ArchivedLogs:Old Man

Old Man
Dramatis Personae Daken Killian
In Absentia	2015-09-15 "Hope you minded your manners. Though you talk like I did before I was forty, so I doubt you have any."
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
It's getting late in New York, and the heat is still just as oppressive as it was during the day. Daken wanders out behind the safehouse, leaning up against an exterior wall and fishing a pack of Marlboro reds from the pocket of his cargo pants. He taps the pack against the flat of his palm a few times before retrieving one of the cigarettes and lighting it. A duffel bag full of whatever is slung over his shoulder and he's also wearing a backpack. "I'm getting too old for this shit." he grumbles, taking a long drag and leaning his head back against the wall. Birds are not uncommon to find around the city, and the arrival of the pitch black crow on the garbage can some moments after Daken had leaned back against the wall is not something to stand out terribly much. Its greyed scaley feet hit the metal lid loudly. While 'nevermore' might be expected, instead comes the much more natural: "Caw!" Sharp black beak is quick to announce itself, marble-like eyes tilted in unison with sharp angles of its head at the man with the duffle bag. It jumps once, twice, each step a loud thing on the metal. Wings flutter at the jumps, tail bobbing sharply at each. A jump down from the trash can to the pavement beside it some yards still away from Daken lands the bird that is very suddenly not so avian. It grows rapidly, wings which had swept down to catch the fall touching fingertips to steady himself as beak shortens into face, and feathers melt backwards like molten metal to reform into skin and clothing. "That shit'll kill you." Killian straightens casually, as if that was simply his version of walking around the corner. "Won't kill me." Daken replies, not quite alarmed at the transformation. "Might kill you, but it won't kill me." He turns his attention to Killian now, eyebrow moving upwards. "You look familiar, but I can't place your smell. You're not one of us, are you?" Killian looks away briefly at his response, a grin drawing across his expression, a smugness to him becoming more notable as human facial traits seem to be the last to arrive. A huff of a chuckle, brief and under his breath, preceeds, "Familiar?" The question should make him study the other, but he apparently already had with much better vision. "Not directly, but I've been around here-" his hand motions idly to their immediate vicinity, but becomes no more specific than that, "For awhile, watching. My scent changes, so I'm not so surprised. I'm not one of you-" The grin becomes crooked, drawing into a smirk, "Yet. Haven't had the pleasure of talking at length to any but the owl chick." The latter is noted as he selects that as a good moment to lean back against the opposite building's wall. "You mean Anette. My girlfriend." Daken supplies, taking another drag before dropping the remaining half and outing it under his boot heel. "Hope you minded your manners. Though you talk like I did before I was forty, so I doubt you have any." There's a hint of a grin that creeps up on his features. "I'll see what they do about recruitment over on this coast and point them your way." "Girlfriend?" Killian's brows raise, his curiously expressive face giving away his surprise, and the likelihood of something more attached to that. "Manners, yeah sure." The chuckle is livelier this time, "I suppose it was good manners to keep her from bleedin' out on the sidewalk." The consideration, even if significantly less avian, returns to him as if the young twentysomething had missed some wrinkles or other tell-tale sign, "Younger than forty?" He echoes, "Y'look a little less than ancient." "Sixty-nine." Daken studies Killian for a moment before simply nodding. "Have a healing factor, why those cigarettes won't kill me. Could snort rat poison if I wanted and walk away like I didn't do shit. But yeah, girlfriend. And you strike me as a scrappy little shit, a killer knows a killer when he sees one. But it'd be best to remember that on future occasions." He reaches up to tap his left temple a few times. "Old man." Killian comments to the first, though it's almost, /almost/ said endearingly; as if it's a good thing. As if that's his name. Blue eyes drop to the pavement in front of him, his grin fading enough degrees to become darker, but not gone. His general demeanor follows, even as his black booted toe is scuffed idly in front of him. "She was quite a playful one for tryin' to die and having a boyfriend on the side." His tone shifts from bemused to some faint sense of seriousness to his observation, with there's no intended denial. Daken lowers the tapping finger with a slow exhale before he pushes off the wall. It's not something that's noticeable at first, but the way his jaw locks and the fire behind his eyes, it soon becomes quite clear he isn't happy. "My gut says you deserve an ass kicking. And I usually regret not listening to my gut. Wanna have a go at showing the old man up?" The duffel bag is removed and he advances forward a few steps. "Shit, if you can pull a victory out of your ass I'll get the head to speak with you personally." Killian doesn't move yet, but an idle motion comprised of picking at a scab on the back of his hand denotes his consideration the other's minute changes. The chuckle he