maskormenacelogs | make me your aphrodite, make me your one and only

[ You say you're not afraid of me, but how much of that is for yourself, for your own benefit so that you feel like a stronger man in your shoes the next time you see my face in person?

Rhys takes the same route out of the building every day. Down one hall, to the elevator, down the elevator, to the final hall, out the front door, down the block, to the bus stop, then he waits. The minutes change from day to day; sometimes he's heading out right on schedule and other times he loses himself in the work for hours past when he was free to go. Once Tony realized he was an employee with value to him, he was given reasonable freedom, but that isn't what Rhys is used to. None of his co-workers would press a gun to his temple if given half a chance at being promoted over him.

Most of them would rather go out for a drink and talk shop.

When he leaves work, he can walk straight forward and not mind himself. He doesn't have to consider what will be said the second he's out of the workshop. Rhys can relax.

That is until he sees Jack and Jack has already seen him. He stands, awkward, then adjusts where the strap of his bag hangs on one shoulder and musters up a pained 'grin.']

Jaaaaaack, hey. I didn't know you were in De Chima. Ever.

Edited 2015-08-06 04:00 (UTC)

I'm not usually, but you know, after the other night? I thought - hey, what the hell - and came to see you lil buddy. [Okay, maybe he's being a little too cute with him - back it up.

Kind of becoming a habit because he has to control himself at his job... He doesn't dislike it - he's still management and kids are alright when they aren't being shits - but he does miss not giving a fuck about censoring himself! Oh yes! That's the good stuff!

He rises and strides over to Rhys, and as much as he's tempted to invade, he leaves the man his space. He gives him a playful punch in his human arm - but it's maybe a little harder than average - and dammit, why can't he turn his stupid work personality off!!! Fuck this!!!]

You wanna get a drink, tell me what it's like to work at a tech company here? What's it like compared to Hyperion, huh? [Probably boring, right? Pandora was some good times.]

[The punch hurts, as proven by Rhys' immediate ow and pulling away. He's wearing that same gameface, the smile that doesn't reach his fake or real eye, but the casualness of it all isn't so bad. This reminds him of swinging by after Vaughn was finished with class when they were in college. Wanna grab some brewskis, see who's at the bar? Bro things. Not what one does with Handsome Jack outside of their wildest fantasies, but since he tried to steal Vasquez's deal, everything in Rhys' life has taken an incredibly unreal turn.]

Yeah, the other night-- you aren't mad? Because that was-- you know, I was pretty wasted. Whoo. Barely... remember anything-- uh. A drink sounds great. One drink, since now we know what I'm like with two. Ha-- ha. Ha. Yeah.

[As long as Jack's in a good mood, Rhys will awkwardly and painstakingly make this work.

This is the nicest Jack's been. Could it be that Rhys' sour attitude from his drunk texts inspired some sympathy? Didn't think you were the sort, HJ! But he's not complaining. The false sense of security is like a blanket he wants to wrap so tight around himself he never has to look at reality again.]

Two? [Pffff--giggle haha snerk ffff] wow, You - you're... [He cannot hide his giggles behind his hand no matter how hard he tries.] King of the Lightweights!

And naw, it was cute. The way you were trying to be all tough... [If he was trying to be anymore condescending, he would have pinched Rhys' cheek, but he just gives it a light papping. Still picking on him though.] Adorable.

But back to big boy stuff: anywhere you like to go? Or should we just hop around looking for the shittiest dive we can find?

[That was a joke, Rhys would say, rebuff puffing up his chest with pride, but it's Jack laughing so he decides, eh, better not. The pat to his cheek is better than the shoulder punch, so he lets that go by, too. Everything sails past when it's Handsome Jack showing casual--

Can this be called affection?]

You want to hop around.

[He has to echo that, let the words bounce out in the air for a while. Jack does not tell him he misheard, so he'll carry on.]

I'm game. If you're looking for seedy, we should port over to Maurtia Falls.

[That Rhys has to let this sink in and pause, waiting to be told otherwise, means that this whole charade is working. And while he wouldn't outright say it, he's impressed that Rhys knows where a shadier place to get a drink would be. The kind of place filled with territorial thugs ready to throw you across the bar before they throw you out of it just for looking at them funny.

