♠ | 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

[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.]