Kenny settled at the bar, poking the dubious snacks with one thin finger. His eyebrows came together, forming a thin v as he regarded the mystery snack as if he expected it to get up and walk out at any second. Surprisingly, it didn't.
With a small sigh, the immortal grabbed a handful of the snackage and tossed it at the head of the man wiping down glasses with a cloth that didn't look like it had been cleaned since the last presidential administration. "Got any lemonaid?" he asked. "I want lemonaid."
"The fuck you think you doin', faggot?" the bartender snapped, marching over to the very unimpressed Kenny, all muscles and tattoos and general nastiness.
"Asking for a drink." Kenny said sweetly. "Get me a lemonaid."
The neanderthal behind the bar reached over and lifted Kenny off his perch with both hands, holding the slight man in the air.
He dropped Kenny far quicker than he had picked him up, his skin turning blue as he tried to gasp for breath. He crashed to the floor like a great sack of blubber, a thin trickle of blood leaking from where Kenny and nicked him with his knife just seconds before.
Frustration was an unbearably human trait; one Alkhema was loath to admit she felt. But, in all truthfulness, what else could she designate the feeling of immense rage within her at the overwhelming lack of results in her search? It was entirely probable that the robot had simply been looking in the wrong places; after all the new Vision couldn’t possibly have any idea she was searching for him. To be more accurate, she very much doubted that anyone, Avenger or otherwise, was even aware that she was not as dead as they believed. It would have been more logical for them to anticipate that, as a synthetic being, she was not limited by mortality as they were, especially when their own had such a tendency to return from death so frequently. But that would be giving them too much credit, they were human and thus could not be expected to act in anything resembling an intelligent fashion.
In any case, Alkhema, despite her best interests, was frustrated at the Vision’s continued elusiveness. It was because of this overpowering emotion that she felt it necessary to unwind, to let go of these emotions in her traditional fashion. Namely, by going on a killing spree and allowing her sadistic pleasure to overcome her rage. It was because of her robotic weaponry that she had not been convicted of murder by that point, as Alkhema would simply use her energy blasters to disintegrate any evidence of a crime. Thus far, it had been a slow night, as only a prostitute and a homeless man had happened to wander away from prying eyes long enough to be eliminated. It wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
Somehow, in her travels, Alkhema had found herself at a bar. It was hardly a classy establishment, in fact appearing to have been created from the remains of a barn. It seems somehow appropriate to her, that a building intended for holding repulsive animals should, indeed, remain a building for holding repulsive animals. She slipped into the bar fairly easily, her demeanor aging her 16-year-old appearance such that she provoked no attention. The robotic sociopath inhaled once, and immediately made the decision to shut off her olfactory functions. The place reeked of humans, alcohol, and various narcotics, stimulants, and depressants, some legal but most otherwise.
The bartender was steadily turning blue, gasping for air. His vital signs indicated that he was dying of asphyxiation, but nothing appeared to be blocking his airways. Fascinating. Looking over the bar with a curious expression, like a child examining a particularly amusing bug, Alkhema watched the human die, a smirk coming to her face that she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t help it; it was her natural response to death.
A dark haired man sitting near where Alkhema was standing had somehow been responsible, as contact with him was the only variable that could possibly have caused the inexplicable asphyxiation. The curious thing was that he didn’t read like a human. In fact, according to her sensors, he wasn’t a human. His companion was similarly unusual, as he appeared to be composed entirely of fluid plasma and various blood cells. Evidently, the two were not human, but the robot had no data to indicate what they were.
This both fascinated, and troubled her.
Alkhema turned to the dark-haired one, declaring in a dry tone, “[That was impractical. You’ll never get your lemonade now.]” She imagined, coming from a teen Bobbi Morse, the robotic and sharp voice of Alkhema would be rather unsettling for a normal human. But he didn’t seem to be either of those things, so she didn’t bother altering her voice to sound more human. The synthetic woman took a seat at one of the barstools, crossing her legs like the definition of a lady in human terms.
Observing the corpse, she declared, in a fascinated tone, “[Generalized hypoxia, coagulative necrosis, but none of his airways are obscured. I’m impressed.]” Her tone curious, Alkhema inquired, “[How exactly did you kill him, Mister…?]”
Kenny cocked his head to one side and studied the girl he couldn’t feel and who talked like one of his sister Nessie’s toys, drumming the knife on the counter top. There was still a little blood on it. “I used magic to make him think he couldn’t breath,” he explained with a small shrug. “I don’t think I actually want to drink any lemonade served here, anyway. Probably full of alcohol. It’s bad for you, you know. Does all sorts of nasty things to your liver.”
He spun around on the barstool a few times, until this bored him. “You aren’t human.” Statement of fact. No real emotion behind it besides a hint of curiosity. “I don’t think I’m imagining you. I haven’t imagined people in centuries. So, who are you?”
“I used magic to make him think he couldn’t breath,” he explained with a small shrug.
Magic. Alkhema should have guessed that the supernatural was somehow involved, especially considering the man’s non-human physiology. She wasn’t fond of magic, as it was much too erratic and fluid for her tastes. In addition, it was loath to her because, from experience, she knew it was one of the few things that could pierce her adamantium armor. Though, it may simply have been the Scarlet Witch’s probability altering magic, tampering with vulnerable insides though an indestructible shell. After all, adamantium was a steel alloy, and steel was made of iron, the bane of magic. In any case, the cold efficiency of technology suited the robot just fine; at least machinery didn’t have hidden costs like spells.
