Hell's Kitchen Streets

[lazytowns]

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tens of thousands of residents are crammed into this squalid district; rows of crude, makeshift apartment blocks line the streets and any free space is choked by litter and pulpy warm air. by day, hell's kitchen is alike any other suburb of the beyond; tourists tumble through and take photos of the old buildings, people swing by the fishing shop if it's a sunny day and residents may go to the cake shop to enjoy a serene and social lunch. and then the sun sets. the bell tower chimes, red lights flicker on and the district begins to breathe. disgraced angels with heavy eyeliner trudge along the streets in their small black dresses wearing a crude plastic halo. BPD officers share a cigar with the bouncer of a nightclub, faint pops are heard a few blocks away and it's just as likely to be gunfire as it is to be illegal fireworks. 
​

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

[SIZE= 28px]Mason Taylor, The Wraith of Core[/SIZE]

Down the streets of hell's kitchen strode a lone, new figure. Tall, clad in black, with hair that only reflected in the darkest of black and palest of white. With a black bag slung over his shoulder and a trail of smoke that followed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his hands were burried deep in the pockets of his open topcoat. Whilst fighting to keep his orange spectacles leaned on the bridge of his nose, Mason also wrestled with a thought in his mind.


"Thirsty."[SIZE= 14px] It's not like it was a new sensation. 73 years on this earth with the curse that he could not possibly escape. He came to a sudden stop and looked up to the building on his right. The Wolf's Den. [/SIZE][SIZE= 14px]"What a stupid name."[/SIZE][SIZE= 14px] Mason quietly thought to himself, then pressed the door to the pub open.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]What he entered was a dimly lit room with a layer of smoke hovering just under the ceiling. Sets of fluorescent tubes quietly buzzed above it, shining weakly over the ghetto-like scene. There was a couch in the far corner where a few girls, most likely prostitutes, surrounded some lucky fellow who seemed to be high on a multitude of drugs. A worn-down pool table missing a leg stood abandoned before it, and something like 16 men sat around tables playing poker or some other card game using chips.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]The atmosphere came to a freeze when the door closed behind Mason, and every person in the room seemed to wake up from whatever haze they had been in. Mason unabashedly met the gazes of some of the patrons, then continued walking towards the bar without skipping a beat. Slowly the talk started picking up again and the room got back to normal. There were a few high stools surrounding the bar, and as Mason sat down the stench of alcohol, piss and vomit finally hit him. There was a man leaned over the bar, mumbling something, drunker than his human liver should allow for. He was the origin of this smell. Maybe he'd wrinkle his nose, but it wasn't nearly the worst smell he'd felt. Honestly, it wasn't even bad compared to most situations.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]The bartender, a young demon who seemed, out of a viewpoint of someone who actually has met old demons, to be around 20-30. His daemonic features were removed, or at least hidden, but there was no mistaking the mischievous look in his eyes. "What'll it be?" He asked. [/SIZE][SIZE= 14px]"Get me a bottle of Jack."[/SIZE][SIZE= 14px] Mason replied. "Right away..." The bartender grabbed a glass and turned to the shelves of alcohol behind him. [/SIZE][SIZE= 14px]"No, a bottle."[/SIZE][SIZE= 14px] The demon looked over his shoulder in surprise. "Oh, uh. You were serious." Soon there was a 70cl bottle of whiskey before him.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]Mason was leaned on one hand, so he simply used his index finger and thumb to uncap the bottle, then immediately balanced it on his lip. The half piss-covered-corpse, half drunkass middle-aged man next to him came alive and settled on a barstool. The old man could barely keep himself steady as he half leaned on the bar and looked from the bartender to the bottle of Whiskey on Mason's lip. "Heeey, you never let me buy bottles like that Kevin..." He said, clearly directed to the young demon behind the bar. "That's because I can't afford you drinking yourself to death yet, George. You account for half my income, after all." The bartender turned to fiddle with something on the other side, and the old man called George muttered something on his breath and then leaned towards Mason.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]"Hey man, can't you spare me some of that Whiskey?... I'll pay you good for it!" Mason, who hadn't removed the bottle from his lip and was halfway through kept staring forward, paying no mind to George. "Oh man, you can drink... but come on, stop now." George kept whispering, getting more and more stressed the farther back Mason leaned to get a flow on the Jack. In a single drink he'd downed the entire bottle, and now he removed it from his lip and took a deep breath. [/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]"You're a fucking asshole, you know tha-!!" The old man's words were cut off as Mason let the bottle shatter over the back of his head. His head bounced against the bar, and on the rebound Mason burried the jagged end into his neck. Blood immediately started waterfalling off his neck and filling a glass next to where his head settled. Throughout the room the sounds of metal clicking resounded and the bartender stood frozen in shock, just staring at Mason. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something with a red aura coming closer.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]A poltergeist, probably 7 feet tall, stood next to his chair and looked down at him. "You messed up now, you pale piece of shit." Mason still just sat there, staring forward into nothingness, then mumbled [/SIZE][SIZE= 14px]"Mhm."[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]Next everything happened fast. In the blink of an eye Mason had risen from his chair and in a seamless move grabbed a long dagger from the inside of his coat and burried it through the heart of the large poltergeist. He also managed to toss the last centimetre of his cigarette over the bar, lodging it between some wiring coming off of a fusebox. Immediately the light in the room flickered and turned to darkness. The sound and muzzle flashes of guns firing instantly filled the room and Kevin, the bartender, ducked to the floor behind the bar.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]It was over in a moment, and the light flickered back on again as the cigarette turned cold and fell down. When the bartender rose up to inspect the scene, Mason was back in his seat again, sipping the glass of blood from the old man. Everyone else though... were dead. People were tossed over tables, the prostitutes in the couch were nailed to their client using several pool cues, blood was slowly covering the floor. [/SIZE][SIZE= 14px]"Kevin, right?"[/SIZE][SIZE= 14px] Mason spoke. The bartender stared at him, unable to wrap his mind around the situation. [/SIZE][SIZE= 14px]"Grab me another bottle of Jack, then get out of here. You seem like a good fellow."[/SIZE][SIZE= 14px] He nodded to a stack of 100$ bills that rested tidily on the bar. With shaky hands the bartender put the bottle next to him, grabbed the money, and disappeared out a back door.[/SIZE]


