Family and Blood - Retribution
Trigger Warning - Violence
The next day he scoped out the places fingered by Trixie, some requiring more hunter know how to keep out of sight than others. Luckily he scored with the third location - a small abandoned business office located in the rundown, really kinky red light district of Prysbil which was a sight worse than the more upright normal kinky red light district. Paying a few… farm hand pimps… he got a positive ID on Javier haunting the building as recently as yesterday when they should have been saying their goodbyes to his brother. Instead they were skulking about with six buddies, not really doing much of anything but burning time which screamed to him 'laying low.' Knowing this, he deployed a little military favor he'd collected over the years - an old style surveillance drone. The monstrosity was the size of a small dog with 6 multi-axis limbs and two large, foldable copter rotors which gave it rudimentary flying abilities. It wasn't going to win any racing or beauty contests, but it was built to be quiet and able to sit and monitor for long periods of time aided by dumb as a rock VI and the reactive camo which helped it blend into its surroundings. It wasn't true cloak, that was what was on the military's latest toys, but it was good enough, especially against an op fore who wasn't keen on looking for such an automated creep.
Going over the surveillance showed no real organized shifts or rotating assets - a few folks came and went to drop off or take stuff but the core group stayed put, rotating who was watching the two entrances to the building. The rest of their security was the isolation of the building and the watchful eyes of those others who didn't like strangers tromping about their turf, paid for with drug favors. Problem with that economy was, of course, anyone with more means than scruples could collapse it with a few kilos of payoff. Unfortunately for Javier he was just that kind of bastard, worse even as he'd… forcefully coerced what he needed from Benson. Teach them to be a peddler of misery for his family, but hey, they'd probably look good with a few golden teeth.
Come Sorndort he had everything he needed in place. That morning he spent going over the simple details of his rather inelegant plan with Mike and Jon. They weren't grizzled combat specialists like him so it was important to keep things simple so if, or when, shit hit the fan they wouldn't freeze up trying to remember complex instructions. And 'rush through hitting anything not a Turner' was as stone simple a plan as it got. They then had lunch before he took his brothers down to an old landfill outside the city limits to do some impromptu weapons training. Both of them were, to varying degrees, used to violence, but there was a vast gulf between swinging wildly at someone with an iron pipe and taking down an adversary with a targeted strike. Atop of this he was pretty sure Mike was the only one used to using a pistol, but Jon surprised him with how good they were with a stunner. A far too elegant of a weapon for the place they'd grown up which only made him worry all the more but at least that familiarity would help them.
After a late dinner and a couple drinks to commemorate the dead (and help with nerves) it was finally time to strike. They traveled in an old beater he'd picked up for cheap from the wreckers. A real piece of junk but it fit in perfectly in the rundown neighborhood, disguised in plain sight as it was even if it backfired and squealed occasionally. They traveled past their target, checking that the expected guard was hanging out in the broken down reception area before turning down an alleyway. Mike parked the crapmobile before they all poured out and donned their ballistic vests, their masks, and their hoodies. They very much looked like folks about to get up to no good, but for the moment the drugged up residents of the area ignored them, fine to let bad folks fight amongst themselves. Violence was constant in Prysbil, the key was to make sure it was happening to other people.
One more round of assuring back smacks and shoulder jostles later and the three men went their different ways - Mike going around front, Jon to the back, and he climbed the rickety drainpipes to get to the roof. It was a harrowing ascent as rusted metal groaned and ripped, nearly dropping him a few times but he finally made it to the top. It wasn't his most graceful climb but it didn't have to be. He ran along and hopped from one building to another, putting his free running skills to the test as he had to play catch up to his brothers who took much easier paths. They would engage their targets much sooner than he would so if things went to crap with one of them then the jig would be up, and there would be no support to help them. It was a gamble, but what assault wasn't?
Luckily while making his traversal he heard the double crackle over his radio telling him Mike had mollified his target. It took quite a few more distressing minutes before he could breathe again after hearing the three crackles from Jon, a whispered 'shit' shared by Mike likely having had the same near heart attack as he. With both men in place it was finally his turn to storm the room. There were four life signatures in the room, one horizontal (probably sleeping), one reclining (classic TV watching posture) and two sitting around near the front door, probably on watch.
Taking a play from his hunter playbook he decided not to enter in any sensible manner. Instead he readied what was essentially a pickaxe with a holder in it's head, sized just so to fit a flashbang. He leaned over the side of the roof, pulling the pin before swinging the makeshift delivery system hard, driving it through the particle board covering the broken window. This got everyone's attention inside the room, all heads turning just in time to see the painfully deafening, blinding explosion. With this he ran over and took a dive off the building, the rope snaking around his waist cinching, converting that downward momentum into sharp inward movement as he planted both feet into the board nailed up over the second window for the abandoned office.
The board crumpled in with ease, the universal solvent his little drone had sprayed on it during the day having worked wonders to compromise the pressed wood. He sailed in like a wraith, letting go of the rope as booted feet found floor, that momentum carrying him forward as he drew a ballistic baton. The door to the right of him bowed once, twice, before the hulking form of Mike came barreling through, slamming into the table and upending it into the two thugs who'd been shooting dice up to that point. Jon came in hot after, stunner in hand as they dove for one of the reeling thugs. For his part he whipped the man on the sofa who'd been watching TV as he passed, striking them in the back of the head with the baton, their form crumpling even as he gave them another, sending them sprawling off. His main target was the one on the mattress, struggling to get up while groping blindly for the submachine gun next to their pillow. It was with great pleasure that he curb stomped that searching hand, eliciting a howl of pain from Javier as they curled around his boot. A bad move as it opened up the back of their head which he introduced to his ballistic baton with extreme prejudice - one, two whacks before their form slumped into unconsciousness.
…
They would next awake to the feeling of cold beer splashing across their face, their confused mind trying to get them upright but the butt of a pistol sent them sprawling back to the floor. Eli looked down at them dispassionately as they cradled their abused jaw. "You motherfucker! I'm gonna to rip your balls off and shove 'em down yer-!" They swallowed the rest of that vitriol as he planted his steel toe into their stomach.
"You are in no position to be yapping boy-o." He growled lowly, motioning with his gun back to the other boys of their motley crew, mollified under the watchful gaze of his masked brothers. "I have some questions for you and you are going to answer them accordingly."
"Fuck you, I ain't owe you sh-!" They gasped as he stomped on the hand they were using to prop themselves up, a nasty 'pop' resounding as he ground his heel.
"Wrong answer."
"F-Fuck you!" He was slightly impressed that they had held on to their piss and vinegar for so long. Gangbanger had more balls then he figured, but that just wasn't going to do. And so he kicked them, hard, sending them sprawling away from huddling over their injured hand so he could stomp it again, mangling the limb more. Jon flinched along with the other gangbangers at the excessive violence while Mike looked just as stolid as he. Javier hissed, trying to hold it in until he stomped them a third time, that defiant hiss collapsing into a whimper with the ugly pops from their fingers. "What do you want!?"
Stepping back, he took a moment to draw a combat knife from his belt, turning it over thoughtfully so it caught the dull light from the room. "You've been a very naughty boy Javier, and you've pissed off a lot of folks in the process. We're here to get some answers." He paused, giving them a moment to speak up. Seems they were wisening up as they just curled protective of their hand, glaring up at him. " You've been pushing Spirit recently, yeah?/"
That defiant glare lost some of its vigor at that question, the punk paling some as pieces quickly began to fall into place. "H-His death ain't on me! I-" The young man cried out as he spun the blade in hand and drove it into their knee.
"Spirit. You've been pushing this recently, yeah?"
"I-I to-told you, his death wasn't o-!" Those words were cut off as he began to rotate the blade, the banger grabbing at his hand ineffectively given the mangled state of theirs and the slick blood that made it hard to get purchase. They wheezed, gritting their teeth as they tried to control themselves. "Y-YES! Yes, we have…"
He released the torsion on the blade, drawing it out. "You've been using mules to get it from your cook, yeah?"
They nursed their abused knee, scooting away a little."… y-yes, but-"
"And you used Matthew for your work, didn't you?"
They squirmed. "I-I didn' use 'em! Th-They wanted to h-help. Were j–just as much a part of ever-rything as me, as anybody!"
"You used Matthew for your work, didn't you?"
He kicked Javier's stabbed knee when they tried to scoot further away at the repeated question, the man gasping as they crumpled in on themselves. "Th-th-yes! Th-they carried for us! They w-w-wanted to be useful! Th-they wanted to-!" A squealed gasp escaped as he plunged the knife into their other knee, driving through the resistance the joint put up. "The f-fuck y-you want fr-rom me!?"
Eli shook his head, hazarding a glance to Mike and Jon. The middle Turner looked as aghast at the butchery as the gangbangers they stood watch over while Mike looked satisfied if not a little green around the gills - everything as expected. Jon played at being tough and could be a kid of the streets if they needed to, but when it came down to the brass tacks they were just a civil soul in crap circumstances. On the other hand Mike was much a beast like him, they just never got that military training on dehumanization which made for a true bastard like him. Looking back to his charge, he leaned down, catching the asshole's panicked gaze: frightened, lonely, but tough and defiant. It reminded him somewhat of him, something Matty used to say. He gave the knife a little annoyed twist at that thought drawing a pained howl from the pusher. "I want answers boy-o."
"A-And then what? Y-You just let m-... me and mine go, th-that it?"
He smiled mirthlessly, the action hidden by his mask but his manner conveyed the sentiment as he shook his head. "Your boys here ain't our concern… unless they aim to be." The thugs shied away from his glance, none of them obviously wanting to be noticed by the violent psychopath with a knife. "As for you, you really think you're going to walk away from this… knees notwithstanding?"
Javier shook their head, teeth grit as they met his gaze. "They wo-would never w-want this, no m-matter what happened! My Matteo wouldn' want grudges held man!" He felt his jaw flexing at the plea, at the honesty of those words. Matty may have been a druggie and a punk, but they were never vindictive or hard like him. They were the sort to let bygones be bygones over a shared bong. "I-I'm s-sorry for what happened. I-I really am. I-If I could, I-I never would have asked them t-to run for me. But they w-wanted to! They w-w-wanted t-!"
Eli shook his head as he yanked the blade out of the shit stains knee, rising up. Matty wouldn't want this, wouldn't want his brothers spilling blood for them. They were always quick to say that revenge was a fool's game when Mike and him went after those that bullied them, he couldn't see them wanting him hurting his boyfriend even if they inadvertently killed them. Eli knew this.
He flicked the blood off the blade, sighing as he turned. At this distance he didn't even have to level sights on the sobbing heap before Mach squeezed the trigger. Everyone but him jumped at the harsh bark of the firearm, Javier splaying out as the bullet drove through their skull. They were dead before they hit the ground, the contents of their brain pan scattered - a textbook hunter kill. This didn't stop him from pumping another round into their chest, the body arching from the force of the jacketed hollow point exploding within.
He looked back to Mike, the eldest brother blinking through their shock before nodding grimly. He wasn't sure if they actually agreed with what he'd just done, but he knew they would stand by him and- "Holy shit Eli!"
That hard, blue gaze snapped to Jon as they reeled at the scene before them. Mike was already on the move, a meaty hand coming up to strike the idiot in the back of the head. Unfortunately it was too little too late as one of the captured punks looked at the three of them, the puzzle pieces falling together. "Oh shit, you're the Turner brothers!?"
Fuuuuck. Mach groaned back a curse as he stuck Jon with an angry glare, pistol swiveling about as it barked harshly in the small room, the smart thug gasping as a bullet tore through them, their form crumpling. All hell broke loose as the deterrent of not getting shot for good behavior was suddenly off the table, the remaining four gangbangers scattering. He fired a volley of rounds into the two trying to squeeze through the door, their compaction ensuring every bullet hit something. Mike squeezed off a shot, catching the bastard making for the window in a limb. They twisted, pinwheeling over as his bullet caught them square in the head, kicking it backwards and to the side. The last thug made for the back bedroom, probably because the other two egresses were occupied. Jon panic fired three rounds at them, each one progressively further from their target. Taking a breath, he led the man with his barrel before squeezing off two shots - they were dead as they slid into the bedroom.
Walking casually over to the door, he pushed Mike's aim off the man trying to push themselves up onto their knees, the effort marred from the growing puddle of blood beneath them. Shaking his head up to his brother, he snapped one last shot off into the dying punk, finishing them. His ears rang from all the shots fired in such close quarters but he could still hear the ragged breathing of Jon as they stared at the man they'd shot at, slumped in the doorway. "You didn't kill them, don't worry."
Pulling the mask off their face, they looked at him in horror. "What the fuck was that!?"
"What we came here to do, except without having to execute everybody. Wouldn't have had to do that if someone hadn't blown our cover!" Mike's voice boomed as they tried to speak over their own tinnitus.
"I… sure, I mean…but…" Shock was setting in but none of them had time for that.
Stepping over, he yanked the gun from his middle brother's hand while giving him a hard shove. " Keep it together, we gotta work fast."
"F-Fast?" They blinked, regaining a little composure as they asked that question.
"We're standing in the middle of a buncha gunfire and dead gangbangers." Mike grumbled, looking around as they shook their head. "We gotta get outta here."
"No, we gotta destroy the crime scene first." He motioned to the body's in the hallway. "Mike, drag those two into here, right up with Javier." He motioned next to Jon. "In the car there's some jugs of accelerant in the trunk. Spread two throughout the first floor and bring the other two up here. Don't forget to wear your mask!"
"Accelerant… wait, were you planning all this from the start!?"
Mach grit his teeth, holding back the anger that bubbled behind. "No, I just came prepared with a contingency in case things went to shit."
"But what about me and Mike? Why didn't-"
"We don't have time for this!" The younger man shied away from that angry growl eliciting a weary sigh from the hunter. "Look, we can beat all this to death after we're no longer standing incriminatingly in the middle of a massacre, yeah?"
Jon looked like they wanted to argue but instead just nodded, pulling on their mask as they hurried out the door. And with that he got to work helping Mike with the body's, tossing in his knife and their guns in the pile. Once Jon returned with the cans of fuel he quickly splashed the contents around the room with the last jug dedicated to the morbid mound. Gloves, masks, and outer jackets were added to the pile before he ransacked the cable from the TV to use as a makeshift remote igniter tied to the light switch at the door.
He sent his brothers out to the car ahead of him while he stayed behind to start the fire. In reality he focused on changing some of the ether primed by the high emotions left in the room like a scar into mana. This was fed into the glyph he'd left on the roof of the building, a little something that would agitate the fire, make it burn hotter and with more vigor than a mere accelerant could achieve. And unless the fire department were too quick to put out the blaze then the glyph would burn away with the rest of the building. It was a subtle crafting that he hoped wouldn't stir suspicion in the authorities to call in an expert on aural analysis or else they might be in serious shit. A rogue mage bumping off gangbangers got a lot more attention than some drug trafficking territory disputes.
Flicking the switch on the power and he quickly vacated the building, running just ahead of the flames that roared to life. Mike had already pulled the car around, Jon holding the door ready to receive him as he dove in. And with that they drove carefully into the night, making an inconspicuous b-line out of the area. They passed a police cruiser obviously responding to the reported gunfire but luckily their run down vehicle didn't raise suspicions until they were long gone from any possible police cordon.
With everything behind them the last thing was for everyone to make a clean getaway. Following the laid out plan he dropped Mike and Jon off at different locations around the city, in blind spots of the camera network (which there were plenty, Prysbil was far too poor a city to afford good CCTV coverage.) They would take circuitous routes to social scenes they were known at, dropping clothing as they went until they were fully clean and clear. For Mach, he drove the car to a different wrecking yard that… discreetly took care of special stripping jobs for the right amount of untraceable din. Suffice to say by the time he crashed down on the couch at Mike's place the car was no more and with it the last traces of evidence linking the Turners to tonight's escapades, he hoped at least.
As he closed his eyes to sleep, he could just see Matty shaking their head, giving him the sad look they always did when he went ahead and did something he knew they wouldn't approve of. It was a look he was ashamed to admit he'd seen enough times before for it to be so clearly imaginable now. But then he knew what he'd done wasn't for Matt. It wasn't even for Mike or Jon or any other Turner either. No, this bit of malicious violence was pure self indulgence, something to try and quell his own feelings of impotence and failure. He didn't feel any better though, but maybe that would come, or so he hoped at least as he let unconsciousness take him.
Yer a Wizard Mach!
Re: Yer a Wizard Mach!
Family and Blood - Bonds
The last few days of his bereavement leave were fairly uneventful. Jon had words for him once everything was said and done and they were no longer in the thick of things. They didn't agree with his choices and especially the outcomes, but after much badgering they could at least accept that what happened happened and that they were a part of it. A part they themselves had forced their way into despite his and Mike's best efforts. He was pretty sure no lessons were learned, Jon had a stubborn streak that made him seem diplomatic, but hopefully it would give them some perspective on the type of person he and Mike were… or at least him. Even Mike voiced some concern over how things shook out, in private away from Jon of course.
Before their middle brother the man showed nothing but solidarity with him, even if they thought shit got a little too real. They were also a little disturbed by the sheer, brutal efficiency which he'd dispatched all the gangbangers. Of course they played it off as him 'not sharing the fun' but he could tell. It was the sincerity which they spoke about not having to get blood on their hands, and how easy it was for him to do such. One of those disconnects where they just couldn't integrate the goofy playboy and the government issued killer. Then again he never went into the specifics of his job with any of his family, because nobody not in the trenches could ever understand. No, such would just make them worry, and he wasn't keen on such.
The next day after such weighty talks, he helped everyone clean out Matty's apartment, adding a few more pieces to his nostalgia storage locker. The boy really had diverged since last he saw them, fully embracing their transition. From what he could tell they were well into HRT, support groups, and therapy to help with their gender identity. They'd even chosen a new name and had been making plans to come out to him and his siblings. He wasn't sure why the bother, they'd all pretty much made the assumption, but it seemed like it held special importance to them. Was that why they'd been trying to keep contact with him, to talk about all these changes going on in their life? At very least it seemed like that's why they stuck around with Javier who seemed to have been very supportive of them… when they weren't using them to shuttle drugs about. Damn it!
The day after he finally heard news of Javier's passing from a very pleased Trixie. The police were all the more happy to call the murders and arson the result of gangland violence and not look any deeper into things than that. Especially since a little birdie fingered some of Benson's crew for the hit since, coincidentally, some of their product was found spread across the neighborhood… product so happenly marked by the police to try and bust the dealer. Seemed he'd been used by the woman, not the first time given their long history. He can't believe they used to date…
On his final night he shared a subdued meal with his siblings, reminiscing about Matty and giving each other crap. It felt good, but still stung from the gaping absence. He was sure some hard drinking was in his immediate future, probably a few more bad decisions too, but the least he could do was soldier on. Matty wouldn't have wanted him getting vengeance for them as he did, but they certainly would want him and the rest of the family, as it were, to live.
Taking a little stroll through the old neighborhood, he let his thoughts wander as he nursed a cigarette, his mindless wanderings taking him to a dilapidated park his siblings used to play on as kids. It had certainly seen better days, but he didn't remember any of them. No, hopped up junkies and mumbling hobos were as much features as the graffitied slides or used needles buried in the sand around the swings. He gave the park a wary look, his gaze halting on the familiar face. Bri rocked lazily on one of the intact swings, staring at her feet while the nearby hobo packed up to move to a different section of the park, apparently having been stink eyed by the young woman. Ok, so maybe folks were a little more afraid of his sister than he gave credit for.
