songs about drifters ;

Ava is terrible at lying her way out of any situation that involves the authorities, although she would have probably been fine had the trace lab not added a new layer of complexity to her current predicament. It occurs to her that her and Odin should probably come up with some sort of lie that she can fall back on in the event that something like this happens again. Which, she hopes it won't, but a plan was always good to have.

She's silent the entire rest of the walk, speeding her way through the door as soon as Grissom holds it open for her and taking up pacing around the room until she hears him approaching again. Having the time alone was a help, allowing her to safely get some of the worst of the nerves out by burning a metaphorical hole into the flooring with her pacing. She forces herself to sit down in one of the chairs, not wanting to bring up any further questions had she tucked herself into a corner.

Reaching out for the cup, she gingerly takes it from him, holding it as loosely as she can and as far away from her body as possible. "I'm... Better, I guess." Nothing is in danger of being set ablaze anymore, but she was almost certainly still too dangerous to touch. "Sorry about that." Why she's apologizing, she's not entirely certain. It felt like the right thing to do, and at least it gave her an opportunity to brace for the slew of further questions that she's expecting. "I'm not great with-" Gesturing vaguely, she forces a laugh. "Some of my emotions. Personal thing, obviously, 'm trying to get better at it."

#ic :: ( grissom )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( grissom )#sinshosted

Once ensuring that Ava has water, Grissom goes back to his desk to sit down. There’s no sense in hovering over her and working her up more. He can tell she is hiding something from him, that her reaction to something as seemingly innocuous as tree samples means something, and he frowns at her without thinking about what she might read in his expression.

He wants to ask her what she knows about the case but can’t directly. Improperly collected evidence, including eyewitness accounts, hurts cases more than a lack of sufficient evidence. Sometimes, you can work with circumstantial evidence if there’s little else to go on. It’s rare that it works, but it can. However, hearing that he badgered a young girl for a witness account without a legal guardian present would just make him and his lab seem monstrous to the jury.

Grissom almost wants to call Nick or Catherine in here, both of whom are much better with children than himself, but he knows that would look even more suspicious and still feels scummy in some way, deliberately using the gentlest people in the lab to manipulate the girl into giving a statement.

“That’s okay,” he says and blinks, trying to chase away thoughts that she is connected with this case in any way. After all, maybe she has some other traumatic experience involving the trees she saw, and it sent her into a spiral independently of everything else going on. “Would… would it help you to talk about it at all?”

"Absolutely not, the last thing I need is people havin' my voice." Though Ava is trying to run with the joke, there is a real fear that she has of anyone having a recording of her voice. Not that it would really matter in terms of how much Titan already has of her, but there were risks she would rather not take.

Ava smiles, pleased with how well her distraction is working for him. It was probably for the better that Mattie missed her discomfort, she finds it far easier to put her own issues aside for the most part in order to keep a conversation going. Augmentation was fairly normal where she was from, and at this point it really is her own small experience with something close to it that is the issue here.

"Wh- They do what?" Hearing that there are failsafe measures enacted is a relief, but her glow picks up in brightness all the same. Without knowing what the gangs do in full - something that she really doesn't want to know - to force cyberware on people, the only thing she can think of is what the Gate had done. Ava shivers, shaking her head to push those thoughts out of her mind. "I don't wanna know."

Tattoos and colored contacts did sound like they would have been better for someone like her, at least. "If I was a little less of a walking hearth, maybe, yeah. I think a lot of stuff with me will end up being stopped by that... It'd be fun, but with all the shit I have goin' on, it kinda makes all of that hard to consider." Part of what made tattoos work was skin not immediately healing, wasn't it? Turning off her necromancy and general self-healing factors was out of the question, but maybe after her pact was completed she would have a chance to try those. "I do think tattoos are cool, kinda wanna get one at some point, if I ever can."

