hadriel_logs | Event Log: Why Do You Have To Be Mad?

Entry tags:

Event Log: Why Do You Have To Be Mad?

Who: Everyone participating in the event!
What: The event log for the Rage event!
Where: All around the city
When: December 15th-December 20th
Warnings: None! Well, potentially rage-induced destruction and fighting and maybe a tiny bit of murder? So, nothing out of the ordinary.

December is usually a time of festive holiday cheer... unfortunately, Hadriel isn't the sort of place that respects holidays. Rage has decided that it's time she's given her due and has put on another event! Unfortunately for everyone in the city, this event means that all characters are given a particularly aggravating pet peeve that entirely sets them into a flying rage.

See someone sleeping? They're now the object of your ire. See a tall building with a bunch of windows? Suddenly, all those windows need to be smashed. Fights are breaking out with depressing regularity, and a couple of them might be severe enough to injure someone in a bad way.

Look out for your fellow prisoners in Hadriel, and do try to figure out the categorizations of each person's issue fast- falling into these cycles of anger isn't good for anyone and is bound to make someone mad if you treat them wrong. Conversely, instead you can just find someone who has the same loathing as you and let your feelings amplify one another; after all, the best sort of friendship is one that's formed by mutual hatred!

► This log covers December 15th-December 20th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If you get too caught up in your feelings and start a fight only to see that the person who pissed you off was really good at fighting, or if someone blew up the building you were kinda living in, please let us know here!
► As a final note, if you were not sorted and you would like to be, then please let us know in response to this post!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Wade was never the kind of guy known for keeping his cool. Even before the experiments that gave him his healing factor permanently addled his brain, Wade's emotions always tended to run on the hotter side-- and three years worth of PTSD, psychological torture and the triggering of some pretty nasty abandonment issues haven't exactly done much to ameliorate that. No matter how languid and nonchalant the mercenary might be, his emotions are essentially a powder keg-- the smallest spark ran the risk of causing a huge flare-up in the span of a few seconds.

Unfortunately, such sparks will be in much more of an abundance after today.

It had started with a mild form of irritation at the beginning, easily attributed to hunger at first. All Wade had wanted that morning was a hot meal of eggs and back bacon, and when the cupboards of his house had proved fruitless, Wade reluctantly set out to find a store with some decent breakfast.

He honestly wasn't sure when or how his irritation escalated to outright rage, but the store offered no relief for his cravings. Instead he was assaulted by the sight of cans as far as the eye could see, on every shelf and display in the store. Whether it was the association of canned goods to the desolation of Haven or whether it was simply him being hungover and hungry and cranky, something suddenly snapped inside Wade after less than five minutes of perusing the various selections in the store.

Anyone who ventures near this particular storefront will hear a cacophony of chaotic noises-- glass shattering, gunshots echoing and just a general din from within the store, and if one listened closely one would hear what sounds suspiciously like "FUCK YOU CHEF BOYARDEE YOU MASS-PRODUCING MOTHERFUCKER".

Proceed with caution, gentle citizens.

Gren was walking past a storefront, minding his own fucking business, thanks, when it suddenly sounded like a small war erupted inside. Cursing, gunfire, the sound of shit breaking all just slams out of that really unfortunate shop and hits Gren's way-too-sensitive hearing with the force of a mack truck.

On a normal day, Gren's tolerance for this sort of shit is sitting somewhere around the negatives. Today, he's pissed, there's a headache lingering behind his eyes from last night's lost battle against alcoholism, and he can't find Rhys anywhere. That last part is also a contributory factor to the first issue, because Rhys is the only person who knows how to work the fucking coffee machine in their bachelor pad and Gren is severely undercaffeinated right now. He needs Rhys to come home. He needs Rhys to answer his fucking phone.

Then he gets beaned right in the side of the head with a can of fucking Spaghetti-Os.

There's a moment where he's laying on the ground, his vision filled with the red-and-white label over a dented tin can and a whole different kind of ache in his head, that's like the calm before a storm. Then his anger level takes a jump from around a five or six on the scale of badness to invading Russia in winter, and he hauls himself up, grabs that stupid piece of shit can of fuck, and whips it right back where it came from as hard as he can.

