#fa1lmech

"That's what Fridays are for: the big, happenin' stuff. And of course, a surplus of action."

Due to past encounters, Rex was cautious of where he placed his loyalty, especially where money was involved-- and mixed with costumed adventuring of the altruistically-inclined variety. Even just distanced cooperation with SDN came from a combination of urgency after what Shroud did to the Southland and more personal financial woes. The cosmic contender proceeded to psyche himself up, and he did suppose he'd seen far worse than SDN: Torrance Branch in particular seemed amicable enough if they were willing to host something like the Phoenix Program.

~!!

continued from here with @fa1lmech

Leave it to RJ to actually get a genuine laugh out of them - filled with warmth & lacking any canned awkwardness from their rare appearances with the press. He does that a lot, actually - something that warms their hearts & endears them all at once, thanking their lucky stars that they got to go from work friends to friend friends. "Oh no, this is not something I do for everyone. This is pret-ty exclusive to freckled, scruffy, brown-eyed dispatchers," they quip right back, falling into their usual pattern of light, comfortable banter as Hotaru frees another plate from stuck-on food purgatory, "of which, may I add, only one person fits that description." The electric hero can't help but lean over & tease in a faux stage-whisper, " That's you!!! But also, let's be real, I bet I could nail the dumpster from your window, and if I miss? I'll pay for dinner."

A fond smile tugs at their face as they pass him another plate, pausing to stretch as something pops back to place in their back. "You say that, but... have you considered that I wanted to do this?" Hazel eyes slide over to his - still not completely rid of the electric cyan from the hellish fight they had earlier, a soft, genuine smile on their face as they lean against the sink. "World's cutest, fuzziest roomie aside, friends don't let friends fight Mt. Dishmore alone - which yes, I'm aware is a complete exaggeration, but as a fellow procrastinator? Been there, done that, built an entire Mecha Man model kit to avoid it." A small bump of their shoulder against his, & they turn back to the task at hand, furrowing their brows in concentration & sticking out their tongue as they scrub a pot. "Plus, imagine how good that takeout's gonna taste after kicking this much ass! ( Speaking of which, did we ... pick a place? )"

@fa1lmech ♡'d

the dirt under his nails feels permanent. like that now matter how hard he scrubs with shitty soap and scalding water, the muddying color will remain. it's just another thing that's a part of him now, like the GRIEF.

there is a series of unchanging fixtures in robert's life and this, hands calloused from hard work and streaked with grime, is now one of them.

he's kneeling on asphalt and rainwater, elbow-deep in a pile of debris. he can't pinpoint WHEN he started picking things through other people's garbage only that it felt like a good idea and he thinks it still is, because he and robin have a working computer, now⸺ and a few other electronics salvaged from scraps. it's better than nothing, even when he goes BACK to the home smelling like he crawled in shit and gets a good chewing-out for his trouble.

today what's on his mind is the mech suit. his dad's mech suit, to be exact. he's been keeping an eye on the realtor who was in charge of selling their house by hacking into his email, and THEY'VE BEEN LUCKY so far that no one's bit at the starting bid. but there's a multimillion dollar piece of equipment sitting in the workshop hidden under the backyard's shed and it'll be a HELL of a lot harder to get to when someone starts moving in.

he's been at it for hours it feels like, scrutinizing every wheel and shiny surface. he finds almost EXACTLY what he's looking for⸺ if a little small⸺ before sundown, noisily dragging it the three-mile hike back to the boy's home. he shoves it into one of the bushes by the house, taking some other leaves and debris to make sure it can't be seen from the road, before heading inside to find robin.

" rob? " he calls, knowing at the very least if he can't be heard he can definitely be smelt, " hey rob, you home? "

A crueler man might answer with a yes, call out that the other had forsaken common sense by going without a decent amount of rest. All to... what? Win a fruitless argument, that neither of time will remember, half an hour from now? It was possible, but as a hand moves to intercept the flung stress ball, the matter expires, unchallenged.

"Rrrright, like that makes any difference." In spite of sour words shared, victories could be claimed in other ways; despite stopping the object, his head still leaned in the opposite direction reflexively, returning to his original position only once he'd dropped the object back onto the dispatcher's desk. "I'm not on the payroll, or have you forgotten that already?" Which had raised more than a few eyebrows, scrutiny that he had little difficulty waving away so far.

