( sharkface tanks the pain like he didn't just have his whole face smashed in, and felix darts his eyes away, threading his tongue between his teeth as his jaw tightens around a grimace. discomfort, maybe, or the tiniest, flickering sliver of grudging respect. this fucking guy. he's a character and a half. )

Pretty sure no one in the history of the entire universe has ever died of blue balls. This is edging on steroids.

( he wants to be more derisive, more jeering, but the drugs burn through him like a gut-punch and knock the wind out of him. they shouldn't talk or do anything except stand in their designated corners and ride each fresh wave of gas vented into the cab straight to a miserably uncomfortable hell. his fingers twitch on his thigh, within an inch of his knife. playing it smart would be taking care of this shit now, before sharkface one-ups him first. put it to bed. move on and suffer the fallout. he can do fallout. fallout's easy.

but remember that sharkface is volatile, and a doped up short fuse with an agenda to burn is a die roll he doesn't know he's willing to risk. he has the advantage, a full set of gear and a loaded firearm. sometimes that doesn't mean anything.

his thumb hooks into his helmet, pulled from his knees back into the tight clench of his thighs. closer, just in case. )

A guy like you must hate this shit.

( it could be bait, or it could be a barb. )