Liz has taken over an entire table, in what was probably once an example of organized chaos but has become an explosion of file folders, notepads, yellowed photographs, sheets of paper produced by both computers and typewriters, and Polaroids, all topped by a plate containing the remains of a salad, a glass of water, a digital camera, and the nondescript evidence box (stamped with the BPRD logo) that all of this ephemera came out of.
She's sitting with her feet tucked neatly under her chair, her elbow on the table, and her forehead in her hand. She's turning a blank, irritated stare on the nearest piece of evidence, which happens to be the infrared photo of a hallway (with a strange blurred figure in the foreground) that is resting on the table under her arm.
Her BPRD stab vest has been thrown across the back of an empty chair at the table. She is still, however, wearing combat boots and her gun.
Liz shoots him an oh please glance right back, more in response to his look than as an accompaniment to what she's actually saying. "Not one that has all the original person's memories."
The sideways glance that she shoots him says, pretty eloquently, that she doesn't believe him for a second.
It's probably a measure of how guilty she feels that she doesn't take him to task for calling her sweetheart.
"Got any handy ways to tell if anybody from your world is who they say they are?" One side of her mouth has gone a little crooked, in something that is almost-but-not-quite a grim smile.
Liz does half-smile at that, a quick twitch of an expression.
"So demons are pretty universally bad news in your reality, huh?"
The whole 'Latin name for Christ setting them off' thing is a clue. So are the black eyes. Black eyes, in Liz's experience, are almost never a good sign. (Abe is kind of a notable exception.)
"I'd imagine," she says, dryly. "It's basically the same, where I'm from." Her tiny smile is a little wry. "You guys met our one and only known exception."
She's sitting with her feet tucked neatly under her chair, her elbow on the table, and her forehead in her hand. She's turning a blank, irritated stare on the nearest piece of evidence, which happens to be the infrared photo of a hallway (with a strange blurred figure in the foreground) that is resting on the table under her arm.
Her BPRD stab vest has been thrown across the back of an empty chair at the table. She is still, however, wearing combat boots and her gun.
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"Yeah, well. Guess my world's just special like that."
Special like two point-blank holes to the head, maybe.
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"Shit."
Way to go, Sherman. She covers her mouth with her hand for a few seconds, then lowers it.
"It'd be too much to hope that it was a benevolent shifter, huh?"
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Like meeting a benevolent demon, really.
Only demons are sometimes harder to see coming.
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And so she handed $2 million into the hands of a non-benevolent shapeshifter.
Great.
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"You and me both, sweetheart. But everything's comin' up roses now, so don't worry too much about it."
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It's probably a measure of how guilty she feels that she doesn't take him to task for calling her sweetheart.
"Got any handy ways to tell if anybody from your world is who they say they are?" One side of her mouth has gone a little crooked, in something that is almost-but-not-quite a grim smile.
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That one gets a lot of mileage.
"Second, you say Christo and their eyes flash black? Demon."
He'd mention red eyes, but --
Yeah, no.
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(What she's thinking aside from that: How the hell did I miss silver-flashing eyes?)
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Uh.
Not literally.
Ew.
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"So demons are pretty universally bad news in your reality, huh?"
The whole 'Latin name for Christ setting them off' thing is a clue. So are the black eyes. Black eyes, in Liz's experience, are almost never a good sign. (Abe is kind of a notable exception.)
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And, you know, 'deal' with.
Funny.
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