Kennedy and OPEN
Usually, Kennedy liked to hang out a bit after the cirque closed, grab a snack and a drink and just shoot the shit with whoever wanted to wind down the same way; other times she went straight to her trailer for a long shower and some snuggie and Netflix time. Tonight was one of the nights where she still had that itch, that energy through her that wouldn't be satisfied until grounded with a shot or two and maybe a warm, willing body to go home with. She'd been strolling down the midway in search of food or companionship (or both), when everything exploded into chaos.
If someone were to ask her afterwards what happened, she wasn't sure she'd be able to give a clear answer. Screaming, then the sound of guns? Or guns and then screaming? Or both at the same time. Probably both. And in the resulting stampede towards safety, she was knocked out of the herd, hands and knees scraping the ground as she fell and drew attention to herself. She looked up into a black barrel, acrid with the scent of gunpowder and heat, and then she moved. She didn't shift; a lifetime of hiding kept her from exposing her real form, but the speed was inhuman as she twisted, throwing herself to the side and forward. She could feel her fangs descend, normally tucked so neatly away, and without needing to so much as pause and aim, struck the exposed forearm and bit hard.
She let go as soon as she felt the venom release; it didn't take much. In the next second, her years of self-defense kicked in and she disarmed the man, taking the gun and shoving it in her waistband at the small of her back. Shoving him away and trusting her venom to do its work, she ducked into the shadows between two tents.