Scene #8068: Okay, Nerd, Spill Your Gamer Tea

Owner	Pose
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	"BE R AND B O Z," read the still-working neon lights above the entrance outside. The towering bartender, too large by far to be mistaken for this planet's 'vanilla humans,' gruffly informs any askers that the drinks on offer are 'beer' and 'booze.' The interior is about as dive as dive can get--from the dim lighting, tangibly cheap accomodations, and the washed out guitar piped through the speakers. An ill-treated jukebox is still in working order. There are two people here, besides the bartender. Only one is a patron. The other is here on business, and arrives in a burst of speed so sudden as to rattle the particle-board tables and stools in his wake. Silently, he extends a hand, a strange, pastel blue pyramid slowly rotating in his palm. His 'business partner,' a thickset, pale-skinned woman with most of her face overtaken by a cybernetic screen, accepts it, turns it over in her hand, and offers him a briefcase in exchange. "Pleasure doing business with..." It's then that Phreak notices Sylvi.
Sylvi	From the back-room of BE R AND B O Z, an elbow pushes open the door, following a shoulder and a mane of white. The tall girl rolls her legs over the bartop in a set of mesh under-armor future leggings that she wears black, unbuttoned jean shorts over, black and silver heavy boots, and a green-black fade with inverted dots tank-top. In both hands is a pair of clear-bottled dark amber beer, held among her fingers. As the transaction completes, she saunters towards Phreak, as he tries to slam through his transaction at a full sprint. Leaning to slide the two beers across the countertop down to the decker woman and the breathless Phreak, Sylvi tips a bang with a foreknuckle and smirks unkindly at Phreak. "Hey, it's jussst the guy I want to talk to. Phreak. Buddy. Pal." Her green eyes stare at Phreak while her arm drops around the screen-faced woman's shoulder like an old friend at the bar. "What's the hurry?"
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Phreak, the buddy, the pal, has to take a moment to register what's just happened, and who he's just run into. He foolishly allows a quiet "Wow" to escape, at the sight of her, and seems to realize his mistake. "I mean, uh, hey," he then corrects. He's wearing a visor, too, though his isn't cybernetic like the woman Sylvi's got her arm around. She can tell, by the way, this woman is absolutely trashed, by the way she wobbles. "I'm just running errands, is all. Lining everything up for a, uh... big day." After nearly falling over, his business partner says, "Seven pumps of--" "Bozo, goddamn you, this is why nobody works with you," Phreak angrily huffs, stamping a foot on the floor as his yellow eyes flare in frustration. He seems to ponder adding something else, but thinks better of it. Nanites dissolve the blue visor in his hand. Left standing in a high-waisted red windbreaker, black crop top and matching track pants, he stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Forget her," he says, as Bozo hiccups and chuckles her way over to a seat. "She practically lives here. What'd you, uh..." He tilts his head, brow briefly furrowed. "Wanna talk about?"
Sylvi	Sylvi leans, sisterly, against the drunkard, rocking gently in time with the wobbles of her compatriot. Phreak is treated to this odd sight while Sylvi bores two emerald holes into his skull - figuratively - with her unblinking gaze. 'Wow', she mouths back with a pop of her eyes and a curl of a fanged smirk, a blooming grin. "Errand boy Phreak. Sounds like you need to get moving then, compu-dre." Sylvi observes, giving a feather of a squeeze to Bozo and sliding phreak's tabled beer towards the drunk. "Two for Bozo, then." Taking Phreak instead in her ice-cream scoop of an approach, arming the narrow man into her inclusive arm-hug, brought close and conspiratorial as she breezes outside the bar to the stoop outside with a bottle rattle back at the barman in exit-wave. Phreak doesn't get an answer until the door rattles shut. Then, the arm around his shoulder doesn't feel quite so inclusively supportive, with a firm clap-pat on the cap of his jacket over his collar. "Phreak what the fuck are you doing running errands?"
