“You sure you don’t wanna fuck me? I feel bad - you really stuck your neck out for me.” The redhead spoke from across the hastily repaired dinner-table. Across from her, Logan had undressed his coat to wear only his black undershirt, pants and, of course, the mask. Ethel had been amazed to see how many weapons that coat could fit - she had counted at least thirty, but she’d confessed it was hard to know what counted as ammunition and what was a standalone weapon.
The guns on the inner side of his lower arms were a given - those frightening, black beasts were a thing of legend, as were the two swords on his right hip. But the many packs and pellets strapped to his chest were a mystery to her; a puzzle for her to explore, should she only succeed in bagging this mysterious stranger.
He chuckled and looked up from the pistol in his hand, sliding the magazine out to verify that he now only had one bullet left in his right gun.
“I’ve always had a soft spot for red hair, you know. But no- it wouldn’t be right. Believe it or not, I’m a bit of a romantic.” She leaned over her bowl of mushroom stew and rested her hand on her palm, careful to plop her bosom onto the table. With the cheekiest smile she could muster, she answered: “And I’ve got a soft spot for emotionally unavailable warriors. I can see it now - it’s a masterpiece of a book, they’d sell our story from the caravans.”
He scoffed a laugh and chambered a round before returning the gun to his right holster, still saddened by the lightness of his weapon.
“You’d think so, but I’ve heard there’s two things women don’t like in bed. Socks… and masks.” He pointed to his feet and his face in turn, only for her to lick her lips and wink at her visitor.
“Really? I’d let you wear all of it. In fact, just thinking about it made my soft spot wet.” It had been some time since someone had attempted to court him - especially after hearing how he never removed the mask. As honored as he was at her interest, he declined her with a raised palm and looked down at his bowl of stew with hungry delight.
“Sorry, darling. I’m not sure if I could leave this town if I indulged in you.” She could tell that she was not getting anywhere, but it was in no part her fault. She knew men - she had known men for as long as she’d been able to. This one was different, but she’d heard it before - that distant melancholy to his voice, as if incapable of moving past ancient history. Sighing, she accepted her loss and instead set her mind on at least feeding her savior.
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“You haven’t touched your stew. It ain’t much, but I’ve gotten good feedback. C’mon, have a taste.” She could feel his hunger as he looked down at the bowl, yet he did not touch his spoon.
“I’m fine, I had a big lunch. It’s not right you share your food with me - please, have it.” He attempted to push it towards her, only to find her hand gently lay down atop his black glove.
With a kindly smile, she spoke a soft: “You don’t eat in front of people, do you? That’s why you waited for me to fall asleep before you ate last night.”
His hand froze and he seemed taken aback, as if she had stolen away one of his many secrets. Sensing this disruption, she winked once more. “It’s fine. I’ll turn around… but really, I’m sure what you’ve got under there ain’t as bad as you make it.”
He laughed as she turned around to face the door and a moment’s hesitation sounded before she heard the rasp of the spoon against the table, followed shortly by taps of metal on metal.
“You’re an interesting woman, Ethel. You’ve got a good eye.” Playfully, she spoke into her own bowl. “Good enough to be whisked away and trained as a Ghast, maybe?”
He found it odd that so many wished to join the ranks, but soon landed on it likely being provoked by some heavy exposure to the peri-Purge propaganda that had circulated its way to the boys.
“Not at all - you’d be a terrible Ghast. You’re far too kind.” To that, she giggled a girlish laugh. “Really? What makes you say that?” The sounds of his hurried eating sounded from behind her as he processed the thoughts. “You just let me aim a gun at you and you’ve already forgotten it.” This almost made her turn around, but having made her promise, she thought the better of it. Instead, she spoke towards the door: “You aimed a gun at him. He seems to have forgotten about it.”
The spoon clattered to the metal shortly before he spoke a dire prediction that made her stomach churn with unnerve. “Oh, he hasn’t forgotten - trust me. The question isn’t if he’ll strike, it’s when.” Her mouth dried up in an instant as a palpitation struck her chest like a fist.
By the sound of his muffled voice, he had donned his mask again when he stood up to promise: “It’ll be a sight to remember.”