[OPEN] How much of it's genetics? How much of it is fate?

[chronomancer]

Characters: jade!Eridan & YOU! 
Setting: Workshop
Format: Starting with action, but I'll match you.
Summary: Eridan emerges from his self-imposed exile for a while to clean his rifles.
Warnings: Eridan's deadpan. Potential violence if he gets pissed; lots and lots of rifles. Gamzee. Gory, ironic death via Gamzee. Goddammit, Gamzee.

[He started off with one. And then he doomed himself a few times. And well. It wasn't like he could just let them go to waste, when they started piling up.

Laser rifles need a different type of maintenance than the usual kind, but it's still maintenance in the end.

So there's a sullen troll, half hidden behind a pile of guns, carefully cleaning one by one. It's a methodical and repetitive process, but it's not like Eridan seems to mind too terribly. He's just minding his business, but hey. Maybe if you ask very nicely, he'll give you one.

Maybe.]

Comments

[hystericull]

[Solitude is a good thing. Solitude lets the inner turmoil work itself out. Solitude can bring you down from the edge of going fucking shithive. Solitude, in turn, can make you feel like you're going shithive all over again.]

[A brief respite from his loneliness finds Gamzee in the workshop, of all places. Lots and lots of things have taken place in this room. Some good, some bad, some... confusing, some morbid, some...]

[He's standing behind a pile of guns that he knows he's seen many, many times before. The last time they'd seen each other, his head was still a mess. The time before that... well, he wasn't sure if "mess" could do justice what was going on in his brainmeats.]

[Because of this, one question had always seemed to escape him whenever an opportune moment to ask it had arisen. Gamzee stood still, staring down unfocused at the rather impressive pile of firearms before him, and definitely not at the troll that was working so diligently to clean them all.]

The fuck wasn't you all up and being to let me fuckin' use at one of these little nasty motherfuckers the first time 'round, you selfish-ass mother fucking bulgechafe?

[With a rough nudge of his good foot, a few of the guns at the top of the pile went rolling forward, creating a small avalanche of metal and wood.]

[chronomancer]

[Eridan made a long-suffering noise as the top of the pile rolled out of order. Again. He gave Gamzee a look over the rim of his sunglasses, the reproach there more because of how long it had been since he last saw the clown, than his destructive antics. Although Eridan shouldn't really judge, considering how long he'd been in hiding himself.]

Because shooting your own head off is one of the most stupid ways to die, Gam.

[Make of that what you will, juggalo.]

[hystericull]

[Nonplussed, he rolled his shoulders.]

Come the motherfuck on. I all coulda been makin' it what's fuckin' much more painful that that all would be.

[He was being morbid on purpose - one might have been able to tell from the lack of enthusiasm such a statement from him would have normally held. He bent at the waist, grabbing one of the rifles up gracelessly by its stock and bringing it to his face for inspection. He rapped a few knobby knuckles against the chamber a few times, enjoying the painful sensation the metal brought against his frigid joints.]

Metal be at motherfuckin' much more effective with bludgeoning, I'd fuckin' be venturing up one harshest of guesses, bro.

[chronomancer]

Satisfying, you mean.

[Eridan smirks at that, relishing in the morbid enough to not question Gamzee at all. Not that ever does, anyway. There's something reassuring in implicit trust like that, you don't have to question anything, really.]

Shooting heads and poppin' them like grapes is more efficient. Bludgeoning a fucker into pulp is just that much more satisfying.

[hystericull]

Can't never say fuckin' I ever all was no one to be up and gettin' my use on in one of these fuckers.

[Gamzee runs his fingers along the rifle experimentally, tapping his overgrown, split fingernails along the slick metal and turning the thing around so he can stare properly down the barrel.]

Why's it so fuckin' long?

[chronomancer]

If you shoot your face off I will laugh.

[The seemingly callous remark goes along with a wide smirk as Eridan stops cleaning to focus his attention entirely on Gamzee.]

Might never let you live it down, either.

[He then shrugs again.]

In normal rifles, 'cause the length of the barrel helps stabilize the speed and trajectory of the bullet so it actually flies out straight. It also makes them spin to give it a longer flight. With the laser the barrel just concentrates the energy into a compact shot so there's a slight augmented potency to it.

[Don't get him talking about guns, man. Goddammit, he won't shut up now.]

[hystericull]

[Gamzee briefly entertained the thought of what his face would look like as a purple stump before deciding he didn't have the attention span for Eridan's explanation. He thought it would be much more entertaining to see how many times he could flip the rifle in the air before catching it again. With his bad foot, he'd test its growing strength by kicking up another into his hands, adding it to the spinning death machine he had going.]

