It was around the time Dirk was reaching this realization, in the middle of brushing his teeth, that his mobile went off. At this point, thanks to the general weirdness of the King of Beasts, the dark angel was prepared for anything whenever this happened. Usually it was his publisher, Count Longardeaux, ready to rant at him in his unidentifiable European accent for another travesty of the English language, or one of the guys from the Gravitias Grand Theatre asking him if he could give Marcus his medical marijuana back. Pretty much anything on that general spectrum.
So imagine his surprise when he loaded up the text and saw this:
"Ey yo Los Ángeles what is uppp haha its Chilly-D. Got hgha 'n the big DR and bought tickets to some space cruise, even though I gots me one a them thar CTAs and in effect have just wasted thousands of dollars. No refunds so Chet clocked me in the face and told me to give them to charity. "What the bloody hell's a kid with no arms gonna do on a cruise" I says, so Happy Birthmas bitches you're going on a cruiseeeee but in space haha see ya there XOXO - Hugs and Kisses, David A. Wulf"
Dirk stared.
Then he turned and bolted towards the living room as fast as he could go. As far as he was concerned, this wasn't just a massive coincidence - this was a gift from the deities of whatever bullshit religion it was angels practiced nowadays, and a welcome break from the monotony of being stuck on Earth. Flashes of glittering hallways, steam-cooked lobsters and massive swimming pools darted through his imagination as he thundered down the stairs, taking them three at a time in his excitement in his single-minded mission to inform his brother of this. He had to know, this was too good an opportunity to miss out on.
He reached the hallway in five seconds flat, flung the door open as he barged in and stopped just short of colliding with Pit, who had just run in from the opposite side of the room. The two skidded to a halt on the carpet in front of each other, bearing identical mad grins that would have raised eyebrows and questions about their sanity from any passers-by.
"BRO," shrieked Pit at the top his lungs, "DID YOU GET-"
"FUCK YES," howled Dirk, "AND HE TYPED LIKE HE WAS-"
"AND IT'S GONNA BE IN SPACE AND GO TO THIS PLANET AND-"
"FUCKING CRUISE SHIP IN SPACE, WHY DIDN'T WE THINK OF-"
They stopped, panting heavily, overcome with childish excitement. Even with their minds clouded with crazed hype, they knew they were both thinking the same thing at this very moment.
"Grab the suitcases," ordered Pit, taking charge in his usual heroic fashion. "Load them up with enough clothes for a few months or so, pack all the toiletries and amusements we'll need and get the all in the freaking car."
"What about Raw?" asked Dirk.
"I'll deal with her, trust me. Just get the bags already, because cruise time is happening."
"Fucking ace."
And with that, the brothers ran off in different directions - one to start packing and the other to tell his girlfriend the news.
-------
"Look, Clint, we're only dealing with a Yian Kut-Ku, not a bloody Rathalos. That sword is just overkill, mate."
"Hannah, when you're going to hunt a dragon, the first thing you think should be 'power'. And that's what the Type 41 Wyvernator has got! It's big, it's intimidating-"
"It'll be next Monday by the time you swing that thing, you pillock! We're trying to kill the thing, not lull it to sleep!"
There they were, seated round a table at the café, almost invisible in the crowded lanes and courtyards of Port Tanzia. But one glace alone told even a casual observer all they needed to know: they were Monster Hunters. And on top of that, they were professionals - veterans of the wilderness who had come face-to-claw with scaled behemoths many times their size and come away victorious. It was in the way they held themselves high in their seats, the steady yet firm grip of gloved hands on mugs of coffee, in the glint and rattle and wear of their armour and weapons, forged from the same creatures they confronted as part of their duty and livelihood.
But not, sadly, in the way they spoke to each other. Which sounded more like a bunch of teenagers arguing about the colour of their roommate's wallpaper.
"And what, Matthew," chipped in the one called Clint as he shifted in his seat, his grey-blue armour clinking with the motion, "are you trying to accomplish with that? That's not a weapon, that's a portable Mardi Gras parade!" He, he indicated the contraption sitting by his comrade's side, it's intimidating design sadly marred by it's bright yellow hue and puffy midsection.
Matthew glared at him from under the brim of his helmet. "The Royal Torrent," he retorted hotly, "is about accuracy and efficiency - something you yobbos don't understand. It's lightweight, it's easy to carry-"
"You have to carry all that ammo around with you," cut in a woman in pale armour as she leant forward. "You'll get your face chewed off whilst reloading, the kickback will shatter your arm bones... Face it, guys," she finished in a sort of cheerily smug tone, "I'm the only one here who brought the right weapon for this job."
"What, these things?" Clint reached across the table in disdain, clutching the twin swords on Hannah's back and rattling them as though trying to dislodge some hidden secret or fortune cookie paper from within them. The woman's outraged expression, comparable to one who has been called a particularly rude name, was enough to send Matthew into a fit of amused chuckling
"Stop it!" Blushing furiously, Hannah batted her fellow warrior's hand away from her. "At least they're more practical than your bloody great Wyvernator, which you'll put your back out trying to carry!"
At this remark, Clint's face lit up as though he'd just learned the secret of perpetual motion. "Matthew," he chirped as he turned in his seat with a rattling creak, "remind me what the greatest feature of the Plesioth Cutlasses was!"
The yellow-garbed hunter looked up from his coffee, a grin spreading across his face. "Which one? Their short reach, or their tendency to break easily?"
Whatever scathing remark Hannah would have made at that point is lost to the ages, as a splintering crash from a short distance away drowned out any further conversation and set people jumping back with cries of alarm. Turning to the source of the disturbance, the trio found that not only was the wall of the shipping and receiving building sporting a new "massive hole" look, but a large pile of packages, bottles and boxes had suddenly appeared in the middle of the street, a metre or so short of their table.
As they watched, bewildered and annoyed, a young man at least half their age emerged from the pile, rubbing his head and smiling sheepishly at them.
"So, guys," he tried. "Did you order the pizza with or without the whetstones?"
Clint slowly lets his face drop into his hands. "Bloody hell, Stan..."
--------
hellothere
shallweplayagame?
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