Description: Whip is on a quest to find something to use against Rolento. K' is helping her. Oro is taking a nice, long nap. Whip's decision to go poking at things she shouldn't winds up awakening the ancient monk from his well deserved rest. K' remains as markedly unimpressed as ever, and it remains to be seen quite what Oro's intentions are now that he has woken up... though it seems highly unlikely that any of them involve actually helping the Ikari out!
If Whip kept a journal, the most recent entry would be short and to the point:
Dear Diary, Rolento Schugerg is a douchebag.
Things like this probably explain why she doesn't keep such a thing, aside from the part where doing so would present a horrible security risk and likely result in either she, K', or one or all of the Ikari Warriors meeting a grisly fate in some clinically-maintained laboratory in Timbuktu. But the point is, Whip is not happy with the beret-totin' former Mad Gear, and has dedicated the past few days of her life to never once shutting up about what a completely insufferable idiot he is. Really. She wouldn't need to write in her journal more than once this week, because that's /all she's done/, except, of course...
For finding a way to screw him over if he tries anything more sinister next time.
To that end, she's dragged her incendiary brother off into the jungle surrounding Ikari Central, leaping across ravines and climbing vines to reach a seemingly abandoned, overgrown military outpost that squats in a clearing beside an impressively beauteous Amazonian lookout. It's a sharp drop down the cliff into the river, and it's into this very cliff that their path is bound-- the external parts of the outpost, little more than a dilapidated shack with accompanying outbuildings, hiding a keycarded entrance leading into high-tech catacombs. She shouldn't be here, but knowing about it is part of her job, and a pocket is easily picked to allow entry.
Less easy is rifling through the endless boxes, crates and flight cases in search of a small cache intercepted following shipping from a small facility in Venezuela approximately six years ago. Rolento was cagey with information, but behind all his bluster and testosterone-riddled needling of the Beast of Flame, he did let slip one important fact; his infiltration of a NESTS base and subsequent capture of Foxy Arreaza. Such action leaves a trail, it leaves hanging threads, and they've identified few enough bases that narrowing it down was doable if not simple. It's a long shot, but Whip thinks she's onto something.
And K' knows damn well, if she's really intent on a trail, she don't stop sniffin'.
At this moment she's trying without particular success to frantically rearrange dusty shipping crates in order to reach the tantalizingly vast and heavy-duty vacuum-sealed container that lies behind them. It's marked 'BIOHAZARD', increasing the chances of it being precisely what she's looking for by approximately nine thousand-fold. But actually getting to it is the equivalent of playing one of those awfully shitty games that only STUPID PEOPLE enjoy, where you moves boxes around for an hour and then something goes *ding* and...
"Ugh!" She stops what she's doing and abruptly twists on her heel, pushing one gloved hand back against her brow, touselling her outlying - and still faintly dyed - hair as she exhales a heavy, puff-cheeked sigh. The /looks/ she aims at K' is something only a wife or sister could manage with proper form, smouldering like the Kusanagi flame itself as she bores her petulance into him. 'Well?' Say her eyes, and the hand that claps to her khaki-clad hip a moment later, 'Are you just going to stand there smoking or are you going to HELP ME?'
She doesn't say it out loud, because that would be, you know, reasonable. He's supposed to /guess/.
It's a sentiment K' can get behind. The only part of figuring out how to one-up and screw Rolento that K' /doesn't/ like is the fleeting, forlorn hope that Schugerg might actually just fucking leave them alone, over the long haul. So, insurance is good. The jungle, though... the humidity, the heat, it does /shit/ for his hair. K' kind of picks at the frizzy mass absently, uselessly smoothing down white locks as he picks after Whip almost lazily.
It puts him a few seconds behind his sibling, but the Beast of Flame doesn't particularly seem to care. Ravines are crossed in bounds, limbs and trees reverberating with the overcharged firebrand's arrivals and departures. The trip through the jungle and its stinging, biting denizens and its hair-fraying humidity and its whipping vines and its sandpits and its stealthy, deadly predators suddenly becomes an experience that K' misses when he drops down after Whip and follows through into the high-tech underlair.
