Tartaglia's vision blurs, recedes and comes back again. He's losing blood somewhere, maybe internally, maybe not...either way, it's not good. The silence is eerie, like a haunted house with no creaking or wind outside to accompany it. It makes his blood chill when he realizes he doesn't know where Scaramouche is until he's on top of him, looking up to meet the face of his opponent.

There's nothing but malice in that stare, and he wonders what plans the puppet has in mind for him. Whatever it is, it's probably going to hurt, and he watches helplessly as some of his armor falls to the ground. Would he try to see how many stab wounds it would take to kill him? Or worse? But instead, Scaramouche's hands slip up under his mask and wrap around his throat, squeezing hard.

The Harbinger feels his air become completely cutoff, lungs burning desperately for air, his whole body screaming at him to breathe. Childe fights hard to lift his hands to try to remove Scaramouche's hands from his neck, but the blast had hit him so hard he can barely move them an inch. His body writhes under the pressure of not breathing, but his mind holds, defiant in his thoughts.

'No.'

But even so, even that begins to weaken, the need to breathe overriding everything else.

'Let go of me...'

His own family flashes through his mind, his goals, his dreams...