Blitzkrieg: BRING ME BACK TO FALLEN TOWN WHERE SOMEONE IS STILL ALIVE {v2}

He pulled away slowly, knowing that if he tried to run in such terrain it would be folly. He resumed his canter, the cadence far more regulated than the trot would have been. He circled her, this time approaching perpendicular to her, his chest directly in front of her barrel. To face him, she would have to pivot, and quickly (a painful alternative, given her injured chest and leg, it would be very stupid to do so) – to evade him, she would have to either bolt forwards or backwards, neither of which would be greeted hospitably by the unforgiving terrain beneath them. Once more his lightning sang before him, yearning once more to find a suitable ground. His canter, once again rocked back on his hocks, allowed him to adjust to her tempo. He brought his weight back, his hooves mimicking his previous attack, this time aiming for the gaskin (on her left side) – the footing was too precarious to aim much higher. One hoof (slightly lower than the other in case of emergency and he had to land) would strike the gaskin with titanic force, and in the muddy conditions it was a slip-up Alcatraz was looking for more than anything. He timed it so that he would collide with her right as her right hind was lifted up, unless, of course she was standing still. In doing this, it meant that her weight would be precariously balanced on that one leg, and Alcatraz had enough force (1,200 pounds of pure freight) to consequentially push her leg right out from under her and cause her to fall right on her ass.

Of course, one must take into consideration the many muscles grouped there. The gaskin, frighteningly more fragile than one might think, housed many muscles. The Fascia Latae, sheathing the gaskin bone, allowed the stifle to extend and the hip to flex, paramount in any sort of initiative movement. If he didn’t hit direct gaskin, there was little else he could hit – should Fathom exert energy and suffering (given her previous injuries, it would be implausible) and attempt to evade the attack, Alcatraz would instead land on the hock, which would suffice just as well, and likely knock her legs out from under her as planned, given she would be already unbalanced. He would land, this time he felt the ice pull his hind end, and he corrected himself with an insufferable look of patience on his distorted features. He picked up a casual canter once again, which meant that to attack him, Fathom would have to exercise her newly mutilated frame, coercing it into what must be an agonizing movement.

Alcatraz would be surprised if he didn’t cause her to wipe-out – even without the footing it was a feasible possibility. But her newly acquired injury meant that she would not only be combating with the previous two, she would now be nursing a hind end out of commission. To Alcatraz, this was a fun game, maiming and brutalizing this young super-woman.

A game he was bent on winning.

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