Magister

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Johnny watched his coat leave Hel, and fall to the earth in an ungainly heap, resting in the dead grass beneath them. Johnny was a business man man first and foremost, one who preferred the free market of the Ashland because that's where he thrived. Beneath this was a psychopath who truly found no place to exercise his penchant for domination and cruelty within Erubesco's walls. He fixed his gaze on little Hel first, his voice was low, a threat carried in its tone. "I left you in charge of my coat little girl. Now, you better go get Uncle Johnny's coat or he's going to be very, very pissed off."

John's eyes moved back up toward Toby, and some newcomer who wasn't on his list of VIP's he absolutely needed to have in his employ/enslavement. With their guns. Pistols no less. Little men and their little guns, aimed at a giant. No, their world. That's what Johnny believed he'd become to them. Consuming everything in their lives until he was all that was left.

Maybe he'd make an example of that mercenary in the front. John knew who he was. He had been handed a dossier of mercs in the area before he arrived. He'd strike him off of the possible employment list. Actually, John might strike him off the life list. He had no use for a merc, and those sluts were a dime a dozen out here.

"Miss Dawn" The crown jewel of the Wanderers. Her cooperation was paramount. "Come, both of you. You guys just have to hear this fucking pitch."


Eld's scream ripped his attention away, and the sublime sound of torment pushed his eyes open wide, and forced a rather maniacal, growing open mouthed grin on Johnny's face. Eld was fucking powerful, he was the outlier in all of this, with no cost efficient ways of controlling him outside the space other than killing him.

Suffice to say, this man left behind once Eld's power had been dispersed was much different. Quite familiar. John had enjoyed a classical educated of course, like anyone who hailed from a Lord family, perhaps if he hadn't been so preoccupied with his own vices, he'd have immediately recognized who the man in front of him was.

He spoke. Mr Hathaway.

No fucking way.

Talk about an unexpected bonus.

Eld's worth had just been bumped up several rungs on the ladder. Maybe well worth the overhead costs.

"Yes, come here. You know a good deal when you see one. You know what Johnny can do for you." The respect and subservience really did it for him. Nicodemus was reward by Johnny helping him up from the ground. "Come stand at my right side."

Percival had joined them, face smeared with paint as he expected. He'd make a good Jester for his would be court. This was good, this was enough representation.

[color=yellow]"First item on the list, and I hate repeating myself, my words are precious, shape lives and are wasted saying the same thing twice. when I first came here I said I always negotiated from a position of power key word here.[/yellow]

John threw his hand into the air, and snapped his fingers. Metal slots slid open on the trucks sides, and gun barrels poked out like spines on a bristling hedgehog.

"Still on item one, 1QFJ 123-678" John called out the coordinates, which the operator in the truck relayed to a shelling team quite some ways away.

A faint whistle could be heard in the air, then nothing. About a quarter mile out, a shell appeared less than a meter from the ground, and upon impact, ripped the earth beneath it with a mighty roar, obliterating the the surrounding area in a flash of light.

"Tactical Nuke. Anything happens to me, and you all become shadows on the wall while I speed away in my little beauty here. So how's about we put the p-shooters down and talk like adults.

"Now, item two, the pitch."

"I come here with a generous offer, thee best offer this motley crew has ever gotten. An offer for and of gainful employment. Nicodemus here is employee one, and looking like employee of the month."

"You'll receive salary, a fixed and rather generous amount in the currency of your choosing, housing in well, it's cute what you've rigged here but under my employ you'll be staying in premier housing. Hot water, electricity, entertainment, virtual reality, you name it, we got it. Vacation time, and always the opportunity to go up, up up!"

"I can swing amnesty with a Lords pardon here and there, and you'll have the privilege of answering directly to me, and my lovely assistant Mags, with all the unspoken perks from being a few steps away from my inner circle. You're all on the wrong end rn, imagine being on the right end. My end."

"Imagine for a moment, close your eyes if you lack imagination, that after years, and years of getting fucked by everyone from the Wasters, to the Knights and the Agents, think of everyone who's ever fucked you, imagine doing the fucking for once. Can't get fucked if you're busy fucking everyone else Wanderers." He tapped his temple.

"I ain't a bad boss. Firm, but fucking fair. I'm not giving you a way out in some bullshit military program, but I am coercing the fuck out of you with riches, power and influence."

"Don't answer all at once, think about this, because this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I can make you lot Queens and Kings, who answer only to me. Now. If you turn down my generosity, cast my good will aside like a jacket made from the finest shifter fur.

