badly, but i can
The blade was poisoned, he can tell. He grips the hilt, pulling it out with one great tug. Blood, numbing cold spreading from his wrist outwards. There's no time to switch arms. He can barely hold on to the gun, arm shaking and grip faltering, but he's determined to get the shot. He won't miss this time, even if he can't feel the trigger or the gun or much of anything on his right side.
Eyes track his target through the red haze, blinking away blood and sweat and hair, fingers tight around the hilt of the bloody dagger. Waiting for the perfect moment. Almost there, and nails split the skin of his palm as he forces his body to cooperate, squeeze the trigger at that exact second, no room for error.
The target is rocked back with an explosion of red. Stumbles, falls. And melts away, vapor on the wind.
He curses, outwitted again, maybe for the final time, and the cold is closing in on his eyes, his heart. Falls, sideways, legs giving out. The crack he hears is a distant thing and he knows he should hurt, should be screaming, but
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Ars vivendi ad infinitum.
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