Playing the Long Game

Episode 3B: SMG4 Sits on the Toilet

When he returns to his room, SMG4's got only one thing on his mind: the bed. He staggers towards it like a zombie, arms outstretched. Even considering his more active days, this must be the most exercise he's gotten in months. Between all that running, dodging, and shooting... the man is absolutely winded.

With a sigh, he spins around and flops back-first onto the bed. SMG4 shuts his eyes, folding his hands behind his head. But instead of hitting the mattress, he finds himself suspended mid-fall, held up by the front of his shirt.

SMG4 cracks one eye open to see SMG3's hand gripping his collar. All this shirt-yanking is gonna permanently fuck up my clothes, he thinks. "Come on, dude, what the hell?"

"If you stain this thing, you're gonna have to wash it."

"Ugh," SMG4 groans. "Fine." He decides that as much as he loves relaxing, he hates doing laundry more... not that he's particularly sure where to find a suitable washing machine to begin with. Knowing SMG3, he might just make him wash it by hand in the absence of a washer.

SMG3 steps back, pulling the other man to his feet. After he's back on solid ground, SMG4 turns around to face the bed. Now that SMG3's mentioned it, he's worried about the possibility of having dripped paint onto the comforter. Thankfully, he doesn't see any droplets— instead, he spots a small card with gold-leaf edges placed carefully atop the bed. He picks the card up and opens it, reading aloud to himself:

"Dear pesky plumbers..."

"I know that's not what it says," SMG3 interjects, peering over the other man's shoulder.

SMG4 snorts. God, I'm hilarious. "Alright, alright, fine." He clears his throat before reading it properly:

"Dear Cooler Super Meme Guardians, you have been formally invited to the celebratory dinner of the Super Meme Guardians. Dinner will be at 7 PM, and your suits are in the–' wait, he got us suits?" SMG4 cranes his neck to peek into the bathroom. True to the note's word, he spots two suits beyond the bead curtain.

SMG3 hums thoughtfully before he heads over to check them out, hopping over the bed in a way that must have looked much cooler in his head. With little else to do, SMG4 follows behind him.

It's easy to tell whose suit is whose, even if both men have similar proportions. One is white, one is black– and if that isn't enough, Swag has also included lapel pins reminiscent of their USB symbols. Up close, the jackets have a distinctive cashmere sheen to them.

These must be like, super expensive, SMG4 thinks to himself, sighing. Man, you probably have to dry clean these.

He looks over at SMG3, who's more careful around these suits than he was with SMG4's shirt just seconds ago. The guy even took his gloves off before he started touching them. SMG4 realizes that's probably a good idea, and pretends that he independently thought to do the same.

It occurs to SMG4 that he rarely ever sees SMG3 without his gloves on. Sure, he probably took them off to sleep yesterday, but it's not like SMG4 makes a habit out of staring at people's hands. At least, not enough to notice how SMG3's dark arm hair creeps up past his wrists, or that he paints his nails black despite them being concealed 99% of the time.

SMG3 clicks his tongue, rolling his head back to look at SMG4. "They're really making you wear a white suit? Jesus. You're going to look like you're going to a wedding. Either that, or that one, uh... shit. I forget his name."

SMG4 cocks an eyebrow. "The one what?"

"The fucking-" SMG3 snaps his fingers. When that doesn't work, he snaps them again. "He's from the show and he wears all white— and he's got that stupid..." When his words fail him once more, SMG3 mimes putting a very large hat on his head.