circle7 | the fine art of Figuring Out What The Hell You're Doing

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the fine art of Figuring Out What The Hell You're Doing

Technically speaking, there was nothing about the situation that wasn't at least vaguely familiar. The locale was in the same area, if not the same bar (for some reason, Bentley seemed strongly opposed to that option and Evan supposed it was all right, since they might as well canvas what the area had to offer while they were at it anyway). Evan was half-sure they were playing the same songs, personally sure that they were serving the same drinks. The faces might have been different, but strangers were still strangers until they...weren't, which was the point of this entire outing to begin with.

Bentley still seemed a little...stiff, although that too was something that was, perhaps, also the same.

Evan forcibly wedged a tall glass of rose-colored something into Bentley's grasp, managing it despite the lack of cooperation and the fact that he was balancing a drink of his own in his other hand. The drink was transparent and fizzy with carbonated bubbles, adorned at the top with a modest sprig of green mint or whatever the local planetary equivalent was. It even had a delicate little straw, for the doctor's delicate little sensibilities. Evan pushed Bentley's hands into raising the cup to at least mouth-level, even if he couldn't force the other man to take a drink.

"Don't look so spooked," he encouraged, clinking the edge of his cup against Bentley's drink before taking a sip. "You've done this before, remember?"

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Bentley jumped up, all too frantic and eager to join in.

"I-I'm terribly sorry, I um. Got a little... excited, there. I can cover a round for you... guys, too," he said, trying so hard to sound as casual as he could. It almost sounded painful. "A-and a new... shirt, maybe? I-is it ruined? Um."

"How about a new eye," growled the man. His face was dripping, still, and at first Bentley didn't understand. That was, until a small spark fizzled into the air, originating from his eye. It was mechanical.

"I, uh. Thought they made those waterproof nowadays," Bentley mumbled, entirely unhelpfully.

Evan stepped back and slammed the heel of his foot into Bentley's toe.

It was too late, however. The man was turning a vivid color that was putting Bentley's rosy pink drink on his face to shame. The mechanical eye whizzed in its socket, trying to focus to no avail, its glowing iris buzzing erratically from ceiling to floor as it no doubt continued to short-circuit thanks to one very excitable doctor and his very exciting story about his less-than-exciting conversation with a She who used to be a He. His friends didn't look all too excited either, indignant for the sake of their companion and maybe just a little too ready for a fight, given the almost comical display of pent-up aggression behind the initiator.

One of them was even pounding his fist into his other hand.

"What didya say?" snapped the man, advancing a step.

In return, Evan shoved Bentley back a step. There was space for it - the crowd was spreading around them, forming a little circle (or a little cage, depending on how you looked at it) for them to maneuver. Perhaps they sensed the imminent violence or source of entertainment in the air. The drunken crowd was always surprisingly attuned to such small shifts in the air. In fact, they might have drawn a breath even before the mechanical-eyed man shot a hand forward, the butt of his palm forcing Evan to stumble back, right into Bentley.

He didn't even mean to step on his feet that time.

Bentley fell back, conveniently right into an open seat, barely catching Evan. The movement was almost terrifying, if just for the fact that it only looked as though the man exerted as little force as it took to push open a swinging door. He wasn't even trying.

The men accompanying the mechanical-eyed man all laughed as Evan was pushed up to his feet. Bentley was holding his palm up peaceably, stuttering another apology.

"I-I didn't mean anything by it! I'm really sorry," he said. "W-we can leave if that, um, makes... you feel better. I-I'd really rather not fight."

"Lookit 'im, hidin' behind his friend like a coward," spoke the man who was previously punching his palm in anticipation. "We oughta' teach him a lesson about bein' a man." These were the worst types, Bentley knew - the kind who were violent simply because they could be.

While the group was still laughing, Evan grunted out a sound of frustration before pushing himself off of Bentley, patting the doctor on the arm as silent thanks for not tumbling back onto the ground and creating an even greater spectacle to laugh at. It was, conveniently, the metal arm, and on the last pat, Evan's three-fingered hand tightened around the metal elbow, brow raising in slowly dawning realization. "You got an arm," Evan remarked coolly, which wasn't exactly his most enlightening comment of the night, but thankfully, he followed that up with a quiet, thoughtful, "You know how to use it, doc?"

That earned Evan a raise of Bentley's brow. He looked between Evan and his arm, the metal fingers flexing upon the mention.

"U-unfortunately, yes," he said quietly. "Are you really suggesting we..?"

"Look at that, now they're holding hands!" one of the men sneered, which sparked another less-than-wholesome round of drunken laughter.