Sorry, Gren. You're the first casualty of this war of aluminum attrition. Wade's expert dodging of the unidentified flying canned good is more from luck than anything else-- in his burning need to eradicate every container he can see, he accidentally slips on an errant marinara sauce spill, sliding to one knee just as the metallic-colored projectile goes rocketing over his head and smashes into the far wall. Wade stares at the sizable crater the can has left in the plaster with surprise and no small amount of admiration-- whoever's out there seems to have quite the arm.

His sudden anger forgotten (or at least satisfied that there's a potential living outlet for his rage) Wade rises from where he's kneeling on the floor, taking the opportunity to put his gun back into its holster in lieu of unsheathing one of his swords.

"Hey, Rookie of the Year? Might wanna stand up an' be counted if you don't want about three feet of vibranium steel shoved in some tender bits! Jussayin'!"

Gren's got more than just a good arm-- though, really, if it hadn't been so important for Fables to remain unnoticed by the mundies, he could've been a hell of a baseball pitcher, and no one would have even noticed the rampant alcoholism. Wouldn't have been out of place, anyway.

But, instead, Gren is just a salty old one-armed asshole with unnatural strength and a true form that looks like a gorilla hatefucked an anglerfish. It's not a great hand that he's been dealt in life, but he's gotta play it.

And, adding to his list of poor decisions for that year, he goes over to the busted shop front window and looks inside to address the other asshole who beaned him in the head with a fucking cheap spaghetti can. Because fuck this guy, that's why.

"You come on and fuckin' try it, I fuckin' dare you," he says, because this is what a perfectly reasonable person would do. "I'll knock your fuckin' teeth so far down your throat that you'll shit a full fuckin' pair of dentures."

A snort from the opposing side."Ah... well parried, my rapier-witted friend!"

Wade, by contrast, doesn't seem like he's taking this confrontation seriously at all-- because he isn't. Oh, he's definitely not what you would call reasonable, to be sure, but there's a lot of fun to be had in taking part in a good old-fashioned banter session. Helps get the juices flowing, and all that. After all, a fight scene-- even a potential fight scene, is nothing without its rhetoric.

The mercenary doesn't relax so much as adopt a more nonchalant air to his stance, as if he were just another regular schmoe taking his katana for a walk instead of a guy who just went Vlad the Impaler on a bunch of harmless, innocent soup cans.

"That happened once, by the way. The shitting dentures thing. Bad time at McDonald's. I don't really like to talk about it."

So, normally, threatening to punch someone's teeth down their gullet prompts more of a response. Also normally, Gren promptly follows that threat up with doing it, which tends to make people a lot less nonchalant about his threats. And there's also that non-sequitur about the McDonald's, and Gren's not really sure what he's supposed to do with that information, mostly because he's not sure if this guy is shitting him or not.

And if he's not fucking with him right now, Gren's actually had experience of his own with passing unfortunate amounts of body parts. Moral of the story, don't eat people whole, the rib cage has to get out of you somehow and whichever way it goes, it's bad.

But the sheer weirdness of this situation has kind of derailed Gren's rage train. It's hard to work up the appropriate amounts of anger when there's this weird dude hanging around with swords, spearing soup cans like they're rings at a jousting tournament. Gren's got expectations about the shit he gets mad about, okay, and they are not being met right now.

"...Did you get fuckin' hit on the head or some shit?"

Like, harder than Gren did, maybe.

Let's be clear here-- this doesn't in any way mean that Gren's off the hook in terms of fisticuffs. Despite Wade's cool as a cucumber demeanor, his fightin' blood is very much still up. It's been a long time since he's engaged in a real good scrap, not since the fight with Henry back in Tanagura (and he remembers that particular fight with a wistful pang in his heart ~~not to mention an echoing ache in his loins~~) and he's kinda itching for one now. If only to rid himself of the thinky thoughts that oftentimes plague his brain when he's alone or sober. Alcohol can only chase away so much, after all.

