The fiercely inquisitive red gleam of the officer’s mechanical eye trailed the nearer threat, recalibrating in response to the reflective glare of the shimmering silver barrel. It catalogued the medley of wires streaking up and down the shaft, disappearing into the grip through a series of small, roughly bored holes. Custom? Possibly. Unregulated? Definitely. “Street-Wise”, assumably. One thing was for certain - a job like that was going to either take off the user’s hand, or the target’s head...though either outcome might not be entirely unwarranted in this particular scenario. A weary smile crept up around the corners of the man’s mouth, and billowing trails of  sickly vapor seeped from out between them in a manner not unlike that of a dragon’s - he shifted his weight to better position himself against the alley wall.

     That expression stopped short, warped and contorted itself in a sudden and violent reaction; an offhand bolted for his abdomen, and the cane’s support buckled from out beneath as Haban dropped onto all fours, retched and vomited.

     A moment passed as he stared down at the consequences of his overexertion, taking in heavy breaths to compensate for this sudden, overpowering bout of vertigo. A tinge of anguish passed across his brow as the glint of the pipe caught his attention in between the mess of putrid sand and bile; he raised his organic left to retrieve it, but stopped, reconsidered the action, and carried through the task with his mechanical right instead. Pocketting the pipe, the wretch pulled himself back up onto his knees with a hoarse series of groans, eyes wide from the pain and one hand sparingly clutching his midsection. The shock of the blast, it seemed, was fading...

     Out of habit, Haban’s gaze shot to and fro between the two strangers idling opposite him; the gunslinger clearly wasn’t in the habit of regularly exercising his weaponarm - or at the very least, he couldn’t be seen as fanatical about the idea. Average clothes, average character...or so it seemed at first glance; there was something shifty about the way he held himself, loose but clearly fashioned according to the laws of second-hand bars, backdoors and, of course, seedy alleyways. Plus he had a stupid haircut - like someone had set him down under a cow’s slobbering grazing for an hour before blow-drying. Probably wasn’t much of a threat outside of the pistol, but not the type you’d want to hang around for long without the risk of getting caught yourself.  The Azurei, on the other hand...

     Independent of any movement by his organic, his red eye shot over onto the bullish woman with an unnerving curiosity - cold, calculating, attempting to flush out the slightest signs of weakness...and lo, there were many. A battered, barefooted, yet ferocious posture sought in vain to act as a shield against the public eye - as a wounded animal hisses and snaps at its attackers, trying to feign the threat. Despite the faults of her heritage and the repugnant organizational-scar marring her naked shoulder, whatever she’d happened to be prior to...”then”...it wasn’t Eija. Or at the very least, he’d seen better. Hopefully she wouldn’t go pulling anything ridiculous in the coming minutes - somehow it just didn’t seem right to die by the hands of idiots, kicked when you were down at your lowest.

     ...Perhaps she was feeling similarly.

     [i]“...Put the peacemaker down, friend - she ain’t gonna rush ya.”[/i]

     He was feeling confident, now - more so than when he’d first fallen in this mess. He extended a handshake out towards the street rat standing adjacent him, putting on his most prize-winning smile as he continued:

     [i]"...Did you know, your average Bull can take Six - SIX shots to the chest and still gore the matador? Nature's a fascinating spectacle, ain't it?"[/i]