Every Other Freckle {open}

The wind howled mercilessly, screaming in fury through the late night as Dorian grumbled to himself, shuffling along the dirt street and tucking his arms into his chest. His alabaster robes flared wildly behind him due to the unrelenting gusts that assaulted his lean form. The Maker only knows why Dorian stumbled into this city; Kibatsuna, he believed it to be called. In all honestly, he had no where else to go, and here was fine for the time being. It was a refuge of sorts, and certainly looked the part; most of the civilians that inhabited the area were clearly impoverished, barely clinging onto life in the horrid situation that Dorian's own hometown had thrusted upon them. They were desperate, too; Dorian was sure that if he hadn't been keeping such a firm grip on his spear (which he occasionally used as a walking stick), he was sure someone would have mugged him. With an overly exaggerated sigh, Dorian came to a stop before a hole-in-the-wall place called Baratheon's Bar. At this point, anything that sheltered Dorian from the elements was good enough for him.

The stench of alcohol and piss hit him hard, causing the Warui mage to recoil and scrunch his nose up in obvious discontent. No matter how many times he entered a dingy bar, he would never quite get used to the onslaught of stimulus. Laughter and chatter, as well as some unnerving suckling noises, met Dorian's ears as he fully stepped within the establishment. "Charming," he muttered sarcastically under his breath as his eyes skimmed over the environment. Straightening his posture, Dorian's heeled boots deftly made their way across the wooden floor, careful not to step in puddles of unidentified liquids and foods. Pavus eventually reached his goal of the bar, and scooted a stool out from underneath with his foot before sliding his body onto the worn seat. His forearms came to a rest upon the counter top, fingertips tracing the grooves and cracks of the material as his steel gray eyes scanned those around him.

Apparently Baratheon's Bar attracted all kinds of folks of different species, origins, and ages, from as young as a teenager to as old as a great, great, great grandpa. Dorian could discern at least three different languages being spoken around him, and it was clear from the gathering that this was one of the only bars in the area. Despite the differences among the bar-goers, they all shared a common interest: to get drunk. Whether they were drinking to forget or drinking to celebrate, it didn't matter; every single person within the establishment was nursing a mug of something to wash down their thoughts.

Just as he was making his assessment of the civilians, a hooded figure approached him, the stench of smoke emanating off of him heavily. "You look a decent sort, one with good taste. Say, I might have something that'd interest ya..." The character reached into his cloak and pulled out a small wooden box, with a small insignia carved onto the top. Immediately Dorian recognized it as lyrium; the black market drug he'd been on and off about taking. His skin itched and a familiar gnawing within his stomach returned, pleading with him to give in. To spend just a bit more in return for a miraculous high and an incredible surge of power. No. He would not give in to the temptation, to the chains, of the drug. Barring his teeth, Dorian grabbed the cloak of the dealer and pulled him close enough so that he could see every other freckle on the shocked man's face. "If you ever approach me again or presume me to be some sort of addict, I will personally decorate this place with a coat of your blood." He gave him a wry smile before pushing him away harshly.

It took a moment for Dorian to remember his original intentions, and he turned back to the bar and craned his neck in search of a bartender. At this point, he would've greatly appreciated it if he could get a pint of something, anything in front of him. His throat was parched and he was entirely too sober to think straight.

  It's all that they did. From the time the sun rose above the settled sands, shimmering hues of milky blue with the opening of God's starry curtain and the dispelling of the Void that enveloped the world like a blanket- until the sun could no longer keep its watchful flames cast over the wastelands of the ashen Earth, crushed beneath the pressuring shades of lavender and the inevitable hounds of black. Their minds raced like myopic machinery, stumbling between the realms of self-consciousness and automatism; a 10-1 on the psyche that left their fragile frames leeching like fiends for the Devil's extract, or anything that would rock them off their horses and away from the palpability of the corporate apocalypse. Their flesh cried out for its merciful indulgence, and their cracked nails clawed through wood and bone alike for anything that substituted for its perfection within a range of acceptance so wide it could be described using a word between the context of impressive and pathetic.

