[ It goes as well as expected, which is to say not at all. But it draws blood and oh, that makes all the difference in the universe. Sharkface has a brief, brutal moment of satisfaction at the sound Felix makes before the world pitches and he's tossed asunder, ass over teakettle. Blood explodes across his vision. His, Felix's, what does it matter?
He crashes to the ground. Ends with his arm pinned and then, suddenly, not. Felix has his sidearm out. Has the distance to use it this time.
It's almost neat, as these things go.
His vision pitches. Nearly gives up the ghost, swinging fuzzy and red. But he's not down.
No. Not yet.
Sharkface just bares his teeth. And he laughs. Low, rough. Edging onto wild but not there just yet. Give it time, he thinks vaguely. Just give it some fucking time. He can feel the gas more now that his adrenaline's up. Ironic, considering how little he feels anything else. The pain in his joints, in his skull? Gone, like he never knew it at all. But that ache under his skin, pulsing through him in time with his heartbeat? That's his new best friend. And he knows the score here. The city wants a show. There's probably someone watching.
No, he thinks. No, those fuckers don't get it easy.
He spits blood. And he laughs. ]
What're you gonna fucking do, huh?
[ Is this it? Is this how they play it? Sharkface knows, distantly, that he ought to care. There's a mission. A moment ago, he knew it intimately. Knew the rules, the lines he drew for himself. But it's hard to focus right now, to remember above the laughter and whatever this shit is that's being pumped into the room. Felix has armor and a gun to his head and that ought to matter, but does it? Does it, really? ]
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He crashes to the ground. Ends with his arm pinned and then, suddenly, not. Felix has his sidearm out. Has the distance to use it this time.
It's almost neat, as these things go.
His vision pitches. Nearly gives up the ghost, swinging fuzzy and red. But he's not down.
No. Not yet.
Sharkface just bares his teeth. And he laughs. Low, rough. Edging onto wild but not there just yet. Give it time, he thinks vaguely. Just give it some fucking time. He can feel the gas more now that his adrenaline's up. Ironic, considering how little he feels anything else. The pain in his joints, in his skull? Gone, like he never knew it at all. But that ache under his skin, pulsing through him in time with his heartbeat? That's his new best friend. And he knows the score here. The city wants a show. There's probably someone watching.
No, he thinks. No, those fuckers don't get it easy.
He spits blood. And he laughs. ]
What're you gonna fucking do, huh?
[ Is this it? Is this how they play it? Sharkface knows, distantly, that he ought to care. There's a mission. A moment ago, he knew it intimately. Knew the rules, the lines he drew for himself. But it's hard to focus right now, to remember above the laughter and whatever this shit is that's being pumped into the room. Felix has armor and a gun to his head and that ought to matter, but does it? Does it, really? ]