Chronicles of Los Santanas (Superhero|IC|Open)

[Galnius]

The Bar and Grill, 7:10 am
Derek exited his can in one swift movement. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he entered with a cheery greeting. However, when he looked around for a moment he shook his head. He also knew the exact culprit, who was currently cleaning.

"Oliver, would you please take them outside BEFORE dealing with them?" Assuming the message would once again go in one ear and out the other, he just put his hand through his sandy blond hair. "Ah, to hell with it. Toss me a broom Oliver."

A little while later, Derek pulled Oliver to the side. "Hey, be careful out there alright? You never know who may walk through that door, and God forbid a meta gone bad decides to take on this store. With just you, a group of two or three may be too much." He hadn't let his employees know he, too, was meta, but his point still stood. He was really there.

As his boss came back, Oliver had a slightly sheepish smile over the mess he'd made. Of course he was used to it, it happened just about every week.

"Well, I can't look awesome in front of the clients if they're outside, and we don't want them to think we're pushovers either. Gotta keep some semblance of respect." He responded cheekily, tossing a broom over to his boss. The clients wouldn't be arriving for at least a good thirty more minutes.

Then, pulled over to the side, Oliver sighed slightly.

"I can take care of myself, you shouldn't worry about me. It's nayot like I'll be living for long anyway with my luck." Taking a few steps, he felt his bones crack, making a very audible sound come out.

"See? Won't matter too much. Plus you know what I can do, even without my cane." Subtly hinting at his meta inheritage, he then spoke again.
"As I've said, worry about your own life first. I don't feel like you're telling me exactly everything about you either way. Disappearing in the night makes for a rather shady hobby, don't you agree?" Shrugging, he sent both brooms over in the closet.

"I have some meat on the grill, want some?"

"It's not you I'm worried about", Derek said frankly, sauntering over to the liquor display. He stood in front of it for a few moments, thoughtfully eyeing his abundant selection. "It's the bar. I'd rather not come back one day to find I have to rebuild, you know?"

Derek went to reach for a chocolate Bacardi, but paused when he saw the news. A reporter shook in fear as she described a massive terrorist attack at the local airport. In the background, a metal man on a horse charged in at full speed. Other metas were likely inside. Reports apparently came in of over a hundred unconfirmed deaths.

Derek watched longer than he expected, a mental debate echoing inside his head. "Nah, too rich for my taste", he said to himself. He moved his hand downward, and grabbed a simple Chardonnay. Pouring himself a glass, he motioned to Oliver. "Go ahead and grab the meat, I'm famished."

[Serah]

As his boss came back, Oliver had a slightly sheepish smile over the mess he'd made. Of course he was used to it, it happened just about every week.

"Well, I can't look awesome in front of the clients if they're outside, and we don't want them to think we're pushovers either. Gotta keep some semblance of respect." He responded cheekily, tossing a broom over to his boss. The clients wouldn't be arriving for at least a good thirty more minutes.

Then, pulled over to the side, Oliver sighed slightly.

"I can take care of myself, you shouldn't worry about me. It's nayot like I'll be living for long anyway with my luck." Taking a few steps, he felt his bones crack, making a very audible sound come out.

"See? Won't matter too much. Plus you know what I can do, even without my cane." Subtly hinting at his meta inheritage, he then spoke again.
"As I've said, worry about your own life first. I don't feel like you're telling me exactly everything about you either way. Disappearing in the night makes for a rather shady hobby, don't you agree?" Shrugging, he sent both brooms over in the closet.

"I have some meat on the grill, want some?"

"It's not you I'm worried about", Derek said frankly, sauntering over to the liquor display. He stood in front of it for a few moments, thoughtfully eyeing his abundant selection. "It's the bar. I'd rather not come back one day to find I have to rebuild, you know?"

Derek went to reach for a chocolate Bacardi, but paused when he saw the news. A reporter shook in fear as she described a massive terrorist attack at the local airport. In the background, a metal man on a horse charged in at full speed. Other metas were likely inside. Reports apparently came in of over a hundred unconfirmed deaths.

Derek watched longer than he expected, a mental debate echoing inside his head. "Nah, too rich for my taste", he said to himself. He moved his hand downward, and grabbed a simple Chardonnay. Pouring himself a glass, he motioned to Oliver. "Go ahead and grab the meat, I'm famished."

Oliver just made a clicking noise in acknowledgement.
But then he noticed the news.
With a slight tremor around the hands area, he grabbed the big slab of meat that he then cut apart and let slip on the two plates.
Salting it slightly more for his side, he got back to the main area.

