crux_fleet | It had to happen someday...

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It had to happen someday...

Who: Chloe Frazer and Charlie Cutter
Where: ~~BLOOD AND THUNDER~~ THE ARENA
When: June 21st
Warnings: Charlie is an idiot; Chloe isn't much better

"When I said blend in with the locals I meant more like 'have a pint with them', 'talk about current events', 'tell them you grew up on the east end of things'." She's no more than a step behind him, hood pulled taut across the curve of her skull with both hands on the drawstrings, groaning out her best interpretation of a kid being dragged to the store by their currently least favorite parent. "I didn't mean actually turn into a giant fanatic."

A giant, geeky fanatic that seriously suggested this as a discreet place to meet up.

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"Oh, charming." She says, without really thinking, still more focused on what's in her hands than what's in front of them as the noise around them builds and crashes in waves. 'Charming' isn't really the word for it, and distracted as Charlie is most of the time, he's not likely to miss that one either. But Chloe puts her focus on him for a second, offering up a lopsided sort of grin as something of an apology at least.

Well he's not completely dense, now he is? However much he might be enjoying himself, there's no missing the look of 'just tolerating it' written all across her face - translating that is easier than Middle English and the latter's really just a matter of a vowel shift and vocabulary. Charlie makes a low humming noise (lost under the reverberating impact of metal on metal, the 'oooh' of the stadium crowd), taking a hearty sip of his beer with an eyebrow cocked in her direction.

Yeah, alright. So maybe not the most mutually beneficial outing.

After a moment, he settles back into the molded plastic chair and turns his face near to her neck and ear, speaking loud enough and close enough that she has a chance to make him out over the din. "On the plus side, no one's going to pay anything we say any mind."

It prompts a slow, steady smile on her end: Charlie, you always know just what to say.

"Does that mean I get to talk about your--" Her sly, digging jab cut off by the roar of the crowd at a solid knockout-- whatever that translates to in robot terms. Red's hunkered over, all battered and torn nearly to pieces, but it's yellow that's sprawled out across the coliseum floor, circuitry sparking every few, energetic beats.

He's all ready to give her a sturdy elbow in the side over it but the howl of the crowd and the blare of the speakers whips his attention around. It takes all of a half beat and then Charlie is howling - a low, low note of appreciation, all "'eeey!'" - before he takes a solid swig from his glass. He's pleased as punch when he turns back to her, all flush in the face with real pleasure.

"That's two hundred credits right there, that is." He does elbow her then, light and playful. Jabs her arm a second time for good measure. "See? There's some use to all of this nonsense, eh?"

And if Chloe was hoping that would be the extent of their arena day, marked by tech crews dragging the inoperable yellow mech from the field, its one that's likely summarily dashed by the leader board that comes up on the far holoscreen, clearly naming the competitors of the next match.

"Sure, you teach me how to fix the fights and I'll come here every day." Which is all genuine (no really, if you've got an inside man...) as she eyes the leader board, looking noticeably less irritable with a stomach full of lager and fresh pretzel.

And one hundred credits in her future-pocket.

"There's a market for that, you know. Not here, mind. You'd want to run it out of one of the pubs or Quark's--" He pauses, pulls a slight face. On second thought: "--maybe not Quarks. But somewhere with a holo you could put on a delay. Pretty simple signal mod."

Someone's clearly been thinking about it.

Charlie takes an appreciative pull from his lager, settling back and trying to stretch his legs out slightly in the tight space between them and the next row of seats. "--Oh." Said like something's just occurred to him. "Speaking of fixing odds, I've got a line on yours and Nate's mutual friend."

Smooth, Cutter. Real goddamn smooth.

...ah.

Probably a good thing they're between rounds, then, because the look Chloe's wearing when she glances over towards him ought to cue him in on the fact that she's nowhere near drunk enough for the current topic.

"...a line."

It's a look that prompts a deep pull from his own cup. If she's not drunk enough for this yet, then he certainly isn't either. "Right, that's what I said." Subtle.

"Hypertech does fabbing, mostly military contracts. I've been putting in a lot of shipment hours and he might have taken notice." No word on the fact that he'd deliberately taken the position for just that reason, but she's a smart girl and he trusts her to either suss as much out or-- or it won't be an issue. Either way, he doesn't need to go spelling that particular bit out.

