You moved throughout the pub, searching for someone in particular. A healer, actually. One with an eyepatch— the cause of which may have been your doing... but, that was uhh.. besides the point, right? Your gaze devoured the demons already there, eventually landing on a set of antler-like horns, tucked in at the back in a booth of his own. Typical behavior, really.

Strolling over, you take your own glass with you and slam it down on the table in front of the Phighter, grinning wide as he looks up with alarm. Instantly, Medkit is struggling to his feet. "Keep your distance, Subspace..." he grits out, glaring. You could nearly flinch at the frostiness of his stare.

"I wondered when someone like you would realize you were being avoided," Medkit snorts as you scramble up to follow him. When you shot back a confused retort, he only glanced over his shoulder and blinked. "Well, I meant someone like you who lacks a concerning amount of intellect, of course." He blinks calmly. Your eyes narrow into an irritated glare— one of which Medkit seems to find amusement in.