Qi Zhaolin vs. Shadow Vigo Zakirov

You had arrived on Arx after hearing word of a fighting tournament. It had been set up by the Combat Master and had been advertised as a Revival of the long held tradition of naming a Champion of the Antei Combat Center. As you had arrived at the signup table after waiting in line, you were met by a Trandoshan who looked you up and down, said nothing, and slid a form attached to a clipboard to you. A cheap chain linked a pen to the clipboard.

You read it over and it was a standard legal waiver noting that you could not hold the Combat Master or the Brotherhood liable for any injuries or even potential death that occurred during the tournament. You were entering this tournament of your own free will. Any and all repercussions of doing so were at no one’s fault but your own.

You signed, and the Trandoshan hissed with delight as he pointed to a door behind the table. A cheap paper sign was taped to the door that read “ACC Championship Introductory Meeting” in what looked to be felt-tipped black marker. You stepped inside the dark room and that is the last thing you remember until you woke up just now.

The world around you was dark… and soft. The area that you lay on felt just a bit more firm than a standard pillow. A quick check of yourself revealed that you still wore and carried everything you had when you had signed the waiver. While vision was extremely limited, you could tell that someone else was in the room with you. Four ceiling lights clicked on, one at a time, giving the room a bright glow beneath the four lights, but an eerie darkness outside of their radiance. You were in a padded room with a barred and sealed door. Every surface of the room was covered in thick, firm padded square tiles. You lay on a bed made of the same material in one corner of the room, while someone laid in another bed in the opposite corner. It was too dark to make out their figure well.

A holoprojection dropped from the ceiling, giving the room a pale blue glow. It was Combat Master Vincent Brujah. The Sith smirked as he began speaking.

“So, you’ve signed up for the tournament? Where I come from, that makes you a little crazy. I’ve taken you to a more appropriate environment for someone with your condition.”

As he smiled, pink mist began spraying from the ceiling at the same location as the lights. Slowly, what little you could see of the full room began to tint pink. The Combat Master’s smile grew wider.

“And if you weren’t crazy before… well… we can fix that. The effects of this drug will be pleasant… at first. You must be careful, though. Take too big of a dose and things can get downright terrifying, or so I’ve heard. Prolonged exposure will result in death.”

He shrugged slightly.

“The only way out of this room and into safe air is when I tell my crew to open the door, and I’m only going to do that when there is one of you left capable of walking away. Until then, enjoy the ride.”

The holoprojection blinked away. There was no starting whistle. No horn. No audience. Just silence, dim light, and the realization that the longer you sit there, the closer you would come to death.

A sharp intake of breath expanded his lungs as Zhaolin came to awareness. Blinking rapidly at the holoprojection, the words spoken slipped loosely around his mind. Nothing seemed to stick and he shook his head slightly as if to dislodge his disorientation. He'd been knocked out enough times in his life to recognize that had happened at least. This was certainly not what he'd expected when he'd signed up for a fight. The pink mist settled over them like a light, damp blanket and the fine hairs stood along the back of his neck. His immediate vicinity was oddly soft and padded; stark contrast to the sands of the Pit. It was, to Zhaolin, a very strange place for a fight but he didn't particularly care.

Gaze casting about the space, his eyes landed on his opponent. The other male looked to be roughly the same size as Zhaolin, though he was lithe to Zhaolin's slightly heavier build. Grey eyes met silver-blue from across the room. Anticipation coiled, serpentine and insistent in his gut. His body knew what to do, but something about that pink mist made his head feel like it was stuffed full of clouds. It was a pleasantly numb sensation that made direct thoughts meander sluggishly. The disconnect between muscle memory and thought made him unsteady as he rose, stumbling slightly with a disturbed grunt.

