( closed ) in the heat of the night

[auntyquated]

WHO: Sharon Rainsworth & Gilbert Nightray
WHERE: Maurtia Falls
WHEN: 11th - 12th of February
WHAT: Attempted robbery of a sight-seeing traveling duo. It ends poorly.
WARNINGS: Mentions of violence. Tears of a Nightray.

Sharon glances up as the street lamp they pass by flickers out, a quiet whine of energy fizzling in the early evening air. She's enjoyed this foray into another landscape, a collected effort to get out of the Cape and into exploring other arms of this world they're in for the moment. She's not sure if five years counts as a particularly long or short moment, in the scheme of things, but it does make her wonder if that long down the line will be seeing another cataclysmic event.

Fates be pettily damned.

"Tell me again about these letters you received?"

She smooths down the edge of her shirt, scanning the streets. It's in part to take in the new surroundings. She loves the mental stimulation. Another part is to be more aware of what is actually going on around them.

She cants her head, movement at the entrance to an alleyway catching her interest. Hmm. There are definitely shadows shifting around. "How well do you like unexpected company, Gilbert?"

Comments

[corviform]

It's been a slight relief to get out of Cape Canaveral and put some of his worries behind, even temporarily, while he accompanies Sharon to Maurtia Falls. Well, he makes an attempt to sideline growing concerns; it's not going very well for Gil. If it's not wondering along the same thoughts as Sharon about whether this world will sustain itself or something will come along and doom it, it's wondering (or panicking) about the number of Valentine's letters he's gotten.

One of them is clearly a confession. It brings back horrible memories of a somewhat younger Gilbert Nightray, turning to Xerxes Break for help and that terrible man making the situation worse.

He narrows his eyes at the streetlamp as they pass under it. Isn't this world supposed to be more advanced in terms of technology? They can't even get a simple streetlamp to stay lit.

Sharon's question gets his shoulders to tighten and press closer to his neck. "T-The letters...?" But it's quickly forgotten by her following question. "Now what..."

He instinctively draws closer to Sharon, keeping a hand near his coat where his gun is tucked into a pocket.

[auntyquated]

"Perhaps they'll wish us a good evening," she says cheerfully, watching the individuals move out of the alley and down the street, jostling each other and talking in low voices.

"Or mistake you for a man of the night?"

[corviform]

His hand slips away from his pocket, both arms rising in the air as he turns around to exclaim: "Sharon! This isn't the time to be joking around!"

His face burned with furious embarrassment, one half for Sharon's inappropriate teasing, and the other half due to how loud his voice was just then. He realizes his mistake and lets his arms drop quickly as those figures close the distance between them.

He can hear them murmuring, someone saying "Lemme handle it" and one of the taller figures steps closer.

"'Ey, yo."

It's a greeting Gil doesn't understand. He keeps himself in front of Sharon, frowning at the other man.

"We don't want any trouble," he says.

[auntyquated]

Sharon knows how to handle this. She doesn't think it'll work, per say, but she recognizes certain levels of absurd that paid off when she'd been masquerading as her apparent age back in the City.

(Which remains a ludicrous name, even if it no longer exists.)

"What up, dawg?" Sharon waves. The assembled group looks between each other and Sharon, then to Gilbert, before breaking out into laughter.

"Yo, that's just crazy ridic comin' outta you, shawtie!" The taller figure shakes his head, reaching into his pockets. "Give up the goods, Princess, and we won't have any trouble at all."

1/2

[corviform]

Every fiber of him that is laced with tension seemingly lifts from him when Sharon addresses the group before them and they burst into raucous laughter in response. He's not too sure what Sharon had been trying to say (did she call them dogs?), but it's apparent enough it's not going to diffuse the situation.

[corviform]

Luckily, he's quick to alert himself to the motion before them and Gil holds an arm out to prevent the figurehead from getting any closer. A bead of sweat trickles down his jaw and down his neck, absorbed into the scarf he's refused to untie the whole day in spite of walking all day in the sun.

"We don't have anything! Now leave us."

[auntyquated]

Gilbert sure showed those fools.

He showed them so well that they looked among each other and laughed once more.

"Nawh, don't think we will." Stick Boy, as Sharon was currently mentally referring to the tall individual speaking at Gilbert, made a threatening slow pull of his hands out of his pockets. One comes out with a switchblade. The other, a round of those tiny edible cheeses.

"Bluebell," he says, holding it up to show them both, "I love this shit. So yo! Money, valuables, all yo bling, right here, right now."

Sharon doesn't particularly appreciate their tone or intent, but she ives Gilbert his chance to feel properly manly over all of this.

... Which might be a poor decision, in hindsight.

[corviform]

Who talks like that? Really!

Gil's throat tightens, apprehension gripping the sides of his stomach as he maintains focus on the one before him with the switchblade. He can draw his gun, but will he be fast enough? A switchblade is only as dangerous as its wielder, but he can be nicked somewhere vital.

"Guys like you always cruisin' for a bruisin'," sneers one of the stouter members of the gang.

Gil realizes how ridiculous their slang is.

He also realizes only after the switchblade flies forth that its wielder is only messing with him. They all laugh as Gil jumps back to avoid being cut, only it isn't their intention... yet.

"I told you already: we don't have anything!" he barks back.

The switchblade comes at him again, aiming for his side. He manages to dodge it, latching onto the leader's arm and holding it in place. That was close.

"Stop it!"

[auntyquated]

The switchblade in action is past Sharon's level of tolerance. A skill she'd used exactly once came in handy as she summoned a fan to her hand -- and unleashed the frustration of the last few months, the terror of the month prior, the unbearable unpleasantness that was separation from her world and the people who mattered most (sorry, Gilbert).

"Unhand him, you heathen beasts! Presumptuous palmers! Uncouth villains, the lot of you ought to be ashamed! How dare you lay a hand on either of us!"

Not terribly threatening words, but the ludicrous means of her beating them over the heads and shoulders with a weighted fan, and the surprising speed and anger and volume she possesses, weighs in her favor.

Cowing a group of wanna-be thugs seems like no big deal.

[corviform]

Gil's grip on the tallest individual slackens when Sharon springs (or rather bursts) into action. He chokes, stunned to see the fan rise from thin air again, and so is the one he's holding. In fact, he's just as bewildered by the scene unfolding before him his own handling of the switchblade loosens.

"That fan... again?" Gil could almost cower before a furious Sharon.

She may have the appearance of a young girl, but her fury is something only a grown woman knew how to wield so sharply, like a sword.

The gang disperses for a moment, too confused and suddenly finding themselves in pain. Gil takes seizes the opportunity to knock away the switchblade from his opponent and he hooks his ankle around the other's leg to drag him down.