and an arm chambered in 6.62x12.3cm
It was fortunate that Macaron had been so preoccupied with the mix of macaroni and murder. Usually, she would have made a greater mess whenever someone told her to clean.
"Mm." Macaron blankly replied with macaroni in her mouth. In truth, Macaron couldn't fully remember what bitch Hideji was talking about. Some mixture of forgetfulness, tunnel vision, and common occurrence made her fuzzy on her recollection. It did sound like her, though. She probably did follow up on that--followed up pretty hard, by how things usually went with her.
Of course, she didn't really care when Hideji was going to go out on his own business, like how she didn't really care that he came by to make some noodles.
"Have fun with that." Macaron said in a tone that a teenage girl would say to their father.
-----
Macaron never really cared about how she moved between places. Whether it was the sticky, pollock-like seating of public transit or unlocked bicycle, it mattered not to her.
And she thought nothing as she approached the Dark City behind Jebby Tim's. She thought even less. Such dangers and risks weren't worth thinking about. She was about to kill a bitch. She didn't need to think about anything besides that.
Of course, the presumed target of her ire seemed to have the same idea as she was attacked from behind.
The expression on Macaron's face rapidly shifted. In an instant, her face contorted in rage and anger as she leapt out of the way. It only worsened as the faux-werewolf seemed to try to explain her actions.
Just as quickly as her anger appeared, it vanished and gave way to a friendly smile--one that was seconds away from laughter and campfire songs. One that was filled with nods and affirmation as she chanted cogito ergo sum.
"Cool cool. I'm cool. I'm cool. Cool."The smile she had shifted to complete neutrality.
She wasn't cool at all.
In a flash of unemoted rage unbefitting for a mage--one who typically used Crafts to solve problems, her hand erupted from her jacket pocket with a purple can. It hurtled towards the shapeshifter's face with all the strength one acting without magic could muster--a tit-for-tat act of violence that the utterly deranged considered conversation. More importantly was the can of soda:
Value Purple Soda? What kind of brand was that? One that tasted like purple instead of grape, that's what it was. It wasn't even cold--lord knows how long it was in her jacket pocket.