mudgutsnoglory
She holds her ground as the blue-masked man hopped off his bike and approached. She’d gotten this far by not showing fear, and it was too late for prayers now. So she meets his eyes as he prances into her personal space, the M16 slung over his shoulder- he’s not the only one with a carbine, either -swaying with his motion as he walked a circle around her. He stops beside her and leans up into her face, intensely gleeful suspicion in his eyes.
“Whatchya got for us?”
Ain’t got nothin’. But she holds her tongue like her ground and replies. “Passin’ through. Got nothin’.”
She fights to keep her hands from twitching toward her boot-knife. She could probably get him before he got her, but the rest of them... The smell of feral and rabid rolls off of him, not a smell but a feeling, really.
No fear.