[ Shirasu is heading back to his apartment when the tail end of the robot flood surges past him, making a racket. Damn things, more often than not a total nuisance--
It isn't the white hair of their target that catches his attention. He's met more than a few people here with such coloring. It's not even the weapon the man wields. It's the speed. The efficient, clean movements and the utter dispassion with which he attacks that set Shirasu's own feet in motion, running toward the melee even while his mind is denying it's even possible--
Another Fuuma, perhaps. Or a trick this place is playing on him.
"Give it back."
Shirasu stumbles to a stop, staring at the man's bandaged back as he faces down some hapless civilian; at the curling white ponytail, and he can't breathe. ]
phase ? (with a tiny tweak)
It isn't the white hair of their target that catches his attention. He's met more than a few people here with such coloring. It's not even the weapon the man wields. It's the speed. The efficient, clean movements and the utter dispassion with which he attacks that set Shirasu's own feet in motion, running toward the melee even while his mind is denying it's even possible--
Another Fuuma, perhaps. Or a trick this place is playing on him.
"Give it back."
Shirasu stumbles to a stop, staring at the man's bandaged back as he faces down some hapless civilian; at the curling white ponytail, and he can't breathe. ]
... [ His throat works but nothing comes out. ]