Maruki barely had a moment to catch his breath before it was all over.
Hamuko had cut through the horde like it was nothing—like it was as natural as breathing. He barely needed to assist, barely needed to do anything except keep the shadows off balance, and even that felt more like a formality than actual necessity.
He exhaled, loosening the front of his hood with a shaky hand, tugging at the fabric before letting it slip back. His hair, damp with sweat, fell into an unkempt mess over his forehead, and he ran his fingers through it, trying—failing—to shake himself back into focus.
His body still buzzed with the post-battle adrenaline, his limbs tingling, his lungs pulling in deep, greedy breaths.
And yet—despite everything—he felt weirdly refreshed.
Not that he could say the same for his nerves.
Thanatos.
The specter of Death itself had howled onto the battlefield, and something in Maruki’s very *being* had *shrieked* in response. It was a presence that still lingered at the edge of his mind, ghostly yet imposing, like the last remnants of a nightmare just before waking.
Azathoth had recoiled—an unthinkable thing for the formless, endless person of his.
And Hamuko. Hamuko had worn it like a second skin.
Maruki barely registered her calling out to him at first. He glanced up, disoriented, and met her gaze—a perfectly relaxed, satisfied expression on her face. A stark contrast to him, still feeling like a pathetic wet cat dumped in a thunderstorm.
His lips twitched, trying—struggling—to shape themselves into something resembling a grin.
Maruki let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. He shook his head, looking down at his clipboard—thankfully not dented from the abuse it had just suffered—and then at his pen, flicking it between his fingers.
The tip was still stained with remnants of shadow, the black mist evaporating as he turned it over. He huffed through his nose. "You know, I think I actually copied some of those moves from old action movies." He grinned, albeit with an exhausted tilt. "Felt pretty badass, honestly. Just wish I had literally anything other than a clipboard and a peashooter. Maybe a real weapon. Or at least a slightly bigger pen."
He shook the pen again, watching the last wisps of shadow vanish.
But then—his expression faltered.
Because no matter how much he wanted to focus on the thrill of the fight, there was still that one thing gnawing at the edge of his thoughts.
His gaze flicked back to Hamuko, hesitant, uncertain.
1/2
Hamuko had cut through the horde like it was nothing—like it was as natural as breathing. He barely needed to assist, barely needed to do anything except keep the shadows off balance, and even that felt more like a formality than actual necessity.
He exhaled, loosening the front of his hood with a shaky hand, tugging at the fabric before letting it slip back. His hair, damp with sweat, fell into an unkempt mess over his forehead, and he ran his fingers through it, trying—failing—to shake himself back into focus.
His body still buzzed with the post-battle adrenaline, his limbs tingling, his lungs pulling in deep, greedy breaths.
And yet—despite everything—he felt weirdly refreshed.
Not that he could say the same for his nerves.
Thanatos.
The specter of Death itself had howled onto the battlefield, and something in Maruki’s very *being* had *shrieked* in response. It was a presence that still lingered at the edge of his mind, ghostly yet imposing, like the last remnants of a nightmare just before waking.
Azathoth had recoiled—an unthinkable thing for the formless, endless person of his.
And Hamuko. Hamuko had worn it like a second skin.
Maruki barely registered her calling out to him at first. He glanced up, disoriented, and met her gaze—a perfectly relaxed, satisfied expression on her face. A stark contrast to him, still feeling like a pathetic wet cat dumped in a thunderstorm.
His lips twitched, trying—struggling—to shape themselves into something resembling a grin.
Maruki let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. He shook his head, looking down at his clipboard—thankfully not dented from the abuse it had just suffered—and then at his pen, flicking it between his fingers.
The tip was still stained with remnants of shadow, the black mist evaporating as he turned it over. He huffed through his nose. "You know, I think I actually copied some of those moves from old action movies." He grinned, albeit with an exhausted tilt. "Felt pretty badass, honestly. Just wish I had literally anything other than a clipboard and a peashooter. Maybe a real weapon. Or at least a slightly bigger pen."
He shook the pen again, watching the last wisps of shadow vanish.
But then—his expression faltered.
Because no matter how much he wanted to focus on the thrill of the fight, there was still that one thing gnawing at the edge of his thoughts.
His gaze flicked back to Hamuko, hesitant, uncertain.