"Why yes! Yes, I am," Triton answered. "In a sense."

"And yes I would like to have a look," he continued. "Please."

No, no, Triton very well should be more humble—but Darlynne don’t know that yet. Oh well. She whipped out her phone and scrolled through photos (passing by a few others far too fast). 

Ah, there we go!!!

Wherever she took these, the ‘grass’ was opalite in hue and three moons took up the horizon line. These critters were behemoths, almost appearing like bovines with hooves as sturdy as their curved horns, but their faces? They split into prehensile tendrils that tore up the fields of grass with numerous incisors. Six legs, too. Hard to unsee that.

Rex nodded along. As far as he could observe of all this, he still regarded Corbeau as fulfilling the role of a community leader. If one who did not wish to be credited as such.

It is in the observation of the society beneath the opulence and the success of Eclipse that Rex recognized the humanitarian efforts had their limits. That ultimately, the burden was still handed off to others. Humans not only taking their robotics for granted, but fearing aberration instead of using their vaunted scientific capabilities to better understand them. And they were rapid prodigies when it came to their science. Perhaps that was where their arrogance lay. Ascending the mountain of progress without mind to the fact the holding points on cliffsides could crumble beneath their hands and feet.

But the underground was also a vast celebration of life.

There was still an economic lifeblood to keep up. But one that did not disintegrate at every little opportunity for growth. Tensions were kept at bay by communication. Recognizing each other's identities and how they inhabited the place, could both harm and benefit-- and worked around that. Corbeau and Philippe did not have to do the things they did, being possessed of more resources and talent than most.

But they had. And Rex was at least thankful for that.

There was a bow from the secretive extraterrestrial. Although the affect of his voice and the expression of his temperament could be muted in this lifetime, he still made it a point to convey the most authentic messages he could relay, even limited as he could be. Thumbing over the menu with equal interest in the text as the texture of the thing and how long it had been in use. Ordering a filling meal, drink, and dessert.

"Thanks."

He minded how Philippe did not take a seat. Wondering if this meeting was still in the realm of business. Right-hand man remaining at the ready?

‘Whatta weirdo,’ he thought, but not with malice. Not even a smirk or sneer. Just a nod, as he motioned for Philippe to finally be at ease. “He fits right in.’

“You should be careful who you offer services to. You’ll attract nothin’ but trouble and ne’er-do-wells.” NOW Corbeau smirked, turned to Philippe who returned the same look. “Too late for that, I guess.”

The smirk soon fell back into a relaxed frown, or at least, as much as the boss would allow himself in public.

“Not a fan of small talk, eh? Me either. So I’ll be real with you: I still don’t know you. I know everyone else ‘round here, I even know people who shouldn’t be here, but I don’t know you.”

The waiter—who was also the chef, and probably even the owner, but definitely the same one who gurgled from the back—dropped off the entries half-haphazardly onto the table. W … was that waiter’s thumb in the ramen? Regardless, thanks were still exchanged and the waiter only grunted in return.

At least the food was hot and the drinks cold.

“You see how that might put a guy on edge?” Corbeau asked and split his chopsticks apart. Philippe nodded along sympathetically while he carefully cut into his quiche, and as the boss downed an egg whole (jaw opening wider than what a human’s would), he filled in for the rest.

Ugh. While no one had been around the bar yet, she really hoped it stayed like this until Wesley arrived. Some of those villains and goons really thought they can do whatever they want when he isn't around. Even if he was just in the kitchen. And the vigilante coudn't deal with them in her own way when she was out as the barkeeper.

And maybe, just maybe, despite all the acts of grandiosity, a less … showy … place to unwind was just what the big boss ordered.

Philippe held the door wide open for the boss, but Corbeau’s double-hellos were caught in his throat upon entry. A brow raised as the two exchanged a quick look. No one else, not a single other soul here, but one mademoiselle catchin’ some shut-eye. If he were in a crabbier mood more of a regular, he might’ve asked the barkeep if she always slept on the job.

The scowl on Rick's face deepened. Why did he hang out with this guy again? He usually got nothing useful out of it, no tip or enlightening discovery or mind-blowing high. They didn't even fuck...not that he had ever tried to go there. He was purposefully blind to many things, but that was the kind of room he always cared to read.

But never mind that, he wasn't the kind of guy who needed to screw all his friends unlike some of the company he kept. That wasn't the point at all.

The truth was that the old bastard...and yeah, he knows that he has no right to call the other that, considering he's himself, but he couldn't have given less of a rat ass about being a hypocrite...was a pain in the neck most of the time.

So, why did he even like him at all, when he couldn't even get away with some exaggerated, perhaps unearned bitching?

He enjoyed the bickering, he loved butting heads with someone who could keep up, it thrilled him to have battle of wits actually worth of that name, but never mind that either.

He couldn't have Doc know just how much pleasure he took in their association.

"D-Damn, I hadn't realised I was in the company of such a master clown," he shot back, tone as flat and unimpressed as his expression. "Y-You really shouldn't waste your talent on me. G-Go off and take a stage, I-I know plenty of losers with a shitty sense of humour w-who'd love to hear your crap."

Still, he accepted the pipe with hesitation. Trying to out-sass the guy wasn't a good reason enough to turn down a shot of something decent.

Blue eyes fell on the device the other scientist had been working on and which Rick had stubbornly ignored till then. He didn't particularly care for it, even if he couldn't help a hint of curiosity, but it was a good excuse as any other to change the subject.

ATLAS. That’s always a sensitive topic (and looks like both of ‘em were eager to change the subject, now).

“‘Just speed up time in a contained, isolated space bubble,’ he says. Of course. How silly of me.” Doc then gestures, grandly so with a dramatic sweep of arms, at the scanner in question. 

“Go on. Put my resume to shame. Maybe my old job will come back from the ashes of space and hire you as my replacement. Get ready. You’ll be taking temperatures of hypochondriacs and patching up dumbasses who shoved their arms in cages that had ‘do not touch’ warnings all over. I’LL go find that clown nose and prepare for my next big act, if you don’t mind.”

You bet he’s sticking with the bit. Doc annoyingly makes a point to look through his toolbox, rummaging around until he … oh, hey. There really was a clown nose in here. It’s purple and squeaks out a honk when squeezed.

"I was in the middle of something else." As usual, Coldsnap held himself and spoke with defensive tension. Even as he blurted out his reasoning, the superhero felt like it was but an excuse. Gloved fingers ghosted over the handle of his own blades but he wasn't drawing those out yet.

"And you didn't have to-"

As much as he didn't like that this total stranger with a cool sword just took down a foe that he could have easily taken down himself, he had to admit he had been late. He should probably thank this guy.

Corbeau’s hands slip into his pockets, the ends of his coat bunched up at the corners. “Lotsa’ apartments nearby,” and he would know, since he owned most of ‘em. “Don’t want these bots stinkin’ up the place and pesterin’ the good people who live here, yeah?”

The shrug was almost too casual while he rolled his neck. Crack. A sigh of relief as a bit of tension dissipated ... that is, until he caught sight of how Coldsnap's hands ghosted over his own sheathed blades.

A brow quirked.