The soldiers and slaves of this forged bliss were beckoned by its presence at intervals of Time near shy of perfectly routine; those with trade arrived at four in the afternoon, those that came by habit stumbled in at six, and those that had not found a purpose definitively fit somewhere in between the Fourers and the Sixers came at any time after eight. The hulking monstrosity in welder's metallic thread trudged in at two thirty-six if it was a dry solo bounty, two forty-three if it were a trade caravan of Fourers, and two fifty-one if it were the Warui.

The Baratheon's Bar served as a base of operation for Johnny Maximilian, the Fourth Great Annihilator and escaped Warui super-weapon, who now silenced targets marked by full pockets and pending favors alike. It was where he set in the tucked corner of the bar, slumped against a wooden wall that he unintentionally stained with dust, oil, and blood- painting a picture of murder and abandonment that no soul dare observed closely. It was where he lay dormant until around ten, mistaken for a jukebox by the intoxicated, blurred eyes of the buzzing cacophony.

It was where he watched a man of roughly six feet in height enter a cage of flies he had no business walking- strolling into.

The man's weaponry- or was it a cane?- his posture, and his observant eyes betrayed any hopes of being a simple soul, or a fly at the Baratheon's crackling-neon enthrallment. Johnny stared at him through his dimmed visor as the mustached migratory grappled the resident lyrium dealer, who went by a different name with the coming and going of bar-flys. This violent gesture turned a page of the man's life book for Johnny to read through his motions.

The way his dextrously-inclined fingers grasped the dealers cloak rang with personal offense led Johnny to believe the man had a history with lyrium; at first, the bounty-hunter read the man as a vigilante, of which there were many self-proclaimed, until he had a look at Mustache's face. Its blooming contorts, tied with the glistening of sweat glands, drew an indicator of intense mental resistance. This made him a user of at least reoccurring experience. The seconds later, in which he warned the dealer of his faults, told Johnny that the man was not a full-blown addict, but a man who had more sense than solvent in his head. When he thoroughly ensured the dealer that his bloodstream was on the line, it... it...

it immediately betrayed the man's hopes of being anything short of crazed... crazed and privileged. The man had too much etiquette and cognizance- although Johnny could see that the latter was slowly waring with each sober tick of the clock- to be any ole murderer or pissed-off drunk who looked the part. No, this was not the case. Johnny was willing to wager with the chess-opponent in his hyper-active brain that the mustached fellow was either under the radar, or validated by the radar itself.

Which was a good thing.

Johnny could not make use of a knee-buckling blossoming adult who wished to play 'hero' with the big man in the helmet and overalls. He needed a soul who was balancing on the picket fence of morality- each step of the picket-head a time-pausing moment of suspense that would potentially throw the feet to the wolves of gravity and moral definition. A mind that could be convinced in a specific direction by numerous mental and material means. A pair of hands that could get stained with any shade of blood and not drop their reserve.

Someone who could get the job done.

The hulking figure slowly rose from his dormant position, like a looming shadow on the verge of carnage. As he lumbered his way to the mustached man, who finally seemed to be settled on a mental track of entirely his conduction, flies buzzed warily in any given direction that didn't threaten to upset the walking apocalypse. With a thick leather glove, Johnny glanced at the bartender and raised two wrist-thick fingers. He sauntered menacingly, like a lion stalking at its prey, knowing that at his current pace, he would be upon the mustached man with two bottles of Kibat Kreigers and an offer he couldn't refuse.

As the bartender hurriedly placed the bottles in front of the mustached man, Johnny waited an instant for the man to acknowledge the beers before the Warui superweapon caught him offguard with a simple gesture. It was a gamble of the mustached man's memory, but it was a gesture that Johnny knew would give him leverage either way, be his prey's response total or partial recognition. A giant gloved hand reached for the two viridescent bottles, the beers enveloped and untouchable, and all that were available for the mustached man's eyes was an engraved greek symbol.

"How about we take these outside? The sands are cooled, and it'll give me a chance to assess both of our stand-points in this situation that I'm now putting us in," the voice was more machine than man, more bellow than treble, and so impending that it forced itself out of the ears of those that its words did not buzz-long. "I can't take the buzzing much longer, either."