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Phreak grins, at first. "Yeah! So--" A soft 'ah' escapes, next, as he is pulled aside, and outside. Hope is a small outpost in the flat, rocky desert known as Mort. It's big enough to warrant a connection to the planetary teleportation network known as Whom-Pahs--but only just, it seems. The Whom-Pah here takes up a significant part of the west end of the outpost. What few people live here do so out of rugged, frontier prefabs and ramshackle metal huts. The planet's two suns give plenty of light with today's clear skies. Brought onto the spider-cracked brick pavement outside, and questioned so bluntly, Phreak blurts out his answer. "They're me errands, not some-other-guy errands. These," he says, lifting the briefcase, "Are the last things I need for..." His eyes dart suspiciously around. "A really good set of armor," he eventually says. "Why? What's it to you?"
Sylvi	Sylvi takes in the street, glacing at the Onomatopoeia-Portal down the vague suggestion of a 'street', the convenient sprawl of doors and sheds and stoops arrayed into a spine and ribs clutched around the heart-points of commerce and travel. 'Out' and 'The Portal'. Sylvi drags Phreak across the front of the bar, and zags along the building's wall to get out of direct sight. Then, like two punks conversing, she squats down. Phreak has less direct agency on where and when he gets plopped down, with Sylvi's arm around his shoulders. It's convenient, so she can knock her forehead against his, and, green to yellow, ask Phreak back a question. "What do you mean, what's it to me? Huh?" With a forehead-shove, an up-nod at point blank, Sylvi lifts her arm and rotates to a forward punk-squat, leaning her elbows on her thighs and fiddling with the pair of beers that came out with her in the dirt. "If you suck, jolly green is going to stick down in the bush leagues and crashing on your couch instead of being the most he could be. So if you -suck-, -I-'ve got a problem." Thumbing a cap off, Sylvi passes Phreak a 'house' amber beer - air warm. She moves to mess with her own cap after.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	"H-hey!" Whatever further objection he might have made, whatever outburst there might have been, is quashed when he's forced down. "U-uh..." His eyes meet Sylvi's with quiet, paralyzed shock, and when he's shoved away, Phreak indulges a relieved huff. Well flustered by this point, the fixer's cheeks burn grey at Sylvi's answer. "I do -not- suck!" Snatching the beer, he flicks the cap off, places his thumb over the hole, and boasts. "I'm gonna slam this fucker back and put that shit together right here. And that's after I went into a goddamn mantis nest to get that fuckin' waveform for Bozo." Hidden behind the bar as he is thanks to Sylvi's choice of spot, Phreak must either be confident no one else will see, or bullied enough not to care if someone does. He doesn't have the skill that Bercilak does, but he's got the spirit--and even though he ends up wiping his mouth, Phreak finishes it in one go. Rolling the spent can across his fingers in a display of dexterity, he flicks it aside. His nanites reconstruct a few things--a linen mat, which he spreads out before him. A small case of screwdrivers and other such tools, tuned for fine manipulation. Lock picks, tubing, and some kind of cryptographic sequencer.
Sylvi	"Right here? That's pretty cool. Bet you can't." Sylvi teases, sitting back while Phreak makes large (for Phreak) boasts and slams his beer. Her shoulders relax into the wall, back slouching forward. Sprawling one leg out in the Full Sit, the white-haired woman watches Phreak set up with some mild open interest, lastingly amused at his blushing insistence that he's really 'cool'. The drinking goes as the drinking goes. He wouldn't be metered against Bercilak or the main squeeze either way - he's just Phreak, and not a beast designed only to kill kegs and howl. Some forms are not for certain classes. This is the way of things, even with nano-augments. Sprawled out by the linen mat, Sylvi looks up, into the skies over Hope, with a bored drawling sigh. "What do I get, when I win the bet? Go ahead, set some stakes. What hopeless thing do you want, and what inevitable thing do I get when I'm right?"
