Her old tricks, so well-known, so used, but they were so ever perfected. So much practice, so much work went into them in the beginning before she figured how to relax and just… let the cards fall, the dice roll… You see that was the thing. Seduction worked better when it was casual, mild, at ease then when it was strained, forced, desperate. How they worked so well, and with so little effort, those tricks of hers… and how horribly they could fail if went about too quickly or too slowly. Surprised her on occasions how gullible others were, or how truly vindictive she could be, how vindictive she ended up. Somewhat disturbing in certain ways of how open others left themselves on so, so many occasions. Too trusting was the good portion of humanity, while the other portion was a touch too… unbelieving, too closed, not open enough. But she didn’t bother with that too long. Depressing thoughts they led to, and life was too colorful to be painted in depressing hues. Besides… no one liked someone who was sad, do they? So cheer up darlings, wipe your tears away, smile. Someone needs you to. Right? That’s what someone use to say. Someone way back when… right? Iris… Iris said that. She missed her… hadn’t seen her in so long, was she still living in that building? All the way over there, in that building on that street in that room? She wondered, and longing stroked her only momentarily as sound engulfed the lady and her company. Smoothing out the wrinkles it was, sitting in the boy’s lap, legs crossed, brawny arms keeping her put as she laughed. A smile on her lips that bore no lipstick today, but were naturally redden, though the smiles seemed not to touch her eyes. This laughing, this smiling. Eyes did twinkle but more in a planned fashion. Willed. But, that didn’t matter. Her company wasn’t paying that much attention as he rested his chin on her shoulder, a grin on his lips as well as he leaned in on occasion, whispering words into her ear, a mixture of perhaps… unconventional things one would say to a girl he hadn’t known for long along with criticism of the young band on the stage that played. Well, tried to play as they experienced difficulty with mikes and amps… not that either youth minded overly so, attention was a little less on the band and a little more on other things. Their conversation was an interesting one and one she didn’t mind being in. How he lied so seamlessly, but so blatantly and make himself comical and witty. Ah, and he was cute, too. The snake bites on his lips alluring by many means though not exactly her thing… She never could find enjoyment in the taste of cold steel when she kissed someone. Too much like tasting bullets, too much like having a pistol in one's mouth. A bit odd, perhaps, for those memories to spark but… Mhmm… never did like having a gun shoved in her face. It wasn’t fun when one’s heart hit the floor, when you realize what’s about to happen and you know, sure as hell, that the fucking idiot is going to fire. And there is absolutely nothing that can compare to watching a finger pull the trigger and hear the click. Her heart pounded so hard, so fast, stopped for so long - oh, oh, oh… Saved by a misfire. A bad bullet. Amazing…

There were many amazing things in the world. Wonderful, beautiful, misleading, but remarkable, still… Life was the basis of those incredible things… Yes, yes, yes… wasn’t life amazing? But how boring on occasion it was, it was… and with so many lives going on at once it was so easily taken for granted. Not that she could say she sought the worth in other’s lives and even her own every day, every moment, every time but… But that was how greed worked. How shortsightedness lived. Fickle were people, were emotions, were all things. Undecided. Love you one moment, hate you the next. Best friends one day, sworn enemies one night. Not that she had rights to anything that criticized the temperamental nature in others… bit too erratic and moody herself. Still… just because she didn’t have a right didn’t mean it’d keep her from something. Never did do well in school, if only because of that. She hated people telling her what to do… what she could do, what she could not. I decide. That had always been her position. ‘I decide’. I decide what I cannot do. I decide what I can do. I decide what I will do. I decide. This is my life. This is my story. This is me, this is mine. I decide. Sad part was, was though this was her life she was not that mighty. She was not as free as she thought she was and even she, the spitfire she was who burned and dealt and fought like hell was not the master of herself. They owned her. Everyone she knew, they took a piece of her with them and commanded that piece. How disgusting it