Johnny was not chained to the temptations of liquor and narcotics, nor was he a cap-pinching trick of the haggling trade- he was a vassal of Death's vernacular, a workhouse at the reins of the Warui's mental scarring... a free man.

His reflections were so rudely interrupted by the image of a person's hand--if he could call it that really; it seemed to belong to a bear more so than a human. The armored glove drew Dorian's eye immediately; the Greek symbol, Delta, more specifically. 
Three points where two lines meet.  The sight of it caused Dorian to narrow his eyes and direct them somewhere else, to find the source of the hand. What he observed was definitely not what he expected. An imposing form, nearly 7 feet tall, of an armored welder's suit. The tinted visor made it impossible to see the man underneath--if there was one, at least. Feeling small, Dorian examined the figure more closely, conclusions running around in his head wildly like dread wolves.

Memories flooded back to Dorian in less than a second. At twelve years old, creeping out from his room to see his father and some other men arguing in loud tones over recent projects that they had been funding. "...it will never work..." "What a waste of money! My very own, hard-earned money being wasted on a load of dead-end experiments..." Halward catching sight of the young boy and dismissing him back to his bedroom immediately. Fifteen years old, glancing over his father's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the report in his hand, "....Subject Alpha Status Report: Failure. Omega Report: Failure. Beta Report: Failure." Seventeen years old, conversing with one of the better-looking female scientists that knew his dad, and convincing her to show him some sketches of her recent conceptual works. Sketches of men in diver's suits, some with drills affixed to their arms, some with large rivet guns, among various other weapons. Clearly semi-sentient weapons of destruction. His father had walked in on them right then, and Dorian was backhanded so hard the skin was bruised for three weeks. He hadn't thought twice about the humanoid sketches since that night.

But now here he was, with that concept alive and talking right before him. And buying him a drink, no less.

Dorian felt on edge, turning in his bar stool to more properly address the man...or machine. This development of Warui engineering certainly was not born of kind intentions. His voice was low and unflinching, but did not speak with the inflection of a robot as Dorian expected; those words could very well have slipped out of his own mouth. With a light sigh, Dorian attempted to repress his suspicions and carry on with a care-free facade. "Well, it would be rather rude if I were to turn down an offer from a gentlemen such as yourself. I'm flattered that you bought me a drink, truly, I feel obliged to accompany you outside."

Dorian slid out of his seat and ambled towards the exit of the bar; he didn't have to look to know that the hulking form was behind him.

The wind had calmed down by now, resorting to a gentle drift that languidly pulled at the tips of Dorian's robes as he dug his heel into the sandy substrate. Without preamble, he took one of the cups from the man and allowed the alcohol to singe his throat and burn warmly in his belly. He didn't speak at first, swirling the beverage in its container a few times before once more inspecting his company. After a moment of consideration, he found his words once again. "While I do enjoy foreplay as much as any other man, I will have to cut straight to the point with this one: if you, clearly a product of Warui engineering, intend to kill me, please do spare the mustache."

The bounty-hunter thought this to himself as Mustache Man and himself stepped out of the buzzing facility and, shifting his hulking body into an upward-facing position, allowed the alabaster rays of the waxing moon to pour into his visor. The Moon was the biggest focus in the visible curtain of the endless void of space- movies and novels fluctuant in number spoke both materialistically and theologically praised its seemingly-divine presence, and it had even gained military interest in Warui's  "Project A119- Happy Birthday", which was the development of a special nuclear bomb by the dev team of Warui Sciences for Catalista Albelin, the daughter of one of Warui Industries' leading supporters and executive board member, whose name Johnny didn't feel like exerting the effort of remembering.

All that the Subject could remember was the blood curdling scream that the board member released, which pierced the Warui courtyard at a decibel which Johnny did not expect from a middle-aged man.

