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redmarsshit2020-04-27 08:43 pm
modblob) wrote in redmarsshit2020-04-27 08:43 pm
Entry tags:
test drive meme: april 2020
Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.
▶ Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.
▶ All TDM threads can be considered game canon, and current players are welcome to either top-level on the TDM so prospective players can tag them, or use the prompts for logs or network posts on the communities. All threads on the TDM can be used for Activity Check.
▶ SPECIAL NOTE: We're only a month off from the 1 year anniversary of the first TDM, and we received this request for a fancy dress ball, so we thought it would befunny fun to run with it! This TDM will only have one prompt/event, as the monthly log with a bit more plot-related stuff will be going up on Friday May 1st.
▶ All TDM threads can be considered game canon, and current players are welcome to either top-level on the TDM so prospective players can tag them, or use the prompts for logs or network posts on the communities. All threads on the TDM can be used for Activity Check.
▶ SPECIAL NOTE: We're only a month off from the 1 year anniversary of the first TDM, and we received this request for a fancy dress ball, so we thought it would be
a. an invitation.
There are ears everywhere in Anchor. A maintenance bot here, a surveillance AI there. SINI, restlessly pacing the dark digital hallways as she watches over the things that still matter to her. It doesn't take long for word to get out about Starscream's expedition plans. It takes an even shorter time for that news to circulate amongst Anchor's robo-population.
They know when you're unhappy. They always know.
It's why residents will start waking up one fine day to find gorgeous clothes laid out for them to wear and an invitation to a formal dinner taking place down at the plaza at Anchor’s base. The clothes aren't particularly specific to a character's gender, species, or culture - it's all about what the bots think your character would like best. Even if they're wildly off the mark, the clothes are still made to fit and fashioned beautifully. The invitations are marked "TOMORROW, STARTING AT 6PM LOCAL TIME." A smaller note underneath instructs attendees to see the tailor bot adjacent to the spa if they are unsatisfied with their assigned clothing, and also that the spa bots are on high alert, prepared to beautify anyone who wants some extra pampering and a dash of makeup.
Just be careful. Some of the makeover bots are really fond of glitter.
They know when you're unhappy. They always know.
It's why residents will start waking up one fine day to find gorgeous clothes laid out for them to wear and an invitation to a formal dinner taking place down at the plaza at Anchor’s base. The clothes aren't particularly specific to a character's gender, species, or culture - it's all about what the bots think your character would like best. Even if they're wildly off the mark, the clothes are still made to fit and fashioned beautifully. The invitations are marked "TOMORROW, STARTING AT 6PM LOCAL TIME." A smaller note underneath instructs attendees to see the tailor bot adjacent to the spa if they are unsatisfied with their assigned clothing, and also that the spa bots are on high alert, prepared to beautify anyone who wants some extra pampering and a dash of makeup.
Just be careful. Some of the makeover bots are really fond of glitter.
b. quite the spread.
True to the word of the invitation, the plaza is closed off under large white tents and guarded by bots who encouragingly steer you elsewhere should you try to get inside. They're nice, polite, all the things they've been programmed to be whether they like it or not, but there will be no sneaking by them into the party area.
At 6pm on the dot the day after the clothes arrive, characters will find music playing on all levels of Anchor, broadcast from the musical robots who have been practicing ever since that first tiny party almost a year ago.
Invitations will be taken by a bot in an impeccably tailored suit, and characters will be welcomed onto the red carpet that curves around the edge of the park and into the area cordoned off for festivities. The flashbulbs and cheering of bots that line the carpet echo through Anchor, broadcast along with the music until it sounds like the entire place is full of faintly electronic cheering. Each arrival is greeted with a fresh wave of enthusiasm, their image projected larger than life against the interior of Anchor's dome.
The sides of the tents have been rolled up, revealing the absolutely decadent set-up within.
