un: sieglindesullivan / video

[grunehexe]

[If you've ever seen an illegal cam recording from the back row of a theater, you are familiar with the style of this broadcast.

Observe, (as best you can), the players upon the stage. The stage being the cave in which many of them have taken shelter from the storm outside, specifically a large, flat rock, at which two fine male specimens you may recognize as Achilles, son of Peleus, and a certain McCree, locked in the midst of a fierce... arm wrestling battle.

Bare arm muscles flexing, beads of sweat dripping, jaws gritting, knuckles white and shaking, eyes narrowed in concentration and competition, testosterone veritably sparking in the air... as two very fit grown men have it out in a no holds barred thirst-fanning battle of the bulges. Arm muscle bulges.

You might catch glimpse of the lovely referee, (blond, very appropriately serious about judging this contest, thanks, Riza), and hear snatches of people rooting for a particular candidate, (the broadcaster herself seems to favor Achilles, if "steel yourself for victory, Achilles!" is any indication), but mostly this is about enjoying a good man on man test of strength.

Until, that is, a voice can be heard.]

- Are you recording that?

[The video sadly? and promptly goes black as the magitek jewelry is clutched to a bosom in scandalous retort.]

Is it not a sight worth sharing? For posterity, you see-

[And apparently she thought it best to post... for posterty. What? Any lady or inclined fella unfortunate enough to not see it go down surely wouldn't want to miss the show... ?]

Comments

THE BATTLE GOES ON.

[flashbanging]

[ God damn, but Achilles is strong. Stronger than just about any man McCree's come across in his travels, strong as Jack or Gabe at their peak--and they're both genetically enhanced super soldiers. Perspiration beads along the back of his neck as he struggles to keep up; his muscles ache within just two minutes of this spectacle. But--he quickly realizes--it is a spectacle, now; so many people are gathered 'round, staring unabashedly at their respective rippling biceps. He's determined to give them a good show.

McCree keeps himself in shape, and though he boasts significant strength of his own, he's still, ultimately, just a man. Another few minutes of this contest and his good arm is down flat on the rock.

He grins at Achilles, obviously impressed. He can admit when he's beat. ]

Damn. You got me good.

[heelies]

[His strength is the gift of his mother's divine womb: before he even breathed his first, Zeus who bears the aegis knew that he was destined to be a man greater than his father, a man stronger than any warrior who then walked the earth. From the moment he first gripped the spear's haft as a boy he knew what to do as if by instinct, and it came effortlessly like water which flows in the current carved out for it. So went his life, favored as he was by the gods.

Even now as he grapples with McCree he feels little strain, forcing the man's forearm to bend as if a tree toppled by a river in flood, until he has pinned it to the stone which serves as their ring. By now he too has noticed the small crowd that has gathered to watch their contest: aglow with the competitive spirit in his breast, he is pleased to find familiar faces among the onlookers, particularly a beauty with locks of pink on whom he casts a somewhat sly grin. His attention returns soon enough to McCree.]

You are a most worthy opponent, but none could argue that I have bested you. Let us meet again in a second round!

[In his enthusiasm he has half taken over Riza's duty as host of the games, but he looks to her for her signal as he positions his arm once more.]

sorry for the hold up friends

[strictdiscipline]

[Achilles' enthusiasm - and that of the growing crowd - is more catching than not, and Riza finds she doesn't half mind when Achilles charges forward for a second round, readying his arm on the flat rock before she even has a chance to open her mouth. (That said, the minor deference to her doesn't go unappreciated, respect for him going up a scant half a centimeter.)

For now, while a second repeat round is fine enough on its own, surely there are ways to spice up this competition. She notes the strain taken on McCree (and the apparent lack thereof on Achilles) and steps forward with a suggestion.]

Why don't we switch arms for this second round? It'll give your muscles a chance to recover in case you feel further rounds are necessary.

[Unless they're both going for endurance over strength.]