was. But true. She remembered being in the principle’s office. Of listening to him yell and rage. Remember ignoring him entirely and not bothering at all. She remembered the belt as well and the calling of dearest ‘witch-mother’ too. … There was always someone who owned you. Always someone who told you what to do and someone else who could force you to do it. There’s a price for everything… Money can’t buy happiness? … It can buy a lot of things that can cause happiness… And it can buy away all the things that make you unhappy and send them far, far away. Money… money makes the world go ‘round. Money is power. Power is ability to change. If you have power… you decide. “That right? Right after she saw you with me she dumped the bootlicker and tried for him?” She said with the raise of her brow and a curious expression. His arm around her back, hand on her thigh, the rough, dark jean fabric and the smooth flesh that it hid from view what he touched. Gal indifferent as she leaned on him, an arm around his shoulders, her attention on him for the most part and what he had to say, though now and again it flickered else where. Else where, naturally, referring to the stage. They seriously couldn’t figure out the problem, could they? … Wasn’t that hard…

Mhmm… yes. He couldn’t be angry but he was. He had no right to be angry. She had been honest, she told him the truth. It wasn’t her fault that he didn’t believe her and thought something else of his own accord. Nor was it her fault that he fell so easily because of himself. Nor did she force him to tell her anything. He choose to. Same was he choose to ignore her, choose to be angry, choose to believe that something he felt while he was drunk could hold some sort of genuine. But that was so cowardly of her… to push the blame off her shoulders, to simply not care. It’d be like when he parted his secret with her, that the darlings were Cale and Marisol [How terribly odd, the night meant nothing overly much but she recalled their names so very well…], that they were dead and had been and that was their anniversary… It would have been her shrugging that off, not carrying at all, and speaking a simple ‘Oh, my mistake. Tough luck’. It would be cruel and malicious. Intended in every way. It’d be a low blow. But all’s fair. That’s what she always said… right? She could talk herself to victory, talk herself to defeat. Talk her way into things, and out of things just the same. He couldn’t be angry, but he was. He had no right to be angry. The same way she had no right to talk of fickle things when she herself was one of them. But she talked of those fickle things either way and he grew angry… either way. And even if she wasn’t suppose to she could end up feeling mighty guilty. She could, but she choice to remind herself that she had told all there was to tell. Had warned quite distinctly. It wasn’t her fault, he could not blame her. She was truthful, honest, the signs were obvious - why could he not see? Had she needed to pry open his eyes? She was no good, she was bad news. Everyone else knew that, he should take rumors with a pinch of salt, but hell… it was not long before she noticed someone, someone, oh a darling someone was staring at her. Icy eyes biting into her flesh, digging in, snarling. Making wounds and putting lemon juice on them. He was feeling malicious, and she could sense it was directed at her. And as her eyes moseyed over to catch who leered at her so, her concentration wandered with it. Her laughter failing, her smile ceasing. Eyes were looking into other eyes, her peepers not saying much for her. Caught off guard at such a man appearing. Handsome as always, clean, much finer then her norm… But how he glowered, darlings, how he glared… Oh so charmingly brutal it was. Oh darlings, why do you look at me like that? … You look angry. A mind flirted playfully though her head had more or less shunned the trickster in her, the flirt, far to mean was that look. Far, far too mean. How it hollowed out her insides. Had she been looked in this way before? Yes… but…

