"What can I say? I like fireworks."
As if to acknowledge the terrible quality of his joke, the Midknighter's face remained impassive, nothing but his mouth moving, and even so, infinitesimally, as if the effort was beyond him.
"So that was a friend of yours, then? What's her name? Where does her family live? Any pets?"
He blinked, form statuesque. The twisted nature of his gravelly, ice cold words permeated the rising air between them and the pools of black beneath both eyes appeared to darken.
"I really hope this isn't going to be one of those scenarios where you decide that you've finally had enough and come at me, because that will end bad for everybody. Of course, I'm not suggesting there won't be a time for blood and guts, but I've always been more comfortable with talking first. I'm quite the talker. My wife, she hated it. Funnily enough, when I was slicing pieces of her body off, she couldn't stop! And she had a shrill voice." The Midknighter leaned forwards a fraction and slowly brought one palm up, gently tapping his forehead with one hand in a mock face-palm, unblinkingly boring his eyes into those of the crouched Anya's. "What am I doing, we've already discussed my dear ex-lover, haven't we? Yes. Although I recall being interrupted halfway through our visit by that blonde companion of yours.That..." His soulless irises managed to grow colder and the effect it reaped upon the atmosphere was almost enough to combat the steadily incoming flames. "...Was very, very rude."
Outside, more gunfire ensued and one could only assume more of the Clown Prince Crusader's men had arrived at the disaster-struck venue. Without so much as acknowledging the terrified cries of the men and women who had hoped they might survive the shrapnel through their fallen bodies, he sat back in his chair, brushing a stray lock of ragged green hair out of his face with slow, disinterested movement.
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