So he answers, "Oh, more times that I can count!" in a tone that's way too cheerful for so morbid a topic. "Comes with the territory, y'know? Unless you also wanna count that time I fell out of a tree when I was, like... nine. That one was a fluke."

He taps the side of his head with his index finger, a weirdly coy chuckle in his voice as if the subject matter is equally hilarious and embarrassing. "That ain't what caused the crazy, though. For the record."

Right, okay, so this is a thing that's happening right now. If Gren knew that this conversation was going to have a one-way ticket to crazytown, he would've just taken the can to the head and moved on, sparing himself the inevitable headache. Or, well, worse headache, anyway, he's already got one of those from the lump on the side of his head.

At some point during the Head Trauma Monologues, Gren decides fuck it. He got to his feet after that can-induced concussion gearing up for a fight, and you know what, he's gonna fuckin' fight somebody today. Rhys isn't around to try to talk him out of his own poor life decisions, so he's just going to barrel right towards them with all of the tact that he ususally does-- that is to say, absolutely none. Sorry Rhys, but if you wanted Gren to not go around acting like a belligerent idiot, you should've stuck around longer. He was pretty much the only person around this stupid murdercave that Gren listened to, anyway.

"Fuck it," he says, and hauls his ass right up through that busted shopfront window. "One more round of fuckin' head trauma ain't gonna make a difference on you."

Wade's going to be just as batshit insane with or without Gren's fist to his teeth, so hey, might as well make a pair of colon dentures if he's got the chance. He hasn't had a real drag-out fight since Bigby, which didn't go so well for him, but this guy's just human.

While Wade's mannerisms and demeanor might have Gren completely flummoxed, it's not hard for Wade to gauge what's going through the other man's mind right now. Dude looks like he's been gearing up for a fight since the beginning of time, and that dismissive comment only serves to cement the fact that they're gonna be getting into it pretty goddamn soon. Which is more than okay with Wade, honestly-- and not just to drive the doldrums of everyday life out of his head. Months of sexual starvation after a veritable all-you-can-eat buffet has made the merc quite twitchy in recent days, and he'd prefer settling for a pale facsimile of fucking than nothing at all.

Wade's eyes virtually brighten with delight as Gren slips through the window and, realizing he still has his sword clenched in one hand, he once again sheaths it behind his back. "Ha! I like you. Think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, or somethin'. Y'sure we can't just settle things over a cold brewski and some arm wrestling? Maybe a nice game of hacky-sack?"

At that last word, Wade uses his foot to flip up a discarded can of string beans with expert skill, kicking it right in the direction of Gren's nose. Whether the other man manages to dodge out of the way or not, Wade's already on the move, swinging a powerful, whistling, country-boy roundhouse at the side of Gren's head.

Gren barely gets his face out of the way in time to avoid getting his nose caved in by a can of string beans-- probably something that he would've never lived down, that's one of those things that you just can't reasonably explain to people-- but he's not quick enough to avoid the roundhouse right after. It's a good hit, too, and Gren stumbles from the force of it and from the fact that he wasn't braced for it. He catches himself on one of the shelves and shakes his head like a dog to clear it.

Well, this sure is the beginning of a beautiful something. Relationship based on mutual ass-kicking, probably, which is not exactly friendship but is close enough when it comes to Gren.

There's a can near his hand and Gren grabs it-- pumpkin pie mix, you're fucking welcome, Wade-- and whips it back in his direction. Now, there are some opponents who would assume that this is a fistfight, and therefore the only weapons that should be involved in it are body parts. Gren, however, is of the opinion that if you start shit, you better not expect everybody to be all nice and following rules and shit, because the only rule when it comes to brawls is 'win'. In the game of fucking shit up, Gren wants to come out on top. Which is why he breaks the shelf that he caught himself with, giving himself essentially a long, jagged hunk of metal to try to beat this motherfucker in the face with.

Gren is not a gentleman.

