Ironclad
Member
[TRIGGER WARNING: Self harm, blood, anxiety attack]
Cain sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose, the whole damn place smelled like piss and gasoline. An unholy trash heap of steel and heathens, if it weren't for the promise of pay, Cain probably wouldn't have figured himself heading this far north for business nor pleasure. He stood leaned against his beige 2005 Toyota Tacoma on the outskirts of Pittsburg. He lit a cigarillo and slipped on a pair of aviators over bloody-brown eyes, he figured he might find a bit of fun in this place yet, if God favoured him. His moment of peace was interrupted by his phone buzzing.
"Cain here"
"It's Titan, the payment just got wired into our account, we're in business"
"Heard, I'll be making contact with the target then"
"Sure you wanna go in there alone, boss? I mean there's at least five of them from what the file says, plus that other asset of interest, Cryptid? Lot of risk for half a mil"
"Client requested we take this all quiet-like, and ya'll are as subtle as a bull in heat!" Cain laughed. "Besides, imma big boy, and if all goes to plan I won't be even fightin' no one, I can be very convincing when I wanna be... and hey, that's half a mil up front, another half for each head, hell, they're takin' anything I can get my hands on, whether its this Obsidian character, his little island of misfit toys, that Cryptid freak, the Phoenix babe, or even..." Cain couldn't help the wicked grin on his face, Titan groaned.
"Don't tell me you're going after the damn Wolfhound again, boss, listen, I want to use his skin as a rug as much as you do, but this is becoming an obsession of yours."
"Hey now, a little side project on my downtime ain't no one's business by my own, and besides you ain't the one in the field that's me, so you take yer damn criticism and stuff it now."
"Alright, alright, Titan out." Cain closed his phone with a snap, taking a long drag on his cigarillo before tossing it to the ground. He spat in indignation.
"Obsession his ass," he grumbled, he grabbed his brown gambler style cowboy hat and placed it on his head, he double-checked his revolver was loaded and stuffed inside his jacket. As he turned his keys and revved up his trucks' engine, he tapped a concealed button right around his collar on the skin-tight vest that bound around his entire torso. The Auto-Revival Vest began running diagnostics on itself, making soft bussing and beeping sounds as it checked every feature. Cain turned the radio up as the vest reported back fully operational.
Cain turned the music up louder as he barely watched the road and turned to the built-in computer in his truck, he tapped the keys and began navigating through several filed that he kept open in different tabs. Many of them were from Panopticon, a rather helpful vigilante watch blog that had been more than informative in the who's who of the Pittsburgh metasphere. Others were clips and tabloids, claims of a cannibal serial killer, a werewolf hunting in Pittsburgh's surrounding green area. As a mysterious gang of freaks, Slate, run by some light-in-the-pants poof Obsidian. They laid low, or tried to be, but ever since their takeover of the Jackals gang it wasn't hard to find someone who was willing to talk. And slowly Saturn Group had compiled a whole file, names, profiles, and an address, a bar called the Diamond.
That's where Cain pulled up to now, it was past happy hour, in that lull of time between lunch and dinner where the place should've been just about dead. Cain pulled in right close to the front door with his music blasting obnoxiously loud.
When the fires, when the fires have surrounded you
With the hounds of hell comin' after you
I've got blood
I've got blood on my name
Cain shut off his truck and hopped out with a series of jingles from the various clasps and fastening from his vest. He sauntered confidently through the front door of the bar, every step brought jingles and jangles as his vest shifted with his movements, Cain adjusted his waistcoat to keep the contraption hidden. His eyes scanned the room, it was a classy place, but trying to not be too classy. Low-key, but not so low-key that it seemed like they were front. Even though they very much were. He swung onto the bar stool, took off his hat and placed it on the bar. He looked over and saw the bar was staffed by a familiar black feller, Cain grinned devilishly and softly but politely rapped his knuckles on the bar the get the bartenders' attention. He slid a fold of bills onto the bar, well enough to pay for his drink with a fifty-percent tip on top of it.
"Uncle Nearest 1856 Premium if you have it, my friend, and keep that change for yerself," Cain smiled friendly, taking off his aviators to show off his oddly-coloured eyes and facial scar. He also pushed up his sleeves of his jacket, showing the tattoo on his right forearm showing the alchemical symbol for Pattern with words reading under it "Gen 4:15"
Cain sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose, the whole damn place smelled like piss and gasoline. An unholy trash heap of steel and heathens, if it weren't for the promise of pay, Cain probably wouldn't have figured himself heading this far north for business nor pleasure. He stood leaned against his beige 2005 Toyota Tacoma on the outskirts of Pittsburg. He lit a cigarillo and slipped on a pair of aviators over bloody-brown eyes, he figured he might find a bit of fun in this place yet, if God favoured him. His moment of peace was interrupted by his phone buzzing.
