Used to be that you could write off any oddly garbed person as one of those anime fans, the sorts that dress up in costumes and throw their money away on little figurines. Nowadays, you had to be a little more discerning about which weirdos you wrote off and which ones you tailed, in case anyone was about to get hurt.
It just so happens that Central City’s got its own convention in town. People aren’t too panicked about Boba Fett storming after Doctor Who, some going so far as to ask for selfies. (Dear God, Eliot feels a migraine pushing at the edges of his skull.)
He’s quick to react when an awestruck teenage girl gets shoved aside by the stormtrooper and breaks her tumble. “Careful. It’s not your fault, that guy’s a jerk.” Eliot makes sure she’s all right before throwing another glance towards the two suspicious figures heading downtown on foot.
Side streets. Eliot ducks through an alley and hastens his pace to a sprint, intending to cut off the bounty hunter.
Soon as he catches up with Shady McShadyfuck, Eliot throws out his hands in a ‘what’s your deal?’ kind of a gesture. The crowd’s thinned out and picking a fight’s not exactly a societal faux pas when you’re lacking in witnesses.
The second Eliot sees the glint of a gun, he throws his elbow up and catches the space marine in the sternum; he goes for the wrist, disarms, and drives another arm across the thug’s side. With a huff, he kicks aside the firearm and mutters, “You, stay down.”
He whips around and lifts two fingers to his eyes, then points them at David Tennant or whoever that guy Hardison worshiped was. “You, I wanna talk to you.” Eliot tosses his head and it’s not a suggestion; the two of them are gonna put some distance between them and the poor sap who’s laid out on the ground.
@tiimedad