Chapter Text
Robert, to the Z-Team: Pick your battles, people. Pick…pick fewer battles than that. Put some back; that’s too many.
*police sirens blaring in the distance*
Waterboy, who hasn’t done a single thing wrong in his life: They’ve discov- found me.
Punch Up, who has active warrants for public intoxication, battery, and second-degree murder: Tough luck, lad.
Prism: If I accidentally sat on a voodoo doll of myself, would I be trapped and starve to death?
Malevola: How am I supposed to know?
Prism: Bitch, as if we don’t use you as our source of knowledge of the occult.
Malevola:*Sigh*
Malevola: You wouldn’t be trapped.
Robert: Since when was babysitting the Z-Team my–
Robert: Oh my God, that’s exactly my job.
Blonde Blazer, muttering under her breath: You can say “please” and “thank you” all you want, and they will never repeat it, but you say “ass-faced motherfucker” ONE time–
Flambae: Am I straight?
Prism: Not even a little bit.
Flambae:
Flambae: I meant my parking.
Prism: Oh. You good, girl.
Chase: Fucking Blazer thinks I’m “too negative” and “hostile” in my goddamn written reports.
Chase: If any of my reports offended you, my deepest fucking apologies. I honestly didn’t think any of you mother fuckers could read.
Prism: Oh god, he texted you “hi.” Punctuation included. Bitch, you so dead.
Flambae: It’s Bob Bob, he’s just being grammatically correct!
*meanwhile*
Robert:--and then I used a period so he’d know I’m mad at him.
Invisigal: That doesn’t say “I’m mad”, it says “Write a will.”
Robert: Even better.
Robert, watch people do something stupid: Oh God, what idiots.
Robert, realising it’s the Z-Team: Oh no, those are my idiots.
Invisigal: I’m impressed. I didn’t think that, out of all of us, you would have had a fake ID.
Waterboy: *mumbling*
Malevola: What?
Waterboy: …you need to be an adul– over eighteen at Petco to pet–hold the puppies.