"I wonder how much they spent on this shitty décor..." Dane mutters to himself, looking at Aquaberry's racks of cashmere sweaters gone soft with dust, oak shelving gleaming faintly even through the grime on the windows. The whole world went to shit and this place still smells like money. Like old money. Cedar and leather and something floral he's never been able to place, something that claws at the back of his skull if he lets it. Starched collars. A house too quiet except for the sound of his own footsteps on hardwood. His father's study, door always closed, voice always cool. He's never liked nice things. Never trusted them. And yet here he is, camped out on the wreckage of luxury goods like it's the only place left standing that makes sense to him. Self-reflection is a luxury item in and of itself, same as everything else in this building. He has no interest in the celebration happening at Petey Possum's. In fact, he scoffed at the very invitation as it was given to him. No, he could think of a million other painful things he'd rather do.
"Don't let the intrusive thoughts win Dane..." He sung to himself lowly as the rifle comes apart in his hands with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from muscle memory. His hands know this weapon better than he knows most people, and right now that suits him fine. His shoulders are still coiled tight under his sweater, the set of a man who sleeps with one eye open and hasn't fully unclenched a muscle in longer than he'd care to admit. There's a fresh scrape along his jaw, a few days old, half-healed after breaking up a fight. But he's listening. He's always listening, even when he looks like he's a thousand miles away, even when his eyes are fixed somewhere past the mannequins by the door, the ones someone dressed in tactical gear as a joke weeks back, before the joke stopped being funny.
He reassembles the weapon with a final, practiced click, checks the action once, twice, out of a habit that's less about diligence now and more about needing his hands to do something. Then he sets it across his knees and finally leans back against the register, boots propped carelessly on a shelf that once held four hundred dollar scarves. "Pack behavior's mostly instinct at this point, not strategy." He picks the slide back up, thumb running along the rail out of habit more than necessity. "So if you're thinking we can bait 'em into the loading dock and box 'em in, sure. That'll work. Once. Maybe twice before they wise up to the pattern. After that you're just running a very deadly petting zoo."
"And yeah, before you ask. I was listening. Try not to sound so surprised. Makes a man think you've got low expectations of him."
