Old Steel Reference Library

OOC: Love it . It's so Cockney, guv'ner.

The sudden change in atmosphere left the wounded girl a little shell shocked, from fighting to pleasantries in five seconds. She stared at Topnotch's hand vacantly, allowing her nerves to settle for a moment, before blinking wildly and bringing herself from her reverie. Automatically, she reached into her back pocket to retrieve the FBI badge she always kept so close to hand.

"Agent Helen Jet, FBI," she said, rapidly, placing the badge away as soon as she had opened it. Her eyes lingered over Fake, who was still lying motionless upon the floor. "Did you say he was an agent?"

The close proximity of the strange, alien man caused her to shudder and retreat upon her scarred feet towards the kitchen table. Letting out a pained hiss, a new anger rose towards the two men invading her house. She just wanted them gone, all of them, to let her recover in peace. It'd be at least another month until she could hunt again thanks to all this - the streets could be back to square bloody one. Her harsh, southern Irish accent blasted out through her anger, subtly cooled under the false pretence of 'calm'.
"Yeah, I got you. Just get out him out of my house, please," she muttered, sitting back against the bar stools and nursing her bloodied shoulder. The bullet had shot clean through, leaving a ragged hole just left of her collarbone. From the feel of the wound, nothing major had been hit, but the girl stuffed a piece of her torn t-shirt towards the blood flow, stemming it before it continued.
Now this sudden peace had hit, with the chance to sit down, every inch of her body started to hurt. Betwixt the throws of battle there was little time to notice, but now the pace had lessened reality dawned on her; every limb ached, cuts bled profusely, bruises left horrendous marks. She was a barely walking wreck, but at least she was in better shape than her enemy.

The little hell was finally over.

But, something inside of her - most probably Fear's influence - showed an ounce of remorse for the dying man. He had called Fear his 'Anna', the one person who had ever meant anything to him, the only love he had ever known. It was all nonsense, of course, but Alyss couldn't help the pang of sorrow that hit her as she watched his still chest, broken upon the floor.

Topnotch irritated her in a fashion that Fake could never possibly hope to achieve. It was the falsity, the forced pleasantries that ground at her patience - to be perfectly honest she couldn't wait for the men to leave. Alyss glared towards the mountainous L.A.W. agent and mannered a hollow smile, nodding briefly. Trying to be cheery in the current situation wasn't boding well with her.

"Be seeing yourself out then? You certainly sought your own way in," she smirked, absent-mindedly tightening her grip around her handgun. She wasn't looking for a fight now, just for the men to leave, dead or alive. Didn't matter to her.