eventually gives is significantly changed; not amusement, but a dangerous sort of controlled excitement. "I've found gut feelings to be equally as valuable." He agrees, despite the possible detriment of it, as he shifts, pushing himself away from the brick wall, taking a languid step forward with arrogant gaze to Daken finally. The look he gives of narrowed eyes and equivalent fire behind them providing proof to the earlier observations, "You sure you don't need a few arthritis pills first?" He asks as he comes to a stop a few feet from the building he'd been against. The final words Daken offers in proposition appears to be quite valuable to the metamorph, even as he adds, "I'll even let you use a cane." Daken gets a bit closer but doesn't acquire a fighting stance. "Your go boy." He fishes his cigarettes out once more and tosses the box atop his duffel bag. "Boy." Killian rolls his eyes, the cockiness carrying over despite the more realistic observations that have been done, noted. He doesn't just start swinging, at least, his arms falling to his sides as he turns to begin a crescent of motion towards Daken's periphery. His skin begins rapidly changing, the small hairs growing and changing, darkening into heavy blackness with the semblence of even blacker rosettes beneath. Face changes, bones rearrange, the grating of them more physical than audible. Experience under pressure has made the form shift an almost poetic thing, as by the time he's some five paces away, he's on all fours, stalking, snarling in lip-curled preparation as a black jaguar. Yellow-olive eyes watch, but not for long, the chuffing noise at its first turning into a haunting growl as muscles coil and all in one fluid, powerhouse motion spring for the more experienced feral mutant. Yellowed fangs and claws would aim for a leg first, testing. Daken watches the transformation and readies himself, when Killian lunges at him in jaguar form he doesn't move away, instead moving to slam his wrist into his shoulder. There's an audible Snikt at the last moment as the claw hidden inside his wrist extends outward in what would hopefully be a painful, non-lethal strike. Feline agility combined with human understanding of an opponent not being in motion upon an incoming attack means the jaguar digs its sharp claws not into flesh, but into pavement- sharp sounds of nails on chalkboard resulting as it spins the beast out of the immediate range of the wrist and revealed claw. Milimeters, not inches, save its hide's shee. Too-intense eyes observe the change, taking it in, but for only a moment before the assault is resumed as momentum attempts to take the cat behind the man to rake his own substantial claws along his back. Daken rolls to the side away from the incoming claws, his own disappearing back inside his arm, only to replaces by the ones up top, four in total tearing through his skin. It's his turn to rush now, bringing his right fist upward to swipe at the feline across his chest. The giant cat turns to face the rush directly, feline face wrinkled in the heaviness of its opened-mouthed snarl, its readied offensive defense. The lunge that Daken's rush earns is obliqued, a 45degree angle meant to take the partial brunt of the attack to its shoulder; He'd seem to sacrifice intact hide on the heavier muscles of his shoulder for the greater availability of gaining the closeness to bury fangs into shoulder, arm, whatever they may grasp. Neck is not off-limits, but if given the full opportunity fangs would penetrate the musculature of shoulder-to-neck versus the veins the jaguar's instincts are more drawn to. "Fuck!" Daken hisses as the teeth tear into his shoulder, though his claws make easier work of the hide and shoulder than one would expect, effectively skinning the part of the big cat he made contact with. He retracts his left set of claws to try and slam his fist into the cat's ribs. The jaguar releases immediately, a muffled feline yowl what's likely its own form of a curse; where the feral part of the cat would have hung on to further the mauling, the human part wasn't ready for the ease of which his tissues would give under those claws. Bloodied fangs tear away, the cat huffing in breath of intensity, not fatigue as it holds up the limb with the sheered layer of flesh. Force of will plants the leg, and it starts pacing, circling Daken. Daken reaches over to clear off a little bit of the blood from his arm revealing an absence of a wound. He turns to keep his gaze on the cat, motioning him on for more. "I can keep this up all night bub." The beast doesn't heal with that rapidity, and bright red runs from its wound in a thin zigzagging stream over the black, down its leg, to leave an incomplete pawprint behind. Rounded ears flick up at the words, and flatten again after. Something about the stance seems to say 'one more' as its circle condenses, narrows, hones in on the aspect of its center. It keeps moving, circling, and the eventual spring that comes is given no telegraphing, but its angle for the assault comes from his left to target the arm above the claws. Daken just waits, eyes on the jaguar. When the next lunge comes he rolls away once more before popping quickly back up onto his feet. "Guess you can't scrap like a man. Figured you were a giant pussy." He calls out, clearly trying to work him up to not thinking properly. As the giant cat lands with no flesh between claw or fang, quick steps that follow after