Actually, Ambra is the undisputed Battleborn arm-wrestling champ. This is how it went down at the last competition:
Hunched over the table, the muscles in his back straining, El Dragon struggled to pin Ambra’s pale twig. Without any effort, she twisted his robot arm aside. “Quite possible, I’m afraid.”
Attikus set his massive elbow down and, with exaggerated care, clutched Ambra’s tiny fist. She smirked and forced his arm straight through the tabletop. “Do clean up that mess before you slink away, Thrall.”
Another table was brought out, and Montana squeezed into the challenger’s chair. He secured his grip, tensed himself for a push–and shrieked as he pulled his hand away. Ambra blew smoke from her fingertips. “A little too hot to handle?”
Finally, Mellka dropped lazily into the chair, flexed her bio-claw, and nodded. Ambra nodded back. Their fingers locked. Their eyes met. How had Mellka never before noticed the soft, enticing shape of the Silent Sister’s lips–

“You are so predictable. Also, I’m pulling the plug right here.”