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originally posted in:The New Dojo
Edited by Sanctus Caesar:
12/9/2017 7:21:50 PM
58
[url=https://youtu.be/fV8vB1BB2qc]Am I Picking Up The Wrong Vibe Here?[/url]
[i][b]Ko Rudo Mountains
Mount Of Harps
La Maison de L'amour
10:31 PM[/b][/i]
[i]After he'd found Sawyer drinking himself to a second death in nameless bar No. 2,346, Sykes first call had been to Colorado, as it would always have been.[/i]
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"[b]You're sure it's him? You've messed this kind of thing up before, Sykes.[/b]"
[i]The grubby man had. He wasn't shy to admit it, the man was just not good at finding marks, or tracking down persons of interest. Truth be told, he'd lucked out in finding the first mate of the Arrowhead in that bar. Heading in, he'd had all intentions of getting staggeringly drunk before heading home to report his failure in finding the man, when lo and behold, a sign of God was given as the Aussie slumped in his stool at the bar.[/i]
"[u]I'm sure, boss. F*cker fit your description to a tee, including the raging alcoholism and general attitude of being a massive d*ck. Don't see why you're much concerned with a sh*t like that.[/u]"
"[b]Because that sh*t has saved my life before, and it's not for him. This is more for the Captain. I kinda owe it to him for not getting him outta that prison sooner. Though, I suppose he probably would've drugged and sold me off, so that's actually a good thing in hindsight.
"Anyways, back to business. I want you to set up a meet between the two. Resource cap is at $7,000, and that includes housing for you while you're waiting. Get me a time and a location, and I'll get them there. Do as you see fit, I'm trusting your cordially diplomatic side on this.
"And for f*cks sake, don't make it gay.[/b]"
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[i]The House of Love, as it was translated to English, had been rented out for the evening, starting at 10:00 PM. The message sent to both Sawyer and Drake said to be there by 10:30 PM, to give time for a clean up and a set up. Each had received this message from Colorado, who told them he'd wanted to meet, giving them a local and a time, and saying nothing to either about the other.
And so, now Sykes laid the silverware, carefully wrapped in elegant wine-red velvet napkins, upon the snow-white tablecloth of the lone table in the room, two chairs on opposite sides. Entering through the front, one would see the chairs making a perpendicular line to the straight sight of the one entering. On the table was a vase, holding two roses, one red, the other white, over four low-sitting candles arrayed around the roses in a square, wax allowed to drip naturally down and onto the tablecloth.
The lights were set to low, and a roaring fireplace stood at the back of the room, just a few yards beyond the table. Sykes, who normally appeared as a greasy, really shady mechanic, was now completely clean, dressed in the extravagant tuxedo of a servant. Behind the door in the back left wall of the room were the kitchens, where two men sat talking as they awaited their appointed jobs.
One, the master of drink, Real Earl Aler, the Bartender and Proprietor of the Irish Priest bar in El-Harim, Amoridia. The other, the master of food, Gaffer, the cook and owner of the Baron's Choice Steakhouse and Tavern in New Haven, Amoridia. The two men quickly hit it off, the stories of their patrons told as jokes and legends.
Over the audio system quietly played Boys to Men, Whitney Houston, and various other artists of that genre of music. Sykes smiled happily, his accommodations set and ready for the reunion in an appropriately inappropriate way.[/i]
[spoiler]Open to Ver and Gengar. And also Sleek.[/spoiler]
English
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Bump.
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Oi сunt.
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[spoiler]Apologies. I just don't take it well when others assume I meant to exclude them. Grain, the post originally was meant for just Sawyer and Drake to me. I'm only in to set up the meet. Sleek responded because I think she got the same idea that you did, that it was an Arrowhead post from which everyone was excluded. It's not an Arrowhead post. It's a post for two friends to reunite through a mutual friend's efforts from afar.[/spoiler]
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Yes, inferiority complex?
