(Untitled)

[that_damn_paki]

Maya's... somewhat relieved, actually. She's survived her first few days as the Hotel's Orientation Officer, and not made a complete arse of herself too many times. It'd be nicer, you know, if she wasn't here any more, but that doesn't seem to be in the realm of possibility

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[lionofmanc]

Unfortunately, what she gets is Gene Hunt, recently escaped from a certain angel, hungry as hell, and in the shape of a chipmunk.

He's been going about in chipmunk form to avoid anyone who wants to talk to him, and this avoids pesky things like ripping people's throats out because he's testy.

Just there for supper, him.

...Until he spots Maya. And before he can even think about it, he's climbed her table and launched himself at her newspaper, squeaking in an absolute fury. He is RAR FIERCE. At least, as fierce as a chipmunk can be, anyway.

[that_damn_paki]

Maya's never had a real fear of rodents. Spiders, maybe, but rodents? Sure, they started the Bubonic Plague, but that's about all she can blame them for, and that wasn't even in her century. So she doesn't scream.

But the angry, chittering launching itself at her face does garner a "Gah!" and a scooted-back chair, as she slaps down the newspaper. She grabs the nearest bowl--single-shot creamer tubs, apparently--and empties it, aiming to slap it over the thing. Then possibly slip it onto a tray and take it outside.

That's as far as she's thought as she tries to catch it. It's what you do with animals that get inside, isn't it?

[lionofmanc]

So that so-superior Paki slag's going to try and catch him? Catch him? The Gene Genie?

Oh no she doesn't.

So he does the only logical thing... Waits until she tries to slap the bowl over him, and launches herself at her shirt.

And then he climbs. Quite quickly.

Have an ENRAGED CHIPMUNK TO THE FACE, Maya.

[that_damn_paki]

At that, Maya may shriek. Just a little. But honestly, when something with sharp little claws and rodent teeth is within blinding distance of your eyes, you're going to make some undignified noises and try to shake them off.

And then something odd happens. The short shriek turns into a short bark, as her throat rearranges itself. And then, without warning, her clothes aren't fitting right--her bra snaps snap, and her shirt stretches, and her trousers are apparently much too long and not nearly wide enough, and then the hands she's swiping at her face with aren't hands at all but much heavier, much hairier, and with very large sickle-shaped claws.

The bark turns into a distressed Mrroooooouun? as she topples out of the chair, flailing as well as a Malayan sun bear can flail.