Blitzkrieg: O GREEN WORLD, DONT DESERT ME NOW {FATHOM v1}

As usual, Alcatraz stood defiantly in Blitzkrieg, his disfigured features pulled back in a snarling grimace, his cold eyes seeking his contender with a hunger that bordered on neuroticism. His lightning crackled before him, a relentless ball of voltage that scoured the plains and leapt almost jovially from puddle to puddle. It hissed around him, small but vivid lightning seared through his being and writhed around his mutilated body like flailing snakes.

It sought to vanquish her puny, flickering flames.

His adversary, a self-proclaimed super-horse, was drawn to his sight. A horse of her caliber would have no business in the wild, more or less would even exist without some sort of pressing starvation or blighting inadequacy. But Alcatraz was not a philosopher, it was not his nature to question how a Rolex-FEI-Olympic-esque horse, with high stifle, erect neck, thin legs, disproportionate barrel, broad chest and small head would have existed. To him, her picturesque appearance only brought out the brutality in him, increasing his fervor to ecstatic proportions.

The muck and mire that enclosed them was an inconvenience – he was careful to move cautiously around slick and unpromising areas. He picked up a balanced canter, his ruptured lips curled back in a sneer of concentration. As he approached her, he slipped (he was as of yet within striking distance), temporarily losing his footing; his hoof slick from the slush. But the mud was thick, the solid ground beneath it frozen and choppy. He reprimanded himself, never once losing his churlish intent. He approached her head-on, his canter solidified by a slow, churning pace – there would be very little relying on speed in this battle.

The slush, far from forgiving, made Alcatraz wary – which made, in turn, the power behind his first attack deviate. Had the footing been secure, his first attack would have annihilated his prey. He was, by nature, a powerful horse – Alcatraz is a gaited breed, his canter was slightly more-so elevated than most. He put his weight on his hind legs, sitting on his hocks as he sluggishly churned through the muck. There was little velocity in his attack, but the intense momentum coupled with his fierce desire to break her inwards would surely suffice, if not wholly make up for his lack of speed. He drew back slowly, calculating his trajectory and his collision with unerring precision. It was in almost an effortless move (years of training, discipline and patience on his part) that Alcatraz drew his weight backwards, his front legs (now alleviated of most of his body-weight) rising in an elevated canter stride, his hooves brought upwards to collide mercilessly into Fathom’s chest. Horses, unlike humans, have no protective collarbone breaching their chest – their muscles are the only thing that drape across the gaping cavern of their sternum. Alcatraz knew this inane weakness, and instantly destroyed it, all 1,200 pounds of his belligerent fury bearing down upon her like a mad train. His hooves, a far cry from sponges, would decimate not just this area, but the surrounding muscles with deadly clarity. His lightning surged towards her as they touched, the static electricity between them a physical force.

The chest, unusually broad in Fathom, housed more than one muscle. There were innumerable muscles that over-lapped, particularly where Alcatraz chose to hit. It was not just muscle that Alcatraz sought to derange, but the trachea. The windpipe, in the horse, is a massive organ – it is incredibly close to the skin and is sheathed by a thin layer of muscle that offers very little protection. When the horse breathes, you can see it expand and contract – it is so close to the surface that, like the esophagus, you can feel the ribbing. The windpipe (or trachea, what you prefer) sinks into the chest, reclining into the sternum. But, where the chest ‘starts’, the windpipe is painfully visible – and easily wrought to nothingness by a rather adamant pair of hooves.

The plethora of muscles, as well as the windpipe, in the area, would mean that Fathom would have extremely limited flexibility of the neck, shoulders, forearms, and a sudden reluctance to breathe, if Alcatraz timed right. The proximity meant that he would not miss, and should Fathom miraculously manage to wriggle out of his grasp, he would pull off slowly and come again. He, basically, refused to miss his target.

The Rectus Capitus Lateralis, originating at the poll and twining down to the lower chest, was a viable target. The Lateralis was the rudder to the horse’s head movement – allowing the head to flex and turn side to side. The Brachiocephalicus, a big name for a big muscle, overlapped the Lateralis and controlled the movement of the neck side to side, also controls the movement of the shoulder-blade and governs the foreleg’s ability of swinging forwards. Conveniently, the Biceps and Anterior Pectoral both overlapped the previous two muscles in such a small area, and they both play a massive part in allowing the forehand to extend. This meant that Fathom would now have difficulty breathing due to a collapsed windpipe (if not completely destroyed), would be experiencing extreme hardship in turning her head, neck, and a general, persistent agony that would refute any attempt on her part to move forwards. A hefty price to pay for being Alcatraz’s enemy.

But, if there’s one thing that is a certainty in battle, it is that nothing ever goes as plan.

Fathom had little she could do – Alcatraz was a malleable, adjustable creature. If she tried to shift away from him (she would have no clue his area of attack unless she was a mind-reader), he would adjust himself in a fashionable manner and approach her once more, if anything this would intensify his determination. If she balked, the added momentum would send her reeling backwards, with him figuratively right on top of her. And he wouldn’t contest to that. If she tried to rise towards him, she would be sacrificing her own balance, and his momentum could carry viciously into her body with little hesitation. Such a ballistic impact would render her utterly out of commission for the remainder of the battle.

His legs, half bent to absorb maximum concussion, couldn’t resist sneaking in a combo. His hooves, reverberating from the colossal impact, trusted the inexorable force of gravity to pull his weight downwards onto her thin legs with sudden brutality. It was not just enough that he tried to kill her, now he was trying to break her petite legs.

Alcatraz was a vicarious creature. His hooves, with 1,200 pounds behind them, weren't necessarily picky, but it was likely he would land with vindictive force on the flattened pastern, fracturing the high pastern from the low with sickening satisfaction. The pastern, one of the main bones that absorb concussion, would be hard-pressed to survive such a ballistic blow, their thin nature making them surprisingly easy to break.

Sort of like chicken bones.

The crippling blow, coupled with the previous ruthless attack, was the least of Alcatraz’s repertoire. He landed, far from gracefully, praying for his hooves not to fail him now. It was not an honorable descent, but he returned to the unforgiving earth, albeit almost reluctantly. He would have used her proximity to ensure he didn’t slip – even if that meant (although it is almost not applicable unless she rears) leaning on her.

A L C A T R A Z
YOU EITHER DIE A HERO OR LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE YOURSELF BECOME A VILLAIN