"You look different," Baal admitted. Then, grudgingly, added: "...You look good."

Michael grinned, pushed her red red hair out of her face, and thrust her chest forward. "Yeah? You think?"

"But," Baal said grimly, forcing his eyes up, "I'd make a better woman."

"In your dreams," Michael snorted, examining her fingernails, each of which could kill in ten ways not dreamed of by man.

"I don't dream," Baal growled.

"Exactly. It'll never happen."

There was a puff of smoke exactly the scent and colour of a nuclear explosion. Michael coughed and waved a hand in front of her face. When the smoke cleared, Baal was standing in a muscular, if overendowed, female body, with a full suit of armour and two knife blades emerging from the nipples of her breastplate. "Well?" she demanded, tossing her smoke-black hair.

"Not bad," Michael said.

"Not... bad?!"

"Yeah. It's okay."

Baal snarled, gothy black lips twisting.

"But," Michael said coyly, and changed - suddenly naked, wearing only a double-headed axe, the head of which covered her breasts, the shaft barely hiding the spoils of war. "...I think I can do better."

Baal glared silently, snapped her fingers, and was herself naked but for two huge scimitars in her hands. She didn't bother to cover her nudity.

Michael quirked an eyebrow and lost the axe, nude and armed only with a spiked battle dildo. "I challenge you."

Baal's own weapon shifted into a shaft of toxic goo, wobbly and contained only in a soft plastic case. "You're on."

Five hours later, Michael raised her head. "Do you surrender?"

"Never!" Baal panted, tossing her head, soaked in sweat. "I'll fight you 'til the end of time!"

Michael shrugged. "You got it!"

They tangled in battle again.