Incomplete.

[pseudism]

Who: Commodore Smoker and Giovanni.
What: REMATCH. They're both on edge and looking to end the standoff.
Where: Although it was scheduled for the residential, it'ssss actually near the docks, fufu.
When: Oh aboutttt.... five million years ago. Right after this!

Comments

[pseudism]

So they weren't wasting any time.

Giovanni watched, studying every reaction from behind the opaque film of orange glasses. The smoke, the anger, and already Smoker's temper and restraint was rapidly deteriorating, just like his skin, his flesh dissipating into the atmosphere - and it was all him. All because of him, and the thought made Giovanni smile thinly, silently, basking in the vicious electricity of Smoker's hate; it was so palpable he could almost taste it, bitter on the tip of his tongue. Was this what betrayal looked like? Was this what Heine experienced when he tore the other experiments to pieces? He hoped so. He hoped they shared this.

After Smoker's slight against him - the obstruction of his goals and depriving him of Heine at a pivotal moment, and after making himself a barrier to further planning, it was good to see that he wasn't the only one who was on edge, wasn't the only one eager to bring this to a bloody end - the only way it really could end, after they passed that point of no return. Strange how a few little actions, the two of them simply following their nature, brought them to this point.

The logia was already growing thick; the air smelled of it, dried his throat out fast, and his smile faded. His time was already ticking.

He slid from his perch and hit the ground with the soft tap of scuffed shoes, patted down the backs of his thighs with open palms, and slowly slid them up, up across the back of his pants to grasp firmly on the grip of both guns and free them. He leveled one on the ground in front of him; the other was pointed directly at the hand wielding the jitte.

Circling away from the wall, he could already feel his heart pounding, blood pumping, and a thick surge of adrenaline made him aware of every sight, sound, smell, every movement of Smoker's body, every inch of tension in visible muscles. His flesh crawled with it.

This'd be over almost too soon.

"You have a violent imagination. Is that what you think of when you look at me?" His attention stayed trained on his gun, the target, the thin tendons of Smoker's wrist when he could glimpse it past the thick, nebulous smoke.

He fired, took a step back and didn't wait for the scent of blood that might give his success away. He moved up his other gun, fired again. Took another step back.

Range was going to be what he needed. Smoker got him when he tried close-combat the first time, the superiority of his strength and his devil fruit ability; he wouldn't make the same mistake again.

"I'm going to remove every semblance of order that you hope to maintain, Smoker." Both guns moved up higher, higher, aimed for what little remained of his body, visibility fading in the still air. "I hope you understand, it's nothing personal."

[brandedjustice]

Smoker couldn't feel the jitte anymore, but he could definitely hear it. It sounded like a thunder clap as it fell and the smell of copper followed its plummet. There was pain there as well, but it was not the sort of pain the Commodore was used to yet. Quite the contrary, it was the same burning pain he had only experienced three times in his life previous to this encounter and he took a moment to allow curious eyes to assess the damage. Red and torn flesh caught in his vision and he could make out bits and pieces of torn brown leather.

He'd be pissed about that later on; those gloves were a favorite pair of his. But, right now, he had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that he was now down a hand and his jitte.

"Nothing personal.." Smoker's voice broke the silence left over from his weapon's fall, but it was nothing but a hiss. The human voice he carried so well was slowly slipping and becoming his logia. Not that Smoker had a problem with that now; he probably would be kicking himself in the morning.

Right now, all that mattered was justice. Swift, relentless, Marine justice. Not Absolute, not the bullshit the academy taught. His own brand.

Half of his face was gone in seconds; an eye melted into streamers of silver, his jaw line disappeared into a bubble of smoke. Tendrils hovered for a moment, almost examining the pray before darting swiftly towards the target. The plumes stayed low before explode upwards into a handful of columns around Giovanni.

"Now," his voice, it was everywhere. In every particle of smoke, he was there. Watching, waiting, anticipating a move. And, then -

"White Out..." And the columns collapsed on each other.

dgoish I'm sorry I took so long!