Wade might be a crack shot, an excellent swordsman, and a master of more martial arts than he can count on both hands, but no talent in the world can fix a sudden attack of reckless overconfidence. As Gren stumbles backwards into the shelves Wade follows him, intent on following up his serving of fresh knuckle sandwich with a few more for good measure, and so doesn't see the danger until the can of pumpkin pie mix is already on an all expense paid trip to the (un)popular tourist attraction known as his face.

Faced with imminent can-cussion (and he hears Sans snicker in appreciation for that particular pun) Wade's muscle memory kicks in, and he jerks his twin beam katanas out of his belt loops and activates them with a sharp hum of sound. The blades roar to life in a blaze of red (okay, so they're pink, shut up) energy, and the can is bisected in an instant in one swift and totally awesome movement...

...that is completely negated when Wade's hit full in the face with the ensuing pumpkiny splashback. Fuck. He shakes his head once to clear the stuff out of his eyes, assuming a badass stance in an attempt to maintain his dignity and staring with utter incredulity at the improvised weapon Gren's just armed himself with.

"Heh. Pretty sure my Schwartz is stronger than yours there, boyo."

Spoken like a man not currently wearing the mushy leavings of an eviscerated can.

Edited 2017-01-08 03:39 (UTC)

Well, that sure was a thing that just happened. This asshole literally pulls out two fucking lightsabers and cuts that can in half. Granted, it doesn't stop him from getting pumpkined, but when it comes to cool weaponry, yeah, that beats out his improvised bludgeon. He's improvising, here, so cut him a little slack.

There is one thing that Gren knows for certain, though-- bladed weapons don't do jack or shit against him, nevertheless jackshit. Got a hide that's too tough to get cut by anything, even most enchanted weapons, a little magical thing that he'd inherited from his mother. The question here is whether or not lightsabers count as blades enough to qualify, or if one swing of those things is going to turn him into an ex-monster. He doesn't exactly want to find out.

Not much he can do about it now. They've started this dance and it's going to get finished one way or another.

"Fuck off, young Skywalker," he says, and decides that he's sticking with Plan A-- beat the motherfucker in the face. Fancy lightsabers don't help you much if you're skull's caved in.

And Gren, despite the fact that he's a alcoholic asshole usually walking around in a body that's not his own, is quick on his feet. And since that's his main advantage now, since the jury's still out as to whether he can get fucked up by George Lucas' cash cow, he's going to use his tried and true fighting style-- that is, bullrush it and beat it to death.

Dude, come on. Get with the terminology. They're beam katanas, not lightsabers. LucasFilms are a draconian and jealous lot, after all. Wade's beam katanas hum in the air, the energy blades crackling sharply as he swings them again and again to block the makeshift bludgeon. He's gotta hand it to this guy-- not many people can tear a grocery store shelf off its hinges, much less wield it like a weapon. Especially someone who looks as rangy as this guy does.

There's the ol' shiver of bloodlust traveling up his spine again. Settle down there, sweetheart-- the party's just getting started.

Gren's a scrapper, he can tell that much just by his fighting style-- someone who's used to diving in hard and fast and doing as much damage as he can as quickly as he can. Luckily, Wade's gotten his ass kicked enough times by these types that he knows how to handle them. So when Gren reels back for another swing, Wade positions his energy sword in just the right way for a blade lock. Time to teach this punk a lesson in proper etiquette.

"It's a Spaceballs reference, you philistine. Get your movies straight, at least."

Because clearly that's the biggest offense here.

This guy's quicker than Gren expected-- sharp reflexes, swinging around those copyright infringements skillfully enough and rapidly enough to block his improvised shelf-based weaponry. Granted, Gren doesn't exactly have a whole lot of finesse with his fighting; he relies more on being stronger and faster than his opponents rather than any real technique. But if he can keep this guy on the defensive, it's just as well. He can't keep it up forever. He'll slip up eventually.

He brings the bludgeon down one more time and the totally-not-a-lightsaber catches it just right so that they're locked in a brief stalemate. Gren puts more force into it, this sort of shit usually sorts itself just by being stronger than the other guy, but... he's holding up. It's not often that Gren goes up against somebody who can match him, especially if they aren't a Fable.

"The fuck is Spaceballs?"

