[THREAD] HEAVEN for the weather, HELL for the company

[striginae]

Who: Kengamine Nagi [ striginae ] & OPEN
Where: Elysium ; junction between residential and shopping districts
When: Mid-evening
Summary: The world's not quite fair, is it? Not fair for anyone -- not for Owl, broken, beaten, insane -- and not fair for you, either, any of you in his way.
Rating: R for violence
Other: Nagi is generally going through the

Comments

[cooperate]

A call came in over the police radio. Ivan wasn't technically on duty, which was why he was even in Elysium instead of Terra, but he couldn't ignore something like that when it was only a few blocks away. The promise of witnessing so much carnage? The opportunity to come face-to-face with the perpetrator? He couldn't pass it up

[striginae]

The air was thick with a medley of scents -- the sharp sting of blood, the bitter waft of bile, the faint sour aftertaste of brain fluid -- a pain to breathe, sickening, suffocating. But none of this mattered, not to Nagi -- pushed beyond all psychological limits, the only thing that occupied his mind was the overwhelming hatred that drove him onward

[cooperate]

The heavy smell of blood drew a sigh from his lips, a sound of longing. He found all of this so very nostalgic. Heavy boots trampled entrails as he walked forward. Walked, and did not run, because he wasn't in a hurry and because one did not run forward in a man-to-man duel. And yes, it was a man and not a monster. A man even smaller than Ivan, although the Russian wouldn't underestimate him just because of size.

A glance at the bodies strewn around told him mostly what kind of weapons he would be facing. Bombs of some kind. A long-range weapon at least. He tossed the pipe aside, trading for the AK. He could see the orbs hovering in the air and guessed that they were the weapon he was expecting. As a test, his first move was to lift the gun and fire, not at the man but at one of the "bombs".

[striginae]

Nagi merely waited, as the other drew close, eyes narrowed in a scrutinizing glare behind the translucent lenses of the mask. Somewhere past the irrational hatred clouding his mind (kill him, kill him, what's he done to deserve this life that he most likely doesn't even appreciate?), he was quite aware of the potential danger this figure presented, with all those firearms.

But this fragment of rational thought dissipated quickly, very quickly, when the gun was drawn, and a shot fired, setting off one of the orbs of blood. The explosion tore through the air, tearing off a nearby street sign and sending it clattering to the blood-stained pavement. And Nagi stepped forward, stance lowered, limbs tensed, more blood swirling around him -- a rasping breath escaping his lips, as he approached the other.

[bringingjustice]

Harlock patted the side of the ARCADIA. She had done her job the other night with the fires. And for once hadn't fired anything that would get some police officers accidentally showered with friendly fire. It would take some time to get her back to how she was and he had been sluggish about it, for once. He had been too tired to go for his victory drink, been too tired the other night to do more than sleep in the cockpit of his ship

[striginae]

Too many people, too much noise, what would it take to silence it? The lingering flourish of drugs in his veins amplified every scream, every shout, every wet slap of organs hitting the ground, and he let out a hissing gasp, straightening up from where he'd torn into some young woman's side -- coils of intestines looped about his wrist, the dripping liver held tight in his one hand.

And then, a voice. Set apart from the fading noises of chaos. A half-turn, and Nagi glared over his shoulder at this new figure. Caped. Armed. Not set to attack, but not defenseless, either. Blood dripped from the edges of his mask, painting his shoulders and collar a murky red as he turned to face this man, whoever it was.

There was the wet squelch of viscera underfoot when he took a half-step forward, shoulders hunched, fingers gripping tight into the organ still in hand. Clearly ready to attack the moment he was provoked -- or even without any reason. "Why...?"It was a quiet echo of the man's question, in a voice that was barely audible. Even with his

[bringingjustice]

"So, I take it that you have no reason." His tone was quiet, thoughtful. "That's all I can derive if you don't give me an answer." Already he was clicking the safety off of his firearm, it really did seem like there wouldn't be any way to settle this except through violence. "I suppose that if that's your answer

[dreaminginhues]

Quatre was on his way home from school, having walked today. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder, his briefcase held in his good hand. He was humming to himself, glad that it was a Friday. He was really looking forward to the weekend. It would be nice to get some of his backdated work done.

The blonde stopped and looked around. His eyes widened and he stood frozen, the panic swelling up in him. Dead bodies, blood.... He swallowed the lump in his throat. 'Run!', his mind yelled at him, 'Run! Get out! You're in danger!' Every instinct told him to run and get away. Then... Why couldn't he?

"God help us..."

[striginae]

Movement. Barely visible out of the corner of his vision, past the streaks of red that were smeared over his mask, obscuring sections of his vision. Who now? (He hadn't been keeping track, but if he had, he would have lost count by now -- the number of people he'd murdered like this.)

A half-turn, a blank glare thrown over his shoulder, eyes narrowed to a scrutinizing leer behind the mask. And blood, decorating the air in tendrils and swirls, forming bristling orbs of brilliant colors that circled him at a slowly-widening radius.

And somewhere at the very, very back of his mind, the though may have existed -- it's a child, don't do this. Pity, that tiny fragment of reasoning was so quickly buried under the flood of bitter hatred that dominated his mind. Turning, he faced this newcomer. Blood and fouler things still dripping from his hand.

[dreaminginhues]

Quatre just stared, aqua eyes wide and full of fear. He clutched his briefcase tightly in one hand, entire body shaking with fear. 'Move! Move! Damn it run!' he yelled at himself.

As if by some miracle, Quatre began to back up slowly. Maybe if he didn't make any sudden movements... Yeah, probably should have taken his car today.

