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Mooo had assumed that because of Omi's Philly Shell/Detroit Hitman guard, Omi would only take a small step in and pressure with flickers. He was taken by surprise as Omi dashed in, using the Flicker Jab as a close-combat tool. While it would have definitely pressured a smaller opponent, the jab not "snapping" at full extension, as its range was cut down severely, only did a fraction of the damage it normally would.

Regardless, the punches still stung, and Mooo's strategy had to adjust, but he wouldn't be able to adjust it well enough in the span of a few milliseconds. As he landed back on his right leg, Mooo tensed it and sprung off it, launching himself toward Omi, only this time he extended his left leg forward, doing a powerful pushing front kick aimed straight for Omi's chest. It wouldn't matter if Omi guarded--it wasn't intended to damage, but rather, to off-balance him. Hopefully this would force Omi back a little, but then Mooo would have to worry about the range of Omi's jab.

Mooo hated fighting kickers, as they automatically held a reach advantage over him--but this also taught him quite a few things he could use in his own kicks, which were but a tool in the toolbox, and not his usual method of attack. One thing he very clearly remembered--don't hang on to an extended leg for too long.

Omi had quite effectively neutralized almost all the force of his kick with some minor adjustments to the placement of his feet and body, and was now hanging on to Mooo's extended left leg, raised above Mooo's waist at a low-rising angle. The real problem with this was that Omi's left hand was free, and there was just enough distance now for his jabs to reach Mooo at full extension, meaning greater damage. Since there was no way Mooo could block or dodge every single jab from this position, he went with the first thing one did when their leg was grabbed from a kick.

His base leg--his right leg--pivoted clockwise as he made a small hop towards Omi, maybe somewhere between five and seven inches of space being covered, Mooo's leg bending slightly and his body turning to the right. Letting off a short grunt, he threw his hip into another short kick, again not intending to damage Omi, but instead to shove Omi backwards using the force of his leg. Once again, he was attempting to create distance so that he could try and work a plan together, instead of scrambling for moves on the fly and getting smacked around while thinking.

Awright, free at last, free at laWHAT THE HELL?! No sooner had Mooo's foot reached full extension from the pushing kick did Omi's fingers close again around the same foot, bringing them both right back where they started. The gears in Mooo's brain turned a lot slower than he wanted to at this point, though, and by the time he tore his eyes off his foot and back up to the now-attacking Omi, he had just barely heard "something something escape something fist," and in those split-seconds he thought that Omi was shouting out the name of his attack.

Well, Omi was correct--there was no escape from that fist, as Mooo only had time to hurriedly throw his forearms up over his face, Omi's gauntlet crashing into his guard--and leaving a stinging abrasion where it struck, instead of that dull ache from a solid impact. Mooo didn't see what caused such damage, but he sure as hell didn't want it to continue, and open up some nasty cuts on his arms that would screw with his blocking and deflecting.

Keeping his guard up, Mooo weathered a second whiplike strike along his arms as he hopped forward again, getting a tiny bit of bend in his leg, taking the same position he had before when he tried pushing Omi off him with a sorta-kick. This time, however, things were different--as he closed distance, Mooo practically fell backwards, taking advantage of the closer range to throw out a kick with his right leg, throwing it out hard and straight, his body parallel to the ground, intending more to shove Omi away (and leave Mooo to land on his back in the mud with some distance between them should the attack go well) and hopefully do a little damage to Omi's torso in the process--Mooo still hadn't caught on to very much regarding the properties of Omi's mail.

Sure, Mooo's foot connected solidly with Omi's body, shoving him backwards and getting him out of that trap--the wet splash into the mud and the strange, not-quite-painful sensation of getting his booted foot punched weren't horrible either. Mooo arched his back as he hit the ground, swinging his weight forward and bringing himself to a stand, the back of his white t-shirt now brown, large chunks of sandy mud coming off it as he settled into a lower, crouched stance, still orthodox, this time with his fists closer together, not quite in a peek-a-boo guard, but keeping his thumbs just under his chin.

Normal boxing strategy would dictate that if his opponent was in an outboxing stance and he wanted to close distance, Mooo would have to weave his head and present a moving target for Omi to strike. The problem was that Mooo's head was quite a bit bigger than Omi's so of course it made for an easier target, thus making the textbook strategy kind of stupid for him to follow.

But of course, this is Mooo we happen to be talking about, and while he is occasionally capable of brilliant bits of fighting strategy, he bullrushes. He does what he's told, and in the end he's used to fighting people much bigger than him, where his head is in fact a smaller, moving target if he followed the textbook answer. So Mooo started to weave his head, moving in an reverse N-shaped motion, coming down, then up, then back down, moving along this track as he dashed on in, aiming to press his head to Omi's chest and begin another exchange, hoping that his moving head would allow him enough "screening" from Omi's jabs, with his hands in front hopefully protecting his mouth and nose from any that managed to reach him.

Mooo didn't quite scream as much as let out a yell through gritted teeth--thinking he could weather a few jabs, Mooo's right arm clenched up as the first jab lashed against it, then went white-hot as the second opened up a long, thin cut across his forearm, flecks of blood staining the sleeve of his shirt. Unable to do anything to stop the third, his forward charge slowing a bit, he gritted his teeth and squinted his eyes as a second cut was opened up on the same arm, then a third on his left arm, this one down nearer his left elbow. In that time, Mooo had closed the distance, but was it really worth it?