Spoiler alert, that movie won't come out for another year for him, Wade. For now, George Lucas' epic remains un-satired.

And, anyway, Gren's decided that he's had enough of this bullshit sword lock and is going to headbutt this asshole right in the face before he gets an answer. He'd punch him, but that's difficult when he's only got one arm and it's preoccupied.

You would think after twelve years of crashing parties that Gren would have developed some fighting techniques over time. Apparently busting through mead halls and wrecking warriors' collective shit year after year doesn't really require any sort of skill or finesse. Not that Wade knows anything about Gren's checkered past, of course. To him, the dark-haired amputee is just one more notch on his "People I Gotta Thrash Today" to-do list.

Especially since he doesn't know about Spaceballs. What, has he been living in a cave for the past few decades?

"Are you serious, dude? You don't know about the Mel Brooks classic? Granted, I'm more of a Blazing Saddles man myself, but I mean come on! You gotta at least give props to the guy who poked fun at George Lucas even before he embarrassed himself with the preq-- fuck!"

Lost in the grip of late 80s nostalgia, Wade doesn't notice the danger until it's too late. Stars explode in his vision as Gren's forehead goes crashing into his nose, sending him stumbling backward into one of the aisles of the store-- the one that has pasta, condiments and baking supplies. A discarded box dolly lies in the center of the aisle, and in a complete instinctive reflex Wade kicks the thing sharply in Gren's direction, intending to trip him up if he should decide to try and close the distance between them. Whether Gren is caught off balance or not, Wade manages to recover quickly, once again adopting a balanced stance even as he glares at the other man with sheer murder in his eyes.

The localization of pain tells him that his nose luckily hasn't been broken, but there's definitely going to be bruising there for at least half an hour. That's not what's got him so pissed off, though.

"Okay. I get it now. You're a Jar Jar Binks fan."

And here he was thinking this would be a friendly brawl. Such a crime against humanity should not go unpunished. Without warning, Wade suddenly charges at Gren with an enraged battle cry, his katanas poised to cut this pretender down for the good of nerds everywhere.

"DEATH TO THE INFIDEL!"

Gren swats the incoming dolly out of the way with his handy weaponized shelf, sending it flying across the room. Wade's fast enough to get to his feet before he can cover the distance between them, and there's something about the pissiness in his expression when he's upright again that just really gives Gren a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest. And probably other places, too, but let's just say his chest.

That fuzzy feeling drops off at the mention of something that he's not even sure are real words. The fuck is a Jar Jar Binks? And why the fuck would anyone be a fan of it? It sounds disappointing. He's assuming that it has something to do with Star Wars, but it might be too much to assume that the conversation is following any sort of logical progression.

Well, at least having a guy yelling and charging at him is relatively straightforward. This is the kind of territory that he's familiar with, excluding the light show for swords, something for him to focus on that makes sense. And equally important to focus on is how he's going to avoid getting shish-kabobed by this motherfucker and, if possible, maybe get those damn things out of his hands. Even if they can't cut him, he can still get hit by them, and they extend Wade's reach significantly.

One way to get rid of that advantage: take this fight to the floor. Gren's always been good with grappling and wrestling, anyway. When Wade gets close enough, Gren ducks his shoulder to come in underneath his guard-- helps that he's shorter than this guy-- and tries to get him around the middle to bear him to the ground. Wade's heavier than he is while he's glamoured, but Gren can throw around more weight than he looks.

He ain't even all that mad, really-- or even if he had been, it's faded quickly. Granted, Jar Jar is one of the most unholy abominations ever birthed from man's consciousness, but this guy hardly looks like he knows the difference between a Sarlacc and a sand person. Even the insistent throbbing in the center of his face has been pushed so far to the back of his mind as to be negligible. Honestly? He just wants to get into it with this guy; this lanky sonofabitch who somehow still has the muscular fortitude to wrench a shelf clean off its hinges.

