B. An egg. This is all for an egg? This is is all for an egg, and he’s being press ganged into doing some company’s grocery shopping. Fuck that. “I’m not getting them their breakfast.”
He’s also not saying that too loudly, keeping it so low that only someone sitting beside him would hear. Rictor doesn’t know who or what these people, no matter how many PowerPoint slides he pretended to be bored with while trying to memorize everything, but he saw the state of the guy getting carted around and drew his own conclusions. He knows that this Jorgmund doesn’t play.
We don’t need mutants mucking up the place.
Ric’s left eye twitches, and it has nothing to do with shocks he’d been given at orientation. Shocks, plural. He should keep his mouth shut - he knows that nothing good will come out of arguing with her, but if her only concern with saving the townspeople is that they might have mutated... “No, we couldn’t have a mutant mucking up the place. They might get their filthy mutant genes all over the humvee.”
He feigns a look of muted surprise, but he’s so flat in delivery that it’s not convincing or funny. From where he’s sitting, they already know he’s a mutant. That’s why he’s here with a collar implanted in his neck.
“Oh, no. There’s a mutant here already.” Ric fingered the top of his issued jumpsuit. “I guess Jorgmund doesn’t mind the stench so much when we’re useful. I’m gonna enjoy it when ▪︎-|A|-▪︎ finds out about you.”
He wants to test their ability to track, despite (more like because of) her reminder not to, but he abandons any such thoughts when the vehicles draw up on Pilton. Something hit that wall hard, but that’s not what unnerves him. Maybe it’s the mist, or the lack of people for a place this size, or the buildings, but Ric suddenly and belatedly finds the flamethrower gun much more interesting. It never hurts to have three different ways to hit something.
Julio Richter (Rictor) | Marvel Comics
B. An egg. This is all for an egg? This is is all for an egg, and he’s being press ganged into doing some company’s grocery shopping. Fuck that. “I’m not getting them their breakfast.”
He’s also not saying that too loudly, keeping it so low that only someone sitting beside him would hear. Rictor doesn’t know who or what these people, no matter how many PowerPoint slides he pretended to be bored with while trying to memorize everything, but he saw the state of the guy getting carted around and drew his own conclusions. He knows that this Jorgmund doesn’t play.
We don’t need mutants mucking up the place.
Ric’s left eye twitches, and it has nothing to do with shocks he’d been given at orientation. Shocks, plural. He should keep his mouth shut - he knows that nothing good will come out of arguing with her, but if her only concern with saving the townspeople is that they might have mutated... “No, we couldn’t have a mutant mucking up the place. They might get their filthy mutant genes all over the humvee.”
He feigns a look of muted surprise, but he’s so flat in delivery that it’s not convincing or funny. From where he’s sitting, they already know he’s a mutant. That’s why he’s here with a collar implanted in his neck.
“Oh, no. There’s a mutant here already.” Ric fingered the top of his issued jumpsuit. “I guess Jorgmund doesn’t mind the stench so much when we’re useful. I’m gonna enjoy it when ▪︎-|A|-▪︎ finds out about you.”
He wants to test their ability to track, despite (more like because of) her reminder not to, but he abandons any such thoughts when the vehicles draw up on Pilton. Something hit that wall hard, but that’s not what unnerves him. Maybe it’s the mist, or the lack of people for a place this size, or the buildings, but Ric suddenly and belatedly finds the flamethrower gun much more interesting. It never hurts to have three different ways to hit something.
From a distance.