Stumbling, Kurt felt both an eruption of benign pain and hot anger radiate from within him as Devin slammed into his shoulder, almost knocking the addled youth off of his feet. As soon as he had regained what little balance he had, Kurt swung around on his heel and grabbed the collar of Devin's top with both fists, an angry scowl contorting his features, disgust welling in his gut. He didn't like to be touched by men, aggressively or else wise. Other men pissed him off. As hypocritical as that was, given that he stormed into the other guy first, it still filled Kurt with a shock of revolt, as though Devin was starting a fight that Kurt wasn't sure he was prepared to win. It frustrated him. People in general did. They pushed him, they poured him full of fury he didn't even know he was capable of feeling.<br/><br/>As the other man spoke up, Kurt froze, before throwing Blaze a look that sort of just said, '<span style="font-style: italic">Fuck off</span>.'<br/><br/>Bitterly, he realised the size of the scene he was beginning to create; he was unstable, this guy was mad as all fuck, and the other guy seemed to be eager to play the hero, which deeply unsettled Kurt. He hated being helped, too. Anything that made him feel in a weaker position wasn't fun. And beyond that, he didn't particularly want to drag another person into this if it boiled into something more than a little squabble in the street.<br/><br/>All the same, the anger on Kurt's features melted away and he dropped his grip on Devin's top, a seemingly sincere smile pressing up on his lips. Though Kurt was entirely and frequently capable of warmth and guileless affection, today was not the day and it seemed, these were not the people. Not right now. Right now, Kurt was ferociously irritated, acutely inebriated and fervidly arrogant.<br/><br/>"Sorry, man. He's right, I've got somewhere I need to be, desperately." he explained, nodding to Blaze as he referenced him, patting down edge of his shirt where he had crumpled it seconds earlier. He paused, took a step backwards and threw Devin a cheeky grin, "Would you prefer I told your sister you said I before or after I'm done fucking her?"<br/><br/>Part of Kurt was well he aware he might regret that comment, that it would most likely not go un-reprimanded, but in the moment he found himself so ridiculously hilarious that he could not bring himself to regret the, (frankly unoriginal) comment. In fact Kurt had to turn away somewhat to suppress his snickers, snorting somewhat to himself, before turning back to Devin with a triumphant and challenging grin.<br/><br/><br/>----<br/><br/><br/>Cautiously, Luther was hesitant to move further forwards, surveying the scene around him whilst attempting to ensure he was not scene; he'd be no help if he, too, was held with a gun to the back of his head.<br/><br/>Quietly, having taken in everything he could, Luther paced back down the aisles, running his hands through his slicked-back, blonde hair, something similar to anxiety almost running across his features. Although it was strangely inappropriate, Luther found himself feeling somewhat homesick - which home, he didn't know. Either one of them. He and Kurt were born in Germany, moved to England in 1999 with their parents, and then to America alone a few years ago - hence, their gruff, Northern English-German twang often pricked reactions of interest and confusion here in the States. And as much as Luther found comfort in his apartment here, it was not home. Home was not half as violent as things were here - namely, guns. Guns. Luther hated them. Well, as close to hate as someone so imperturbable could be. Even though he owned one, and could use one adequately, (he had to, for work) he was incredibly reluctant to do so. They were so...<span style="font-style: italic">destructive</span>.<br/><br/>And yet, Luther found himself pulling his handgun out of its holster suddenly and slamming it into the fire alarm on the wall to the left. Wailing erupted above him, high-pitched and painful, and worse yet, the sprinklers burst into action overhead, cold and rapid. In the confusion that followed, Luther raced to the front of the shop. Slightly separate to the rest of the group, was one of the robbers, holding his gun to the back of a skinny blonde man's head. Luther slammed is own gun into the back of the criminal's head, calmly, "Put your gun down and kick it away." he ordered, his voice quiet, but carrying an indisputable, serene weight to it.<br/><br/>The robber did as was asked and slowly raised his hands, to which Luther proceeded by pistol-whipping the other man, sending him to the ground without so much as a flinch. Almost politely, gently, he nodded to the blonde man on the floor. "Are you all right?" he checked, placidly, "Would you mind helping me move this man somewhat out of sight?"<br/><br/>Luther was very well aware of the time restraints that were pressing upon him in that moment; the wailing of the sirens above indicated that the emergency services would be here, soon; Luther hoped that his assuming that the police would come too, given that it was a public building in an urban area with a relatively high crime rate, was correct. But right now, there were half a dozen people further on in the store, on their knees, with guns to their heads.