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Walk t'ru dat gate now and d'ere no turnin' back, ami.

The thought brought its master no apprehension for the beating his body would surely take in this, his latest venture for guts and glory. Adrenaline, that long-time companion, surged where fear should have reigned. It would help him in the looming battle, yet at a cost, and so the Acadien brawler took pains to keep that pulse-racing excitement well in check.


Rookie mistake number one?
Underestimating yourself.
Being overly cautious makes for a weak offense.

Rookie mistake number two?
Overestimating yourself.
Get cocky and you're bound to start getting sloppy.

If he was going to do this, he damned well had better do it right and that meant entertaining no illusions about the coming minutes, but keeping a sharp head about him; and he'd already sacrificed enough of his clarity to that Dilaudin currently dissolving into his bloodstream. He'd taken only one, enough to deaden minor pains for the duration of the next several hours and, with any luck, keep his erratic migraines at bay. Now he waited beneath the shadows of the Southern gate, hands shoved into the pockets of a thick, leather trench the color of sweet molasses.

The gladiator-style gate drew up to the chorus of clanking chains, a shadowy penumbra of latticework crossing his face in the half-light. Just beyond he could hear the crowd revving up, their cheers and cries escalating until it had nearly doubled in volume. Muscles tightened almost imperceptibly in his well-defined jaw as the GTB newcomer proceeded forward, his steel-toed boots thunk-thunk-thunking against the laminate floor. Somewhere, an overly excited announcer heralded his entrance into the microphone and the perimeter of commercial speakers set up in the eaves of the arena blared,

Jace stopped abruptly and turned his cool, cobalt blue eyes towards the announcer's booth in an are-you-serious-right-now? glare; the nickname, blatantly plagiarized as it was, brought to mind visions of a cheesy old cartoon from his home world. And with his luck, the god-awful moniker would probably stick.

The competitor gave a disapproving 'tch' and promptly tuned out anything further the maudin bioque announcer had to say, (Put your hands together for Jaaace Ben-waaah!) turning his attention instead to the empty ring. When Jace had first received the bracket listings, he'd almost thought there'd been a mistake. Jace Benoit vs. Null made it sound like he hadn't been matched up with a computer error for an opponent. Negative space. Wouldn't that have been a hoot.

And now the opening bell had rung and here he stood, his adversary nowhere to be seen.

Sunlight glinted off the 28" titanium crowbar tucked into the Acadien's back holster. He lifted his right arm for the weapon now, a second reflection from the knuckle dusters on his gloved hand clashing with the first like encoded light signals. The weapon made a neat sssst as it slipped from the leather that encased it, and he let his right hand fall to the side and the curved, forked end of the bar ring out against the hard ground beneath his boots. The man straightened his posture, 6'1" when standing at full stature, and dropped his broad shoulders slightly towards the back. His head, topped by a crop of scruffy rust-colored hair, arched sideways before rolling to crack the stiffness in his neck.

The rest of his equipment seemed common enough; weatherworn trousers secured around the hips by a belt that boasted a sheathed Bowie knife on the right side, and a dark tee that didn't look quite form-fitted - but should have.

"Aya.." The man lamented, nay, warbled in an accented speech that was thickly rhythmic. It savored strongly of the charming Southern drawl, but with equally heavy influences from French and Haitian tongues. "Dis'a Null fellow bet'r hurry on up, I'm ready t'go!"

Grotesque transformation was right! His opponent's dramatic, and rather sudden, increase in body mass would not hold the desired effect over the Acadien brawler; rather than intimidate, it only caused Jace to recoil momentarily while his face contorted into a mask of exaggerated disgust. The skin surrounding his eyes crinkled up, and the swamp dweller's tongue rolled from his mouth in a comically taunting display, a physical commentary to the ugly tank that now stood no more than thirty feet before him.

"Ech!" An unintentionally jeering laugh broke from Jace's throat, accompanying his grimace, and he cried out in his jesting way. "Grand Beede o'here gi' me deh fremeers!"


[ Rough courtesy translation for you viewers at home: "This big oaf is grossing me out." ]

The response was textbook Jace. In fact, in his travels, the Cajun had become somewhat notorious for this clownish showdown attitude. On the bayou, children were raised to laugh when life threw them tribulations, and so the blue-eyed wayfarer could find the mirth in - or poke fun at - just about any situation; although, his own applications of the lesson often showed only a reckless disregard for his own well-being. Some would say his aggression was the type to worry about -- even over those that run charging into the ring with their horns lowered and hooves stomping at the ground -- because he came off as one who had nothing to lose, and in laughing, rather than getting angry, he always kept his wits about him.

Oh, and of course, he could shift gears on a dime.

With a flick of his wrist the crowbar left his grip, making a vertical 180° before alighting back into his grasp with a sweep of his right hand. The quick, casual gesture brought up imagery of a dancing gentleman with his walking-stick; he maneuvered the bar so fluidly. This put the forked end of the weapon at the bottom with his fist closed just two inches from the bend. The opposite side had been filed down to a lethal-looking point, ideal for thrusting into body tissue.

