@wingsdreamt asked: but what if we hold hands and get sweaty together. thru training of course.
--
The silver haired knight contemplates this for a moment, brows creasing in that thoughtful manner that one does when found stumped by an inquiry that they usually don't receive on a daily basis. If at all really, but then again, Zack was always one to embody the meaning of "expect the unexpected."
"But...what part of our training would require us to hold hands?"
Last he recalled, they both used blades and the Warrior also had use of his shield, it would be virtually impossible to be closer while the steel stood between them-- unless...
"We could tag team! You can swing me around like a human flail!" Zack makes a circular motion with his hand then closes it into a fist as it slams into the open palm of his left hand.
"Pow!"
Squinting as he abruptly twists away from Light, Zack's bottom lip juts out as he folds his arms over his chest and turns his chin up with a huff. The mere suggestion is an affront to his dignity. He cracks an eyelid to glance sidelong at the Warrior of Light.
"Nah-uh! That's underhanded! Ahem...Not that I would mind."
Zack squirms. Then he opens his mouth. Closes it again. Thinks some more. Cissnei continues to stare unwaveringly at him. He knows he didn't do anything wrong exactly, but he can feel an imaginary confession squirming on the tip of his tongue nevertheless. Maybe it's a Turk thing, one of the many special techniques in their immense cabinet of interrogative methods.
"Uh. So."
He scratches his temple with a single finger, glances back down at his closed knees, then back up again at Cissnei.
"I'm fine. I mean, maybe a little banged up. No broken bones, no open cuts, no holes in my socks. Honest. Can I go now?"
Balto didn't say anything as he strolls down the hallway. Lifting his head, he caught Zack's eye contact mid-stride, Two fingers, a wink behind his glasses, and he dropped that thumb. A soft pew under his breath follows the gesture along with a warm smile. Zack got maybe a half second of eye contact as he continues past, already late to a meeting.
Zack thumbs out a short message on his PHS when all the suits, Lazard, and Angeal finally come crawling out of a grueling meeting. He doesn't know why exactly they have to deliberate at least five to ten different ways the Company will ultimately choose to ignore the unconventional tactics that Wutai employs to fight back the encroaching SOLDIER contingent.
Zack F.: u have no idea. they didnt even decide on anything!!! idk how u do it
“see? it's not so bad!” (if you’re still accepting these. :3)
"Easy for you to say, you're not the one in a giant cactuar suit," Zack grumbles from deep within the plush, cuddly, and cactuar-shaped prison of his girlfriend's making.
"It's for the children!!" He cannot make the pitch of his voice come anywhere near Aerith's, but he puts forth his best impression nevertheless.
"Mr. Cactuaaar! I love you," a child sighs, clinging to his leg with all arms and legs like a tree climber hugging their favorite tree.
"That's nice, kid."
Another one is busy hanging off the bent arm of his suit like their own personal jungle gym and Zack endeavors to lean and arch at opposing angles so he doesn't end up dropping an orphan on their head.
Maybe he really isn't cut out to be a kid's birthday party entertainer. Aerith did such a good job selling him on the whole thing. The kids at the Leaf House would love him, they had a bunch of April birthdays coming up and no gil to plan any celebrations, didn't he want to help his community in a way that didn't involve the Company plastering up his face everywhere and charging 50 gil for every autograph?
"Hey. HEY. THIS IS A RENTAL."
It's too late. He can already feel the spot of moisture blooming at his waist. Dear Planet, please let that be a juice box and not something else. Ugh. He'll deal with it later. With his free hand, Zack sticks a party blower into the suit's mouth hole and blows with all the enthusiasm he can muster.
@chthonicsurge
it starts like this: someone makes a mess.
weaker facilities fail to hold their overpowered prisoners, an uprising gets a little too big before it has the power to protect itself, a whistleblower tips their hands too soon. someone creates a problem that cannot be solved by the usual show of force. no, that would betray the weaknesses' of shinra's strength.
to stay on top they had to seem absolute. the people had to be complacent, free to think of rebellion but never concretely enough to see it through.
nero had to admit, few escapees managed to evade capture this long. if they did, well, it wasn't because they truly escaped. no, they turned up in the bellies of fiends or hungry animals. genesis was an oddity, they'd been certain they'd be retrieving a corpse and not a living person. yet lo and behold, the man looked far better than he had in the file photos.
fascinating.
