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Summary
"Another," Anisha spits. The weapon she wields presses into Nahla's stomach, bruises her up with a cutting metal muzzle, and Nahla's hands are already too heavy to move.
"I didn't agree to this," Nahla breathes. "I told you I'd—-I was happy to take the drugs. But Lanthanites are particularly susceptible to--"
"Warfarin toxicity," Anisha finishes for her, her smile wide and fanged with stained teeth. It's an Earth gun--ancient, early 22nd century, physical lead bullets. One shot to the leg---one scratch---and Nahla is meat.
(Or: Nahlisha but it's Porpentine's Serious Weakness? Idk.)