If he's mad at anything it's these fucking cans that fill his peripheral vision on both sides, and the position of his beam katanas as he races down the aisle towards Gren takes care of that fairly easily, sending a wave of spaghetti sauce, soup, and evaporated milk to spatter the floor in his wake. He's almost upon the fuckhead with the flavor-saver-- and he's just come up with a good decapitation-related one-liner in the process-- when everything goes wrong. The steady, electrical hum of his energy swords suddenly falter and stutter. The blades themselves, capable of cutting through anything at a moment's notice, flicker weakly a few times before vanishing completely, leaving Wade holding nothing but the empty hilts in his hands-- just as he's stopped within grabbing distance of Gren.

He only has time for a few dumbfounded blinks before the other man's arm is around his waist, and he's played enough bouts of Street Fighter to know that Gren hasn't suddenly decided to try a little tenderness.

"Oh, come on--"

Edited (I keep forgetting that Gren only has one arm /)_(\) 2017-01-18 13:53 (UTC)

Most days, Gren would say that his luck sits somewhere around 'breaking a mirror' levels-- that is to say, objectively terrible-- but he apparently gets a single stroke of good fortune when this asshat's glowsticks decide to crap out on him at the critical moment. And just in the nick of time, too; much longer and he would've been within striking range. No monster-kabobs for you, asshole. Serves him right for depending on his fancy slapchops instead of proper goddamn fisticuffs. Fight a monster like a man, with your bare fists.

Gren gets his arm around Wade's waist-- and it's a very tight waist, there's a pretty impressive amount of muscle and abs going on in that vicinity. A respectable six- or eight-pack, probably. And it's not that shitty bodybuilder-type muscle that's all show, it's the strong, functional kind of muscle that you get from actually having to do hard work. It's also not the point, because the point right now is that Gren's got an arm around him and lifts and bends back to suplex this motherfucker like they're in the middle of a televised cage fight. Dramatic, yes, but he feels like he's got some ground to make up for after the disparity in weapons. Gren might not have glowy swords, but he'll drop your bitch ass right on your head.

Shame, though, that he's got such a damn nice body for such an asshole.

Gren detangles himself from the grapple quickly post-suplex, rolling back to his feet to continue a fight that's one folding chair away from a WWE match.

"Tell me that ain't all you got."

It was fortunate that Wade had the presence of mind to tuck his chin into his chest at the last second; to loosen his body enough to roll into the suplex, or else he probably would have broken his neck. Not that a broken neck would have slowed him down all that much, but it would've definitely put a damper on this convenience store rumble going on right now.

Gren gets to his feet and Wade remains there, stunned, struggling to get his breath back. It's not the force of the suplex that's knocked the wind out of him-- not only the suplex, anyway-- but he's in the throes of some pretty vivid flashbacks right now. He's been thrown onto his back like this before, by someone with a similar hairstyle and a similar attitude and a similar (terrible) taste in fashion. It's only the face that's different, and Wade is troubled by the fact that he can't seem to remember Travis's face that well at all.

He casts his mind back further, searching, momentarily forgetting that he's currently in the midst of a knockdown, drag-out fight with a guy who might have more than a couple of screws loose. Focusing on fading memories seems way more important right now.

Gren's back on his feet and this asshole is... not really moving, actually, for a second there Gren's not quite sure if he's still alive. Did he kill him? Break his neck or some shit? But, no, he's breathing, so that means he must have survived. Gren chalks it up to being winded, because he did just slam that motherfucker down on his head.

Well, this ain't a fucking fair fight, so Gren's not going to wait like a gentleman for Wade to get his ass back up or anything. The guy's not dead yet and Sweater Grandpa said that he has a healing factor, so he should be able to take more of a beating than this. He's just not going to, like, beat him to death or anything, just kinda close to it. (Or, as close to it as Wade can get; technically, if you don't stay dead or injured, it kind of puts a crimp in your merciless beating.)

Wade Wilson's ribs, meet Gren's foot.

Someone apparently doesn't know the protocol for letting someone engage in a flashback. That'd earn Gren a yellow card at the very least. Fortunately, though Wade's brain hasn't really clued into the danger about to be visited upon his ribcage, his instincts certainly do, and he's had about three decades to hone said instincts to razor sharpness.