and the specimens that had subdued him were beyond fascinating. the turks were on it, and nero was relatively certain that was meant to be their mission. he and weiss had no strict directives to reclaim them if they weren't on site. if rumors were true, they were capable of taking down sephiroth himself. which meant their capture was not just a matter of shinra secrets, but professor hojo's own pride lay on the line.
weiss had hefted genesis' unconscious body into his arms, turning to nero to convey his doubts without word. the uncertainty of his use to them a sudden weight between them. genesis, though powerful, had never truly struck back at shinra in a way that benefitted any of them.
but these other specimens... the ones that had an execution squad waiting for them at the border. they could prove more useful.
nero had simply nodded, disappearing into the shadows. he heard the muted protests of their chaperons and weiss' silky smooth voice reassuring them that they needed to wait, just wait, and nero would be back once he had his fun.
they're not far off. couldn't be, given that the stronger one was dragging the near corpse with all his might. nero doesn't bother going for his weapons, he simply rises up from the man's shadow. his footfalls cat-like and soundless, timed perfectly to the exhausted man's own.
but the immediate sense of dread his power invokes is far greater a tell to his presence than any sound could be. he's not trying to hide, that would defeat the point. it's a show of force.
as is the way the man's shadow stretches forward despite the beating sun, something howling around them as it does.
"i am offering you a deal," he says, "and if you take it, not only will i let your little friend live. i will see to it that you truly attain the freedom you so covet."
On a single hand, Zack can count the number of moments someone or something has ever made the hairs on the back of his neck rise on end. Now is one such moment, here at the edge of the wasteland with the grit of dirt under his nails, the smoothed tread of his worn boots, the growling in his stomach, the needs of a friend whose weight feels impossibly heavy for someone so malnourished.
He has the strength to make a last stand. Only that much. They aren't close enough yet. Midgar, shrouded in its cloak of smog and mako, is still too far off. The Mythril Mine is not yet far enough behind them and neither are their pursuers. His choices are too limited. That has been a fact of life for some time now. He tightens his hold of Cloud’s wrist and lifts his gaze to the source of his dread.
The man looks something out of the occasional horror flick plastered across billboards throughout Sector 8. A temporarily leased R&D project isn't exactly out of bounds either, considering the circumstances.
“Y’know, my mom taught me not to talk to weird strangers when I'm out on a walk.” While his response isn't an outright no, he isn't exactly jumping for joy either.
“Let's say we hear you out,” Zack says conversationally, like this whole situation isn't entirely lopsided. He has no leverage here. He doesn't even entirely know who he's dealing with other than the nervous gut feeling roiling in his belly telling him that starting a fight with this guy definitely falls under the category of very bad ideas. “Who's to say you and I have the same definition of ‘freedom’? Freedom, terms and conditions apply, that sorta thing. The Company is real fond of that.”
Shinra has kept their little manhunt under wraps. He and Cloud are riddled with Company secrets and proprietary knowledge. The only way anyone knew that the two of them were wanted men was because Shibra wanted them to. Therefore, it stands to reason that the stranger before them was also Company property. If that were the case, there wouldn't be any negotiations to be had. All roads eventually led to the same place: deep underground somewhere in Hojo’s fucking fun house basement because they were wanted alive, not dead. There are fates worse than death on this planet.
“I'm typically the sort of guy to give someone the benefit of the doubt…so you'll have to forgive me if that's been a little hard to do lately.”
"Still? You haven't bought a motorcycle?" The response caught Balto off guard. He remembered how Zack watched with wide eyes as he and other teenagers drove their bikes into Gongaga. Maybe it was just as well. A SOLDIER First's salary was generous, but launching straight into debt after a promotion became a quick nightmare. Balto knew that particular lesson well: his own motorcycle had carved a hole in his wallet during his first year of training, every monthly payment a reminder that style came with consequences.
"What else was I supposed to do?" Balto's lips formed a half smile. "Let some scrawny kid get swept away in a sudden downpour?"
The laugh that escaped him was genuine. His gaze traveled over Zack, the broad shoulders straining against his street clothes, arms that could probably bench press a bull male chocobo, the kind of build that came from mako enhancements. "Look at you now. Amazing how you filled out." Balto shook his head. "Meanwhile, I can only dream of shoulders like that."