For SOME reason, K' doesn't have a lot of appreciation for sterile, technological hide-a-ways like this one. Fingers trail absently along one artificially smooth wall and the Beast of Flame sighs a bit, setting up near the storehouse door as Whip sets to fishing through the debris. A tendril of flame swirls from wrist to index finger, and plumes upwards in a narrow column, precisely if overdramatically igniting the cigarette that his sister almost immediately wants him to put out.
K' plants his back into the wall and blows a plume of smoke up after the flame, barely looking at her. "What? I thought you knew what you were looking for." He's helping. You'd think he'd jump at the last chance to rethink his search for skeletons in the Ikari Warriors' closet; but hey, he can't just start smashing all the crates with Whip there. Who would stand around and let someone do /that/?
Despite their shared memories of a childhood pre-dating the cold, clinical walls of an unnamed NESTS facility, Whip and K' have very different experiences of actually growing up within the cartel. Where K' was poked and prodded, modified and tested continually, and generally treated like an animal being trained for war... his sister actually had something much closer to a 'normal' life. In retrospect this may be less true than she'd first have thought, but she had her own living space, access to books and games during rare downtime from her own intense regime of vitamin boosters and lessons in efficient murder.
She even had a friend or two, of a sort, and limited access to cable television.
Life wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible. She doesn't feel the need to simmer and froth when surrounded by the trappings of science; it's not like returning to a cage, for her, just the memory of something she's become intent on destroying for the mutual good of them both. Her sympathy for K' is naturally present, to a point, but it's easy to forget to be understanding when you're sweating out a litre of water every minute whilst attempting to heft a pile of crates approximately as tall as you are.
Which is why she regards K' with 'the look' for several long moments, boiling within her fatigues, fist grinding deeper and deeper into her hip before she brings a boot down firmly upon the floor. It makes a sound roughly akin to a huge black man screaming, 'AW YEAH! SHIT'S ABOUT TO GET REAL YO!' And as it echoes off the smooth metal walls, Whip is spinning away from K' with a 'hmph' of womanly exasperation...
Then, there's the almightiest crash. Lots of crashes. Bangs and thuds too, as she amply applies her bootheels.
Crates fly into the air, tumbling end over end before exploding - in some cases, quite literally - against the floor behind her and surrounding K'. Crate and contents all conveniently miss him because he's far too cool to end up with a bundle of nondescript wires, a prototype synthetic cyberarm or a dead foetus on his head. Wait, really? A dead foetus? Whip actually quirks a brow at that one, giving a nonplussed shrug before turning to sweep the last couple of boxes aside with both arms. She's pouring with sweat now, and panting, but she gives the happiest, most relieved sigh as she views her handiwork. "There! Look!" She commands enthusiastically, like a six year old girl drawing attention to the most fucking amazing crayon drawing, seriously, you have no idea.
"Now we just have to get this thing open..."
Tapping a finger against her lip, she glances to either side, inspecting the very expensive rubble she's created; and quickly opting not to try to break the 'BIOHAZARD' container open with a human embryo. That would probably just be messy. There's not much else to choose from, which leads to her squinting for several seconds at K', as though either accusing him of not being smart enough to have sorted all this already... or considering picking /him/ up and directing the world's most potent flamethrower at the heavy hinges.
It's tempting, it really is.
But then she opts for just reaching back, pulling out her Desert Eagle and shooting the thing open.
High-impact plastic tears into sharp, whizzing chunks as each of four cumbersome hinges are destroyed with one perfectly-aimed bullet each - which, surprisingly enough, is enough to breach the integrity of the possibly-highly-dangerous package. Whip's best guess is that the thing stepping out will either by the anti-anti-K' or something so hideous and uncontrolled that it was even deemed a failure by the cartel that thought K9999 was a good idea... and she begins to consider the ramifications of this as thick, oily smoke pours from the box.
