KOV VII Round IV - Shadowknight vs Risky

She had been right. It was all a game. A big, gladiatorious, blood lusted, carnivorous spectacle for a race of a higher order. God knew how many aliens were glued to their holographic screens to watch the perverse entertainment of duelist combat.

To make it a better show they had fixed her up, stuffed a few holes, mended a few bones and healed the internal injuries. The flesh over the former wounds was still pink and soft, felt a bit raw like after a light sunburn. A strange feeling swimming in this tank like some precious fish but in the end that was probably all that she was for those aliens: A useful pet to be groomed as long as it was of use, a beast to unleash upon others of its own kind who would be rewarded for a win and punished for a loss.

The world outside was only visible as dark shades through the viscous amber liquid, roughly human shaped shadows that passed by while she floated there suspended in some semi-conscious healing trance. Hours or maybe days went by preparing her for her next combat. She vaguely remembered being shown a menu with familiar earth weapons to select from. Slowly her index finger moved infront of her face to select her preferred weapons of warfare. A solid, reliable Sig Sauer SG 550 with a destructive GL 5040 40 mm grenade launcher. A well built caliber .308 Winchester CZ 750 S1 M1 sniper rifle. Two small but deadly B&T MP 9 submachine guns. Her accustomed dual H&K Road Patrol 9mm handguns. A single IMI Desert Eagle .50, probably the most popular high caliber pistol in the world. Her inherited sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. The dangerous Saturday Night special with the incendiary rounds. And of course her Army Rangers combat knife.

Her physical form brought back to optimum levels and her personal arsenal of destruction chosen she awaited her next mission like a bullet in a chamber. Maybe she did not like being used like this, being taken from a mission to rescue her people only to fight against others but in the end she could only do something if she survived. So this meant more struggle, more shooting, stabbing and punching.

Cautiously her eyes shifted as another of the shadows approached slowly. A five-fingered hand was pressed against the front glass. Almost menacingly the hand hovered infront of her face only separated by a thin layer of glass. A proud owner appreciating his trophy. Okay, at least her captors seemed to be humanoid. Something she planned on capitalizing later on.

Her thoughts were warped into a vortex only a few seconds later as a valve opened beneath her. Together with the same liquid that had surrounded her she was washed down a subjectively eternal pipe. Up and down, left, left, left, right, left, right, down, down and down again the wild ride went towards her next destination. Risky herself just endured the overwhelming feeling of nausea created through the sudden direction changes in her inner ear. There was no hint when this bizarre helter-skelter would end, only blackness surrounded her and vanished into more blackness as the alien material rushed by. And just as she thought this would never end, that she would now forever circle in this pit to amuse the audience, it stopped.

The darkness was replaced by a sudden, blinding light and the cursed tunnel spat her out like a cherry pit. Long trained reflexes from parachute drop training kicked in and the graceful mercenary somersaulted in the air to roll the fall off. One, two, three turns on the ground, then she delivered a perfect three-point landing. Instantly her deep blue eyes darted around to become aware of the environment.

The ground was hard, cold to the touch. It took her a moment to realize this dense stone was actually white marble. A wide area of whiteness stretched a few yards before it was drastically and geometrically contrasted with sharp black lines forming an even square surrounded by other identical shapes of the opposite color. This went on and on and on and on almost like a… chessboard?

This would also explain the strange structures next to her. To her right stood a dignified statue of Caesar Augustus complete with toga, laurel wreath and aristocratic features. To her left an ancient Roman priest resided holding his lightning topped scepter high into the air. In an even row before her the milites of the Roman Empire awaited an order, shield and spear before them, a gladius hanging at their collective side. If they wanted her to play chess, she would play chess… her way.

While she still thought about how to move the gigantic pieces one of the pawns already obeyed her mental command. Setting one mighty foot forwards he walked two squares into the field. There he stood, the lonely scout in enemy territory awaiting the onslaught of the counter-assault. Like her back in her army days. According to her intention it had been the queen-pawn right infront of her. Quickly, almost automatically, her sniper rifle found her way from her back into her hands. The plan was to cause her opponent to move his own queen-pawn to threaten her piece thus opening the way for the queen but at the same time opening a field of fire for her accelerated .308 sniper bullet.