"You're going to love the highballs here," Balto said, relaxing against the worn leather seat. Adding to his tab didn't even register as a concern. "Best in this sector, both plates. I'll have to join you for one sometime." One beer over a meal was acceptable while working. Anything stronger risked dulling his reflexes. Zack could metabolize alcohol almost as fast as he consumed it. Balto didn't have that luxury. What he did have was more of a decade of knowing his limits.
He lifted his mug and took a measured drink. The beer was crisp, slightly bitter... Then Zack dropped the news that he didn't tell his parents.
The beer went down wrong. Balto's throat seized, and suddenly he was coughing, eyes watering as he fought to keep from spraying beer across the table. He steadied the mug, while his body waged war between breathing and not making a complete ass of himself.
"Sorry," He managed to rasp out between coughs, throat burning. He set the mug down and cleared his throat, "Sorry, wrong pipe. You... didn't tell your parents?"
Guilt settled heavy in Balto's chest. He hadn't meant to stumble into something painful. He assumed Zack's relationship with his parents was solid. Appearances could be deceiving. Rosamie, now his ex-wife, grew up next door to him for years. Close enough to hear arguments through thin walls, and she'd never suspected what his stepfather was doing. Not until that summer afternoon when she'd traced her fingers along the raised lines carved across his back: belt strikes etched into skin. Some wounds stayed hidden until someone got close enough to see them.
"Need to know basis," Balto said carefully, his voice deliberately neutral. He hadn't been assigned to Zack's file. These days he worked communications security for a unit of Second Class SOLDIERs. Never a dull moment.
"Fair enough." He wasn't going to push. If Zack wanted to talk, Balto would listen, but now wasn't that time. Some conversations needed the right moment, and a crowded restaurant wasn't it.
The waitress returns to their table, a welcome interruption. She set the highball before Zack with practiced ease: amber liquid over ice. For Balto, she placed a small ceramic teapot and matching cup, followed by a small plate of skewered rice cakes divided into three colors, their surfaces lightly grilled.
Balto offered her a quick smile before turning his attention to the tea, grateful for something to do with his hands. He lifted the pot, its warmth seeping through the ceramic, and poured slowly. "There's an online central office in Gongaga now," he said after a moment, keeping his tone casual as he watched the tea flow into his cup. "They've got scheduling for calls. Anyone in town can use it." He set the pot down and wrapped both hands around the cup, feeling its heat against his palms. "If you ever wanted to check in with anyone back home, that's an option."
"Are you kidding? I manage to wreck a Company bike almost every other day." While the average SOLDIER's paystub is nothing most people would turn up their noses to, Zack likes to think he's a smidge smart enough not to piss all his gil away on fungible commodities that he already receives on Shinra's dime... Even if he can see the vein throbbing in Deusericus's temple every time a new mission report comes in with one Zackary Fair's name at the top.
The compliment tacked on right at the end earns an unexpected laugh out of him.
"Aw, c'mon! I'll walk you through Wall Market any day of the week if you think you aren't gonna be turning any heads." Granted, Zack can't exactly claim to be entirely au naturel without recognizing the benefits of mako enhancement.
It is hard for him not to mirror Balto's smile and laughter as they reminisce on the humid, rainy summers of yesteryear.
"Actually, there's a reason I don't see much of my own paycheck," he admits, looking almost sheepish as he scratches the corner of his jaw. "Most of it gets split out to my folks. Keeps my mom off my back about writing home."
Gongaga may not be as backwater as it used to be, but it remains backwater nonetheless.
Nodding his thanks to the waitress, he eagerly turns his attention to the pleasantly bubbly beverage set before him. Pausing with his drink halfway to his lips, Zack realizes a little late that he might be painting the wrong sort of picture. The cup slams back down.
"I mean, not because of anything bad! It's just...Sometimes no news is good news, right?" Some things are better left sharing in person. Death...War...Promotions...Defectors... He doesn't want to write about any of that to his parents like it's supposed to be normal. Never mind the obvious disdain the Shinra News Network displayed regarding people with opinions regarding the Company's triumph over their new vassal territory.
Reporters have an obligation to report some version of the truth. Just like the Turks do. Zack gives Balto a measured look as the nostalgic pleasantry of their conversation wanes.
"I just don't think that's good idea."
The waitress makes her second round with a tray filled to the brim with greasy protein and carbs and Zack lights up immediately.