"Well, then you'll wind up at the bottom of the totem pole. Slaves with collars around your neck and nothing but pride in your stomach, and let me tell you. Pride don't last forever. Once your pride poof, floats away? Once thirst and starvation sets in, you'll find yourself giving whatever shreds of decency you have left for scraps off of my plate. I'll chase you, hound you and break your spirits and sell you to the highest bidder from Capital City, to Capital City.

"So. Do you wish to be at my right side? Like Nicodemus here? Or my wrong side. I mean, to me the choice is pretty fucking clear.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

After Sweet Johnny finished talking, he just stood there for at least five minutes, arms open, head thrown back and sunglasses skyward. Letting the ashlanders bask in the godliness that was above them, take in each and every inch of his glistening majesty. He gave a deep, contented sigh, and rested the loudspeaker over his shoulder like one would a rifle. Word were his weapon today. Well, words and a team of his special forces hiding right at the edge inside Johnny space, but words first. He'd hit them with the art of the pitch first. Lord Of the Deal was John Bellataire.

His head lolled to his immediate left, just in time to watch Rei plummet to the earth, and land like a bag of lead. This proved too much for John, who slapped his hands on his legs, jutted his head forward, and began to laugh.

"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA" His eyebrows danced with each breath expelled at Rei's expense. "King in a noose, that was golden. Why did the Rei fall off of the roof? Because she DIED." He laughed harder, now noticing Drake struggling out of the door.

"This? This is now all mine, encompassed by the Johnny Space™. Always have to negotiate from a position of power Drake, that's how the best deals are cut. Now shoosh, take a seat and listen."

His smile turned to the little girl beneath his feet, the one who demanded that he 'stop it.'

Or something, he wasn't paying attention to what Hel had said. He did register that she was there though, somewhat. Like he knew she was important to someone in Erubseco research, but she was also under four feet and that made it hard for him to really invest himself in what she had said.

Johnny jumped down from his armoured truck, and unceremoniously dumped his jacket on-top of Hel. Beneath as it turned out, was an unbuttoned waistcoat, which he pulled close and buttoned. From inside of his coat, still on Hel, he pulled out a pair of gold hued gloves.

"Now find somewhere safe for my coat before I cart you back to Erubesco little stain. Maybe you'll get some candy or something."

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Sweet, acidic, with a strength that scrubbed the Ashland aroma out of ones lungs, the smell of citrus came first. For some, the smell of citrus increased levels of the chemical serotonin in the brain, artificially improving ones mood. These initial feelings would soon be replaced with the reality of who emanated this smell. Following the citrus was a wave of sickly energy that resonated at a very unpleasant frequency, humming with an initial power that caused vibrations to erupt across the surface of ones skin, not unlike being forced to hold a jackhammer without proper safety equipment. Those who's life depended on their power would feel the threat of destruction tear at their atoms, their waning vitality screaming retreat to their survival instincts, insisting that they had to outrun this abhorrent energy.

Perhaps if they were close to the perimeter, or on a high enough vantage point said gifted would be able to make a dash for their life, but the window of opportunity was closing fast. Nothing short of immediate action would save their lives.

A moment later, the power blossomed, crashing over the Wanderers, their temporary home, the sky above and the ground beneath a half mile in each direction. They would feel their powers come to a sudden halt, like the man had reached into theirs souls and flicked whatever light that differentiated them off. Human in face, they'd also become human in body.

A few moments later, the rumble of nearby machinery became unmistakable. Powerful wheels, large and ribbed, suited for off-road travel collided with old trees at their perimeter. The wood cracked and the sound of it being crushed beneath the vehicle like matchsticks was the perfect metaphor for the man standing stop it, golden rim shades reflecting the sun that shone upon him. Trees continued to be felled under the armoured truck, until he broke into the clearing. A nearby bench was the trucks final victim, ending it's ninety year vigil with an unceremonious crunch.

The figure spread his arms wide and took a deep breath. His chest was visible, as was the diamond encrusted pendant that hung between his pectoral muscles. He wore a fur coat, left open with no undershirt beneath, his pants were tailored to perfection, of the same print as his fur coat. He was barefoot, with heavy bracelets hanging low on his ankles.

He brought his left hand to his mouth, in it, was a loud speaker.

"HELLO WANDERERS, AND ASSORTED ASH-FILTH." He paused to run a hand through his hair, it was light brown, with a slight widows peak. He had forced every syllable out of filth, just so they knew how far beneath him they were.

"WELCOME, TO MY FARM."

He clicked his teeth together, and smacked his lips.

