The initial contact sent a shudder down their spine– they hadn’t been touched with affectionate intention since the Night Sentinels. Not that it stopped them from giving a raspy giggle, immediately leaning back into his touch to apologize for pulling away. Just because they hadn’t felt it in eons didn’t mean they hated it now. If anything, the contact was a relief, with how much time they spent in their armor nowadays. Better than getting decapitated every five seconds, though!
Without their helmet on, however, they couldn’t read any comms he sent. To apologize, the Slayer kept a close eye on his hands, watching his rugged sign language and doing their best to make sense of it. They frowned once they did, and leaned a little closer to him– signalling for him to keep on at it if he really wanted to.
‘ Aw, hell, that’s a shame! Someone took your hair? Well, probably not that, but… ’ 93 stilled for a moment, glancing over his armor several times. At least, until this moment, they’d assumed it was armor. The Doom Slayer went completely still for a moment, anger flashing in their eyes like lightning. It was gone as soon as it had come, however, and they went on as if they’d never been disturbed. Not that they thought his situation, whatever it may have been, was any less wrong.
‘ Once got all my hair shaved off against my will. Fuckin’ AWFUL! It don’t grow back very fast, either, so took forever for it t’ come back t’ this. Then I died, meanin’ it didn’t grow at all. No long hair for me. Anyway, feel free t’ mess with mine as much as ya’ like, if it makes ya’ feel better! I don’t do nothin’ with it, hehe. ‘
(good heavens i love this response @.@)
Alcatraz is half-zoned out just running his palm feather-light along 93′s hair, suit rolling a blizzard of feedback up his vision with every touch. Even then, half-zoned out for him meant there was still some serious computing power sitting around.
He almost pulls back at the shiver, feeling a little guilty, but resumes hesitantly, utterly captivated by the way a curly strand looped round one of his fingers. He does better with the signs, now; observation was a hell of a way to brush up, it seemed.
The suit, of course, isn’t blind, or dumb. It catches that snatch of rage, and his hand is gone so fast you’d have thought 93 was on fire. Even when it’s outwardly passed, SECOND oh-so-helpfully points out that there’s still cortisol present in target, that their blood pressure is high, that they’re sitting on the aftereffects of the spike. Alcatraz smothers the small part of him that wants to continue–the majority votes that they keep all their limbs. Intact.
With his removed hand, he decides to try and properly sign to them.
‘Sounds nasty. I didn’t have it shaved–against my will, anyway. Military basics, and all that. But the suit always could use a little extra keratin, right? Considering I’m missing a lot of me, hair is the least of my worries.’
The motion becomes more solid, and it’s definitely not human, whatever it is. It drops headfirst from a third-story window, a big bite taken out just adjacent; bricks thrown out from whatever blew the hole out.
The thing stops, turns to him with a funny mechanical noise, and swaps from that catlike stance to this funny little hunch, clusters of bloody-red eyelights fixing on him. It makes this noise, a kind of monotone, hollow croak. It raises one curved arm; it doesn’t so much have an elbow as it does a chain of them, some kind of knives mounted astride the forearm. It looks to be readying to shoot, but that endeavor is cut off with a thunderclap.
Or, more accurately, a high caliber round going off about two meters from him.
The thing croaks again, staggering on its double-kneed legs, and collapses in a heap.
The assailant rolls into existence, sort of; he appears in a blue ripple, and gestures for him to keep that big shotgun pointed elsewhere.
Friendly and squid are two signs that come up. The rest are jumbled, out-of-practice. Eventually the slate-clad soldier gets annoyed–at his own lack of skill, it seemed–and points to the dead scrapheap, signing squid again. Not-friendly, there, and then he points to himself. Man. Friendly. You?