#ic :: ( mattie )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( mattie )#sinshosted

In another moment, Mattie gets the notification that the gun is connected, and he lights up with an, “Aha!” He raises it and closes one eye, leveling it at the blue ring of graffiti on the nearest wall. Squeezing the trigger, the recoil jerks his hand back and up, but the bullet, which should have missed, curves and lands in the center before bouncing off the wall. “Yes!”

At her trepidation regarding Maelstrom, which is smart, he nods. “Oh, yeah. I’ve worked with them before. Not on their cyberware shit, but…” They had been stuffing him with… something else… Watson was torn half and half between Maelstrom and the Tyger Claws, so you can’t really be the Watson Whore without an encounter or two with them. And it wasn’t hard to find bored gangers who wanted to make a few more eddies and drag them onto a set.

“Kinda creepy dudes, but not all of ‘em are totally awful. The craziness level varies.” He shrugs. “Same as all people, I guess.” He has earned a reputation for not being the most stable himself, on and off screen, so he shouldn’t judge. He does, but he shouldn’t.

“Tattoos are cool,” he agrees excitedly. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t have more himself. He would look cute with them. “What were you thinking about getting?”

rotcursed

As it had been before, Nori's decision was made based on safety. She doesn't want to be far off from any other being, but putting a reasonable amount of distance between herself and them was usually a fairly safe play to make. One day, she'd finally convince herself that the danger has passed.

"Even if he was, I don't think it'd be that creepy." No one would be nearly as bad as Yeva was, and if Nori thought on it, Case and Genevieve wouldn't have been that different than they had been. She talked enough for herself and Yeva, drone of few words that she was. While they were still in the labs, anyways, after that things had been different for a short time.

Her eyes narrow for a moment at the question, biting back a string of insults that threaten to spill out. Case's next question is more interesting to her, as she assumes that he means physical documents immediately. "Never tried, can't say if I'd be any good with it." The only other problem with suggesting that she might be able to alter something digitally is that it would be blatantly obvious to anyone looking at her, and possibly raise alarms. "I'm a little rusty, but I could probably alter something on any of their machines. I'd just need some time for that."

While Nori would have strongly objected to being treated like - well - an object again by humans, at least this time she would have understood the reasoning for it. It would have to be on her terms what would happen, and she has no reservations about making that known loudly and obnoxiously.

"Gross-" There's no use trying to hide her smile when Genevieve gags, instinctively doing the same herself. "If I have to sit through that, I might throw up. Or change my mind about killing you." A wry smile is turned back to Genevieve, hoping that joke will land.

#ic :: ( genevieve )#ic :: ( case )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( genevieve )#ver :: main ( case )#rotcursed

“That works,” Case says, nodding. “It’s simple enough to print out a new manifest, but it would have to match what’s in their system, too.” Neither of the Nomads can be considered netrunners by any means, although Genevieve is a little better at it than her partner.

“That might be the best option if you really can’t stand to see the soap opera of unrequited love at the east gate,” Genevieve adds, snickering, which earns her a beleaguered stare from Case. “I know for sure we’d be able to cause enough of a distraction for you to do what you need to do. We’ve dealt with the border people a million times before, so we know how to give them the runaround by now.”

“And because they make us check our weapons while they go over everything, it shouldn’t get too loud or messy.” Case’s eyes slide over to Genevieve who meets him with a shrug.

Ava's fairly certain she's been in a building or two that had been set to be demolished for a hazard like mold, but if there was a warning she had ignored it. "Asbestos is kinda common in older buildings, right? Whatever the hell that is," That is a sign she's certain she's ignored. "But that's the kinda thing I guess it makes the most sense to just tear it down over..."

Sidestepping around an area of the floor that creaked a bit too much for her liking, Ava waves Lydia over towards where she thinks is a slightly safer area. "Don't some people end up donating things to thrift stores too? I like those, 's fun to just walk around 'em." Thrifting was sometimes the cheapest way for her and Odin to find replacements for clothing that had progressed past the point of Ava being able to repair it. She had no qualms with rooting around in someone else's things if it meant that it would be getting used again.