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"[b]This... Isn't the vibe I was hoping for.[/b]" Drake looked past his tumultuously styled black hair to glare at the speakers, his icy blue eyes obviously annoyed with the unconventional attire that he'd been forced to wear. He stood uncomfortably in the front doorway, his trademark crimson jacket forgone in lieu of a tight red jacket with black designer jeans, giving him the appearance of a sharply dressed rockstar, or perhaps a model, rather than an infamous outlaw. The only giveaways to his true nature were his prosthetic arm--infamous in its own right--and a thin scar that began from below his left eyebrow to his lower cheek. Straightening out his suit, Drake calmly strolled towards the table that had been prepared for him, his icy blue eyes scanning the throngs of people for anyone who could be his potential guest. Colorado wasn't exactly the wingman type, so it was likely some sort of business deal. Drake didn't mind acquiescing his former crewmate's proposition, regardless of how uncomfortable this situation was. The music, the setting, the clothing... he hadn't worn this suit since he'd dated Celina.| Whoever this mystery guest was, they'd better be worth it.
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[spoiler]BTW, the room is empty, excepting Sykes.[/spoiler] [i]Sykes clapped his hands together once, the sound reverberating loudly in the acoustically designed, empty room. With a sly smile, he stepped out from the table side, bowing deeply to Drake before standing straight and pulling out a chair.[/i] "[b]Red jacket, black pants, robot arms, and a lack of appreciation for the finer things...you must be Monsieur Drake. Welcome, Captain. Please, take a seat. I apologize, but it seems you'll have to wait a time before our other guest arrives.[/b]" [i]Sykes waited until the Captain sat to continue.[/i] "[b]Good evening. My name is Sykes, and I'll be your server for the evening. Is there anything I could get you while you wait?[/b]"
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An hour or two passed, good was served and taken back, the R&B continued to play softly over the speakers within the dining hall, and the rest of the table was still vacant. A long and drawn silence passed over the room in the absence of speech, and it was cut through by the creaking of the door on the far side of the dining area. It slowly opened, and a man's heavy body walked forward leaning into it. He wore an old and shabby brown blazer, tattered and worn by often use, one a little too small and clung halfway at his forearms. His pants were similarly in shreds, khakis that were moist yet still dirty, as if they had waded in sewage. Beads of the water trapped within their frantic dripped from the hem of the pant legs. His shoes once belonged to a businessman, it seemed, as they were leather and pointed and beautiful, but now they were rubbish as the soles were only barely attached by a stand of rubber and they, too, seemed to be wet. As he hobbled forward on legs made of gelatin, a black and viscous trail of unknown fluids followed him, tainting the beautiful and cleanly floor. As opposed to his formerly curled and upright hair, it was clumped together in greasy straight strands, matted to his skull, the black retreating in place of frosted white. It hung over his eyes, and if you looked intently, you could see their true nature; black, cavernous, bagged, depressed into his skull, the beautiful blue that once existed there now turned to a dead darkness. A similarly white bushy mustache clung to his upper lip and a long beard sprouted from his chin, dark intermittent with light to make a muddy gray. The deeply tanned face had similarly gone, as it was a ghastly pale with the sheen of a sickly, diseased green over it. But the scars were still there, curving around the contours of his face concealed by uncut hair. His head throbbed from the perpetual hangover he was suffering from, bile swirled at the base of his raw throat, waiting to be thrown back out of his body, which had the consistency of rubber. He tumbled forward, shambling mixed with lurching and clinging to the wall for balance. There was little muscle left on him, and he was now a frail, pathetic man, a hollow shell. He barely looked around the place, glaring past Drake, who was a face now alien to him, and collapsing into his chair.
