“ SHUT THE FUCK UP, WAYLON, I’M A MASTER AT THIS—– ”
At least those were the famous last words of a man who wasn’t quite as good as he said he was at something. The way electricity CRACKLES around his fingertips, chars the skin and even causes it to bleed. There’s a pained yell, mixed with something of a hiss that was almost metallic in nature. Maybe fucking around with a generator’s inner mechanisms wasn’t his strong suit, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t get this to work. Miles was stubborn to the core, and often times succeeded out of pure spite just to show life that it couldn’t take the two most important fingers from him at any chance he got.
He had recoiled so fast from the generator, that for a moment there’s a blur of black as the nanites return to their resting place. Then when the initial shock of pain faded, the anger followed suit and Miles, standing from his crouched position, kicked the side of the generator with his shoe.
“ What the fuck? Why won’t you work? FUCK YOU! ”
Any other technology would bend to his will. It would shudder, recoil from his touch or melt into it. He was the herald of bad omens, of the static that Murkoff fabricated. One may say he was technically its software. — But he had his pride. He wouldn’t ask for help, not openly, and he’s soon shoving his arm into the generator once more.
“ Just when I thought I couldn’t lose any more, and a guy can’t even come home to a functioning apartment. Bullshit is what it is. Assholes, all of ‘em. And to think those Murkoff shitbags were actually here… I might as well torch the place. It’s not like I can stay here… ”
He stands back, arms folded as he watches Miles struggle with the generator. There’s a blank, almost frustrated look on his face as he watches the Journalist attempt to fix the damn thing, wishing that for once in his life Miles would step back and let someone else help him for once.
The yell makes him jump, forcing his eyes shut for a second as he puts extra effort into making sure he doesn’t lose balance. Honestly, Miles could be so stubborn that he was in the right mind to whack him with the cane at this point. “F’ God’s sake Miles, quit messin’ with it! Kickin’ it’s just gonna break it more!”
When Miles goes to shove his hand in again, Waylon moves forwards, putting a hand on his shoulder and attempting to pull him back. “Get outta the way, let me look-- screamin’ at it isn’t gonna do any good, Miles, It’s a machine. It doesn’t understand your angry verbal language. “
Murkoff. They just wouldn’t fuck off, would they? It takes a good thirty seconds for him to kneel down the best he can, cursing the fact he only had half a leg left after that nightmare. Sighing, he tries to push Miles’ arm out the way to get a better look at the generator. “Look, by the sounds of it the fuses are gone, let me look properly and I might be able to fix it.”
He was no electrician, sure, but he had some basic knowledge at least. He can’t help but let his mind linger on Murkoff for a minute. Had they really found Miles? How long would it be until they got to him, too..? “If it really was them then.. it’s probably best.”
“ ... Look, how about you come stay with me and Lisa for a few days? I can try get this fixed, and if it really was Murkoff we can find you somewhere else, with a working generator.”
