Gadadhara vs. Luchadillo

Good evening, Sports Fans, and welcome to what promises to be the tournament's biggest, bruisiest and most bombastic battle yet!

I'm Beef Brokely and this is my colleague Rad Manstrong, and we'll be taking you through tonight's action, blow by bitter blow, as the Girder-hefting Gargantua from Gujarati goes up against the Girthy Glyptodon from Guadalajara (ok well he's from Tijuana, but a man's got to alliterate, ok?)

Rad: Look at the crowd out there, Beef - what a sea of humanity! I can feel the electricity in the air! the rain is pounding down in New York, but here inside the Madison Klein Bottle Garden Arena, it's as hot as hell.

Beef: And it's about to get hotter... here come the pyrotechnics!

Rad: Damn, that elephant knows how to make an entrance! Each of those maces of his must weigh as much as my ex-wife, and he's raising those puppies like they're Q-tips!

Beef: Looks like Luchadillo could use some tips of his own, Rad... tips on how not to get ruined by a massive six-limbed pachyderm with a head full of scotch....

Rad: I can't stand the tension, Beef.... look at those guys circling each other. I've never known a zoofight last more than 30 seconds without a vicious wound being inflicted, but these two hulks are just staring each other out.

Beef: I'm having a hard time believing it myself, friend. I think they're actually waiting for the bell!

Rad: And judging by the tension in Gadadhara's arms - not to mention those little lightning feints the armadillo keeps throwing - there's going to be some serious violence when that baby rings.

Beef: You know that 'Dillo's going to make the first strike... that big old head of Gad's is following his every move like a fakir's stretch lizard, but that lumbering old biffer's going to be a second too far behind the times when the real beef starts.


Rad: Guess it's time to find ou-

Beef: :sbahj: I blinked, and I think I missed it!

Rad: Who saw the elephant striking first? Those arms came down like a pair of lead torpedos falling into the centre of black hole! The Mexican's gotta be paste after that!

Beef: Looks like pretty happy paste to me, pal. The last time I saw some processed meat give me a thumbs-up like that was the last time I decided to have drugs for lunch.

Rad: Did you enjoy your lunch today?

Beef: Yes I did. But it looks like Gadadhara isn't enjoying what fate has served him one bit. How the hell did those maces bounce off that shell?

Rad: This just in, Beef old buddy - looks like Luchadillo got some last-minute upgrades from his semi-legal Barrio surgineers before the battle, and now has a shell laced with OSMIUM

Beef: Osmium? This changes everything. We don't even understand what its physical properties are, but it sure is heavy and it sure does stop maces...

Rad: Whatever Osmium does, it's definitely bought Luchadillo some time. The time he needs to deliver MORE PUNCHES THAN I CAN COUNT!

Beef: What a flurry! That barrage of bashes could take down a twelve-foot citadel of hypertermites!

Rad: It might well, Beef old chum, but there's a big difference between a bunch of flaccid, wood-chewing Isopterids and a bus-sized brute with a beer gut hardened by five thousand nights in the steelworker's taverns of the Bengal coast.

Beef: Good Grond, Rad, Gadadhara didn't feel a thing! He's actually laughing, and that's a laugh I don't ever want to hear again. Like a brass brand with lung cancer playing at the funeral of the world's most horrible clown.

Rad: I think the time for laughter's over - it's time to get down to business.

Beef: Did you see that? Gad's been working out! I cannot comprehend this - that armadillo's got a shell packed with hyperdense metals, and he just got lifted like a poor-quality stuffed toy.

Rad: we all knew Luchadillo was going to get some air tonight, but I don't think anyone saw it happening quite like this, quite so soon...

Beef: Looks like Luch has got an urgent appointment with Dr Turnbuckle, and I don't think his prognosis is going to be too rosy!

Rad: What the Flip, Beef - I Swear I just saw that ant-eatin' son of a bitch hit the turnbuckle square on.

