El Primo spun, his mask gleaming. He tapped his heels, his movements mimicking the famous pallbearers. He wasn't just BM-ing (bad-mannering); he was inviting Colt to the final party.
As the smoke finally touched them, El Primo triggered his Super one last time—not to crush Colt, but to launch himself into the air, silhouetted against the sun in a mid-air dance pose. The screen faded to black.
Colt lowered his guns, mesmerized. He looked at the poisonous green gas creeping toward them. Usually, this was the moment of panic, the "Game Over" screen. But with El Primo leading the funeral march for their own match, it felt... right. El Primo spun, his mask gleaming
The desert sun beat down on the Thousand Lakes map. Smoke was closing in, and only two Brawlers remained.
From somewhere across the dunes, a faint, synthesized beat began to thrum. Dun-dun-dun-dun, dun, dun-dun-dun-dun... The infectious rhythm of filled the arena. El Primo’s shoulders began to bounce. As the smoke finally touched them, El Primo
Colt checked his ammo. One shot left. He stepped out, ready to go down in a blaze of glory.
He didn't attack. He started to shuffle. With a grace that defied his massive frame, he began the iconic dance. He crossed his arms, stepping side-to-side in perfect synchronization with the beat. He was no longer a threat; he was a performer. He looked at the poisonous green gas creeping toward them
Colt stared at the results screen, the tune still stuck in his head. He didn't even care about the lost trophies. He just needed to find that footage.