Eliska Resnik vs. Charles O'Malley

A quiet library in the middle of a forgotten town. Books lined each side of the walls on both levels of the medium sized building. Chairs and tables were scarce, but a few were present in the otherwise spacious area. From the entrance, the building itself was mostly a long rectangle, the only exception being in the middle, with two open areas on each side, leading to a staircase rising to the upper area of the library (a set of railings standing roughly ten feet off the ground encompassing the perimeter of the library). Two rolling ladders on either side could be moved around by anyone who needed the extra boost on the bottom level. Above each set of stairs is a large window to let in light. Lining the main area of the ceiling are several fluorescent lights.

Eliska has until 4:19 PM EST on June 24 before she is declared forfeit.

She is a sitting duck, no doubt, but what the hell. If the person she is about to go toe-to-toe with has anything remotely in the form of a ranged weapon, well, this is going to be a fucking mess. 

Lounging on top of a shorter bookcase, one only six feet high, she can survey most of the library - front entrance, lobby - without too much impeding her sight, although there are the occasional blind spots that she will simply have to go with luck on. 

There is little to do aside from wait, and her hands, already wrapped, were dancing a switch-blade between calloused fingers. Sound in the cavernous space echoed slightly, dampened a bit by the rows of shelves, but swirling upwards around the stairs. Should the person enter from that open, echoing area, she should have plenty of warning. Anywhere else, and things would get interesting.

She needed fucking interesting.

The aged Charles swaggered into the library with the grace of one that was no longer human and an air about him that screamed experience.  This was the location that they told him where he would find his opponent and he wasn't one to argue with whoever they were.  As he walked into the building, he reached to the top of his head where he removed the fedora with one hand and smoothed his hair back with the other.  He looked around the entrance area for a place to put his hat when he remembered the people of this century did not follow the rules regarding hats and promptly placed it back on his head.  His dress shoes made an appropriate amount of noise to inform his target that he was in the library and ready for a fight.

Instead of immediately seeking his opponent, he paused at one of the tables to begin dressing down for a fight.  First to come off was his hat which was quickly followed by his jacket.  Instead of removing the vest, he began unbuttoning and rolling each sleeve up to his elbow.  With a final look at his the time on his watch, he tucked it back into his pocket and pulled his 1921 from it's holster and began making his way through the building while holding it in a two-handed shooter's grip.

She heard him before she saw him; her attention had wavered between looking for potential opponents to the number of books lining the walls around her. But when the man finally appeared, he didn't seem at all interested in a fight. In fact, he was so nonchalant about the entire thing that she thinks for a moment he must be in the wrong place.

Fuck that. He's going to have a fist in his face just for showing up.

As he decides what to do with his hat, she slithers off her perch and unsheathes one of her lovely Bowies, the old blade dull in the bright sunlight streaming in from the broad windows. He is still fiddling with his hat when she breaks into a full out sprint, her booted feet landing without hardly a sound, aiming through the stacks of books for the man himself.

He is rolling up his sleeves when she is within fifteen feet of him. By now, surely he must notice she is there, but he simply carries on.

He has a gun, but it won't matter. She was close now, ever so close, and with every sure step she was closing the distance between them, knife out before her, ready to take off a hand or even the gun, knowing by the time he raised the thing to fire, she would be on him. Besides, if, when he does fire, she will be close enough to dance past the zipping rounds of death, passing through them on her way to his body. She is ready for that move, anticipating his actions, years of back-alley brawls and blood-bathed pit fights sending her senses on edge, the back of her mind telling her this might not be an easy fight.

But fuck the back of her mind. This shit is glorious.

Jesus Goddamn Christ, this would be fun.

Charlie had been too preoccupied with dressing down to notice the six foot, blond haired Ukrainian woman sneaking around him.  It wasn't until she was nearly upon him that he heard her and his brain sent him into action.  Rather than turn and face her immediately, Charles abandoned the shooter's grip and took off down the walkway relying on his, hopefully, superior speed and reflexes to get himself out of harms way.  Of course at the speed he was going it didn't take him long to reach the end of the walkway.

When he got to the end of the walkway, he turned to face the blonde woman, hopefully charging after him, and fired the first shot blindly before actually taking aim.  His first shot wasn't meant to hit his opponent but scare them.

It was as if he was back in Africa and Italy in '44.  His brain had shut itself off in order to focus solely on surviving the onslaught of the Ukrainian woman.  One of the things the POW camps taught Charles was to survive no matter the cost.  Charles was too focused on surviving to have attempt a witty conversation with his opponent like normal.