Of course, at that point it's about three seconds from falling open, the lid crashing down in front of her.
This was a good idea. This HAD to have been a good idea.
Who would do such a thing? Why, Whip, cracking open all those perfectly, clearly reusable crates to find what she needs. K' would look shocked and amazed, if he hadn't been baiting her by lighting the cigarette as she started moving boxes in the first place. As it is, K' just watches out of the corner of his eye, smokes his cigarette, and kicks away an errant cyberarm that skitters too close. Which for the Beast of Flame typically means 'within kicking distance'.
It's fair to say K' isn't /super/ excited about the giant biohazard, at least not the way that his sister appears to be, the prototype eyeing the container through crimson shades dubiously, about to comment on it when the gunshots report violently through the chamber. K' winces and covers one ear, for all the good it does, getting both covered with his cig hanging loosely between his lips after the second or third repetition.
"What the fuck!!!" helpfully punctuates the gunshots, sounding quiet in comparison, even though it /isn't/. "Yea, you're the queen of subtlety and grace." K' snorts a little bit. Another draw is taken from his diminishing cig as he steps off to one side to eye the air pollution escaping from Whip's prize. "... Fucking gross."
K' takes a step back, exhaling toxins and chemicals from his lungs. Because he doesn't want to inhale the toxins and chemicals seeping out of that damn crate, obviously. It all makes perfect sense. A bloom of autumn-hued Kusanagi flame burns to brilliant life between K''s fingertips, a roiling sphere of fire connected in a luminescent confalguration swirling up his arm. It doesn't burn K', but it distorts the very air around it. /Now/ he's considering the need for a flamethrower. This could be a bug hunt.
The door hits the floor with a heavy, final sound. Despite the cluttered space, it somehow echoes ominously. The temperature inside the storage unit was several degrees cooler than the warehouse. This had made it a good place to rest. And inside the unit? Is a blue bag. Done up tight, the shape is roughly reminiscent of a cocoon, stood on end. Slowly, slowly, it, too, topples forward.
And then Oro stands up.
Stretching, the oddly-colored man does strike a bizarre image against the thick smoke and the technological surroundings. Beady red eyes open, swiveling from K' to Whip, to Whip's gun, to the door. He is a tiny figure compared to them, small and withered, and definitely not anywhere near as 'cool' as K'. Hideous? Uncontrolled? Well, there's nowhere near as much screaming or violence as Whip may be expecting.
The previous inhabitant of this chamber? Oh yes, /that/ had screamed quite a lot when Oro had evicted it. But the nice, cool, dark, secluded chamber just made too good a nap spot to turn down, after all of that... excitement.
"Alright, alright, I'm up." He grumbles, stretching, and yawning. He eyes the gun, and shakes his head. Tut tut tut.
And then his eyes turn towards K', and the orb of flame that he's wielding. That, too, gets a tut and a shake of his head. Very slowly, very carefully, he steps from the smouldering container, straightening up enough that he's not actively breathing in the acrid and oily smoke.
"... Hrmn. Two thousand and twelve." He mumbles, apparently entirely to himself. "Six months later than I wanted. I suppose I should say thank you." That, addressed to Whip, nodding his head to her as he looks back at K'.
"Put the Kusanagi flames away, boy." He grouses. "You might hurt someone if you aren't careful."
This... is either the weirdest NESTs creation yet, or something else entirely. He doesn't sound angry, or even particularly violent. If anything, the shrunken old man sounds a little /whiny/. He'd been having the most wonderful dream about this young woman he knew back in his youth, and now here he is with a young woman waving some manner of (if his memory of his last trip to town doesn't fail him) 'telephone' in his face, and an apparent inheritor of the Kusanagi line getting all fired up.
If the next words out of anyone's mouth involve 'training' he is probably going to kick someone in the face.