"I've found some jewelry before! They love hiding that kinda thing in walls." Why they thought to put it in a wall or under the floor is beyond her, but that didn't make it any less fun to find. "Or under floorboards. Which sounds cool, until you break whatever's down there 'cus the board above it decided it didn't wanna do its job anymore."

#ic :: ( lydia )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( lydia )#sinshosted

“Yeah, it makes sense not to keep them in a jewelry box if you can’t take them with you,” Lydia says. She deftly jumps over the creaky floorboards, landing on the balls of her feet and smiling to herself. “But it’s also kind of stupid to hide it in the walls of a condemned house. People are going to tear it apart and find it eventually.” At that point, it would make the most sense to donate it, but people are weird when it comes to parting with certain things.

“We probably shouldn’t go tearing up the walls or anything, though. My dad doesn’t know I come out here and do this, and he’d be mad if he found out.” She could blame it on other neighborhood kids, but there was still a chance he would find out it was her.

“I told him I was going on a walk, which isn’t really a lie, you know.”

"I could teach you," they say, absolutely confident in the fact. "At...at least, what I do know! We can, ehm, chat about it while we paint. At least SOME cans are usable in there- I'm sure of it." Probability's in their favor, and if nothing else, maybe a few are salvageable. If not spray paint, regular paint will work, too. The longevity of their piece doesn't matter so much. It's not like anyone else will see it, save for pirates.

Stu knows where that wreck is. Even with their bad vision, it's hard to miss all of the colors! So, without any further hesitation, they set aside the components they deemed worth saving from this batch of crates- somewhere the water can't get to any of it, hopefully- and head towards the mess of paint.

"Art and philosophy...they're connected-like. I'm sure you've, ehm, you've at least got that much down, right? Sometimes very..." They fish for the word, the silence extended. "...overtly! Other times it's subtle. Even, ehm, even radio pop."

#ic :: ( cyborg )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: phase 3 ( cyborg )#niratias

The good thing about living on the island is that there is no real chance of getting lost because of how small it is. The landscape changes all the time because of the constant additions of more trash washing up, but if you walk straight enough along, you will eventually get back to where you were going.

“Yes, I’d like that,” she says, clambering over old boxes that crunch and rattle under her weight. She’s not going the easiest way, but it is the most direct. Stu can go around, if they like. Throwing obstacles up in her own path keeps her stimulated and ensures that she doesn’t accidentally leave them behind by naturally slowing herself down.

“I do know that… Like, someone has to really believe in something in order to make art about it, right? Art is just a big expression of beliefs at the end of the day.”

"Art helps us, ehm...forget for a while. So that being realistic...doesn't matter all so much." There he is, spitting profound statements despite his state, despite the pathetic way he staggers around in a body made weaker by drugs and alcohol. If he were to get sober, maybe he'd be sharper. Maybe he's not quite as rattled in the head as his present state might suggest. "If I could go anywhere on holiday right now, I think I'd like to see Kasauli...I've always meant to go, but, ehm...it's out of the way."

Stu kneels to pick up a shell and is delighted to find a crab inside of it. He gently sets it back down and watches it crawl along, wondering how it's faring on a beach this trashed. As many days as he spends cleaning it up for the lack of anything else to do, he can't really make a dent. Come the next morning, it will surely be a mess all over again.

#ic :: ( cyborg )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: phase 3 ( cyborg )#niratias

Separating fantasy from reality is hard for her, in the opposite way that it is for most people. Others have hard time bringing fact into their fiction, but she finds difficulty in bringing interesting fiction into her facts.

“I see…” she says, and she watches the crab while she tries to think of a vacation spot that is sufficiently out there. If she could go anywhere in the world other than right here, where would she go?

“I think… I would want to go to Forks.” It’s the farthest off place that she can think of at the moment, and one so categorically different from this island of trash that they are on now.

