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converting vegetarians; ;you know who you are
Topic Started: Mar 18 2011, 03:58 AM (518 Views)
Manslaughter
Unregistered

January 12th
Early Afternoon
--------

Manslaughter had been waiting for years for a day like this.

His fiery wisp of red hair hardly grazed the elevation of most shoulders, appearing over them with the bob of each step as he inspected the line of the fresh-faced newcomers assembled in the training facilities. There were but a handful, but their numbers surpassed several times those he was used to having under his instruction. In this unique circumstance, however, he was not alone, and his cold gaze cut past Balam who would be participating, and Toxin, his best student and newly appointed assistant given his dramatic improvement in his prowess of weaponry of the sharp variety.

The surmised outcome of this session had initially been imagined to be disastrous, given Roger's reputable attention span. But this, this task of instructing a group of fledgling terrorists appeared to have rekindled the assassin's sense of pride since his falling out at the destruction of Murderworld. He seemed sharply focused, his normally fluid body composed into a rigid posture beneath the sleek leather of his uniform. It was difficult to envision this trained killer as once the rawboned ex-inpatient he had once been, not that he had filled out any or grown much since then.

"Our Lord expects much of his apostles," Roger began, speaking both to everyone and no one at the same time, much in the manner he was wont to do. "Perhaps more than some present possess," he added, although it was unclear if he meant anyone in particular. The slight man hesitated at the end of the congregation, unused to being under the scrutiny of many a eye at once and more versed in working behind the scenes.

In that moment of silence there was a hushed, passing observation of the height that the redhead did not possess at the other end of the assembly. Manslaughter's face darkened, but he did not acknowledge the voice, nor the sudden collapse of a spry adolescent, his legs clumsy and numb and clutching his throat as he struggled to breathe, sensations misfiring across his body.

"Insolence is intolerable," Roger murmured. Were it up to him, the redhead would have killed the boy, moreso for the his ill tongue than temper. Although those devoted to the Brotherhood were at some sense above the law, outright murder was a touchy subject.

Funny that, for it was a transgression for which he was named after.

Roger turned and crossed past the line again, continuing "If my brother and sister have no accolades.. the students should select a weapon from the collection." The collection he spoke of was a table laden heavy with a mass of sharp weaponry that Toxin would have been very familiar with, the arms ranging from daggers and knives to machetes and throwing stars. It was only then he with drew his telepathic influence on the new recruit that had remarked he was rather small to be an assassin.
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Toxin
Unregistered

Toxin stood alertly several paces behind the new students, watching silently as Manslaughter examined them. He had yet to speak a word to any of them, and hadn't formed any solid opinions. They had a varied selection of powers, but all needed weapons training for them to be of use without being a liability. Members of the Brotherhood needed to be able to defend themselves, at the very least, at need.

They were, for the most part… young. Early twenties, mostly, and certain of their immortality. Certain of they were the best, the strongest, and not just another set of recruits. They might measure up to the others in the Brotherhood they wished to join, in time.

Now, they clearly had no idea where they stood; the bottom of the hierarchy. A foolish comment sent one student to the ground. Apparently that one lacked some intelligence. Hopefully his lesson was learned. Manslaughter was hardly the only one that would react to disparaging comments in such a way. What did the poor boy think he was proving, talking like that to someone he knew was an assassin in the Brotherhood? Well... he probably hadn't been thinking at all.

His attention turned to Balam for a moment, wondering if she'd have anything to say about what had just happened. Or on the selection of recruits for that matter. He'd been meaning to train with her for some time now. She seemed to embrace her feral nature, while he... he still held back most of the time.

"Nothing on my part, Manslaughter," Toxin said quietly, eying the selection of weapons. Hopefully there would be at least one or two of the recruits capable of handling them by the end of this. He suspected some of the students might be relegated to weapons that took a little less skill.
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Jara
Unregistered

Manslaughter certainly had a way with words, waxing almost poetically as he bestowed a few words on this newest batch of recruits. All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, fresh-faced and yes, very confident in what Jara had since observed to be the invincibility of youth, most of their fold stood at attention. Their best attempt at military diligence, “regimentality”, it was laughably pathetic, actually. Whatever they were being taught at the gate, from the barracks, was not properly sticking. Looking at the scene before her, these recruits were the super-powered equivalent of some banana republic army, high on their self-perceived status, waving their rusty Vietnam-era rifles and swinging machetes in the air like little Noriegas. So full of ideals and propaganda; they made good canon fodder, Jara remembering days long ago spent with similar outcasts, grooming them for the slaughter. They were a distraction, a red herring, while the professionals completed their true objectives behind the scenes. The faces were always the same. Only the settings changed, and even then, she saw little difference from humid jungle and dry desert to the immaculately engineered facilities they stood in the present.

