KOV3: How to have a Shootout (Shootout vs Average Man)

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Just_an_average_man

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"Sir, if you would please step on the scale....alright. We got a 140. Just give me a moment....alright, here's your license. Next."

"Finally...."

"Someone. Pleas. Just. F*cking. Shoot me."

"You know...."

No Caption Provided

It was well seemingly just another day at the Department of Motor Vehicles. The air was awkward, attitudes, there was way too many people and some people were slowly losing their sanity the very moment their phone battery hits zero percent. It would all seem pretty photo-realistic if it wasn't for the fact that the place, once entered, was seemingly infinite and inescapable. People however continued about their business, seemingly completely oblivous of the dual soon to take place at this soul-sucking DMV.

Alright. Screw this. I'm done with this mind screwy infinitesimal silent hill bullcrap. I wait one more minute and I might actually shoot someone.

The walking one man army was unsure of whether or not these people were real, mind controlled or just manifestations of whatever this placid place was, but he had decided that irregardless, he wasn't going to shoot them. He had morals, a sense of code. Honor.

"Alright everyone." *VROOOOOOOOOOOM* Bursting from the doors of the department, a chopper styled motorbike roared down an empty isle, a man clad in full body armor who looked like he was ready to survive the apocalypse, pulling the bike up into a wheely as if a bucking steed, before he slams it back down and breaks, streaking down the isle and coming to screeching halt in front of a desk. "Time to get out! You'll need to get your licenses some other time!" He takes out his CZ75 handgun and starts firing into the ceiling, causing everyone to flee the area.

....It just wasn't a sense of code that mirrored that of the "ideal" hero. Indeed, Elliot had his own code, and didn't think of himself as hero.

"Thank you, again. I promise I won't make much of a nuisance, and, um... I'll try to get out as soon as I can. I think I might be leaving Gothic after this. This city needs a stronger hero than me -- one more like you."

Elliot stared at the floor, the thought of those words said to him still very fresh on his mind....but ultimately irrelevant. He wasn't doing anything heroic. He entered a tournament to see how far he could make it out a sort of curiosity. A natural desire a successful former mercenary now hero for hire like him would have after having a bit of success. It was a bit of fun.

He looked up and the room was completely clear. Not a soul in sight. He got off his bike and walked over to an area behind the glass as he looked up his handgun's rounds, counting the number of explosives and incendiaries he had. They were all kept safe in his coat, not even walking in a direct flam with temperature of a volcano was gonna set those things off. A good thing too. He had enough ammo to take on a battalion. Yet, he wasn't exactly sure if he was gonna use it.

"Guess we'll see pretty soon..."

@shootout

Elliot flicks out a revolver casually, checking the ammunition of his weapons now, taking out a few magazines and idly juggling grenades with a single hand. He sat behind the glass because he wasn't sure how his opponent was going to approach him.

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Shootout

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Desmond McLeod tore his silver helmet off, deeply inhaling the cold city air. Eyes closed, he enjoyed a blissful five seconds of clean oxygen, instead of that putrid hellhole he'd just been forced to fight in. He opened his eyes, staring up into the cloudless sky. Beautiful. He'd had little idea of how long he'd been trapped in that sewer, but he was glad as Hell to be out of it alive. He looked down to see that his armor was clean, polished, even; undoubtedly a countermeasure to prevent unfair advantages in future matches. You're allowed to keep nothing from the arena, not even muck and smell, he thought. They've thought o' everything. He should be feeling sick, tired, but he actually felt rejuvenated. He'd been fighting that armored man, one who seemed to be able to bend reality to his whims...he'd fired off a single shot, just as he'd charged him. Next thing he knew, he had been moved somewhere else, a new sense of life injected into the tired husk that had been Shootout near the end of that battle.

Alright. Now on to the next bit, he thought, turning around and replacing his shining mask with a hiss. He felt it clamp into the back of his uniform's neck, hermetically sealing off his body from the rest of the world. But it didn't feel like it protected him...it felt like it was him. A second skin, dense enough let him walk through an explosion, but apparently thin and comfortable enough to pass for his very own flesh. His gatling gauntlets spun wildly, calibrating to align with the helmet's advanced targeting. He typically used line-of-sight to take on a foe, but a little extra automated help never hurt a man. As his visor came online, he saw the location that had been selected for the skirmish. The Department of Motor Vehicles?

