With hindsight, maybe leaving the Cooper farm to do some solo scouting for 'sabre parts wasn't such a bright idea. Clearly Steve had spent too long in the safety of protected Kansas, with monsters and so forth little more than stories on residents' lips.
Well. This town is certainly doing its utmost to make up for that. At present, with horrible... raw, skinned dog... things. Fairly battered and bruised himself, one arm stinging and burning from a set of claws he didn't quite manage to deflect, his jetpack a dead weight hanging from his shoulders (and don't even get him started on the noises the radio's been making), and sure he's never been this scared in his life-- a hospital is about the most welcome sight to meet his eyes for hours.
Steve goes through the doors at a stumbling run, and slams all his weight against them to close them, searching for a lock or a bar or something. Those creatures.
In that case, he has a chance to raggedly breathe, and to realise just how much the deep scratches hurt ow. Can demonic skinless dogs have demonic skinless rabies?
Then there's the loud report of gunshots, from somewhere deep inside the building. There is no shame in admitting that Stephen shrieks at that; he's overdue a good shriek, probably, having been rather too busy running for his life to indulge in one yet.
He doesn't run back outside, because a second later he remembers the dogs, but he does very suddenly have his back to the door, scanning the foyer fearfully.
"oh my god," breathes Steve. Because it has to be said.
Gunshots, though-- they must mean people. And people, any people, are preferable to what's outside, right? They might even know a way out of the town.
His treacherous brain kicks in with unwelcome logic: if they know the way out, why are they still here? If they were shooting a person, how do you know they won't shoot you? If they were shooting a monster, how do you know they won?
Cleverness can be horrible.
He still steels himself and walks cautiously towards the sound. Jedi(-to-be) have to master their fear, right? He can do that, right?
(There are a lot of variables, he reflects, in his trains of logic. God.)
And behind it, a middle-aged man in a chair, pistol pointed down at the corpse of one of the flying monsters. His head tilts smoothly up, and he raises the pistol, firing a shot in Steve's direction.
This, concurrently with stumbling-jerking back from the doorway, as if he could dodge a bullet even without the countless kilos of dead metal dragging at his torso.
It takes him a few terrified seconds to fully realise that he is not, in fact, dying of a bullet wound. The chief factor in cluing him in to this is the fact that he is running away.
As far as he can manage a run at this point, which is not really.
As long as he's not actually being attacked, Steve gives up his rather futile attempt at running away, and leans heavily against the wall. He's red and shiny in the face; it's fairly obvious that this much exertion in one day is a strange and foreign experience for him.
Between breaths: "What the-- hell was that?!"
Okay, so on the one hand, the guy has a right to be paranoid.
On the other, he is frightened and he just got shot at.
There's also a girl, who appears to have come from out of almost nowhere. She's got blonde hair all over, a deep gash on one arm, and a tank top that looks like it's missing about three inches over her stomach.
Also. She's totally pointing a revolver at both of them.
The answer, and the according lowering of the gun, is a small relief.
(The implications of what he just said, not so much.)
However, Steve doesn't have time to vocalise any of his rather turbulent thoughts, because now there's another gun, this time in the hand of a girl with an expression he never wanted to see from the wrong end of a weapon.
His own expression is rather like that of a cornered animal.
This is offered pertly, both amused and educationally.
She walking closer, gun isn't pointed directly at one of them but not lowered either.
"You look like a civilian." That's to Steve. What with the cowering!face. "And you, well, if I'd know someone had a shotgun, I would have saved the ammunition I saw earlier."
"I'm not from here," Steve explains, still a little too freaked out to really care about hiding it. "I just-- I came in, and things started chasing me, and now I can't get out..."
See, he's assuming that this girl is a local. She certainly seems to be handling the whole situation.
Well. This town is certainly doing its utmost to make up for that. At present, with horrible... raw, skinned dog... things. Fairly battered and bruised himself, one arm stinging and burning from a set of claws he didn't quite manage to deflect, his jetpack a dead weight hanging from his shoulders (and don't even get him started on the noises the radio's been making), and sure he's never been this scared in his life-- a hospital is about the most welcome sight to meet his eyes for hours.
Steve goes through the doors at a stumbling run, and slams all his weight against them to close them, searching for a lock or a bar or something. Those creatures.
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Then there's the loud report of gunshots, from somewhere deep inside the building. There is no shame in admitting that Stephen shrieks at that; he's overdue a good shriek, probably, having been rather too busy running for his life to indulge in one yet.
He doesn't run back outside, because a second later he remembers the dogs, but he does very suddenly have his back to the door, scanning the foyer fearfully.
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Then a final gunshot, from the same direction.
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Gunshots, though-- they must mean people. And people, any people, are preferable to what's outside, right? They might even know a way out of the town.
His treacherous brain kicks in with unwelcome logic: if they know the way out, why are they still here? If they were shooting a person, how do you know they won't shoot you? If they were shooting a monster, how do you know they won?
Cleverness can be horrible.
He still steels himself and walks cautiously towards the sound. Jedi(-to-be) have to master their fear, right? He can do that, right?
(There are a lot of variables, he reflects, in his trains of logic. God.)
He can't just stand here and wait to be eaten.
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And behind it, a middle-aged man in a chair, pistol pointed down at the corpse of one of the flying monsters. His head tilts smoothly up, and he raises the pistol, firing a shot in Steve's direction.
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This, concurrently with stumbling-jerking back from the doorway, as if he could dodge a bullet even without the countless kilos of dead metal dragging at his torso.
It takes him a few terrified seconds to fully realise that he is not, in fact, dying of a bullet wound. The chief factor in cluing him in to this is the fact that he is running away.
As far as he can manage a run at this point, which is not really.
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Though he's not firing anymore. He's just peering at Steve intently.
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Between breaths: "What the-- hell was that?!"
Okay, so on the one hand, the guy has a right to be paranoid.
On the other, he is frightened and he just got shot at.
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"Thank God. Another human being." His voice is low and gravelly. Possibly, he could fill in for Robert Stack.
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Also. She's totally pointing a revolver at both of them.
And swaggering the smirk of a life time.
"Did someone just scream like a girl down here?"
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(The implications of what he just said, not so much.)
However, Steve doesn't have time to vocalise any of his rather turbulent thoughts, because now there's another gun, this time in the hand of a girl with an expression he never wanted to see from the wrong end of a weapon.
His own expression is rather like that of a cornered animal.
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This is offered pertly, both amused and educationally.
She walking closer, gun isn't pointed directly at one of them but not lowered either.
"You look like a civilian." That's to Steve. What with the cowering!face. "And you, well, if I'd know someone had a shotgun, I would have saved the ammunition I saw earlier."
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See, he's assuming that this girl is a local. She certainly seems to be handling the whole situation.
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