Beef: So did I, Rad! I think he's using some kind of forbidden Mexican Fightscience - he just went and swung right round that thing. looks like he's coming back for more, too!

Rad: Gadadhara is not happy - there's an elephant that expects his opponents to respect Newtonian physics, not to mention causality. As usual though, I think he's going to do his talking with his maces...

Beef: If he can manage to get a decent hit on the armadillo, that is. He's going to need a head or a limb shot to do any damage with that mace, and Luchadillo's moving too damn quick for any kind of aiming.

Rad: In fact, he's already behind the pachyderm! Gadadhara, that is one wasted mace swipe.

Beef: And while the mace is stuck in the ring, the tail's gonna swing...

Rad: OH MY GAWD! He's pulling out the QUANTUM KNEE BUNGLER! I haven't seen that move used since Colloso-Quail took on Carp-A-Diem, the murderous Roman fish! It shouldn't even be possible!

Beef: Possible or not, it's got Gadadhara down on one knee, and I don't think he's looking to propose marriage.

Rad: Gad's hurting, beef, and he's still trying to get that sidearm out of the tungsten plating on the floor of the ring. I don't think he's even seen Luchadillo rushing over to the ropes.

Beef: Is he going to? Is he going to climb? Folks, you're about to see a couple of tons of central american bioengineering climb to the top rope and FLY!


Rad: Bam! Luchadillo's gonna fly alright... Fly STRAIGHT INTO THE COMMENTATOR'S DESK!


<muffled crackling>
Beef: Phew, sorry for that outage, Sports Fans - we didn't build our ringside reporting system in expectation of a five ton steelworking pachyderm jumping on it, and-

Rad: No time for explanations, Beef - Luchadillo is fighting for his life here! Frankly, I'm amazed his shell stood up to the force of that collision, and I don't think it's going to take much more of a pounding.

Beef: And a pounding's what he's getting - Gadadhara's dropped his weapons now, and is going at it with fists, tusks and whatever he can find in the ringside debris. Whoa, there goes my chair!

Rad: He's giving the Mexican hell, but for now the stone-handed streetfigter is giving as good as he gets - look at that sock to the jaw!

Beef: No doubt Luchadillo's fighting well, Rad, but he's stunned, and there's only so long he can stand this kind of punishment...

Rad: I think that's done it, Beef. A haymaker from one arm the size of an oak tree, I think he could have handled. Two? I don't think so.

Beef: That's what happens when you let industrialised Hindu Deities compete in wrestling matches, Rad.

Beef: For the first time in the amtch, there's no flashbulbs going off in the crowd. They're all saving their film for what looks like it'll be the slam of the tournament so far.

Rad: That's right Beef - I think we're about to see a Pinata the size of a VW Beetle get busted all over the front row's faces. Luch is out cold for real this time, and Gad is carrying him into the ring like a sack of tapir shit, ready for his signature move - the Gujarati Girder Drop.

Beef: I can see those arms raising, Rad, and every foot in the air that armadillo goes is another foot worth of fall that his Osmium shell is going to take out on his skeleton. Unconscious and limp as he is, he's going to crumple like a zeppelin full of pig liver hitting the floor of the grand canyon.

Rad: Say your prayers, you magnificent insect-munching bastard...

Rad: Wha- Huh? Did that claw just move, Beef?


Rad: And if that's not an album title, Beef, I don't know what is. Looks like that giraffe that Gad shanked all those years ago finally got his revenge! There's no justice like Barrio justice, eh?

Beef: More like old testament Justice, Rad - Luchadillo just scratched out Gadadhara's eye. At least he's got a matching set now. I guess he shouldn't have held the claws of a giant burrowing animal within six inches of his face.

Rad: What a way to learn that lesson. I can't bear to watch, but I have to - in the name of sports!

