"Hey, okay, you can drop the judgmental tone, pretty boy." She scoffs and points a finger up at his face, her tone a mix of almost light teasing but there's an edge still sharp to it- because she's mildly amused at the idea of him thinking she can't still handle her shit even if she really was entirely black out drunk, but also fuck him for judging her behavior and doubting her abilities. "I can still rip someone's head off their shoulders even when drunk."
Then, she cracks a grin, sharper than the touch to her tone had been and too toothy, more amusement with a heavy dose of cockiness dripping from it, "Not exactly. We just played with the usual, ya know, giant fucking monster aliens called Covvies who were wanting to de-bone our bodies, and their hidden snipers trying to ambush us left and right, and then there's those invisible bastards who you don't even see until you're toe to toe and dodging a last second swipe of a blade, plus stealth Covvies that don't show up on radars and blend seamlessly with their surroundings- just lots of hidden and hard to spot little gems wanting to kill us before we kill them, wanting to wipe out humanity before we can stop them." She rambles, rattles off, more than happy to brag and shine some light on her achievements. It might have some exaggerations to the details, but overall it's pretty well true to the facts.
"If I can handle all of that weekly to daily- if I still fuck them with whiskey dick... I think I can handle if the murderbots try to come around again. Or another bomber pops up. Or anything else this fucking place can toss my way. I've got spotty memories of heavy missions, details blurred from too many shots the hour before drop. And ya know what? I always got in, hit em hard, grabbed fallen teammates or civilians or sensitive data and equipment- whatever the target was, and made it back to Evac with little to no injuries or losses and another successful drop under my belt. And that's not even counting Freelancer- though they're...less okay with you going in shitfaced for missions. Can and have done it, with copious amounts of success, but it's a good way to drop down the leaderboard and have a sleepover in the brig, so, eh, don't do it as much in the Project."
Is it professional to do shit like that drunk? No. Is it a good idea or safe? Nope. Does she care even in the slightest...? Well obviously not. She'd still do the same again, every time.
Nodding to herself, her tone is maybe just a touch too steady for "drunk" during all her wildly unnecessary yammering, but her movements are exaggerated like a drunk's should be, the previously pointing finger turning to an open palm as she gestures when speaking. She's wide waving that hand at nothing as her words spill out in the flood of noise, the other hand staying planted firmly as if it's the only thing keeping her properly upright. And there's at least the faintest hint of a scent to her breath as she leans in to invade his personal space again. Its some sort of fruity drink smell, though it doesn't really have the musk of alcohol... but maybe the drink was just really, really well made-!
South points at him again as she finally stops talking for half a breath, then she's chewing that fat once more as she reaches out in an attempt to pat his chest.
"Don't worry, buddy, I'll keep you safe if any more scary things show up." And it's, again, said more teasing than anything. Her voice isn't exactly, entirely condescending but it's, well... it's more of a playfully patronizing tone. He doesn't look hapless or like he'd need saving or protecting, but she can't help picking a little. Judge her, she'll judge too, regardless of if it really even makes sense.
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Then, she cracks a grin, sharper than the touch to her tone had been and too toothy, more amusement with a heavy dose of cockiness dripping from it, "Not exactly. We just played with the usual, ya know, giant fucking monster aliens called Covvies who were wanting to de-bone our bodies, and their hidden snipers trying to ambush us left and right, and then there's those invisible bastards who you don't even see until you're toe to toe and dodging a last second swipe of a blade, plus stealth Covvies that don't show up on radars and blend seamlessly with their surroundings- just lots of hidden and hard to spot little gems wanting to kill us before we kill them, wanting to wipe out humanity before we can stop them." She rambles, rattles off, more than happy to brag and shine some light on her achievements. It might have some exaggerations to the details, but overall it's pretty well true to the facts.
"If I can handle all of that weekly to daily- if I still fuck them with whiskey dick... I think I can handle if the murderbots try to come around again. Or another bomber pops up. Or anything else this fucking place can toss my way. I've got spotty memories of heavy missions, details blurred from too many shots the hour before drop. And ya know what? I always got in, hit em hard, grabbed fallen teammates or civilians or sensitive data and equipment- whatever the target was, and made it back to Evac with little to no injuries or losses and another successful drop under my belt. And that's not even counting Freelancer- though they're...less okay with you going in shitfaced for missions. Can and have done it, with copious amounts of success, but it's a good way to drop down the leaderboard and have a sleepover in the brig, so, eh, don't do it as much in the Project."
Is it professional to do shit like that drunk? No. Is it a good idea or safe? Nope. Does she care even in the slightest...? Well obviously not. She'd still do the same again, every time.
Nodding to herself, her tone is maybe just a touch too steady for "drunk" during all her wildly unnecessary yammering, but her movements are exaggerated like a drunk's should be, the previously pointing finger turning to an open palm as she gestures when speaking. She's wide waving that hand at nothing as her words spill out in the flood of noise, the other hand staying planted firmly as if it's the only thing keeping her properly upright. And there's at least the faintest hint of a scent to her breath as she leans in to invade his personal space again. Its some sort of fruity drink smell, though it doesn't really have the musk of alcohol... but maybe the drink was just really, really well made-!
South points at him again as she finally stops talking for half a breath, then she's chewing that fat once more as she reaches out in an attempt to pat his chest.
"Don't worry, buddy, I'll keep you safe if any more scary things show up." And it's, again, said more teasing than anything. Her voice isn't exactly, entirely condescending but it's, well... it's more of a playfully patronizing tone. He doesn't look hapless or like he'd need saving or protecting, but she can't help picking a little. Judge her, she'll judge too, regardless of if it really even makes sense.