ten_fwd | one \\ Ten Forward Lounge

"We found ourselves here just like you did."

And, as is clear, Dylan and Marion are free, within this ship, at least, and unharmed. Dylan even still has his weapon at his side, though the crew of the Enterprise would have been well within their rights to confiscate it. They'd been remarkably accepting of their guests, and that Dylan feels some loyalty to them for that is indicated by his willingness to act as a shield between the unarmed civilians and Starfleet personnel in this bar and the aggression radiating from this man.

Dylan's chin edges upwards, a fraction of an inch, when the man steps closer. His gaze and stance are cool, unwavering, but he's tensed to defend, because that was not the action of somebody who's about to back down. Not at all.

Though he'd prefer Marion weren't here. Not because he doesn't trust her to handle herself, but because he wants the chance to talk the guy down. Or, at least, to take the brunt of any attack, because he doesn't know Marion's capabilities, not really.

"That's not a smart idea," he tells the man.

Khan's eyes fall, briefly, on the woman who'd accompanied the other man, a sneer suddenly curling his lips. "Then you don't know Starfleet like I do." Because Starfleet absolutely would kidnap someone, if it suited their interests. Oh, they'd be covert about it, of course - plausible deniability - but Section 31 was just as much a part of Starfleet as Starfleet was the Federation.

Focus shifting back to the man, Khan takes another step forward, limbs loose and very nearly taunting. "Neither is standing in my way," Khan growls, and pale eyes search out his opponents in unmistakable challenge. Give him a reason, please.

"Might not be the same Starfleet you know.... not that is any kind of comfort," Marion admits. She can still tell that this man is ready to fight. He is pretty much declaring that he will punch Dylan if Dylan gets in his way.

Marion is willing to bet he will hit other people. The man is a mass of tension and rage.

"We don't need to fight. I'm not Starfleet. I'm.... from a much earlier time. I belong here less than you do." She could see the Starfleet insignia on his tunic after all.

So. This man has something against Starfleet. It's not clear just what that is, given the Starfleet emblem on his shirt, but the venom in his words when he responds to Marion is clear. It's sharp, it's bitter.

"Your way of doing what?" he asks. Pale, sharp blue eyes meet Dylan's gaze, their wildness cooled somewhat now, but no less danger clear in them for that. The step towards Dylan, the tall, straight way he holds himself, even the deceptive ease in his movements, are all more than familiar.

He wants an excuse to fight. Marion's right that there's no need to, but if someone has to, then better Dylan than anyone else here.

"You can't get back where you came from, and nobody else here can help you any more than us." His words may be conciliatory, but Dylan's stance and his expression say that he's not about to back down. Not to threats.

Dylan's undaunted by aggression, by anger, even by the seething hatred in the dismissive comment to Marion about Starfleet. He has a few inches of height on the guy, and he's the better of him in build, too; more than that, he's a High Guard officer, and he protects the defenseless.

That's what the High Guard does.

But do you have the speed?

Khan suddenly turns cool, deliberate, slowly cocking his head. "Whatever I want," is all he replied, and then he's striking, viper-fast - not a punch, not an attempt to grapple, but a kick to the knee that would shatter the bones of any lesser creature.

He's had enough of this man's posturing.

Marion doesn't know what to do. She expected violence. The man has the smell of someone's brains on his fingers. Smoke and death cling to him like some sort of macabre shroud.

This man is both a dangerous and deadly figure.

Then he strikes and it is nearly faster than she can move. Holy crapzilla. Who is this man? Marion is very unsure about getting involved in this newly started fight.

Hell, no.

Dylan doesn't know what this guy's agenda is but anyone who shows up with that much latent aggression, with something about him -- smell, maybe -- that Marion says means he's been fighting, is not somebody Dylan's going to let shove his way past to unleash that anger, maybe even on some unsuspecting and undeserving crew member, given the sheer hatred in his voice when he'd spoken of Starfleet.

