i wonder how a girl's self-esteem ever reaches equilibrium without

[trouvaille]

WHO: Gwen Wynne-York + Manabu Yuuki.
WHERE: De Chima,
WHEN: Nowish.
WHAT: Making friends.
WARNINGS: Catcallers are jerks.

This whole day is just one thing after another.

Nothing is going quite according to plan; her appointments are delayed or take too long, the cab drops her off just slightly too far away, she nearly wipes out into someone else's dog when picking Putin up from the groomers. He is in a perfectly good mood, content to sit patiently with his tongue hanging out, not completely understanding why his mistress is crouched down in high heels holding his collar in one hand and sawing at the ribbon attached to it with her nail file -

she puts a heel through the grate she doesn't notice behind her and she feels it when it snaps, ankle rolling painfully to one side. The noise she makes startles Putin into a growl, twisting around to see what it is that's distressed her and yanking her off-balance in the other direction in turn, and as she tries to regain her own steadiness, keep a grip on Putin and not stab anyone in the throat with her nail file, she hears:

"Hey, baby, walking and thinking at the same time get hard?"

and reconsiders not stabbing anybody.

Comments

[siriusly]

Of all the cities linked by those teleporters, Manabu's visited De Chima the least, and because of that he couldn't really tell if anything changed at all. Still, as long as ImPorts were collected there, he wanted to know the place, understand the dynamics. The moods were different from city to city, and if he were to be of any proper help to any of them, he ought to be acquainted with them to a better degree.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sudden, sharp sound he hears coming from across the street, and he slows to look about. He grimaces, seeing a woman struggling to stay upright, dog in tow. He already begins to move out of impulse to help, but sees a stranger already meandering over and stops short of hopping off the curb.

Well that's good, he thinks. He's glad someone is there to--

"--thinking at the same time get hard?"

He frowns. Right, never mind. That's not altruism, that's alcohol.

Manabu huffs a little, taking quick glances both ways before starting across the street.

the midweek slump is real, sorry about how late this is!

[trouvaille]

By the time he gets across the road - not much has changed, except that the young man (men, she registers the second and third shadows on the sidewalk, of course pricks like this travel in packs) has moved closer, and the low growl of the big dog is probably accounting for why Gwen is a little tied up to figure out the smoothest exit from this less than smooth situation. If he goes for one of them - she'll actually do it, she'll actually fucking put her teeth in someone's throat if anyone tries to have her dog put down, they can't provoke him like this -

(Or her. But her immediate concern is keeping Putin safe, which is darling, since the reverse is also patently the case.)

"Hey, you want something?" is confusing enough to make her actually acknowledge them, her expression pinched with pain and eyebrows raised - but, oh, that posturing isn't for her, it's for ...

This guy. Where did all these people fucking come from, don't they have homes to go to.

no worries!

[siriusly]

"Hi."

Now, Manabu isn't the smoothest or cleverest when it came to...a lot of things, and he certainly didn't wait to fully read the situation to understand options. He's the sort to go and see, not see, assess, then go. It doesn't always work out, but then again...small miracles happen.

He steps up next to the man, smiling blandly, but his expression is pinched with concern.

"Oh, well," he looks from him over to the woman and her dog, frowning. "I just saw there might be trouble. Because...well, the dog isn't happy..." He looks back over to the man. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

Confusion is less troublesome to deal with than straight-up belligerence, so he can at least try and work with that, and keep the man unsteady without straight-up going in to piss him off. "If you get too close, the dog might bite you..."

[trouvaille]

All right.

This is a great deal of going no where fucking fast, so this is the point at which Gwen does several things while everyone is trying to decide what happens next. Gives up on her broken heel, toeing both off and shoving them into the hands of her would-be assistance, Manabu-- gets a proper grip on the right part of Putin's collar, and brings herself up to her full and not terribly impressive in bare feet height of 5'3".

"You," she says, "hold those. You lot, fuck off."

"Aw, baby, don't be like--"

"I said fuck off," she repeats, "or I will let go of his collar. He's bred to fight bears. Are you bred to fight bears? Do you want to fucking find out how hard it is to fight a bear? Or do you want to get the hell out of my face."

It's at this point that Putin's growl hits a pitch no one really wants to hear.

[siriusly]

Manabu sidesteps with the momentum of shoes being shoved into his chest. He does little but gawk as the woman practically emanates an aura of doom at the drunk and his weakly hidden pals. His mouth twitches in a crooked smile, realizing he probably shouldn't root too blatantly for death threats? But...he's pretty sure it's justified. And warranted.

And he supposes he should give the drunk a little credit for finally realizing self-preservation takes priority over piss-poor attempts at conquests: a dog snarling murder is pretty convincing. His hands go up, weak, petty insults are slurred, and said lot does as requested.

Manabu blinks, glancing skyward for a moment, and sighs.