The "fight," if you could even call it that, was over in an instant. Not surprising; the man was a rank amateur. Turning the blade over in his hand, Michael pulled a white cloth from his sleeve to wipe the blood off before putting it away. It was at that moment the blonde girl in drill armor came to complement him.
Looking from the girl to the thug, the mercenary hesitated to tell her the truth. Closing his eyes, he sighed before turning back to the girl. "It won't do no good for him now," he said. Gestruring down at the man, he continued, "You don't bleed like that from a minor wound." The pool was growing faster now; he must have nicked the man's aorta. Not long now...
Returning his attention to his charge, Michael checked her for injuries. A sleeve had been torn from her pale green dress, she had lost a shoe somewhere, her cheek was turning blue and she was visibly shaken. It would be hard to explain things to her parents. Still, knowing the answer he would get, he asked, "How are you holding up, Miss Kirchies?"
Tiffany was nearly crying, clutching a small, velvet bag close to her chest. "I...I-" She wispered in a quivering voice. Suddenly, she fell against Michael's chest, openly weeping into his light armor. For his part, the bodyguard wrapped his arms around her, silently comforting her. He was still visibly nervous: this was clearly not his forte.
