Neither your lungs nor your brain are getting quite enough oxygen at the moment, but that's never stopped you before. It only took you two quarts of air to throttle El Demonio Negro, after all, and at least this time you're not dealing with nitrogen narcosis and a case of the bends that would have left Jacques Cousteau shitting himself to death.
You wobble a bit and reach into your sleeves. Gehrman frowns and takes a traditional stance for the first time in the fight, eyes locked on your forearm as you search for appropriate shenanigans to unleash. You give him a couple of pump fakes to keep him honest, but he doesn't bite, only reacting when you launch a chain at him. He instinctively brings his scythe forward to intercept it and steps into range as the string of bayonets wraps itself around his weapon. There's just the slightest tinge of awkwardness in his swing from the added weight, enough to let you slip it and leap back into one of the increasingly rare untouched flower patches. You mumble as he watches your fall, counting down.
"Listen to the bass go-"
Some instinct drives Gehrman to toss the scythe away just as the chain detonates, adding to the already irresponsible amount of fire in the area. Gehrman looks at you and nods before reaching down to extract his weapon; the snath is ravaged, held together by a few threads and wishful thinking. He pulls the blade free from it and casts the shaft back into the flames, filling his free hand with a customized blunderbuss.
"Not bad," he says, strolling towards you once more. "But my gear...what are you doing?"
"You tell me," you reply as pages and nails pour forth from your sleeves. The cloud swirls higher, away from the searching flames, and bears down on you in a furious wave. Nails dig into your coat and the flesh beneath, pinning the pages to your torso and your limbs as they roar to life in a burst of holy light. Your jaw crunches back into place, allowing you a proper grin as patches of blood slowly bloom across your body.
"You're completely mad," says Gehrman.
"So I've been told." You crack your neck. "Ye gonna come at me or just sit there gawpin' 'til yer arse is medium-rare?"
Come at you he does, leading with a piston-like flurry of stabs before forcing his gun through your roving bayonets. He thrusts the barrel inches from your chest wound and pulls the trigger. The look on his face when the pellets shatter against it is beautiful, though not quite as beautiful as the sound his nose makes when you show him what a real headbutt looks like. You barrel forward as he struggles to regain his composure; only having to block his head strikes leaves you free to ramp the aggression up to eleven.
As you bully him closer and closer to the fence, he plants his feet and fires off a combination. Midway between his third and fourth swings, you bring your bayonet up to intercept. The blade stops dead against your ward while your blessed steel bites deep into his bicep. His head snaps to look at the wound and you shoulder-check him into the metal barrier before giving him a matching chest wound. You don't let up, pounding away at his guard with increasingly brutal swings.
He's not even trying to throw back, both blade and gun too occupied with your sledgehammer blows to mount a counter-attack. You slip in elbows, headbutts, every trick the Dirty Bastard's Guide to Improper Biffing has to offer. His shell grows ever tighter beneath your rampage, his hands sizzling from the brief moments of contact with your armor.
Then, just as you think you've got him wilting, the necessary chunk of grey matter finally gets enough oxygen in it to tap you on the metaphorical shoulder and tell you to get the fuck back before Gehrman can kill you.
His "cowering" body erupts with cyan tendrils of energy and a pressure wave that piggybacks on your desperate backstep to send you flying. You scramble up and he closes the distance with terrifying speed, laying into you with animal fury as the light rises from his shoulders. Your armor buckles, shakes, but holds strong. In one smooth motion, he holsters his gun and grabs you by the neck with the same hand before hurling you into the growing fire. There's no mirth in his face as he watches you pat the opportunistic sparks away.
"Every Hunter you faced tonight was trying and failing to be me, Anderson. Do you understand?"
[] Write in...
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CURRENT STATUSES:
Anderson: Partially regenerated heart and lung damage, cracked jaw, windpipe damage, minor burns
Gehrman: Damaged right bicep, chest wound, assorted bruising, minor burns