08-06-2013, 01:57 PM
Aria's quick submission probably saved all of them a lot of hastle in the long run. Seeing her throw her hands in the air, Hood's defensive posture melted away, although he stepped out of reach of Rune, just in case she somehow found a second wind in those critical moments before Aria took her leave. Which left him alone with Rune. Hood stood in silence as Rune righted herself a bit and took stock, staring down at the damn woman. She had been nothing but trouble since her arrival. Every one of her little outbursts just seemed to reinforce his distrust of the Atharim; sure, what they did seemed to be good work, but bloody hell were they sloppy about how they went about it.
As she spoke, he nudged over a large metal ammo can, creating a loud bang and rattle, before sitting down on it to stare at her, with her well within his reach. She gave her schpeel as he studiously ignored the bleeding wound in his side. It was shallow, but there would probably be need of a stitch or five; he'd decide once this little problem was dealt with.
So she didn't trust him to be human, was that it? She thought he was some horrible monster. Probably not too far off the mark, by the more conventional concept of monster; he'd done some damningly terrible things in his time. Toppling third-wordl governments was rarely done without some innocent blood being spilt. Some of it by his own hands. Hereditary right to rule was such an annoying, messy thing which lead to entire family trees being cut down, and he wasn't the type to waste time finding the different between in-laws and third cousins.
If she didn't trust that he was human, it meant she didn't trust her higer-ups. They had sent her to him, after all, under orders to work wtih him. If she didn't trust them at their word, then maybe she wasn't a lost cause. Not just another brainwashed twit fanatic running around in the dark. Her penchance for pointy pieces of exotic wood and literature aside...he really didn't know if all that actually mattered one way or the other when it came to putting a 'wefuke' down. Considering he hadn't believed in actual monsters just a year ago, maybe magic wasn't so ridiculous.
"John Snow doesn't exist. Never did. Far as my parents know, I'm twelve years dead and burried. Watched my own funeral via satelite feed. Two days later, halo-jump into Botswana to put a couple CCD policy-makers six feet under. 14 months ago, my team and I were in Oman. Ran afoul of five Ghul. They killed my team, and I killed them. Atharim found me the next morning."
As with everything else about him, there wasn't much emotion to it all; statement of fact, a bit of give-and-take so she'd hopefully stop trying to prove she had the bigger balls. "I'm getting tired of having to hit you. Get your act together, drop the chip on your shoulder, and calm the fuck down. Catch more flies with honey, as they say. Want me to watch your back, stop making me have to waste all my time watching mine."
He stood up then and moved over to a first-aid kit on one of the counters, pulling his shirt off to expose the shallow cut, using a mirror from the kit to get a better look at it. He could probably skip the stitches. As could be expected, he had a few scars to show off, and an impressive build. Spots on his shoulder and back where the skin had been rubbed raw from his bodyarmor so often that it had scarred over, the occasional cut, probably from shrapnel, but nothing was serious or even all that noteworthy. Apparently just many near-misses. "You start drinking something other then horse piss, maybe we can sit down some time and I'll show you a thing or two. Ice packs in the freezer upstairs. Sun down in two hours, might want to catch a nap."
As she spoke, he nudged over a large metal ammo can, creating a loud bang and rattle, before sitting down on it to stare at her, with her well within his reach. She gave her schpeel as he studiously ignored the bleeding wound in his side. It was shallow, but there would probably be need of a stitch or five; he'd decide once this little problem was dealt with.
So she didn't trust him to be human, was that it? She thought he was some horrible monster. Probably not too far off the mark, by the more conventional concept of monster; he'd done some damningly terrible things in his time. Toppling third-wordl governments was rarely done without some innocent blood being spilt. Some of it by his own hands. Hereditary right to rule was such an annoying, messy thing which lead to entire family trees being cut down, and he wasn't the type to waste time finding the different between in-laws and third cousins.
If she didn't trust that he was human, it meant she didn't trust her higer-ups. They had sent her to him, after all, under orders to work wtih him. If she didn't trust them at their word, then maybe she wasn't a lost cause. Not just another brainwashed twit fanatic running around in the dark. Her penchance for pointy pieces of exotic wood and literature aside...he really didn't know if all that actually mattered one way or the other when it came to putting a 'wefuke' down. Considering he hadn't believed in actual monsters just a year ago, maybe magic wasn't so ridiculous.
"John Snow doesn't exist. Never did. Far as my parents know, I'm twelve years dead and burried. Watched my own funeral via satelite feed. Two days later, halo-jump into Botswana to put a couple CCD policy-makers six feet under. 14 months ago, my team and I were in Oman. Ran afoul of five Ghul. They killed my team, and I killed them. Atharim found me the next morning."
As with everything else about him, there wasn't much emotion to it all; statement of fact, a bit of give-and-take so she'd hopefully stop trying to prove she had the bigger balls. "I'm getting tired of having to hit you. Get your act together, drop the chip on your shoulder, and calm the fuck down. Catch more flies with honey, as they say. Want me to watch your back, stop making me have to waste all my time watching mine."
He stood up then and moved over to a first-aid kit on one of the counters, pulling his shirt off to expose the shallow cut, using a mirror from the kit to get a better look at it. He could probably skip the stitches. As could be expected, he had a few scars to show off, and an impressive build. Spots on his shoulder and back where the skin had been rubbed raw from his bodyarmor so often that it had scarred over, the occasional cut, probably from shrapnel, but nothing was serious or even all that noteworthy. Apparently just many near-misses. "You start drinking something other then horse piss, maybe we can sit down some time and I'll show you a thing or two. Ice packs in the freezer upstairs. Sun down in two hours, might want to catch a nap."