Stop your fussing. [ Ian holds out a hand, keeping Owen at a distance. ] I’ll be fine. I just need a moment.
[ He stays as he is a moment or two longer, hand pressed over his chest, until at last his breathing evens out. He pulls his hand away. His shirt is punctured and bloody, but the flesh beneath it is completely unscathed. ] What upon the earth do you people make your bullets out of?
no subject
[ He stays as he is a moment or two longer, hand pressed over his chest, until at last his breathing evens out. He pulls his hand away. His shirt is punctured and bloody, but the flesh beneath it is completely unscathed. ] What upon the earth do you people make your bullets out of?