He raised an eyebrow cautiously behind his reflective chrome helm, taking note of every last detail regarding the building. The front doors had been smashed through, completely obliterated; their broken remains littered the front entrance. A single strip of friction-scorched ground led from the outside street to the front of the isle, revealing a large chopper to be the source of the busted entryway. There were no patrons to be seen within, presumably having evacuated once the biker roared down the hallway...wherever he was. Then Desmond saw him.

He was clad in body armor that concealed his entire form, a hulking beast of a man who looked ready to thrive in an age of nuclear fallout. He was standing nonchalantly behind the glass, casually waiting for Desmond to arrive. He couldn't have been here too long; Desmond had found that the contenders typically entered the arenas around the same exact time. Odds were against him having placed any traps, but he looked to be the sort of man who would know how to make one. Dead, goggled eyes were trained directly on Shootout, whose own visor betrayed none of his facial expressions, a cold metal surface that merely reflected his opponent's image back at him. He was standing behind the glass, but that wouldn't help protect him in the slightest. Not that he needs it, Desmond added, making note of the man's heavy armor. Alright...let's get to it.

"Ey," he said slowly, cracking his neck. He also took in the fact that the man was carrying quite the assortment of guns, a veritable walking armory of a being. Desmond stood ready, legs slightly bent so as to be able to initiate a dodge. His gloves' guns whirred rhythmically, the triggers on his inner fingers seeming to burn with anticipation. He'd practiced this maneuver what felt like thousands of times before. The quick-draw. Contrary to popular belief, Old West gunslingers rarely engaged in these sorts of duels; they were more partial to the nighttime ambush, rather than the forward fight. The instantaneous ready, aim, fire of the cowboy quick-draw had primarily found its use in live shows and movies, rather than practical combat. And yet, with his own unerring superhuman accuracy, Desmond could indeed pull of such a stunt, and with consistent accuracy...and lethality.

Wind whistled through the deserted DMV, the hallways seeming to stretch out endlessly around them. Desmond paid his environment no heed. He was here for one thing, and one thing only.

"Whaddaya say," he began, his Scottish brogue carrying throughout the empty hallways, "...draw on five?"

He nodded at the man's pistol, before shaking his own arm-guns. They spun in distress, eager to let loose a barrage of bullets. Steady, he thought, pressing his fingers ever so slightly against the triggers, sweat dripping from his forehead. His mind was in overdrive, combat instinct taking over every other bodily function as he watched his foe with razor-like focus. It could be over in an instant. A potentially infinite number of bullets shook within his gauntlets, rattling softly as his arms tensed in preparation.

Right. Time for a little Shootout.

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@shootout:

Elliot's eyes looked up towards the stranger who had approached him, and he squinted underneath his helmet. He'd seen him before, though not in person. When he had his friends looking over footage from the shadow wars, noticing him to be one of the guy to take on the shogunate of Venezuala and even manage to wound her. Elliot had managed to wound her, however, she ultimately survived because Elliot retreated and then retaliated by shooting him in the knee. She could have killed him easily, but spared the man's life. It was one of the biggest muck ups in Elliot's career, and he intended to not make a similar mistake, especially against a guy good as this.

The man looked back, and both of the armored gun-man's masks betrayed no expression. Their visors mutually His armor was sleek and pretty top of the line, judging from looks and performance. A stark contrast to Elliot's own armor that looked like something he made in a garage....most likely because he did make it in a garage. It was bulkier, not something you'd want to roofhop around with, but it was effective enough to let him survive and walk away from things he'd otherwise have had trouble with. But could be damaged, worn down. It served him well, even with the constant need to repair or remake it after more grueling fights.

Seems like it's gonna be another one of those fights.

"Yeah?" Was Elliot's reply as he walked, his CZ75 in hand as he paced around from behind the glass, knowing what would soon follow, as he stopped squarely across the man to gunAlthough gun fights normally ended very quickly, he'd never really fought a gunmen on his level before. Let alone someone potentially above it. However, one of Elliot's greatest combat skills was with weapons. Improvised weapons, custom weapons and military grade weapons. Snipers, shotguns, baseball bats, his assortment of hidden weapons, grenades and explosives, he was rather creative and consistent with this, and he might need to dip well into his arsenal to get through the guy's armor.