Gren's foot, meet Wade's hands.

The mercenary instinctively curls in on himself, softening the blow with his hands and gripping Gren's foot in a vice-like grip. At the same time one of his knees jerks up, catching the other man behind his knee and causing it to buckle. His other hand darts out, preparing to grab the man's arm as it inevitably shoots forward to protect himself from falling, at which point Wade will send Gren ass over teakettle with one well-timed yank off balance.

He may be a resourceful motherfucker, but even a dude as strong as he is has to obey the laws of gravity.

Things that Gren did not expect: for this motherfucker to have good enough reflexes to recover quickly enough to grab his fucking foot. He knows that this is a real bad position to be in and tries to get out of Wade's grip, but not quickly enough-- he takes a blow to the knee and he's falling and everything happens too fast for him to react to. Wade's hand gets around his wrist, large and firm, and he's tugged over into a very ungraceful tumble off of him. He's a gangly-ass motherfucker, there's nine miles of leg all over the place.

He sort of comes to a stop and has to sort out where all three of his limbs are, off-balance from his tumble. He's not hurt, though, or at least he doesn't think he is-- sometimes it's hard to tell when he's had enough to drink-- and starts to stagger back to his feet.

"Fuck you, motherfucker," he says, because that's a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

Unfortunately, Gren's curse is spoken to empty air, because Wade's decided to take this opportunity to grab his defunct beam katanas and bodyslide his ass to another area of the store, out of Gren's reach and sight. A more sensible and rational person would probably just teleport somewhere outside the store, maybe to another street or even to his house where Gren could never catch up to him. But Wade is not rational, and Wade is not sensible, and Wade would much rather engage in some much-needed stress relief by pounding this dude into the pavement.

He ends up somewhere among the cold medicine and the toothpaste and the feminine products, landing in a crouch with the hilts of his beam katanas still clenched in his hands. He knows what it'll take to bring his weapons back to their full potential-- that's the problem. Whoever constructed these things to recharge in such a ridiculous fashion was either a huge pervert or the biggest troll ever, and Wade can't figure out which would be more annoying.

Casting his eyes upwards with an irritated, long suffering sigh, he quickly goes to work.

And now the asshole's gone. Gren curses again, this time with more feeling behind it, because things were actually starting to get interesting and the motherfucker had to skip out. Now what's he supposed to do with his ~~fight-boner~~ pent-up aggression?

He was going to leave, but stops-- he can hear something. Multiple somethings, actually. There's a heartbeat, probably this asshole's, and breathing to match, which are weirdly starting to pick up instead of slow. And there's some rhythmic little fwip-fwip-fwip noise that he can't quite place and is all the more irritating for that fact.

The important thing, though? The red-condomed jackass is still around, and that means that Gren's ~~boner~~ aggression can go to good use. He got his blood up for a fucking fight and he's going to finish, goddammit.

He follows the sounds, stalking through the aisles until he turns around one to see Wade's back, crouched down and--

And... doing... something with his hands. At crotch-height. Rhythmically.

Gren's train of thought kind of gets a little derailed at that point, on account of what the fuck.

"...You, uh... fuckin' need a minute there?"

Gren wants to knock this guy's block off, sure, but he wasn't planning on doing it while he's got his cock out, too. He's not into that? No judgment, some people are into that and that's fine, but he would've wanted a little warning if things were turning in that direction.

Edited 2017-04-02 20:06 (UTC)

Rude, Gren. It's one thing to walk in on a guy while he's in the process of charging his weapon. It's quite another to judge a dude's technique of charging said weapon (and he can totally see you judging there dude don't even try to deny it).

Wade's only response is a glare upwards in Gren's direction before he adjusts his grip, sliding the beam katana up and down between his hands in a jigging motion in an attempt to breathe life, as it were, back into it.

"...hah... just... gimme a few seconds there, Chief. I'll be... ngh... right there to kill ya. Just sit tight."

(no subject)

murderpotato - 2017-06-08 06:34 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Event Log: Why Do You Have To Be Mad?

Wade | OTA, any format

The beginning of the Great Can War

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