Evan ignored it, waving a hand at the guffawing men. These were men who didn't know what they were dealing with, men who had drank their courage and were high on it now. They would have never started the fight if he still had his uniform on. The Circle was not really something even half-delusional bar-goers trifled with, but it also was something that Evan would avoid name-dropping if he could. Besides, he could certainly handle himself, or else he wouldn't be part of the organization in the first place.

"I'm saying that we beat the joint, but should they decide to play human wall, we break through the Circle way."

"I think they are going to play more than Human Wall," Bentley said, sounding utterly depressed at the prospect. He positioned himself slightly behind Evan, where his left side would be hidden. To the Human Wall Brigade it probably looked like cowardice again. But from here, his arm was hidden from their view. He flipped open a panel on the back of his hand, pressing a couple buttons.

"Don't touch my hand," he warned. "It's a defibrillator. Um. I don't know if that's... the 'Circle way' that you mentioned, but... It will certainly get them out of our way. Should we need it."

Evan beamed. "I can always count on the doctor," he mimed, the exact, practiced tone of it no doubt learned and heard from other members of the Circle.

He turned back towards the other men with an easy smile on his face - a business smile that was amiable and not even the least bit aggressive. "Say, call us if you ever need that eye replaced, but until then, me and my friend are just gonna beat it," he said, jerking a thumb towards the exit.

"No fightin' in my bar," said the bartender nervously, but it was easy for him to say, hidden behind a fortified bar counter. Plus, if he went out, the supply of alcohol in the place did too, and then the men would have an entire building of people against them, which no one was willing to chance. Unfortunately, though, the bartender was ignored as easily as he issued the precursory warning.

Evan took a step and the first man shot out from the side and reached for Bentley first, no doubt thinking that he was the easier, weaker target. The second, though, threw two large, thick-armed hands into the vicinity of Evan's head and neck. For someone so tall, Evan seemed to go down with surprising quickness, bending at the knees and dodging the hands. "Whoa, whoa, there," he said, right as he butted a shoulder into the man's unguarded stomach. "No need to come to blows, here."

Well, all things considered, Bentley probably was the easier, weaker target. However, he had one big advantage, which he had never been all that grateful for until now. The man had grabbed Bentley by the collar, his right fist raising into the air, leaving the perfect opening.

Bentley thrust his metal palm forward into the man's chest. The shock spread through him, and he let out a sort of gargling noise before falling to the floor unconscious. It earned a brief moment of quiet among the spectators of the fight, in which Bentley straightened his shirt indignantly. The third man in the group looked startled, but not enough so to stop his pursuit.

He charged forward, and Bentley made a surprisingly quick dodge (though with a not so clean landing to the side as he stumbled). Some of the onlookers must've been on his side, because they helped him back up, saying things like, "Kick his ass! Shock him again!"

That baffled the charging man, who frowned deeply before yelling and charging again. Bentley ducked again, and this time, he didn't even have to shock him.

He rammed right into the bar, face first, and knocked himself out.

A roar of laughter and surprise came from the other end of the ring. Evan hazarded a look over his shoulder to see Bentley sort of just standing there awkwardly in the middle of an amused crowd, even more awkward for the fact that he was framed by two fallen men at his feet, one with his head half-propped on the bar and his lower half sticking in the air, and the other still twitching every few seconds.

Well, they always did like an underdog, and if there ever was a perfect image of an underdog, Bentley was probably it.

A hand fisted in the front of his shirt very abruptly brought Evan's attention back to what it should've been focused on. The man he had gutted was down for the count, queasiness and the unfortunately aimed blow getting the better of him, but the last remaining member of the four-man brigade was now dragging Evan forward into his grasp, just so that he could sneer threateningly into his face. Evan was taller than this one and about four times thinner. When the man, in a pure show of Neanderthal masculinity, bashed his forehead against Evan's, Evan definitely saw stars for a split second.

"Not so fast now, are ya?" crowed the apeman, shaking Evan a little by the hold on his clothes. Evan rubbed his forehead with a wince. Christ (may his mother, wherever she was, forgive him for taking the Lord's name in vain), was this guy's skull mechanical too? His other hand patted gently at the other man's neck, pressing against the skin with barely enough force for it to be even called a touch at all. At this, the apeman laughed, thinking he had all but knocked all strength out of his opponent. "What's that? You tryin' to choke me with one hand?"

"No," Evan replied mildly. There were at least four nerve centers concentrated in the human throat and the fellow's neck, at least, was not mechanical at all. He and Viana were hardly the type of fighters to throw what weight they had around. They got by by knowing things like this, by knowing how to jab their fingers into the right spots at the sides of the neck, at the center, at the base of the throat, with enough force to send the apeman's eyes rolling back in his head, to have him slumping down to the floor, sliding down Evan's front until he hit the ground with a heavy thump. (His head made a 'pang' sound when it made contact - definitely metal.)

