⚜️ Boss ⚜️

“Some people think that I’m crazy, I’m just out here trying to have a good time, what’s your problem?”

A huff escaped the girl’s mouth as she did nothing to hide the eye roll she couldn’t help but give.

Really? He had the audacity to ask what her problem was when they were the ones running around, acting like lunatics?

“My problem is your reckless behavior is going to get us killed. This isn’t the time to be having a bit of fun-- we need to be serious about the issue at hand.”

“You don’t think I’m taking this seriously?! We didn’t even high five the last three kills!”

He’s got his left hand over some guy’s mouth, and his right hand on the handle of a very large, very ribbed combat blade; Boss promptly plunges all 9 inches of it into said homie’s neck. It sputters blood upwards in a teeny little fountain. Mmm, sexual. The Boss’ fingers seep a sticky sanguine, and once the body’s lifeless, he releases his grip. Thud.

Asha is a silent venom. She slithers into a room of twenty-one, runs a few hard wires across some necks, and it’s an empty room. Nice and easy; easy and quiet. The Boss? Not so much. A little boom boom here, a little slappity-slap there, some nutsack wreckage, and maybe a little hurricanranas for some added flair. And that’s just a Tuesday night. Needless to say, he and her are... just not on the same Myers-Briggs scale.

Somehow, Asha always ends up leading him when they’re together. He follows behind her like a cub, absorbing whatever teachings of stealth she can offer. That’s why he came along, no? Practice. And boredom...

“I--” Matt sat there and pondered the question for a moment, a confused look slowly forming on his face as he thought about it more and more.

“Is this a trick question?”

No beats missed; a high pitched difference from his usual baritone continues to pummel Matt - as if he’s offended, as if he’s hurt. “Do I look like someone who would trick you?!”

With sturdy brows pushed inward, he turns to size up the doubtful comrade, both yet unfamiliar to each other’s sense of humor. They weren’t necessarily best friends. Not even mild friends. But once you’ve clicked all the things that go clck!, and boom all the things that go BOOM!.... shit gets boring on an alien spaceship. Without waiting for Matt to ruin the rhetoric further, the Saint moves on.

“Look, you and Kinzie are the only ones know how to turn on this dumb modding bullshit,” As if coding alien binary was a 1-2-3 task. He’s been bugging Matt for the last day and a half to teach him how to mod the simulation himself - in hopes of bending it at will for a more entertaining, more destructive time. Now he proposes a competition of sorts, a bet. One in which Matt gets to mod any and all rules, assets, and conditions. Kinzie had refused once, lecturing that “delving that deep into the simulation’s code and distorting it for child’s play could break it beyond repair”. Whatever that meant.