[ He simply stares at her, eyes huge and blank, like she's speaking gibberish, like she's not holding a large and extremely impressive gun on him, and for a long moment they're caught like that: him, frozen like a panicked rabbit; her, wondering what the hell she'll do if it turns out he's faking, if he decides to swing that shotgun over his shoulder and take aim right back at her. The hem of his long coat flaps in the wind, smacking at his legs, and the grass rustles around them, a wild and lonesome sound. The realization that they're alone out here, the only two figures standing in this golden grassland, locked in a bewildering detente, is sudden and acute. Her heart hammers in her ears; her breath comes steady but shallow.
Impossible to say what breaks, exactly, but something does, and the man in front of her shifts abruptly into panicked, awkward motion. It's her turn to be startled, her heart lurching in her chest, a sick cold rill of adrenaline sluicing through her veins as he attempts to remove the shotgun from his shoulder. Tension flickers in the muscles of her throat, but Peacemaker never wavers, and her finger doesn't curl around the trigger. But in the end he doesn't even try to keep the gun; he finally sets it down, slow and careful, and lifts his hands as he straightens. She can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
Madam. Another shock. Her eyebrows push high at the accent that comes rolling out of his mouth, along with a surprisingly rich voice, clear despite his obvious alarm and nerves. What the hell is an Englishman — an Englishman clinging desperately to manners, no less — doing in the middle of the prairie in the Ghost River Triangle? I mean no threat, he tells her, but how can she believe him? How can she believe anyone who might tell her that? Her existence is all threat, these days. No one is safe. No one can be. His hands might shake, his face might be pale and strained, but it could all be an act. This could all go south in the blink of an eye.
She takes a breath, furrows her brows at him in her best approximation of Dolls' signature frown, then tips her chin up in a sharp gesture. ]
Step back. Away from the gun.
[ I believe I might be lost, he'd said, and she's inclined to believe it, because one single fact has made itself clear amid this storm of confusion that's swirling around them both. Only one, but it's a big one: he's no revenant. No fiery glyphs trace their way up Peacemaker's barrel; none cut themselves, burning, into his temple and cheek. Whatever else he might be, he's human.
Which, ironically enough, maybe makes this more complicated. ]
What are you, some kind of re-enactor? What're you doing out here alone?
[ Questions clamor in her mind, each fighting for dominance. If he's one of those weirdo re-enactors, shouldn't he be with a bunch of others? Shouldn't he be wearing a recognizable uniform? How did he get out here? Was he heading toward the homestead?
no subject
Impossible to say what breaks, exactly, but something does, and the man in front of her shifts abruptly into panicked, awkward motion. It's her turn to be startled, her heart lurching in her chest, a sick cold rill of adrenaline sluicing through her veins as he attempts to remove the shotgun from his shoulder. Tension flickers in the muscles of her throat, but Peacemaker never wavers, and her finger doesn't curl around the trigger. But in the end he doesn't even try to keep the gun; he finally sets it down, slow and careful, and lifts his hands as he straightens. She can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
Madam. Another shock. Her eyebrows push high at the accent that comes rolling out of his mouth, along with a surprisingly rich voice, clear despite his obvious alarm and nerves. What the hell is an Englishman — an Englishman clinging desperately to manners, no less — doing in the middle of the prairie in the Ghost River Triangle? I mean no threat, he tells her, but how can she believe him? How can she believe anyone who might tell her that? Her existence is all threat, these days. No one is safe. No one can be. His hands might shake, his face might be pale and strained, but it could all be an act. This could all go south in the blink of an eye.
She takes a breath, furrows her brows at him in her best approximation of Dolls' signature frown, then tips her chin up in a sharp gesture. ]
Step back. Away from the gun.
[ I believe I might be lost, he'd said, and she's inclined to believe it, because one single fact has made itself clear amid this storm of confusion that's swirling around them both. Only one, but it's a big one: he's no revenant. No fiery glyphs trace their way up Peacemaker's barrel; none cut themselves, burning, into his temple and cheek. Whatever else he might be, he's human.
Which, ironically enough, maybe makes this more complicated. ]
What are you, some kind of re-enactor? What're you doing out here alone?
[ Questions clamor in her mind, each fighting for dominance. If he's one of those weirdo re-enactors, shouldn't he be with a bunch of others? Shouldn't he be wearing a recognizable uniform? How did he get out here? Was he heading toward the homestead?
But, in the end, only one really matters. ]
Who are you?