Beef: Gadadhara's taken a lot of things in his stride over the years, and didn't even flinch when he tore off his own tusk. But after a fight this long, the loss of his only remaining eye is enough to make him falter. His grip is looking shaky - if Luchadillo can pull himself together long enough to capitalise on this, he-

Rad: Looks like Luchadillo just pulled himself together.


Beef: DOWN! Never since I watched that hunchback go out to get groceries for Dracula have I ever seen someone so categorically OUT FOR THE COUNT!

Rad: It's over, with a spiked tail right to the bonce! Gad's been knocked out beyond the reach of a wet towel and a pep talk - those arms have gone as limp as microwaved slugs.

Beef: Who would have thought that Armadillo could catch so much air after such a slobberknocker of a fight? His team are going to be going crazy in the pits right now.

Rad: That's right Beef, it's gonna be termite burritos and ant-flavoured tequila til the sun rises! Ladies and Gentlemen.... :siren: :siren: :siren: LUCHADILLO WINS! :siren: :siren: :siren:

Round one, fight eight: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

Attention, Sports Fans!

When the seeding choices were first presented to you, this was by far the battle that received most votes - a confrontation between the mysterious contenders on either end of the tournament line-up.

What a choice you made. Not only did you manage to choose two of the tournament's four flying entrants, but you managed to choose the two that are absolutely chuffing crackling with wild electrical energies. There's so much more I could say, but I want to introduce you to this week's adversaries.

Suffice to say you have accidentally chosen another perfect match in...


From the Sneaker Technology Institute of the Victory Shoe Company

Fed one archaeological relic a week from an ancient Greek battlefield, this thundering marine menace is possibly the most insane sponsorship decision we have ever come across. This is blasphemy. This is madness.


Cloned from the cells of Caligula's biggest and most vicious Moray Eel, this aquatic titan has been through a phenomenal array of modifications since its birth was greenlit by the deranged marketing committee of the Victory Shoe Company.

Why they chose an Eel for a shoe mascot was the first mystery. Why they decided on the Greco-Roman campaign theme was the second. How on earth they made it emit so much electricity, and how they gave it the ability to soar through the air, are questions of an entirely different magnitude.

Whether AE is imbued with mystical energies from the Gods of Olympus, or just batteries of modified electric eel cells and a vast R&D budget, we will never know. Because he broke out of the plane that flew his team to the tournament, and proceeded to destroy it at 30,000ft. He Just Did It.

We are sure, however, that he can crush a car with those slippery coils, and that he can boot the head off a marble statue with that colossal, one-off Victory Sneaker. He can rip off a goat's trso with his jaws, and he gives us a headache when we look at him.

Achilles' Eel - Surgeoneer’s notes:


From the tragic heart of Science Gone Wrong

Born in an almighty flash of light when a horse wandered into the beam of the Zoofights particle accelerator, I can do little to overstate the majesty of:


Surrounded by powerful Horsefields and crackling with ruinous energy, this pale blue apparition gallops through the air on a trail of wild electricity and thundering hooves, spreading loose ions and possibly cancer in her wake.

We know not what she cares about, or even if she cares at all. We do not even know how she functions, although we do know she is a horse. Although her lower body trails off into a savage cloud of plasma and lightning, her top half is certifiably flesh and blood - we saw it gradually manifest itself from the nervous system outward after the accident that created her.

Her hooves are shod in razor-edged obsidian, and her teeth bite like... a horse with a terribly tenacious bite.

Crowning her brow is a great steel coil that projects bolts of electricity and searing white heat for dozens of feet - the weapon which gives her her name. I would give you full stats on current, voltage etc, but DAMN IT JIM, I'M AN ILLEGAL FIGHTS PROMOTER, NOT A PHYSICIST.

Teslacorn - Surgeoneer’s notes:

And there you have it, pals. The colossal, savage eel and the unknowable nuclear horse - two wild card contestants with a huge amount of power and an absolutely phenomenal combined wattage. We'll be squaring them off in the cavernous interior of the Zoofights Vertical Disassembly Arena, at the apex of our complex. If i were you, I'd wear shoes with very thick rubber soles.

