Chapter Text
Rudo had always believed trash had opinions.
Not in some poetic, metaphorical way, though he could wax dramatic about that too if the mood struck. No, he meant literal opinions. The kind that whispered through rustling bags at 3 A.M., or groaned when you stepped on a can the wrong way, or, on very special, very cursed days, actually spoke in full, judgmental sentences when you were already halfway through doing something monumentally stupid.
Conveniently, today was one of those days.
He'd been minding his own business (a phrase that, in Rudo's vocabulary, usually meant "quietly plotting the next minor war crime against boredom"), crouched in the back of the squad's equipment shed, trying to convince a particularly stubborn pile of discarded Vital Instrument casings to stop rattling every time he breathed near them. The casings were winning. They rattled harder. Rudo was losing his patience. And then, from somewhere inside the pile, specifically from a cracked, slime-coated helmet that had no business still having a functioning speaker.. came a voice.
"Yo, kid. You gonna keep breathing on me like that, or are you finally gonna admit you're the reason the last three missions smelled like wet socks and regret?"
Rudo froze, finger still jammed in a crack like he was trying to pick a lock on reality itself.
The helmet crackled again, voice tinny and smug. "Yeah, I'm talking to you, gremlin. Everyone knows you sneak around here 'borrowing' parts. Might as well own up before Zanka finds out and uses your head as a soccer ball. Or worse, before Enjin gives you that disappointed look and you melt into a puddle of shame that not even a guy would place a coat over for a lady to walk across."
Rudo blinked at the helmet. The helmet's cracked visor glinted back like it was raising an eyebrow. He should have smashed it. Should have buried it deeper in the pile. Should have at least pretended he was hallucinating from too many trash fumes.
Instead he leaned in closer and hissed, "..'kay, talking trash. What's your deal? You got a grudge or just bored?"
The speaker buzzed with what sounded suspiciously like a snort. "Bored? Kid, I've been sitting in this pile since the Sphere was still pretending to care about recycling. I got opinions on everything. Your footwork sucks, your jokes land like wet paper, and you keep staring at Enjin like he's the last clean water bottle in the Pit. Pathetic. Fix it or I'm gonna start narrating your every move out loud during briefings. Imagine: 'And here comes Rudo, tripping over his own ego again-'"
"Oi, what's going on over here?"
Zanka stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it looked ready to launch into orbit. (HOLY SHIT IS THAT A GD REFERENCE?!?!)
He had that calm-on-the-surface look he always wore when he was two seconds from deciding someone needed a reality check delivered. His eyes flicked from Rudo to the slime-dripping helmet in Rudo's hands, then back again, like he was trying to decide which one was the bigger idiot.
Rudo didn't miss a beat. He held the helmet up higher, like showing off a trophy. "Zanka! Perfect timing. Meet my new life coach. He just called me pathetic and threatened to narrate my life like a bad documentary. We're about to have words. Wanna referee?"
Zanka's expression didn't change, but something in his jaw tightened, the universal sign that he'd already mentally filed this under "why do I even bother." He stepped inside anyway, boots crunching on scattered casings, and peered at the helmet like it might bite.
"..you're holding a talking piece of junk. And arguing with it. In the equipment shed. During off-hours."
The helmet buzzed eagerly. "Hey, pretty boy! You the one who keeps pretending you're 'average' while secretly grinding like your life depends on it? Respect the hustle, but your denial game's weak. Own the mediocrity or it'll own you."
Zanka's eye twitched. The twitch of a man who'd just been personally attacked by recycled garbage.
Rudo cackled, nearly dropping the helmet. "See? He's got opinions on everybody! Told me my footwork sucks too."
Zanka stared at the helmet for a long, silent beat. Then he looked at Rudo like he was reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
"You know what? Forget it. I don't wanna know. I came in here for spare parts, not to watch you adopt haunted trash as a pet." He turned to leave, but paused at the door, half-turning back with that signature mix of sarcasm and barely-contained exasperation. "If that thing starts narrating during drills, I'm smashing it. And then you. In that order."
...
For a long second the shed was silent except for the distant hum of the ventilation fans and the faint drip of something questionable from the ceiling.
Rudo could practically hear the gears grinding in Zanka's head as he walked away, each crunch of boot on scattered casings sounding more and more like the countdown to an inevitable explosion. The helmet stayed quiet too, for once, as if even it knew better than to poke the bear while the bear was still within kicking range.
“Alright.. you were saying? Something about narrating my tragic life story during briefings?”
The speaker gave a low, static hum, almost thoughtful, before crackling back to life.
"Yeah, kid. I was about to get to the good part. See, I've been watching you idiots for longer than you've been alive. And let me tell you about your golden boy out there."
Rudo leaned in closer, eyes narrowing with greedy curiosity. "Enjin? Spill. What's the dirt, bucket?"
The helmet's voice dropped lower, conspiratorial, dripping with the kind of smug satisfaction only ancient junk could muster.
"Enjin, huh? That kid's got layers. Did you know he-"
A sudden, violent whoosh of air cut through the shed like a guillotine. Before Rudo could even blink, a sleek black shaft flashed past his ear, too fast, too precise, and punched straight through the helmet's cracked visor with a sickening crunch of metal and plastic.
The speaker let out one final, garbled wheeze."-he used to.." before the whole thing sparked once, twice, then died in a pathetic puff of acrid smoke.
Rudo yelped, stumbling back so hard he nearly sat on a pile of casings. The helmet, now impaled clean through like a skewered apple, hung limp on the end of Enjin's Umbreaker, the umbrella's tip still glowing faintly with Anima.
Enjin stood in the doorway Zanka had just vacated, expression perfectly blank except for the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been annoyance, might have been satisfaction, might have been both.
He gave the shaft a single, casual flick. The ruined helmet slid off the tip and clattered to the floor in pieces, smoking faintly.
Rudo stared. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"..Enjin.."
Enjin tilted his head, umbrella already retracting back to its compact form with a soft click. His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made seasoned Cleaners check their exits. "You were talking to garbage again."
[wip]