"You shouldn't worry about the bar needing to be rebuilt.
I know when to stop. People are stupid when intoxicated, they show what they can do.
Goes the same way for Metas. I dealt with some, back when I was a kid in France.
I know just how destructive they can be, seen it firsthand. Hell, I did tell you how my dad was killed by a disease manipulating meta, right?
Had poisoned the entire region..." Saying the last part with a slight hint of sadness, something he hardly ever showed at all, he continued after setting the plates and forks. As he went to get the knives, he continued.

"... I killed him. When my dad died, I was enraged, I had someone to blame, not just nature and the fact that he gave up on his health.
Took me two years. Also why I had to move out ASAP. The police had it as self defense, so I got away basically scotch free but... Yeah... A bit of the fucked up parts of my past.
Possibly the worst I did too. Hence why I say that I know when to stop fighting in a certain place.
Sorry, I'm rambling. Eat up." He spoke lastly.

"Maybe I should tell you sometime. What happened before, that is."

[Talchyon]

Los Santanas Airport
Richard Weinkauf aka "The Artisan"
A little after his first encounter

The bodies were everywhere. None of them moving, and blood staining the carpeted floor a deep crimson. Sitting on top of the metallic cast-iron horse, Richard (a metallic Marcus Aurelius, complete with cast-iron toga and laurel, still somewhat cloaked under his tan trench coat, mask, black fedora and gloves) could see far down the blood-drenched hallway. The motorized walkways and escalators still ran, as did the lights up by the kiosks. The sound of their operations could be heard, as could the occasional automatic messages that came over the loudspeakers announcing general travel safety tips. But no one breathed. The gruesome scene sickened Richard, whose artistically-trained eye noticed all of the gory details in greater clarity.

He galloped down the hall, towards a bend that led to another hall, this one leading up to the security screening areas from behind, as if he was flying somewhere and had already been checked through. It was easy to get turned around in here, especially if you didn't know where you were going. Judging from past experiences at other airports, Richard assumed that the security screening area was close to the main entrance, and the rest of the airport was behind him.

Just then, a powerful, yet fearful, voice called out, "Freeze! You on the horse! No sudden movements!" A bulky, bald-headed security guard had his pistol drawn and was aiming at Richard. The guard had hidden somewhere and dodged the carnage, obviously. But now, with his senses on adrenaline-overload, the guard assumed Richard was one of the bad guys.

Richard slowed down to a stop, and put his hands in the air. The guard kept a safe distance away, still aiming at him. Richard said in his altered voice that now sounded a deep bass with metallic elements added in, "Officer. I'm here to help. Two of the hostiles are down, if you go back the way I came. I couldn't get to them before they did this, but they won't be harming innocents any more."

The officer tensed up when he heard Richard's voice, and still aimed at him. "You saying you killed them?"

His hands still up, Richard said softly, "Self-defense." They were shooting at him, after all. His trench coat probably had bullet holes to prove it.

The guard was clearly at a loss to know what to do next. Richard wondered how long he had been on the job. He was not making contact by his earpieces with other guards. Were they now on radio silence? Had the security guards been the first to be slaughtered?

Richard said, "I am called The Artisan. And there are still others who are in danger. We can stand here all day with you aiming at me, and they die. Or we can try to work together and save some of them. Officer... what is your name?"

The man swallowed, and tried to control his breathing. "Klazinsky. Officer Klazinsky."

"Officer. Are there any other guards you know of who made it?"

The man shook his head. "It's possible, but our systems went down and I haven't been able to contact anyone for at least 20 minutes. No one was left here when I came back here about ten minutes ago. I've been trying to do surveillance and find other guards." After a moment's thought, the guard put his gun down. It was progress.

Richard spoke in his deep, metallic voice. "Officer, I'm pretty resilient to gunfire. I can act as a shield for you if that would help."

The guard seemed like he was not used to making decisions under this kind of stress. Perhaps he was a newer recruit. He didn't seem very experienced in handling a terrorist attack. Richard guessed - rightly - that this man was better at taking orders than giving them. But he was also not likely to take orders from someone he just decided to trust. Someone like a metallic statue of Marcus Aurelius on an equally metallic horse. Wearing a trench coat and a fedora, no less.

Finally, Officer Klazinsky said, "I will go with you for now, but we may have to separate. I will try to find other guards who are alive. And do my best to keep people from getting shot at. You on the other hand, if you see other threats, take them out."

"Yes, officer." It was something of a plan at least.

The two of them moved down the hall back where Richard had come from, one security guard on foot, and one retired art teacher in statuary form on metallic horseback.