"Draw on five? Alright." But for now, he'd stick with his two custom .454 custom revolvers "Henny and Jenny" as he affectionately named them. Elliot was fast on the draw as well, having a draw speed comparable to that of Bob Munden, it being difficult for one to actually see with the human eye, and what some of his enemies claimed was instantaneous. A combination of practice and a side effect of his fast hands developed from boxing, mixed with coordination. He'd need it, considering the arm mounted guns he had spinning on display.

"Five."

His hand goes on one revolver.

"Four."

Elliot gets in a combat stance akin a boxer with his arms down, ready to dance.

"Three."

Hand tenses it's grip on his gun, muscles in his wrist and fingers ready to explode into a blur in fractions of a seconds.

"Two."

Smile creeps on his face, as a sort of smile creeps down onto his face. He always relieved fear and angst with humor. Kept his cool, even with the rushing adrenaline.

"Draw."

Elliot sent his FMJ lead and copper cop killers down rage towards the man at 1,295 miles, each shot impacting with 2.7 kilojoules of kinetic energy. This translated into every round impacting with roughly 1900 ft lbs of force at the muzzle, nearly a ton, and having even more stopping power than an M16 or AK47's energy. Elliot was strong and fast enough to empty the rounds so fast that the gun sounded like it was going full auto.

He didn't negate the kick as so much...he went with it. The gun recoiled immensely, but he controlld it and laid down shots dead on target, with his first shot starting at the stomache, and each shot going up with the kick of the gun, and gradually riding it up to the final shot aiming to be landed on the forhead. But, the revolver revealed itself to have a 7nth shot, in the form of a grenade launcher that Elliot took milliseconds to adjust and fire, all the while he weaved, seeking to not dodge every last shot from his opponent, but to mitigate them.

He sent the grenade downrange for good measure, seeking to blow his opponent back ten or so feet into a crater or through a deskin the wall cross the room with a round that hardly had much shrapnel.

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"Five."

Desmond's fingers twitched in anticipation, taking a deep breath. If bears could talk, they'd sound like this man. He had the same confidence about him that Desmond himself was sure to bring to every fight. He was experienced, possibly as fast on the draw as Desmond himself. Despite all the hype behind his supernatural aim and inhuman durability, he still had the draw speed of just an average man.

"Four."

Revolvers. They looked like they'd fire .454 ammunition, or something like it. For all his experience, Desmond couldn't name the model. Custom, then.

"Three."

He tensed, like a runner on a starting block. His fingers moved like the legs of a spider, blood pumping through his veins as he looked for a weak point in the man's armor. When in doubt, aim for the joints and the eyeholes. He breathed out.

"Two."

He took another breath, same length as the last. The gleaming barrels spun softly, as if to respond to the tension in the room.

"One."

Time stopped.

"Draw."

They were equals. Two opposite forces moving towards one another on an inescapable collision course, both standing in the other's way. In the very moment that the last syllable escaped the masked man's mouth, they raised their arms, fingers releasing the built-up adrenaline with a simple contraction of the muscles, pulling back on the triggers that would project their deadly intentions across the ruined DMV. Desmond felt everything; he heard insects buzz around the room, he smelt the sweat running down his face, and he saw the glint of copper and lead flaring from the front of his adversary's pistols. Simultaneously, his own golden gauntlets roared to life, the spinning barrels aflame. He felt the power well up within him, moving through his veins and into the bullets spewing forth from his twin guns.

In the span of milliseconds, the middle of the room had become a warzone. Neither man would be able to see what was about to occur, but an uncannily talented observer would note the paths of Desmond's bullets. Fourteen shots had been fired by the walking armory across the room, each sent with deadly accuracy towards the Straight-Shootin' Scot. Fourteen shots were sent in response, each man pressing the triggers as fast as humanly possible. And in the middle of the room, the cursed bullets that belonged to Shootout took on a new, unintended course. With an act that would be labelled by many as divine providence, the golden, ancient bullets sent forth by Desmond's gauntlets found new targets, colliding perfectly with the shots sent forth by the one-man army across the room. Thirteen collisions, simultaneously occurring in mid-air; thirteen shots entirely mitigated, shards of FMJ and Cursed Metal alike ripping each other apart in sync.