"IT WAS AN IMPULSE BUY, AS IN I HAD THE IMPULSE, AND IT'S NOW MINE." He laughed, a mirthless, hollow laugh.

"Let me introduce myself. I'm John Bellataire, creator, owner, and full stakeholder of Bellataire Enterprises, a subsidiary of Bellataire INC, of which I am also, full stakeholder, sole owner and creator."

"To the public, I'm Sweet Johnny. To whoever I'm fucking, Master, and let me tell you Wanderers."

John grinned a shit eating grin.

"I've come here with an offer so good, so absolute and so generous, that if any of you say refuse, well. You'd be fucking yourselves right before I got to fucking each and everyone one of you."

"Metaphorically of course, and you lot look like a group that appreciates a good metaphor."

"So now that we've gotten who's gonna be fucking who in this situation out of the way, let me start again. I'm Sweet Johnny and I have one hell of an offer for each and every one of you.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Liberty

When Heather stood and strode toward him, he felt his breath solidify in his throat, he nearly forgot what he was meant to portray and almost tightened his stance, the opposite of what she wanted. Instead, he allowed his body to relax, his hip stuck out at a jaunty angle, and his hand rested on the curve between his ribs and his hips.

She said he had done a good job.

It took every ounce of Liberty honed self control in his body to fight down the swelling of pride he felt to have a councilors approval.

Mayday turned from Heather, who's languid body was, in his opinion, a perfect cover for the ultra observant, to Canvas. He wasn't fond of Canvas, if anything, it was only a respect for Canvas's ability to emulate Erubesco with such finesse that staved off the contempt Mayday felt for the man's whimsical behaviour. Not that this was Canvas's fault, he was obviously a method agent of talent. Mayday just simply despised everything the rival faction stood for. So the hatred was instinctual for him, like breathing or sleeping.

"I'm glad you find it adequate Councilor." Canvas was treated to a stiff nod of response. Heather approving of his disguise was all the acknowledgment he needed.

Alcohol training. Mayday fixed his gaze on the liquor in front of him. "Disgusting. These people are emotional enough and they want even more."

Truthfully, the thought of emotion being mixed with an intoxicant was terrifying to Mayday. Minor emotions were an irritation. Major ones effected his performance.

He sat beside Beretta, positioning his body toward her as 'couples did'.

He poured himself a glass, unimpressed by the swirling colours in his glass.

He poured Beretta's too. As a date should. Not like a butler though, not so stiff. That's what Canvas has said.

Mayday lifted the glass to his lips, eyeing it with more trepidation than he had in a poison tolerance course he'd taken as a junior agent.

He brought the glass to his lips and swallowed the contents, draining the glass to the base.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Montana said, and said nothing for a short while, opting to study the man in front of him instead. Observations often lead context to a situation, from the weathered look around the eyes of his opposite, he could tell that experience had not missed him during his time in the ash. There was reason to be dubious, but unless he had altered his memories, Dawn would have no trouble picking the dishonesty out of his brain. If his memories had indeed be altered, he could still, theoretically be turned against his handlers if coerced properly.

All was considered, but musings were only the context to the facts at hand. It was no secret that a powerful mentalist lead their ranks, and if this mercenary had information on slavers, he had certainly done his homework before approaching them.

There was also the fact that Toby, one who understood the power and structure of lies more than some of his fellows, had just vouched for Specter. Montana turned his head to the side slightly, and nodded his thanks in Toby's direction.

"The obvious is often the most important, as the nuance is often subject to change."

"The identity of this slaver, what ties to they hold, what are their contacts, manpower, and skilled forward operatives. I am also keen on understanding their armaments, tenacity, how quickly they are able to mobilize, their distance from our position, and, what gifts they have at their disposal. Our most recent encounter ended in an elite Erubesco field team being routed, prior to this was a successful retrieval op at a main Erubesco base. I will reject the notion that they are misguided and assume they have planned a decisive victory, as our potential collateral damage would outweigh profit."

Each word had been measured and enunciated.

"Temperament. For that dictates much about how one uses and plays their hand."

An altruistic mercenary was a rarity, but one who'd rather receive payment from a group who's beliefs aligned with their own was a mercenary who hadn't lost their humanity.

They were a small group. Balancing brutality and morality.

He'd be watching Specter very closely, to see where he fell on the spectrum.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

@hagroden I'm surprised that didn't come up in the year they've known him for. I'll change it.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Ranch House
Montana lacked perhaps, the inherent rage for this unknown figure that his fellow held, rather, he could comfortably say that his interest had been piqued. The older male knelt, and collected the posters from the ground which they were cast upon. His fingers ran over the paper. New, it lacked the frayed quality of pre war paper, and the ink had yet to be bleached by the ashland sun, or shredded by the biting winds. Ink being the biggest indicator it was new, along with images generated by technology, rather than the skilled hand of an artists rendition.

