#phenomatoxic

Another day serving as Shroud's righthand man, another day standing menacingly at his shoulder and relaying his orders with acerbic glee.

"I have no further use for you tonight," Shroud coolly informs him, when all their arms deals and criminal underworld maneuvering and forward-planning is done for the day. "Be back here tomorrow evening for one last security run-through for our upcoming augment deal."

"Can do, boss," Toxic brightly agrees. Ordinarily, he'd wish the man a pleasant evening and turn on his heel as he departed with an airy wave.

But today he hesitates.

Shroud doesn't fail to notice.

The masked mastermind turns his head slightly—not quite looking over his shoulder, but enough for Toxic to know he has Shroud's attention. "Something on your mind?"

Toxic takes a breath to steel his nerves. Shroud likes knowing this kind of thing in advance, he reminds himself. He knows the man prides himself on efficiency—and what better way to keep his loyal lackey happy than letting him have something that costs Shroud basically nothing?

Shroud also appreciates not having his time wasted—and at the slight twitch of the man's head, which privileges Toxic with a glimpse of those piercing LED eyes, he ascertains that he already runs the risk of exhausting the man's limited patience.

"It's not anything super important," Toxic starts, hasty with forced modesty. "I just, uh, wanted to check in and see if it'd be okay with you, if I... took a few days off?"

Shroud unwinds, like he'd been expecting something far less pleasant than an innocuous request for time off. He turns his attention back to the security terminal he's seated at. "Is that all," he murmurs dismissively. Toxic has never been so relieved to have a personal request treated with such open disregard. At least it means Shroud probably isn't angry at him for having the temerity to ask.

At least Shroud hasn't yet said 'no'.

"When?" Shroud inquires.

"The first three days of November," Toxic promptly replies. It takes an effort not to sound too earnest. Too eagerly hopeful, like a kid asking for a new video game console for Christmas.

The quiet purr of computations chirping behind Shroud's eyes echoes softly amidst the drone of the security monitors' electric hum.

"... A weekend," Shroud concludes. "What's the occasion?"

Shroud's tone clearly conveys that he couldn't care less, and Toxic isn't especially eager to disclose his reasons—but neither has he ever ailed under the delusion that even Shroud's idle, mildly disdainful curiosity was something he had the luxury of failing to satisfy.

"Gaming convention," he says quickly, casually as he can.

Shroud slowly spins his seat, the rolling chair's joints creaking faintly. "Really," he says with mild interest, giving Toxic a once-over—like he's searching for some evidence of this unforeseen interest on his person. "I didn't peg you as the type."

Much to Toxic's chagrin, Shroud has yet to peg him with anything. Ordinarily he'd relish the man's undivided attention, and the possibility of its prolonged application potentially rectifying that lamentable state of affairs—but just at the moment, he wishes Shroud would look anywhere but at him.

While Shroud hasn't asked him a question, his open-ended statement makes it clear he expects an answer.

Toxic attempts to deflect. "Whaaat? C'mon, boss-man! You know I love games."

Shroud stares at Toxic thoughtfully. "I suppose you have been known to play with your food," he absently concedes. "But this and that are just a little bit different... Don't you agree?"

Toxic lets out a nervous laugh. "You got me there."

"You know, ordinarily I wouldn't care," Shroud breezily informs him, "but you're being unusually cagey about this. And here I didn't think you had an ounce of shame in your body..."

Toxic rubs the back of his neck, dragging his fingers through the fade of his buzz cut in search of sensory distraction. Shroud tilts his head.

"But now you're embarrassed," he leisurely observes.

Toxic stiffens. He swallows thickly.

"Interesting," Shroud purrs, and it takes all of Toxic's not inconsiderable fortitude to keep his knees from trembling. "I assume a specific event caught your eye, or you wouldn't be so concerned about whether or not I'd permit your attendance as to ask so far in advance."

If anyone else tried to lord their intellectual superiority over Toxic like this, playing detective over something as inane as his embarrassing weekend plans, Toxic wouldn't entertain it for even a second. He'd give them a disdainful look and walk away, maybe after a parting shot of choice insults designed to cut them to the quick. But because it's Shroud—the guy with a supercomputer in his brain, the villain with 90% of the Los Angeles criminal underworld by the balls, the engineering virtuoso who single-handedly pioneered the augment market—it's as mortifying as it is thrilling.