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[lacerta_ortus]

WHO: Caiman and Matt
WHAT: Paying for the service charge - with Asian food.
WHERE: Matt's place.
WHEN: Day 173

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[lungrot]

The apartment is almost empty, now, all worldly possessions tucked safely away in brown cardboard boxes, ribboned up in duct-tape. Yellowed plaster peels from the wall in large chips, spiders from one end of the house to the other and flakes off, onto the creaking floorboards. It's a mess if Matt's ever lived in one, but it's the cleanest, too ; nothing left but bare essentials, colored wires curling at his feet, the hum and glow of his coveted machines filling the otherwise silent household. Mello's at work; won't be back for a while, and that's fine.

He's only mildly surprised when there's a rap at the door. He stands, strikes a match and lights the cigarette he'd tucked behind his ear. Smoke fills his lungs and he exhales, feels his throat itch and discards the burnt-out match to the floor before reaching for the door, opening it.

"He's got the worst luck, right? All those flying bastards after his scaly ass." Godzilla is at his door.

Best. Day. Ever.

[lacerta_ortus]

Caiman opens it up and steps in, shutting it quickly so he can finally set his things down and take off his goddamn helmet. And there he is, in all that Dinosaur glory. Bigger than just about anyone, with yellow scales and cross tattoos over his eyes.

He sets down two things on a countertop. One is a cooler, full of the ingredients he'll need to cook in the first place. The second is the cooking materials - woks, and so on.

He's wearing a leather jacket that he quickly sets on a counter. The only thing that sticks out about it is a logo on the back. One Caiman spray-painted in, just this week.

It's one of those no symbols, with the circle and strike through, only instead of a cigarette, there's a king's crown in the middle. Done in red and black.

"I've got everything here. Beef, Chicken, Steak, Noodles, Vegetables, and fortune cookies. What did you want? I'll make three meals worth in advance."

Seemed like he was going straight to business. It had felt like so long since he last cooked.

[lungrot]

Matt stalls near the doorway, bug-eyed behind colored plastic lenses. Caiman, in all his reptilian glory, scales and sharklike teeth gleaming, easily dwarfs the redhead's five feet and five inches. It might just be the first time he's ever felt so complexed by his height ; he has to crane his neck far back just to look at him.

If he notices the peculiar symbol scrawled on the back of Caiman's jacket, he makes no sign of it. Instead, thick smoke escaping flared nostrils and curling up toward the ceiling, he moves with him, eyeing the cooler's contents with enthusiasm previously well-masked. All right, excellent ; he's been craving this for a while.

"Shit, I don't even care what it is. Just make it good, yeah?" As if he expects any less. Matt had idly wondered why a guy like Caiman, why a guy with a fucking lizard as a head, spent his time cooking instead of doing something badass and dinosaur-like (eat people, maybe), but he about going to complain.

[lacerta_ortus]

"Yeah, alright." He replies simply, wandering over to the little kitchen area, pulling out the meat, chopping away, setting up the woks with peanut oil, and going to work. Methodical. Fast and cleanly done, moving from one dish to another without hesitation.

The cooking, back when the Hungry Bug wasn't a pile of ash, was simply meant to give him the funds he needed for going to work towards finding the asshole who gave him this head. But, honestly, he had gotten.

Distracted.

Otherwise, he would've never ended up here at someone's apartment, personally making them chinese food in trade for a new laptop and cellphone.

The smells of curry powder and orange glazed chicken started to fill the rather...empty apartment.

"So, you moving out of this place - or moving in? Shit, fucking quieter than being inside a vaccuum."