Before long her companion noticed he was not in the center ring. That the performance he put on no longer was enjoyed and he followed her gaze soon enough, to find the culprit who stole such attention he once had. His gaze unmoving, hardened though, but what could one expect with the girlie on your lap looking at another man, and another man blatantly looking back. Hand stroked her leg, his voice emitting a predictable ‘do you know him’, as he returned the arctic gaze with a rather unfriendly one of his own. It was only then that her eyes flickered away, returning to the boy that a smile slipped onto the fox’s lips. She was sloppy with her acting now, and it was clear a day her smile could do nothing to reassure. Her eyes meeting her current toy, before flickering back to one Stryker. Her smile subdued, before returning again, more convincing as she turned her attention devotedly to the fellow who had her so. Features attractive enough showing pleasantness, her mask of indifferent and pleasure unbroken. “Oh, that question you know the answer to, pet.” She said, her tones warm and soothing. Hiding a slight dilemma. This was just plain odd. Why was he snapping at her so? Murdering her under his stony, unmoving gaze. He was disgusted perhaps that she moved on so quickly, that she was the princess in numerous laps but… why so angry? She hadn’t stolen anything from him. Had not taken his credits, his cash, his wallet. Had not cut him open and taken his kidney or looted his rooms or any sort of thing. She felt as if she was a little child under a stern, stern gaze. Scolded was she being, and it bothered her if only because she was not a child. She didn’t do being scolded. What was he going to do? Take off his belt and whip her a little? How do you know him. Too curious was the boy for his own good. She didn’t reply, instead she rose. Sneakers hitting the floor, the darling speaking a, ‘I have to go’ and, if allowed for things to take her course she would have strolled on, on, and away. But instead the hand that had been around her reached and grabbed, and she was pulled back to her companion a bit more forcefully then she would have liked. Form turning rigid and volatile at his touch, she was smaller in most situations but she wasn’t fond of being pushed around. And surely by now he knew that? She remained tensed as the male stood, arms going loosely around her waist. A metallic kiss her prize though she was awfully sure it was this ‘dominance’ bullshit that came into play as his eyes flickered from her, to the spectator. A smile coming to him, warming his face as he peered down at her, holding her in pause, as he looked at his watch, told her he had to get back to work, but he would see her later.

Would see her later. Always seen later, so long as ‘always’ could be changed to ‘maybe’ or ‘might’. She knew good and well that she would be questioned about Stryker. And she knew good and well that if she had learned anything throughout the time she lived she best decide if she’d live to be passive or active tonight. If she’d care to see the fireworks of pissing off yet another man, or would enjoy to smooth it over. To avoid a bout of yelling and screaming… not that it mattered overly so. She hadn’t met this one too long ago, hadn’t spent that much time with him. But what did time ever matter? It seemed others enjoyed claimed things - time did not matter, nor the ‘position’ the object being claimed was in. He let her go, finally, another look to her, one final glance to him, and then he was off. Away, away, away. Off to work where she didn’t know where and honestly she could care less where he worked or if he worked at all. She wasn’t living with him, and he did not pay her bills. His occupation, or lack of, was of no interest to her. But, nonetheless, nonetheless the girlie turned. Throwing a glance to the darling Stryker [still angry, it seemed] before taking up the plastic cup of beer that had been beside her and her friendly. Her Ramones t-shirt dark as dark is, going about the curves the girlies tended to have mighty well and her boot cut low riding jeans fitting snuggly on her hips, the ends of the which were somewhat frayed, being walked on just so for being a touch too long… The dark metal studs located in both piercing in her ears remained relatively hidden by trademark red hair. Her attire ever common, ever normal though a quote a difference from the dress he had seen before. “Keep looking so mean and you’ll get the babies crying, Mr. Stryker.” she said in well versed notes. Notes that were awfully different from her in her drunken way, but distinctly hers, was this voice, distinctly hers. She threaded her arm through his, tugging him into a walk despite the fact she had a sneaking suspicion her toy from before was either hanging out a bit to see what his darling was doing with the blondie… or that he had someone else doing the task for him. Weird. Seemed like no one trusted her so much anymore. Not that she had a clue why or anything…

