#|| rp

“Knew I’d find you here eventually.”

The man-- odd prosthetics replacing all four of his limbs, netrunner suit, bright shock of red hair, mechanical tattoos across his face --sits down next to her at the bar. Claire, unspoken to, slides him a glass of whiskey.

“I think I’m getting the hang of trailer packing-tetris.” V sounds just a bit sarcastic, but it’s not enough to mask the hint of genuine pride that comes through in his voice as he sits down on the edge of the stage next to Kerry. He cracks open a can (soda--he never drinks on a job) and takes a quick sip before catching Kerry’s gaze in his own. 

The repair floor of the prosthetics shop is extremely messy. Parts and projects sit in no particular arrangement on every available surface. The sole proprietor sits on a stool at one such table, facing away from the entrance from the small, unattended waiting room. He is hunched over, using a device to spray orange paint onto a metal chassis.

Atom arrives by night: The stranger in a strange land. A light rain applauds his entrance to the scene, and he ignores it as he makes his way on foot through the winding streets of the Town on Gorkhon.

There is no one to greet him; as had been expected. This is fine, though it means he will need to wander to find a map, or a guide. And a guide he finds; but not in the way that was expected.

After several long minutes, a spotlight catches his attention. He turns, and sees another light itself further down the road. After a few moments, another.

His following of the signs begins slowly, hesitantly, expecting at any moment to be jumped by figures in the shadows. But as his curiosity begins to boil over, he is soon enough running, sprinting, careening around corners and leaping over benches; the child within him bursting free at the pure unbridled joy that comes from the thrill of the chase.

Atom.... loses track of a lot of things, nowadays. Pencils and nails disappear into forgotten corners of his workshop. Receipts and to-do lists languish in the labyrinth of his file cabinet. Urgent business, if not immediately noted down on the appropriate calendar app, will likely go unattended. New names slip from his grasping hands like some kind of cartoon roadrunner. Faces....

Well, he’s pretty sure he can remember faces. Which is why he’s pretty sure he doesn’t know this guy. He’s even more sure after stringing him along for a good hour, waiting for him to be the first one to start the conversation. But no. This is some kind of stalker. Or, maybe he’s an incredibly underfunded private investigator. The coat matches, but it’s a bit too unwashed to be worn by a well-funded private investigator.

do y' know who y' are? 

The mask slips. For half a second, the shadow of a grin always present on Atom’s face vanishes. For that moment, his eyes could be that of an undead corpse, stumbling through the cemetery in search of its soul, which has since moved on without it. It’s an ill-fitting metaphor; Atom is very much in possession of a soul. But for a moment, one might believe otherwise.

Quickly, the facade is reinstated. The corners of his mouth once again flirt with the appearance of a smirk, and his eyes look, for lack of a better word, normal.

she doesn’t need his help. she doesn’t even know who he is. but here damien stands on a rooftop, turning from the broken skylight to the woman who alights to approach him from behind. she is quiet, and armed, but he has the knowledge of the Buzzing in his ear; ringing tales of tails and claws and capers directly into his brain; so he knows that she approaches.