Chapter Text
half of the allotted mission time has come and gone, and garbo hasnt really seen matador since everyone boarded off the shuttle.
theyre a little hard to miss, charging in with their flaming cowl, glowing hands, and neon-orange screen. hell, they have caution tape wrapped around their wrists. they may as well be a walking danger sign.
garbo shrieks as a wooden bat strikes her side, sending her flying across the air and skidding to a halt near the other end of the seaport. his system diagnostics quietly report -400% integrity, and she starts to wonder whether these missions are worth it at all. his profit margin is minuscule, what with the amount of scrap he has to exchange every time they come back just to be in good enough shape for the next round.
he rolls over onto his back on the floor, chances a look around, and thankfully, finds boggles and diablo too busy shoving and pulling on each others hair (or paper strands) over an unstable mound of ship wreckage.
marianna stands off to a side nearby, avoiding the stray punches in a sort of funny dance, glaring intently at the floor. oh, shes rolling the bolts that fall down in her general direction with telekinesis.
its rather quiet on this side of the map, except for-- the sound of a pipe iron detonating in the distance and shrapnel zipping by.
there are a few more crates on the way here, which garbo follows along with her gaze. the expected "route" of operations will lead them straight over, and frankly? he would rather not have any more of her shells conveniently "fall out" by a harsh tug, just to end up among one of his fellow HEPs daily quota.
stocky keeps the few pieces they can identify as bot hardware in a separate bin. to be exchanged for spools, of course, but its a godsend to be able to rifle through it and grab whatever shes missing.
(garbo is going to start marking his parts with sharpie on the inside, as soon as he can get her hands on one that isnt drier than silica packets. the couple discarded ones she fished out of the office dumpster were nice to scribble on paper after pouring some alcohol in, but not nearly permanent enough.)
(could she draw on the outside too? maybe he would practice with board markers first. shes heard lightly sanding the surface made it hold better.)
well! less daydreaming, more getting up and away from open fields.
theres a small pier down by the side, ocean long risen to be at its level, the tide submerging it in chilly water every so often. the idea of having to shake ice out of his legs isnt particularly appealing, either.
...there arent many options to hide in this place. the narrow alleyway between buildings is too close to the current skirmish, and has little to no cover from suspicious looks thrown its way.
in the meantime, garbo scoochs behind a broken wheelbarrow (that will be torn into metal sheets in a handful of minutes, most likely,) and studies the small ledge going around the buildings.
if she was very careful, maybe she could go around and wait..? so long as he didnt plummet into the sea, it would be fine.
yet, it *is* a narrow ledge. holding onto the support beams would make it easier- wait.
every door and window here is tightly boarded up, and per management instructions, garbos team was not to enter. that work was for the explosives group; they are here to take care of abandoned, ancient fishing boat motors that a nearby aquatic operative had been dredging up and piling on the surface.
clearly, they took most of the valuables before dumping them off, but the matter right now is *this* window has been broken into.
boggles whoops as she "rows" across the floor in a broken-off piece of hull, promptly being shoved sideways and out the ramp near the middle of the port, swerving dangerously close to the hole. diablo flips her off when she drags it back to the starting point, demanding a repeat.
window. the open window. concentrate, garbo! theyre all going to slide over in their makeshift sleds any second now. the gap in the wall is big enough for him to haul over and into, landing on a wooden floor with a puff of dust.
she turns back around to stack the dangling window boards as they were, just so that the hole isnt quite as visible, and finds it to be really, *really* dark in here.
blinking a couple times, her eye flashlights turn on, and form round beams where the dust particles had been disturbed and become airborne.
garbo scans her surroundings, finding it to be some sort of... unfurnished living space? cobwebs gather at every other corner, but what interests them the most are the intact power sockets in the walls, holding a precious two screws, four to six metallic contacts within.
he makes quick work of the lower, more accessible outlets. the plastic shell is discarded on a neat pile on a counter, and he stuffs the rest into his pockets along with whatever wire they can manage to snip off.
he works methodically, going clockwise from where he started, doing a full circle across the building.
and she didnt really take notice of the short, muffled bursts of static that came from under the stairs until her sweep took her around to them, to continue on the next floor.
she presses one side of his head to the wall, and from the feel of it, it seems rather thin. theres a door to what he guesses is a medium-sized supply closet, the handle ripped out, but its trivial to get a hold of the edge and open it.
poking her head in, it narrowly avoids being met with a dense metallic pipe, concerningly non-stationary. garbo slams the door shut and jumps back, dismayed.
okay, calm down. wait a second.
this is a deserted area. who the hell..?
she cautiously cracks it open again, with as much clearance her arm allows for.
"-stay back," someone warns at the far end of the space, voice scratchy and muffled behind a layer of something.
"matador..? what are you doing in there?!"
"not your business. go away."
garbo peeks around the entrance, spotting them backed into a corner and partially obscured by a stack of wobbly, heat-warped plastic brooms, mops, and assorted cleaning supplies.
the soldier would wince at the pair of blinding lamps staring them down, but they have to turn their whole head away instead, hissing back at the sudden brightness, the sound much like a faulty speaker. garbo would know it firsthand.
he must admit they look a bit ridiculous, curled up like that.
"i said, go away. fuck off."
they hold the pipe defensively, though there is the faintest tremor in their hand.
matador makes a half-hearted shoving motion in her direction, and garbo closes the door once more, turning his back to the wall and sliding down onto the floor.
"cant you follow a single order properly? i hear you outside. get lost."
"uh, yeah, pretty sure outside wants me scrapped right now."
"so do i. whats the difference."
the bickering and flinging of... vinyl discs..? has slowly moved over to this side, and she *really* doesnt want to go back to it. he fidgets with the trinkets in her pockets for some time, hearing those bits of static on the other side, until-
a fire axe cuts clean through the upper boards of the door, and rips some out when its pulled back. garbo slaps her hands over her eye lights in the second it takes for them to click off, right before a curious eye peeks through the newly made hole, and decides to tear the rest of the door down.
well, if matador wanted to decommision him, they would have sprung at the first opportunity and be wrestling right now. the lack of active violence is very strange, and if anything, matador seems defensive rather than offensive right now.
huh.
so garbo shuffles into the closet, sticking as close to the side opposite of them as he can.
"ookay, i, uh, im going to stuff myself in here as well, if you dont mind--"
"oh for fucks sake-"
"sorry! i wont bother you, p-promise..."
they raise the pipe to strike garbo, who flinches and backs away.
"hey! would you rather the others followed me in here?! theyre literally outside!", he whisper-yells.
they grumble some other curse, and turn to the wall, screen almost flush with it, not before pushing the broom stack onto garbot, clattering its way to her head.
the ground rumbles, struck with poultry missiles, and dirt rains down from the ceiling boards.