One moment, Heather has a gun pointed at her. There's a blur of blue and red, and in the blink of an eye, a dark- curly-haired man, clad in those same colors, stands between her and the gun. If the trigger is pulled, the bullet will bounce off him.

It wasn't often that Seymour got to walk unfamiliar streets, but unfortunately, it was quite often that he tended to get lost on them.

Such had been the case tonight. He had gotten all turned around just as night had fallen upon the city, and as much as he didn't like Skid Row, he still knew he needed to get back there-- back to the shop-- before it got too late.

Though his stomach churned with dread at the mere thought of going to a stranger for assistance, numerous failed attempts to find his way back on his own had left him with seemingly no other choice but to ask for directions. He had steeled himself as he approached the only other person currently on the block at this hour-- a young blonde woman.

Now, Seymour's chronically anxious mind of course anticipated many ways that this short interaction could've gone wrong: being laughed at, being refused, being flat-out ignored... but nothing could've prepared him for what actually wound up happening upon speaking to the girl.

He had walked up to her from behind (his first mistake, hindsight would later help him realize), and the soft "excuse me" had just barely left his lips before she had whirled on him quick as a flash and a white-hot, agonizing pain took over his entire body.

It sent him crumbling to the ground with a shrill shriek. He didn't know how long it lasted-- it felt like forever-- but once it had faded enough for him to regain something somewhat resembling coherent thought, he found himself sprawled out with his back against the concrete, panting and blinking up at the somewhat blurry image of the girl's face.