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Edited by Sanctus Caesar: 12/9/2017 9:59:00 PM"[b]Holy sh*t.[/b]" [i]Sykes couldn't help himself. The man had been little more than a train wreck before, but now he just looked like really old, worn down, and wet roadkill. Shaking slightly, he recovered, drawing out the chair and offering it to the hobo. When the two were seated across from each other, he began to speak.[/i] "[b]Michael Drake, I apologize for the wait, but here is our...guest...for the evening. I believe you two are acquainted. If either of you should need anything from myself or the kitchen staff, simply give the word. Our mutual friend has paid to hold the room the entire night, so please, take as much time as you need.[/b]" [i]And with that, Sykes left the odd pair for the backroom, where Real and Gaffer were heard boisterously laughing for a moment before the door shut.[/i]
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Edited by GingerlyWalnut3: 12/9/2017 8:57:02 PMDrake had never been the best at introductions. In many ways, his genuine side was constantly suppressed by a sense of arrogant self-reflection, constantly reaffirming himself over his surroundings. In this case, his inherent cockiness reinstated itself before his initial surprise at Sawyer's survival, instead fixating itself on the meager state of his body... And Drake meant it in the most pleasant manner possible. "[b]Vieux Carré, on the rocks.[/b]" Drake said to Sykes, his eyes never leaving Sawyer as he took his position at the other end of the table. Hell, if he dressed fancy for this, he might as well act the part, he rationalized. But as soon as Sykes departed the room, he dropped the facade of culture. "[b]Sawyer man, what the hell happened to you bro!"[/b] he exclaimed loudly, banging his prosthetic hand on the table in jubilance "[b]You look like shit right now... Even more so than usual! I thought you shot yourself?[/b]" He seemed largely oblivious to the empty stare which Sawyer returned him with, as well as the residual anger that simmered behind the empty blue irises.
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Edited by Ver: 12/9/2017 9:32:42 PMSawyer heard the words Drake said, when he gave his orders for the wine, and when he demanded Sawyer tell him what happened to him, where he had gone, what he'd seen in Amoridia. But they did not register with Sawyer. There was a vacuum in his ears, one that muffled and drowned out the noise around him, only leaving him to the blissful silence of his own shattered mind. Instead of meeting Drake's gaze, he looked to his environs; the long and beautiful wood walls, the marble floor, the silverware before him. Plates embroiled with gold, knives and forks laced with ivory... it would pay well, and his first thought was how he would case the place, how much he would get, any how much booze and drugs and cigars it would buy him. He heard the two men laugh, jovially and full of hysteria and he assumed he was the subject of their mockery, though he wasn't. But it did not phase Sawyer. The first one who looked to him and laughed as he emerged from under a bridge, soaked and dirty and sad, he took and slammed their head against a brick wall until the skull broke open and his head caved in. He then threw the body of the man in an incinerator, watching through the grating as he was vaporized by roaring flames. Eventually, though, Sawyer was used to it. Ostracism. Noses turned upwards. Disdain. Treated like a pariah, condemned to only dwelling in the grime and pestilence of the earth. It became commonplace. He saw Sykes dissolve away further into the grand mansion, and looked out his outfit. A beautiful tuxedo, black and white, unlike his world. There were markets for formal wear. They were needed on wedding barges, for social events, galas and balls and brunches. He had sold an outfit for just over a grand in credits, once. It was lucrative. But how would he get the tuxedo itself? He'd have to kill the servant, surely: but there was the variable of preserving the sanctity of the tuxedo and not raising suspicion. He could not get blood on it. Bludgeoning with a bent pipe ripped from the heating system? Whittling a shiv from a loose part of the wooden wall and sticking it right in his jugular? A long, fat beard of phlegm and saliva began to slide from his lower lip, strung upwards by a thin anchor on the lip, eventually slipping off as the congealed fluids fell into his lap with a squish. Black eyes dilated, staring at nothing.