“Obviously, I know there’s no real werewolves or vampires, but… I’d like to see if the trees are really so big and green. I don’t think I’ve ever stood under a real tree before.”

The mages thinking of technology as a hinderance is something that she'd get, at least conceptually, but fundamentally disagrees with. Sure, Runeterra is a little behind in terms of the technology she is used to, though if the applied things right there was almost certainly something that could be a benefit to them.

"I can let go of it for a minute to climb out," She still needs a few more minutes to prepare herself to have Basil and Peony out, but the three dragonflies could get it out for her. "It's only when we're actually walkin' back that I have to carry it." The longer she considers it, having the dragonflies carry it alone for a little while is looking like a better idea than trying to carry it with them the entire time.

"How do you feel about bugs?" Regardless of his answer, he's going to get one of them trailing after him. It was just a matter if she could get Magnolia to sit on his shoulder instead of hovering behind him. "They- Well, they do bite, and I'm not gonna be able to pay attention to all of them at once..." Figuring that things were only going to get worse if she didn't start now, Ava is sliding back to the drill. Summoning only one of them wasn't going to drain her too much, despite how large the insect is when it forms at her side. She leans to mumble out her plan to it, before stepping back to see if it will need her help in lifting the drill out.

It takes the dragonfly a few moments to get a proper grip on the drill, but it lifts it easily up and out of the hole, chattering in a low rumble as it turns an eye to watch Ava start to make her way back up.

#ic :: ( smeech )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( smeech )#sinshosted

It is a little bit late for Smeech’s opinions on bugs to affect the situation here, as Ava has already summoned one of them, and it is much larger than he would like it to be. Part of what he likes about living in Zaun is that there are not too many natural predators who would see a little rat thing like him and start to chase after it, like there are in other parts of the world, and he eyes the dragonfly warily, knowing it could scoop him up with ease if it wanted to.

But it is also a solution to a problem that he didn’t know how to solve just a minute ago, so he will have to make his peace with it.

“I don’t usually like them, but whatever…” He reaches into his inside coat pocket for his inhaler and sockets it together. If he’s going to be around a bug that’s big enough to bite clean through any one of his limbs, he needs a little something to take the edge off. He shoves the tip of the inhaler in his nostril and takes a big whiff from it, and neon purple fills up the whites of his eyes.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he groans on the exhale, fumbling a bit for his pocket as he goes to return the device to it. He feels steadier and more useful already, like he could carry that old rusted hunk of garbage out of this hole by himself.

He stretches out a leg, the mechanical parts grinding, and hooks himself into the dirt wall behind him with his claws to retain his balance, and he slips down onto another gently slopped ledge.

“Can your bugs carry all that weight on those spindly li’l legs of theirs?”

Stu nods and starts poking around. It doesn't take long to locate a few shirts he quite likes that he'd written off as lost. Next is a pair of jeans he'd done a little DIY on. Despite his many failings, there's no denying his skill with spray paint and airbrushing. Intricate colors create a colorful menagerie of fish across one thigh. It's unfortunate his legs are so small the design is minimal, but seeing his work on the jeans reminds him that he can pick that hobby back up at any time. The supplies are still stacked in the corner of his room-slash-cell, after all.

The next thing he picks up reeks of onions AND body odor- yes, both at once- and he knows without a doubt it's Murdoc's. That gets tossed aside. That won't be going in THIS load.

After finding enough of his own things and of shirts he won't hate to see mixed with them, he drags the items to the laundry machine- an old rattlebones toploader that will probably outlive any of them at this rate. He pops them in neatly, evidently understanding the importance of balancing the load in the wash basin and doing a damn decent job of it.

"I don't, ehm, want to overfill...is this enough?"