:*

[flashbanging]

[ No lie, McCree's right arm aches something powerful right about now. It doesn't help any that he's already put it through the wringer on this journey, having been attacked not once but multiple times by the hostile plantlife. The wounds are mostly healed by this point, but he'll have a fresh set of faint scars from where that one man-eater took a bite out of him, at least.

He hears the chatter around him--the shouting match between Olivia and Hanzo (that got intense, but, honestly, he's touched), the cheers, the skeptics. And, of course, Sieglinde's message from Ramir.

McCree nods his assent as he starts to unbutton his shirt. ]

Sure thing, d--ah, Riza. Provided that my opponent's amenable to the notion.

[ Another minute, and he's taken the shirt off. Doing so makes several things clear: the defined muscles on his broad chest and trim abdomen, the dense smattering of dark hair on that chest, and--most importantly--the fact that his left arm is almost entirely heavy metal. There's angry scarring where the prosthetic meets flesh, but the integration is otherwise seamless.

McCree sets his bionic arm up on the rock, opens his metal fingers.

Grins. ]

what went wrong in my life to bring me to this point

[heelies]

[Upon Riza's suggestion he retracts his arm to place upon the stone slab his other arm, just as sturdy as its brother but weakened by a wound which he lately acquired in the swamps, which is marked by a thin scar lining the inner curve of his forearm. Still he prays it will not impede him too terribly, now that he must wrestle against what McCree had declared the impossible challenge.]

Very well - I should find it to my liking to now test my strength against your arm of grey iron, McCree.

[Then he sees that his opponent begins to unfasten his shirt in answer to Sieglinde's shouting, and he wonders if he ought to follow suit: it hardly seems strange to him when the wrestling matches of the Achaeans are fought with bodies bare and skin slicked with oil. Perhaps this too is a tradition of McCree's people. With so many bodies pressed around them, the space grows warm despite the chill of the cavern, and he would welcome the freedom of movement. Thus he sets to unpinning the chiton from his shoulders, folding and tucking the excess cloth into the girdle tied around his waist.

With his torso thus bared, the muscles beneath his bronze skin appearing as if purposefully carved from marble, Achilles anchors his arm once again to the stone and seizes McCree's metal hand. He is surprised by the warmth that pulses within his grasp, and it is then that he fully realizes what the man had meant by a prosthetic: it truly is an extension of his body rather than something added on as armor would be. He meets McCree's eye.]

I am ready.

me, it was me

[flashbanging]

[ Jesus. Straight out of an antiquities museum, this fella. More and more, McCree believes that he is truly dealing with the Achilles of legend. His right arm feels wrecked enough to support that conclusion, anyway.

He clutches Achilles's hand in his, and then he starts to apply pressure. His bionic hand is stronger than the flesh one by significant degrees--so much so that McCree's moderating himself, as (despite Hanzo's encouragement) he doesn't actually want to crush Achilles's fingers. The other man's divine-gifted strength is still in full force, but now it's met with the strength of science. ]

shakes fist at lyn

[heelies]

[When he pushes back against McCree's force, Achilles can discern immediately that he meets greater resistance now than before. The fire within his breast burns all the brighter: he is one who delights in pushing the boundaries of his godlike strength, and here is a worthy match indeed. There was little excitement in taking challenges when he knew that he would be the victor armed as he is with his unconquerable strength, aristos Achaion, the best of the Achaeans - but so far away from his native earth as he is, the world ever widens and thus swallows such certainty.

In absence of that swells the thrill of this competition, and he pushes harder against the unyielding metal.]

[flashbanging]

[ The metal is indeed unyielding, and as Achilles meets him full-on, McCree finally just goes ahead and throws his weight into the thing. Obviously this guy can take it, and more, besides. He grits his teeth as he surges back, his metal fingers digging hard into Achilles's own, hard enough to break the bones of a lesser man. With this freshly applied zeal, he pushes, aiming as best he can to pin Achilles's arm to the rock.

