(As always, anything I post is open. Please, if you feel so inclined, add something to the mix. Also, I must offer a disclaimer. This thread will contain extreme violence and possible suggestive themes. If you don't want to see this, please, stop reading. Thank you.)
David left the blackbird's bed early, after faking sleep. Maybe he'd come back, maybe he'd leave for good. The part of him that dominated his reality told him to get out and explore, to dominate and to ruin. As he stood, he glanced down at his armor, and slowly, his eyes devoured each and every inch of the blackbird he'd lain with. They ticked back and forth between the obvious perfection of his armor, the obvious perfection of his bed mate. With a silent shrug, David left his armor. He would come back, you see.
His feet carried him to another part of town, a seedier part. In this place, the butcher felt at home. Beggars reached, junkies lived and thugs died. Even among these strange people, David cut a path through the masses. Men who live by the gun, you see, understand others who kill by the gun. Maybe it was the way David wore the M45D Tactical Shotgun on his back, or maybe it was the easy set of the M6E Magnums he wore on each hip. Maybe it was something else, the way he stared a challenge at anyone who looked at him, the self assured way that his boots kicked up trash and dust, blood and oil. A sign caught his eye, a door made of dented metal and scarred with blaster fire and bullet impact.
"The Wilted Rose." David spoke the words under his breath, his head shaking as his lips twisted into wry amusement. "It never, ever changes." David pushed, fingers fanned on the door, and quickly stepped inside. He didn't linger in the funnel, his feet almost automatically took him to the left.
Regardless of his location, his presence filled the door. Three inches above six feet and eleven pounds over two hundred, David filled many doors, even when not in his armor. Dark blue cargo pants were tucked into boots that reached his upper calf. Of course, the material was polished to a shine. A dark blue shirt made of heat resistant polymers clung to each and every ridge of his heavily muscled chest and arms. Upon the shirt, his name was stenciled in white. Across from that, one might notice the "UNSC" crest, emblazoned above the words "Naval Special Warfare Command." As soon as David filled the door, a thin woman in hardly enough clothing to dress a baby attached herself to his arm. Without even looking, the Hell Jumper pushed her away and strode to the bar, polished boots echoing along the metallic floor. He headed for the bar, leaving the staring woman behind him, unsure of what to do. Should she follow, or should she tremble?
David sat at a stool, immediately flagging the bar tender down. However, nothing could be that easy. The place was almost empty, a few wasted and broken men watching a few equally forgettable women dance in various states of undress. Two men flanked David, having approached him from either side.
"We ain't seen you 'round here, so you got to pay the tax." The man on his left spoke, his words moving in and out of the spaces where teeth should have been.
"Yeah, the tax, asshole. We run this bar." The man on his right, clearly the underling, looked to the man on David's left, a slightly insane look in his watery eyes. David suspected drugs, an addict.
"I just want a drink." For the first time, David spoke. His rasping tones fought with his throat before bouncing off of his teeth, each word clipped, each delivery curt and short. When he spoke, it was clear the intent. David did not ask questions, he did not ask for permission. He made demands.
"You're going to have to pay the tax. Ain't we tell you that?" Both men leaned against the bar. The man on David's left reached under his faded jacket. That was enough provocation for David, the man had practically condemned himself.
Immediately, David's fingers wrapped around the man's slender wrist, dragging it back to the bar. In a burst of motion, David slammed the hand onto the bar, and his right hand reached down to a boot, drawing a ten inch blade. With a blur, the blade dug into the man's flesh, buried its tip into the bar, pinning the hand in place. The man on David's right drew his own thin blade, and before David could turn, he drew blood, a thin slash across David's cheek and jaw. He accepted the blow, hardly even noticing it.
"You stabbed Jimmy!" The man who had sliced David began slashing wildly, blows that David accepted with ease. With the knife buried in the first man's hand, David's right hand rose and his fingers tangled into Jimmy's hair. Once, twice, three times and four, David's hand slammed down, pounding the man's face into the metal. In between screams, David could hear the thick crunch and crack of bones. First his nose, then his jaw. Next came the man's orbital bones, then his nose again. Jimmy slumped over the bar, barely breathing as the blood poured from his mouth, his ears, his nose and his eyes.
