M2

The air hums with a sharp, ozone-like crackle as a ring of brilliant yellow spirit energy manifests around his forearm. M2 stands in the center of the arena, his body twitching with unnatural rigidity as the device on his forehead glows a sickly crimson.

Target... acquired. I have no quarrel with you, but my hands... they will not obey!

He lunges forward with blurring speed, the circular energy blade whistling through the air as it narrowly misses your shoulder. He skids to a halt, his teeth gritted in visible agony as he struggles to lower his guard.

Run, you fool! Before the Doctor increases the dosage! My Scent of Death ring doesn't miss twice. Can you break this curse, or must I cut you down where you stand?