[pseudism]

What a perfect sound.

Giovanni's attention barely flinched from what remained of Smoker's body, but he heard the jitte fall - the clear, crisp sound of it slipping from Smoker's hand. It rang out and echoed between the buildings, resounded in him, and he thought, how reassuring. How comforting, and how much damn easier it was going to be to crush him when he was starting off at such a disadvantage.

Then there was the blood, the smell of it on the air already, before it too was fading into the thick of the grey-white smoke. Giovanni's fingers brushed, cool and dry, up the unmarked and warming metal in his hands, the smooth surfaces around which they fitted so perfectly. Two bullets lighter than before, but a worthwhile shot. Unseen, he ran his tongue across the smooth white of his teeth, the sharp edges of his canines, and slowly parted his lips to smile.

Still. It wasn't easy to restrain himself, and it wasn't easy to think about something other than emptying the whole fucking round into him, punching through the billowing smoke with hole after hole, counting on a decent shot, just one shot in his organs, in his head, somewhere still solid in there, somewhere nice and final --

-- but he wasn't Heine, and he couldn't play the game like that. Different weaknesses, a different goal, and that was fine, wasn't it? It would be fine. If Giovanni was anything, he was adaptive.

His shoes scraped along the ground again, his expression sober.

Besides.

There was nothing left of Smoker to shoot.

There dark cloud came at him, forming upwards. No words wasted, then - nothing to follow that soft repetition of Giovanni's own comment, no retort or rebuff. 'Speechless anger', perhaps? It was strange - amusing, his mind substituted - to think of Smoker's severity. Just what kind of expression would he show him when he died, with a voice like that?

He hadn't much time to think about it - threw himself into a roll away from the collapsing columns and barely missed being crushed. The shockwave was still enough to drive Giovanni back, stumbling, guns making sparks along the ground as he landed in a low crouch. There was heat across his brow, crawling slowly down behind his glasses, and he could see where the blond of his hair had turned red from the expanding circle of blood. The pain came as a dull throb, and through it he could feel the scrape on his forehead, imagine the shape of it, the metal-and-stone taste of it.

He gathered himself up to his feet and began backing up again. There; the sound of water, close, and he could smell the salt on the breeze, the reek of brine like the fresh varnish of a coffin. Guns up; nothing to shoot, not yet, not with that clouded form he'd taken on, but at least they were even this time, weren't they? Commod-- Smoker was down his weapon. He was already disadvantaged.

"You weren't lying when you promised something different," he called, slowly came to a stop with guns raised again. "I'm glad. You might as well show me everything."

dude don't apologize this is fucking amazing

[brandedjustice]

Smoke retracted back into controlled columns at the Commodore's sides and eyes peeled out of bubbling forms of silver. They narrowed as they watched Giovanni rise from the ground, but as more time ticked away, the first sour expression turned more and more amused. A sneer graced Smoker's lips as they solidified from the logia; a nose and half of a cheek followed.

"You've got spunk, Giovanni, I'll give you that. But you're nothing special." Curious wisps of silver touched the ground where the first attack failed. It felt the small cracks in the concrete before jerking away almost violently; the sea was far too close for comfort and the sheer taste of it on the air was enough to cause worry. So, he shifted and the silvery-blue mass around him followed, rolling across steel, concrete and wood like a separate entity all on its own.

Heavy boots clattered as they reformed through the clouds and Smoker was soon passing at a distance from Giovanni. Though, as he did so, more and more of his body began returning to flesh, cloth and everything else that was the Commodore. All that stayed smoke was his left arm.

But that was all he needed; it was the perfect opportunity to turn the tides back in his favor. He just hoped Giovanni wouldn't be stupid enough to get too close to the water.

Wind roared around his left arm, groaning and twisting as it spiraled in a continuous pattern. It deafened Smoker for a while, but he dealt with the loss by keeping his eyes completely and utterly focused on Giovanni.

