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In the Blackness; Open to HFC
Topic Started: Aug 12 2008, 05:50 AM (220 Views)
Max_Coleridge
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
Date: After SHIELD mission
Time: At night



JP between Max and Longshot

In the earliest days of his creation, Longshot did not know boredom. He was built to entertain his master, and so was sent out often to kill for him, which was quite interesting. In between missions, he was placed in his hibernation vat, in a bed of amniotic gel, the learning VR computers pumping information into his brain, until his brain, one day caught up with what his donor had once known, and something was awoken in him... desire to know more, do more, be more. And for the first time the imperfect clone knew ennui. There was something he was missing, something fun, something new, and he had no ability as Mojo's toy to discover it.

He had left then, seeking the superiority promised to him by Magneto, existing in the shadows as one of the Brotherhood, striking in silence, killing for vengeance, or out of self righteousness. But he had been abandoned, left behind to be destroyed by the anger of the Phoenix searching for her lost love. Broken, and without direction, he had come to the attention of the Black King.

For a time, that was enough.

But, the Pleasure Club's Pawns were only so far. To cut was fine, to cut was fun, but there was limited pleasure in cutting those who asked for it. So, Longshot had taken to wandering, exploring the building like a bored child in a hotel while daddy was at a conference, following the shadows past the glitz and glamor of the upper levels and down to where the walls were bare brick and the lamps were naked flickering bulbs. Darkness reminded him of his new master, and he wondered if the blackness was tangible or if it was his King's doing. There were sounds of scuffles, flesh violently striking flesh, and Longshot pressed forward eagerly.

This was something that would ease the boredom.

Max’s fist slammed into Charlie Peters’ mouth, his knuckles scraping against the chipped teeth. He stood over the collapsed naked man and narrowed his eyes at the cut, blood trickling over his knuckle. Damn, I’ll need to get a shot now. It was one more log on the fire of his irritation.

The damp air of the cells was cool against his skin, stripped to his waist and glistening with a dapple of sweat. Even still, just looking at Peters, shivering on the concrete floor stained with old blood, and it made him burn with rage. How could the man have been so stupid.

He heard the approaching footsteps and sent his strange vision to see his visitor.

“Longshot, what brings you down here?” He asked, his back to the door.

Longshot stopped, at the door, and frowned at what was happening. The dark form of his king stood over someone badly beaten, someone who had obviously done something that was not pleasing to Max. "My king," Longshot greeted, quietly, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you." His words and tone was far more respectful than the childlike clone usually offered. "What did he do to offend you?"

Longshot’s eyes looked unhappy and that surprised the Black King a little, he knew the blonde clone’s past and that he had done far worse things for sport. It was undoubtedly another piece to the enigma that was Longshot.

“Charles Peters,” he intoned the name like a bailiff reading a charge, “a member of the club, one of the ones who is useless apart from money and happening to have been born into a certain family.” His voice was cold and unforgiving as he chronicled the life of Charlie Peters. “He had an unfortunate attraction to children in the park and when caught, called me to fix the problem.”

Max walked toward the man, who heard his tread and turned his face to the floor. “Fix the problem or he would talk, give the police information about things he’s heard here.”

Weary of looking at the wretched man, he turned his back on him. “I protected the club and fixed his problem. Evidence mysteriously vanished, surveillance tapes erased, and deals made. Peters won his freedom. But I doubt he is enjoying it.”

Longshot tilted his head to the side. "He was a pedophile and thought to blackmail the club as a way to get out of it all. What a strange man." He stepped into the room, and said, "I once portrayed a fifteen year old boy for a chinese ambassador who wanted to do very unwholesome things to me. Mojo was hired by the parents of a young man who was unfortunately quite damaged by him to restore honor. I took my time revisiting such unwholesome acts upon the ambassador... only there was no sex involved. It was quite an interesting event. I rather like Hong Kong. Have you ever been, My King?"

The transition was strange but nothing was ever normal with Longshot. “Yes, I have. I used to live in India, for a short time, but I always came home.”

He’d watched Longshot as he blithely told his tale, certain that one day his spring was going to snap, or possibly, it already had. Max was no stranger to suffering - he’d seen it everyday and done his share before he was powerful enough to protect himself.

Max swiped his bleeding hand casually on his already stained pants. “Do the memories of your time before here ever bother you?”

The young clone reached into one of the many pockets on his belt and produced a clean silk handkerchief, folded into a tiny square, something that had caught his fleeting interest once. He handed it to the King as he contemplated his question. "Sire, I have few memories of my time before this that stick in my head long enough to make much of a difference. They come and go and in half an hour I will have forgotten I've told you this. What is in my head doesn't mean a whole lot, it's what my body and my instincts retain that makes a difference." He approached poor unfortunate Charlie and put his three fingered hand under his chin to bring his face up so he could study it. "No little children would be lured away by such a face as this... not anymore."
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