Rows upon rows of buffet tables laid out with the most extravagant and strange dishes for residents to try. All of it delicious, though not all of it will appeal to every palate. There are sweet dishes, savory, spicy, whatever you can imagine. Appetizers of a hundred different kinds. Fruit plates formed into works of art, showing places and events from around Anchor. There are spun sugar reindire. Tiny plates of hors d'oeuvres that depict the faces of residents, both current and former. One particularly large dish is sculpted in the shape of what looks like an explosion emanating from Anchor's base, near where the locked and flooded rooms were found.
There's a cake near the middle of it all, frosting painting an image of a young, smiling man. Anyone who's seen him will, after a moment, recognize the whole and handsome features of a much younger Creepy Joe - the words on the cake say LET'S CELEBRATE OUR OLDEST LIVING RESIDENT!
While most of the food is at least recognizably from the general stores and from the agricultural level, there are other plants and garnishes that look entirely foreign. If asked where they came from, the bots will simply insist they're part of Anchor’s available resources.
There is also a full-service bar, but...not manned by the usual bartender (for anyone who might ask, the other bots will kindly inform them that the usual bartender is on sabbatical for stress). Instead there's a freshly-built bot serving drinks of all kinds, taking requests for old favorites and mixing up new cocktails based on guests' stated tastes.
The only thing not on the menu is a tequila sunrise.
There's a table full of hookahs and little treats that have various light, pleasant effects. These range from simple mood lifts to treats that will leave characters blissed out and relaxed.
At 6pm on the dot the day after the clothes arrive, characters will find music playing on all levels of Anchor, broadcast from the musical robots who have been practicing ever since that first tiny party almost a year ago.
Invitations will be taken by a bot in an impeccably tailored suit, and characters will be welcomed onto the red carpet that curves around the edge of the park and into the area cordoned off for festivities. The flashbulbs and cheering of bots that line the carpet echo through Anchor, broadcast along with the music until it sounds like the entire place is full of faintly electronic cheering. Each arrival is greeted with a fresh wave of enthusiasm, their image projected larger than life against the interior of Anchor's dome.
The sides of the tents have been rolled up, revealing the absolutely decadent set-up within.
Rows upon rows of buffet tables laid out with the most extravagant and strange dishes for residents to try. All of it delicious, though not all of it will appeal to every palate. There are sweet dishes, savory, spicy, whatever you can imagine. Appetizers of a hundred different kinds. Fruit plates formed into works of art, showing places and events from around Anchor. There are spun sugar reindire. Tiny plates of hors d'oeuvres that depict the faces of residents, both current and former. One particularly large dish is sculpted in the shape of what looks like an explosion emanating from Anchor's base, near where the locked and flooded rooms were found.
There's a cake near the middle of it all, frosting painting an image of a young, smiling man. Anyone who's seen him will, after a moment, recognize the whole and handsome features of a much younger Creepy Joe - the words on the cake say LET'S CELEBRATE OUR OLDEST LIVING RESIDENT!
While most of the food is at least recognizably from the general stores and from the agricultural level, there are other plants and garnishes that look entirely foreign. If asked where they came from, the bots will simply insist they're part of Anchor’s available resources.
There is also a full-service bar, but...not manned by the usual bartender (for anyone who might ask, the other bots will kindly inform them that the usual bartender is on sabbatical for stress). Instead there's a freshly-built bot serving drinks of all kinds, taking requests for old favorites and mixing up new cocktails based on guests' stated tastes.
The only thing not on the menu is a tequila sunrise.
There's a table full of hookahs and little treats that have various light, pleasant effects. These range from simple mood lifts to treats that will leave characters blissed out and relaxed.
c. dance, our residents, dance!
After people have finished arriving, the band picks up and guests' attention is directed upward toward Anchor's dome, where there's a truly magnificent light show being projected with musical accompaniment. It's spectacular, haunting and beautiful...and it shows more than just lights. It also shows celestial bodies in motion across the planet's dusk-red sky, meteor showers, strange northern lights. The show itself is almost an hour long, and ends with words unfurling across the apex of the dome.