But the fourteenth bullet found its mark.

Hurdling through the storm of sparks and metal in the middle of the ruined aisles, the last shot sent from the Gothic Gunslinger's custom revolver crashed into Desmond's armored left pectoral, throwing him off balance as his outer "skin" rippled to repel the bullet. Through the air, he saw another attack coming his way, the deadly result of a highly unorthodox modification to his foe's weapon. A grenade. Desmond had no time to think, only act. Still reeling from the intense stopping power of the fourteenth shot, he raised his right gauntlet upwards, firing a single bullet into the small sphere as it flew towards him. He saw the projectile collide with his shot, watching as it was replaced by a fireball of intense heat and energy. In that instant, Desmond was blown clear off his feet, sent hurtling through the air.

And yet, as he flailed backwards towards the entrance, he never stopped shooting, fingers still pressed on the triggers. His feet left the ground as his body was thrown backwards like a ragdoll, dust and shrapnel surrounding him as he soared towards the hole in the wall. Bullets cascaded from his gauntlets, fired even as he was blown across the office. Each shot was destined to find its mark, an extension of his very willpower.

He'd had only a mere second and a half to fire before he began to flip over, his body unable to control its own flight path. He flew through the front of the DMV, helmeted head landing first on the ground. He was sent skidding across the pavement, the imperium helm throwing up sparks as it slid backwards across the street. Finally, his body flipped completely over, chest dragging across the gravelly road. He coughed, then warily got to one knee. He placed a gloved hand on his chest where he'd been shot, wincing when it came away slightly redder. The familiar metallic taste of his own blood was back in his mouth. His targeting system had been wrecked, his red goggle twitching annoyingly. Manually deactivating it by blinking three times in rapid succession, the targeting computer turned off, leaving him only with line-of-sight to work off of.

Good...let's do this...right, he thought, standing straight up. There was a burnt streak across the ground where his head had slid, akin to the line left by a supercar racing out of the starting zone. He glanced down at his left gauntlet. The shockwave from the grenade seemed to have damaged it. Like all of his mystic paraphernalia, it would eventually repair itself, gears twitching back into place, dents tightening and stretching until they were no longer there. For the meantime, however, it would be useless to him. His right gauntlet smoked and cracked, having also taken the brunt of the concussive force. Imperium's natural energy-absorbing properties made it ideal for redirecting these sorts of attacks, but making small complex parts out of it (like Desmond's arm-guns) could lead to easy malfunctions. Exhaling, he pressed small buttons on his gloved palms, causing the guns to retract.

Looks like old school is the way to go. The dust that had been thrown up throughout the DMV may have obscured his foe's vision for a moment, but helmets like that were never for show. It seemed standard that they come with ways to peer through smoke and debris, seeking out their targets, able to penetrate even the densest of obstructions. Desmond had no idea whether or not the shots he'd fired in mid-air had hit their marks...for all he knew, the armored behemoth within the DMV could be dead already. But somehow, he doubted that...

It was in that moment that he knew he'd need to move quickly. Reaching behind his back, he drew upon the Curse to provide a new weapon, a gift from the likes of Cthulhu and the Old Ones...

Pfft. Let's not start believing...now, he thought with considerable effort, fingers grasping for purchase on the handle of a new, lethal tool. He grinned slightly as he felt the familiar grip of an M110 Sniper Rifle. For any conventional fighter, it would serve absolutely no use at this range, requiring a massive amount of time to set up a single shot, and only from a great distance away. To Desmond, however, it was just another sidearm, only one with enough force behind it to accurately rip through a target at 800 meters away. Instead of lining up a single shot through the scope, he took the offensive initiative, capitalizing on his foe's requirement to reload.

He leapt through the shattered side window of the DMV, spinning in mid air so as to bring the barrel directly into place with his foe. The moment he saw him, he'd let loose from the hip, counting on his Lovecraftian curse of unknowable horror to send the 7.62x51 rounds into his foe's head, if he had managed to survive the initial draw.