Well, if that wasn’t one ugly motherfucker! Rather than shoot the mechanical-organic creature on sight ( as they probably should have ), they merely cocked their head at it, following its movements even as it readied an attack. Not a demon– they’d seen everything Hell had to throw at them, and this guy most definitely wasn’t one of them. A UAC experiment, maybe? The Revenants weren’t exactly normal residents of hell themselves, and who was to say this fleshy thing was any different? Their shotgun made a small click as they pumped it, pointing the barrel toward the not-demon–
Only for it to collapse before they could pull the trigger. The Doom Slayer didn’t get the chance to complain, as their attention was quickly snatched by the sudden ( very sudden! How had they missed him? Unless that was good old teleportation at work ) appearance of the attacker. His stone gray armor and red visor reminded them a bit of a fusion between the Night Sentinels and Samuel Hayden– although, more alive than the former and less of an asshole than the latter. Hopefully. They tossed the shotgun back over their shoulders as requested, followed by a slightly worried furrow of their brow as he struggled to sign. They grasped what he said with ease, sure, but he seemed to be having one god-awful time there!
To cut him some slack ( he was clearly a little rusty ), they kept their own signs simplistic and slowed as they responded.
‘ Squid, bad. Man, you, good! Gotcha. ‘ They pressed a finger against their chest plate, then gave him a good ol’ thumbs up. ‘ Not man. Not squid. D-O-O-M-G-U-Y. Also friendly! Won’t shoot ya’. ‘ A small gesture was made to the ruined city around them, and their expression lost some of its optimistic spark.
‘ What happened? It ain’t lookin’ pretty ‘round here. Wait. Backtrack. Where are we? ‘
Frankly, he’s already tired of garbling his signs. (Seems someone didn’t like being shown up by the new guy.)
That’s when, rather suddenly, this funky, hexagonal logo blazes itself all over 93′s HUD: CryNet Combat Solutions, Nanosuit 2.0. Patents from 2023 dart by, but a few seconds later and it’s all gone without so much as a trace.
And then textcomm rolls up the left; [New York. Lower Manhattan. As for what happened? Not sure myself. I just know there’s squiddie in everyone’s business, and I’m looking for one Nathan Gould. You wouldn’t happen to know the guy, would you?]
The visor turns away, intent red glow dimming, focused elsewhere. One shoulder pinches up in a half-assed shrug, not entirely directed at them.
[Alcatraz, by the way. You and that big gun are going to give these aliens a run for their money.] He kind of, squeezes the grip on his boring, utilitarian dark grey rifle, the alloy or plastic or whatever-it-is creaking a little. Again, he seems a little envious.
More croaking from the blown-out building, and Alcatraz looks up, reflexes almost catlike in gesture.
[Moving might be a good idea, bigass shotguns or otherwise.]
Alcatraz considers this, deliberates in the span of several heartbeats, stares at 93 with that terrible, unfeeling red visor.
[I remember what that was like, I think,] he grumbles, voice tinny and just a shade on the side of inhuman. [I can’t really out-think all the processing power the suit has, though. It outsources a lot.] He looks away, seeming thoughtful again, and rubs one hand at his other forearm absently, as if trying to jog some distant memory.
After precious seconds, he gives up, and shrugs blankly.
[If you need my brains, you can always ask.] He doesn’t comment on how endearing it is to see the mighty Hellwalker look so… bemused.
It’d been a long, long while since they’d been in a city. Not even Argent D’Nur had anything they could compare to human infrastructure– no, only humanity could make something so lively out of something as dead as concrete. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? For somewhere supposed to be packed full of busy people, there was a serious lack of people here. Either their memory was awful and they couldn’t remember what cities were like, or something was wrong. Their bets were on the latter. Things really liked to go wrong.
The Slayer dropped from the ruined building they’d been portaled into, sending cracks across the concrete surface from the impact alone. Not wasting a second, they dusted off their Praetor, hoisted their shotgun, and marched on forward. If one listened closely enough, they could hear the vaguest traces of humming coming from the towering figure. It felt like they’d go stir crazy without it. Way too still ‘round here. Needs some jazzin’ up! I mean, demon roars ain’t preferable, but somethn’! Ba-dum dum dum dum dudum, badum dum dum duuum…
The barest of movements catches their attention; even just in the corner of their eye, the prospect of something around brings a grin to their face. They spun on their heel, tossing the gun over their shoulders– might as well give the fella a head start if they had bad intentions.
‘ Ooh, finally! Somethin’ happenin’, been too long! Only got so many songs I can be hummin’ here! C’mon out! I don’t bite– well, migh’ bite, but prefer not to! Ehehe. ‘
The motion becomes more solid, and it’s definitely not human, whatever it is. It drops headfirst from a third-story window, a big bite taken out just adjacent; bricks thrown out from whatever blew the hole out.