HAPPY ∞ +1 ANNIVERSARY ANCHOR #3, THE LONGEST RUNNING COLONY.
STAY HERE, STAY HAPPY!
The show fades away and the music picks up again, encouraging guests to dance.
Go on, dance.
It’s a party after all.
STAY HERE, STAY HAPPY!
The show fades away and the music picks up again, encouraging guests to dance.
Go on, dance.
It’s a party after all.
d. the network.
Need to get hold of someone, call for help, ask the city at large a question? Need to ask a friend to back you up to take out the toothy voids? Maybe you need to hold your sat phone up to whatever crazy thing you're seeing and send out a recording to double-check if your eyes are deceiving you and what you're looking at is real?
Whatever the reason, the network is going strong, so feel free to include a post to it in your top-levels.
Whatever the reason, the network is going strong, so feel free to include a post to it in your top-levels.
1.
The average party-goer might be too easy a mark to notice Kabal pocketing one piece of silverware after another. To a master (anal retentive) thief like Len, Kabal's might as well be pocketing utensils with a giant red foam hand, 'AMATEUR' flashing in neon over his head.
Idiot.
This is the first Len's spoken to his not-date since they left the red carpet and grabbed their first drinks.
Coming here was a mistake. Len should've known better, and that makes him equally idiotic, or worse. He's never liked parties. He was a wallflower a kid, and a particularly vicious lone wolf as an adult.
Len doesn't do sloppy or drunk. He's better than that. Superior. Cool and in control at the best and (usually) worst of times. Watching people make fools of themselves from a safe distance, because he'd prefer to keep roaming hands off his ass and combat boots puke-free.
Shit always goes down the same way. Len shows up with someone, well, his only someone, and within ten minutes they're getting shitfaced with the rest of the crowd while Len finds a seat in the fringes and sips the same drink he'll be nursing all night, because he'll be driving himself home when said someone leaves the party with an equally shitfaced companion after setting some person/place/thing on fire.
Having watched Kabal from across the room, throwing back drinks and making the rounds while seemingly eye-fucking any quasi-sentient being with a heartbeat, everywhere but near him, tonight hasn't been any different. Right down to the arson.
Where does he find these losers?
"This is how it's done." A crystal champagne glass disappears into thin air at the blink of an eye. Len's hands move so quickly they're a blur to sober eyes. Drunks don't stand a chance.
Speaking of.
He lifts one of those fast, long-fingered hands. Holding the knife Kabal had previously pocketed.
"You steal worse than a thirteen-year-old copping a chocolate bar from Walmart for the first time." Len's dressed sharp in his blue silk suit, Japanesque in fashion, but his tongue and eyes are sharper. With every intention of cutting his victim to the quick.
no subject
And leave it to the only person who's opinion he might give a fuck about to be the one to do it.
He sighs and rolls his eyes. "I'm not trying to be stealthy. I'm trying to get caught so I can knife someone."
Which seems obvious to him, Kabal's never been covert about anything in his whole life, he's not about to start now. He was pretty damn obvious when he was posing as a double agent with the NYPD, they'd just been too dumb to question him. In any case, he doesn't really need a reason to stab someone, but it's nice to have. So he feels a little more justified watching them bleed out. The thrill of the kill or whatever.
"Aight I'll bite. Where you keeping that, because that outfit doesn't leave much to the imagination."
no subject
It's a lot harder to thieve in a tank-top and hot pants.
Not that Len would be caught dead in either. He may be trailer trash, but he's not trashy. If his actual piece of garbage father could see him in this blue designer number, he'd turn in his shallow grave.
Superior. Second to none. That's who and what Len is. A head above the rest, in spite of Lewis Snart's efforts to grind him beneath his heel.
