so anyway i think that in s4 maq shows up with a tuk tuk truck thats ever so slightly bigger and faster than the one mk has, and its got flame decals.
mk is outraged about this, so mei mods his to be slightly better than macaques. even bigger flame decals, and a nitro boost
macaque asks red son to make his even bigger and cooler. theres a disco ball on it now. lights. a hot tub.
this is basically a modding war between mei and red son until they figure out they can team up and obliterate everyone else with a monster truck big enough for mk’s mech to sit in
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i’ll never forget how in 2022, i dm’d one of my favorite authors in the kakegurui fandom and was like “hey ik u probs won’t see this, but i really love your fics and wanted to know if you have any advice for writing this one character, because you portray them perfectly” and they blocked me + made a whole thread abt how i “harassed them” bc apparently sending a single message to someone on twitter complimenting their writing and asking for advice on how to improve your own work and LEAVING KUDOS on their ao3 fics is “harassment”😭
like girlie literally cited me leaving kudos on their fics as proof i was “desperate for their attention” and “harassing them”😭😭 like every single piece of evidence in her thread was nice comments i had left on her fics (one of them was literally “omg this is so good!!!”) and screenshots of my kudos on her fics 💀
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YES RUBICON REUNION OLD MAN YAOI
Walter comes to Michigan like 'I'm here to discuss G13 Raven.' And Michigan knows damn well he's just here to angst. He also knows that Walter cant resist him--
there are a few old man yaoi anons in my inBOX BUT YOU GET THE LUCKY DRAW OF. i'm writing the pwp. here's a teaser wip bc ofc i can't help but do. fucking. worlbuilding. oeugh.
On the outskirts of Brigid, the provincial capital of the southern Belius region, the Redguns had set up their permanent base of operations within an industrial brewery complex.
The deep, underground cellars that had once stored Rubiconian ale were now reinforced bunkers for ammunition and other dangerous substances, and the large, sprawling warehouses that had been used for ale storage prior to interstellar shipment had been converted into field garages for the Redgun’s ACs. What had once been a rustic perimeter of ornate fencing and lush gardens were now towering Bremer walls, steel-reinforced concrete that had regular patrols of both foot soldiers and MTs. Floodlights lit up the cracked road that snaked its way towards the complex, and its entrance had not one, but two tetrapod MTs standing guard, their robotic hands carrying heavy-duty gatling guns - keeping to the Dafeng maxim of “material superiority”.
It made for an imposing sight, but Walter didn’t let a single shred of apprehension show as his transporter trundled towards that militarised outpost. His ride was fairly ubiquitous to the Rubicon of today: a BAWS-produced MRAP vehicle, heavy on the armour and designed to survive mostly landmines or peripheral explosions. If you weren’t rolling around in a heli-transporter or some sort of mech, then the BAWS MRAP (known ‘affectionately’ as the Pillbug) was the only safe way to travel on Rubicon.
His driver was one of the men Carla had ‘loaned’ him when he and C4-621 had landed on Rubicon. Her most ‘reliable’ men, she had sworn, and thus far Walter begrudgingly admitted he had no issue with them so far. Yeah, they spent their recreational time huffing Coral fumes or trying to get high from Coral-infused mealworms (with varying levels of success), but on the job - that being, repairing and maintaining C4-621’s AC and the garage, as well as collecting supply drops and doing other various chores - they functioned well enough. So long as they did that much, that was all Walter cared about.
They were also fairly blase about practically everything. A hired merc off-world might’ve been sweating bullets driving up towards a military outpost that had more guns than a Furlong Dynamics warship pointing at them - but Carla’s RaD guy? He was smoking away, both hands tapping away at the steering wheel as the vehicle’s radio blasted out something that resembled dubstep, of all things. Not a single care or worry in his head.
“Turn the radio off,” Walter muttered as their vehicle slowed to a halt in front of the outpost’s checkpoint. “The Redguns aren’t known for their taste in music.”
“Got it, Boss-man,” his driver drawled, obligingly muting the music and rolling the window down. A blast of arctic cold air immediately swept into the vehicle, but Walter suppressed a shiver.
A heavily-armed guard approached the opened vehicle, dressed in tundra fatigues and their face concealed behind a balaclava and snow goggles, their hands grasping a frost-coated heavy assault rifle. Despite their imposing appearance, though, they seemed very relaxed.
“ID,” they said flatly.
Walter leaned forwards, resting a hand against the back of his driver’s seat as he held up his ID: his old Furlong Dynamics AC pilot one. Though it had been taken almost forty years ago, Walter had to admit that he’d lucked out on the genetics lottery and aged fairly well. His resemblance to the youthful Walter Kohler on the ID was clear.
“Michigan’s expecting me,” Walter said as the guard took the ID to closely scrutinise it. “I’m the handler of the independent mercenary, Raven.”
The guard nodded and turned away slightly, accessing the walkie talkie hooked onto the front of their fatigues. Though they spoke quietly, Walter could still hear them over the loud growl of the vehicle and the whistling wind.
“...yeah, Walter Kohler… the boss is expecting- right, okay. Got it…”
The guard turned back to face them and handed Walter his ID. “You’re clear to go in. Just you, though. Your driver’ll have to come back to pick you up when you’re done.”
“Fine.” Walter pocketed his ID and climbed out.
The ground was nothing but icy slush, but Walter kept his balance as he stepped away from the vehicle and shut the heavy door. He banged the side of the vehicle with his cane, and slowly the MRAP reversed away from the checkpoint. Walter didn’t wait to watch it leave, he just turned back to the guard.
“Gotta go through security,” the guard said, pointing towards the checkpoint. Next to the large gates meant for vehicles, there was a small door leading into the attached building. “You’ll be given a pass, so no one thinks you’re some spy. Though…”
The guard’s gaze lingered on his cane, slowly dragging up to take him in as a whole. “I doubt anyone’ll think you a threat, old man.”
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