No. No. Don’t— shh. Stop.
Over the music, Atlas somehow still hears a slow thud upon watching Todd’s body meet the bar floor. He’s seemingly taken by surprise — but the ever-present glaze over his eyes shows no higher level of shock than the brunette’s jaw hanging wide open at the scene in front of her. Without further deliberation or much rational thought, the Albanian lets out her loudest Spartan cry before charging across the length of the table and practically leaping onto her new target’s back. Fists are flying, and angry grunts leave pink lips as she now goes to blindly yank on some hair — oh wait. Hands awkwardly ghost over a polished head for a beat. She’s never fought a bald person before. Dammit, Atlas. Grab something, fast! Her fishnet knees secure themselves at her prey’s sides, arms instinctively looping around his neck into a chokehold. Now, in other circumstances, the move would’ve worked its magic just seconds in. But also in all said circumstances, she’d never had to face an opponent nearly twice her size before. Forearms begin to wrangle wildly around the man’s tree stump of a neck as she’s noticed he’s finally grasped the situation. Hulk hands begin to pry at skinny wrists, and the girl realizes there isn’t much time before he’d fling her off like some battered rag doll. It only takes a few tries before he finally has the common sense to reach up towards her face. An open palm swings higher up, and thick, nicotine-scented digits graze locks of her hair. Eyes fly wide at the attempt as she ducks left. Close one. Her gaze desperately darts around the reachable vicinity for something… anything! Dark hues through stray raven locks ultimately land on her poor fellow band member, who was just starting to recollect himself off the dirty floor. Had her tresses been any longer, and she’d looked like she just climbed out of a well. An upright palm pleadingly reaches out in his direction, as thick brows knit closer in anticipation. “Todd, quick! Beer me!”
What Todd can clearly tell from behind the somewhat fuzzy vision and ringing in his ears is that there’s some sort of a brawl going on right there. And boy, let me tell you, that does not make him excited, at all. He takes his time, spends some good seconds, maybe minutes, on the floor, curled up in a ball, like a terrified child, like someone who just got fucking knocked out, almost, and had to work on pulling himself back together. The blood is wiped from his face with a sleeve of the jacket. Looks ominous, will probably take a while to wash out. He looks down at his hands. His shaky, shaky hands that look almost pitiful with these new stains of crimson all over them. It takes a moment for him to realize what’s going on.
The surroundings are unbelievable. The world has gone mad! He gets to his feet, confused, but in a way eager to help out. He does not want the girl to get a beating, that is the worst case scenario, he believes. Her words don’t affect him until later. As if in utter trance, he reaches for a bottle, snatches it off the nearest table and in what seems utter panic smashes it on the attacker’s head. Glass and ale; that’s what the poor staff will have to clean up tonight. He registers a sharp gasp of some sort. Then, a scream. And then, he’s grabbed by the shoulder. In haze, he watches as another man raises his fist; this huge, made-for-knockouts fist that hits him straight in the jaw.
