Lysa looks just as her profile pictures promised. Slumped in her seat, an unlit cigarette clenched tight in her mouth, she's every bit of the lazy stoner you had thought. That's part of the reason why you communicated with her, as she struck you as the transient sort that would quickly forget about you when you stopped communicating; you'd never imagined she'd get so fixated on you.
The skin she shows through her torn t-shirt is covered in tattoos, and her frame is almost lean enough to qualify as emaciated – yet she still outweighs you by countless tonnes. Piercings dot her ears and face beneath her fringe of dyed hair, and her lidded eyes barely move to focus on Tara when she calls her name.
“Fuck you want, bitch?” Lysa says, kicking one booted foot at the edge of the table with a crack like the ending of the world. She nearly seems to fall backward from her seat, but somehow ends up rising tall, pose aggressive and forward thrust at the newcomer.
“Richard sent me -”
“Did he? Did he really? So what, that cocksucker sent his girlfriend to see me 'cuz he's too scared? Is that it? Fuckin' prick. Well, you wanna go, bitch?”
Looks like Lysa's pissed off and ready to take that rage out on someone. You do have your speaker system if you want to intervene and save Tara, but then again you are just a third of an inch tall...
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