The sky above him is gray, the asphalt below him is black, and the sharp pellet of hot metal that grazes his cheek (he can practically smell the smoke when it nips his skin—even though he knows most guns haven’t produced as much in decades, practically) feels purple and red.
His fingers press against his cheek, and the scar stains his fingers—makes his heart thump for the first time in a while.
The discovery of his own mortality isn’t spared much time, and on instinct he jumps forward (because he’s become so accustomed to acting for two in the midst of “battle”).
“Hey!” Yato has one hand wrapped around this stranger, another gripping the hilt of a sword that isn’t there.
A car tumbles past them, with a faceless driver and a wicked amount of momentum. Just as quickly as the tires found their unreal speed, they slow almost instantly—suddenly careening over the edge of a traffic divider in slow motion, like a scene from an action movie.
But it does not explode; there is no trillion dollar CGI display that follows. It falls to the side, screeches against the concrete, and everyone else around them finds their way back into the chaos.
It’s some sort of street brawl—police and criminals, and pedestrians who had decided to make the most of the occasion. It’s some kind of mess, and Yato’s hand finds its way to his cheek again.
He wonders where the person with gun is.
“Just a few words of wisdom—really, take them or leave them, doesn’t matter to me.” But his forehead creases, and his mouth dips—frown in between exhausted and annoyed. “Watch where you’re going.”
There are sirens right behind them, squealing like someone has put a cassette track on fast-forward.
“Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to play in traffic?”Â
@kashiwade