#ic :: ( cyborg )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: phase 3 ( cyborg )#niratias

Much of the time, Murdoc goes around in his captain hat and little else, so there is no point in prioritizing his laundry. If anything, leaving his articles to fester on the floor just gives him more excuses to keep on doing what he loves doing. So, Cyborg Noodle doesn’t react when Stu casts aside a shirt she finds familiar.

She scoops a couple more articles off the floor and gives them a vicious shake to get any lingering bugs off before tossing them in with the rest.

“Now, it should be fine.”

The laundry run seems to be a bust, but she knows where they can get some more shoes, at least slightly used, but that’s better than nothing. She does not plan to tell him where she got them, lest he refuse to wear them.

“What size do you wear? I think I saw some outside that could be… yours.” She is not technically lying. They could be. She never said they are.

rotcursed

"Pushing the limits sounds right anyways, that's a lot more fun to do." She says with a chuckle, imagining that at some point or another that someone has walked in on Robbins blasting it and had never noticed what exactly was being said. "Where's the fun in making music if it's just you being angry at something? I mean, it works sometimes, but it certainly won't earn you any favors if that's all you're doing."

They move a few steps closer, leaning into examine the body. While Cupid didn't think they'd need it for anything else, if Robbins could keep it around for a while she may as well ask. "Might be smart to keep him on ice for a few more days. I've probably got all I need, but who knows? At least if he's here, no one else can swoop in and try to sneak something else off the fucker."

Desecrating corpses was an unfortunate norm, but money was money at the end of the day. Morals went straight out the window if someone saw more than a few zeros tacked on to an item they could poach with relative ease. "I'll let you know when I got everything so he's not takin' up space for too long."

#ic :: ( robbins )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: cyberpunk ( robbins )#rotcursed

“True—angry music can be helpful and cathartic for some people, but it’s not to my taste, personally. All things in moderation, and all that. I like being able to feel something else most of the time.” People don’t usually expect positivity out of someone who works so closely with death, but he has always enjoyed being able to bring people closure, and his chosen profession makes him appreciate the fragility of life that much more. It can be easy to forget with all of the implants that extend lifespans, with some of the wealthiest people living hundreds of years, but it wasn’t always that way and still isn’t for most people who end up on his slab before they’ve really started living.

“You know, I actually sing and play guitar for a cover band. Sometimes, we perform in different bars around town. I can let you know when we’re playing next.” If they have any interest in meeting up in a less than strictly professional capacity. It can’t hurt to offer.

“But all right—I can’t keep him around for too long, but he should be alright for another few days.” One of these days, he will save up enough money for the high-tech freezer he had with the NCPD.

"My intent was a full sweep- not a patchy job and waiting on bodies to arrive on their own." Hence: the half-started map. He supposes there's a reason it's damn near impossible to make an accurate one of the Sump, but he doesn't like that notion- impossibility. Right now it's pencil marks and rough outlines, but Viktor had really thought they were making progress with it.

He says they, but he realizes now it's largely been him...and the Hexclaw keeping him company, of course.

"Staying here for now merely affords time to complete the map and plan the next move. This place is not so bottomless there is not room for more." Viktor makes his way towards the pinned up map and points. "So I will begin by mapping THIS sector...and then select another when I am satisfied. Then the services will move with me." In his wake, he'll be leaving plenty of fixed people, after all...people who can continue the work, or bring it his way, depending.

#ic :: ( singed )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( singed )#niratias

Singed will be proactive when he has to be, but his current mode of doing things suits him fine. He has gotten so used to his little cave that going out in the wider world usually makes him nervous—hence his lack of enthusiasm over Viktor’s map.

He tsks and swipes at a droplet of saliva that has gathered at the corner of his mouth, smearing indeterminate filth across his cheek. He is slowing down, and he cannot tell if it is because this conversation is boring him or because the cocktail of drugs he took the night before has about run its course. Probably the latter.

