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originally posted in:The New Dojo
Edited by Veration:
11/7/2017 8:40:44 PM
54
Sawyer sat by the outer wall of the Dojo, his large and callused hand tightly gripping the stem of an old bottle of champagne. He had siphoned a nice, hard lager into it, good enough to make his vision topsy-turvy after years of drinking, and clothed the thing in an old brown bag. Slouched against the cold and metallic barier behind him, he tipped the bottle forward and parted his lips enough to let the vile swill trickle down his throat. The man closed his bloodshot eyes and felt just a second of reprieve, a minor and fleeting comfort before his mind drifted back to other thoughts.
His body in the New Haven flat. Lifeless, fingers pressing into the cold porcelain, still and naked with blood running from his neck, trickling into the contours of his muscled chest. Not his, but someone made to look like him.
Someone to cover his tracks.
[i]Don't think about that[/i]. He scolded his mind for its involuntary migration towards the image seared into his mind with a scorching brand and took a swig of his drink once again.
[spoiler]Open. Just to really establish relationships. Talk to the old man if you'd like.[/spoiler]
English
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Bump for feasibility
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[i]The light steps on the ground can be heard nearby the belong to one marcella a woman who's a little bit of a outcast because her very unique ability to be able to control spiders of any size. She was fairly tall and slender not looking like much of a fighter in any way. She had pale skin, long black hair and pale blue eyes. She was 7'6" in height. She wore a blue t-shirt and black jeans. She had noticed the old man sitting there and came over just to check on him. She didn't even have to she didn't know him but he reminded her of a man she used to know so she just kinda had too. She got a calm and gentle sounding voice as she spoke. [/i] "You okay sir? you seem kinda troubled."says marcella [spoiler]i didn't have a character that knew him so in using her [/spoiler]
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Sawyer continued to drink his potent drink, tipping it to his lips and letting it permeate his mouth, Adam's apple sharp and bobbing rapidly in his strong neck. He looked to her, a bit of drool falling off his lip, and regarded her will a nod. "Just fine, honeybunch."
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"Could have fooled me."says marcella [i]she watched him take another drink of what he was drinking. She didn't sound too convinced.[/i]
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Bump to flaunt Garin's severed head
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[b][i]He heard the sound of fighting nearby. Whoever it was, it sounded like they were getting their asses handed to them pretty hard. The sounds came from around the wall, meaning he would have to get up to see it. The sound of electric bolts being shot could be heard, a generally familiar sound.[/i][/b]
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Sawyer's own drunkenness filled his ears with whisperings and threats, a vacuum plugging them in his altered state. Yet even in his disheveled stupor, he could feel the crashing of thunder and feel the reverb of lightning in his bones. The old man unfurled his legs, stretched his back, and tumbled towards the source of the disturbance.
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[b][i]He saw a man with a spear, a motorcycle helmet in fighting off several men. Some had been knocked out or stabbed by the spear, others electrocuted. It reminded Sawyer of one ham he used to know...[/i][/b] [b][i]No[/i][/b] [b][i]It couldn't be him...[/i][/b] [b][i]Could it?[/i][/b] [b][i]The man slammed the pommel of the spear into the last assailant, before spinning it and putting it on his back[/i][/b]
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Rahul, the Elemental Mage. Sawyer saw him move with grace and finesse, chewing through his opponents, like the old days. It must have been a mirage. Maybe the swill saturating his brain to greatly, maybe him finally going insane, his mind playing tricks on his eyes. He had to verify, so he walked to the fellow, probably a bad decision, considering the man had just murdered multiple people; but regardless, he hobbled over to the scene of the massacre.
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[b][i]The man he killed had mismatched gear, knives and axes with pipes and bats. Clearly bandits of some sort, the man looking at them as he did. He didn't remove the helmet yet, not hearing Sawyer behind him.[/i][/b]
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"Rahul? That you, you old fuсkin' sap?" Sawyer grumbled in confusion. He almost tripped over his shoe heel and nearly fell to the ground, so drunk he could barely stand.
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[i][b]The man turned, removing his helmet...[/b][/i] [b][i]It wasn't him.[/i][/b] [b][i]The man was Mexican, his hair pitch black and cut short. His eyes were purple, the same as Rahul's though, the two's body structure being similar as well. He spoke, helping Sawyer up.[/i][/b] "Rahul? No, I'm sorry, I don't know that man. My name is Leon."
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"Ah shit, man! You really got my hopes up there," he exclaimed, slurring heavily but still walking towards Leon. "Thought you were an old friend from work. The lightnin', fightin'. Looked just like 'em." Sawyer extended a hand, shaking slightly. "Aaron Sawyer. Paladin," he said, showing yellowed and old teeth in a twisted smile.
