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kivaember · 19 days

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slaps down some more young jupiter walt/mich bc im procrastinating from stuff :v (stuff is apv's act 1 finale bc fight scenes take so much brain power augh)

When Michigan stomped into the apartment, it was with much huffing and dripping water everywhere.

"Damn skyfall..." he grumbled, peeling off his near soaked through coat and hanging it up near the door. Puddles were already forming, and he made a note to grab the mop at some point as he untied his boots - a task made more difficult by the wet laces.

Rain was a regular thing on Ganymede - a side product of the method of terraforming used centuries ago - and the infrastructure of the colony was built to withstand the huge deluges that dumped over the various settlements (by directing the water to flow into the slums, letting them deal with the problem). But from time to time, massive "Skyfalls" happened, as they were dubbed, where the rain was so thick and constant that you were basically swimming if you stepped outside.

This skyfall had come out of nowhere. Michigan had been halfway home walking back from the garrison, and next thing he knew, a biblical fucking waterfall crashed down on the colony and soaked him to the bone within seconds.

...made him worried about Walter down below, really. Always were reports of drownings amongst the working class after these things...

Although.

Michigan straightened up, tucking his boots on the shoe rack and seeing a familiar pair that definitely weren't his. Maybe he didn't have to worry about Walter after all.

Giving himself a bit of a shake and shoving his hair out of his eyes, the hairgel not withstanding the deluge it had experienced, Michigan ambled out of the entranceway of his apartment and into the living area. It was a modest home: an open-plan living room and kitchen combo, a storage room and an en-suite bathroom for the one bedroom, but it was warm, cosy and, more importantly, on the top floor.

The curtains were open, but the window was opaque from the thick rain lashing against the glass, creating a continuous drumming noise that echoed over the murmur of the television. On the sofa was Walter, sprawled out on his side and seemingly deep asleep.

Michigan slowly walked over to the sofa and leaned over to peer at his... friend? Whatever the hell Walter was to him. Walter didn't so much as twitch, his face half-buried into the cushion with his arm tucked underneath it. His shoulders rose and fell in slow, deep breaths, and a cursory glance told Michigan that he looked fine.

He was so much like a stray cat Michigan had made the mistake of feeding once. He came and went as he pleased, and took advantage of Michigan's offer to stay in his apartment whenever he needed to escape the choking smog of the slums. Michigan didn't really mind it, though. He'd actually prefer it if Walter moved out the slums entirely and bought a place on the colony proper - he had the money for it - but instead, the ever incomprehensible Walter stubbornly stayed down below, and slithered out to crash on his sofa when things got tough... or in his bed, depending on how the night went.

"Bet you sensed the rain or something wacky like that," Michigan muttered, noting that Walter was as dry as a bone. Definitely hadn't been caught out in the rain. "Or you were hungry."

Walter was predictable like that: very food motivated. Or sex motivated. Yet was the most complicated and inscrutable fucker on Ganymede. Michigan didn't know how he managed it.

Michigan left him alone. He tiptoed around the sofa and vanished into his bedroom. He showered briskly, getting rid of the clammy rainwater and dresed in a pair of loose jogging bottoms while shunning a shirt. It was raining, not cold.

When he went back into the living room, Walter was awake. He hadn't moved from his position, but he pinned Michigan down with a heavy-lidded gaze when he walked in front of the sofa, his expression soft with drowsiness.

"...it's raining," Walter murmured, his voice husky.

"Yeah, no shit. I just swam through that biblical flood," Michigan harrumphed, still a little annoyed by it. With Walter rudely taking up the entire sofa, Michigan sat himself down on the armchair instead. "Is that why you're here? Escaping the mess down below?"

"Mn. Yeah, sure," Walter said dismissively, which meant it was a bold-faced lie. Slowly, he sat up, leaning against the arm of the sofa as he cracked his neck. "Can you make that lasagne thing tonight?"

Michigan gave him a flat look. "Since when did I become your personal chef?"

"Since we roomed together at the academy. You like feeding me."

Damn. Got him there.

"That's because you'd just eat trash like some damn raccoon otherwise." Michigan couldn't help but grimace. "Ever since I caught you eating that mouldy bread..."

"You're too fussy. You just pick off the mould-"

"It's still in the bread- no, I'm not having this argument with you again," Michigan huffed. The last twenty times were enough, and at this point he was certain Walter was sticking his "mouldy bread is fiiiine" guns just to piss him off. "Anyway, I'm not making lasagne."

"Shame," Walter sighed.

"I'm gonna make a toastie later. Cheese and ham. You like ham, right?"

It was a rhetorical question and they knew it. Walter "mouldy bread won't kill you" Kohler could and would eat roadkill if there was nothing else, and Michigan was fairly certain it was a Walter thing and not a slum rat thing. That crazy auntie of his had a more discerning palate, for example, and she was a chain-smoking lunatic that did drugs, he was pretty certain.

"Yeah. Ham's okay," Walter said absently, his gaze fixed on the television. It looked like a press conference - UEG, of all things. Nothing usual. Michigan was certain they did more press conferences than actually running the government they allegedly were.

"...as production is slow on the development of a suitable Coral substitute, it's been decided that all spacecraft installed with a C-Wave Drive will be surrendered to the UEG for appropriate allocation. For those wishing to keep their spacecraft, both corporate and personal, the UEG will allow interstellar assets be petitioned for reclamation-"

"Surprised that they're actually seizing corporate spacecraft," Walter remarked. He seemed oddly focused on the press conference. Usually he ignored the political shitshow that was the UEG. "Thought the corporations would kick up a fuss about it."