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@shootout:

*BOOM*

*Clank clank*

"...Holy sh**." Elliot muttered under his breath.

He'd never fought someone with marksmanship, like this. It was supernatural. The guy shot his bullets straight out of the air. And on top of this, he had 3 shots aimed straight for Elliot face, ones that he had managed to block by holding his other arm up while the shots went off. But that wasn't the freaky part. The freaky part was that the bullets aimed towards his visor, threatening to all consectively strike in the same place. Elliot looked on his forearm to find the bullets had welded together into a short rod and then having promptly fallen to the ground, the shots hitting in the same area having increased the energy imparted. The rest of the shots were aimed at his crotch and knee, thankfully which were armored. The Gel within Elliot's knee hardened upon impact to held diminish the rounds effectiveness, but gunfire would wear down his armor quickly. He can tank shot after shot, but enough gunfire, or a high enough caliber? The right kind of damage. It's going to fail eventually. He had to get a prosthetic knee because the shogun shot clean through his knee cap. He didn't intend on losing another.

He got behind a desk, quickly. Not for cover, the objects in here weren't good for actually blocking the blows, but for concealment. Let's see how this guy is close up. Elliot thought, it would likely be best to do this. He wasn't sure if the guy was dead or not. But it'd be best to assume he's alive. He looked like he shot the grenade out of the air and he was shooting him as he flew away. He figured he should cover his approach, reaching for his side. Goddammit. I forgot to buy some chaff. The way he saw it, either he was gonna move fast or not at all before the guy would come in.

Thought it'd take more to kill ya, where the hell did he get that rifle?

Elliot was thinking while he was drawing, getting distracted, the man had already about to fire but Elliot was a marksman, he knew where he'd aim. He was aiming for the eyes. He raised Jenny up with lightning quick speed, and he had managed to narrowly, nudge the bullet aside with a dangerous stunt. Essentially deflecting a bullet he couldn't see by smacking it aside, at the cost of his gun getting blown out of his hands. Something that would have broken most people's wrists, but Elliot had the wrist strength, the armor and the coordination to loosen his grip.

But still, Elliot continued forward, running right at the man. He wasn't going to deflect multiple rounds from a skilled marksman in quick succession. He wasn't that fast. He didn't even see the round he'd deflected, he just had known...or well, more like guessed, where the bullet would be. He ran with his arms in front of his eyes, now having to most likely eat a shot for this gamble. However, he might redeem himself in his next move as he clenched his fist, and halted, throwing the momentum of his run into a jab.

However, a closer look would reveal Elliot had arm cannons of his own underneath the armor in the form of two MAUL shotguns mounted on the arms. Ones that threatened to unleash it's "Buckshot surprise" (as it was called) in the form of an incendiary 12 Gauge Blast accompanying every blast Elliot landed as following the uppercut he immediately throws 6 blasts with blurring speeds towards his opponent. Trying to overwhelm him not with just the hidden gun, but with the sheer weight and explosive power from the man's punches.

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Shootout

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Within moments of re-entering the building, Desmond was able to deduce that the fight was no closer to being over than it had been thirty seconds ago. The sniper rifle rattled in his arms as he fired wildly into the man, who had revealed himself to be not only alive, but even more aggressive than before. The semi-automatic sniper rifle in his arms filled the ruined DMV with thunderclaps that echoed off endless walls, shots flying into his foe's form. His armor had stood up well, even managing to deflect the cursed, unfaltering barrage that was sent his way.

We must be comparable, then, in our capabilities, he remembered. It had forever been a condition of his curse that his shots had greater accuracy on those more powerful than himself, and it would seem that fighting a relatively average foe would grant him consistently average effectiveness. A battle of pure skill, and skill alone. I can handle that.

Within seconds of Desmond's aggressive breach of the DMV, he'd been met with a similarly aggressive counter-strike. His opponent had risen from behind small cover, charging in his direction with armored gauntlets protecting his face and torso. He closed the gap rapidly, affording Desmond the time to fire only twice from the long-barreled firearm before his foe was upon him. In an instant, he was met with a flurry of simultaneous attacks, each more punishing than the last.

