A Good Bet

July 12, 2018:

Underground Irish Bar/Fight Club. A good place to meet people, right?

Chelsea, NYC


NPCs: Mad Dog



Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

Massive pilsner-handles are slammed before two males, the bustier that pinches Cassandra’s waist does enough to "bolster" the 'Bustier' while the drinks are slammed down and the spity-sacreen smile hovers over the massive Guiness Mugs of the men bragging about their ability to 'fisticuff'.

Bodies feel impact, fists are wrapped in gauze - soaking up blood of split knuckles…

To the side Cassandra, the betraying bartender of The Matron "Francesca', watches and wraps her own wrists with a bite down of teeth upon the gauze!

The corseted 'Matron of the Bar' gear has been shed for a halter top Sporting Brassiere, accented by the laced-up leather "shorts" tha thad resided beneath a skirt of 'way too high' proportions.

Welcome to Chelsea!

"FOR THE ALLIANCE TO //TH'A HOOK!\" Yelled by one man as the tattoo'd woman with choopy-ass blonde hair highlighted in green and red steps into the Underground Ring to Box with the Best of Them!


Fight clubs are fun for betting, and that is it. Too many super-humans around for a (mostly) normal guy like Cole make a killing on the floor anymore. Particularly in the tri-city area. But betting? Yes, he can. He has a good eye.

And, as usual, he is short of cash. He stalled too long in a promising bounty-hunting case because of playing vigilante in Gotham and some young hotshot detective got his quarry. For shame.

And a guy has to pay the rent, so…

And then the cybernetic bartender enters the ring. See? Super-humans everywhere. A quick glance to the athletic blonde and the reaction of the patrons hint she usually wins the fights. So Grifter covers a couple bets without even looking who is her rival.

The second fighter is a rather tall and heavyset man. About six feet two and likely twice Cassandra's weight. His face is somewhat elongated, feral-like. Ears are visibly pointed, and when he grins to the woman, she can see long and sharp fangs.

Mad-Dog! Mad-Dog! Cheer some guys from a corner. Thugs and mercs, not regulars though. A couple spot the Roxxon Security logo on their outfits.

A duality of gaze sets upon this 'Mad-Dog', one eye almost a milky hue save for the very pale blue in contrast to the 'real' eye. But once a focus is gained it flashes a white glow in a pulsing scan that sweeps and then dissipates in an almost (dis)approving sweep of the Mad-Dog before her.

A rise of her hand, knife-palmed to forehead, pushing away strands of multicolored blonde to "salute" her opponent and sweep a tanker booted foot back for balance and brace as she squares up and readies against her opponent.

Simultaneously her tongue rolls along her lower lip, a cigareete placed between her lips, unlit, the filter bitten down upon like a mouth guard in preparation.

A single hand rises, fingers curling in a beckon towards her opponent while eyes narrow and set in wait.

Study and wait..


Mad-Dog responds with a fangy grin, fists rising in a standard boxer pose. He seems quick and dexterous, very likely either a mutant or one of Roxxon enhanced metas. They have a bunch, usually snake-themed. Although nothing at the level of Cyberdata cyborg armies Roxxon does some competent genetic tinkering to have super-soldiers.

And once he starts it is obvious this guy is one of them. He is fast and hits like a truck even with testing blows. His approach is pretty basic, though. Some boxing mixed with some military training.

I do what I wanna…

Last thing I need is my head under water…

The dim lighting reflects of a cybernetic arm that flashes in a swing/pivot towards Mad-Dog, but she is moving with an alacrity of a gymnast in contrast to his brute force!

It is one blow if Ballistic manages to sweep low and then behind Mad-Dog to thrust the human fist between his shoulder blades and keep him distant while she regains and re-guages! Switching it up, the metal fist is placed before the other in a Tae-Bo stance that biurrows a booted toe into the arena-grit below -

Calm down? Nah…!

No beckon this time, she is charging and drawing her metal grip back in preparation!

The mutate swings, misses, goes unbalanced for a couple steps and his mates boos and hiss when Cassandra easily outmaneuvers him and punches him from behind.