His idea of a good time.]

Alright, sounds good cupcake. Let's get rollin'. [The grin on his face is encouraging as it can be for one on Jack's face and only interrupted when he swings his arm over his shoulders and gets a bit of a shock when his fingertips meet the metal at the joint of Rhys' cybernetic arm. A little more than static, a lot less than being tased, but it's still quite literally a shock, and there's a small whispered cursing as he opts to instead just rest his hand on Rhys' back to lead him on their way.]

[In all fairness to Rhys' usual levels of Not All That Cool, he only knows that Maurtia Falls is a shithole, has visited it approximately twice, and can assume finding a seedy bar there is a cakewalk. Jack need never know that he has no specific joint in mind.

The shock can't be felt by Rhys, but there is a sensation and a message popping up in his ECHO system that counts the voltage of that momentary surge.]

Did you walk across an acre of carpet on your way out here?

[Because that shouldn't be happening with such fancy Hyperion tech.

The hand on his back is pleasantly warm. He ignores it. Fiercely. They'll be heading out to the porter. Not too far a distance, though grabbing a cab would make it even shorter.]

[There is a pause before he nods, accepting his retail reality for what it is: part of his cover until he has more power here, but still with a grim lack of enthusiasm.] My whole store is nothing but shitty geometric carpet in terrible colors.

[The yellow shirt that's buried underneath his button-down and blazer is definitely not Hyperion brand, but is definitely work-related. There was something different about that shock though - part of it being how much electricity there was, and part of being the faint buzzing in his head he was feeling as an aftereffect. Hm.

At least he's a manager, even if it's assistant.

Jack doesn't mind the walking. He's an active man and has the legs ~~and ass~~ to show for it. Though, if Rhys wanted to hail a cab, he wouldn't argue. Those high-end town cars make him feel much more important though, and the rates are not too much higher than another bee from the hive.]

[Isn't that motivation, Jack? Start as the assistant manager, become the manager. Move up into HR. Convince them the entire teeny bopper jacket market (or whatever) needs a new infrastructure. Internal corporate takeover, until the kids doing covers of age inappropriate Top 40s are singing your praises alone. Not that Rhys would voice that suggestion or that he has, at one point or other, considered the likelihood of it becoming Jack's future reality. That would be dumb.]

That's some real suffering.

[No taxi, no town car. They can walk the whole damn way and the chitchat will be uncomfortably easy. They're both men bred from a certain stock, one might say, provided that 'one' wasn't Jack who would never lump himself in with Rhys.

Unless he felt like it.

Which he could.

Rhys wouldn't complain.

Is that hand going to stay on him? Again: zero complaints.]

Hey-- did I... tell you where I work? Ha ha. [Very sincere laughter right there.] I don't remember doing that.

[The hand lingers, perhaps drifting a bit mindlessly, or maybe intentionally, downward to rest lower on Rhys' back. The presence is lighter, less the flat of his palm and more like the tips of his fingers hanging like ghosts. Light enough to forget, present enough so that you don't. Possessive.

Jack's smile is impish, so very self-aware in regards to his question. And aware that Rhys can recognize any traces of danger there. All according to plan.]

You didn't.

[He could say he stalked him. Online, offline, whatever-line. He could divulge more details. But he won't. He loves to leave people like Rhys wanting.]

That's what I thought.

[No more inquiring into that; if Jack wanted to know where to find him, that's easy enough, and what he needed was confirmation that he hadn't blabbed. Rhys' second look at his texts from That One Night were cursory at best. So much information he might've said, but judging by the short lines of his end of the conversation, he doubts any of it was conveyed.]

How are things? Are you settling all right?

[Pretending with all your might could spark a placebo effect. This could, somehow, become an average evening out with a-- a... friend?]

[No.

He's been one barely stitched together mess - literally and figuratively - since he got here. Only recently had his physical condition been well enough for him to actually get out for more than work without scrutiny from his assigned medical professional. So many rules to follow here. Too little a foothold to just up and break them.

Still pretending he doesn't remember his losses, of love and life, still pretending that they didn't affect him so much. Still pretending he doesn't care that there are Vault Hunters directly responsible for that here.

