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Damon Maxey

There are two sides to every coin; bad influences and good. Everybody says I have to make a choice between right and wrong, but I say, why can't I have both?

0 · 226 views · located in Wing City Plaza

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by AugmentationAudit

Description

Damon is not especially tall, and currently lingers in the awkward teenage stage of gangling, out of proportion growth.
His skin is very dark, and his eyes are a pinkish-blue.

When Damon was a child, his teeth were alarmingly small and pointed, as is the case with some children. They grew back normally, but somewhere along the line he managed to file them back to how they had once looked. They regenerate very slowly, much to Damon's annoyance, making it necessary to file them often to maintain a look he likes.

Damon's father is a teleporter, and both father and son were rather disappointed when Damon didn't develop the power himself. However, his ability to phase through solid objects wasn't something to be sniffed at, and it grew on the pair of them.

When he phases, and for a short time afterwards, the red diamonds that are characteristic of his father can be seen on his skin. Damon's phasing is a mostly conscious process, though when threatened he has been known to automatically phase through a threat. However, he finds this uncomfortable and exhausting.

Damon requires some form of healing factor, given the nature of the dimension he phases through and the radiation therein, however, the process is very slow. If wounded, he heals very gradually, more slowly than a normal human, but he heals completely given enough time. Lost teeth and limbs are capable of growing back over an extended period.

Personality

In his mid teens, and very grown up (his own opinion), Damon is the son of a psychopath and a good, honest woman. As far as he's concerned, his life is a comfortable one; if a little bit of a game, and he fully understands the twin influences in his life. He loves his father and his mother for different reasons, but he loves them both all the same, and in his mind, 'good' and 'bad' are little more than patterns of behaviour, and he excels at both.

His morals vary, as does his ambition; theft comes as easily to him as kindness, and he judges every case as it comes, rather than making sweeping statements of morality. The law, society and normality are guidelines, rather than rules in Damon's eyes, but he'll play along when he wants to.

Equipment

Damon doesn't tend to carry much in his pockets, though the occasional trinket (belonging to someone else) will find its way into them.

So begins...

Damon Maxey's Story

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Damon Maxey entered the room, hands in his pockets and steps casual, grinning as if he owned the place. He wasn't stupid; he knew that he was just a little too young to be in a bar, and that this bar especially was bad news, but that just added to the fun of it. His parents would likely go mad, but neither of them were paying all that much attention to him, so he could probably get in and out without getting caught.

Putting thoughts of capture and punishment out of his mind, Damon wandered over to the counter and took a seat, casting a quiet eye around to see what was going on. If nothing else, this place was fascinating, and the threat of dismemberment that was rumoured only made the allure of the bar more powerful.

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Damon Maxey wasn't quite sure how to order a drink, which was a pain, because the last thing he wanted to do was seem uncertain here. He'd always been told that the best bet when somewhere you shouldn't be was to act as if you owned the place and knew exactly what you were doing, that way, less people would notice something not right. Damon was not about to wreck his cool image by asking some stranger for advice on pub etiquette.

However, Damon was still a teenage boy, and despite his uncertainty in the drinks-ordering department, he was well versed in the pretty-female-at-five-o'clock side of things, and turned around appropriately when one entered. His eyes skimmed over October, lips twisting into a grin. She looked about his age, and stunning with it. Oh, this was his lucky day.

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Damon Maxey narrowed his eyes to dangerous slits as the faintest tickle of something brushed against his skin. It wasn't aimed at him, that much was certain, but Damon didn't like it one bit. A long time ago, his father had tried to explain the differences between them and the so-called 'normal' humans, and for the first time in a while his words were making sense.

He had spoken about energy, 'body' and 'world', and how people like them could use that energy to do incredible things. Right now, Damon was feeling 'world' energy twisting nearby, and he narrowed his eyes against the faint flair of red that encroached upon his vision as the first signs of red diamonds began to pepper his face.

"You're a seriously annoying little shit, you know that?" he murmured, voice soft and dangerous, rather than wary. Power was not something to be afraid of, and he was confident that he could escape any danger if he needed to.

Damon glanced at October to see how she was reacting to this new ploy. "I think the lady told you to sit down and shut up or sod off, neither of which you seem to be doing."

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Damon Maxey took a sharp, convulsive indrawn breath as a sock of world energy came surging towards him. It was automatic; he didn't have time to think. There was a rippling flash of red mottling across Damon's face as he pulsed and phased through the threat, solidifying again with a bright rash of scarlet markings paining his face and his hair standing on end.

"What. The blue furry fuck. Was that?!" he snarled, rubbing the residual crackles out of his skin. Panic-phasing was not the most comfortable thing in the orld as it was, but the bright fizz-tang of discharging world energy that this particular reaction left in its wake was something just shy of painful.

Clearly, this person was powerful, and could wield world energy with precision. Although, his phase had been successful, if uncomfortable, so Damon wasn't about to run away. "You don't fucking do that shit to a person, you bastard!"