"And I'm not sure I could break it down into the kinda itty-bitty words you'd understand." He wants to see pain in Kabal's eyes, and add him to the long list of people who crossed him and lived to regret it. Payback for being slighted, and because Len likes to hurt people. It's the easiest way to forget his own discomfort.
Instead, all he sees is the man he's been screwing for the past few weeks, and he looks good. Really good. Walking shoulder to shoulder down that carpet, Len felt a different kind of confidence. Something more warm than cold, like he hasn't felt since Mick became Chronos and decided he'd like Len better as a corpse.
That only pisses Len off more. He doesn't know who he's angrier at. The mercenary for disappointing him, or himself for having unrealistic expectations. For expecting anything from another man who thinks with his dick on a good day and his fists on a bad day.
The honeymoon is over, and it's back to reality.
Partnerships are for suckers.
"How about you leave the stealing to the professionals, and go back to schmoozing with that chick and her awful weave-- if she's out of your league, you can always break more stuff until they throw you out." A dismissive wave of his gloved hand, dancing someone's ring over his knuckles. Len can't remember the mark. He was distracted watching for the man who isn't here, and the one that is.
no subject
He should have expected as much. That's what he gets for trying to think with parts other than his dick and his fists. Lesson learned.
With a disgruntled sound he pulls the mask down so he can throw back some more of the whiskey right out of the decanter. No reason to stay sober if he's not going to have any reason to be. "Guess looking good don't make you any smarter. She probably has to go to confession for talking to me for more than ten seconds."
He gives Len another glance, a final look at what he apparently didn't get anymore. Well that sucks. He'd been enjoying whatever their little partnership was turning into.
"Like to see them try and throw me anywhere."
no subject
"I can make an orange jumpsuit look good." Len swans around like he's wearing vintage Givenchy when in a torn sweater and blood-splattered jeans. He hadn't dressed up special for this party, and doesn't now feel uncomfortable in his own skin, like it was a complete waste of time to make an effort.
If the outfit ends up in the trash tomorrow, it's because Len's already gotten bored of it.
"I'm sure you'll find more where she came from. I can see approximately fifteen living, breathing women who look drunk enough to hook up with you from here... if they lose their contact lenses." A glance around the room, eyes scanning over the other guests like a jeweler searching for a diamond in the rough.
He spots a random girl, and there's nothing special about her. Minus the fact Kabal was more interested in her company than his. She could be an angel for all Len knows. Or cares.
Petty is his middle name. The 'Bitch' is silent.
"That one looks easy. Want me to be your wing-man? I'll tell her you can count all ten fingers and don't have the clap. She'll be super impressed."
If looks could kill, said girl would already have a chalk outline. She looks like Mick's type. Young. Fresh. Female. Not Len, the resident boss/nag/brother from another screwed up mother.
no subject
At least his snarl is visible before he hikes the mask back up. He's in the perfect state of being almost too drunk to give a fuck, and just sober enough to care leaving him in some sort of testy equilibrium. The amount of times he's been legitimately mad in his life he could count on those ten fingers, and this isn't even close.
But he's definitely annoyed.
"You're the one that wanted to come to this." Because the mature thing to do is turn this around and make it Len's fault. Not that he's even really sure what this is. Kano had once said that rich people act like idiots because it seeps into their fancy clothes and houses. Maybe he was right, seeing how Len seems to have done some sort of one-eighty since they got here.
And thinking that Kano was right about anything, puts him in an even fouler mood. One where he's probably going to say some things he's bound to regret.
"I don't need your help to get laid. Pity-fuck when we first met notwithstanding. If that's what I was going for I'd already be back at our place with one of them and...." Oh.
Oh.
Len might actually be able to see the meaty gears of his charcoal brain working hard to slot into place so he finally fucking understands whats going on here. Only half of his face is visible but his eyes narrow in that alcohol induced way where he's trying to solve the mysteries of the universe by simply staring it into submission.
"Are you jealous?" He gives a drunken gesture encompassing those fifteen living, breathing women he'd been talking about earlier. "Of them?"