"Grab some! I'd even say my treat but..." Despite being a man who weighs upwards of two hundred pounds, Zack possesses irresistible puppy eyes. "According to Tseng, you guys are paid way better."
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i just got a new printer and i went back through my catalog to clean up my cropping templates... that means looking at old art (oh no).
time away from looking at a piece of art you struggled with really does help with identifying what areas you can fix even if its waaaay after the fact. not getting that "something still looks weird" feeling anymore is a huuuuge relief.
Balto didn't expect to see Zack in that doorway. That much could be told by the widening of his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed beneath his dark jacket. The television drama forgotten, his attention zeroed in completely on the figure silhouetted against the light filtering through the entrance. Recognition struck him like a physical thing, cutting through the cigarette haze he'd been wrapped in moments before.
But he recovered quickly, as Turks were trained to do, and a grin spread across his face nonetheless. This one more genuine than the calculated expressions he typically wore. He reached forward, to stub his cigarette out in the ashtray, grinding the ember against its surface.
Their paths had crossed more than a few times in their former backwater lives. Balto had given Zack rides back into the village on more than one occasion rather than leaving the younger kid to make the long hike through the jungle alone. Different ages, different social circles, but Gongaga was small enough that everyone's threads wove together eventually. The Fairs and the Sharps had maintained that connection, exchanging visits during new year celebrations, sharing meals and stories and the particular brand of community that existed in the backwaters where everyone depended on everyone else.
Even as Balto had grown older and more of a hellraiser, he never picked on Zack or the younger boys. Never told them off or let his friends give them grief. There was an unspoken code about that sort of thing, a line he wouldn't cross.
Which meant Zack was likely one of no more than a handful of people in the entire company who knew his former identity, who could connect the sharp dressed Turk operative to the wild teenager who used to tear through Gongaga's dirt roads.
Balto's expression shifted rapidly as Zack's mouth opened to greet him, recognition clearly dawning on the younger man's face. His hand shot up in a swift gesture. An index finger lifting to press against his own lips, a silent request that carried the weight of urgency despite its gentle delivery.
"Balto, now," he said, his correction quick and polite but underscored with firmness. His voice remained low, pitched just loud enough to carry across the small distance between them but not to the other patrons scattered throughout the restaurant. He let his arm rest upon the table afterward, fingers splaying across the worn wood surface, his posture deliberately relaxed to offset the tension of the moment.
He exhaled a silent sigh of relief, his chest deflating as he watched understanding flicker across Zack's features. If the younger man had been about to mention his former identity, it would have created the kind of security breach that ended in consequences. Balto would have needed to file a hefty stack of paperwork, initiate formal protocols, proceed with official disciplinary action. The sort of nightmare that would cost him an entire evening hunched over reports in the office while Tseng looked on with that particular expression of disappointment that was somehow worse than anger.
But Zack caught himself, awareness replacing the initial excitement. The name died unspoken. His expression relaxed, the hard edge of professional necessity softening into something warmer. It was progress. The kid learned fast. Always had, which was probably why he'd made SOLDIER in the first place.
Balto wasn't old enough to require the traditional greeting from the younger man. That traditional gesture of respect that existed among the people of Gongaga, a formal acknowledgment between generations that was part bow, part hand clasp, much akin to a handshake but carrying far more weight. The elders received it; men in their fifties and beyond. Balto was nowhere near that threshold yet.
Instead, he shifted his weight and reclined back against the cushion, settling into a more comfortable position that opened up the space across from him. He moved his attention briefly to the hostess behind the bar counter. A middle aged woman with tired eyes, and lifted two fingers in a subtle gesture that she caught immediately.
As she approached with menus tucked under her arm, Balto gestured with his right hand toward the empty seat across from him, the motion fluid and welcoming. "I might have to step away for a bit if someone shows up," he explained, his voice casual but his eyes serious, making sure Zack understood this wasn't a full social call. The contact he was waiting for took priority. "But for now, go right ahead."
The hostess materialized beside their table with practiced efficiency, setting down the food and drink menu before the empty seat with a soft clatter of laminated paper against wood. She pulled a small notepad from her apron pocket, pen poised.
Once she'd departed with whatever Zack requested, her footsteps fading back toward the bar, swallowed by the ambient noise of sizzling grills and low conversation. Balto let his full attention return to Zack. He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table edge, fingers loosely interlaced.
