♠ | OPEN MEME | TEXTING

[postictal]

texting meme

experiment. get funky. be tried and true. or just have fun whipping up some gen prompts. content warn for anything nasty but otherwise do whatever. top-level with texts for starters and tag out to other people's. fly with assumed cross-canon cr or toss some canon cr into some new and rocky situations. backtag forever. go hog wild.

Comments

3

[itssobad]

so either your head's busted or the car is.

[trafficreport]

get me the keys or i break a window.

[itssobad]

you break it you buy it.

rescue wagon's on its way.

[Good thing he's actually got the keys on hand. If Ghoul had them last, there's no telling how long Jet would have had to bake in the car.]

[trafficreport]

better not be a real wagon.

[itssobad]

just my boots.

[And before too long, there's a dull pounding of a fist on the roof of the car. Not the fist holding the keys, of course; doesn't want to scratch the paint.]

[trafficreport]

[Thank fuck.]

don't dent it.
poison will kill you.

[cw: kobra being casually self-destructive]

[itssobad]

if i dented it, i'd let them.

[He's wearing sunglasses, but through the haze of the car window, it's still pretty visible that he's squinting--at the door, at the locking mechanism inside the car, and yeah, at Jet slowly roasting away.]

[Nothing immediately strikes him as out of place, aside from the obvious.]

[He raps at the window with his knuckles, trying to get Jet's attention. Once he's got it--if he gets it--he'll mime rolling down a window with one hand and ask:]

Window stuck, too?

[trafficreport]

[Give him a second here. He's been sitting in the car baking alive in the heat for the past couple hours. He shifts in the passenger seat and gradually works the window down so that he can give Kobra a Look.]

It's getting there.

[itssobad]

[Jet looks like shit.]

[That means the situation has swiftly escalated from "Kobra and Jet's Fun Afternoon Figuring Out How Jet Wrecked The Car" to "Kobra and Jet's Fun Afternoon Making Sure Jet Doesn't Become A Human Goddamn Hot Pocket". Shiny.]

[Kobra exhales.]

Not sure the best way to get you out of there. To, uh, minimize how much of the car we gotta unfuck later.

[He coughs. Air's too dry for talking. Still, he mutters through a few more words.]

Harder to unfuck a corpse than a car door, though.

Window go down any further? Gonna try the keys.

[He's got a sinking feeling the keys aren't gonna do much. If the latch is busted, the door's not gonna open without some surgery.]

[trafficreport]

Down as far as it'll go.

[Damn thing is jammed. He grimaces. Might be the heat, or might be the shit maintenance the car's been through. He doesn't want to risk breaking the thing just to get out, but if it comes to it, he will break the goddamn windows so he can climb out.]

[The Trans Am might be home, but that doesn't mean he wants to live in it twenty-four-fucking-seven.]

[itssobad]

Shit.

[It's hissed both at the stuck window and the unsatisfying tick the lock makes when he turns the key, rather than the clunk he's used to.]

Gonna buy some time. Hold tight.

[Then he's off, faster than his usual leisurely stroll.]

[It's not long before he steps back into view, lopsided, now lugging a battered toolkit and a canteen.]

Here.

[He tries shoving the canteen through the crack above the window. He's got a metal straw if it won't fit, but he'd rather it not come to that. Granted, given their shit luck so far, what's one more inconvenience?]

[trafficreport]

[Jet's wariness immediately ratchets up a palpable amount as he watches Kobra attempt to lever the window open with a water canteen of all things. He grits his teeth, shaking his head furiously.]

Stop.

[As if that's worth this.]

It's fine. Cut it out.

[He can deal, all right? Don't break the car. It's the only home they all have.]

[itssobad]

[His eyebrows raise behind his sunglasses, but he pulls back the canteen a few inches.]

You sure? I got a straw.

[And he does. He's got a dented metal straw. It's not obvious whether or not it was originally a straw, but it's straw-shaped enough to do the job.]

[trafficreport]

...how does that help.

[Walk him through this one, buddy. How is a straw supposed to make this better.]