… So that was it? It donned a picture, all this fuss. It was like… like… standing on a cliff with someone, promising to jump on three, but someone jumped and someone didn’t…? Someone was at the top looking down as the other fell so soundly into the deep, deep, jagged blue. Oh, that wasn’t fun, nor was it fair or right. Again it was cowardly. But there was no agreement to jump on three. He assumed there was, but there wasn’t. She was right, or so she thought, but that didn’t help matters much, did it? He was right, her conscious was hungry, it turned on her, and turned the more simple things into complex ones. Turning better for worse, it did, but the sad fact if the matter was, was that she was not so drunk as to give in to a conscious so simply. No, she wasn’t about to be hustled into repent. That thing in her head that found her guilty and sentenced her to unrest got her all wrong. She disowned that court long ago, it no longer was the boss of her. It no longer had any say. No longer. No more. Conscious, find some where else to go. This is a big world. Surely somewhere else you can go then my head. Nagging. But the little girl in her head, putting out cleanly what was right and what was wrong did not go away. It enjoyed it’s duty of pestering her, of inverting her perception. It also enjoyed it’s stay in her mind, how cozy it was, and how the little girl relished in bringing pain and memory and anxiety to it’s host. How it loved eating away. A parasite almost. A parasite she’d crack open her own head to get at… how tempting it was. If she could never ever feel guilty her life would be bliss, good, she could ask for little more. Her sworn enemy, ah, how it had so much sway. How it held some of what was her in it’s willingness to fight, confront, and even if it was the smaller hound in the game, brawl and cheat and throw a punch. Cheat. That was the main part of it. The damnable little cheater. “But I won’t make babies cry, Mr. Stryker.” She said simply, tone still even and mild, enjoying, thoroughly, the use of ‘mister’. After all it made things sound a little less personal, a little less close… that and she wanted to see how far she’d go with it, if he’d mind it at all. Mhmm… she doubted he would. Seemed he had other things fluttering about in that lovely mind of his then the use of ‘Sir’ and ‘Mister’. Though she was content to assume that Romeo would only be bothered once she started in one ‘Sire’, ‘Your Grace’, ‘Your Lordship’, and ‘Your Majesty’. Mhmm… maybe she’d try that next.

She offered a gasp, a surprised expression and a devious glitter of her eyes as his words continued. A prick! Aww, now that was awfully mean and uncalled for! “Tisk, tisk, not very nice of you to criticize my friends!” She cooed, but evident was her amusement, and evident was her ‘lacking care’ of what the gentlemen care to call her buddies. He was most likely right in everything he’d choose to say, see. And the truth was a bit too obvious, and her loyalty not too found, for her to bother fighting it. “Nerve? I call it ‘fulfilling a request’. If you didn’t want me over here, you would have kept on walking, bud.” Here her voice became sharper, a touch more steep. Nerve? Psh! Please… She dismissed him just so, he couldn’t argue that point, and if he did, she’d be more then happy to step to oblige. “Mhmm? What…? You against kissing and touching, now? Coulda fooled me, Mr. Stryker.” Playful banter as she, with a charming smile, went about ring around the rosies. She knew what he meant. She just didn’t like what he was saying. She didn’t do being the victim, she could handle herself, she didn’t need him, or anyone else for that matter, coming to her rescue. She wasn’t some Cinderella, wasn’t some Snow-white. She wasn’t in need of a hero, a prince charming to come and kiss it and make it better. She could take car of herself, handle her own, state her position and fight to keep it. Was he saying she couldn’t? If he was that was a dire insult. And that was one hard to forgive, telling her that she was weak - incapable. Pissed her off, yes it did, he didn’t know her, he couldn’t say that. Even if he did know her he couldn’t say that. His saying that didn’t mean he knew at all. She could handle herself. She could. “Your much more pleasant when you drink, baby, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” A little laugh coming from her as she continued to follow him about. Smiling only a touch as he took and drank, almost as if he was in a dire thirst but surely that wasn’t entirely her fault? With her other hand attached to the other arm that was now around his own, she took a sip of her own drink in her own plastic cup. Her eyes wandering about the scene, looking over back to the stage. Heaven help them they were still having issues but the buds from Bloody Spike, after hearing music butchered so for the past half hour, had come over and were trying to set up the amps and all proper like. “So whatcha been doin’, Misssster Stryker?” She inquired, curious to see if he’d be interested, if only slightly, in a decent conversation. Even if it was a horror.

