"You can't just do whatever you please Rico."
Rico didn’t respond at first, as if he hadn’t heard anybody speak up at all. He kept his eyes glued on the mirror in front of him, slipping on a new pair of shades he’d picked out from the pile of boxes littered around his lux-apt. This one had cupcakes on the rim, unlike the last pair which were shaped like lawgivers. A series of impulse purchases made last night while under the influence that he barely remembered, but it was a pleasant surprise to wake up to nonetheless. It worked even better as a prop.
He was feeling contradictory for the sake of it today. All zzized up and drunk, and nothing to do. He was just thinking of going for a dip in the hot tub to work out the ratcheting tension in his shoulders from a day of patrols - and other projects - until somebody came knock-knocking on his door, trying to have a serious conversation this and a this is the last straw that. You’d think a Judge would learn, but little Joe was always stubborn like that.
“Sure I can,” Rico finally said nonchalantly, after toeing the invisible line of Joseph’s patience for as long as he could. “What’s stopping you? What’s stopping me? You could always tell me not to, but I think we both know how productive that is. Don’t you have anything better to do than bother your big brother while he’s busy? Go on patrol? Crack a few skulls?”
▼ fundementedlyflawed ▼:
Rico made a slow, genuine noise of consideration in the back of his throat, but it only turned out to be in response to the sight of a eye-watering knitted and feathered scarf. Draping it (somewhat clumsily) around his neck, he finally deigned to turn around, pivoting slowly on his heel to face Joseph and making a big production out of it, one hand poised on the rim of his sunglasses and the other at his hip.
They might be cheap plastic distractions, but they were anything but cheap. No, it was all fashion imported from the Milano Enclave, designs by the latest rising fashion star Randy Gitt. Only the very best for Rico would do, after all. A hundred and fifty thousand creds for the whole lot. He certainly had the funds, he didn’t care. They were just numbers to him.
“What’s there to clean up?” Rico drawled as he sauntered over, stumbling over his feet only slightly. “Just drunk on nothing but life. Why don’t you ever give it a try? Get rid of that stupid frown and smile once in a while. Grud knows it’d do you good.”
Rico had always been talkative - or at least more so than his brother - but the words just seemed to fall out of his mouth, chained together one after the other. He should really shut up at this point, but he finds himself past caring. It’s not like he would do anything about that. These days, it seemed more and more like Joseph wouldn’t either cuff him or shoot him unless he finally stepped over the edge and gave him a final push. Idly, he wondered what it would take.
“But then again, who needs zziz when you’ve got that adrenaline rush from cracking heads open on the street, right?”
An eyebrow cocks under his helmet. He was never one to understand the need to wear such things, the trending ‘fashions’… Some of it was just a single step away from simping if you asked him.
“You’re a Judge, Rico, you should know what parts of your ‘act’ need to shape up. ‘Gonna land yourself real-estate on Titan if you aren’t careful.” And Grud knows Joseph would likely be the one to send him there. Rico could hide a lot of things from a lot of people… Not that he always tried to hide any of it. Half of his lifestyle couldn’t be covered on a basic Judge’s salary. Plain to any rookie. He’d seen him heckling cits and punks alike for protection money. And it wasn’t like any of them would file a report against a Judge at the Hall. Even Joseph himself wondered when Rico would cross that undefined line between ‘Your brother is looking the other way’, and ‘Brothers or not I’m taking you in’. His scowl only tugged further down at the comment. He’d smile if he had a reason to, but in Mega-City One that was a rarity.
“Thrill of the streets doesn’t seem to keep you away from dabbling and drinking. Care to explain that during a physical?”
"Oh come on. They wouldn't drokking dare. Like Goodman could ever find it in his heart to send me off-planet,” Rico said as he rolled his eyes under his sunglasses. “Cursed Earth work camp at best," he countered, as if it was just a pedestrian argument over which flavor of ice cream was better. "They'd do everything to sweep this under the rug. Politics, little brother, you’d better pay attention to them.”
Rico knew very well Joseph’s disdain for politicking and everything it entailed. “And since you're so concerned about me - I'm in the best gruddamn condition of my life, thank you very much," he deigned to explain, walking his fingers over his bicep. "I'd only go in for a physical if I'm hurt, and I'm too good for that kind of stomm."
But even as he talked, he found himself growing angrier. Why did he care? Rico stepped closer, coming almost face to face with his double, the palms of his hands itching with an agitation. Is this what it would take to get a rise out of him? “You worried for me?” he asked, voice rumbling low and accusatory. “Or you worried for you?”
