Scene #5454: The New World Order(s)

Owner	Pose
Reaper	The Talon flight deck was always a busy place; People scurrying too and fro, doing the general maintenance tasks of preparing the drop ships for sudden departure or arrival at any time. Which meant the deck itself had to be constantly cleared while simultaneously maintained - so you get people booking as fast as they can go across the middle, then hovering on the wings like excited wall flowers. In the midst of this is the requisite drop ship that Reaper had commandeered; A heavier model designed for cross-world trips. The VTOL engines already hot and pointed groundward, blowing out heated air as they cycle - and in the cockpit? Gabriel himself, of course. That sterile white mask streaked with colored lights as panels flicker and change around him, his clawed gauntlets stretching out here and there to flip a switch or adjust. The faint hiss of breath from his mask much akin to a sound of annoyance - or pain.
Nicky	Having been called in from what was attempted post training schedule, Nicky slipped into the flight deck, still in training jumpsuit and clearly only having grabbed the basic gear sack in the short time she had. Just the survival equipment and the spare uniform. "Didn't even grant time to get a shower." Nicky complains as she wipes the sticky hair from her forehead, growling lightly. "Hope this isn't a dress uniform mission."
Reaper	The sliding door to the cockpit is open, today; The co-pilot's seat unoccupied, Reaper's sterile white mask turning as Nicky boards. That unseen gaze studying Talon's newest member for a silent heartbeat or two, before his rasping, growling voice slithers outwards. "You can be buried in a uniform; But for now, you live on the move." A few more switches flipped, the hatch sliding shut and sealing itself with a faint whine of air. The dropship rumbling as power is increased, shifting as it begins to haul itself into the air, Reaper finally relenting. "Where we're going - no one will notice the smell. Loose strap only, in case we have to bail."
Nicky	Grunting, Nicky eyes the straps, holding onto them as she tosses the backpack against the door, pulling out the reserve green uniform. Simple greens with camo patterns, like many recruits in all the armies wear them. "Great... just keep her stable for six minutes so I can change out of the tracksuit." opening the jacket, she even gives a slight glare to the pilot, one leg pinned against the front to stabilize herself in the seat. "No peekin if you can avoid."
Reaper	"I'm dead, Nicky. What exactly do you expect I'd be looking for?" Growls the Reaper, even as he reaches up to flip a switch; The hatch between the two compartments - cabin and mid - hissing closed with a -thunk-. This time it's left unlocked, so it can be opened on HER side when she's done. The dropship hitting a cruising speed with a faint rattle of superstructure - it'll be a long ride, after all. Long enough that - if Nicky chooses to re-open that dividing hatch - she'll be able to watch the landscape change. From the more earth-like Overwatch world to something dried, cracked, and slightly psychodelic. One part desert, one part Mad Max, one part alien; Pandora. Reaper isn't precisely the most talkative sort.
Nicky	Nicky emerges after some minutes from the back section, having buckled up in the green suits - or rather olive. Slipping into the seat, she looks for some report or some other kind of document to fill her in on the mission. "So, what's the job in this... wasteland?`"
Reaper	"Not a mission - a tradition." A growled comment, as the drop ship begins to slow and drop towards one particular hub of activity; A floating city that looks somewhere between space age and a train wreck salvage job. Visual camo kicking in to keep them hidden while they're here, the engines cutting off as it touches down with a faint groan of metal. There wasn't a lot of places for them to land, so up high it had to be. Reaper's form melting rather than bothering to stand, the coils of black smoke curling out of the pilot's chair only to reform near the hatch. Which opens, Reaper setting the timer for it to set and seal itself. That sterile white mask turned back towards Nicky, the hiss of breath. "It'll make sense - soon enough." And then he's dropping down, not bothering to climb. After all - he's dead. What's going to hurt him?
Nicky	"Tradition?" Nicky asks as she straps in for the rest of the flight, standing in the door after him with the backpack in tow. A moment she hesitates to follow the jump, then she exhales and jumps in behind, her feet aimed down to accalerate a bit faster to hope to pick up to Reaper, but mists away in a black and white cloud before reaching him. Before hitting the ground, she condenses again as what might count as a Mockery of the Reaper himself - but it might on the other hand be an hommage to a different place: a small rodent skeleton in a black shroud. More precisely: a Death of Rats Plushie.
Reaper	A metal gauntlet snakes out from the vaporous cloud of Reaper's silent hit against the walkways below; Catching the Death of Rats neatly before she can strike the rusted metal ways. It was only a -little- gentler, but it's the thought that counts, right? The sterile white mask turned towards Nicky's choice of plush form, a faint hiss of breath before she's placed on the ground again. So she can reform. And then it's time to start -striding-, with a casual walk of Someone Who Kills. You'd think that a fellow in a black cowl with smoke curling off his shoulders might stand out, but not here. Between the neon, the badly made cybernetic attachments, the trash-heap-salvage-survivor clothing, the glowing runes and even the occasional screaming mini-psycho smaller than Nicky (And as vicious as a rabid bulldog), no one even gives the two more than a passing glance. And even then probably just to figure out what can be stolen. Their destination? A joint called Moxxi's. Bright neon, bullet holes, and a juke box playing something scratched that could only mostly be considered music. But at least it's lively? "Tradition. You survived your last mission on the island. Tradition is - you survive, you get shot." A play on words. Probably. That, or Reaper really does intend to shoot someone. But it was a tradition held on from the days even before Overwatch - Jack might even recognize it. If he was here. And the two weren't out to kill each other at first sight. But that's beside the point.
