[Barnabas remains silent as he watches him examine the strange contraption. He hasn't a clue how it may work, wholly unfamiliar as it is to him, but there's something...almost nostalgic in watching him. He cannot place it, the feeling is muted and fleeting as it is, with nothing for it to connect to, and so it is smoke on the wind before too long.
As Cid takes aim with it, unfocused as it may be, he does not expect to feel a piercing sensation in his own leg once the trigger is pulled. That didn't make sense, the small cannon as the other man called it was not pointed at him, and yet his legβ
Barnabas' leg nearly buckles from the sudden hit, but he catches himself as he shifts his weight to his other leg, a discontented grunt leaving him as he looks down at the spot struck. There's blood, though the black fabric of his pants makes it hard to see.]
You struck meβhow?
[He scowls, his teeth slightly bared in muted agitation as he brings a hand to the spot. He can feel his body mending itself, that strange regeneration at work. His dark eyes flick to the cut-out of himself, to the bullet hole in its leg at the same spot.
Ah.]
Do not shoot the portrait again.
[Ignoring the mending of his flesh, he walks to the unattended gun, grabbing it, cocking it, and mimicking Cid's hold. He aims it at Cid's own cut-out, considering whether or not to pay him in kind...before he shoots one of the myriad faceless cowboy cut-outs.
cw: bullet wound
As Cid takes aim with it, unfocused as it may be, he does not expect to feel a piercing sensation in his own leg once the trigger is pulled. That didn't make sense, the small cannon as the other man called it was not pointed at him, and yet his legβ
Barnabas' leg nearly buckles from the sudden hit, but he catches himself as he shifts his weight to his other leg, a discontented grunt leaving him as he looks down at the spot struck. There's blood, though the black fabric of his pants makes it hard to see.]
You struck meβhow?
[He scowls, his teeth slightly bared in muted agitation as he brings a hand to the spot. He can feel his body mending itself, that strange regeneration at work. His dark eyes flick to the cut-out of himself, to the bullet hole in its leg at the same spot.
Ah.]
Do not shoot the portrait again.
[Ignoring the mending of his flesh, he walks to the unattended gun, grabbing it, cocking it, and mimicking Cid's hold. He aims it at Cid's own cut-out, considering whether or not to pay him in kind...before he shoots one of the myriad faceless cowboy cut-outs.
Which does nothing. Strange.]