ChasNicollette
Allons-y Means Let's Go.
- Joined
- Nov 1, 2007
- Posts
- 16,135
This I Command.
Multiverses and decades away, Captain America-- the paragon to whom all super-soldiers are invariably compared-- once commented that if he didn't blink he could actually watch a bullet fly to its target.
And while his mind was irreparably damaged, his soul irreparably compromised, Kobra's body was on that very same level as Steve Rogers of Earth-616 of that distant Multiverse.
He saw those three bullets fly towards him.
Watched them come.
And-- while superhuman speed was not a power of his, not on the level of Silver Bullet, Velocity, Kid Flash-- he was able to angle himself--
--each bullet drilled into him--
--the sniper rounds pierced even his bullet-resistant vestments, blood spurted behind him--
--they weren't flesh wounds, and they hurt, they hurt like Hell--
--hemorrhaging fluids rushed into spaces they didn't belong--
--he swayed--
--but he stayed standing.
And drew a sword of his own.
And he reached up and yanked that arrow out of his shoulder, an improvised stabbing main gauche counterpoint to the ninja-to he gripped in his other hand.
He welcomed the dance.
He knew all the steps.
"Yes. You insignificant microbes. Let us make an end. Of this day, this fight, this age!"
The round snapped from the steel barrel, whistling in the first second of travel as it rushed with suicidal abandon towards Kobra’s mouth. Before the first bullet was half way the third and last round was on it’s way. Standing up Renegade ran, muscles and sinew snapping and changing leaping over a pile of rubble, he landed with a roll, followed by a tumbled vault.
And he was running, boots snapping on the ground as blades slipped from scabbards. ‘Lets dance, bitch.’
Multiverses and decades away, Captain America-- the paragon to whom all super-soldiers are invariably compared-- once commented that if he didn't blink he could actually watch a bullet fly to its target.
And while his mind was irreparably damaged, his soul irreparably compromised, Kobra's body was on that very same level as Steve Rogers of Earth-616 of that distant Multiverse.
He saw those three bullets fly towards him.
Watched them come.
And-- while superhuman speed was not a power of his, not on the level of Silver Bullet, Velocity, Kid Flash-- he was able to angle himself--
--each bullet drilled into him--
--the sniper rounds pierced even his bullet-resistant vestments, blood spurted behind him--
--they weren't flesh wounds, and they hurt, they hurt like Hell--
--hemorrhaging fluids rushed into spaces they didn't belong--
--he swayed--
--but he stayed standing.
And drew a sword of his own.
And he reached up and yanked that arrow out of his shoulder, an improvised stabbing main gauche counterpoint to the ninja-to he gripped in his other hand.
He welcomed the dance.
He knew all the steps.
"Yes. You insignificant microbes. Let us make an end. Of this day, this fight, this age!"