Daishouri vs Dot — Digital Pain

[Monsy]

KABOOM is the term of the day.

As her sensei put it: be a silent stick of dynamite.

Which fundamentally meant to conceal, ready up, then when it came to blow. Leave no trace of them. SQUARE IN THE GUT. Her foot must've crushed it and punched a new shape into it. The smacking sound was like the thunk of a heavy bag being folded in half. Her leg was only briefly stopped before it sunk into lycra-covered flesh that put Dot on the retreat.

"Huh?!" Daishouri stiffened at the sudden ROAR of applause. Dot was down! THEE Dot was down! Her features all gaped and awed with astoundment. Dai looked at her hands and blink rapidly trying to ascertain some inhuman PED running through her veins. She looked down to check her feet. No pads. Just the wrapping. Then this was lucky. Yes. A good opening SHOT on her unready behemoth. She blushed with those feelings of dishonour. 'It doesn't mean anything. All I'm doing is pissing them off...'

Even so...

It felt good. Good in the way where your sweaty palms tingle in a way that felt powerful. Her legs buzzed with reward and now she wanted to kick Dot's stomach a dozen more times if she's bound to kiss the floor. She approached with that eager confidence. Having resisted a smile, she scowled a mild disdain without a hint of enjoyment written on that furrowed brow. Just control in the moment. And when she came up to Dot's head, she attempted to kneel down so her knee would go on the back of her nape and squish it against the floor.

"Moving enough for you?" Asked Dai, her lip twitching in a stowed impulse to smile again. Two arms attacked Dot's one simultaneously; one hooking the elbow, pulling it back, then the second to grab the wrist once in range then fold the arm across Dot's spine with a cranking twist applied. Her weight also jerked into the knee pressing on Dot's neck.

[Malkavia]

As Dot lay on the mat, clutching her gut until Daishouri saw fit to take command of the arm doing the clutching, she realized—she had learned something about Spectre.

When it came to Dot's employer, that prime confidant, first officer, and frankly entire raison d'être of her self-concept, two kidneys would not have been too high a price, if that's what it took to meet the boss's needs. Yet despite this intimate loyalty, there was something Dot had never, until this moment, fully grasped—

What's the big fucking deal about a gut punch, anyway?

Spittle flecked the inside of Dot's helmet. Her groans erupted behind the LED facade, partly from the pain of her shoulder ligaments being stretched near to the point of snapping. But what was worse than that, immeasurably worse than the pain, was the frustration.

It was lying there and letting it happen. She wants your arm—she has your arm. You wanna take this bitch by her throat? Too bad your one free arm can't reach shit but more mat. And that churning, nauseated burn in her gut was the sign and symbol of everything that in that moment made Dot pathetic.

A void of understanding between Spectre and Dot had been crossed.

And what would Dot say to Spectre, when a Countess's fist had laid her tummy low?

Despite the turbulence in Dot's mind, her screen remained placid, a neon pink smile to match the one Dai didn't wear. Dot twisted her hips, hard left, then right, in an attempt to pivot her body from one side and then the other. Inwardly, she was focusing on her gut. The movement made the pain flare. Good. She fixated on that ache, let it fill all the crooks and crannies and blot out the crowd and their hero.

True, she did it because it was, under her unfortunate circumstances, the only movement she could make, and from the audience's perspective, it had all the glory of squirming.. But there was a purpose to it. It opened space. Space under her side where she could slide her free arm. Space under her leg were she could lift her knee. And if she could get her arm under her body, palm to the ground? And if she could post her knee into the ground?

Then she'd have a chance.

[Monsy]

Daishouri couldn’t lie internally in wanting them harmed. She’d been promised to submit before tonight was done. Ripped from her. The kind where she immediately suspected to continue after the tapping began. It sunk into her mind like a borehole and reflexed into her strategy. How’s that feel? Was a common thought to her in the moment as she drove her weight on her knee that squished Dot’s neck. Then she applied a grip onto Dot’s elbow, making it the lever to further shove the twisted limb up her back.

