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There were many ways in which his current actions checked off boxes for stupidity, albeit mildly cushioned by the timeframe in which he was executing them. It had been precisely fourteen minutes and seventeen seconds since he'd witnessed the end of the unusual assault on the video cameras of the mall according to his digital wrist-watch, which gave the two involved parties plenty of time to disappear.
He'd stopped trying to make sense of the motions he'd seen - they'd effortlessly violated the physics he'd been taught in school, there was no use trying to make them work or endlessly worry about that he couldn't - but he accepted, mutely, that his gun would make no difference. It didn't protect him. It wouldn't help him save the victim - especially not now that he'd left it so late. But however he spun it, it felt better than staying in place.
He was still trying to work out whether he should shoot anyone approaching the breached front foor without waiting to be seen in the shadows, or shoot past them in some strange test of regular humanity, or ask questions first, but none of the options really satisfied him. The central one seemed appealing, but what did he expect the reaction that would differentiate people from what he'd seen to be? There might be a subtle distinction, but that would only help him in a scenario where he came across a regular human being. In the other, it would just make him more of a target.
The splinters of glass at the entrance disappointingly tell him nothing - he hasn't spontaneously become a gifted detective. Left to himself, he wouldn't even be able to begin to guess the direction in which the forces in question would have acted on the thick glass. None of this makes any sense - including his being here, looking for signs as to where the two fellows might have disappeared to, cherry-picking his reality and neatly and with practised ease quelling any urge to panic.
His first reaction to two figures registering as a hint of motion across the street is to whip his pistol up and aim it in that direction - a steady grip, a careful aim, there was no use in being premature about firing the weapon if it wasn't going to meet its target. All quite commendable. His breath is steady, his thought processes clear. Then the fantasy morphs into a deep grimace, weapon dropping, letting himself be guided by instinct. There wasn't much of an alternative left to him, given he'd opted out of rationally addressing the problem. He exhales his frustration - then he's calling across: “You all right?”
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