[ Amos' knuckles smash into his body with the dull crack of his sternum fracturing, and it feels like getting hit by a car. Even the way he'd tensed his muscles to steel himself for the blow doesn't lessen the impact much -- every last wisp of air still leaves his lungs in a wretched gasp, his entire nervous system lighting up with shock and pain, and it feels like his heart shudders within his ribcage. Breathing becomes impossible, a mere hypothetical, and the way his body frantically fights against his diaphragm's jolting spasms has spots flickering before his eyes. It hurts so much he can barely process it, and yet --
and yet he can't tear his eyes away from the violence that continues to unfold before him. Time seems to slow to a crawl, his field of vision tilting and sliding upward as Gen staggers and sags to his knee; it's only the adrenaline rush and that desperate urge to see this matter through that keeps him conscious at all, eyes fixed on the chaos playing in slow motion.
Amos lunging by him, each footstep like a drumbeat. Blood, more blood splattering on the pavement in lurid starbursts of red. Muscles pull taut like cables as Amos picks Misa up like a plaything, his arm raised as if in triumph for a moment before throwing her to the ground. The brittle sound of bones snapping like twigs, followed by the crackle of ice crystals, then the fleshy puncture of that spike driving through Amos' raised hand. Claws splinter, shatter, scatter across the ground, accompanied by flourishes of blood, more blood.
But the air is still thick with rage, bitter on the tongue and with that heady, overpowering, burning stench like petrol. Even with both hands destroyed, Amos is still prepared to kill because that's what he's been reduced to. Gen knows this, knows it for sure. Watches the way spittle strings between his fangs as Amos' mouth opens wide, those pale, jagged teeth prepared to rip, tear, rend through flesh.
Misa is going to die. Amos is going to rip her throat out.
-- Gen surges forth, body over mind. The earth, too, moves with him, lending his forward lunge the momentum he couldn't have mustered on his own. His field of vision has narrowed down to a tiny, dark point focused only on those teeth, those fangs, those jagged shapes intent on ripping Misa's throat out. All he knows is that he needs to stop them. So he clenches his jaw as he swings his mace.
And there's the heavy, wet sound of the mace's head smashing Amos' jaw.
Flesh tears, bone shatters. The impact is vicious enough to jostle even Amos' enhanced bulk; Amos wobbles, and there's a sickening squelch as skin peels away from the mace head's jagged edges. Gen's ears ring with the sound of Misa's scream and Kaeya's voice, like they're playing on loop from somewhere very far away, muffled by a heavy curtain of tinnitus. And though he's frozen for a split second, eyes wide and gaze wild as he continues to stare at those white teeth where they now sit in disarray amidst the bloody, exposed mess of Amos' ravaged mouth --
Amos moves. Maybe it's a twitch, a spasm, a reflexive jerk. He's not sure. He can't care, not right now. Those teeth might still move. The threat is still there. So he has to destroy it.
The second strike of the mace is just as heavy, just as vicious, this time aimed at Amos' temple. There's no pause before Gen pulls his weapon back and rains down another blow. Then another. Even as Amos' body topples before the barrage of violence, even as his own movements start to grow stilted and weaker, he still drags himself forward one step, another step, to loom over Amos' form and continue the frantic assault. The only noise he makes is the sound of whistling, halting gasps -- his lungs are still working against him from that punch to the chest, sheer desperation driving his movements even when lack of oxygen is starting to blanket his vision with static. His fear bleeds thick into the air, rendered acrid with anxiety and misery; any anger's been far overpowered by that sickly stench of frantic determination. Gen chokes on his next ragged breath, but even as his throat threatens to close, as spit strings down his jaw, as his mind goes blank, (as blood, more blood, there's always more blood spills across the pavement,) he raises the mace once more.
It's his role to protect the people he cares about. So threats must be eliminated. No matter the cost. He has to, he has to. ]
cw: graphic violence
and yet he can't tear his eyes away from the violence that continues to unfold before him. Time seems to slow to a crawl, his field of vision tilting and sliding upward as Gen staggers and sags to his knee; it's only the adrenaline rush and that desperate urge to see this matter through that keeps him conscious at all, eyes fixed on the chaos playing in slow motion.
Amos lunging by him, each footstep like a drumbeat. Blood, more blood splattering on the pavement in lurid starbursts of red. Muscles pull taut like cables as Amos picks Misa up like a plaything, his arm raised as if in triumph for a moment before throwing her to the ground. The brittle sound of bones snapping like twigs, followed by the crackle of ice crystals, then the fleshy puncture of that spike driving through Amos' raised hand. Claws splinter, shatter, scatter across the ground, accompanied by flourishes of blood, more blood.
But the air is still thick with rage, bitter on the tongue and with that heady, overpowering, burning stench like petrol. Even with both hands destroyed, Amos is still prepared to kill because that's what he's been reduced to. Gen knows this, knows it for sure. Watches the way spittle strings between his fangs as Amos' mouth opens wide, those pale, jagged teeth prepared to rip, tear, rend through flesh.
Misa is going to die. Amos is going to rip her throat out.
-- Gen surges forth, body over mind. The earth, too, moves with him, lending his forward lunge the momentum he couldn't have mustered on his own. His field of vision has narrowed down to a tiny, dark point focused only on those teeth, those fangs, those jagged shapes intent on ripping Misa's throat out. All he knows is that he needs to stop them. So he clenches his jaw as he swings his mace.
And there's the heavy, wet sound of the mace's head smashing Amos' jaw.
Flesh tears, bone shatters. The impact is vicious enough to jostle even Amos' enhanced bulk; Amos wobbles, and there's a sickening squelch as skin peels away from the mace head's jagged edges. Gen's ears ring with the sound of Misa's scream and Kaeya's voice, like they're playing on loop from somewhere very far away, muffled by a heavy curtain of tinnitus. And though he's frozen for a split second, eyes wide and gaze wild as he continues to stare at those white teeth where they now sit in disarray amidst the bloody, exposed mess of Amos' ravaged mouth --
Amos moves. Maybe it's a twitch, a spasm, a reflexive jerk. He's not sure. He can't care, not right now. Those teeth might still move. The threat is still there. So he has to destroy it.
The second strike of the mace is just as heavy, just as vicious, this time aimed at Amos' temple. There's no pause before Gen pulls his weapon back and rains down another blow. Then another. Even as Amos' body topples before the barrage of violence, even as his own movements start to grow stilted and weaker, he still drags himself forward one step, another step, to loom over Amos' form and continue the frantic assault. The only noise he makes is the sound of whistling, halting gasps -- his lungs are still working against him from that punch to the chest, sheer desperation driving his movements even when lack of oxygen is starting to blanket his vision with static. His fear bleeds thick into the air, rendered acrid with anxiety and misery; any anger's been far overpowered by that sickly stench of frantic determination. Gen chokes on his next ragged breath, but even as his throat threatens to close, as spit strings down his jaw, as his mind goes blank, (as blood, more blood, there's always more blood spills across the pavement,) he raises the mace once more.
It's his role to protect the people he cares about. So threats must be eliminated. No matter the cost. He has to, he has to. ]