His façade falters for a moment, enough that Rhys will notice and he hates himself already for it. The moment of weakness. He actually looks away to lessen how much of his anger and shame Rhys will see.]

Yeah, just fine. Bit of a slow start, but sometimes there's a resting period before you can get a good swing of momentum going. [Ha. Haha. Ha. His lingering hand over Rhys' back shakes, and he grabs a fistful of his shirt for stability. There's no direct threat there, just a broken man trying to hide just how much he is tattered. And failing.]

You know, Jack... I was planning on helping you-- the, uh. AI you. I think the idea was to get you back to Helios and then you'd be on the throne. Somehow. Because-- guys like you. That's where you belong. That's why this is-- everyone has an adjustment period. You'll get the hang of it.

[Rhys was silent for a while before he started to babble, taking in the vision of Jack losing his cool. He doesn't lack the keen insight (re: it's blatantly obvious) to see that the older man's off his rocker, but what if that's a necessity for leadership? All those assholes at Hyperion and someone had to be powerful, brilliant, and ruthless enough to make it all work. Rhys modeled himself after Handsome Jack-- he was considering going on the VIP tour of his memorial, goddamn it. And yeah, right. Creepy and fallible would go on his nohari window. Whatever. There's worse.

He'd rather feed the monster's ego than see it slip back into the shadows. Plus, that grip is ruining his shirt. He spent at least thirty dollars on this shirt.]

[He takes a deep breath, shaky instead of steadying but he holds in for a long while - just before the point of desperation -, and lets Rhys' shirt go in tandem with the trapped air, bringing his hand back to his own side.

The babbling is both too much and appreciated. With the back of his fingers limply tapping Rhys on the lips to shush him, he quirks the corner of his mouth up and flashes him a sidelong gaze to express that the moment has passed. No more broken Jack, only smarmy manipulation now.]

Gotta bleed a little to win a war.

[In Jack's case, 'a little' was more like 'a whole fucking lot,' but Rhys doesn't correct him. They can lapse into the sort of silence people don't easily share. Most people have to fill the void with an endless stream of words, and Rhys is one of them, but Jack indicated they're taking a break. He picks up the hint, pockets it, and walks them along. The porter isn't far, and what he says along the way from there on is quick and mostly observational. Once they're in Maurtia Falls, though, it's all about heading down the inkiest looking street and walking with confidence despite having no idea where he's headed.

The air is thicker here. Not pea soup thick, but heavy and slightly damp in a way that cannot be measured, but most definitely felt. This isn't the sort of city he'd normally take to. Rhys was at home on Helios. So clean. So fresh. This will take more getting used to.]

Let me know if anything catches your eye.

Alright...

[And Jack slinks around Rhys from behind, grabbing him by his cyber arm - another strong shock with more buzzing in his head but he grits his teeth and ignores it this time - to pull him into a place with offensive neons and too much grunge that was immediately at Rhys' right.

It is filled with so many smells under the 'pungent' blanket and it is both terrible and magnificent. Smoke, booze, B.O., and probably other smells desperately covered with soap and elbow grease but can never be washed away.]

You like to play darts? [Of all the things you should probably say no to playing with Handsome Jack... The strong shock has worked into smaller little zaps like too much static and they persist as long as Jack's hand lingers on Rhys' arm. The buzzing fades in and out with each prick of electricity.

He doesn't let go because he's curious now.]

[The same concerned message from before pops up, briefly showing red from the palm of Rhy's cybernetic hand. What's with all the shocks? That can't be good for him, and he is ready to tell Jack to lay off all the touchy-feely bizness, but he's briefly blinded by electric pink and blue. What bastard designed a sign capable of shining that brightly before the sun's gone down? He only has so much time to blink and boggle before scent becomes a bigger sensory problem than sight. The wafting smell of lesser men hits him in a wave. The camera pans out for a long shot, then zooms in right on his face. Big eyes, barely open mouth.

Why didn't he leave through the back door today?]

What? Ha-- wow, I'm not really a darts guy. Why don't you throw a bunch and I'll watch you from the bar?

[If he drinks enough schnapps he'll stop caring about how he can feel grime building under his fingernails by simply standing on these premises, yeah?]

[Not happening, cupcake.