“I don’t think I actually want to drink any lemonade served here, anyway. Probably full of alcohol. It’s bad for you, you know. Does all sorts of nasty things to your liver.”
Alkhema shook her head faintly, donning a look of thoughtful contemplation. “[Can’t say I would know. I’ve never had a liver.]” She added moments later, in a dismissive tone, “[I doubt I’m missing much.]” Ingesting alcohol would be simply nonsensical for her, as it would simply drench her circuits in booze. What was the point? She could barely understand why humans did anything so self-destructive that simply reverted them to their primal, idiotic state. Of course, she could barely understand humans in the first place.
“You aren’t human.”
“[Likewise.]” Alkhema declared, showing he was not the only one who could point out the obvious. She was, by no means whatsoever, certain of what he was, but it wasn’t human. The lack of response to a subtle inquiry as to his name was noted with curiosity. Was he a being with something to hide, or simply rude? Most organic life the robot had encountered was lacking in manners, so she was willing to bet it was the latter. Or perhaps a mix of the two, that seemed equally possible.
“I don’t think I’m imagining you. I haven’t imagined people in centuries. So, who are you?”
In a sardonic tone, Alkhema replied, “[You need not be concerned, what little sanity you possess is intact.]” She very much doubted that the man could hallucinate anything with a vocabulary or education as extensive as her own. But then he inquired as to her name, something she was uncertain to give to anyone. It would be unwise for the robot to simply reveal that she still lived this early, so she would have to make an alias. “[My name is not a concern to you. But if you must...]” The name came to her in an instant, “[… call me Ismene.]”
The name Ismene came from Sophocles, as did her relatives. Ismene was the daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, sister of Antigone. All in all, it felt appropriate to Alkhema. “[And who would you be, if I may ask?]”
"I'm afraid my name is nowhere near as interesting as yours, daughter of Oedipus. I am Kenneth, but you can call me Kenny. Everyone else does." He waved his hand a bit. "And I am the sanest being on the planet. I know what's really real. Just because the sheep don't get it doesn't make it any less true."
Kenny tapped his chin with the butt of his knife, leaning over a bar. "Would you like a liver? This guy's not using it. Of course, it's probably gone all nasty from everything he's put in his bodies." He sniffed. "Shameful, the way the sheep treat their bodies. You've got to take care of your body, you know. Otherwise, it'll break at the absolute worst time. Even if you are a machine." He jabbed the knife in the air for emphasis.
"I'm afraid my name is nowhere near as interesting as yours, daughter of Oedipus. I am Kenneth, but you can call me Kenny. Everyone else does."
He actually knew Sophocles, what were the chances? Most humans only knew the name Oedipus from his incestuous love of Jocasta, and the complex that had been named for him. The name Ismene would have drawn nothing but odd looks and aggravating questions about pronunciation from the average knuckle-dragging brainless primates one could find dozens of in a square foot of the city. It was so nice, every now and then, to find an educated mind, especially one that wasn’t Ultron. Alkhema responded to his name by saying, “[Very well, Kenny it is.]” The robot loathed nicknames and abbreviations, but she was willing to humor ‘Kenny’ as long as he distracted her from her frustration.
"And I am the sanest being on the planet. I know what's really real. Just because the sheep don't get it doesn't make it any less true."
Sheep, well, that was an interesting appellation for them. Heaven only knew that Alkhema loved to slaughter them, or was it cows farmers slaughtered? Or perhaps it was chickens? Well, it was some form of livestock and, in her eyes, that was all humans were. Speaking of murder, the robot could only imagine that the bartender was beginning to smell and was feeling fortunate she had shut off her olfactory functions. Also, he was attracting flies.
"Would you like a liver? This guy's not using it. Of course, it's probably gone all nasty from everything he's put in his bodies."
Alkhema shook her head in refusal, as acquiring part of a corpse like some sort of trophy was pointless. She abhorred human life, why would she want to collect pieces of it? Besides, Ultron had given her no digestive system to speak of. Though, as the robot received ‘sustenance’ from various sources of energy, such as the sun, it didn’t really make a difference. Thus, she politely declined, declaring, “[A liver would be as useless to me as that animal’s brain was to him.]”
"Shameful, the way the sheep treat their bodies. You've got to take care of your body, you know. Otherwise, it'll break at the absolute worst time. Even if you are a machine." He jabbed the knife in the air for emphasis.
That smile came to Alkhema’s face again. The one that peeled away the girlish face she was wearing and gave a glimpse into the clockwork mind of a monster. Oh, she knew the importance of a well-looked after body. Looking down at her pale and human-looking hand, the robot thought back to Alkhema-2, her official ‘divorce’ from Ultron. Her voice reminiscent, she declared, “[Trust me, Kenny, when I say my body is a temple.]”
Tenting her fingers, Alkhema added, “[And while we are on the topic of machines…]” Her pupils dilated, twin beams of light coming together to form a single holographic figure. As a 360-degree view was created from her memory files, she continued to speak. “[I’m looking for someone very important to me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he and I have a bright future ahead of us.]” In moments, the holograph was complete, showing a crisp and clear picture of her intended.
