♠ | 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.

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[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.]

[trafficreport]

[Does he ever?]

Let me see.

[It takes some doing, but what else is he going to do? Got nothing else going on right now, and he's determined to get out of this goddamn situation he's found himself in.]

All right. Here.

[itssobad]

[Bundle of wires: acquired. Step 1: complete.]

Thanks.

[And a sarcastic "Thanks" to Ghoul, for giving him this tumbleweed of wire to work with. Kobra ducks down to kneel in the dirt; easier to use the toolbox as a base that way.]

[After a few minutes of frustrated muttering, Kobra appears at the window again, the wire now fashioned into a long hook.]

Alright. [Looks like you're getting a carjacking lesson, Jet, whether you want one or not.] So if you ever see a car you want, and it don't belong to anybody, you can just--

[Gently, gently, don't want Poison to kill him, Kobra bends back the weatherstripping next to the window and slips the hook inside.]

--few inches in front of the keyhole, here. Then, you turn it, move it 'til you got a hold of the latch, and--

[CLUNK.]

[That's the sound he wanted to hear. Kobra full-on grins.]

Try the door.

[trafficreport]

[He won't ask how the Kobra Kid knows about carjacking. He won't ask, 'cause there are a lot of things that they all know between the four of them that originate in a place that never gets brought up. They don't ask each other why they know certain things. It's one of the rules out here. It's not a rule anyone ever lays out, but it's one that'll get you shot if you don't follow it.]

[They're past that, but they're also past the point of asking each other about things that might raise unpleasant memories. That's not why they're here.]

[Jet will instead content himself with swinging the door open and clambering out of the car with a sigh.]

Thanks.

[The word is a low, gravelly pull. Right away, he stretches, bending his arms up above his head and sighing.]

[God, that feels good.]

[itssobad]

[And with that, the spaceman's been released from his prison to wreak havoc on the world.]

[Instead of a "you're welcome", Kobra lifts an eyebrow from behind his sunglasses, still maintaining a hint of a grin, and says:]

Almost forgot how tall you are.

[Kobra's been the tall one for enough of his life that it's always a bit jarring to remember Jet's got at least a fraction of an inch on him. More with the hair.]

[trafficreport]

[God, it feels good to stretch his legs. That was like the world's most boring road trip but with none of the actually ending up somewhere he wanted to go to accompany it.]

[Doesn't mean he's lost his ability to be a deadpan motherfucker. He hasn't.]

Say something, pintsize?

[itssobad]

[Oh, so it's gonna be like that, is it?]

[Kobra takes a second to consider the situation, size up his opponent, and fucking--]

[--lunges out to shove him in the arm. Not too hard, obviously. He may be the team's hand-to-hand guy, but he's only using a fraction of his true ultramacho muscle power.]

[trafficreport]

Ow.

[Jet stumbles, catches himself against the car, but the word is completely deadpan. Don't you go and try and pack him back in that sweatbox, Kid. Not after all the effort you both went to get Jet out.]

That bitter?

[itssobad]

You got too much hair is all.

[Still, he's grinning. Jet looked too much like a TV character, trapped on the opposite side of the glass. Nice to know he's still as solid a punching bag as ever.]

[He steps back, stretches his neck, gets a better look at the car.]

Got any ideas how we're gonna get her back to home base?

[If the lock's busted, then he's sure as hell not leaving it out here. It'd probably be a limited edition collectible among the right people.]

[It's not too far, though. Good thing Jet had the good sense to get himself stuck somewhere convenient.]

[trafficreport]

Not pushing it. [That's for damn sure.]

[The good news about driving a rig this old is that it's kind of lost all its safety features. That's "good news" only for a killjoy. No time for seatbelts (all melted) or airbags (long since removed) out here. Just speed and windows down and the sound of music blasting into the fucking highway.]

Could drive with the door open.

[itssobad]

Could do that.

[He considers it for a moment.]

Let's do that.

[He's halfway into the car when he stops, catching himself, and looks back.] You want shotgun?

[trafficreport]

[Ugh. Back into the fucking seat.]

[Sure. Why not. Jet's expression barely changes. There's a flicker of something almost like resignation on his features, but it's gone in the same instant it forms.]

Fine.

[itssobad]

[Yeah, bud, he saw that. He gets it. Still doesn't mean you have to crawl over the center console any less, you six-foot-whatever titan.]

[Once Jet's in place, Kobra clambers into the driver's seat, tossing the toolbox into the back and chucking the (sealed) canteen at Jet.]

[In a mighty victory against muscle memory, the Kobra Kid does not shut the door behind him. Instead, he kicks it wider.]

[With a jingle of keys, the engine roars to life, and the radio with it.]