The Merc With No Mouth (But Who Must Scream) [Closed RP]

The Red Angel of the Harvest.

It'd been some time since she'd done her job. A lot had happened since she had escaped Hell and come to Earth. She'd gone through moral conflicts, even thought she'd gone mad for a while. She'd found a home, a team, a purpose. She'd found love. And, in meeting her birth mother, Naamah, she thought she had found herself. Even after glimpsing into the emptiness of oblivion in her battle with that... whatever it was, Nymphixia felt that she had come out of everything stronger for it.

However, while Nymphixia may not have been a true demon -- more of a demigoddess, at this point -- the curvy punk beauty had been born and raised in Hell. Nearly seventy years of training and conditioning did not merely go away in a few months. This was the reason why she still spoke in rhyme in demonic form, and why she still practiced black magic. While in her blood, Nyx was a god... in her heart, she would always be a demon. Trained to sniff out the imbalances in life and death.

And that was why she had been waking up in a boiling sweat the last several nights in a row, teleporting out of bed so as not to wake Ophelia. Something was wrong -- so completely and utterly wrong that she could not ignore it. Imperfections on the scale of life and death could be sensed by the Child of the Damned from miles away, and when a certain teleporting mercenary came anywhere near her radar, it would trigger her need to crush that imperfection. The world was littered with immortals and those who had cheated death, she knew that and had tried to accept it, enduring the itches that it gave her day after day. But the Undying Motormouth, Drake, was different. He was an abomination. He was cursed. He was wrong.

And he had to die.

Pulling her jacket on and quickly lighting up a cigarette (Ophelia still had yet to succeed in getting the demoness to quit them), Nyx became shrouded in scarlet mist, vanishing from the Children's HQ. She had work to do.

She appeared less than an instant later in a reclined position, still in human form and dragging off of her smoke, a few feet behind Drake himself. "Hey there, big boy."

It happened before he could even get to meet himself, the fluttering questions on his head aggravating the entire existential crisis he mulishly disregarded, yet never could escape. Betwixt a happening and another, before he got himself captured by Kurt but a day after he murdered his father in cold-blood. Was it the utmost veracity? Drake never had a name, yet now all he was resembled a shadow, lurking around without much of a reputation, he ended by leaning on a counter and sipping from some old whiskey. It was late, the place was desolate and closed, thorough to spend some time alone, he and his thoughts. The whole insanity was gum to mask the cracks, the broken persona beneath, the man who lost everything, his right of having a family, a love and, eventually, of succumbing too, trapped inside his head.

His parched lips touched the frigid glass, piquant alcohol smoldering his throat as it cascaded from the crystal goblet. Motionlessly glaring the timber flooring for a few minutes before taking another shot, the Carmine Comedian sank poignantly into sorrow in a way no one would ever depict him. The countless masks he worn throughout his life, all to hide something not even an actual disguise could. That sentiment of loss ablaze inside of him, what was the purpose of all this? Rendered brutish due to pain, only to make others experience the same feeling. Some Nietzsche-esque distorted view of the man who created him and, somehow, sent him aboard an alternate timeline.

He got the joke, staring down the abyss of life, it was all meaningless, people leaned in faux truths, merciless and imaginary Gods, yet knowing never made him any less happy. He was not afraid of death itself, of not being able to wake up on the other day nor in the day after and after and forevermore, once he had abode by his own rules and beliefs, trusting only in the omnipotence of his actions and letting his blade do the talking, he would collapse any day. She was taken from him, though. The only purpose in his life, when he was finally settling down, the one broken condom, the curse of a family, he would engineer something of his own, entranced by that enthralling look of hers. He didn't even know her name, wiped from his memory as if someone had erased the quintessential bits of his memory.

The sudden gleam made he withdraw a little, tilting his head and brushing off any ideas after finishing the bottle, pulling his mask down, hands vigorously clenched against the crisscrossed hilts aback. He was instantaneously mesmerized by the divine beauty of the figure that had just poofed her way into the bar, yet wouldn't say a word. She was a child, quite inconsequential and ostensibly powerful. Cocking a brow, he squinted. "Where the hell did you come from, sweetie? Lost yourself, cause this is kinda... closed and remote." Each word spat he realized further and further it was going to be one of those nights.

@_drake:

Well that was... kind of sad and pitiful. Here, Nyx had been expecting some kind of demon, god, invincible mutant, something to warrant the trouble Drake caused on her radar. Instead she found a man dressed in red, clutching a couple of swords when he wasn't clutching a shot glass, obviously drinking his sorrows away.

Could have been worse. Alcohol tended to help a lot in Nymphixia's line of work as a passage demon. It helped people make the decisions she wanted them to make. Helped her get consent. "I'm not lost," she purred, standing and sliding into the opposite side of the merc's booth, grabbing his drink and raising the frosty bottle to her lips, taking a long, deep drink from it without asking. "Actually, I'd say I've found exactly... what I'm looking for."