“I did mean the Sump level in general, for the record,” he says, then pointing down to the floor of the cave, “not here in particular. You might get something out of the Entresol. Don’t bother with the Promenade.” Although topside doesn’t like them, living so close to the surface comes with a few benefits, including mostly adequate health care, not the kind that would make someone desperate enough to stumble towards a dark cave at the end of an unpaved road.

“The map is still a stupid idea, I think. Walk three feet in any direction, there’s someone that can be helped.” Or that could be used as help against their will. Same difference at this point. “Walk three more feet, there’s someone else. Three more…” He lazily waves his hand around in circles. “On and on until the day this whole place finally collapses in on itself.”

iobartach

To think he'd volunteer would've come as a shock to his younger self, had it not been for a single fact; he had already done so, previously. Of course, he ended up altered, a unique organism shaped by ill hands, rather than nature's designs. An achievement that ultimately made the matter of repeating the same play significantly less daunting, that encouraged the ghost of a smirk to curve his mouth, rather than pangs of fear or dread of the unknown.

"Yes, pain & I are... well acquainted." Switching to a sombre tone, Miguel took to clasping his hands behind his back, choosing to stay watching the idle beast for a while longer as Singed drifted away. Different trains of thought were completing laps in his head as he pondered, weighing the mention of a 'mental component' against the man's refined judgement.

These points and more persisted as he turned on heel, drawn close by Singed's decision, nodding where appropriate. "Then please accept my thanks in turn." To further accentuate his gratitude, his held hands separate and moved in front of his face where they were joined again and wrung aloft, without a titter or quaking shake to be seen. "That is more than enough, we are never guaranteed tomorrow." Sure as the sun rises, promises helped to emotionally comfort rather than act as a binding agreement.

"All that I ask is, should I happen to not pull through, that you will check in with my daughter. Otherwise, I am at your disposal."

#ic :: ( singed )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( singed )#iobartach

Never has Singed met anybody so closely aligned with him on ideology. Even Silco, his closest working partner, has all of these lofty ideals, and people tend to assume their thoughts are more closely aligned than they are. Singed works with the man largely because he has resources, because it’s convenient. Most of the doctor’s work will never fall in line with any laws, probably not even all of those for which Silco is vying, and he has long come to accept that. He can work as well in a Zaun under Piltover as he can when free of them because he has always done his work under the table, in his little cave, where no one comes to bother him.

“Good,” Singed says. “I can accept those terms and will see to it that your daughter receives word of your death, if you give me a way to contact her. I’m assuming you would like me to… embellish some of the details?” He plans to, anyway—not out of respect for the girl, but because he doesn’t want too much information about his work out in the wider world. But most fathers do strive to shield their daughters from the necessary horrors.

iobartach

The errand he'd been sent on wasn't too difficult to pull off, the hard part being that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for. Thankfully, a small bit of conversation managed to resolve this spot of trouble, which provided a rough location on the thief he needed to track down and take back the piece of Hextech from. To that end, as agreed, he's back to darken Silco's door within 24 hours, armed with a gift, rather than the taste of failure. Had that happened, he would've been halfway across the sea by now, heading for the Shadow Isles, and his vile lord.

"Felt appropriate." That he was, fulfilling his own estimate of requiring just a day to work, but made no effort to boast about it. He got the impression that this wasn't the audience for such talk, especially given that, to Miguel's gaze, he appeared to catch Silco during business hours, given the set of his hands and the prominent way in which his pen is grasped. Placing the Hextech on the table as directed, gnarled hands squash the bag that had contained the requested item, standing still until the chair is offered.

At once, he scurries towards it, robes moving around his waist as a faint, scraping sound rang out with each step taken until he settles again, limbs both visible and hidden, stilling for a time. "More or less. They became remarkably more compliant after I siphoned a good portion of vitality away from a brave, if brazen fool that tried to protest." Arguments about palms needing to be greased had been pitched, and instead of paying up, Miguel dealt to the man a life-altering punishment, zapping away his vitality and vigour with the use of thickly spin black threads, adding to his own strength.