Don’t get comfortable attacking was another lesson from ol’ sensei. Her old matches were not bereft of control and her techniques weren’t the worst applied. It was this part. The struggle to keep on the mountain peak, to see the movement and predict where the action will lead. She needed to think constantly about all moving developments, then be first to disarm it. So what was Dot doing?

Shifting. Grounded, stuck, but not defeated. The birds eye view of Dot’s hips and legs were a clear sign of… what?

She’s getting weight under her. Dot was mouse-trapped and looking for any means to slide herself out. Or was it to open this mouse trap? She wasn’t certain of either one, so played a new card to change the board. First taking her unoccupied leg, she stepped over them so her foot would land by their ribcage. Her hips now pivoted to point towards the foot, perpendicular with Dot’s collar. Then she tugged the arm through her legs, pulled it towards the ceiling and threw her weight backwards so both of them would hit their backs. Her leg tried to go across the collar while her hips bridged into the limb, pulling the wrist into her chest.

The end result?

A textbook armbar.

[Malkavia]

"NnnnghfffuUUUckin'...fuuuuck-shit..."

You had to wonder just how much Daishouri could hear as she levered Dot's arm. By design, the mask muffled what its owner wanted buried, but the laws of physics put limits on how loud screaming could get before those whimpers leaked through—and the distance was intimate. No doubt Daishouri, heard something, even if her fury burned too cold so show anything but her God damn contemptuous leer.

This raised an important question: How much satisfaction did this avenging angel derive from her villain's groans of deserved, righteous agony?

Intent lay at the heart of what fans called ring psychology. Really, Dot believed, it was just basic intuition. Empathy, dumbfucks. What does my opponent want? What will they do to get it? In this case, critically, will she push so far that I break—really break? Break so I don't come back the same?

"No way in Hell. Not with this stuttering little field mouse" would have been the answer a few minutes past. Now? With her throat aching against the sharp edge of her own helmet's lip? Dot wasn't so sure.

But Daishouri rearranged her stance—a counter-move to Dot's slow posting up. Smart. Fortunately, Dot's mask hid admiration even more readily than it hid pain, though she didn't exactly have time for either. Her mind raced to get ahead of this story. She saw Dai step over and stand at Dot's side. The chicken-wing torque on her arm broke down (thank Christ)...and then she felt a fractional shift in Dai's center of gravity.

It would be a lie to say Spectre taught Dot everything she knew about submissions, but the lie would have passed for truth to all but the most demanding investigator. Upon the humble edifice of Dot's beginnings, Spectre had, by savaging Dot's body until she got it right, built—well. Something whose value had yet to be proven, but certainly something far more capable than before. No lesson had been more important than the ability to read the tea leaves of an opponent's micro-movements. If you can peer just one second into the future...

Dai committed to the armbar. As she fell, Dot rolled. She got her knees underneath her, forced her free hand to the mat, and pushed and scrambled. The goal? Plain and simply, to get on top. To stack up, if for some godforsaken you preferred the bj-bro lingo.

Everything turned on whether Dot's mad dash could knock the center of gravity in her favor. If so? Then this story's bad guy would be in prime position to grab the hero by the scruff of her robe, deadlift her to a full stand, and then drop the bitch on her cervical vertebrae. If not? If Daishouri's deceptively powerful legs flexed and forced Dot sprawling onto her back?

Then that shoulder pain was about to get one Hell of a lot worse.

[Monsy]

Clever.

Daishouri was pushed into the mat till her shoulders were flush and legs folded towards her chest. Dot not only needed to counter gravity, but the thrust of her legs trying to unfold and straighten. All muscles were on-deck and ready to burst. But getting her robe made it so when she pushed against Dot, she tugged her own outfit to pull. Her free hand thus went for the grip and attacked it. She'd go for any breach of finger-gap or palm, then tug the thumb up and then peel the hand back.

Her face began to scrunch in the precious seconds the two stayed in lock. And what she appeared to miss was the entire playing field shifting underneath her. She was staring directly into that LED, which didn't reflect back the world as clearly as one would think. Till the last second she was vying to take her arm before Dot heaved her enough to see the mat.