Ahhh.

[These fuckers were fun to play with! He had a mile-wide grin on his face to match the one on Eridan's, kicking up another rifle to balance the butt on his toe before he attempted to manhandle it along with its two brothers.]

Think I all found fuckin' a much better use for 'em.

[chronomancer]

[Eridan stared at Gamzee's antics for a moment, smirk melting into a fond smile.]

They're not clubs, Gamzee.

[But it was more of a scripted protest than any real complaint. Really. It's Gamzee being Gamzee and he looks happy and that's enough to make Eridan happy too. Absently, he goes back to cleaning another one.]

[hystericull]

[He continues for a while, lost in the rhythm of catch, throw, catch, throw to even remember there was a world that existed around him. It was a feeling he loved, and a feeling he often simulated by the tins of slime he was starting to down on a regular basis, again. He should really look into throwing more shit around - he hadn't done it in forever.]

[After some time, after the third gun had been kicked into the cycle and had a few goes around, he snatched the first out of the air, the second in the opposite hand, and the third sandwiched between the first two. Afterwards, they were deposited unceremoniously back on top of the pile, probably triggering another avalanche.]

Don't fuckin' matter much. A motherfucker can juggle mostly fuckin' anything what them scrawny little stick arms of his are being able to pick up.

[Gamzee seemed a little distracted as he spoke, eyeing the pile suspiciously.]

[chronomancer]

[Eridan just barely managed to hold the pile in place, giving Gamzee a little look that softened somewhat as he continued juggling.]

I think that's pretty cool, actually.

[And for once Eridan's actually sincere.]

It'd be cooler if you weren't using rifles and risking hurting yourself, though.

[hystericull]

[Gamzee snickered at that, pulling on the hem of his t-shirt and stretching it down over his unsightly ribcage. When did his clothes start shrinking? Or, maybe he was growing again. Either explanation seemed to have an equal amount of plausibility. Arching an eyebrow at Eridan, he let out a puff of air in exasperation.]

But, bro. If the most harshest of dangers ain't a motherfuckin' factor involved, ain't no brother or bitch up in that audience riotus gonna be givin' you their fucking undivideds, you feel me?

[He nudged the pile again with his foot, testing its consistency.]

[chronomancer]

[Eridan shrugged. He wasn't a performer, so what did he know? But he did give Gamzee another warning glare.]

If you flop into that pile, Makara, a shovel will be giving you its fucking undivideds.

[hystericull]

[Harsh. How did you know th-- THAT'S NOT WHAT HE WAS THINKING AT ALL!!!]

The fuck you up and motherfucking build this shit for if you all ain't even gonna be at fuckin' utilizing it!?

[Eridan, has he ever listened to a word you say? Has he ever heeded any threats of shovels to the face in previous instances? ...Didn't think so. Have a gangly clown flying ass-first into the center of this stupid, shitty rifle pile.]

[chronomancer]

[Oh shit, son, rifles are not water they're not meant to splash.]

GAMZEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

[hystericull]

[The piercing screech of Eridan's cry almost surpassed the loud blasts of numerous rifles. It was a cacophony of girly shrieks, bullet spray, and anguished honks as the firearms making up the pile lit up simultaneously. Puffs of smoke littered the air as a cartridge found its way squarely between Gamzee's shoulderblades, not missing a beat before exploding out through his chest.]

[There were many more shots that went off around the workshop, and Eridan himself would get a generous shower of purple blood before taking a slug directly beneath his left eye, which exited promptly through the back of his head and took a good portion of jade-slathered chunks with it.]

H..ahah...a...hh...

[The laughter was barely a raspy gasp before it was followed by a rush of blood, spilling down Gamzee's chin and neck before his entire body fell limp against the pile.]

[chronomancer]

[It was, as far as he was concerned, of the fastest, easiest deaths he'd gone through. It was almost immediate. Still the sound of his own voice bouncing inside his skull and before the shower of light and smoke and blood caught up with his senses, he was gone.

Time rippled.

Eridan stepped forward, as soon as the blood was still and the bodies were slumped on the ground.]

Told you, didn't I? But it's not like you ever listen.

[A sigh. He pushed the sunglasses up his nose and kicked at Gamzee's leg, irritated.]

And still, I can't hate you, you stupid fuck.

[He tugged on the bodies, carrying and putting them aside and away in a corner, until they were collected. And with an enormous, put upon sigh, set up to clean the area so no speck of jade or purple remained. Then, he returned to his original task, setting aside the damaged rifles and once more rubbing most of the grit off, in an almost zen-like mood.]