“Pain tells you what you can and can’t handle… And that’s essential in battle.” To understand the body, a mixture of mind and physicality. The breath taken, the steps placed and where. She had learned in through training and in battle just the same. Whether his body a complexity from whence it first originated, did the same not apply to him? The amount of bullets he had, how his arms functioned. And the pain in his abdomen… It told him what he could or could not take in battle. Better than a dead vampire, hm?
Dark lashes outlined the deep color of her eyes, but it was evident from the way she looked up, the martial artist looked directly upon the man clad in red. “Years… It could go years, and the same fog would still come in the morning. But the people are gone… The ones I remember.” Wasn’t the same for him?
Part of his headband is tugging at his hair, and he reaches up to tug it free. Down his hair tumbles in waves around his face, and he closes his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if I can handle it." Nothing matters anymore; not life, nor death [save Hojo’s own], even if he holds himself together by bandages and bone. He needs only complete the task of erasing Hojo’s blights upon the world, and then he will erase himself. He cannot die; he is already dead, but being dead to the world is defined as placed in a casket in the dirt, is it not? Back he will go, back to the crypt, and there he will stay. These kids will not convince him otherwise; they are just tools to an end, a convenience. "I won’t be here that long, anyway.” Meeting her gaze, his mouth presses into a firm line. “People come and go. That won’t change. People move away and they come to it. Why does it surprise you that it’s different?”
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