David turned, rolling his shoulder to accept the growing number of stab wounds he had taken. Calmly, he brought his boot down on the other man's kneecap, digging his heel into the side of the man's leg until it gave out with a sickening wrench. Satisfied that he'd shattered the man's knee, David pulled his foot back and kicked, planting his heel into the man's knee once more. Predictably, the man fell and curled, clutching his knee and wailing in startled agony. David stood and took a second to wipe the blood from his face before he glanced down. Once more, his foot lifted, and it fell repeatedly, heavy boots slamming into the man's face again and again. He did this casually, he did this without even watching. When David did look back down, the man was dead, his face a shattered mass of bone and blood.
The bartender had been staring, halfway in between drawing his own weapon and pouring a drink. His eyes locked onto this man who had so calmly and brutally murdered at least one man before his very eyes. He had seen a lot, working in this city and this place, but nothing like this. Slowly, David found the man's eyes and stared. With deliberate motions, he withdrew the blade from Jimmy's hand and took his hair once more. David's brown eyes never left the bartender while he did this. He stepped behind the man and picked him up, holding him against his body. Jimmy began to kick and squirm, and the noises that came from his ruined mouth might have been mumbled pleas. David lifted his hand, the blade flashing as it dripped blood. Not once, not twice, but three times, the blade sunk hilt deep into the man's throat. David, still pinning the bartender with his eyes, stepped back and threw Jimmy's body across the bar, leaving a bloody trail. He reached down once more and used Jimmy's jacket to wipe his hands, but he couldn't possibly clean so much blood off of his hands with just a jacket. Instead, he left a dull red stain on his fingers. "I wanted a drink."
The bartender frantically nodded, and with shaking hands poured a double shot of whiskey. Walking slowly, he kept his free hand visible as he handed David the shot. David lifted it and sniffed before he drained the glass and shook his head. "Well, that was pointless. I don't even like your whiskey." David stood and moved away, heading back towards the door as if nothing had even happened. Within thirty seconds, two men had been brutally murdered, and all that David left behind was a trail of bloody footsteps. They twisted and turned, all the way back to the abode of the blackbird. She had filled one need, the morning's drink had filled another. With both hungers pushed down, David paused and washed his hands more fully before he folded himself into the woman's bed once more, one damp hand losing itself in her hair, the other trailing the soft curves of her body. Sated, the butcher allowed his mind to drift along it's twisted paths which took him to the sanctity of his dreams.
David left the blackbird's bed early, after faking sleep. Maybe he'd come back, maybe he'd leave for good. The part of him that dominated his reality told him to get out and explore, to dominate and to ruin. As he stood, he glanced down at his armor, and slowly, his eyes devoured each and every inch of the blackbird he'd lain with. They ticked back and forth between the obvious perfection of his armor, the obvious perfection of his bed mate. With a silent shrug, David left his armor. He would come back, you see.
His feet carried him to another part of town, a seedier part. In this place, the butcher felt at home. Beggars reached, junkies lived and thugs died. Even among these strange people, David cut a path through the masses. Men who live by the gun, you see, understand others who kill by the gun. Maybe it was the way David wore the M45D Tactical Shotgun on his back, or maybe it was the easy set of the M6E Magnums he wore on each hip. Maybe it was something else, the way he stared a challenge at anyone who looked at him, the self assured way that his boots kicked up trash and dust, blood and oil. A sign caught his eye, a door made of dented metal and scarred with blaster fire and bullet impact.
"The Wilted Rose." David spoke the words under his breath, his head shaking as his lips twisted into wry amusement. "It never, ever changes." David pushed, fingers fanned on the door, and quickly stepped inside. He didn't linger in the funnel, his feet almost automatically took him to the left.
Regardless of his location, his presence filled the door. Three inches above six feet and eleven pounds over two hundred, David filled many doors, even when not in his armor. Dark blue cargo pants were tucked into boots that reached his upper calf. Of course, the material was polished to a shine. A dark blue shirt made of heat resistant polymers clung to each and every ridge of his heavily muscled chest and arms. Upon the shirt, his name was stenciled in white. Across from that, one might notice the "UNSC" crest, emblazoned above the words "Naval Special Warfare Command." As soon as David filled the door, a thin woman in hardly enough clothing to dress a baby attached herself to his arm. Without even looking, the Hell Jumper pushed her away and strode to the bar, polished boots echoing along the metallic floor. He headed for the bar, leaving the staring woman behind him, unsure of what to do. Should she follow, or should she tremble?
