2014.02.12 - Gun Buffet

"Ourrrrrr people must dance... keep on dancin' keep on dancin'...." The sound of seventies funk grooves blasts from a ridiculously tiny cube in the middle of a room.

"Gin, Ricky, Ginny Ricky, Gin Gin Gin..." A long-haired mutant sings along with the tunes. His voice is only approximately on the right notes, and nearly an entire beat off of the rhythm. But this is perhaps to be expected, as he seems pretty distracted at the moment. "Wovoka!"

As Forge places emphasis on the last word of the phrase, he tosses something metallic over his shoulder. It clangs behind him as it hits the ground, but the noise is all but inaudible due to the tunes blasting.

If one could hear the clanging, they would notice that it's high pitched and short. More of a 'ting' than anything else. This is because the 'extra' part that he just threw over his shoulder is the firing pin to an FN SCAR. The rest of the parts are strewn all around the room, along with the parts to a bunch of other weapons of various sizes and shapes.

The number of assault weapons in the room might seem out of place, as Forge isn't exactly known for being into guns. However, none of the other items in the room really look like stuff Forge would own either.

That's because he doesn't. Guess who's room he's in?

Music! Maybe Domino's not a huge fan of the -type- of music, but it's still better than hearing the drone of machinery and electronics endlessly running. For all hours of the day. Plus, it's not showtunes. She could almost support this habit of Forge's, if not for the off-key singing.

"Hey, genius! Maybe you can build yourself a metronome one of these days!"

It isn't much longer when the albino realizes just which room he's decided to invade. And which stockpile of firearms he's chosen to disassemble. And throw the parts of across the floor. And everywhere.


 * Twitch.*

BLAM!

That impossibly tiny cube in the middle of the room ceases to exist with the single report of a pistol, one thankfully not currently torn asunder. "Forge, what the -bloody hell are you doing in my room?!-"

The question's barely asked before she's storming into the room, murder written upon her glare. All of her hardware, cleaned, oiled to perfection, put away -just so.- All in parts. That 'mildly OCD' issue is about to become a 'majorly OCD and PMSy like nothing else' issue.

"JESUS JUMPING... Christ!" Forge literally leaps up from his cross-legged position on the floor, nearly tripping over himself as he rises. He looks around, his bewilderment quickly dissipating. "Are you kidding? I come in here all the time when you're gone. Or sleeping."

His confusion (and, not too big to admit it) mild fright are quickly replaced with indignation and enough anger to add color to his face. "Much more pressing question: You just destroyed a perfectly good Boombox. In the middle of my 'Best of Redbone' playmix, even! Have you gone completely bonkers?"

"Have -I- gone--" Dom starts in, too stunned to finish the thought. Her right hand, complete with warmed pistol, angrily motions about the room then drops back to her side, lifeless. "What the hell do you think you're doing! -My- room, -my- stuff, I can't even--dammit, man! I told you to stay out of here! I can't even..."

(Not sure whether I want to cry or shoot the ponytail right off the back of his head.)

Her expression looks pained, holding the top of the barrel against her forehead as she pinches her eyes shut and tries to hold herself together. "-Why,- Jonathan. What could have -possibly- possessed you to take all of my guns apart? So help me, if you don't put everything back together -exactly- how it used to be..."

"Whoa there, Chalky. You're giving off a really tense vibe right now." Forge takes about a half step backward. Whether he's subconsciously trying to put distance between himself and a threat, or attempting to de-escalate the situation is open to interpretation. However, his voice lowers about an octave and his tone becomes way less confrontational/more soothing. He even raises his hands, one of which is holding the lower receiver from a Heckler & Koch G36 which he was apparently about to solder the cylinder from a revolver to. Judging by the soldering iron in his other hand, anyway.

"Let's not focus on the 'why' or the 'what.' Let's focus on what's really important: You're looking great today. Have you lost weight? Washed your hair?"

"...Clipped your fingernails?"

"Forge."

One word, one -glacially- cold tone. And a glare to match! "If you want some weapons..to fiddle around with in your spare time..I will -gladly- get you -anything- on the planet to tinker with. I'll even offer design ideas and suggestions to whatever wacky, bizarre invention you're dreaming up next. What I -won't- tolerate..is you helping yourself..to my personal armory. If there is even -one- piece out of order in here by the end of this week? I'm going to set your Bedside Bathroom Buddy up with an -air cannon- for those moments when you decide to flush. And -that's- the only modification I'm going to give you any warning for. We clear?"