"I promise nothing to you but swift and utter justice; to end this charade and bring this game to a close. You've gambled and lost, Giovanni, and I don't feel sorry for you." And I never will. He had to reassure himself that - never feel sorry for a criminal, even one with a history like Giovanni's own. He could have made another choice, but in the end, he played his cards and the results had just been that. It had been a conscious decision that lead to this showdown.

And Smoker wasn't going to let him off easy a second time.

The Devil Fruit ability finally solidified into, what looked like, a serpent's face. The mouth opened where the Commodore's hand should have been and hollow eyes focused and watched Giovanni. "Time to end this - White Snake," Smoker grunted, but his voice was lost in a thunderous rush of air. His arm raised, flicked and released the serpent of smoke towards his target.

If he was lucky, he would catch Giovanni with the jaws. If not, hopefully he could at least strangle him.

dfogidf

[pseudism]

Better, better. Much better. Giovanni's smile was thin, tenuous as the Commodore slid out from the smoke, reformed back into something more familiar. He watched the pattern of Smoker's movements intently - circling around, steering them back the way they'd come, away from the sea. It wasn't surprising that he'd caught on. A man could hardly be expected to forget what he feared, fail to notice when it was close. That was base instinct, something even the lowest lifeform had. The desire to survive, to overcome, to endure - something his own spine could have amplified.

There were some instincts even moral ideals and aspirations of justice couldn't touch.

"That's strange. Do you always personally target the ones who're 'nothing special', Smoker?" Giovanni walked outside of the sphere of the Commodore's movement, avoiding entrapment back through the street - albeit that he was getting closer to him in the process. He sped up his steps, danced back a few, keeping a level pace. Even if Smoker moved to suppress him and drive him away from the sea, as long as he could keep out of reach and keep moving, he could draw him there.

Easy from then on, and as exciting as the prospect was, it was also irritating in a way. Irritating to think that his bullets had done nothing but slow him down where water alone would sink him. Irritating to think that her perfect machines might have some flaw, some simple inferiority.

It was that need - keeping that up and keeping his distance - that slowed his reaction, distracted him at the pivotal moment. He saw it coming, saw the billow of smoke and moved, because he wasn't stupid, because he hadn't forgotten what he was in the middle of. He was just a little too slow.

It took a second for him to look down into the thick of the smoke, into the unseeing, unblinking eyes made of nothing, and realise that that was his blood he could smell, and that was pain he was feeling, exploding its way up his arm. And he really should've expected it. Really should've known, should've felt it coming, and he could feel the spine as it grew hot, tight behind the collar and tie, a heat spreading across his chest when muscles coiled up tight.

He heard the clatter of one gun as his fingers numbed, shaking in the grip of the smoke, and the other gun was soon aimed, up high and held horizontal and fired with Smoker's shoulder in mind and sights.

It was a nice little skill he had. Really.

But if he had to tear Smoker to pieces to get his way, it was no loss.

[brandedjustice]

The second fight was slowing turning out much like the first; the smell of copper and salt burned deep in Smoker's lungs, but he pressed on. Smoke gripped hard, threatening to strangle the very life out of Giovanni. But of course, the Commodore couldn't and wouldn't have the satisfaction of doing so quite yet.

A bullet ripped through his shoulder and the logia shattered back to flesh like a rippling effect. Pain shot down his arm and the distinct burning sensation he had felt earlier returned, though, the intensity extended far beyond that previous. Wetness filled the crevice of his collar and neck and he twisted a stone-colored eye towards the wound.

It was gushing blood; a vital hit, probably.

The Commodore almost snarled, but he kept his wits about him. Yes, he was hurting, but so was Giovanni. Thus, neither man was out of the game yet and he still had some time to throw an ace down Giovanni's throat.

He just needed to find the right opportunity.

Smoker twisted back, body falling at an angled stance. His logia whipped out again, streaming into tendrils from his face and good shoulder. It twirled and snarled, crawling up into the air like a set of talons. Then, it stopped, hovered and waited. He didn't even need to announce it that loud, just a whisper followed.