Strolling up, he took a casual lean against the risers that supported the swings crossbar. " Needed some air too?"
The woman kicked her legs ineffectually, rocking the squeaky chains. "Thought I might find you here actually…" Hazel eyes lifted to look up at him between the drape of mahogany bangs.
He shrugged, blowing out an ashen stream. "Matty always liked the jungle gym here."
The woman smirked softly. "Still don't know how they used to nap so soundly atop that thing."
"Part cat, obviously." A grin pulled across his features as the woman smiled wryly.
"Yeah… that tracks." Feet dragged, halting their wobble as a solemn expression worked across their features. It was hard to think of her as younger than him sometimes when she looked so serious. "I heard about what happened to Javier."
Shit. He took an innocent drag, looking up at the sky that was slowly darkening, succumbing to the coming night. "Oh?"
They stuck him with a hard glare. "Don't 'oh' me, I know you did it."
Shiiit. "Did what? I-"
"I requested the full coroner report. It wasn't actually sealed or anything because Matt's death hadn't been tied to an open investigation. Guess who I learned had requested the report too."
He exhaled a sigh, not having considered that angle when he really should have - Toby in records was a lonely sorts and did like to talk. "Ok, I looked into their death, can you blame me? I may be dumb but that was sus as all hell's."
They shook their head. "I know you would have, it's who you are. You're not nearly as simple as you make yourself out to be…" His cigarette bobbed lazily as he shrugged, conceding the point. "I also know you can't just let things slide."
He watched his sister for a long moment, seeing that Turner fire focused by natural intellect. She really was the best of them - smart, savvy, and not a thug. Taking another drag off his cigarette, he considered just how far he ought to take the dummy approach as unlike him Bri wasn't one to act on just half baked assumptions. "You think Javier was behind Matty's OD? Talk to Benson or Trixie about that?"
A mildly disgusted twist marred the woman's features. "No. I talked with Willard."
This had his brows lifting a degree or three. "Detective Willard? He thinks I did this?"
She snorted softly. "He thinks how things happened didn't match with gang turf warfare. Said it felt more like a targeted hit, syndicate style."
"Huh…" He feigned mulling this over. "Maybe Javie wasn't as small the a crook as we all imagined, but why was Willard telling you all this? Thought stuff like that would be confidential."
She smiled wryly. "Still trying to impress the girl, especially the distraught one who's just lost a brother." She shrugged away the look he gave her. "I also spoke with Renaldo and Joseph about what's been going on."
Renny and Jojo weren't exactly the kind of sources he would use, but he had to remember that Bri had scruples and shame. Also, while not a narc she was certainly… not as well connected to the seedy underworld of Prysbil like he or Mike. But she was still a kid of the same streets, and he didn't doubt she had her ways of keeping informed. Given this, he finally just shrugged. "Shit stain deserved it."
He watched as the woman's brows knit, eyes widening just ahead of the smack they sent his way. "Damnit! Damnit!!"
They smacked his arm a few more times in frustration which had him scrunching his brow in turn. "You… didn't know, did you…?"
"Do you really think Renaldo or Joseph would actually know anything about this!? You damn idiot!!!" She smacked him for good measure once more, even as he kicked himself mentally. Damnit, he really just got played by his goody two shoes sister! If he had any pride it would be taking a nut shot right about now. Instead he just weathered his sister's ire, hands up apologetically.
"In my defense I haven't been around so-"
"Exactly!" They struck him with a glare. "You haven't been around, and yet here comes an excuse and you come in like a thug like it's the shitty days!"
His jaw flexed at that jab. "An excuse? That asshole is the reason Matty's dead! What, I'm supposed to let that slide?"
"You're certainly not supposed to go vigilante seeking 'justice'!"
"Justice?" He scoffed. "The OMI was giving out that tox report because Matt's death wasn't tied to a case. The police weren't going to do shit, he was just going to be swept under the umbrella of just being another dead junkie, killed by their own habit. A sad little statistic, there's no 'justice' in that."
"But there is in bumping someone off because of a feeling?"
"Because of good intel - and I corroborated the truth with the fucker too."
"Under duress I'm sure."
"It's the only language gangbangers speak!" He took one last angry drag off his cigarette before grounding the butt into the sand. "Why are you so bent out of shape about this? Aren't you mad about what they did to our brother?"
He knew that was a dumb question even before Bri smacked him, but he couldn't help from saying it. "I'm fucking furious you asshole! But Matt wouldn't have wanted you taking blood out for them, especially against Javier!"
"He's dead because of the fucker! Whether he'd have wanted it or not I just can't let that slide."
"Can't or won't?" She gave him a challenging glare before shaking it off, apparently thinking better of that tactic. "What about Mike and Jon?"
That took a bit of the wind out of his sails, his glower losing a bit of its edge. "What about them?"
"You involved them in this?"
The problem with only having one eye was that it made it easier to track so it was harder to avoid eye contact without notice. He considered lying but he wasn't feeling too confident he could sell it convincingly. "They wanted to."
"You recruited them."
"Only Mike, Jon just kinda…butted in."
"Damnit Eli!" They smacked him, hard, fury growing in the now youngest Turner. "You knew, you knew Mike would never turn you down. And Jon looks up to you so much they'd never say no either!"
"We… we're talking about the same Jon… right?"
Another lemon of a question as the woman whacked him hard, his temper flaring but dying down just as quick. He had a soft spot for the woman, for all his family which just superceded that angry beast that dwelled within him. "How can you be at fucking dense!?"
"We… we're talking about the same Eli… ri-" Ouch, that glare could strip paint. "Look, I'm sorry I involved them. Had I any other way with the time I had I would've, but I didn't, and I wasn't going to let Javier walk."
"Get Javier, the consequences be damned. You know those two have worked hard to get out of that life? And even then they'll never fully get out of the shadow of their past, the felony's on both their records will always haunt them. But no, you're personal vendetta is worth more."
"I was careful! The plan is good, it'll never come back to them!"
"Never? You can guarantee that? That no one else will connect the dots? That the families left behind by those men you murdered won't seek 'justice' themselves?"
He opened his mouth to ask how she knew there were multiple deaths but he caught himself, lips clamping shut. That wasn't important anyway, what was was that she was right. His entire life was lived with one eye open, always watching the shadows for friends or family of a mage or madsci he'd drilled. It was second nature, but was that something he wanted for his brothers? "I… I was careful…" That sounded pretty lame even to him.
"And what about the weight of the life you took."
"I… I made sure I was the one who took all the kill shots…" There was a moment, a shimmer of horror in his sister's expression at how cavalierly he spoke of such. The look one gave a monster, a look he was used to but it still hurt worse than any physical harm the girl could bring to bear against him.
"Eli… they're going to carry that regardless. Trauma is trauma, and death is traumatic, or it should be." He frowned at that cheap shot. Bri had tried to be supportive of all of them, but she always had the hardest time consolidating his life in the military, or more specifically as a hunter. It made sense, she was in residency now to become an internal medicine doctor, and he was a government trained thug with a license to maim and murder magical threats to the state. One couldn't get any more different than that. But even moreso, that violent dog that he relied on so much in his day to day life had done nothing but bring misery to his brothers. He was 'prospering' off the thing that generally spelled nothing but woe for Turners.
Still, it didn't feel great to be harped on about such, and despite his fondness for his siblings he couldn't help but feel his hackles rise. "That fucking bastard deserved to get drilled. It was Matty today, some other kid tomorrow, and another the day after, and so on and so on until they finally got their bullet."
"That's your assumption!"
"That's the simple truth!" The woman leaned away a little as he growled. "They were full blown gangbanger, unapologetic, training more gangbangers and not even looking for a way out. If anything they were looking for a way to get a bigger piece of that misery pie that this shitty city has on offer. And when that shit hit the fan they took to ground which tells me a whole lot about their character.You don't have to like it but that doesn't change the fact that that asshole was a menace, and all I did was take out the trash."
Bri’s jaw flexed, recovering from his tirade. Affixing him with an angry glare they hissed back against his growl. "And sullied the memory of the brother you lost while traumatizing and endangering the brothers you still have. Because it's always this way with you, always trying to solve all the problems, do all the things, the means and what anyone else wants be damned! You say Javier was a menace, but I don't see a difference between either of you."
Stunned silence stretched for a beat, his brow furrowing. "Are you kidding!?"
"Get help Eli, and don't you dare use any of us for any more for your own guilt trips. We all have it hard enough without you trying to drag the bad out of us."
He gaped at the woman as they slid off the swing, standing. "My guilt? My guilt!? You think-"
"Yes." A simple, blunt statement which left no room for argument, pinning him as they turned, hands thrusting into sweater pockets. His sister stormed off without even a glance back. "Don't bother coming to find me to say goodbye before you leave, I… I can't deal with you right now."
That blue eye blue watched as the woman wandered off, a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions bubbling beneath the surface as he worked through everything. He'd at least wait until the woman had rounded the corner before he slammed the side of his prosthetic fist against the metal riser for the swings, putting a minor bend in the tube steel. Damnit! Who did she think she was lecturing him, him! The girl had a decent life because he'd worked for them to have such, fought for them not to be eaten up by the mean streets, went to war for them to have money to grow up in some comfort and to have funds to attend college. And yet where did she get off probably being fucking right!?
He slammed his fist into the pole a second time deepening that dent as his angry gaze flit about, the few junkies who'd been stoned out of their minds earlier having cleared out, probably at the start of talk about murder. Nope, no need to get involved with those kinds of secrets, hissed as they were in a public place. Knowing those kinds of secrets just tended to end up with more murder, particularly hobo and junkie murder. And thus he was left alone with his thoughts as the sun sank beneath the horizon, the sounds of the slums filling the silence with the pops of gunfire, screeched domestic violence, and the wails of sirens. By the time he left he was feeling truly crumby, loathing the city of his youth more than ever even as he strolled its streets in search of a balm for that funk. It had been guilt which drove his actions, guilt that he hadn’t been there for Matty, guilt that he’d let his own problems distance him from his family when they needed him most… and guilt that he really did think he knew best and had talked himself up to acting on such. He’d murdered five gangbangers in the presence of his brothers, and would soon bamph back to Rhy’Din totally removed of the consequences of his actions. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do for such now save staying his shitty course as he took a turn, stepping sullenly into a bar.
The last few days of his bereavement leave were fairly uneventful. Jon had words for him once everything was said and done and they were no longer in the thick of things. They didn't agree with his choices and especially the outcomes, but after much badgering they could at least accept that what happened happened and that they were a part of it. A part they themselves had forced their way into despite his and Mike's best efforts. He was pretty sure no lessons were learned, Jon had a stubborn streak that made him seem diplomatic, but hopefully it would give them some perspective on the type of person he and Mike were… or at least him. Even Mike voiced some concern over how things shook out, in private away from Jon of course.
Before their middle brother the man showed nothing but solidarity with him, even if they thought shit got a little too real. They were also a little disturbed by the sheer, brutal efficiency which he'd dispatched all the gangbangers. Of course they played it off as him 'not sharing the fun' but he could tell. It was the sincerity which they spoke about not having to get blood on their hands, and how easy it was for him to do such. One of those disconnects where they just couldn't integrate the goofy playboy and the government issued killer. Then again he never went into the specifics of his job with any of his family, because nobody not in the trenches could ever understand. No, such would just make them worry, and he wasn't keen on such.
The next day after such weighty talks, he helped everyone clean out Matty's apartment, adding a few more pieces to his nostalgia storage locker. The boy really had diverged since last he saw them, fully embracing their transition. From what he could tell they were well into HRT, support groups, and therapy to help with their gender identity. They'd even chosen a new name and had been making plans to come out to him and his siblings. He wasn't sure why the bother, they'd all pretty much made the assumption, but it seemed like it held special importance to them. Was that why they'd been trying to keep contact with him, to talk about all these changes going on in their life? At very least it seemed like that's why they stuck around with Javier who seemed to have been very supportive of them… when they weren't using them to shuttle drugs about. Damn it!
The day after he finally heard news of Javier's passing from a very pleased Trixie. The police were all the more happy to call the murders and arson the result of gangland violence and not look any deeper into things than that. Especially since a little birdie fingered some of Benson's crew for the hit since, coincidentally, some of their product was found spread across the neighborhood… product so happenly marked by the police to try and bust the dealer. Seemed he'd been used by the woman, not the first time given their long history. He can't believe they used to date…
On his final night he shared a subdued meal with his siblings, reminiscing about Matty and giving each other crap. It felt good, but still stung from the gaping absence. He was sure some hard drinking was in his immediate future, probably a few more bad decisions too, but the least he could do was soldier on. Matty wouldn't have wanted him getting vengeance for them as he did, but they certainly would want him and the rest of the family, as it were, to live.
Taking a little stroll through the old neighborhood, he let his thoughts wander as he nursed a cigarette, his mindless wanderings taking him to a dilapidated park his siblings used to play on as kids. It had certainly seen better days, but he didn't remember any of them. No, hopped up junkies and mumbling hobos were as much features as the graffitied slides or used needles buried in the sand around the swings. He gave the park a wary look, his gaze halting on the familiar face. Bri rocked lazily on one of the intact swings, staring at her feet while the nearby hobo packed up to move to a different section of the park, apparently having been stink eyed by the young woman. Ok, so maybe folks were a little more afraid of his sister than he gave credit for.
Strolling up, he took a casual lean against the risers that supported the swings crossbar. " Needed some air too?"
The woman kicked her legs ineffectually, rocking the squeaky chains. "Thought I might find you here actually…" Hazel eyes lifted to look up at him between the drape of mahogany bangs.
He shrugged, blowing out an ashen stream. "Matty always liked the jungle gym here."
The woman smirked softly. "Still don't know how they used to nap so soundly atop that thing."
"Part cat, obviously." A grin pulled across his features as the woman smiled wryly.
"Yeah… that tracks." Feet dragged, halting their wobble as a solemn expression worked across their features. It was hard to think of her as younger than him sometimes when she looked so serious. "I heard about what happened to Javier."
Shit. He took an innocent drag, looking up at the sky that was slowly darkening, succumbing to the coming night. "Oh?"
They stuck him with a hard glare. "Don't 'oh' me, I know you did it."
Shiiit. "Did what? I-"
"I requested the full coroner report. It wasn't actually sealed or anything because Matt's death hadn't been tied to an open investigation. Guess who I learned had requested the report too."
He exhaled a sigh, not having considered that angle when he really should have - Toby in records was a lonely sorts and did like to talk. "Ok, I looked into their death, can you blame me? I may be dumb but that was sus as all hell's."
They shook their head. "I know you would have, it's who you are. You're not nearly as simple as you make yourself out to be…" His cigarette bobbed lazily as he shrugged, conceding the point. "I also know you can't just let things slide."
He watched his sister for a long moment, seeing that Turner fire focused by natural intellect. She really was the best of them - smart, savvy, and not a thug. Taking another drag off his cigarette, he considered just how far he ought to take the dummy approach as unlike him Bri wasn't one to act on just half baked assumptions. "You think Javier was behind Matty's OD? Talk to Benson or Trixie about that?"
A mildly disgusted twist marred the woman's features. "No. I talked with Willard."
This had his brows lifting a degree or three. "Detective Willard? He thinks I did this?"
She snorted softly. "He thinks how things happened didn't match with gang turf warfare. Said it felt more like a targeted hit, syndicate style."
"Huh…" He feigned mulling this over. "Maybe Javie wasn't as small the a crook as we all imagined, but why was Willard telling you all this? Thought stuff like that would be confidential."
She smiled wryly. "Still trying to impress the girl, especially the distraught one who's just lost a brother." She shrugged away the look he gave her. "I also spoke with Renaldo and Joseph about what's been going on."
Renny and Jojo weren't exactly the kind of sources he would use, but he had to remember that Bri had scruples and shame. Also, while not a narc she was certainly… not as well connected to the seedy underworld of Prysbil like he or Mike. But she was still a kid of the same streets, and he didn't doubt she had her ways of keeping informed. Given this, he finally just shrugged. "Shit stain deserved it."
He watched as the woman's brows knit, eyes widening just ahead of the smack they sent his way. "Damnit! Damnit!!"
They smacked his arm a few more times in frustration which had him scrunching his brow in turn. "You… didn't know, did you…?"
"Do you really think Renaldo or Joseph would actually know anything about this!? You damn idiot!!!" She smacked him for good measure once more, even as he kicked himself mentally. Damnit, he really just got played by his goody two shoes sister! If he had any pride it would be taking a nut shot right about now. Instead he just weathered his sister's ire, hands up apologetically.
"In my defense I haven't been around so-"
"Exactly!" They struck him with a glare. "You haven't been around, and yet here comes an excuse and you come in like a thug like it's the shitty days!"
His jaw flexed at that jab. "An excuse? That asshole is the reason Matty's dead! What, I'm supposed to let that slide?"
"You're certainly not supposed to go vigilante seeking 'justice'!"
"Justice?" He scoffed. "The OMI was giving out that tox report because Matt's death wasn't tied to a case. The police weren't going to do shit, he was just going to be swept under the umbrella of just being another dead junkie, killed by their own habit. A sad little statistic, there's no 'justice' in that."
"But there is in bumping someone off because of a feeling?"
"Because of good intel - and I corroborated the truth with the fucker too."
"Under duress I'm sure."
"It's the only language gangbangers speak!" He took one last angry drag off his cigarette before grounding the butt into the sand. "Why are you so bent out of shape about this? Aren't you mad about what they did to our brother?"
He knew that was a dumb question even before Bri smacked him, but he couldn't help from saying it. "I'm fucking furious you asshole! But Matt wouldn't have wanted you taking blood out for them, especially against Javier!"
"He's dead because of the fucker! Whether he'd have wanted it or not I just can't let that slide."
"Can't or won't?" She gave him a challenging glare before shaking it off, apparently thinking better of that tactic. "What about Mike and Jon?"
That took a bit of the wind out of his sails, his glower losing a bit of its edge. "What about them?"
"You involved them in this?"
The problem with only having one eye was that it made it easier to track so it was harder to avoid eye contact without notice. He considered lying but he wasn't feeling too confident he could sell it convincingly. "They wanted to."
"You recruited them."
"Only Mike, Jon just kinda…butted in."
"Damnit Eli!" They smacked him, hard, fury growing in the now youngest Turner. "You knew, you knew Mike would never turn you down. And Jon looks up to you so much they'd never say no either!"
"We… we're talking about the same Jon… right?"
Another lemon of a question as the woman whacked him hard, his temper flaring but dying down just as quick. He had a soft spot for the woman, for all his family which just superceded that angry beast that dwelled within him. "How can you be at fucking dense!?"
"We… we're talking about the same Eli… ri-" Ouch, that glare could strip paint. "Look, I'm sorry I involved them. Had I any other way with the time I had I would've, but I didn't, and I wasn't going to let Javier walk."
"Get Javier, the consequences be damned. You know those two have worked hard to get out of that life? And even then they'll never fully get out of the shadow of their past, the felony's on both their records will always haunt them. But no, you're personal vendetta is worth more."
