It's actually pretty damn anti-climatic, in the end.
Argo wants the satisfaction of winning – taking him in single combat, taking his head, something visceral and final and for his city – but he can't. He's bigger than Bruce is, less injured from the battle so far, better equipped, but Bruce is just better. He gets the Militia captain bad and nearly takes his arm off, even while he's reeling from a blow to the head that's left him bleeding and unsteady. Argo whirls around and tries for his back, but Bruce drops, comes back lower – it's not graceful, it's (not a dance) stilted and painful-looking and grudging, and if it were just them on some distant shore, there'd be no contest. Bruce knows it, and the look on his face reflects it.
That look does not foster any friendship.
Argo jerks his head, finally, and the response is so cleanly executed that it must have been planned already, no matter how furious the captain looks at having to resort to it. Three Militia gunners take aim, and though Bruce scrambles, he still gets hit with two laser bolts – there's nothing PG-sci-fi about the burns; one yellow-hued beam seems to go straight through him. At the same moment, two more agents step forward, weapons raised, and rush to engage him while he's still righting himself after impact. Only when their steel meets his does Argo step forward once more.
Ultimately it's down to mathematics. Not getting hit is a variable in an equation, and the string of digits goes on and on until-
It's no longer solve-able.
If there were a replay screen, if it could be rewound and dissected and judged, there'd be no way out. Maybe, if thirty moves ago, he'd done something different, skewed reality in a different way, sent the card house crumbling slightly further east. But that's not how it goes. In this reality, Argo's blade catches him in the back, point-first, snapping through bodyarmor and finding an angle perfectly between his scapula and his spine, splintering his ribs, piercing his heart. Through his chest, blood-soaked silver can be seen for just a moment, before Argo rips it back the other way.
The last thing Bruce does before he falls backwards is smile briefly.
He falls gracelessly, not down onto his knees and over like an old movie, but stiffly, uncontrollably. He knows, distantly, he has a few minutes while the blood still moves through his system and keeps his brain going, before fluid fills his torn lungs, before his chest cavity gives up from the trauma. His vision will last the longest. His sword clatters away over the hard-packed ground, as if fleeing when he can't; he didn't bring anything else, not even his mask. It's weird, he thinks (yes, weird) that he isn't angry.
There's his vision going – or is it? Someone is looking at him, and for a second, Bruce recognizes the figure. He says one word, a name, barely-audible. “Harvey.” It doesn't sound like a plea or a question, just - Oh, it's you. He supposes he deserves to get his ass kicked in the afterlife. Maybe he can explain himself, or maybe he'll just watch on...
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Argo wants the satisfaction of winning – taking him in single combat, taking his head, something visceral and final and for his city – but he can't. He's bigger than Bruce is, less injured from the battle so far, better equipped, but Bruce is just better. He gets the Militia captain bad and nearly takes his arm off, even while he's reeling from a blow to the head that's left him bleeding and unsteady. Argo whirls around and tries for his back, but Bruce drops, comes back lower – it's not graceful, it's (not a dance) stilted and painful-looking and grudging, and if it were just them on some distant shore, there'd be no contest. Bruce knows it, and the look on his face reflects it.
That look does not foster any friendship.
Argo jerks his head, finally, and the response is so cleanly executed that it must have been planned already, no matter how furious the captain looks at having to resort to it. Three Militia gunners take aim, and though Bruce scrambles, he still gets hit with two laser bolts – there's nothing PG-sci-fi about the burns; one yellow-hued beam seems to go straight through him. At the same moment, two more agents step forward, weapons raised, and rush to engage him while he's still righting himself after impact. Only when their steel meets his does Argo step forward once more.
Ultimately it's down to mathematics. Not getting hit is a variable in an equation, and the string of digits goes on and on until-
It's no longer solve-able.
If there were a replay screen, if it could be rewound and dissected and judged, there'd be no way out. Maybe, if thirty moves ago, he'd done something different, skewed reality in a different way, sent the card house crumbling slightly further east. But that's not how it goes. In this reality, Argo's blade catches him in the back, point-first, snapping through bodyarmor and finding an angle perfectly between his scapula and his spine, splintering his ribs, piercing his heart. Through his chest, blood-soaked silver can be seen for just a moment, before Argo rips it back the other way.
The last thing Bruce does before he falls backwards is smile briefly.
He falls gracelessly, not down onto his knees and over like an old movie, but stiffly, uncontrollably. He knows, distantly, he has a few minutes while the blood still moves through his system and keeps his brain going, before fluid fills his torn lungs, before his chest cavity gives up from the trauma. His vision will last the longest. His sword clatters away over the hard-packed ground, as if fleeing when he can't; he didn't bring anything else, not even his mask. It's weird, he thinks (yes, weird) that he isn't angry.
There's his vision going – or is it? Someone is looking at him, and for a second, Bruce recognizes the figure. He says one word, a name, barely-audible. “Harvey.” It doesn't sound like a plea or a question, just - Oh, it's you. He supposes he deserves to get his ass kicked in the afterlife. Maybe he can explain himself, or maybe he'll just watch on...
He's mid-thought when it goes dark.
And that's all there is.