As common a response as 'oh shit' was, the more his cognition returned, the more entertaining Trustfall's reaction became. The Wendigo's shoulder joint resocketed itself, crunching aloud and jerking his upper body in such a way that he would have fit perfectly among zombified The Walking Dead extras. James raked human fingernails over his delt to alleviate the itch of healing tissue. Trustfall gawked. The hand still sporting overly articulated fingers and claws raised, cheerily wiggling 'hi there' in the MagLite's beam. Dust motes danced around the wave. Blue static sparked between two large particles. Thunderbirds - had to suck the fun out of everything.
James cut a look of darkened displeasure up at the participation trophy bust throwing a tantrum over her unacknowledged impressiveness. He didn't get what her problem was. He was being perfectly fucking civil. He'd even bowed. With the exception of Angry Bird™, this whole scenario had gone splendidly, weighed against most of his experiences with semi-public shifts. He hadn’t killed anyone, there was only minor property damage, and a still intact carbuncle who by no means deserved to be. In conclusion, he’d been a saint. In a vacuum, he could get away with claiming so. To his readjusting senses, the distant crunch of hay underfoot was loud as a ball of aluminum foil crinkled beside his ear. On Cricket's heels, Birdie resembled a pre-k teacher herding a child who refused to stay put and take a nap. He had enough of a human face to look appropriately baffled when the Oracle, poised, incandescent and salty as the Dea Sea, attempted to put herself between both men as though she, with the body mass of a cardboard cutout, could play bouncer in this electric rave. The flashlight beam illuminated loose hair, haloing her in aureate glow.
"Here." He reached for the hand she offered with receding talons. Unhesitant, what looked like absence of caution was the opposite. A starved mess but almost fully human now, he trusted himself more than he did Gray's Pokémon, and as long as Cricket was standing and searching, she was more likely to be struck by lightning if the bird had another fit. As soon as he had hold of her he'd draw her to a crouch. The hollow sockets through which he watched her redirected, tightened. So it'd be like that now. His molars ground. A muscle in his jaw seized. With a handful of sailcloth loosely bundled mid chest, James groaned as he hauled himself to his feet. Shifts had been easier in his twenties. On the wrong side of thirty, they were a bitch on the joints. Cranking his neck in a series of pops, he stopped beside Quinn. "Thank you." For trying, for wasting a few of her resources, for almost taking a hit and not bolting - the list was too lengthy for the situation, so he nodded stiffly and hoped she'd know he meant it. He’d hacked and spit ingratitude in her clinic over bitter tinctures often enough in the early days of their experimentation that the difference should have been obvious.
"Let me take that." More suggestion than command, he held an upright palm towards Trustfall and the flashlight. "If I leave, it's safer for--" The Wakinyan wailed. A dry cracking like a sun bleached carcass pressed underfoot shook the clearing. Sawdust showered the shooting gallery as the beam supporting the structure bent concave. The bird wouldn't be forgotten, or less than the center of attention. James thought of a sitcom Mom bursting through a bedroom door for the fifth time after grounding her kid: 'and another thing!' "Look. Human." Far enough from the structure that a collapse wouldn't threaten the group, he turned to face the creature. "Not a threat. I'm leaving." Not much would make him happier than turning off the flashlight and eating that thing, if it weren't for company. Exhausted, irritated, but run of the mill human eyes turned back to the Menagerie Manager, his hand still extended for the light.