"Good thinking, Bruce I'll take this third. You take yours. Scythe, try not to die in the first minute."
"I'll try," the young man snapped back, and swung.
With that, the real fight began.
The young man's scythe, now that Bruce could see it used properly, was vicious in close quarters.
He swung it in wide horizontal arcs, the curved blade cutting through hollow after hollow, and the reach of the weapon kept the dead things from ever getting their hands on him.
He was not skilled, exactly, his technique was raw, born of pure desperate practice, but he was strong and fast and absolutely committed, and the scythe carved a clear space around his point of the triangle. Hollows fell apart in halves wherever the blade passed.
Bruce fought his own third with the ink.
And he discovered, fighting properly for the first time, just how versatile his talent could be.
When hollows came at range, he wrote.
