They haven't fought by each others' side like this before, but she can tell the foundations of synchronicity are already there: that inherent trust to know that, behind you, your ally (your teammate) is taking care of their part. Holding up their end of the bargain, and you'll pivot back to help them in a moment. Which he does, as they face—
It's an even stranger pair-up; like fighting themselves as seen through a mirror, darkly. Smeared and blurry. While she stuns "Frank" with her shield, one of her typical moves in-battle, Maine flings the club and it collides with the other man's head. Doesn't kill him like the wall did the Thor doppelganger, but the impact still drops him, sends him to the ground unconscious and probably concussed.
Which leaves... her. This time, Brig actually hesitates less: because she knows herself and knows that that's not her, no matter how much "Brigitte" looks like her (the woman even has the pattern of her freckles, a small birthmark on her collarbone, in every aspect identical). So she grabs for the mace that she hadn't pulled out yet this fight; when Maine clears space for her, the other woman skittish to be in his way, then Brigitte automatically moves in. Swings. And swings.
Blood smears the end of her mace. Even without its rocket capabilities, it's still effective. Brigitte is breathing heavily, staring down at her own motionless body. It's even more uncanny in death.
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It's an even stranger pair-up; like fighting themselves as seen through a mirror, darkly. Smeared and blurry. While she stuns "Frank" with her shield, one of her typical moves in-battle, Maine flings the club and it collides with the other man's head. Doesn't kill him like the wall did the Thor doppelganger, but the impact still drops him, sends him to the ground unconscious and probably concussed.
Which leaves... her. This time, Brig actually hesitates less: because she knows herself and knows that that's not her, no matter how much "Brigitte" looks like her (the woman even has the pattern of her freckles, a small birthmark on her collarbone, in every aspect identical). So she grabs for the mace that she hadn't pulled out yet this fight; when Maine clears space for her, the other woman skittish to be in his way, then Brigitte automatically moves in. Swings. And swings.
Blood smears the end of her mace. Even without its rocket capabilities, it's still effective. Brigitte is breathing heavily, staring down at her own motionless body. It's even more uncanny in death.
"I hate this island," she says.