[SIZE= 14px]"Right."[/SIZE][SIZE= 14px] Mason whispered and stood up from the stool. [/SIZE][SIZE= 14px]"Time to eat."[/SIZE]

 

[BeeProdigy]

KARAEL
​

The natural light filtering out the darkness causes his long white hair to glow. Making his way through the streets, it bounces against his back in the small black hair tie he was so fond of. Shots ring in the distance, but his only response is a roll of his eyes. Stopping in front of a nightclub, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, nasty things. "How ya' doing, Glad?" a small light glows as he places the cigarette in his mouth. The tall burly man who had been standing proudly, begins to look around nervously.


"I, uh, I'm sorry - I don't have it," speaking in a whisper, Glad makes a futile force to steady his voice. Karael's eyebrow raises as he flicks some ashes on the ground. He purses his lips and takes another long drag before answering. Letting the smoke blow slowly in Glad's face, he smiles mischievously.


"I just asked how you were. Want one, you seem one edge," he holds up the pack as Glad's shaky hand takes one. Shoving the pack in the pocket of his tan trench-coat, Glad flinches. The tall slender man gives him another devilish look. The bouncer doesn't pry his eyes away from Karael as he slowly brings the cigarette to his lips. Any confidence Glad had was washed away as he stands there with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. With a bewildered expression, Karael holds up a lighter - which Glad accepts zealously. After clamping the lid back down on the lighter, Glad's hands begin to steady.


"Heh, don't worry, I should hav-" his eyebrows furrow as he looks around in a panic. "Wha-" his heart begins to race. How did they get here? They were in a cave, geysers of flames spewing from the floor. Eyeless hounds were chained to the wall on a breaking leash. There claws were in-proportionally the size of a baby's head. Most of them were hairless, some had caught on fire, a few were dripping blood from gashes on their bodies, while others were dripping from their teeth. But they were all targeted on one thing - Glad's throat. Karael appears bored as he flicks his cigarette at one of the hounds, causing it to yelp. "Please, man, I'll have it soon. I just need more time," Glad is on his knees as he begs.


"I'd hurry, they look hungry. I guess after I fired the maid I didn't realize there'd be no one to feed them," he tilts his head, "Or did they eat her?" he smiles at the hounds, "Oh, you little troublemakers. If you keep eating everyone, no one will be able to take care of you." In response, one of the hounds jumps forward - straining the leash too far. The sound of a snapping chain causes Glad's heart to sink as he looks up to the sight of eight monsters coming down on him. He clenches his eyes closed and holds up his arms in defense, as if that'd do anything. His entire body is shaking as Karael nudges him with his foot. Opening one eye displays the street in front of the nightclub. He looks up at Karael, who has an eyebrow raised. "Damn straight you're going to have that money soon," he doesn't give Glad a chance to respond before leaving. I could use a drink.


