It was the cock of the gun that got him.<br/><br/>She's killed them all--he still really hadn't thought about it yet, didn't really understand--and she had the nerve to point a gun at him? The sheer bloody gall! The fact that his life might actually end paralyzed him for a moment, but by the time she was cocking her firearm again he was back into action, pushing off of the ground and marching towards her with sharp determination.<br/><br/>"You shot them--you killed my parents!--so you might as well make a bloody clean sweep of it!" He snapped, his voice bearing the slight English accent and phrases of his late parents. What he would do when he reached her he hadn't the foggiest, but his hands worked at his sides and his eyes glared balefully to her. He may have been young and dressed for bed, but if looks could kill he'd be a murderer already--even without having worked through it all, even before the pain and the grief, what she'd done was Wrong, capital W, and he had had about enough of it.<br/><br/>His hands balled into fists.<br/><br/>He almost forgot about the gun.