"So um...you got any siblings?"
A golden-eyed glare. A fork changes hands.
"Oh come on, just about everyone's got brothers and sisters." A snicker. He knows where this is going. He ignores them, his concentration wholly on his food.
"Staccato, maybe? Allegro?" Another snicker. Glances exchanged. "Oh, I know! Presto! Grave! Grave works for you, right? Or Adagio—"
The Gung Ho Gun stops, chokes, from a sudden lack of air. Legato's fist tightens in his collar. A growl, chair on the ground, pancakes forgotten. He ponders the benefits of a quick kill, a slow death.
"Her name's Vivace."