With the man fully out from behind the tree, Natasha can assess him more fully. He could do with a hot shower and a shave, but underneath the scruff and the layer of grime he's more attractive than average. Probably part of why he's still alive. These days, who lives and who dies is a little bit of a lottery, but after luck has had its say, it comes down to skill and charm and wit. Human beings are stupid creatures sometimes, they put their trust in pretty features. Trustworthy, a face like that says. The soft lines around his mouths and eyes spell out c-h-a-r-m-i-n-g. She's willing to bet trades go his way more often than not, and that strangers hesitate to put a bullet between his eyes. She's not judging here, she skates by on much the same things. Of course, he is less likely to be pushed down into the dirt by someone intent to have a piece of him, but that's neither here nor there.
The shotgun won't do Natasha much good at this distance; she sets it down as a sign of good faith, propping it up against the side of the jet. Any other time, she'd have a second to spare to the deep scratches in the side-panelling. Her fingertips brush along the worst of it -- they can't afford to lose another quinjet -- but her eyes never leave the man.
Rifle-man. That's as good a name as any. If he wanted to shoot her, Natasha would be dead already. So either he has no bullets in his gun, he doesn't want the extra noise to excite their coming company further, or he has need of her alive. What need that might be, she can only speculate. She opens her hands wide, showing him her empty palms. Look. Unarmed. (But for the heavy weight of the gun fitted against the small of her back, that is.) The motion tugs at her sprained wrist, and she rolls it lightly, trying to soften aching muscles.
The plan was; assess the situation; drag out the bodies (she'd bury them, but the zombies are relentless diggers, and she doesn't even have a shovel, either way they're getting eaten so she might as well save her back); give the radio a good solid try; pack as much as she can carry; set the quinjet to stealth mode with a beacon lit; and bug out. His presence complicates that.
Natasha's gaze flickers from his boots up to mouth holding that promise of a smile. There's something familiar about his eyes, but whatever it is keeps slipping away whenever she thinks about it. She could kill him. But she's already injured. The pilot's seat protected her, but she's still plenty banged up. Another fight and she might not be walking quick enough to make it to town before nightfall. She feels naked out here in the open with no vehicle to take her quick and safe where she needs to go.
"How about you grab what you need and take off? I still have work here. I gotta bury my dead."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-11-21 11:58 pm (UTC)The shotgun won't do Natasha much good at this distance; she sets it down as a sign of good faith, propping it up against the side of the jet. Any other time, she'd have a second to spare to the deep scratches in the side-panelling. Her fingertips brush along the worst of it -- they can't afford to lose another quinjet -- but her eyes never leave the man.
Rifle-man. That's as good a name as any. If he wanted to shoot her, Natasha would be dead already. So either he has no bullets in his gun, he doesn't want the extra noise to excite their coming company further, or he has need of her alive. What need that might be, she can only speculate. She opens her hands wide, showing him her empty palms. Look. Unarmed. (But for the heavy weight of the gun fitted against the small of her back, that is.) The motion tugs at her sprained wrist, and she rolls it lightly, trying to soften aching muscles.
The plan was; assess the situation; drag out the bodies (she'd bury them, but the zombies are relentless diggers, and she doesn't even have a shovel, either way they're getting eaten so she might as well save her back); give the radio a good solid try; pack as much as she can carry; set the quinjet to stealth mode with a beacon lit; and bug out. His presence complicates that.
Natasha's gaze flickers from his boots up to mouth holding that promise of a smile. There's something familiar about his eyes, but whatever it is keeps slipping away whenever she thinks about it. She could kill him. But she's already injured. The pilot's seat protected her, but she's still plenty banged up. Another fight and she might not be walking quick enough to make it to town before nightfall. She feels naked out here in the open with no vehicle to take her quick and safe where she needs to go.
"How about you grab what you need and take off? I still have work here. I gotta bury my dead."