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"[b]Er... Alright. I can imitate Garin too, y'know.[/b]" Drake said, unnerved by Sawyer's unusual dissolution. His copilot had always harbored a grim, stoic darkness behind his warrior past, but whatever had realized itself inside of him, it wasn't good. Drake had never seen such an uncharacteristically numb face on his friend until now, but he recognized the look. He'd seen it on the fringes worn out cantinas, where ruined men lamented their fortunes with emptiness. He'd seen it in strung out outlaws who'd lived and laughed their last, forgoing their former charisma for the numb embrace of psychedelics. He'd seen it in the shattered mirror, when he'd consumed himself with avenging Celina until his only waking thoughts were those of hate. Drake leaned forwards slightly, the RnB music contrasting the scene with painful sharpness. What had Sawyer done do cause this upon himself? Did a lifetime of fighting finally wear the man down to this pitiful imitation of the warrior-mage he had been? This wasn't Drake's area of expertise... But Michael hadn't given up yet. This dichotomy between past and present would be no longer. "[b]Aaron,[/b]" he said quietly, addressing his former friend by his first name, "[b]What did you do to yourself?[/b]" Inwardly, Drake scoffed. Kindness, concern, what good were they to him? Sawyer was glazed out of his mind, and the abrasive part of Drake yearned to declare it so. But Michael, the friend, the ghost within the machine, could not give up on this man yet.
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The old man looked up and met the gaze of Drake. Something dark lingered within his eyes; shadows flickering with sharp edges and long slants, casting themselves across his body. Within his eyes were not contempt, nor elation, nor frustration, nor anything. Most terrifyingly, there was only nothing, a vacancy in his cold, dead eyes, unflinching. Whispers slipped through a gritted jaw, sounds passing through the spaces in his clenched teeth and the minor partitions in his lips, groveling and murmurs barely comprehensible. He dug through his damp pant pocket and after foraging for a few seconds pulled forth a pack of cigars, the wrapping around it crumpled and old. When Sawyer took one out, ash fell from it and the tobacco began to pour out onto the table from the break in the smoke. Regardless, he slotted it between his lips, and put a finger in front of it. The index sprouted a flame from its tip, minor, but still unnatural. He leaned back in his chair, and he inhaled the smoke, which seemed to calm him. As it was siphoned into his nostrils it passed once again through his ears in faint smoke and similarly out of his eye sockets. Color was restored to his faith, somewhat; the diseased green sheen lifted. His pupils contracted and something flickered within them, a brightness. Life. "Too much to say," Sawyer barely spoke, keeping the cigar in his mouth, saying so through the opened corner of his lips. There was the low, gravelly quality to it, but it also came out in something of a low whine, as if it pained the man to speak.
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Drake sat back in his chair, content for now with the brusque response. The sharp whine that tinged Sawyer’s voice was anything but a good sign, and the abrasive sound grated against Drake’s ears. Giving Sawyer another brief glance, he returned to his drink. The silence in the room was deafening. The message was evident: the gulf that had formed between Drake and Sawyer was too great for him to overcome. Whatever had happened to Sawyer to push him over the edge into this spiraling abyss... this was something that only he could overcome. It seemed, Drake mused, that many of his relationships ended with the other party being forced to resolve their issues. He was too stubborn, too arrogant to ever admit fault, and perhaps he was too gracious with his own forgiveness. Life had taught him to live close to he edge, and that there was no time to hold grudges. If only Alpha could have understood that... Sawyer didn’t need to know that she died in Amoridia. Drake didn’t know if he could cope with that information.
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"A lot of things can happen these days due to technology, especially in a place like Amoridia. I'm sure I could've swung something, found a guy who looked like me, told 'em to pull the trigger, write a suicide note, be gone. But I'll tell you, I have no idea what happened there. Went up to my flat, heard the faucet running, saw it, packed up my shit and got out of dodge." Sawyer inhaled a plume of smoke and coughed for a few seconds before continuing with a shaky voice. "To tell you the truth? I was scared. Always looked at death undaunted, fearless, ready to embrace it as long as it was ready to embrace me. But something broke when I saw myself dead. I thought it was some sign, a warning. To keep me away from you guys. My family... maybe that's why I'm fuсked. I'd be nothing without you guys. I was [i]nothing[/i]," Sawyer said with a bitter shrill in his voice.