It is like punching a solid brick wall, but Mad-Dog winces in pain, turning back and snarling. Obviously easily provoked, he charges the cybernetic woman heedless of the metal bits. Cole, on the other hand, can see it coming, so he covers another $200 bet with a half-drunk Roxxon enforcer.

The charge is met!

Ballistic smiles… Her cybernetic eye flashes in a strobe effect of the underground din.

The cybernetic arm is lofted like an arm-bar or a bit for the massive Mad-Dog jaws to chomp on. She does not care, either way!

When she feels insane, she raps that pain! Hence the toothy grin of Wonderland she needs to mentally prepare for when Dog connects and her leg sweeps upward in connection.

Fuck the cheers and jeers of the crowd! She will sustain the damage and return with the upward sweeping kick of her leg to flip them both asshole over elbow in the arena - Let's just hope Ballistic lands on top!

Mad-Dog is not animalistic (and dumb) enough to bite a metal wrist, so he goes for a physical grab, with one of his hands, as he attempts to use his weight leverage to pin Ballistic down.

Yes! She is falling and… his victory cry becomes a yelp of alarm as the woman sweeps his legs from under him and flips him against the ground. He lands hard, but he is tough enough to take it without breaking anything. So he tries to push her metal arm away, aiming a punch to her head. His position is not ideal, but with his strength he doesn’t need a long swing to do serious damage.

He is not as dumb as she is not as cybernetic!

It is a 50-50 chance for them both!

Ballistic's body rolls, pivots, and her sweep in the momentum lands to twist positioning while slapping away the cybernetic limb that recoils as the human…


Not human!

Her metal fist splays and returns to splay fingers an attempt to catch his fist just before it meets her temple….!

Those mis-matched eyes meet Mad-Dogs in a similar feral light, and if her cybernetic hand caught his fist…

Thighs straddle Mad-Dogs waist, clenching tight in a grip that reticulates around his thighs, the cybernetic grip clenching his punch until bones beging to creak and *crack*!

A shift of position in her torso seeks to slam his assaulting fist above his head and grant him a "tap-out" in this fight.

Leaning down she whispers to MD 20/20.. A drink she should have had beforehand! "You're good, don't make me… baby…." Promises galor in those words to Mad Dog as she /peels/ back from him slowly… waiting…

That punch slows down when Cassandra grabs it, but it certainly pushes her back. Until the pressure on his knuckles becomes painful, then he tries to pull back, grabbing the metallic wrists with his other arm.

Internal servos complain, red lights on her hud; he is exerting over a ton of force with those hands! But at the end metal beats muscle and he screams in pain as bones are cracked. "Aaaargh! Damnit… stop!"

The crowd roars! Roxxon people curse loudly. "Fuck you, Baxter!" Shouts one sore loser.

Ballistic took one step back with the force of Mad-Dog's punch, but the ball of booted toe plants Solid in the arena's gravel, sand, and blood-sod.

When his other hand grips her cybernetic wrist and clenches, her "demure" smile becomes a sneer, and through the exposure of spine, abdominals, solar plexus… Muscles flex as if she is a hulk unto herself! Red lights on her hud flicker a red light pulsing in the backdrop of that pale cybernetic eye. A new iris forming with every-measured-heartbeat… Pulsing to the surface with memories…
… Of being a SHOC…

He cries for "STOP!", and Ballistic is slowly twisting his limb to where meta-tarsals can be heard like popcorn to the crowds blood thirsty hunger, her teeth grinding to a painful level as her memories….

The red strobe lights from her eye as she binks and that balancing foot rises upward to kick Mad-Dog back from her and nearly across the arena!

Hunched, almost hyena like in posture she watches while her vision slowly short-circuits and her breathes come in slowly…. measured… pants.

"Never. Again." A rise of cybernetic hand and a displaced cord is stripped of plastic between teeth, revealing bare wiring that sparks as she seeks to reconnect it after that small break MD caused.

