Bitter (Martin)

Martin was, what some people called a cold individual. He had taken up residence in one of the poorest and most gang-ridden areas of the city without a second glance. In fact he had quite liked it to be there. It hid him from people who were in the habit of asking too many questions, who were in the habit of obeying the law all too quickly, of people who were nice to a hypocritical fault. In short it hid him from all those people he had worked and lived with for over a year of his life (it was not a timespan relevant to him, having eternity to look forward to and all...) quite amiably. The downsides of course were that he had been assaulted quite frequently during the first part of his stay. A few... well lets call them visits... to the right people had cut that short. Maybe the fact that he had given them a few of their peoples memorabilia had jogged this part of their memory. Right now everybody, or nearly so – he recalled an incident not too far in the past when it hadn't been so – was quite weary of the black cloth tied around his forehead. Not everyone knew the face. But everyone knew of the black cloth. And the youth dressed in somewhat shabby looking street-gear that could have been just anyone.

Today he was just anyone. Walking down the street. In one of the better parts of town. So the youth in street-gear had undergone one of his signature transformations. He now sported a cane, walking stick really, and managed to look quite dandy in a three piece suit, the chain of some vintage timing device hanging out from one of the vests pockets, hands covered in snowy white gloves. And on his head, put at quite a daring angle, was nothing but a top-hat. It bent forward far enough to look like the chimney of an old industrial plant in Leeds. In short: A structural hazard. But something (a string of rubber band) was keeping it up there nonetheless. Where he was going? In that attire? And in this part of town? Well... he was eating out tonight. Or was at least supposed to go eating out. Meeting a potential client always involved something fancy. Of course he would not meet the client face to face. He would meet a lawyer. Or another form of legal or illegal go-between. They would possibly hand him some email address or another, assuming that he was the same kind of person. Especially in this kind of somewhat flashy outfit. Slightly out of place, slightly out of time. He was. With a purpose. He liked judging possible clients himself. The Kabal had, after all, not supplied an endless stream of money and he had to work. Not as a gardener, he would not consider much of it after his time in the Mansion, much too well-known now; maybe also another reason beyond that. But his reasons were his, so get out of my head. Suffice it to say he had a reason for trying to get a job, of the illegal kind, mind you. So he went out eating. At a fancy place. Or was going to at least.

But that was before. As was...

~~~

Once Madelaine had had a life. That was before she got a boyfriend. That was before said boyfriend had got her with child. And then left her, as these things usually go. She had not wanted a child, not really, being too young and all, but she had had a child she had not really wanted. Because it was a child.
The child had blue skin. And a Fur instead of hair. This had come somewhat as a shock. But she had had a child, was expectant, expecting for something wonderful to happen. And she had a child. And she was happy, for there was a child. In her life. With blue skin. And fur. And blue eyes that were adorable.

What she did not care for were the eyes of her friends that narrowed at seeing the child, the eyes they had for a woman who had been with one of 'them', these things she did not see. Did they matter? No, she had a child. Caring was difficult. Staying anywhere was difficult, even with her parents. There had been fights. And reconciliations. There had been looks, of joy and fear. All of those things had been and were.

Panic superseded them right now, for there was more. Much more hatred here then she had ever encountered. Here, in the beautiful place. Here, where she bought her child biologic-dynamically produced produce. Here, where she got her Milk and Honey from happy cows and bees. In a fancy organic foodstore. A mob was forming of smiling people, who were really snarling. Snarling at the child strapped on her chest. This was not a happy place. Or a happy time. Not for young mothers, or for anyone else.

The first bottle of juice (organic) flew through the window of the shop, through the glass that shattered. “HELP!” That cry could not be mistaken. There was a sea of red forming. It had been cherry, a onetime favorite. Near that shattered glass was walking one... with a top hat sitting nearly lopsided.

> “Help!”

The cry of a female voice could not be mistaken for anything other then what it was. Especially not if Said voice was carrying a terror that was primal and undiluted by social constraints. Constricting his heart, catching it with a leash of signs, vocal. Subvocally shifting. The crash of glass was just the last piece of a puzzle that was assembling in Martins mind. Martins racing mind, racing ahead of its time, slow the world around him. The man with the top hat needed only a second, altering his path. He entered the food store through the door, a metal chime announcing his presence, calmly ever so calm. Nothing changing.

Everything.

Inside: It was not the first bottle that had flown. Not the only thing. Glass on the ground, glass and metal. And a group of men and women, looking quite ordinary, quite normal. Quite unlike the new customer. One of the was wearing the vestment of a store clerk. Blue eyes were flashing, powerfully flashing, menacing. The new arrival taking in the situation, with every step shedding images, skinning things away.

