There's a quiet pause, broken by Hyperion's exhales, mouth dropped and body half-collapsed on the ground, struggling to stay off it. The spear was dropped somewhere in the fight, but he has time to reach for it now, get back on his feet and pick it up to finish what's been started.

Minutes pass. The blood pouring from Punchy's face means very little in the pause to observe its color and flow, before he readies the weapon in both hands. His foot nudges Punchy's shoulder, rolling him on his back, chest exposed.

At long last. The boy will not speak to him again.

The spear strikes down, still bloody and infected from the muttations he killed. Punchy deserves no better.