She slowly set the bottle down without hissing or making a face, running her tongue along her pink lips and across her little gold lipring, releasing a sigh of satisfaction. "My name's Nyx," she continued, offering a little smile and slipping her little motorcycle jacket off, setting it beside her. She planned to be here for a while.

@nymphixia:

Drake sighed and leisurely let the depressive atmosphere encompass him, frowning a bit and bursting open another bottle, this time it was Black Label. A fictitious smirk crossed his visage. "At least they have something decent." Reluctantly offering it with a bob of the hand, he resumed his sorrow into one evanescent simper. "If it is the Carmine Comedian you're looking for, I won't be fulfilling any contracts for a while... Not in the mood, personal matters and such." He admitted, reclining on the bench, those hollow eyes always gawking the unbeknownst of the mirror.

His hand slid over the wooden counter. "Way to go, Drake. Trespassing a two-stars establishment at late night, drinking with an underage kid and talking about life to a complete stranger." He mumbled under his breath, throbbing his finger against the argent surface of his blade, cautiously placed atop the balcony, offering his lukewarm countenance an air of boredom rather than melancholy. "I am Drake, by the way." Veering the course of his index, Drake clutched the glass, half-empty in a few gulps.

Slowly putting it down and dwindling his composure, the Multieloquent Mercenary removed his mask, revealing the serious figure beneath it, and going deeper sigh after sigh. Dipping his tongue against the drink once more, he scrutinized his visitor. "So, what kind of business you have to be around here? I mean, do your parents even allow you to drink with strangers late at night? Or you simply poof away like that whenever you want?"

@_drake:

Nyx's eyes followed the opening of the new bottle, a light smile crossing her face. The guy had taste. It would be a shame to send him to his final destination. She told herself she had to, trying not to think about what Lila or Ozzy would say if they knew she was back into passing souls. They'd understand if they knew... she liked to think they would.

Taking a deep swig of the new bottle and popping her cigarette back between her lips, Nyx laid back against the pleather cushions of the booth. "I'm a lot older than you think, Drake. And yeah... I'm pretty good at 'poofing away' when it suits my needs." She offered another smile, setting her booted feet up on the edge of the table. A big part of her wished she could just explain right away, skip the part where she pretended to be a normal person. If this Drake guy was as accursed and immortal as she thought, she felt like he'd get it. "As for my business..." the demoness furrowed her brow thoughtfully, taking another puff off of her cigarette and letting her hazy blue eyes study the mercenary. He was so sad and alone, and he wore it on his sleeve. Someone who needed a friend, whether he thought he wanted one or not. Nyx could be that friend.

"I came for you, Drake. I came to help you."

@nymphixia: (24 days to get the mood back lol Planning to change Drake.)

"Older? How?" His nonchalant eyes shrugged off the answers, he didn't really care. The only thing he would like to hearken was the last resonating sounds of a bullet puncturing his brain precisely before the ultimate sleep, but that was u affordable by someone on his conditions... Someone who delved into immortality head-first and now drowned within the maelstrom it caused his life. Drake was a loser after all, losing contracts, fights, control... Everything. Even the opportunity to die.

His eyes glistened a tad brighter, as if a rekindling sparkle blazed in his chest, albeit quite evanescent. He shook his head, gulped and kept quiescent for a jiffy. "I am afraid you cannot help me, kiddo. Beyond any redemption now, beyond death itself, some would say." Frowning, invisible tears tersely roamed his defeated visage. "I've seen war, I've seen disaster and I have experimented everything a man can't even think about. Most times I just pulled the trigger to alleviate the pain, to get it off me... It worked well until I simply spilled the bullet a few moments later. I was secluded from everything but pain, and that is something I can't run away of." He chortled a bit, remarking his insanity, a melodious tone imminent in his voice. "How could you possibly help?" Curious eyes gazed her sideways, head downed as if the weight of his sins forced it earthwards.

@_drake:

"I can kill you." Her words came out as a whisper, eyes flashing crimson for a brief moment before fading back to a misty gray-blue. It seemed like her job was already done, here -- this man, Drake, was at the end of his rope. He needed no reprieve, no temptation, and no lies. He just needed to meet his final ending. Perhaps his curse of immortality was as much a burden on him as it was to Nymphixia.

She let her entire visage flicker, for just a moment -- red skin, horns, tail, the whole kit -- before shifting back to the young punk woman she presented herself as. "I'm a reaper, Drake. A creature of passage. Of endings. I can send you home. Don't pass go, don't collect two hundred dollars. It will be painless and easy. Your torment on this world will end."