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	"You're damn right it is," Phreak replies, his first piece evidently a pair of boots. They're leather, though not any earthly kind, and it's a fair bet to assume that at least part of their protective ability comes from the integrated hardware, cased in sleek protective metal along the outside. D-... don't say those words," Phreak sputters, as he opens up the briefcase. "It's not inevitable, goddamn you, but fine--stakes! I put the armor together, you help me, uh, 'convince' some dickheads to fork over a matching pair of pieces." Inside the briefcase, there are seven glass bottles, each with integrated push-pumps (and distinctive warning labels) for the liquid nanites contained within. "If you win and I can't put the whole suit together, then I guess I'll give you the honor of being the first person to test it. You like fighting, yeah?" He doesn't seem like he super does--but he likely knows what he's getting into. Barring any objection from her, Phreak gets to work on the boots, starting by opening up the metal panels on each. Circuit boards, status monitors, obtuse cables and ports form a tightly packed mess clearly intended to be serviced by some in-house technician and not the user. The sequencer, a palm-sized computer, is plugged into both boots, running a command prompt, while... "Nanopool is in the right, with Sid's..." He's in his element.
Sylvi	Sylvi carries right on being amused with the proceedings, Phreak's sputtering only encouraging the sprawling to her sass. "Guns aren't hopeless. That's boring. If you want me to make your petty wish come true, make an offering, excite me." Sylvi leans forward from her sprawl, hand steadying her on the ground as she rattles in his ear. "You 'win', and prove that you're not just some random guy jolly green took pity on, and sssome flashy guns will be a petty wishssh." He focuses on the boots. Sylvi slips around behind his other shoulder, sibilant into his other ear. "Like I want your suit." There's no point if Phreak dumps his own upgrades. "If you blow it? Especially if you blow it?" Her words drip sizzle, strobe bright green orbs before his vision. "I'll own you." Subsiding, her tone comes from his 'rear' arc, the base of his neck "A single fight won't be your concern. You'll stop dragging on him, one way or another." From above the crown of his head, poured like syrup over his scalp, down to his ears. "No presssure, Phreak."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	As he works, Phreak's expression shifts to a smirk. "It doesn't sound like you need my help to be 'excited'--hrK!" No pressure. Ignoring the shiver that travels down his spine, and the dark grey that's crept up his pointed ears, Phreak steels himself. Taking a deep breath, he presses the pump and forces a bootup on... the boot. The liquid nanites flood into a small reservoir tucked irritatingly beneath a circuit board. The leather undergoes a violent color change, then, going from a somewhat drab grey to a brown-rust gradient. His hands rapidly fix panels back into place, screws fastened, and so on. The other boot is much the same process. The leggings, however, need different tools. The panels are on the front, and serve both as plating to protect arteries as well as housings for a litany of protective technology. Wire cutters snip an unassuming blue cable tucked against the side. He's sweating--but admirably, Phreak seems to work very well under fire. Even if it isn't the kind of fire he's used to. "Kay. Now..." This part seems to take timing. As the nanites are pumped into the legging internals, Phreak is watching his palm-computer for some sort of sign or prompt...