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"Your friend sounds like quite the character." [i][b]Leon said laughing a bit. He shook Sawyer's hand.[/b][/i] "A pleasure to meet you, and apologize for getting your hopes up. Then again, I can see how you'd think I might be him. Not many people throwing lighting around is there?"
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"No not really..." Sawyer trailed off. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell like a ton of bricks, unable to stay upright any longer. A bit of vomit spewed from his mouth and he begs to snore noisily in seconds, crumpling into a fetal position. (End)
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"[b]Boo, motherf*cker.[/b]" [i]Came a hearty voice from behind Sawyer, having followed the creak of an opening door, and the step of an individual with purpose. The voice was loud in his ear, cutting through the man's internal dialogue. From the sound of the voice's pitch, it was an average sized man, it's dialect and tone hinting at a life on the streets. The speaker, though, was craftier than appeared, having known how to throw his voice specifically to Sawyer. The other patrons turned to look, but pivoted back with a grunt.[/i] "[b]Yo...Sawyer, right? That is you, right? Ain't another f*ckin' doppelgänger?[/b]"
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"In all h-," the man spoke with the infliction of gravel tread upon by shoe soles, a burp undercutting his statement and making him forget what he was saying. "...is glory," Sawyer finished and gave a slow half-nod to the person addressing him. People in the Dojo knew who he was, yes, but avoided him like the plague. It was unlikely the person addressing him had no ulterior motive. But despite suspicion, Sawyer outstretched his bottle, tremors rippling through his hand and making some of the swill drop from the throat of the concoction.
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[i]The man that now approached was a little on the shorter side, about five-foot-four. He wore the clothes of any unsavory character in a roller rink, as well as the grin of that most undesirable person, the gangster -clown. His round face jiggled somewhat as he approached Sawyer, his faith that of either a confident or foolish man.[/i] "[b]Boo, b*tch. Name's [url=https://pin.it/CoYMAvY]Sykes[/url]. I'm here as a representative of our mutual green-armor clad friend. He thought id find you here, but had elsewise business to attend to before he could think about making compliments. "By the way, he says good job on that body double. Me personally, I gotta ask,[/b]" [i]Sykes sat in the swivel stool a space apart from Sawyer at the bar, unconcerned with the slightly disgusted looks being thrown his way.[/i] "[b]Was it a clone, or just some fool off the streets? And also, what the hell are you doing, unless you intend on following them down the final barbecue?[/b]"
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"Sawyer? I thought..." Garin stood to the right of the man, a look of utter disbelief upon his face. "You... you died. I saw your body." He unsheathed part of one of his swords. "Who the hell are you?"
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"In the flesh," he chuckled grimly, craning his head towards Garin and watching the shine of his sword. "Unneeded hostility, my boy. Faking your death ain't easy."
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"I don't trust that for a second. I'll ask you again." Garin unsheathed both of his swords and swung his right just in front of Sawyer's throat. He could see that the blade was stained with blood and... weird orange stuff. Probably the blood of some alien beast. "Who the hell are you?" Garin was filled with confusion and anger. Was he really Sawyer, or an ASF spy, or... something worse?
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Edited by Veration: 11/8/2017 9:56:25 PMSawyer's eyes narrowed to the point where they appeared shut. He grabbed the sword by its edge, making a shallow cut into his skin; the blood ran down the indent in the blade's center and congealed with the other fluids crusted onto it. "I know who you are, Garin. Don't pretend you don't know me, friend. See, whatever yo-[i]burp[/i]-u think you saw in New Haven was a fuсkin' hoax. I want out. Was hoping you or any of the other members of the peanut gallery wouldn't rear their ugly heads around here, actually, but here we are."
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Garin would begin to slowly shake his head, his mind not believing what it was seeing. "The real Sawyer would have at least told us." Garin retracted his blade, cutting deeper into the old man's hand, and sheathed it. "You're not the same, Sawyer. I still don't trust you, but I won't kill you." Garin smirked, if only for a second, and muttered something under his breath. "Yet."
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Sawyer looked at his palm, and thankfully, his buzz numbed the searing pain that came from it. His eyes dilated and a sort of adrenaline-filled euphoria worked its way to its brain. The blood spilled down his arm, and it became cold in the snow... And he stood with a tall, imposing demeanor, head craned downwards with shoulders high and square. His fists balled until they turned white.
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"Aw, shit." Garin unsheathed one of his swords and flipped his revolver into his left hand. "Sawyer, if that is you, calm down."
