their doordash order arrives. parker, of course, went balls to the wall and ordered three and a half entrees for herself (a kid's mini taco platter is the 'half'). she dumps the extra bags of chips they threw in, assuming no doubt that the order was a meal for five people, and rifles through to find rhys' food.

the league official sits across from them, sweating, looking too terrified to be hungry, but parker bets after nearly sixteen hours of being cuffed to the table, his tummy must be having some sort of reaction to the ridiculously delicious-smelling alolan food wafting over the table.

parker pours melted queso over one of her tacos and shoves the entire thing in her mouth, shakes out her hand, crosses around the table, and grins down with chipmunk cheeks before punching him right in his already-swollen face.

"talk. 'n mym good copf might share shome food."

Rhys Collins

threaten

☉

she hadn't bothered looking because it wasn't her food, but whatever slur their hostage spits at her is lost on parker as she wheels around, looking at rhys like someone just shot maisey (her dog). and it's not because she's sad for rhys - although maybe a little bit - but because, "fuck, i was gonna steal some o' that."

aw, man. she loves wet, sloppy alolan food. it's almost as good as wet, sloppy unovan food. burgers and fries make the world go 'round. 

she's too stunned at their loss to react quickly when rhys joins her in their actual jobs and then, knowing the value in a good sell, grins wickedly at the man whose nose is all bloody and, ew, what's that yellow thing. oh.

"oops." she flicks some already-hardened queso off of his face, narrowly missing rhys by inches. their captive pipes up and parker looks confusedly from him and to the thing in rhys' hands. 

"did you not just hear 'im? he's got experimental ass rocket drugs. this is like baby shit compared to Cillian Quinn and he's only a couple doors down, mate. we couuuuullllllld go get 'im if y'want, but eh, we thought we'd be more fun. 'an we got food."

parker smiles down, knocks her knuckles gently against his cheek, and despite his tough face - his eyes betray him. when she mentioned cillian, his gaze flickered to the door. 

get 'im, rhys.

Rhys Collins

PERSUADE

does he look...does he actually look disappointed? parker gets a little sidetracked, moving her mean mug glare from their poor shmuck in the chair and to her partner (literally) in crime. oh, noooo. he's into it, isn't he? it's not an act? 

he really wants to stick whatever's in that needle in the guy's neck and parker doesn't think it's mountain dew. 

and homie doesn't get the picture. he doesn't get the godsdamned fucking picture! they never do! they never do! words? they don't work. action works. pain hurts. 'cause pain is real. the promise of pain? that ain't gonna do shit.

"alright, fuck this noise," she says, lurches upright, and clocks him in the side of the face (away from the injector).

Rhys Collins

hit

☉

they leave him as an oozing, sorry mess in the chair. it's not the first. it won't be the last. they got a whole fucking slew of idiots to interrogate apparently. the grind doesn't stop. 

when he passes out for the last time, parker untangles her finger from his hair. his head lolls. she fiddles with the protective wrappings on her knuckles, wincing. should've pulled her punches a bit more. 

"look, you wanna go all mad scientist? do that in the fuckin' labs." she snags the camera they'd had rigged and shoulders her way to the door. 

"we got orders to keep 'em alive."

Rhys Collins

☉