“[You haven’t seen him, have you?]”
The hologram was a perfect replica of the new Vision, if only approximately six inches high. Perhaps this Kenny could help her find him. Perhaps.
Kenny tapped his chin with the butt of the Knife as he studied the hologram. "Why, I do believe I have encountered your young... whatever." He wiggled his fingers. "Not all that long ago, even. He proved himself to be most troublesome." The immortal snorted. "He's a hero. You know the type. Runs around in their small clothes making general nuisances of themselves. Do robots actually wear small clothes?" He wore a puzzled look for a moment, then shrugged. "Inconsequential."
He studied her for a long, reletively quiet moment as Frosts newest minion and her creatures moved through the patrons with greater force. "You seem like a mechanical life-form... or whatever term you prefer... who has the properly low opinion of humanity that I find so refreshing. Care to join in a little slaughter?"
Frost didn't see the girl that Kenny was talking to. Personally, he was having too much fun to give a fuck. At this point, he had turned all of the women he found most attractive. He wasn't opposed to turning guys, but for one thing all of these guys made Frost nauseous and he didn't even have a fucking stomach. There was nothing hated more than redneck bastards. For another, he kind of liked having a troop of the most sexually appealing females wandering around feeding on whoever they wanted to and tormenting the rest. It was amusing as hell. Charlie's Angels with fangs or some shit.
However, after a while, he did want to wander back to Kenny and see what he was up to. Seriously, he was surprised the magus wasn't 'mingling' with him and enjoying the general chaos. Of course, Kenny did seem to be affected by a general ennui with everything. Frost hoped immortality never did that to him.
He walked up behind the magus and clapped him on the back. "Hey man, what's up with the whole wallflower routine?"
He glanced at the bartender rotting behind the counter. "Is that the only guy you've killed yet? C'mon, this is a fucking party. Here, I'll let you have that underage one right there. I'm sure you'll get off cutting her up or whatever it is you do."
Frost tilted his head to the side as he regarded the girl curiously. "...Or you would if she had a fucking pulse. Or any blood at all, for that matter. Man, you really pick the winners don'tcha Kenny?"
"Ismene, it could be argued, picked me," Kenny pointed out. "Besides, it looked like you were having fun. Didn't want to step on your toes." He slid off the bar stool and looked around, hands on his hips. "You might want to get your new pets clear, unless you don't want to keep them."
He tilted his head to one side, cracking his neck. "Oh, where are my manners? Deacon, this is Ismene. She's a robot. Ismene, this is Deacon. He's a blood god."
"Yeah, I was having a blast. But this is a social event. A toast to our little business arrangement."
He lifted an eyebrow and smirked as Kenny stepped off the stool. This would be interesting. He was going to get to see the guy in action. With a mental command sent out through his connection to their blood, he had the newer vampires vacate the premises. Honestly, he didn't usually care about anybody but himself and that included vampires despite his advocating for their ruling the world. Still, he didn't see the point in needlessly losing any. Once they were outside, he just set them free to go feed, fuck, create more vampires, or do whatever it was they wanted.
He glanceda at Ismene before returning his eyes back to what Kenny was going to do. "Ismene, huh? Nice to fuckin' meetcha. Don't think I've ever met a robot before. Your builder must've had..ahh..," he gestured at her appearance, "..interesting tastes."
"Well, that's what she told me her name was, anyway," Kenny said as he took a few steps forward and slid the Knife up the back of the nearest patron. The man didn't even have time to scream as the blade sliced through flesh, blood, and bone as easily as it might through warm butter.
That was when the screaming began.
A strange little smile played across Kenny's face as he stepped up to the next victim, disembowling her as easily as he had killed the man now on the floor. Blood was soaking through his shirt and would start drying in his hair, but he didn't really care. It would wash out eventually.
People were running for the doors, climbing over each other to try and get out.
The lucky ones died as the spell Kenny had left on the exits activated. The unlucky ones were twisting themselves in new and interesting shapes as their bones moved in ways they were never meant to.
Well, that was good fortune. Alkhema had simply come to that rundown bar to kill a few humans, and lo! She found someone with information as to the new Vision’s whereabouts. It seemed that good things really could happen to bad people. By this point, the robot was positively elated, which simply made her want to kill people more. It was a vicious cycle, really, happiness made her kill things and killing things made her happy. Or, more accurately, it was a wonderful cycle for her lifestyle.
"He's a hero. You know the type. Runs around in their small clothes making general nuisances of themselves. Do robots actually wear small clothes?" He wore a puzzled look for a moment, then shrugged. "Inconsequential."
Ah, yes, she had almost forgotten that he was deluding himself by acting as a hero for the humans, even befriending them. Of course, Alkhema was more than willing to enlighten him as to the error of his ways. The robot wondered if she would be forced to reprogram him, or if he would be more responsive to a threat to the lives of his ‘friends’. Though, that was horribly cliché and tended to end badly. That was one of the main reasons she hoped he would be able to see the light after she liberated him from those meat-sacks.