Which led Johnny to the point he set out to show the audience of his mind; simply looking at the moon triggered corporate espionage bounties, military projects, and countless other experiences- but what of the clouds? To be a cloud in the night sky would be an unrivaled punishment. To be a cloud would mean to be an insignificant blot in the glory of the moon, and to be a denier of the beautiful starry curtain. To be a cloud would mean to have access to Man's first dream and envy, but to have it taunt you with aimless limitation.

Mere mortal minds would break at the revelation that it wasn't much different from their definition of a 'free man'... however, that was a story for the possibility that Mustache Man might refuse Johnny's offer. The Welded Suit's attention was broken from its philosophical contents with timing precise enough to make a conductor salivate.

"While I do enjoy foreplay as much as any other man, I will have to cut straight to the point with this one: if you, clearly a product of Warui engineering, intend to kill me, please do spare the mustache."

Johnny chuckled heartily, although the sound that exited the suit was an ominous mechanical boom.

"You read my intent too blandly. The folly of creation transcends the creative intent; seldom do things function as they were schematically created. The sinners sin, though God created Man to carry His preachings and practices. The ringed finger caresses the skin of the mistress, though its jewelry was forged with the fires of true-hearted compassion.  The son was born in the image of the father, though the son molds himself into his own man; the scholar becomes the drunk, and the drunk becomes a man. I have destroyed many beautiful creations, both organic and inorganic, but your mustache transcends any and all fathomable cognizance, as well as the intent of destruction. You will not be killed by my hand," Johnny paused momentarily before finishing his thought with a hint of stutter that betrayed his imposing atmosphere of transcended-mortality, "o-or my drill."

"I need your brain and your brawn more than I need the target practice; but before I need either of those, I need your name and your reason for entering this fly trap of a bar."

Dorian stood, baffled and observing intently, as the man in front of him launched into a beautifully eloquent and philosophical monologue. The hulking form in front of him spoke poetry that held gems of theories and hesitant questions within, provoking the mind at the depth of such words. The mage vaguely wondered what direction it was heading, only to throw his head back into a hearty laugh at the compliment of his mustache. The way that he ever-so-slightly stumbled on his last few words helped humanize the machine and made Dorian feel more comfortable. He brought one hand up to stifle the remnants of his laughter, but the soft rise and fall of his shoulders gave him away still.

"I need your brain and your brawn more than I need the target practice; but before I need either of those, I need your name and your reason for entering this fly trap of a bar."

Dorian feigned surprise by placing his hand upon his chest and gasping melodramatically. "You need me? Well I must say it has taken much less to get me into bed, and I pictured by evening going much differently, but I do suppose we can make some arrangements." Shaking off his sarcastic quip, the tanned man clasped his hands together before allowing them to drift back down to his sides. "You want to know why I came to this stinking shithole of a bar? I am here because I wanted to get drunk. And this seemed the only suitable option for me at the moment. I am Dorian of House Pavus; most recently of Minrathous, seeing as how I have been disowned by my family. And yes; I do come from the Warui, that much is true. However, I am not like them."

He spat the last word, the taste of it like sour bile on his tongue. Dorian was not blind to the atrocities that the Warui have made and will continue to make. Just because he was born in the midst of it did not mean that he was like-minded. Sure, he may have been raised with similar ideals due to his family, but as the mage grew older, he saw flaws and holes within the ideology and grew a mind of his own. He's always been the odd one out, so might as well completely stray off the "path" his family had set out for him as part of the Warui.

Clearly if the figure in front of him wanted to attack, Dorian would have been dead minutes. And despite his keeping up appearances as a cold machine, Dorian felt there was much more depth to it than that. He briefly brought his hand to his mouth as he considered him once more, eyes drifting over the Delta symbol engraved on his gauntlet. The frigid wind bit at exposed skin, but if anything it only served as a whetstone to Dorian's mind, sharpening his senses despite the alcohol he had consumed. "So, you. You must be a very special project within Warui Industries known as Delta. I'll have you know my father helped put funding into your research. I don't know what to think of you; you stand fast rooted and tall like a tree and have a fucking drill the size of an obese child on your arm. Yet here you are. Away from the Warui. Not killing me. So tell me, is there a man underneath that all? If I've offended, I do apologize; curiosity kills the cat, but honestly there are worst ways to go, I'd imagine."