Normalcy, goodbye. A kiss on the cheek for you. Just for you. Deathbed. The walking stick that had been swung coily forward with every step, that dandy way, it shifted. Top hat became a living weapon. Or rather, he unsheathed himself. The stick cam up once more. And stayed there. A wooden stick. Weapon walking, forward. The woman and her child were facing a mass of faces. Hands that clung to things like metal shopping containers, like broke flask, held at the head, top. “Get out, I'll manage.” Martin told the woman, coming up on her from behind. She jumped into the air. She really jumped. And turned around snarling, ready to take at least the eyes of the one attacking her from behind...

So things went. Somewhat badly.

Martin had a problem. He had not expected the woman to jump him. Her hand went for his face. This was all he could see, as it had already closed in, narrowing his face of vision. He, of course, now watched calmly – or rather wishing to be calm – while time had been slowed to a barely noticeable crawl. It was the thing that usually happened around him when unexpected things happened. Taking his time he would analyze the situation and find the best possible solution. For him or his employers. He was actually quite good at that. Now there was a face and a hand destined to connect. This was ungood in many ways.

Firstly: Martin did not mind scars. Or wounds. But he would avoid them if he could. He rather liked integrity of his physique. He needed that for the crowd. Secondly: He rather liked his eyes. Right now those were going to need a thorough makeover soon. He also liked to be able to see and all these pretty things. Like guns pointed at him. Or said hand incoming. Thirdly: It was a bare hand, this being ungood because his skin and other peoples skin did very strange things when they connected. He did not want to harm the mother of a blue child. Nor any other mother. They were much needed by their offspring. The cub in this case. Though it was a blue cub.

Conundrum time!

How to avoid that hand trying to claw your face off when its already really close? There were several possible responses. But really only one that did not involve him trying to strangle the mother. Which he did not want to do. Martin let himself fall backwards. There was neither time or room for a spin. But there was room to fall. Cue: Time lurching forward.

Martin was now sitting neatly on his backside. The woman had managed to aptly remove from his head his hat. It now lay near the door, revolving lazily around some invisible axis, spinning on its side. The woman was still snarling at floorbound Martin with a much too bright gleam in her eyes. Conundrumx2: How do you face a mother with a threatened child? Easy answer: You don't. It made for some awkward shuffling of all four limbs to get off to the side staying on the ground and a nonthreatening entity. With a chime of the bells, mother left. Finally. But this was not enough now, was it? That hat had served a purpose. Now Martins third eye was open for the world to see. The crowd screamed bloody murder. And there was a mutant in the room. Nothing can ever be easy, can it? Luckily Martin had not let go of the walking stick. That would be needed now. Those people were coming closer, a thong of them moving more slowly.

There were people closing in around him. He still was on the ground, lying here, the walking stick in his hands. Only after he had used it (with a most satisfying thump) to make the first two would-be attackers stagger back was it that Martin nimbly scrambled to his feet.

His third eye looked all normal still, much too normal and a bit too calm for a situation like this. He moved now, in swift motions that had a touch of a dance here and there, flowing around the crowd, stepping in between people where they hindered each others movements, using their own strikes against each other. A glassen bottle, swung by a female shopper in her mid 50s hit another mans back. He went down and stirred no more. Just like that. It was a thing to be seen, him just moving around like there was no group of people hindering. He seemed to know where to step to avoid being closed in upon. And to step where he could most easily hurt them. His stick... it was a thing that poked, prodded and hit in The Places That Hurt. There was one hit in an eye even. It would not see any more.

Fewer and fewer people remained standing. Blood was on the ground now. The crowds will to fight was lessening by the second. And still Martins eyes held that calm that still made no secret about the utter fury that was tightly reined in behind. What he thought about those people around him was no mystery. How he dealt with them was not one either. The woman who had held the bottle went down clutching her stomach. She got dealt a blow over the head with ruthless efficiency. One loud crack. She was now lying limply. As many others. Blood, their blood was mingling on the ground.

It was done soon. The last ones left through the door, were running now. And cursing mutants, cursing at 'them', at their way of life. At their brutality. Hah. Martin went over to Andrew. The thing in the suit began to look more normal by the second. “Thank you.” It said. And casually drove its stick down onto a humans hand. Why, yes... those were the boned you heard. The one was unconscious already. This was good for him. Probably. Martin did not even look winded much. There was a single scratch running down his cheek from where he had been grazed by one of their weapons. Them... there were about six or seven lying around, their limbs unmoving.

Ah so it was a young mutant who had joined him. With less fighting experience, obviously. And with a few scrapes and bruises. His eyes were still glimmering with barely-suppressed rage as he introduced himself to Martin. Said Martin was now looking quite ordinary again. Outwardly that was. Except for the three eyes on his head that were open for the world to see. Three eyes that scanned Andrew with an air of friendly casualty. “Thank you very much Andrew. My name is Martin, very pleased to meet you.” He deserved to know the real name of his. He even got an outstreched ahnd for a shake. Why? Because he had bloodied himself fighting with him. This was a very good reason to give Andrew Martins real name in his mind, also for being polite. Around them people were slowly recovering. A few pained sighs could be heard, but not yet anything that suggested definite return from unconsciousness. “Would you mind getting a bottle of water for me from that aisle over there?” He said quite calmly while pointing to the object of his desire. A water that was much too expensive for just being water. Probably it was only bottled during the dark times of the moon or something. For extra energetic vibrations. It was a glass bottle though. And water. Both of which Martin needed.

