Like many cities, Bayfield has rats. Not an infestation, or anything like that, but they are there, skulking in trashy alleyways.
Sombra Alley is watching a rat. He is sitting on a curb in one of the aforementioned trashy alleyways, and only his eyes are moving. His cane (with its heavy metal head) is balanced delicately between two fingers.
The rat is beginning to forget about the threat of the human sitting there...he isn't moving, after all. Things that don't move aren't threatening. Its hunt for scraps or...whatever rats hunt for widens, and it approaches Alley. Still the professor doesn't move.
Then, a very slight shifting of those slender fingers, just enough to set the cane off balance and send it tipping forward...the tiniest flick of the wrist for momentum...
CRUNCH!

Mostly, it's just blood and fur and bone. Rats don't have a lot of brains to splatter over the pavement.

((Darling, it's no use. I still think Sombra's adorable.))

"Cool," says a voice from somewhere above and to the left of the professor. "You timed that just right, but you should have broken its back. Then it'd have wriggled around a bit."

Meg doesn't torment things herself for fun. (Well, that is, she doesn't pull the wings off flies, the legs off ants, or smash the brains of rats for fun. She's more maliciously mischievous than she is mischievously malicious, if that makes any sense at all.)

But that doesn't mean she doesn't mind watching when someone does it.

She's leaning over the edge of a window, looking down at him. (Why is there a window there, anyway?) Her glamours are down, and her hair is apparently a rather boring dirty blonde.

Meg is the fae equivalent of being dressed to lounge around the house in sweats.

He tipped his head back to look at her, his hair cascading over his back in a rather elegant manner.
"I killed it." he said flatly. "I did not want it to..." his lip curled very slightly in an expression of distaste (but not disgust), "...wriggle."

"It looks like a fish on shore when it wriggles," she opined. "But the way its head kind of exploded's pretty cool too. You do this often?"

No, she doesn't find it strange at all to be conversing with a man who has just squished the head of a rat with his rather ornate little cane from her bedroom window.

I'm pretty sure she's dressed in something, by the by. Like a tank top, or at least lingerie.

"No."
He's taking the liberty of assuming that by 'often' she means more than once every couple of weeks. Some days you just feel like killing a rat, you know?

"How come?"

How come he did it today, or how come he doesn't do it often? Does she know herself which one she means, and does it even matter?

Probably not.

He sniffed rather snottily, and did not deign to reply. He settled on sitting (if he left, that would mean admitting that such a lowly creature was bothering him) and looking haughty.

"Well, lah-di-dah. Aren't you a little stuck on yourself."

Speaks the girl whose entire race is famous for being stuck on themselves, haughty, and generally proud. Pot/kettle, anyone?

He ignored her really hard, staring intently at the wall on the other side of the alleyway.
The world is full of idiots.

Meg does not particularly like being ignored. (It must be a fae thing...)

Thus, she determined to do something that would guarantee he paid at least some kind of attention to her.

She disappeared out of the window for a few seconds.

Then a large quantity of very cold water was dumped on Sombra's head.

So there.

"...!"
He was on his feet in an instant, facing the window and shaking his cane threateningly at Meg.
"You--!" He cried, dripping and sputtering...and then he remembered that she wasn't worth speaking to. He turned back around and began to walk away, saying "Hmph!" loudly.

We love infuriated reactions, yes we do...

Meg laughed aloud and... let him go. She'd had her fun for now, and maybe they'd run into each other again sometime, when she was better prepared and situated to drive him thoroughly mad.