He doesn't flinch, he doesn't react, just lets that pelt him right in the face, his nose splitting open along the scar bisecting his face. The skin there is so much easier to break after being ripped open dozens of times, blood starting to trickle down and drip off the end of his nose, extending the cross he'd already painted there.

The sound of glass thunking into flesh and cartilage is disturbing, but if Pickles stayed around to see the expression on his face it would be even worse. There's no emotion whatsoever in his expression, even as his lips twist into a grin, and his eyes flash.

Finally. This is what he's good at, this is what he's trained for. Not talking. Not negotiating. Pratt is a killer, a hunter, and for all he's trying to be normal here, to not be a violent, aggressive psychopath, he's fucking good at it. This man had earned his spot at Jacob's side. Every trial Jacob had set before him he'd passed, every weakness culled, until there was nothing of himself left to sacrifice. But even more importantly, this is what he wants - Pickles' ghost is coming out of Sharky even if he has to take him limb by limb.

God he hopes Pickles makes him do that.

With a snarl that shouldn't be emerging from human vocal cords, Pratt gives chase, using one hand to vault over the bar, grab a barstool and hurl it at the retreating form of what used to be Sharky.

It's more a warning than anything. He likes it when they run.