"Nah, this is probably what those stock-counting maggots want," Michigan scoffed. "The UEG are the ones headin' all that research into finding a replacement for the Coral, but they need money, and money'll only come from the corporations, but they can't publicly take too much money from the corps because then it looks like they're owned by 'em, and all those accusations of being a corporatocracy will come crawlin' out of the woodwork again. So they pull shit like this, get money from the corps by being all "Oh, we're making them pay for their ships!" but it's already been all agreed between everyone weeks or months before now. It's just a bit ol' pantomime for the public."

Walter gave him a very long, unreadable look.

"What?" Michigan frowned. "What's that look for?"

"I keep forgetting that you're from a business family," Walter said blandly, and a tiny hint of a smirk ghosted his lips. "Looks like that childhood training to become an executive is still rattling about that skull of yours, huh."

From anyone else, Michigan would take those words as a provocation or an insult. From Walter, however, he could hear the slight wryness underneath that bland tone and faint smirk. Out of everyone Michigan had met, Walter certainly understood the disgust at the indelible marks a piece of shit father left on you, whether you liked it or not.

"Unfortunately, it'll take a few more concussions to forget all that," Michigan scoffed. "I only just stopped dreaming of stock markets..."

Walter let out a sort of vague "hrm" noise that was shy of a laugh. His gaze drifted back to the television, where the spokesperson was fielding questions. There was a look in his eyes that Michigan couldn't quite decipher.

"...looks like it's pretty serious, though," Walter murmured. "There won't be any new spacecraft until they figure out an alternative to the C-Wave Drives. The UEG'll struggle to maintain its interstellar trade routes if we have to go back to stasis-hauls"

"I wouldn't worry about it. Those C-Wave Drives don't need any maintenance or refuellin', and there're millions of 'em in circulation." Michigan said dismissively. "Hell, the prototypes made almost a century ago are still going strong. Sure all the eggheads at the various R&D departments will figure something out before they start failing. Only issue is if a corporation manages it and patents the damn thing..."

Walter said nothing. His expression was completely without emotion and impossible to read.

"Might be easier to figure out how to grow Coral outside of Rubicon," Walter finally said. "It's a unique substance. Too unique to recreate in a lab somewhere."

"Eh, maybe that's what the PCA is about." Michigan kept his tone light, all while eyeing Walter. Any time Rubicon came up, he felt like he was dumped in the middle of a nuclear minefield. Walter's mood could turn on a dime. "Keep an eye on that scorched out piece of rock for any Coral, in case it makes a comeback or something..."

"..."

"But it'd be easier if it did. So much stuff isn't as easily accessible now that Coral's rationed out," Michigan sighed heavily. "No more new cars using the C-Engines! The price of the existing ones are going to go through the roof-"

"You don't drive and you hate cars."

"Yeah, but now they're gonna go back to fuckin' combustion engines, or something," Michigan said derisively. "Electric's too boring and bland to market properly. People want unique things. Flashy things. And combustion engines are unique and flashy and expensive because who the hell makes petrol nowadays."

Walter just gave him one of those looks again, the one that said 'your executive upbringing is showing again.'

"You keep giving me those stares. I ain't a mind reader."

"I'm telepathically saying what a dumbass you are," Walter said a little meanly, but Michigan was pretty certain Walter had no idea how to be anything else. "You sure you don't want to be a businessman?"

Michigan rolled his eyes. "For that, you're not getting a toastie."

Walter didn't seem bothered by this. He just lounged lazily on the sofa like he owned it, giving Michigan a look that was like 'yeah, as if you'll stick to that'. Arrogant asshole... he was right, though.

"...what about the quarantine on Rubicon-3? It's been almost fifteen years since the Fires... surely it'll be safe to begin exploratory surveys to see if any Coral wells can be dug?"

Like a hound sensing a rabbit leaping out of the brush, Walter's head snapped around to the television with a laser-focus. It actually made Michigan jump slightly, the easy, relaxed air evaporating into something for more tense.

"Unfortunately, Rubicon-3 is too unstable to lower the quarantine zone just yet. The atmosphere still contains toxic particulates from burnt Coral that'd make any expedition dangerous to-"

"But Rubiconians are still living on the planet just fine, so surely it's safe? The, er, R-L-F have stated frequently that-"

"The RLF are a terrorist group that are not native Rubiconians, but in fact opportunistic smugglers with ties to the Tau Ceti black market and their ilk. I'd thank you not to spread that misinformation about those "Rubiconists" as it complicates an already sensitive issue."

"But if anyone will know how to find a viable source of Coral to address the shortage, it'd be them. Can't we negotiate with them to-"

Walter abruptly picked up the remote and turned the television off. Michigan eyed him warily.

"...I should get going," Walter said. "It's getting late."

"Are you on crack." Michigan nodded pointedly at the window, where the skyfall was still going strong. "You'll drown. None of the trams'll be working right now, anyways."

A muscle worked in Walter's jaw, his eyes stormy. Walter had no idea what was going through that head of his, but it was probably something stupid. He always got stupid whenever Rubicon or the Coral was brought up, though Michigan had no idea why. Had no way to understand the unique trauma Walter went through, as a Rubiconian refugee. Hell, Michigan only learned he was Rubiconian through Sherlock Holmes levels of deduction and harassing. Trying to get Walter to admit it had been like pulling teeth.

"Go take a shower. Relax. Unclench your jaw or something," Michigan said, and stood up from the armchair. "I'll make you a toastie with extra cheese."

Walter didn't say anything, but he did get up off the sofa and stalk to Michigan's bathroom. He took the tense air with him thankfully, and Michigan let out a loud, exasperated sigh, wondering why he had to get attached to the most deranged and emotionally constipated person on Ganymede.

#armored core #fanfic #some worldbuilding stuff and showing dynamics between walter and michigan #im very sleepy...#past week has been lots of med stuff so im very blah

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