"I was careful! The plan is good, it'll never come back to them!"
"Never? You can guarantee that? That no one else will connect the dots? That the families left behind by those men you murdered won't seek 'justice' themselves?"
He opened his mouth to ask how she knew there were multiple deaths but he caught himself, lips clamping shut. That wasn't important anyway, what was was that she was right. His entire life was lived with one eye open, always watching the shadows for friends or family of a mage or madsci he'd drilled. It was second nature, but was that something he wanted for his brothers? "I… I was careful…" That sounded pretty lame even to him.
"And what about the weight of the life you took."
"I… I made sure I was the one who took all the kill shots…" There was a moment, a shimmer of horror in his sister's expression at how cavalierly he spoke of such. The look one gave a monster, a look he was used to but it still hurt worse than any physical harm the girl could bring to bear against him.
"Eli… they're going to carry that regardless. Trauma is trauma, and death is traumatic, or it should be." He frowned at that cheap shot. Bri had tried to be supportive of all of them, but she always had the hardest time consolidating his life in the military, or more specifically as a hunter. It made sense, she was in residency now to become an internal medicine doctor, and he was a government trained thug with a license to maim and murder magical threats to the state. One couldn't get any more different than that. But even moreso, that violent dog that he relied on so much in his day to day life had done nothing but bring misery to his brothers. He was 'prospering' off the thing that generally spelled nothing but woe for Turners.
Still, it didn't feel great to be harped on about such, and despite his fondness for his siblings he couldn't help but feel his hackles rise. "That fucking bastard deserved to get drilled. It was Matty today, some other kid tomorrow, and another the day after, and so on and so on until they finally got their bullet."
"That's your assumption!"
"That's the simple truth!" The woman leaned away a little as he growled. "They were full blown gangbanger, unapologetic, training more gangbangers and not even looking for a way out. If anything they were looking for a way to get a bigger piece of that misery pie that this shitty city has on offer. And when that shit hit the fan they took to ground which tells me a whole lot about their character.You don't have to like it but that doesn't change the fact that that asshole was a menace, and all I did was take out the trash."
Bri’s jaw flexed, recovering from his tirade. Affixing him with an angry glare they hissed back against his growl. "And sullied the memory of the brother you lost while traumatizing and endangering the brothers you still have. Because it's always this way with you, always trying to solve all the problems, do all the things, the means and what anyone else wants be damned! You say Javier was a menace, but I don't see a difference between either of you."
Stunned silence stretched for a beat, his brow furrowing. "Are you kidding!?"
"Get help Eli, and don't you dare use any of us for any more for your own guilt trips. We all have it hard enough without you trying to drag the bad out of us."
He gaped at the woman as they slid off the swing, standing. "My guilt? My guilt!? You think-"
"Yes." A simple, blunt statement which left no room for argument, pinning him as they turned, hands thrusting into sweater pockets. His sister stormed off without even a glance back. "Don't bother coming to find me to say goodbye before you leave, I… I can't deal with you right now."
That blue eye blue watched as the woman wandered off, a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions bubbling beneath the surface as he worked through everything. He'd at least wait until the woman had rounded the corner before he slammed the side of his prosthetic fist against the metal riser for the swings, putting a minor bend in the tube steel. Damnit! Who did she think she was lecturing him, him! The girl had a decent life because he'd worked for them to have such, fought for them not to be eaten up by the mean streets, went to war for them to have money to grow up in some comfort and to have funds to attend college. And yet where did she get off probably being fucking right!?
He slammed his fist into the pole a second time deepening that dent as his angry gaze flit about, the few junkies who'd been stoned out of their minds earlier having cleared out, probably at the start of talk about murder. Nope, no need to get involved with those kinds of secrets, hissed as they were in a public place. Knowing those kinds of secrets just tended to end up with more murder, particularly hobo and junkie murder. And thus he was left alone with his thoughts as the sun sank beneath the horizon, the sounds of the slums filling the silence with the pops of gunfire, screeched domestic violence, and the wails of sirens. By the time he left he was feeling truly crumby, loathing the city of his youth more than ever even as he strolled its streets in search of a balm for that funk. It had been guilt which drove his actions, guilt that he hadn’t been there for Matty, guilt that he’d let his own problems distance him from his family when they needed him most… and guilt that he really did think he knew best and had talked himself up to acting on such. He’d murdered five gangbangers in the presence of his brothers, and would soon bamph back to Rhy’Din totally removed of the consequences of his actions. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do for such now save staying his shitty course as he took a turn, stepping sullenly into a bar.
Re: Yer a Wizard Mach!
Family and Blood - Return
Come the next morning Mach still felt pretty crumby, even as he slid out unashamedly from Trixie's apartment. The 'balm' he'd found at the bar the night before… what? They may have been a peddler of misery, but he still had a soft spot for them and had many soft spots too. They'd grown up together on the mean streets of Prysbil after all and had been seeking comfort in each other every so often ever since they popped his cherry at twelve. Of course they could never reconcile their differences, moral or otherwise, so the best they could ever hope to be were friends with benefits. Fine by him, he preferred that over the alternative where he might have been working them over for drugs so he could pay off Javier's snoop network of junkies.
Javier… fucking bastard. Bri was, aggravatingly, right about that little shit and what he'd done. He had hunted that punk down for his own conscience, and he'd drug his brothers into that shit with him. Mike would never have known had he not keyed them in and Jon only followed suit because he and Mike were involved. Damnit, he should have just went full monster and cratered Javier and everything around them and been done with it. Instead he half hearted things, wanted to just take down Javier which required help but he saw how that played out. Everything went to hell anyway but now his brothers were complicit in the murders and could be held accountable if such ever came to light. What was worse was that they wouldn't even sell him out to save themselves, they'd happily take the fall while he was sitting on a beach on Rhy'din sipping colada's… damnit!! That loathing anger just wouldn't go away and no bowlegging a drug dealer was going to fix that.
Returning back to Mike's place and he was informed both Bri and Jon had already taken off, Jon sullen as always but Bri was a surprise. He informed the eldest Turner of what transpired in the park and, of course, the big oaf took his side, telling him things would blow over and that if shit did hit the fan they'd protect him. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear, a confirmation of all Bri's fears and complaints. It made him feel like absolute shit even as he smiled and clapped the oafs back in that almost ritualistic exchange of badgering insults and snide affirmations. Not the most healthy of relationships but then if this trip had proven anything it was that he was pretty crap at those.
The rest of the day was spent on extended clean up and loose ends fixing. He flexed his considerable financial reserves built up from a long history of gambling to buy, bully, and build his brothers a rock solid alibi while muddying any and all evidence trails he could think of. Having an inside track to most law enforcement helped plenty in this regard as well as the fact that there was rampant corruption in the Prysbil Police Department he could easily leverage. Score one for committing crime in a shitty, crime riddled city. He'd have hated to have tried covering things up in a squeaky clean place like Tarlten or an important hub city like Minostro. Here, bad shit happened and that was just a way of life which did kind of make him want to try and push Mike out like Bri and Jon had already done but he knew the stubborn bastard would never leave.
That night he drank the night away with Mike, reminiscing nostalgic about the good times and the bad. And before the sun even crested the horizon he was dressed and ready to go, an unceremonious kick given to Mike's form, splayed out on the couch. The big man snorted indignantly, their head swimming about, led by a half lidded, unfocused gaze. "Mwhagh…?"
He smirked, looking down at the pathetic sight. "It's time, I'm headed out you asshole."
"Out?" A meaty fist worked to try and scrub some of the hangover out of their eyes as the other flailed about to grab their phone. Swiping up, they reeled as if physically struck by the dull light, squinting through their obvious discomfort. "Fuck, it's not even five man!"
He shrugged though he didn't venture the motion was noticed as the other rolled off the couch to splat with a groaning thud onto the floor. He'd tried to warn them about trying to keep pace with him and his augmented, military grade liver but they simply took that as a challenge. Frankly he felt right as rain as he had paced himself less his dumb brother follow him straight into acute alcohol poisoning. "Train back is leaving to match with Rhy'din local when I arrive. It'll be…" He paused a moment, doing the transplanar conversion… or really just cheating and thinking back to what he saw on the ticket earlier. "...10:00."
The other squinted at him unhappily, the inconsistencies obviously like spikes in their pickled brain. "Thought it was something like a 17 hour train ride?"
He shrugged, not even correcting them that it was 17 Tang hours and not 17 Rhy'din hours. In Rhy'din hours he was pretty much gone an entire extra day, not that there was anyone waiting for him back there that would care. "What can I say, it's all wibbly wobbly timey whimy." He grinned at Mike's grimace.
Another groan was levied to the uncaring universe as Mike finally peeled themselves off the floor, dragging themselves up the couch side which they then slumped against precariously, eyes weaving side to side, watching an unmoving world swirl around them. "Fucking time…" They groused unhappily, a meaty hand scrubbing at their face before they lurched forward, clutching onto him for support as they drew him in to a hug, clapping his back painfully. "You should fucking stay man… gotta be owed some sorts shore leave, yeah? Properly enjoy you some R and R…"
He winced with the last clap, an annoyed shift drawing him away from the other's center of gravity which almost sent them flailing to the ground again. They took that as the unspoken threat that it was, easing off of the over friendly patting. "Would love to man, but duty calls…"
"Duty." The word was spat from the other, sourly, before easing back, whistling out a long sigh. "It was on us to protect Matty you know, our duty ..."
He quirked a brow at the man as this was the first time they'd spoken of this, at least in recent memory. He'd heard it all before, of course, back when he'd told Mike he was enlisting. At very least this was being said in a hungover stupor rather than with fists as so long ago. "I know man… just-"
"'Life'?"
He frowned, having that response he so empathetically beat into his brother in their youth now thrown back at him so blase. "Yeah…" A resigned sigh as he averted his gaze from theirs. Damn, even Mike was getting their licks in. But it was so much worse coming from the elder Turner because they were brothers in a way more than with any other of his siblings. "Life. What're you going to do?"
The other man squinted at him, the gears obviously grinding painfully behind that hard gaze. A few moments passed uncomfortably before they wobbled, a meaty hand clapping onto his shoulder for stability once more. "Fuck it!"
"I do my best to, yeah." He grinned broadly, happy to take the low hanging fruit right in his wheelhouse.
The zinger earned a dirty snort from the other, their meaty hand clapping his shoulder a couple more times as they rocked a little more, trying valiantly to find their sober legs. "Yeah, you do. Everything, every which way." Another amused snort escaped them but his own humor tarnished a hair, the comment, intentionally or not, hitting a little too close to truth for his liking. "But fuck man, the sun hasn't even come out." They gave their window a side eye as he simply shrugged, not wanting to bring attention back to him being a flighty bastard. "Damn shame Bri ain't here. Jon can get fucked, but Bri'll miss ya for sure."
"I don't know man, she made it pretty clear her-" He recoiled at the sudden hard clap which shook him to his boots.
"Oh come off it. If she weren't pissy she wouldn't be our sister." They smiled in an off kilter way, leaning on him a little too much for comfort. "She's mad now, or again… fuck, you piss her off a lot…"
"What can I say, it's a talent."
Now they gave him the dirty side eye which didn't phase him save for the slightly queasy look behind it. "Yeaaah, maybe try not to do that." They snorted, shaking their head at his blase shrug. "Fucking menace… But seriously, just give her some time to cool off man. She always does… unless you stay away so long she starts pregaming that annoyance." They grinned, clapping him one more time before weaving away to sit precariously on the armrest of their sofa.
"I'll… try." He didn't venture his smile was super convincing but he hoped the poor lighting would make up for that. It wasn't that he wanted to stay away, not anymore at least. Last time he was here he was right out of Kern Mordarte, still missing pieces, and having just blown up another hunter to go back to Rhy'din. All that left him feeling much more monster than man, not something he wanted his family to see which was why he'd avoided coming home before shipping back out. Now though it was the threat of his new found powers and what hell they could bring down on his family. Even traveling back for Matty's funeral was a gamble against the U.T.R.A. not being such flagrant dicks as to schedule him for a physical since he was 'in town.' Luckily, whoever was the rubber stamper that reviewed his request packet made the assumption he was taking as little time off and getting back to post as quickly as possible so as to bury his sorrow with work - and that that kind of shit coping mechanism was a-okay versus being a flag for a psych eval and general health checkup. He wasn't sure what he would have done if they'd assumed the latter as his spectral analysis left no room for doubt that he was processing ether like a mage now rather than slowly being poisoned by it like a proper hunter.
No, until he could figure out something to do about that he was pretty much toxic to anyone he cared about. Getting outed as a mage would see a hit put out on him with a triggerman that would have no scruples using or going through anyone to get to him. Worse still, he had a time limit to figure this out as he would be processed for outclassing as a hunter once he hit that big four-O. The pact he signed to become a hunter may have been stacked against him and was written by jackals who couldn't have given a rat's ass for his well being, but the U.T.R.A. was, if anything, abiding of their own written contracts. He was supposed to be released of duty as a hunter when he hit forty and they would honor that! And even if he said he wanted to stay a hunter they'd still give him a thorough check over for fitness to continue in that role. Forty wasn't just a nice, neat number that someone had plucked out of their ass afterall, but the calculated age when the majority of hunters were down in efficacy by at least 50%. Jackals indeed. And as for just telling his family what was going on with him, well, this little sordid affair with Matty's death spoke volumes of how that could go.
He noted the dim expression from Mike as they teetered to and fro. "Seriously, I will, sheesh. Have a little faith man!"
"Faith and me don't get on so well…" A wary, lopsided grin curled on the larger man, far more weary than he thought this warranted. It took him a moment to remember that the lugs previous long term squeeze was named Faith and the misty distance in their gaze was probably because of her than some existential trauma against trust.
Right, they were drunk and now on the verge of getting weepy over relationships - it was time for him to make his escape. A hearty clap of his own on their shoulder almost sent the larger man flopping over, that budding emotion replaced by a scowl as they straightened. "Yeah, well, I've spent a lot more time in foxholes than you so…" He grinned through the inadvertent pang of guilt those words brought, clapping his brother's shoulder a few more times for poor measure. "Don't worry, yeah? I'll see you later."
Mike was positively growling now as they wobbled, their glare murderous until those final words. These seemed to sober them as they fell forward onto him, wrapping him up in their tree limb like arms. "You fucking better, or I'm helping Bri hide your body." He'd have chuckled at this if the bigger man wasn't crushing the air from him with their hug. The bastard really didn't know their own strength, or maybe they just didn't care when dealing with him, assuming he could weather whatever they threw at him. Damn idiot.
They'd finally let up enough for him to get a breath in, a thought crossing him to crush them in turn but he thought better of that given how unsteady they were. No, squeezing them would probably just lead to him wearing last night's drinking session. So he'd instead wait for them to slack enough with their hold so he could slip out, directing the man back to the couch less they make a fast and hard acquaintance of the floor again. "You take care, yeah? Keep… um, er, those… you care-"
"I'll be better about keeping the family safe if you be better about being part of this family, yeah?" They gave him a rather poignant look, even as they slowly listed over, losing the fight for continued consciousness.
"Yeah, deal." He smiled, giving the lunk a push that sent them over. The man grunted complaintively, swearing a little at him as he snagged and threw an afghan atop of them.
Still, they didn't make any attempts to sit back up though they did glare at him blearily. "I… I mean it Tia… you's better… be… better… or Bri…"
Incoherence took the rest as he slowly backed away, snagging his canvas duffel which he'd left by the door. He took one look back to his brother who stared in his direction bleary and stubborn, their gaze unfocused. "I'll give it the ol' Turner effort." He smiled as they flipped him off one last time before rolling over, apparently having had enough of the whole conscious business.
Locking the door behind him, he headed down to the street to meet his ride share, starting that long road back to Rhy'din. By the time he stepped off the train and back into that cold, autumn air he was still feeling pretty raw about everything. Yet he felt a certain amount of renewed resolve to move forward, to figure out what Gaines had done to him and, if possible, how to reverse it without getting himself killed. It was the least he could do for the oaf and the remainder of the only family he had.
Come the next morning Mach still felt pretty crumby, even as he slid out unashamedly from Trixie's apartment. The 'balm' he'd found at the bar the night before… what? They may have been a peddler of misery, but he still had a soft spot for them and had many soft spots too. They'd grown up together on the mean streets of Prysbil after all and had been seeking comfort in each other every so often ever since they popped his cherry at twelve. Of course they could never reconcile their differences, moral or otherwise, so the best they could ever hope to be were friends with benefits. Fine by him, he preferred that over the alternative where he might have been working them over for drugs so he could pay off Javier's snoop network of junkies.
Javier… fucking bastard. Bri was, aggravatingly, right about that little shit and what he'd done. He had hunted that punk down for his own conscience, and he'd drug his brothers into that shit with him. Mike would never have known had he not keyed them in and Jon only followed suit because he and Mike were involved. Damnit, he should have just went full monster and cratered Javier and everything around them and been done with it. Instead he half hearted things, wanted to just take down Javier which required help but he saw how that played out. Everything went to hell anyway but now his brothers were complicit in the murders and could be held accountable if such ever came to light. What was worse was that they wouldn't even sell him out to save themselves, they'd happily take the fall while he was sitting on a beach on Rhy'din sipping colada's… damnit!! That loathing anger just wouldn't go away and no bowlegging a drug dealer was going to fix that.
Returning back to Mike's place and he was informed both Bri and Jon had already taken off, Jon sullen as always but Bri was a surprise. He informed the eldest Turner of what transpired in the park and, of course, the big oaf took his side, telling him things would blow over and that if shit did hit the fan they'd protect him. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear, a confirmation of all Bri's fears and complaints. It made him feel like absolute shit even as he smiled and clapped the oafs back in that almost ritualistic exchange of badgering insults and snide affirmations. Not the most healthy of relationships but then if this trip had proven anything it was that he was pretty crap at those.
The rest of the day was spent on extended clean up and loose ends fixing. He flexed his considerable financial reserves built up from a long history of gambling to buy, bully, and build his brothers a rock solid alibi while muddying any and all evidence trails he could think of. Having an inside track to most law enforcement helped plenty in this regard as well as the fact that there was rampant corruption in the Prysbil Police Department he could easily leverage. Score one for committing crime in a shitty, crime riddled city. He'd have hated to have tried covering things up in a squeaky clean place like Tarlten or an important hub city like Minostro. Here, bad shit happened and that was just a way of life which did kind of make him want to try and push Mike out like Bri and Jon had already done but he knew the stubborn bastard would never leave.
That night he drank the night away with Mike, reminiscing nostalgic about the good times and the bad. And before the sun even crested the horizon he was dressed and ready to go, an unceremonious kick given to Mike's form, splayed out on the couch. The big man snorted indignantly, their head swimming about, led by a half lidded, unfocused gaze. "Mwhagh…?"
He smirked, looking down at the pathetic sight. "It's time, I'm headed out you asshole."
"Out?" A meaty fist worked to try and scrub some of the hangover out of their eyes as the other flailed about to grab their phone. Swiping up, they reeled as if physically struck by the dull light, squinting through their obvious discomfort. "Fuck, it's not even five man!"