Daken's roll become oddly paced, and very suddenly not paced at all. The gloss of soft fur becomes the gleam of scales as inky black as the fur had been. The patchy circles of spots nigh-hidden on the jaguar are lost, as are legs, as are ears. The snake elongates, leaving more snake where cat had been, until the cobra and its spread hood can stretch to be as tall as Daken. The viper dances in back and forth, methodical, waiting- a sparring dance of a snake. Useless, most of this trick is, but his arsenal wasn't prepared for a healer. Daken lets the two upper claws in his left hand out once more as he watches the cobra writhe. Then he's pouncing forward, swiping his claws in an attempt to slice the lower portion of the serpent. The snake moves rapidly; faster than the cat could- likely the reason for its selection. Defensive, though, abnormal. Undesired. And the human of it realizes this as the form doesn't last much longer than that initial dodge. Humanoid figure mutates from serpentine flesh, momentum taking Killian multiple steps away from Daken. With a shirt morphing with him, the shoulder of it clings to a still-moist wound that appears significantly smaller than it had two forms ago. "Pretty fast for being so old." As soon as his face is apparent, those words are spoken, and he stands from the crouch the cobra had left him in. And the straightening is slow, likely because he's just as prepared to take off again into something else. "Could be faster, but I'm not trying to kill you." Daken replies, straightening up and looking over. "Finally going to fight me, or plan on shifting again?" His brow arches slightly and he retracts his claws once more, carefully approaching Killian. "None of that counted?" There's a harsh laugh with that, drawn in the adrenaline of it and the lingering mixture of instincts that buzz his mind. Killian takes a step forward as Daken advances, but stops at a distance just beyond striking distance- which, notably, is about a foot further than a martial arts space considering the claws he's noted to extend that reach. "Wanted a brawl, instead I had to play with a cat. No more claws or fangs, let's go." Daken raises his fists like he was about to box. "Let's see what you're made of that isn't fur and teeth." Killian draws into a posture with more of his weight on his back foot, though nothing so deep; a very traditional muay thai stance, and easily notable for what it is. His guard, too, rises almost in mirror of Daken. The wound doesn't seem to slow him as he holds his jab out briefly. If he hits it, great, if it's ignored, he'd draw it back in moments. His head tips slightly in agreement, "Fine, let's see it." Daken taps his knuckles against Killian's then brings his fists back up, practically bouncing on his toes. "Let's see if you can back up that attitude." He seems excited, the anger from earlier replaced with a confident grin. Killian doesn't bounce at first, though he's light on his feet, still aflame, coiled, ready with the course of excitement the animals so easily displayed in their ferocity. His grin spreads broadly across his face, lining the edges of his eyes that brighten after the tap of fists. His movements are in unison, foot with hand as he practices a jab. It's slow, a tease, a taunt. But he doesn't waste much time after, as his whole body moves with a rapid, if typical, combination- face-level jab jab, hook, and momentum-pressed knee. Daken brings his fists up to block the strikes to his face, but he actually catches the knee when it comes, drawing back and attempting to slam the top front of his head into Killian's nose. Regardless of if he hits or misses he follows it up with a hard strike aimed for the man's ribs. The draw for the knee had Killian's arms already up, still shielding his face- no amateur's move there- but the second of impact of his face to forearms grants an attempt to box Daken's ear with a shaolin-like snapped slap meant to stun, followed by a shove away. It wouldn't save him from the pain of impact to his ribs, though a heavy practiced grunt keeps the air from being smacked from him. Daken staggers back a bit, giving his head a firm shake to clear things up, then he's back into the fray again. His next target is Killian's body, he throws a few slower jabs before stepping in with his right foot and jabbing hard with his left fist, aiming for the man's mouth. Killian takes a sharp breath, shallow, and is forced to take another as he bounces back. The energy of the bounce is exaggerated for a step or two in the buzz only perpetuated by the hit before he calms again to retake his stance. He ducks to the outside of the punch and throws himself into a tight range in order to drive an elbow into the man's ribs, and whether it connects or not, he rises in quick succession in order to plant an uppercut up into his chin. The strike to the ribs is met with a sharp hiss, but Daken manages to just barely move away from the uppercut in time. His response is an insanely quick kick clearly taken from savate, aimed at Killian's jaw. Killian isn't fast enough to avoid the kick from his pivoted position, compressed as he is, about to jump back into his readied stance. Instead the kick nails him squarely. Not square enough to take the lights out from upstairs, but more than plenty to send him back reeling. He stumbles in the drive of it, and lands back on the pavement. His tail bone would feel that later, but for now a hand comes