He didn't like that flower.
He didn't like that flower at all. The host of this event. Flowey, they had called themself. They spoke with a sense of schadenfreude woven thick into their bubbly little dulcet tones— only to turn the other cheek mere seconds later with a flash across the expression. That sudden shift to something darker, yet darker still. Fighting was the name of the game. It's what this entire tournament was founded on.
...This didn't feel like a fight. It felt like survival.
Last longer. Those were the operative words. It wasn't to win, or escape, or do anything besides outlast. The fox, he... never has he described himself as the sturdy type. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. He was breakable. Pain hurt. He felt every inch of discomfort that had ever been inflicted upon him. And now would be no different. But a keen mind was aware of this fact. Flight best served him as something to keep his distance. He preferred long-ranged weapons for this very fact. He had gizmos and gadgets galore that shielded him from incoming attacks.
Frankly, this was a challenge made for the fox-kit.
So the fox-kit would persist.
It's a slowly-fought game. Twin-tailed turbines, they cease for nothing and no one. Whirling appendages, they slow only for sudden cuts of the engine to fall in a curled-up ball— from a sweeping vine looking to catch him unaware and lop his head off. Slap Shields of every elemental variety are used to prevent damage where fleeting speed cannot cover— a bullet hell's spread of little white pellets. Prudent are his movements. Nary a second of motion is wasted on extra effort. He, the fine-tuned machine. The task ahead of him, the purpose he was built to fulfill.
He will not underestimate his opponent. The freaky little flower would probably love that, wouldn't it? No... Overconfidence has been his downfall in the past, and it would not do him in today.
"—Tch...!" "Augh!" "Ow! Ow!"
But the young one is not perfect. Past the cracks of a practiced defense will chips of red-hot pain punch through. That accursed flower, he was most assuredly learning the clever fox's patterns by now. He only had so many tricks up his sleeve, darn it! "Out of Slap Shields!" will a hoarse voice cry, twin-tailed namesakes starting to cramp from the seemingly unending stretch of raw endurance. "Chaos Drives are spent!" Cardio be damned, even Eggman fought to keep the kit on his toes like this. "Need a.... need a second to..."
Rest. His shoe touches the ground for but a measly millisecond.
A decision that makes the body buckle. Now wracked with the throbbing, stabbing ache of a crown of thorned vines piercing the ankle from every angle. Wrapped. Encased. Ensnared.
Flowey, he... he knew the fox's limits down to the very instance. A snare trap wrapped around the foot. The sudden shift of momentum moving him against his own volition. It was more than plenty of a hint as to what was about to come next for his pesky limits. For his penchant for constant airtime, the kit would be returned to his overhead domain rather swiftly. Like a whip of the wrist.
And brought back down to the ground with speed to spare.
"No-no— wait—!!"
THE CRESCENT ARC SENDS AN ORANGE SMEAR OVERHEAD. Grabbed and thrown, but never released.
IMPACT. FLARE. FIRE. PAIN. ACHE. Floor... cold floor... face on floor. Copper taste.
STOMACH JERKS AGAIN. THE WORLD IS A SMUDGE OF COLOR. Again. Again. Again. It is proven that he was not made for this.
FLUNG LIKE A FRAGILE COTTON DOLL. Up. Down. Up. Down.
SMASH. SMASH. SMASH. SMASH. SMASH. SMASH. SMASH. SMASH. SMASH.
* Somewhere, you get the feeling someone is taking great pleasure in all of this.
But he was alive. Everything hurt. His muscles barely function. Tongue can't taste, sight can't see, ears can't hear. And he had done his best.
@floweyssspring