He shrugged though he didn't venture the motion was noticed as the other rolled off the couch to splat with a groaning thud onto the floor. He'd tried to warn them about trying to keep pace with him and his augmented, military grade liver but they simply took that as a challenge. Frankly he felt right as rain as he had paced himself less his dumb brother follow him straight into acute alcohol poisoning. "Train back is leaving to match with Rhy'din local when I arrive. It'll be…" He paused a moment, doing the transplanar conversion… or really just cheating and thinking back to what he saw on the ticket earlier. "...10:00."
The other squinted at him unhappily, the inconsistencies obviously like spikes in their pickled brain. "Thought it was something like a 17 hour train ride?"
He shrugged, not even correcting them that it was 17 Tang hours and not 17 Rhy'din hours. In Rhy'din hours he was pretty much gone an entire extra day, not that there was anyone waiting for him back there that would care. "What can I say, it's all wibbly wobbly timey whimy." He grinned at Mike's grimace.
Another groan was levied to the uncaring universe as Mike finally peeled themselves off the floor, dragging themselves up the couch side which they then slumped against precariously, eyes weaving side to side, watching an unmoving world swirl around them. "Fucking time…" They groused unhappily, a meaty hand scrubbing at their face before they lurched forward, clutching onto him for support as they drew him in to a hug, clapping his back painfully. "You should fucking stay man… gotta be owed some sorts shore leave, yeah? Properly enjoy you some R and R…"
He winced with the last clap, an annoyed shift drawing him away from the other's center of gravity which almost sent them flailing to the ground again. They took that as the unspoken threat that it was, easing off of the over friendly patting. "Would love to man, but duty calls…"
"Duty." The word was spat from the other, sourly, before easing back, whistling out a long sigh. "It was on us to protect Matty you know, our duty ..."
He quirked a brow at the man as this was the first time they'd spoken of this, at least in recent memory. He'd heard it all before, of course, back when he'd told Mike he was enlisting. At very least this was being said in a hungover stupor rather than with fists as so long ago. "I know man… just-"
"'Life'?"
He frowned, having that response he so empathetically beat into his brother in their youth now thrown back at him so blase. "Yeah…" A resigned sigh as he averted his gaze from theirs. Damn, even Mike was getting their licks in. But it was so much worse coming from the elder Turner because they were brothers in a way more than with any other of his siblings. "Life. What're you going to do?"
The other man squinted at him, the gears obviously grinding painfully behind that hard gaze. A few moments passed uncomfortably before they wobbled, a meaty hand clapping onto his shoulder for stability once more. "Fuck it!"
"I do my best to, yeah." He grinned broadly, happy to take the low hanging fruit right in his wheelhouse.
The zinger earned a dirty snort from the other, their meaty hand clapping his shoulder a couple more times as they rocked a little more, trying valiantly to find their sober legs. "Yeah, you do. Everything, every which way." Another amused snort escaped them but his own humor tarnished a hair, the comment, intentionally or not, hitting a little too close to truth for his liking. "But fuck man, the sun hasn't even come out." They gave their window a side eye as he simply shrugged, not wanting to bring attention back to him being a flighty bastard. "Damn shame Bri ain't here. Jon can get fucked, but Bri'll miss ya for sure."
"I don't know man, she made it pretty clear her-" He recoiled at the sudden hard clap which shook him to his boots.
"Oh come off it. If she weren't pissy she wouldn't be our sister." They smiled in an off kilter way, leaning on him a little too much for comfort. "She's mad now, or again… fuck, you piss her off a lot…"
"What can I say, it's a talent."
Now they gave him the dirty side eye which didn't phase him save for the slightly queasy look behind it. "Yeaaah, maybe try not to do that." They snorted, shaking their head at his blase shrug. "Fucking menace… But seriously, just give her some time to cool off man. She always does… unless you stay away so long she starts pregaming that annoyance." They grinned, clapping him one more time before weaving away to sit precariously on the armrest of their sofa.
"I'll… try." He didn't venture his smile was super convincing but he hoped the poor lighting would make up for that. It wasn't that he wanted to stay away, not anymore at least. Last time he was here he was right out of Kern Mordarte, still missing pieces, and having just blown up another hunter to go back to Rhy'din. All that left him feeling much more monster than man, not something he wanted his family to see which was why he'd avoided coming home before shipping back out. Now though it was the threat of his new found powers and what hell they could bring down on his family. Even traveling back for Matty's funeral was a gamble against the U.T.R.A. not being such flagrant dicks as to schedule him for a physical since he was 'in town.' Luckily, whoever was the rubber stamper that reviewed his request packet made the assumption he was taking as little time off and getting back to post as quickly as possible so as to bury his sorrow with work - and that that kind of shit coping mechanism was a-okay versus being a flag for a psych eval and general health checkup. He wasn't sure what he would have done if they'd assumed the latter as his spectral analysis left no room for doubt that he was processing ether like a mage now rather than slowly being poisoned by it like a proper hunter.
No, until he could figure out something to do about that he was pretty much toxic to anyone he cared about. Getting outed as a mage would see a hit put out on him with a triggerman that would have no scruples using or going through anyone to get to him. Worse still, he had a time limit to figure this out as he would be processed for outclassing as a hunter once he hit that big four-O. The pact he signed to become a hunter may have been stacked against him and was written by jackals who couldn't have given a rat's ass for his well being, but the U.T.R.A. was, if anything, abiding of their own written contracts. He was supposed to be released of duty as a hunter when he hit forty and they would honor that! And even if he said he wanted to stay a hunter they'd still give him a thorough check over for fitness to continue in that role. Forty wasn't just a nice, neat number that someone had plucked out of their ass afterall, but the calculated age when the majority of hunters were down in efficacy by at least 50%. Jackals indeed. And as for just telling his family what was going on with him, well, this little sordid affair with Matty's death spoke volumes of how that could go.
He noted the dim expression from Mike as they teetered to and fro. "Seriously, I will, sheesh. Have a little faith man!"
"Faith and me don't get on so well…" A wary, lopsided grin curled on the larger man, far more weary than he thought this warranted. It took him a moment to remember that the lugs previous long term squeeze was named Faith and the misty distance in their gaze was probably because of her than some existential trauma against trust.
Right, they were drunk and now on the verge of getting weepy over relationships - it was time for him to make his escape. A hearty clap of his own on their shoulder almost sent the larger man flopping over, that budding emotion replaced by a scowl as they straightened. "Yeah, well, I've spent a lot more time in foxholes than you so…" He grinned through the inadvertent pang of guilt those words brought, clapping his brother's shoulder a few more times for poor measure. "Don't worry, yeah? I'll see you later."
Mike was positively growling now as they wobbled, their glare murderous until those final words. These seemed to sober them as they fell forward onto him, wrapping him up in their tree limb like arms. "You fucking better, or I'm helping Bri hide your body." He'd have chuckled at this if the bigger man wasn't crushing the air from him with their hug. The bastard really didn't know their own strength, or maybe they just didn't care when dealing with him, assuming he could weather whatever they threw at him. Damn idiot.
They'd finally let up enough for him to get a breath in, a thought crossing him to crush them in turn but he thought better of that given how unsteady they were. No, squeezing them would probably just lead to him wearing last night's drinking session. So he'd instead wait for them to slack enough with their hold so he could slip out, directing the man back to the couch less they make a fast and hard acquaintance of the floor again. "You take care, yeah? Keep… um, er, those… you care-"
"I'll be better about keeping the family safe if you be better about being part of this family, yeah?" They gave him a rather poignant look, even as they slowly listed over, losing the fight for continued consciousness.
"Yeah, deal." He smiled, giving the lunk a push that sent them over. The man grunted complaintively, swearing a little at him as he snagged and threw an afghan atop of them.
Still, they didn't make any attempts to sit back up though they did glare at him blearily. "I… I mean it Tia… you's better… be… better… or Bri…"
Incoherence took the rest as he slowly backed away, snagging his canvas duffel which he'd left by the door. He took one look back to his brother who stared in his direction bleary and stubborn, their gaze unfocused. "I'll give it the ol' Turner effort." He smiled as they flipped him off one last time before rolling over, apparently having had enough of the whole conscious business.
Locking the door behind him, he headed down to the street to meet his ride share, starting that long road back to Rhy'din. By the time he stepped off the train and back into that cold, autumn air he was still feeling pretty raw about everything. Yet he felt a certain amount of renewed resolve to move forward, to figure out what Gaines had done to him and, if possible, how to reverse it without getting himself killed. It was the least he could do for the oaf and the remainder of the only family he had.
Re: Yer a Wizard Mach!
Vignette - Thursday Morning Schmoozery
Mach's breathing was labored but not demanding, rolling in a controlled manner as he beat cobbles, dirt, and concrete alike with that loping run. It was well practiced in its rhythm, each footfall, each spring forward a continuous juggle of perpetual falling without ever quite face planting the ground. A runners run, but this one was tailored for endurance as dank cobbles gave way to manicured pavement, gloomy pre-dawn hungover with sea salt and industry turning into a picturesque sparkling dawn over pristine waters as he ran from the seedy side of the Docks to the suburban knolls of Seaside.
A right feat of professional athleticism only marred by the fact that he dressed like an office worker in combat boots and smoked a cigarette while doing it, a trail of ashen mist marking his passing like some sort of coal powered locomotive. It certainly chagrined other early morning runners he passed in their spandex and healthy habits, each one taking it as a personal affront and pushing to pass him and put distance less they feel the scornful insult of being beat by an obvious pack a day smoker. He didn't care, of course, his race was with himself alone and the only thing he cared about beating was a fireball flung at his face. Be that as it was he didn't mind being the impedance for others to push themselves a little. It was just one of the many free services he offered society - you're welcome!
Rounding the bend, he’d finish his run in one of the fancier playgrounds in Seaside - the kind speckled with exercise equipment for health motivated adults along with safely designed children's play structures amid bouncy rubber tarmac. A contrast to the graffitied over hard steel structures amid broken glass and used drug needle littered sandboxes of his youth. Here he'd get his resistance workout on doing a menagerie of body weight exercises and calisthenics much to the ardor of some of those moms (and a few dads) getting their early morning exercise in too. It was a nice pump and decent ego boost flirting as he worked (because Mach could certainly get behind mom bods.) Nothing ever came of such, of course, given his ‘no family wrecker drama’ and ‘no fucking up crotch goblins by being you’ personal policies he held. But it was still a bit of fun to be had while doing such ‘work adjacent' activities. What? Would his ass be up and out sweating so early in the morning, every morning, if he wasn't training to run his ass away from workplace hazards such as himward directed elemental fury or grandiosely pedantic monologues? He liked to think he'd have better sense than that, but then again he did also have a job where dodging fireballs was considered a ‘normal’ activity so that idea was pretty moot.
Finishing his morning run and exercise, the man would pull up his suspenders (because having them down meant he was in ‘serious’ mode) and top off that post workout euphoria with a congratulatory cigarette as he strode along now down the hilly streets back towards Rhy’din proper. He'd stop off at a few stands and shops along the way as they opened, picking up necessities for the day - a loaded burrito, coffee, a few donuts, coffee, a couple packs of cigarettes to last the day, coffee, a few honest to goodness newspapers printed in dead tree format, coffee… the usuals.
And as he went he obviously caroused and schmoozed, chatting up the locals as he descended back down the social ladder. Another habit of the man that folks attributed to Mach just being terrible as he was, but it did serve a purpose as he learned the daily scuttlebutt on the streets. Who won what duals, which psychopaths were moving up the social meritocracy, what scandal was brewing with the scandal makers, which old families were expecting more children, what sociopathic shenanigans were going on, which random places were randomly lighting on fire or were suddenly subject to murder as sport - the typical sort of stuff to keep up with as any proper Rhy’dinian did. The things to know to avoid the trouble of the day, or find it as was more often the case for him.
At long last he'd arrive at the U.T.R.A. Satellite Site - the small city block of fortified home away from home. A bastion of xenophobia and normicentrism behind foot thick concrete walls between towers with watchful spheres and barely hidden sentry guns topped with double rows of friendly neighborhood razor wire. Truly inviting! It still amazed him the Rhy’din governance allowed such a place to exist in one of its densest populated areas, but then it had allowed cults with tanks to roam the streets and madmen with grand ideas of adequacy to perform culs in seaside so in retrospect it really shouldn't have. Actually he was pretty sure he'd cast a ballot for a vacuum with a knife strapped to it for governor which had a depressingly strong showing in the polls a while back so maybe the true illusion was that there was a functioning government to begin with! Regardless, nobody was stopping the U.T.R.A. from operating here so here he was, getting the third degree from a couple of pillars as he biometricly ID’d his way in to face his longest and most persistent foe of all - bureaucratic paperwork.
Mach's breathing was labored but not demanding, rolling in a controlled manner as he beat cobbles, dirt, and concrete alike with that loping run. It was well practiced in its rhythm, each footfall, each spring forward a continuous juggle of perpetual falling without ever quite face planting the ground. A runners run, but this one was tailored for endurance as dank cobbles gave way to manicured pavement, gloomy pre-dawn hungover with sea salt and industry turning into a picturesque sparkling dawn over pristine waters as he ran from the seedy side of the Docks to the suburban knolls of Seaside.
A right feat of professional athleticism only marred by the fact that he dressed like an office worker in combat boots and smoked a cigarette while doing it, a trail of ashen mist marking his passing like some sort of coal powered locomotive. It certainly chagrined other early morning runners he passed in their spandex and healthy habits, each one taking it as a personal affront and pushing to pass him and put distance less they feel the scornful insult of being beat by an obvious pack a day smoker. He didn't care, of course, his race was with himself alone and the only thing he cared about beating was a fireball flung at his face. Be that as it was he didn't mind being the impedance for others to push themselves a little. It was just one of the many free services he offered society - you're welcome!
Rounding the bend, he’d finish his run in one of the fancier playgrounds in Seaside - the kind speckled with exercise equipment for health motivated adults along with safely designed children's play structures amid bouncy rubber tarmac. A contrast to the graffitied over hard steel structures amid broken glass and used drug needle littered sandboxes of his youth. Here he'd get his resistance workout on doing a menagerie of body weight exercises and calisthenics much to the ardor of some of those moms (and a few dads) getting their early morning exercise in too. It was a nice pump and decent ego boost flirting as he worked (because Mach could certainly get behind mom bods.) Nothing ever came of such, of course, given his ‘no family wrecker drama’ and ‘no fucking up crotch goblins by being you’ personal policies he held. But it was still a bit of fun to be had while doing such ‘work adjacent' activities. What? Would his ass be up and out sweating so early in the morning, every morning, if he wasn't training to run his ass away from workplace hazards such as himward directed elemental fury or grandiosely pedantic monologues? He liked to think he'd have better sense than that, but then again he did also have a job where dodging fireballs was considered a ‘normal’ activity so that idea was pretty moot.
Finishing his morning run and exercise, the man would pull up his suspenders (because having them down meant he was in ‘serious’ mode) and top off that post workout euphoria with a congratulatory cigarette as he strode along now down the hilly streets back towards Rhy’din proper. He'd stop off at a few stands and shops along the way as they opened, picking up necessities for the day - a loaded burrito, coffee, a few donuts, coffee, a couple packs of cigarettes to last the day, coffee, a few honest to goodness newspapers printed in dead tree format, coffee… the usuals.
And as he went he obviously caroused and schmoozed, chatting up the locals as he descended back down the social ladder. Another habit of the man that folks attributed to Mach just being terrible as he was, but it did serve a purpose as he learned the daily scuttlebutt on the streets. Who won what duals, which psychopaths were moving up the social meritocracy, what scandal was brewing with the scandal makers, which old families were expecting more children, what sociopathic shenanigans were going on, which random places were randomly lighting on fire or were suddenly subject to murder as sport - the typical sort of stuff to keep up with as any proper Rhy’dinian did. The things to know to avoid the trouble of the day, or find it as was more often the case for him.
At long last he'd arrive at the U.T.R.A. Satellite Site - the small city block of fortified home away from home. A bastion of xenophobia and normicentrism behind foot thick concrete walls between towers with watchful spheres and barely hidden sentry guns topped with double rows of friendly neighborhood razor wire. Truly inviting! It still amazed him the Rhy’din governance allowed such a place to exist in one of its densest populated areas, but then it had allowed cults with tanks to roam the streets and madmen with grand ideas of adequacy to perform culs in seaside so in retrospect it really shouldn't have. Actually he was pretty sure he'd cast a ballot for a vacuum with a knife strapped to it for governor which had a depressingly strong showing in the polls a while back so maybe the true illusion was that there was a functioning government to begin with! Regardless, nobody was stopping the U.T.R.A. from operating here so here he was, getting the third degree from a couple of pillars as he biometricly ID’d his way in to face his longest and most persistent foe of all - bureaucratic paperwork.
Re: Yer a Wizard Mach!
Vignette - Frosty the Kobold
Mach grit his teeth to stop them from clattering as numb fingers fumbled with his caster, trying his damnedest to change out as many of his elemental cartridges he'd loaded for pretty much anything else he had on his person. He'd known from the bounty dossier that the kobold shaman he was after was a dangerous magic user so he'd come ready with his flashiest shake and bake spells. What he hadn't known, what was probably why so many before him had failed to bring down this menace, was that the shaman didn't actually know a lick of damned magic! No, what they had was a *very* close relationship with water, ice, and, the most dangerous and elusive of all, void elementals - all of which were at their peak of strength this time of year.
This wouldn't have proved a problem typically given his affinity for elemental evocation that went ‘boom’ in various yet spectacular fashions; can't have an ice and water problem if you blow it all away! Unfortunately the shaman had a pact with some greater void elemental and, worse, could communicate and direct them to a greater degree then just borrowing their power. So they acted more like minions than semi congealed foci of arcane energies - nasty minions of semi congealed foci of directed, angry arcane energy! This translated to the void elemental sapping the fiery energy from his spells, leaving free, concentrated mana available for the ice and water elementals to feed on and power their own mischief. They literally robbed his boom of its bluster then attacked him with his own energy!
It had taken him a few attacks to figure this nasty little trick out, and for his trouble he'd been nearly frozen. Hell's, he could swear he felt his blood sloshing through his veins, his prosthetic creaking uncomfortably. His only consolation was that he'd been flash frozen across his entire body so the interface between metal and flesh was so numb he could barely feel the screaming pain of the frostbite spreading inside his shoulder, of the metal pulling away from his muscles and nerves. Slamming the magazine back into his caster, he took a moment to snap open another ampule of regeneration potion, the sludge sloshing as he threw the violent green concoction back. It was one of the few potions that hadn't frozen over, its base solvent having a freezing point below what the bastard was hitting him with, if just so. Of course this meant most the rest of his potions were frozen solid, a further handicap for a brewster hunter like him. But hey, with regenerative at least his death could be slow and painful!
The steam that rose up his throat was blown down his ice starched shirt, the warmth a bare comfort as he sluggishly snapped around the pillar he hid behind, sidearm swinging out. He only had a moment to assess the market stalls and storefronts, trying to pin down his target before the air grew stale and tacky, chilling and squeezing out the moisture in a thick fog which concealed the shaman. Fuck! And of course they were in a populated area so it wasn't like he could just blind shoot and hope he got lucky and nailed the kobold and not a cowering civvy! The watch didn't seem to take too kindly to such blase disregard for innocent life.
