[/html]He moved not without reason, but without thought; these were the killer instincts that had summarized Maluki, the raw movements that had embodied the monster who had killed and raped more than Lucifer would ever know. Their combat was no more than criminal versus criminal, sinner against sinner; the cyclops did not believe in a good-always-prevails sentimentality, nor did he personify himself with that title. He was no good creature, no man of innocence: Deep down, Jefferson was no stronger, no better a creature than Lucifer himself. The Patriarch moved and struck for justice and for himself, lunging into a battle of clear disadvantages: The black male had over a year's youth on the cyclops, not to mention full use of all his limbs and, as the light caught the blade, the scarred man realized a weapon as well.
His assault at the man's throat unsurprisingly failed, but in his one-armed clutch Jefferson gripped Lucifer's arm; eye focused on the blade, the dark man drove a kick deep into the Patriarch's stomach, bursting the air from lungs and clamped teeth alike. Though he huffed loudly, he would not be daunted: Throwing the clutched hand to the side with a strength able to throw off his opponent's balance, Jefferson reached his single arm next for the weapon diving for his flesh. In one quick movement, the Patriarch seized the dark man's wrist and twisted, turning the blade upright towards the sky and warping Lucifer's arm uncomfortably backwards. A snarl rising from his throat, the scarred man kicked up a foot at the dagger's heel — one swift connect would send the dagger flying and out of the way.
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