Letha & Stacey & Marco
Letha hadn't responded well to being grabbed, at least for the first moment or so – her immediate reaction had been to try to jerk away, in fact. But Stacey was much stronger, a more durable creature than the witch, and she found herself hauled along at a more upright run toward the dubious safety of a tent. What she wouldn't have given to have found herself in the Ice Garden or the Mirror Labyrinth, rather than the still darkness of the Puppeteer's tent.
"I was running," she huffed, somewhat indignantly, before turning back toward the entrance to the tent. Instead of stupidly stomping off, though, she slipped only close enough to peer out for a moment, searching for familiar faces among the chaos. She recognized a couple of customers that she had done readings for earlier in the evening, one of whom was now sporting a nasty gash on their forehead.
But no Marco. Out of the line of fire, her anxiety for him spiked. What if he had been hurt? He was always the sort to go rushing toward danger; part of his first-responder nature, of course. But she couldn't stay there to look for him; Letha slipped back into the shadows of the tent even as heavy boots approached, holding her breath and shooting a glance at Stacey.
She wasn't especially comforting as a presence, splattered as she was with the arterial spray from the gunman she had killed, but she was better than nothing. At least Letha didn't think that whoever burst into the tent with them would be getting too far. Marco's voice brought her a surge of relief, and before he finished calling her name a second time she had run to meet him, her arms going around him, her face buried in the curve of his neck. "Are you okay? What the hell is happening?!"