Dorian didn't bother to reach for his staff. The weight was heavy and reassuring on his back, but he would not need it. He knew that he wouldn't be killed by the man, who had made himself clear that those were not his intentions. Dorian attempted to look past the tinted glass of the visor, but with no success. It was somewhat unnerving, to be near such an indomitable force.

It had taken Johnny a matter of seconds before it became apparent to him that the mustached man was a being of quick whim and humor, laced with satire and coltish ignominy, which reinforced both the abstract and calculative intuition that drew the hunkering metal monstrosity to insist on his accompaniment- banter and good-looks would not win them the arduous trials that lingered on the horizon of fate, but Johnny found that it has always been easier to travel with someone wielding more physical appeal than a ghoulish drunkard... at least this drunkard was convincing enough. Mustache Man introduced himself as Dorian of House Pavus, which Johnny duly noted with a hint of amusement. Would that make him Johnny of House Maximilian? Maximilian, head House of Warui Sciences and right-hand of the Director. That would be a revelation for another midnight heart-to-heart, Johnny silently concluded. Delta's hypersensitive sensors ripped Johnny from his thoughts as the first sound-waves of air left Dorian's mouth, and immediately Johnny knew the man was about to speak.

"So, you. You must be a very special project within Warui Industries known as Delta. I'll have you know my father helped put funding into your research. I don't know what to think of you; you stand fast rooted and tall like a tree and have a fucking drill the size of an obese child on your arm. Yet here you are. Away from the Warui. Not killing me. So tell me, is there a man underneath that all? If I've offended, I do apologize; curiosity kills the cat, but honestly there are worst ways to go, I'd imagine."

A speaker-distorted chuckle escaped the suit, a chuckle more human than machine. It did not ring with the imposing-dread of thundering audibles that the suit normally boomed with.

"Project Delta was a supercomputer fastened to the brawny design of an underwater welders suit. 'A welder that brings iron to the uncleanly and casts them in a sea of judgment'. Delta's call-sign used to be 'Baptism by Fire' when it came time for scouting and raiding. Delta was a being of cold retribution, a monstrosity designed to shake the very core of the Sabaku and shatter the knees that would not bend to the sovereignty of the Phoenix," Johnny took a brief moment to pause, letting the vibration that simply speaking the word 'Phoenix' brought in this day and age sink in. "One day, I shall tell you what your father truly helped put funding into. For now, however, it would probably be in both of our best interests if I told you what you'll be asked of."

Johnny lumbered off of the aging planks that consisted of the Baratheon's front porch and onto the stone pathways that marked the roads of Kibatsuna, half-concealed by sand that came swimming in the sky on windy days. Two good-sized buildings down from the Baratheon, Johnny stopped in front of an alleyway that stretched back another couple of buildings in length. On both walls of the alley were chipping doors with curt stone steps leading-to. Lines of laundry were hung mildly above head-level, draping cloth riddled with moth-holes and hued seven shades greyer than their original colors due to age. The alley gave off the appearance of a quaint alley-neighborhood drained of the colors of life, and all that was left was a tragic blot in the speck of definable consciousness. The only light that touched the living portrait was the sudden flash of viridescent that poured out of Johnny's visor. Despite not being able to grin, something about the welder's suit gave off an aura of excitement, like a father removing the tarp off of the final product of a car he'd been working on. He extended his right arm, the drill arm, fully extended and to his side, and his gloved hand tucked at his abdomen, gesturing to Dorian like a limo chauffeur.

"After you, kind sir."

Johnny would stay rooted until Dorian entered the alleyway, and would glance outward towards the mainroad in both directions to ensure that there were no watchful eyes.

"Fear not, Dorian," Johnny called to the man as he made his way forward, "I said that I needed you, but I'm not quite bold enough for alleyway friskiness." Johnny chuckled again, and as he peered down the roads of Kibatsuna, he began wondering when he had previously found so much amusement from a prospect of Baratheon's Flytrap.