He did not like this. In all his years of combat, he'd been in control of his faculties. No drug or chemical interference had played a part in his gladiatorial upbringing. Chest rising and falling in a staccato pattern, he glared his displeasure at his cellmate as if they had any control over the situation. A fluid, practiced motion brought his fists up into a defensive stance, the center of gravity seeming to roll this away and that as an unfamiliar heat rose along his silvery-pale skin. His counterpart appeared to be affected similarly, pupils dilating almost comically as the pair squared off.

Whatever that mist was, it was fucking with him. It had started out as a cozy warmth, soft with that pins and needles feeling of a limb asleep. Now it grew hotter, uncomfortable as high noon on a midsummer's day. A fine sheen of sweat rose to coat his skin as he circled the other, careful not to cross steps despite the uneasy sway of his body. Irritation replaced anticipation. Zhaolin hissed, lip curling back to reveal the wicked white curve of canines. One step, two steps to the right, a sharp intake of breath preceded his movement. Lifting his right leg in several unfulfilled kicks, he struck out fully on the third lift, aiming for the knee. A step back carried the man out of Zhaolin's range and they faced off once more.

"Your name?"

Zhaolin's voice was strange to his own ears, the sound both disorienting and grating on his eardrums. Not one for many words, he fixed his attention to how the other's feet moved across the padded floor. The surface had give to it though it was lighter and less prone to trapping feet than the thick sands of the fighting pit he'd been raised in. This man too had clearly had some education in fighting, evidenced by the care taken in how he stepped. Their movements were not quite mirrored, but spoke to a level of experience on both sides.

"Vigo Zakirov." Grey eyes moved over Zhaolin in a calculated, assessing sweep, "And you are?"

Zhaolin nearly missed the blade that was produced, but the edge caught the dim light and refracted into a thousand different colors. It was only the hours of drills, the perfected muscle memory that had his palm shooting out to collide with Vigo's wrist as his mind reeled with the kaleidoscope that danced in his head. Following the momentum, Vigo let Zhaolin push the blade off course and adjusted the angle upward toward the hybrid's face. A grunt of annoyance escaped him as he pivoted to bring himself along side Vigo and out of the blade's trajectory.

"Zhaolin."

Looking for an opportunity to grab the lighter man, they began to circle each other again. Each occasionally testing an opening with blade or fist. There were no places to hide in the padded room, though the beds jutting out from the walls did make for a tripping hazard if they drew too close. Both were already sweating despite having only just begun and it let Zhaolin know that he was not the only one that was being swept up by the effects of the strange mist. Not only did it make his vision swim and his head feel oddly full and empty at the same time, the ever increasing fever under his skin was enraging him.

As the two circled, Vigo finally came to his senses. Up until this point, he had been moving on autopilot. The poison had already started to affect his limbs, causing them to tingle, and the corners of his vision had clouded. Luckily for him, he had experienced this and trained on the Godless Matron should a situation like this arise again. The sad eyes of his brother appeared in his mind, reminding him who he fought for time and time again. He clicked on the combat mask attached to his armor, hopeful that it would afford him some spare, clean breaths.

Poison.

Why was it always poison?

So soon after the war, too. He really needed to have Dominik upgrade his armor for poison prevention. Training helped, but just wouldn’t cut it if it kept happening. He let the frustration flood through him and fuel the ever burning, icy rage. The mask would only work for a minute, if he were lucky, and both him and his opponent were significantly running out of time. He needed to ramp up the fight-- the brawling just wasn't cutting it. One of them needed to be incapacitated to move on. It wasn’t going to be him.

On the outside he looked calm and collected, with the only noticeable change being that his now prosthetic left eye changed from its natural grey color to light red. He smiled beneath his mask, focusing on the sound of the blood rushing through his ears as he faded into a light shimmer. He would only be visible now if Zhaolin were to look hard enough. Luckily for Vigo, the pink gas was likely obscuring the shimmer.

Zhaolin held his ground, too hyper aware of his surroundings. The poison blurred the sides of his vision. His trained combat instincts told him to watch his back. He remained looking forward, but at the slightest inclination, he was a coiled viper ready to whip around.