His opponent's first strike was to be an uppercut, a charging swing that would knock him under the chin with enough force to send him through the ceiling. Desmond braced his feet, feeling the imperium-laced grips on the bottom of his boots lock into the ground. They would respond only to his internal muscle movements within the suit, granting him a strong stance without detracting from his agility. The mystic grips were intended as a countermeasure against massive gun recoil, but Desmond had found even greater use in grappling with a foe.

The exact second his foe swung at him, he raised the sniper rifle upwards horizontally, using it like a polearm to block the punch. It was swiftly blasted from his grip as a previously hidden aspect of his foe's attack was revealed; firearms underneath the gauntlets let loose with a spray of buckshot, knocking away the rifle and ricocheting off of his silver helmet. Other shells embedded themselves in his red suit, the force behind each putting immense strain on his legs, anchored only by the molecular grips underneath his feet.

It was in this moment, between the opening attack and the volley of similarly explosive blows that were to follow, that Desmond began his countermaneuver. Leaning forwards into his brutish plated foe, he wrapped his massive arms around his torso, struggling to gain some leverage. He felt the hail of attacks land on his back, hammering away at both his spine and resolve as he curled his fingers into the back of the armor. Though renowned as a gunman, Desmond was also a highly accomplished physical combatant, aided immensely by the supernatural uniform he had been granted along with his powers. The grips on his gloved hands, identical to those found beneath his boots, would help him find purchase on the otherwise smooth surface of his foe's back. Then, he'd bend his own muscles at the waist, letting his armored attacker's massive weight do the work for him. Pulling with all his might, Desmond would drive him over his own back, falling alongside him in a massive suplex-like slam, driving his opponent's head into the ground with enhanced strength and agility. His opponent's heavy armor would, ironically, be the means by which Desmond hoped to end him once and for all, his upper body brutally crushed by its own weight.

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Elliot felt the cracks racing along the inside of his armor. He had no idea what the hell this was. Normally, he could literally charge right through 5.56 mm NATO or even armor armor piercing 7.62 mm rounds AK's fired. His helmet could take a .50 cal round even ,and the padding helped negate the hydrostatic shock of the impact as the rounds impacted the rounds of his armor. But Elliot couldn't help but wonder why the hell his armor was already on the verge of giving way. It's as if he was hitting him in all of the right places to make it weaker quicker.

He reared his fist back to punch his opponent

*CHINK*The final round impacted the same time Elliot's fist did, hitting him straight on in the goggle, his back arching back as his opponents own firearm flew back from Ellliot striking moments later.

He had managed to get within hand-to-hand range of his opponent and clock him a few times. Elliot's armor offered no increase to his physical strength whatsoever, moreover, it offered durability he couldn't possibly achieve through training. He wasn't some superhuman martial artist, or someone who was without limit. He didn't have magic, and he wasn't smart enough to invent anything he wanted, nor did he have as much money as a stark. He was a man from Gothic who trained his body to become as explosively strong as he believed he could, to accomplish something. Then he made a suit of armor using some stuff he bought off the black market and E-bay. Elliot was durable and had above average strength, but he wasn't punching someone through the ceiling. That would require force of a magnitude more than roughly the 3 ton blast he achieved with aid of his shotgun gauntlets.

He found himself caught off guard by his opponents strength and lifted off his feet. Even off his feet, Elliot could strike him by shooting him in the back with his gauntlets, putting point, blank full muzzle energy blasts that averaged out to 3 tons one the back. The angling was weird, but it didn't matter that much when you could just shoot him in the back to try to break bones. However, his opponent was doing his damndest, just like Elliot was. And he made the move of slamming the very crown of Elliot's head right on top of the tile, a loud *CHINK*heard from the top of Elliot's head as his metal helmet collided with the top of the ground.

....But ultimately, Elliot wasn't heard extensively by that. The armor's bulk, it's weight, it wasn't all for show. Indeed, Elliot's bulk was mostly due to padding to dampen these kinds of blows. He's fallen from 6 stories, taken explosions that would launch a terminator, bmanaged a 50 story fall with help of a para-shoot onto a car, walking through hails of bullets, been plowed through wall after wall from the strikes of his opponents and survived taking a giant spirit beam to the face at mach 3 that nearly killed him and sent him through several walls. To say the least...Elliot was a survivor, and the armor soaked up the blunt impact more than the man's accursed rounds, ones that would've very soon find their way through his armor. Another shot to the same spot of his eye, he'd be out.