Dylan doesn't move, but he does tense in preparation, though he only has a moment to do it, because the man moves fast. Dylan's reflexes are good, but this guy -- even Beka's genetically enhanced pilot's reflexes would be struggling to get the hell out of his way.

When the guy's foot strikes, it's Heavy Worlder genetics and nothing else that stops Dylan's knee from breaking out from under him.

Thank you, Mom.

The kick lands with a blow like it's come from a freaking cyborg and Dylan jerks away from it with a grunt of pain, but he's not that easy to intimidate, or to take out of a fight. His knee is in agony, but Dylan's got a pain threshold high enough to handle it. In the instant it takes to recoil, he's already moving again; he shifts his weight to one side to take advantage of strength and height and reach and swing around to aim a kick of his own, high and fast and hard and straight for this guy's head.

Reason's doing nothing here.

That Dylan doesn't collapse immediately is surprise - one that causes Khan's eyes to narrow in clear interest. Not human.

The assessment doesn't keep the bloodlust from running hot in his veins. It's tempered only by decades of training, of discipline, forged into something brutal and ruthless - a weapon, as he was made to be.

Khan doesn't falter at Dylan's recovery, merely follows through with his savage kick, twisting into the motion. He sees the shift in weight, the bunching of muscles, and can read the blow to come. But rather than step away, Khan presses forward, one hand darting up to intercept the strike to his head. It's a move that steals the breath from his lungs, broken ribs screaming in protest and forcing a feral snarl on his face, but he doesn't care.

Pain is there to be endured.

Marion is half tempted to break this fight up. She can detect the injuries that Khan has a little better now that the man is moving around. The way he breaths as he moves is slightly off.

Ragged even by how she perceives things. Are his ribs broken? Likely. What should she do about that?

Nothing. Not until she knows how this fight will go. A ruthless part of her brain tells her should Dylan get hurt she should strike at the broken ribs but in all honesty she could never allow herself to do that. It would be cowardly and so Marion waits.

How did he do that?

Dylan moves fast, and his kicks land hard. Some people he's fought can duck out of the way in time to avoid his boot to the head, but more of them don't. The one thing that doesn't happen is what just did. The guy puts up a hand to block the kick, and the steely strength in it nearly throws Dylan off-balance.

The disruption to his movement sends a jolt of pain shooting up and down his leg from his knee . He can't quite keep it from showing as a flicker of a grimace across his face. It looks like it hurt his opponent, too, though: the way his face twists into a wild look of fury has to be either pain or anger at Dylan's audacity to stand and fight in the face of his threats. Maybe it's a little of both.

He's going to have to reassess this, reconsider. He can't stay at a distance and kick, not if the guy can intercept him like that. That means closing, so that's what Dylan does, and while he's about it, he aims a couple of punches, with his full Heavy Worlder strength behind them, at the guy's stomach.

The intercepted strike has real force behind it - force enough to make Khan's arm shudder as he halts the blow. He allows the man to close the space between them, taking the punches full on - punches that would, if they had come from a normal human, be as effective as hitting him with balled-up tissue paper.

But his opponent in this fight is distinctly not normal. The blows hit their mark like a hammer, forcing what is most definitely a pained grunt out from behind clenched teeth. His stomach can take the punches - his ribs cannot, and the strikes jostle the broken bones enough that one catches, pain searing his flank and breathing suddenly growing wet and labored.

But Khan doesn't stop. Can't stop. He wasn't made to, and this man fights like one of his own siblings. It's been too long. The Augment's spine curls inward, but one hand drops to his opponent's shoulder with a crushing grip, drawing him closer - close enough to drive a vicious uppercut towards the man's jaw.

He has no idea what this man is -- Starfleet isn't supposed to have any human with this sort of strength, strength that in Dylan's experience doesn't happen without genetic enhancement. Not in someone who looks so close to human. He's injured, like a human, he's bleeding, like a human. This is no android, no cyborg, which leaves two options, some sort of a parallel Starfleet without the ban on genetic enhancement, and a visitor displaced in time, from when the ban is not in place.