He wasted no time, those heavy boots pushing reflexively off from the ground almost the instant he had that crowbar in a swordsman's grasp, or at least something similar, sprinting the bulk of the distance between them only to slow into a shuffle step at the last moment. Those eyes of cobalt narrowed, helping both to focus his vision on his behemoth target and ward off any stray glare with the knitting of his brow and eyelids. He ran with his left arm bent and held slightly before him, the hand protectively level to his chest. The right arm could be seen drawing backwards, also remaining bent just enough at the elbow for maximum fluidity of motion. Once he was in range, that is to say, just under five feet from his opponent given the added length provided by his crowbar, the Cajun would thrust the tipped end of the titanium rod towards this muscled giant's abdomen. He aimed beneath Null's hands, a proper height for keeping his own fist just about waist-high while making sure to keep both his offensive arm slightly bent, and his left raised only enough to guard his own chest and face. His head dipped a bit forward and lower to increase the effectiveness of this defensive arm position, with both elbow and hand curled only halfway, one way or the other.

[ Made a small edit. ]

The man was much larger, and more than likely much stronger than Jace, but the forward momentum of the fighter made this redundant, deciding instead to use his opponents overzealous action's against him. He shifted weight to his left foot, turning his body to avoid the stab as his right hand reached out at the apex of the strike to grab his opponent's wrist like a viper snagging a mouse. The dinner-plate sized hand would clamp down like iron, and powerful arms would tug the man forward, the same direction he'd been running in just seconds earlier, whilst the right foot on the same side lifted, hips twisting in a counter motion. Bent to form a sharp knee, driving into his opponent's abdomen with enough force to crack ribs & collapse lungs.

The opponents guard, bent just below his face, would actually block the strike from view, a tactical advantage that allowed Null to put a great deal of power & speed into this strike.

As unlikely as it was that the man would block the knee due to his unstable footing and the blind spot he had created, Null knew better than to let up, instead maintaining his iron grasp on his opponent's arm as he quickly replaced his foot on the ground, his left hand lancing out from the imaginary ball at chest height in a arrow-straight path, moving like a knife's edge through the space between them, targeting his opponent's jaw, just below the ear on his right side. Indeed, with energy focused into that portion of his body already, Null used the powers of his Lord to alter the makeup of his bone structure, creating an appendage with characteristics not unlike steel with which to strike. The blow was not impossible to block, especially if his opponent had not miraculously blocked the first blow, although the sheer speed of the blow would likely shatter a normal man's bones, as he was essentially using an iron brick seamlessly attached to his wrist to pulverize his opponent. Unless dodged, the blow would more than likely toss his opponent off his feet, and Null would finally relinquish his hold and send his opponent backwards across the ring.

Null's effort to throw his opponent off balance with that tug might have worked on someone with a little less experience in the fray (or a good deal less sense in the head), but Jace had been through enough brawls to understand the concept of momentum. By slowing his step into a much stabler shuffle before reaching his opponent, he had already shifted the bulk of that forward motion into a more grounded stance. In addition, the Cajun had made sure to keep his arm slightly bent rather than locking it fully when he'd thrust forward, giving him leeway to twist and move it as needed.

So, as Null turned himself towards Jace's right flank and reached cross-body for the Southerner's arm, Jace was able to gather some idea of what to expect and react accordingly. His own torso twisted towards the right, in the same direction Null was moving, just as the Acadien felt the brush of strong digits attempting to encircle his wrist. A quick step to the left followed just about simultaneously with this, that would bring his body once again face-to-face with his opponent's. Jace accompanied this with an immediate spin of his wrist, turning the knuckles from right-facing to point skywards. In one fell swoop, his arm dropped just beneath Null's intended grab, and then completed the fluid movement with a subtle arc upwards. Null's mighty hand would simply swipe by, just missing its target, as Jace's ceaseless, short, shuffling steps carried him to a safer range.

Now, with all of the massive stranger's offenses diverted just slightly too far inside, and with his own arm free of the attempted hold and close enough to his torso to allow him a swing outwards from his body, Jace retaliated. He held his left hand away from his body for balance and gave a mighty heave of his right arm, sending the titanium bar in a powerful, counter-clockwise arc that would end with a solid impact against the right side of Null's head. The circular path of the swing would allow much momentum to build, making it a truly commanding blow. Given the disadvantage his opponent's size gave him, in terms of being able to quickly change his own velocity, the Acadien mentally tuned his ears for picking up the sweet, bone-cracking sound of his titanium crowbar slamming into the behemoth's skull.

He'd managed to worm his way from his massive opponent's grip before, but it seemed providence would not smile on Jace a second time in the short minutes that followed. At least, not completely. Perhaps the fickle lady turned up only a corner of her lips in this instance, because at least the Cajun had a few factors working for him that helped bring the situation from dire, to at least workable.

