We burst into action the moment Weld called out his warning.
A̵l͡r̷igh͘t, ̷t̶i҉m̸e͏ ͘for̛ śome aćtion! Í w̷o̡n̕d͞ȩr i̶f̡ t͘h͝e̕y̵ hàd… *a͠hem* …a contingency plan for this sort of outcome.
Bitch drove her shoulder into the PRT uniform that held her back, then backed towards the front desk. Weld had already changed his hand into what looked like a baseball bat with four sides to it, long enough to reach from his wrist to the ground.
Probably don’t want to get hit with that.
Studs the size of golf balls ran down each of the four faces, with a blunted spike on the end.
…really don’t want to get hit with that.
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