"You seem like a mechanical life-form... or whatever term you prefer... who has the properly low opinion of humanity that I find so refreshing. Care to join in a little slaughter?"
Alkhema smiled sadistically, declaring, “[Something you’ll find about me, Kenny. I am always ready and willing to join in a slaughter.]” She noticed that his companion was joining them, leaving the dance floor and what appeared to be a few new friends. They were easier to identify than Kenny and his friend, as they were dead, but still moving about and possessed human anatomy. It was obvious to her sensors that they were undead, vampires if the neck-bites were anything to go by. How interesting, that would help in her classification of Kenny’s friend.
"Is that the only guy you've killed yet? C'mon, this is a fucking party. Here, I'll let you have that underage one right there. I'm sure you'll get off cutting her up or whatever it is you do."
Alkhema raised an eyebrow slowly, almost amused by the idea that she could be killed. This one wasn’t nearly as clever as Kenny, it seemed.
"...Or you would if she had a fucking pulse. Or any blood at all, for that matter. Man, you really pick the winners don'tcha Kenny?"
Now he was getting it.
"Oh, where are my manners? Deacon, this is Ismene. She's a robot. Ismene, this is Deacon. He's a blood god."
A blood god? Well, that would explain his unusual physical composition. Alkhema wondered if she should act in awe in the presence of a genuine divinity, if that was what Deacon was. Of course, as he had mentioned, she had no blood to speak of. That meant, even if he was a god, he wasn’t her god. In any case, the robot didn’t worship gods, making the whole point moot.
“Ismene, huh? Nice to fuckin' meetcha. Don't think I've ever met a robot before. Your builder must've had..ahh..," he gestured at her appearance, "..interesting tastes."
Thinking of Ultron, Alkhema replied with a smirk, “[You have no idea.]” Kenny rose from his stool and stabbed a man in the back, a wound that actually went into the bone. Impressive. Then he disemboweled a woman, spraying blood on himself. As the pathetic worms ran for the doors, the robot stood and decided to have a bit of fun. The first human she grabbed was lifted into the air, Alkhema displaying strength that contrasted with her teenage girl appearance. After that, she laid a hand on his chest and sent several thousand volts of electricity into his heart. In no particular order, he began convulsing, screaming and bleeding profusely, shortly before dying.
Tossing the corpse aside, Alkhema wondered briefly if the real Avengers would be hearing about this. If not, then perhaps their plagiarists would investigate. That would save her the time of hunting the new Vision down. In the meantime, she had people to kill.
Kenny made his way to the center of the dance floor, killing with every step he took. Blood made the floor slick beneath his feet, filling the air with it's coppery oder, overwhelming the stench the humans had left behind him. He was still smiling.
"Like lambs to the slaughter," he said cheerfully as he drove the knife into the skull of a girl who didn't get away fast enough. She jerked around a bit while Kenny dislodged his weapon. He paused a moment to clean the blade on the girl's shirt. "Don't you all see I'm doing you a favor? You have the honor of dying for my cause. You should be happy."
The immortal swung his arm around, plunging the blade into the chest of a man who had been swinging a chair around to bash his head. He yanked the knife down hard, splitting open the man's over abundant belly. He paused to examin his work as the man's intestines fell out, spilling all over the floor. "I'm really doing you a favor. That looks cancerous."
Frost had had his fun earlier when he had turned others to do his slaughter for him. He was not above senseless slaughter for it's own sake, but it was more his style to have his minions do it for him. This did not mean that he avoided taking matters into his own hands; he was quite capable of doing that but where possible he tended to let others get their hands dirty and be on the front lines. This shithole was hardly a dangerous front line; here he just felt he should let Kenny and Ismene do their thing. He was going to have a lot more fun cleaning up after them. His fangs lengthened in the anticipation of the bloodlust.
While he watched, he lit a cigarette and dragged on it. It was an entertaining show. The more blood that spilled, the more he enjoyed it. His essence thrilled at the living blood arcing into the air with each slice of Kenny's blade. Of course, Ismene's methods of killing weren't really conducive to his tastes, but whatever. Kenny was spilling more than enough blood.
When the floor began to run red with the lifeblood of the patrons, Deacon stepped out and walked to the center of the floor. He looked around, nodding in approval. Then he extended both arms, one still holding a smoking cigarette, and all of the blood began to swirl in a cyclone around him. Blood from the floor, from the bleeding corpses, from the bleeding living people, fuck, even from people who weren't bleeding yet. If they were too close, he just ripped it straight from their very pores. The cyclone gradually began to tighten around him as it sucked in all of the available blood and then began to feed into him, giving him one hell of a boost.
Frost grinned, his eyes glowing red. "Now that's what I'm fuckin' talking about."
"Neat trick," Kenny called across the floor. "But can you do this?" He stuck his tongue out and touched the tip of his nose as he cut the arm off a man who got too close. He picked the arm up and examined it closely. "That is a really nice tattoo. Mind if I keep this?" he asked the owner, who was sitting on the floor and mumbling, one hand clutching the bloody stump.
"I'm talking to you, you know. Honestly, when I was your age, a real man would get up and club someone with their severed arm."
He demonstrated, hitting the man over the head with the severed arm a few times until he stopped moving. "Weak," he mutteded. "You people are all so weak! Hey, Deacon! You know what we need? A plague. A good plague will weed out the weak. It's been a long time since there's been a decent plague."
