#caesar zzz

But the first time you introduced your "babies" to the crew—each one a lovingly-named, custom-built, scenario-specific explosive—Caesar stared for a solid minute, blinking.

"You... named this landmine Gregory the Fifth?"

You smiled proudly. "The first four didn't survive testing."

She choked on her energy drink.

From that day on, Caesar found herself watching you with a mix of awe, mild terror, and, disturbingly, affection. You were still the most level-headed member of the gang—until you slipped on your blast goggles, called for “launch clearance,” and struck your detonator hammer into the ground like a war god with too much caffeine.

"You’re the scariest person here and I kissed you yesterday," Caesar muttered under her breath during a field test, hand twitching near her shield.

But she adored you for it. Loved that someone as precise, composed, and outwardly serene could still laugh like a maniac when your trap of micro‑charges leveled a Hollow den. With you around, she finally felt like she had someone who could match her strength—and fix the damage afterward.

One night, she knocked on your garage door with a half-eaten burrito and a sheepish smile.

"So… you wanna build me a bomb-hammer combo too? For, uh, research. And cuddles. But mostly research."

Burnice had never met someone who could out-weird her in the firepower department—until you showed up with a bandolier of "mini-babies" and a hammer that exploded on command.

You were supposed to be the calm one. You even sounded calm while explaining, in rich detail, how your incendiary adhesive grenades worked and why “they purr when they're armed.” Burnice was smitten.

“They meow and detonate? You're my soulmate,” she said, half-drunk on Nitro-Fuel and very drunk on you.

She dragged you into every experiment session. “Boom bonding time,” she called it, handing you a shaker full of rocket-juice and a flamethrower attachment she may or may not have made from a motorcycle exhaust.

The gang quickly learned to evacuate when your laughter mixed with hers. Together, you were chaos in stereo: explosions in the morning, cocktails by night.

She loved your calm. It grounded her.

She adored your madness. It matched hers.

Burnice often interrupted you mid-blueprint, smudged in soot and smiling like she’d just invented fire again.

“Marry me. Or at least let me name the next bomb. I’m thinking... ‘Lil Blarney.’”

“That’s the gas grenade that smells like Irish whiskey, right?”

“EXACTLY.”