The thing about being in the range of gunfire is this: there's absolutely no control after someone pulls the trigger. Countless times, and around people with varying amounts of affection (or, barring that, investment), Faye's found herself barely escaping the whiz of a bullet, the burn of the air hot against her skin. One false move, a bullet misses. One stumble, another hits. And that's why, when the instruction rings across the room to hit the floor, that's exactly what she does— doesn't matter who the person's speaking to, chances are she'll be safer hugging the ground than not, at least for those few seconds. All the same, it only takes the impact of her knee against the gritty ground for anger to replace fear, the frustration and humiliation of not having been able to handle her own battles.
Which is why, as soon as the Splicer cries out in pain from the shot, Faye leaps to her feet with a screech of heel on wood, slamming another round into her Glock and pressing it directly against the Splicer's forehead.
Bang.
"I had him," she calls out to her erstwhile savior, preparing to round on him before her eyes widen. Damn.
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Date: 2011-07-13 06:31 am (UTC)Which is why, as soon as the Splicer cries out in pain from the shot, Faye leaps to her feet with a screech of heel on wood, slamming another round into her Glock and pressing it directly against the Splicer's forehead.
Bang.
"I had him," she calls out to her erstwhile savior, preparing to round on him before her eyes widen. Damn.