| Line 1: | Line 1: | ||
| − | ''' | + | '''What Goes Around''' |
| − | + | The Vanguard soldiers start a route around the bar, weaving from table to table, eyeing the occupants as they go. “Sure somebody here saw something,” the taller one says. They stop at Falkenberg’s table. The shorter one points his gun at the captain. “Maybe it was you?” he asks Falkenberg. | |
| − | + | In her seat, Melania has slid the battle rifle to sit more comfortably into her lap than on her back. And she’s more than happy to sit in her former Vanguard combat uniform, even with the patches torn off and holding Vanguard weapons. Eyeballing the one pointing the gun at Falk, she subtly thumbs the safety on her rifle. “Kid, your military career is going to be ridiculously short if you don’t get that gun out of my Captain’s face. Suggest you go find yourself a TDY within your pay grade before coming here with a target painted on you.” That’s her only warning. Other than that, she takes a moment to gauge the distance and location between the two. | |
| − | + | Kaxina possesses enough wherewithal to pay the soldiers a measured look when they pass her seat, though the crease in her forehead has not yet faded. When they have passed without incident, her manicured fingers rise to rub wearily at it, exasperation with the situation and her acquaintance’s reaction worn plainly on her face. | |
| − | + | Falkenberg keeps his hands beneath the table. He eyes the Vanguard officer with the gun in his face. He looks not at the gun, but at the man’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Maybe it was,” he says calmly. “And then again maybe not. But I’m afraid you fine gentlemen may be a little unclear about just where you are and just what you’re doing. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll buy you both a drink. You can put your gun away, and my associates…” emphasizing the plural, “including the one you see next to me here, will put theirs away, and we can get to the bottom of what’s got you so upset.” | |
| − | [[ | + | [[What Goes Around|Read the whole log...]] |
Revision as of 10:10, 18 February 2012
What Goes Around
The Vanguard soldiers start a route around the bar, weaving from table to table, eyeing the occupants as they go. “Sure somebody here saw something,” the taller one says. They stop at Falkenberg’s table. The shorter one points his gun at the captain. “Maybe it was you?” he asks Falkenberg.
In her seat, Melania has slid the battle rifle to sit more comfortably into her lap than on her back. And she’s more than happy to sit in her former Vanguard combat uniform, even with the patches torn off and holding Vanguard weapons. Eyeballing the one pointing the gun at Falk, she subtly thumbs the safety on her rifle. “Kid, your military career is going to be ridiculously short if you don’t get that gun out of my Captain’s face. Suggest you go find yourself a TDY within your pay grade before coming here with a target painted on you.” That’s her only warning. Other than that, she takes a moment to gauge the distance and location between the two.
Kaxina possesses enough wherewithal to pay the soldiers a measured look when they pass her seat, though the crease in her forehead has not yet faded. When they have passed without incident, her manicured fingers rise to rub wearily at it, exasperation with the situation and her acquaintance’s reaction worn plainly on her face.
Falkenberg keeps his hands beneath the table. He eyes the Vanguard officer with the gun in his face. He looks not at the gun, but at the man’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Maybe it was,” he says calmly. “And then again maybe not. But I’m afraid you fine gentlemen may be a little unclear about just where you are and just what you’re doing. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll buy you both a drink. You can put your gun away, and my associates…” emphasizing the plural, “including the one you see next to me here, will put theirs away, and we can get to the bottom of what’s got you so upset.”