(no subject)
Oct. 20th, 2005 03:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
river_meimeiThere's no one she has to watch for, now. Everyone whose life matters, everyone whose face she needs to watch for, everyone whose presence might pull her back from the razor's edge dance -- they're all on the other side of the blast doors. Safe.
It's just her, now.
She has never been so clearly and cleanly just her. Each moment is precise, and full, and enough.
--Punch a jaw kick a head and a torso and spin, duck, grab, stay ahead, over the crate in a handspring that keeps her an unpredictable moving target, blade in her hand and she spins to slice a throat and slash a grasping arm--
They die around her, and keep coming.
She's scratched, spattered with blood -- a little of it's hers, but most of it's theirs -- but she doesn't even notice. It slicks her palms. Something to watch for.
They died long ago. Died with the Pax that killed everything that made them individual people.
--Throw one into three others, kick a hand at just the right instant to knock the Reaver's blade into his own face, grab a knife from his other hand as he falls in a gush of blood and fling it at a throat, spin and slice and dodge--
They don't know how to lie down. They're dead, but they're trapped in their bodies. Never found the Lady or heard her wings. They slice the skin, but they can't get free, and they never lie down.
River can send them to her.
The white face flickering at the corners of her vision isn't a distraction at all, and the fluttering of wings blends with the screams and snarls and grunts of exertion.
Keep moving. Time to stand and be true.
(See us for who we are)
No quarter.
(and what we do.)
No prisoners.
It's just her, now.
She has never been so clearly and cleanly just her. Each moment is precise, and full, and enough.
--Punch a jaw kick a head and a torso and spin, duck, grab, stay ahead, over the crate in a handspring that keeps her an unpredictable moving target, blade in her hand and she spins to slice a throat and slash a grasping arm--
They die around her, and keep coming.
She's scratched, spattered with blood -- a little of it's hers, but most of it's theirs -- but she doesn't even notice. It slicks her palms. Something to watch for.
They died long ago. Died with the Pax that killed everything that made them individual people.
--Throw one into three others, kick a hand at just the right instant to knock the Reaver's blade into his own face, grab a knife from his other hand as he falls in a gush of blood and fling it at a throat, spin and slice and dodge--
They don't know how to lie down. They're dead, but they're trapped in their bodies. Never found the Lady or heard her wings. They slice the skin, but they can't get free, and they never lie down.
River can send them to her.
The white face flickering at the corners of her vision isn't a distraction at all, and the fluttering of wings blends with the screams and snarls and grunts of exertion.
Keep moving. Time to stand and be true.
(See us for who we are)
No quarter.
(and what we do.)
No prisoners.
