What is that fool shouting about? The Archivist wondered with faint amusement. He continued to scuttle around the lake until he was close enough to call it fighting distance between him and his foe. That brought him into another phase of observation, besides the water to his right and his foe straight ahead, the field was set. His foe himself was a small child-like opponent, with signs of great strength about him, with giant iron gauntlets and what looked like an explosive ordinance propulsion device, or bazooka as they were more casually referred to by those who he had encountered in the past. His memory of the weapon was such, a dangerous punch and a fiery inferno were like to be felt when the shot was fired. That had to be avoided, but space was too free around him, with little to hide behind or use for cover. He pondered this as his data-pad scanned both the foe and the field.

Slowly, his lower hands came together, his upper hands free of the weapons he pilfered in the previous battle. It would be of little consequence, he thought confidently. A familiar sticky secretion between his hands was enough to remind him that he had weapons he had yet to employ at his disposal. He scuttled within thirty feet of his foe and retained an eerie silence, seeking to unnerve his foe for the Archivist’s own amusement.