(no subject)

[ineffabilities]

the lyric prompt meme

HOW TO PLAY:

♪ Comment with your characters.
♪ Post to other characters with lyric prompts and, optionally, a picture to go with it.
♪ The lyrics can come from any song you like, or, hell, you can just link some instrumental music as well. Just so long as there's a song.
♪ Threads happen! Tears are shed.

Comments

[cinematiques]

[She really doesn't know if she has it in her. Part of her wants to withdraw into herself, shut everyone else out. Life was simpler when she hid herself away behind a projector, but she doesn't really have that option anymore.

And here's someone who doesn't press her for information, who doesn't give a shit about the questionable things she's done. He's probably done more questionable things anyway, but the handy thing is, she doesn't give a shit either.

Her arms are crossed, a characteristic gesture that is less about being defensive and more about actually defending herself. But her expression is almost amused as she looks up at Blonde.]

I think you're the only American I can actually tolerate. Congratulations.

[gonnabite]

[Vic looks over his shoulder and finds himself looking down at her. Literally. His own characteristic grin crosses his face. It's kind of smile that could mean a lot of things. The kind that looks like it's been cut into his mouth with a razor.]

Tolerate or like?

[In his hand he's tinkering with his revolver. Unloaded, for now. At least maintenance was easy. He pops the chamber out.]

[cinematiques]

[Her mouth twists a little bit, wry, and when she replies it's with a teasing tone in her voice.]

That depends on whom you're asking.

[Her arms uncross, and in her right hand is her Colt Model 1908 Vest Pocket, the one Ada Mimieux had left to her along with Le Gamaar. She keeps it loaded, mostly out of paranoia, but for now she's taken the bullets out of it, and she holds it out to him in the flat of her hand.]

I suppose this is rather an antique to you.

[gonnabite]

[The grin stays, and Blonde chuckles.]

I'm askin' you.

[Then she's showing him someting. He looks down at it and, interested, puts his own Rapture-brand revolver down. He takes the Colt and turns it over carefully in his hands. Examining it. Studying it. He's no idiot around guns, though. He keeps his fingers off the trigger unless there's something he wants to shoot.]

Yeah, but I like antique.

I don't have a choice anymore anyway, do I?

[The smile turns into a smirk and he hands it back with a nod. Showing off their guns was a hell of a way to get to know each other.]

[cinematiques]

[He's got her there, and she shrugs, staying nonchalant.]

We'll see about that.

[She observes him as he observes her gun, sees how small it is in his hands and how cautious he is, even unloaded. When she takes it back, her fingers curl around the heat of his hands absorbed by the gunmetal, before she sets it down next to his.]

I suppose you don't. What is it you shoot normally, then?

[The girl from French cow country would never have had this conversation, but Shoshanna hadn't been that girl for a very, very long time, or so it felt like. When you were hiding in plain sight, things like guns became of interest.]

i'm bsing locale so lemme know if you wanna do something different

[gonnabite]

[Blonde hums in response as he's turning the gun in his hands. Handling guns is the only time he's ever cautious, but he handles it with a professional flair.

After he gives it back to her, he picks up his revolver again again and sits on the bench. A shooting gallery's probably not the quietest place to get to know somebody, but Blonde made sure that the word 'date' never left his mouth. He had a feeling she wouldn't have come if he outright said that's what he had in mind. But he could tell she wasn't stupid, either. So, for once, he's half-assing subtlety.]

Smith & Wesson, 9mm pistol. [Blonde grabs a cloth and starts wiping down his gun. He looks back up at her.] I left it behind before I got zapped here.

nope it's perfect <3

[cinematiques]

[He's right. She isn't stupid, and she knows exactly what he had in mind when he asked her here. But Blonde is interesting when so many people here are straight-up dull, so she decided she didn't mind and came along nicely.

She sits down alongside him, pulls her ammunition out of her pocket. She'd discovered that, despite evidence to the contrary, they did sell the correct cartridges for her pistol here, something that came as a relief. It's a little thing, but it's her gun.

She loads the cartidge in, using the flat of her hand, in a practiced manner that's almost matter-of-fact.]

That's unfortunate. I don't suppose that one measures up to your modern weaponry.

[She's finding it hard not to picture the future—his future—as a place out of a science-fiction movie, with flying cars and all associated paraphernalia. Fifty years into the future is a long time, especially when you've already died.]

great!