Vigo sized up his opponent. The stature, stance, and the angled hand ready to grab the Sapphire Blade at a moment’s notice. It was clear to the Umbaran that the man before him was an experienced warrior, likely trained to expect the invisible opponent in front of him to attack from behind. Which wasn’t incorrect. Vigo’s usual attack was from behind. But he decided to put his theory to the test.

He knelt down, focusing on his breathing, maintaining his cloak, and grabbed a throwing knife that he kept tucked into his boot. He slowly stood back up, praying to whatever god that hadn’t abandoned him that his joints wouldn’t pop. He shuffled a few steps to the side, and tossed the throwing knife, angled at the floor behind the hybrid.

His theory was correct. In a split second, Zhaolin had snatched his blade, twisted and then swiped at the air behind him.

Vigo quickly capitalized on the opportunity as he dashed into a jump, uncloaking midway through the air. He wrapped his arms around the hybrid’s helmet, simultaneously hooking his legs around Zhaolin’s waist. Vigo’s prosthetic right arm locked its grip to the bottom of the helmet. He poured his focus into the Force and pulled. Split seconds stretched into what seemed like hours as he strained through clenched teeth but the attachments connecting the helmet finally gave way. Small, broken pieces fell away and into the cracks of the padded floor. Vigo nearly toppled off the hybrid’s back, but thankfully to his honed core muscles and the Force he stayed attached.

The Umbaran managed to dodge Zhaolin’s backwards head bashes, and ignored the pain from the spiked pauldrons. Zhaolin tried to grab the nimble Umbaran, but Vigo was quick to move. The hybrid was quick on his feet. Flamed ignited along his blade, which he swiped down in a quick movement, across Vigo’s thigh. When the hit landed, Vigo gritted his teeth, ignored the feeling of the dripping blood and relied on his Biotech implant to grant him pain relief. He could be seen by a medic after. Vigo wrapped his left arm around his opponent’s neck, as his prosthetic arm with its grip still locked. He slammed down with all his might and Force, bludgeoning with the helmet.

“For what—” Slam!

“It’s worth—” Bam!

“I am—” Bang! Bang!

“Very sorry—” Vigo said through each impact.

There was splitting pain, confusion and something fiercely primal creating a maelstrom in Zhaolin’s mind. Each slam of the helmet broke a chain holding that wicked fury in place. Perhaps it was the mist or maybe just the outrage he spent year after year tamping down inside himself. The pressure built until the hybrid felt like the Force itself was going to cause him to burst at the seams.

Grunting with the effort to maintain focus, blood trickled down the side of his face as the warrior threw his weight into a spin. He could feel Vigo’s center of gravity shift over his spine, tugging his own along and threatening to topple them to the left. Yet rather than allow momentum to carry them to the floor, he jerked violently in the other direction. Vigo’s grip on his neck pulled uncomfortably taut as Zhaolin brought the flaming point of his amethyst blade upward in an attempt to skewer the Umbaran’s face.

Vigo reared back as if he were riding an unruly Orbak and narrowly avoided taking the blade through his prosthetic eye. Flames licked at his cheek, the skin blistering and reddening with the intense heat. Rather than fight gravity, he fell into it. Tipping backward while maintaining grip with his mechanical arm, Vigo fought to force Zhaolin off balance. The heavier male’s steps wobbled, the padded ridges of the floor uneven and treacherous. Together they crashed downwards, adrenaline skyrocketing as the pair scrambled for positioning.

The volcanic fury within Zhaolin snapped as he reached for the Force with a guttural roar. Power rippled through him as he entered his Rampage, twisting like a hellcat despite the heavy armor he wore. Though he trained in weighted armor frequently to improve his physical prowess, the Rage made the armor feel even lighter. That dull scream of pain in his head was wiped away by the blended haze of the pink mist and the Force. Clarity did not return to him as it usually would—surely because of that unknown substance.