"Belated congratulations," he offered, the words carrying real warmth despite their formal structure. He'd been updated on Zack's recent promotion. The reports crossed his desk as part of the regular intelligence briefings Turks received on SOLDIER. The name Fair had jumped out at him from among the list of newly minted First Class operatives, triggering a complicated tangle of emotions he'd filed away for later examination. Pride, certainly. Concern, inevitably.
A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth as he asked, "How'd your family react to the news?"
The Wutaian empire had just arrived at the very precipice of its decline by the time Shinra had begun cementing and expanding its influence in the east. Still, even an empire in decline exerts its history and its traditions within and beyond its borders. Long ago, through the tailing archipelago at the far south of the western continent, little-known villages like Gongaga could still come to know and adopt the rituals of the noble court hundreds of miles away. Heights of civilization which they could aspire to but, against the egos of their originators, were transformed and adapted to the liking of the locals.
Teachings from home, set aside but not forgotten, resurface to the forefront of his mind for the first time in years and just as quickly. Gongaga is neither here nor there, tens of decades later in the present under the sweating belly of Midgar.
Even within the Company’s own rank and file there are degrees of separation that can be worlds unto themselves. Different departments, different floors, different assignments, and different agendas comprise the surrealist tessellation of all that is the “Shinra Electric Power Company.” Faces become fewer and more familiar the higher up any good employee climbs. These echelons are perhaps the most well-known to the public, spoken and unspoken.
Until circumstances change, they straddle the line of both company employees and old acquaintances.
“Riiight,” Zack drawls, depositing himself onto his seat and tilting a wink in Balto’s direction now that the time-honored pleasantries have been thought but not exchanged. “Balto.”
SOLDIERs did not regularly adopt codenames. Zack always felt these codenames were a dubious concept, one specifically formulated to separate a person from their personhood for causes which start with an “s” and end with a sense that he might be walking out with fewer internal organs than he came in with.
“Me? I’m still the same old, same old... ‘That Fair kid.’ Always bumming rides.” Even if he isn’t. Even if things are not the same as they were, and the tongue in cheek is a bitter-tasting one. Zack Fair, from the little backwater town of Gongaga. SOLDIER, of a shrinking First Class. Because there always has to be someone, and they choose him.
The waitress is a very wanted distraction. Zack takes less than thirty seconds to gleefully list off a third of the total offerings on their entire menu for his order. Takoyaki, modern-mix okonomiyaki, yakisoba, all the remaining yakis he could pick off the menu at a glance, “and a highball, please!”
Onto the news. Zack’s eyes flicker up to the ceiling then down again with a sheepish inability to fully meet Balto’s expectant gaze. He picks at the uneven and somewhat grimy exposed grain of the table with the blunt curve of his fingernails. Sure, he might regret that later, but it’s not like he hasn’t put his immune system through worse. Unbidden, hearing the familiar, admonishing voice in his head is the most terrible of all.
“Ahh…Heh. Haven’t told ‘em. Yet.”
Through pen and paper, there is little to communicate and even less he would have been inclined to share in person. They hear of the major milestones he has earned (reaching Midgar, his SOLDIER qualification, getting a nice roommate, the first couple promotions, meeting a girl), they receive a portion of his salary every month, and Zack wills it to be enough.
He does not tell his family about the losses.
Zack arches a brow accompanied by a meaningful onceover of Balto’s crisp suit. “‘Sides, aren’t you guys supposed to know all about that sort of thing?”
He’s partnered with a few of the other Turks enough by now to know they absolutely do ‘that sort of thing.’ An open secret he probably isn’t supposed to mention, because surely Shinra trusted all of its faithful, perfect employees. Perhaps the mail screeners go a step above, going so far as to kindly edit letters for typos and false facts. He has some experience with that.
There were a few haunts in Midgar that Balto had warmed up to after his return to the city. Quiet corners where he could blend into the background noise and keep one eye on the door. As of late, he'd been meeting his contacts in a slum izakaya tucked beneath the rusted girders of Sector 6, the kind of place where the proprietor knew better than to ask questions and the regulars minded their own business. The air inside was thick with the mingled scents of grilled yakitori, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic tang that seemed to seep into everything under the plate.
He settled into his usual spot: a low table booth sequestered in the back corner of the restaurant floor, positioned with a clear sightline to both the entrance and the kitchen. The worn cushion beneath him had long since molded to accommodate countless patrons before him, and he reclined with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to look relaxed while remaining ready. A lit cigarette smoldered between his index finger and thumb, thin wisps of smoke curling upward in the dim amber light cast by paper lanterns overhead.