Both lips folded in.

Shit...

"Ooomkf!!" Her breath ejected out her lungs. Head snapped back and whacked the mat like a drum. Dull ringing filled the void. Her hands couldn't form grip that meant anything when her midriff was feeling flipped inside out of its contents. But the worst? Neck. She felt something small sear and pinch like two falling hammers clubbed it together. She can feel a thin line stretch into the base of her skull feeding pain directly into it.

A brief pause. As for her legs, they parted, but only briefly. A semblance of cobbled together instincts went for Dai to envelop her waist with her legs and attempt to lock behind her back, then pull on-top of her. She'd search with an arm to find their head, grab them by the ears and pull them towards a shoulder where she'd try to apply a dizzied guillotine to her neck. Even if the technique was sloppy, she knew a world more of that waited if she couldn't get Dot tied-up.

[Malkavia]

Was there any noise on God's green Earth more satisfying than the whumpf of a well-earned neck-drop? Dot suspected such treasures were out there, but none sprung to mind in this instant. Though, her glee did come with some...spice. Neon-purple spice, to be precise, in the form of text at the bottom corner of her helmet's UI.

How'd the mat smell?

You looked like a thanksgiving turkey down there.

Her first in-match communication from Spectre, ever. In the books, kiddo!

But then there was Daishouri, who did Dot the immense favor of strangling bullshit rumination in the crib, lashing her legs around Dot's ribs and her arm around her throat.

Chin down! Daishouri's arm missed the delicate skin under Dot's jaw, wrapping instead around the carbon-reinforced base of her helmet. Another save from instincts Spectre had cut into Dot with a smoking branding iron.

The instinct spared Dot losing herself in a dark, oxygen-starved bath of her own blood. But Dai could still crank the electric feline's throat. And with thighs as toned as hers and a Bushido-power core, that felt about as nice as buckshot in the ass. Dot could feel her face turning purple, her lips swelling as she hissed through a spray of spittle, her eyes too big for their pulsing eye holes.

Dot pushed with her feet until only her toes touched the mat and her ass pointed at the sky and the crown of her helmet crunched against the mat. Blood, following its innate tendencies, poured to the lowest point of her body—now the head—so that it ached and spun and pulsed.

But the payoff—that was putting Daishouri's legs as high up as they could be got, hanging off the middle of the Dot tripod. And there they were, lynx and samurai. A sweaty, heaving pile of limbs and grunts and locked joints.

And that left Dot's hands free to wander. One found Daishouri's face and began to climb like a spider. Her finger crawled over her chin, yanked on her lips, pushed past her nose, clawing all the way to the prize: her eyes, where Dot planned to dig with her thumb like the gold at the end of this match was buried in the bone at the back of the socket.

The other hand moved more quietly, as those with important work often do. It slid along the knee scissoring Dot's side. It mission was to wriggle Dot's arm into that joint's pocket, to infiltrate the samurai castle through a loosened leg so she could crowbar those ankles apart like the Blood Gate of Narasaki itself.

Because if Daishouri-san did lose her grip? If her back fell to the mat? Then Dot's right left would go straight up and point at the spotlights with her toes—and the slam down, knee-first abd between, into the one delicate spot in the samurai's otherwise deadly lower body.

[Monsy]

Daishouri's gripe was that she couldn't see Dot's head turn to tomato. What sort of face was she making? Would she tap here to avoid sleeping? All those thoughts tightened her resolve. Her neck was pained, yes, but she told herself it didn't matter. More force required to delay Dot's current scheme on the mat. If not to see this little schemer towards an early bed, then to tire by forcing Dot to do the literal heavy lifting while all she needed to muster was power to her well-cinched legs.

With that in mind, she tightened her face and held the current hold for its worth. She'd tuck a fist against Dot's neck just to restrict her blood with extra assurance. Then the hand. Just--what was it doing? Her head turned away from it, daring not to bite like a scoundrel. She regretted that immediately. "HYAAAAAAGHHHH???!!!" Dai screamed and her face turned towards invading fingers to appease it, then started thrashing in volatile jerks. This... sick feeling. She couldn't describe it compared to anything. Something similar to a huge hydraulic needle pushing into skin, then striking bone. But instead of stopping... It kept pushing.