The world became simple again as she looked through the scope. Looking through an optic devise was always easy, it created an artificial proximity and professional distance at the same time, moving her away from the ongoings. Whenever a red crosshair rested on a target it lost all qualities. It was no longer human, no longer a living, breathing being, no longer a thinking entity. It became simply a target. A thing to exterminate. Nothing more nothing less. Cold, cruel accuracy, broken down into its essential parts. Slowly her index finger arched around the trigger…

History is written by the victors, and those who lose in the end never get their stories told. Those who prosper continue to do so, and that left Cain with one option of what to do with his opponent(s) as he entered the semi finals. That was to butcher, to slaughter, to mutilate the enemy until they had no more, winning wasn't an option but only total domination could satisfy his or the enigmatic judges bloodlust.

It was always a belief that Cain possessed, that no matter if you were a republican or a democrat, if you worked for your paycheck or if you were an intellectual, if you were white, mutant, gay, black, mentally ill, or just plain evil, none of it would matter when you had that creeping, head exploding feel crawl up your neck and into your mind in combat. It was the feeling that someone in combat had a bullet with your name on it, or glove fingers gently resting on a detonator, a sniper's crosshairs with your head lined up in the crosshairs, or even a cold blade with your reflection in it's steel. When this feeling occurred you no longer a god, a man, an animal or anything listed above. It didn't matter who would win the superbowl or if your significant other might be cheating on you. At that precise moment you became one of two things.

Predator or prey, and everything else? Absolute bullshit. It was upon this moment the Irish assassin had realized every single waking moment of his life was one of these moments, every day it was kill or be killed and today was no exception.

The normal human mind doesn't wake up thinking today could be his last day on the planet. This provided Cain with a lovely picture of what might await him...Hell. In one corner all of the murderers, rapists and anyone who ever hurt a child burned in a pool of fire, the politicians, police, preachers and cowards in another. All of the jewish bankers that screwed many out of their money would be in the same pit as the evil and sadistic nazis because the good lord loves the humor of irony. There was many endless spots for the sinners and the godless, but at the very left was a massive chair of iron thorns reserved for the man of the f*cking hour, Cain Panell. If he showed up to hell due to his opponent in tonight's fight his only wish would that Satan would say "Dammit, this asshole? What will I do with him?"

He had stayed up all night training, gearing up, drinking and watching the tape of Lady Luck herself battling against her fatale opponent and winning in a display of her abilities. Her fighting was a work of art in motion, each shot she fired was with the most dangerous ability that could easily rival the Dublin Devil. She was cunning, skilled, deadly and drop dead gorgeous. Best case the both survived and he'd see if she'd be up for a steak or a couple of drinks. Worst case scenario she murdered him on the battle field and took his head as a trophy on intergalactic television. Regardless if he were to die by her hands, a worthy death it would be.

Eyes locked over as he saw what appeared to be a series of large chess pieces, all of them lined up in little rows. The game maker had them teleported upon a massive chess board. Surrounding him were men, all armed and filled with their disadvantages.

To his front were men made of light rocks, armed with short swords, in his row were a variety of soldiers made of all sorts of various minerals. On the opposite side of the battlefield sat mirror images of his own men, and in his spot was of course the Femme Fatale herself, Risky armed with a a trusty Winchester rifle, a hefty .308 caliber was the ammunition that it took, a very good stopping power that she would need to take down Cain. Immediately seeing a battle strategy, Cain slung his personally customized IMI Galil with an underslung revolver grenade launcher he hand designed, a true one of a kind. The rifle was one of the many weapons in what felt like his endless supply of weapons he had on person, what made it better was that the game makers allowed him to take custom, high tech rounds for it. The bullets appeared to be almost like shotgun shells, but in reality it was a highly accurate round the size of a .22, buried by strange blue looking shot. When fired the bullet would use special size changing technology to expand to the size of a fifty caliber HMG round, and the shot was made of an alien explosive that caused each on of the tiny pellets to explode into a highly flammable puff that stuck and burned like a napalm. With these alien rounds, The malicious marksman would have his mutant-like accuracy with a rifle, the stopping power of a fifty caliber round, and a sinister spread.

Brown eyes looked over the field as the adrenaline junkie he was facing ordered a pawn to move two spaces ahead. She had plans of an ambush, a plan Cain was not going to fall into. Removing a dark black gas mask from under his coat, and followed by a large canister of amped up tear gas. In a singular movement though, The Irish killer order the corresponding pawn on Risky's end to move forward, the two scouts would soon either battle or stare each other down, to which Cain had no cares of, jumping through the empty spot and throwing tear gas canister in the middle of the field to obscure enemy view of him until he stood in the middle of a foggy square and first took a single grenade launcher shot at the enemy pawn that stood in front of his to the left, before turning to face the line of enemies, particularly the queen as he slowly rained down alien metal hell with every shot. He was vigilant to his opponent's moves, the sensation of a bloody battle filling him as he repetitively reminded himself that history is, and ALWAYS will be written by the victors.

