( it truly does, his dry cleaning bill is so expensive. here, with its lack of anything consistent, is going to be a horrendous shock for a man used to a wardrobe consisting of the same suit at least five times over.
marc had been ready, prepared to slam into the man, body and fists blunt and disregarding of impact, but jason beats him to the punch (heh), and he can't help but think knew it! when a knife — dagger — sails past him into the shoulder of a man who deserves it. for the briefest of moments, marc thinks of peter alraune, of the dagger he'd tried to use to kill raul. it's not the same, but it's similar enough, and the flicker, the momentary memory of something infrequently revisited, is buried deep.
(now's not the time.)
and so, whether it's the knife throw or the surprisingly agile two-footed slam into the man, marc's attention rests on jason for a beat, brief, but long enough for vague appreciation, the sentiment of nice! flickering across his features before he decides jason's capable of handling himself, and he disappears into the room. jason has the corridor taken care of, the woman's backed away, out of apparent harm, and so—.
he doesn't have his crescent darts (shame), but he has his truncheon, the one jean-paul pieced together from — as always — instructions that leant towards impractical and inconsiderate of logistics. it's thin, designed to separate into two, and as light in weight as it is white thanks to the adamantium it's made from.
there's at least two more, and the room's clearly been turned over in search of valuables, sentimental or otherwise, anything worth cash. the man closest to him, presumably a lackey to whoever jason had focused his attentions on, gets one half of the truncheon directed at a kneecap, abruptly followed by a shoulder slamming into his chest, the other half of the truncheon pressed tightly against his throat. for marc's part, there's not a flicker of hesitation nor of doubt, whatever gets directed at him in response — punch, kick, stab — ignored.
more than once, marc has been asked if he considers defence a suggestion, if he's ever contemplated dodging and the answer, in truth, is no. his approach to this is both pathological and deliberate: getting hit and refusing to back down is an advantage.
it's a muttered, low remark, then— ) I'm sure your pal promised you a good time, ( punctuated by a shifting of weight, a tighter press against the wall, and then an abrupt lean back, a swipe and a thwack of metal against flesh. ) So let's have fun.
( jason will earn his attention again once he's decided he's finished. the woman isn't quite forgotten, but she's not where his focus lays — once the problem's dealt with, he'll think to check on her, if she hasn't (smartly) made her escape already. )
SOZ FOR SLOW fight threads are both !!! and also oh god how do i even
marc had been ready, prepared to slam into the man, body and fists blunt and disregarding of impact, but jason beats him to the punch (heh), and he can't help but think knew it! when a knife — dagger — sails past him into the shoulder of a man who deserves it. for the briefest of moments, marc thinks of peter alraune, of the dagger he'd tried to use to kill raul. it's not the same, but it's similar enough, and the flicker, the momentary memory of something infrequently revisited, is buried deep.
(now's not the time.)
and so, whether it's the knife throw or the surprisingly agile two-footed slam into the man, marc's attention rests on jason for a beat, brief, but long enough for vague appreciation, the sentiment of nice! flickering across his features before he decides jason's capable of handling himself, and he disappears into the room. jason has the corridor taken care of, the woman's backed away, out of apparent harm, and so—.
he doesn't have his crescent darts (shame), but he has his truncheon, the one jean-paul pieced together from — as always — instructions that leant towards impractical and inconsiderate of logistics. it's thin, designed to separate into two, and as light in weight as it is white thanks to the adamantium it's made from.
there's at least two more, and the room's clearly been turned over in search of valuables, sentimental or otherwise, anything worth cash. the man closest to him, presumably a lackey to whoever jason had focused his attentions on, gets one half of the truncheon directed at a kneecap, abruptly followed by a shoulder slamming into his chest, the other half of the truncheon pressed tightly against his throat. for marc's part, there's not a flicker of hesitation nor of doubt, whatever gets directed at him in response — punch, kick, stab — ignored.
more than once, marc has been asked if he considers defence a suggestion, if he's ever contemplated dodging and the answer, in truth, is no. his approach to this is both pathological and deliberate: getting hit and refusing to back down is an advantage.
it's a muttered, low remark, then— ) I'm sure your pal promised you a good time, ( punctuated by a shifting of weight, a tighter press against the wall, and then an abrupt lean back, a swipe and a thwack of metal against flesh. ) So let's have fun.
( jason will earn his attention again once he's decided he's finished. the woman isn't quite forgotten, but she's not where his focus lays — once the problem's dealt with, he'll think to check on her, if she hasn't (smartly) made her escape already. )