#seventysixed

[el-papito-muerte]

"soldier 76: reporting for booty" - seventysixed

@seventysixed

"You watch yourself, soldier," Gabriel Reyes returns Jack Morrison's reporting with a dismissive jerk of his thumb over his shoulder; He smirks: "Tits are in this year."

[vastiitas]

@seventysixed asked: "happy birthday, kid," jack says, tossing a can of beer at him. texan-made; locally sourced and unavailable anywhere else in the country. how jack got a hold of it is a secret he's not open to telling... and cole's not old enough to drink yet, but the commander has a feeling that the cowboy's familiar with this taste of home, anyway. besides, no one has to know. a kid that fights for the world should be owed this much. he pops the tab of his own can, holding it up in toast. "cheers."

Cole startles; Reflex snaps his hand up, beer can smacking into the heart of his palm. He thumbs it over, rotates cold sweat aluminum around to a logo he ain't seen a long while. Not since Deadlock's early years while they'd still been claiming the Texan fields as their stomping grounds. His brows pop up in surprise, an impressed whistle shovelling out of his lungs before he can stop it.

He doesn't mean to grin, but here it lays out anyway: a boyish swing of teeth hammocked beneath crow's feet eyes as his gaze slumps back up to Jack. He cracks the can open, carbonation punching out with a sibilant sizzle, "Where th'hell did you get this?"

[vastiitas]

@seventysixed

we're a team, remember?

Feels like there should be more free-will associated with being apart of a Team, he wants to argue. Less Jail Cell Bars hanging overhead like a guillotine if somebody decided he was more liability than asset. He swallows his complaints, broken glass sentiments crushed between hands, and heaves in air from where he'd been winded.

"You're a fucking Saint, Jack Morrison," His voice is hoarse, tenderized by a bruise that's going to mottle his chest later today from those rubber rounds meant for combat practice. His palm slaps into Jack's and the man lifts him up like he's nothing. The air rattles in his lungs and Cole's brows jam down into a crumple.

"New Team's just not the same as the old." He's chasing SEP standards and world class snipers – it feels like chasing the Sun. He wheezes, squeezing out words through a fatigued exhale as he folds over, hands on knees. Sweat drops gather fat over his brow and plops to free fall for the floor. "Rhythm's different."

[el-papito-muerte]

@seventysixed

who put you in charge?

"I put myself in charge." Chest puffed defiant. He stabs a finger down on the kitchen island, war declaration gavelling onto granite marble, because, hell, if he's going to give up the position of Overwatch Commander, he's not yielding point to Birthday Planning either. "Kid likes spice, and carne adovada. That's braised, not grilled."

[vastiitas]

@seventysixed

are you hungry?

Jack Morrison and his gold-wheat hair and bright blue eyes breaking the summer sky cuts for an impressive figure. He looks like his war-hero posters, the ones that still manage to plaster the paint-chipped walls of dying towns where folk are too downtrodden and work-beat to look up, hung in forgotten diners hugged in dust film, some ghost of hope dandelion defiant in the crumpled face of post-war, collapsing infrastructure. To say he's caught off-guard by such a casual question is the least of it.

"Could grab a bite," His arms fold over his chest. He leans his back to the wall and throws his gaze down a shadowed hallway, "Reyes' is finishin' up some debrief with Gerard." A pause, a chuff, "Ain't s'ppose you know any places 'round here that ain't the cafeteria?"

[el-papito-muerte]

don't let her take advantage.

"She's doing what she's told," Pointed, a scowl. Reyes raises his chin, gates his arms into an interlock over his chest. "My circus, my monkeys. Don't you have your own to look out for?"

[el-papito-muerte]

winks at him / seventysixed

@seventysixed

"Looks like you got something wrong with your eyeball, Soldier 76," Gabriel Reyes straightens, arms akimbo and palms hooked over hip crests. He cuts an imposing figure, face carved dour. Some suggestion of a smirk peels at the corner of his lips: "Looks like you need some spit and shine to clear that up."