MACHINA;

 ( reappears after 3 months with an apologetic gaze & cake )

 Hey, guys! I apologize for my long absence over there. After days of thinking about it, I decided that it’ll be best to move Malachi to my main blog. The reasons for this are: a) I can’t really maintain multiple blogs to save my life ( especially when work gets on the way and my time to be here gets diminished ) & b) I don’t want my boy here to be forgotten by my hand; I’ve put a lot of effort in creating him and chances for me to develop him further will be better if I keep him where I’m most active. HE CAN’T CONTINUE COLLECTING MORE DUST, MY SON.

  SO! If you wish to continue with our interactions DO LET ME KNOW ( you can totally IM me, or like/reply to this post ) and I’ll be more than glad to continue things in my main blog!! 

  FEEL FREE TO FOLLOW THE IRISH BOY ( and the rest of my children ) HERE.

Twisting his face at the do-gooders smart remark. Perhaps he was contradicting himself but he was more amused with the idea that he so willingly met Jesse’s sarcasm with his own brand of sarcastic quips. Understanding a dismissal when he heard one Jesse steadied himself by releasing his stabilisers giving a nod to the man that fundamentally saved his life. “Jesse.” He said in conjunction with a few staggered step forward. Turning back, nearly throwing his bruised limbs off kilter. “Figure to properly thank you– I got nothing other than money to offer you, My name, It’s Jesse.”

Now the guy knew his name and where he lived, should he ever need a forged document, someone to talk a dealer out of a new car that doesn’t look as though it were about to give up the ghost any minute, or maybe he needed a guy out of his hair, he now knew where exactly to find himself. 

Not wanting to suspend the moment any longer than necessary, with a shaky intake of breath, Jesse shuffled toward the doors of his fancy Manhattan apartment building. Staggered steps, purpled cheekbones, a man clad in dirt seemingly out of place in the clean, shine of the upper class structure. It wasn’t more than a few moments after Jesse had vanished inside the building did a blonde emerge waving at Malachi as she jogged up to him. “You the guy who brought my brother home?” She asked him.

  He initially believed he would never see the day where he actually acknowledged the other’s identity; a name for a face to wear, thinking he’d leave with nothing but the remembrance of his wounded silhouette making its way toward the door. He seemed so defensive in the beginning; willing to push away any notions of growing closer; time and time again giving a slight mention of how unworthy of a bond theirs could be should they reveal their secrets.     To say the least, the guy suddenly and so openly pronouncing his name startled him.     Malachi was about to tell him who he was, too; to return the favor...though it seemed Jesse was far busier in wanting to make his way home; with a limp and all, hurriedly wishing to disappear. Well, so much for having a bit of hope when it came to the stranger’s suspicious ways. The hybrid decided to let him be; allow each of them to be on their separate, merry ways, without ( most likely ) seeing each other again. He sighed and shrugged, about to turn on his heel before the voice of someone else caught his attention. 

  Brother? So this Jesse had a sister. Unconsciously, the imaginary wave of a burn was sent to his heart; a small wheeze taking place whilst slowly looking up to stare at female form. It seemed the injured guy and him possessed yet another thing in common: They both had sisters. However, out of the two, Jesse was the luckiest, for he knew where his sibling was...unlike him. His sweet, sweet Mona.  He never got to see her again. 

                    Despite wanting to learn more of the free, modern world, she felt at EASE traveling down memory lane; nostalgia allowing a sense of calm in the android that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She felt distressed on a daily basis and it was a MIRACLE she had been able to function at all amidst the craziness of the struggle she bore. Whether Irish, American, Italian, whatever              it didn’t matter. She wholly welcomed the man in casual conversation, smiling in final understanding to his explanation. 

                    It was almost if he could see right through her by way of assumptions. He wasn’t wrong. It had been difficult living here by herself. With the brutal passing of her maker, she had no one else to turn to as they would surely see her for what she was               an ABERRATION from social norm. She only wishes she could perfect her poker face from the visible upset.

❝ Yes… it has been hard… ❞

                    But she won’t allow herself to fall down the rabbit hole of misery as she shakes morbid thoughts away and carries on with a more pleasant visage.

❝ Ah’m sorry, by the way. Ah didn’t quite catch your name. Ah’m Josephine. ❞

   He’s not entirely sure if he’s touched strings that shouldn’t be poked; a brief, tight pursing of lips performed the moment he witnesses a glimpse of solemnity in her factions. A part of him wishes to apologize for anything bothersome he’s said to cause that type of impact on her, but it seems she’s capable to quickly recover as features change to olden ones; brows rising in both befuddlement and admiration.     If his theories are right, she’s quite a strong one...even when he’s not deeply familiar with her origins, or the situations she’s been through. 

  HE’S been waiting for them to approach into the distant shadows. The alarm from establishment goes off, and he can hear not only the noise whining so very close to his ears, but their hurried steps, too. And the panting. Oh, that tiredness...the kind that’s built out of the fear of being caught.     Little do they know, determined eyes are set on them already. 

  Sometimes he comes and sits on the beach’s grainy floor. The times he’s felt the sand under his feet are scarce now; a fatal tragedy, consider how much he used to love the sea. He still loves the sea. Still adores to see waves dancing below the sun; still finds fondness in that salty breeze filling his lungs. Nevertheless, now more than ever does he also feel a tinge of pain tying itself up around his heart with every buzz of water; with every kiss given to the shore. 