"It's fine!" Whip assures K' with the merriment only a warm gun can instill as she steps back, spinning her favourite gun once around her trigger finger - a gesture that, flamboyant as it is, seems almost instinctive. She doesn't need to focus on it, or think about it. Nobody ever said NESTS' elite assassin apprenticeship scheme instilled /only/ the core values of emotionally-detached murder and mild sexual perversion - they're all about style and flair too. Truly, the future is now.
Unfortunately, a moment later the renegade Ikari isn't entirely sure how 'fine' it is. That crysalis-like blue bag gets a frown and a tip of her head, even as she completely disregards the foul-smelling smog seeping into the tightly enclosed storeroom, breathing it as readily as if it were sweet ocean air. K' probably has the better plan here; but to Whip, it's only a little worse than the mens' dormitories on Cajun Night.
Her obtuse little life hasn't prepared her for everything, though.
The emergent spectre is regarded with two widened eyes and a hastily re-raised gun barrel, shiny chrome flashing as it levels neatly to aim the next four bullets between his own, bizarrely beady and... red optics. There are a few men in this world with eyes like that, and one particular bloodline that NESTS never tampered with during the former assassin's tenure-- at least that she was aware of. Through the heat and the mounting tension she's frantically scrolling back through her photographic memory, trying to recall something. Anything. The facility in Peru was supposed to have two dangerous and unidentified experiments contained below...
No conjecture she's read or been able to draw on her own would make it anything like this. He's so... /old/. K9999 might be ugly, but at least he's YOUNG and ugly. And dumb. Who or whatever Oro might be, he's able to identify the date and seems aware enough to speak coherently, which rules out the final part of that equation. Wait, how the hell can something trapped inside a cargo container identify the /date/?
Or recognize the Kusanagi flames? That settles it, though.
"Six years," Whip belts out without any form of context whatsoever, her mouth forming that hard line it does when she's decided to start being professional again. "You've been stored here since you were apprehended from a facility in the Peruvian Highlands, in the later half of two thousand and six." Behind her, she's aware K' has her covered - and, God help her, she puts her trust in this once more - lowering her weapon with an outbreath, lifting it to one side in an open hand, to display her finger very much /off/ the trigger. If he's a creation of NESTS - and he seems to be - this alarming creature won't need to fire a mere handgun anyway. With the truth as it is, frankly a telephone probably WOULD be more dangerous. But Whip doesn't know that.
"You were under the control and care of a Ms. Foxy Arreaza, but may have passed briefly through the clutches of Rolento Schugerg, a disgraced Major in the U.S. military. But since you seem to be cogent enough to communicate clearly," she pauses to smile, as though this were the functional equivalent of a 'hello' at last. Let's be fair, when you're named after an inanimate object you don't tend to worry so much about introductions. "Perhaps we could start with the last thing you remember."
Biohazard, indeed. When the noxious mess clears to reveal the diminutive, drippy, drowsy monk, K' is far from immediately reassured. The renegade bioweapon hasn't survived this long by being oblivious (just acting it), and mistaking Oro for weak or decrepit seems to be the farthest thing from his mind. Still frowning as the aged figure is revealed, the rogue prototype takes another step back, the flames intensifying, flaring to brilliant life.
At least, until the ancient monk speaks. For one reason or another, K' readily complies. The expertly manifested holy weapon ordained to eradicate Orochi vanishes as if simply out of fuel, diminishing within until light dissipates, and heat slowly follows. He doesn't seem to listen to Whip's briefing as closely as he studies Oro, instead.
"Who the hell.. what the hell are you supposed to be?" the Beast of Flame queries frankly, punctuating Whip's words with an /entirely/ different tone. It's pretty clear he's not attributing this care package to Igniz's science team - or he's too in shock to deal with that possibility if it IS true. That would be very, very bad, K'.
This sentiment and attunement to chi puts his response on a whole different level from his sister's. While she acclimates the 'project', K' goes with straight up /baffled/. Not that he's standing and gaping, because as mentioned K' is far too cool to stand and gape. He does, however, kind of stare, and stand there, and take /his/ turn to cast a look to his sister that would convey yet another 'what the fuuuck' if it weren't aligned squarely with the back of her head.
