"No," Voodoo says, not breaking eye contact with the thing.

(Right now, his thoughts are running the gamut between so this is what a white chick in a slasher movie feels like and great going, idiot, you just offered yourself up as a morning snack for Post-Nuclear Oogieboogie #5318.)

As his hand creeps up to the pistol in his chest rig:

"Why?"