They were certainly self-righteous enough for their roles. Anyone they drew into their little stories and opposed them was suddenly the nefarious Villain to their virtuous Hero-- and bumbling Sidekick, if one was as incompetent as the boy. Tiger was turning her head again, ear towards the house, still quiet and surely, now, listening. This had to be an American thing.
"Where I come from, fighting for something makes you the hero," Tiger's Beautiful Daughter said slowly, Stature's questions still ignored for the self-centered demands they were. Tiger's shoulders incrementally followed the cant of her head, until on arm draped behind her, visible to the dark window that faced the party on the stoop. "I come here and find that the heroes all fight against something. Someone who wants something more is the villain." As much as a fool as the boy seemed to be, that blue light of his was going to be a challenge. Tiger's eye was on him all through her next move; her arm swinging back around with the momentum of the sharp turn of her body, the fan that had hung from her hip cutting through the air as she unfolded it and its sharp blade leveled precisely to slice across Stature's face, followed by Tiger's balletically pointed foot in a smooth continued motion. Simultaneously, the door of the watching house burst open to let forth an unlikely army, all dressed in black from masks to shoes, but obviously the same diverse cross-section of women one might spot at Times Square. Collectively, they followed up the attack on Stature as Tiger's Daughter finished her kick as a step toward the boy.
It happened so quickly, she was poised patiently and waiting for the little hero to react with her hand on her hip again and the fan held before her face as if she might flutter it for a relaxing breeze as the thin rivulet of blood slowly made its way down the curve of the blade.