I'm honored you think so. [He turns a bit and motions into the shop.] It isn't mine, but want to come in? I'm not sure if artillery is your style, or not.
I wouldn't mind walking with you somewhere else if you'd like.
I'm not very good at ballroom, so I might have to take you up on that offer. Let's just pretend my chicken scratch is legible.
[He stops and rests his hands in his pockets. I forgot to say he is wearing a ridiculous cowboy get-up with a duster jacket stolen from the Cowboy Store.]
I'm a little worried at having this all so readily available considering our usual weekly... "events."
I think you're correct, yes. I'm not sure if it will make it easier, or more difficult. But considering how somewhat poorly we often seem to do, perhaps it doesn't matter.
[The guns all look less like the best defense, and more like the weapon they are now.]
We all feel that way. Rather, we don't know how many of these murders were self-defense or for another any other reason.
[ Dorothy hesitates, thinking over her next words before she continues. ]
But I do think when a person chooses to take a life, at that point, they also accept a certain sense of responsibility. Regardless of whether it's fair or not. I don't believe we, personally, have the right to pass judgment but perhaps that's our way of taking responsibility too.
[His expression softens slightly when he glances at her. It's an understanding look.]
I think you may be right, Miss Doro...
[His eyes lift suddenly over her shoulder. He moves before he says anything; it's wild how quickly and efficiently he can react being so big.
He's not exactly sure what he intends to do with the bubble, and he's not sure why he assumes Dorothy should be shielded--but he stops in front of her with an arm out. To just... let it pop... against him and the both of them.]
[The room is dark and quiet, as it should be. It takes him ten or so minutes to put together the gun because he takes his time. He doesn't have to rush. Rushing means making mistakes.
[ The way he cuts himself off alerts her more than his sudden movement, but it's much too fast for Dorothy to respond. He moves to shield her from something, but then the scene before them ripples into somewhere else entirely, dark and quiet.
He's there and he moves with all the grace and detachment of a professional killer and the man he targeted is killed-- likely before he even realized what was happening.
And then it's gone, just as Blanca lowers the sniper rifle, and Dorothy wobbles where she stands, caught off-guard by the sense of vertigo and a memory that hadn't been hers. ]
[Quickly, he reaches out to try to catch Dorothy behind one shoulder as gently as possible. To make sure she doesn't topple over either into anything, or on the floor.]
Ah--I... That was rather gruesome for a lady to see. [He smiles, but it's a bit weak. Maybe apologetic, too.] I suppose this place is showing you all of my secrets.
[ A little girl, likely no older than eight or nine, has her arms raised above her head. Not out of jubilation, but sheltering. Defensive. Her long sleeves are ripped, tears streaking down her face, her little fingers bruised, bloody and broken as new injuries accumulate with each blow that rains down upon her.
The man that towers over her is shouting near-incoherently, his words slurred, and the stench of alcohol washes over her as a metal claw that seems to have replaced his hand comes down on her. Again. Again. Again and again and again.
Snippets can be heard through the girl's faint sobs, about how "you'll leave me, just like she did" and "you're laughin' at your old man behind his back, aint'cha" and "it ain't my fault my hand's gone, what'm I supposed to do" and so on.
And it continues until the girl is far too injured to keep protecting herself, lies limply on the floor with her clothes torn and her face swollen from the force of his ire. Eventually the man stops, blinking down at her-- then lets out a loud wail and scoops her to his chest. She stares blankly over his shoulder and he cradles the back of her head, apologies falling on deaf ears. ]
[As strange as it is to think, it's familiar to him. Not personally, but it's familiar in a detached way. In a seeing this from a bystander way, which is funny considering
he was a bystander before, too.
His grip on her shoulder is a bit tight, and when he realizes it, he loosens it. He isn't scared, or upset, but he has to take a few steadying breaths against the heaviness in his stomach. It makes him angry.]
[ Dorothy doesn't answer at first, eyes dark in a way that mirrors her younger self's. It's habit, probably-- a way to shut down just enough that for the moment, at least a part of her is safe.
But then that unseeing fog lifts and she exhales. ]
You don't have to apologize for anything, Miss Dorothy.
[His lips thin into a frown, and he gives her a moment or two.
But then he carefully and slowly tries to loop his arms around her neck and shoulders to offer her a hug, if she will let him. He won't force it, though.]
That isn't something which should happen to anyone.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I'm honored you think so. [He turns a bit and motions into the shop.] It isn't mine, but want to come in? I'm not sure if artillery is your style, or not.
