Unfortunately, the other party in this little collision is Dave. Apologies in advance. He looks down at her – presumably, it's kinda hard to be sure with the aviators covering his eyes – with hands shoved in the pockets of his too-baggy uniform, unfazed by the snarling catgirl.

"Woah, chill. Put that shit on ice, the label clearly says to refrigerate after opening, god." What the fuck is he even saying? Who knows, he carries right on without waiting for any kind of answer. "Personal space is kinda at a premium right now if you haven't noticed." He glances over the ears and tail and all that shit, and one eyebrow quirks up over the rim of his shades.

Ah. Somehow, this chick instantly makes more sense.