If Stryker knew one thing, it was to hit hard first — and think of questions later.
​She had never come across an opponent like this before, in all her time in the ring.
​
​The Newcomer Queen, the Lion Empress, the Champion of the Pendai Circuit 340 Carnage — all titles she had accrued under her belt in the shortest time for any professional.
​
​It helped that big-wigs in high society bet on her at every turn. She's Bastille-made, they'd say, as if that meant a damn thing. Praxus was out there making a show of it, but Stryker got her strength not from a tawdry mousetrap of a bounty hunter ship but from somewhere far more important.
​Her fucking guts.
​
​Her fucking spirit.
​
​Her fucking jacked-up-swole-as-motherfuck front-strike punch.
​Ever since she was a kid, she knew that the only thing between her and an obstacle was how long it took for her to ready her stance. After that, metal or stone, flesh or bone, it'd fall.
​But what stood in front of her this time was different. Something unlike anything of her world.
​It stared, deep, deep into her eyes. Its body was coarse and fat. It swelled and spat bile and — well, that was a fucking human toe, she thought, as a deluge of leftover food rolled out from its clogged maw.
​She'd never seen something like this before. Something so raw, so undignified, so unshapen. It excited her, it sparked fear in her. And that got the Stryker engine going. She prepared her stance, the swear jumping from her entire body as she shrunk down 3.6cm and tucked her weight in behind her back.
​The Beast didn't move.
​She channeled her concentration in a second, her mind and her chi, placing it all on red: the chance that this demon wouldn't budge, and fully intended to take the hit.
​You want to play, huh? Let's play, fat-bags.
​The Beast didn't move.
​Stryker opened her mouth and her body rose back up. In a second she was sliding across the floor and crushing the metal beneath her left foot. She swung forward and lunged, unleashing the move itself: the Fist of the Lonely Stryke.
​Stryker belted forward with all her energy, the anticipation swelling inside her. She felt herself pull back slightly, not wanting to blow the beast apart too much, and get any of the foul off-pork in her mouth.
​The Beast didn't move.
​And Stryker shouldn't have hesitated.
​I lament that I will not have another like it, thought the Pig.
​
Food you see? Nay!
Food you shall be!
Oink oink!
Hee hee!
​The Winterland Clash of Paraversal Champions Match would not see a fight like this for another indistinguishable arc through the Triennial Maelstrom. It lasted five rounds, each of which spanned nearly three full days.
​On the first day, the first Stryke failed to pierce the blubber. On the apex of the second morn, the Pig grew three times its size and let loose its first proper squeal. And at the moon-set of the third day, Stryker emerged uneaten (victorious), with a massively bruised ego and a curse to never view pork the same way again.
​Svart realigned her guts and bent her tooth back out of shape. She would not forget this challenging, delicious slab of meat.