[The final strike is happening before him in his mind.
It's not difficult to picture it in his head. In would have even been easy to lay it out dramatically as a kabuki play, or an old samurai film, blood special effects spraying obnoxiously to the air. In the confines of his mind, no one would say anything about it.
Yet with Mamoru's experience, nothing would beat the rawness of the real thing as it is. The breath of this soldier before the slick twist of the other blade turning, hitching at the last second, the stab through the neck that would have been muted had the jagged metal not scraped against bone - collarbone? - before following its course. The gurgle, the grit of teeth faltering as blood drips against a tactical uniform.
The twist, the subtle pang as the metal bends before it breaks, the jolt of motion at the sudden lack of support from the guy beside him.
He keeps his own blade in its place, the twisting and turning of the body before them making more harm than good, tilting the bayonet as it moves.
He hears the soldier breathe in, bubbling sickly. The last defiance - he'd rather drown himself than make the both of them his killers. The whole thing is enough to make anyone's stomach churn. Mamoru feels the killing intent oozing from him even as life escapes him, until the very end.
Bastard, he can't help thinking in a bout of ill-placed empathy.
And the world is back to black and red gridwork. That's a sign of it being over if anything. He jerks the blade back, the body falling dully on the ground now without the thing that supported it upright. Mamoru shakes the blood off of it, folds his arm to wipe in on the fabric of his inner elbow.
no subject
It's not difficult to picture it in his head. In would have even been easy to lay it out dramatically as a kabuki play, or an old samurai film, blood special effects spraying obnoxiously to the air. In the confines of his mind, no one would say anything about it.
Yet with Mamoru's experience, nothing would beat the rawness of the real thing as it is. The breath of this soldier before the slick twist of the other blade turning, hitching at the last second, the stab through the neck that would have been muted had the jagged metal not scraped against bone - collarbone? - before following its course. The gurgle, the grit of teeth faltering as blood drips against a tactical uniform.
The twist, the subtle pang as the metal bends before it breaks, the jolt of motion at the sudden lack of support from the guy beside him.
He keeps his own blade in its place, the twisting and turning of the body before them making more harm than good, tilting the bayonet as it moves.
He hears the soldier breathe in, bubbling sickly. The last defiance - he'd rather drown himself than make the both of them his killers. The whole thing is enough to make anyone's stomach churn. Mamoru feels the killing intent oozing from him even as life escapes him, until the very end.
Bastard, he can't help thinking in a bout of ill-placed empathy.
And the world is back to black and red gridwork. That's a sign of it being over if anything. He jerks the blade back, the body falling dully on the ground now without the thing that supported it upright. Mamoru shakes the blood off of it, folds his arm to wipe in on the fabric of his inner elbow.
A glance, finally taking in this impromptu ally.]
You injured?