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Subspace sighs as he drives along the highway, his single eye scanning the boring landscape as he gently presses a foot on the gas pedal and grips the steering wheel.
Behind him, Hyperlaser groans and tosses and turns, lying down and taking up the seats in the back as he lazes around with his rifle carelessly propped up behind the front seat. The sniper looks almost serene, far too undignified, and sleep-deprived as fuck.
"Almost there, Hyperlaser," the scientist calls out, breaking the relative silence of the car and causing his coworker's head to shoot up. "This is so boring."
The other man clicks his tongue disapprovingly and lets his head fall back down on the seat. "If you try driving around the place with no regard for traffic rules OR my comfort again, I'm gonna fuck you in the ass."
Subspace arches a brow and glances at the rearview mirror. "I can shove a crystal up your ass," he shoots back, focusing back on the road.
Hyperlaser simply grumbles in irritation and goes back to sleep.
Rolling his eyes, Subspace finds a bar by the side of the road and drives over to it, slowing the car down to a halt as he stretches his arms. With a yawn, he turns the key and takes it out, pocketing it as he opens the door and steps out of the car he's spent an ungodly amount of hours cooped up in, both as a driver and as a passenger.
It's a miracle I somehow got a driver's license with how I am, he thinks, opening the passenger door and nudging the marksman's boot with his hand. "Wake up, we're gonna bone each other right here, right now."
Hyperlaser slowly sits up to glare at him as he rubs at the visor of his helmet. "You're even more unfunny than I am," he mutters, grabbing his rifle and slinging it on his back as he steps outside. "This a faction establishment or what?"
Subspace sighs. "I think it's a Playground bar. Didn't think they'd have it in them to have a place like this. Whatever, it's far out so of course they would..." He clears his throat. "Anyways, let's invite ourselves in."
They both walk into the bar, ignoring the wary glances of the other patrons (Subspace thinks they look like kids who never grew up with how messy their appearances are) and taking seats together as the bartender slowly walks up. "You two ain't from around here," he says.
"Two of your strongest drinks," Subspace interjects, not even addressing the remark as the bartender glances at him. "You'll be handsomely rewarded."
The bartender huffs, walking off. "Blackrockians," he mumbles under his breath. The duo ignore it as he returns with their drinks. "Enjoy," he says, taking the money that the scientist hands him and walking away.
Subspace has lost count of how many times he drank from his share. He and Hyperlaser probably fought over it. He may have lost track of time.
"I feel like shit," he mutters. Beside him, Hyperlaser clutches his helmet, his head rocking back and forth like some sort of human pendulum.
The marksman doesn't reply, but it's obvious that he feels the same way. They should head back into the car before something stupid happens to them. Or before they happen to do something stupid.
They're just about to make it to the door when a patron loudly exhales and grumbles, "Finally, the Blackrockian faggots are leaving."
Hyperlaser's head instantly swivels around along with the rest of his torso as he turns to walk to the patron who said it. Subspace tiredly swears under his breath and follows him as the irritated and drunk marksman stomps over to the idiot. "What. Did you. Call us?" he hisses.
"F-faggots," the asshole sputters, trying to keep his nerve as he stares down the endless black of the other man's visor. "You're a faggot! And your boyfriend too!"
The scientist has to suppress an offended laugh as he stops behind Hyperlaser, watching the exchange go down. "Do you think I'm his faggot?" the marskman slowly and deliberately asks.
"Yeah!"
Before Subspace can grab him, Hyperlaser grabs the patron and slams him headfirst into his table, sending cups and bottles falling to the floor as the rest of his body hits the hard wooden piece of furniture.
The patrons immediately break into angry mumbling as they all slowly stand up, angry and offended looks etched into their visages as some grab nearby objects and hunch their shoulders.
Subspace looks around, looks back at a fuming and now-armed Hyperlaser, and sighs. "Well," he says, "guess we might have some excitement after all."
When they get back to the car, it's while limping and injured, and still drunk as shit as they both get into the backseat. Closing the passenger doors and locking all of them, Subspace starts to sift through the first aid kit as he glances at the other man's wounds. "Hhhot as always, huh?"
"Shut up," Hyperlaser mutters, discarding his helmet as he nurses his face. "Those assholes really loved going after my helmet."
"Mhm," the scientist mumbles, wrapping a bandage around his wounds and patting them down. "They won't be going after us after that display though. Not even while we're sleeping in the car."
"Uh huh," Hyperlaser vocalizes, throwing himself against the scientist and wrapping his limbs around him. "Thanks for the save."
"Of course," Subspace replies, returning the hug and resting on his chest. "You're my faggot, after all."
For his playful jest, Hyperlaser smacks him over the head with his helmet hard enough to send him to sleep.