Peering around the corner, cloak draping over slender, white shoulders, pin-straight hair spilling from his black hood, he saw him. The Lone Wanderer, seated at a bar, of which a wooden plank was nailed above his head, notifying the public of today's curry prices. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip and he swept in with the crowd that flowed steady in the street, the pleasant air summoning most from their hovels.
His viewing of the Lone Wanderer's fighting skills was limited. The picture painted for him was praise from Spades members and fight viewers alike, in conjunction with Eve's mentions and her recommendation to seek him out. He rarely listened to rumors and whispers, but the consistency of that windfall of admiration sparked the motivation to seek this man out. Hatchet provided an in-depth description of the man: burly and chestnut hair, who at this time of day sought curry from the international quarters of the Stronghold.
In a swift moment, almost brought about by a quick breeze, he appeared in the empty seat beside the Lone Wanderer. He pulled his hood down, revealing a chiseled face the color and consistency of marble, and lifted a hand adorned with long, claw-like nails to summon the tender. The man, in an apron formerly white draped over a cream colored shirt and sunkissed skin, hurried over from the long, cylindrical pot he tended to. In a low voice, Atlas asked for the "daily special" and in moments a bowl was thrusted before him, contents threatening to slosh over the edge.
He took one long look at the meal, allowing only some of the distaste he felt to sully his face, before commenting to what appeared to no one in particular, "They're a little thick on the pepper today."
Atlas then canted his head to the side, the target of his words now apparent as he addressed the Wanderer. "Does yours have as much spice in it?" Before his eyes widened in feigned surprised, mouth falling open just slightly, "You're-you're the Lone Wanderer, aren't you?"
It was not very often that Ian would venture into the Commercial District for reasons that did not involve business...but when he did, it was for the curry. Being a Briton, the Doctor grew up an avid curry lover; when he had come to the US, he had found it very hard to find a decent curry house. This was before the world ended, and the art of curry-making had become seriously endangered. Now, here he was, enjoying one of the last curry houses in North America...and possibly the last one in the entire world; naturally, as an avid lover of the food, he saw it as his rather British duty to keep the tradition alive by any meas necessary. At this particular curry bar, all he had to do was be a patron of its wares, and that was all he needed to do. Catching a whiff of the air, Ian allowed himself to take in the scent of the spices used in the cooking, and would then take in the scent from his own dish. The Vampire looked down upon his bowl, which contained the meat, sauce and the rice substitute which the establishment used since rice generally did not grow in this part of the world. Yet, as he began to indulge himself, he caught a scent upon the wind that seemed to pierce through the intense aromas of the curry house; it was the smell of a Level V Infected. That scent drew closer and, seemingly, seemed to pick up a seat next to him. A voice would then order the house special, and would eventually remark on the presence of pepper.
"They do what they must, since spices aren't as common as they were before the world went to shit."
He said to the other Vampire; he knew he could be bit more honest with another individual like him...he just hoped that this one wasn't a sex-crazed psycho like the last one he met.
"Besides, I do so enjoy a fiery meal...in my experience, it tends to make one feel like they are back in the old world."
After that was said, the other Infected would seem to burst into the display of the adoring fan, who Ian had remembered wanting to push into Lake Rumare in his old Elder Scrolls: Oblivion runthrough. Of course, the Doctor knew that it was an act; his profession had made him rather skilled at reading other people. Giving a rather dry chortle on his part, the Treasurer indulged the other Vampire.
"What gave it away?" remarked Ian with a slight smile. "And here I thought that I was a master of disguise...
A smell cut through then, rising above the hodgepodge of strong spices and decadent herbs that must have smelled palatable to humans, only needlessly pungent to Atlas. Above the general mess of the streets, the trash and the cloying scent of a previous rain. So potent that it made Atlas reel back, trying to discern if this was really Infected that he was smelling.
That, and the Lone Wanderer's about the Old World, cemented that certainty that Atlas was talking to another one like him. The man was quiet, allowing Ian to talk, as he gave a half hearted show of taking a spoonful of the curry in front of him and sniffing it testily. Was it even worth it, to convince the other that he was just a man? Atlas recognized recognition, the carefully placed words and mask of ignorance. The Lone Wanderer seemed content to play along with this game, for it was now a game, two equal players combating with the same pawns.
Atlas slid a sidelong glance towards the other, pin-straight white hair falling out of his black hood and shifting with his movements, the corners of his pale lips turning up coyly as the two danced. "You seem to know a lot about the Old World. Are you an enthusiast?" A convincing inflection of naive curiosity and wonderment lilting in his accented words. His claw forefinger and thumb lazily stirred the bowl of curry before him, with no clear intention of eating it and fully clear his attention to the Infected beside him. "Some say that we should forget the Old World. That they were weak and reckless and that was their downfall."
