Walk The Streets Like A Loaded Gun | Kieran + Rainyx
Another shot while he waits for the reply, fingers curled tightly around the glass. It almost looks like he belongs there, what with the casual stance he takes, one arm on the counter, the other resting against it. There’s an irritating buzz in the back of his head, but he’s used to that, so it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s always there. A constant reminder of who controls him. All they have to do is flip a switch and he turns into a robot, quick and deft and not even a little hesitance in their actions. Do the even realize that he does actually exist outside their hemisphere? At least, he had once. A very long time ago, but he had. Before all the tests and scars, specifically that one at the back of his neck.
He lifts a hand and touches it gingerly at the thought, wincing as an electric current runs through his fingertips and up his arm. Three seconds have passed. Shit, he’s off time. He waits another three for good measure, because he’s compulsive about those things - everything on the three. Sign of a psychopath, therapists say. If only they knew the half of it. He tilts his head back, twists the glass so it’s upside down, and sets it down with a clink. Twenty-eight to ten. He’s still counting. With a sigh, he moves to his feet, and maybe he should put a little wobble into it considering how much he’s had, but he doesn’t care enough to.
Fingers shift into the man’s pocket, take out the wallet, and he removes a fifty with ease. Then he drops it on the table and returns to his seat. Probably the last time the man would think he could drink someone under the table simply because he outweighed them by a hundred pounds. Kieran glances absently at the behemoth of a man and away. Then he sighs and flips hiss glass, fills it up, eyes flicking to the clock. Tick, tick, tick, lift, tilt.
"At least it’s something." He answers, expression distasteful as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sets his glass down. That would be the last of it. He didn’t think getting drunk was in the equation. That was what was fucked about the enhancements. Couldn’t even escape his reality long enough to survive it. Eyes flicker to his company at the statement, a brow lifting, something close to amusement glinting in his eyes. "Yeah, we’ve all been there."
Which is true enough. There’s a select few who’ve never tasted poverty, but it’s a fairly widespread thing in most places now. Simply a fact of life. At the offered hand, Kieran is silent for a moment, glancing momentarily at the extended appendage and then up to the man’s face. He grins, though it’s closer to the sharp edge of a blade then a true smile. “I’m a germaphobe. Sorry.” And if there isn’t something unapologetic and blatantly sarcastic in his voice.
Still, in a show of good faith - yeah, he’d call it that - he gave the man his name. “Kieran.” Of course, not the full one. Most people would recognize it. “Or whatever variation or insult that you’d like, I don’t give a fuck.” It’s a good-natured statement, at least, and that speaks for itself.
The wince when he touches the back of his neck. Noted. Chayton may be the calculating one of their odd little trio, but he taught Rainyx all he knows, so the elder of the Rexon siblings is quite good on his own. Rainyx is only five feet and nine inches tall, not even one-hundred-eighty pounds in weight, but with what his uncle gave him in knowledge, he makes up for his slight stature. It’s a curse, really, being so small, especially growing up. He was a late bloomer, as they say, which only made it all that much easier for Tove to beat him senseless. Is he glad his father’s dead? You can bet your ass he is. His only twisted regret is that he wasn’t the one to take his life. He’s stable on the stool when he stands. Noted. Rainyx’s mind is constantly working, so much so that he frequently finds it hard to sleep. When he finally does drift off, the memories jolt him awake, often with a pained sound that brings his sister running to his side. They may have Bonnie and Clyde’s DNA, but their relationship hasn’t changed. When they lie side by side in bed, there’s nothing there except for their sibling bond. Green eyes tick down to his own hand at the man’s reply, fingers curling into his palm as his hand lowers back to the bar while his lips come together in their lopsided manner, corners upturned as he nods his head once. The other’s tone isn’t lost on the assassin, neither is the look, but he makes nothing of either. He couldn’t care less who likes him, as far as strangers go. A brief flicker of this overshadows his features for a moment, then he’s that good ol’ boy who helps survivors and sings his sister to sleep. ”Gotcha. My sister’s kinda like that, only she’s got her own things she’s phobic about.” Like breaking the faces of men who touch her indecently when she doesn’t know or trust them. Rainyx leaves it at that though, sipping his drink again while the fingers of his free hand tap out a beat to a song that’s been stuck in his head for days on the wooden surface in front of him. Music is always with him, his one true love, as he calls it. He can’t help but give a genuine smile once Kieran’s finished speaking, liking the additional comment he adds after telling Rainyx his name. He finds this guy quite amusing already. ”Nice meeting you, Kieran. I like that last bit, same goes for me basically. My idiot parents gave me a Japanese name - I’ll be even more damned than I already am if I know why.” The contempt he has for them is barely hidden, and he doesn’t care. What does catch his attention is the way a man’s treating a woman in tawdry clothing, clearly one of those who, like himself, doesn’t have much. Rainyx could live in luxury but the money flies from his hand in attempts to help others. The way the male is pawing at her when she clearly wants none of his attention, encouraging his friends to do the same, it makes Rainyx’s stomach turn. It makes him think of what was done to his sister when she was merely fifteen, and the muscles in his jaw twitch, along with a few in his neck. He only gets them to release in order to finish his drink, then speak again, gaze never leaving the bastards who look like model examples of rapists. They notice, one jumping from his stool with a thud as his weight hits the floor, lighter ones following with each heavy step he takes. Rainyx keeps an emotionless watch on him, setting his glass on the bar. The pervert invades his personal space, breathing down the side of his neck. "You got a problem with us, mate?" His breath stinks of drug and cigarette smoke. Rainyx is about to reply with some smartass remark that would have brought on the same result: the other grabs his shoulder, gripping his coat, and the reaction is immediate. A lifetime of training shows in the swift hits, one to his ugly face, two to his solar plexus, one after the other, then he's off his stool, a foot bringing the other to the floor. His buddies are up, forming a half circle between the assassin and the door. Rainyx stands straight, lifting his head, his irises darker now. The movement and his expression scream louder of defiance than any words ever could. "That's no way to treat a lady, but I can't talk, seeing as I just knocked your bitch of a buddy out cold." His voice is an invitation, as is his stance: bring it, I'll take you all on. They accept, and the fight begins. Despite being outnumbered, Rainyx holds his own.