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Drake nodded his head thoughtfully throughout the story, and subconsciously weaved his fork between his metal fingers. He was never the comforting type, nor was Sawyer a sympathetic man, so the thought of reaching over to console Sawyer never crossed his mind. The most genuine way that Drake could attempt to mend the damage with his copilot was through empathy. “[b]I thought the same thing,[/b]” Drake muttered, his voice suddenly gaining a raspy twinge, as if it were caught on something in his throat, “[b]I thought I’d be just fine without all of you. I... after your death, and we split up, I thought that it was my responsibility, as Captain, just to keep the gang out of trouble. You know how reckless Alpha and Garin can be... Colorado was doin’ just fine, and I couldn’t give a damn where the rest of ‘em went, as long as they weren’t dead.[/b] “[b]So I did what I had to do. I kicked Garin out, so that he wouldn’t be bold enough to try nothin’ without us at his back. But Alpha...[/b]” Drake looked down at his fork, which was now motionless in his hands. He caught his reflection in its metal sheen, and took a deep breath. “[b]Kicking her out wouldn’t stop her. Kid’s a freakin’ outlaw after your own heart. After the crew split up, I figured that I’d make a change for the better in Amoridia. A police force called the ASF reached out for me, offered me amnesty if I signed up as a bounty hunter. Told me that I could make a difference by detaining anomalies: dangerous off-worlders, meta-humans, supersoldiers. When I detained Alpha... I didn’t know what they’d do to her. I thought that keeping her close would keep her safe, somewhere that I’d have some power over her.[/b]” Drake stared at the fork as it bent almost in half, crushed unwillingly by his grip. His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “[b]When I found out what they’d done to her, it was too late for her. Apparently they tortured the hell out of her, experimented on her, and then she died. I thought that I was able to protect her... but those monsters stabbed me in the -blam!-ing back. I’d failed her as her protector, I failed her as her captain... and I failed her as her friend. All because I thought that I could control fate.[/b]” Drake leaned back into his chair, slumping down like a puppet whose marionette had suddenly dropped dead. The story had bled him dry, and brought up dangerous memories that he didn’t wish to relive.
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Even as he finished the story, he would hear a feminine gasp and a glass hit the ground. The shrill tinkling of glass on wood was as loud as mortar fire, and as profound as a death sentance. The voice that came after, soft and refined yet so paradoxically rugged and harsh was so definately her. But how? "Drake?....Is...that you?" Was that fear? Joy? Hatred? Her voice shook so much it was hard to tell. All he knew was that it wasn't possible. "I...what..." The sound of the girl wetting her lips and taking a deep breath were audible even in the ruckus. "I thought you....were still on Amoridia?"
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[spoiler]Here's what I'm thinking: we do this shit reglar. I reply to you, Ginger replies back, you reply again, so on, so forth. For posterity.[/spoiler] Drake's words had not fully made their impression upon Sawyer when he heard the shatter of glass and Alpha's gasp for the air wretched from her lungs. He craned his head towards the sound and looked at her, a weak smile crossing over his lips. He knew Alpha had not been dead, as he had spoken with her merely two months ago. A lot had happened in those two months; his personal mental and physical degradation, the deepening of the rabbit hole where sanity was rapidly falling into the unwavering abyss, the addictions that ailed him, and the newfound power that sprang forth from him as a result. He removed the fat cigar from his mouth temporarily, taking a large inhale of smoke before he slotted the smoke between his index and forefinger, waving forth hospitably. A warm amiability began to glow in his eyes upon looking at her shocked face. "Nice to see you, lass. Care to join us for dinner?"