Well versed in the creation of perfect craquelure, and forged documents, the con bristled in confidence that he could very well make that happen. “My long lost Irish cousin?” He questioned with aversion to the idea. Jesse’s family carried not an Irish cell in their bodies, He is the product of Russian and Polish genetic make-up. Aside from it, the Coleman’s weren’t rich, they were criminals, many of them buried beneath earth or tally their days in prison cells. “Trust me–” Brows lift as he looks down at his muck covered shoes. “–You’re better off with the money you have, unless your heart is made of ice and your stomach–of stone.” His father, Marcus Coleman was a hit-man, the penthouse suite papers, almost quite literally signed in blood. 

Looking around, his cobalt Benz sitting beside the rust bucket he was brought in. He never took the car at all. Jesse nodded. “Not counting my chickens yet,” He said, grabbing the handle above the door to pull himself to his feet, gripping Malachi’s shoulder, a gesture of unspoken appreciation. “There’s still time for you to thrust a knife into my throat.” A slight chuckle indicated words without malice. 

A single step sent pins and needles through his abdomen. A small display of weakness on his features as an arm curls around his rib cage. The walk up to his suite was going to be an endeavour in itself. “I suppose you’re hoping for compensation?” Because surely no man of his financial ineptitude; would see Jesse’s lifestyle as something not worth taking advantage of.

  The other keeps throwing hints of hazardous life his way; small, sharpened pebbles which cannot be seen across a pristine beach unless pointed out. The more he talks, the more Malachi believes he is not a man made of honesty in regards of how he earns his living but a person who might have gained merit out of ways which led him to the state he’s in. All of those warnings knit several theories in his head, yet none of them come out regardless of suspicions inherited from whispers within mind. Hybrid just lifts his brows, acknowledging what he’s said, but not voicing much in that account. His heart is not made of ice, that is for certain, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered to take injured stranger home. But his stomach...oh, he’s seen more than enough. More than what he could wish for, more than what he needed to witness.     He just stands there, both hands digging deep into his pockets to protect himself from cold he doesn’t feel at its fullest. Malachi will wait until he’s inside, regardless of how proud and stubborn the other might be. He surely didn’t bring him all the way here just to leave him with the open scenario of falling onto the ground without a lack of present help. 

❝ Cap-uhl tin ?  What’s that ? ❞

                    Had she never become self-aware, she would have not for a second questioned a great many things he brought into perspective. Yet she finds herself wondering more about his life; about his KNOWLEDGE surpassing that of Western ideals and how he had grown to accommodate to the modern world. It was still fairly difficult for her to make heads or tails of everything and fabricating a backstory was harder than she imagined and as much as she didn’t want to shed light on the only life she knew, it was ALL she could reference. Thankfully, her Southern upbringing wasn’t too entirely far-fetched.

❝ Ah had a farm back home, yes. My, uh, husband raised cattle      mostly… It was just the one time that Ah recall so it wasn’t a common occurrence… ❞ 

                    Suddenly she feels STRANGE admitting the part about her husband as her memories of him are skewed and she can’t fully remember everything other than the few images that flash before her when she least expects it.

The less people that are tangled in the dealing of the con man, the better off he’d be. Getting involved with a man such as him could very easily turn, pulling him up from the dirt, into owing a great, ineluctable debt to the mob, threading and entangling the do-gooder into a life of crime and cons. Jesse’s persisting paranoia protected him from that entanglement from knotting itself into the do-gooder’s life. Thinking highly of himself wasn’t exactly an attribute of which he maintained; fully aware of his deceitful, criminality. Traits many would rather see buried beneath the soil or concealed behind iron bars, traits not even the criminal himself should find pride in.

Nodding his head in agreement, Jesse himself, let loose held breath from his tired lungs. Words unable to express his understanding, maybe because he didn’t understand. All his life he walked a shadowed path, not once choosing the light. Frankly, he didn’t think that it was ever an option. There had to be some kind of karmic punishment keeping the immoral from moral human culture. A bolt of lightning, something, to come down and smite him if only a toe step over the line. 

Jesse scoffs, a relief to see the neighbourhood he has come to know so well. “Yeah, maybe you can show me around.” He snorts teasingly, bringing up his head in a kind of nod to point to the direction of a shortcut to where his Benz is usually parked. “Just over there.” Snorting a second time only to tamp down his laughter, shaking his head. “It’s inherited.” He gave up the facade. A penthouse bought with blood money many years ago, Jesse struggles from time to time to even keep. What might appear outwardly beautiful to one of minimal means, its really a reminder of the man who once owned it, and his unrelenting grip on his children’s lives even when he lay six foot down. “It may look nice, but the bills alone are staggering.” He chuckled.

  Coming from a life in which humility reigned, Malachi is suddenly overwhelmed with the amount of opulence oozing from the so called inherited home. Mind even dares to give him terrible flashes of the last time he was in a wealthy abode, a mistake he will always regret. Sighing to brush away the pain clinging to adamantine bones, he drives to where he’s told; eyes showing a brief glimpse of orange as they focus on the location. Not only does the guy live in such a sumptuous-looking structure, but he also seems to own a vehicle that’s far, far better than the piece of garbage they’re both currently in. No wonder he openly criticized it.