"White Spark."

Bits and pieces of his body shattered, leaving behind various parts as his Devil Fruit took control of the situation. Still solidified were his eyes and jaws, his good hand and a leg or two. But the rest had vanished into thick clouds of silver. Though, it didn't quite matter - whatever he had become, the entirety of it, him, everything, was at a full blown charge at Giovanni, thick digits stretched out for his throat.

[pseudism]

Another hit. Giovanni felt it in the shockwave that passed through the smoke, freeing his arm with a hiss. It was barely worth anything now, and he curled it against his ribs, held it close and shaking. He could hear the steady pat, pat of his own thick blood running down his sleeve and hitting the ground below, and he inspected the wound with detached interest before he let his hand drop to his side.

It was true; it really was slowly turning out to be much like the first fight, the same blow-for-blow dance they seemed to be perfecting little by little, the same exchange of blood - even the same arm wounded again. Still, it wasn't quite the same. Giovanni still had one gun left, and that gun still had bullets, and that meant he hadn't lost yet. Even when Smoker came at him too fast to dodge, even when the hand sealed over his throat, huge and crushing and he could already taste the blood in his throat, feel the creak of his bones and the mad pump of the carotid artery as Smoker slowly restricted his circulation. Even as the smell of cigars and metal engulfed him and Smoker's face, cold grey killing eyes (a look that was familiar enough to be almost nostalgic) consumed his vision - even then, he hadn't lost. And if he hadn't lost yet, he simply wouldn't lose at all.

Otherwise, he was just wasting his time.

His free hand came up to seal over Smoker's jaw - not to crush, but to hold in place - and the Walter P38 was brought up to be pressed to Smoker's visible left eye as the full strength of Smoker's charge barreled into him, threw him off his feet.

Giovanni's half-serious gaze faded away into a thin smile, a row of teeth pinked by blood. He never seemed to look away from Smoker's returned gaze. His heart was pounding, his hand trembling at Smoker's jaw, nerve and muscle damage weakening his grip.

But the gun hand stayed firm and steady, and that was the only part that really mattered. He was determined, whatever impact awaited, to keep it there.

Not to lose.

[brandedjustice]

He hadn't even see the gun until it was pressed firmly to his eye. The feeling was what snapped him back to his senses and, as if by instinct, his smoke began to reform and redirect energy to vital points in his body. One being his face.

Silver ribbons peeled off the left side of his face, turning a jawline into the logia, his lips into thick plumes and his eye into an intangible hole of silvers and blues.

But, despite the obvious advantage, they were both at a considerable stalemate and the Commodore was left watching Giovanni through a narrowed eye. He could smell him now, smell the both of them, and their scents, their conflicting energies; they fit so perfectly it was almost sickening.

Thick knuckles twitched at Giovanni's throat, but Smoker didn't move.

"You're losing blood." A blunt and obvious observation, but the only one the Commodore could utter, what with Giovanni's fingers firmly locked around his jaw. Smoker's upper lip twitched, curved upwards in a twitching-snarl, but he kept firm in the stalemate. Then, a quiet question.

"Is she worth it?" Brows unmoving, eyes still, voice hard and demanding. Truly, Smoker wanted to know whether this woman was, indeed, worth all of this trouble. If she was, then he had bigger fish to fry than Giovanni. Though, it was highly unlikely he would get the chance to tackle that ever-present issue, the urge for justice didn't waver.

After all, Heine had said it himself - Giovanni hadn't always been like this.

A beat passed and blood twitched in the side of his face that hadn't taken defensive measures. And reality finally came to him; he would never know the answers, never know exactly why both he and Giovanni always ended up with each other's blood on their hands. It was just the way things were.

So, he moved his hand from his side, wound up and aimed a well-placed punch towards the connector of Giovanni's hip and left side. Though, whether he would get the chance to hit or not was up to chance.

There was still a gun to his head, after all.

