HUNK holds on to the bucking man beneath him, digging his knee into the thigh he had hopefully cramped a few moments before.
And then, with the force of a sledgehammer, Nicholai's fist connects. He doesn't expect it in the least, hadn't caught it in his field of vision, which has been graying dangerously. He hadn't had time to brace himself and absorb the impact.
He's jostled into moving half a foot /it doesn't matter, doesn't matter, just keep going - / and black blankets his vision, even as his fingers scrabble for purchase on the sweater, fingers of one hand pinching the tube of Ginovaef's larynx.
A chill courses down his back, almost as if a breath has trickled down it.
not yet-
Why the hell are they fighting-
His hands and feet have gone numb, and his fingers slacken.
He tears away from the Russian, on his knees. He can't stay there, doesn't have the balance, and he's reduced to steadying himself with one arm on the floor.