Saffron raised an eyebrow as she came across Spike, holding a pretty impressive gun and yelling his head off. "Yes, sugar, you're very vicious," she said, her expression a bit incredulous. "I don't think you need to shout it to the jungle."
Spike gives her a short, hard look. "Not me," he snaps.
("You think I'm Vicious? You don't know what Vicious is!")
"You shouldn't be here," he adds, and it's anyone's guess whether he's watching out for her or just clearing the field so no one gets in the way. Cynical money is on the latter, with Spike.
Oh, just what he needs. Phrases involving the words 'can't live with them' come to mind, but buried under the other matters weighing on him, relating to the sword he's standing next to.
"Because you probably don't want to get yourself killed when the bullets start flying, that's why," Spike says, a little impatiently, suddenly aiming the Jericho at movement at the trees.
That turns out to be a monkey. What the hell is Vicious playing at?
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not exactly helpless." She reached down and pulled her own gun out of its holster at her ankle. "Who're you looking to defend yourself against?"
Saffron took a look around, but didn't see any evidence of someone having been there recently or lurking in the jungle. "See, this happens sometimes," she explained. "Things just - show up here. Things that have some meaning to folks here, in some way. Just because the sword's here doesn't mean its owner is." She lowered her gun, but didn't put it away just yet.
Spike very nearly touches his right eye, the fake one.
(The eye had just been sitting there, in a surgical tray. Like it had been waiting for him, somehow, as fresh as it had been when they'd taken it out of him.)
"It doesn't mean he isn't, either," he says, voice still rough. "He doesn't just let things go."
Fair enough, she supposed. She'd heard Operatives were like that - they didn't let things go. "Have you seen any other evidence that he might be here? Besides the sword, I mean."
Spike frowns. "No," he admits, but he doesn't sound convinced this means anything. Vicious was crafty enough to be practically invisible, in a place like this.
"That's just not right," Spike says, and his voice has edged down a notch towards a more typical grumpy aggravation than outright serious anger. He's still on edge, though.
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("You think I'm Vicious? You don't know what Vicious is!")
"You shouldn't be here," he adds, and it's anyone's guess whether he's watching out for her or just clearing the field so no one gets in the way. Cynical money is on the latter, with Spike.
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"Because you probably don't want to get yourself killed when the bullets start flying, that's why," Spike says, a little impatiently, suddenly aiming the Jericho at movement at the trees.
That turns out to be a monkey. What the hell is Vicious playing at?
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"This isn't your fight," he says, instead of answering the question.
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Frankly, he's a little surprised it's not ticking.
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He wouldn't rule out the possibility it's crammed with explosives, though.
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(The eye had just been sitting there, in a surgical tray. Like it had been waiting for him, somehow, as fresh as it had been when they'd taken it out of him.)
"It doesn't mean he isn't, either," he says, voice still rough. "He doesn't just let things go."
Slights, swords, rivals. Women. Spike.
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