The massive figure loomed over the sales counter, clad in blood-red armor and wearing a horned helm. Nearby, two hitherto polite middle-aged ladies erupted into a vicious screaming match, struggling over a clearance sweater.
Something thudded to the countertop: a fleece-lined winter coat. A mailed hand tapped the garment, then slammed into the steel-plated chest.
"Fitting rooms are th-th-there," Beth stammered, pointing.
The figure stomped away.
"Was that War?" asked Vicki.
"Can't be," said John. "War... war never changes."
There was a rustle from the fitting rooms, then a contented sigh.
"It must be War," said Beth. "He was cold..."