It doesn't take him long before he comes face to face with The Wolf's Den, the bartender rushing out in a frenzy. He doesn't even acknowledge Karael when he bumps into him. Maybe, free drinks then? He opens the door to find a nightmare. There were a couple hookers skewered with pool cues, stuck to their client. People were dangling over the counter, blood spilling over into one of the pools on the floor. The only one who was alive, was a tall figure donned in black and a pair of orange glasses falling off his face. Karael tilts his head up and exhibits his signature joker's smile. "What's a fella got to do to get a drink around here?"

 
​

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

[SIZE= 28px]Mason Taylor, The Wraith of Core[/SIZE]

He'd perfected the method of draining blood like a vampire. Take a deep breath, bite the carotid artery open just right and you'll have drained a body in just under a minute. Minimum spillage, almost clean cut, and the body turns from a healthy adult to an awkwardly empty bag.


The door creaked open just as Mason let another throat fall from his mouth and another body pile on the floor next to him. A man, looking not entirely unlike himself, with long white hair and tall stature came into the room. The clearest distinction between the two was the Angel's deep blue eyes. Whilst Mason looked like he was dragged straight out of an old monochrome movie, it added great contrast to the newcomer.


A question was asked, but Mason prioritized lighting another cigarette first. He was leaned against the bar but facing the room, with one of his feet against the footrest of an adjacent barstool. He took a deep drag, then breathed it into the fog that already covered the ceiling. "Remain composed and you can have your pick." He spoke with a voice that closesly resembled a mellow gust of wind, or maybe the leaves rustling in it.


Or maybe they were chains.


He hadn't sent more than a passing glance at the newcomer, and to be honest he really didn't care. The people in this room were undoubtedly menaces of society, not a single one so far hadn't tasted like some mixture of drugs, and they had all been carrying some form of gun. Wasn't exactly the most innocent of people. That's why they could die. Some might argue that a man's got to do what a man's got to do, and sometimes that involves shady business sometimes, but that line of logic would protect Mason's actions just as well. The newcomer didn't seem, nor smell, like a person who he'd be justified in killing without further reason. There didn't need to be an issue if there didn't need to be an issue.


Mason dragged another body of the counter and sunk his teeth into it's neck. "Tastes like heroin." He quietly thought to himself.

 

[BeeProdigy]

KARAEL
​

The remaining man inside doesn't answer immediately, Karael wonders if he didn't hear him - or maybe he was ignoring him? With a simple shrug he makes his way towards the counter as the stranger finally answers. "Sounds good to me," he flips over the counter and begins mixing a drink. It was sloppy and too diluted, causing a disgusted face as he sets the glass on the counter, deciding to try again. After his fourth attempt, he finally makes something that satisfies his taste. Hoisting himself on the counter, he intently watches the monochromatic man as he feasts.


It was pleasantly quiet as the man continues his meal, and Karael his drink. Normally it'd be his place to do something about the stranger's actions. However, there were a few things stopping him. First, he has no proof this man even killed them. Second, he had taken up his position to enforce the law - and the people here weren't your average citizen. Had he been the one to find this place before the stranger - he may very well have tried to take them in. And if that didn't work well... 


At least in this scenario, someone got a meal out of the ordeal.


I protect the weak and innocent, he pulls out the small picture of his younger brother, only giving it a brief glance before shoving it back into his pocket. He hates me so much... He shakes the thought out of his head before potentially dragging the unsuspecting stranger into one of his memories. That would definitely disturb the silent peach the two had agreed on. In an attempt to wash away, he downs the remaining half of his glass. "Mind if I ask your name, buddy?" It was an off-hand question, a simple no and he wouldn't pursue it further.

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

[SIZE= 28px]Mason Taylor, The Wraith of Core[/SIZE]

His reaction to the undisconcerted stranger was, well, undisconcerted. It was peculiar how easily he dealt with the scene, the cannibalism, and the general shock, but then again he was old. Mason didn't have to look twice to notice. Angels don't get nearly as old as successful blood-drinkers, but this one was older than Mason. Twice as old? Something like that. Still, he might just be a vulture, and in that case he was lucky Mason had gotten quite enough.


