[the triple barrels trained on reno don't waver, but the eyes sighting down them widen with recognition, if only slightly. there's no mistaking the garish red-dyed hair or whip-thin frame of one of his friends' most uneasy allies. his arms up, a gesture of submission, putting his lack of obvious weapons on easy display, but vincent knows better. he knows what kind of training a turk goes through and how lightning quick this one in particular can be
a beat, then two as he considers, watching him closely. it's the way he gingerly places weight on his injured foot that finally convinces vincent to put the safety on his weapon and slide it back into its holster at his thigh]
Some would say there isn't a difference. [he says it like it's a simple fact, completely devoid of the barb of a veiled insult. another moment of consideration, and he adds equally as matter-of-factly,] ...You're hurt.
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
a beat, then two as he considers, watching him closely. it's the way he gingerly places weight on his injured foot that finally convinces vincent to put the safety on his weapon and slide it back into its holster at his thigh]
Some would say there isn't a difference. [he says it like it's a simple fact, completely devoid of the barb of a veiled insult. another moment of consideration, and he adds equally as matter-of-factly,] ...You're hurt.