she held the sight of him, or something beyond him, down the sight of her gun, held high and proud in a single-handed grip. the other was held askew, fingers arced in the shape of a crushing grasp, ready to lift him, render him a puppet at the mercy of her mind should an offending motion be made.
{ your attention’s in the wrong place. behind you, dumbshit!
[ An offensive jest, but one that answers an astute mind with a similarly astute reaction that was nonetheless true. Her lids possessed a mixture both volatile and jittery, a fraught sign that changed her face almost hideously as she eyed down the weapon in hand and ready to annihilate what simple minds with a simple oblivion.
The Siren saw a threat,
The Assassin recognized an annoyance.
All four digits in junction with his second set seized and spun the blade that was his esteemed better, a flicker of blue dominates the air while the nimble figure does fly through with a finesse accomplished and forthright in it's skillful swing that severs weeds from their root and does cast down what was once fruitful in it's approach to the decay where it now resides.
What was an enemy, now rests as testament to a skill that could not be bested. ]
Utterly tasteless, As another is proven Too weak for my hand.
