@Amaranth_Strix: Thank you :)
Blinding incandescence engulfed the palatially festooned bedroom, a dimensional tear adjoined to the generated radiance. And from it, a lethargic step, vibrations reverberating across the room announcing his ominous ingress. And as the luminous glare dissipated, there he stood, over two thousand pounds of 7 foot 5 inches of genetically compiled muscle enveloped by superficial layers of compacted fat. An immigrant, brought here by an unexpected temporal peregrination, Espada's sharp, denim blue eyes surveyed his surroundings. A bedroom. Upscale furniture and opulent decor embellishing it with an atmospherically cultivated regalia. "Hm?", somewhat pensive, his eyes resumed their wandering. Bullet holes from feverish gunfire had peppered sections of the bedroom, a violent struggle had taken place, a suspicion affirmed by the floored bodies of three unconscious Nazi soldiers. Yet, the self-proclaimed Martial Mauler seemed unmoved, unfazed by that which he now sees. His poise never wavering. Though he had questions. Nazis adorned in the traditional uniforms of the Wehrmacht?
He was to be given answers. Killing all but one of the unconscious soldiers, he waited, allowing the remaining soldier to regain consciousness. The subtlest sign of consciousness gave him reason enough to begin. Seizing his victim by the throat, the Mauler fervently braced him against a wall, the soldier's back colliding with a hung painting. Espada's emotionless facial features deliberately contrasting his violent mannerisms. The soldier's struggle for freedom was an act of futility, his gloved arms attempting to wrestle away Espada's hand by the wrist. And as the man's fear immersed itself in his mind, the Youseki Yokozuna began, "Where are we?", his eerily deep, contralto voice boomed, but his answers were given only in German. If not for his and genetically endorsed Eidetic faculties having enabled his fluency in various languages, the endeavored conversation would yield nothing. "Fassen Sie sich kurz. Wo sind wir?" (Keep it short. Where are we?), he demanded. "Dies ist Brüssel. Wir sind.. in Belgien!" (This is Brussels. We are.. in Belgium!). The answer surprised him, face succinctly lit by a sincere moment of shock. "Belgium? Hrm", with his right grip still tightened around the Nazi's throat, he moved to peer through the window. The architecture, the design of the vehicles populating the streets, Nazi flags, it raised only more questions.
"Welches Jahr haben wir?" (What year is it?), he asked, eyes still transfixed on the window. "1940", the soldier answered, the constrictive grip of Espada's grip rendering his speech laborious. Subtly squinting both eyes in mild irritation, the Mauler wondered, how had he been transported through time? And who was responsible for his temporal displacement? The soldier however, was unconscious during his arrival, his doubts that the man harbored any knowledge on the physics and quantum-mechanical aspects of time travel remained, he did not question him on the year. "Warum waren Sie bewusstlos?" (Why were you unconscious?). This question yielded all that he needed for the moment. A lethal duo, a man and a woman were responsible, yet the lexical description of the man's attire struck him, but no it could not be, Xavier? Impossible. Though his curiosity had been incited, returning to the present would be possible only with the aid of whoever had brought him here, and he would find them. He was told of the man's description, and the woman's name 'Aurore'. Uttering in English, he showcased indirect gratitude for the soldier's cooperation, "You've been good", prior to fortifying his grip, remorselessly snapping his selected victim's neck, apathetically dropping him on the floor.
Again peering through the window, his mouth curled, a haughty smirk painted on his features. He had no knowledge of where this enigmatic duo had fled to, only the name Aurore, and knowledge of a man veiled by hooded adornments and an alabaster mask. Commencing his investigation with immediacy, Espada's fist vehemently shattered the wall before him, his sonar hearing having located it's structural vulnerable point. Stone and concrete dust washed off his flesh by the descending rain, his colossal frame landing on the street's pavement. Dark clouds wrestling dominance of the sky from the sun, casting their looming calignosity over the city as rain poured and poured. The abruptness of his actions immediately warranting attention, prompting him to burst off. Though built much larger and taller than the average man, his speed was deceptive, sprinting beyond the abilities of even the finest of athletes, Espada concealed himself in the depths of an enshrouding alleyway, for now, his investigation would not be deterred by any pursuer.
@Sparrow_of_Aces:(I liked it)
His adversary showcased an intimate comprehension of combat, dismissing the attempted coercion of the Mauler's implemented boxing combination, and instead, exploited Espada's greatest disadvantage. Though remarkably tall and built with the physique of a robust tank, it rendered him susceptible to lower body attacks. He could pump his abnormal reach advantage, abuse his enormity and strength in clinch wrestling, but his hips, to a shorter opponent were always exposed to a shot towards his hips. With bold pragmatism, the Saint of Seas' arms wrapped themselves around Espada, his hands hooking behind his lower back. Indignant, the Martial Mammoth offered little deterrence as his opponent facilely lifted him off the ground, blasting off into a sprint. Instinctively, Espada made use of their close proximity, executing a successive series of lacerating elbow strikes, targeting his adversary's exposed head. Though it was fruitless. Ruinously, his back collided with icy body of the previous glacier.
Fragmented ice violently flung into the air as Espada was forced deeper into the glacier, his back heavily bruised from the impact, bone structure giving way, cracking. And though wincing in evident pain, the Mauler would not yield, his regenerative faculties would ensure his quick healing. And as he readied himself to wrestle free of the Aquatic Deity's body-lock, the Hoodaki Heavyweight de-materialized. A spontaneous luminosity enveloping his frame, external, temporal forces transporting him elsewhere in time, 1940, unfortunately leaving behind his friend Amaranth to the mercy of the Modern-day Poseidon.
