Those are the words that meet him, when he lines the sights between Chester’s eyes. It’s casual, you know. His grip, his stance; Laz Chester takes this as hesitation rather than the predatory ease that it really is.

Chino is behind him to one side, and there’s a couple others aside him. None of them are really surprised, from what False Prophet spits up.

“You won’t shoot me,” Laz taunts. “You’re too good. Even wired into that… thing.”

Grumbling from behind him–and there’s the surprise, when he starts to lower the Majestic. Chino squints a little, though. He must see the lingering tension coiled in Alcatraz’s arm, the way he doesn’t let off the trigger.

Bam.

“FUCK! My foot!” He doubles over, winding up heaved like an old towel over one banded forearm, wincing and spluttering.

“Your first mistake,” starts that tinny, monotone voice, “was assuming I have any sort of moral system anymore.” Chino smothers an amused noise in his fist, and disregards the alarmed bemusement of the other marines.