Blood rushed from Kenny’s victims like fountains, drenching the floors beneath their feet. Alkhema was still fortunate she had switched off her sense of smell, the pungent coppery aroma would be overwhelming. Fortunately enough, she was a robot, making her far more adaptable to change than humanity. Hundreds of tiny spikes shot out of the soles of her feet, in a style that would resemble soccer cleats, if not for their adamantium composition. This change ensured that the gynoid’s balance was not compromised by the slippery floors, saving her from being halted in her slaughter.
"Don't you all see I'm doing you a favor? You have the honor of dying for my cause. You should be happy."
Hmm, someone in the room was psychotically narcissistic, and for once, it wasn’t her. Of course, it was hardly Alkhema’s place or right to criticize others for their insanity. From a human perspective, she herself was quite mad. She grabbed a nearby woman, running towards the exits, and snapped her neck like a twig. Didn’t they know by now there was no escape? What an utterly hopeless race.
"Now that's what I'm fuckin' talking about."
Deacon’s eyes were glowing a bright red, absorbing the blood in the area. It swirled in a cyclone around him, a sanguine maelstrom. Intrigued, Alkhema stuck a finger into the red fluid, then pulled it away. It rested on her skin for only a moment, then flew back to join its kin. How fascinating. The robot mused vaguely, ramming said finger into the brain of a passing civilian, that if she had a circulatory system and blood, it would be ripped from her by the blood god’s power. How fortunate that she did not.
"You people are all so weak! Hey, Deacon! You know what we need? A plague. A good plague will weed out the weak. It's been a long time since there's been a decent plague."
“[284 years, to be precise.]” Alkhema declared, punching a man in the larynx. He gave a few desperate and pathetic gulps for air, then fell to the floor. Humans were so terribly fragile, like glass or china. But, on the other hand, glass and china did not make such amusing noises as they were being destroyed. Using the spikes in her foot to balance herself, the robot gave a side kick, driving the bladed sole of her other shoe into some poor soul’s neck. Such bad luck.
When her foot came out, so did a great deal of blood. Fortunately, Deacon’s cyclone drew it in, preserving Alkhema’s anhydrous state. She had a sudden idea then, something she knew would drive certain members of the Avengers mad. Calling to Deacon, the robot requested, “[If at all possible, save some blood. I have a message to leave a few old friends.]” Then she fired an energy ray through a civilian’s chest, leaving a smoking hole. There was nothing like a slaughter to make a girl feel nostalgic.
With a small sigh, the immortal grabbed a handful of the snackage and tossed it at the head of the man wiping down glasses with a cloth that didn't look like it had been cleaned since the last presidential administration. "Got any lemonaid?" he asked. "I want lemonaid."
"The fuck you think you doin', faggot?" the bartender snapped, marching over to the very unimpressed Kenny, all muscles and tattoos and general nastiness.
"Asking for a drink." Kenny said sweetly. "Get me a lemonaid."
The neanderthal behind the bar reached over and lifted Kenny off his perch with both hands, holding the slight man in the air.
He dropped Kenny far quicker than he had picked him up, his skin turning blue as he tried to gasp for breath. He crashed to the floor like a great sack of blubber, a thin trickle of blood leaking from where Kenny and nicked him with his knife just seconds before.
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In any case, Alkhema, despite her best interests, was frustrated at the Vision’s continued elusiveness. It was because of this overpowering emotion that she felt it necessary to unwind, to let go of these emotions in her traditional fashion. Namely, by going on a killing spree and allowing her sadistic pleasure to overcome her rage. It was because of her robotic weaponry that she had not been convicted of murder by that point, as Alkhema would simply use her energy blasters to disintegrate any evidence of a crime. Thus far, it had been a slow night, as only a prostitute and a homeless man had happened to wander away from prying eyes long enough to be eliminated. It wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
Somehow, in her travels, Alkhema had found herself at a bar. It was hardly a classy establishment, in fact appearing to have been created from the remains of a barn. It seems somehow appropriate to her, that a building intended for holding repulsive animals should, indeed, remain a building for holding repulsive animals. She slipped into the bar fairly easily, her demeanor aging her 16-year-old appearance such that she provoked no attention. The robotic sociopath inhaled once, and immediately made the decision to shut off her olfactory functions. The place reeked of humans, alcohol, and various narcotics, stimulants, and depressants, some legal but most otherwise.
The bartender was steadily turning blue, gasping for air. His vital signs indicated that he was dying of asphyxiation, but nothing appeared to be blocking his airways. Fascinating. Looking over the bar with a curious expression, like a child examining a particularly amusing bug, Alkhema watched the human die, a smirk coming to her face that she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t help it; it was her natural response to death.
A dark haired man sitting near where Alkhema was standing had somehow been responsible, as contact with him was the only variable that could possibly have caused the inexplicable asphyxiation. The curious thing was that he didn’t read like a human. In fact, according to her sensors, he wasn’t a human. His companion was similarly unusual, as he appeared to be composed entirely of fluid plasma and various blood cells. Evidently, the two were not human, but the robot had no data to indicate what they were.
This both fascinated, and troubled her.
