Walk The Streets Like A Loaded Gun | Kieran + Rainyx
Rainyx raises the glass, cold to the touch, to his mouth. His jaw has sat a bit crooked for years now, he could thank his father for that; if the bastard were still alive. It had been a picture frame Tove slammed into Rainyx’s face that night, the corner landing just right on the joint, leaving a scar mostly covered by his stylishly tousled brown locks. The dislocation had unleashed a crack he swore made him deaf for days, or maybe that had been damage to his ear. Either way, his father had tried resetting it himself, doing much more harm than good, and sometimes, how misaligned the bones were showed, in a smile or how his mouth moved when he spoke. The alcohol is awful, it burns harshly, but Rainyx has had worse. The movement at his side doesn’t go unnoticed, not much does to him, and he arches his brows at the man to show he heard him while swallowing, hands battered by years of brawls cupping the glass on the bar once more. The smile is easy-going, like many of the things he does are, but there’s a horror show living in his head, and the remote control to that particular program was ripped from his grasp before he was even ten years old. He just excels at hiding it. ”Mm, yeah. I wish you’d told me that a minute ago, could’a saved myself some money. Appreciate the effort though.” The container of booze is raised again as he chortles, tilted in the blonde’s direction in a small toast before he takes a smaller sip. Oh, he wishes he had some drugs, the painkillers he’s so fond of don’t do much nowadays. Maybe he’ll get lucky, find someone who’s holding eventually. For now, he’s content to sit here, letting a body that’s been through a crucible which has caused it to age and ache more than a twenty-seven year old should rest. ”Hell with it though. All I can afford tonight.” He tacks the words on after another swallow of liquid fire, his tones a bit worse for the wear before he clears his throat. He should quit smoking one of these days, but he won’t. One thing about Rainyx Rexon is that, if it’s risky and likely to cause bodily harm, to himself or others, he’s in. But you can bet he loves seeing the suffering of those who deserve it more than himself. Still, this guy doesn’t throw his instincts towards alarm too much, paranoid and closed off as he is. His movements are smooth but so are Rainyx’s own. So the assassin casually reaches his right hand out, that pleasant, harmless smile so many fall for back on his crooked mouth. ”Rainyx, whatever y’like for short. Pleasure to commiserate with you.”
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.