Nicky	The small skeletal rat just blinks with blue plastic eyes embedded in the plush skull on the catch, but she reforms to follow Reaper. One hand on the strap of the backpack, she slips through the small alleys, ducks under some laundry lines between the buildings and jumps over the odd strange goop on the ground. "Get shot?!" Nicky asks, her eyes narrowing and her fingers in reaction grabbing for where a pistol had rested at her side during gun training earlier the day. But the holster and pistol weren't with her, but the training was. The grabbing motion was there, her figure starting to go to a kneel, the intention to draw and shoot at Reaper.
Reaper	The Reaper pauses, one clawed gauntlet creaking as he flexes the hand hidden within. That cowled head slowly turning, the edge of the owl-skull-horse-thing mask seen as he looks behind him; A slow, dark laugh that curdles out from his rasped voice, as if he had practiced a classic 'evil laugh' in front of the mirror for a few hours every day. "An empty hand to kill a life devouring wraith; Your imagination is getting the better of you." The snarled voice lowering an octave, before the cowled head turns forward again. "If I wanted you dead, I would break your neck in your sleep and swallow your soul. ... I think we'll work on your hand to hand regime after this." And the door is open to reveal - Moxxi's! Just think of the absolute gaudiest bar you could think of, with neon lights and Moxxi herself at the helm; The stereotype of a painted harlot brought to life. Not to mention the dirty, vicious, back stabbing layabouts, ne'er-do-wells, flesh eating raiders and simple bums that are usually found. It had passed the point of stereotypical trope and had come so far around that - if Einstein was correct - it was approaching originality from the other direction. "Pick your poison. If you're old enough to kill - you're old enough to drink." The voice is still growling, rasping, despite the offer. As if it pained. "One for every death that wasn't yours. Shot is on.. me."
Nicky	"Training's fault." Nicky responds as she straighten's her posture, glaring at the Reaper as she slips towards the bar. Of course he had to make the one and only joke he knew, right? "Great, ok, so let's get this over. Not a drinker... how many I need to down? Or one for each I survived against? Or one for each that died?" One moment she sighs, then settles on the chair, grabbing for the edge. "Whiskey. The good stuff from the brit islands, not the Tennessea corn bullshit like Jack."
Reaper	"One for every death that isn't yours. You decide the number you've killed; Just like you decide the number you will kill to finish a mission." Snarls Reaper, following after the smaller figure towards the bar itself. He squats onto his own stool, ordering - whiskey. Of course it's whiskey. At least it's not tequila. The same bottle used to pour out Nicky's first shot, without so much more than a raised eyebrow. After all, this is Pandora. There were no laws. "Hm. If I had a heart, I'd say you followed after it." Comes the rasping comment, his own shotglass left on the counter for the moment. The sterile white mask turned to regard Nicky, then to watch the others at the bar. -Guarding- the talent in a less than reputible place.
Nicky	Nicky lifts the glass in front of her, tapping it on the old wood twice, slightly tilted, before lifting it to her lips to down the golden fluid. Moments she pulls a grimace as it burns down her neck, the eyes closing a moment. The glass she slams onto the counter as it is emptied. "Fill up... I guess I need another 7." She mutters, grabbing for the bottle to pour it back to the line and repeat the rite. Two taps, then lift and down it with a grimace. "Burns like terpentine... this is not the smooth stuff I meant, but I guess has to suffice... Next time I bring a bottle, R."
Reaper	"My name... is Reaper." Snarls the darkly cowled figure, coils of his dark essence coiling about the shot in front of him from his clawed gauntlet. After a moment he further solidifies, breath hissing through his mask as he picks up the shot. And turns it slowly upside down, letting the sour whiskey pour between the metal fingers of his other clawed hand. There's something rather somber about the motion, as though it were more ritual than petty waste, the wrist slowly rotating to maintain a steady trickle. When the last is gone, the glass is turned upside down upon the table - and he simply nods to the lifted eyebrow about 'seven more shots'. "If it burns, you're still alive - or at least here. That's a better deal than many in your place would get. You've grown stronger in their fall." Comes the rasping snarl. And it seems he really has no choice but to growl and snarl, no matter what he's saying. Three and then four shots lined up before the small girl, Reaper's bone white mask watching her. Or at least turned in her direction - who knows, maybe he's watching over her shoulder.