The thing stops, turns to him with a funny mechanical noise, and swaps from that catlike stance to this funny little hunch, clusters of bloody-red eyelights fixing on him. It makes this noise, a kind of monotone, hollow croak. It raises one curved arm; it doesn’t so much have an elbow as it does a chain of them, some kind of knives mounted astride the forearm. It looks to be readying to shoot, but that endeavor is cut off with a thunderclap.
Or, more accurately, a high caliber round going off about two meters from them.
The thing croaks again, staggering on its double-kneed legs, and collapses in a heap.
The assailant rolls into existence, sort of; he appears in a blue ripple, and gestures for them to keep that big shotgun pointed elsewhere.
Friendly and squid are two signs that come up. The rest are jumbled, out-of-practice. Eventually the slate-clad soldier gets annoyed–at his own lack of skill, it seemed–and points to the dead scrapheap, signing squid again. Not-friendly, there, and then he points to himself. Man. Friendly. You?
That made the soldier stop, looking like if he had a drink, he’d have done a spit-take. He turns, looking a bit insulted–it’s almost funny with that emotionless face tilted up in offense.
Then the synthesizer kicks on, staticky and mechanical– [Cosplay?!]
“Yes, cosplay.” She was a bit surprised, deciding to compliment him more. “You even got the synthesizer to work exactly the way it did in the game. I must say, you definitely deserve the price of best cosplay there is.”
[Cosplay,] he repeats, as if he can’t believe his ears. [This isn’t cosplay. At least, wasn’t last I checked–otherwise I’ve been lied to by at least four people. At least.]
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cosplayer so dedicated to their craft yet.” The Rose spoke, inspecting the other’s nano-suit a bit. “You even got the carbon plates down to pat, respect.”
That made the soldier stop, looking like if he had a drink, he’d have done a spit-take. He turns, looking a bit insulted–it’s almost funny with that emotionless face tilted up in offense.
Then the synthesizer kicks on, staticky and mechanical– [Cosplay?!]
[That’s the one,] he says dryly, as if he’d heard it a million times before. [At least I’m not fuckin’ Leavenworth. As for how fitting it is-] He shrugs lazily, not really seeming to care. He seems like the kind of person that’s really seen everything, but how much ”everything” is for him is still up for debate.
At least he’s answering questions and keeping things blunt.
She couldn’t show it, neither portray it in a tone in her voice, as it sounded the same mechanical voice it had been for the last few decades, but she was very grateful to have someone be so blunt and ‘friendly’ with her.
“Ah, seems like you haeard that a lot of time. Wish I had a namesake like that, but I do like hanging onto the name of Rubelia. It reminds me of my origin name, but shows that I changed….May I ask what your real name is?”
[I go by Alcatraz in all the official records anymore, but on… my birth certificate, it says James Rodriguez.] He sounded conflicted–at least, as much as that harsh synthesized voice could sound. Seemed like he wanted to draw a line between the past and present, as well.
[If you ask others, though, I’ll answer to ‘dead guy’, ‘suit thing’, and ‘bastard hybrid’, among others.] That hits a nerve; he looks away from her, staring firmly at a pebble on a nearby waist-height wall.
He returns it casually, surprisingly gentle for all his bulk. That seemed a rather weak understatement–bulk didn’t really cover how he looked.
[Humor’s rare anyway; it’s good to hear it, drier than a desert or otherwise. Used to be James, but seeing my current state, callsigns seem a bit more accurate. Call me Alcatraz.]
“Alcatraz.” And Ruby wrecked her mind for where she had heard that name once. “Isn’t that the one abandoned prison on a island?” Then she chuckled, before shaking her head.
“A rather fitting name for you, no? You’re a cage with the remains of humanity inside of you.”
[That’s the one,] he says dryly, as if he’d heard it a million times before. [At least I’m not fuckin’ Leavenworth. As for how fitting it is-] He shrugs lazily, not really seeming to care. He seems like the kind of person that’s really seen everything, but how much ”everything” is for him is still up for debate.
At least he’s answering questions and keeping things blunt.
Time's Vengeance 