I wouldn't mind walking with you somewhere else if you'd like.
no subject
[ She tilts her head, eyes bright. ]
However, I wouldn't mind being educated.
no subject
[But he steps back and gives her and her crutches room to maneuver. He'll lead her in, but go slow enough he doesn't leave her behind.]
I do have to say these are all rather dated for me, unfortunately. So you might be able to teach me more instead. "Professor MacBean."
no subject
[ Thanks, Blanca. She'll just swing herself along. ]
But please, I could teach you penmanship and ballroom dancing, but gun models are outside of my forte.
no subject
[He stops and rests his hands in his pockets. I forgot to say he is wearing a ridiculous cowboy get-up with a duster jacket stolen from the Cowboy Store.]
I'm a little worried at having this all so readily available considering our usual weekly... "events."
no subject
[ It's fine, Dorothy is dressed like a saloon girl. Frills and all. ]
Especially since I think we've all learned this will only keep continuing.
no subject
[The guns all look less like the best defense, and more like the weapon they are now.]
no subject
no subject
I'm not completely at fault. It's hard to not only find people who kill, but to also condemn them. Still... I feel as if I could have done more.
no subject
[ Dorothy hesitates, thinking over her next words before she continues. ]
But I do think when a person chooses to take a life, at that point, they also accept a certain sense of responsibility. Regardless of whether it's fair or not. I don't believe we, personally, have the right to pass judgment but perhaps that's our way of taking responsibility too.
1/2
I think you may be right, Miss Doro...
[His eyes lift suddenly over her shoulder. He moves before he says anything; it's wild how quickly and efficiently he can react being so big.
He's not exactly sure what he intends to do with the bubble, and he's not sure why he assumes Dorothy should be shielded--but he stops in front of her with an arm out. To just... let it pop... against him and the both of them.]
gently warns for a little sniper gore
He watches the scene through the scope, waiting patiently.
It's not very nice, by any means, but Blanca only seems reserved when it's over.]
no subject
He's there and he moves with all the grace and detachment of a professional killer and the man he targeted is killed-- likely before he even realized what was happening.
And then it's gone, just as Blanca lowers the sniper rifle, and Dorothy wobbles where she stands, caught off-guard by the sense of vertigo and a memory that hadn't been hers. ]
no subject
My apologies, Miss Dorothy. Are you all right?
no subject
[ Well, she's being supported, which means she did not fall over. So. Fine!! ]
That just... surprised me?
[ IS THAT THE WORD? ]
no subject
Ah--I... That was rather gruesome for a lady to see. [He smiles, but it's a bit weak. Maybe apologetic, too.] I suppose this place is showing you all of my secrets.
I hope I didn't scare you.
no subject
It was daunting, but... I don't believe you'd ever hurt me.
[ Though there seems to be another bubble casually drifting their way. ]
no subject
I wouldn't hurt you.
[Unfortunately, as much as he is good about paying attention to his surroundings, he does not see this stupid second bubble.]
1/2
[ This bubble is like a really nonthreatening Jaws, but it does just kind of... bump into them before it pops. This bubble is a wimp. ]
tw for child abuse wheeee
The man that towers over her is shouting near-incoherently, his words slurred, and the stench of alcohol washes over her as a metal claw that seems to have replaced his hand comes down on her. Again. Again. Again and again and again.
Snippets can be heard through the girl's faint sobs, about how "you'll leave me, just like she did" and "you're laughin' at your old man behind his back, aint'cha" and "it ain't my fault my hand's gone, what'm I supposed to do" and so on.
And it continues until the girl is far too injured to keep protecting herself, lies limply on the floor with her clothes torn and her face swollen from the force of his ire. Eventually the man stops, blinking down at her-- then lets out a loud wail and scoops her to his chest. She stares blankly over his shoulder and he cradles the back of her head, apologies falling on deaf ears. ]
no subject
he was a bystander before, too.
His grip on her shoulder is a bit tight, and when he realizes it, he loosens it. He isn't scared, or upset, but he has to take a few steadying breaths against the heaviness in his stomach. It makes him angry.]
Are you okay, Miss Dorothy?
no subject
But then that unseeing fog lifts and she exhales. ]
... I'm sorry. That was unsightly.
no subject
[His lips thin into a frown, and he gives her a moment or two.
But then he carefully and slowly tries to loop his arms around her neck and shoulders to offer her a hug, if she will let him. He won't force it, though.]
That isn't something which should happen to anyone.
no subject
No, it shouldn't. But it happens, more often than I would like.
no subject
[Admittedly, he wants to give her a reassuring squeeze, but he's too worried about her injuries, so he just holds her for as long as she wants.]
The boy in mine--Ash. He has been through things like that, too.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)