(Zoonote: Hopefulyl we'll see some spirited argument here, Sports Fans. BE WARNED HOWEVER, If I see a load of one liner votes like "I'm voting for the horse because :science: " or "yyyyay unicorns friendship is magic" I will start subtracting points like a Dickensian accountant. Seriously, posts that do nothing but drop a few words of cheerleading for a gimmick will actually hurt their own cause.) :stare:




TESLACORN - ZOONOTES FOR CLARITY (yeah I should have provided a proper blueprint but I was having too much fun):

- Horsefields are real, and provide an electromagnetic shield against physical attacks (eg bites and crushes), but drain over time. also they're horsey.
- Teslacorn has a definite speed advantage, but the eel can twist and turn pretty damn fast.


Teslacorn vs. Achillies' Eel

Good evening, Sports fans, and prepare yourselves to be subjected to this, the final match-up of the tournament's first round.

Welcome to the cavernous space of the Zoofights Vertical Disassembly Building, where the atmosphere was truly electric even *before* we unleashed three tonnes of electromagnetically unstable animals into the arena.

The fans are out in their thousands; drunk, angry and expecting blood and plasma by the truckload.

Bets of unparalleled size have been placed, plays have been written in support of favoured combatants, and death threats are being posted on a giant cork board to save on postage costs.

The fight has been three hours late starting, but that has only given the audience time to start enacting the violence of their champions by proxy - as the great eel slides into the abyss of the VDB, it winds its way through a light rain of spectators, hurled from their seats in fits of ringside brawling.

When Teslacorn appears, it is as if it is in several places at once - flickering with surges of its plasma-shrouded hindquarters, it darts from spot to spot faster than the great predator can swing its head to snap at it.

The air crackles and thumps with the discharge of furious energies, but the beasts are silent in their twisting dance, drowned out by the sounds of jeering and smashing glass from the stands.

While the strange muted dance continues, the clouds above burst as if in sympathy with the colossal energies being held back inside the arena. Rain lashes on the roof of the building, and jagged spears of lightning cast actinic sheets of light through the windows. Winds rage, and the crowd smell the storm - betting opponents lunge at each other with switchblades, and high rollers chew on pungent cigarettes to escape the tension of the impending confrontation.

The horse leaps from point to point with inexplicable acceleration and intertialess halts, like a game of Sonic the Hedgehog being played on the surface of a neutron star, while the eel surges with increasing desperation.

Then, with a suddeness that causes even the most far-gone duellers at ringside to turn their heads, the horse comes to a complete standstill and neighs. It is a neigh like the ignition of a rocket, like the first firing of a particle accelerator, and it is an unambiguous challenge.

Even if the horse had any conception of a bro, it would not consider the eel to be one - but all the same, it is inviting the thirty foot fish to come at it.

As lightning flashes behind the towers of the storm-shrouded city, the eel gapes like a thing emerging from a crevasse in some stygian reef, and for a moment, everything is silent. Then, the thunder rolls in.

As the building shakes, the moray comes on like a rollercoaster made of chained together jet engines, its vast shoe swinging behind it like a pendulum.


This time, the horse cannot flicker away from the snaggle-toothed jaws - it is caught fast, and pours with inarguably corporeal blood from its ragged wounds. The eel thrashes, the modern unicorn's brow coruscates with agonised pulses of electricity, and the crowd screams itself hoarse. This is what they bought their tickets to see.

Then, the lights begin to flicker...

The air begins to feel sticky. Old men develop crippling migraines, and robots start chundering. As the malevolent muraenidid tightens its coils and rears back to deliver another savage mauling with its jaws, lightning begins to flicker over its surface as if it were a sack of forks inside an industrial mincrowave oven.

