@_dark_knight:(Rushed or not it's a good post, though you forgot to tag @orpheus_knightfall, I'm gonna wait to respond until he posts.)
Gothic City [CVnU: Living Location]
The ignition of a high tinsel retractable cord being fired was the only sound made before the surprising arrival of the Noir Rose premiered. Stoically positioned just inches away from the bodies, his cape ardently wrapped around his shoulders and closed across his chest. Opal lenses flattened as optical observation presided over the gruesome scene.. The compositional layout of blood splatter and lack of physical evidence had immediately allowed Quintus to dismiss the stranger as a suspect. That, and the fact that he had been tirelessly tracking the real perpetrator for better then 24hrs prior to the crime. Subtly his head turned to focus on the only survivor. Just a boy. No doubt traumatized beyond words. Quintus' heart silently reached out for comfort for words would hold no meaning. Not initially anyway. It was a cruel twist of fate. One that could lead the adolescent youngster down a path of vengeful retribution, and who could blame him.
Taking a cumbersome knee the Last Arashikage placed his hand on the boys shoulders. "I promise you, I'll catch the man who did this and see that he suffers mightily." Monotone bass rumbled like thunder. Before turning his undivided attention towards the unknown enigma. "Which way?" More of a command then a question, Quintus watched and waited. Reading several identifiable reactions for future quantification.
@spectacle_storytelling: The Noir Rose of Reality-M held no emotional disdain or visual reaction as the stranger passively repeated his prior sentiment. His apparent lack of empathy was a microcosm of Gothic as a whole. With any luck the child would take this experience and learn, through moderated fortitude, how to channel his depression constructively.
Perhaps aided by the unseen hand of Quintus himself...
As sirens infiltrated the night air Quintus hung his head before sighing. "When the officers arrive, tell them everything." And just like that he reached into the depths of his cape. Retrieving his Nth metal grapnel and launching himself up into the Gothic City skyline. Perhaps one day he would again cross paths with the apathetic miscreant who seemed unmoved by the murders. And on that day, he would break every bone in his body.
Once they were homeless and poor, victims of discrimination, and savants of petty theft, but now? Gone were the hooligans, thugs and lowlifes of days past. Their despair grew great, and their mind and spirits were offered to the rush, the thrill, the power that rippled beneath their dermis and vibrated at the surface of fingertips. Their salvation? Konite, a drug, the crown jewel of Empire International. Body and mind? Warped. And withdrawal? Withdrawal came with such severity that blood itched. The addiction was inescapable, and the consequences were prominent. And yet, the power, the boon from Konite rendered them mighty. No longer were they ordinary, but extraordinary. Now, now they could confront, and even defeat their mutant brethren.
Rumors of their ability to overcome those blessed with the inherited boons of an X-Gene rippled through the air, and echoed into the Stochastic Savant's auditory reach. With his interest captured, he observed, studied, then planned, inciting the most violent of confrontations between the Konite Knights and the Brahma Brotherhood. The offspring of Gothic's slums, the Brahma Brotherhood, a death cult dedicated to the worship of the city's most notorious antagonist, the Brahma Bull, forged their identity as men and women adorned by bags of trash, armed with scrap forged firearms, who reside in rundown buildings and a shanty town built from scrap material. Mutant extremists against Konite addicts. The conflict was bloody, and corpses were left to litter the streets of a city forgotten by its country.
In its aftermath, the 100th Strigidae arrived, a trench coat, jet black in shade, festooned a frame so greatly aggrandized by cybernetics. Eyes beautified by an ever-changing hue were shielded, dark lenses veiling the gaze of an apex predator. He strode, and from his every pore, a confidence colder than ice was oozed, a calculating edge, and stoic flair dripped from his every step until he paused. Blood smeared the walls of buildings, and its repugnant scent of iron hung with prominence in the air. Bodies, charred and eviscerated, were scattered across a pavement that had been cracked with brutality. The smoke of fire, fresh from burning, lingered all about him, but thinned with time. The Stochastic Savant's steps resumed, his gravitas and commanding air cutting the atmosphere like a knife through butter.
Until, as he'd predicted with perfection, he located the remaining survivors of the conflict. Weakened from battle, they were in no position of power, and held no possibility of escape, not from the Strigidae Specter. "You should be pleased", his voice, deep and low, echoed with a timbre that was enigmatic and gelid, "Unlike your fallen brethren, your deaths will be instrumental to the posthuman future". And should he have his way, they would. Konite's effects on the human being was understood, but perhaps, through experimentation on Gothic's population of desperate men and women, the Strigidae Specter could develop something more powerful, something that could give birth to his vision of a posthuman. And should he need to prey on this forsaken city's population, he would.
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