Words unspoken that seem to travel between the literal sparks between them and whisper across Rhys' ECHO interface. Unintentional, accidental, but words he'd planned to express.]

Ah, come on, looks like they've even got the ones with metal tips here! [He pulls him over to where it's all set up and lets him go now, so that he can take a dart and look it over with both eyes and hands. Then, pleased with what he has in his hands, he holds it up between their faces, grin plastered on his face.]

This - This is something you could kill a man with. Should you need to. Or woman. Or child. You know, just whoever you needed to.

[And then he takes Rhys' native hand and sets the dart in his palm.]

Try it.

Edited 2015-08-19 03:26 (UTC)

[That sure is a pointy-looking thingamajig. Rhys takes it with the amount of precaution usually reserved for disarming a bomb. This could kill a man. Woman. Child. Him. Mostly, he's always overly aware of things that could result in his own death. You'd think this would mean he'd make less rash decisions like heading out with his mass murdering ex-boss. Instead it only means he has the afterthought in vivid detail while the forethought lollygags and never gives him a good indicator of what route to take.

He turns his gaze up, spying the dart board. Red and green for contrast. The checker pattern is jeering at him.]

I had a thought-- we should get drinks first. Otherwise we look like a couple of thieves, coming in here and using the dartboard. I wouldn't want to be associated with that kinda crowd, would you?

[It takes a second to click but when it does, Jack eyes narrow and he yo-yos wildly from encouraging Rhys to engage in friendly sport to encouraging Rhys to regret everything he's ever done to even vaguely imply that Jack's behavior was synonymous with banditry.]

Stay right here.

[And Jack goes over to the bar, pulling out some money from his wallet and slapping it down on the counter. He chats a bit with the bartender, who gives him a look at first before he cracks the right kind of joke and gets a bit of a smirk out of them. He doesn't think anything of the looks he's getting - probably because of his face, and he's so beyond used to it at this point -, just gets a good rapport going with the bartender and then when asked what he'd like, his words are these:

Something that will get my friend and I fucked up.

And if Rhys could read lips, then he should be ready to regret all of his life choices, because the barkeep has a wicked look, like they know exactly what will do the trick.

Jack slinks back over, setting the two drinks down on the tall table hanging out closest to where he'd claimed as their dartboard for the duration of their stay.]

Drinks acquired. You ready to have fun, princess?

Edited (omg why do my fingers do things without me) 2015-08-19 04:59 (UTC)

[Something that will get my-- did he say something about frankfurters? Rhys has not moved a step after being commanded to stay where he was left. Mistakes were made, and he doesn't want his transgressions to grow. They're already clinging to him, which must be why his ears are ringing-- why he thought, for an instant, he heard Jack's voice in his head again a moment ago.]

I do not like the look of that.

[Whispered under his breath. The bartender's smiling in the nasty way that means someone gave him permission to let his Freudian Id take the wheel. The drinks are poured at a poor angle for Rhys to peak at the chemistry in motion; his stomach sinks while folding in on itself.]

Uh. Do I have a choice?

[High-pitch at the end. Laughing! So-- so funny! And fun!]

[No, not really. Jack doesn't wipe the mirthful and predatory look off his face as he takes the first sip off of his drink, which is innocent enough. Which is a good sign. False sense of security just like every step of this tango he has going with Rhys, the semi-reluctant partner.

There's a soft tap as he sets his glass back down on the table, and then he swoops behind Rhys, taking the dart from Rhys to demonstrate. Or to stab him. No, really to demonstrate.]

Have you never played before, or are you just terrible at it? Because it's not hard once you get it.

Like anything else, you just have to focus your desires on one fine point, throw yourself into it, and let go.

[As he speaks, he preps and throws the dart, hitting close to the center, but not dead-center. Three guesses who threw darts at posters of Tassiter, and two don't count.]

[Posture's important in tango, whereas posturing is a good way to relate to another snake in a business suit. Metaphorically speaking, since neither of them wear respectable clothing.

(Rhys' shirt cost a pretty penny, his belt buckle's a sleek and round-cornered clip, his tie was an unnecessary expense, but if Tony was of a mind to, he could shame him for any article of the ensemble.)