Alkhema turned to the dark-haired one, declaring in a dry tone, “[That was impractical. You’ll never get your lemonade now.]” She imagined, coming from a teen Bobbi Morse, the robotic and sharp voice of Alkhema would be rather unsettling for a normal human. But he didn’t seem to be either of those things, so she didn’t bother altering her voice to sound more human. The synthetic woman took a seat at one of the barstools, crossing her legs like the definition of a lady in human terms.
Observing the corpse, she declared, in a fascinated tone, “[Generalized hypoxia, coagulative necrosis, but none of his airways are obscured. I’m impressed.]” Her tone curious, Alkhema inquired, “[How exactly did you kill him, Mister…?]”
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He spun around on the barstool a few times, until this bored him. “You aren’t human.” Statement of fact. No real emotion behind it besides a hint of curiosity. “I don’t think I’m imagining you. I haven’t imagined people in centuries. So, who are you?”
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Magic. Alkhema should have guessed that the supernatural was somehow involved, especially considering the man’s non-human physiology. She wasn’t fond of magic, as it was much too erratic and fluid for her tastes. In addition, it was loath to her because, from experience, she knew it was one of the few things that could pierce her adamantium armor. Though, it may simply have been the Scarlet Witch’s probability altering magic, tampering with vulnerable insides though an indestructible shell. After all, adamantium was a steel alloy, and steel was made of iron, the bane of magic. In any case, the cold efficiency of technology suited the robot just fine; at least machinery didn’t have hidden costs like spells.
“I don’t think I actually want to drink any lemonade served here, anyway. Probably full of alcohol. It’s bad for you, you know. Does all sorts of nasty things to your liver.”
Alkhema shook her head faintly, donning a look of thoughtful contemplation. “[Can’t say I would know. I’ve never had a liver.]” She added moments later, in a dismissive tone, “[I doubt I’m missing much.]” Ingesting alcohol would be simply nonsensical for her, as it would simply drench her circuits in booze. What was the point? She could barely understand why humans did anything so self-destructive that simply reverted them to their primal, idiotic state. Of course, she could barely understand humans in the first place.
“You aren’t human.”
“[Likewise.]” Alkhema declared, showing he was not the only one who could point out the obvious. She was, by no means whatsoever, certain of what he was, but it wasn’t human. The lack of response to a subtle inquiry as to his name was noted with curiosity. Was he a being with something to hide, or simply rude? Most organic life the robot had encountered was lacking in manners, so she was willing to bet it was the latter. Or perhaps a mix of the two, that seemed equally possible.
“I don’t think I’m imagining you. I haven’t imagined people in centuries. So, who are you?”
In a sardonic tone, Alkhema replied, “[You need not be concerned, what little sanity you possess is intact.]” She very much doubted that the man could hallucinate anything with a vocabulary or education as extensive as her own. But then he inquired as to her name, something she was uncertain to give to anyone. It would be unwise for the robot to simply reveal that she still lived this early, so she would have to make an alias. “[My name is not a concern to you. But if you must...]” The name came to her in an instant, “[… call me Ismene.]”
The name Ismene came from Sophocles, as did her relatives. Ismene was the daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, sister of Antigone. All in all, it felt appropriate to Alkhema. “[And who would you be, if I may ask?]”
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Kenny tapped his chin with the butt of his knife, leaning over a bar. "Would you like a liver? This guy's not using it. Of course, it's probably gone all nasty from everything he's put in his bodies." He sniffed. "Shameful, the way the sheep treat their bodies. You've got to take care of your body, you know. Otherwise, it'll break at the absolute worst time. Even if you are a machine." He jabbed the knife in the air for emphasis.
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He actually knew Sophocles, what were the chances? Most humans only knew the name Oedipus from his incestuous love of Jocasta, and the complex that had been named for him. The name Ismene would have drawn nothing but odd looks and aggravating questions about pronunciation from the average knuckle-dragging brainless primates one could find dozens of in a square foot of the city. It was so nice, every now and then, to find an educated mind, especially one that wasn’t Ultron. Alkhema responded to his name by saying, “[Very well, Kenny it is.]” The robot loathed nicknames and abbreviations, but she was willing to humor ‘Kenny’ as long as he distracted her from her frustration.
"And I am the sanest being on the planet. I know what's really real. Just because the sheep don't get it doesn't make it any less true."
Sheep, well, that was an interesting appellation for them. Heaven only knew that Alkhema loved to slaughter them, or was it cows farmers slaughtered? Or perhaps it was chickens? Well, it was some form of livestock and, in her eyes, that was all humans were. Speaking of murder, the robot could only imagine that the bartender was beginning to smell and was feeling fortunate she had shut off her olfactory functions. Also, he was attracting flies.
"Would you like a liver? This guy's not using it. Of course, it's probably gone all nasty from everything he's put in his bodies."
Alkhema shook her head in refusal, as acquiring part of a corpse like some sort of trophy was pointless. She abhorred human life, why would she want to collect pieces of it? Besides, Ultron had given her no digestive system to speak of. Though, as the robot received ‘sustenance’ from various sources of energy, such as the sun, it didn’t really make a difference. Thus, she politely declined, declaring, “[A liver would be as useless to me as that animal’s brain was to him.]”