The first would be the very nature of this attack. He had fractions of a moment to work with, because a bear hug could not culminate it's full force instantaneously. Though, that only meant rather than feeling all the pressure of having a multi-story building dropped on him in that first instant, instead he probably felt crushed by something roughly the weight of a horse. This was where his second favorable factor, the Acadien's own foresight, would come in handy. The kind of force that Null was bearing down on his body with did not come without some degree of pain, enough that might have brought anyone else to their knees at that point in the game. But, a hefty dosage of stolen Dilaudin, a pain-killer with potency comparable to straight morphine and none of the side-effects, taken into his bloodstream before the battle's onset meant that the agony imposed on Jace had been decently diminished. That, and the padded tactical armor beneath his clothing gave just the slightest hint of give to cushion the squeeze.

Certainly not enough to save him -- not even close -- but the combination bought him a chance to use his brain and reflexes unhindered by the fog that blinding pain could bring.

Time to get out of this death grip. Once again, Jace would rely on the tactic of using his opponent's own size against him. Null's unnaturally-achieved bulk might have aided in giving his seven-foot form a formiddable-power, but being so much taller than Jace also meant that his downward reach in hugging the Cajun around the arms would be compromised. Just the slightest adjustment in height and Null would no longer be squeezing around the broad width of Jace's shoulders, but his neck and head could pop through the gap like a straw through a bottleneck. With a suddenness and speed fueled by the Cajun's flaring survival instinct, Jace would force his right shoulder to drop at a cocked angle while his knees abruptly bent into a near squatting-stance, giving him just the hair's breadth of wiggle room he needed to escape from Null's hold.

Jace maintained his hold on the crowbar with his left hand while his right flew immediately to the sheathed Bowie knife at hip, clearing leather in a flash. That rugged face didn't hold quite so much of its charismatic charm now, squeezed into a grimace as discomfort wracked his torso. His ribs would be sporting a nasty bruise soon enough, and his left upper arm seemed to fare no better; probably fractured.

Oh, but'chu got off easy, ami.

With that thought, the Cajun would waste no time in driving nine inches of vicious-looking, serrated steel into the side of his opponent's torso. His priority right now would have been to get himself the hell out of Null's reach, but if he had half a second to spare to do some damage and slow the beast down, he'd take it. Jace was not careful about yanking the knife out again, either, probably tearing through flesh with that saw-like edge. He'd seen a chance for survival in turning this close proximity in his favor, and was going to go positively primal if it meant clawing his way to victory. He'd try to lash out with the knife relentlessly while the window of opportunity remained open, reaching around Null's left flank and hurriedly driving the blade somewhere into his back, not bothering to even wonder if it had struck kidney or lung before he was already jerking back and thrusting into another stab attempt.

A large group of, rather saucy and eye-catching cajun women in the crowd were rooting for their ragin' man out on the battlefield.

In fact, there was nothing but the cries of support for Jace coming from that section of the crowd. It was probably because everybody else around them was more focused on them then on the fight.

[ Since there's no way Null could have shifted from bear hug to sledgehammer mode simultaneously with Jace's duck, as he was still hugging Jace when Jace ducked, the following post assumes that Null's morphing his arm coincides with Jace pulling his knife from his sheath. ]

The Cajun's icy, narrowed gaze flickered upwards to scope out his target as he unsheathed that nine-inch widow maker from his hip. The arm nearest him wasn't lowered near Jace's level as it had been just a second ago, but morphing into a grotesque anomaly of the flesh as Null lifted it in preparation for a strike.

New plan. MOVE.

And so Jace did, instantly pushing off from his near-squat at such an angle that he could whip around Null's left flank, the side that he was aiming to strike Jace's right shoulder with. He would have plenty of time, since he was still half-lowered with bent knees from the initial duck and Null's hammer-arm had a greater distance to travel to reach him; and, the momentum it took to swing that verifiable sledgehammer back and then crashing down again would mean Null wouldn't likely be able to shift gears again on a dime without throwing off his balance, to say the least. He was committed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the brawler could make out the faint sound of a troupe of shrieking fangirls, and one far more desirable accented lilt. He would be forced to pay these fans no mind, there were more pressing matters at hand. Hopefully, Miana would be satisfied with the violence to follow, and perhaps a roguish wink directed her way once he could spare the time.

Jace still gripped that 9" Bowie knife in his right hand as he whipped around, and the 28" titanium devastator in his left. Without wasting a second, the Acadien drew back his elbow and thrust the steel blade forward towards the shapeshifting tank's right kidney, meanwhile gearing his left arm up for a surprise followthrough.

Playtime was over, as far as he was concerned; it had transitioned quickly into a no-holds-barred, all-or-nothing fight to come out on top.

So as he rocketed his right hand forward for the stab, the left arm would wind up and fly out into a brutally powerful, momentous curved path aiming the shaft of his crowbar into the left side of Null's skull.

G'd luck dodgin' bot'a dose, you cocain son of a b***h.

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*Cocain: Cajun slang for "giant" or "really big"