SHE FEELS THE flat of a blade collide with her foot, feeling the metal even through the slight heels of her leather boots. briefly she is wide-eyed by the suddenness of it all, but her BODY reverts to a perfect mold of an assassin. gilding through mid-air, like a dance of aerodynamics–smooth like a line–she lands on her feet, knees bent. her gloved hands already curling into fists, back bent at a slight angle ( the perfect posture for a FIGHT ). she feel the battle coming on into her bones, she knows the chill at the end of her spine and she smiles at the shivers of it. he won’t be easy, that she knows.
she does a double take of the contours of his face despite having his headshot burnt into her memory. he doesn’t look so impressive in real life–he didn’t in picture either– but sakura does note how SCARIER to face in real life. ah… it’s the aura emitting from him, overpowering andfear-striking. it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop. she pulls on the glove on her right hand tighter, her fingers flexing ( DESPITE OF THE FIREARM AT HER THIGH ). they told her to kill him, not to make it neat. she rushes to him, air bristling her air and everything, her worn shoes hitting the cobblestones with deadly silence. she aims a kick to his right side.
APATHETIC VIOLENCE! THE SCREAMS OF WEAPONS, OF KICKS AND SWEARS, OF GRUNTS. lady, this ain’t a dance ( what the fuck is grace when punches are exchanged ? ), this is the tale of survival, of wanting to lie another day, it pumping adrenaline into their blood. death ain’t a poem, it’s goddamn metal music, shouting, bleeding, and pounding mercilessly.
crooked grin, teeth yellow and broken up. can’t even be called a smile, more of a feral snarl. maddened insanity with blood-lust, he’s the big bad wolf, and he ain’t afraid to swallow down girls like you. rip ‘em up, chew them down, it’s all the same. he takes in the hit, not bothering to move out of the way, since she relies on her speed and the number of hits she can get at him. he’s not slower, but she’s smaller built, obviously focusing her style on lashing out on weak points.
he grunts, his free hand grabbing onto her ankle, to try and flip her over. hopefully it’ll frazzle the girl, scare her off, or maybe she’d continue the death match. nicolas doubts she’d suffer a concussion, probably would be able to land in some way to soften the blow. after all, these pursuits for his head have stopped scaring him off, more or less, become a hindrance for him to perform daily chores. his bleak, graveyard gaze leaves the pink haired girl’s for a second ( he wonders briefly, perhaps half a second, how can anyone afford the luxury of dye ? ), trying to decide if he’d prefer to move their fight to the roofs.
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