Somewhere else in the Zoofights complex, a hulking feathery form rears up from an operating table and pumps a fist int he air in sheer excitement. Every physicist in the crowd turns to their neighbour in a fluster to explain what is happening, but they are all lying through their teeth - no one has a chuffing clue.

Then, with a mighty whine, every single lightbulb in the arena explodes.

The lights are out. The speaker systems are dead. Even speak-and-spells aren't working. All through the Zoofights complex, panicked cameramen, engineers, lab technicians and corrupt tournament organisers are mindlessly hammering the keys of defunct electronic equipment.

In the arena, the crowd are slowly recovering from the blast of the floodlights overloading. What they see is something weakly glowing, like a phosphorescent mushroom in the depths of a summer forest, or a lonely scavenger in the depths of an oceanic trench.

It is Achilles' eel - protected from the worst of the blast by his now-battered mercurial helm, but dazed and still crackling with tendrils of lightning from his near-lethal tussle. Where is that goddamn horse?

Streaking from the shadows of the arena like a torpedo from some kind of psychedelic U-boat, Teslacorn slams horn-first into Achilles' eel from below. The searing tip of her brow drives the gnashing carnivore high into the air, and slams him at huge speed into the roof of the arena.

It's time to take this shit outside.

Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook? or his tongue with a cord which thou lettest down?

Canst thou put an hook into his nose? or bore his jaw through with a thorn? - Job 41: 1-2

The two warriors breach the ceiling of the vertical disassembly building like a mighty fisherman bursting from a lethal ocean in mortal combat with his quarry, steaming as the storm pours filthy rain down their blazing flanks.

Searchlights swing to pick out the great draconic form as it writhes to crush its assailant, and a great roar rises from the street as the pent-up rage of a city expresses itself through the timeless duel of eel and horse.

The wind sends torn and sodden tournament brochures flapping down the great avenues of Manhattan, and strangers clench their fists at one another - they have spent the week swearing by everything they believe in that one or another competitor will win, and they are going to tear this place apart if they are proved wrong now.

The eel grabs Teslacorn in its coils once more... with its energies depleted by bloodloss and the effort of its EMP blast, it is in no position to shrug off the hold with physics-mangling trickery. The eel tenses the titanic chords of its neck...

Above the rumbling of thunder, a sickening sound like Jason Statham yanking a ship's anchor out of a car full of lamb chops reverberates across the New York skyline.

With classical nobility, Achilles' eel braces himself against the seething unicorn and rips his lower jaw free of the horn embedded in it, bifurcating it in the process. As viscera pours from his split mandible, he raises his head to the storm and lets the rain dilute his blood.

Gazing beyond the clouds to the seat of the gods that may or may not provide his power, he issues a silent piscenian prayer to father Zeus. As the lightning pounds the weathervanes of the city again and again in holy wrath, he asks for the strength to fly, to bite... and to batter.

Seemingly enlivened by something more than his internal batteries of electric organs, the eel rises from the rooftop and lets free the exhausted, shatterboned thunderhorse. The equine dynamo darts to and fro among the spires of the city, but gone is the relativistic frolicking of the fight's beginning - it is lumbering around like a third-hand UFO with sugar in the gas tank.

In their darkened sponsorship bunker, the executives of the Victory Training Shoe Company offer their own silent prayer of thanks - after this seemingly interminable beating, the colossal sums they have spent on hiring archaeological mercenaries and securing product placement deals have finally paid off.

The tail of the eel winds up, and delivers a chest-bungling boot to the chest of the thaumaturgic thoroughbred. Disappearing in a streak of blue light, it thunders into the side of a skyscraper and leaves only the sound of rain on concrete.

Rain drips.

A great amber eye looks through a horse shaped hole and narrows in pure hunger.

In every bar within eyeshot of the scene, knives slide silently out of holsters and knuckles go white as they clench round bottle necks.

If only the eel could have known how to read.

"Power company" read the plaque on the building.