[ooc: Okay, restrictions on what Nagi can do to Q here. No killing, no removing limbs or eyes or vital organs. Beating to hell and breaking bones, aokay.]

[striginae]

[ ooc ; mmmmmmMMMMmmmbonecrushing ]

'Didn't make any sudden movements'? No, no -- it was already too late for that. Because, because -- this hatred that Nagi was driven by, surviving off of was directed at anyone within his vision. Everything.

A swipe of his one hand through the air, and several orbs shot at the boy, shattering the ground at his feet.

[anachronize]

Ever since the new year's celebration had gone horribly awry, Grell had been granted full, unrestricted access to both his Death Scythe and the city of NeoGenesis. He'd been warned against abusing both, but William had said nothing about having a little fun, had he? Grell grinned as he leapt from rooftop to Elysian rooftop, scythe in hand, exhilarated by the feeling of the wind in his flowing red hair. Freedom. He hadn't been given free reign like this in so long he'd almost begun to forget what it was like.

Piercing screams broke Grell's reverie as he leapt another building - he came to a graceful halt at the next rooftop and peered down at the street below to observe the scene unfolding. Blood. So much pooling, splattered, brilliant, beautiful red blood, highlighting the pristine streets of NeoGenesis' upper crust - it was a magnificent sight, like a fine painting in progress. Grell flipped a stray lock of crimson hair over his shoulder and chuckled. "Gorgeous," he murmured, breathless, and nimbly leapt down to a lower

[striginae]

This carnage, this violence, this feral brutality -- it was, in a way, a vicious cycle. Too many screams that tore through his thoughts and fueled his hatred, aggravating the last lingering traces of drugs that infected his veins -- and the murders he committed, wracked by these shrieks, only brought on more horror, more blood, and endless scenario that he wanted to do away with completely. (Kill everyone here. Show no mercy, because they didn't get any. What makes you so much better than them, for you all to have survived this far?)

And then, a sudden movement, out of the corner of his vision -- but not at ground level. Too large to be an animal, and far too fast. Still kneeling on the ground over a desecrated corpse that he'd torn apart in blind rage, Nagi whirled around to face the figure on the roof, streaks of blood immediately starting to circle him. Forming circles of red. Limbs tensed, nerves on end, eyes narrowed behind the mask into a glare, lips curved back in the beginnings of a snarl. (Who are you?)

[anachronize]

Grell grinned wider at the bloodbath on the street below - whoever was responsible for this spectacle was vicious, and that was something Grell found absolutely delightful. The terrified screams of Elysium's denizens rang through the air like a symphony, all pain and panic. Grell couldn't have asked for a more perfect start to the new year.

Oh, and the conductor, the maestro of this massacre - it appeared he'd taken notice of Grell. The shinigami grinned anew and leapt down another rooftop level to approach the master at work and offer his accolades.

"Darling!" The clear lilt of his voice sliced easily through the cacophony of screams. "I've been watching you! You're quite the artist here, aren't you? Color me impressed."

[striginae]

Words, spoken in a crooning voice that grated against his nerves. Though Nagi's expression changed little behind the mask, the orbs of blood circling him bristled, tendrils of blood spiking and writing -- clearly hungry for more violence.

And he continued to watch this other figure drawing near. Knowing, instinctively, that this was different. Something odd, something strange -- something that was fundamentally off.

Several half-dead figures crawled at his feet, writhing in their last moments, but not that it mattered. A low hiss -- then a swipe of the hand through the air. And a barrage of bloody orbs went streaking through the air, aiming to bring down this newcomer.

[cruxanathema]

There could have been fuckloads of reasons why Mello was all in the crowd of the higher-ups. Lawyer drug-dealers always send the best stuff and it was safer then going in Abyss, of course the blonde had no objections to actually go down there, but when a riot that was in Terra considered mostly of those in Abyss he didn’t want to see how the shithole was doing down below. There was a constant burn of chemical-fire in his veins as he wandered along the streets; and then people started to scream, and then limbs were all dismembered, and then blue optics flickered to see Nagi in an Owl mask

[striginae]

Another gunshot, from behind, and Nagi froze in place for a moment. (Always firearms. It only made sense, perhaps, that people would cling to the only method of defense they knew -- fight for their survival using means that were unnatural. For what purpose?) But the scream that followed shortly after broke through his thoughts -- an indicator that the gunshot had not been aimed at him, but at another

[cruxanathema]

Wounded freak-shows and the unwilling dismembered nudged against the blonde violently and the only reaction Mello could give in return was a drag-induced swagger. A hand ran through damp sweat-decked bangs and he tucked them lazily behind his ear, his whole anatomy wavers with the drugs that were injected into his bloodstream and his own common sense was tagging on the back of his skull, telling him to fuck off, but Mello rebelled against it and only took a few steps forward with a shrug and gun in hand.

"Right place at the right time." He slurred. Mello was no hero; he wasn’t going to save all these people who slipped on ropes of innards and entrails like unintelligent dickheads. He chuckled at the sight, and laughed at the fact that it was Nagi that conjured that fear, simply because it was Nagi. And that violence, in his delirium state, provoked the blonde to taunt.

"So what now?" Came the blonde’s inquiry. "Going to blow me to hell? Fuck, I probably even deserve it." With each word came another step towards Nagi, and when he was

[striginae]

No reaction, at first, and Nagi seemed to take in the drawled challenge impassively, expression blank past the mask. But beneath that cold facade, his thoughts roiled, clashing, tearing at each other. (Kill him, kill him, what appreciation does he have for life? But somewhere, deep at the back of his mind, beneath the bitter hatred, there was the faintest trace of hesitation. One that was too-quickly overwhelmed by the rage that ran rampant through his system