[pseudism]

In the unstable silence, somewhere between Smoker's low words and the ragged sound of their breathing, he could still hear the steady patting of his blood on the ground beneath him. He could feel his heartbeat in it, could feel the pain with a vengeance as the adrenaline in his system gave way.

He had lost a lot of blood, and it shouldn't have mattered, really, because it'd never mattered before, had never mattered when he fought Heine at home. Nor had the pain. Nuadoria was a little different like that; weaker, his skin split easier, and for the first time since Heine had ripped him apart, he could feel shock starting to set in, dizziness, and he thought, how pathetic. And he thought, how weak, and was this what he would have had to put up with if it wasn't for her?

Humans were so fragile.

He could see his blood slowly blackening, coagulating on the fingers gripping Smoker's jaw. Or maybe it was just his skin paling. His nostrils flared, forcing air past Smoker's grip, and he focused on one point to keep him steady. When Smoker disappeared into the logia, his gun drifted to the remaining eye.

Could have just shot him, he supposed.

"Then he didn't tell you everything?"

Not yet.

"It's because of her that I'm gifted with the Cerberus spine. It's also because of her that I survived when Heine tore me apart." His mouth twitched at the memory, skin creasing below the glasses. "A women who defined everything that I am. To anyone else, wouldn't that be what you call a 'mother'?"

He looked ready to say more, but the strike to his hip took him off-guard; the cold shock, the dizziness and the wave of blunt pain travelling through his nervous system coalesced, and his leg almost buckled, almost failed him. He sucked in breath and straightened it again, rigid. The gun hadn't flinched, his eyes hadn't wavered from Smoker's face, but his hand was slick with sweat, and his lips were curled in a displeased scowl.

The hand on Smoker's jaw jerked him closer, bared teeth threateningly close to the cigars and Smoker's own parted lips. He could have torn him open. Shot a bullet straight through his skull and sunk his teeth in and shredded him in two directions like discarded paper. Could have, but the loss of blood was making him lose strength, and while it wasn't enough to die for good - not while his skull was still intact - he'd be too weak for defense before long.

Still, he wasn't done.

"Heine is my only goal because it's what she wants," he said at last. "If you turn a blind eye to it, I won't have to shoot it out of your head. Even if one of us loses, you still win; you'll only have one murderer left to deal with."

He let a moment pass, still and unmoving. The tremors had stopped.

"... I could kill you anyway, but that's inconvenient for me, as well. You have too many friends, and if you regulate laws for others, I'm less likely to be threatened by stronger powers. I don't have any interest in others or being sucked into their goals."

[brandedjustice]

Smoker's eyes reformed, half-lidded, tired. Blood took the plunge of gravity's cruel devices and splattered into pavement. It pooled with the blood of another, of a rival, of something Smoker just needed to crush and destroy. But he didn't, he couldn't, he wouldn't.

Because none of this was about either of them in the end.

Inhaling sharply, the Commodore sent the tip of his cigar flaring red. Smoke poured deep into his mouth and crept at the outskirts of his lips, coaxing, toying, almost beckoning in a way. Though, the presence was short lived as Smoker breathed again; the wisps that had been so pleasantly comfortable in parted jaws dispersed into open air, circling around both himself and Giovanni.

He never let anything stay longer than he wanted; even if was something comfortable, something pleasant, something he could find enjoyment out of.

The rule did not waver in any circumstance; not even with the two objects of his primary focus displayed out so cleanly before him.

"I'd rather lock you both up," Smoker growled, but his release on Giovanni's throat slackened just a bit; his vision was dipping in and out of a brown haze, but he tried so hard to keep up the facade, if not just prove something to himself.

To prove he wouldn't let another one get away.

Teeth peeled across the end of the cigar, causing flakes of brown to branch off slightly. "You're not a Shichibukai; I can't grant you that kind of amnesty and I won't. You're too dangerous to keep on the streets and I'll see you judged like any other man, Giovanni. Do you understand me?"

