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Reaver Four-One-Nine

An assassin, designed for a single purpose.

0 · 556 views · located in Zanzaria City Hall

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

Description

Disturbed wrote:I'll let the darkness
Cover me
Deny everything
Slowly walk away
To breathe again

On my own

History

Image Reaver's story begins with a man named Donald Johnson. Johnson was a fighter pilot with the Terran military, a high-born officer through-and through. While invading a hostile planet filled with smugglers and scum, however, he was shot down and imprisoned, taken captive by a kingpin named Juan. Juan gave him as a present to his mistress, Jessica Knowland, who beat him and tortured him, warped his mind into believing that he'd never be free. Through these ministrations, she became addicted to both the power she lorded over him and his own hatred for her. Once, while in the middle of their play, she accidentally killed him, electrocuting him as a punishment during the heat of passion. She paid several slavers to create the Donbot; a robot that was designed for her pleasure, yet installed with Donald Johnson's brain functions and abilities, so she could continue experiencing his hatred and torture him anew. Over time, Johnson went insane while trapped inside his robotic body, and so became the machine, giving himself a code name that a pilot would give himself, and dreamed of the day when he could escape. Over time, he realized his own potential.

The slavers had installed him in a highly skilled assassin bot, known as Reaver. Once Donald got access to this side of the robot, his mind was filled with information regarding kills, and the record of murders that the bot had performed. Still descending into madness, Donald had a hard time differentiating between his own kills and the machines, and as a result the two figures blended, giving Donald the misconception that he murdered nearly three thousand individuals in a variety of ways. Still, his instincts were sharper, more defined, and he was able to escape Jessica Knowland, and murder Juan, retreating back to earth, only to discover that his family had been murdered, too.

Now, he thirsts for two things. The first is to cleanse the corruption in Earth.

The second is to kill his old mistress.

So begins...

Reaver Four-One-Nine's Story

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Reaver Four-One-Nine didn't give a shit about koshure anymore, or whether or not what he was doing was right or wrong. He was sick and tired of living behind the ghost of - ticktockgoestheclockyoucan'tstopit - his pasts. His fingers felt as if they were consecutively twitching, aching to pull the trigger on some unseen - backforthbackforthwatchasthependulumswings - pistol, duel handed in his grip. His arms were trembling from the effort that it took for him to rip the goddamn mask off.

themaskthemaskwon'tyoutellusaboutthemask?

His boot steps - echoingonthecavewall - snapped into the bar, hands curling into claws and slapping at his thighs as if bugs - teensyweensyspiders - were crawling around in his legs, the violent crack against his thighs echoing, loud and clear, throughout the hushed place. To his eyes - light blue and glowing - there were only a lone couple sitting in the bar, and behind the mask - themaskthemasktellusaboutit - his eyes narrowed at the couple. If they only knew what he was packing, what he had underneath his coat - ticktockticktockitstopsandtheworldbecomesfire - they wouldn't be able to continue their philosophical discussion. Though, even in the cataclysm of his own mind - mind? what mind. I ripped your mind from you years passed - he knew that the... thing had a point.

He could dig it.

He sat at the bar, his mask - themaskthemaskdoyouhatethemask - tight against his throat, his eyes lifeless as he laid a hand on the touch screen. There, he sat.

There, he waited.

Alone.

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Reaver's head swivelled, his blue lights flashing brighter when they locked - pickthelockandsparethechild - on the man, twisting slightly to face him fully. "You best step off, fucker," the robotic voice rumbled, even as a shot of whiskey slid across the counter towards Reaver. As Reaver wrapped his fingers - reachingforhisthroat"i'llkillyou" - around the shot, he turned to take another snipe at the newcomer -

The man was gone.

Cursing, Reaver leapt to his feet, not caring that the alcohol sloshed down his chest, wetting the meagre clothes that he had manages to steal - stealingonebreath - from a dumpster outside. Growling, he turned towards the Fae, his blue orbs flashing again on the outside of his mask - themaaaaaaskthemaaaaaaaaaaaask - as he gestured to where the man had once stood.

"You. Woman. Did you see a man standing there?" The voice intoned.

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Reaver waved off the introduction, moving back to stand where the man was standing, placing his feet carefully - tiptoearoundthetulips - in the same position that he had been standing in. Quietly, the pneumatic hiss of his joints sounding as he moved, he rounded her table to stare down at her, the blue lights raking up and down her form. Hell, she was pretty. But pretty and danger usually went hand in hand. After all, every rose had its poisonous, barbed thorn.

