marahuyo

“Depends on who you ask. If you asked the people downstairs then they tell you I’ve found new materials with human skin and make fun little meat suits in my free time.” He rolls his eyes but the thought is enough to make him laugh. “Quite proud of that but really, human skin. This isn’t amateur hour.” 

Eyes narrow and in a single movement he wrenches the knife free pointing it’s blade at the questioner. It’s point is nothing compared to the sharpness of his eyes and how they narrow in distaste. “Of course not. No capes.” 

Grinning Mode leans in dropping his voice into one of an over exaggerated whisper, “I really hope that the person that you heard that from wasn’t anyone downstairs. I call them, ah,” his tone is teasing as a gloved finger taps against chin in thought until accent tone eventually chirps again with the sudden epiphany, “asses.” He waves toward his station, cramped impossibly small for even one, and practically bursting at the seams. It’s the organized chaos that Mode thrives in glittering with potential to nearly do anything with the right imagination along with those willing to push the boundaries. “Lucky for you there’s plenty of somethings I can do, it just depends on what that is and what you can offer me. How can I help?” 

He has to lean to even see her above the stacks of papers one hand messages a temple while the other writes. Mode blinks, his eyes tired from reading print probably intended for ants in hell. He’s thankful that her words cut into another another far less important voice in his ear that’s been urging about deadlines and paperwork for the last hour. And there is a mountain paperwork to be done. Horrible. Awful. Paperwork. His hand lifts to his ear and the urgency of the voice increased biding him not to turn off comm-links. After flashing a grin at the ‘hidden’ camera mounted in his station Mode does exactly that, silence reclaimed. Pencil pushers. “A biiig favor well,” her tone is mimicked to tease, elbows propped on the table his head resting in a hand peeking only just above a stack of papers, “Take me away from all of this and I’ll even deal with Hale if that’s what you’re asking.” As he speaks he’s already rising, eager to escape this mess even for a moment. 

“A clean uniform means clean hands which means they’re not using my gear as intended.” Stooping down Mode grips the handle of a knife wedged into the side of a man’s skull. Bearing administrative colors Mode might have felt stabs of guilt were the suit not so poorly made and it would be a lie to say that either parties were entirely innocent. After struggling with the handle momentarily and twisting it away with little gentleness the knife finally comes away with a wet sounding pop.The body fell away with a heavy thump blood sluggishly pooling out, he was careful to keep the mess away from his station. Mode swipes a gloved finger across the still wet blade eyeing how crimson made cold steel shine. “Rips and tears are all necessary parts of progress. Are you asking because you needed something fixed? I don’t bite.” 

Do you like that Omnipresent Force of Administration that watches you fight a fake war with little remorse? Do you like looking good while killing people? Well, do I got a deal for you! Go ahead and like or reblog for Eddie Rosales, outfitting you for murder since 1918.

“Hah! That’s a good one. Since when do mercenaries listen to advice?”