They say to fake it 'til you make it, but what do you do after you've made it? Rhys has built himself a comfy nest in this new world order, small as it may be (and slightly disrupted by an old man's whining). This is as solid as any of it has a chance of being until more time has passed. When does he stop having to worry about things like darts in his skin? Unpoisoned darts, just-- lodged in his skin?]

Throw yourself into it. Great.

[He'll go retrieve another dart for himself and return to Jack, drink suspiciously untouched after he set it down on the table. Lips purse, eyes squint, he does a couple jerking fake-throw motions before letting the dart fly free.

In all fairness, it sails straight and true until like, three inches from the board when it begins its nose dive. Lodges in the outermost ring.]

Huh. I expected that to go worse.

[He has to fight back a snicker, but hey, positivity is not necessarily a bad thing.

Jack grabs a couple darts and then tucks himself around Rhys from behind again. He places a dart in his robot hand and then wraps his hand around it, guiding him. There are more of those sparks again, smaller zaps, but many of them and if it were any darker in here, you could probably see the electricity.]

Passion is a powerful motivator, Rhys. Follow my lead.

[And he guides Rhys' arm into a throw.

[Throw Dart.]

[Blank out and miss bonding opportunity.]

[Shrug him off and tell him to stay out of your personal space.]

...

What do you choose, Rhys?]

[...

Rhys says nothing when he could be telling Jack to let him breathe his own air once in a while, or throwing the dart and allowing it to fly to a better mark. He turns his head ever so slightly, eyes rolling so he gazes out of the corner of them nearest Jack. Nothing's said for a moment, but he's listening, not blanking. More like a hundred thoughts floating through his head instead of none.]

What's motivating me?

[He says that, eventually, after he's taken his time and let the clock tick.]

Edited 2015-08-19 22:04 (UTC)

[Jack shrugs, and the motion is right against Rhys' shoulders. He moves his hand to hover further away from the cybernetic, testing to see how far before the sparks can't make a connection between them.

This time, an image and the emotion attached that happens to cross Jack's mind - one out of many fleeting through prompted by his question - makes its way through the connection and into Rhys' interfaces. The moment that Angel was murdered, and the burning, wet, salty hatred that he felt.]

Whatever makes you burn the most. Maybe you could think about the boss who always had it out for you. There's always one. The guy who you dream about dying - by your hand, someone else's, or by fate - so that you can rise up and take his place.

[Someone is really talking from experience...]

[The man that comes to mind has no competition; douche beard, douche hair, voice that makes milk curdle and people's noses crinkle. Fuck Vasquez. What can't he ruin? What hasn't he? Were it not for him, Henderson would be alive and Rhys would be sitting pretty in his owed office. None of that Pandora nonsense would have ever bitten him in the ass so bad the bruises haven't healed months after landing in this much better world.

Vasquez never killed someone he loved, though. That could be-- in part-- because there are very few people Rhys would assign the 'L' word to. So what's that image? The sudden whirl of someone else's fury passing through the forefront of his mind (the part replaced with ECHOgear so that port can interface with the rest of him).]

Yeah-- I. I have someone in mind. I can do it now. Just aim?

Like you're going to throw that sucker right into his eye.

[He remembers squeezing the air out of Tassiter so hard it looked like his eyeballs would pop out of the sockets and splatter wet and gelatinous against the back of his glasses. There's a bit of shudder in his exhale, enough to make anyone curious or, more accurately since it's Jack, worried about what's on his mind.

He steps back, giving Rhys some room to breathe and take his shot.]

Make me proud, baby bird.

[Fly, huh? All on his own with wings two inches too long and a far drop from nest to the pavement? Rhys' aims have never involved developing literal aim, but if he can reach the wires and sockets deep within the most complicated bot's interior, this can't be too hard. Imagine Vasquez, imagine Vasquez in Henderson's chair, acting like he owns the place because he's about to. Think of August-- in a small way, think of Fiona and Sasha and everyone who's ever gotten in his way. They don't all deserve a dart in the spine or dead between their eyes, but the frustration's there.

He lets go. The dart does a more brilliant upward verge and this time hits--

No. Nowhere near bullseye. Not even in the board. Somewhere to the left of it, but it's stuck deep, halfway through the wall. The drive is there.]

Damn.

make me your aphrodite, make me your one and only

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