His head wasn't pressed into Omi's chest, unfortunately. When the speed of his dash decreased, Mooo stopped too soon, thin trails of blood running down his forearms, only to be washed away by the rain before starting anew. He was just inside the range of Omi's Flicker Jabs, with Omi just inside the range of his own jabs. With blocking and parrying neutralized, Mooo's options were being ticked off the list much faster than he would have liked.

Gritting his teeth tighter than before, Mooo squared his footing and shifted forward slightly, maintaining an infighting stance and lunging the extra two or so feet toward Omi, intending to bring this to an ultra-close-range battle. This close-in, blocking wouldn't matter, and Mooo would attempt to impose his size on Omi again--only now, Mooo was going to be keeping a better eye out for hard overhands, which Omi seemed to like. Mooo was still unaware of the properties of Omi's body armor, though, and started off his close-in onslaught by launching a tight left hook for Omi's body, intending to start off strong and chip off a bit more damage on his opponent.

The left hit home, once again with Mooo slightly confused as to why Omi wasn't doubling over and clutching his abdomen in the fetal position. That momentary confusion again worked in Omi's favor as the smaller man dove in and dug his fingers into Mooo's sore shoulders, hard, and started lifting, with Mooo's left hand crushed up against his body due to the positioning.

Mooo's right hand was free, however, and his reaction to the lift (which would certainly have taken Omi slightly longer to perform and with more exertion than Mooo had) was both basic and protective to both of them. Tucking his chin down to his chest just in case things went badly, Mooo stopped resisting and became dead weight, effectively placing all his weight upon the now-tottering Omi, leaning back to perform the same frontside German Suplex that Mooo had earlier. Relaxing in this near-zero-G instant, Mooo's legs were spread out, slightly above the ground, so that if Omi ended up tumbling backwards, Mooo's feet would land in a comfortable astride position.

If Omi decided to complete the throw, he would have to readjust his posture, possibly either having to set Mooo back down on his feet or just go through with what remained as best he could and possibly throw out his back in the process. Continuing the move from this position might also allow Mooo a better chance at a perfect save, as the power of the throw would be halved now that Mooo's weight had readjusted; in addition to that, Mooo's free hand meant that he could support himself better upon landing. If Omi didn't let Mooo land in the astride position he'd placed his feet for, whether through a sweep or other means, Mooo's dead-weight body would frogsplash atop his upon landing, which wouldn't be all that comfortable.

Safe! Mooo felt the support beneath him start to give way, and with much yelling and screaming, Omi set him back down onto his feet, with Mooo's mind working furiously to come up with a strategy to free himself--a strategy that was cut short as Omi's head tilted back, then smashed forward into his mouth. Mooo's head snapped back, then lolled forward, his eyes glazed over and blood running down his chin from his cut lower lip. Mooo's knees gave out for a second, but he was held up by Omi's deathgrip on his shoulders, Mooo's free right arm flailing forward, not really intending to hurt Omi at all, but more to (poorly) fend off another potential headbutt, and to obscure Omi's vision.

With Mooo's hand in Omi's face, Mooo took the extra seconds to somewhat bring himself back to the world of the living, although his face was incredibly sore, and his shoulders weren't feeling too great either. As Mooo's consciousness (kinda) returned, Mooo got better control over his right hand, and tried to push the palm of his hand directly onto Omi's face, again not to hurt him, but more to block Omi's vision and prevent more headbutts.

Technically speaking, Mooo wasn't worse off than Omi. Of course, this was technically speaking--Mooo would still be able to move his arms and legs perfectly well after he regained his senses, but this was in reference to normal, non-combative movement. Mooo's biggest advantage--his overwhelming power--had been cut in half by Omi's relentless attack on his shoulders. It would take quite a while for Mooo to be able to comfortably throw out a full-force punch. Pain was the body's way of telling a person to stop what they were doing, and that would be a big liability if Mooo tried anything foolish during the next ten to fifteen minutes, if the match even lasted that long.

It was a big relief to see Omi pull back, and Mooo took advantage of the momentary lull to take a step back himself, resting his hands on his knees and taking a breath. As Omi spoke, Mooo smiled at his opponent's words and looked up a bit, a grin splitting his face, making the cut corner of his mouth sting a little.

"Same," he replied through his panting. "It's a fight--not a pissin' contest. I wouldn't be surprised at all if you won this; I mean, y'know, I wanna win an' all, but you know what I mean," Mooo said with a light laugh, lifting his hands up and gently smacking his cheeks with the palms of his hands, tilting his head side-to-side and placing his feet into proper orthodox position, but not quite raising his hands just yet.

In fact, Mooo looked perfectly ready--and he hadn't brought his guard up at all. His hands weren't even in fists, but instead very loosely clenched, not hanging by his sides, but instead resting, almost as if having his hands down was a stance in itself. Mooo's breaths had become more even in this interval as well, matching Omi's surprising and uncharacteristic orthodox stance with an uncharacteristic stance of his own.

Beaten, bruised, a few cuts here and there, his clothes torn in a few small places, mud caked on his clothes, some on his hair; Mooo looked like s**t, but he also looked like he was having the time of his life.

"Round three, I guess?" Mooo asked hopefully, eager to see what Omi had planned next.