MMF

The man in the black trenchcoat waited and watched. It was mostly talk. His eyes flickered from conversation to conversation, almost as if he were too bored to care about any one of them in particular. But his ears were sharp, and he had a mind that could focus on the small details and stay there.

It was something you learned like an actor's part. To say everything in a single look. Not to talk. Talking was reserved for special people. Talking would open you up. You had to listen so that you could arm yourself with their mistakes. It was like a filing cabinet. You had to catalogue and review and catalogue again.

He hadn't practiced for a while. It was taking him conscious effort to perform.

His gaze settled on the silver-haired girl who had almost punched him through a wall. The filing commenced.

Lucille. Two minutes ago, she had shown considerable attachment to a certain momento, something of great significance to her.

Weapon number one: the necklace.

A few seconds later, she had broken one finger in response to non-hostile, friendly contact.

Weapon number two: aversion to touch. Disgusted, physical reaction.

As an emotional outburst, it matched up to her earlier display of violence.

Weapon number three: Inability to control primal impulses.

He had already assessed the girl as a considerable threat. He had made his loyalties clear to her in no uncertain terms. In future conflict, he had planned to meet her violence head-on like a steel wall.

He made a slight adjustment to the plan.