06-17-2014, 07:53 AM
The Gift settled onto Hood and the backlash vibrated the nuances of physical injury back into his bones. He'd been shot in the chest at one point, he realized, and endured dozens of little aches and pains on his hands and limbs.
The man's expression darkened considerably, and although Jensen swallowed, he id not flinch and retract. He only let go of Hood's hand when the man snatched it away, apparently disgusted and offended by what had passed between them. He braced himself for an assault, ready to endure it without fleeing. Thankfully, Connor broke the tension and made to go, seemingly too dimmed by heavy thought, euphoria, and rum to notice what was transpiring.
The words of Connor's departure echoed in Jensen's mind. They were encouraging in their confidence. They had done the right thing, of that Jensen was sure, but he walked away regretting the sacrifice it cost. Their actions saved dozens, but at what cost to his soul? The dead threatened his spirits, but the glory of the Gift obscured even their weight. They said their goodbyes, and Jensen promised to talk to him soon.
He soon returned his attention to Hood. He even followed the man's gaze back to Charlene when she was included in the conversation, but this time Jensen did not blush as he had earlier. The Gift was too strong a current to care.
"My name is Jensen, sir. I'm not a preacher. Not anymore."
The correction was gentle, but firm. Of all the things Jensen was unsure of, knowing what he was not was clear.
He accepted the card, and somewhere in the back of his mind found the old-fashioned device an interesting insight into Hood, but whatever that insight meant, he couldn't guess. Taking a man's gun away might be useful, actually, but Jensen had a better idea of how to do it than engaging in a fight.
"I think i could take a gun away if I wanted. Although I've never tried."
His expression flashed a bit of curiosity as he looked Hood's posture up and down as though examining whether he could disarm a trained killer like his table mate.
A ghost of the smile to follow was soft as lamb's wool, and Jensen dismissed the idea. He leaned forward, "I'm being selfish asking you to assist me. Let me instead offer to help you. What do you do? Are you police? Military? The government? Obviously you work for someone if you have hourly rates: the same people that want the district kept quiet. That doesn't sound like the mob or the business acumen of a large corporation. So please tell me, sir, would someone that could disarm even yourself be an advantage in your line of work?"
Either this was going to turn into a dream come true, or it was going to go very, very bad very quickly. Jensen hoped for the former.
The man's expression darkened considerably, and although Jensen swallowed, he id not flinch and retract. He only let go of Hood's hand when the man snatched it away, apparently disgusted and offended by what had passed between them. He braced himself for an assault, ready to endure it without fleeing. Thankfully, Connor broke the tension and made to go, seemingly too dimmed by heavy thought, euphoria, and rum to notice what was transpiring.
The words of Connor's departure echoed in Jensen's mind. They were encouraging in their confidence. They had done the right thing, of that Jensen was sure, but he walked away regretting the sacrifice it cost. Their actions saved dozens, but at what cost to his soul? The dead threatened his spirits, but the glory of the Gift obscured even their weight. They said their goodbyes, and Jensen promised to talk to him soon.
He soon returned his attention to Hood. He even followed the man's gaze back to Charlene when she was included in the conversation, but this time Jensen did not blush as he had earlier. The Gift was too strong a current to care.
"My name is Jensen, sir. I'm not a preacher. Not anymore."
The correction was gentle, but firm. Of all the things Jensen was unsure of, knowing what he was not was clear.
He accepted the card, and somewhere in the back of his mind found the old-fashioned device an interesting insight into Hood, but whatever that insight meant, he couldn't guess. Taking a man's gun away might be useful, actually, but Jensen had a better idea of how to do it than engaging in a fight.
"I think i could take a gun away if I wanted. Although I've never tried."
His expression flashed a bit of curiosity as he looked Hood's posture up and down as though examining whether he could disarm a trained killer like his table mate.
A ghost of the smile to follow was soft as lamb's wool, and Jensen dismissed the idea. He leaned forward, "I'm being selfish asking you to assist me. Let me instead offer to help you. What do you do? Are you police? Military? The government? Obviously you work for someone if you have hourly rates: the same people that want the district kept quiet. That doesn't sound like the mob or the business acumen of a large corporation. So please tell me, sir, would someone that could disarm even yourself be an advantage in your line of work?"
Either this was going to turn into a dream come true, or it was going to go very, very bad very quickly. Jensen hoped for the former.