So with a growl he shoved his sidearm back into the paddle holster nestled in the small of his back, mind sluggishly working the problem. It was pure instinct that had him reacting to the vortexes of power coalescing in that fog, his form lurching from the makeshift cover and tucking into a roll that sounded like crumpling tinfoil as he vacated the space a barrage of sharpened icicles whistled through. Spilling into a low crawl, he jerked the trigger of his caster through its second break, the device whirring mournfully for a moment before an anemic *pop* sounded, the air around him taking on a bitingly crisp smell before growing putrid and foul like sucking on a car exhaust, a tar like ‘fog’ of his own forming of condensed pollutants. It wasn't a very pleasant spell but it served its purpose and was one of the few alteration spells even he could work easily. Scuttling along the market stalls, he put distance away from his last location as it was peppered with murderous icicles, his onyx combat knife drawn from his boot. If he was going to deal with this shaman it was going to have to be at dummy close range… joy.
He scurried along the perimeter of his cloud, just inside enough to conceal him while he choked back gags. His movements stopped whenever he spied the shivering singularities of ether zipping close by - lesser elementals. Luckily they were pretty bad at sensing him unless he was casting… pretty bad at sensing him even when he *was* but they more than made up for that with the sheer volume of flying ‘fuck you’ they could conjure up. In comparison, while he was a miserable conjurer save for a few aforementioned ‘boom’ varieties he was actually very well attuned to sensing and ‘seeing’ things in the ether. Apparently his hunter training had at least done right by him in that regard, much to the surprise of Dendarow who had expected yet another tooth and nail fight against his ‘learned stupidity’ to try and reteach him how to approach such as a proper mage.
Another whir, another pop, and his cloud of concealment extended. The shaman growled and snapped angrily, their guttural tones holding an edge of annoyance as they barked commands in some variant of goblin, hob he was pretty sure. Curious. He was probably proving much more spirited then the others that had come for them, or so his ego liked to think. Then again their continued existence was evidence enough of their reign of supremacy. A failure of the local grown hunter guilds, he surmised, that often let greener members cut their teeth against ‘trash’ monsters like goblinoids and undead before they got to tackle proper kaiju-esque prey. Folks so pumped up on pissing off buildings that they forget that such ‘trash’ monsters were highly dangerous too but for vastly different reasons, often requiring vastly different skill sets and tactics. Much closer to humes and their ilk on the scale of intelligence, and just as much bastard too.
This little game continued through a few more smog clouds as he circled the area with the kobold, thumbing through the cartridge cycler on his caster. The internal mechanisms rotated the myriad cartridges in the magazine, feeding one then another into the primary and secondary processing chambers. He’d pull the second trigger through its first break, spinning up one of the mana processors with a mournful whine as he continued his circle. Finally coming back around, he’d pull the first trigger through its break, this processor growling to life.There wasn't time to wait for this spell to be ready though as the discordant sound pitched up in a very unstealthy manner, truly giving away his position to the shaman. Worse than fucking chanting he swore as he scrambled out of his cover, keeping low as his legs pumped him forward in a low run. A group of icicles sliced the air above him, barely missing his ass as he drew his caster from its holster, thrusting the hand cannon forward as he pulled both triggers through their second breaks. The primary processor growled with electromechanical threat, revving suddenly as a warble of fiery disturbance ignited before him.
He heard the hobbish snap as the fire flared and leapt forward, the blue flame lancing ahead of him. There was a moment's hope that maybe he caught the bastard by surprise, that the flames would get them. But this died along with the gulch of fire that suddenly ran back down the color spectrum, vibrant yellow diminishing to raging orange, ember red, and finally nothing, his spell fizzling and collapsing into staticy crackles. And in its place he could see the air growing dense before him, feel his skin grow moist with a layer of conductive dew before the cold washed over him. He resisted the urge to gasp in bitingly cold air as his heat was violently stolen, every part of him screaming in agony as he underwent flash freezing. The growl of his caster slowed to a whimper, a moment of panic crossing his numbing mind before he heard the sweet *pop* of his secondary spell matrix collapsing, actualizing without hindrance by the void spirit too focused on feeding the other elementals the mana from his failed fireball.
The air grew deathly still, augmenting the bite of the cold before vertigo joined the chorus of alarms from his body as he felt himself lurching suddenly forward and to the side, rocketing violently towards the center of the circle he’d scribed while crawling about. Wood and fabric creaked and moaned as it resisted the urge to fall into the singularity of potential energy he’d created via poorly focused and highly inefficient thaumaturgy. A shoddy casting at best but it served well enough even as he pinballed off and tore through market stalls like a fleshy cannon ball. Everything blurred as he struck a tent pole with his noggin, introducing a gnarly spin to his inward fall. It was only by grace of semi-decent planning that the spell served him any purpose at all as he felt himself carreen into the fuzzy form of the kobold, a shocked bark rushing from them before the sound grew bubbly as the blade he plunged into their bulky torso tore through their viscera.
He anchored himself with that blade, catching it against the creature's rib cage, resisting the upward rush of energy that pulled on him. The last twist of the magic he weaved trying to send him skyward rather than groundward which was a less appealing option in the spur of the moment. Oh sure, a much better spell slinger could have just made a proper singularity that transmuted the energy they’d created into something else. But as always he was sculpting and casting off the cuff, concerned only with results than efficiencies or consequences. Another failure of his as a mage according to Dendarow, though Sammy disagreed on that account. Then again the angry shapeshifting spirit witch tended to live life just ahead of the disastrous consequences of their own actions so probably not the best example to follow though he found himself finding much more success in their school of magickery than the elven battlemage.
That viscous pull came to an abrupt end as his caster *clanged*, ejecting the spent spell cartridges putting an end to both spells. Slumping, he fell to the cobbled ground, letting go of his knife that was solidly wedged into a rib as the kobold stumbled back. A spray of warm ichor spilled from them, clawed hand clasping at the gaping wound as they stumbled to put distance. He could see the pained panic in their scrunched features, lips curling along their snout as the gears turned in their mind, orders gurgling out in broken speech. He’d barely hit the ground with a frosty crunch before the ice and water elementals were back upon him, dew condensing around his mouth and nose to drown him as cold ferociously tore into him, sapping his strength.
But it was all too late as he snapped the fingers of his prosthetic, the ether around him churning one last time as the inbuilt cantrip in his arm activated. He felt prickles of static jolting him as a bolt of electricity leapt from his fingertips, arcing directly into the left behind knife. The creature squealed as the electricity ripped into their chest, doing what electricity did best to meat. Puffs of acrid smoke that stank of burning fur and terrible barbeque rolled from the creature as it teetered back, convulsing to the ground. There was a rush of relief as the elementals eased off of their attack, their focus suddenly gone though they lingered by sheer inertia of will. Gritting his teeth, he snapped his fingers once more, focusing on churning as much ether into mana as he could to fuel one last bolt of electricity that arched into the kobold with a thunderous *boom.*
That feeling of suffocation, of creeping death vanished as the elementals finally gave up, their focal forms collapsing and dispersing back into the ether from where they’d come. The last to go was the greater void elemental that hung close at hand, contributing nothing directly to his demise though he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching… perceiving him to its very last. That… was creepy, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time nor likely the last he’d make enemies with natural forces. Yay. But that would be a future Mach problem. Current Mach had enough problems to deal with as he groaned, pushing himself up stiffly, frost flaking off his abused form. Crawling over to the smoldering body of the kobold, he set to the grim task of collecting on his bounty, including all the waiting, questioning, and paperwork such would involve. Yep, he was going to need himself a warm drink after this, something properly rummy he ventured.
Mach grit his teeth to stop them from clattering as numb fingers fumbled with his caster, trying his damnedest to change out as many of his elemental cartridges he'd loaded for pretty much anything else he had on his person. He'd known from the bounty dossier that the kobold shaman he was after was a dangerous magic user so he'd come ready with his flashiest shake and bake spells. What he hadn't known, what was probably why so many before him had failed to bring down this menace, was that the shaman didn't actually know a lick of damned magic! No, what they had was a *very* close relationship with water, ice, and, the most dangerous and elusive of all, void elementals - all of which were at their peak of strength this time of year.
This wouldn't have proved a problem typically given his affinity for elemental evocation that went ‘boom’ in various yet spectacular fashions; can't have an ice and water problem if you blow it all away! Unfortunately the shaman had a pact with some greater void elemental and, worse, could communicate and direct them to a greater degree then just borrowing their power. So they acted more like minions than semi congealed foci of arcane energies - nasty minions of semi congealed foci of directed, angry arcane energy! This translated to the void elemental sapping the fiery energy from his spells, leaving free, concentrated mana available for the ice and water elementals to feed on and power their own mischief. They literally robbed his boom of its bluster then attacked him with his own energy!
It had taken him a few attacks to figure this nasty little trick out, and for his trouble he'd been nearly frozen. Hell's, he could swear he felt his blood sloshing through his veins, his prosthetic creaking uncomfortably. His only consolation was that he'd been flash frozen across his entire body so the interface between metal and flesh was so numb he could barely feel the screaming pain of the frostbite spreading inside his shoulder, of the metal pulling away from his muscles and nerves. Slamming the magazine back into his caster, he took a moment to snap open another ampule of regeneration potion, the sludge sloshing as he threw the violent green concoction back. It was one of the few potions that hadn't frozen over, its base solvent having a freezing point below what the bastard was hitting him with, if just so. Of course this meant most the rest of his potions were frozen solid, a further handicap for a brewster hunter like him. But hey, with regenerative at least his death could be slow and painful!
The steam that rose up his throat was blown down his ice starched shirt, the warmth a bare comfort as he sluggishly snapped around the pillar he hid behind, sidearm swinging out. He only had a moment to assess the market stalls and storefronts, trying to pin down his target before the air grew stale and tacky, chilling and squeezing out the moisture in a thick fog which concealed the shaman. Fuck! And of course they were in a populated area so it wasn't like he could just blind shoot and hope he got lucky and nailed the kobold and not a cowering civvy! The watch didn't seem to take too kindly to such blase disregard for innocent life.
So with a growl he shoved his sidearm back into the paddle holster nestled in the small of his back, mind sluggishly working the problem. It was pure instinct that had him reacting to the vortexes of power coalescing in that fog, his form lurching from the makeshift cover and tucking into a roll that sounded like crumpling tinfoil as he vacated the space a barrage of sharpened icicles whistled through. Spilling into a low crawl, he jerked the trigger of his caster through its second break, the device whirring mournfully for a moment before an anemic *pop* sounded, the air around him taking on a bitingly crisp smell before growing putrid and foul like sucking on a car exhaust, a tar like ‘fog’ of his own forming of condensed pollutants. It wasn't a very pleasant spell but it served its purpose and was one of the few alteration spells even he could work easily. Scuttling along the market stalls, he put distance away from his last location as it was peppered with murderous icicles, his onyx combat knife drawn from his boot. If he was going to deal with this shaman it was going to have to be at dummy close range… joy.
He scurried along the perimeter of his cloud, just inside enough to conceal him while he choked back gags. His movements stopped whenever he spied the shivering singularities of ether zipping close by - lesser elementals. Luckily they were pretty bad at sensing him unless he was casting… pretty bad at sensing him even when he *was* but they more than made up for that with the sheer volume of flying ‘fuck you’ they could conjure up. In comparison, while he was a miserable conjurer save for a few aforementioned ‘boom’ varieties he was actually very well attuned to sensing and ‘seeing’ things in the ether. Apparently his hunter training had at least done right by him in that regard, much to the surprise of Dendarow who had expected yet another tooth and nail fight against his ‘learned stupidity’ to try and reteach him how to approach such as a proper mage.
Another whir, another pop, and his cloud of concealment extended. The shaman growled and snapped angrily, their guttural tones holding an edge of annoyance as they barked commands in some variant of goblin, hob he was pretty sure. Curious. He was probably proving much more spirited then the others that had come for them, or so his ego liked to think. Then again their continued existence was evidence enough of their reign of supremacy. A failure of the local grown hunter guilds, he surmised, that often let greener members cut their teeth against ‘trash’ monsters like goblinoids and undead before they got to tackle proper kaiju-esque prey. Folks so pumped up on pissing off buildings that they forget that such ‘trash’ monsters were highly dangerous too but for vastly different reasons, often requiring vastly different skill sets and tactics. Much closer to humes and their ilk on the scale of intelligence, and just as much bastard too.
This little game continued through a few more smog clouds as he circled the area with the kobold, thumbing through the cartridge cycler on his caster. The internal mechanisms rotated the myriad cartridges in the magazine, feeding one then another into the primary and secondary processing chambers. He’d pull the second trigger through its first break, spinning up one of the mana processors with a mournful whine as he continued his circle. Finally coming back around, he’d pull the first trigger through its break, this processor growling to life.There wasn't time to wait for this spell to be ready though as the discordant sound pitched up in a very unstealthy manner, truly giving away his position to the shaman. Worse than fucking chanting he swore as he scrambled out of his cover, keeping low as his legs pumped him forward in a low run. A group of icicles sliced the air above him, barely missing his ass as he drew his caster from its holster, thrusting the hand cannon forward as he pulled both triggers through their second breaks. The primary processor growled with electromechanical threat, revving suddenly as a warble of fiery disturbance ignited before him.
He heard the hobbish snap as the fire flared and leapt forward, the blue flame lancing ahead of him. There was a moment's hope that maybe he caught the bastard by surprise, that the flames would get them. But this died along with the gulch of fire that suddenly ran back down the color spectrum, vibrant yellow diminishing to raging orange, ember red, and finally nothing, his spell fizzling and collapsing into staticy crackles. And in its place he could see the air growing dense before him, feel his skin grow moist with a layer of conductive dew before the cold washed over him. He resisted the urge to gasp in bitingly cold air as his heat was violently stolen, every part of him screaming in agony as he underwent flash freezing. The growl of his caster slowed to a whimper, a moment of panic crossing his numbing mind before he heard the sweet *pop* of his secondary spell matrix collapsing, actualizing without hindrance by the void spirit too focused on feeding the other elementals the mana from his failed fireball.
The air grew deathly still, augmenting the bite of the cold before vertigo joined the chorus of alarms from his body as he felt himself lurching suddenly forward and to the side, rocketing violently towards the center of the circle he’d scribed while crawling about. Wood and fabric creaked and moaned as it resisted the urge to fall into the singularity of potential energy he’d created via poorly focused and highly inefficient thaumaturgy. A shoddy casting at best but it served well enough even as he pinballed off and tore through market stalls like a fleshy cannon ball. Everything blurred as he struck a tent pole with his noggin, introducing a gnarly spin to his inward fall. It was only by grace of semi-decent planning that the spell served him any purpose at all as he felt himself carreen into the fuzzy form of the kobold, a shocked bark rushing from them before the sound grew bubbly as the blade he plunged into their bulky torso tore through their viscera.
He anchored himself with that blade, catching it against the creature's rib cage, resisting the upward rush of energy that pulled on him. The last twist of the magic he weaved trying to send him skyward rather than groundward which was a less appealing option in the spur of the moment. Oh sure, a much better spell slinger could have just made a proper singularity that transmuted the energy they’d created into something else. But as always he was sculpting and casting off the cuff, concerned only with results than efficiencies or consequences. Another failure of his as a mage according to Dendarow, though Sammy disagreed on that account. Then again the angry shapeshifting spirit witch tended to live life just ahead of the disastrous consequences of their own actions so probably not the best example to follow though he found himself finding much more success in their school of magickery than the elven battlemage.
That viscous pull came to an abrupt end as his caster *clanged*, ejecting the spent spell cartridges putting an end to both spells. Slumping, he fell to the cobbled ground, letting go of his knife that was solidly wedged into a rib as the kobold stumbled back. A spray of warm ichor spilled from them, clawed hand clasping at the gaping wound as they stumbled to put distance. He could see the pained panic in their scrunched features, lips curling along their snout as the gears turned in their mind, orders gurgling out in broken speech. He’d barely hit the ground with a frosty crunch before the ice and water elementals were back upon him, dew condensing around his mouth and nose to drown him as cold ferociously tore into him, sapping his strength.
But it was all too late as he snapped the fingers of his prosthetic, the ether around him churning one last time as the inbuilt cantrip in his arm activated. He felt prickles of static jolting him as a bolt of electricity leapt from his fingertips, arcing directly into the left behind knife. The creature squealed as the electricity ripped into their chest, doing what electricity did best to meat. Puffs of acrid smoke that stank of burning fur and terrible barbeque rolled from the creature as it teetered back, convulsing to the ground. There was a rush of relief as the elementals eased off of their attack, their focus suddenly gone though they lingered by sheer inertia of will. Gritting his teeth, he snapped his fingers once more, focusing on churning as much ether into mana as he could to fuel one last bolt of electricity that arched into the kobold with a thunderous *boom.*
That feeling of suffocation, of creeping death vanished as the elementals finally gave up, their focal forms collapsing and dispersing back into the ether from where they’d come. The last to go was the greater void elemental that hung close at hand, contributing nothing directly to his demise though he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching… perceiving him to its very last. That… was creepy, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time nor likely the last he’d make enemies with natural forces. Yay. But that would be a future Mach problem. Current Mach had enough problems to deal with as he groaned, pushing himself up stiffly, frost flaking off his abused form. Crawling over to the smoldering body of the kobold, he set to the grim task of collecting on his bounty, including all the waiting, questioning, and paperwork such would involve. Yep, he was going to need himself a warm drink after this, something properly rummy he ventured.
Re: Yer a Wizard Mach!
Vignette - After Hours
The dull metallic whir of motors spinning up mixed in with the carousing of the district that slept ill at ease, thick blast doors sliding open as concealed auto turrets swiveled lazily, scanning the streets for threats to the bastion of 'civilization.' From the dour compound of concrete and razor wire stepped the schmooze, thumbs hooked on suspenders in a cocky swagger that had a little hitch, a little giddy-up from sore muscles both over and under worked in equal measure. He flipped off a nonchalant salute to the dome camera that watched him leave, the large metal doors swiftly swinging shut behind him almost giving him the boot as it closed out Rhy'Din once more less unsavory elements or ideas somehow permeated into the U.T.R.A. satellite office.
He always hated the part of day... night... time that he had to spend in the compound but it was a necessary evil. Forms weren't going to fill themselves out after all no matter how many trained VI's or AI's he'd attempted to put to the task. Plus he had to resupply after almost every hun and it was the only place that carried the unique equipment he used in the discharge of his duty as a government issued thug. Though there were some good points of course - some of the servicemen did look awfully good in skirts! Today's though was a decent sparing match against a group of support hunters, particularly Jacob who was finally starting to get back their spark after having both their legs taken off during the Humanity First riots a few years back. Damn had that been an unfun time.
Everyone was a bigshot and had grand plans until their limbs were being torn asunder by elemental fury apparently. Gave the man a heap of trauma they weren't equipped to deal with, and in turn they had become despondent and depressed. Almost looked like they were going to wash out as a hunter even though it was a stigma they'd never have gotten rid of even if they threw in the towel. Once you got altered to be a hunter there was no going back, no one in the know would ever look at you in the same way knowing what you could be even if PTSD made it so you couldn't. Luckily the man had finally gotten out of their funk and grew some nerve, started to succeed with their mind body interfacing therapy and now had a pair of shiny new legs for their effort. He liked to think his constant vicious mockery helped in some way but both he and they knew after this that they were never cut out to be an assault hunter like him. Their dreams of being like him were dead - good by his reckoning even if the price paid for this reality check had been steep.