She wanted to crawl out of her skin.

Just let her out. Whatever God really existed, just let her this one favour. Give her release. Adrenaline. Anything. Her expression went mucky and screwey, bobble-eyed and staring back at the corner posts. She released her legs around Dai's waist and started to kick on the canvas. Her two hands went to grab Dot's wrist that she couldn't be aware of any knee crunching her cunt. "H-EEEEKKK!!" Her back arched to a full flexed state while her teeth gnashed and she screamed through it. Her pelvis ignited in agonizing flame and fluttering in the ugliest, most violent ways.

Her eyes welled-up and spilled across her cheeks then down to her ears. "OFFFF!!!!"She yelled, then opened her maw to chomp Dot's fingers. Any number would do.

[Malkavia]

When Dot had been a teenager, she would cut her burgers into bite-sized pieces. She liked to slice the sandwich into a grid, which she'd then eat with a fork, the way one might pluck hors d'oeurves with a toothpick. Her classmates poked fun at this habit, but it felt unsanitary to touch her food with her fingers. At the time, the idea of germs infecting her body held an acute horror for the young Dot.

She had banished her squeamish feelings completely, scouring them from her psyche through a routine of brutal exposure. It was one weakness that was supposed to be as dead as beehive hairdos.

Then Daishouri's teeth sank into Dot's index, middle and ring fingers. For the first delusional fraction of a second, Dot didn't know what was happening, only that pain like a scorpion sting blared from her hand.

Then Daishouri gnashed her bite. Dot could feel the teeth sliding and grinding her skin into the bone. Images flashed in Dot's mind. Incisors sliced through a carrot. Crunch. Spit mixed with blood. Purple and green pus seeped through gaping, infected wounds.

Dot scrambled like an animal. Later, she'd reflect on an irony—BITE was exactly the kind of thing Spectre would have done under the dominant position Dot had finally carved under her. But from Spectre, it would have been expected. From Daishouri? The kind, stuttering girl who started this match? It was a lesson she would stow for her own use in the future: Surprise is five eighths of horror.

Just that second, however, Dot wasn't reflecting on anything except she wanted her fingers back and her head out of the choke. She hammered on Daishouri's face with her free hand, kicked at—thigh, ass, side, gut. Anything that she could hit. She was like a rat scrabbling with another rat, lithe and writhing and twisting, and all just to wrench herself off the girl and to roll to a safe distance.

[Monsy]

All she pictured was half her vision suddenly being dark. Would it be like a telescope? Or a murky water fuzz. Whatever was worst, it would be certain if she didn’t hold Dot's hand hostage, so locked her jaw. Her cheeks paled while she howled agony against the digits that she claimed. Hammer after hammer stung her into facial numbness and burgeoning headache. Her back would twist and she’d squirm while adding bruise over bruise from Dot’s flurry. She gagged when her stomach was crushed like pummeled clay, choked on her intake.

She put her boots against Dot’s hips and pushed when Dot’s head slipped her grip. She jerked and opened her maw at once to turn onto her frontside and again to her bottom, propping up on her elbows. She audibly panted, then scampered by scooting with her ankles and palms back towards the corner.

With her back against the turnbuckle pads, she padded her face, the warm sections, the nose, the teeth and lip. But she saw only a doubling hand swirling around in irregular orbits. She covered her eye and closed it to focus slightly more at the index with a noticeable red stain.

'Was it mine?
Hers?
My mouth? Nose? Teeth? EYE?!?!
I didn’t sign up to be blinded!!
Did I really bite someone’s fingers??!'

Daishouri was to stand up slowly in a hunch, favouring her eye and neck with a hand. If Dot were to be standing as well, then she’d try to muster the stiff lip to look dignified, even if she struggled to settle her upper-arm from a periodic shiver.