The monk is coming back quickly to reality, especially considering the length of his apparent nap. But, it isn't as though it were a regular nap, and he is most certainly not a regular old man. The cobwebs are shaken from his mind almost instantly, not that it makes him feel any more sociable than he normally does. That's the problem with young people. They always turn up with questions. Not hot drinks. You'd think they'd learn. "Is that so? Captured, was I?" He has a rather, different recollection of events. Someone HAD tried to give him a look over with some funny machines once, but, it was amusing to break them in his sleep. They soon got bored. And it wasn't as though he couldn't leave any time he felt like.
"I like you, girly." He decides, and, as a measure of his thanks, he even decides to answer her question. "The last thing I remember, is deciding that it would be nice to lay down for a little nap in this nice cool bed. Ryouhara had set off his bomb, and I was feeling a little tired after the letdown."
Now he is moving, stepping out of the wreckage, and waving with his hand. His sleeping bag neatly folds itself up, and slides onto his back. The aged monk walks in a strange way; he's not quick by any means, but he seems to cover the ground at a comfortable pace regardless.
"I'm just an old man." He says to K', as he moves to go past him. Like many old people, when he gets started, there's a kind of... stubborn resilience to the very notion of stopping. He does hmph at the sheer amount of wreckage and waste in the room, though. Irritating! He is walking right up to one of the larger containers, though. Things really do tend to get in a mess when you aren't looking, don't they? "I think I remember that Foxy." He says, absently. Something like a smile slooooowly pulling itself onto his weatherbeaten features. "She wore the most amazing shirt. I've been in this place a while though." He looks back over his shoulder at Whip, his smile fading away into a look of irritation. "Didn't your mother teach you to tidy up after yourself when you make a mess?"
Though her chi attunement is a hundred thousand miles from that of her brother, Whip has become gradually more aware of her own connection to the energies that other NESTS' creations hurl about freely. The cartel's stance has been predominantly scientific, unconcerned with the mysticism or spiritual study of chi, but she's been able to derive a certain sensitivty from her friends and opponents in the greater world. Consequently, her temple throbs as she becomes aware that K' has simply obeyed the command to extinguish his flame.
There's not many people he'd listen to, and she knows that he knows things she doesn't know...
Altogether, this doesn't do a damn thing for her confidence.
Being complimented by the wizened 'experiment' bedecked in a smog-clogged sleeping bag? Well, that's just a bit confusing. She may have surrendered her immediate aggressive urges, but there've been precisely three of NESTS' creations who might wear such a pleasant (well, okay, horrible to look at but that's not the point) mask, and she's one of them. The other is one of their more insidious and violent killers, but similarly well-adjusted and unlikely to be in a crate marked BIOHAZARD. The final... well, she's so lovable that nobody would let her get too far without a hug and some candy. These seem like fairly critical exceptions, to her.
"Thank you?" Whip finds herself saying, scratching at the side of her head with her Desert Eagle's shiny, shiny barrel as she steps aside to make way for the ancient, parched-skinned man and his unstoppable will. Rather than look at him as he heads toward K', she glances at his sprung coffin once more, trying to work out on what planet it might be called a comfortable bed. He didn't /seem/ to be joking. Then, the telling part comes wafting to her. The shinobi. It's amazing the Ikari haven't had greater dealings with them, but they certainly know of him; there's no agency for military intelligence that doesn't, at this point. Government or freelance.
It's hard to keep up with Oro's train of thought, however, and at this point he's making accusations.
Whip wants to be hard and professional, wants to just brush it aside, but gosh it's hard not to feel bad.