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Damon Maxey snarled at the pair of them, showing off a mouthful sharp, pointed teeth that looked eerily bright beside the pitch of his skin. Damon had never felt as his father sometimes looked; long and lithe and monstrous, but when he was angry he could almost imagine what it would be like to look just that little bit less human. If he had had a tail to lash, or claws to bare, perhaps he would have felt a little better about the whole situation, but as it was his body remained as stubbornly normal looking as ever, save for a smattering of red diamonds on his face.

Still, Damon produced a suitable growling hiss from somewhere deep in his throat, projecting menace at the little bastard who had earned his ire. Oh, but he was tempted to reach out and phase a hand straight into the little creeper's brain, only to solidify it somewhere in the grey matter and pull out whatever he could find.

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Damon Maxey was still seething and prickling about the little shit who had tried to play Star Wars with him, but after a few angry snarls he had retreated to a booth for a bloody good sulk. His skin was still itching with the after-effects of phasing through so much concentrated world energy, and his temper was venting nowhere, leaning towards a growing head of steam.

He felt eyes on him, and had turned before he really registered what he was doing, eyes narrowed viciously and teeth just showing in the starts of a dangerous grin. The sharp points brushed his lower lip as he watched the little bastard get a good eyeful.

"What?" he growled.

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Damon Maxey blinked, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline as the little idiot chose to open his mouth rather than backing away in a hurry. "You're Welsh," was all Damon really had to say about that. It seemed to sum the other boy up perfectly.

Damon's own accent was variable and difficult to place, hinting to a heritage not limited to a single country. His eyes, reddish-blue and still narrowed angrily, didn't shift from the other boy's face as he approached, daring him to get too close.

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"Wow, your name is as shitty as your accent. Lucky you," Damon groused, flashing a mouthful of sharp teeth at the boy. "And I'm better than 'the folk back in Wales', by a long way, but that's got nothing to do with my eyes."

Damon didn't actually have as much of an opinion on Welsh people as he appeared to have, but he'd lived in England just long enough to pick up a threat of faintly mean humour from his father. Truthfully, he didn't care, but this kid was a pain in his arse already, and Damon wanted to set some ground rules; he would not be fucked about with again.

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Damon Maxey smirked, all teeth and dark humour, not looking all that bothered by Anian's comments. "Your name's shit, you don't know my name, and how nice I am depends on how badly you irritate me, which, at the moment, is pretty fucking badly." He winked. "And as to my apparent lack of friends, speak for yourself, Welsh-boy; you're the one wandering in here on your own."

Damon snorted, lounging back in his chair. "Then again, you could look like that guy, so I guess that's a point in your favour." Damon jerked a finger over his shoulder to point at the latest arrival.

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Damon Maxey rolled his eyes, but didn't protest as Anian took a seat beside him, too distracted by Shen, who was actually brightening his bad day somewhat. Lazily, Damon turned in his seat to look at the boy, teeth flashing in a wicked grin.

"I think you know what I mean, and I don't know, is it an insult? Apparently you're well versed in them, so maybe you can give me a little advice on the matter? If you were me, looking at a little runt like you sitting all on his lonesome, what would you say?"

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Damon Maxey had apparently found a partner in crime, and was suddenly and irrationally pleased by this. "You make a good point, Anus- (sorry, my bad) -Anian. Very clearly not smarter, given that he just insulted himself quite proficiently there. True though; there's no point in picking on someone more powerful than yourself. He's even taking his own advice and going back to his little drinks; it's cute, when you think about it."

Damon looked away from the lone boy, snickering. "Cute."

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"You sure he knows what a house, or an indoor toilet for that matter, looks like? I bet he's not even potty trained yet." Damon chuckled, not even bothering to look around at Shen as he spoke, as if the other boy was not really worth his time.

"And you're close, but it's Damon. You got the dee bit right, at least."

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"Oh hardly; I don't do that hairspray and diva bullshit, nor do I have any desire to provoke masses of twelve year old girls to think they want to have sex with me." Secretly, like most lads his age, Damon would have loved it, though the girls needed to be a few years older to catch his interest; his sisters were twelve, for God's sake.

"And most people call me Demon. Much better than some crappy Americanised way of saying arsehole. I'm already a dick, you might as well call me that if you're so set on giving me a pet name."

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What was it with people and their mothers today? Damon shook his head. Really, what was the world coming to? With a sigh, he unfolded from his seat, wandering towards the door. He was far too cool for this place anyway (and if he didn't get on the next bus home, his mum would skin him).

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It really was too easy, sneaking out of the house. So long as he timed it between when his parents went to bed and made sure to be back before six, nobody would ever be any the wiser; his dad always slept like the dead, his little brother wouldn't ever rat on him, and his sisters were easily bribed. Damon knew he wasn't supposed to be out, let alone in a seriously dodgy pub late at night, but that's what made it fun.

