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xp_logsMarie-Ange and Doug are leaving a restaurant when the violence begins.
About half the time when Doug left his therapy sessions, Marie-Ange would be there to meet for lunch. There wasn't any 'oh, I was just in the area' pretense, and she didn't come by so often that it would feel like she was always checking on him. Just enough to be supportive if he needed it. Doug wouldn't put it past her to have calculated just the right amount to meet him to provide the right amount of reassurance without being too smothering. Marie-Ange calculated most of her personal interactions. Which in itself was reassuring to him. He stretched as he walked down the sidewalk with her. Therapy was grueling in a mental and emotional way, and often left him wanting some physical exertion to counterbalance it. "Thai for lunch?" he asked Marie-Ange as she fell into step with him.
"Of course, but you say Thai, and I hear 'Dr. Grim asked me hard questions so I must set my mouth and esophagus on fire.'" Marie-Ange said, with a cheeky smile. "Which means I am going to also suggest that we get dessert after, because chocolate is good for improving your mood."
"Yes, well, that makes sense." Doug shook his head wryly. "But if you start going on about vitamin B6 supplements or something, that'd be a bit much in the pursuit of boosting my serotonin levels."
That got him a dismissive handwave. "Those I would just put in your coffee. Besides, a sunlamp in your server room would do a lot more, no?"
After eating, Doug pulled a pair of sunglasses out as they exited the Thai restaurant, shading his eyes as he put them on. If there was one downside (and only one) to the restaurant, it was that the sun was directly in your eyes as you left if you were having lunch there. A small price to pay for the quality of the food, though. And after a hard therapy session, it was just the thing. "All right, I admit it, I needed dessert too."
"Chocolate is the answer to everything." Marie-Ange had a similar reaction to the bright sun, though her sunglasses were larger and more of the fashion variety. "Long night of telephone calls? Chocolate. Amanda's students drinking up all the tea? Chocolate. Your computers do a thing no one but you understands? Chocolate. Therapy was what it is? Chocolate."
Of course it was also the answer to 'I think terrible things might happen and I need to jump start my precognition,' but so far nothing had sparked out at her yet, so maybe it was just paranoia and not her power that made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
Snipers, like musicians and other artists of their craft, generally use custom tools that they have adjusted themselves, and are loath to use anything but their own gear. In this case, the weapon was a Bushmaster BA50 rifle, firing the BMG .50 cartridge, a bullet nearly six inches in length and effective to approximately two kilometers.
A rifle bullet of any kind travels at supersonic speed and arrives before the sound of the gunshot, and so the only warning Marie-Ange had as she and Doug made their way down a side street to the parking garage he kept his car in was a flare of pain in her right eye.
The tiniest bit of deflection to a rifle bullet in flight can knock it extremely off target. As a result, sniping at extreme range is equal parts luck and talent, even in ideal conditions. As Marie-Ange clutched at her head with one hand, the other instinctively came up in a warding gesture, and a patch of asphalt was recreated in midair, only to shatter and dissolve a second later as the high-caliber bullet plunged through it.
This was just enough, and a bullet that would have hit Doug in center mass and killed him instantaneously instead clipped him in the shoulder and sent him tumbling to the ground. His eyes widened in fear and memory, and then the shock caught up with him and he passed out.
Later, Marie-Ange would insist that somehow she managed to grab Doug before his head cracked into the sidewalk, hold up a shielding image, grab her phone and hold pressure to his shoulder all at once. She clearly remembered feeling blood soaking through Doug's shirt and between her fingers and fumbling for the number saved in her phone for emergencies and feeling the rough concrete under her hands.
That was all she remembered - not the EMT's pulling her off her unconscious ex-boyfriend, not panic in her voice as she asked - over and over, despite that she could see the rise and fall of his chest - if he was breathing, not texting Amanda - and Emma - and Wade - and Remy.
About half the time when Doug left his therapy sessions, Marie-Ange would be there to meet for lunch. There wasn't any 'oh, I was just in the area' pretense, and she didn't come by so often that it would feel like she was always checking on him. Just enough to be supportive if he needed it. Doug wouldn't put it past her to have calculated just the right amount to meet him to provide the right amount of reassurance without being too smothering. Marie-Ange calculated most of her personal interactions. Which in itself was reassuring to him. He stretched as he walked down the sidewalk with her. Therapy was grueling in a mental and emotional way, and often left him wanting some physical exertion to counterbalance it. "Thai for lunch?" he asked Marie-Ange as she fell into step with him.
"Of course, but you say Thai, and I hear 'Dr. Grim asked me hard questions so I must set my mouth and esophagus on fire.'" Marie-Ange said, with a cheeky smile. "Which means I am going to also suggest that we get dessert after, because chocolate is good for improving your mood."
"Yes, well, that makes sense." Doug shook his head wryly. "But if you start going on about vitamin B6 supplements or something, that'd be a bit much in the pursuit of boosting my serotonin levels."
That got him a dismissive handwave. "Those I would just put in your coffee. Besides, a sunlamp in your server room would do a lot more, no?"
After eating, Doug pulled a pair of sunglasses out as they exited the Thai restaurant, shading his eyes as he put them on. If there was one downside (and only one) to the restaurant, it was that the sun was directly in your eyes as you left if you were having lunch there. A small price to pay for the quality of the food, though. And after a hard therapy session, it was just the thing. "All right, I admit it, I needed dessert too."
"Chocolate is the answer to everything." Marie-Ange had a similar reaction to the bright sun, though her sunglasses were larger and more of the fashion variety. "Long night of telephone calls? Chocolate. Amanda's students drinking up all the tea? Chocolate. Your computers do a thing no one but you understands? Chocolate. Therapy was what it is? Chocolate."
Of course it was also the answer to 'I think terrible things might happen and I need to jump start my precognition,' but so far nothing had sparked out at her yet, so maybe it was just paranoia and not her power that made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
Snipers, like musicians and other artists of their craft, generally use custom tools that they have adjusted themselves, and are loath to use anything but their own gear. In this case, the weapon was a Bushmaster BA50 rifle, firing the BMG .50 cartridge, a bullet nearly six inches in length and effective to approximately two kilometers.
A rifle bullet of any kind travels at supersonic speed and arrives before the sound of the gunshot, and so the only warning Marie-Ange had as she and Doug made their way down a side street to the parking garage he kept his car in was a flare of pain in her right eye.
The tiniest bit of deflection to a rifle bullet in flight can knock it extremely off target. As a result, sniping at extreme range is equal parts luck and talent, even in ideal conditions. As Marie-Ange clutched at her head with one hand, the other instinctively came up in a warding gesture, and a patch of asphalt was recreated in midair, only to shatter and dissolve a second later as the high-caliber bullet plunged through it.
This was just enough, and a bullet that would have hit Doug in center mass and killed him instantaneously instead clipped him in the shoulder and sent him tumbling to the ground. His eyes widened in fear and memory, and then the shock caught up with him and he passed out.
Later, Marie-Ange would insist that somehow she managed to grab Doug before his head cracked into the sidewalk, hold up a shielding image, grab her phone and hold pressure to his shoulder all at once. She clearly remembered feeling blood soaking through Doug's shirt and between her fingers and fumbling for the number saved in her phone for emergencies and feeling the rough concrete under her hands.
That was all she remembered - not the EMT's pulling her off her unconscious ex-boyfriend, not panic in her voice as she asked - over and over, despite that she could see the rise and fall of his chest - if he was breathing, not texting Amanda - and Emma - and Wade - and Remy.
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