[[I should have mentioned I am approaching you from head on. Thought that was obvious. Oh well, on the plan Q.]]

He was running away. Well ain't that a fucking surprise. Not slowing, not halting that forward momentum, she dashes after him, noticing he was a touch faster than she was; it didn't take long for that speed not to matter. He hadn't gone far before turning to shoot. Blindly. Her icy eyes saw what was happening, and her lithe, hardened body followed suit. She twists, just barely, and the bullet flashes by her to embed in a nearby shelf.

He was aiming now which meant he was stationary. His loss. She still hasn't slowed, making up for lost ground as he stood motionless, bookshelves blurred past her as her long leg ate up the distance between them, head on, her mind ready for the next shot she knew was coming. He had been faster, but not by much. Since he was simply standing, aiming, and she'd not once stopped, not for a second thought of slowing, she would be back on him by the time he pulled the trigger for the second time.

Both hands now held a knife, their broad blades meant for only one thing. They were both reverse-gripped, one held out before her, the other at her side, his next move dictating which blade would go where. She is taking in everything about him, his posture, his readiness, the tension she can see riding over his frame. If she didn't know any better, she would say he was in a surprised survival mode. Both advantageous and dangerous for her. He could react in any number of ways, but he wasn't thinking on those ways. She had seen that face before, on men - women - she'd laid out dead, and it never went well. Sometimes, for either party involved. But then again, she was just as primal in some ways. No set mastery of some routine martial art, no grace in the bloodshed she would make certain came next.

Goddamn guns, taking all the pleasure from it.

((OOC:  Would have posted sooner but I haven't been in the creative mood lately.))

It wasn't until after his second shot that he realized that the woman was wielding a pair of Bowie knives that looked especially fearsome charging towards him. It was this realization when his brain began thinking again. His mind raced at a million miles an hour as he thought of a strategy to evade the woman and her deadly knives. Using his peripheral vision, he looked for an object that could be used as a distraction.

Librarian. No too far away. Book Shelf. No too much time. Gun. Possibly. Book. No too time consuming. He didn't have many options seeing as he did stop in the middle of an aisle of books. Of course he had been in worse situations before. His fear of dying had left him when he was still mortal in Northern Africa after his first engagement with the Krauts.

He fired a third consecutive shot towards his female opponent before ejecting the magazine and smiling at the female. Obviously she was too close for him to do anything incredibly sneaky but he was going to try and finish it before he got himself dug into too deep of a hole.

Without a second though he would lunge towards his feminine opponent in an attempt to close the distance between them. While he is a martial arts master, or even close to such, he had been in his fair share of knife fights to know that he will most likely be stabbed at least twice before getting his first hit in. His lunge was more of a tackle from football than anything. Minus the arms wrapping around his opponent.

So…he is charging her.

Charging.

Her.

Whatever. If he really wanted to find the bottom of a six-foot seep hole, then by all means, rush the woman who lives for infighting. No, really. Rush her and see what happens. Which is what he is going to find out very soon.

The last round he sends her direction flies off harmlessly to her right, which is the same side that switches around the grip on her blade, now allowing it to face before her at the oncoming man. He was simply bull-rushing her; no real plan of forethought seemed to have come in to this new plan of his. Why didn’t he just remain with the gun and get close with that? Would have made it a hell of a lot more difficult to dodge.

In any case, he was on her in the breadth of a second, and she decided two things:

She was going to take the hit.

His head was going to come off.

So she does. She takes the hit, allowing him to bulldoze over her, but not before her rapidly fast reflexes snicker-snack her right blade into his neck – his very open, unprotected, close neck. It didn’t matter that he had hit her, as the momentum drove the blade further into his throat, most likely impaling it completely through.

Blood is pouring all over everything, and she is enjoying it far too much.

Her left had had dropped its knife as he hit her, and her free hand whips up to latch on to his head, fingers digging in with ungodly strength.

And then she begins to pull.

She is sawing the knife and pulling at the same time, tips of her fingers digging into his skull with enough force to crush bone. His arms had been open, he had simply rushed into her; there was little hope that he could stop her before she at least half-way removes his head from his shoulders.

Her eye is still watching for the gun however. He may have dropped the magazine, but she was acquainted enough with guns to know there should be still one left. One. She was going to make sure his head came off before that one bullet came into play.

It has been 48 hours with no response. This, combined with the current rate of the fight has led the Staff to rule in Eliska's favor. Her final attack constitutes a kill and she advances to the next round.

WINNER: ELISKA RESNIK