Oh no, she's sussing, and it's definitely an issue.

"And I'm assuming you have a very good reason for supplying him with exactly what he's after?" All straight and sharp and to the point with a stare to match.

"Hold on--" he starts to raise his hand in protest, as when she puts it that way it sounds less well considered than it actually is. But then he changes tacks (never say Charlie Cutter doesn't learn from past mistakes) and smooths the line of his shoulder. He takes a quick sip from his lager, takes the moment to rearrange what he means to say, and then tries a second attempt.

"I've got a plan and it doesn't involve putting ordinance in the man's hand. More like the reverse of that, really."

She quirks a skeptical eyebrow, slowwwly draining the glass in her hand that counters his short, sad little one. Waits till the announcer's done giving a countdown till the next match and then speaks up.

"All right. I'm listening..."

"Right." Which prompts a pause, a brief flicker of consideration. And then he shrugs, game enough, twisting about so he can shoulder out anyone who might theoretically be listening (no one is; the crackling announcement of the next match and the resultant howl that meets it makes that much obvious).

"So he and I had a bit of a run in --And before you get out ahead of me, it was perfectly cordial. The bastard only drew his gun once and never even pointed it in my direction which, from the sound of it, makes us best mates. He wants weapons from Hypertech and I told him point blank that I couldn't get him shit without elevated clearance which, ta-da--" He pats his jacket lapel for emphasis, likely meaning to indicate his breast pocket or some badge he isn't currently actually wearing. "--done and done. Which means I've got access to fab up something that can take your friend out without the serial numbers on it. Personally I was thinking a nice rocket launcher or an IED under his bed, but I'm open to ideas."

He'd gone to meet with the bastard. He'd set it up, clearly, had been thinking about it for too bloody long, and Chloe never had the slightest idea-- he could have easily compromised her entire operation and for that she's on the verge of leaving with a few sharp words.

But the rest of it...the rest of it sounds right. Or at least better.

"Rocket launcher won't cut it." IED maybe. Give her what else you've got up your sleeve, Charlie: you started this mess, you pitch her some ideas.

"I'm not talking your basic old world RPG-7 here, Chloe. Nate should, theoretically, have some access to some higher grade munitions - something used to weaponize those fiddly little planes they send out into space against the Wadjit. We take one of those, turn it into something that can be aimed with a little more certainty from something that isn't a mech, and I think it'd blow the bastard into at least a few smaller pieces that'd be easier to deal with."

Colorful descriptors aside, he likes to think it isn't a bad plan. "Look, we cut the wanker down - literally - and then we only need a few minutes. His regeneration ability's got to have a limit. If we split the bastard into seven horcruxes or whatever, we can at least make sure he isn't ambulatory or likely to shoot us out of the air while we get the hell out of the fleet."

Chloe pauses at that, clearly mulling over what he's told her (or possibly letting the lager settle in her stomach).

By their standards it's a good plan. Better than good, actually, it's genius compared to 'try not to die while leaping off a forty foot cliff holding c4'. And this? Well as it's worked so far, it can't last, Chloe knows that. Probably better to go all in than die huddled in a corner.

"Okay." No joke, no sass. Just the bottom line this time.

It's not what he's expecting from her. What he's expecting is a thorough dressing down, a slap maybe. And while he'd done this in public in an attempt to mitigate that likelihood, he certainly hadn't anticipated it going-- well, anything near this well actually.

Charlie blinks, shifting his fingers on the plastic cup. He takes a sip, clumsy, and quietly wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "Really? That's it?"

"Next round's up." She snorts, barely suppressing a smile against the edge of her glass. Followed by dimming lights and pyrotechnics and the booming sound of the announcer's voice.

Her elbow scuffs lightly across his.

So it is.

His look on her lingers, a distinct uncertainty in the line of his mouth as if he's waiting - giving her another few moments to change her mind, to let the other shoe drop. But when it doesn't come, he finally settles. Takes a generous swig from his cup (which...puts him down to dregs, officially). Alright then.

Empty cup or no, he offers his cup - clicking it neatly enough against hers. "Cheers, darling."

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It had to happen someday...

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