Holy shit.
"You've gotta be fucking with me."
no subject
Len's spent the entire night in meticulously crafted denial, and Kabal is ruining it. The man is a wrecking ball in more ways than one. Mick knew better than to call him on his shit, or play with him when he's got that nitro-glycerine cold in his eyes.
No, he didn't know better. Mick had the emotional intelligence of a sack of hammers. He just didn't care. No matter how ugly things got, at least there wouldn't be an even uglier conversation about it. Mick was simple that way.
But Kabal isn't Mick, and Mick isn't Mick anymore.
"It was my bad for assuming you had some level of taste, should've know you're a two-bit thug. Dime a dirty dozen. You and them were made for each other. If I'm such a hot piece you--" No, Len can't go there. He's not dumb enough to leave himself open like that. Not with someone he can't trust to sucker-punch him.
A gesture that's closer to a stab at Kabal's chest, punctuating every cutting word.
"I don't give a fuck what you do. Bang 'em on the buffet for all I care. Just don't expect to stick that thing anywhere near me. I'm not into sloppy thirds, fourths, or fifths." Ignore the fact he's still holding a jacked butter knife in one hand with white-knuckled fingers, distracted mid-theft. Len can't even trust his own body not to let him down. Snitch.
Speaking of buffets, they are not having this conversation here. Len wouldn't have picked this fight if he thought it would go anywhere. After verbally eviscerating Kabal, he'd planned on cutting him loose. Len lives his life without apologies, he could give less of a fuck what anyone else thinks of him or the people he chooses to screw, but there's a time and a place to go all Young and the Restless, and this ain't it.
He closes his eyes. Grits his teeth. Finds the composure he threw out the window the last time they screwed. Opens them with a steely determination to win.
Even if winning means losing the only scrap of something good he's found in this dive.
"Get out of my face. I only invited you in case my ex-partner showed up and I needed a meat-shield to hide behind. Didn't wanna ruin my outfit."
no subject
There's a whole hell of a lot to unpack there and Kabal is not sober, nor smart enough, to do so in a way to really deal with this.
"Sounds like something a jealous person would say." Muttered under his breath because the sarcastic response felt normal, clinging to that because everything else happening here is so fucking weird he can't begin to parse it. Couldn't they go back to witty banter and barely concealed flirting?
"Didn't realize you were a blushing virgin deigning to slum it up with a two-bit thug. You sure as fuck weren't complaining before. In fact I remember more than a little encouragement." He's still annoyed but now there's a level of confusion with it because this feels like it's some elaborate joke. Did Len spend weeks fucking him just to drop him publicly for fun?
And drop him from... what? This isn't a ...
Are they...
Are they a thing?
His eyes drop to the whiskey he's holding, because he could use some more of that for the facial journey he's going on while trying to Nancy Drew this shit. And he never liked mysteries.
"Wait. Do you think I'm cheating on you?" Blunt as always, and now, yeah it's time to pull the mask off again for some more whiskey. He's not ready for this.
He's about to say something else and then his face twists back up in a snarl at that last comment, "Ex-Partner. What you needed someone to be your bodyguard cuz you can't take care of yourself? Sounds like a swell guy. Bet we'll be friends. Can bond over whatever the hell this tantrum you're throwing is for."
no subject
And yet-- is the air conditioner broken in here? Because Len can't seem to keep his cool. He's tempted to smack Kabal in the face for the brief moment it's visible. Len hates that he still finds him attractive. Burns and all.
He narrows his eyes, tossing the butter knife onto the buffet. RIP any innocent bystanders who get splashed with cocktail sauce. Your sacrifice is definitely in vain. That's not coming out later.
"You'd be two country-fried assholes in a pod. He couldn't think past the tip of his burnt dick either. If I had his number, I'd give it to you. So you can both screw off into the sunset and have the time of your lives, breaking crap and lighting it on fire, until the next shiny thing comes along."
