If that had drawn the reaction that Toreth had intended, satisfaction didn't show through on his features. He remained as he was, perfectly poised to easily reach over and grab, his gaze intense as if he were seriously contemplating jerking the civilian down so that he'd comply. He let Warrick's words settle in the air, not answering for a few long seconds.
Sir. Sounded nice from Warrick's lips, even tainted with disdain as it was. He had liked how careful the man was, too, so persistent on keeping his cool, even after his rather telling stunned silence. Eyes closed, then measured tones, and then no indication of outrage at being spoken to like that. Just, not the best time. Later, then. The reaction spoke volumes.
Toreth finally laughed again, breaking character as he leaned back, far enough that he was slouched against the wall of the vehicle. The back of his head rested against the wall, which looked a little uncomfortable, really, as the vehicle continued on its path, shaking over the dirt road. He glanced at the flimsy excuse for a door and barrier separating them from the other two men, and he didn't have to guess that they were being eavesdropped on. There was a reason the comms were so quiet.
"Probably. Don't worry, your safety is actually -- and unfortunately -- my top fucking priority right now. I'd hate to make Gill blush, anyway." This time there was no indication that he was clicking the comms on when he directed his question, and as a result he spoke up. "How are we for time, Gill?"
There was a silence, a complete lack of a response, and Toreth practically rolled his eyes, reaching over to thump on the barrier. There were words in Welsh, presumably curse words, before the reply came.
"About fifteen minutes to the outpost, Corporal. Great thing about the lack of intrastructure here is there are no speed limits. I've been doing bloody 100, can you believe that?" Through backroads? Yes, actually, because fuck, this was an awful ride. "Anyway, fifteen minutes is probably enough time for a combat jerk, but Bradley and I would really prefer you didn't get the back of the Mastiff dirty. You know we have to clean that up, and that might count as sloppy seconds. Does it, Bradley?"
"Do you know what sloppy seconds even means, you fucking retard?"
Toreth didn't respond, too busy thinking over the logistics of the whole operation. Despite the assertiveness with which he had said he was going to deliver the civilian by morning, it was looking like a less and less likely venture the more he thought about it.
It was a military outpost, which meant a lot of army fucks manning it, which meant a face-off on whose dick was bigger (the marines', obviously). What Toreth really wanted was a vehicle swap-over and to send some men out to catch the terrorists or sabs or whatever-the-fuck they were to find out more intel, but that would be a lot of negotiating that he really had no authority to do, and he knew Tillotson would be fucking inept about the whole thing. A bonus, though, was that the army arseholes had more to worry about in regards to the systems going haywire -- on top of the drones, they were trialing the Tracking Point TP750s. Marines were too old hat -- and elitist at that -- to switch to the self-aiming rifles. The whole thing was a fucking disaster, anyway. Sniper rifles that could potentially be bricked or purposefully fed the wrong target coordinates? A fucking nightmare.
Maybe he could convince the civilian for a quick fuck before he delivered him, if the delays were going to be long. The thought seemed to cheer him significantly, because he was smiling slightly, though a part of him doubted he would even be in the mood for fucking once he was done waving his dick around metaphorically.
Having internalised most of his thoughts, his words seemed to come out of the blue.
"I hope your schedule wasn't too busy, because there's no bloody way we're going to get you there on time." And then, almost immediately after, "Are you really the only one who can fix these systems?" Toreth raised an eyebrow.
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expositionin'
Sir. Sounded nice from Warrick's lips, even tainted with disdain as it was. He had liked how careful the man was, too, so persistent on keeping his cool, even after his rather telling stunned silence. Eyes closed, then measured tones, and then no indication of outrage at being spoken to like that. Just, not the best time. Later, then. The reaction spoke volumes.
Toreth finally laughed again, breaking character as he leaned back, far enough that he was slouched against the wall of the vehicle. The back of his head rested against the wall, which looked a little uncomfortable, really, as the vehicle continued on its path, shaking over the dirt road. He glanced at the flimsy excuse for a door and barrier separating them from the other two men, and he didn't have to guess that they were being eavesdropped on. There was a reason the comms were so quiet.
"Probably. Don't worry, your safety is actually -- and unfortunately -- my top fucking priority right now. I'd hate to make Gill blush, anyway." This time there was no indication that he was clicking the comms on when he directed his question, and as a result he spoke up. "How are we for time, Gill?"
There was a silence, a complete lack of a response, and Toreth practically rolled his eyes, reaching over to thump on the barrier. There were words in Welsh, presumably curse words, before the reply came.
"About fifteen minutes to the outpost, Corporal. Great thing about the lack of intrastructure here is there are no speed limits. I've been doing bloody 100, can you believe that?" Through backroads? Yes, actually, because fuck, this was an awful ride. "Anyway, fifteen minutes is probably enough time for a combat jerk, but Bradley and I would really prefer you didn't get the back of the Mastiff dirty. You know we have to clean that up, and that might count as sloppy seconds. Does it, Bradley?"
"Do you know what sloppy seconds even means, you fucking retard?"
Toreth didn't respond, too busy thinking over the logistics of the whole operation. Despite the assertiveness with which he had said he was going to deliver the civilian by morning, it was looking like a less and less likely venture the more he thought about it.
It was a military outpost, which meant a lot of army fucks manning it, which meant a face-off on whose dick was bigger (the marines', obviously). What Toreth really wanted was a vehicle swap-over and to send some men out to catch the terrorists or sabs or whatever-the-fuck they were to find out more intel, but that would be a lot of negotiating that he really had no authority to do, and he knew Tillotson would be fucking inept about the whole thing. A bonus, though, was that the army arseholes had more to worry about in regards to the systems going haywire -- on top of the drones, they were trialing the Tracking Point TP750s. Marines were too old hat -- and elitist at that -- to switch to the self-aiming rifles. The whole thing was a fucking disaster, anyway. Sniper rifles that could potentially be bricked or purposefully fed the wrong target coordinates? A fucking nightmare.
Maybe he could convince the civilian for a quick fuck before he delivered him, if the delays were going to be long. The thought seemed to cheer him significantly, because he was smiling slightly, though a part of him doubted he would even be in the mood for fucking once he was done waving his dick around metaphorically.
Having internalised most of his thoughts, his words seemed to come out of the blue.
"I hope your schedule wasn't too busy, because there's no bloody way we're going to get you there on time." And then, almost immediately after, "Are you really the only one who can fix these systems?" Toreth raised an eyebrow.