@fa1lmech sent:

” I’m not playing games here.” For Murphy

TENSION LINER PROMPTS

Murphy stares at him for a moment, eyes hidden by the visor but definitely looking at him. He doesn't think he has to say that he's not here to play games either, he had a duty to uphold, programming to follow, with a little bit of freewill thanks to that human brain of his as much as OCP hates when he uses it, but at the moment, the company can pound sand for all he cares, if they need him they know how to find him. "Do you think I am playing games?" The cyborg asks, mechanical parts whirring slightly as he adjusts the way he is currently standing.

“Talk to me.”

Chad doesn't want to talk to Robert. Talking to Robert makes him feel small. Stupid, even.

Fucker thinks it's funny that he took his fingers. Yeah, well, the only people who get to laugh at him are Kawti and Alice, and even Alice can only get away with so much. Kawti gets a pass because she's literally nine.

Robert Robertson? The twink entering his midlife crisis can fuck the fuck off.

Setting his jaw, he crosses his arms and drums his fingers along his tricep.

SHIFT'S OVER, fuckin' finally! the building's gone quiet in that fragile, after-hours way that makes Flambae's dark skin itch; too much restraint sitting on his muscles, too much heat backed up with nowhere to go; he can feel it, flame licking at his ribs, begging for release. so he failed the last fucking mission, not catastrophic, not headline-worthy, just… shit, sloppy. hesitation where there shouldn't have been any. and that little BITCH had the nerve to call him out, sitting his flat ass of his on a chair all day. that's the problem.

he storms down the corridor toward the open-space office where dispatchers do whatever shit it is that they do, boots loud, jaw locked, hands already curling, looking for a slim throat to choke. robert's words still scrape at the inside of his skull, like nails on a chalkboard: measured, calm, somehow worse than any shouting. 'you didn’t think it through, as usual. you put people at risk.' not angry, disappointed; and that does more damage than any insult ever could. he shoves a chair out of the way enough to send it toppling, heat emanating from him in a low, dangerous haze.

@fa1lmech's still there - of course he is, the fucking loser - at his desk, posture slouched like he hasn't just lit a fuse and walked away, looking like a fuckin' mormon, average face, average height, zero flair or spectacle; and somehow that confidence lands harder than any cape or kill count, which pisses Flambae off more than it should, all fire and noise in that room that's built to control people like him. truth is, Robert gets under his skin in a way most people don't, and it's not out of fear or respect, it's much worse than that: it's being seen, and measured by his bitch ass.

Flambae closes the distance in three strides, looming, the fire that threatens to flare out of his limbs fettered by sheer force of will. "got somethin' else to say to me?" he snaps, accent sharp, breath steaming through the gap in his clenched teeth, keen eyes smouldering. "c'mon smart ass, say it to my face." fingers, and what's left of them, twitch at his sides, itching to grab, to shake, to burn something, and Robert's right there like a safety test he's about to fail on purpose; and for a split second, he's ready to do it, to slam him back against the desk and feel that calm crack, prove he's not just some B-rated fuckup who needs a dispatcher to hold him on a leash--

--and the moment hangs, heated and volatile. waiting to see who moves first.

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ Harley's grip on the phone tightened, her brow furrowing slightly as the calm, patient voice on the other end rattled on. It was a peculiar sensation, havin' someone actually listen to her ramble without the usual wail of sirens or the uncomfortable embrace of a straightjacket. The lingering scent of burnt sugar from her latest kitchen catastrophe - a valiant, if ill-fated, attempt at baking cookies - still permeated the apartment. The poor sap on the other end seemed to genuinely believe she was running some sort of illicit animal enterprise, which, while hilarious, was miles from the truth. Her hyenas, Bud and Lou, were family, pure and simple, even if their current bout of despondency was throwing a giant wrench into her afternoon. She glanced over at her two fuzzy darlings, currently huddled in a corner of the living room, looking less like ferocious predators and more like oversized, dejected puppies. This wasn't their usual peppy demeanour, and it was gnawing at her like a bad case of the Mondays.

A hero with healing abilities, he'd offered. Three miles away! The thought brought an almost mischievous twitch to Harley’s lips. It wasn't every day a 'hero' was offering to help her, let alone her precious babies. The very idea of a do-gooder stepping foot into her meticulously curated, if somewhat explosively decorated, abode was certainly a novelty! She could already picture the look on their face as they took in the mismatched furniture, the glitter-encrusted baseball bat propped casually by the door, and the assortment of explosives she had laid out on the coffee table for just-in-case. Still, if it meant getting her babies back to their usual, gleefully destructive selves, a little awkwardness was a small price to pay. Besides, she had a fresh batch of cookies baking (the next batch, that is), and she wasn't about to let perfectly good treats go to waste on two mopey hyenas.