Her answer isn't what he's expecting, and his eyes narrow a little as he tilts his head slightly and considers her, weighing up his options. Instinct demands that care be taken here. She doesn't look like much of a threat at a glance, but then neither does he really; even if the shotgun is the only weapon she had, unarmed doesn't mean not dangerous. He may not know who she is or what she's capable of, but he knows that the thought of turning his undefended back on her makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. If he does go for this, it's going to have to be a quick in and out.
On balance that's still a win, if there aren't any nasty surprises coming. He'd wanted to get a better look at the craft itself, maybe see if there was any tech worth cannibalizing, but odds are there's nothing worth having on it anyway. Coming away from this with enough food and ammo to see him through to the next city on the road is already a better result than he'd expected out of today when he woke up this morning. If he can manage to navigate the next ten minutes without getting shot at, yeah, he's prepared to call that a win and quit while he's ahead. If nothing else at least all this is a bit elaborate for a deliberately staged trap.
"...okay," he says eventually, taking another cautious step out away from the cover of the trees. He doesn't have the first idea why the fuck she'd wanna waste time making dead meat comfortable, but he's not gonna argue. He assumes it's part of all that real people shit Quill still hasn't quite managed to convince him isn't so alien after all. Either way, it's not his problem.
He keeps his eyes on her all the way to the hatch. His fingers itch to wrap around his pistol, but he pushes down the useless urge; shotgun beats pistol at this range, and he couldn't draw the rifle fast enough for it to make a difference. Much as he normally loves escalating the situation, there's a time and a place. He's not getting into any fights he doesn't have to unless he's damn sure he'll win. Nothing's more important than making it back to the Milano.
The interior of the craft is about as much of a mess as he'd expected to find after a crash like that, the cargo strewn everywhere in and around dead bodies. He can't help but give the bodies a cautious second glance to make sure they don't look like they're thinking about getting up again, but on the whole he's definitely breathing a little easier with some sturdy metal walls between him and his new friend. He watches the hatch carefully as he swings his battered rucksack off his shoulders and sets about efficiently filling it with food and ammo. There's medical supplies rolling around too; after a moment's thought he grabs a basic medkit and tucks it away at the bottom of the bag. With any luck it'll be unnecessary, but he'd sure as hell rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.
He has a quick glance at the console. That's about all it takes to confirm that there's nothing there he can use.
The newly refilled bag settled back across his shoulders, he rests his fingers lightly against the pistol at his hip as he leans warily out of the hatch to assess whether or not she's about to attempt to kill him. It looks like a cautiously optimistic no as things stand, and he lets his hand fall again as he moves carefully out and back toward the trees. "Well, it's been fun," he says, some of the tension easing back out of him as he reaches the cover of a broad tree trunk. "See ya n--"
A twig snaps somewhere behind him and he cuts off mid-word, drawing and raising his pistol in one fluid motion as he spins to face the source of the noise. And then, carried on the breeze, comes the all too familiar putrid odor of rotting flesh, accompanied by a groan of mindless hunger. "Fuck," he mutters, low and heartfelt, backing up a couple of steps toward the downed aircraft.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-11-22 01:17 am (UTC)On balance that's still a win, if there aren't any nasty surprises coming. He'd wanted to get a better look at the craft itself, maybe see if there was any tech worth cannibalizing, but odds are there's nothing worth having on it anyway. Coming away from this with enough food and ammo to see him through to the next city on the road is already a better result than he'd expected out of today when he woke up this morning. If he can manage to navigate the next ten minutes without getting shot at, yeah, he's prepared to call that a win and quit while he's ahead. If nothing else at least all this is a bit elaborate for a deliberately staged trap.
"...okay," he says eventually, taking another cautious step out away from the cover of the trees. He doesn't have the first idea why the fuck she'd wanna waste time making dead meat comfortable, but he's not gonna argue. He assumes it's part of all that real people shit Quill still hasn't quite managed to convince him isn't so alien after all. Either way, it's not his problem.
He keeps his eyes on her all the way to the hatch. His fingers itch to wrap around his pistol, but he pushes down the useless urge; shotgun beats pistol at this range, and he couldn't draw the rifle fast enough for it to make a difference. Much as he normally loves escalating the situation, there's a time and a place. He's not getting into any fights he doesn't have to unless he's damn sure he'll win. Nothing's more important than making it back to the Milano.
The interior of the craft is about as much of a mess as he'd expected to find after a crash like that, the cargo strewn everywhere in and around dead bodies. He can't help but give the bodies a cautious second glance to make sure they don't look like they're thinking about getting up again, but on the whole he's definitely breathing a little easier with some sturdy metal walls between him and his new friend. He watches the hatch carefully as he swings his battered rucksack off his shoulders and sets about efficiently filling it with food and ammo. There's medical supplies rolling around too; after a moment's thought he grabs a basic medkit and tucks it away at the bottom of the bag. With any luck it'll be unnecessary, but he'd sure as hell rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.
He has a quick glance at the console. That's about all it takes to confirm that there's nothing there he can use.
The newly refilled bag settled back across his shoulders, he rests his fingers lightly against the pistol at his hip as he leans warily out of the hatch to assess whether or not she's about to attempt to kill him. It looks like a cautiously optimistic no as things stand, and he lets his hand fall again as he moves carefully out and back toward the trees. "Well, it's been fun," he says, some of the tension easing back out of him as he reaches the cover of a broad tree trunk. "See ya n--"
A twig snaps somewhere behind him and he cuts off mid-word, drawing and raising his pistol in one fluid motion as he spins to face the source of the noise. And then, carried on the breeze, comes the all too familiar putrid odor of rotting flesh, accompanied by a groan of mindless hunger. "Fuck," he mutters, low and heartfelt, backing up a couple of steps toward the downed aircraft.