In his own world, he'd say a Nietzschean whose bone blades have been removed, but not here, not wearing Starfleet insignia.

The guy moves like Rommie and strikes like Tyr. When the hand lands on Dylan's shoulder, the grip feels strong enough to bruise. With one knee not as stable as it should be, Dylan's physically unable to resist being pulled in, and completely unable to avoid the blow to his face. He lets out a grunt as his head is jerked up by the force, gritting his teeth against the pain in his jaw.

Being this close gives him and advantage, though. With a couple inches of height and just enough room to move a little, the recoil lets him turn, as though trying to break out of the iron grip holding him.

And drive an elbow sure and hard at the side of the guy's head.

He needs to get him down.

Edited 2014-12-22 03:20 (UTC)

A hard strike for a hard head. Khan's vision flashes white for a half-second, blow cracking sharply against his skull. He can't help the stumbled half-step backwards, but it's not enough to drop him. Not yet.

The Augment's disorientation lasts only a brief number of seconds - enough to take advantage of, if the other man is quick. But Khan doesn't intend to allow him to press his sudden advantage. He drives forward once again, adrenaline singing in his veins, for a carefully-calculated strike at the man's kidneys.

--except it's a feint.

It's the vulnerable, weakened knee that Khan is striking for, one powerful downward kick that could generously be called a heel strike. It's a straight-up stomp, in truth, one with the full weight and power that Khan could bring to bear behind it. It's a move that Marcus' daughter is acutely familiar with. He doesn't know who - or what - this man is, but he's going to bring him down regardless.

Marion doesn't have any control over the loud guttural and very inhuman snarl that rips out of her. Apparently her inner wolf did not like Dylan getting foot stomped in any manner.

She does however have a choice in how she chooses to act. She throws herself into a leaping attack. She intends to throw herself at Khan's back. To yank him off and away from Dylan.

Maybe it will work but most likely she will miss and hit the ground. If that happens Marion will have to scramble quickly as Khan has a very large size advantage over her. She hates being on the small side in times like these.

There's a satisfying sound as Dylan's elbow hits, but the satisfaction isn't out of any enjoyment in the pain it causes, but of simply having succeeded, when that's been difficult to do, at actually landing a blow that seemed to have some impact here instead of being absorbed and written off. The guy reels and Dylan tries to press the advantage, but the precious seconds of disorientation are too few.

Dylan advances, but he doesn't have time for the kick that should finish this off before the guy's back like he's a damn missile homing in on its target. From the little he's seen of him so far, Dylan doesn't trust the obvious move he's making; it seems a little too clear what he's doing for the guy who moves so hard and fast. Seeing the feint, though, doesn't help; by the time he sees what his opponent's really planning, it's too late to move, to get away, his agility hindered as it is by a knee that's not quite doing what it's supposed to.

He can't avoid the strike. It's got the guy's weight and strength behind it, as relentless as a machine, driving down against Dylan's already shaky knee. It hits like and explosion, pain tearing through his leg.

Dylan staggers, letting out a grunting sound, but for a brief moment, the extent of the pain shows on his face in a tight, twisted grimace. His leg trembles under him, wanting to collapse, but he manages to stay upright by sheer force of will.

(If that's not broken, it's a miracle beyond just his genetics.)

He's still trying to drag himself back around, steady his stance, and face his opponent again when he hears the snarl and sees Marion leap, the movement more like a prey animal than any fight move he's ever seen, for the man.

He has to stay in this fight.

The blow strikes true, but Khan doesn't allow himself time for satisfaction. His mind is working with furious precision, forging his battle-lust like one would forge a sword, turning it cold and sharp. His opponent's pain is nothing more than a notation, a fact to be analysed and stored and exploited - there will be time for vindication later.