"I..." With the rising panic of a young person dealing with their vastly elder, her brain frantically grasps for any kind of straw at all, pulling out the first adequate excuse it can find. "I don't really /have/ a mother." That could bring a conversation to a screeching halt-- but it probably wouldn't now, even if she didn't feel a sudden need to add, "I-- I'm sorry!" Because apologizing for your (probably) dead parents is totally normal. Shaking the old man fog from her mind, she straightens up with a quick intake of breath.
"Could we stay on target, please? You mentioned Seishirou Ryouhara; was he connected to NESTS or to Schugerg in some way? Do you even know what 'NESTS' is? I don't mean to press you on this," that's a lie - of course she does, this would be the entire point, "But we can almost certainly help one another. I'm beginning to doubt this even as I say it, but--" Again she smiles, now with open bemusement as her thoughts start to more neatly order themselves, free from cyberarms or dead foetuses. "We're the same as you. Foxy oversaw my development, and had a hand in the creation of my brother, too." A nod goes to K', who's probably loving this.
"Do you have a name, or a designation? Our files are... incomplete."
Just an old man. On the surface, it's total bullshit. K' knows it, Whip thinks she knows it. Behind the dark crimson shades, the prototype's amber eyes fucking /roll/. It happens as he steps out of Oro's way, at least for the moment. 'Just an old man'. It's horseshit, but it speaks volumes, if Oro is telling the truth. Nothing inspires the Kusanagi-infused WMD to question it, at least not immediately!
If it's true however, the drippiest monk could not possibly be one of Igniz's further weapons developments. He /seems/ old, as quantifiable as /that/ is ever going to get, to K'.. the firebrand shifts to one side, turning to track the aged monk's motions, wary but non-hostile. After all, being an old man tells the renegade template a lot... but that just opens a whole new set of questions that Oro doesn't seem likely to give straight answers to.
"Maybe a serial number." Is the first thing the rogue prototype actually /says/. He tacks it onto Whip's last inquiry. Very, very sarcastically, because that is exactly what the situation clearly needs. The cigarette he lit earlier is sucked to the filter, a sickly sweet stench released for a moment as the barrier catches too much heat, and then the butt is dropped and stomped in the two profoundly forceful, yet seemingly relaxed movements.
Shoulders slouch a bit as K' returns his back to the wall, "Or, you know, walk out and tell us it builds character." Because he doesn't give a fuck if Oro helps them figure out how to hurt NESTS. That, or he's aware Oro probably doesn't give a fuck if he /does/ give a fuck. He's just leaving it up to the driptastic dynamo. Did we mention sarcasm?
Oro does, in fact, give no fucks. People half his age have earned the right to not care any more, just by being that old. Age gives a perspective all its own, and if there's one thing Oro has learned over the years, it is that he really does not care for explaining who he is or what he is, or even how he got there. It isn't really terribly relevant. He is searching for the one person in all the world who it might be worth explaining all that too.
The cute girl with the gun and the stammer, and the angry man with all the fire? No. No.
Oro weighs up the weight of the container blocking his path, easily three times his height. All twisted metal and no doubt filled with heavy components. "Serial number?" He repeats, in the same tone a particularly technophobic grandfather might use for 'internets?'. "Girl, not a thing you've said makes any sense to me. And I don't think you can help me at all."
His hand rests on the container for a moment, and then... he shifts. It'd be easy to miss exactly what happens, but in fact, every muscle bunches for a moment, and then shoves against it. With an almighty crash, the heavy metal construction punches a second swathe of destruction through the facility, and then out through the reinforced steel of the bunker, to crash to the ground outside. Thus, a more direct route out is created for the elderly man to continue on his way.
"I wouldn't stay here if I were you." He says, raising one hand lazily, in vague response to K'. "Standing around feeling sorry for yourself doesn't build character." And then he's grumbling to himself, walking at a calm and measured pace across the clear path he just made. Whether or not they follow him? Well, he couldn't really care less! As though he understands the way young minds work these days. "Now lets see, which way is it to home? I bet those lazy locals forgot to keep feeding my pets... I ought to check in before I go and see what all the fuss is about."