Everything… Everything, everything, everything. All the bad, all the good, all the useless, all the vitals. It might possibly not be too much. But who he was asking it of. Who he was desiring that from. She was use to fighting on her own, you know. Standing her own ground, concerning only about herself. She threw punches to get what she wanted. She struggled for what she desired. She was use to doing things for herself, and only for herself, looking only for her best interest, if only so she know what would be the right thing, the intelligent thing for her to do even if she didn‘t always do that. Self preservation was not as strong as her pride and her personality and her anger and all the other things that tended to take over. But wasn’t that poetic? She didn’t do what was good for her. She did what she believed in. And she did so, so passionately. She threw herself into all she did, she put everything, her all. She tried hard, she fought hard, she didn’t do things halfassed when she cared. She wasn’t a quitter. But that wasn’t so much a good thing. She didn’t quit because she didn’t know when to. Played hard because she didn’t know any other way. Did what she believed in because she had no kind of sense. See, everything could change. Easy to move from this point of view to the next. To make something commendable, foolish, idiotic, senseless. It was easy to do so. So very easy. But, you see, it was easy to talk and to say, to think and theorize. Easy to come up withy ideas but it was not easy to prove them. To make them real and accepted. He was right. She couldn’t prove he wouldn’t have. But she doubted he would’ve. Why would he? … He hadn’t been looking for a bed buddy that night, had he? Or was he, and she simply managed to change his plans? … Wouldn’t that be a bit of an insult? Or maybe she was just not seeing things so clearly. The greatest praise perhaps was not the one received after a fun night under the sheets or a desire to see one the next night and the next. Perhaps he saw something else. Perhaps. But what does he see? Wasn’t that interesting? He saw something she didn’t. What was it? Maybe one day she’d ask. The day she could rest assured he wouldn’t feed her what she wanted to hear, that he would still think her big enough to hear the truth and know that she was decent in calling bullshit when it spouted. That and she wasn't too good with compliments.

The music was finally up and fixed. Playing now, they strummed the guitar and roared the drums. Other guitar coming in to counter, music starting a little rough before evening out. Falling a little short the ever amazing and true 'rock' she noted as she talked soothingly and calmly to her dearest friend. Private was their chat, or her end of it was as she patted down ruffled feathers, fingers gently strumming across his chest. A gal with her harp, she was, playing gentle notes, and doodling the song mighty right and mighty clear. She could keep peace when she wanted. She just didn't want more often then not. Peace was never as thrilling as war, you see. But… to think of it in a different light having the bouncers from the clubs, or better yet the police, come round the corner to settle the argument and all never did fascinate her. The law enforcement never ceased to end all fun and put a damper on the mood. Not that some didn’t look ever snappy and cutsie in their little uniform, looking so hard and so eager to use their little baton to knock those wrong doers into shape. Mhmm, nonetheless after a long moment or so things had finally settled, the volcano had finally went into it’s rather warm slumber and the beastie, the darling man he was, was now stalking off to go change his clothes. Until of course he spotted the other to blokes, charming as they were, chatting among themselves. Having taken up a stand side by side, he didn’t seem amused by this sudden alliance. Or seemingly sudden though he soon caught on, as did the ever… ’eh’ Miss James, that perhaps this simply wasn’t a change duo. Evident was that in a slight narrowing of her eyes, sizing up the two boys and lavishing such a look with a mild scorn. What are you up to? You best not be up to anything. But, to but such a look against more chilling ones she seemed more mocking then anything else. Pleasantness had been found between destinations. Stryker’s expression, though odd as it was, seemed to find a way to work well enough. A warming expression warmed. As temperamental nature and sheer lack of desire to keep up ferocity aided in letting bitterness towards him slip through her figures. It was hard to stay pissed with him it seemed, hard to stay prickly and frosty. But then again, you see, he fitted so neatly into her rather vague standards. One, he was a man, you see, that was always a plus. Men always played much more differently then boys and little girls. Two, his accent darlings, his accent, heaven help but the Foreign boys seemed to know how to make the American girls melt, didn’t they? Three, he had tattoos. Yes, have you they were more… mhmm… they were more memories tacked to his skin, seemingly not very pleasant or in the very least mournful in their description, but… And then there was the fact he was taller then her, that was an evident plus. And his personality, yes, that needed to be marked down. He was still a puzzle, an interest, an amusement. Though, have you, she had yet to decide if she was truly willing to solve this puzzle… ‘had yet to decide’. Mhmm… she had sort of. It was only her head bothering her. There was more to it. She knew there was. But could she pretend there wasn’t?

