He adjusts his stance, keeping it casual to the untrained eye. He's not going to give her any advantage, especially if he's expected to fight his way out.
"That's too bad, isn't it?"
494 puts his hand on one of the other chairs, like he's going to sit down.
Frownyface! NO IGNORING THE RASPBERRY. LOOK SHE HAS TRANSLUCENT CLEAVAGE AND EVERYTHING.
Leaning forward in an action that is based mostly in annoyance and only slightly in the desire to display said cleavage-- hey, she's a character from Internet porn, what can you do-- Raz shakes an admonishing and slightly wobbly finger.
"Don't be rude."
It's possible that at least ten of the stars currently exploding outside the Observation Window are dedicated to the irony of that statement.
Lissar hasn't, probably never will, lose the air of prey that lingers around her. She knows Dean Winchester, but the first glimpse of this man has nothing at all to do with her friend.
So it's wide golden eyes in a face as white as a sheet of clean paper that follow his prowling walk.
Nor does skin with no color; not albino-pale, the blood isn't visible under her skin any more than for an ordinary Caucasian...it is simply that rather than being pink she is white. The hair that breaks light like a prism is also non-standard, casting faint rainbows when she moves her head. Her voice, low and slightly wary, calls out, "You are new, are you not?"
His focus sharpens on her face; he lets her see him see her.
Strange-looking woman. (She could be a Nomaly whispers an echoing voice from some rumor he might have heard as a child. It's forgotten instantly, the product of old, harsh lessons.)
"Depends what you mean by that," he answers, cautious but not coiled. Not yet.
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She's seated at a table, an empty bowl in front of her.
She's also looking right at 494, nostrils flared and body strung wire-tight.
But she's not moving yet.
He does not smell right, and he moves like he's dangerous. Better to be careful.
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She's giving him that Manticore gimlet eye, too. Looks like he knows who to come to for corroboration.
"Is there a timer?" he says, flashing a smile. "Do I get a prize, or do I have to do the secret handshake first?"
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Beat.
She shifts in her seat, moving to give herself a better avenue of attack if she needs to.
"I do not know you."
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"That's too bad, isn't it?"
494 puts his hand on one of the other chairs, like he's going to sit down.
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"Dear?"
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But this woman ain't no ordinary, that's for certain. She doesn't read like anything he's ever gone up against.
"Was that to me?" he tries, erring on the side of aloof.
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Its been many a long year since she's seen men who hold themselves that way. Soldiers have always been her brother's domain.
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"You must be imagining things. I'm just stopping by."
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Recon this, 494.
From a nearby table, Raspberry flashes him her best and brightest grin and gives a little wave with one translucent purple-pink hand.
"Hey, cutie! You new?"
The mostly-empty bottle of vodka in her other hand may or may not go some distance towards explaining the friendliness.
Absolutely nothing explains the strong scent of wild raspberries in the air around her, nor the fact that she's translucent and kinda gooey.
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Sorry, you seem to have shorted 494 out. He is utterly confused by every element in this picture.
So he's going to try and studiously ignore it for the moment. Keeping an eye on it, of course. In case it tries anything.
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Frownyface! NO IGNORING THE RASPBERRY. LOOK SHE HAS TRANSLUCENT CLEAVAGE AND EVERYTHING.
Leaning forward in an action that is based mostly in annoyance and only slightly in the desire to display said cleavage-- hey, she's a character from Internet porn, what can you do-- Raz shakes an admonishing and slightly wobbly finger.
"Don't be rude."
It's possible that at least ten of the stars currently exploding outside the Observation Window are dedicated to the irony of that statement.
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He knows when he's been worked into a corner, though. It'll be simpler to engage the diversion, disable it and move on.
He tilts his head (in part to brace himself against the overwhelming odor of fruitiness and liquor). "I'm sorry?"
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So it's wide golden eyes in a face as white as a sheet of clean paper that follow his prowling walk.
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494 keeps her in eyeshot, and circles around until they're very close. She's made him curious -- is this his target? Is she part of this objective?
Eyes like that certainly don't come among the ordinaries he's ever seen.
He continues watching.
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Strange-looking woman. (She could be a Nomaly whispers an echoing voice from some rumor he might have heard as a child. It's forgotten instantly, the product of old, harsh lessons.)
"Depends what you mean by that," he answers, cautious but not coiled. Not yet.
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