On to Righty

Dark eyes drank him in from across the room, feeding him to the tiny flames within and stoking their unnatural fire.  Righty stalked to the foot of the bed, tension riding high on his huge shoulders.  Damian felt his hand tighten around the hilt of the large hunting knife he'd taken from Righty's bulky twin.  Lefty's body was on the floor between them, a pool of blood expanding outward.

What now? Damian's panicked brain asked.  He had no idea of how he'd managed to slay his first assailant, yet here he was with the man's knife, facing down a second... were these even men?  Damian backed away.

"I didn't particularly like him," Right said, giving the body a quick glance as he stepped over it, "but I like you even less."

Well, that's comforting, Damian thought.

Be quiet and let me focus, Inigo responded.

Focus?  I'm the one in danger here!

Be quiet!

Damian resisted the urge to ponder the conversation further.  If the voice in his head wanted quiet, he would most certainly comply.  It wasn't like he didn't have more important things to focus on.

"Yes, well," Damian responded, "you should leave n-now if you don't... if you don't want to... to... die or whatever."

The threat sounded hollow to his own ears.  Righty grunted out a chuckle.  And kept coming.

From somewhere inside of his black sport coat, Righty produced a switchblade.  He flicked it open and whirled it around, perhaps hoping to intimidate his foe.  It worked.  Damian tried to swallow, but even the smallest drop of spit couldn't find it's way down his constricted throat.  He coughed loudly.

Righty saw the weakness and pounced.  The switchblade flashed out toward his neck, whizzing through the air.  Damian once more trusted instinct.

Reflex pulled him down while his knife hand shot up.  It deflected the swipe up and away from his body.  Righty regrouped, though, and aimed another sweeping slash at Damian's midsection.  The hilt of Damian's blade caught that one.  The move pulled him face to face with his assailant.  Inhuman black eyes stared back at him, the tiny flames burning in place of pupils.

Righty pulled back and coiled his arm to strike again.  Damian's feet pulled him back and he danced away.  He leveled out his weapon and balanced on the balls of his feet, ready dish to be served in this deadly feast.  Righty delivered a ripe, overhand thrust, aiming the blade down at Damian's face.  The oaf had apparently eaten his fill of finesse and was hungry for a main course of brute strength.

Damian let panic take control.  He saw the knife in his hand and thought of dozens of movies he'd seen.  As Righty came charging, he emulated them; he threw the knife, end over end.  It spun through the air, light glinting off the sharp blade, and hit the big man in the chest.

With the hilt.  Which, of course, didn't stab in like an assassin launched blade, but bounced off harmlessly and clanged to the floor.  Righty kept right on coming.

Damian caught a meaty wrist with both hands.  They toppled onto the bed.  The big man was on top, leveraging his weapon down.  It would be over soon.  This was not like the movies.  That knife was coming at his face fast.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, Damian prayed.

Do I have to do everything? Inigo whined.  Clear your mind!

What?

Just do it.

Damian closed his eyes and tried not to focus on the knife that was bearing down on him.  Seconds and it would be over.  Over!  He would be murdered in a hotel room.  He could feel the cold steel on his chin, the blade sliding along as it went after the soft flesh of his throat.  What's the use?  Damian gave up.

He heard a pop.

So that's what death sounds like...