She gentlemen she had found herself with was moving, now. Towards the other two, haughtiness in his step and clear dislike for both. A purpose bump to Alistair’s shoulder as he went on past. Forceful was the nudge and aggressive and hostile in demeanor. It was only the fact that after taking a few more steps forward, that he managed to trip over a crevice in the sidewalk, that humiliation leaked in. The man jumped up quickly enough, another round of curses and hostilities through. Accusation thrown that he was tripped, and the commotion enough to cause the musicians to pause and many an audience to look blankly at the man’s disruptance of the brilliant day. At this Chris simply mumbled a ‘Graceful, any?’ to herself before taking a seat on a bench. Sipping from her plastic cup, indifference clearly now her stake. She didn’t care to suck ass for long. Really wasn’t her thing. If he was so desperate to pick a fight when he was outnumbered, so the hell be it. Besides curiosity fluttered and blossomed, you know, she had never seen either of the three men duke it out. It would be utterly interesting to watch, at least. If any of them were any good. Or, in the very least she’d get to see a few bitch slaps. Her elbows were on the back of the bench, her legs crossed, her body carelessly positioned but comfort was definitely the thing. She drank readily, kept her eyes on the show and waited, unflinchingly, as the bubba swung at poor Ali’s head. Planning to knock the thing clear off he was, but, Chris had some sort of hope in her that the boy had some sort of reflex and could manage not to have a broken nose so soon in the wondrous game. A wondrous game that would resolve it self soon? Depending on the crowd control might be here in a few minutes… or a few hours. Was the mob feeling fine with the fancy of a brawl?

Stryker seemed to be toying with him. Acting the big man. Ah yes...He had his girlie-girl there now. Not that Alistair was such a whelp to feel upset at this. But it wasn't as if he was a hulk to be directed wherever blondie pleased. Stryker said something to him, and Alistair shrugged with a small grin as if to say 'I try my best'. Not letting too much emotion show on his face, the smile slipped off as he heard very rude things spill from the Metal-mouths pie-hole and couldn't help looking amused. Of course, it was all Alistair fault for the idiot tripping over his own fat feet, and it seemed the man-handler had no intention of taking responsibility. "No no, see, that's not how you walk. You're supposed to stay upright, silly!" He taunted softly, a strange sort of charming menace dripping from his tones. Eyebrows angled nastily, in a scorning manner, he would almost have discounted the beetle as nothing, except for...A whooshing noise rushed in his ears, and his nostrils flared. Finely trained and toned muscles reacted in a state of panic, and deathly calm. Like a cat, he slid out of the way of the punch is Aikido style, bending back and ducking to the left quickly. He couldn't avoid a silly little spin and balancing hand gesture as he did so, it was habit. Releasing the breath, or chi, he hadn't realized he had been holding, Alistair saw Stryker's fist impact on the cheekbone, the filth stumble. A sigh nearly slipped from his mouth. What was it with some people? Why was their naturaly instinct to punch, and not to reason. Now he actually had an enemy. But it would seem ungreatful of him not to say anything. Not that he had the slightest inclination to toy with anybody, now he knew how it felt. Too old to feel humiliated, and not proud enough at the moment to snarl at anybody, Alistair settled for listening, as it was the mid-point of any arguement. Some words were muttered, obviously swears, and Alistair watched the man with an odd expression on his face. It was the expression worn by a person when they are about to sneeze, not sure whether they should laugh because they know it's funny, or whether to keep a straight face because they want to sneeze. The red-head was very fetching, to say the least, but Stryker was there and he had unresolved business. He didn't like to make an exit, something 'memorable'. People tended to think you were actually angling for something if you did. Either you were gay, and fancied the blond, or you were straight and wanted to steal the girl away.

