(no subject)
The past few days have been a real pain, and by the time Faye steps through the hospital's front doors, she's only sure of one thing: she's frustrated as hell.
And there's really only one thing to do about that. Vent. In the most physical and tiring way she knows how, and then -- once she feels like she's done -- maybe she'll go back to the hospital.
She starts walking in the direction of the resort, but instead of going straight back, she veers off the direct route there by about a block and a half so she can pass by the import/export store.
The storefront's glass hasn't been replaced yet, and there's a note on the door that claims they'll be reopening in a week. She thinks that's a little optimistic -- she saw the inside of the place -- but the store itself could manage. It'd be longer, she thinks, before any Dragons set up camp in the upstairs wreckage.
But that doesn't mean she's not hoping for a glimpse of some.
More than hoping. She's counting on spotting one or two around somewhere. If she doesn't, she'll just have to go treat herself to some vigorous target practice.
Eventually she turns away from the store and goes into the bar across the street for a drink, and that turns out to be the best thing she could've done.
(Trouble really does keep falling right into her lap.)
Before she's done with her scotch, two familiar guys in suits walk in, one of them with a telltale limp.
She suppresses a smile.
Twenty minutes later she's walking not-quite-aimlessly around the block, impatient.
What is with these guys? She made sure they saw her, and she's done her absolute best to appear harmless. They should think they can take her. They should want to save face after yesterday, the big babies. What's their problem?
The sound of glass crunching on the pavement makes her turn around.
"A woman like you shouldn't be wandering these streets alone."
The tone's a little bit hostile, and as her near pout stretches into a slow smile, she reaches into a pocket and pulls out a pair of brown gloves. She knew they'd recognize her.
"The only thing I'm worried about is chipping a nail, boys." With both gloves on, she looks up in time to see them exchange a puzzled look. "All right," she goes on, advancing on them, her voice almost flirtatious and definitely eager. "Let's go."
She's not blind: she sees the guy with the limp reaching for his gun. Maybe she's not the fighter Spike is, but she's picked up a few tricks. A quick well-aimed kick has her boot knocking the gun right out of his hand, and before he can do a thing about it, her gloved fist meets the side of his face.
And there's really only one thing to do about that. Vent. In the most physical and tiring way she knows how, and then -- once she feels like she's done -- maybe she'll go back to the hospital.
She starts walking in the direction of the resort, but instead of going straight back, she veers off the direct route there by about a block and a half so she can pass by the import/export store.
The storefront's glass hasn't been replaced yet, and there's a note on the door that claims they'll be reopening in a week. She thinks that's a little optimistic -- she saw the inside of the place -- but the store itself could manage. It'd be longer, she thinks, before any Dragons set up camp in the upstairs wreckage.
But that doesn't mean she's not hoping for a glimpse of some.
More than hoping. She's counting on spotting one or two around somewhere. If she doesn't, she'll just have to go treat herself to some vigorous target practice.
Eventually she turns away from the store and goes into the bar across the street for a drink, and that turns out to be the best thing she could've done.
(Trouble really does keep falling right into her lap.)
Before she's done with her scotch, two familiar guys in suits walk in, one of them with a telltale limp.
She suppresses a smile.
Twenty minutes later she's walking not-quite-aimlessly around the block, impatient.
What is with these guys? She made sure they saw her, and she's done her absolute best to appear harmless. They should think they can take her. They should want to save face after yesterday, the big babies. What's their problem?
The sound of glass crunching on the pavement makes her turn around.
"A woman like you shouldn't be wandering these streets alone."
The tone's a little bit hostile, and as her near pout stretches into a slow smile, she reaches into a pocket and pulls out a pair of brown gloves. She knew they'd recognize her.
"The only thing I'm worried about is chipping a nail, boys." With both gloves on, she looks up in time to see them exchange a puzzled look. "All right," she goes on, advancing on them, her voice almost flirtatious and definitely eager. "Let's go."
She's not blind: she sees the guy with the limp reaching for his gun. Maybe she's not the fighter Spike is, but she's picked up a few tricks. A quick well-aimed kick has her boot knocking the gun right out of his hand, and before he can do a thing about it, her gloved fist meets the side of his face.