up to press palm against jaw which he opens and closes to test. "Damn." is said, hissed through teeth, the eye of the side of the hit closed for a moment. Boots scrape rough concrete as he pushes himself up to stand, shaking his head. But his guard is up again, head bobbed in confirmation of one more 'go'. Daken bows with a flourish of his arm, righting himself back into his combative stance as Killian pushes back up. At the nod he advances cautiously towards the other man, "I know you're a better brawler than that, can't rely only on that mutation of yours. Show me what you've really got." The grin he flashes would be playful, if it wasn't for the predatory flash of his canines. Killian grins darkly in reply, the expression just slightly covered by his guard. He begins to reclose that distance slowly at first, light on the front foot, heavier on the back. But once he's just outside of punching range, the light bouncing of a fighter shifts his back rhythmically. A huffed laugh of agreement is his answer, and he is, noticably, quicker this time. More committed, one might say. He leads with that boxing jab again, light, taunting as he plays within Daken's range. Daken bounces back a bit, studying Killian for a brief moment. "I think you're ready." he says in a teasing tone. While he offers no verbal explanation, he's much faster this time, the full extent of his training showing. He rushes forward, throwing a jab at the man's midsection and following through with a sharp hook aimed for the jaw. Killian seems no less amused, if maybe a little more intense. As Daken speeds fowards, he meets the rush with a push kick to his solar plexus that's recovered rapidly and followed with the too-practiced speed of a roudhouse to what would be his knee- though if Killian is able to connect it, he'd connect it low to the calf. Daken is kicked squarely in the chest, but it doesn't daze him quite as long as one would think. He reaches out to seemingly catch the kick, only to deploy the claw inside his wrist to attempt to skewer the leg and halt the attack. Killian manages to use his momentum and the fact that he's quite fast even if he has no mutation to make him /faster/ than a man could be, to evade a completely skewer, but the kick was too committed to be pulled back to evade the claws completely. Daken would likely be left with some shreds of the other man's black jeans as the metamorph hops back. How deep he'd gotten goes unseen, given the dark garb soaking up the initial blood loss. "Ass." He hisses as he bounces back, out of range, though doesn't completely lose his fighting stance. His expression darker, likely more true to whomever this man really is. "What the fuck happened t'not relying on your mutation." Daken tugs the fabric off his claw, letting it retract. "Did I say that? Oops." He brings his hands back up, "Don't tell me a little cut is gonna take the fight out of you? Shift a couple times if you're gonna cry about it." Killian smirks, some of whatever came over him dissolving as the arrogance becomes most prominent. "I've got 'nough fight in me to last a lifetime." He lowers his guard only for the sake of spreading his hands for a moment. "The key to that being a lifetime which isn't over in the near future. I don't need your next oops t'be my eye. Those are harder to get back." There's a hint of aggression in his tone, mixed with dryly sarcastic joking. "Ever have an eye plucked out? I have. And stabbed out. Doesn't take that long to get a new one." Daken informs Killian. "Though I've been playing this game a little bit longer than you." He runs a hand over his head, straightening his hair out. "I suppose you've had your ass handed to you enough for one evening?" "I tend to ensure that won't happen." Killian's smug expression doesn't waver, "I could say my game's already been tested a bit without having to match your decades, old man." A breath of a chuckle follows something that he clearly doesn't actually find funny as that grin flickers slightly, but is back in full at his next comment. "Depends on your answer. I got more to prove to you, or you need to do more defending of your girl?" Daken heads over to his bag, collecting it and throwing it over his shoulder. "I'll talk to the lady in charge, tell her you're interested in joining up. But you might want to change your attitude a bit, that's how I acted for a long time. She almost killed me for it, and believe me she could kill you if she wanted to. You have to remember that the Brotherhood isn't a group devoted to breaking laws and murder, it's a family. That means they need to be able to trust you." "Yea," Killian takes a step back, fingers slipping under the folds of his hood to pull it up and over his head. His shoulders shrug, both in a gesture to Daken and to get the jacket in place. "Real trustworthy." Is mocked in lower volume, but he doesn't seem to care of it's heard or not. The rest of what Daken said isn't missed, per se, but as it was the metamorph's main goal, he does manage to nod in what seems to be appreciation, though likely not of the warnings themselves. "Sure, thanks." The young man doesn't even bother shifting to start his own healing process, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turns enough to begin down the street, if with a suppressed limp. Daken does offer a salute, "Take care." he calls out, arching his back a bit so it pops before turning to head off in the opposite direction.