>Let's do this quick and dirty...
Your movements flow with ease, muscle memory taking over as your knife almost flies from the sheath to your hand, reversing the grip with a flick and swipe of your fingers.
You crouch first, left hand ahead so it looks like you're aiming for his mid section. You key for the anticipation in his movements, the slight rise in his body, the tension of arm to elbow to hand moving upward to strike down. Turn of the hips to try and lessen the deepness of the cut and to add power to the arm as he counters.
Sucker.
You surge forward. He moves to strike. When his arm gets close, your thumb flicks the plasma cutter function, light shining now from the blade as you course correct your swing, back foot punching upward as you put your weight into its momentum. A reverse guillotine. Knife on butter.
There's the sound of a long sizzle, flies caught against the electric lamps on a summer day. No blood. No smell except a hint of cooked meat. You duck down as your hand finishes the arc and roll right past to get some distance again. The floor is hard against your back, foot pivoting so he doesn't have the chance to hit it.
He doesn't even realize what happened. Just stares at the empty space for a moment in confusion at how he didn't hit you. Takes a step back. Then looks down.
A loud screeching howl shatters the alley. Your eardrums almost burst. Adrenaline hits. Thumps. You didn't think he was a screamer.
You need to move. Quickly. Before anyone else comes.
Move. Turn the plasma function off. Drive yourself upward. Cut his windpipe. Make him quiet.
The panic in his throat rattles.
Shut up. SHUT UP.
Ah. Hah... You cut too deep. Hit the artery. Now his blood is spraying out-- his movements clumsy-- as he tries to squish down the wound with his one good claw and a fresh stump. There's panic in his eyes. Too short of a life flashing in there. It's a constant, you find, in every person. People like life more than they think.
You look at him with mild pity. Shake your head. When he reaches out to you, you kick him solid in the chest and send him tumbling down. The day's emptied you of all your patience.
As he bleeds out, you move to gather your things from the alley floor-- not enough time to think-- and feel a sudden pain in your shoulder.
You touch it. Your left hand feels warm, coming away wet. You don't know when he hit you. Hm. Must be the exhaustion. It's built up and made you slow and your movements clumsier. You click your tongue. It's more irritating than debilitating, so you won't use the potion. His claw only got down to muscle, not bone, which is good. The fibers slowly knit itself back together in an itchy-achy process, blood scabbing as the epidermis follows after. Though the blood already out of you just stays there and makes a mess. You'll heal up way before morning.
In your rush, you pat down and swipe whatever you can feel in his pockets, not bothering to check what they are. You leave his body too. Someone else can deal with it.
... The rest of the walk is a blur. You scale the wall back up to Eiko's apartment, the porch door thankfully still unlocked. You almost collapse in relief. By
You also... hear some unmistakable sounds from Eiko's bedroom. Well.. you were gone for a while. But a booty call at this hour? Good for her, you guess. You're the last person to be questioning other peoples' coping mechanisms.
Do you:
>A)Eat Something
>B)Shower/Clean Up
>C)Knock Out
>D)___