do you want cyborgs?

[undiagnosed]

[barry or cyril-- those were the two choices archer had for this stakeout for a JUNO executive. it's a simple mission; shoot him in the head and tank their stocks so malory can get their own agency a step up and dug further into the (presumably) legal espionage operations they're running like some kind of hellish tick filled with alcohol. it's morally questionable, but sympathy only goes so far when JUNO agents have spent so long trying to drop all the...

...what's the new agency called? archer, unsheathing his combat knife, realises he doesn't know. people seem avoidant on the topic, the same way they were about lana when he'd first woken up.]

God damn it, we better not still be the Figgis Agency, [he mutters to himself, twirling the blade around for a moment before driving it into the motel's shitty plaster wall. figures malory had skimped on lodging-- she seems to be very fond of the excuse that barry being a cyborg means that they technically only need to pay for one room. archer's inclined to agree.

they may have bonded on that factory mission, but that doesn't erase literal years of being terrorized by a criminally insane cyborg. that, and... he's actually pretty sure barry literally doesn't even need to eat or sleep. archer makes a mental note to kick the guy out before he inevitably blacks out drunk-- don't need to wake up to barry standing over him with those red eyes glowing in the dark. he's had enough nightmares that ended like that.

archer pulls the knife up through the wall, idly starting to leave his mark while barry's in the other room doing all the work. it's kind of annoying how hard it is to get a rise out of him now. not like cyril, who'd practically had a mental breakdown at the idea of spending more than ten minutes alone in a room with him. he smirks at the memory, completing the gigantic dick on the wall in a minute or so.]

Hey, dickhead! [he calls out, sauntering into the kitchen and grabbing some scotch out the fridge. god, at least this place is stocked, though... that box of take out probably shouldn't be opened.] Have you calibrated the...

[pop goes the top of the bottle as he twists it off.]

...Whatevers yet?

Comments

[photovoltaics]

[ Barry almost corrects him on calling his weaker leg 'shitty', because that's even worse than referring to it as his bad leg like he himself spent so many years doing (well, prior to everything being replaced with metal...), but then Archer makes a crack about the robotics and he feels his face fall a little before he catches himself and levels it out.

Archer means well, probably even said that to try and bond, and making coffee without only making it for himself is pretty un-Archer of him, so Barry tries not to let it get under his skin. Which isn't really his skin, is it? Just synthesized, really. ] Ha. Yeah.

I could go for some. I usually put milk in it, but I don't think there actually is any here, so black, I guess? Thanks.

[undiagnosed]

[archer doesn't say anything, but it's clear in the brief shift of his own expression he realises he messed up in a way he didn't want to. archer's so new to this whole situation and really doesn't know how to deal with it-- pam gives it back as good as she gets but when he quips at barry it just seems to make him kind of sad. what... else does he do?

he gets back up from the table, staggering over to the coffee pot to keep his hands busy with setting it all up, making sure it's not all disgusting and encrusted in slime. he crosses his arms and leans back against the little dresser while the water boils, opening his mouth a couple times, trying to work out what to say.

finally, lamely, because digging himself into a deeper hole is what archer does best:] I, uh, didn't... mean the battery acid thing. I know you don't do that.

[he tells himself, this is self-preservation, not pissing barry off will avoid him going nuts again and breaking his neck. that's all it is.]

...





...So, uh... where'd my boots go?