01-24-2020, 09:31 PM
[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]"...Yeah, alright." Feza wasn't exactly oozing joy this time around. She seemed to be laying it on thick, really, pushing the agenda that everything was a-okay and she totally wasn't stressing about something under the surface. He wants to press further, but he knows better than to make a scene; it'll either end in tears or anger, and he isn't ready to handle that kind of outburst. He'd already figured out that not many people were enjoying his assignments. "Let me know if you need any - oh." The words die in his throat along with his breath.
This is the part where he gets assassinated, isn't it?
In front of a child and all his friends, too. How tragic. He wasn't sure why he expected more generosity, or at the very least, a sliver of nuance - Ocelot probably didn't care if his slit throat spattered all over those sorry faces, anyway. The blood and glitter would make for an artful display.
He considers his options, a split-second maneuver: run like a fool and die anyway, or put up a fight while he goes out. If this was a planned attack, Ocelot's already won - even in Kazuhira's own domain, he has the weapons, the skill, the element of surprise. All he needed to do was act, and he would have his prize. At least he would die knowing that Revolver took the coward's route, picking off his enemies one by one without a blaze of glory, without the benefit of a fair fight. (Then again, Miller would've done the same.)
But he isn't dead faster than he can think of all the ways he'll paint the walls, which comes as a genuine surprise. In fact, nothing happens, which might be worse than receiving an impromptu tracheotomy. Rather than bull-rushing him, Revolver is standing dead still, expressing just enough visible shock to leave Kazuhira delighted to have caught him off his guard. They've played a similar game before, in different circumstances, but at the time they were fighting for the same side. He'd relish watching the Typhoon's infiltrator struggle to avoid him for the evening. He postures himself, just a little bit. Puffs out his chest a little, tucks down his chin. Smiles, like the bastard he is.
It's only for the better that another member of the Typhoon is rushing up to him, squeaking out an over-excited greeting. Let Revolver see how well he's done for himself - let him be jealous that Kaz was still the socialite, the better man."Why, hello there, Roan," he beams down at the kitten, stooping down just enough to make eye contact. All the while he keeps one ear swiveled on the other's conversation, watching him just as carefully smother his unease and linger around the door. His visible attention, though, remains on Roan. "You can call me Miller. This is a nice party, isn't it? Feza, over there - she does a lot of work to pull these off." It wasn't anything close to what he'd planned, but he figured her activities were great for someone who appeared no older than a kit.
This is the part where he gets assassinated, isn't it?
In front of a child and all his friends, too. How tragic. He wasn't sure why he expected more generosity, or at the very least, a sliver of nuance - Ocelot probably didn't care if his slit throat spattered all over those sorry faces, anyway. The blood and glitter would make for an artful display.
He considers his options, a split-second maneuver: run like a fool and die anyway, or put up a fight while he goes out. If this was a planned attack, Ocelot's already won - even in Kazuhira's own domain, he has the weapons, the skill, the element of surprise. All he needed to do was act, and he would have his prize. At least he would die knowing that Revolver took the coward's route, picking off his enemies one by one without a blaze of glory, without the benefit of a fair fight. (Then again, Miller would've done the same.)
But he isn't dead faster than he can think of all the ways he'll paint the walls, which comes as a genuine surprise. In fact, nothing happens, which might be worse than receiving an impromptu tracheotomy. Rather than bull-rushing him, Revolver is standing dead still, expressing just enough visible shock to leave Kazuhira delighted to have caught him off his guard. They've played a similar game before, in different circumstances, but at the time they were fighting for the same side. He'd relish watching the Typhoon's infiltrator struggle to avoid him for the evening. He postures himself, just a little bit. Puffs out his chest a little, tucks down his chin. Smiles, like the bastard he is.
It's only for the better that another member of the Typhoon is rushing up to him, squeaking out an over-excited greeting. Let Revolver see how well he's done for himself - let him be jealous that Kaz was still the socialite, the better man."Why, hello there, Roan," he beams down at the kitten, stooping down just enough to make eye contact. All the while he keeps one ear swiveled on the other's conversation, watching him just as carefully smother his unease and linger around the door. His visible attention, though, remains on Roan. "You can call me Miller. This is a nice party, isn't it? Feza, over there - she does a lot of work to pull these off." It wasn't anything close to what he'd planned, but he figured her activities were great for someone who appeared no older than a kit.
[align=center][div style="font-size:12pt;font-family:verdana;color:#4c5461;letter-spacing:-2pt;"][i][b]—-— I GET [color=#4c5461]MEAN WHEN I'M
NERVOUS, LIKE A BAD DOG
NERVOUS, LIKE A BAD DOG