Murasame rested against the wall beside the low table, propped at an angle that kept the sword's hilt easily within reach. The weapon's presence was as natural to him as his own shadow.
For now, his attention was fixed on an aging television set mounted to the restaurant wall, its screen flickering with static interference every few seconds. Some period drama about a wandering blade, the scene building toward a tense confrontation as characters traded verbal barbs before drawing their swords with deliberate ceremony. The soundtrack swelled dramatically, all shakuhachi and acoustic guitar, slightly distorted through the television's blown speakers.
Balto set his cigarette upon the chipped ceramic ashtray centered on the table. He lifted his glass of beer and brought it to his lips for a measured drink. The lager was cheap but cold, with that particular bite that came from slum district brewing. He let it linger on his tongue for a moment, savoring the taste as the television swordsmen circled each other with exaggerated intensity.
He wasn't troubled about having to wait. Contacts were rarely punctual, especially in this part of town where time moved differently, measured in shifts and shadows rather than minutes. And if this one turned out to be a no show? Well, he'd drunk beer and watched worse television under less comfortable circumstances. There was something to be said for these small moments of peace.
The restaurant continued its ambient symphony around him: the sizzle of meat on the grill, the low murmur of conversation from the handful of other patrons, the occasional clink of glassware. A server shuffled past with a tray of skewers, the scent of charred meat cutting through the cigarette haze.
Just as the television swordsmen prepared for their final exchange, Balto heard the familiar scrape of the restaurant's front door sliding open, accompanied by a gust of air from the street outside. Those blue eyes, sharp behind the fine frames of his glasses, shifted from the screen toward the entrance.
There’s a saying, An off-duty SOLDIER is a hungry SOLDIER.
(No such saying exists, but Zack wouldn’t be surprised if he becomes the sole reason it ever enters the company almanac.)
A brass bell, undeterred by the thick patina of ash and grease on its surface, chimes happily as he passes beneath the threshold and slides the door back across its track. Behind a veil of smoke and the splatter-hiss of fry oil, a cook shouts an emphatic, “WELCOME!”
He hasn’t tried this place before. There are many other such establishments awaiting the same honor, and Zack is under the impression that there always will be. Midgar, above and below, is unfathomably vast. Verticality means something far more here than it ever did back home. A city built upon itself. Cobbled streets and fashionable avenues, shanty towns and streams of neon, every trade, every profession. Pictures of the floating world and the one below it.
The thick, cloying spice-smell of cigarette smoke bothers him now as much as it did before his enhancements. Zack hesitates to venture further. Any perceived notions of rudeness all exist in his head. It won’t do to back out now, especially when his presence was so loudly acknowledged.
More importantly, the ready-made nature of skewers means eating more now and less waiting around. One desire overrules the other.
A brief scan of the counter space and tables turns up plenty of room for a solo diner to squeeze in somewhere. This is no sea of faces, but Zack is surprised to recognize a familiar figure seated at one of the tables.
Discretion. A self-admitted weakness. His demerits are not at the forefront of his mind on this particular evening, given the uniform has been traded in for comfortable civvies. Zack wades in, making a beeline for the table in the corner.
No one joins the Company for the sake of making friends. Zack has his own personal policy, one that trends towards needing a reason not to be friends before anything else, and it’s worked out pretty well for him for the most part. With aplomb, Zack pulls a chair out from the table. The skid of the chair’s worn, blunted legs across the sticky floor might have seemed deafening to anyone who knew what was coming.
“Heyyy! I recognize you! You’re–”
A few key facts snap into place, bringing Zack’s greeting to a screeching halt. Unable to complete its journey, his ass is still hovering a few inches away from his seat. He meets Balto’s gaze with a pained grin. A proper grimace.
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"Let's go on a walk and admire the leaves together… and steal a neglected pot plant… it’s too heavy for me to move alone. I can be the getaway wheelbarrow driver it’s fiiiine."
All the right elements of a foolproof plan except for little detail at the end. Zack nods slowly, paces a few steps, then rotates slowly on his heel with his chin caught between his fingers. All with comically pursed lips.
"There is... a fifty-fifty chance we still get caught. But I'm just spitballing numbers."
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