( The tooth pick, he might argue, is playing second fiddle to the god damn meat cleaver right now — and both of those are taking a back seat to her bare fist punching clean through an aluminum serving tray. But sure, yeah, let's focus on any one of the three right now and call it bad manners.
Tensions do not ratchet down as she takes her time to grow her hand back. Every member of the crowd has cleared out, but no police sirens fill the air, no security guards storm the premises. This place is different, and a nearly-lethal altercation at the store must be just close enough for normal that until a body actually hits the ground, all things get a pass. At least for a few minutes, until the whole scene becomes too inconvenient for pedestrians that really need to get their grocery shopping done, anyway.
She searches out her phone, his gun doesn't leave its carefully trained trajectory directly at her face, but his eyes do. Every few seconds they dart around, searching out an answer in the environment. Salt, lighter fluid, anything flammable, something he can use, anything he can use here — only willing to stray for fleeting seconds before they flit back to her, waiting for her to make a move so he can react accordingly.
(And not wasting his bullets putting more into her, because he only came with a single mag full of them — and he's already spent one, which accomplished about as much as a Sock'em Bopper would have.)
Catching the phone is an instinct; looking down at it is another thing entirely. He almost refuses to, just in case it's a ploy. A trick, to make him take his eyes off of her. But she stands still, persistent, and eventually he can't help but glance down.
To his own face.
His one-handed grip on the gun wavers, the barrel dipping slightly as his expression contorts into something incredulous, bewildered.
And then the phone dies almost instantly, and his eyes are back on her, hard, gun aimed steady again. He grips the phone in his right hand, shakes it at her accusingly. )
What is this? How- was that a shifter? Friend of yours running around stealing people's faces? Why mine?
no subject
Tensions do not ratchet down as she takes her time to grow her hand back. Every member of the crowd has cleared out, but no police sirens fill the air, no security guards storm the premises. This place is different, and a nearly-lethal altercation at the store must be just close enough for normal that until a body actually hits the ground, all things get a pass. At least for a few minutes, until the whole scene becomes too inconvenient for pedestrians that really need to get their grocery shopping done, anyway.
She searches out her phone, his gun doesn't leave its carefully trained trajectory directly at her face, but his eyes do. Every few seconds they dart around, searching out an answer in the environment. Salt, lighter fluid, anything flammable, something he can use, anything he can use here — only willing to stray for fleeting seconds before they flit back to her, waiting for her to make a move so he can react accordingly.
(And not wasting his bullets putting more into her, because he only came with a single mag full of them — and he's already spent one, which accomplished about as much as a Sock'em Bopper would have.)
Catching the phone is an instinct; looking down at it is another thing entirely. He almost refuses to, just in case it's a ploy. A trick, to make him take his eyes off of her. But she stands still, persistent, and eventually he can't help but glance down.
To his own face.
His one-handed grip on the gun wavers, the barrel dipping slightly as his expression contorts into something incredulous, bewildered.
And then the phone dies almost instantly, and his eyes are back on her, hard, gun aimed steady again. He grips the phone in his right hand, shakes it at her accusingly. )
What is this? How- was that a shifter? Friend of yours running around stealing people's faces? Why mine?