[Action]

[roughcriminal]

[Whiskey is particularly good at getting into places most people would rather he not be: beds, churches, banks, and now, one of the recreation rooms that had been locked, presumably because pool cues are too similar to weapons for the passengers to play with

Comments

[electronichound]

[Iggy Pop.

Batou opens the door and glances in to see Whiskey drunk as usual and playing pool. He stands up and enters, shutting the door behind himself.]

I usually break the doors down. Your solution is more convenient.

[roughcriminal]

[It startles Whiskey, and he spins around, cue in hand, the little robot unfolding, becoming sharper, longer, taller. He grins a little sheepishly at Batou, rapping the robot on the head with his cue. It folds back down.]

Smokey! You gotta warn a guy.

[His grin's... slightly off, slightly less. Distracted. But he seems game. He drags a hand through his hair and takes the bottle from where the robot dropped it, drinking before offering it over.]

You play pool?

[electronichound]

[Batou takes the bottle and draws from it, then sets it on the side of the table. He smiles, a low chuckle in his chest.]

Just how badly do you want to lose, WHiskey?

[roughcriminal]

I'm good at losing, brother.

[He abandons the pool cue though, wandering over to pick up a dart and start using it to pick his nails. The pink is starting to fade.]

C'mere.

[He hoists himself up to sit on one of the tables.]

[electronichound]

[That wasn't exactly the response Batou was expecting, but it's... well, Batou understands that kind of sentiment. He doesn't put down his pool cue, but he walks over to where Whiskey is perched.]

What.

[roughcriminal]

[Whiskey fishes in his pocket and produces a hand held Geiger counter. He powers it on.]

Open wide and say 'ahhh.'

[electronichound]

[This is downright amusing. Batou opens his mouth.]

Ahhh.

[The Geiger counter won't register anything out of the ordinary through Batou's mouth. His battery is far too well insulted for that.]

Is this how you distract yourself?

[roughcriminal]

[Whiskey fiddles for a while before he realizes that and throws the thing away in disgust.]

No, drinking is how I distract myself. Building things and taking them apart is just something to do.

[He fishes out a small penlight and a jeweler's loupe.]

Lemme see your eye again. We don't all have pretty girls to plug into.

[electronichound]

You break it...

[Batou's tone is warning, and utterly serious. If Whiskey does actually damage Batou's eye implant, he will crush Whiskey's head into a smear on the wall.

There's the familiar whine and click, and then Batou tilts his head forward. The ranger implant slides out and into his hand. He holds it up.]

[roughcriminal]

You get to wear a patch. Like a pirate. Arrrr.

[Whiskey makes what one assumes is a pirate face, but he's already slid off the table to lean over it. He holds the penlight in his teeth as he uses the loupe to examine the implant.]

No'b, 'rother, W'oo made ch'oo? Ch'oo gob a hood?

[electronichound]

Most of my body was manufactured by Megatech.

[Batou knew that would mean nothing to Whiskey, given that there was clearly no Megatech representative on board the Elegante to answer questions.]

Other parts are custom made by the Red Suits of Section 9.

[Batou shrugs his massive shoulders.]

[roughcriminal]

[Whiskey sets the slug on the green felt, where it's safe enough, and straightens. He's not the tallest man to walk the Earth, but he's tall enough that he just needs Batou to hunch a little for him to see in the socket.

He casually manhandles Batou, tugging his head down and using the penlight to look into his eye socket.]

Wha'd'ya run on?

[electronichound]

A nuclear battery.

[Batou goes with all of this. Most people want to poke and prod at Batou because they like the idea of being scared, of being unnerved, and with those people Batou refuses to be their dancing pony.

Whiskey is just rawly curious, though, and Batou doesn't mind that.]

Ask me nice, I'll open some panels for you.

[roughcriminal]

Pepp-y plea-suh, Shmokey.

[He pulls the penlight from his mouth and uses it to carefully measure how deep the socket it, then takes it out and reaches for the slug, comparing the two.]

[electronichound]

[So batou does what any good cyborg would do: he opens his faceplates.

At first there's a quiet crinkling noise and a collection of lines trace over the plates of his face. Normally they're invisible, but now they trace in a map over the cyborg's face. Then there's a tiny whirr, just for half a second.

Batou drops his jaw and then--

Surprise!

He speaks, fleshless, metal jaw bobbing up and down.]

Ask as ye shall receive.

[roughcriminal]

[Whiskey flattens a hand on Batou's chest as his faceplate opens, then grins like a teenager waking up on Christmas to find a high class hooker.

His hand holds Batou's collar as he examines Batou's face.]

Fuckin' A. Damn, Smokey.