"Here's hoping they'll continue to go unmentioned, then," he says, conversational but clearly worried.
The water's received with a smile, a nod of thanks, then a look of blank surprise. Were bottles meant to be so... Thin? He can't fathom why anyone would trade good old glass for whatever material this is. Not that glass is all that durable, mind you, but at least it doesn't feel like it may melt away in his hand, or dent from an accidental squeeze. The cap proves to be another mystery in itself. Some awkward fumbling later, he decides it's probably meant to be twisted open, and since he can't very well do that with one hand still a giant claw, he stops Invocating altogether. The cowl winks out of existence, the claw is replaced by an inhuman hand the colour of dried blood, and Allen proceeds to tackle his first plastic bottle with the same single-minded determination he was just fighting with. The cap comes off all right. Could've managed it with less force, but at least he'll know what to expect next time (he doesn't like what that implies). The moment that's done, his left hand goes slipping very casually into a pocket.
"Skilled..." Gray eyes lift from the bottle with a bit of an embarrassed laugh, the kind someone makes when they need a moment to decide how they feel about an unexpected response. Or maybe he's just remembered he has an audience. "Thank you, but I was just reacting, really."
Sirens wail in the distance, and he flattens his lips, looking like he has half a mind to go running in that direction already.
"Speaking of, that's all everyone seems to be doing. Does anyone―" Meaning Integra, her organisation, or whomever she may know, seeing as the Militia is being deeply disappointing. "―know where they're coming from and how to stop them?"
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The water's received with a smile, a nod of thanks, then a look of blank surprise. Were bottles meant to be so... Thin? He can't fathom why anyone would trade good old glass for whatever material this is. Not that glass is all that durable, mind you, but at least it doesn't feel like it may melt away in his hand, or dent from an accidental squeeze. The cap proves to be another mystery in itself. Some awkward fumbling later, he decides it's probably meant to be twisted open, and since he can't very well do that with one hand still a giant claw, he stops Invocating altogether. The cowl winks out of existence, the claw is replaced by an inhuman hand the colour of dried blood, and Allen proceeds to tackle his first plastic bottle with the same single-minded determination he was just fighting with. The cap comes off all right. Could've managed it with less force, but at least he'll know what to expect next time (he doesn't like what that implies). The moment that's done, his left hand goes slipping very casually into a pocket.
"Skilled..." Gray eyes lift from the bottle with a bit of an embarrassed laugh, the kind someone makes when they need a moment to decide how they feel about an unexpected response. Or maybe he's just remembered he has an audience. "Thank you, but I was just reacting, really."
Sirens wail in the distance, and he flattens his lips, looking like he has half a mind to go running in that direction already.
"Speaking of, that's all everyone seems to be doing. Does anyone―" Meaning Integra, her organisation, or whomever she may know, seeing as the Militia is being deeply disappointing. "―know where they're coming from and how to stop them?"