"Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo.
Catch a tiger by it's toe.
If it squeals, let it go..."
From her perch, Hex watched and waited as they moved forward, the force of their takeoff pressing her back in her seat just as much as the grace of self preservation and the intense desire to avoid a rogue bullet to the back of the skull. Interweaving her elongated digits, she stared at each one, the pads covered in the soft dust of the environment and the nails kept worn down by hard use. A checklist was what she wanted. Devoid of any form of recording device, she resorted instead to the children?s game
"Eeny," she spoke lightly, her index finger. The one which she always caressed against the very edge of her blades to make sure they were sharp before she threw them. She began with the man who now sat staring with the eyes of a daemon at the figure bent over the two patients, the one who had before been carrying around a crossbow like a child's toy. He was one to watch, from what she had seen. From his outraged bellows before, it wasn?t hard to realise that he was about as hard to anger as it was to raise the ire of the foundation, and they seemed to have all found out exactly how simple that was. Apparently equally as religious from what she had caught of his mutterings, and like all zealots, that gave her enough reason to avoid him. He was something to be wary of, rather than to fear. That scar he wore, however, was interesting. As much a collector of information as one of prized items, it wouldn?t be long until her curiosity got the better of her and she asked. Bending her finger slightly, the dust forming red-brown lines where it had creased, she crossed him off the list.
"Meeny," The middle finger, one of insult. It suited her next choice. Shaun was what he had called himself, and he irritated her for no damn reason. She wasn't a gravid person at the best of times; however the man had no right to be so cheerful with a bag over his head in the middle of a damn fire fight. Still, he had, by proxy, earned her a way out of the predicament she had found herself in. His eyes, though... He had to have some sort of mutation. Perhaps his tomfoolery was a ruse? Crooking the tip of that finger to follow the first, her gaze traversed the room, skimming the tip of a chipped nail, to the prone figure of the man who had tossed her in here.
"Miney," her ring finger bent down till it rested in the valley between her knuckles, overlapping the threshold where the bandages that coarsely bound her wrists stopped. It was like this where the odd length of her fingers became apparent. She could nearly graze her wrists with the pads of her fingers when she had them intertwined like this, as she often did when in thought. This man, drawing the attention from nearly every pair of eyes in the room, had to be some sort of central figure. Judging from the pool of blood on the floor, and the state of the dressings that even now looked like they needed changing from the bleed through, he wasn't going to live too much longer. Either that or the person who had operated on him in the makeshift infirmary was a genius. This brought her to the final person she had come into contact with so far, the others in the vehicle disregarded simply because up until now, they had ignored her in light of imminent mortality.
"Mo," She murmured, staccato, under her breath, losing the childlike tone as well as the levity in her disposition, clenching both hands into a ball. Eyes steely, she watched him. She had recognised him as threw himself flat on his back, skidding back the few inches on the truck bed so that his face was revealed, however briefly, from under the flimsy strands of char-tipped hair. The Chelsea smile, like a macabre child's doll from the ruins of what was before, mocked her even before it had turned in her direction, a half-remembered figure drawn from a memory of not too long ago. And then the voice, heard on the wind only once before in her memory, served only to drive the hammer to the chisel, shattering the stone that stood in place of her continuing safety. By her grandmother's beard, she wasn't going to find herself alone with him anytime soon. However, the time of need for a pretence of ignorance or fear was a long time over in his case. Speaking in a voice low enough to carry to his ears only, she smirked slightly, returning to her usual childish demeanour.
"How quaint. I could say I'm glad to see you're still alive, but that doesn't stand to truth now, does it?"
If she couldn't be amused by the follies of fate, who could?