Brushing off the front of his clothes, Evan turned around. "Let's try another bar," he suggested, rubbing his forehead again a little ruefully.

Bentley looked very impressed with Evan's knowledge of nerves, and a nervous smile overcame his face. He wasn't sure they were gonna make it out of that, but here they were, perfectly fine. Well, mostly fine, in Evan's case.

"I rather like that idea," he agreed, stepping carefully over the two unconscious bodies at his feet. "Also, you should let me check you for a concussion."

The crowd was whooping at them, but it didn't last long as the upset bartender from before started shooing them off. Some security guards, who either arrived very late or decided they were bored enough to watch, started hauling the defeated men out. The bartender started ranting about damage - though really, there wasn't much harm done to the bar. The only casualty was a broken chair. (Which was impressive, considering it was made of metal.)

"Put it on this card," Evan said, slapping a Digital Wallet card onto the counter with a little too much aplomb for it to have been his. And indeed, the face on the card was no one affiliated with the Circle - it was the face of the mechanical-eyed instigator. Somewhere in the course of the struggle, he had apparently nicked it from its rightful owner, which was only to be expected of an Intelligence member.

With that, Evan tugged Bentley out of the establishment - the bump on his head could really wait.

There was the slightest smirk when Bentley saw the card being used. Why, had Evan not known better, it might've looked like the good doctor was enjoying himself.

He followed Evan out, the fresh air rather welcome after all the commotion and crowding. The sidewalk was busy, but it was nothing one didn't get used to being on the Circle station.

"So," Bentley started. "That was... um."

Bentley looked like he was... trying not to laugh.

Settling back on the heels of his feet, Evan rolled his eyes at Bentley's about-to-burst expression and just sighed. "For the record," he said, "that isn't what I meant when I talked about 'connecting to people.'"

It was likely Bentley's ever so fragile nerves making him laugh instead of shake or stutter.

"I thought as much," he admitted. "I don't think I really would care to connect with those men, anyway."

"Maybe you shouldn't go dumping your drink in their eyes?" Evan suggested with a smirk.

Bentley scoffed, but it was in good humor.

"Maybe if he asked nicely, I would've fixed it." He paused. "And waterproofed it."

"He was a few shots past 'asking nicely,'" Evan sighed, looking back at the bar they had come from with an almost wistful expression. They had made their exit out the back entrance, granted, and what view they were afforded was simply a nondescript door in an equally nondescript alleyway, with only the flickering neon 'OPEN' sign hanging above the entrance to distinguish it at all, but still. "And here we were supposed to be getting you loosened up."

He turned back to Bentley, an apologetic twinge to his smile. "Next time, you can choose."

"That's quite all right," he said with a smile. Bentley let out a heavy exhale, becoming calm again. Evan's goal wasn't entirely a bust, though. There had been a connection of sorts; probably just not the way Evan had intended. "Thank you, by the way, Evan."

Evan raised a brow, making the almost perfectly round red mark on his forehead the tiniest bit lopsided. "For what?"

"Well, you know," he said. "Having my back. I know it's a Circle thing, that kind of loyalty, but... I appreciate it.

"...And are you sure you don't want me to check on that bump?"

Evan sighed quietly, more a customary show of amusement than any real protest whatsoever, and bent down a little - just the few inches necessary to put his forehead at Bentley's eye level. He tapped his forehead in open invitation before hooking his thumbs into his pockets to wait out the inevitable bout of doctorly concern that was about to follow.

"What else would I have done?" he asked, and in the dim alley lighting, his eyes were bright with a sense of subdued curiosity from under his blond fringe.

"I don't know," Bentley said, in the manner of someone who does know. Evan could've left him there like meat for a pack of hungry wolves, was what. Goodness knows people he's trusted in the past have done it. "Something not as nice. Though to be fair, I did half the work, I suppose."

The bump wasn't too bad, but it was bound to round out in a matter of hours. He dismissed Evan rather easily, but not without a doctor's order of looking out for dizziness, and if lights seemed a little brighter than usual, then to let him know.

"You call that half the work?" Evan scoffed, straightening as he waved a hand in front of his face. "You just stuck your arm out - it was a stroke of luck that you happened to be electric."

"That was not luck," he protested. "Though it's... admittedly, not the intended purpose of that."

the fine art of Figuring Out What The Hell You're Doing

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i cannot fuckin edit this thing correctly

oh my god inbox spam

I'M SORRY I-I'M SO SORRY /bentley

GOD DOC CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING

I'M SO SORRYYYY

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TWO DOWN TWO TO GO

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