@Kuma_From_Argentina: @Sparrow_of_Aces: @Amaranth_Strix:
Though succinctly sheltering himself within the encompassing structure of the glacier, shielding himself from the descending mass of lava, the Martial Mauler soon, out of his hubristic spirit, emerged from the body of ice. His gargantuan frame exposed to the frigid air of the frozen continent, further aggrandizing the frost enveloping his grossly tattooed flesh, yet he grinned in response to his foe's approach. The Saint of Seas, showcasing his warrior's honor, relieved himself of the weight of his scintillating chestplate, snow tersely flung into the air from the armored piece's fall. Outmaneuvering the raining molten rock with uncanny dexterity for one of his evident girth, Espada continued forward, the subtle vibrations from his footsteps reverberating across the frozen landscape. Halting a minuscule number of feet from the Modern-day Poseidon, he issued a taciturn nod, and though his cocky smirk expressed haughtiness, it veiled his respect for he who stood before him, an adversary that had bruised him, and knocked him into the depths of a glacier.
Discarding traditionalist nonsense, Espada darted forward, his left hand swinging for a long left hook, a strike similar to the jab in the sense that while capable of damaging an opponent, it is primarily geared towards controlling the opponent, and setting up follow-up strikes. Infusing his un-assessed superhuman strength into the punch, it was to deceive the Saint of Seas of his actual striking potency. Typically, the long left hook is designed to push the opponent into the path of a right hook, and hoping that his adversary would indeed predict a follow-up right hook and slip to the left, outside the path of what many would expect to be a right hand, Espada quickly attacked. Instead, he followed with another left-handed punch. A lightning fast left uppercut, his arm shooting outward from his abdomen, angling upward, his fist targeting the Aquatic Deity's chin with monstrous knockout power while simultaneously using his sonar hearing to detect vulnerable points in his opponent's body, allowing him to strike said points, simulating strikes of power far beyond his scope of physical strength. Though not fully healed from the earlier assault, Espada backstepped forward, allowing him time to fully recover from his swollen features and bruises, meanwhile using his sonar to remain aware of Amaranth and Xavier's positions for tactical purposes, particularly attentive to Amaranth's bout with the replenished boxer.
@Amaranth_Strix: @Kuma_From_Argentina: @Mr_LeBeau: @SamJaz:
Employing his deceptive counter-striking stance, the Martial Mauler sought to ceaselessly pump his reach advantage prior to transitioning his intentions to aggressively pressing forward, hoping to draw out the attacks he most desires to counter with offensive cerebral comprehension. His intentions however, were abruptly halted by the emergence of a Modern-Day Poseidon. A gargantuan dragon-shaped wave of fervently approaching water loomed across the sky, casting an ominous calignosity over Espada's heavily tattooed frame. Positioning both forearms before his features in a moment of defensive instinct, the pulverizing waters soon collided against him, violently carrying him off both feet, the frantic currents directing water into his ears, nose and eyes prior to smashing his frame against a colossal glacier of dense ice. The impact driving him deep into the body of ice, a multitude of fragmented shards of ice flung into the air. Battered, portions of his face swollen, the Combat Colossus' ire had been roused. Vengeance would be his.
Gushing out water from his mouth, Espada lamely rose to both feet, the water's liquid state quickly shifting as layers of frost enveloped his skin. If not for his uncanny control over his autonomic nervous system and immune response, undoubtedly, his body would have succumbed to freezing. Prowling forward, emerging from the gaping hole in the glacier, his accelerated healing factor steadily reducing the swelling and cleansing him of his bruises, Espada's indignant eyes set on the Saint of Seas, teeth gritted as he cautiously descended slightly into the protective layers of the glacier's surrounding structure to shield himself from the descending lava plummeting the sky. Gradually composing himself, he smirked, neurally activating 100% of his body's muscular composition, affording himself a monstrous degree of superhuman strength. As water droplets descended from the sky, Espada ignored the ensued hailstorm of gunfire that peppered the boisterous boxer's body, assuring himself, that the Oceanic God's chin would be his to shatter.
Despite their collective antagonism of the Boxing Apogee, their assault though successful in administering superficial damaged, failed to damage their adversary with impairing wounds. Evidently puzzled at their opponent's unorthodox back-roll, used to avoid the takedown shot, the Martial Mauler coolly rose to both feet, dismissively chuckling in response to the youth's peppering insults. Smirking with taunting cockiness, he heeded Amaranth's words, certain that Xavier would as well. Counter-striking and doing battle form a distance while exercising their reach. For this, Espada buoyantly hopped out of range, moving with deceptive dexterity across the sheet of ice despite his enormous girth. Adopting a defensively provocative stance, legs positioned apart from one another, almost at shoulder-width, his head and back slightly pulled back from the hips, and hands lowered closer to his waist, exposing his face, this was his preferred counter-striking stance. By lowering his hands, he renders himself an inviting target to assault, his head seemingly exposed, only to intercept charging targets with a blinding jab and bomb them with an immediately followed retreating right.
Dynamic with his striking, swift in his movement, yet monstrous with his power combinations, Espada tersely glanced to both Amaranth and Xavier, two of the CVnU's greatest combatants, with very few, if any peers in martial artistry. Yet somehow, this boy had managed to remain largely unscathed, an admirable feat indeed, however fate, could only be delayed so much. "Ha! Not bad boy", the audibly profound, deep contralto voice booming across the gelid air, parting the ambient frosty winds, "But we are the best martial artists of our world. And the best martial artists of our world are better than the best martial artists of every other world", he boldly proclaimed with obnoxious egoism. However, prior to the unofficial second round's commencement, Espada's sonar hearing alerted him to the presence of another nearby, further sensory investigation however was halted by the unanticipated emergence of a large-headed manic armed with a comically sized hammer. Staring off into the direction of the approaching woman detected by his sonar hearing, the Combat Colossus grinned, "More tomato cans with chins to crack".