"If I did, it wouldn't be any of your business." The truth is, Len is looking for food he can eat on the literal run. No preparation. No plates. No utensils. He doesn't have the luxury of using the kitchen to heat food up, or keep it from spoiling.
Chronos is a scary bastard, but beneath the armor, he's still Mick, and there's no place Mick loves more than a kitchen. Furnace aside. The man eats for an army.
He glances back over his shoulder, gloved hand on one denim-clad hip. Easy access to his weapon should the need arise. Prepared not to give a singular fuck about the douchebag raining on his buffet. To ignore them, or properly intimidate the shit out of them. He could use an outlet for his anger, not to mention his hanger.
Then he sees him.
Tall. Masked. Burned.
Len reacts on auto-pilot. Faster than he can think to stop himself. In one smooth movement he whips his gun out of its holster, spins on his heel, and takes a shot at the person embodying his fear, anxiety, and regret. Lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl.
The ice comes fast, and it comes cold, freezing everything in its path. Taking a full-body hit means certain death for most people. A partial is serious frostbite, hypothermia, and the potential for shattering limbs.
How his trigger-discipline held strong through animal survival instinct, so the blast is only at half-power instead of full, is something only his black little heart could explain.
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Chronos is a scary bastard, but beneath the armor, he's still Mick, and there's no place Mick loves more than a kitchen. Furnace aside. The man eats for an army.
He glances back over his shoulder, gloved hand on one denim-clad hip. Easy access to his weapon should the need arise. Prepared not to give a singular fuck about the douchebag raining on his buffet. To ignore them, or properly intimidate the shit out of them. He could use an outlet for his anger, not to mention his hanger.
Then he sees him.
Tall. Masked. Burned.
Len reacts on auto-pilot. Faster than he can think to stop himself. In one smooth movement he whips his gun out of its holster, spins on his heel, and takes a shot at the person embodying his fear, anxiety, and regret. Lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl.
The ice comes fast, and it comes cold, freezing everything in its path. Taking a full-body hit means certain death for most people. A partial is serious frostbite, hypothermia, and the potential for shattering limbs.
How his trigger-discipline held strong through animal survival instinct, so the blast is only at half-power instead of full, is something only his black little heart could explain.