Kratos watched in disgust as his uncle apparently lost his mind. Crouched on the ground, looking at who knew what, Akheron was laughing. He’d been laughing. That was not the reaction that he usually got when he was hitting people. With the first, explosive edge of his anger dulled by the blows already delivered, he could take a step back. Figuratively and literally. Moving backwards away from Akheron, he watched the exchange between his brother and the god who had hit their mother.
It came to him then, less blinded by his own pain and the driving urge to return that hurt to its creator, that this was a rather stupid course of action. Hitting Pain. Attempting to punish Pain with pain. Wasn’t going to work, really. But he really didn’t have another solution, it was beyond his capabilities to think of a suitable course of action in this situation. Even if he wasn’t still pushed by a need for revenge.
Because despite the release of hitting Akheron, like steam being given escape from a pressure valve, Kratos still wanted to do some more damage. Hitting didn’t feel like enough, and he had to push down the urge to kick his uncle in the ribs while he crouched there on his hands and knees. That was not an honorable thing to do, and when this was over, Kray was still going to have to face himself in the mirror.
Both Zelos and Nike urged him not to kill Akheron. But neither moved to restrain him either, which told Kratos that they were leaving the physical portion of this encounter to him. That they trusted him to do it well. That made him proud, humbled, slightly daunted, and just a tad resentful. Just a tad. He really was the one best suited for this, he supposed, at least physically. So he’d do this for them, just as he was doing it for his mother. His shoulders straightened as he stared down at his uncle. “If I hadn’t wanted to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Turning his head, he looked at his siblings. Looked at the way their arms were around one another. The way they leaned into each other, garnering love and support from one another. And there was a deep, hard, hurtful tug that Bia wasn’t here with him. Strength hated that it had happened now, in the presence of this god who would certainly have felt the pain. He didn’t want to give Akheron that knowledge or that satisfaction. The banked embers of his rage flared and his control snapped.
Despite his own decision not to do so, Kratos now stepped forward into the perfect position to kick his uncle in the ribs. In the chest. In the stomach. Anywhere that was vulnerable and soft would do, Strength didn’t care. Though his kicks were not as erratic as his punches had been, there was still little control as once again his fury drove his actions. While punishing Pain with pain was the least viable solution for a punishment, at the moment it made Kratos feel better to hit something. Or kick something. The harder the better.