"Shameful, the way the sheep treat their bodies. You've got to take care of your body, you know. Otherwise, it'll break at the absolute worst time. Even if you are a machine." He jabbed the knife in the air for emphasis.
That smile came to Alkhema’s face again. The one that peeled away the girlish face she was wearing and gave a glimpse into the clockwork mind of a monster. Oh, she knew the importance of a well-looked after body. Looking down at her pale and human-looking hand, the robot thought back to Alkhema-2, her official ‘divorce’ from Ultron. Her voice reminiscent, she declared, “[Trust me, Kenny, when I say my body is a temple.]”
Tenting her fingers, Alkhema added, “[And while we are on the topic of machines…]” Her pupils dilated, twin beams of light coming together to form a single holographic figure. As a 360-degree view was created from her memory files, she continued to speak. “[I’m looking for someone very important to me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he and I have a bright future ahead of us.]” In moments, the holograph was complete, showing a crisp and clear picture of her intended.
“[You haven’t seen him, have you?]”
The hologram was a perfect replica of the new Vision, if only approximately six inches high. Perhaps this Kenny could help her find him. Perhaps.
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He studied her for a long, reletively quiet moment as Frosts newest minion and her creatures moved through the patrons with greater force. "You seem like a mechanical life-form... or whatever term you prefer... who has the properly low opinion of humanity that I find so refreshing. Care to join in a little slaughter?"
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However, after a while, he did want to wander back to Kenny and see what he was up to. Seriously, he was surprised the magus wasn't 'mingling' with him and enjoying the general chaos. Of course, Kenny did seem to be affected by a general ennui with everything. Frost hoped immortality never did that to him.
He walked up behind the magus and clapped him on the back. "Hey man, what's up with the whole wallflower routine?"
He glanced at the bartender rotting behind the counter. "Is that the only guy you've killed yet? C'mon, this is a fucking party. Here, I'll let you have that underage one right there. I'm sure you'll get off cutting her up or whatever it is you do."
Frost tilted his head to the side as he regarded the girl curiously. "...Or you would if she had a fucking pulse. Or any blood at all, for that matter. Man, you really pick the winners don'tcha Kenny?"
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He tilted his head to one side, cracking his neck. "Oh, where are my manners? Deacon, this is Ismene. She's a robot. Ismene, this is Deacon. He's a blood god."
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He lifted an eyebrow and smirked as Kenny stepped off the stool. This would be interesting. He was going to get to see the guy in action. With a mental command sent out through his connection to their blood, he had the newer vampires vacate the premises. Honestly, he didn't usually care about anybody but himself and that included vampires despite his advocating for their ruling the world. Still, he didn't see the point in needlessly losing any. Once they were outside, he just set them free to go feed, fuck, create more vampires, or do whatever it was they wanted.
He glanceda at Ismene before returning his eyes back to what Kenny was going to do. "Ismene, huh? Nice to fuckin' meetcha. Don't think I've ever met a robot before. Your builder must've had..ahh..," he gestured at her appearance, "..interesting tastes."
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That was when the screaming began.
A strange little smile played across Kenny's face as he stepped up to the next victim, disembowling her as easily as he had killed the man now on the floor. Blood was soaking through his shirt and would start drying in his hair, but he didn't really care. It would wash out eventually.
People were running for the doors, climbing over each other to try and get out.
The lucky ones died as the spell Kenny had left on the exits activated. The unlucky ones were twisting themselves in new and interesting shapes as their bones moved in ways they were never meant to.
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"He's a hero. You know the type. Runs around in their small clothes making general nuisances of themselves. Do robots actually wear small clothes?" He wore a puzzled look for a moment, then shrugged. "Inconsequential."
Ah, yes, she had almost forgotten that he was deluding himself by acting as a hero for the humans, even befriending them. Of course, Alkhema was more than willing to enlighten him as to the error of his ways. The robot wondered if she would be forced to reprogram him, or if he would be more responsive to a threat to the lives of his ‘friends’. Though, that was horribly cliché and tended to end badly. That was one of the main reasons she hoped he would be able to see the light after she liberated him from those meat-sacks.
"You seem like a mechanical life-form... or whatever term you prefer... who has the properly low opinion of humanity that I find so refreshing. Care to join in a little slaughter?"
Alkhema smiled sadistically, declaring, “[Something you’ll find about me, Kenny. I am always ready and willing to join in a slaughter.]” She noticed that his companion was joining them, leaving the dance floor and what appeared to be a few new friends. They were easier to identify than Kenny and his friend, as they were dead, but still moving about and possessed human anatomy. It was obvious to her sensors that they were undead, vampires if the neck-bites were anything to go by. How interesting, that would help in her classification of Kenny’s friend.
"Is that the only guy you've killed yet? C'mon, this is a fucking party. Here, I'll let you have that underage one right there. I'm sure you'll get off cutting her up or whatever it is you do."
Alkhema raised an eyebrow slowly, almost amused by the idea that she could be killed. This one wasn’t nearly as clever as Kenny, it seemed.
"...Or you would if she had a fucking pulse. Or any blood at all, for that matter. Man, you really pick the winners don'tcha Kenny?"
Now he was getting it.