Sylvi	Phreak attempts an unwise course of verbal action, and is saved by a primal response to the proximity of danger. The choking-instinct, a sharp recoiling. Maybe not that one! Isn't fear energizing? The motion of nanobot to boot is interesting in its passion and focus and delicacy to Sylvi, not the specific product or function. The legs being frontally plated... Well, there's not much room to put it all anywhere else. It all has to take hits, and that's admirable in its own right. What can be accomplished by many little things working together. Phreak works well under pressure, which is to his benefit. Sylvi watches the panel with shared interest, expectant in a more languid sense. Interfering is also against the point - he was either worth yanking out of the muck by the root for transplant, whole, or something to fix. "Nnnow?" She repeats, hanging on the 'w'.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	"Now," he says, briskly stripping the wire with a deft flick of his screwdriver, before twisting the bare filament to splice it into another system. "Legs have a few extras; didn't want 'em drawing power before the nanites got into the reservoir. But you also can't wait too long, or it powers down thinking you bit the dust." With them done, the drab grey turns once more to wasteland sand-and-rust gradient, and this time, the panels change shape slightly, too, becoming more sleek and compact. "Gloves are easy," he says. True to his word, he's got them both finished much faster than the boots or pants. "It's the... I dunno. I'm sure Berc knows some fucked up larper word for it. Shirt? Cuirass? Chest...thing, that's the worst." Most of the cuirass is indeed plating and technology, understandably. It's an involved process because there are quite a few systems to pre-emptively disable, splices to make, crammed-in adjustments to make with tweezers. 'I can haz mone,' asks a colorful bird perched nearby, tilting its head at Phreak. "Fresh out, reet, but you can has some homemade fuck offs," says Phreak, extending a middle finger to the animal as he forces a boot to OS. "...aaand nanites." The completed set of armor looks like it would do any wasteland wanderer proud, with colors that remind of the desert for the leather portions, and sleek, segmented plates for the internals that carry Just Enough menace.
Sylvi	Phreak assembles more of his armor set, in the actual physical assembly set and not the spreadsheeting out and dreaming fond thoughts about big numbers. Actual, tactile, physical working, crimping, turning and splicing build the set up from a pair of boots to-- "Curiass." Sylvi accepts without argument. "It's the center, of course it's got the most going on." The progress had quieted her bullying to a dull boil of looming presence, the impatient kind of interested. Percolating underneath the surface. It comes out while Phreak sets back with the wasteland hero fit finished and Sylvi aims her beer bottle at the reet's perch. Instead of slinging crystal glass, she just snorts, puts down the bottle, and pats Phreak on the shoulder as she stands up. "Congratulations, Phreak." "You look like every other dumbass in the wasteland. You're a one of a kind, unique hero, filled with top-grade nano-augments... Like all the other mantis-strugglers. Would a few pistols fix this?" "May-be. Can't tell. We'll just have to test run it, buddy." "Pal." "Then we'll figure out if it's worth his time to have around or not."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Phreak chuckles. "Pistols? Fuck that. Bigger mags, better selection for burst-fire, and cluster bullets--SMGs are just schway." His nanites dissolve the armor, and the various tools of his trade. He's gotten his cool back, it seems, wiping the sweat from his brow. "But I could talk shop about that shit all day. You want a test run, it's on the table for you, any time." Crossing his arms, he brushes his short black hair from his face, and gives Sylvi a measuring look. "There's one thing I wanna know," he says, yellow eyes searching her suspiciously. "Who's the executioner that told you how to get under my skin? Huh?" That dark grey flush is back on his cheeks. "Was it Berc? Liza? Rita?! I wanna know whose finger pressed that fucking button."
Sylvi	"Ehe. Uhu. Ehe." Sylvi snerks, looks (down) at Phreak, and then does another little pressure-pop of laughter. It's not put-on -- she just finds it funny, then looks at him and finds it funny again. The ignorance. "The little buttons you dream up to hit people like you mean it instead of how hard you really hit are neat, but it's all just games to me." Rising up, Sylvi dusts off the sides of her legs from her dirt seat with a few quick swipes, and then plands her hands akimbo on her hips. "Who?" "That's your one question?" "Who?" She looms over him, stepping right up to him, so that she can lean down and press her forehead back to his, and stare her eyes down into his, too-wide, too-green. "Me. I did. I told you, and you didn't listen." "You're no longer allowed to suck. To feel sorry for the state of things. To scrape, and want, because you don't lack." She shoves off him, again, like a nod that carries like a shove, and heads towards the suggestion of a street. "I'll press my fingers into more than a button if you keep dragging down my favorites with your suck." "'No' presssure, Phreak." She adds, with a tilt of her head, and then continues on to the whom-pah.