#content for my blorbos when my blorbos are my own ocs.. clenches fist

[outpost51]

Happy Blorbo Blursday! How are your ocs holding up in a fight? What would it take for them to win?

Happy Blursday!

OHO OH BOY. I write fights a lot, especially with my main girls, so! Here’s some strategy breakdowns and snippets for you, content warning forrrr violence ALSO THIS GOT VERY LONG OH NO:

Atria fights like only one person is walking away in the fight: her, or them. There’s no draw; she fights to survive, and mercy be upon the poor soul who threatens her. Biotics, fists, teeth, knife if she’s got it — whatever it takes. She’ll keep going until someone brave enough pulls her off her opponent. If it makes you feel better, she'll probably feel bad about it.

Likelihood of victory: 75-80%

I charged while he was still frozen in shock. He was easy enough to take down with a well-placed shoulder to his belly; he was wounded, winded, and woozy. I wasn't thinking, couldn't think, blow after blow after blow hammering his face until nothing was left to be seen of the geometric lavender snaking across his brow and chin. With each subsequent strike, my hands got a little bluer and the crowd got a little louder. At some point human red started flowing together with turian blue; my knuckles stung. Some time after that, my hands glowed again and I felt the increased impact of every punch jolting into my shoulders. At some point he stopped screaming, but the spectators didn't, even when I was dragged off him and wrenched into a victor's stand by one still-clenched fist. They became ravenous. Insatiable. Consumed by their own hunger for violence. In my desperate bid to avoid becoming the corpse that whetted their appetite, I just managed to trade that burden for a different one, and still acted as their appetizer anyway. No one won in the Pits except the bookies. I learned two things that day: first, that drell came in size extra, extra large, if the massive marine mountain of muscle holding me six inches off the ground was any indicator; and second, that even in an adrenaline-induced fit of kill-or-be-killed desperation, taking a life took a part of you with it.

Dillon’s smarter. She knows when a strategic retreat is the best option, and when she’s got a fair shot at winning. It’s the magic she’s still trying to get a handle on — she might singe somebody’s hair orrrrrr... she might blow up half the block. Oops!

Likelihood of victory: 45-50%

Zadimus dropped down beside her, directing a current of air beneath himself on which he could recline. “The world won’t wait for you to be in optimal condition all the time, you need to be able to fight in any circumstance,” he quipped. “Particularly if you’re going to directly contradict your mentor’s advice.” Grumbling under her breath, Dillon spun around and slashed her hand through the air. The peak of a distant junk pile sheared off. She repeated the motion. A car went flying. The Abomination remained unscathed. “Goddammit!” she screamed. The resulting shockwave deposed the hedonistic emperor off his windy chaise.

Just don't go after somebody she cares about, or things might turn out a whole lot worse.

Likelihood of victory: start praying.

Dillon turned to give him one of the few pieces of her mind she could grasp in her half-inebriated state, and watched in slow motion as the horror swallowed him whole. Darkness closed in around her. A deep scarlet haze filled in what the void dared not touch. Static crackled across her skin, into her fingertips, her toes, her scalp, and zinged through her muscles, her bones, her veins, carving a fiery path straight to her heart. The pungent burn of ozone seared into her nose and throat until every breath was filled with the chemical tang of asphalt after a storm. She pulled the lightning from her body and let it dance a warning in her palms. The Abomination took one step forward. Dillon brought her hands together in a clap of thunder. Sticky viscera coated everything in a ten foot radius around a very whole, mildly offended Zadimus. “Oh, good,” he chuffed. “It was getting a bit stuffy in there. We’ll need to work on your timing, but overall, not terrible.”

Frankie would rather run, thank you. That’s what the gun is for. If she’s backed into a corner, better take her down quick before the big fucking robots she’s dating come to the rescue.

Likelihood of victory: 20-60%, depending on ammunition

Frankie drops a pin on her location and sends it to the only person she knows she can trust to hold their own with odds like these and have her back rather than stab it the second she goes down. Rough fingers dig into her scalp, rubbing their sickly, stale-cigarette scent into her hair so deep she thinks it might never wash out. The grip pulls her gut-first into a set of studded knuckle dusters. Sticky copper coats her tongue as her lungs try to remember what breathing feels like. She flails wildly, and out of sheer, dumb luck, the butt of her gun connects with her assailant’s face. It catches on the torn edge of his synthskin and tears it further; the monster lurking just beneath isn’t the man she thought it was, but a machine, and a few more pieces fall into place. If she can get at their memory chips, maybe she’ll actually have something substantial to back up her hunch. A manufacturer, an agency, a serial number, anything. Frankie swings again, this time more deliberately, and relishes the satisfying crunch of metal denting metal. A shower of sparks stings her hand where her gun has shattered the droid’s synthetic eye and it goes down in a hail of stuttered digispeak. There’s no time to celebrate, as another comes rushing forward with a shock baton — she ducks and rolls to the side, much to the displeasure of the bruise blooming across her midsection, but an angry ache is better than a cracked skull or fuck-you amps of electricity seizing up her entire body. The droid overcommits — not just regular AI, then, if they’re making mistakes, and another piece slots into the puzzle — and stumbles. Frankie takes advantage of the opportunity presented by delivering a kick to the base of its spine.

Jane is. Well, much like Atria, she was a street kid and the military never quite took that out of her. She fights to kill, though. If her opponent can still stand up, then goddammit, so can she. Somebody call John—

Likelihood of victory: there's a reason she's special forces.

Note: i had a hard time picking just one, because i love writing her fights. she's genuinely my favorite character to write fight scenes for, so i let the enablers pick lmao.

“Oh goodie,” Jane seethed over the rising cacophony of screaming and shouting and crying and gunfire and pain he was getting all too used to and never wanted to be. She pumped the shotgun in her hand. “I get to fulfill Jerry’s last request.” “Jane, don’t be—” “I’m not being stupid,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m being reckless!” All he could do was fight his way to her, over and over again. Keep himself standing as he watched her shoot, stab, punch, kick, rip, tear a path through the invading force. He kept them off her where he could, Sergeant Kieffer’s voice echoing over and over in his head. Do you think a turian pirate gives a fuck that he’s bigger than her? No, they didn’t, and they were so much bigger than her. Jane stormed straight towards the bastard who chatter had identified as the asshole spearheading this whole operation. Black armor, brown plates, swoops of red under his eyes, a bright red stripe down the center of his face — and a shotgun leveled at hers. Static crackled down his arms as he planted his feet and started moving through the mnemonics he could remember. Does that swashbuckling skullface give a fuck that he’s bigger than her? A blue corona engulfed his sister, but before she could strike, a batarian in red armor tackled her away from Haliat. She struck out with biotically-enhanced fists, kicked at the batarian’s chestplate, and finally managed to crack her brow into the pirate’s nose. The batarian rolled away from her, desperately clutching at his face with one hand and bringing up his pistol with the other. When Jane stood again, blood had painted a stripe down her face to match Haliat’s. The turian watched her intently, switching to his rifle. Jane ran both her middle fingers through the stripe, swooping them beneath her eyes and straight down to meet the corners of her mouth. She shouted something he couldn’t hear, but John could read her lips all the same: you’re mine. She looked crazy. Feral. Rabid. Maybe she was. Haliat turned and ran. Maybe they needed crazy.

[puppyeared]

Harvest moon