In mere seconds the poison-yellow smoke reached out and took possession of the center of the chessboard with ephemeral tentacles like a gigantic, all-devouring octopus. Within moments clear sight was denied and replaced with waftering schemes that moved as if to mock her. The Militant Marksman known as Cain had completely disappeared like an otherworldly wraith, sign of the incredible skill acquired in the war torn streets of Ireland, Iran and other hellish blight holes. The only item that still served as something as an orientation point was the head of her lonely scout that monumentally towered in the tear jerking mist.

An ironic smile appeared on her pale face as the Roman soldier fell. She should have known a trained fighter like the Icon Of Irish Ire would not leave a such a potential threat in his territory. Slowly the cracks climbed up the classical rock façade of the white piece before it emitted a nasty crack that told of its senseless death, another pawn sacrificed in the challenge of the mighty. Almost in bullet time it tilted over, the grim face of the milites still visible in the brown cloud that mixed with the lemon colored tear gas till it completely vanished in the substance. A simple move had been enough to occupy the centre and take control of the battle with the greatest of ease. Indeed had she underestimated her opponent hoping to take him out with one shot.

What followed was only worse. A raging storm of fire surfaced from the yellow sight barrier in front of her. Millions of tiny glowing fragments raced towards her ready to deal a swift, violent and agonizingly burning death. Once more she walked the slow line between success and fail, life and death. Everything depended on a quick decision, the thin thread her life hung on was stretched to the breaking point. Her already enhanced reflexes turned into overdrive as she jumped.

She could feel the heat of the projectiles rushing at her, hotter than the sun and more deadly than a arsenic cocktail. A hail of lethal comets sought to embed themselves in her alabaster skin, tear and rend it to shreds, send bloody stripes of her all over the battle field and leave her as a bloody, burnt out husk, a testimony to her own failure. The uncanny accuracy of the green blooded assassin combined with the dangerous properties of his special ammunition to form a scorching barrage of fire and lead.

It was another fellow soldier and his lightly armored body of rock that saved her. Only millimeters before the spread reached her to devastate her tender frame she found cover behind a pawn that loyally protected her with its shield. Salvo after salvo created creaking sounds and tiny craters in the stony surface sending shivers down her spine imagining what they would have done to her. Her mind raced at light speed to find a way out of this death trap.

The sniper rifle was useless by now. As much as she liked it, against an assault rifle it was of no use, especially if one considered the new visibility. Lady Luck could not do different but to give it a small kiss before she pushed it towards the king to have to available at a later occasion. Instead her own assault rifle found its way from her back to be cradled in her arms. This special baby would soon fight fire with fire. But first things first.

On a mental command yet another Roman soldier from the first line moved forwards a single square sword raised high above his mighty helmet to let it fall down on the murderer of his brother. In a menacing display of his power the tear gas parted around his feet as he forced his impressive mass into the choking cloud. It proved unable to stop someone who did not breathe. Of course the Militant Mutant knew he would prove not the slightest challenge to her formidable foe but once he had smashed this one there was still another one behind it threatening the square diagonally while itself was protected by the bishop on the white field. A simple but at the same time highly effective defensive chain. But this was not the end. Her plan reached further.

Reality was replaced with an almost familiar blackness for a millisecond as she disappeared from her hiding place. In almost not time her atoms disassembled and travelled the distance to her desired location behind him and outside of the tear gas. A malicious grin graced her beautiful face as she unleashed a deadly rain of bullets on auto fire in his direction hoping to hit him in the back or at least force him into the attack direction of the pawn or in cover. Having made sure to keep him occupied she turned around a second time.

Her experienced hand changed grip on the weapon, the smooth plastic texture of the grip changed to a more rough, metallic feeling under her fingers. Training set in as she pressed the hilt against her shoulder and exhaled for maximum accuracy paired with unbelievable luck. For exactly two seconds her big black target became the world for her, everything that mattered and that was worth her attention. Then she pulled the trigger.

The Risk Taker’s smile only widened as her deep blue eyes followed the launcher propelled grenade on its way to the target: The black king.

