...it was a kid. Wielding some kind of wooden needle that was now in Jiraiya's' palm-- and he'd been sure that Jiraiya was dead.
His face had been a mess of meat. Trowa'd seen it before, and sometimes been the cause of it although he did not normally carry a weapon that would do anything like that. Trowa's style, in person, was far more clean.
An extraordinarily few number of people, if they survived, would have been able to breathe without wanting to scream. Even fewer would have been able to sit up or defend themselves.
And Jiraiya's face was whole.
The kid didn't look armed, so Trowa cautiously came out from behind the dubious cover of the table, holding his pistol trained on the strange boy. His feet were strange. His forehead looked like something was growing out of it.