As it is, the man is clearly weakened. He's not sure if it's superior genetics or sheer stubbornness that keeps the other man on his feet - likely both - but it's impressive. He's the first worthwhile opponent that Khan has had in a very, very long time.

He'll still fall.

Khan steps forward again to press his assault, his advantage, but before he can cock his arm back for another punch, there's a growl, a blur of motion from just beyond his sight.

The girl. Of course.

He throws himself backwards, but she too is abnormally fast; she misses hitting his back, as he's sure she intended, but the sudden weight of her against his shoulder and arm is enough to force him off balance, to stumble. It's a split-second before he regains his footing, lashing out with a fist in an effort to put some space between them.

She manages to dodge around most of Khan's fist. His pinky knuckle clips the thicker part of her upper arm just below her shoulder. The feeling of that happening doesn't even make her blink. She just bears her teeth at him for a brief half moment.

Then she just lashes out with a punch. Marion wants his focus on her. Not on Dylan. Marion is well aware that Dylan is hurt. She is not so it makes sense for her to draw as much attention as she can.

After that first punch she follows up with a second towards his left kidney.

She's trying to distract the guy, take some of the heat off Dylan. Whether she thinks he's out of the fight or is just trying to give him a chance to recover from that blow, he appreciates the space it gives him. He just needs a moment, and he gets it; his leg wants to collapse out from under him, but he will not damn well let it, not while this guy is still up and fighting, but it takes just about everything Dylan has to keep going.

He's fought through injuries before and he'll damn well do it again now, but he needs to finish this soon. Dylan tests his weight on the injured leg; his bones are strong, but even a Heavy Worlder's leg can break, and the pain that makes him clench his teeth so he doesn't cry out says that's what's happened.

Trying another of the powerful kicks that are one of his most effective moves in a fight is going to collapse his leg out from under him. He's still standing, but a careful test of more weight on the injured leg makes it tremble, the knee start to buckle.

Dylan only has a moment to decide; he's been reluctant to do it so far, but with Marion and the bystanders in the lounge in danger, he doesn't have a choice but to draw and extend his lance. The soft sound of the cylinder extending into a staff might alert his adversary, but it gives him leverage he just doesn't have without it.

The blow he strikes with the lance is aimed at the guy's knees in an attempt to sweep them from under him and floor him.

She's not a fighter - not like Khan is, not like this not-Augment he's been fighting. Her blows are blatantly telegraphed, read with ease, and he knows exactly what she's trying to accomplish. His attention isn't so easily diverted.

He pivots, letting her first punch pass him by. The second grazes shattered ribs, and he face twists in pain, but a punch like that brings her dangerously close to his body. He abruptly lashes out, driving a kick towards her ribs that would, if it connected, feel remarkably like being struck with a sledgehammer.

It's only once he hears the faint scrape of metal that he realizes he's miscalculated.

The lance slams into the back of his weight-bearing knee, shattering his balance and sweeping his leg out from beneath him. He lands hard, body instinctively curled to reduce the impact. It doesn't help. His breath comes shorter, shallow and wet - punctured lung, he assesses, distantly. He tastes iron.

It won't last long, but for the brief, precious seconds it takes for him to find his feet, Khan is down.

She doesn't usually fight like this. Marion is a hunter when she has to be. Mostly she is the type to gather intelligence then passes it along with no fuss. Getting her hands dirty is a bit unusual for her.

"Ooof." It does feel like getting hit with a hammer. The wind gets knocked out of her and red flashes in her vision. Her beast is suddenly right in her ears howling for blood she doesn't want to shed.

Marion has to hold herself back. There is pain and rage distracting her for what feels like way too long. She doesn't say anything about it. Marion just sucks in a breath and pulls back a few feet.

"He doesn't hit like a normal human. That.... shouldn't have hurt like that." It is an admission but nothing damning. Not everyone needs to know her little secret.

one \\ Ten Forward Lounge

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