Paige Vs Paul

Paul stared at the crumbled piece of remodeled forest in his hand. He didn't quite understand the thought process here- that depositing this note into his personal space would give him an undeniable need or urge to punch a person repetitiously. He crumpled the sheet in his hand, lifting his arm and leaning back to fire the ball into the nearest disposal bin. It hit the side of the thin wastebasket with a light tick and rebounded onto the cool, clean tile. He let his arms sink back to his sides, disappointed at the miss. He strolled over, picking it back up and staring at it a moment in his hand. The wafer-thin male bent his bottom lip back between his teeth, so he could gnaw thoughtfully on the thin layer of flesh there. Curiosity, not ambition, spurred his sudden inspiration to investigate the unknown. He let the paper drop back into the bin before taking broad steps on his way to the designated location.

A few ticks of the clock (and several frustrating U-turns later) and he was opening the door to the roof, the curl of his lips indicative of a child-like smirk. Innocent and introductory, not mocking or snarky in it's design.

"Hey...I got your note. I'm not really into this whole 'meet up and get my ass kicked' bit. Maybe we can go grab some food or something and be friends instead?"

He didn't want to leave some random nobody sitting on the roof indefinitely, or to kick the ass of the first person that walked through those doors, falsely assuming that they were they prey they had been patiently waiting for. He would push open the door to give him a solid avenue of escape should it be necessary.

He scrutinized her. She held herself confidently, as though the ace was up her sleeve. Paul held himself like an addlepated school kid, nothing in the way he leaned against the frame or hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans giving an intimation of his abilities. That was by design, but she insinuated she could really put a hurting on a man. One didn't leave notes of challenge to random individuals without supreme confidence. Pushing off the wall, he would let a brow arch.

"I don't find fighting very fun. Especially when someone can obviously destroy me. If you really want to wash blood from your shoes later, my face is here for the smashing."

The smirk turned into a grin, illustrating his comments were meant in good humor. He had no intention of becoming a blood stain on the wall or her shoe. Even the best laid plains had flaws, however, and if she was as powerfully built as she was coiled before him, he was in for a hurting.

His neck muscles tensed and his head jerked back in surprise- half a second after she stopped. If this individual of exceptional physical ability hadn't stayed their fist of might, his face would be indentured with the outline of their knuckles. His orbs were moderately widened in consternation, the lanky male taking a sharp step backward. His eyes flickered and settled in determination. He liked the prospect of challenge, yet understood the standard he was being challenged to meet. The joints at his knees creaked a little in both dread and anticipation with their bending.

Understandably, he should approach this with caution. This could turn out very badly for him, and so he readied his core for the pain that would likely ensue from his retaliation.

Pushing off with his left leg (his foot getting traction to propel his body a little up but rapidly horizontal for necessary speed), his left arm would eject from his core in a manner consistent with the cross it was designed to be, torquing his upper body for force. Judging by her own speed, she would either dodge or grab the arm, which was why he twisted his upper body in such a way. If she did in fact grab him or dodge he would follow that twist with a release of tension in his hips, torquing them around to either kick if she intended to move far away or knee her in the ribs if she just shifted her head to dodge or stayed put.

A two pronged attack was necessary to try and counter her clear edge on him bodily.

Summary: Jumped forward, threw a left cross. If she grabs (or if she stays close to him), he'll throw his hips forward to try and knee her (with his left knee) in the exposed ribcage. If she tries to dodge away he'll kick instead of throw the knee so he can hopefully reach her.

OOC: Let me know if you have any questions!

His jaw hurt. Why did this familiar scream of his nerves tear through his body like a virus of pain and agony? His face had been thrown to the side as his adversaries punch landed clean, the metallic taste of blood passing over his lips and tongue. His own knee had made contact but not nearly with such force. It mattered little to him that he could not see his opponents punch or even mount a defense against it. The gangly male had two things going for him and they were barely for him. One, he was in mid air. Two, he had a good sense of instinct.

When one throws a punch while blocking you have to shift your balance in such a way that makes it difficult to react to the unexpected. Her punch would probably attempt to be withdrawn after making contact with his soft face. So after it hit him, he would bring his hands inward to try and grab it while he turned toward her in midair. With her stepping to the side, his body would continue with it's forward momentum and gravity would become his unwitting sidekick. His grip (assuming he got it) would mean that his entire body weight and force of forward motion would pull her with him, throwing her completely off balance and most likely stumbling after him.

His eyes were blurred what with his glasses being skewed on his face. He didn't did need them though. He knew what to do. His shoulders would hit the cement first, Paul putting his chin into the hollow at the base of his neck to insure his skull didn't bounce off the ground with impact. His long and lanky legs would come up and get involved, forcibly. The back of his calves would try to plant against her chest while his hips would be thrown upward in an attempt to use her unstable stumble and throw her flat on her back.

Assuming all this successfully put her there, her arm held up between his legs and against his chest he would throw his hips up into the hinge of her elbow and using his body as a fulcrum would try to snap that arm like a measly little twig.

Summary: Paul grabs her arm as she hits him and while holding it continues to fly through the air her body was occupying forcing her to stumble. As he lands on the ground he would perform a grounded body throw into an arm bar. This means he redirects her stumbling momentum with his legs slamming against her chest and hopefully throwing her onto her back on the ground. Still holding her arm between his legs he would them perform an arm bar and try to snap it.

The gut shot would fracture several ribs, and as he hit the ground the hook sent him unconscious, so her final kick would send his body flailing across the ground, more broken bones ensuing. He had no way to retaliate from the air, and the force of her punches were vastly disproportionate to his ability to take them. He had no possession of thought or care to her continued assaults against him from then onward, his mind as dark as night.

Summary: He's out!