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The Honda super quiet camp generator had enough juice for once fancy thing at a time, which could be a pain. But it was able to do it down there in the Barracks Space crystal free, and at only the noise level of background music to a restaurant sort of shingdig. It couldn't be run all the time, since Youma got attracted to energy sources, but in this case, it could run the stolen-from-Target Sharper Image Pizza Box Oven. Frozen in 10-12 minutes, fresh in 13-15, rising crust in 25-27 minutes— none too shabby for not having to mug a delivery bloke any time they wanted hot food.

Haüyne had one earbud in, bouncing in seated place while watching the proverbial pot of water, or pizza. "It's another two minutes- it's one of cheese filled crusts. But ya gotta let it sit for a couple minutes too or you'll scorch your tongue. "

By rote, the corrupted reached a hand around to scoot long brown tresses out of the way to allow Bus the more immediate space on the side for his scooching. Being in the Dark Kingdom space made it a lot easier to stay powered up, which felt comfortable and natural, but had the ongoing problem of all the HAIR.

Still, it seemed to cause Bus less sputtering being in uniform. Instead of the stares and stumbled words if Haüyne took on Morgan's mien and chose to meander their space in t-shirt and underoos. It was a terrible trial of choices: the comfort of less hair and underoos, or the comfort of power and a conversational flatmate.

"Ya got a ka-nify? You could cut up the boxtop for plates~"

"Riiiiiiight, well, whateve's man. I KNEW you got one, I'm pickin' up what you're puttin' down. That's a dumb rule if they're trying to say you can't have a knife or scissors. Blind people use them, ya know? It's not like ver blind person out there has a live-in helper to peel every potato or chop up every onion." And Bus wasn't blind, even. Seeing-impaired? Was it really impaired for a snakey-youma going on? Maybe Differently-Seeing? He was scaled not stupid. And even dumb people could use knives and scissors. Kindergarten with five year olds. " You're a grade a badass, now, just need adjusting time to the new palace of your soul. "

Bus was definitely able to handle anything a five year old could handle. Haüyne reached over and got the box, then bonked it lightly against Pyro's upper arm as an indicator. "Right Cheeyah"

" You know where your fingers are, even if you can't see the box. Feel the edges of the box to get an idea in your head of the dimensions and do the do! It doesn't have to be perfect, just plate-like pieces. And that's half a minute down. By the time you get it cut the pizza be ready, friendo. "

"Maybe I am! Mayyyybe I am. " Haüyne drew the syllable out enough to mimic Mae West's distinctive, purring drawls. For whatever reason, old black and whites had been comforting for media consumption during downtime. Few as those were. But it was still a necessity to rest muscles and injuries, when not working at the barn or hunting up energy and starseeds. "Carrying a utility pocket knife like a boyscout is a little different in form and function than an officer's weapon. Sure one can be used like the other, but really. I'm talkin' pocket knives and utility things, not formal-fancy Captain B.S."

"By the time using a pocket knife for stabby stabby makes sense your new digs as a half-youma would definitely be better anyway. Or just....using your hands. You can do as much damage and more breaking someone's jaw with a fist as poking them with a sharp pencil. " The pizza oven made it's bells and whistles and the corrupted opened the hatch to allow the steam and heavenly scents of hot food to permeate their space. "Pizza's lit, sure, but empanadas are where 'Lit' becomes truly divine, friendo."

"Feast your soul on that . Finish your plate, mang, I can slice it and plate it and we're in business."

"I hear Captain Pyro has an eight pack. I hear he's shredded." The corrupted super reached out to appreciatively pat-pat the proffered tum, "Good progress towardsa laundreh time-saving device, thar."


Then heaped a large piece onto the makeshift plate for him once he had it completed. Waited, in less of a hurry with suddenly thoughtfulness, before plating a second. Watched. It's not easy for him to know when someone's just watching him anymore. Maybe he can't see a smile at all. At least smiles can be heard. Will it get worse or better if and when he's promoted? Can he even see youma? They don't always had blood, or bloodish...whatever. They aren't always warm.

