It takes seconds, at most. Between the heat-lag and the damage, it barely even feels that long. One moment, the threat is looming overhead, the next red fluid sputters, streaking down his blade as it falls back.
It's simple. Easy. Familiar enough to laugh, if he had the power or the voice. Rinzler knows every soft, pathetic sound made by his prey as he deletes them. Even the blood, he'd grown accustomed to in Inugami... and more so today. When the fluid sizzles down from blade to hilt, smearing his hand further, he can't manage to even care.
Users really are no different.
The blade flickers once, then fades, insufficient power to keep running. He doesn't need it. Dim red circles glow just ahead, inactive disks dropped once more to the ground. The enforcer drags himself forward, reaching out and trying to ignore the way his shell still wants to fall to pieces. When he gets his disks in hand, it's easier. Rinzler holds them, desperate gratitude warring with the deeper knowledge that it wouldn't last. But that can't matter either. Not yet.
He still has a task to finish. Disks meld into a single unit, the baton snaps back in place at his side, and slowly, unsteadily, Rinzler forces himself to his feet. Motor functions take far too much effort, a grinding, glassy scrape adding itself to his own noise, but soon, he's standing over the user. Position reversed. Rinzler stares down for a moment at the unmoving shape, dark stain spreading. It's what he wanted. It's what it deserves.
He's too tired for satisfaction. But Rinzler's never needed that. This is what he's meant for; this is the core of who he is, and when the enforcer's disk draws back, edge lighting with a hum, there's no hesitation in the least.
no subject
It's simple. Easy. Familiar enough to laugh, if he had the power or the voice. Rinzler knows every soft, pathetic sound made by his prey as he deletes them. Even the blood, he'd grown accustomed to in Inugami... and more so today. When the fluid sizzles down from blade to hilt, smearing his hand further, he can't manage to even care.
Users really are no different.
The blade flickers once, then fades, insufficient power to keep running. He doesn't need it. Dim red circles glow just ahead, inactive disks dropped once more to the ground. The enforcer drags himself forward, reaching out and trying to ignore the way his shell still wants to fall to pieces. When he gets his disks in hand, it's easier. Rinzler holds them, desperate gratitude warring with the deeper knowledge that it wouldn't last. But that can't matter either. Not yet.
He still has a task to finish. Disks meld into a single unit, the baton snaps back in place at his side, and slowly, unsteadily, Rinzler forces himself to his feet. Motor functions take far too much effort, a grinding, glassy scrape adding itself to his own noise, but soon, he's standing over the user. Position reversed. Rinzler stares down for a moment at the unmoving shape, dark stain spreading. It's what he wanted. It's what it deserves.
He's too tired for satisfaction. But Rinzler's never needed that. This is what he's meant for; this is the core of who he is, and when the enforcer's disk draws back, edge lighting with a hum, there's no hesitation in the least.