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When he saw Alpha’s face, scarred though it may be, Drake felt... something. Something more than relief, but something that didn’t quite reach joy. Some emotions welled up inside of him at the sound of her haunting voice, and deep inside, Drake wanted to muster up the words that could possibly sum up his turmoil. But he wasn’t the emotional type. “[b]I guess it’s [i]everyone’s[/i] turn to come back from the dead today.[/b]” Drake said dryly, instantly regretting his choice of words. He yearned to empathize with Alpha, to express any pure emotion, but in so many ways he was more far gone than Sawyer was. The silence was awkward, and the air was filled with tension. Drake looked over at the seat for Alpha to pull up, unsure of what to say or do next.
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She took a step back, not sure what to do. "Drake......you don't get to be sarcastic." She said quietly "You don't. You sold me up the river to be a meatbag for a sadistic -blam!-." Alpha said, firing her words like bullets. "And You!" She said, rounding on Sawyer "YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! BUT YOU SHOWED UP OUT OF NOWHERE AND THEN LEFT AGAIN!" The girl stomped her paw on the ground, tears flowing from her eye like blood from a wound. She started to sob and crumpled into a stool, away from the two.
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Sawyer, similarly to Alpha, did not know how to react. He was always like a mother to the crew, even to Winchester, who despite his crude humor and temper tantrums was still family to him. He cooked for them, cleaned up after them, talked through their issues, and tried to be a good friend, or maybe something closer. This is why a deep sadness awoke in Sawyer when she saw the anger and sorrow within Alpha, the betrayal she had faced. It was not the dull grief and anguish that Sawyer had faced in the height of his depravity, but rather, an active depression within his chest that compelled him to comfort her. "Lady, don't cry, please? We'd all feel better if you'd sit down and join us for dinner." He said it in a pleading tone, almost begging for the tragic show of emotion to stop and for the three to begin eating.
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At that point, the Writer had had enough. Garin stepped through the door to the bar, strode to the counter and requested a bottle of vodka. He grabbed the clear bottle, set a coin down on the counter, and flicked a coin to Drake, winking as he did so before he hurried out of the tavern. If Drake would examine the coin, he would find two words scratched into it: "Happy Reunion". Well that was awfully nice of him. If he were to flip it over, he would find another message. "Invite me next time".
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"[b]Yeah, we can get our angst out over some nice steak, or, uh, fancy food...I dunno.[/b]" Drake swallowed his pride, and while not quite resorting to the emotional outburst that Alpha so frequently displayed, allowed himself to empathize with her for a brief moment. To him, the entire situation had been a mistake--one of the many large ones of his life--that kept him up at night. For her... she'd truly been through hell. To be emotional after all that was understandable, and far more healthy than his own internalized anger. "[b]Look, you heard what I said,[/b]" he started saying after a brief moment of silence, "[b]Not that it excuses what I did, but I never meant for... any of this to happen to you. I don't care if you don't believe me, but it's the truth. I... was wrong to think that I could trust anyone to have control over your fate, and furthermore I was wrong to assume that I wouldn't get backstabbed by that ASF scum.[/b]" The words felt lighter after they had left his tongue, and the genuine apology inspired a stream of more words to flow from him. "[b]I was too cocky. I believed that by keeping you somewhere that I could see you, that maybe, just maybe, I could protect you from yourself. I didn't trust you on your own, even after all that you've accomplished. And I was a -blam!-ing fool to believe that dealing with the ASF would redeem me.[/b]" There was the old the spite again, bubbling up from the deepest corners of his heart. But, oddly enough, what might have been a face contorted in anger softened, as Drake pushed aside his loathing to focus on somebody other than himself, for once. "[b]But you... I don't think that anybody else could've done what you did, gone through what you did, and come out the other side in one piece. I... -blam!- kid, I betrayed you, and so did he--[/b]" Drake pointed at Sawyer, and then pointed into the distance, "[b]--and so did Winchester, when he ran away on his adventures, and so did Pandora, that -blam!-ing -blam!-, after what she did to some of those anomalies in Amoridia. Alpha, I don't expect you to accept my apology, not now, and maybe not ever. But I'm still offering it.[/b]"