Even these walls felt unsettlingly familiar, the high ceilings, the harsh lights that left nothing unexposed, and the sea of obediently forward-facing heads before her, looking to the front of the class as student rather than instructor. A fleeting sense of dread, an old sense fear sent goose bumps prickling across her skin, like an important promise long forgotten, then remembered too late. But just like any other time the gaps in her spotty memory presented themselves with a moment of déjà vu, Balam quickly pushed them away and went into lockdown, her expression hard and cold. Whatever they were trying to remind her, whatever she was, she was a new person now. Self-made, self-sufficient, self-validated. And she would instill this sense of new identity among her students. Their instructors may have been a little damaged… but if they weren’t, they wouldn’t truly be Brotherhood, would they? The best and strongest tools always saw the most use, and they bore the marks to show for it.

As she mulled over the faces of the recruits, varying degrees of eagerness and fear on their faces, one made some sort of comment. Something truly vapid, regarding the height of their instructors. Manslaughter took it to heart, she knew with a smirk, as the offending party fell to the ground. They could have easily thought that about her. She was scarcely above five feet herself, of a small build and short reach. It put her at an immediate disadvantage with large opponents. These students would have to learn how she and her fellow instructors compensated the hard way.

Toxin had nothing else to add to Manslaughter’s words. All eyes fell on her, then. She scanned their class, briefly, taking in their various scents as she breathed, slipping on her red gloves and giving her fingers a stretch. Long, well-maintained claws slipped out from their tips. She really didn’t need a blade. Nature blessed her with her own set. She gave them the same word of warning as she did to anyone she sparred with, with a smile.

“Don’t bleed.”

She didn’t look at the various expressions of bewilderment on some faces, the stoicism on others. A beat of silence, and they did as Roger instructed them to, picking at the weapons at their disposal, probably forgetting their words all together. Like children, they were easily preoccupied with shiny things, and count on these amateurs to covet the flashiest blades of the collection. For herself, she selected a simple wooden tonfa, blade concealed inside. Balam supervised their selection, offering little nods and smiles to some. They were meaningless gestures. False hope.
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Manslaughter
Unregistered

With the usual deadpan visage, Roger watched from afar as his charges selected their arms, some foolishly choosing swords for their aesthetic quality and others selecting the largest and sharpest weapons they could find. They were young and thoughtless, but Manslaughter had no patience for it, and they would grow up or die. His boyish face was merely a facade, and though he indulged in childish fancies, Roger was not here to dry the eyes of disgruntled runaways or mend the open sores of wrongdoings in their past.

He would teach them to fight, and fight well--that was all.

Communication, unfortunately, was still not the assassin's strong point, and any attempt at questions from the newcomers was dissuaded by a cold, uninterested flicker of his eyes. The redhead had given them ample time to make their selections. "Sparring will assess levels of already possessed skill," he remarked quietly, fingering the buckle that held both katanas to his back. For a long, stiff moment Roger judged the manner in which these young ones were holding their weapons and decided he was more armed than necessary. A deft twitch of his finger unhinged the clasp of one sword, and Roger slipped the strap from his body before gingerly handing one of his most prized weapons to Toxin. Adjusting the hilt to rest in the middle of his back, he looked to the offending youth who had remarked about his size.

"You first."

The boy looked nervous, venturing to hide it with a belated scowl. The assassin approached a makeshift square of mats and waited as the adolescent approached. "No powers. No aid. The blusterer will defend himself alone." Manslaughter's expectations were high, but those that came prepared and armed were few and far between, making meeting those standards just that more impossible.

Roger gave no warning as he launched into attack, disarming his opponent before he could react in a few deft strokes. No enemy would give notice of their assault, and none here would receive such coddling. The boy's broadsword clattered to the ground, his skin and limbs intact; neither Roger nor his students would be prepared for such an incident should Jara smell blood. Looking almost pleased, Roger sheathed his katana, summing his short sparring session with one word.

"Deplorable."
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Alphonse
Unregistered

Alphonse stood in line. He watched the smaller man, Manslaughter, walk up and down the lines of people. Alphonse didn't have to look around to know what 95% percent of these people were like. They were cocky, hopeful and thought they were the next big thing, the best. They had no idea. Then again, neither did he, not really. He did not know what was going to happen here.

Alphonse quickly looked at the two other people in the room. One, a rather beautiful woman and the other who looked a little younger than Manslaughter, who looked pretty damn young, but Alphonse highly doubted he could judge him on his appearance. Manslaughter started speaking, when Alphonse heard the man next to him murmur something about the redhead's height. Suddenly, he was gasping for air, and fell to the ground.