[itssobad]

[Silently, he holds up one finger. Just wait.]

[Then, he unscrews the top of the canteen, pops the straw inside, and holds the whole thing up to the window.]

[Carefully, he angles it so the straw goes through the opening in the window, far enough in that Jet could take a sip if he likes.]

Like this.

[trafficreport]

...

[Oh my god.]

...thanks.

[Look, he's not about to begrudge the assistance in getting some water. God fucking knows he could use some water. Even if it's from a canteen, even if it's sunwarmed, even if it's not really getting him out of the car, he will take a fucking sip because he has been roasting in this thing for goddamn hours now. He will take this.]

[itssobad]

[He's been dehydrated before. Not the standard, day-to-day, might-shoot-you-for-a-jug-of-water kind, but the kind where your eyes sink back into your head, where your skin peels and spots flash in front of your eyes, the kind where you can't walk straight and you stumble face-first into the dirt. The same's probably true for Jet.]

[Better if they skip that part.]

[Kobra stays locked in place, holding the canteen as steady as he can manage, for as long as Jet keeps sipping from the straw. While Jet drinks, Kobra talks, his voice a low mumble:]

Two options. Call 'em carjacker and kidnapper. First's easier, if it works. [The barest hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.] Second might be more fun.

[trafficreport]

Which is gonna get our asses kicked?

[Who's he kidding. Both are gonna get their asses kicked, knowing the caliber of plans regularly dreamed up by any combination of the members of the Fabulous Four. Jet leans back in his seat with a sigh, pushes his hair out of his face, and resigns himself to a future of uncertainty.]

[Just kidding. He's already been secure in his uncertain future, ever since he was born.]

[The water's helped. Warm and tinny-tasting, but better than nothing.]

All right. Let's hear 'em.

[itssobad]

Neither, if we put things back the way we found 'em.

[This is a lie.]

First one. Done it before, but not with the Trans Am. If you stick something thin between the window 'n' the weatherstripping, should be able to jimmy the lock open. Pretty sure Ghoul left somethin' under the seat that'll help.

Second one, we get the backseat out of the way, get you in the trunk. Should be a latch in there that'll let you get out that way.

[trafficreport]

Carjack.

[No hesitation. Jet's all long limbs, six-foot-something, and he doesn't want to think about trying to cram himself into the trunk. He's already anticipating that being the option that's actually going to work.]

What'd Ghoul leave?

[itssobad]

[No surprise there. It's not that Jet's no fun--obviously, or he wouldn't be family--but as far as Kobra's seen, his definition of "fun" doesn't typically include "unnecessary discomfort". That's more like his day job.]

Box of shit, probably under his seat.

[If Jet checks under the back seat, there will indeed be a cheap pencil box, the Battery City-white plastic yellowed from age. It's got the words "FELONIES + MISDEMEANORS" scrawled across the top in a rainbow of paint marker. If he opens it, it's...junk. A roll of tape, several twisted-up wires, a half-disassembled battery pack, that kind of thing.]

[trafficreport]

[Bingo. It's not literally shit when he flicks the old pencil box open, but to say he wouldn't have been surprised if it was would be an understatement. He studies the assorted shit without much surprise. That Ghoul keeps this beneath the seat is, to him, more or less characteristic with what he knows of the guy.]

[He picks up the roll of tape.]

This?

[itssobad]

Cold.

[On second thought, probably not the time for a game of "hotter, colder". Jet's roasted enough as it is.]

It's the uh, the wire hanger. [He points. Not much help in a box this crowded.] Used to be, at least.

[Now the wire's all balled up, further evidence that Ghoul is physically incapable of leaving well enough alone. At least it fits in the box this way.]

[trafficreport]

[Oh, so that's a hanger? Good to know. He wouldn't have guess by looking at it. Jet picks up the bundle of wire and turns it over in his hands, eyeing it dubiously.]

Gonna have to straighten it.

[itssobad]

[Kobra tilts his head.]

Can it fit through the window?

[He's got the toolbox to bend it against, if Jet can get it out to him. If not...hope you haven't been skipping arm day, Jet.]