A calm fury hissed from Boyd's eyes, not only at the fact that he had been attacked, but that he had not reacted swiftly enough to avoid it entirely. Now, this pup, albeit an impressively snarling, teeth-gnashing pup, was barking out demands. The punch had left Boyd with a bit of blood-laced saliva swirling around his tongue and he had not been eager to remember the metallic taste any time soon. "How ‘bout your life?" Boyd spoke as he stared into Booker's eyes, straight past the cold metal barrel of the .45.

A soft nudge against his navel would make Booker aware to the magnum pressed against his lower abdomen. "Sure, you could take mine. I would go out nice and quick, like taking a shot of vodka that would let me rest for good.... But a gut shot." Boyd grinned, his slightly off-color teeth still managing to gleam in the sun. "Just knowing that you went out in more pain than me would be victory 'nuff for me."

Boyd, after all, was a gunfighter. If there was one useful thing Boyd III had taught his son, it was how to artfully and effectively use a revolver to not only intimidate and impress, but to also defend himself with the speed of a rattlesnake. His grin subsided for a moment but only to let words spill from his lips again: "So, you think your bullet's any faster 'n mine? Or you want we should remove iron from one another? Favor for a favor... [i]and all that[/i]."

The steel in their hands were no match for that in their eyes as they stared for what felt like a minute before realization and reasoning were complete; Booker rose to his feet, as did Boyd. Rolling his revolver around his middle finger once before holstering his weapon, Boyd felt the situation noticeably defuse. Cocking his head slightly to the side and hawking out the blood-soaked loogie, Boyd began to speak: "You think we got business cards or somethin'?" The man dusted off his pants with both hands. "You don't [i]become[/i] a Peacer. You just [i]are[/i] one. You wake up one day and pick up a gun and that's it. What you do with it makes you one of us. There ain't exactly an official rulebook. But the password for the shitter is "Nancy", FYI."

---

Certain impatience was clearly visible on Amira's face. First this man insulted her, followed by the implication that she should leave her loot behind. It was enough to make her want to turn away from him and take her chances with the corpses. Sure, she had fought her way past multiple undead in the past, but never in such tight quarters. To top it all off, the man began barking orders at her as if he were the be-all, end-all himself.

With her teeth clenched painfully against one another and her tongue braced against the roof of her mouth, Amira silenced herself, spitefully stuffing the jewelry box into her shoulderbag and followed the man’s order in taking his arm within her grasp. With her other hand, she dug the claw end of the framing hammer into the edge of the concrete and pulled herself up as the two ascended into God knows where and what above.