

Yeaaah... just begging to be that frakin sacrifice arnt'cha Mao?

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Mao"]

"You didn't even give me a quote."​

"I'm afraid you've lost me." He says quietly, stepping around the console and flexing his fists. "But I'm fairly certain a fight was in order to test this out." There was no taking the bait, though. He had never been one to start the fight.

 

[Mao]

"The only person who can control his destiny is you."​

"Tha' a fact?" came her. "'Ere I thought I just had to sit pretty." the metallic voice would echo out through her external speakers. Ahh, she really shouldn't, she really... really shouldn't.

Fingers would flex, and she would start to rock on her heels, getting more familiar with the suit by the second. Arms would rise and flex. Biceps would curl. "Or maybe tha just be ya?"

"What with shootin' the late Lady Protector in tha frakin' gut and all."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Mao"]

"Let me ride."​

​

The moving section of ship corridor set itself briefly before he began shaking out his arms a little. Usually he'd just used his weapons for this, and he knew how it handled with the halberd... but fisticuffs were a completely different story. "Don't think anyone has ever deigned to call me pretty." Is the only retort. "She stepped in front of it." He adds, shrugging at that.

"Told the woman - who was apparently a doctor - to stay outside the office or I'd treat her as a threat. She didn't follow orders. I treated her as a threat. Lady Protector lived up to her namesake and jumped in front of the bullet." Weren't much more to say on the matter. "Not her fault the Doc didn't know to listen to me, though."

 

[Mao]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

"The fact is though, that for every minute you blame someone else you simply avoid taking responsibility for your actions yourself." ​

​

A heavy snort came next about the pretty comment. "I ain't the one in the overcompensating sack of metal there, Colonel." She took a step back; not to avoid him but to get more of a feel on how the suit would move. How fast. The range. What she had to work with here.

Everything had a purpose. One way or another.

"Oh? Tha' so? Is tha' what bloody 'appened this time around? She up and frakin' jumped in front of a karin' Sith now?" conversation was converastion.

And the details about the death of the Lady Protector had been more than murky than most.

"Tha's why Heads of State shouldn't be in the trenches. A bit delicate they are. Break easily."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Mao"]

"I just died in your arms tonight."​

​

"Vong break a lot they come in contact with." He says, barely moving, barely reacting. This is the point where Echani would be reading into everything he wasn't doing, but he wasn't going to just deck her. It took quite a bit to get an outburst like that out of him. It would take more than goading to get him to make the first move. He knew he was the slower of the two.

 

[Mao]

"I'll have to remember to rip off that fraking excuse of an appendage between yer legs when I'm done with ya."​

​

"A gorram Vong then?" here came the low whistle. Her head went cocking to the side, taking that bit of information in. "Guess tha' be why there weren't no funeral, nao."

Movement came easier to her. Her HUD would transfer more information for her to analyze, that and she was also getting quite a bit from the Colonel himself.

Granted, so far the conversation with the so called Hero of Canton was as stimulating as her bleary hungover reflection in the mirror not half an hour ago.

"Best tha' way, one is right to think. No one wants the last image of their leaders to be a gorram gore fest." Like with what happened to the rest of her Cell. Only three out of fourteen survived. Everyone else had been blown up, sliced in half, or turned into pink mist by Noemi Monoe and Aarrki, the Sith Lord and Nightsister that carved a bloody trail of tears across five planets.

Feth, some things were better left in the past.

Her arms came up, and she settled into a good fighting stance, attempting to gain that limberness she usually felt without the extra bulk of the powersuit.

"Right then, how 'bout you just come try and deck me."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Oh, darlin', my hearts on fire."​

"Her body was whole." He clarifies, "Just devoid of life." That actually seemed to slow his heart, as if the memory put him into a trance-like state of near-zen. It was hard to quantify, but perhaps this was what had earned him one of the only 'hyper-lethal' ratings in the Protectorate. Cold detachment worked best when bloodletting was needed.

It had been whole alright. Changed, somewhat, and covered in damnable vomit. But it was whole. A strange, strange situation, that. He'd never liked Vong. Further still, he'd never liked genocide. But if he could wipe out any species, it would be them. A stain on the galaxy was all they amounted to, so far as he was concerned. Everyone had their cultural differences, racial differences and a host of other issues that necessitated that they be classified as 'seperate' from others.

The Vong took that several parsecs further and then some. They were eugenics made manifest. You were either them, or you would be made them. If that was not possible, you were dead.

You did not coexist with beings like that. Kill or be killed. Law of the land.

The mistake that had happened was the Jedi allowing them to live all those centuries ago. Would have saved a lot of headaches. What he wouldn't give to dumb some bleach into that gene pool.

"Sometimes... sometimes you just need to hit someone. But I'm not going to give you what you want." There was a faint sigh to his words, even as he added a mumbled, "Because the galaxy always takes what I do."

[member="Mao"]

 

[Mao]

"This will not be over quickly… trust me, ya will not be enjoying this."​

​

​

Fan-frakin-tastic.

"Tch,' came her heavy snort. "If tha' be the case, then where the frak be her body with all tha pomp and circumstance?" even she knew that if a body was whole, at the very least, it was Protectorate protocol to never leave a man behind. Be they dead or not. They would claim their dead and bring them home.

Well, inasmuch as they could, she supposed. Sometimes they came in bags. Other times, in pieces.