Meandering down the road, he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and clipped it between his lips, taking a moment to light it between the palm and thumb of his own prosthetic limb, one of many badges of the stupid life he lived. A few puffs were taken before he blew out these heavy thoughts in an ashen plume, his lone cobalt eye turning skyward as he began to hum a little tune, thumbs hooking his suspenders once more.
He busied his mind going over the remnant details of today that would carry over to tomorrow - leads to follow-up on, promises to keep, promises to break, folks he'd want to talk to, folks he'd need to threaten... The myriad facets of his life as a hunter that weren't all nail biting life or death battles that made for good story fodder over drinks. There would probably be a little of that as well though nothing of particular trouble was on his todo list. Even the bounty writs that were up now weren't of serious note, the most troublesome seeming to be a house brownie that had grown an appetite for mischief... and cats. Add to the task list for tomorrow - visit a pound.
Sauntering along almost aimlessly, his footfalls came to a stop of their own accord at a small newsstand that was, shockingly, still open at this hour. Of course some of their more adult stock had been put out on display at this time, cigarettes and booze taking center stage over the snacks and newspapers of more proper hours. The man... or half a man half a goat... behind the counter barely acknowledged him as they flipped through a girly mag featuring a very busty goblin on the cover. He gave them an obligatory finger pew before snagging a fresh pack of cigarettes and some jerky sticks, their point of sale device given a fist bump for payment. Turning, the satyr stopped him with a gurgly clearing of their throat, a goblin porno mag pushed over the counter to him. "Got'em some beaut's in there, proper bangers tha'd have some other hunters of such nutt'n 'emselves." Mach gave the magazine a wary look. He was a pervert, sure, but even he had some standards... not nearly enough according to his government issued shrink, mind, but still! He'd reach to flip open the cover but paused as clawed fingers snapped down on the cover. "No peaksies. Buy 'n wank or piss off."
An aggravated plume of ashen smoke rolled out of him in a sigh at the demand, a glower shot at the man. "Real bangers, you'll not be disappointed hunter." Their grin was toothy and lopsided, creepy in all the wrong ways but the message was clear.
"Local, yeah? One I can go see a show of if I wanted, none of these out of towners that'll leave me blue balled." He spoke breezily, peeling open one of his hot jerky sticks to take a bite.
"Some real up'n 'comers' in there." They snorted at their little bit of word play which just had his lone cobalt eye rolling. "They'll be in tha papers 'fore ya know it, 'ttractin' bangers all around. Shits hot, heavy, n' totally 'X'sclussive cause yer a good'n boy. Nice 'n dirty hunter of 'em beauts."
He mulled this information around for a bit as he chewed on his beef stick. Another few bites and he groaned in aggravation, free hand moving to dig out a stack of Rhy'din nobles from his pocket which he deposited in a neat stack on the counter, a shiny copper on top though rims beneath were of a much more golden hue. The satyr took the stack, giving it a quick over before nodding approvingly, the magazine pushed over. "Ya won't regret this, pure artistry in there."
He pushed the magazine back daintly. "Shut up and put it in a bag will you." A growl much to the amusement of the clerk who stuffed the dirty magazine into a totally inconspicuous black bag, the top just poking out. Offering it out once more, he’d snatch the bag irately, a glare shot at the other. "If this doesn't blow my mind-"
"Customer sat-is-faction guaranteed." They smiled another one of their creepy smiles, too many teeth going too many different directions on too much display. Repressing a shudder, he flipped them off as he sauntered off with his 'prize'. He'd look at what he'd just purchased later though it had to be pretty hot information if the info broker was trying to push it off on him so insistently. Great, probably time sensitive too but he'd at least established it was local and not something he had no hope of acting on.
Looked like his to-do list for tomorrow was growing, but such was a hunters' lot. Blowing out a plume of ashen smoke, he noticed a group of young women staring at him from across the way, their gazes suddenly averting as they did their best to stifle their laughter. Even better, it looked like his clandestine business hidden in plain sight was going to increase his infamy as well. Fuck. And just when he'd lived down the last rash of rumors circulating around him! A stigmatized lot indeed! Shaking his head he simply accepted his fate as he wandered off into the night, likely to find some food and drink, maybe even some company to just drive up that infamy more before he put the night to bed and faced the day to come.
The dull metallic whir of motors spinning up mixed in with the carousing of the district that slept ill at ease, thick blast doors sliding open as concealed auto turrets swiveled lazily, scanning the streets for threats to the bastion of 'civilization.' From the dour compound of concrete and razor wire stepped the schmooze, thumbs hooked on suspenders in a cocky swagger that had a little hitch, a little giddy-up from sore muscles both over and under worked in equal measure. He flipped off a nonchalant salute to the dome camera that watched him leave, the large metal doors swiftly swinging shut behind him almost giving him the boot as it closed out Rhy'Din once more less unsavory elements or ideas somehow permeated into the U.T.R.A. satellite office.
He always hated the part of day... night... time that he had to spend in the compound but it was a necessary evil. Forms weren't going to fill themselves out after all no matter how many trained VI's or AI's he'd attempted to put to the task. Plus he had to resupply after almost every hun and it was the only place that carried the unique equipment he used in the discharge of his duty as a government issued thug. Though there were some good points of course - some of the servicemen did look awfully good in skirts! Today's though was a decent sparing match against a group of support hunters, particularly Jacob who was finally starting to get back their spark after having both their legs taken off during the Humanity First riots a few years back. Damn had that been an unfun time.
Everyone was a bigshot and had grand plans until their limbs were being torn asunder by elemental fury apparently. Gave the man a heap of trauma they weren't equipped to deal with, and in turn they had become despondent and depressed. Almost looked like they were going to wash out as a hunter even though it was a stigma they'd never have gotten rid of even if they threw in the towel. Once you got altered to be a hunter there was no going back, no one in the know would ever look at you in the same way knowing what you could be even if PTSD made it so you couldn't. Luckily the man had finally gotten out of their funk and grew some nerve, started to succeed with their mind body interfacing therapy and now had a pair of shiny new legs for their effort. He liked to think his constant vicious mockery helped in some way but both he and they knew after this that they were never cut out to be an assault hunter like him. Their dreams of being like him were dead - good by his reckoning even if the price paid for this reality check had been steep.
Meandering down the road, he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and clipped it between his lips, taking a moment to light it between the palm and thumb of his own prosthetic limb, one of many badges of the stupid life he lived. A few puffs were taken before he blew out these heavy thoughts in an ashen plume, his lone cobalt eye turning skyward as he began to hum a little tune, thumbs hooking his suspenders once more.
He busied his mind going over the remnant details of today that would carry over to tomorrow - leads to follow-up on, promises to keep, promises to break, folks he'd want to talk to, folks he'd need to threaten... The myriad facets of his life as a hunter that weren't all nail biting life or death battles that made for good story fodder over drinks. There would probably be a little of that as well though nothing of particular trouble was on his todo list. Even the bounty writs that were up now weren't of serious note, the most troublesome seeming to be a house brownie that had grown an appetite for mischief... and cats. Add to the task list for tomorrow - visit a pound.
Sauntering along almost aimlessly, his footfalls came to a stop of their own accord at a small newsstand that was, shockingly, still open at this hour. Of course some of their more adult stock had been put out on display at this time, cigarettes and booze taking center stage over the snacks and newspapers of more proper hours. The man... or half a man half a goat... behind the counter barely acknowledged him as they flipped through a girly mag featuring a very busty goblin on the cover. He gave them an obligatory finger pew before snagging a fresh pack of cigarettes and some jerky sticks, their point of sale device given a fist bump for payment. Turning, the satyr stopped him with a gurgly clearing of their throat, a goblin porno mag pushed over the counter to him. "Got'em some beaut's in there, proper bangers tha'd have some other hunters of such nutt'n 'emselves." Mach gave the magazine a wary look. He was a pervert, sure, but even he had some standards... not nearly enough according to his government issued shrink, mind, but still! He'd reach to flip open the cover but paused as clawed fingers snapped down on the cover. "No peaksies. Buy 'n wank or piss off."
An aggravated plume of ashen smoke rolled out of him in a sigh at the demand, a glower shot at the man. "Real bangers, you'll not be disappointed hunter." Their grin was toothy and lopsided, creepy in all the wrong ways but the message was clear.
"Local, yeah? One I can go see a show of if I wanted, none of these out of towners that'll leave me blue balled." He spoke breezily, peeling open one of his hot jerky sticks to take a bite.
"Some real up'n 'comers' in there." They snorted at their little bit of word play which just had his lone cobalt eye rolling. "They'll be in tha papers 'fore ya know it, 'ttractin' bangers all around. Shits hot, heavy, n' totally 'X'sclussive cause yer a good'n boy. Nice 'n dirty hunter of 'em beauts."
He mulled this information around for a bit as he chewed on his beef stick. Another few bites and he groaned in aggravation, free hand moving to dig out a stack of Rhy'din nobles from his pocket which he deposited in a neat stack on the counter, a shiny copper on top though rims beneath were of a much more golden hue. The satyr took the stack, giving it a quick over before nodding approvingly, the magazine pushed over. "Ya won't regret this, pure artistry in there."
He pushed the magazine back daintly. "Shut up and put it in a bag will you." A growl much to the amusement of the clerk who stuffed the dirty magazine into a totally inconspicuous black bag, the top just poking out. Offering it out once more, he’d snatch the bag irately, a glare shot at the other. "If this doesn't blow my mind-"
"Customer sat-is-faction guaranteed." They smiled another one of their creepy smiles, too many teeth going too many different directions on too much display. Repressing a shudder, he flipped them off as he sauntered off with his 'prize'. He'd look at what he'd just purchased later though it had to be pretty hot information if the info broker was trying to push it off on him so insistently. Great, probably time sensitive too but he'd at least established it was local and not something he had no hope of acting on.
Looked like his to-do list for tomorrow was growing, but such was a hunters' lot. Blowing out a plume of ashen smoke, he noticed a group of young women staring at him from across the way, their gazes suddenly averting as they did their best to stifle their laughter. Even better, it looked like his clandestine business hidden in plain sight was going to increase his infamy as well. Fuck. And just when he'd lived down the last rash of rumors circulating around him! A stigmatized lot indeed! Shaking his head he simply accepted his fate as he wandered off into the night, likely to find some food and drink, maybe even some company to just drive up that infamy more before he put the night to bed and faced the day to come.
Re: Yer a Wizard Mach!
Vignette - Milk Run
He was going to fry that fucking satyr!!! This thought rang in his head almost as prominently as the tinnitus from the hail of bullets chewing away at his quickly vanishing concrete cover. Their information had been good, very good even as he'd used it to easily track down a murderous ogre with a newly acquired taste for sentient flesh that the Watch had just posted a juicy bounty on the next morning. Hot off the presses indeed! The problem was the exclusivity, or more the lack thereof, of this information. Turns out the bastard was selling it to any violent tom, dick, or dummy that so happened to frequent their stand that day, including those with more greed than scruples.
One such group happened to be the I Metitori which he'd had the misfortune of dealing with before. A ‘guild’ of local grown hunters that specialized in high paying bounty's against particularly dangerous sentients. In reality they were a pack of barely cohesive psychopaths who only liked getting paid to kill more than the actual killing itself. If he'd known they were going to be involved in this sordid affair he'd have passed just to avoid the hassle.
Instead he thought that this was going to be easy, a milk run off a hunt. Something standard tactics would apply to with a moderate amount of mitigatable threat. Perfect for dipping one's toes back into the fray, metallic as they may have been now. What he got was an absolute cluster fuck with the ogre already 3 kinds of dead and a squad of military gooner wannabes itching for a better fight who already had a pre-existing chip on their shoulders against him for ‘edging in on their business.’ Showing up with another hunter in tow just gave them the excuse needed to turn vitriol to bullets.
And so his attempt to ease the other hunter back into the fight, guided by misguided sympathy, now saw Jacobson curling in on themselves, clasping their hands over their ears as they stared petrified at their legs. Damnit! Yep, he was going to take that perverted goat ass motherfucker to an Indian buffet and have them turned into vindaloo! But to do this they had to survive and - wait, by the hairy, bleached asshole of The Way was Jacobson crying!?
Mach grit his teeth, trying to throttle back his unfounded anger. This was a perfectly normal response to a gang of murderous thugs trying to gun one down over the corpse of an ogre. People weren't supposed to like running towards stupid amounts of lethal peril or getting blown up. Add in trauma and PTSD and it was no wonder they were frozen like this when confronted with a situation very near to the one that saw them getting their legs blown off, no matter the spark of bluster they’d been showing recently.
He knew these things, hell's he’d experienced all these raw feelings himself before! And yet still he found the man's reactions grating, their shutdown rage inducing. When they'd shown up they had been a breath of fresh air in the satellite office - a good and proper hunter full of bluster and smarm. They were eager and confident to prove themselves with a decent record for a support hunter. If anyone, he ventured it was that overeagerness to rise into the role of a peacekeeper like him during a time of relative peace which saw the man getting sidelined to the crap posting of the Rhy’Din S.E.Z. to cool their ambitions. They'd been seven years too late for the war which brought hunters back into prominence in the public psyche and had avoided the worst of the shit show that was the mage rebellions thanks to lucky posting. This made them both relatively green and idealistic while romanticizing the hunter mystic, a bad combination for anyone but especially a hunter. Of course, it didn't help that they had a similarly distasteful view of mages as he did - primarily that they were people too. Another point he and they had gotten on about, another demerit for someone that was supposed to be a weaponized monster of the military and not a human.
And that was probably the crux of his issue with the man now, if he was being honest with himself which he generally tried his level best never to be. Their shutdown was more than an understandable annoyance, more than a dangerous hindrance, it was a betrayal both as a soldier, and, more importantly, as a hunter. Talking with them reminded him of hanging out with his fellow hunters back home, all bastards with a shared experience and a unique vocabulary of crazy and violence that others just couldn't understand. Folks with more grit than sense, who lived solely by panache but also had a shocking disregard for the authority they represented. He hadn't realized how much he missed that until Jacobson showed up and gave him a taste of that familiar fraternization, the companionship one could only get from others with the same shitty perspective. He was the only assault hunter assigned to Rhy’Din and the rest of the support hunters out here were the kind of lazy, cowardly fuckups he'd expect to get sent to a go nowhere do nothing posting. But Jacobson hadn’t been that. They’d been something more, something better, and now… they weren’t.
Hot pain brought his mind back from his disappointed navel gazing as a chip of concrete sliced along his cheek, reminding him of the perilous situation they were in. Sliding closer to Jacobson, he took a moment to note the blaring reports of the automated gunfire, the cacophony less dense than it had been before. Best case scenario that meant a couple of the chuckleheads had expended all their ammo shooting at a rock. More than likely it meant that some of the assholes had split off to flank them while the others kept them pinned and occupied. Damn it! His jaw creaked as he quickly ran through his options, a growl escaping as he chose one of the lesser crappy plans of action.
Looking at the gibbering mess of trauma, he’d reach out and grab them hard by the collar, yanking them towards him in a way that would have made Ettyn blush. This seemed to jar the man momentarily out of their downward spiral, brown eyes snapping widely to his tense features, his voice escaping him in a hard, military bark. “Get your shit together Sgt. First Class! We got tangos closing and I need you to cover my six now!”
The man cringed as his angry words assaulted them, tickling at a part of their subconscious drilled into them during basic training. He hated having to use this, the cultish programming instilled by the military, breaking down people to reshape them into soldiers. Dehumanize them by snuffing out individual morality, sense, and sensibility to make everything into targets, threats, and objectives. Time and experience helped to heal such brainwashing, but it always left an indelible change. And lucky for him the support hunter hadn't healed nearly from such as they sat up a little straighter, even as tears ran down their cheeks.
“Mach… I…” They stammered hazily, a look of confusion creasing their brow.
“That was not a request Sergeant! I am ordering you to do your damn duty!” That confusion turned incredulous as they processed what he was demanding.
“Are you kidding!? They're… they're…”
“Yes, we're being shot at! And they are going to kill us if we don't do something about it!” He shoved them hard against the crumbling concrete barrier, letting go so as to grab the bullpup assault rifle slung under their arm. Instinct saw the stunned man reaching autonomously to prevent him from grabbing their weapon but he was quicker as he lifted it just enough to drive it into their chest. They grimaced, the weapon digging in painfully, forcing them to grab it and wrench it from his grasp. They cradled the assault rifle close to them, muscle memory seeing it naturally fall into a weapons ready hold. “I don't give a shit if you're scared! Boo fucking hoo you lost your legs! Right now you got an objective to accomplish and targets in the way. So shit your pants if you want, but don't you dare let that get in the way of your duty!”
The man blinked in mild horror as he yelled at them, eyes glistening and yet… he saw something click. A fire, small and dim yet there, lit as their expression grew grim, knuckles lightening as they gripped their weapon tightly. It was hardly the fiery hunter fighting spirit he was hoping for but it was something, and hopefully that something would be enough. They winced as he clapped their shoulder with his prosthetic hand, a stern nod offered. “Cover. My. Six.” He glared at them hard until they nodded meekly, acknowledging the order. Yeah… he wasn't feeling very confident about not getting his ass shot off but they were out of time less this became nothing but a duck hunt and they the pheasants under glass.
Unslinging his own bullpup rifle, he seated it in his elbow, thumbing the fire mode to full party. He flashed Jacobson the ampule of silvery liquid he produced from his potion belt, not waiting to see if they were going to follow suit before cracking it open and throwing its contents back, a shuddering shiver running up his spine as it took hold, slowing the world around him. Finally, he drew the hand cannon which was the primary weapon of the U.T.R.A. hunter, the caster letting out a mournful growl as its processors spun up to him jerking the second trigger back through both breaks. “Alright… let's show these fuckers why we're the apex predators back home…” His voice a growl as the casters whine pitched into a squeal, a pop his signal to stand and deliver into that hail of bullets.
He was going to fry that fucking satyr!!! This thought rang in his head almost as prominently as the tinnitus from the hail of bullets chewing away at his quickly vanishing concrete cover. Their information had been good, very good even as he'd used it to easily track down a murderous ogre with a newly acquired taste for sentient flesh that the Watch had just posted a juicy bounty on the next morning. Hot off the presses indeed! The problem was the exclusivity, or more the lack thereof, of this information. Turns out the bastard was selling it to any violent tom, dick, or dummy that so happened to frequent their stand that day, including those with more greed than scruples.
One such group happened to be the I Metitori which he'd had the misfortune of dealing with before. A ‘guild’ of local grown hunters that specialized in high paying bounty's against particularly dangerous sentients. In reality they were a pack of barely cohesive psychopaths who only liked getting paid to kill more than the actual killing itself. If he'd known they were going to be involved in this sordid affair he'd have passed just to avoid the hassle.
Instead he thought that this was going to be easy, a milk run off a hunt. Something standard tactics would apply to with a moderate amount of mitigatable threat. Perfect for dipping one's toes back into the fray, metallic as they may have been now. What he got was an absolute cluster fuck with the ogre already 3 kinds of dead and a squad of military gooner wannabes itching for a better fight who already had a pre-existing chip on their shoulders against him for ‘edging in on their business.’ Showing up with another hunter in tow just gave them the excuse needed to turn vitriol to bullets.
