Geraint had intended to ignore the whimpering (either that or his player thought it came from Vara, which seemed strange, but he rolled with it).  When she touched him to stop, he put his hand on his pistol.<br/><br/>He said, "Then it will likely die.  Perhaps not, but probably."<br/><br/>That was it to him.  He wasn't there to save anyone here.  His feelings towards the possibility that it was a human child, or even a werewolf one, was frost and iron and nothingness.  Even if it wasn't a trap, it could be something else entire - a wasting mutant living out its last miserable days, about to become an atomic spirit full of malice and hate and pure radioactivity, or something else dangerous.  To him, even if it were a child, what of it?  Children died all the time.  What was one more?  And what were they going to do - carry it along, feed a babe in arms, clothe it, protect it from its own weakness and ignorance?  That was contrary to<i>practicality</i>.  A helpless, useless person would slow them down.<br/><br/>It wasn't even malice.  He didn't care if the person, animal, whatever, lived<i>or</i>died.  But expending an iota of his energy was not something he would naturally do.