#redpool

You strum your fingers on the metal door frame and make a face, “Jesus… this guy’s baby dick energy is so massive it probably never occurred to him that people like us existed.”

Inside the van, behind you, Wrench grins loudly, “Did you seriously say baby dick energy? Now all I can picture are penis lasers,” and, with robotic static, adds, “Pew-pew-right in the dick!”

You roll your eyes, backpedal inside the safety of the van and plunk down on the swivel chair and desk setup bolted to the floor. There’ll be enough mansion ogling when you’ve finished Ray’s algo anyway and if you get Wrench riled up too fast, then nothing productive is getting done today.

Wrench stays quiet for two-point-three seconds, then collapses into a playgirl-esque pose on the computer desk in front of you. Before he can knock over your milky coffee drink with his elbow, you scoot it out of the way with a pointed glare, all without taking a hand off the keys. 

“Ya know you’re supposed to be the lookout, right?”

Pixel arrows point at the ceiling happily, “Nothing’s happened since we got here. The prodigal son is out,” he waves a tattooed hand like he’s brain farting on a particular word, “prodigality-ing… or something, and you’re waaaay nicer to look at than the adult LEGO set that fucker calls a house. Plus, you still owe me for losing that bet last night.”

While Wrench can be insufferable at times and you actually take pride in your work ethic unlike ‘someone,’ he is utterly charming to a fault, so you hide a smile and ignore his finger-gunning crotch motions. 

“You so would pick something sexual for that,” you respond as dryly as possible. 

Watching his emotes go from seductive hearts to underscores then inward slashes like a sad puppy dog was worth the finger flick he lands on your cheek, especially when the movement makes the hem of his hoodie ride up his stomach, exposing a sliver of hard abdominals, inked with scatch-hearts. It wouldn’t be all that wise to get distracted this way, but Wrench is a jack of all trades and a master of many; he’s mastered the art of LowRes seduction very, very well.

You blush a little, but only after he readjusts the denim creases around his junk, rubbing at what looks like an oil stain from the events of last night. The algorithm from T-Bone gets typed in a tad slower due to some minor ‘distractions’ but all in all, this lil’ mission Marcus sent you both on is going swimmingly.

“Gotta admit,” Wrench wonders aloud, “this dude’s got way too many lemon-flavored goodies to not have some sort of protocol against hacker babes like us.”

You nod while typing in the final line of code, then throw down the enter key with a puff of breath, “No shit. It’s almost too easy. Like, suspiciously so.”

“Hmm, want me to check the digital keypad while you run that thing?”

“Probably a smart move,” you agree, lifting your laptop and drink off the desk as he wiggles like spawning salmon off the edge - heels smacking the metal floor with a lurch over the wheels. He kicks open the back doors - ever the subtle criminal - and starts judging the keypad.

The van and the two of you are currently stationary in Ahed’s four-car garage which is unsurprisingly empty since the McMansion was still being shown to high-end clients for future mass development. Rich assholes weren’t always the smartest people, as much as they thought they were. Opening their lives up to hackers through everything from toaster ovens to smart showerheads was only gonna make groups like DedSec stronger. Bring it on, you think with a tiny smile.

“Ooooh, looks like fart boy had his dingleberries install a monitoring chip,” Wrench’s voice crackles from around the van, “I could just… right…” something metallic stabs and clicks, “there!”

He swings himself back inside the van, close enough you can feel the furnace that is his body temperature lather on your right side. Double-carets smile at you as he hunches over, presenting a little, toothy microchip between his fingertips. 

 “See, it’s all in the wrist.”

“Mmhmm,” you can't help but smile, “your technique is not in question, don’t worry.” His skills are never really in question, at least not when it comes to you, but you add a little insinuation to your words considering he’s been threatening you with a good time since this morning.

Your tone does not go unnoticed. 

As the algorithm does its thing - rendering the security firm obsolete via a fake firewall - Wrench tosses the offending chip over his shoulder and props his spiked chin in his fist, lowering his voice to Barry Manilow levels, “Only thing I’m worried about is when I get to stick my cockerdoodle in your-“

“Shooosh,” you interrupt hastily, looking dramatically behind him, “do you hear that?”

“Hear what now?” His mask blinks question marks.

The silence continues.

“That.”

Wrench goes silent as a bricked system and looks over his shoulder, knowing when it’s time to get serious.

With a tight lipped-smile and your best dramatic tone locked and loaded, you whisper, “It’s the sound of a rare Wrench not saying something pornographic for five seconds.”

Side-eyeing underscores turn to you, but the leather below his digital display creases, proving that beneath the glare, he’s grinning

“Pffff,” he raspberries, “it was way longer than that!”