Inside his world was still filmed over with that cool rage that suggested a purpose. He did not approve of mindless killings. He did certainly not approve of attacking babes. And their mothers. There were simply Things One Did Not Do. These being two of the most inexcusable offenses in his mind that merited an immediate and absolute repression. Return of the favor so to speak. So were his thoughts, drifting in the cold and dark places, as he walked over to retrieve his slightly damaged hat. When he held it firmly in one hand and the walking stick in the other (it had received a few dents and bruises from the fight but was still in workable condition) he waited calmly for Andrews return.

“Thank you very much, Andrew.” Martin said calmly, already unscrewing the cap on the bottle. He still looked mostly at the other mutant and not what his hands were doing, seemingly working on their own. “Would you mind telling me...” At this point the cap had come off the bottle and was unceremoniously thrown aside. It joined the rest of the fighting on the ground with a quiet * ping *. “...the nature of...” Martin walked over to the person he presumed to be the instigator of this bout of violence, calmly holding the bottle in his right hand. It was the same man whose nose had been bloodied by Andrew. His head just scanned the way while he was more or less listening to Andrew.Now, boy, might I teach you a lesson you will not soon forget – to leave the children, their mothers, alone. “...your mutation?” The water went over the mans head. Gluckgluckgluggggg.... it went, wetting hair and clothes and eyes, washing away some of the blood that had begun to dry on the face. It gathered around him in a small puddle.

Suddenly the man began stirring. As he did, his nose began bleeding slightly again. Martins eyes were set on him, seeing him wind himself, wiggle awake slowly emerging from what might have been a wonderful dream. The limbs were slowly twitching on the floor. After what seemed to be an hour, the man sat up dazedly, hands moving over the eyes. “Andrew, if you don't like this, turn around please.” he said without even looking up. He was smiling at the man, the older man. At his chino pants, bloodstained. At his fancy button down shirt. And that face. It looked sickly, eyes fixed upwards to where he was standing. Fixed on that very small smile in his face, hanging under the three eyes lie a small crescent moon. Shining through the darkness. Oldies hands went up somewhat jerkily, maybe to protect himself from the evil eye. The mouth opened. But ere speech was produced, Martin had snapped one of them, the hands, with his left.
He bore down on it with his weight until it was lying in the puddle of energized mystic water on the ground. Then the bottle flashed. There was crunching. And maybe a bit of screaming. And there was Martins cold voice addressing the man. “You will never do this again.” It was more of a promise than a threat. All of them knew it. Everyone in the room. Martin actually felt somewhat good about that. The bottle went down again. Exactly the same spot. Because tis better to be safe then sorry. So the proverb says. Did I say something about screaming? Yes, there might have been screaming.

Martin stopped for a second. Paused a bit at hearing this. Then he went on with what he was doing. Maybe a little more energetic then before. Maybe even a bit more then was necessary. For soon the man was slipping back into unconsciousness again, stirring only mildly. At least his hands were out of commission for good, so there would be no more mutant hunting or mutant hurting going on by this one.

As he finished what he was doing he turned around to Andrew. There still was the tophat in one hand. And bloodied bottle rested in the other. He let it drop to the ground quite carelessly. It did not make a ping. Instead it rolled around at his feet, coming to rest by the head of another unfortunate soul that had been dropped to the ground. A promise keeper? Really. Now that was more than useful. The implications were formidable. For him at least. In his business working with people always was a risk that you had to carefully weigh. It was more like juggling sharp knives then anything else. The more people knew about you, the more they became a risk and a liability. Now a promise keeper would be different there. If, if only he could play this right.

A potential ally without risk. This was worth a whole lot. This was worth breaking his own rules.

“I think we are done here.” He said, his voice still kept carefully friendly, nothing of his thoughts showing on the outside. If I can get him to promise... If I can get his loyalty... An ally indeed. And one he would not have to worry about. Training could follow after. He was a fighter, sure, but Martin deemed rough muscle a bit useless, not having much in that avenue at all. Swiftness, thought and a certain creativity when killing things was much better. And beautiful. Why he remembered now that time back in Hamburg when he had ambushed a group of three people with nothing but a knife. He had looked like a child back then. They had not even come to suspect him before the knife had slit their throats and he had stood in the middle of crumpled bodies. He had felt bad about that back then. He did not now, purposefully walking forward, stepping on limbs and bodies as he went along. “I think you and I could use a drink. On me. And to mutants.” Yes. A drink.

And maybe this would be enough. But this boy would not get away without making a promise today. A promise to him. He would do what it takes. His hand he waved to Andrew, his eyes set on him now. Not even blinking much. On his lips sat a small smile, invitingly. Just a social call. This is all. I am not here to harm you. Not at all.