K' earns a scathing sideglance - another 'look', indeed - for that particular piece of sarcasm. If she were within range, Whip would probably be aiming to slap his wrist or pinch his ear. As it is she settles for mutely communicating the sentiment, 'We are NOT at home to Negative Nicholas!' She'll make somebody a fine strange and murderous wife one day, that one. It is in fact pretty freaking clear that this little excursion was a long shot resulting in the unleashing of a badly aimed torpedo, the analogy soon completed when Oro bursts through a wall and sets off on his merry way-- probably off to accidentally eradicate a small tropical island.
"I..." This is probably the most hesitant and stammer-y Whip has ever been. Even her first kiss wasn't this bad, although you know... NESTS. So that probably isn't saying much. For several moments all she can do is purse her lips and squint frownily after the slowly, slooowly departing old man, scritching again at her head with the very much loaded gun in her right hand. The left drums against her thigh as she tries to work out the best course of action here, veering somewhere between, 'Get him, K'!' and more stupid questions.
Very stupid, given the destructive potential he's just exhibited.
Finally, she decides to err on the side of caution.
"I think maybe there are better ways of dealing with Schugerg," she pronounces with a certain air of finality, glancing around the destruction with a small sigh before sending K' a brisk nod. "You were right. I was wrong." He knows what that means-- and she's just thankful Maxima wasn't in on the betting, he always manages to wrangle the best odds and tends to double the money they've laid on the table. Bloody cyborgs. As it is, Whip can write this one off as a loss. Rolling her shoulders, she steps past K', mentally placing a bookmark before she turns the page on this incident. If this wizened being is really so powerful as he seemed, just then...
Cross-referencing his appearance and manner in the database with mentions of Ryouhara, Arreaza and Schugerg should throw something up, right? She's got a feeling nothing short of a full-scale Ikari operation can really contain him, which will lead directly into finding some excuse for her presence here. At the worst she'll end up court-martialled and they can both be RENEGATES. Maybe Maxima could hold the old man still while they interrogate him further. The future holds so many possiblities! But somehow...
Whip doesn't think she'll be meeting Oro again under such gentle circumstances. Doesn't take a chi-adept to know that something is definitely /up/ there. Ah well, onwards and upwards! For K' and Whip, there are likely to be more important things to worry about.
"I guess your next date with Tiffany-chan is on me, hmm?"
Like GOSSIP.
Someone who's been through what K' has? Also earned the right to give no fucks. Still, the flame-infused rebel continues to do so. More than is healthy, in most estimations. That anger? Well, the advanced bioweapon as earned /that/, too. Still, he'd concede that the geezer is completely correct, sitting around here isn't going to fix anything /for/ them. Least of all the draft that the once-secure structure has suddenly acquired.
K' would and could concede that, if he weren't shielding his head with one arm, peering out from underneath it at the abrupt and formidable shift to violence. That's supposed to be /his/ trick, and the Beast of Flame is keenly aware no chaotic and sudden moodswing can compete, here. K', for his part, seems somewhat /less/ torn.
Sure, he does glance aside to his sister as the driptastic dynamo wanders off towards the jungle, and inquire, "Want to try to stuff him back in the box?" Yes. He's still sounding quite unapologeticly sarcastic! Go figure. "I don't think he gives a fuck about NESTS." The rogue prototype then casually observes. That's not /really/ sarcastic. He's not a whole lot less snarky about it, though.
"Never knew Igniz kept a stockpile of old dudes. Kind of creepy." K' walks forward to inspect the new passageway, a polite distance behind Oro, tracing a hand along the ragged, torn metal. He doesn't bother addressing how very right he was about this shit, just shakes his head in disbelief. Nothing Whip says really shakes him out of it until the end, and it's veeeeery arguable just how aware K' is of /that/ question when he jerks his gaze back towards his sister and monosyllabizes, "What?" The fuck?
Log created on 13:19:45 06/08/2012 by Oro, and last modified on 17:09:07 06/08/2012.