Blood on the Dance Floor 2
Posted on Fri Aug 15th, 2025 @ 7:52pm by Commander Jenna Ramthorne
792 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission:
Character Development
Location: USS Sunfire
The hit had stolen her breath, but not her fight.
Jenna staggered sideways, letting the momentum of the blow roll through her torso instead of snapping her in half. Her ribs throbbed in a hot, tight band beneath her armor. She sucked in a ragged breath, tasting copper on the back of her tongue.
The giant came at her again, pole whistling in a brutal diagonal cut. She pivoted, letting it scrape across her guard, the shock rippling down her arms. He pressed, every step closing the circle, his sheer size forcing her back toward the edge of the ring.
She needed space.
Dropping low, she slid her lead foot behind his forward leg and shoved upward with the butt of her pole. His balance faltered for a fraction of a second — enough for her to snap a sharp strike across his knee plating. A sensor chimed. Point.
But he didn’t slow. If anything, the blow seemed to fuel him. The next exchange was a hurricane: her pole clashing against his in rapid succession, wood-composite meeting with hollow, echoing cracks. Her forearms ached. The weight of him was relentless.
She shifted her grip, let the next overhead strike glance off her shoulder plate, and spun under it. Her pole lashed backward, cracking against the target plate on his back. Second point.
One left.
He roared — or maybe that was just her blood pounding in her ears — and lunged. This time she met him head-on, her pole jamming into his guard, the force of their bodies colliding sending a jolt up her spine. They wrestled for position, footwork tangling, until she snapped the shaft of her weapon upward and into his chin guard. The final beep sounded.
“Opponent Three defeated. Opponent Four loading.”
Opponent Four:
“Opponent Four: Level Eight, Vulcan Male, Height One-Point-Ninety-Two Meters, Mass Eighty-Two Kilograms. Skill rating: Tactical disruptor.”
This one stood still, head slightly bowed, pole at rest in one hand. No wasted energy. No intimidation display.
The chime sounded — and still he didn’t move.
Jenna advanced cautiously. Then, in the space between steps, he shifted. One precise motion — not a strike, but a feint — and she overcompensated, her guard dipping. His pole flicked out and tapped her shoulder plate. Warning chime.
Slippery bastard.
He didn’t fight her pace; he broke it. Every time she built momentum, he stepped just far enough to force a reset, his angles awkward, his timing alien.
Her frustration mounted. Sweat ran in thin rivulets down her spine, the bruise under her eye throbbing with every heartbeat. She tried a false retreat, baiting him in — but instead he circled, forcing her to pivot repeatedly until her calves began to burn.
Stop dancing. Make him commit.
She feigned a stumble. He moved to exploit it — and that’s when she surged forward, pole lashing out in a blur. The strike cracked against his rib plate. Point.
The next minute was a flurry of mind games. He baited, she baited back, each reading the other’s feints. She began to feel the rhythm under the chaos, hear the subtle rush of air when his pole twitched just before a move. Her second point came from a sharp spin into his unguarded side. The third from sheer aggression — driving him back step by step until she slammed the end of her pole into his chestplate.
“Opponent Four defeated. Opponent Five loading.”
Opponent Five:
“Opponent Five: Level Ten, Unknown Species, Height One-Point-Eighty-Five Meters, Mass Eighty-Eight Kilograms. Skill rating: Hybrid combat.”
The shimmer resolved into a figure she’d never seen before — humanoid, but the armor was segmented like overlapping plates, each shifting minutely as the figure moved. The pole it carried was longer than standard, its tip capped with a blunt, reinforced head.
The chime sounded and it came at her with a style she couldn’t place — low sweeps like the Andorian, explosive bursts like the giant, feints like the Vulcan — all rolled into one seamless assault.
Her guard rang with each impact. Her lungs burned. Every instinct told her this opponent was reading her, not just reacting, but predicting.
A strike caught her pole near the grip, spinning it violently. She nearly lost it. The follow-up came high, then low, forcing her to jump back. Her heel caught the arena’s edge, almost tipping her off-balance.
The figure pressed in, pole darting toward her helmet. She blocked — barely — the shock rattling her jaw.
She reset her footing, but the moment she did, it stepped inside her guard, moving faster than she expected. The pole head slammed into her side, sensors flaring, and before she could recover, it pivoted for a strike aimed squarely at her throat plate —
TBC
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