Either way, the guy was clearly not gonna slug her first. Figures. Well, she was looking to blow some frakin steam. Might as well give him his wish.

"Heh, ya arn't the only special snowflake the galaxy karks over." she began, and just like that, it was on. With her head forward and eyes meeting azure optics, she took a half step forward with her left foot. Pivoting on her heels so that her hips and shoulders were at an approximately forty-five degree angle to the right. Moving suddenly to the right she proceeded to give a series of quick rear hand punches to the Colonel's right side from Mao's left.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Ideals are just that. Ideals. No one is perfect, and neither are life's outcomes."​

​

"When the odds are stacked against you, and you seem to be the only one hellbent on retrieving what's yours... sometimes the odds don't give a damn about the happy ending." That was all there really was to say about that. Sometimes the odds were never in your favor. You could only go for broke so many times before you did, in actuality, wind up broke.

Funny how that worked.

Funny like what she was trying to do. Her punches were quick, well aimed, but when you were built like a tank, you acted like one. She stepped forward, committed herself, and suddenly he was moving forward at speeds she'd likely not expected. These armors were heavy, but they were quick. They'd never be as nimble as someone unarmored and unencumbered, but they could move at comparable speeds.

His shoulder lowered like a boom, left foot out and forward to slip into her guard before he was shifting his momentum and hooking his right arm to move her into the path of a meaty left fist aimed for the seam that ran along the flank of the breastplate. That was his favorite part of these armors - there weren't really joints. It was a fully sealed suit with thick, insulated... well, he'd never learned the technical term for them, but they expanded and contracted like an accordion and were treated to be hard enough to resist basic blades.

No one gets left behind was great and all, but sometimes it was simply impossible to see through.

 

[Mao]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

Sucker punch!​

​

Well, at the very least, Mao knew how to take a good hit. Maybe she was starting to become a little masochistic. Maybe she just dug the pain. Either way, here she was, getting sucker punched by the Iron man. It hurt.

To a degree, it hurt good.

Pain registered as the hit struck her face, and the gizmos inside across her HUD went a bit crazy, but the armor held. Granted, it would have certainly knocked her nose in if he'd hit her without the protective helm, but whatever tech made the shock of the damage spread evenly about did its job.

Woohoo.

But now it was time for payback.

She slid back some, but managed to brace herself. At least now she knew that the bastard was able to move fast. Question was -- just how fast could he go?

"Frakker." came the curse, and then the dance continued. She was fierce in her methods. She hit hard and quick. Her strengths were her speed and lower weight class from the armor, but she was still getting used to wearing the suit. She had to fight a tank, use his size against him.

Throws wouldn't work well here, at least, unless she managed to get him in the right angle -- but she wasn't sure if she wanted to risk that. Her attention went to the weakpoints, joints.

Exertion would eventually start to bead as sweat over her brow. Parry, block, curse, right punch, curse, left, curse, right hook. Drop to clip behind the heels, find out that one can't really teeter something that weights that much.

Enter a massively large blue streak of curses.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Mao"]

If Mao was hoping for a dance, it was a dance she got. She'd find her armor amazingly response and quick - perhaps not agile, but quick. There'd be no contorting or making use of flexibility in what they were sporting, but that was the trade off. True to what he'd expected, she was using her smaller size to outmaneuver him. But that didn't mean he had to play by her rules.

So, he bided his time, absorbing what he couldn't block and parrying the rest, waiting for a moment to strike.

Size and armor played to his strengths. When he fought he was a counter-duelist. Wait for a them to move, counter, rinse and repeat. But with her maneuvering to knock him off balance, he found his opening. He seemed to teeter for a moment as he leaned over to try and capture the offending leg of her suit in two massive gauntlets.

Should that be successful, he'd simply drag her forward and heft her like a discus towards a nearby wall with all the augmented strength the suit could muster. She would learn one of the worst parts about these suits - to keep up with them, you had to stuff your face even more so than normal. First time he'd worn one he'd nearly passed out from exhaustion.

She would probably be better off than he, though. She had less mass, although the smoking likely reduced her lung capacity a bit. Sex might bring that back up though, maybe. Pluses. Minuses. Not the time for analysis.

 

[Mao]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]


If she hadn't been wearing the armor, she'd have seen stars at the back of her eyes. Instead, it felt as if the wind got knocked out of her. Granted, the bulk of the damage would be taken by the suit. But hell, that didn't stop the kinetic damage of being suddenly slammed against the wall by durasteel crotch here.

"UNGH!" came her grunt, spittle coming from her mouth. Colors would dance across her eyes -- oh wait, that was just the HUD giving her more information about both of their suits. Fancy.

The added weight of the suit certainly was wearing at her, but being a Firerreo meant her body was physically able to take more hits, endure just that much more. That and training with fifty thousand Norongachi clones on a daily basis meant she had to keep up with those genetically modified arseholes.

And they gave as much as they got.

Either way, she wasn't about to lose this opportunity to make a grab for him, as his movement to toss her against the wall would leave him open for a few precious seconds. She was quick to recover, and with a snarl that would echo from her external speakers, make a grab for his arm to attempt what she'd done with Sal a long while ago.

Pull, twist, and bearing her weight to make him lose his balance and get thrown in a flip.

Time to see if she could still smack him to the deck despite the massive armor.