"Idiot" Alphonse murmured in Russian to the fallen student. Rule one: don't disrespect those higher than you. Then, Manslaughter asked the other people for any comments. While the man, Toxin, had nothing to say, the woman, Balam, said something that sent involuntary chills up Alphonse's spine.

"Don't bleed." The group was instructed to select a weapon from a table behind their teachers. Alphonse walked up and scanned the array of bladed weapons. He knew how to use a couple of the items, but decided on the two he knew best: matching daggers, light weight but useful. He reached out as another person did and quietly said,

"Do not be thinking about it." His voice deepening slightly as his power took effect and the other hand pulled back. Picking up the set he returned to his position and watched as the same man who had been so stupid as to insult his teacher was chosen to spar first. Alphonse watched as Manslaughter lunged forward and twisted the broadsword out of the man's hand's, faster than Alphonse had seen in a long time. This was very interesting indeed. Manslaughter summed up the man's performance in one word: "Deplorable." This would be a very, very.... interesting class.
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Toxin
Unregistered

It really had been worse than foolish. Judging on such inane measures, particularly among their people... Dustin might have been the tallest of the instructors, but he was also the least experienced. Not even bringing learned skills into matters, often there was no way of telling a mutants abilities from first glance. There was likely something that could be said about it, a warning against future idiocy, but experience tended to be the best teacher in those matters.

His fellow feral's claws were examined silently from across the room while the recruits picked out their weapons of choice. There seemed to be faint indecision for some, while others zeroed in on specific weapons. Dustin was, of course, already armed. His teeth and claws were not for use on anyone they wished to remain living, though he had designed some metal sheathes for his claws. Until they were complete, a little scratch would result in excruciating death, so... gloves were a necessity for these training exercises. He didn't show much of his surprise when Roger handed him one of his swords for safekeeping. It would be held onto until he wished for its return.

The foolish youth that had hopefully learned to hold his tongue was the first to be called on. Toxin watched the quick exchange of blades with the knowledge that he could always learn something new. Of course, it helped that he rather liked watching Roger and this merely gave him a good excuse for it. The boy was disarmed before he knew what happened; Toxin saw it coming, to his surprise, visually following the short but complicated maneuver.

The broadsword fell to the ground with a clatter loud in the quiet room. The obvious skill involved had left most of the students silent. Hopefully they were using their heads now, aware that posturing would result in more of the same. They wouldn't be in this room if they didn't require the training. A moment of silence before the instructors continued their assessment, before Dustin decided to speak his mind.

"You chose to be here, and you are here for a reason. Nothing else matters in here, and if you cannot put aside your petty sniping for the duration of this class I doubt you have the resolve needed for this path."

Hopefully his point was made. Whether or not that was the case, he carried on, gaze sliding across the room. Picking one from the group in a sudden decision. Between the three of them they ought to sort out the skill levels of those assembled before any of them really broke a sweat. Considering the awkwardness with which most of them held their weapons.

"You're holding those wrong," he murmured to one of the younger looking recruits, who also looked intensely serious. With one of his own knives, he showed the proper grip. The youth adjusted her grip to match, little to no fumbling involved.. "Good. Now, come at me." She looked hesitant for a split second before doing as he said. Blades flashed. She didn't get anywhere near him, but that was only because he wasn't there when she struck. With no training she could have been dangerous with those knives. He imagined with some time under Roger and Jara's tutelage she would be fearsome. "That will do for now."
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Jara
Unregistered

No sooner than the children—for these new and inexperienced faces were nothing more than children to her—fallen back to rank and file did Jara begin wandering around their class. She was not normally such a fastidious creature, but as the minutes stretched with their pre-exercise briefing she found herself unable to keep still. Roger was not to blame for that. The redheaded man was doing an excellent job of public speaking, cold and distant and professional. It almost surprised the changeling and brought a small, bemused smile to her face. But her walk around the students was something insuppressible and not sprung from some short attention span or boredom. Despite whatever talents she possessed, mannerisms picked up and molded and tailored for her needs throughout the years, she could not escape what was written in her genetic code.

At the end of the day she was still a feral, despite what coy smiles and pretty words she crafted for the world to see and fool itself. Seeing such an assemblage of young, fresh faces, their nervous fidgeting, unsure body language, huddled together in such a close unit, it unsurprisingly woke up some predatory instinct. She pretended to keep herself occupied with her tonfa, appreciating its simple but sturdy design, the brilliance of the dark Asiatic wood, the imperceptible slide of the hidden blade from its base with a click of a cleverly disguised button. Brilliantly crafted, utilitarian yet elegant… but her charges were just so much more interesting. She’d glance from her weapon to the recruits, occasionally catching the eyes of more nervous ones that kept track of her movements while listening to Manslaughter’s instructions. Clever little creatures. Rather than look away though, she’d pause, tail and body tensing like a coil ready to spring, cat-like jade eyes openly staring, until the student finally looked away. Ferals, so territorial.