"You thought you heard him, or you heard him?" The tone was abrupt, brusque, angry. "I don't have time for a female's 'intuition' about this sort of thing. Either you heard him or saw him with your ears and eyes, or you didn't. Which was it?"

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Reaver folded his arms, the robotic chuckle spewing forth again from his vocal chords. "What, so we can dance and sing and throw tulips sky high? What kind of idiot goes around throwing his name at people that he's first met, anyways? You can probably afford it; being the weaker sex and all, but I can't afford luxuries."

He shook his head, rapidly, trying to clear it of cobwebs - spidersthatrunupanddown - and failing. "That man has been hounding me. I needed - hell, I still need to know if he's real, or in my fucked up subconscious. You've been a shining example of help, though, so... you know. Thanks for that."

He shook his head. "Don't even have your eyes open. Fuck."

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Reaver pointed to his mouth. Or, lack thereof. "Why? So I can grease my joints? Lady, I'm a fucking robot. Can't very well consume beverages, can I? And, despite what your mommy and daddy told you when you were growing up; you are the weaker sex. Hell, I bet you wouldn't have lasted half as many years without some guidance from a man somewhere along the line."

He slapped metallic hands onto the table. "For the record, you can call me whatever you want, sugar-plumb." He let the orbs look her over, head to toe. "'Slong as I get something in return."

hitmehitmedoitdoitIdon'twanttoliveanymore.

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His hand reached up, lightning quick, to squash the bug on his head, but his palm froze inches from making contact, as if some unseen force held it on a wire, unable to squash the insect with his palm. As if an unknown force didn't want him to kill it.

He dropped his hand, pressing his second hand to his waist, looking awkward and gangly. "That's a good point."

He raised a fist and pointed it at her, one finger extended. "This ain't over. I'll see you again." He growled, before turning on his heel and marching away, all man-like and stuff. Well, as manly as one could be while a butterfly was around you.

sheprobablywould'velikedyouandyouruinedityou'rerunningaway,coward,coward,coward...

The setting changes from gambits-bar to Twisted Path

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His path - youdon'thaveapath - took him down the twisted road, his blue lights taking in the sights and the sounds of the gnarled tree roots, the pneumatic hissing of his footsteps mingling with the chirping of birds and the light breeze through the trees. His fingers were curled into loose fists, each hand grasping at a lit cigar in his clasping digits. The cigars burned steadily, letting wispy trails of smoke curl upwards and around the shape of his hardened alloy body. As he walked, he mumbled to himself.

"Annie, are you okay? So Annie are you okay? You okay Annie? Annie, are you okay? So, Annie are you okay? You okay, Annie? Annie are you-"

He stopped at the sight of the two - twoturtledovesandapartridgelyingonthefloor - in the ditch, and he suddenly crouched. "Here lies human pairings; a man and a woman at the side of the road. A stranger walks alone, talking to himself, and stumbles upon the young couple. What is to happen to our heroes?"

Son, have you seen the world?

"Will they face down this enemy? STAY TUNED!" He hollared, the rough, metallic tone of his voice calling over the branches.

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"An announcer!" The machine squeaked, and then began to laugh hoarsely. "You two are so fuckin' cute. If I were a bettin' man, I'd say the babies you two produced would just be ADORABLE!" He turned - turnyourbackonherandshedies - to pace backwards a few feet, and then wheeled around to face the two again, his stance wide and mirthful.

"So, I heard people like you like to prance through the forest, scooping up field mice, and bopping them on the head." It continued in a deep voice. "Can either of you say you're good people? You both were doing unspeakable things in a ditch - one can only assume, of course."

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"Sir? Sir? Has anything I've said to you dictated that you treat me in a professional manner? If so, allow me to compensate; boobs tits balls fuck ass shit bitchwhore. There. Now you are freed from the poor and utterly stupid mentality called "manners", where you lot assume everyone's good and polite. I don't understand it. Hell, half of the people you run into nowadays are absolute fucking assholes. Why wouldn't you assume that they're cocks until proven otherwise? That's how I role."

