The masculine fighter was covered in her own blood now, but the three arcing slices dug into her back hardly seemed to register against the pain in her head. The roaring agony of having all of her memories, training and self-discipline ripped away... The periods of consiousness were becoming like stray sparks from a dwindling fire.
Her body formed a new, desperate attack on it's own, the mind only watching from afar...
An knee to the stomach... it's not there anymore... a weak left swing... it doesn't exist... a central strike with fingers outstretched... It connects. It's inhuman ribs are broken and strewn.
But it's not enough. Not yet.