Mad-Dog steps back slowly, holding his injured hand close to his chest. “Fucking crazy bitch,” he groans, stumbling out of the arena area.

Sneers of contempt receive him, but he musters what remains of his dignity to head out, call a cab. Definitely he will need bandages and maybe a cast, that hand is going to be useless for a while.

And Cole is getting several hundred dollars richer, which makes this the best night in a month or so. It won’t last, though; his sneaky mercenary ways require a good deal of money to keep hideouts paid and sources alive. He needs a well-paid mercenary contract. “So, who is the blonde?” He asks to his fellow bet-winners. Because he is the new guy here.

"If I had a nickel…" For every time she was called a bitch.

The spark of connection in broken wiring sparks beneath her eyes and her hand spasms, palsys! Fist-curls as if she would punch Mad again!

He is gone and that red flare of 'sickness' dissipates from her eye to a pale "blind" blue.

Fingers twist over the connections made and her wrist rotates after lips pull away from the cyber-flesh, almost vampiric in satisfaction as the tiny cords are twisted together.

Grifter's query is not unheard…

Even the Owner of the "Spack Undergound" turns a gaze his way and tries to find his smile.
Aligned with Cass'… Balls'…

"Why dun ye ask her ye'self mate?" The man states in an informal bow-out that Ballistic slowly approaches to Mad-Lib (Pun intended!)… Into!

I'm the new high

You're the same bong!

"Ballistic." The blonde states, placing leather clad ass into the stool heavily with an sweep of hand and a dual fingered rise for an order of two drinks. "I work here…"

…"Because she owes us, and The Hook a lot of money for her…" The tender begins,
and Ballistic cuts him off. "Silly ways."

The bills handed Ballistic's way are the tossed to the beady-eye'd owner.

"That gets me drinks and a day off." Stated pointedly before the drinks are served before herself and Grifter.

"Who the hell are you?"

Ballistic? That name rings a bell. Cole doesn't know much about Cyberdata SHOC. He rarely gets involved in corporate wars. "Ah, the lady that never misses," he remembers vaguely. "I am Cole. Grifter if you want the professional name."

Grifter is an old name. But not a well-respected one. Drunk, swindler, and unreliable are the adjectives most often associated to the Grifter. Yet he has been around for over twenty years, he somehow manages to keep going.

"First time here," he adds. "I got lucky with the betting, though. I should be paying the drinks."

Cyberdata. SHOC. That would not be his knowledge either. But what she has earned as a Merc, and around the Unternet, she is one of the number one crack-shots out there, who she ranks with or behind is either dismissed or ignored until met, by Ballistic.

If they win… It's a matter of time and money to her!

Ballistic is a drunk as well, a swindler, but if the $Dollar$ signs add up she is reliable and will get the job done. Her focus is in The Hook, lately, where she has a "job", but it is the easiest angle to hire her now. Easy to see by the derriere strapped in lace-up short-shorts claiming the stool and the way she pitched her winnings the tenders way. A narrow set of eyes saying something unspoken between them as he simply hits his register and only slides a couple bills into it while the rest go into his pocket.

"Oh this is the meet and greet, Grifter." A tsk from Cass as she takes back her shot and gives no first name or even an abbreviation (for good reason!), and slams the glass down with the back of cybernetic wrist wiping at her lips. "Not the first time for everything else. Don't call your bet on me your Shirley Temple, even if you like Red." A grin and the pivot in the bar stool has her bared spine postured against the eave of the bar, but she is facing him.

"Now, what? Grifter." A loft of pale and scarred brow to the other merc.

"Meet and greet? Fair," replies Cole, signaling the tender to come. He has been drinking cheap beer so far, but it is time for upgrade. He has cash to burn. "Bloody Mary, and whatever she wants," he asks. "And yes. I hang my hat on Gotham lately, but I think I will come here more often. I like the view," he comments, looking at the arena, not at Ballistic.

Then he leans closer to her. "Say, how easy is to get real work here?" Mercenary work, obviously. If he gets hired as bartender he would bankrupt the bar in a week.

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