Mercurial helms are amazing things to have, but not much stops a crippled and angry horse hooked up to one of the largest power grids on the planet.

Ironically, it is not the electricity that ends the fight. It is the fall, when he becomes briefly unconscious. Like Icarus, Achilles' eel tumbles end over end towards the rain-slicked street, and hits with a sound too dignified to be afforded a coarse simile.

In seconds mourners have gathered, and touch the face of their fallen champion.

Elsewhere, the bottles that have been clenched in fists for the last hour are smashed against tables. The fight may be over, but the night is not.

Stay tuned.

It's a :riot:

The city is in uproar.

Deep in the Bronx, a mechanical owl is leading an angry mob in overturning a burning tractor.

On the lower East side, mobs are looting homeware stores for all the sponsored appliances they can get their hands on.

In a rickety dive bar, a giant squid is attempting to put out a roaring inferno while trying to resist the taste of delicious firemen.

And in the heart of Manhattan, a weary procession of Sports Fans are carrying their chosen competitor back to the surgeoneering labs.

they have a long night ahead of them.




Losers' League, Fight One

Manhattan is on fire.

The power grid is down with horse-related difficulties and gangs of freaks roam the streets, lit only by the leaping flames. They have battle in their hearts and nailbats in their hands. At 1 Zoofights Plaza, chimpstruction workers swing through the skeleton of the megacranes repairing the upper reaches of the Zoofights Tower. Mysterious forces amass in the shadows, biding their time...

Despite all of this chaos, the show must go on. So turn your attention now to our fighters, snatched back from the jaws of death to battle for our amusement once again.

:siren: Losers' League Fight One :siren:

Rising up, back on Maul Street, it's

Cash Cow


The multinational conglomerate that had been backing Bull Market pulled out immediately after his loss, in a shocking but not unpredictable show of mercenary indifference. We implanted a dairy cow's head as a stopgap measure until more funding could be found, but the cow took to her new body like a hermit crab to a luxury yacht. In her brand new power suit, this ruthless ruminant is taking the world of high-powered battle finance by storm. The worldwide shortage of big muscly arms blunted our options, but we've made due: cybernetic shoulder pads give each of her forehoofs the punching power of a runaway freight train, and if she's charging it's more like two runaway freight trains. She's dressed for success and ready to shatter the glass ceiling along with every bone in your body.



A simple gunshot wound to the head means little to the intrepid innovators at Sintendo Corporation, so straight from their Kyoto R&D labs comes



The age of cyberspace is dawning, and silhouetted against the sun comes its champion, Neuromantis.  Her bullet-scrambled brain has been replaced with the cutting-edge Sintendo Famicon Modem, allowing her to connect with computer systems great and small and removing the need for controller input to direct her holographic projections.  Durability has been compromised for lower weight, leading to a great overall fragility, but on the offensive side her acid-dripping chainsaw mandibles are as deadly as ever, and her claws have been upgraded to produce and fling razor-sharp discs of pure energy.  Now she's playing with power!


:siren: Voting will continue until a week from today, Friday July 8th :siren:


Cash Cow vs. Neuromantis

Sorry for the delay, fight fans. In the dead of night, Neuromantis hacked into our security camera feed and set up a dummy loop before scything out through the walls of our containment facility and flying off into the dark. Cash Cow was convinced by a ridiculous sack of money to track her down and give us the fight we all desired. The bovine bruiser has just now arrived at the mantis's location, so

:siren: THE GAME IS AFOOT :siren:



From the shores of New Jersey, a magnificent view of the firestorm whipping through downtown Manhattan. But another sight captivates Cash Cow's attention: strange strobing lights flashing out from the 13th floor windows of the headquarters of Fish Supercomputer Company. Her quarry is somewhere within, and the first order of business is gaining entrance.