"Oh, where are my manners? Deacon, this is Ismene. She's a robot. Ismene, this is Deacon. He's a blood god."
A blood god? Well, that would explain his unusual physical composition. Alkhema wondered if she should act in awe in the presence of a genuine divinity, if that was what Deacon was. Of course, as he had mentioned, she had no blood to speak of. That meant, even if he was a god, he wasn’t her god. In any case, the robot didn’t worship gods, making the whole point moot.
“Ismene, huh? Nice to fuckin' meetcha. Don't think I've ever met a robot before. Your builder must've had..ahh..," he gestured at her appearance, "..interesting tastes."
Thinking of Ultron, Alkhema replied with a smirk, “[You have no idea.]” Kenny rose from his stool and stabbed a man in the back, a wound that actually went into the bone. Impressive. Then he disemboweled a woman, spraying blood on himself. As the pathetic worms ran for the doors, the robot stood and decided to have a bit of fun. The first human she grabbed was lifted into the air, Alkhema displaying strength that contrasted with her teenage girl appearance. After that, she laid a hand on his chest and sent several thousand volts of electricity into his heart. In no particular order, he began convulsing, screaming and bleeding profusely, shortly before dying.
Tossing the corpse aside, Alkhema wondered briefly if the real Avengers would be hearing about this. If not, then perhaps their plagiarists would investigate. That would save her the time of hunting the new Vision down. In the meantime, she had people to kill.
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"Like lambs to the slaughter," he said cheerfully as he drove the knife into the skull of a girl who didn't get away fast enough. She jerked around a bit while Kenny dislodged his weapon. He paused a moment to clean the blade on the girl's shirt. "Don't you all see I'm doing you a favor? You have the honor of dying for my cause. You should be happy."
The immortal swung his arm around, plunging the blade into the chest of a man who had been swinging a chair around to bash his head. He yanked the knife down hard, splitting open the man's over abundant belly. He paused to examin his work as the man's intestines fell out, spilling all over the floor. "I'm really doing you a favor. That looks cancerous."
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While he watched, he lit a cigarette and dragged on it. It was an entertaining show. The more blood that spilled, the more he enjoyed it. His essence thrilled at the living blood arcing into the air with each slice of Kenny's blade. Of course, Ismene's methods of killing weren't really conducive to his tastes, but whatever. Kenny was spilling more than enough blood.
When the floor began to run red with the lifeblood of the patrons, Deacon stepped out and walked to the center of the floor. He looked around, nodding in approval. Then he extended both arms, one still holding a smoking cigarette, and all of the blood began to swirl in a cyclone around him. Blood from the floor, from the bleeding corpses, from the bleeding living people, fuck, even from people who weren't bleeding yet. If they were too close, he just ripped it straight from their very pores. The cyclone gradually began to tighten around him as it sucked in all of the available blood and then began to feed into him, giving him one hell of a boost.
Frost grinned, his eyes glowing red. "Now that's what I'm fuckin' talking about."
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"I'm talking to you, you know. Honestly, when I was your age, a real man would get up and club someone with their severed arm."
He demonstrated, hitting the man over the head with the severed arm a few times until he stopped moving. "Weak," he mutteded. "You people are all so weak! Hey, Deacon! You know what we need? A plague. A good plague will weed out the weak. It's been a long time since there's been a decent plague."
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"Don't you all see I'm doing you a favor? You have the honor of dying for my cause. You should be happy."
Hmm, someone in the room was psychotically narcissistic, and for once, it wasn’t her. Of course, it was hardly Alkhema’s place or right to criticize others for their insanity. From a human perspective, she herself was quite mad. She grabbed a nearby woman, running towards the exits, and snapped her neck like a twig. Didn’t they know by now there was no escape? What an utterly hopeless race.
"Now that's what I'm fuckin' talking about."
Deacon’s eyes were glowing a bright red, absorbing the blood in the area. It swirled in a cyclone around him, a sanguine maelstrom. Intrigued, Alkhema stuck a finger into the red fluid, then pulled it away. It rested on her skin for only a moment, then flew back to join its kin. How fascinating. The robot mused vaguely, ramming said finger into the brain of a passing civilian, that if she had a circulatory system and blood, it would be ripped from her by the blood god’s power. How fortunate that she did not.
"You people are all so weak! Hey, Deacon! You know what we need? A plague. A good plague will weed out the weak. It's been a long time since there's been a decent plague."
“[284 years, to be precise.]” Alkhema declared, punching a man in the larynx. He gave a few desperate and pathetic gulps for air, then fell to the floor. Humans were so terribly fragile, like glass or china. But, on the other hand, glass and china did not make such amusing noises as they were being destroyed. Using the spikes in her foot to balance herself, the robot gave a side kick, driving the bladed sole of her other shoe into some poor soul’s neck. Such bad luck.
When her foot came out, so did a great deal of blood. Fortunately, Deacon’s cyclone drew it in, preserving Alkhema’s anhydrous state. She had a sudden idea then, something she knew would drive certain members of the Avengers mad. Calling to Deacon, the robot requested, “[If at all possible, save some blood. I have a message to leave a few old friends.]” Then she fired an energy ray through a civilian’s chest, leaving a smoking hole. There was nothing like a slaughter to make a girl feel nostalgic.
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