"Cain here"
"It's Titan, the payment just got wired into our account, we're in business"
"Heard, I'll be making contact with the target then"
"Sure you wanna go in there alone, boss? I mean there's at least five of them from what the file says, plus that other asset of interest, Cryptid? Lot of risk for half a mil"
"Client requested we take this all quiet-like, and ya'll are as subtle as a bull in heat!" Cain laughed. "Besides, imma big boy, and if all goes to plan I won't be even fightin' no one, I can be very convincing when I wanna be... and hey, that's half a mil up front, another half for each head, hell, they're takin' anything I can get my hands on, whether its this Obsidian character, his little island of misfit toys, that Cryptid freak, the Phoenix babe, or even..." Cain couldn't help the wicked grin on his face, Titan groaned.
"Don't tell me you're going after the damn Wolfhound again, boss, listen, I want to use his skin as a rug as much as you do, but this is becoming an obsession of yours."
"Hey now, a little side project on my downtime ain't no one's business by my own, and besides you ain't the one in the field that's me, so you take yer damn criticism and stuff it now."
"Alright, alright, Titan out." Cain closed his phone with a snap, taking a long drag on his cigarillo before tossing it to the ground. He spat in indignation.
"Obsession his ass," he grumbled, he grabbed his brown gambler style cowboy hat and placed it on his head, he double-checked his revolver was loaded and stuffed inside his jacket. As he turned his keys and revved up his trucks' engine, he tapped a concealed button right around his collar on the skin-tight vest that bound around his entire torso. The Auto-Revival Vest began running diagnostics on itself, making soft bussing and beeping sounds as it checked every feature. Cain turned the radio up as the vest reported back fully operational.
There's a reckoning a-coming
And it burns beyond the grave
With lead inside my belly
'Cause my soul has lost its way
Oh, Lazarus, how did your debts get paid?
Oh, Lazarus, were you so afraid?
And it burns beyond the grave
With lead inside my belly
'Cause my soul has lost its way
Oh, Lazarus, how did your debts get paid?
Oh, Lazarus, were you so afraid?
Cain turned the music up louder as he barely watched the road and turned to the built-in computer in his truck, he tapped the keys and began navigating through several filed that he kept open in different tabs. Many of them were from Panopticon, a rather helpful vigilante watch blog that had been more than informative in the who's who of the Pittsburgh metasphere. Others were clips and tabloids, claims of a cannibal serial killer, a werewolf hunting in Pittsburgh's surrounding green area. As a mysterious gang of freaks, Slate, run by some light-in-the-pants poof Obsidian. They laid low, or tried to be, but ever since their takeover of the Jackals gang it wasn't hard to find someone who was willing to talk. And slowly Saturn Group had compiled a whole file, names, profiles, and an address, a bar called the Diamond.
That's where Cain pulled up to now, it was past happy hour, in that lull of time between lunch and dinner where the place should've been just about dead. Cain pulled in right close to the front door with his music blasting obnoxiously loud.
When the fires, when the fires have surrounded you
With the hounds of hell comin' after you
I've got blood
I've got blood on my name
Cain shut off his truck and hopped out with a series of jingles from the various clasps and fastening from his vest. He sauntered confidently through the front door of the bar, every step brought jingles and jangles as his vest shifted with his movements, Cain adjusted his waistcoat to keep the contraption hidden. His eyes scanned the room, it was a classy place, but trying to not be too classy. Low-key, but not so low-key that it seemed like they were front. Even though they very much were. He swung onto the bar stool, took off his hat and placed it on the bar. He looked over and saw the bar was staffed by a familiar black feller, Cain grinned devilishly and softly but politely rapped his knuckles on the bar the get the bartenders' attention. He slid a fold of bills onto the bar, well enough to pay for his drink with a fifty-percent tip on top of it.
"Uncle Nearest 1856 Premium if you have it, my friend, and keep that change for yerself," Cain smiled friendly, taking off his aviators to show off his oddly-coloured eyes and facial scar. He also pushed up his sleeves of his jacket, showing the tattoo on his right forearm showing the alchemical symbol for Pattern with words reading under it "Gen 4:15"
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