[gonnabite]

[Maitenance is second nature to Blonde, and he's already used to the revolver, so he watches Shoshanna with curious eyes as he works.][He shrugs. Even if he had his gun here, he wouldn't be able to get the right ammunition. When in Rome...] But like I said. I don't got a choice, do I?

[cinematiques]

[She quirks an eyebrow. She supposes he's got a point there.]

Not really. [She finishes loading the magazine in, racking the slide of her tiny pistol with ease, and glances over at his revolver. The sight of it makes her laugh, a quiet thing.]

My father used to tell me that all Americans were cowboys, as a joke. You don't strike me as the type, even with the gun.

[gonnabite]

I like cowboys. That count?

[To demonstrate, he shapes his finger into a gun and points at the targets ahead of them. Pshoo.]

[cinematiques]

[That actually gets a laugh out of her, a real one that isn't masked by a layer of bullshit and caution.]

You're no monsieur Wayne, but it'll do.

[And then, she stands and takes up her pistol and mimics his motion, only she actually takes her mark and shoots, and when she lowers her hand, she's pleased to note that she's hit the mark pretty damn near center.]

You may call me Annie Oakley.

[gonnabite]

Monsieur Wayne. [Blonde repeats it with a chuckle. He puts the revolver in his occupied hand down and crosses his arms to watch her. He gives a low whistle.] Well, fuck, Annie Oakley.

[cinematiques]

[Her smile widens, and she leans against the sidewall of the booth they're in, cocking her head toward Blonde expectantly.]

Your turn, then.

[She's not fucking around here. She wants to see what he's made of.]

[gonnabite]

[Blonde only answers with a smirk. He grabs his revolver and slides off the table. Bullets are on the bench in front of the booth. He reloads, then aims with a smooth, quick motion. He takes his own mark, and blam.

His is even closer.]

I like Clint Eastwood better.

[cinematiques]

[She watches closely, the ease with which he handles his gun, the ruthless efficiency of his shot, and the accuracy above all. She looks impressed, but his last remark causes some confusion.]

Not bad. But I have no idea who that is.

[gonnabite]

[He smirks again and puts the revolver down.]

He was the new John Wayne.

[cinematiques]

You don't say.

[She moves to take another shot, brow furrowing slightly as she stares down the barrel of her gun. When she's taken aim, she exhales deeply, squeezing the trigger as she does. This shot lands between the two previous. She'd like to have bested him, but this will do for now. She turns back to him, smiling.]

Is that how it is in the future, then? Is there a new Lilian Harvey, a new Chaplin?

[gonnabite]

Something like that, yeah. No flying cars yet, though.

[He nods at her gun.]

Where'd you learn to shoot?

[cinematiques]

[Dryly] Drat.

[She looks down at the gun in her hand, before setting it back next to his. ]

My friend Marcel taught me, actually. We ran the cinema together.

[Shit. She'd been doing so well not thinking of Marcel, too.]

[gonnabite]

You and Marcel, huh?

[He picks up his gun again. Blam. Bulleye, this time.]

Ooh.

[cinematiques]

[She doesn't bother resisting the urge to roll her eyes at him.]

It was nothing like that.

[It was everything like that, actually. She follows suit, only this time she fires three shots in quick succession, and succeeds in widening his bullseye shot.]

[gonnabite]

Like what?

[Hey lady, you said it. Not him. He jumps back on the bench and watches her shoot. He whistles again, and spins his revolver to show off. Speaking of cowboys.]

I learned how to shoot when I was a kid.

[cinematiques]

Nothing.

[She fires off her last shot, almost as an afterthought, and it sings through the empty center of the target. As she takes out the cartridge to reload, she takes a deep breath. No good losing her temper, especially when Blonde wasn't exactly asking for it. Calmer now, she looks back up at him while she drops bullets into her magazine.]

Who taught you?

[gonnabite]

My brother. [He puts the gun down.] Joe, too.

[He holds up a finger at her.]

Not fuckin' bad, by the way.

[cinematiques]

Who is Joe.

[A bad habit she picked up from living in Paris, phrasing questions as statements, but she's always liked how brusque she sounds doing it. She lifts her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth lift.]

Merci. I've had a bit of practice.

[Especially since the last thing she shot was an actual human being.]