make me your aphrodite, make me your one and only

[crotchstallion]

WHO: Handsome Jack and Rhys promotional
WHERE: The nightlife of De Chima
WHEN: Aug 5th / Today
WHAT: Jack tries to build trust with an underling and ends up discovering how deep he can go with his technopathy power.
WARNINGS: Douchebags, Computer/Superpower-related Body Horror, Language, Handsome Jack


"Just look at the ego on this guy - Got his name on the building and everything."

It's a joke, since he totally gets it even though he's not met Tony Stark (yet), but chances were if Rhys worked for him he'd make a day of it sometime. Ask not how he figured out this was one of the places Rhys worked, and ask not that he knew Rhys would be there today after his road trip. Only acknowledge the cool way that he reclines on one of the benches outside the front entrance of the Stark Industries building.

He felt a little bad for Rhys, one because he tried to make a tough guy display and Jack shot him down, and two because he was probably really embarrassed after looking over his text logs the next morning. You tried, little guy.

"You just love working for narcissists, don't you?"

Comments

[crotchstallion]

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.]

[promotional]

[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?]

[crotchstallion]

[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.

[promotional]

[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?

[crotchstallion]

[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?

[promotional]

[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!]

[crotchstallion]

[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.]

[promotional]

[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.

[crotchstallion]

[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?]

[promotional]

[...

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.]

[crotchstallion]

[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...]

[promotional]

[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?

[crotchstallion]

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.

[promotional]

[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.