A flicker in the corner of his eye attracted his mercenary instinct, and Mason glanced up to get a quick view of a picture that the man had held in his pocket. A young boy, maybe a relative. Mason made a mental note out of habit.


"Mind if I ask your name, buddy?"


The stranger spoke. Mason dropped the drained corpse from his arms. "That should be good to set me for a few weeks." He thought. But something was off, he could feel it. After more than 50 years of doing this, he could feel it, almost smell it. He slowly turned his head a few degrees and looked at the stranger over his glasses.


"It probably wouldn't do you any good." A cloud of smoke escaped with his words since the cigarette was still lodged in the corner of his mouth, as Mason evaluated the man. Where had he met such unashamed questioning, unfazed curiousity, guts of steel, and elderly power before? It struck him like a thunderbolt, but he didn't give off a single sign of epiphanies. This man was not an unlikely candidate for a Guardian. He didn't give off the criminal vibe, he was old, along with all the previously mentioned qualities. He'd be first in line for a job, if he was legaly inclined.


"But you can call me Wraith." He continued as he turned his face back towards the room and his gaze into nothingness. Wraith was a well-known alias, but anyone could lay a claim to it. Besides, Mason had never left any witnesses or direct evidence of anything, only records of his uncertain involvement in massacres and police-killings for over 50 years. There had once been actual proof once, for about 20 minutes before he broke into the police station, killed everyone, and destroyed it. Everything pointed towards him, just no evidence.


He blindly reached out and grabbed his third bottle of jack and put it to his lip. "What's your name, stranger?" he asked in his usual blasé voice, before taking a few gulps.

 

[BeeProdigy]

Karael
​

Karael remained quiet after his question, observing the stranger as he finished up his last meal. "It probably wouldn't do you any good," had been the stranger's remark. The nephilim frowned but respected his decision to keep quiet. Karael tried to keep from making it obvious. But this man looked like he had been around the block a few times; he could probably tell the half-angel was a cop. Of course, if he was withholding information - that meant he was a delinquent. Tipping his head back with the glass to his lips, Karael figured ignorance would be bliss. He wasn't normally lazy, but it had been a long night and if he didn't have the proof to bring this man down he wouldn't.


Wraith, that name sounded familiar. He hmmed as he pulled out a cigarette, lighting it but not putting it to his lips. Possibly this man wasn't the wraith. The cop wasn't always the most ethical, if he was sure someone was guilty and there was no evidence proving so - he'd take matters into his own hands. But it had been a long night.


"You can call me," he grimaced, but if this man wasn't going to give his real name, neither was he, "Snowy." It was rare to find a white angel, so his alias was probably well known amongst perps. He flicked the ashes from his cigarette, still not taking a drag. Smoking was more so a show for him.

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

[SIZE= 28px]Mason Taylor, The Wraith of Core[/SIZE]

A bullet casing jumped to life and rolled of the end of the bar when Mason put his bottle down on the counter again, reminding him of the louder bangs that previously had been lighting up the room. He looked up over his glasses and glared at the corpse of a larger man who laid toppled over a chair with his face married to the floor. In a swift motion he grabbed the bottle of Jack and dropped it into one of his deep pockets before walking over and taking a look around the body.


"You can call me Snowy."


Yep, he'd definitely heard that Alias before. "One found." He thought, picking the large revolver off the floor. A Taurus Raging Judge, missing two bullets, chambered in .454. Mason reached into the man's pocket and found a box holding another handful rounds. "Reminds me of my mother." Mason silently noted and started heading for the exit.


"If I remembered her."


"Nice to meet you, Snowy." Mason started, whilst he threw two of the bullets into the air. In a swift motion he chambered them both by opening the cylinder and swiping the revolver so that they fell perfectly into their slots. "It won't be the last time." His back was turned to the Guardian, and all that was visible was his longcoat and the back of his grey/white hair.


Until, suddenly, his longcoat moved to momentarily reveal the muzzle of the revolver under his armpit. A loud bang shook the room as he fired it at the fusebox without turning around. The room was plunged into total darkness, save a ray of red light that found it's way through the newly-made bullethole. A door slammed, then Mason was out on the street again. But it wasn't long before he'd been lost between alleyways, fire escapes and red lights. He was, on the other hand, in a positive mindset.


After all, he'd already found his first target.