Nicky	A slight growl is given back as Nicky empties the glasses, the grimace getting less pronounced as the number increased. "You can't be Death, he talks in all capitals, Reaper." Nicky's comment might sound out of context as she drowns the shots, stacking the empty glasses in a rectangle of 2 by three over time. "As long as it burns, you are alive? I guess that is true, but so it would be if it tastes well and I taste it. What deal would most get? Rotting in black body bags?"
Sombra	"If it doesn't burn, it's not strong enough." The voice should be familiar, and when a certain colourful hacker appears on the other side of Reaper, towards where he /wasn't/ looking, there should be no doubt. Sombra slips down into a seat next to Reaper, motioning for the bartender, who nods in response. "Seriously, you didn't tell me you two were going out here to drink, Gabe," she chides her superior. Not that she can't figure out things. It's her /job/ to know. Next she looks at Nicky, offering the girl a nod. "You need a drink now and then, it's all part of life. After all, you never know which drink will be your last."
Reaper	"You haven't heard my capital letters yet." Snarls the black cowled man, reaching down. He grips thin air, and pulls upwards - shadows and smoke slither across his hand, becoming solid as fast as he can draw upwards, revealing the Hellfire Shotgun. This is 'THUNKED' onto the bartop, but only gets a coursery look from most of the patrons. Who are, true to word, -also- heavily armed. It's Pandora. Most people learned to use guns before they learned to walk. And THERE she is. Reaper's head turning slightly, but he refuses to give her the joy of seeing him have to look over his shoulder. It's one of the only few joys he can deny the neon colored hacker. "My name.. is Reaper." He states, out of snarling habit, before he slowly twists his neck. Joints creak and crack with painful luxury before he finally flexes that gauntlet. ".. You act as if I should be worried you couldn't keep up, Sombra." He states, finally turning his mask towards her as well. Then back to Nicky. "Or shallow graves." He adds to the black body bags. Before at last knocking on the table, and flicking a clawed thumb to Sombra. "This one.. as well." Growl, snarl, hiss.
Nicky	And among all the heavily armed people, Nicky is surprisingly light armed: no firearms. "You don't have a butler existing on suspended time and neither an adopted daughter that is replacement death when you do holidays, at least as far as I know." A small, almost forced chuckle is emitted from Nicky as she stacks the seventh glass upon the six on the ground. "If someone took the time to bury the others... but I guess they do what mutants do that get caught by punishers: getting hung up to dry in the sea breeze." As Nicky grabs the eights glass, she nods over to sombra, a slight red on the cheek and nose talking about the intake of alcohol, and on the left, on the side away from reaper, there might be a slightly wet trail running down.
Sombra	"You act as if continuing saying that will cause things to change," Sombra chuckles to Reaper, reaching out to pat his shoulder roughly. The bartender returns with a bottle and a glass for Sombra, pouring her the golden liquid. She nods in return, then raises the glass to her lips, tips her head backwards as she downs it all in one go. When she lowers the glass, her face remains unchanged. "Your fellow recruits did poorly, you managed to survive... that's worth some drinks," she states, through she arches an eyebrow at Reaper when he jerks that thumb in her direction. "This one what?" she inquires before she pours herself another glass.
Reaper	"A waste of resources - and talent - for something as petty as genetics." Growls the Reaper, the metal gauntlet of his hands flexing once more. "There are far greater wars to fight." Call it hypocritical of the man who refers to himself as DEATH to be annoyed by a genocide lacking in true purpose beyond political, but he is. The masked head turning towards Sombra as she speaks, before his rasping, growled voice creaks back out. "This one.. is on my -list-." Simply wracking up his own bill. And why not? It's not like he can drink the stuff anymore. Might as well experience it vicariously. Also a joke on being a reaper of souls again. My oh my, Mr. Edgelord, how original. Clawed gauntlets creaking again as they flex, clawed gauntlets resting on the table top as he looks towards Nicky. That soft hiss of breath before the snarling comment. "Tell me more - about your.. 'punishers'."
Nicky	"Tell that the Purifiers." Nicky responds, the voice a bit slurry, her hand clenching around her latest glass. Not that it would creak or crack, but the knuckles went white. "Or ask those other genocidal maniacs from history... wait, you can't, they're dead." "The Punishers? Asshats. Think because someone got the X gene the're nod worth anything. Burn them. Build shitty hunter robods called Sentinels that hunt 'em. If you wanna compare em? They're kinda like the KKK but not white supermacists but human supermacists. And they are wrong, cause they're just shiddy baseline humans."
Sombra	Now that brings a smirk to Sombra's face, and she downs another glass before she chuckles. "Not the worst list of yours to be on, I bet." On his bar tab list isn't bad at all. Just as long as they're not on his 'to kill' list. The hacker listens as Nicky explains matters about her own world and these 'punishers'. Supremacists... well, they are everywhere. "If they are unfit to rule in the first place, then they will get knocked down one way or another," Sombra states calmly, not looking bothered. When does she look bothered at all, really? "Though sometimes it doesn't hurt to set something up..." Suddenly she leans over and reaches for Nicky's empty glass once she's finished her whiskey glass, then she pours something from the bottle she's been drinking herself. There you go. Whiskey is for whimps.