A sense of irony overwhelmed her. It was so evident, so compelling, so irresistible, she just had to say it. And so her ruby red lips moved to whisper the only comment that seemed to be appropriate in this situation:

“Chess…”

....And out came the wolves to begin the storm. It was a beautiful surprise attack, the femme fatale had seen his tear gas movement as he began to conquer her soldiers one by one, but was interrupted as the absolutely deadly queen teleported away, seemingly disappearing until she appeared behind, SIG assault rifle in hands. The bullets found themselves with absolutely supreme accuracy, the muzzle flash was like them showing their fangs, the booming explosions of the primer like the howls of the pack closing in him with the purest of evil intents. It almost flashed him back to the first men and women, fighting not just for dominance but for survival.

The first bullet struck with the pain that he almost always had felt, the hard and hot bullet crashing through layer after layer of leather, before finally cutting through a thin kevlar sheet. Cain had previously thought of wearing vibranium plates, but he deemed this dishonorable, hoping to impress the judges with his ability to take hits. Good thing he packed them away just in case for later.

Cain pivoted to raise his rifle as he heard the next howl of a shot, a fully automatic death storm produced simply from Risky's swiss assault rifle. He tried to find his target to fire back, but it was too late just as the next shot took a chunk out of his shoulder, blood spewing down to the squares below and the only thing he could make out of her was that stunningly beautiful face of hers that made him almost want to put a ring on her finger, was looking across and into the poisonous yellow abyss filled with the Soldier of (Mis)fortune's malice...

And she was smiling at it.

The blood trickled down from his chest as two more shots gained proximity, one with a winging shot to his side and the final one dead straight into his chest.The pain seared and shot into him with the winging one forcing him onto his knees, every fiber of his being holding back a painful shout, but that was taken care of as he was knocked on his ass by the next shot.

His brown eyes were blinking constantly, The Irish Assassin's adrenal glands somehow managed to stop for a moment, beginning to fill up and expand rapidly due to his previous partial depletion of them. Just as he was lying down in his puddle of pain, he felt a strange glow.

His mind brought up images and feelings of the uphill battle it took to make it this far in the bloody tournament that was the KOV. Clara Mass, Andre Knightfall, even Risky's own relative (Cellphone Girl) had to engage in combat with him, and the judges deemed him better then each. He had spent months practicing for this moment, in a way his entire life had been practicing for this moment, it was a world of kill or be killed and he had survived with a trail of bodies along his path.

He finally regained some consciousness in a strange way, he was moving forward slowly with an oddly found energy towards where the Femme Fatale was moving, but he didn't feel like he was in control. He felt like an outsider looking in on his own actions, now a few squares away from her position, he noticed her hands shifting positions to reach onto her under barreled grenade launcher. She showed absolute precision and experience as she was preparing to arc a shot directly onto his king, her voice muttering "Check..." Before she pulled the trigger an-

HOLY SH*T! His realization quickly led to a fast and uncomfortable push back into his consciousness, and his body began functioning, and as such his formerly clogged adrenaline glands felt like they nearly exploded and overflowed with all of his chemicals flooding into him and it felt like a "Red Bull" factory gave a cocaine high a fully body orgasm and it was spectacular. Coming with his newly found heart explosion was an enhancement of his "power" and suddenly he had a fighting chance. Immediately reaching for one of his personally customized CZ75s that had gotten him through years of bloody gun battled and assassinations, hand in a tactical position as he placed the front sight into the rear and formed that square that was a universally symbol of accuracy to all marksmen.

He loomed the sight to the right towards Risky, individual sweat drops appearing to go at a snail pace, tension rising as he came up with a plan. He carefully calculated his shot with what could possibly be one of the best marksman skills. When he pulled the trigger, the metal piercing bullet would slam through her grenade launcher and into the primer at the back, the impact would disarm it's safety detonation and cause the rifle to blow up with the force of her own grenade and shrapnel of her own bullets and weapons possibly burning up as well. Knowing this would cause at least something of a distraction if it worked, Cain would instantly fire a five round burst shot towards Risky in case, to either finish her or at least work as some kind of damaged. Scrambling to his feet in a much faster perception comparison, he would mentally command a pawn on the very left wing to move up two spaces, just in time for the Irish Assassin to through a package of C4 plastic explosives on it from a distance so that it would allow him to detonate it for whatever purpose he needed. Next he would begin to retreat back to one space ahead of the rest of his pawns, taking up a Micro-Uzi SMG and begin looking down to spray anyone who attempted to enter his line of sight. He was fine dying on a chessboard, but he wasn't going to die without fighting till he could fight no more.