A glance around the room. Len can't help himself. If Mick were here he would know, or already be dead. Len hasn't seen singed hide or hair of him since their last spat on the network. They almost talked. Came close, between barbed insults and hurled threats.
Len wanted to think Mick was thinking things through for the first time in his life, but deep down he already knew the truth. Mick was gone. By his own volition or a higher power. Len still doesn't understand how this place works. He's starting to think it's some kind of limbo. Punishment for screwing it up so bad in your own universe you blip out of existence.
Will the team notice he's gone? Would any of them care? It figures he would end up doing the leg-work for all this 'saving the world bullshit', and get cut from the credits in the end.
Kabal can't be cheating, because they were never really together.
Len's never really been with anyone.
He knew a long time ago he'd be dying alone, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow. Which is why he'll wash it down with a mouthful of whiskey and the sad remains of a melted ice-cube, tossing the glass aside (into a plant, or the train of someone's skirt) with a heavy sigh. He's only half acting.
"It was fun while it lasted, but I think you should go. Before I jam that fork into your eye-socket. I doubt there's anything you could say to save what's left of our little arrangement, but I'll give you one shot." A sardonic smile. Daring Kabal to take it. Knowing he won't.
In the end, that's better for both of them. Men without hearts will never be anything more than they already were.
no subject
And then there's the sudden spark of dawning realization. Everything goes from confusion to being as crystal clear as that poor shattered decanter was.
Burnt up. Treacherous ex-partner. Trying to kill each other. A guy with a cold gun and one with a heat gun.
"Chronos? Your ex is Chronos?"
It all falls into place and Kabal straight up laughs in Len's face because he gets it now. He and Chronos had joked about being alternate timeline versions of each other, and apparently Kabal has now gone the extra mile and had his own sloppy seconds.
He's been the 'really bad idea' rebound fuck before. His one other tryst here had been some straight-panic thing so he knows a thing or two about being the morning after regret. But never at a level of actually being a physical replacement for someone else. That's new.
And honestly? Doesn't feel real good.
He'd sort of assumed Len was using him; fucking his way into having a place to live and the muscle to protect him. That's fine, standard roommates with benefits scenario. He can handle that.
Because people who look like Len don't shack up with people who look like Kabal. He's not into self-pity but he's a realist. There's some truths universally known that don't change no matter what planet or realm you end up on.
"Why the fuck should I go? You live with me." His eyes narrow again, he's having a feeling and he doesn't like it one bit. "Or I guess hiding with me anyway. That what's happening? If you're just using me for a place to stay, why the fuck do you care what I do?"
So much for that one chance to save this.
no subject
"That wasn't this. Don't get it twisted. Mick was my--" Best friend. Brother. On and off lover, minus the love. And most recently? The man whose only goal in life was to hurt him in every possible way.
"It wasn't like that."
Not for lack of trying. Len tried plenty of times, and it always backfired. Sometimes violently. With neither of them talking for weeks, months, even years, until one of them broke. Usually (always) Len. Like a dumbass moth to an even dumber flame.
Len's never loved something that hasn't hurt him, which is why he doesn't fuck with it.
"Maybe I'd tell you if I thought you gave a shit." Fuck. He shouldn't have said that. Len regrets his words almost as soon as they leave his mouth. There's momentary rage in his eyes, then surprise, upon the realization he's played himself. Shit indeed.
Stupid. Weak. Pathetic.
This is what always happens. He shows his hand. Loses the game.
Len told Mick he was nothing without him, but Mick was the one who was ready and willing to walk away. It was Len holding him back. Doing everything he could to keep them together when Mick was be better off alone. Len never could pull the trigger. That was the real irreconcilable difference between them.
Len gave a shit, and Mick didn't.
He bites his lower lip hard enough to bleed. It takes him out of his head, and away from more dangerous wounds.