The latter didn't sound too bad, but he reminded himself that in his current position, it would not be advisable to lose the only friend he had just for the sake of a woman's glance. And besides, they seemed very happy together. Okay, well not very happy, but that probably had something to do with their temperaments. He decided to be cordial, as it was the right thing to do. And, call him cliche, Alistair wanted to make people happy and do the right things. Which was why, from her behavior, that this darling ruby would be better suited for his friend. After all, Stryker wanted to make his mark, he was ambitious and strong. And sure, Alistair was all that, but if making his mark meant beating the living shit out of metal-mouth, he could think twice. Oh yeah? Yeah, what of it? I beg to differ. Do you know?! Yes, I do. Why would that be, your mightiness?! Because it's happened in the past, you know... WHAT has?!! You've lost control...You've done what you wanted, not what was right...haha. Name five times! Oh I don't need five...I only need one. To his audience, Alistair's face was impassive, but his eyes flickered, and had they a life of their own, they would be at each other's necks, one red in the face, the other blanched. Don't you dare...I'll dare all I like! Haha! It teased him, the tittering mind, and he wanted to rip it out of his head. STOP! PLEASE, STOP IT! his other voice screamed, agony showing in it's small, mentally-imagined face. LILY! Alistair's clenched fist wavered a little, and his teeth flashed slightly in pent up fury. But he did not start at the man as he went to swing again. His large hand reached out slowly to clasp the other's, calmly and without injury. If he twisted out, Alistair would grab on, his brawny arms large enough to crush this man's head like a melon. If he tried to kick, Alistair would avoid him, a whole list of martial arts moves running through his head. Generally, when tempted, Alistair did not back down from a fight. He would willingly beat the man's pugnacious face in, but now was not the time. The lady would enjoy it too much. Stryker said something about prison, with his sneering little laugh, and Alistair said nothing in return, his almond shaped eyes, flat and unfeeling locked onto the other man's. "Careful, now." were his, again, slightly taunting words. His hand was positioned carefully over the other's, thumb pressing on his tendons, making any move clearly a bad idea.

His little veins would pop, his muscles would rend and his fine bones would snap with a single twist. Wing-chun would be more appropriate, and he gave his male companion a look. A cool, calculating, almost appraising look that delivered the 'It's between me and him' eyes. Not a complicated look, but difficult to get right. It might look like 'Stay out of it, you've made enough of a mess already', but not when Alistair did it. The master of faces, he was. And, luckily the master of emotions. If he hadn't been either, metal-mouth would have two snake-bites embedded in his gums. The guitar played lightly on the wind, and he had half a mind to duck out of the way and run. But it wasn't time for that. Not yet. Time seemed to stop as his mind attacked him again. This is what got you in trouble LAST time! Was it? You never act when you should! Dammit, you're unbearable! Oh...Was that it? You're so slow...I can't stand it. It was time this was finished, his mouth curled up into something barely recognizable as a human expression. A sneering smirk of malicious proportions. Justice. Would. Be. Served. If he was, as Alistair thought, unfortunate in his training, the swift hand gesture that was driven first into his gut, then the fist into the soft part under his chin would impact magnificently. If he was down, then the large, lean man would flex his hand, crack a wonky, out-of-socket finger bag into place and walk. Walk to the bench and sit, his guitar twanging against the wood and metal. Looking to the woman, he grinned in a wild fashion. "He tripped, yeah? Thick, handsome accent rolling off the tongue, the Richards part of London had a beautiful accent. Shared by those handsome actors that the ladies drool after. He was, by far, more handsome.