Simply put, if they had been faked by this merc, it would require access to tech that was hard to come across in this region of the ash.

He drew one of his smaller blades from his shoulder holster, and used it to pin the documents to a nearby tree, so the Wanderers to inspect them at their leisure.

"I will hear him, Eld Fen." Montana strode over to Specter, hands folded behind his back, mirroring the peaceful stance the opposite merc had taken before relaying his warning. "Intelligence is often a commodity to be sold in our line of work. It is given for free with great care, and rarely without intent."

Even given the possibility that this mercenary was simply the softer hand of the slavery group sent to size them up, much could be learned from a conversation.

"We three will hold council here. I will sit with my back to our number, our guest will face them, with his back to the ash."

He motioned to the ground beneath them, and took a seat, his legs folded in front of him. He motioned for Specter to take his place in front of him.

"Nicodemus, if you could alert those available that we have a guest, one who brings information.

-------------

Makorai was not impressed by what he heard come from the Alchemists mouth. Truthfully, POW's being zapped in the head was an uncomfortable back thought that he'd likely try and drown with a nip of liquor, but it wasn't just the POW's, it was people like Caddie who ended up being covered in bandages because an experiment 'went wrong'. That was the kind of thing that sometimes kept him awake at night, trying to reconcile his beliefs with what he was defending. He told himself it was just a paycheck. That was mostly true.

'This took a sobering turn.' he thought, producing a clear plastic bottle, and taking a sizeable gulp. The burn brought with it the first bit of input from Makorai, in the form of a warning in a hushed tone.

"And how about we keep our hands off my favourite serf yeah?" His eyes didn't move from Aran's but he indicated over to Caddie with a brief nod.

He leaned away from the man, and turned himself back to the room. Bless Kora and her mouth.

"Well, the field team welcomes you Maddie, look forward to working with you and all that. Fun times, maybe the field team will go out and burn a village or two hm."

Probably not the most tactful joke to make.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Montana's ascension of the stairs was not weighted down by what he left behind. Nor did he feel vindicated by Oren ultimately being spared by Dawn. Rather, he had reached a point of understanding questioning her further was useless. In reality, he cared not if she lived or died in that basement, and the burden he felt in regard to her well being was non existent, as was any anger that their position would be relayed back to Erubesco upon the prisoners likely release. Tactical did not always intersect with ethical, and the Wanderers would always relent to a more ethical approach when they could.

Without that small bit of compassion, they wouldn't be who they were, and Montana knew he'd likely have no desire to follow them.

Stepping out into the air, crisp against his ageless skin, he heard the voice of Eld question an arrival. Headhunter, a mercenary. Much like prostitutes, mercenaries maintained a certain neutrality that allowed them to walk in certain circles with he foreknowledge that if resource wasn't involved, there would be no action. The understanding that they could be bought created an air of safety among those who could afford.

However, the Wanderers were a strictly voluntary group. Which left an air of ambiguity to this far from chance meeting.

Montana was interested in his angle, and there was simply no better way to gauge that than letting him talk.

Like the mercs namesake, he appeared beside Eld.

Unlike Eld, he chose to stay silent, offering Specter little more than a nod that said, continue, by all means.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Just a reminded, no one get put out due to the lack of interaction for characters in the ash, who aren't a part of the Wanderers. I often have Montana wander off and am more than happy to facilitate something.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Ranch, Basement

A few droplets of water had landed on Montana's shoes, dousing their polished sheen with a mixture of water, and spittle. It was all liquid, and the distinction made no difference as he knelt to wipe his shoes. "The water and food will remain with you, should you muster the strength." He bound her hands in front of her, and left the plate, now flanked by the flask, within her reach.

He turned away from Oren, fixing his voids on Dawn. "In a time long passed, I'd have considered a variable like this unacceptable." He walked toward the door, and the stairway above. He paused when he was beside her. "One could suppose that altruism is still alive in the ash." He patted Dawn's shoulder, allowing his murderous intent to dissipate into the deep pool of his conscious mind.

Dawn's interference marked an end to Montana's torture regimen, because she had ascribed Oren importance beyond her usefulness for intelligence, and beyond her life being ended to avoid their location being returned to the Erubescian military. Thus, in Montana's mind, further torture would be fruitless.