"Y'know what? Doesn't matter anymore. I'll go. Enjoy your tramps."
no subject
Soon Chronos will dramatically flounce down a staircase like Erica Kane except with more roasting them both alive with a flame thrower and less soft-focus crying.
There's one thing that's abundantly clear amidst a fog of emotions and confusion: Kabal is way too drunk for this.
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't give a shit." Both true and a safe start while Kabal tries to navigate a verbal minefield where he may have already damaged some appendages. Bruiser and fighter by nature, he's never mediated anything other than people killing each other for sport, which this is threatening to become if they keep at it. "I'm still here talking to you aren't I?"
There's a frown as he pulls the mask back on, trying to cling to sobriety as long as he can before he does something incredibly stupid. Len is some kind of complex math problem where Kabal doesn't have all the facts. He replaced Chronos with Kabal, is mad because Kabal was.. what even was he doing? Talking to people? Was he supposed to be Len's private, personal bodyguard for the duration of the night because they sure hadn't established that prior to this little shindig.
"Fucking hell, that again. I'm not fucking any of these assholes here. Well you. Or I thought I was." There's a part of him that wants to let Len go simply so this awkward conversation ends. Because he doesn't want to do this, not here, not now, not ever. "You are the most confusing fucking bastard I've ever wanted to plow into the mattress nightly."
No you know what, he's too drunk to care. Fuck all of this. He's done.
"Can you just tell me what the fuck you're mad about so I don't have to keep guessing?"
no subject
Only an idiot would believe Kabal. A sucker. Someone too sad and desperate to know when to quit. Right now would be the perfect moment to walk away. Leaving Kabal hanging would be a power move. The only one Len has right now.
A hard stare at the other man, folding his arms across his chest.
"Take off the mask." Len isn't trying to be precious. He wants to see his face. Gauge for himself whether Kabal is being honest, or looking for easy ammunition.
What Kabal's asking isn't nothing, and what Len's asking in return isn't nothing either. He's not getting messy alone.
"I ain't kidding. You wanna know? Take off the mask."
no subject
He reaches up and pulls the mask off completely. Over his head so he can hold it in one hand in case Len's plan was to fucking snatch it and leave him there to suffocate.
Having a life support system fully exposed on his back makes him incredibly vulnerable. It's an egotistical show of strength that something that could easily kill him is within easy reach of everyone he fights. Even having it under the jacket would give him more protection. But no, he's the type of person that won't back down from a fight, admit a weakness or ever ask for help.
Now here he is, holding his mask and fully aware of the limited amount of time he can do that before things will start to get real uncomfortable.
But he does want to know what Len is mad about. Actually cares about what he thinks, which is another thing he's going to shove away to never think about again. There's nothing for him to say other than more questions he's not getting the answers so he simply stands there looking drunkenly confused.
no subject
Behind the mask, Kabal looks nothing like Chronos or Mick. As different as they are the same. You're supposed to feel safer with the devil you know.
Len doesn't know what he feels anymore. He'd blame it on booze, but out of the two of them? He's the sober one. Suddenly, being three sheets to the wind sounds a hell of a lot more appealing.
Kabal kept his word, now it's on Len to keep his. He can't walk away the bigger man if he bitches out. Thieves honour, and all that bullshit. Even the most crooked of criminals has a code.
Silence. Watching Kabal's chest heave, breathing laboured. This is uncomfortable for both of them. Somehow, that helps. At least he isn't the only asshole with a chink in his armor.
His fingers clench into the elbows of his jacket, eyes staying on Kabal's eyes, unblinking, until he finally opens his mouth to speak.
"We came together." Quiet. Hoarse. Through gritted teeth. He'll personally murder anyone dumb enough to eavesdrop. This is between them, and no one else.
"You ditched me. For them."
no subject
"I didn't ditch you I.."
Ditched him.
Because he hadn't realized that they were coming together. Like together together. And now it's pretty clear he probably should have considering Len had called him specifically to ask if he was going and then insisted on leaving at the same time. His eyes go wide as the knowledge hits him of exactly what this is about, and that he's a fucking idiot for not having seen it earlier.
