[ It's complete chance that Wash glances up from the body he's just dropped at the perfect time to watch himself round the corner. For the first second, it doesn't register. The next second, he freezes up.
Fuck. What's going on? He has to take a moment to sort things out because the only times he sees shit like this is in his nightmares or (the much rarer occurrences these days) hallucinations. Things seem normal, though. His head feels like it's on straight, like it has the grasp on reality that's... Well, as strong as it ever is right now, and he can feel the sharp pain in his torso from his busted rib. This can't be a dream. Can't be him seeing things.
There is actually someone at the end of the hallway. In his armor. Greeting him with the raise of a hand.
Emotions almost constantly on the edge of anger these days, the worry that this is somehow all in his head pushing him over that edge, the realization that some asshole has the audacity to have a set of his armor and be wearing it around the ship? That makes it boil over.
Wash doesn't lower his rifle. He barely minds the Caducan bodies littering the floor as he steps over them, approaching the figure at the end of the hall. His body language shows his emotions clearly: his grip is tight on his gun, his movements sharp and fast, and his body is drawn up as though to make himself look bigger, perhaps more intimidating. ]
Where did you get that?!
[ There's a gesture of his rifle to the suit of armour the other is wearing. This is far from the ideal time to be confronting someone about something like this, but his rage may be blinding him just a bit to the situation at hand. ]
no subject
Fuck. What's going on? He has to take a moment to sort things out because the only times he sees shit like this is in his nightmares or (the much rarer occurrences these days) hallucinations. Things seem normal, though. His head feels like it's on straight, like it has the grasp on reality that's... Well, as strong as it ever is right now, and he can feel the sharp pain in his torso from his busted rib. This can't be a dream. Can't be him seeing things.
There is actually someone at the end of the hallway. In his armor. Greeting him with the raise of a hand.
Emotions almost constantly on the edge of anger these days, the worry that this is somehow all in his head pushing him over that edge, the realization that some asshole has the audacity to have a set of his armor and be wearing it around the ship? That makes it boil over.
Wash doesn't lower his rifle. He barely minds the Caducan bodies littering the floor as he steps over them, approaching the figure at the end of the hall. His body language shows his emotions clearly: his grip is tight on his gun, his movements sharp and fast, and his body is drawn up as though to make himself look bigger, perhaps more intimidating. ]
Where did you get that?!
[ There's a gesture of his rifle to the suit of armour the other is wearing. This is far from the ideal time to be confronting someone about something like this, but his rage may be blinding him just a bit to the situation at hand. ]
Who the hell are you?