[ There is a brief burst of light in the corner of his vision that disorients Hei. But only for a moment. In the next beat, everything speeds up, time crunching together like pleats in a discordant harmonium. The armed men converge on him like a hailstorm -- a foray of bullets strafing across the grass. They are determined, and merciless, and good shots. And they give him a fight. ]
[ Finally, a real fight. And oh, in the blood-red slipstream of the fugue, it is good. ]
[ Good to wield wires and blades, mind and muscle, with the same deadly synchrony. Good to break into a sweat as they play cat and mouse with him -- and then, better when he flips the tables, makes them the mice instead. Good to cut them down one by one, until there are only a pair of stragglers left. The first, battered and bruised, is trying to stagger to safety, doubled over. Hei trips him up with one sharp kick, sending him sprawling forward onto his face. Rather than zap his lights out with a single touch, he executes a knee drop onto his spine, mashes his face into the grass, and swipes his blade up under his neck, an efficient twist of the wrist. There is a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. ]
[ Leaping clear of the spray, Hei turns to the sole survivor -- on his ass now, scuttling backward. He bumps up against a stone wall and starts to struggle to his feet. In the grip of a cold, white-hot rage, Hei kicks him in the balls and the man folds forward with a grunt. Reaches out, gloved palm molded to his skull -- and delivers a sizzling death-charge. His victim thrashes like a live fish across a burning-hot skillet, before crumpling. ]
[ With the bodies littered across the grass, there is no sound left at all but Hei's faltering heart, beating drumlike against muscles in which nothing moves, and this is the center of silence. ]
[ A drum waning, silence growing more full. ]
[ Exhaling slowly, Hei wipes his smeary blade across his pant-leg before sheathing it. His arm throbs: there is deep gash from a bullet-graze across the fleshy part of the bicep, sluicing blood, the skin laid open neat and deep. But nothing fatal. Nothing that can't be ignored over his crashing rage over the knowledge that, once again, Amber played him like a violin, then left the tune aborted, no sense or structure. No coda. ]
no subject
[ There is a brief burst of light in the corner of his vision that disorients Hei. But only for a moment. In the next beat, everything speeds up, time crunching together like pleats in a discordant harmonium. The armed men converge on him like a hailstorm -- a foray of bullets strafing across the grass. They are determined, and merciless, and good shots. And they give him a fight. ]
[ Finally, a real fight. And oh, in the blood-red slipstream of the fugue, it is good. ]
[ Good to wield wires and blades, mind and muscle, with the same deadly synchrony. Good to break into a sweat as they play cat and mouse with him -- and then, better when he flips the tables, makes them the mice instead. Good to cut them down one by one, until there are only a pair of stragglers left. The first, battered and bruised, is trying to stagger to safety, doubled over. Hei trips him up with one sharp kick, sending him sprawling forward onto his face. Rather than zap his lights out with a single touch, he executes a knee drop onto his spine, mashes his face into the grass, and swipes his blade up under his neck, an efficient twist of the wrist. There is a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. ]
[ Leaping clear of the spray, Hei turns to the sole survivor -- on his ass now, scuttling backward. He bumps up against a stone wall and starts to struggle to his feet. In the grip of a cold, white-hot rage, Hei kicks him in the balls and the man folds forward with a grunt. Reaches out, gloved palm molded to his skull -- and delivers a sizzling death-charge. His victim thrashes like a live fish across a burning-hot skillet, before crumpling. ]
[ With the bodies littered across the grass, there is no sound left at all but Hei's faltering heart, beating drumlike against muscles in which nothing moves, and this is the center of silence. ]
[ A drum waning, silence growing more full. ]
[ Exhaling slowly, Hei wipes his smeary blade across his pant-leg before sheathing it. His arm throbs: there is deep gash from a bullet-graze across the fleshy part of the bicep, sluicing blood, the skin laid open neat and deep. But nothing fatal. Nothing that can't be ignored over his crashing rage over the knowledge that, once again, Amber played him like a violin, then left the tune aborted, no sense or structure. No coda. ]