But getting slammed just resulted in him rolling with the man's grip on his back struggling to get him off.

Then Elliot paused.

F*ck this brazillian jujitsu, judo grappling MMA, cuddle crap.

He reaches into his trenchcoat, pulls out a .600 Caliber Nitro express. A 12 pound handgun that is described as being overkill for elephants, one with a muzzle energy of around 4.5 tons worth of force and kinetic energy point blank.

His opponent may do well to draw, as Elliot used his strength to handle the gun seemlessy, pointing the front of the muzzle to the man's forhead , and finally setting the round loose.

@shootout:

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#8  Edited By Shootout

As he grappled relentlessly with his indomitable foe, he felt sweat pouring down his face, a consistent side effect of the intense combat he was so accustomed to. And yet, this venture, no, this calling, had truly pushed Desmond to his limits as both a fighter and a person. He was no superhero, no champion of the oppressed; he was no defender, no symbol of justice or democracy; he was but a cowardly, weak person who had merely been in the wrong place at exactly the right time. He was a man who had made, potentially, one of the biggest mistakes in history: he'd foolishly traded his soul in exchange for the ability to reap others, a shortsighted desire for power overwhelming any shred of decency that had previously resided within him.

And he had one chance to fix it.

It was as he wrestled with the behemoth of a man before him that he remembered his mission, his destination. He gritted his teeth, thinking of every innocent who had breathed their last under the crosshairs of his scope. He tensed his muscles, feeling them strain and snap underneath the pressure of his mystic, crimson armor. And he felt the gun barrel press against his head.

First came the flash. It was blinding, unbearably so; within milliseconds of the trigger's pull, small tears welled up in his eyes as the light scorched his unprotected retinas, his visor having been deactivated earlier in the fight. Second came the bullet, colliding violently with his silver helm. The noise alone was deafening, crashing throughout his earlobes despite the protective measures installed within his advanced headgear. And finally, the recoil. He felt the bullet smash into his head, the force reverberating through the imperium web that comprised his mighty helmet; he screamed as his neck was thrown backwards, his life only saved by the small mystic seal between the head of the suit and its back; and he felt his body weaken as he relinquished his grip on the gargantuan metal opponent, spinning across the DMV floor, his body propelled by nearly four and a half tons of force. He laid still upon the broken glass and debris, listening as a small crack made its way across the outside of his shining helmet. He felt a small bit of air rush through, the hermetic seal of the outside broken. Then the last, horrible realization hit him.

...I'm blind.

He scrambled weakly to his feet, blinking rapidly as water ran down his face. He could see nothing, white flames dancing in and out of his irises. He'd stared straight into the muzzle of a massive gun as it had gone off, the searing image worse than the throbbing headache of the impact itself. His stomach turned, his insides wracked with nausea as his nervous system struggled to cope with such intense trauma. He shook, arms aching, suit torn, a massive crack on his once-magnificent helm.

And yet he stood. First on a knee, then straight up. He could not see, but he knew his foe was before him, an obstacle in his path for redemption. Not for himself, but for the ones he killed. His mind ached, his frontal lobe screaming. But one strategy burst through, a lesson from the Shootout of the Old West himself.

"If you can't see shit, paint the area in bullets. You'll never run out, remember?"

...Wise...words...he thought, every syllable a weakening blow of its own. But his resolve did not falter. And so, in taking the lesson of the forerunner to his name to heart, he reached once more into the abyss, fingers weakly grasping for a final card to play in this fight. He had not the strength to grin, but were the circumstances different, he would have.

He pulled out the gun he'd come to know as the Conti Special, so named for the bloody role it had played during the Shadow Wars within Gothic City. A fully automatic, absolutely massive Gatling gun, he used what remained of his strength to clench his left hand around the top handle, and his right finger around the trigger. The barrels began to spin, 7.62 bullets already prepared within the endless, accursed magazine. There would be no aim involved. Only hope.

"There can be...only one," he said, softly pulling the trigger.

@just_an_average_man