crux_fleet | It had to happen someday...

The Arena is loud, volatile, and filled to the brim with about six different kinds of crowds on a daily basis given the stadium's changeable design. It's not the easiest place to navigate - bloody thing tends to swap about a lot and it's crowded enough that Charlie occasionally finds it necessary to use his broad build to his advantage - but there's no denying the fact that there's a singular spirit to the place: all hopped up on competition and cheap concessions, too many people and quote, unquote 'high art' meets low sport.

He shoots her a glance, batting at her shoulder lightly with the back of his hand. Charlie clicks his tongue, all low disgruntled noises under his breath. "What? This is perfect. We're two in about eight hundred people at the moment."

Camouflage at its finest.

Referencing the program in hand, Charlie catches her neatly by the edge of her hood - tugging it down a few inches to cover her eyes. "Come along, we're off this way."

There's an easy, only half-suppressed little snort as a response to the pull of his fingers; Chloe has to yank out the drawstrings (they go irritatingly lopsided and uneven as a result) enough to follow him and not risk getting shuffled off in the thickening crowd.

"Yeah well you're lucky Lazarevic isn't big on pedestrian entertainment."

"Hence," he makes a broad gesture to indicate the arena, the throngs of people, the space funnel cake. "All the pedestrian entertainment." Come on, what do you take him for? Some kind of idiot? As long as they don't get featured on the bloody jumbotron's kiss cam or whatever you like, it'll be fine.

Winding their way through the arena center, he eventually leads them to their proper stadium entrance. From there it's a lot of shuffling and standing too close to people as they work their way to their seats. It's only once Charlie's sat down, squeezing himself into the folding chair marked I-23 that he makes a low little noise and glances back the way they'd just come.

"Oh, I should've bought a pint before we came up."

"I'll go." Her ass is only halfway in the seat-- hands perched on the armrests-- when she leaps at the chance to get the both of them pissed as anything; they're out, they might as well have a good time.

Also, she's not sitting through this without edible/consumable comfort of some kind. Who knows how long these events last? (Charlie knows.)

Depending on the match? Potentially hours. They've got at least two laid out in front of them tonight.

"Just anything but the Zandarian Star Ale," he cautions as she moves to get up. "The lager's fine, but the ale is bloody dreadful." Clearly someone's spent more than a fair share of his paycheck at the arena's concessions.

"No Zandalarian ale, got it." Easy peasy. The announcer's voice rings out over the stadium, echoing hard off of the sloped seating arrangement and heavy walls, smothering the static sound of gathered, chattering crowds. Chloe scuffs her knuckles across his shoulder once she's entirely upright.

"Anything else?"

"Zandarian," he repeats, only slightly put upon about it. "But no, can't think of a single thing." Charlie shoots a glance toward the field, tapping her back across the thigh. "But you'll want to leg it. First bell's coming up here soon."

And from how he says it, it'd clearly be a shame to miss it.

"Wouldn't that be a shame."

She'll take the risk.

Fortunately for Charlie, with the match gearing up to start the lines aren't nearly as long as they were a good ten minutes prior, and Chloe moves through quickly enough to be back just as the pre-show's coming to a close: two tall lagers in hand (only one spilled enough to soak her fingers) and a particularly flashy soft pretzel nestled in the crook of her arm.

"Ah, there she is--" Whether he's talking about her or the pint is debatable as she shuffles back over to their seats. He does her the favor of taking both (so she can sit down without issue, obviously) and promptly pulls a sip from the slightly less full glass. It's only when she's relatively settled that he offers back the other just as the stadium shifts and the lights come down, all over blown drama for the fighter introductions.

It's loud, too loud to really hold any kind of conversation in the moment. Mech fights, he finds, are a bizarre cross of boxing and wrestling: strangely technical, whilst still totally overblown with pomp and circumstance. There's no missing the parallels to the latter as the match is announced and the two combatants take to the field.

"I've a bit of money on big Red there," he says (shouts), motioning cheerfully to the bulky machine on the left end of the stadium in the beat before a number of minor pyrotechnics go off around it.

She's content to sip her pint through the deafening announcements. Pulls sections of her soft pretzel apart and tries not to think about the glowing, neon green powder dusting the top of it.

Turns out it's salt. Flavored salt, but salt all the same, which makes it at least a little less daunting despite the fact that she can't quite identify the taste.

"So are there people in these or..." Or is this just the extremely glorified version of RC cars in the back lot.

Christ, Chloe. How have you gone so bloody long in space without knowing there's pilots in mechanized combat. Charlie shoots her a sidelong glance over the edge of his beer, opens his mouth slightly and then takes a moment to mentally reword whatever's on the tip of his tongue. "There's people in them. It's basically UFC wrapped in metal."

And therefore: fairly excellent.

"Most of them are retired military pilots, though there's a few that just came up in the ring. Both of these've got combat experience though, and that rig--" he motions toward the red mech again, "--is straight up re-purposed from the battlefield for the arena. The pilot's probably flown in that thing his whole bloody career."

Excuse you. The next time an athelete isn't 'that guy with the thing' or 'David Beckham' all the universe is going to freeze over: her being willfully ignorant is saving the entire galaxy.

That said, much as she makes a show of only half paying attention, she is listening.

"So what you're telling me is that Nate could do this. Like right now if he wanted to."

Sorry, wait, Norman Goldblatt.

"More or less. Though I wouldn't bet on him."

Charlie pulls a long sip from his cup, settling comfortably back into his seat. A clock on the wall lights up, ready to count down from ten. He doesn't have room to stretch his legs out, but he makes the effort anyway as the clock starts. Three...two...

The bell goes. The crowd erupts. The two mechs move across the field for one another, not quite graceful and not quite lumbering. When they clash, it's the yellow one that strikes first and Charlie howls out some indistinct curse worse in response.

One look at the digitally projected score boards fluttering their way around the arena in dynamic arcs tells Chloe this is going to take a while-- a few hours at least. And for a woman that has trouble keeping her rear in a seat that isn't snugly nestled behind a steering wheel, watching two oversized toys go at it is only going to make it that much worse.

But she's got a beer to pull through-- which is precisely what she does, laying into it as the yellow one does about the same to his opponent, crunching metal and stray sparks and the deafening roar of the crowd. Halfway down her glass and she's beginning to think she'll need another.

And the old bastard huddled next to her, waving his arms like someone thirty years younger, is taking up the entire aisle.

"Bollocks."

It's a quick moving sport, but not a short one and there's no missing that as the two mechs trade rapid blows, the timer marking the rounds slowly - slowly - clicking down from three minutes. It's no holds barred in a lot of ways, all sparks and screeching metal on metal, but the strikes take time to gear up. Charlie has slowly shifted to the edge of his seat in the tight aisle, elbows on his knees and his lager clenched in out hand. One blow from the yellow mech is met with a howl - punctuated with a "Come on, you arsehole! Get a swing in!"

He settles back, takes a long swig from his beer and-- and shoots her a sidelong glance, taps her knee with his. "Well? What d'you think?"

"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."

It had to happen someday...

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