by Murdoch Wed Apr 13, 2011 5:25 am
The room is silent. Not even the rustling of ration slips, used for betting, can be heard anymore as the sparring room, just outside the gym proper, falls under the blanket of deathly quiet. The outside of the room is packed, the walls turned to transparency so everyone can see, television monitors set up so those at the back can get a clear view as well, and everyone- ODST troopers, Spartans, Marines, even an officer or two- holds their breath as they watch the contestants inside the arena. Some of the audience are in casual attire, others in training gear, still others either half or completely geared up in their battle gear. Some have helmets on, others don’t, but officers and marines and Spartans and ODST stand next to each other, free of arguments, to watch what is happening inside the room.
The sparring room is cold, but none of the contestants feel it. Whilst the audience is a mix-and-match of gear, the fighters all have their gear on. This is serious business, and if they get injured, they’re going to be in a lot of trouble. Strictly speaking, common sense would dictate that they shouldn’t even be in here, fighting, but there’s nothing like a good fight to get the blood pumping. That the prize is extra ration slips and respect is just a side note.
A ring of seven fighters stands around the outside of the circular chamber. Four are ODST troops of the Winged Guard, the dark blue of their armour reflecting the light a little, the white wings on their pauldrons and the sides of their helmets glinting. Their bronze visors are down, and the men inside the suits are nervous as all hell.
The other three fighter are all Spartans, two being Spartan II’s, one being a Spartan III. All three are part of the Iron Legion, dull metallic grey armour with no other ornamentation whirring and creaking a little as they shift their positions. All are in a fighting stance, albeit different ones, and all are looking at the figure in the centre.
A Spartan, tall even by Spartan standards with the muscle to boot, is standing straight up in the centre of the ring, silent. His black and dark grey armour seems to absorb the light, and his breathing can be heard clearly in the silent room. On his chest is emblazoned the symbol of the Death Watch ODST. The ODST troops cast a nervous glance towards each other, and one takes a step forwards. Murdoch doesn’t move. The troop takes another step, more confident this time, and his mates follow him. Another step, surefooted this time, still in sparring position, and his mates move to surround Murdoch further.
Another step. The troop flexes his fist, then swings.
Murdochs arm shoots up, batting the hand away, and his other hand delivers a bone-shattering punch to the ribs, the arm that blocked coming up again in a devastating elbow to the face, sending the trooper sprawling to the floor. Spinning, Murdoch delivers a crunching roundhouse to the face of the second ODST, landing his foot just in time to catch the third ODST’s fist with his hand. He twists his arm, gives the fourth ODST a splintering kick to the chest as he comes in, attempting to hit Murdoch from behind, before stepping inside and bringing his knee into the ODST’s face.
As the last two ODST’s go down, Murdoch feels something around his waist, and suddenly he’s being lifted into the air by one of the two Spartan-II’s. Most would panic, but not Murdoch. He keeps his head, not even squirming as the second Spartan-II approaches, drawing back his fist as he steps towards Murdoch-
And gets a kick in the head for his trouble. He’s sent spinning, and Murdoch elbows the first one in the head viciously, making him drop him. As soon as his feet hit the floor, Murdoch backfists him, runs forwards and lifts him by the groin and chest, turning slightly and slamming him into the floor. He looks up, catching the Spartan-III’s leg as it comes down on his shoulder, punching the Spartans groin, and then grabs the leg not on his shoulder, spinning in a circle- dragging the Spartan with him- and throwing him into the wall. The audience retreats a few steps as the Spartan smashes into the window and slides down to rest, sprawled on the floor.
Murdoch ducks as the second Spartan- and the only man still standing- runs at him, taking the Spartans ankles out and sending him flying. Murdoch reaches up, grabs one of the flailing legs, stands up and drags the Spartan back mid-air, bringing his fist down into the back of the Spartan, crunching him to the floor.
The room is silent once more. The audience releases its breath, and the rustling of paper is heard as winnings are handed out. Murdoch doesn’t care. He’s nicely warmed up for the battle, and maybe these fools will think next time before challenging him. He cracks his neck slowly left, then right, and turns to make his way out of the sparring area.
