He managed to dodge the first attempt to trip him, but it unfortunately only left him caught - the metal fist was not only coming in for an attack, but blocking him from ducking the slash to his leg without going back into the audience. By the time he tossed his shield to his other hand to smash it aside, he could already feel the hot bite of metal tearing into his flesh once more. He knew, in a cold, clinical fashion that was entirely walled off from the pain, that he'd just been neatly hamstrung.

The order to stop came, barked out from the sidelines. He froze, mid-swipe, as though a switch had been flipped. One breath, two, and then he slowly lowered the shield, letting out a shaky sigh that betrayed far too much pain, exhaustion. Fighting this man, this weapon, had been...wrong, tiring, above and beyond his being simply defeated. All the while he'd felt like he was wading through muck and mire, struggling against something inside as well as out, a sense he only appreciated fully now that he'd been released from it.

He was...relieved, that the fight had stopped. Even if his performance had been poor. But that was fine, wasn't it? His performance might have been poor, but the Soldier's had been exemplary.

The order to stop had come, but the order to sit had not. He grit his teeth but forced his one working leg to take all his weight, as a couple of the scientists moved in close to give them both a cursory examination.