#RT is Tugger if you couldn't guess

[recklessrex]

131 - Scar, Persi and Crash. I do hope this one makes a click on ur head 😅

Third time's the charm! ^^

“It’s midnight! Where the hell were you?”

If there was one thing Persimmian was good at, it was thinking on her feet. She could completely change her tactical approach in response to a changing situation in less than a second. She was a decision maker, a tactician, a cunning and quick-witted mot.

If there was anything Persi was not good at, it was waiting.

The colorpoint calico leaned against the wall near the entrance to the main chamber of the hideout, her arms crossed, her ears back, her eyes narrowed, her tail swishing rapidly back and forth. Her favorite chair awaited her, as did the celebratory booze someone had cracked open to share with the gang, but she was too restless to relax right now. It was all she could do to stand still against the wall instead of pacing up and down the room. She refused to let the gang see that she was worried.

Despite her efforts, they could tell something was up. They may not have guessed she was worried, but they might think she was pissed (which she was also, to be fair). Veteran members of the gang, however, recognized her body language as how she normally acts when she's thinking, usually when a quick decision needs to be made or plans need to be changed on the fly, but also when she's just quietly mulling over something. What, they have no idea, but they were used to their boss sitting around with her ears back, eyes narrowed, and tail swishing, just seeming to watch everything while the rest of the gang relaxed and enjoyed themselves, and they knew to leave her alone.

There were only two people that could get away with bugging her when she was brooding over some mystery thing, and those two people weren't here.

What her gang didn't realize was that it was rarely just one thing running through her mind, especially in the mood she was in now. Among the many thoughts that raced through her mind at this moment was a replay of the events of the evening, going over every detail she could call to mind, again and again, trying to find any clue that something had gone wrong.

Another thought was to list the multitude of perfectly ordinary things that could have delayed her friends' return to the hideout after the job, without causing them harm.

Still another, one that she would rather not think about, was to imagine all the things that could have happened to them on the way home, and another was assessing the likelihood of each scenario, good, bad, or neutral, and reassuring herself that they were probably fine. She trusted them to take care of themselves.

But as each minute ticked away, and still no spotted silver Aussie raising a toast to the gang's success only to poor it over some poor greenie's head, no dirt-colored scar-faced Brooklynite casually wrestling with anyone he can get ahold of between drinks, the idea that something had happened to them got harder and harder to wave away.

It was always harder to sort her mind out when the lads weren't around. She may have been devilishly clever, especially when it came to thinking on her feet, but long term planning had never been her strong point, that was Crash. He was the book-smart one too. He could patiently sort through tons of complex and sometimes conflicting information, considering scenario after scenario, rejecting the ones that didn't work and eventually landing on the best plan. His patient, organized approach to critical thinking would have been especially helpful to her now, with scenario after jumbled scenario flipping rapid-fire through her brain without any answers.

If Crash was the book-smart one, Scar was the sensible one. The guy that goes "Hey that leftover spilled beer on the table that we sopped up into a rag and squeezed into our glasses, yeah that probably has like cleaning liquids and shit in it now, and will probably poison us if we drink it," while everyone else is daring each other to drink what they think is just an awful tasting liquid. Say for example, the three of them had to find what was wrong with a car that won't start. Persi would have opened the hood and dove right in, looking for anything loose or that just didn't look right, Crash would be off to the side reading the owner's manual, while the first thing Scar would do would be to check the gas. His simple, level-headed approach to most obstacles had saved Persi's hide so many times over the years, and would have been a major comfort to her now.

She kicked the wall in frustration, startling a few nearby gang members, who quietly fled to the other side of the room. They were all too familiar with their boss's temper. She ignored them and checked her watch again, then crossed her arms once more, tapping her foot.

Where the fuck are they?

Her thoughts tumbled and tumbled around in her head faster than she could keep up with, until finally she gave up and did what she did best.

She made a decision.

"Fuck this," she growled, pushing up off the wall. Much of her gang eyed her nervously as she stormed out of the main chamber. She didn't care. She strode briskly through the passageways headed for one of the hideout's exits, ready to go on the hunt for her right-hand toms…

…and nearly ran right into the toms in question as they stumbled in through the same door she was about to exit.

"Eyyyy boss!" shouted Scar, raising his bottle in salute.

"Heya Perce!" said Crash with a little better volume control and the biggest derpiest grin plastered all over his face. "Where ya been?"

"Where've I been?" echoed Persi. "Where've I been?! I been here, where I'm s'posed to be! Where the fuck have you two idiots been?!"

"Oh, yeah" said Scar, "we jus' got herr di'n' we?" His slur wasn't all from drink. The scar on his face twisted the left side of his lip ever so slightly, not much, but enough that he always slurred more than the others whenever they drank. But slur or no slur it was still clear that they were both drunk as a skunk. Their breath reeked of booze, and they had their arms slung over each other, leaning heavily on each other and holding each other semi-upright, though the door frame was doing most of that job at the moment.

She grabbed ahold of them them, Scar's jacket in one fist and Crash's shirt collar in the other, yanked them inside, making sure to deposit them against the wall to keep them upright, and slammed the entrance closed.

"Shit boss," drawled Crash, his accent thick with booze, "wha's the mattah?"

"Yeh, ligh'en up boss, i's cool" added Scar, gesturing with his bottle nonchalantly and spilling beer on the floor of the passageway.

Persi glared at them. Other than being completely off their tits, they seemed unharmed. She looked at her watch once more and balked.

“It’s midnight! Where the hell were you?” she demanded. "You was supposed to come straight back!"

"Oh yeh, we shtopped fo' a drink" slurred Scar. Crash nodded in agreement.

"There's plenty booze here!"

"Yeah but ya know, we was drinking with friends," explained Crash.

"Othah friends I mean" he added quickly. "You're mah friend, but like, ya know-"

"We ran inta (hic) RT," interrupted Scar

"Yea, ya know, an' we got chattin" continued Crash, "and like-"

"An' we got drinkin" said Scar. Crash nodded enthusiastically.

"An' then more a' his lot showed up"

"An' we's all drinkin heheh"

"An' it turned into a real party, mate!"

"Ya shoulda been der boss, waz great!"

"We 'ad a great time!"

Satisfied with their explanation, the lads stood (well mostly stood) waiting for her response with big, dopey, lovable grins on their faces. Persi sighed and pinched the bridge of her snout where it met her eyes, resisting the urge to beat the shit out of her best friends.

She might have to have "words" with RT about distracting her lads (though the next morning Crash would remind her that Tough Guy don't appreciate people messing with his brother and their pseudo-alliance with Tough Guy's tribe was worth maintaining, and Scar would remind her that RT had no idea there was anything to distract them from anyway).

She regarded her faithful troublemakers, still smiling dumbly at her. Anybody else would have gotten a beating, or maybe even a taste of claw. But not these two. She just couldn't do that to them. Not after everything they'd been through together. She sighed again. There was no point to even lecturing them, since they probably wouldn't remember it. No, she could deal with them in the morning.

"Come on," she sighed, grabbing them by the arms and half leading, half dragging them down the passageway. "That's enough fun for you two for one night. Time for my very smashed lads to go to bed."