But it wasn’t that they’ve run into enough locals to fill his yearly quota of bumping into scary bastards and was steadily ruining his prospects for a prolonged life, that had Dean huff and puff.
“What took a while?” Was Dean’s befuddled response to a black armored shape diving off into the Cloud. He was still shaking off the green puss left behind by his latest encounter with death. He decided that he was wrong and that it wasn’t yearly but a decade worth of near death encounters that he had experienced since teaming up with her. Granted, it was forced on the part of the old boss man, but her presence didn’t help the situation any.
She attracted those things like manure did flies. Warmongering. That’s what it was.
There was a familiar click and rustling of old, weathered down leather accompanied by her voice, “Finding trinkets that should keep us on our feet for a while longer.”
Only then did Dean notice that her hands were elbow-deep in one of his old suitcases, lying around at key points he had precisely calculated in a case of an emergency, like an overeager child who couldn’t resist getting her fingers sticky. He felt a fume, a snap of something – might have been his nerves, a feeling of entitlement being stomped on, and not the first time now, and with the cigarette tossed in the air he growled out a frustrated hiss, moving quickly. One had to point out that here ‘quickly’ could be used to describe that ungodly speed ghouls tended to exhibit at the worst possible times – and slammed the suitcase lid on her fingers.
“Do you feel any particular need to put your mitts on all of my things?” He rasped forcefully, leaning over her. Dean wasn’t particularly tall, nor was the Courier short, but the tension made it feel as if he were towering over her.
He really shouldn’t have been surprised when a tip of a gun appeared right under his skinless chin – cold, round metal shape pushing intrusively between the hardened and exposed muscles; and a hand, and again his mind insufferably took the wheel and immediately noticed of the smaller size and surprisingly greater strength of her grip than he had previously anticipated, curled into his dusty jacket, but none of those strange comparisons had any place in his head now! – so close, possibly loaded and thus very threatening. Where she pulled it from, he didn’t even dare imagine; largely because the way things were going his imagination would come up with something rotten and not suitable for this situation.
“Do you have a problem with me putting my mitts on your things?” She asked after a pause in that even, and if his ears weren’t playing tricks on him, perhaps softer tone.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t-…
“I most certainly do! Do you think I enjoy having my personal space constantly trampled on?!” He snarled. No, it was a trick of the ear. It couldn’t be anything else. And if it wasn’t, then she was up to something.
Her hands, warm even under the glove, immediately came off of the torn revers of his suit, and that mysterious gun disappeared once more.
“Have it your way,” she said holding up a stimpack in one hand with a light twirl of her wrist and rolled up the torn side of her suit up, revealing the stitched gash. Guilty made a mental note to patch it up once she got the chance to do it. Or, if not, replace it fully. Because of the implant she had the prudence enough to install before heading to this ‘special kind of hell’ it was healing, but slowly and no thanks to the toxins in the Cloud. Guilty could positively feel the mist leech her life. “I’ll just barrow one thing then… if you agree?”
Dean turned away, eyes glancing briefly over the exposed skin still in several shades from formed bruises, muttering something about women being impossible, about her being impossible. Behind him he heard the familiar sound of pressure released when stimpack was used and had a miniscule, barely worth of mentioning, twitch. She did still sport a large wound, all stitched up by his not so expertly hand, and had used up all of her medical supplies to keep it from tearing open while on the move.
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 7b
“What took a while?” Was Dean’s befuddled response to a black armored shape diving off into the Cloud. He was still shaking off the green puss left behind by his latest encounter with death. He decided that he was wrong and that it wasn’t yearly but a decade worth of near death encounters that he had experienced since teaming up with her. Granted, it was forced on the part of the old boss man, but her presence didn’t help the situation any.
She attracted those things like manure did flies. Warmongering. That’s what it was.
There was a familiar click and rustling of old, weathered down leather accompanied by her voice, “Finding trinkets that should keep us on our feet for a while longer.”
Only then did Dean notice that her hands were elbow-deep in one of his old suitcases, lying around at key points he had precisely calculated in a case of an emergency, like an overeager child who couldn’t resist getting her fingers sticky. He felt a fume, a snap of something – might have been his nerves, a feeling of entitlement being stomped on, and not the first time now, and with the cigarette tossed in the air he growled out a frustrated hiss, moving quickly. One had to point out that here ‘quickly’ could be used to describe that ungodly speed ghouls tended to exhibit at the worst possible times – and slammed the suitcase lid on her fingers.
“Do you feel any particular need to put your mitts on all of my things?” He rasped forcefully, leaning over her. Dean wasn’t particularly tall, nor was the Courier short, but the tension made it feel as if he were towering over her.
He really shouldn’t have been surprised when a tip of a gun appeared right under his skinless chin – cold, round metal shape pushing intrusively between the hardened and exposed muscles; and a hand, and again his mind insufferably took the wheel and immediately noticed of the smaller size and surprisingly greater strength of her grip than he had previously anticipated, curled into his dusty jacket, but none of those strange comparisons had any place in his head now! – so close, possibly loaded and thus very threatening. Where she pulled it from, he didn’t even dare imagine; largely because the way things were going his imagination would come up with something rotten and not suitable for this situation.
“Do you have a problem with me putting my mitts on your things?” She asked after a pause in that even, and if his ears weren’t playing tricks on him, perhaps softer tone.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t-…
“I most certainly do! Do you think I enjoy having my personal space constantly trampled on?!” He snarled. No, it was a trick of the ear. It couldn’t be anything else. And if it wasn’t, then she was up to something.
Her hands, warm even under the glove, immediately came off of the torn revers of his suit, and that mysterious gun disappeared once more.
“Have it your way,” she said holding up a stimpack in one hand with a light twirl of her wrist and rolled up the torn side of her suit up, revealing the stitched gash. Guilty made a mental note to patch it up once she got the chance to do it. Or, if not, replace it fully. Because of the implant she had the prudence enough to install before heading to this ‘special kind of hell’ it was healing, but slowly and no thanks to the toxins in the Cloud. Guilty could positively feel the mist leech her life. “I’ll just barrow one thing then… if you agree?”
Dean turned away, eyes glancing briefly over the exposed skin still in several shades from formed bruises, muttering something about women being impossible, about her being impossible. Behind him he heard the familiar sound of pressure released when stimpack was used and had a miniscule, barely worth of mentioning, twitch. She did still sport a large wound, all stitched up by his not so expertly hand, and had used up all of her medical supplies to keep it from tearing open while on the move.