The brunette put a hold to her little games of cat and mouse when the first recruit was summoned to the front of the assembly. Unsurprisingly it was the smart mouthed one, and Balam watched as Manslaughter made a fool of him closely, maybe even too closely. She growled in her throat, and in her mind’s eye she watched the follow-up, a blow to the solar plexus, a brilliant flash as steel arched through the air and sang, gorgeously bright red blood pattering on the floor like rubies from an eviscerated stomach as fresh tissue gleamed and the gray of intestines finally saw the light of day…

Of course, that didn’t happen, and the recruit returned to his spot more humbled. Jara exhaled the breath she had been holding in keen anticipation, offering Manslaughter a round of applause. Of course Balam knew better. They weren’t allowed to kill recruits. That’s what the field was for. Toxin spoke in general to the group about the mindset needed for their organization. Disappointing lack of fatalities aside, Balam nodded in agreement.

“We are not here for therapy or stroking egos. Those of you that are unfit will just die in the field.”

Toxin’s performance with the next volunteer was similarly disappointing like Roger’s. Yes, the young man’s skill had grown since his induction into the Brotherhood, admirably so, his feral savageness showing in lightning strikes. He’d learned quickly to embrace that serpentine nature, but the girl walked away as well as he offered her criticism as well as praise. No blood, no maiming. But it was her turn now to knock some poor fuck down a peg or two, and for a while she’d been eyeing a young man in the middle of the crowd. She’d heard him speak a few times, particularly at the weapons table when he drove a classmate away from a set of daggers with only a few words. Balam was curious.

“You’re all young right now. Full of life, strength, vitality. And these powers Nature gave you, gods on Earth, hmm?” she asked, then scowled. “You’re all full of shit. You are far from invincible. Greater mutants than all of you have fallen…” She thought briefly of a blond speedster, a reckless boy who selflessly stood between her and Death himself. A total stranger, enemies brought to the same side of the battle lines because of Apocalypse. The purpose of it all, the point, it went beyond her scope of comprehension, but the irony wasn’t lost. She knew the young man for only a few seconds, yet never even got a name.

“So, when you do die, make all of this worth it, si? My time is valuable. Don’t waste it. Now you, come over here,” she motioned, pointing at Alphonse. Looking down at his weapon of choice, she smirked, giving her tonfa a twirl as she changed grip.

“No powers now. You can’t always count on them.”
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Alphonse
Unregistered

Alphonse looked around slowly. He was trying to take in all the action going on around him. Toxin was talking to a young woman near him, explaining how to hold her weapon of choice. Shifting his weight his heels, the Russian suddenly felt like he was being watched. That's when the woman, Balam, spoke. Her voice carried a crisp Hispanic accent, true to her appearance.

“You’re all young right now. Full of life, strength, vitality. And these powers Nature gave you, gods on Earth, hmm?” she asked, then scowled, a fierce expression if Alphonse had ever seen one.. “You’re all full of shit. You are far from invincible. Greater mutants than all of you have fallen…” Alphonse felt the slightest twinge of anger. She spoke as if they all were children, why he agreed he was in over his head, Alphonse sure as hell didn't think he was invincible. Any of the three teachers in this room could look at someone and probably kill them. Of course, Alphonse choked the emotion down as soon as he noticed it. Why bother feeling mad? It would just lead to issues.

Then, Balam spoke again “So, when you do die, make all of this worth it, si? My time is valuable. Don’t waste it. Now you, come over here,” She was pointing at someone...

Son of a bitch. She was pointing at Alphonse. [/I]“No powers now. You can’t always count on them.” For an instant Alphonse completely let his mind run wild. He feared this woman more than Toxin, just as much as Manslaughter. She was a feral, a person with animal skills and instincts. He wanted to shrink back like he did when he was a child, back in Russia. Hide from this woman, this animal.

Of course, he did not. That instant went away, and once more Alphonse's mindset became cold and calculating, there was no need for the Russian's charm here. People seemed to melt away as he walked forward. He flipped the daggers to the correct position in one fluid movement and looked to his teacher's weapon.

A Tonfa.

That was new.

As he approached Balam, Alphonse held back the smile he found himself trying to make. While it wasn't out of cockiness, it would appear that way to anyone who did not know him personally. He politely nodded and looked Balam in the eye.

"Of course."
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