No problem. With a remarkable show of restraint, Cash Cow shatters the lock holding closed the front doors of the facility, rather than punching off the entire front of the building. Entering the lobby, she finds the elevator call buttons unresponsive, with the cars locked in place far above. This too is no problem. The elevator doors shriek in protest as they are rended apart, and beneath a smart pair of olive slacks, muscles tense in preparation for a


Bounding from wall to wall up the shaft, Cash Cow draws closer to her target...


On the thirteenth floor, a tasteful ding announces the arrival of an elevator. But weren't they all locked-


Oh shit indeed! An entire elevator car explodes up and out through the floor, being pushed along by the massive brute strength of Cash Cow. And just as expected, the mantid menace is there.


Hovering idly above row upon row of Fish-2 supercomputers, Neuromantis faces the cow with arms spread wide in welcome. It almost seems like she was expecting all of this...

Cash Cow is in no mood to be trifled with. Gripping the elevator car between hooves, she lets loose a throaty bellow of a moo that shakes the glass-walled computer enclosure, spins around and hammer-throws the two ton car directly at the condescending insect.


The impromptu projectile is dead on target, but no contact is made. Neuromantis's image wavers and breaks apart in the turbulent air, and the car tumbles catastrophically through the computer core. Shards of metal and glass fill the air, but no sign of the real Neuromantis is to be found. This was simply a holographic decoy...



Hunkered in a corner, Neuromantis keeps her active camoflauge up while desperately attempting to make her way past Fish's multilayered encryption. All her plans could be for naught if the next few seconds do not go exactly right. In her minds' eye, a mind which it is to be remembered is a network-enabled video game console, wave after wave of angry lobster icons assault her viral projection as it bites bit by bit through the black ice shell around the central processing core of the entire facility. Angry lobster faces turn momentarily to shocked dismay as they are shattered by flung energy discs, but the air is lousy with them and they are closing in. Cash Cow stalks the rows, snorting with frustration, and it is a race against time in tight quarters where keeping distance is not an option...

And then she was in. Neuromantis had the entirety of the Fish Supercomputer Company's computer core at her disposal. Immediately, she won Tetris. Not just a single game, but every possible game, ever. Then she turned her attention to more prosaic matters.


While she could only maintain three holographic images of herself, she could now maintain thousands, if not millions. The room was filled with buzzing distractions for Cash Cow to swat ineffectively at. Neuromantis rises in to the air, safe amongst the mock mantis maelstrom. Disc after disc slice into Cash Cow, lodging into her metalic-weave pantsuit and dense flesh before dissipating. The ungulate juggernaut begins ripping computers up from the floor and flinging them after the mantises, which is simply unacceptable...


And then, the unthinkable happens.


Cash Cow punches for a low-flying mantis, but it vanishes in a spray of pixels. Overbalanced, the cow's punch goes wild, and smashes a very particular Fish-2.


That unit was the one through which Neuromantis made her initial connection, and with it shattered the connection is broken. All the holograms disappear in a blink, and Neuromantis is exposed...

But Cash Cow, not fully tempered in the flames of battle, makes a crucial mistake. She bellows and flexes in triumph at the defeat of a multitude of foes, letting her attention fall dangerously away from the real threat.


Taking advantage of the opening, Neuromantis lobs a precision energy disc straight through the bovine bicep of Cash Cow, who drops like a rock. Laying on the ground in shock, Cash Cow lows in dismay as her lifeblood flows out onto the linoleum. Her only saving grace is that in low profile amongst the rubble of the smashed computing power greater than a number of nations put together, there is no clean trajectory for further disc flinging.


Neuromantis flies over to finish the job, settling on spindly legs and looming over a dazed Cash Cow...


...before falling upon her with claw and mandible, ripping through brain, heart, and all four stomachs. Grey matter boils off in prolonged contact with energy-disc generation fields, and acid chainsaw mandibles rip apart Cash Cow's torso with a sound like... well, like taking a chainsaw to raw beef. This fight is 100%, grade-A certified over.

:siren: NEUROMANTIS WINS :siren:

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