[She's the one that feels like a strung out dog, now, tense and retrying as hard as possible to put out the vibe that she will rip this man limb from limb if he so much as steps towards her. He doesn't, but what he does do isn't making any of the internal screaming and cars crashing quiet down. Shit's on fire now. Absolute pandemonium. Can't fathom what the fuck is happening through the smoke, flames, and anguish. What is he doing? Why is this his response? Is his arm going to turn into a gun?
Oh. Oh... It may as well have. It's even more deadly, actually -- total kill rate. Until now, she supposes grimly.
...She doesn't have anything like that to show off, though some sick part of her wishes that she did. At least she'd have an answer, then. Someone who understood her, too. Instead, she's standing here silently like an asshole that just got caught swapping out a bunch of paternity test results or something insane like that. He's the real deal... She doesn't have to get a closer look or touch the necrotic wound to be sure, regardless of yet another one of her fucked up desires. It looked horrific. Painful. Ryder's seen the consequences of it before, and she's sure plenty undead in the city have similar parts of themselves that have gone missing to become a story instead.]
You're...
[...better than a survivor? Right? But he still perceived her, which is almost excruciating. What's up with that? Shouldn't he ignore her like everyone else? Hey, why is his brain not a puddle of sludge that got melted from fever? Things that would be rude to ask, not that she's having an easy time getting control over her words right now anyway.]
...not -- going to kill me.
[She needed a fact to get her thoughts aligned again. It only helps so much -- not even getting into how it was more a hope than a fact. If he didn't want to kill her before, he might now. Pulling the next mumble out is like pulling teeth, it's roots stuck deep so if nothing else, you'd get regret out of the exchange.]
...Didn't s-say.
[She never really said that. He took his own meaning from her words... It just happened to be the same exact bait she'd hooked.]
no subject
Oh. Oh... It may as well have. It's even more deadly, actually -- total kill rate. Until now, she supposes grimly.
...She doesn't have anything like that to show off, though some sick part of her wishes that she did. At least she'd have an answer, then. Someone who understood her, too. Instead, she's standing here silently like an asshole that just got caught swapping out a bunch of paternity test results or something insane like that. He's the real deal... She doesn't have to get a closer look or touch the necrotic wound to be sure, regardless of yet another one of her fucked up desires. It looked horrific. Painful. Ryder's seen the consequences of it before, and she's sure plenty undead in the city have similar parts of themselves that have gone missing to become a story instead.]
You're...
[...better than a survivor? Right? But he still perceived her, which is almost excruciating. What's up with that? Shouldn't he ignore her like everyone else? Hey, why is his brain not a puddle of sludge that got melted from fever? Things that would be rude to ask, not that she's having an easy time getting control over her words right now anyway.]
...not -- going to kill me.
[She needed a fact to get her thoughts aligned again. It only helps so much -- not even getting into how it was more a hope than a fact. If he didn't want to kill her before, he might now. Pulling the next mumble out is like pulling teeth, it's roots stuck deep so if nothing else, you'd get regret out of the exchange.]
...Didn't s-say.
[She never really said that. He took his own meaning from her words... It just happened to be the same exact bait she'd hooked.]