[The Drifter releases their old as soon as the larger creature is out, staggering slightly. Their breath is a short, rasping wheeze. They are not built for that sort of straightforward, brute-forcing of a solution. Their usual strategy involves a lot more hitting things, and also a lot more time in which they could catch themself in between strikes.]
[A low cough, a hitch of their shoulders. The cloth around the front of their face darkens with a patch of neon, and they rub it away.]
no subject
[A low cough, a hitch of their shoulders. The cloth around the front of their face darkens with a patch of neon, and they rub it away.]
[The exhaustion catches up to them, even here.]
you
name?