(no subject)
Liz backs slowly through the door with her gun held in a two-handed grip, her face intent and her elbows locked straight. She's wearing black pants, a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a BPRD stab vest, heavy black combat boots coated with mud, an earpiece of the sort you might expect to see on large suit-wearing men in the general vicinity of the president of the United States, and a belt heavy with pouches, a flashlight, a holster, and various cases and charms.
"Really not the time," Liz snaps when she realizes where she is. She takes two quick steps to go out again, and before the door shuts behind her, the bar is treated to an ear-splitting shriek, loud and fierce and otherworldly enough to shatter glasses on the tables nearest to the door.
The screech ends abruptly with the slamming of the door.
Some time later, Liz is sitting at the bar. She's dressed exactly as she was before, but the Beretta is in its holster, her long hair is hopelessly wild, and her face has a few added streaks of grime. The white earpiece with its white coiled wire is hanging precariously out of one ear, and she's hunched over a beer.
"Really not the time," Liz snaps when she realizes where she is. She takes two quick steps to go out again, and before the door shuts behind her, the bar is treated to an ear-splitting shriek, loud and fierce and otherworldly enough to shatter glasses on the tables nearest to the door.
The screech ends abruptly with the slamming of the door.
Some time later, Liz is sitting at the bar. She's dressed exactly as she was before, but the Beretta is in its holster, her long hair is hopelessly wild, and her face has a few added streaks of grime. The white earpiece with its white coiled wire is hanging precariously out of one ear, and she's hunched over a beer.