#bbpride

Shit shit shit. How did people do this on a daily basis and not screw it up? This was the second pack of bacon Oscar Mike had burned and had to throw away. Thankfully, he could continue to hide his mistakes since he’d taken the batteries out of the smoke detector. Sighing, he dug out another from the fridge, sliced it open, and tossed the thick slices onto the hot oil, jumping back in fright as it spat at him angrily. Pancakes. Right. It had been a few minutes since he’d let the mixture rest, and he was undecided as to whether he should make several small ones or just one big one to fit the Aplian’s appetite. Orange juice or caffe? Syrup or honey? Did he even like fruit? Shit was something burning again???! He managed to flip the bacon in time and rescued it from the frying pan before they became charcoal again, the grease hissing and dripping onto the large omelette he’d already made. That had been the easiest part of this damned breakfast. ... he should have added some cheese to the eggs. That would have made it better. And some Go-Go Juice for flavour. He smeared his gloves on the stained apron before piling everything onto the tray. It was mostly a sad sight, or at least not fitting the image he’d had in his head, but it was better than not making anything at all. He nudged Montana’s door open with his rear and quietly placed the tray on the table next to his bed. “Good morning~.” Bonk. “Ow!” Montana woke with a start, gripping his cheek and the small bruise that was starting to form. “What was that for?!” “Oh, sorry, this dang helmet.” He fiddled with the latches and removed it, offering his pursed lips to the turret-wielder once more. Montana gave him a suspicious look before presenting his cheek again. “You made me breakfast?” He gave the overly-large and overly-thick pancake a hefty poke. He was certainly going to be digesting that all day. “Yeah! You like it?” Mike laid the tray across his lap and adjust the pillow behind his back. “What’s the occasion, exactly?” The eggs looked done at least, and he gave those a taste. Definitely needed some salt. “The occasion? Oh... uh... it’s Thursday! Yeah!” Not the answer Montana had been hoping for, but he’d take it.

💀 Lorrians (the quarapedal, four-armed, cat-eared orcs, not THE Lorrian) are an intersex species that readily interact with any other species. As such, culturally they're a hodgepodge of femininity and masculinity and will defend the merits of both.

The lights shut off, only the glows from their eyes illuminating the room. "Lights out. We'll move out first thin' in the mornin'."

Francesco Drake traced his fingers along the outline of the figure in the photo. He wasn’t sure what had drawn him to the man, but ever since the first day they’d met, he couldn’t help where his mind drifted. He’d tried to beat the thoughts back, taking on match after match, helping to take on Rendain’s forces, even helping Miss Phoebe with her experiments and escorting her around. And yet, he would always find himself here, lamenting over the- “It’s time to go.” A chill of fear shook El Dragon down to his core and he quickly shoved the picture into a drawer, hoping that whoever was calling on him wouldn’t notice. “... everything alright?” He tugged down the edge of his mask and adjusted the hole over his mouth. “You caught me unawares. You know a luchador should never have his face revealed!” His words, intended to be majestic, came out shaky and without confidence. “... sure. Look, we’ve landed and you agreed to help us with this. You’ve got two minutes to grab your gear and meet us outside.” Ghalt gave him one more look before stepping away and allowing the door to slide closed behind him. He hadn’t seen, right? If he had, he would have asked questions. Or maybe he didn’t out of politeness. That was his job, wasn’t it, not to ask the personal questions on the job? Drake sighed and glanced at the shut drawer once more. It wouldn’t hurt to look again, but he was on the clock. There would be time after he got back, during the return ride to the LLC flagship. He flexed his metal fingers and adjusted his hover crown until it sat perfectly in place, checked his mask to ensure it was free of wrinkles, and headed out the door. His picture of the helmeted clone wearing that perfectly pink tutu would be there when he returned.

“No, like this.” Kid Ultra performed the gesture again, which didn’t look any different from what Ernest had just done. The aviant tugged on the edge of his bandana and tried again, taking careful note of what had been different in the little nanny-bot’s gestures. “Better. At least you’re not telling him he smells like beef.” He would, under any other circumstances. The tall rocker launcher-wielder had done nothing but get on his nerves since they’d first met, and yet he found himself whipping the young man into shape so that he’d start being less of an asshole. A defence mechanism, Ernest realized, for all the shit he’d been through. The short squat aviant had kept it to himself, afraid that Toby would consider him a traitor, especially after that speech he’d given him about their flightless kind. But if there was anyone who needed someone by their side at the moment, it was Benedict. He squared back his shoulders and marched into the hospital room to find Benedict in a bed, his head covered in thick bandages. “No brain damage” the doctor had said... but Ernest was sure he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway. “How are you feeling, soldier?” he signed. Benedict looked back at him with confusion, his eyes still a little unfocused. “Kid Ultra taught me a little sign. I thought it would be a good idea until your hearing comes back.” Benedict grabbed the nearby pad of paper and started scribbling: “That’ll be three months from now.” Three months. That was a small blessing in disguise if the loud-mouthed aviant was reduced to silence. “Why are you here anyway?” Benedict wrote with a furrowed brow. Ernest was the last person he expected to visit him... or at least take the time to learn sign language. “You’re still one of us.” “But you hate me.” He used to. Then it had become something else. But now wasn’t the time for that. “Yeah you’re still a piece of-” Kid Ultra hadn’t taught him any swear words. Dammit. He spelled out the word “crap.” “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care, soldier. So stop you’re bellyaching and work on getting back on your feet.” Another confused look, and Benedict started writing again. “Did you just tell me I smelled like beef?” Dammit.