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| Paradise Found; Tags: Max, Rawson (if he wishes) | |
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| Topic Started: Mar 24 2008, 11:15 AM (246 Views) | |
| Longshot | Mar 24 2008, 11:15 AM Post #1 |
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Probability, Psychometry, Cloned Origin, Empathic Charisma
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Time of day: Morning Place in the time-line Two Days After Murder in the Mojoverse He had slept, really slept, not that he needed it... no, wait... perhaps that was why he had slept, because he did need it. He had been unreal for so very long, his cloned body and mind reacting like the created construct it was. But he was real now, his new (masters? employers? companions?) had told him so. It had almost seemed like a dream, and in the semi-state of wakening his mind tried to separate what was real and what had been delirium. They had brought him here, filthy and half catatonic, confused. He remembered soft hands removing his filthy clothes, the decay and blood caked sweat suit he had been given at the Xavier school. Someone had helped him into a tub filled with soft foam and sweetly scented bubbles, had bathed him like he was a child or an invalid, scrubbing bits of flesh and smut from his long blond hair. He remembered pale white hands stroking his face and chest with a cloth, but when he looked to see who was ministering to him he saw merely a black featureless mask, green eyes peering from behind it. Overwhelmed by misery, confusion, exhaustion and relief, he had fainted, sank into unconsciousness as the black masked creature cleansed his body and renewed his soul. Longshot opened his eyes, and found himself in a bed, four postered, canopied, sheets and draperies black and rich. He was undressed, his hair spread about his head like a halo, an appealing, angelic appearance reflected in a mirror mounted into the canopy roof above him, a strange and jarring bit of decadence that did not keep in tone with the opulence of this bed with it's many down pillows and cloud like mattress. He sat up, and slipped out of the bed. A woman in black lingerie, and a matching mask, handed him a satin robe with an ebony chess piece embroidered on the breast... a knight. He looked and saw that her corset was similarly marked, but her piece was a pawn. He didn't know how to play chess, the game being far too slow for his tastes, but he knew of it. He held the robe, but made no attempt to put it on, still to astonished by what was going on. "Who... who are you? Where am I?" "I'm your pawn, for the morning, My Lord Knight," said the girl in a surprisingly young voice. "If I may be so bold, we're pleased you've come. We were told that you have certain... needs, and so many of the pawns are eager to serve those needs." "What?" Longshot asked, lamely. He couldn't see her smile, but it was in her voice as she said, "A certain amount of submissiveness is required for one to be accepted as a Pawn of the Hellfire Club. It has been far too long since we have had a member of the court who has been able to utilize us to our greatest potential. We've been... waiting for you, Master." Longshot's mouth fell open and he whispered, "I know now that I am real, because I have died and gone to Heaven. A clone has no soul to find paradise." The Pawn bowed her head, "You are very much alive, Master. Welcome, Black Knight, to the Hellfire Club." |
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| Longshot | Mar 30 2008, 08:27 AM Post #2 |
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Probability, Psychometry, Cloned Origin, Empathic Charisma
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He'd been fed, a breakfast of freshly smoked salmon, black caviar, champagne and a cracked pepper corn and truffle omelet, despite his protestations that he hardly ate. His black masked pawn refused to hear of it, and said that it had been ordered that he be treated as a dignitary, as the new Black Knight of the Hellfire Club. Dressed now in black satin pajamas with the ever present chest piece, an even darker shade of black, Longshot reclined in the bed he had been given, and smiled to himself, reminded more and more of his first escape from Mojo, living under the benefit of a series of lonely and neglected rich men's wives. He used them until he got bored, and then killed them, thinking nothing of it. He needed money, a place to live, nice things, and he had no identity other than the one Mojo had given him. Arthur Centino, after all, even if he wasn't dead, was a poor college art student from another country. Longshot had grown to like the wealth and decadence of America in his time as a man outside Mojo's influence, and this place had it in spades. He learned quickly that treating the Pawn too politely earned him pouts and that by snapping at her and giving her none too gentle slaps on her fleshy bottom and thighs got him hand fed and doted upon. He still couldn't believe this. He had, of course, known masochistic people before, had even been a submissive if that was what was needed to finish the mission he had been assigned. But the Pawn was unlike anything he was accustomed too. God, what he could do here. But the old urges had been replaced by something more. He had killed before because it was what he was supposed to do, and if he faltered, he would cut himself and his programming would kick in, guide his knife. For the first time in his short life, he no longer had forced guidance, but instead had freedom. All that he thought he was was gone, and here in this place for the first time, he could decide who he was. His Pawn soon helped him to dress, again in black, which he didn't mind. Black Jeans, tucked into knee high boots, a black poet's shirt (complete with chess piece emblem) hair left lose, pretty face free of the misery and hopelessness of the past few months. Longshot was back to his old self... ... no, not to his old self. He was something entirely new. He smiled at his reflection in the full length mirror, and said, "Damn, but I am pretty." Turning to his Pawn, he said, "Take me to my host. I want to thank him for his hospitality." "Right this way, My Lord Knight," the Pawn said, bowing, and she lead him into his new home. |
