The next few seconds in this fight would prove to be crucial. Of course, in any sort of fight, every second counted, but some more than others, and in the second that passed after Rakhana depressed the trigger on her wielded Shiva, several thoughts flashed through the mind of the young Russian in the blink of an eye.

First; the dodge. Super speed was no stranger to her, given her own ability to keep pace with the famed Japanese bullet trains when she was fully amped up on injections and pushing herself to her absolute extreme limit. And yet, the man before her had somehow [i]dodged her bullet[/i]. A twice-as-fast, burning round of pure plasma, and somehow - she hadn't seen quite how - he had sidestepped it like it was nothing.

The second realisation came almost in tandem with the first, and that was the collison of some sort of round with her plasma shield. Usually, being fired at was not an issue for Rakhana with her plasma shield in place, which was designed to melt and assimilate ammunition with ease. However, the round that the stranger had fired had somehow not been mitigated entirely by the aura. It was not unscathed - the aura was, after all, burning at over five thousand degrees Celsius - but she was unable to destroy it completely before the dense round smashed into her chest above her ribcage.

The pain was excruciating, and even more so when layered with the shock that currently reveberated through her body. The wound gaped open, having made a ruin of her collarbone despite its weakening. Even so, she had fought through pain  and severe wounds before - she had even fought through a shattered hand before. But there was one last thought, a split second after the other, that proved to be the last thought.

The second bullet, the trick shot, impacted directly in the centre of her chest, expanding and multiplying the ruined wreckage that was now the young Russian's torso. The density and speed of the rounds meant that each hit, unhindered, was like the impact of a cannonball. And the second hit was indeed unhindered, with the first having depleted her aura completely. Had the rounds been spaced, had they been slower, she might have had enough time to pull rapidly from her own bodily energy to sustain another critical, but not fatal blow. As it was, the woman collapsed to the ground, steel grey eyes staring blankly up into the warm summer sky - unseeing, unliving - before the her final, postmortem act. All of the built up energy in her body suddenly released, with nowhere to go but to consume the dead flesh in a sudden blaze of heat.

An automatic funeral pyre, as it were.