No Time For Mercy

Furious screeches pierce the otherwise calm forest breeze as the feral continues his tantrum. The source of his frustration was no doubt your own devilish ruse that had recently sent him to the ground. Clearly this mindless beast wasn’t used to being on the back step and that was exactly where you meant to keep him. Not waiting for the shaken feline to collect himself, you launch into a sprint, coat both your arms in solid blocks of unnatural ice.

Your sudden advance wasn’t something the Liepard hadn’t exactly counted on, apparently, as the headlong charge seems to take the man by surprise. He even stumbles over his only leg for a brief moment in the face of your rapid approach, a blunder you intended to exploit. The gap is closed in a blink and up comes your fists to put down this beast once and for all. Your first strike is a weighty haymaker, intended to make full use of the speed you’d built running the man down. Predictably, the feral has enough wherewithal to manage a shaky dodge, just ducking your swing. Knowing the danger this one still posed, you made sure to keep yourself balanced in the likely event that you missed.

Not dismayed in the least by the initial failure, you sweep your opposite leg up and under the Liepards retreat, catching it in the ribs. Using the pained snarl to direct your next, a quick left cross finds his cheek, forcibly swapping out his vengeful scowl for a disoriented stupor. The steam in your chest is waning from your flurry and instead of carelessly winding yourself, you err on the side of caution and break off your string of hits. As the Liepard tries desperately to find his stability, you finish your combo with a savage heel kick, connecting with his chest and sending him to the dirt several paces away.

The image of a ferocious virus bearer stumbling about, trying desperately to get a leg under himself certainly buffs up your resolve. Your chest heaves as it draws well earned gulps of air to soothe your over taxed heart. Limbs ache but looking down at the spiteful cat, still recovering from the barrage of fists and kicks, has a cocksure grin forming along your lips. Eventually, the Liepard is able to **** himself to a wobbly stand and gods above if looks could kill. The cat looks as though he is attempting to scorch a hole clean through your chest with the glare he fixes you with. His angry eyes are met with a scoff as you shrug off his attempts at intimidation. The advantage had shifted and you were itching to put this beast to bed.

The other male, seemingly content to growl and flash his fangs, hesitates to initiate round two so that honor falls to you. Without warming, you leap forth into a head long dash toward the one who’d interrupted your lunch. You kick off with your left hind barely a meter from your target and launch a whizzing kick with your right. The cat has some stamina hidden away though, and recoils quickly backward beyond your reach. Not to be deterred, you pursue transitioning the kick into a light stamp and hop aimed at maintaining the momentum as you rush onward. Another moment and you’re just after him, closing the gap with a straight jab that again the slippery feral just barely dodges.

Even as the Liepard backpedals to keep out of your threat range, it’s clear to see that his avoidance of your blows is more thanks to luck than outright strategy. A glancing swipe here, a bit of purple fur there, only ever just missing a knockout hit. It was all the man could do to stave off the inevitable and all it would take would be a single upturned root or jagged rock to shatter the last of his defense. So on you went, denying him the chance to steady his poise or catch his breath, hurling fist after fist at the cowardly feline. The aching sensation had returned in your flailing limbs, and each breath exhaled was hotter than the last. It mattered little in the end, as the Liepards undignified retreat had to come to an end.

Still, the soreness was becoming more and more noticeable with each grazing shot failing to score a solid hit. He was always a split second out of reach, losing naught but a few strands of fur each time he’d lead your punch. Sweat was beginning to collect at your brow; your body's attempt to expel excess heat in the face of another fruitless string of spins and hooks.

Tch..! Damned slippery cat!

The thundering of your heart as it does overtime so you can keep the upper hand isn’t lost on you. Somewhere in your frenzied mind you knew the threat of over-exertion was fast approaching. The sight of the panic-stricken Liepard stumbling out from under another decisive blow dispels the doubts, though. He would be the first to falter so long as you never gave him the chance to recover. Salty moisture had begun to sting your eyes and each breath felt like an elbow to the sternum. You’re just about to let the cat have his hard fought retreat when it finally happens.

Winded and aching as you are, it is almost like a bolt of divine intervention when the feral’s shaky stance betrays him. Weaving desperately away from another of your hooks, his balance is finally challenged when his withdrawing heel is caught by a root in the forest floor. This blunder comes at a critical moment and you know by the look on his face that he understands what this means. Despite each and every muscle screaming for relief, you put every last ounce of remaining fire into a frosty haymaker, fully committing to the only chance you’d get. As the infected feline teeters upon one over burdened leg and primed to receive your final retort, he locks eyes with you…

… and grins.

So subtle that it's nearly imperceptible to you in the midst of your fury. Yet there it rests, spread wide across the face your ice weighted fist is rocketing toward. You won’t have to worry about the implications long, as the Liepards gambit comes to light just before you connect. The ice punch screams harmlessly over its intended target as the cat, which once thought to have tripped, allows the fall to guide his muzzle away from danger. With so much **** behind your strike, it is impossible to retract the arm before the feral can wrap both claws around your wrist. Breath catches in your throat as the schemer continues to plummet toward the ground, dragging you along for the ride. Whatever air you had left in your lungs is painful expelled when the feral’s hind, the one you’d thought to have been caught on the roots, swings up and drives hard into your gut. Gravity tugs the both of you to the dirt, though your opponent takes the hit far better than you.

With all the energy behind your failed knockout now working against you, the purple infected is able to curl into a tight roll and, with worrying ease, use the paw embedded into your stomach to launch you head long into the trees beyond. The dizziness that your brain feels from it’s sudden inversion is nothing compared to the explosion of delirium waiting for you as an unflinching oak’s trunk halts your flight. Colliding back first with your legs pointed skyward, it's something of a small miracle that the lights stay on… long enough for you to come crashing down into the roots head first. Mercifully, and at long last, your terrible tumble comes to an end when your legs come down in a heap, leaving you a prone, groaning pile upon the forest floor.

It isn’t exactly clear when your vision returns, though it’s likely some time before the ringing subsides but after the splitting headache begins to flare up. Once it does, however, it's not exactly a welcome sight that greets you…

It is with monumental effort that you are barely able to crane your neck back so as to turn your head to your approaching aggressor. Through lidded eyes and dancing stars, you make out the faint image of…