Crouching down in front of Takagi, using his body and a badly stained, stainless steel coffee counter as cover, Saitoh’s heart clenched like a tightening fist, then began beating hard, almost of its own accord, Adrenaline, as pure and cold as Aizu in the dead of winter, advanced militarily through his bloodstream the instant he heard the hard and yet utterly beautiful metallic hiss of a katana sliding out of its sheath.
(I know this sound…) Memories, firing faster than bullets ever could, blew through his mind, split second fragments blue, white, steel, crimson, screams. (I know this man) “KEN” was gone, erased by a half-remembered other name, a malediction that was drenched in the blood of many slain men. These primal, broken apart memories screamed for him to shoot, to kill and utterly destroy the red haired demon masquerading as a man. An abstract, bloodthirsty part of him watched as men fell in halves and fourths beneath a blade, and wanted nothing more than to rise up and engage in like-minded carnage.
Saitoh blinked and nearly staggered to his knees, wondering for a horrible half second if he was going insane again. He’d nearly fallen to madness, barely avoided tumbling into the hellish, lonely abyss that was uncontrollable grief and guilt and anger, when his wife had bled out in his arms. Three years ago, it had been Okita’s determination to keep him from self-destructing and the duty that he owed to his children and the woman who had died to keep them safe that had spared him an inglorious death by alcohol poisoning.
He blinked again when he felt a hand, her hand on his back, steadying him. The bloodlust, the urge to rend and tear and destroy abated, leaving behind an equally ferocious desire to protect. Calmness, stillness, even in the middle of this bloody mess, called to him, comforted him as nothing else…as no one else in this lifetime had.
(I know HER…)
A breath, a sigh, an acknowledgement passed from him to her, and time returned to him, picking up from where it had left, less than three seconds before. Shots were being fired. Returning fire, Saitoh tracked a line of laser light sliding across the floor like a snake, then heard the man (who could not, after this, be “KEN”) cry out in warning.
Pivoting hard, he threw himself down to the floor, covering the newest prosecuting attorney with his body as a glowing energy round blew through the space that his head had been second before. The round shredded through the diner’s plaster wall, into the neighboring store and by the explosion that came a split second after, tore through a gas line.
The diner lights flared, then failed entirely, leaving only firelight and what afternoon sun was able to stream through the broken front and side windows of the building. Engulfed in smoke from the fire, Saitoh moved then, pushing Takagi beneath the relative safety of the counter, praying that the blast would give him a few extra moments. The waiter had been shot, but was still alive. (He won’t be for long…)
Salamander and his remaining thugs were cheering, behaving as morons drunk on their own supposed power were wont to do. Saitoh had seen too many photos, and had watched stone faced as what was left of the bodies of three young women who had been seen last in the company of these cowards were removed from gory crime scenes to suppose that the katana wielding waiter would be spared such a fate.
(I will not permit that to happen) He looked down at the grey eyed woman crouching beside him (to either of them)
“Takagi, give me your hand,” he said quietly as he pulled out his smaller fully automatic sidearm. Turning the gun over, he pressed his thumb onto a small black LED display on the bottom of the butt of the weapon. The LED turned red, blinked once, then twice, then turned green.
By law, any military grade automatic weapon over a certain caliber had to be registered thusly, ensuring that dangerous weapons could only be fired by the individual whose DNA was registered in the software of the weapon. It was a safeguard…and a serious pain in the ass. Covering Takagi’s hand with his own, while the gun silently registered her genetic signature in place of his, he found to his satisfaction that the woman’s hand were calm and steady and that there were callouses, though not as hard as his, on her trigger finger and palm, indicating that while the woman was at least no stranger to shooting.
“There will be police backup here soon,” he removed her hand from hers when the LED was no longer red, indicating that this gun would only fire by her will. “I expect you to stay alive to assist them.” Saitoh ordered as he adjusted the settings in on his body armor, pushing the mag field past the manufacturer limits, causing the armor to crackle menacingly and give off a blue-white glow seen even under his uniform. (I’ve got five minutes before the circuitry melts)
no subject
(I know this sound…) Memories, firing faster than bullets ever could, blew through his mind, split second fragments blue, white, steel, crimson, screams. (I know this man) “KEN” was gone, erased by a half-remembered other name, a malediction that was drenched in the blood of many slain men.
These primal, broken apart memories screamed for him to shoot, to kill and utterly destroy the red haired demon masquerading as a man. An abstract, bloodthirsty part of him watched as men fell in halves and fourths beneath a blade, and wanted nothing more than to rise up and engage in like-minded carnage.
Saitoh blinked and nearly staggered to his knees, wondering for a horrible half second if he was going insane again. He’d nearly fallen to madness, barely avoided tumbling into the hellish, lonely abyss that was uncontrollable grief and guilt and anger, when his wife had bled out in his arms. Three years ago, it had been Okita’s determination to keep him from self-destructing and the duty that he owed to his children and the woman who had died to keep them safe that had spared him an inglorious death by alcohol poisoning.
He blinked again when he felt a hand, her hand on his back, steadying him. The bloodlust, the urge to rend and tear and destroy abated, leaving behind an equally ferocious desire to protect. Calmness, stillness, even in the middle of this bloody mess, called to him, comforted him as nothing else…as no one else in this lifetime had.
(I know HER…)
A breath, a sigh, an acknowledgement passed from him to her, and time returned to him, picking up from where it had left, less than three seconds before. Shots were being fired. Returning fire, Saitoh tracked a line of laser light sliding across the floor like a snake, then heard the man (who could not, after this, be “KEN”) cry out in warning.
Pivoting hard, he threw himself down to the floor, covering the newest prosecuting attorney with his body as a glowing energy round blew through the space that his head had been second before. The round shredded through the diner’s plaster wall, into the neighboring store and by the explosion that came a split second after, tore through a gas line.
The diner lights flared, then failed entirely, leaving only firelight and what afternoon sun was able to stream through the broken front and side windows of the building. Engulfed in smoke from the fire, Saitoh moved then, pushing Takagi beneath the relative safety of the counter, praying that the blast would give him a few extra moments. The waiter had been shot, but was still alive. (He won’t be for long…)
Salamander and his remaining thugs were cheering, behaving as morons drunk on their own supposed power were wont to do. Saitoh had seen too many photos, and had watched stone faced as what was left of the bodies of three young women who had been seen last in the company of these cowards were removed from gory crime scenes to suppose that the katana wielding waiter would be spared such a fate.
(I will not permit that to happen) He looked down at the grey eyed woman crouching beside him (to either of them)
“Takagi, give me your hand,” he said quietly as he pulled out his smaller fully automatic sidearm. Turning the gun over, he pressed his thumb onto a small black LED display on the bottom of the butt of the weapon. The LED turned red, blinked once, then twice, then turned green.
By law, any military grade automatic weapon over a certain caliber had to be registered thusly, ensuring that dangerous weapons could only be fired by the individual whose DNA was registered in the software of the weapon. It was a safeguard…and a serious pain in the ass. Covering Takagi’s hand with his own, while the gun silently registered her genetic signature in place of his, he found to his satisfaction that the woman’s hand were calm and steady and that there were callouses, though not as hard as his, on her trigger finger and palm, indicating that while the woman was at least no stranger to shooting.
“There will be police backup here soon,” he removed her hand from hers when the LED was no longer red, indicating that this gun would only fire by her will. “I expect you to stay alive to assist them.” Saitoh ordered as he adjusted the settings in on his body armor, pushing the mag field past the manufacturer limits, causing the armor to crackle menacingly and give off a blue-white glow seen even under his uniform. (I’ve got five minutes before the circuitry melts)