[That’s the thing about teams. Always with the limits.
He drops the first guy and stows the pistol just in time to watch the rest of the show. For all he’s going to be cleaning that blood out of his ridiculous white suit, it doesn’t seem like Marc really needs the help. Far be it from him, though, to pass up a teeup like that when he's handed one. He’ll take it from here.
In the meantime…the threat in Marc’s little word of advice sinks in. The man’s eyes have just enough time to widen in realization before he’s hauled unceremoniously back by the collar, out into the hall, and slammed flat into the opposite wall. Lets have a conversation, huh.]
If I had to guess, I’d say your buddy over there has about twenty minutes before he bleeds out all over the floorboards.
[Give or take. Maybe longer, since the medical systems here are better than baseline. He hasn't quite put them to the test just yet. But he sounds pretty confident in his assesment.
He lets up to spin the guy and shove him back toward the stairwell. Makes a point of flipping his knife in his hand, gesturing at the prone shadow beyond them with the tip of it.]
All the same to me, of course. But I’d suggest you use that time wisely.
[First guy definitely must have been the brains or the bankroll of the outfit, because he’d been the best armed of them, and their last man standing does take one look at his options—first at Marc, who had just scared the crap out of him and dodged all his swings to boot…then at Jason, to do the math about what had happened out in the hall. He figures out it’s best to cut their losses, and scrambles forward together grab for the ringleader to haul him toward the staircase. Unconscious asshole number two inside does get abandoned in the process. No honor among dirtbags, it seems.]
no subject
He drops the first guy and stows the pistol just in time to watch the rest of the show. For all he’s going to be cleaning that blood out of his ridiculous white suit, it doesn’t seem like Marc really needs the help. Far be it from him, though, to pass up a teeup like that when he's handed one. He’ll take it from here.
In the meantime…the threat in Marc’s little word of advice sinks in. The man’s eyes have just enough time to widen in realization before he’s hauled unceremoniously back by the collar, out into the hall, and slammed flat into the opposite wall. Lets have a conversation, huh.]
If I had to guess, I’d say your buddy over there has about twenty minutes before he bleeds out all over the floorboards.
[Give or take. Maybe longer, since the medical systems here are better than baseline. He hasn't quite put them to the test just yet. But he sounds pretty confident in his assesment.
He lets up to spin the guy and shove him back toward the stairwell. Makes a point of flipping his knife in his hand, gesturing at the prone shadow beyond them with the tip of it.]
All the same to me, of course. But I’d suggest you use that time wisely.
[First guy definitely must have been the brains or the bankroll of the outfit, because he’d been the best armed of them, and their last man standing does take one look at his options—first at Marc, who had just scared the crap out of him and dodged all his swings to boot…then at Jason, to do the math about what had happened out in the hall. He figures out it’s best to cut their losses, and scrambles forward together grab for the ringleader to haul him toward the staircase. Unconscious asshole number two inside does get abandoned in the process. No honor among dirtbags, it seems.]