David sat at a stool, immediately flagging the bar tender down. However, nothing could be that easy. The place was almost empty, a few wasted and broken men watching a few equally forgettable women dance in various states of undress. Two men flanked David, having approached him from either side.
"We ain't seen you 'round here, so you got to pay the tax." The man on his left spoke, his words moving in and out of the spaces where teeth should have been.
"Yeah, the tax, asshole. We run this bar." The man on his right, clearly the underling, looked to the man on David's left, a slightly insane look in his watery eyes. David suspected drugs, an addict.
"I just want a drink." For the first time, David spoke. His rasping tones fought with his throat before bouncing off of his teeth, each word clipped, each delivery curt and short. When he spoke, it was clear the intent. David did not ask questions, he did not ask for permission. He made demands.
"You're going to have to pay the tax. Ain't we tell you that?" Both men leaned against the bar. The man on David's left reached under his faded jacket. That was enough provocation for David, the man had practically condemned himself.
Immediately, David's fingers wrapped around the man's slender wrist, dragging it back to the bar. In a burst of motion, David slammed the hand onto the bar, and his right hand reached down to a boot, drawing a ten inch blade. With a blur, the blade dug into the man's flesh, buried its tip into the bar, pinning the hand in place. The man on David's right drew his own thin blade, and before David could turn, he drew blood, a thin slash across David's cheek and jaw. He accepted the blow, hardly even noticing it.
"You stabbed Jimmy!" The man who had sliced David began slashing wildly, blows that David accepted with ease. With the knife buried in the first man's hand, David's right hand rose and his fingers tangled into Jimmy's hair. Once, twice, three times and four, David's hand slammed down, pounding the man's face into the metal. In between screams, David could hear the thick crunch and crack of bones. First his nose, then his jaw. Next came the man's orbital bones, then his nose again. Jimmy slumped over the bar, barely breathing as the blood poured from his mouth, his ears, his nose and his eyes.
David turned, rolling his shoulder to accept the growing number of stab wounds he had taken. Calmly, he brought his boot down on the other man's kneecap, digging his heel into the side of the man's leg until it gave out with a sickening wrench. Satisfied that he'd shattered the man's knee, David pulled his foot back and kicked, planting his heel into the man's knee once more. Predictably, the man fell and curled, clutching his knee and wailing in startled agony. David stood and took a second to wipe the blood from his face before he glanced down. Once more, his foot lifted, and it fell repeatedly, heavy boots slamming into the man's face again and again. He did this casually, he did this without even watching. When David did look back down, the man was dead, his face a shattered mass of bone and blood.
The bartender had been staring, halfway in between drawing his own weapon and pouring a drink. His eyes locked onto this man who had so calmly and brutally murdered at least one man before his very eyes. He had seen a lot, working in this city and this place, but nothing like this. Slowly, David found the man's eyes and stared. With deliberate motions, he withdrew the blade from Jimmy's hand and took his hair once more. David's brown eyes never left the bartender while he did this. He stepped behind the man and picked him up, holding him against his body. Jimmy began to kick and squirm, and the noises that came from his ruined mouth might have been mumbled pleas. David lifted his hand, the blade flashing as it dripped blood. Not once, not twice, but three times, the blade sunk hilt deep into the man's throat. David, still pinning the bartender with his eyes, stepped back and threw Jimmy's body across the bar, leaving a bloody trail. He reached down once more and used Jimmy's jacket to wipe his hands, but he couldn't possibly clean so much blood off of his hands with just a jacket. Instead, he left a dull red stain on his fingers. "I wanted a drink."
The bartender frantically nodded, and with shaking hands poured a double shot of whiskey. Walking slowly, he kept his free hand visible as he handed David the shot. David lifted it and sniffed before he drained the glass and shook his head. "Well, that was pointless. I don't even like your whiskey." David stood and moved away, heading back towards the door as if nothing had even happened. Within thirty seconds, two men had been brutally murdered, and all that David left behind was a trail of bloody footsteps. They twisted and turned, all the way back to the abode of the blackbird. She had filled one need, the morning's drink had filled another. With both hungers pushed down, David paused and washed his hands more fully before he folded himself into the woman's bed once more, one damp hand losing itself in her hair, the other trailing the soft curves of her body. Sated, the butcher allowed his mind to drift along it's twisted paths which took him to the sanctity of his dreams.