Vigo lost hold of the helmet, watching it roll out of reach with a curse slipping out of him as he managed to kick away the amethyst blade. It no longer burned, Zhaolin’s concentration momentarily broken by the onset of his Rampage. The warrior twisted his torso, rotating on top of Vigo. The weight of his own body and the armor threatened to trap the lithe man. Yet he did not panic. With precision his fist shot forward, the knuckle-plate vibroblade embedding itself in Zhaolin’s bulging trapezius—now exposed with the helmet out of play.

Animalistic ferocity pumped through Zhaolin and though he no longer held his sword, his hand was now free to return the favor of pummeling his counterpart. Knocking away the arm that impaled him, his blood burst from the wound in a crimson spray. Without the singular focus of his Rage, the pain from that alone would have lessened his blows. With the seconds slipping away, he rose up and began to throw his gauntleted fists into Vigo’s masked face. The strikes were not thrown with precision or technique, but with a primal instinct that was already beginning to ebb. Soon the debt of power would be due and the Force would collect that balance from his body whether he was victorious or not.

With each passing hit from the assassin on his back, Zhaolin’s vision began to darken with spots and shadows fading in and out. This was met with an intense ringing in his ears that grew louder. Zhaolin needed to do something and fast. He smothered the lit blade, dropping it on the floor as he slammed back into the padded wall, pushing the Umbaran off to the side.

Zhaolin was able to grab Vigo’s left arm, prying him up and over his shoulder, whilst the Umbaran fought back against the assault. While he was adept in stealth, Vigo significantly lacked in being able to counter the sheer strength that Zhaolin fought with.

As more of the Umbaran came into view, the hybrid quickly twisted around, grabbing Vigo by the neck and slammed him down into the ground. His grip tightened around Vigo’s neck as he started to cut off airflow. Zhaolin promptly pushed down with his body weight, securing the Umbaran’s body to the ground.

Vigo tried to kick, but with his darkening vision and lack of air, his once controlled movements had become sporadic and jerky. He tried to hit the hybrid with the helmet once more, but Zhaolin countered by grabbing his wrist and pinned it to the ground. Vigo used his left arm to do anything. He clawed at Zhaolin’s face, reaching for any straps on his torso. Anything that could help.

Zhaolin squeezed harder. Vigo’s eyes went wide as guttural gasped noises escaped him. The room vastly darkened, Vigo couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. All he could do was feel the vice-like grip around his throat and the panic setting in. His left arm gripped something hard along Zaholin’s torso. A button. He slammed his thumb down and pressed with any remaining strength he had left.

The two bodies went flying, somersaulting over each other, as Zhaolin’s jetpack reacted to the command. Vigo grasped his neck, sparing only a moment, as he coughed and choked down more of the toxic air. His prosthetic eye was no longer barely illuminated. Now it was a bright, vivid red as he sent an icy glare to Zhaolin.

As Zhaolin began to stir, Vigo was already to his feet, rushing to the hybrid. Vigo gripped Zhaolin’s hair, holding up his head, as his right arm unsheathed his knuckle-plated vibroblade and placed it firmly at the hybrid’s throat.

“Yield or I’ll kill you,” Vigo exclaimed through halting breaths, as his fury buzzed through him. He barely had a grasp on it. He wanted to kill him.

Zhaolin’s ears were still ringing from the impacts from earlier and did not register the words spoken to him. Instead he started to reach up.

“Yield!” Vigo yelled through gritted teeth louder than the first statement. He pulled Zhaolin’s hair harder, shaking him slightly.

Zhaolin reacted by reaching into a side pocket gripping a grenade.

“KRIFF!” Vigo yelled loud enough to make his own ears ring, saliva coated the inside of his mask. Vigo couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill him despite every ounce in his body telling him to. Instead, he slammed his metal prosthetic arm into Zhaolin’s head, fueled by the anger and rage built up over the years. Why couldn’t he just yield? The hybrid went limp, finally succumbing.