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| Max_Coleridge | Apr 2 2008, 02:18 AM Post #3 |
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
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The king in his tower. Maximilian Coleridge had once been the spoiled only child of wealthy parents. The decadent, drone-like existence he might have lead died along with his parents when Max saw them gunned down when he was ten years old. That night, Max put himself emotionally in that tower and at twenty-nine years old, he’d physically lived in another tower for the past four years. Wherever you have people, you have vice, and wherever you have vice, the Hellfire Club will be waiting with an open hand. The Pleasure Palace of the New York branch was a lavish tower that exuded old-world opulence. The building looked like many others in that area of the city, it could’ve been an elegant hotel or a luxurious apartment building for the wealthy and powerful, except for the absence of a sign on the façade; those who deserve to enter don’t need a sign. At the top of the tower in a dimly lit room, Max watched the wonder that was his city live. If Max had a fault, it was his inordinate fondness for the color black; his elegant office, antique desk, his chairs and other furnishings, all were black or at least a dark burgundy or blue or purple that were a hair’s breath away from being black. The few accents, such as the vase with fresh white orchids and a few red throw pillows, were like stars in a night sky. A sophisticated table the size of two pool tables pushed together dominated the room; it was a special creation of Forge that took the images from cameras place all around the city and created a real-time hologram of the city… his city. “Show me Park avenue and 57th,” Max said as he stood at the edge table. The perpetual hologram of the New York City skyline that Max usually kept the table showing rapidly changed perspective from above the city down to street level. The table’s hologram showed the intersection of those two streets while cars passed and pedestrians strolled in and out of the scene. Max gave a small satisfied grin as something he’d been waiting for came into view. “Follow the car with license plate BIGMAN.” Seamlessly, the hologram altered, keeping that car at the center of the table and shifting the scenery around it. Nearly soundlessly, the door of his office opened, followed by the sound of a man walking two steps just inside. “Sir,” said a not-quite middle aged man, his dark hair showing a few silver strands, “the Black Knight has arrived.” Max frowned slightly, Longshot wouldn’t be his Knight until he approved. “Send him in,” he said curtly. In the few moments before he heard Longshot's arrival, Max considered the young clone’s long and bloody history. Mojo had been a wretched monster and the world was certainly better with him out of it but perhaps something amazing could be salvaged from the huge pile of manure that was his existence. Max gave Longshot the courtesy of turning his head to watch him enter; the surveillance pictures didn’t do him justice, he was beautiful and his gracefully movements only emphasized that impression. However, in its own way, a raging fire was also beautiful and quite deadly if not handled carefully. “Longshot, I’m glad you came. Do you know why you’re here?” |
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| Longshot | Apr 2 2008, 03:37 AM Post #4 |
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Probability, Psychometry, Cloned Origin, Empathic Charisma
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Longshot's Pawn escorted him up to the Office of the King, where he was handed off to a man who told him to wait. This was not a situation unfamiliar to him, being shown to someone powerful, and pretentious. He admired it, really, every time. The difference was, this time he was not going to slit the throat of the man who waited behind that door. He felt... ... like a child going to see Santa Claus for the first time. Unsure what to expect, but hoping he'd been a good enough boy to get lots of presents. Longshot was not a child, really, and his presents consisted of pain and pleasure rolled into bloody packages, but you get the general idea. The King's room was not lit well, and the blackness might be unnerving to some, but after the brightness of the banks of white screens that had been his home beside the rotting body of Mojo, Longshot found the darkness soothing. He always had liked the shadows. Made his entrances all the more dramatic. He had been created for Mojo's amusement, after all, he had been bred to be entertaining. It was the hologram that drew his attention though. His eyes locked on it like it was Christmas day. "How does it work?" he whispered, and his hand went out to touch it, but his fingers stopped just above the image. He wondered if his psychometry would be able to tell what the city was thinking if he touched these pretty pictures. To have so many stories at his finger tips, so many memories to make his own... endless new experiences to learn from... “Longshot, I’m glad you came. Do you know why you’re here?” Longshot turned his head to the man for the first time. Maximilian Coleridge was a handsome man, younger than Longshot imagined. He'd been told that Coleridge was blind, but Longshot didn't care much for that. He knew that a weak man would not be able to run so wonderful a place as this, so obviously though he lacked sight, he was clearly gifted with vision, an entirely different thing. The young clone opened his mouth to speak, and found himself at a loss for words. He pondered the question, trying find the proper answer. Finally, he said, in hopeful tones, "I'm here to serve you, my king." He looked closer at Coleridge and said, "Am... am I right?" His youth was never more apparent than it was at that moment. He wanted to be here, so very badly. This place was everything he could possibly want. If he was kicked out of paradise, he would die. He'd never recover from that fall." |
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| Max_Coleridge | Apr 6 2008, 12:57 AM Post #5 |
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