Atlas tilted his head back, revealing more of the face that the hood shadowed, blue eyes that glowed in their dearth of pigment observing the other meticulously. "Would you agree with that?" A hidden question in that inquiry, as they both seemed to know, but not explicitly say, that the other had lived in the Old World, the Lost Times.
Atlas chuckled, mirroring the sentiment of the Wanderer's smile. "You haven't exactly made your presence quiet. Not many can make claim to continuous wins in the arena. Less so ones that capture the attention of my compatriots."
The gaze resuming its measured quietly, as Atlas dropped his fingers from the thick soup spoon and rested them on the counterspace. "You're a good fighter, Wanderer, and I reward good fighters. I, let's just say, I help run the fights. I would like to offer you the opportunity to appear consistently, in scheduled tournaments. Contracted work, if you will."
His eyes glimmered. "And yes, you will paid most handsomely. We are not a poor group of people."
"You could say that." Replied Ian with a casual shrug, before looking the stranger up and down. "Then again, my familiarity with the Old World is about as intimate yours."
The Doctor's words were shaped in a manner that conveyed one thing; that he knew that his companion was also an Infected. In the end, it was always the scent that gave them away...it was how more animalistic Infected knew not to attack one another. Upon the other man's remark about some thinking that the Old World should be forgotten. At this, the Vampire simply sighed in exasperation at the subject matter, having encountered it too many times.
"Then those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it; hell, the Military seems rather content to repeat those old mistakes carte blanche." A bitter chuckle then emerged from his lips on how the people of the Old World were weak. "The real difference between the Old World and this world is the matter of honesty; both worlds had a tendency to screw the masses, but this one is actually honest about the screwing." His voice then became a whisper; a whisper so inaudible that only an Infected would be able to hear.
"This is something both of us have a modicum of personal experience with after all."
As to his fights, he could only chuckle; his 'career' was really only a recent phenomenon, one that now needed a balance it seemd if he was going to further contribute to Eclipse's coffers.
"I've really only ever entered three in the past 10 months, I'm not that much of a hot topic it seems."
The conversation then steered to the mention of tournaments, something thatdefinitely intrigued him; it naturally meant a better income for fewer fights. However, there was another matter that needed to be addressed; his fellow Infected was not the only Jabberwocky who had shown an interest in his fighting prowess.
"That does indeed sound promising...thing is though, I do already have a form of patronage with one of your organisation." Indeed, he was already more than well aware of the web Madame Arachne had woven, something he was cautious of becoming too deeply entangled in. "Would it be safe to assume that they would benefit from the arrangement as well?"
Atlas chuckled. Unlike the other, he was not cautious in hiding his identity as inhuman. Those high ranking in the Spades had an inkling, or a full blown sense, that their Ace was not normal. It was a tactful decision, though admittedly one first borne of the ego, where it was easier to instill fear in his underlings with eyes blown black and fangs protruding from a slender mouth. They were not quick to label him "Infected" and, in truth, Atlas was not entirely sure what he was. He saw Infected, past the Stronghold fences, their actions instinctual and their thought's non-existent. He compared himself to those creatures and could not, for the life of him, draw any similarities between him and the beasts past physical.
The curry before him was starting to cool, the currents of steam now dwindled into a still bowl of soup and rice. Forgotten, resting past Atlas arm, as the Ace was fascinated by this other creature, the one just like him.
There was truth to Ian's statement, and the approval was heard in Atlas' deep chuckle. "I am unsure where you hailed from before," he said, dropping his voice so it matched Ian's pitch, barely heard above the rustle of the wind as it caressed rust-colored banners draped over the side of the stall, the steady rumble of conversation and footfalls from the crowd behind them. "But you seem to approve more of this form of society. I suppose I would, too, if I were the one on top."
Smokey eyes flickered past the roof of the stall to where the Military's headquarters stretched to the sky, prominent even over the tall walls that encircled the Inner Citadel, a place he'd only stepped in once or twice. Then, his gaze drew back down to the Lone Wanderer, the inquiry cutting. "Do you hold sympathy for these beings? The 'masses', as you call it?" A question that drew upon curiosity, rather than any ulterior motive.
When the conversation shifted, Atlas' snickered. On the surface level, it might have indicated a twisted form of knowledge, in that Atlas knew exactly of what Ian was talking about and found it amusing that the other was unaware of Atlas' power in the Spades. In truth, it was surprise, as Eve continued to impress him and attempt to throw wrenches in his plan.
"Of course. Everyone in the Spades benefits from my actions, including your 'patron'." Atlas peered at him, while he imagined how the meeting between Ian and Eve occurred. She probably would have used her natural charm, her unfitting grace, to weave this poor sod around her manicured finger. She was an efficient temptress and, subsequently, a great servant.
Posted 08-05-2021, 07:13 PM
This post was last modified: 08-05-2021, 07:14 PM by Atlas
paragon of his kind