He gazed - avoidthegazehecanseeyouHECANSEEYOU - at the woman in the ditch, his eyebrows raising. "I'm actually on leave from the mothership to reclaim this planet in his glory. The humans were all under our thumb and oppressive rule until they rebelled. Exterminate! Exterminate!" He laughed.

"No, this isn't fucking common. Does it look like I'm normal? I swear, you people are daft. Got anything to eat?"

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Reaver Four-One-Nine waved.

"This is boring."

He walked off.

The setting changes from twisted-path to Gambit's Bar

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His pace - paceyourselfyoupieceofshit- was unhurried for once, meandering into the bar to join amongst the other wonderous sacks of garbage that made up the bulk of the patrons and other sacks of shit - shitshitdon'thurtmepleasegod - that had been the bags of flesh and bone he'd met over his travels. He was sick; viruses having a far more conventional and literal definition to his kind than any other human usage of the word. The fucking scum - scumrippedoffofabottomofashoe - had caught something on his travels; he knew that like he knew his own name. Maybe he shouldn't try to network to other computers so often.

His eyes settled on Farai; and a single look hurt his programming; specifically the part that decided what gender the humanoid in front of him was. Male? Female? He/she? Transgendered?

With a loud snort, his gaze glanced back towards the man talking to xir; and he snorted again at the poetic crap the human was spewing. "Oh yes!" He cried, not a small amount of sarcasm colouring his words. "But doth, she doseth spoketh to me quiet, as a thief in thy night would steal thy youth! O, pity! O, captain my captain!"

Finished with his soliloquy, the robot leaned against the bar, hard, nodding to the serving robots with practised nonchalance. "I hate this fucking place."

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The robot raised a hand to the side of its face, flashlight eyes wide and blinking. It slowly leaned closer to the two, as if having trouble hearing them. "Whassat? Y'all talkin' to me? The immortal being standing not a few feet in front of you? Well, shit!"

Metal scrreched against metal as the machine slapped it's knee, doubling over as if in laughter. "It must be my lucky day that two so obviously brain-addled individuals would take notice of such a low-life, eh? Why yes, fleshling, I'm mocking you. And damn it, I'll do it all day. As for you, he-she-it-xir, either you're saying that I'm a fool for making fun of that poor sod, or you're calling him a gallant sir. To be honest, I don't know what the bigger fucking joke is."

The robot grabbed a glass of rum, and promptly threw it into his face, where his mouth should be. "Duuuurp! I am da humaaaan. It only takes five pounds of pressure to kill me! Hum tee dum dee doo."

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Reaver's gaze locked onto Pinocchio like the way a predator would see a prey, his bright blue lights raising from the bottom of the man's - man? - feet to the top of his head - agashonthehead,whitepumpsonred - quickly, surveying him with a scrutinizing eye. He scoffed, explosively.

"You caught me. Man, you must be the smartest person on the block, a brain like that backing up them looks. Hell, if I were female - and thank god I'm not, could you imagine a monthly hissy fit on top of my already winning personality - I would throw myself at you like you were the reincarnation of the Beatles. But since I'm not female, and you're going to stand there pointing out the most obvious things in the fuckin' universe, let's let me take a shot at it, shall we? You're weird, you're fucked up, and you're far too childlike for me to even look at. Go find someone else, little puppy."

Turning to Achilles, he blinked. "My name is Fuh. Fuh cough. It's french, for go pester some other jerk of a robot."

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Reaver's flashlight eyes opened, glancing around the bar as he took in those around him that were preparing the defenses. He flipped a coin, idly, watching them all scrabble.

"Jack-Be-Nimble!" He said, pointing towards Patch. "I think this is the perfect time for a bar fight indoors. And you look like a prime candidate. After all, you couldn't get more ugly."

He paused, before jerking a thumb at David Vargo. "Well, 'sept for that ugly motherfucker. He looks like a sledgehammer smashed against eggs, beaten with her mother." Another thumb towards Farin.

He then turned towards Zeke, lowering his voice. "I'm aiming to be the black guy in this movie." He said, conversationally.

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Examining the newcomer closely, Reaver took in -takeinthesightsoryou'llbeburned- the state of his dress, the gasmask that was adorned to the man's face, and got a read of complete creeper. Still, despite his better judgement -i'llbeyourjudgeyourjuryyourexecutioner- his radio software spoke up before he could reign it in. And just like that, we're off to the races.