(Though as a matter of fact, I did clip my fingernails.)

"I get it. You're a sentimentalist. Resistant to change, all that. Nothing wrong with that, I still listen to the same music I liked when I was a teenager. Or... at least I did, before you shot my Boombox." Forge's eyes dart over in the direction of the exploded scrap that used to be blaring 'Wovoka.' No big deal though, it's not like he can't make another one given twenty minutes and some common household items.

"You really ought to embrace the future though. I figured you'd have this reaction, hence the stealth. But it's waaay beyond time that we update your arsenal." Forge lays heavy emphasis on the word 'arsenal' and even does the airquotes thing with his hand, despite having stuff in them. "I had this idea this morning when I was having my cereal: why has nobody ever made a suit out of guns? It'd be awesome!" His enthusiasm is apparently dampened somewhat by the aura emanating off of Domino. "So... that's why... I need to take all your guns apart..."

"I'm not--" Dom starts in then yet again cuts herself short with a forced sigh, complete with a growled undertone. "It's not--y'know what, fine, I'm a sentimentalist." It's easier to agree than it is to explain. Her gear's disposable, but only on her terms! She's not attached to it, but she's obsessive about any of her gear's operational condition for when she happens to need any of it -right friggin' now.-

"Forge, if we had a code red right this instant, what do you expect me to arm myself with? All of my assault rifles resemble Tinker Toys that have been introduced to concentrated explosives. I--what..?" Blink.

"A suit of guns," she very slowly repeats. "Pretty sure Tony Stark's got that particular market covered. That goes double for Iron Patriot. Besides, if you're all about 'embracing the future' then why don't you go tackle some of Nate's guns? They've got a lot more wires and pretty blinking lights than anything you're going to find in my room. All you're going to find here is some sentimentalist chick's obsolete collection of old timer guns and a -very- volatile temper."

She still looks like she wants to shoot someone.

"I think you're missing it. It's not a suit with guns on it. It's a suit 'made' from..." Forge's voice trails off, which likely means that he's either realized that his idea isn't especially practical, or he doesn't want to annoy the cranky woman any further.

"But it's not like we've got any shortage of guns lying around here. You could always borrow one of my plasma rifles or the functional lightsaber I keep next to my rotating bed." One day the mystery of why Forge needs a rotating bed will be solved. Hopefully, the explanation is of the mundane variety. "Or... Bomb Robots!"

Forge reaches into one of the pockets on his coveralls and pulls out three spherical objects. He tosses them on the ground, but before they land little spidery legs pop out of the spheres and the little buggers start skittering around on the ground. "What do you think? Maybe robots can be your New Thing instead of these... muskets... that you're so fond of?"

"Holy shit!" Forge lunges at Domino, with a look of sheer terror on his face. Pupils dilated, color rapidly draining from his face, the works. With a well-placed karate chop, he bats at her shooting hand. "BOMB robots, I said. Those are bomb robots! Robots made of bombs!"

The robots have already apparently identified Domino as a threat. A high pitched whine starts to emanate from all three of them, and the little spherical contraptions begin to vibrate.

"You can't deactivate them, they've been programmed with the personality of Dick Butkus!" Although he's not quite in fighting shape, Forge is right on Domino's heels as he runs away from the 'undeactivatable' bomb robots. It looks like The Team is finally done for. With the robots ticking down mere meters away from them, surely there's no way out of this for Our Heroes.

However, the explosions don't come. Forge runs down the hallway, and dives toward the ground when he thinks the time is up. It's about the smartest play he could have made under the circumstances, lying flat reduces the likelihood of catching shrapnel.

He's too far away to see, but the little robots have actually flipped over on their backs and curled up their legs like little roly-polys. Of all the things to cause the robots to short-circuit. What are the chances?

Similarly, Domino's ducking and covering. With Forge's lead. If anyone here knows how long it takes those guys to explode, it'd be their creator.

Nothing. There's nothing at all.

Slowly she uncurls her arms from around her head, staring blankly before passing a glance back to the Tinker. It's quickly followed with a scowl and a Gibbs-smack with her non-gun-filled hand. "You -idiot-..! That was expensive vodka! That's it. -My room.- Back as it belongs. You've got thirty-six hours before you get to add building yourself a new pair of kneecaps to the to-do list. Until then I'm gettin' the -Hell- outta here."

She's got other, safer, places to crash at for a while, thank you!