[Giovanni continues to spin and whirl, a volley of gunfire mirroring his movements and he aims with perfect precision always, no room for moments of doubt or for thoughts of sparing the lives of those they have descended upon. Each shot fired-- it's intended to kill, aiming always for the head or the heart.
He's mindful of his Handler though and always his eyes return to the man, ensure he's close yet out of range of the bullets that fly from him like deadly confetti. He shoots down another, then a fourth, spins on his heel and aims his gun just as another member of the resistance takes shaking aim with his own weapon, eyes wide and desperate and full of intentional violence. The shot-- it hits home. Slams into Giovanni's shoulder with a brighthard ache that rattles through him and yet which goes perfectly ignored. He keeps moving, keeps fighting.
Fails to notice, for the moment, the lack of smoke rising from the open wound. The fact it isn't healing.]
no subject
He's mindful of his Handler though and always his eyes return to the man, ensure he's close yet out of range of the bullets that fly from him like deadly confetti. He shoots down another, then a fourth, spins on his heel and aims his gun just as another member of the resistance takes shaking aim with his own weapon, eyes wide and desperate and full of intentional violence. The shot-- it hits home. Slams into Giovanni's shoulder with a brighthard ache that rattles through him and yet which goes perfectly ignored. He keeps moving, keeps fighting.
Fails to notice, for the moment, the lack of smoke rising from the open wound. The fact it isn't healing.]