"One particular Sump rat required dealing with, but he did me a favour." As compared to the previous night, a faint warm shade now brightened his skin, as though restored. Though Vilemaw preferred that he kill the targets he feasted on, what stopped the Acolyte from doing so in this case came down to optics. "Left him alive, if that matters." For the chembaron's benefit, he hinted at the man's fate, but didn't waste much time in getting back to the main topic at hand.

"What do you need this for, anyway?"

#ic :: ( silco )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( silco )#iobartach

“It usually is the Sump rats who give the most trouble,” Silco says impassively. Deep down, he has sympathy for them. He used to be one, after all, and in many ways, his base instincts still reflect that. The skin he has to wear as a successful chembaron is one in which he is not entirely comfortable. Underneath it, he retains the desperation of his roots.

But that sympathy has the potential to get in the way of what’s necessary, so he beats it back. “It makes no difference to me, but it is good to know that you took the slightly quieter approach.” While Silco is not above killing to keep people in line, he is aware that Zaun stands no chance against Piltover if they continually slaughter their own. It was the primary reason he dragged the chembarons into a council together; their rivalries and turf wars had put the cause through a world of hurt. It would be foolish to expect everyone in any society to be perfectly aligned, like the Sump rats who remain self-interested to the very last, but it behooves him to reduce friction where he can.

He sets aside his pen and picks up the device, turning it over with his eyes glazed in feigned disinterest. He hasn’t let on to anybody just how ravenous he has become since its invention.

“Research, mostly,” he says. “The people topside won’t dare sell it to me, even if I were to offer up twice as many cogs as it’s worth. They’re afraid I’ll find some way to use it against them.” And they’re right. “That doesn’t stop it from making its way down here, but then it becomes an issue of low supply, high demand.”

Charlie hums, taking the information as it's given to him and deciding that it likely wasn't quite as intense of a scene as psiot murders usually are...which suggests a few things. One, that maybe his target isn't at full strength yet. Two, if they ARE at full strength, maybe their abilities are weak or have a long recharge. And, three, if the abilities need a recharge, or are weak enough to need channeling, the fucker's going to need gear and someone to teach him to pull off these wanton acts of violence.

Unfortunately, Charlie's going to make sure it's a bullet in the head instead of a chance at one-on-one coaching. Fortunately, that might save more lives than end them. ...If he's fast enough about it.

"If I told you that this is a matter the government is not equipped to handle, would you believe me?" Time to flush out any stray hint of conspiracy nut in Robbins, which he's expecting to be a complete failure.

#ic :: ( robbins )#int :: ( thread )#ver :: main ( robbins )#niratias

“I would believe you,” Robbins says earnestly, if a little trepidatiously. After all, what other choice is there? The man says it with such authority that if he didn’t know better, Robbins would think he was with the government. Maybe he is. How else would he know that the government isn’t equipped to handle something?

“But you believe there’s something I can do for you.” He is careful not to phrase it as a question because his captor made it clear who the one asking the questions was supposed to be.

“I have worked with the FBI before…” Which is not nearly as impressive as it might sound on paper. He has always maintained a little bitterness towards federal agents and the few times they have swooped into his morgue like they own the place and make off with one of his bodies.

"Philosophy!" That seems to spark something in Stu. They set aside the coil of cabling they've managed to salvage so far and consider it, head cocked. "I know more about that than...than most people would think I do." They're a very slow reader, leaning heavily on audiobooks and unafraid of going to wikipedia to answers if they can't puzzle something out themselves, but they've put in a lot of work, and it does show in their lyrics.

Sure, they might not be a perfect Buddhist, but who could possibly claim to be flawless save for the Buddha himself? Stu would say they're doing their best, even if that's not explicitly true. The intention is there, in his heart, and they're a firm believer in that being enough in the end.

"If w-we had some spray paint, maybe you and I could tag. Graffiti, street art! I'm well good at that."