"Anybody can die, Whitey." The dog says the words with a morose cadence. "Martinez died. Barcode can die. Blondie can die." He tilts the sword forward, a warrior's salute. "Either one of us could die. I can't die, 'cause I made Yumi a promise. You can't die 'cause you ain't doin' growin' yet."[break]
His muscles work in old, practiced motions. The sword is pulled back, closer to him. From where it hangs, the blade is poised to thrust. One movement, and he's ready to jump back or lash out. Some idiots might say bringing a knife to a sword fight is foolish. They'd be dead. All the white-haired young man has to do is get past his guard and the fight's over.[break]
"So let's see whatcha got!" The dog thrusts his blade out, eager to test his compatriot's defenses.

The harsh sound of metal on metal rouses a shiver running down his spine, though the dog ignores this. This is his natural environment, the place he is meant to be. Nothing so banal as a clash of steel would throw him off his game.[break]
When the blade is pulled away, the dog raises his katana in a defensive stance, holding it out before him, steady, as if daring the taller foe to come to him. If he wishes to break past a steel arm, let him do so at his own peril.[break]
"Uh, Dak?" He poses the question as if his sparring partner is touched in the head. "Dak Barcode? War God- uh, General God, uh, God General?"

"Yeah." The black dog agrees with his white counterpart with grim severity. "Like I said. Dak Barcode. Real dangerous. Never smiles." A shiver runs down his spine at the man-shaped void, which plays right into the white haired warrior's play. Cast onto the backfoot, he steps back with every blow. His katana is cumbersome and heavy compared to the knife. It is far easier to pull back and stay mobile.[break]
He trips, somewhere along the way. Only instincts and a willingness to acquiesce saves him. The katana falls from his hand. Quick as a wolf jumping prey, his own knife comes free of a scabbard on his shoulder. He lunges forward, a forward jab that would prove deadly, were he dealing with a novice.[break]
"Point is, we can't afford to die!"

The question, simple as it is, invites intrusion. It invites a grimace upon his face. Understanding dawns anew that so many of the people they're fighting deserve victory far more than he and his. More frightening, he finds that he does not quite care. To murder children is an awful, unseemly thing. He understands that he doesn't have the will to do that, but to take from others so that Yumi and he might profit? That he can do, and lose no sleep afterwards.[break]
"I ain't ever claimed t'be a good person." He readies himself, sword in hand, for the inevitable charge. His free hand slips to a knife holstered on his chest. Two hands put to good use are better than one. "And if it's them or me, tough titties."[break]
They lunge, and he does something reckless. To fight with a knife is to accept you're going to be cut. It's about ensuring none of the hits are fatal. His lithe body rolls with the cut, allowing his body to be pierced somewhere he can afford to be hit. With his left hand, he pulls free his own tanto, aiming to bring it to his partner's throat and stop it there before blood is drawn. The right is nothing but a feint, misdirection, a large target to draw the eyes.