Perspiration slicks his throat and chest anew from the effort his exertion, and he can feel his heart beating rapid in his chest, his pulse rushing like a waterfall. It's this kind of feeling that he's always lived for, that reckless space between danger and triumph, between crushing loss and, if not victory, then at least survival. He stares Achilles in the eye as he presses forward, and his own eyes glint--his right one, in particular, takes on a sheen of eerie blood red. ]

[heelies]

[Now does Achilles begin to feel the strain pulling tight his muscles, and his arm begins to yield to McCree's unbidden, as would the stone face of a sea cliff yield to the unrelenting waves degree by degree and thus its sharp edges erode. His broad chest expands with a deep breath and his bicep bulges as he counters with greater force. The hair at his temples slicks with sweat and sticks to his skin there.

(It ought to be noted to that his golden locks are arranged in a very manly array of braids, courtesy of Olivia. At least the flowers, having since wilted, were removed before this spirited contest began.)

His gaze lifts from where grapple their arms, and he is arrested by the glinting red of McCree's eye. It is this detail more so than the iron arm that strikes in him the thought that perhaps this man he faces is not fully human.]

[flashbanging]

[ The metal creaks from the strain, but McCree's actual muscles are faring much worse. He feels a painful throb in what remains of his shoulder, and his other arm is in outright screaming agony. But these circumstances are not alien to him. He has felt pain like this before; he has had to fight hard like this before. Rather than deter him, it just spurs him on; his blood howls and sparks with adrenaline.

In the back of his mind, he catches snatches of shouts and talk. Olivia, cheering for Achilles. And--Hanzo, surprisingly. Calling his name.

His grip, crushing now, tightens to a devastating vice. A final push, then. Either Achilles goes down now, or he doesn't go down at all.

He pours his strength into it, testing both the limit of his body and of his bionics. His right eye is almost fully red. ]

sorry for the delay!

[heelies]

[For a moment it seems as if Achilles will not budge: his arm trembles from the strain placed upon his muscles, and his scar throbs as if threatening to split open, but he descends no closer to the stone. Their arms are as a set of bronze scales that has found a tentative balance and each side stays suspended in the air.

Then just as one side of the scales must eventually tip beneath the weight of its burden, so too does Achilles' arm falter. The descent is at first slow, and his teeth scrape one against another, but at last his arm flattens against the rock, collapsed of strength.

Achilles looks surprised for what has happened, but then although he has lost he cannot help but grin.]

It seems to me you were right to have called this the impossible challenge - for even I who have no equal among the war-loving Achaeans could not defeat the strength of your iron grey arm.

np!

[flashbanging]

[ Jesse breathes hard, leaning forward like he's fit to collapse. He's aching all over now, feels like he's just been fed through a wheat thresher and then left in the field to rot. Lord almighty. It takes him a second to steady up and meet Achilles's eye; his own have returned to normal--dark and warm, as always. ]

You damn near popped the thing out of its socket, so I'd say you still did pretty good, partner.

[ He runs his good hand through his sweat-damp hair, wincing. ]

You wanna call it a draw?

[heelies]

[To McCree's credit, Achilles is not so even of breath or unruffled of features as he was upon the conclusion of their first bout. It is rare that he must strain at the limits of strength, and this shows plainly as the sheen of sweat across his chest. When he stretches his arm and rubs at it, he seems surprised that it could feel so sore.]

I do not think my arm can withstand another round against yours, nor does it seem that yours can withstand another round against mine, mere flesh though it may be. Thus a draw is agreeable to me, McCree of the iron arm.

[Look, he even won a sweet nickname out of this.]

[flashbanging]

[ McCree exhales slowly. Thank Jesus. ]

Real glad to hear you say that.

[ He's got his shirt back on, though he's buttoning it up with some difficulty--his good hand trembles like it's about to crumble. He laughs weakly, mostly at himself. ]

Guess now I can cross 'tussled with a livin' legend' offa the bucket list. Thanks for the the indulgence, Achilles.

[ He pauses, and adds, because he tries to be respectful -- ]

--son'a Peleus.

[ And then, haltingly and by degrees, he staggers to his feet. Time to go die in a corner. ]