Observing the oncoming spikes with a curious tilt of his head, the Mercenary shuffled back quickly without turning away from the destruction, a low chuckle sprouting from the very depths of his cavernous chest. The sharpened tips seemed to garner speed with each emergence, the Son of Death's feet soundless as they tore across the cement, propelling him backwards a fraction of the spikes' haste as he prepared for an imminent eventuality.
He blinked, twice, hazarding an attempt at a laugh. A black finger poked through his torso, wagging itself at the sky as if to mock its blue components. The Mercenary rolled his eyes a little, releasing the pin on the grenade in his hand. It fell from his weathered palm, tearing through the sky at his opponent below.