He's going to blame the whiskey even though it's entirely his fault.
"And we were gonna leave together too. Kinda figured you didn't want me following you around while you cased the joint." The words muttered lowly and not only because breathing sucks right now. "You really think I want any of them when I've got you?"
How stupid does Len think he is?
no subject
There's a blue tinge to Kabal's scarred lips, and he still hasn't cracked. That's commitment.
For the first time in this conversation, Len's starting to believe he might be legit. It's too much to fully process right now.
"Put the mask back on. You're no good to me more-dead." Is that an answer? It's going to have to be. At least while they're in public. Time might have stopped for an entirely unromantic moment, but the party is still going on around them. Len is going to punch the next person reaching between them for shrimp in the throat.
Can't these crustacean-obsessed losers tell they're having a moment? Fuck it.
Before Kabal can put his mask back on, Len leans in to graze his lips with a barely there kiss. Uncharacteristically soft.
"Stop looking at them, and start looking at me. Or I'm gone. Got it? I don't do second place." Not again. He can't take it anymore.
If this goes down the way it did with Mick, Len's swearing off tall, brawny, charbroiled chunks of beef brisket for good. Platonic, romantic, or chaotic.
He'll go vegan. Like everyone else who hates themselves.
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"Hm, think I can do that." As if he's not undressing Len with his eyes everytime he glances at him.
One of those shrimp obsessed douchebags comes in and Kabal grabs them by the back of the shirt, tossing them easily right into the shrimp platter they desperately wanted. Shellfish and cocktail sauce go everywhere as the table collapses, though by some miracle none on Kabal's fancy white outfit.
Without missing a beat he winds an arm around Len's waist to lead them somewhere with less appetizer obsessed idiots, "Want me to prove it?"
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If that ain't the most romantic thing he's ever seen. Len laughs, actually laughs, as the douchebag slips and slides in the cocktail sauce like one big, especially ugly shrimp.
"Now, I'm not one to kink-shame, but I'm starting to think you have a food fetish." Thank God/Satan/Alanis Morisette there's no tuna. The totaled buffet is nowhere near as messy or disgusting as their first meet-cute slash murder-attempt in the kitchen, that was too nasty for a repeat (even for Kabal), but there are enough similarities Len can't help but think back to when they first met. Is it too soon to be nostalgic?
He isn't expecting the arm around his waist, glancing sharply at Kabal before relaxing into it. Seeing someone else more humiliated and bewildered than either of them has done a lot to kill the tension, but there's something in the air.
New. Different. Dangerous. Like a good score. The kind that kills you or makes you stronger. The only drug of choice for any real career criminal worth his/her/their salt, because it's a special kind of high. Win or lose, the adrenaline is what makes the blood, sweat, and tears worth shedding, and legwork worth doing.
Len's waited a full year to hit a place. Call it crooked foreplay. He loves it.
"You can try." Len taps Kabal's masked jaw with two gloved fingers, looking up at him with a flutter of his eyelashes, and a smirk twisting the corner of his scarred lips, before playfully pushing his head away.
Talk about a dangerous, near impossible job. Kabal might be the ballsiest thug he's ever met.
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"You know... Everyone is here right? Which means there's probably some good shit left undefended." The residential area, generator rooms, the lab. Might be a good time to hit some of those places up, have a look around.
Kabal's been here for almost a year, but there's still plenty of places he hasn't investigated, both due to laziness and because he hasn't had the time. And while his thoughts are going more towards thievery and trashing the place, he gives Len a look making it clear that fucking him into the rubble is also in the cards.
Now that their little blow up has smoothed over, Kabal is back to being in a good mood, albiet far drunker than he'd intended. Fortunately he's pretty good at holding his liquor, years of experience aren't for nothing. But he's gonna be feeling this one in the morning.