[He expects the scent of gunpowder, a sharp inhale of the smoke stinging the back of his throat. But in its place is a different familiarity; rotting, curdled flesh, corroding itself. Left searing as if days of infection had burrowed into the wounds after mere moments.
Takasugi's lip bleeds, not bright red but yellowed and laced with pus that sticks to the shred of flesh. Nothing runs over his face, the injuries an infliction rather than something that flows. They stand alone, widening to merge into one another, an overture to entropy just as much as the clash that wrought them.
Taken to the left side of his face, Takasugi's presence of mind focused on the necessity of battle, he hasn't lost any of his vision. The pain fades entirely when metal clashes against metal.
Glinting in the moonlight - a beautiful sight, if either of them had any of the mind for it.
As they are, strength crashes against strength, Mikazuki's lower angle an advantage Takasugi is accustomed to having himself. Being pressed from beneath isn't wired into him so intricately, two steps back accommodating for weight shifted too late.
The barrel faces his sword, and Takasugi knows what sacrifice he'll be making this time. Metal cries, a sickly groan as it cracks and chips, the metal of the hilt rusting and thinning. Debris of the bullets scatter on his hand, scattering pockmarks of red he doesn't notice.
In the moment his blade weathers the shots, he abandons it entirely to wrap his grip around Mikazuki's grip. There's more maneuverability to a gun in captured arm than a sword; Takasugi surges forward, pulling the boy into him as his knee flies upwards. The opposite hand grabs the back of the boy's neck, forcing him down into the blow.
Stomach. Face. Enough to disorient so he can attempt to twist that arm. Snap bone - made fragile by a precise angle he's forced upon enemy time and time again. Disarmed, he won't stop until Mikazuki is the same, and they're tearing away at each other with bare hands.]
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Takasugi's lip bleeds, not bright red but yellowed and laced with pus that sticks to the shred of flesh. Nothing runs over his face, the injuries an infliction rather than something that flows. They stand alone, widening to merge into one another, an overture to entropy just as much as the clash that wrought them.
Taken to the left side of his face, Takasugi's presence of mind focused on the necessity of battle, he hasn't lost any of his vision. The pain fades entirely when metal clashes against metal.
Glinting in the moonlight - a beautiful sight, if either of them had any of the mind for it.
As they are, strength crashes against strength, Mikazuki's lower angle an advantage Takasugi is accustomed to having himself. Being pressed from beneath isn't wired into him so intricately, two steps back accommodating for weight shifted too late.
The barrel faces his sword, and Takasugi knows what sacrifice he'll be making this time. Metal cries, a sickly groan as it cracks and chips, the metal of the hilt rusting and thinning. Debris of the bullets scatter on his hand, scattering pockmarks of red he doesn't notice.
In the moment his blade weathers the shots, he abandons it entirely to wrap his grip around Mikazuki's grip. There's more maneuverability to a gun in captured arm than a sword; Takasugi surges forward, pulling the boy into him as his knee flies upwards. The opposite hand grabs the back of the boy's neck, forcing him down into the blow.
Stomach. Face. Enough to disorient so he can attempt to twist that arm. Snap bone - made fragile by a precise angle he's forced upon enemy time and time again. Disarmed, he won't stop until Mikazuki is the same, and they're tearing away at each other with bare hands.]