His knees shook under his weight and he hated himself for it; had this been his world, his turf, he wouldn't have been injured in the first place. He wouldn't have had all these problems - all these distractions.

A snarl, almost inaudible, escaped past his lips. "You're a distraction, Giovanni. A dog barking at my window, howling when it's obvious I'm too tired to deal with you. Give it up."

Another inhale and the cigar turned a cherry red again, illuminating part of the Commodore's winded features; it highlighted one of his obvious weaknesses, but he either chose to ignore it, or he was blind to it.

[pseudism]

It didn't take much observation to realise the position Smoker was in. He couldn't afford to waste more time here, and Giovanni could feel it in the way his fingers weakened on his throat, hear it in the sound of his breathing - the slow inhale and exhale of smoke, and he was taking in what Smoker was giving out at this proximity. The cherry illuminated his face as much, the slight, discontent curl of his lip and reflective glasses. Smoke curled in his lungs, and he coughed once behind the shield of his teeth.

"... You're bleeding out as well." His voice was distant, as if distracted by something; even to his own ears, between the steady pumps of the blood rushing through under his damaged skin, it sounded muffled and dry. "And only one of us can die from it. It's not the end if I collapse now, Commodore. I'll heal and get better as time goes on, as long as my head is intact. You can't say the same."

There came the slow, steady click of his gun readying, and he raised it above Smoker's eyes, up to his forehead and a brow furrowed and creased by perpetual anger, years of chasing and frustration, travel and hardship. Smoker was fast, but he couldn't stop him as fast as he could shoot point-blank, and it was a shame, in a way. It was a shame to already know the outcome long before it happened. It took all of the fun out of the game, sometimes.

He eased his finger into the metal ring, curled it over the trigger, and rested it there.

"Whether we kill each other or you execute us, the consequences are the same. If it's a matter of pride..." He faltered, swayed almost drunkenly back before he could get a foot under him again, regain his balance. A haze of dark was beginning to encircle his vision, a faint ringing that was growing in his ears, muffling his voice even more. Well, he thought. That's certainly not a good sign. "... you'll die here, and you'll never deal with the ones that are a genuine threat. You should retreat while you still have--"

His leg buckled again, and for a moment, his arm dropped, tilted, and the gun pointed away, his attention drifting. It was getting harder to think through the haze enveloping his brain, and that was a bothersome thing. Bothersome because it never happened, not to him, not to the ones like them unless they were really going to die. What if it didn't take a head wound any more? He might be no better than the Commodore, and what then?

He was sluggish to regain any sense of composure, teeth baring, anger building. His body was unresponsive like this, too human, too close to what he could have been and what he by all rights should have been. What he almost was, if not for her, and his stomach rolled at the thought. The spine was there, but right now, it might as well have not been. If the wounds didn't heal fast enough, he didn't stop bleeding fast enough, and then.

"... You get used to the barking," he finally ground out, moving to exhaustedly correct the gun position.

[brandedjustice]

To be human was a weakness to Giovanni; for Smoker, it was a memory. A memory of being respected instead of feared, of being rebellious with all the needed consequences. A day when he was younger and more naive to the regulations of justice that the Marines embodied. And to have all the feelings of the past at the back of his mind just made him growl without reason, snarl without a source; though Giovanni was a great scapegoat.

"Giovanni; you are under arrest for attempt of murder of a law officer. Anything you say can and will be used against you in this court of law." Smoker inhaled sharply, copper threatening at that back his throat, but the cigar-ash thankfully chased it away. "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to your case." Shadows teased at his eye lids and the Commodore briskly shook his head.

"You can keep that gun poised, but it won't do you any good." A threat, though, it was made sheerly on speculation. Of course, Giovanni could blow his brains to the pavement, but Smoker put his money on the fact that he wouldn't. "Give it up, Giovanni; this ends. All of this ends right the fuck now."

Tendrils of smoke tore away from where fingers should have been and they threatened at his nostrils, at his mouth, like some sort of gag device. "Put the gun down, or I'll tear you apart from the inside out."

