Zhi jerked back, expression wobbling and motions clumsy; it was her keeper night vision that saved her from being cornered against the counter. The room was cluttered with the paraphernalia of tailoring, big and small items alike, and even her quick step-step to the side (still well within the woman's reach, still within cutting distance) didn't give her much room to maneuver.
Her wide eyes and gaping mouth settled on surprise and horror: the picture of some innocent being unjustly attacked.
"Oy!" she screeched, hands up and defensive, "oy, oy!" as if no other thoughts crossed her crowded head beyond wild panic. After a third step near backed her against a leaning bolt of cloth (which was backed by several crates, itself), she forced out, "O' course I'm meself, why'd I be wantin' t'be anyone else, but I'm thinkin' that's no reason fer ye t'be pointin' sharps at me, no how!"
If there is anything to be said for Zhavi Streetrunner, let it be this: the woman liked to drink. She liked to smoke. She liked to imbibe a good many things, the least of which fuzzed her mind and made her tipsy, and the worst of which took chunks from her memory, and distorted the rest. At her worst, she was bad for jobs when she indulged herself, her many addictions turning her hand sloppy when it should be moved with precision.
She didn't recognize Melodia, had a blank disconnect between the woman standing before her and the faint, hazy memory of what seemed to be ancient fear, and pain, and hide-and-seek, blurred under yellow smears and a sneering face she couldn't quite make out in her mind's eye.
For Zhi, the deception was still on, despite the deep and growing uncertainty that this woman standing in front of her might have recognized her from something off one of the long-since-litter bounties that had been placed on her head, most made impractical since she'd been towed out to sea too many times, for too long; hunters had better profits to chase than such a small-time scut as herself.
So, she kept up her mask of some stupid young worker, holding out to confuse the other out of whatever recollection or idea had gone off in her head.
Her wide eyes and gaping mouth settled on surprise and horror: the picture of some innocent being unjustly attacked.
"Oy!" she screeched, hands up and defensive, "oy, oy!" as if no other thoughts crossed her crowded head beyond wild panic. After a third step near backed her against a leaning bolt of cloth (which was backed by several crates, itself), she forced out, "O' course I'm meself, why'd I be wantin' t'be anyone else, but I'm thinkin' that's no reason fer ye t'be pointin' sharps at me, no how!"
If there is anything to be said for Zhavi Streetrunner, let it be this: the woman liked to drink. She liked to smoke. She liked to imbibe a good many things, the least of which fuzzed her mind and made her tipsy, and the worst of which took chunks from her memory, and distorted the rest. At her worst, she was bad for jobs when she indulged herself, her many addictions turning her hand sloppy when it should be moved with precision.
She didn't recognize Melodia, had a blank disconnect between the woman standing before her and the faint, hazy memory of what seemed to be ancient fear, and pain, and hide-and-seek, blurred under yellow smears and a sneering face she couldn't quite make out in her mind's eye.
For Zhi, the deception was still on, despite the deep and growing uncertainty that this woman standing in front of her might have recognized her from something off one of the long-since-litter bounties that had been placed on her head, most made impractical since she'd been towed out to sea too many times, for too long; hunters had better profits to chase than such a small-time scut as herself.
So, she kept up her mask of some stupid young worker, holding out to confuse the other out of whatever recollection or idea had gone off in her head.