The sound was loud. Its reverberation covered the sound of Zhi dropping to the ground. That was humiliating. It was also ingrained self-preservation. Alas, Zhavi would never be the sort of woman who could stare a man in the eyes and not flinch when he fired right past her head. And, now her ears were ringing. Eyes were fucked, ears were fucked, nose was fucked -- she'd have to reconsider her habits. She grimaced. Again.
Standing up again was a second humiliation she tried to play off as she dusted herself off. Oh, if he'd been aiming at her the little dive to the ground would have been done with the bullet (ball?) lodged in her or blown out the back. She looked down at him. Another grin lit up her face, and it reached all the way to her eyes. Sure, maybe it made her look a little deranged, but who could blame her?
Nald'thal, ye buggerin' bastard, smile!
She found a smoke, took some few steps back to him (her insides churning a little, heartbeat speeding up), handed it over. "Zhavi," she muttered, stalling. "Not that it matters, ye crazy scrag."
She considered what she had to say as she pulled out flint and steel, ready to light up the smoke once he took it. "We agreed t'be partners. Nothin's changed 'less ye don't trust me t'do me job. So, ain't about whether'r not I help ye. It's 'bout whether'r not ye'll let me. I ain't th'type what goes back on dealin's less there's a real good reason, an' there ain't been any."
The lad, in his death, had released his bowels. It stank. The blood stank.
"Ain't nothin' I can say what'll make ye trust me, Jager. Ye have t'make that choice on yer own."
Trust, itself, was a funny word. There was no trust between them, just an assurance of mutual cooperation. His decision was based on whether or not he thought she'd found a good enough reason to screw him over. It was a gamble. Dealing with people was always a gamble.
But that was what made it so damn fun.
Standing up again was a second humiliation she tried to play off as she dusted herself off. Oh, if he'd been aiming at her the little dive to the ground would have been done with the bullet (ball?) lodged in her or blown out the back. She looked down at him. Another grin lit up her face, and it reached all the way to her eyes. Sure, maybe it made her look a little deranged, but who could blame her?
Nald'thal, ye buggerin' bastard, smile!
She found a smoke, took some few steps back to him (her insides churning a little, heartbeat speeding up), handed it over. "Zhavi," she muttered, stalling. "Not that it matters, ye crazy scrag."
She considered what she had to say as she pulled out flint and steel, ready to light up the smoke once he took it. "We agreed t'be partners. Nothin's changed 'less ye don't trust me t'do me job. So, ain't about whether'r not I help ye. It's 'bout whether'r not ye'll let me. I ain't th'type what goes back on dealin's less there's a real good reason, an' there ain't been any."
The lad, in his death, had released his bowels. It stank. The blood stank.
"Ain't nothin' I can say what'll make ye trust me, Jager. Ye have t'make that choice on yer own."
Trust, itself, was a funny word. There was no trust between them, just an assurance of mutual cooperation. His decision was based on whether or not he thought she'd found a good enough reason to screw him over. It was a gamble. Dealing with people was always a gamble.
But that was what made it so damn fun.
