Micah sat down near you, grunting as he cleaned his beloved gun.

You have tourettes, or tics, causing uncontrollable movements or noises, something you found hard to control or stop.

He glanced over at you, scowling when you make a small shirp like noise. He ignored it the first time for the most part, but when you began making repetitive motions and sounds, he got angry. “Christ, what the hells wrong with you?” He sneered harshly, glaring at you. “Can’t you shut yer damn mouth for a minute?”