Her heel kick—powered by sheer moral superiority—caught him square in the side.
He turned into a spinning top wearing a mask.
He ricocheted off the whisky cabinet, then the wall, then the whisky cabinet again.
THUD—CLANG—GLUGLUGLUG—SHATTER!
Amber liquid and shards flew everywhere.
Field Observation 31.2: Opposition now marinated. Aromatic notes: peat, smoke, impending regret.
Both thieves staggered upright at once, one dripping whisky, the other shedding antlers.
They came for her together.
"Very rude," Wanton muttered, and met them halfway with The Bibliographic Slap™.
Her hand cracked across the first man's cheek with the sound of a library closing on a late fee.
SMACK!
He reeled backward, knocking into a suit of armor.
The helmet toppled off with a hollow DONG and clamped neatly onto his head.
He howled and ran blindly into a pillar.
The second thief grabbed her from behind—big mistake.
"I don't appreciate unsolicited contact," Wanton said sweetly—and performed The Peeping-Tom Paradox™.
She dipped low, feigned retreat, then delivered a decisive knee upward.
THWACK.
He made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a bagpipe having an emotional breakdown.
His hands flew skyward. His knees buckled. His future children vanished from probability.
"Introspection achieved," Wanton noted.
He collapsed face-first into a pile of tartan banners.
Behind her, the armored thief staggered in circles, helmet askew. Not very bright, that one.
The room spun with the scent of smoke, spilled whisky, bruised ego, scorched dignity, and Wanton's triumphant pulse.
She wiped her brow with her singed bonnet.
"Field Observation 25.6," she panted, "Wallflower Fu remains ninety-three percent effective—though spatial consequences require peer review."
She turned triumphantly—
And saw both thieves pushing themselves upright again, wobbling but determined.
She blinked.
"Oh. Highland ruffians possess statistically concerning resilience."
