Leon doesn't allow Krauser to get that close without it costing him, his lips peel back from his grit teeth as his arm bolts forward in a stab at the air, just shy of a glancing blow yet close enough to feel the commitment behind the movement. They're both getting sloppy, but Leon's head is starting to swim with two opposing forces making very different demands with equally dire warnings if he doesn't comply. And Krauser, Krauser's as unhinged as he remembers—
Except he's never, in all the years they've known each other, ever said anything like this to him. Not even in the lucidity of his farewell came anywhere close, but it was the last time he heard him call him by name and not Rookie or some other diminutive. Its effect is as shocking as a slap; Leon's guard slips, Krauser takes him out in a sweep he's just too slow to evade, and his head bounces off the ground with his breath gusting out of him.
He expects what might be coming — that he'll feel the unyielding steel of his grip on his hips dragging the ground up his back, he'll be on him in seconds like a rabid dog, and if he manages to get his knife it'll be over — so Leon is already crossing a knee up and over, preparing to kick out and up with a twist of his body for a little extra power, readies himself to kick a second time with the other leg if the first connects, reversing his grip on the knife. Instead—
Like some wire got crossed, a signal disrupted between his brain and his body, but Leon instead hooks a leg around him the second he gets close, wraps the other high on his hip and savagely twists with the whole of his body, intending to catch and roll over his attacker. Stranger than the disobedience is the vicious, visceral thrill he gets, like this was exactly the right move.
"Laying it on a little thick," he pants, "It's too late for compliments, Krauser. It's over!"
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Except he's never, in all the years they've known each other, ever said anything like this to him. Not even in the lucidity of his farewell came anywhere close, but it was the last time he heard him call him by name and not Rookie or some other diminutive. Its effect is as shocking as a slap; Leon's guard slips, Krauser takes him out in a sweep he's just too slow to evade, and his head bounces off the ground with his breath gusting out of him.
He expects what might be coming — that he'll feel the unyielding steel of his grip on his hips dragging the ground up his back, he'll be on him in seconds like a rabid dog, and if he manages to get his knife it'll be over — so Leon is already crossing a knee up and over, preparing to kick out and up with a twist of his body for a little extra power, readies himself to kick a second time with the other leg if the first connects, reversing his grip on the knife. Instead—
Like some wire got crossed, a signal disrupted between his brain and his body, but Leon instead hooks a leg around him the second he gets close, wraps the other high on his hip and savagely twists with the whole of his body, intending to catch and roll over his attacker. Stranger than the disobedience is the vicious, visceral thrill he gets, like this was exactly the right move.
"Laying it on a little thick," he pants, "It's too late for compliments, Krauser. It's over!"