"Kimchi? No kidding, that's some adventurous stuff. Gets pretty spicy. Oh, hey, is spicy better or worse at all now, with the colder metabolism an stuff? And whatdya wanna watch?" At last the second piece was plated and Haüyne closed things down on the machines and generator to shift to Movie-Mode. Which also involved knee-walking over to the nest of cushions and blankets.

It was still just as good to use 'watch' even if it was mostly 'listen' in Bus' case.

“Is it all Double-Think up in your brain pan? Like it’s all ‘******** pizza’ and you’re like ‘omg I love cheese where has it been all my life’, or...is it not so separate and you’re one but with weird impulses that are new and feel all foreign?”

Haüyne powered down the rig to avoid problems with the chaotic wildlife, gathered self and pizza and shifted over in a knee-walk to the most nested space of blankets and pillows. Die Hard was an old movie, ballllls old at something like 1988. But it was pretty widely reviewed as a great action flick, and something shown often around the Christmas holidays on cable television. It was probably that Bus had seen it or parts of it, possibly even that Morgan had at some point in the haze that existed behind the name Jack. It promised the explosions and quipped, one-liner violence that would entertain to hear if not be actively seen. And it was better than Kick-a**, which Haüyne had scan-watched through rapidly and found disturbingly too close to the caped-crusading they all did for realisies. Now wasn’t the best time to go into the why’s of the discomfort, but it would probably still nag there.

Do things nag in Bus’ mind? Does he still hurt from his parents? Those ********. We don’t need them with what we’ve built here. But need isn’t want. Parents are something people usually really want. I can’t…..remember mine. Can’t want what I don’t remember, I guess. Metallia would be enough. If she talked to me. Said I was her Executioner. Still so far away from that...still so far. A lanky arm was raised to make a cuddle up space immediately next to the Corrupted Senshi. “C’mon mang, queue’s up and ready to watch and roast without your built in air conditioning. Git ovah here.”

“Eat too many, too often, and you’re gonna be in for a load of snek. Stay with me, yo- don’t eat them a lot, whatever that voice in your head says. ” That much was plain in all the basic training and manuals and shizzle. At least the movie choice was solidly in the Win circle for friendo morale. Haüyne didn’t pay specific attention to the lengthy pause in scootching once the other officer had finished enough of his initial pizza to have decided to start to move-in for the cuddle-warmth. Bus moved slowly sometimes. And at weird times. The easiest explanation was the life-overhaul that was navigating with altered sight. Imagine conflicting instincts, too. Are they instincts? Youma aren’t exactly naturally occurring creatires. Some have speech and thought and all, but instinct is like...genetic survival directive and it isn’t like they stop surviving even if something dusts them they just reform. Are they like soul-zombies? Is bus half-zombie, technically, then?

Blue erotic, Red as blush.
Sensation cold, hard, sharp as teeth and a white firework turning hot with breath, blood, crush of flesh and screaming nerves in
Pleasure
Pain
Might break red and bruise blue the skin and what-bite-why-bus
Haüyne’s spine pulled taut, arching with an escaped breath and noise that was some sort of cry between, not clean—”Py!”

Don’t. Panic. Look. At. Him.

Hand clapped audibly to neck, Haüyne sat up in a bolt and stared back at the other Captain. Even if Senshi weren’t called captains, or lieutenants, or generals. As deep an inhale as lungs would take broke the silence, slow, enough to tighten and creak the leather and vinyl of uniform. Enough to hurt. Remember what happened with Rockman, showing any distress. Hoping for any sort of support when I was afraid and completely clueless what was happening. People don’t support me. People don’t want to support me- just Metallia. He’s not Metallia. He’s lost and has no idea what just happened.

“You wanna get frisky, my man, give a pal a little warning, yeh?” Haüyne rubbed the warming spot below choker, where it was likely going to bruise. Lampshades and humor, and a calculated chuckle, “You’ve never even hinted you wanted a go on your disco. I don’t have my dancin’ clothes on. “

Get a laugh, and then we can work around to it. What was that....his hand...he was gonna starseed me? Maybe. Does he know what he was doing? Or was that the snake, like he was sayin'....that's grim timing. Grim over and under and through all. Geez. Would he had been sorry....would he have eaten it? ....
Would anyone care?