Wolfgang pauses just outside the threshold of the shop, having almost missed the fact that the door's lock is busted. Something is in there and he's not about to waltz blindly into a potentially dangerous enclosed area armed with a weapon that's not very familiar to him.
So he probes it first, like flexing a muscle he hasn't used in years. His psychic presence rolls through the building, the barest mental brush against whatever minds are contained therein. Surface thoughts are all he's listening for, which, well, that's all he can listen for. It's not a surefire recon method because many of the monsters infesting the city are psychic blind spots, but it's better than nothing. Whatever is in there is human and neither insane nor dying, so he walks in with only a moderate amount of caution instead of being at red alert.
There's blood in his hair and he's carrying a baseball bat with nails hammered into one end, but considering he's built like an eleven-year-old girl and about as strong as one, he is probably the least threatening person in the city right now. He is alone. He sees a man with a pipe who he doesn't recognise, and that's all; he relaxes.
"Find anything good?" he asks, dryly. It's not a condemnation -- he has no way of telling whether anyone is taking anything because they need it or just because they want it. He did see someone grabbing a bunch of antiques the other day, but whatever, he's not the police, he's not going to do anything about it.
God knows if the Militia are; he's staying out of their way as much as possible.
mog hill pharmacy?? also yell at me if the telepathy's not ok
So he probes it first, like flexing a muscle he hasn't used in years. His psychic presence rolls through the building, the barest mental brush against whatever minds are contained therein. Surface thoughts are all he's listening for, which, well, that's all he can listen for. It's not a surefire recon method because many of the monsters infesting the city are psychic blind spots, but it's better than nothing. Whatever is in there is human and neither insane nor dying, so he walks in with only a moderate amount of caution instead of being at red alert.
There's blood in his hair and he's carrying a baseball bat with nails hammered into one end, but considering he's built like an eleven-year-old girl and about as strong as one, he is probably the least threatening person in the city right now. He is alone. He sees a man with a pipe who he doesn't recognise, and that's all; he relaxes.
"Find anything good?" he asks, dryly. It's not a condemnation -- he has no way of telling whether anyone is taking anything because they need it or just because they want it. He did see someone grabbing a bunch of antiques the other day, but whatever, he's not the police, he's not going to do anything about it.
God knows if the Militia are; he's staying out of their way as much as possible.