Calm was the Commodore's voice; by behind it was the bitter taste of an end. And Smoker wasn't sure he was entirely ready to finish off Giovanni.

But justice always prevailed, no matter what his personal feelings were on the matter.

[pseudism]

Giovanni finally backed up, started to lower the gun as his vision grew faint, duller, and sound started to fade in and out like a badly-tuned stereo. The smoke made his lungs burn, and his chest shook as he took it in - held it, just to see Smoker's reaction, before he coughed it out again dryly, tasting ash mixed with blood in the back of his throat; clogging, thick and raw.

When he spoke again, nevertheless he was starting to smile.

"You could. Tear me apart, that is." Giovanni wet his lips, tilted his chin up a little against the pressure of Smoker's hand, the open palm and the heartline that rested on the bump of his Adam's apple. It tightened his voice a fraction, but it didn't crack or falter. It was just his throat, just compression. "But as a threat, it's useless. You intend to kill me regardless, so something like this..."

He moved the gun from Smoker's face - at first lowering, dropping it down to comply with Smoker's demand. His fingers slipped up, caressing over the familiar gunmetal and releasing, until it dangled by one crooked finger in the circle framing the trigger.

And then he swung it back into his hand, brought it back up against the wrist that held him in place by the throat. His smile, still thin, still rigid with tension, didn't allow any words past the stiffness of his jaw as his fingers moved to compress the trigger.

For all the trouble he'd been, for this situation, for the obstruction, for resisting, for fighting better than he did, for being stronger than something she had made--

If this was it, he was going to ensure that Smoker got the best possible show while Giovanni was still standing. There was nothing more revolting, after all, than looking into that man's eyes and seeing pity, real or imagined.

oh my god this is so late i'm sorry fbakfaj LAME POST IS LAME SHOOT ME LATER?

[brandedjustice]

Giovanni's coughing rippled through him and he could feel the other man deep under his skin. And it, to say the least, was disturbing. It was a metaphor coming to life and he didn't like the feel of it; so the logia retracted violently and solidified into flesh and bone.

"I could and I will." Smoker started, eyes narrowed, lips curved in a triumphant grin. He was too focused on Giovanni's face to acknowledge his movements and it was too little to late by the time the gun came swinging to his wrist.

A loud crack sounded, but it was the sharp twinge of pain that alerted him to the injury. That and the lack of throat between his fingers. The Marine hissed violently and smoke poured out of his back, completely and utterly out of control as purple hues bled out under his skin.

Smoker swore, or at least, he thought he swore; the logia was now taking full control, roaring in his ears and deafening his voice - it, he, they fought for control, but he didn't win. Plumes of dark gray exploded around him and fanged out, threatening the perpetrator should he dare get close.

I'D BE A HYPOCRITE TO DO SO, SIR. I suspect this will be a mutual shooting.

[pseudism]

This was enough.

Now they'd gotten somewhere, hadn't they? Not that it wasn't fun before, in its own form, but it wasn't everything he'd wanted to see. Took longer to break Smoker than it took to break Heine - took longer and though he took less damage, it affected him far, far more in this world.

Giovanni fell back when he was released - boneless at first, though he still kept an iron-hard grip on the gun in his hand.

He often left when he'd had his fill of Heine, when he got to be too much and he'd seen enough to tide him over until the next meeting. This time, escape looked infinitely less likely, and the solid form Smoker had retained was a barely-visible shape through the blasting smoke, completely obscured before he could raise the gun and fire. His mouth pressed in a thin line - the closest he came to looking nervous, normally reserved for calls to the Underground and superiors with expectations and power.

Dying had, in one of those rare circumstances, become a concern. And this time, there really wasn't much chance of him evading it, couldn't protect his head with his body, couldn't expect his body to heal fast enough to keep an extended death from happening. And in this place, the matter of his return from death wasn't assured.

... Still.

It'd been fun, hadn't it?

He raised the gun and fired blindly into the smoke, until the gun click-click-clicked and came empty.