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JP between Max and Longshot "I'm here to serve you, my king. … Am... am I right?" Every moment with the man, Max was gleaning more than any report could tell him about Longshot. Nothing about the beautiful blond clone was ordinary or usual. He was created, not born. He looked to be in his early twenties but was only four years old. He’d barely begun living his life but used his powers to collect others. And he didn’t think the way most people did; words and concepts meant something else to him. Max noticed it in the ease with which he referred to him as king, while most people in the organization tend to choke on the word or give it the same connotation as Boss. “Partially,” Max replied. “What you will be doing here is serving me by following orders, however why you are here… and why I am here,” Max turned his face from Longshot for the first since he entered the room and toward the hologram of the city. “Full map view,” Max spoke to the air and the map pulled back to a full view of the sprawling city, “why we are here is to take care of the city… my city.” Max paused letting Longshot absorb the image of the hologram. He couldn’t talk has way to Mystique or Rawson, both of whom were practical and logical and were only concerned with the bottom-line; how much they were getting out of it. It was a mindset Max could appreciate but what persuaded them to join wouldn’t work on the young man at his side. Longshot was a romantic and had the soul of an artist. He wanted a grand purpose… he wanted something larger than himself to believe in. “Most people here see what we do as accumulating wealth and power… which we do, but it doesn’t end there.” The Black King looked at Longshot, his dead, black eyes fixed on him. “We hold the city together… we hold the world together and prevent it from slipping into chaos and oblivion.” Longshot looked at the hologram, again, his eyes shining with delight at the images. He glanced back up at Max and the blackness of his eyes meant nothing to him. He seemed almost oblivious to it, as if the unusual coloring was commonplace. "We do? And, what gives us the right to do this?" Longshot asked, his wording plain-- We -- Us He put out his hand now, three finger configuration spread, to drag it through the hologram, curiously. He rubbed his fingers together, bringing them up to his eyes, so that he could peer at them curiously, as if he expected to see smears of the hologram staining his skin. "I am more used to bringing the chaos, to forcing oblivion. It was... satisfying, but there is so much more for me to do, I think. I just don't understand how we have been given this power. Is it nothing more than because we can?" “Not merely because we can. Those were Magneto’s and Mojo’s reasons; they killed and destroyed because they could and they wanted to. The origin of the Hellfire goes back centuries, before birth of mutants who could bring the world to its knees with a single thought of by a whim.” Max didn’t shy away from violence; it was a tool, like any other, when used well and at the right place. “We do it,” Max paused and cocky grin spread across his face, “We all do it for different reasons. You might as well ask someone why they continue getting up in the morning rather than slitting their wrists. Many people are in it for the wealth and power, others because they see the bigger picture and to put it bluntly – we’re all in the same boat and no one wants to see it sink, particularly because of one megalomaniac with more power than intelligence. I became a part of the Hellfire Club because I love the city,” Max wasn’t a man comfortable talking about him self but nevertheless continued as he felt like something needed to be said. He gestured to the hologram with a jerk of his chin, “I know this city… I know the scars and cancerous growths and poisons that need to be extracted for the rest to survive. Before, you were a knife randomly cutting your way through flesh and veins. Can you do it for a purpose?” The clone of a boy cocked his head to the side, blond hair falling over the eye that shone from within, as he contemplated his King. "I wasn't always a blunt instrument. I was created to be the scalpel you ask me to be now, but my master had no sense of finesse or subtlety. He had me sever limbs to stop infection when the only thing needed was band aid to stop the dirt from getting in. I'd like to get back to art, my King. I have a need for beauty, and Mojo was ugliness personified." He smiled in childish cheerfulness, "I like you. I like the Bishop. I like this place and what it has to offer... and yes, I too love New York. I have no need for wealthy or power, a pretty man like me has such things thrust at him constantly, even in my madness when my brain was nothing more than an inferno burnt to nothingness, there were those who wanted to give to me. You're the first one to give me the chance to remember my purpose. If you will tell me what to cut, what to.... extract... I will cure this city for you." Even though Maximilian Coleridge was generally a cold, humorless bastard, not given to romantic flights of fancy, but on the rare occasions his thoughts did wander down that path, he often thought of himself as the city’s doctor; a doctor that never hesitated to cut if it was for the good of the rest of the city. Rawson was raw power and force incarnate and now with Longshot as his Knight, he had grace and finesse. From his pocket Max brought out a ring of gold with a black diamond the carving of the knight chess piece in profile. He held out his left hand, the ring resting on his palm. “That’s right, I’m offering you a chance – what you do with it is your responsibility,” said Max as he offered his other hand to seal the deal. “I want to stay close to Rawson; he’ll show you how our organization operates,” Max told Longshot as the young man was being shown out. Longshot took the ring, and the offered hand and looked at his king like a drowning man might look at the one who plucked him from the sea. He nodded his head once and then smiled, "I will not fail you." Then, he was off. A new master... but one who allowed him to be free... Yes, today was Longshot's lucky day. But then, when was it ever not? |
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2:20 PM Jul 11