And so his attempt to ease the other hunter back into the fight, guided by misguided sympathy, now saw Jacobson curling in on themselves, clasping their hands over their ears as they stared petrified at their legs. Damnit! Yep, he was going to take that perverted goat ass motherfucker to an Indian buffet and have them turned into vindaloo! But to do this they had to survive and - wait, by the hairy, bleached asshole of The Way was Jacobson crying!?
Mach grit his teeth, trying to throttle back his unfounded anger. This was a perfectly normal response to a gang of murderous thugs trying to gun one down over the corpse of an ogre. People weren't supposed to like running towards stupid amounts of lethal peril or getting blown up. Add in trauma and PTSD and it was no wonder they were frozen like this when confronted with a situation very near to the one that saw them getting their legs blown off, no matter the spark of bluster they’d been showing recently.
He knew these things, hell's he’d experienced all these raw feelings himself before! And yet still he found the man's reactions grating, their shutdown rage inducing. When they'd shown up they had been a breath of fresh air in the satellite office - a good and proper hunter full of bluster and smarm. They were eager and confident to prove themselves with a decent record for a support hunter. If anyone, he ventured it was that overeagerness to rise into the role of a peacekeeper like him during a time of relative peace which saw the man getting sidelined to the crap posting of the Rhy’Din S.E.Z. to cool their ambitions. They'd been seven years too late for the war which brought hunters back into prominence in the public psyche and had avoided the worst of the shit show that was the mage rebellions thanks to lucky posting. This made them both relatively green and idealistic while romanticizing the hunter mystic, a bad combination for anyone but especially a hunter. Of course, it didn't help that they had a similarly distasteful view of mages as he did - primarily that they were people too. Another point he and they had gotten on about, another demerit for someone that was supposed to be a weaponized monster of the military and not a human.
And that was probably the crux of his issue with the man now, if he was being honest with himself which he generally tried his level best never to be. Their shutdown was more than an understandable annoyance, more than a dangerous hindrance, it was a betrayal both as a soldier, and, more importantly, as a hunter. Talking with them reminded him of hanging out with his fellow hunters back home, all bastards with a shared experience and a unique vocabulary of crazy and violence that others just couldn't understand. Folks with more grit than sense, who lived solely by panache but also had a shocking disregard for the authority they represented. He hadn't realized how much he missed that until Jacobson showed up and gave him a taste of that familiar fraternization, the companionship one could only get from others with the same shitty perspective. He was the only assault hunter assigned to Rhy’Din and the rest of the support hunters out here were the kind of lazy, cowardly fuckups he'd expect to get sent to a go nowhere do nothing posting. But Jacobson hadn’t been that. They’d been something more, something better, and now… they weren’t.
Hot pain brought his mind back from his disappointed navel gazing as a chip of concrete sliced along his cheek, reminding him of the perilous situation they were in. Sliding closer to Jacobson, he took a moment to note the blaring reports of the automated gunfire, the cacophony less dense than it had been before. Best case scenario that meant a couple of the chuckleheads had expended all their ammo shooting at a rock. More than likely it meant that some of the assholes had split off to flank them while the others kept them pinned and occupied. Damn it! His jaw creaked as he quickly ran through his options, a growl escaping as he chose one of the lesser crappy plans of action.
Looking at the gibbering mess of trauma, he’d reach out and grab them hard by the collar, yanking them towards him in a way that would have made Ettyn blush. This seemed to jar the man momentarily out of their downward spiral, brown eyes snapping widely to his tense features, his voice escaping him in a hard, military bark. “Get your shit together Sgt. First Class! We got tangos closing and I need you to cover my six now!”
The man cringed as his angry words assaulted them, tickling at a part of their subconscious drilled into them during basic training. He hated having to use this, the cultish programming instilled by the military, breaking down people to reshape them into soldiers. Dehumanize them by snuffing out individual morality, sense, and sensibility to make everything into targets, threats, and objectives. Time and experience helped to heal such brainwashing, but it always left an indelible change. And lucky for him the support hunter hadn't healed nearly from such as they sat up a little straighter, even as tears ran down their cheeks.
“Mach… I…” They stammered hazily, a look of confusion creasing their brow.
“That was not a request Sergeant! I am ordering you to do your damn duty!” That confusion turned incredulous as they processed what he was demanding.
“Are you kidding!? They're… they're…”
“Yes, we're being shot at! And they are going to kill us if we don't do something about it!” He shoved them hard against the crumbling concrete barrier, letting go so as to grab the bullpup assault rifle slung under their arm. Instinct saw the stunned man reaching autonomously to prevent him from grabbing their weapon but he was quicker as he lifted it just enough to drive it into their chest. They grimaced, the weapon digging in painfully, forcing them to grab it and wrench it from his grasp. They cradled the assault rifle close to them, muscle memory seeing it naturally fall into a weapons ready hold. “I don't give a shit if you're scared! Boo fucking hoo you lost your legs! Right now you got an objective to accomplish and targets in the way. So shit your pants if you want, but don't you dare let that get in the way of your duty!”
The man blinked in mild horror as he yelled at them, eyes glistening and yet… he saw something click. A fire, small and dim yet there, lit as their expression grew grim, knuckles lightening as they gripped their weapon tightly. It was hardly the fiery hunter fighting spirit he was hoping for but it was something, and hopefully that something would be enough. They winced as he clapped their shoulder with his prosthetic hand, a stern nod offered. “Cover. My. Six.” He glared at them hard until they nodded meekly, acknowledging the order. Yeah… he wasn't feeling very confident about not getting his ass shot off but they were out of time less this became nothing but a duck hunt and they the pheasants under glass.
Unslinging his own bullpup rifle, he seated it in his elbow, thumbing the fire mode to full party. He flashed Jacobson the ampule of silvery liquid he produced from his potion belt, not waiting to see if they were going to follow suit before cracking it open and throwing its contents back, a shuddering shiver running up his spine as it took hold, slowing the world around him. Finally, he drew the hand cannon which was the primary weapon of the U.T.R.A. hunter, the caster letting out a mournful growl as its processors spun up to him jerking the second trigger back through both breaks. “Alright… let's show these fuckers why we're the apex predators back home…” His voice a growl as the casters whine pitched into a squeal, a pop his signal to stand and deliver into that hail of bullets.
Re: Yer a Wizard Mach!
Vignette - Waste
TW - Talk of Suicide
Mach tapped off a lazy two finger salute to the desk sergeant as they slid over the last of his belongings. Most of it he stuffed into a random pocket but kept hold of the damaged pack of cigarettes, a crooked coffin nail extracted and clipped between his lips. Glancing back, he'd slowly lift his hands up apologetically as the gruff, old warhorse of a man shot him with an angry glare, the look promising a lively date with a truncheon if he even thought of lighting up in the precinct lobby.
Nope, he'd had quite enough of this place for the time being so he bid a hasty retreat, sliding outside and putting some distance between him and the doors before tucking the tip between the palm and thumb of his prosthetic. One puff, two, and he'd breath out an ashen plume with a content sigh. Sweet, sweet nicotine! His lone eye gaze cast out over the bit of city that stretched before him, the sun that had been high above before he'd gone in now sat beneath the horizon, dusk quickly turning to night. Awesome, another wasted day getting the third degree by the local bacon.
To be fair they had been responding to calls of a ‘fucking war going on in the streets’ only to show up to him smoking a cigarette while lounging among a bunch of bodies. In his defense they were all alive bodies - groaning, bleeding, and more than a few quite unhappy with their mostly dead is still partially alive status but hey, they started it! Not that this flimsy excuse stopped the watchmen from approaching him like a ravenous monster before taking him into custody with extreme prejudice so they could all play a roving game of legal stonewalling and smarm. Unlike some in the land, he didn't have the clout nor the riches to stand above the law. There were no action figures of him like Claire, no lunch boxes of his handsome mug like Ebon, nor body pillows of his sexy self like Issy. The closest thing he had to such notoriety was a passing resemblance to Race, but the Watch had grown wise to the differences between the gajillionaire part-time vigilante playboy they were and the slummy full-time menace to society schmooze that he was so they harassed accordingly.
Luckily everyone had their paperwork in order with the law so proving he hadn’t just woke up today jonesing to be a depraved, blood thirsty lunatic with a thing for knees was pretty easy. It also helped that he agreed to give the I Metitori the lucrative bounty for the ogre even if, technically, they didn't have any standing boots on the ground to claim responsibility for the kill since he'd, well, made sure none of them were left standing. Diplomatic that, not wanting to add insult to injury. Plus the guild leader got a bigger cut the less members were capable of collecting and he'd pretty much ensured they'd get the entire kitty so they were pretty happy! No harm no foul by their account and thus the greater account of their guild! So sorry they tried to kill him and his, should've known better, blah, blah, blah. He'd still have to keep watch over his shoulder for a while, especially since some of those idiots would never walk much less hunt bounty's again if they survived their injuries. Bad blood was gonna be bad blood, but paranoia over every shadow and bump was second nature to him given his life so it wasn't like this was a new inconvenience.
No, the worse of this was that he'd expended U.T.R.A. resources without even earning a copper noble for his efforts. Two potions, three caster cartridges, and several clips of ammo - each having to be documented in triplicate and paid for out of his own wages. And he wasted the entire day on this little venture so there was no hope of recouping his losses or trying to break even. All in all a shitty gamble, but that's how the hands went some days. At least his ass wasn't shot off, so that was something. Always had to look on the bright side of life, or else he'd end up like the despondent lump seated off to the side at the bottom of the steps he sauntered down.
Jacobson was hunched over in their favorite trauma position, staring at their legs. He did note their attention seemed to be transfixed on the line of bullet holes in their pants, a few soaked through with an oily substance that some out of touch asshole thought to color red. It wasn't blood, of course, but hydraulic fluid leaking from some damaged pseudomuscles. The sight annoyed him for all the wrong reasons. They obviously had comfort grade prosthetics using unarmored, hydraulic pseudomuscles that emulated nature to achieve fluid, natural movement all wrapped in a synthetic skin, color and temperature accurate and matched to the owner. In contrast, his arm was military grade robotics using mechanical pistons accentuated by servos and solid weave coils that could stretch and contract without being prone to puncturing, all wrapped in gunmetal black armorer plates and ballistic ceramics. The structuring of his arm set odd limits of mobility in certain ways and allowed impossible movements in others making emulating natural movement challenging and never without tells that the observant could pick up on. A classic tale of form over function with his being all about that function which also included such frivolities like an inbuilt lighter and vibrator… for massaging aching muscles at the end of a rough day of course!
Sidling up on the man, he peered down at their legs inspectingly. “Little elbow grease and that'll buff right out.” He sniffed at the incredulous look they shot him, brows waggling as he showed them his own bullet riddled shirt. Of course he didn't mention that his red stains were from actual blood, less he had to drag the man crying away from the watch post! Luckily the goon that had hit him was using a pistol caliber in their full auto so his augmented ribs stopped the rounds from penetrating into his organ filled chest cavity. Go having to get an improved, all metal rib cage a few years back after breaking multiple of his weak boney kind thanks to the torque his military prosthetic could induce if he wasn't being mindful. Showed him not to listen to Bell when they were salivating to make him more machine! “Might want to get some plating though, the machinists back in base will grow to hate you if you keep breaking your shit. Maybe a modular design so you can change out if you plan on spending some quality time with the honeys… unless they’re into that kinda thing. Probably be like having sex with a motorcycle…”
Their expression only dimmed further. “Are you kidding me?”
He shrugged. “Trying, but you're being a pretty poor sport about it.”
“We got shot!” They sputtered indignantly, their expression a mixture of anger, horror, and confusion.
“And yet here we are.” He waved about the street. “Alive and generally unharmed, enough. Don't even need a doctor's visit, much less a hospital like the dipshits that tried to off us.” Another glimmer of lady luck's fickle favor that they showed up ready to hunt ogre than idiots. He'd splurged and packed them up with armor piercing sabot for their assault rifles, the rounds meant for creatures with armor grade hide than squishy people bits. Rather than blowing cat sized cavities in the goons, the rounds generally left them the same as they'd entered so the damage wasn't nearly as grevious and life threatening. Even the punter that low shot Jacobson’s legs scaring them to center of mass the idiot wasn't too fucked seeming though time would tell as he'd heard they were in the ICU for a collapsed lung and aortic swelling. He certainly hoped they'd survive, though not out of any kind of shits given to their well-being reasoning.
No, U.T.R.A. hunters were licensed and approved for hunting mages, monsters, and demi-humoids with justifiable and sometimes unjustifiable prejudice. If they'd accidently off’d one of those, even incidentally to their actual target, the ravenous diplomatic corp would defend them to the hilt and even demand a thank you letter to boot for their services rendered to society. As a peacekeeper though, killing a normie human not directly involved in an approved hunt generally got one left to the mercies of the local law. If one could spin a compelling enough reason then maybe they could warrant getting fought for to be tried by a J.A.G. court rather than a civvy magister but he doubted he could justify such in this case. Just because they could do non-human bounty hunts didn't mean they were officially sanctioned without the proper paperwork, and he'd not filed such before leaving the satellite office this morning given how everything should have been. No, if any of these twits died then he and Jacobson would be on hook with Rhy'Din authorities for manslaughter and they'd have to beat the charges themselves using their own resources. Just what he didn't need, lawyer charges atop of wasting premium ammo. The thought made him groan miserably, exacerbated by the fact that the other hunter was staring at their damn legs again!
He clapped their back with his prosthetic hand, bringing an angry scowl to their dour expression. “We're alive man, that's the important bit! Just focus on that, put all the other shit outta your mind cause you'll just run yourself ragged trying to chase that crap down.”
They looked like they wanted to argue that reductionist point, the oversimplification as insulting as it was aggravatingly true. But it was probably the fact that they'd have heard it from any other hunter with skin still in the game that they held their tongue, eyes flitting towards the ragged holes in their pants which they ran their thumb mindlessly over. This stopped when he raised his metal hand again, threatening to clap the sollumness right out of them. Instead they drew their legs up to their chest, sifting their thoughts. “How… how do you do it?”
Mach was ready to blow them off with a breezy retort but the tiredness in their eyes gave him pause. Crap. Taking a drag off his cigarette, he let the question hang in the air a long moment before blowing out an ashen smokescreen. “I just do.” He shrugged. “Somebody's gotta, but it's my duty so…” Another shrug as the answer sounded much more anemic then he'd imagined when saying it.
“Ok, but why? What's the reason? I believed the recruiter when they said it would be exciting and challenging, a chance at adventure and to do good at the same time - I wanted that. Be a real hero, you know? But it's just… things go to shit and maybe you survive, maybe you get blown the fuck up, and nobody gives a shit either way! You get patched up, an appointment with a shrink, and your back out here to what… do it all again!?”
He grimaced at the pleading look in their eyes, the hurt and pain that overwhelmed the man. It was obvious the hang-up with their legs wasn't all just trauma, but something more gnawing, more insidious. The crap behind the polished bullshit veneer recruiters pushed that every hunter inevitably had to contend with. Taking another drag off his cigarette, he broke his own rule and contemplated those familiar, existential questions, ones him and pretty much every hunter he'd known had struggled with at some point or another in their career. Usually it was over a few glasses of alcohol, much more preferable over this raw dogging reality garbage. His cobalt gaze cast out over the lit up city, a haze of smoke blurring the view making it look more familiar as he uttered the first answer that came to mind. “Money.”
“Money?” Their tone was unbelieving at the shallow answer. “You do this for money!? Really!?”
He shrugged off their judgement, another drag taken from his cigarette. “Pay's good. Permanent danger plus highly specialized M.O.S. equals bank. Plus, you know, sweet dealer… for me anyway.” They stared at him, stunned, obviously having never been crushingly poor or at least not enough so to have found that miserable state worth getting shot over. Not only did hunter pay elevate him, but he'd had enough over the years to get Mike top notch drug rehab, pay out Jon's gangland debts, put Bri through medical school, and bury Matty… It had dragged the Turners out of a dead end existence of drugs and violence, most of them anyway. And if he could retire he'd be pretty well set having been a Sweet Dealer recruit during the war - something that would never apply to Jacobson and their peace time enlistment. Sure, most such hunters never made it to that required 40 years of age in active service, but there were enough who did to show that the government wasn't that invested in screwing them out of their promised recompense. The U.T.R.A. was corrupt and crooked in many ways, but apparently even the bureaucrats at the top weren't dumb enough to screw over a group of highly trained, combat experienced, versatile monsters that were good at lateral thinking and commando operations!
“There’s got to be more to it than just being required to and pay!?” Their tone was pleading, as though his low aspirations and motivations were some sort of betrayal against the him he was supposed to be.
“What? You think I should be in this to be some big damn hero? Answering some higher calling or some bullshit like that? We're G.I. thugs with a license to broker misery and we get the comeuppance that that sorta life brings.” He hadn't meant his words to be quite so bitter, quite so caustic as he clapped back against that naivety. It was endearing as something to give the man crap about over drinks but the fact they actually thought such drivel could even remotely be a reality irked him. Hunters could be decent folk, sure, maybe even doing ‘good’ things, but at the end of the day they were still soldiers who parlayed in too much violence, too much deception and pain and suffering to truly ever be any kind of hero. And the ones who stuck with the gig, well, they had to have, in some way, liked those darker aspects of the job. You couldn't become and maintain being a murder, maiming, mayhem machine if on some level you didn't enjoy it. Way he figured anyone who said differently was lying to themselves and others.
Mach knew he weren't no hero, hardly even counted as a decent person most days. He liked the mayhem and volatility of being a hunter. Like a prize fighter or an extreme sportsman he got off on the adrenaline and the thrill of it all, even if the mountain he scaled and the pugilist he faced were often one and the same. And the job leaned into his naturally violent nature, one of the few shitty marketable skills he had growing up on the mean, uncaring streets of Prysbil. If anything, he worried he might have liked it all a bit too much. That maybe he couldn't commit or adjust to a normal or peaceful life and that every time things fell apart for him it was really all just due to his own self sabotage rather than the litany of excuses and injustices he always had in pocket to blame. And he'd continue this way until he fulfilled Bri’s greatest fear that the only thing he'd ever amount to for himself was ending as a mangled corpse in a ditch, hated and alone.
He ripped the smoldering butt from his mouth, shutting down this line of thought as he crushed out the burning ember against his prosthetic hand. No, it was time to end this pity party and do what he had to. “I think you oughta fill out an R.M.C. 455-S and put in an RFT packet.”
That stunned expression of theirs paled at his blunt words. “You… want me to wash out as a hunter and leave Rhy'Din?”
The hurt words earned a blase shrug. “I think today shows you've already crossed that bridge, time to make it official.” Another cigarette was pulled from his pocket and tucked in for a light.
“But… I always wanted to be a hunter. I worked hard to learn, to train, condition. I-”
He cut them off with an agitated stream of smoke. “We just established that none of that means dick Brent. And that lauded dream of yours? Pure fantasy. This is just a shit job done by shit folks for shitty reasons just like any other. And there are plenty of other careers to get into in the military, more lucrative, more prestigious, just as shit even if that's what you're after. Hell's, just being a normal infantryman will get you better treatment by the normies, let you hold your head up high as a veteran then skulking as a leashed monster!”