Grinning, his overly sharp teeth gleaming in a dark face, Damon made his way over to the counter, picking a seat where he could see the majority of the room. There was nobody around these parts that his family talked to, not any more, and his uncle couldn't have spies everywhere. Damon smirked; he was a regular James Bond.

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Damon Maxey felt like he got a bit of a funny look from someone, but by the time he turned around to see who it was, Guenhwyvar Derozxik was already looking the other way. For a moment, Damon frowned at the back of the- whatever it was's head, but he decided not to pick a fight. He was here to have a good time, not get on the wrong side of the locals.

"Is the beer any good here?" he asked the bar's only other occupant, his eyes finding Conner, sweeping up and down. "The last place I went to, it tasted like cat piss."

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Damon Maxey pulled a face, chuckling under his breath. "It tastes like that all over? Lovely. I think I'll be drinking something else then, if it's all the same to you. My old man's a gin drinker, so I guess I could give that a shot; gotta taste better than horse piss beer."

Idly, he waved a hand and flashed his fake ID, ordering himself a drink. "Want me to get you one?"

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Damon Maxey smiled, pointed teeth gleaming, and pushed a second glass towards his new drinking buddy. This guy was so much less annoying than the last person he'd spoken to in this bar; win-win. "So, you skint or masochistic?" he asked, snickering.

"Because there're the only two reasons why I can think anyone would drink horse piss willingly, you know?" Idly, Damon looked over at the other patrons, but a moment later he lost interest, shrugging; not his problem.

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Damon Maxey drained his glass in a single long swallow, rapping on the bar for another less than a second later. That stuff wasn't actually half bad; burned something wonderful on the way down. "Me? Because a bunch of people talk about this place, and I had to know if it was all it was cracked up to be. Crazy shit, they said, but right now I'm not seeing much of that. It's a shame; but at least the company's good."

Merrily, Damon drained his second glass. "So, this biking shit; how's it work?"

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"So, you have all these bigwigs riding bikes, charging around on them, all that bullshit. That much makes sense, but what do you actually, you know, do on these bikes? Racing them- is that like horse racing, or is that like illegal gangland secret supercar racing on dark country roads?"

Damon settled his elbows on the bar, cradling his glass. "This shit sounds like fun."

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Damon Maxey flashed what looked like all of his teeth as he drained the third glass, eyes narrowed in merriment. Really, this was all too funny; this was great fun. "So, you're a gang. Mafia sort of gang?" Damon leaned forwards on the bar counter, fingers drumming in excitement. "Ooh, do you guys kill people if they piss you off or owe you money?"

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Damon Maxey laughed, rolling his glass between his hands, honestly contemplating another. "Hey, I can take it; I've had way more." That was a lie, but the other guy didn't need to know that. Damon was hardcore, utterly. "But, uh, oh yeah! You're a got backs gang, rather than a killer gang... that's actually not as cool as the other kind. Shame."

Damon was beginning to feel a little on the odd side, but that was fine; it was a good sort of oddness. It made his skin tingle. "So, what else do you do in this killer-back-having gang? You know, when you're not riding on moterbikes."

The setting changes from gambits-bar to Wing City Plaza

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Damon Maxey stood tucked against a shop wall, shielded from the wind by his carefully chosen position and the flipped-up collar of his coat, his head ducked low as he took a long drag from a hand-rolled cigarette. It was cold, but not quite as bitterly so as his hunched posture suggested, and it seemed when he looked up that he was willing to take the distraction for what it quite clearly was.

"A word of advice," he called across the abandoned plaza. "If you're going to talk to yourself, do it quietly. Unless you're going for the whole 'crazy' sort of shtick."

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Henry's opinion was met with a laugh that sent pale smoke streaming into the cool air, as Damon pulled away from the wall and smiled with a mouth full of pointed teeth. "Is that so?" he asked, taking another drag. "Actually, let me guess. You must be one of those 'the filth of this planet cannot rub off on me, because I'm not hanging around' types! Oh, that's classic that is. I've not seen one of you guys in an age. Really, I've missed you; you're so fun to mess with it's untrue."

He snorted smoke through his nose, flicking the roach away in a trail of bright sparks. "So, tell me, what's so bad about this little old place, with its hoards of insane men whose opinions you don't care for?"

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null/me spent a good ten seconds staring at Henry, apparently trying to work out if he was joking, before bursting out into gales of hysterical laughter. "Oh my god! Oh my god, man, you're not kidding, are you? I'm a what? A zee-no? What the hell even is that? And I'm a sinner too, huh?"

Still laughing, Damon reached out and cuffed Henry on the shoulder. "Man, you're hilarious. Seriously, the best god-botherer I've ever seen, but really, you need to get something into your head about what you can call people on the street, yeah? Because even though I find you calling me shit like that funny as fuck, other people will punch you in the pretty-boy face for it, and trust me, you won't look half so good with a broken nose."