The man stood, floundering and flustered as they stared at him in betrayal. “But I can get, I am getting better!”
“Better?” He turned on them with a snarl, glaring them down with that lone cobalt eye. “Hunters don't get ‘better’. We're either good or we're dead. If you were an assault hunter then that’d be one thing, though stoning up and swallowing a fucking bullet yourself would be easier for everyone involved. But as a support hunter your hang-up is going to get you and your team slaughtered.” His teeth creaked painfully as he throttled his rage, the blur of torment he’d suffered at the hands of Gaines echoing in his mind, making him feel sick and steeling his resolve at once.
Jacobson stepped back, shrinking as he stepped forward. “No. You either do the right thing and wash out or as principle hunter I will open a no-confidence investigation on you and testify for your stubborn ass to be discharged! Dishonorably because you’d have wasted my fucking time to do so!!”
He spat out his cigarette, the usually comforting smoke taking on the sticky, acrid taste of burning flesh in his mouth. Calm, Mach, calm! Stepping back, he took a deep breath, blowing it out in a huff. “You have till Friday to put in your packet.” And with that he turned to storm off into the night.
“H-hey?” He felt himself being held back. “Mach! Hey you gotta-” He jerked his shoulder, trying to pull it free but the hand that grabbed him gripped hard, pulling him back. “Damnit, listen to me!” Mach shook his head, his anger growing at how much this just proved the man wasn't hunter material. He pulled again but they jerked harder, fingers digging angrily into his shoulder. As he let himself be turned about he saw the fire in the man's eyes, saw the fight in them burning. Too little, too late…
They had good instinct as they reacted to his sudden pivot, twisting with the hard hook he threw for their stomach. Metallic knuckles dug ineffectively into their side as they started to step back, fists raising to retaliate. Unfortunately for them he was a proper hunter, a true bastard that never fought fairly if he could avoid it. Driving through while twisting his wrist would hear the crack of wood as the cantrip stick he had built into his prosthetic arm broke. His rage provided plenty of spark to juice the elemental spell, a puff of flame and smoke shooting out of a vent as he poured mana in, before bringing to life a contained lightning bolt which arched through his fist and right into the other.
They arched and convulsed backwards, racked with pain as the electricity tore into them. Wide eyed, they fell to the concrete steps, staring at him with a mixture of angry betrayal and pleading. For his part he simply let out a rusty breath, dead vitae spat out to the side as he regarded the man dispassionately. “Friday.” The deadline reiterated before he took a step back, breathing deeply to regain control, to try and dull the thrum of blood pounding in his ears and the sucking guilt that gnawed within him.
It took him a moment to recover a modicum of composure and a moment still to realize just how bone headed a move this was. He was barely raising his hands in surrender to the cacophony of muffled yelling around him when his vision exploded in pain and stars as the first truncheon made solid contact with his skull. Apparently cold clocking someone with magic right outside a watch station was a surprisingly bad idea, who knew! Today had been utter bullshit, tonight was going to be a roving game of ‘swiftly asserting dominance’ in the city detention center, and he was burning yet another bridge so maybe someone else wouldn't end up dead or a fuck up like him. Yep, total waste, should've just stayed in fucking bed.
TW - Talk of Suicide
Mach tapped off a lazy two finger salute to the desk sergeant as they slid over the last of his belongings. Most of it he stuffed into a random pocket but kept hold of the damaged pack of cigarettes, a crooked coffin nail extracted and clipped between his lips. Glancing back, he'd slowly lift his hands up apologetically as the gruff, old warhorse of a man shot him with an angry glare, the look promising a lively date with a truncheon if he even thought of lighting up in the precinct lobby.
Nope, he'd had quite enough of this place for the time being so he bid a hasty retreat, sliding outside and putting some distance between him and the doors before tucking the tip between the palm and thumb of his prosthetic. One puff, two, and he'd breath out an ashen plume with a content sigh. Sweet, sweet nicotine! His lone eye gaze cast out over the bit of city that stretched before him, the sun that had been high above before he'd gone in now sat beneath the horizon, dusk quickly turning to night. Awesome, another wasted day getting the third degree by the local bacon.
To be fair they had been responding to calls of a ‘fucking war going on in the streets’ only to show up to him smoking a cigarette while lounging among a bunch of bodies. In his defense they were all alive bodies - groaning, bleeding, and more than a few quite unhappy with their mostly dead is still partially alive status but hey, they started it! Not that this flimsy excuse stopped the watchmen from approaching him like a ravenous monster before taking him into custody with extreme prejudice so they could all play a roving game of legal stonewalling and smarm. Unlike some in the land, he didn't have the clout nor the riches to stand above the law. There were no action figures of him like Claire, no lunch boxes of his handsome mug like Ebon, nor body pillows of his sexy self like Issy. The closest thing he had to such notoriety was a passing resemblance to Race, but the Watch had grown wise to the differences between the gajillionaire part-time vigilante playboy they were and the slummy full-time menace to society schmooze that he was so they harassed accordingly.
Luckily everyone had their paperwork in order with the law so proving he hadn’t just woke up today jonesing to be a depraved, blood thirsty lunatic with a thing for knees was pretty easy. It also helped that he agreed to give the I Metitori the lucrative bounty for the ogre even if, technically, they didn't have any standing boots on the ground to claim responsibility for the kill since he'd, well, made sure none of them were left standing. Diplomatic that, not wanting to add insult to injury. Plus the guild leader got a bigger cut the less members were capable of collecting and he'd pretty much ensured they'd get the entire kitty so they were pretty happy! No harm no foul by their account and thus the greater account of their guild! So sorry they tried to kill him and his, should've known better, blah, blah, blah. He'd still have to keep watch over his shoulder for a while, especially since some of those idiots would never walk much less hunt bounty's again if they survived their injuries. Bad blood was gonna be bad blood, but paranoia over every shadow and bump was second nature to him given his life so it wasn't like this was a new inconvenience.
No, the worse of this was that he'd expended U.T.R.A. resources without even earning a copper noble for his efforts. Two potions, three caster cartridges, and several clips of ammo - each having to be documented in triplicate and paid for out of his own wages. And he wasted the entire day on this little venture so there was no hope of recouping his losses or trying to break even. All in all a shitty gamble, but that's how the hands went some days. At least his ass wasn't shot off, so that was something. Always had to look on the bright side of life, or else he'd end up like the despondent lump seated off to the side at the bottom of the steps he sauntered down.
Jacobson was hunched over in their favorite trauma position, staring at their legs. He did note their attention seemed to be transfixed on the line of bullet holes in their pants, a few soaked through with an oily substance that some out of touch asshole thought to color red. It wasn't blood, of course, but hydraulic fluid leaking from some damaged pseudomuscles. The sight annoyed him for all the wrong reasons. They obviously had comfort grade prosthetics using unarmored, hydraulic pseudomuscles that emulated nature to achieve fluid, natural movement all wrapped in a synthetic skin, color and temperature accurate and matched to the owner. In contrast, his arm was military grade robotics using mechanical pistons accentuated by servos and solid weave coils that could stretch and contract without being prone to puncturing, all wrapped in gunmetal black armorer plates and ballistic ceramics. The structuring of his arm set odd limits of mobility in certain ways and allowed impossible movements in others making emulating natural movement challenging and never without tells that the observant could pick up on. A classic tale of form over function with his being all about that function which also included such frivolities like an inbuilt lighter and vibrator… for massaging aching muscles at the end of a rough day of course!
Sidling up on the man, he peered down at their legs inspectingly. “Little elbow grease and that'll buff right out.” He sniffed at the incredulous look they shot him, brows waggling as he showed them his own bullet riddled shirt. Of course he didn't mention that his red stains were from actual blood, less he had to drag the man crying away from the watch post! Luckily the goon that had hit him was using a pistol caliber in their full auto so his augmented ribs stopped the rounds from penetrating into his organ filled chest cavity. Go having to get an improved, all metal rib cage a few years back after breaking multiple of his weak boney kind thanks to the torque his military prosthetic could induce if he wasn't being mindful. Showed him not to listen to Bell when they were salivating to make him more machine! “Might want to get some plating though, the machinists back in base will grow to hate you if you keep breaking your shit. Maybe a modular design so you can change out if you plan on spending some quality time with the honeys… unless they’re into that kinda thing. Probably be like having sex with a motorcycle…”
Their expression only dimmed further. “Are you kidding me?”
He shrugged. “Trying, but you're being a pretty poor sport about it.”
“We got shot!” They sputtered indignantly, their expression a mixture of anger, horror, and confusion.
“And yet here we are.” He waved about the street. “Alive and generally unharmed, enough. Don't even need a doctor's visit, much less a hospital like the dipshits that tried to off us.” Another glimmer of lady luck's fickle favor that they showed up ready to hunt ogre than idiots. He'd splurged and packed them up with armor piercing sabot for their assault rifles, the rounds meant for creatures with armor grade hide than squishy people bits. Rather than blowing cat sized cavities in the goons, the rounds generally left them the same as they'd entered so the damage wasn't nearly as grevious and life threatening. Even the punter that low shot Jacobson’s legs scaring them to center of mass the idiot wasn't too fucked seeming though time would tell as he'd heard they were in the ICU for a collapsed lung and aortic swelling. He certainly hoped they'd survive, though not out of any kind of shits given to their well-being reasoning.
No, U.T.R.A. hunters were licensed and approved for hunting mages, monsters, and demi-humoids with justifiable and sometimes unjustifiable prejudice. If they'd accidently off’d one of those, even incidentally to their actual target, the ravenous diplomatic corp would defend them to the hilt and even demand a thank you letter to boot for their services rendered to society. As a peacekeeper though, killing a normie human not directly involved in an approved hunt generally got one left to the mercies of the local law. If one could spin a compelling enough reason then maybe they could warrant getting fought for to be tried by a J.A.G. court rather than a civvy magister but he doubted he could justify such in this case. Just because they could do non-human bounty hunts didn't mean they were officially sanctioned without the proper paperwork, and he'd not filed such before leaving the satellite office this morning given how everything should have been. No, if any of these twits died then he and Jacobson would be on hook with Rhy'Din authorities for manslaughter and they'd have to beat the charges themselves using their own resources. Just what he didn't need, lawyer charges atop of wasting premium ammo. The thought made him groan miserably, exacerbated by the fact that the other hunter was staring at their damn legs again!
He clapped their back with his prosthetic hand, bringing an angry scowl to their dour expression. “We're alive man, that's the important bit! Just focus on that, put all the other shit outta your mind cause you'll just run yourself ragged trying to chase that crap down.”
They looked like they wanted to argue that reductionist point, the oversimplification as insulting as it was aggravatingly true. But it was probably the fact that they'd have heard it from any other hunter with skin still in the game that they held their tongue, eyes flitting towards the ragged holes in their pants which they ran their thumb mindlessly over. This stopped when he raised his metal hand again, threatening to clap the sollumness right out of them. Instead they drew their legs up to their chest, sifting their thoughts. “How… how do you do it?”
Mach was ready to blow them off with a breezy retort but the tiredness in their eyes gave him pause. Crap. Taking a drag off his cigarette, he let the question hang in the air a long moment before blowing out an ashen smokescreen. “I just do.” He shrugged. “Somebody's gotta, but it's my duty so…” Another shrug as the answer sounded much more anemic then he'd imagined when saying it.
“Ok, but why? What's the reason? I believed the recruiter when they said it would be exciting and challenging, a chance at adventure and to do good at the same time - I wanted that. Be a real hero, you know? But it's just… things go to shit and maybe you survive, maybe you get blown the fuck up, and nobody gives a shit either way! You get patched up, an appointment with a shrink, and your back out here to what… do it all again!?”
He grimaced at the pleading look in their eyes, the hurt and pain that overwhelmed the man. It was obvious the hang-up with their legs wasn't all just trauma, but something more gnawing, more insidious. The crap behind the polished bullshit veneer recruiters pushed that every hunter inevitably had to contend with. Taking another drag off his cigarette, he broke his own rule and contemplated those familiar, existential questions, ones him and pretty much every hunter he'd known had struggled with at some point or another in their career. Usually it was over a few glasses of alcohol, much more preferable over this raw dogging reality garbage. His cobalt gaze cast out over the lit up city, a haze of smoke blurring the view making it look more familiar as he uttered the first answer that came to mind. “Money.”
“Money?” Their tone was unbelieving at the shallow answer. “You do this for money!? Really!?”
He shrugged off their judgement, another drag taken from his cigarette. “Pay's good. Permanent danger plus highly specialized M.O.S. equals bank. Plus, you know, sweet dealer… for me anyway.” They stared at him, stunned, obviously having never been crushingly poor or at least not enough so to have found that miserable state worth getting shot over. Not only did hunter pay elevate him, but he'd had enough over the years to get Mike top notch drug rehab, pay out Jon's gangland debts, put Bri through medical school, and bury Matty… It had dragged the Turners out of a dead end existence of drugs and violence, most of them anyway. And if he could retire he'd be pretty well set having been a Sweet Dealer recruit during the war - something that would never apply to Jacobson and their peace time enlistment. Sure, most such hunters never made it to that required 40 years of age in active service, but there were enough who did to show that the government wasn't that invested in screwing them out of their promised recompense. The U.T.R.A. was corrupt and crooked in many ways, but apparently even the bureaucrats at the top weren't dumb enough to screw over a group of highly trained, combat experienced, versatile monsters that were good at lateral thinking and commando operations!
“There’s got to be more to it than just being required to and pay!?” Their tone was pleading, as though his low aspirations and motivations were some sort of betrayal against the him he was supposed to be.
“What? You think I should be in this to be some big damn hero? Answering some higher calling or some bullshit like that? We're G.I. thugs with a license to broker misery and we get the comeuppance that that sorta life brings.” He hadn't meant his words to be quite so bitter, quite so caustic as he clapped back against that naivety. It was endearing as something to give the man crap about over drinks but the fact they actually thought such drivel could even remotely be a reality irked him. Hunters could be decent folk, sure, maybe even doing ‘good’ things, but at the end of the day they were still soldiers who parlayed in too much violence, too much deception and pain and suffering to truly ever be any kind of hero. And the ones who stuck with the gig, well, they had to have, in some way, liked those darker aspects of the job. You couldn't become and maintain being a murder, maiming, mayhem machine if on some level you didn't enjoy it. Way he figured anyone who said differently was lying to themselves and others.
Mach knew he weren't no hero, hardly even counted as a decent person most days. He liked the mayhem and volatility of being a hunter. Like a prize fighter or an extreme sportsman he got off on the adrenaline and the thrill of it all, even if the mountain he scaled and the pugilist he faced were often one and the same. And the job leaned into his naturally violent nature, one of the few shitty marketable skills he had growing up on the mean, uncaring streets of Prysbil. If anything, he worried he might have liked it all a bit too much. That maybe he couldn't commit or adjust to a normal or peaceful life and that every time things fell apart for him it was really all just due to his own self sabotage rather than the litany of excuses and injustices he always had in pocket to blame. And he'd continue this way until he fulfilled Bri’s greatest fear that the only thing he'd ever amount to for himself was ending as a mangled corpse in a ditch, hated and alone.
He ripped the smoldering butt from his mouth, shutting down this line of thought as he crushed out the burning ember against his prosthetic hand. No, it was time to end this pity party and do what he had to. “I think you oughta fill out an R.M.C. 455-S and put in an RFT packet.”
That stunned expression of theirs paled at his blunt words. “You… want me to wash out as a hunter and leave Rhy'Din?”
The hurt words earned a blase shrug. “I think today shows you've already crossed that bridge, time to make it official.” Another cigarette was pulled from his pocket and tucked in for a light.
“But… I always wanted to be a hunter. I worked hard to learn, to train, condition. I-”
He cut them off with an agitated stream of smoke. “We just established that none of that means dick Brent. And that lauded dream of yours? Pure fantasy. This is just a shit job done by shit folks for shitty reasons just like any other. And there are plenty of other careers to get into in the military, more lucrative, more prestigious, just as shit even if that's what you're after. Hell's, just being a normal infantryman will get you better treatment by the normies, let you hold your head up high as a veteran then skulking as a leashed monster!”
The man stood, floundering and flustered as they stared at him in betrayal. “But I can get, I am getting better!”
“Better?” He turned on them with a snarl, glaring them down with that lone cobalt eye. “Hunters don't get ‘better’. We're either good or we're dead. If you were an assault hunter then that’d be one thing, though stoning up and swallowing a fucking bullet yourself would be easier for everyone involved. But as a support hunter your hang-up is going to get you and your team slaughtered.” His teeth creaked painfully as he throttled his rage, the blur of torment he’d suffered at the hands of Gaines echoing in his mind, making him feel sick and steeling his resolve at once.
Jacobson stepped back, shrinking as he stepped forward. “No. You either do the right thing and wash out or as principle hunter I will open a no-confidence investigation on you and testify for your stubborn ass to be discharged! Dishonorably because you’d have wasted my fucking time to do so!!”
He spat out his cigarette, the usually comforting smoke taking on the sticky, acrid taste of burning flesh in his mouth. Calm, Mach, calm! Stepping back, he took a deep breath, blowing it out in a huff. “You have till Friday to put in your packet.” And with that he turned to storm off into the night.
“H-hey?” He felt himself being held back. “Mach! Hey you gotta-” He jerked his shoulder, trying to pull it free but the hand that grabbed him gripped hard, pulling him back. “Damnit, listen to me!” Mach shook his head, his anger growing at how much this just proved the man wasn't hunter material. He pulled again but they jerked harder, fingers digging angrily into his shoulder. As he let himself be turned about he saw the fire in the man's eyes, saw the fight in them burning. Too little, too late…
They had good instinct as they reacted to his sudden pivot, twisting with the hard hook he threw for their stomach. Metallic knuckles dug ineffectively into their side as they started to step back, fists raising to retaliate. Unfortunately for them he was a proper hunter, a true bastard that never fought fairly if he could avoid it. Driving through while twisting his wrist would hear the crack of wood as the cantrip stick he had built into his prosthetic arm broke. His rage provided plenty of spark to juice the elemental spell, a puff of flame and smoke shooting out of a vent as he poured mana in, before bringing to life a contained lightning bolt which arched through his fist and right into the other.
They arched and convulsed backwards, racked with pain as the electricity tore into them. Wide eyed, they fell to the concrete steps, staring at him with a mixture of angry betrayal and pleading. For his part he simply let out a rusty breath, dead vitae spat out to the side as he regarded the man dispassionately. “Friday.” The deadline reiterated before he took a step back, breathing deeply to regain control, to try and dull the thrum of blood pounding in his ears and the sucking guilt that gnawed within him.
It took him a moment to recover a modicum of composure and a moment still to realize just how bone headed a move this was. He was barely raising his hands in surrender to the cacophony of muffled yelling around him when his vision exploded in pain and stars as the first truncheon made solid contact with his skull. Apparently cold clocking someone with magic right outside a watch station was a surprisingly bad idea, who knew! Today had been utter bullshit, tonight was going to be a roving game of ‘swiftly asserting dominance’ in the city detention center, and he was burning yet another bridge so maybe someone else wouldn't end up dead or a fuck up like him. Yep, total waste, should've just stayed in fucking bed.
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 3 guests