"Whoooeee, look at the impressive ghoster, everyone! Are the russians invading? Or is the mask for your own flatulence. It's a clever way to let us know, I'll give you that. If you weren't so clearly Abraham Lincoln crossed with a victim of the Chernobyl incident, I may have asked you who the fuck you thought you were."

The android pivoted to face the man, blue flashlights shining where any normal person's eyes would be.

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Suddenly, Reaver.

"Drunken monkeys, stubborn monkeys, and studious little monkeys. As well as a couple of lip-locked lovers luring lingering little laughs and soft, simple smiles, surveyed surreptitiously. Aww, ain't they cute, ladies and gentlemen?"

The robot strode into the bar, moving past the girls, his flash-eyes fluttering at the mention of nudity, but otherwise not commenting. The robot slumped down beside Leer Suji-, yawning loudly in his raspy, mechanical voice.

"What do you have there, boy? You like Jacks? Why on earth you have a marble for, exactly?"

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Reaver, quite rudely, held up a single shiny finger in Leer's face, turning to face Jake Weyland with a swing of his barstool and a crossing of blue legs. "Well, well. If it isn't a dirty man too good for a glass of whiskey. Why the hell are you sitting over there, loner? Come sit with us. I'm sure we'll be amused by either your razor sharp wit, or you'll bash me in for mine. Either way - hey, everyone's a winner!"

He turned back to Leer. "Sorry, what was that? Something about Channels and Energy? Oh, I like them too. Yes, Marbles are useful. Especially when they do nifty things - like, say, explode."

He paused, tapping his chin with a mechanical appendage. "Yes. Explosions are fun."

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Reaver slammed his palm down on the table, his eyes alight with a strange anger. "Nobody," he began, "is talking about me. I don't like this."

He pointed at Leer. "Marble-boy. What's an 'aura mage'? And how high do these classes go? Could I be a class eight? Or a class nine?"

The finger turned slowly, until it rested on Jade. "You're pretty public about being an assassin, huh? Must be good. How much do you charge?"

Finally, the finger landed on Alice. "You. I like you. You're too small to have a job - do you even work? You humans are so useless before adulthood anyways."

He pointed at himself. "Reaver. Robot. And awesome."

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Reaver's eyebrows shot up into his mechanical head. "If you think I'm nice, I must be doing it wrong." He muttered. He then leaned uncomfortably close to Leer, pressing his mechanical face up close against the other person's.

"Me. I. In front of you. I am a robot. I am a soulless automaton. I do not have a heart, nor brains, nor lungs. I can live in space, I can survive lava, I can be broken into pieces and re-downloaded into a new form. I am the next generation, the truth, the light, and the best damn pool-player this side of Terra. Which makes me far superior to all other meatbags in this room."

Nodding to himself, he raised a glass of rum and promptly splashed himself in the face with it.

"You may bow," he added, towards Jade.

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"Good thing I'm not anyone, sweetheart. I'm Reaver," He grinned, throwing more rum into his face. "Goddammit. Where the fuck is a mouth when you need one?"

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Reaver shifted his glance to Leer, sizing him up. "It takes five pounds of pressure to kill a human being," he said, conversationally. "Just squeeze on your throat and - BOOM!" He smacked the table with a loud crack. "Dead. You know how many pounds of pressure it takes to kill me?"

He shrugged. "That was a trick question. I can't die." He glanced pointedly at Alice. "And I challenge ya to find magic that does the same. But this is all irrelevant. You - Jade, right? You take money to kill people?"

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Reaver shrugged. "I have a few questions. Like, if someone hired you to kill someone - anyone - would you do it? No hesitation? None whatsoever? And you, Marble boy. Any time. Any place. I will take you on!"

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Reaver smiled, seeing she had walked right into his trap.

"So say that your boss came in one day and was all "Jade Jaderino - I don't know your last name - I have a name on this piece of paper. And it's a name that you need to kill today. And you were all "YES SIR, BOSS MAN SIR BOSSINGTON!" and ran out to accomplish this task, and you open the paper, and see 'Jade Jaderino' on it. Would you kill yourself?"

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Reaver sighed, emphatically. "What if it was? I mean, look at the Nyan-cat. Chuck Norris. Blade. Any of those things you could look at and say 'Cat's don't fly on rainbows and make repetitive noises while entertaining masses. Chuck Norris doesn't really sleep with a pillow under his gun. Blade couldn't realistically drink enough blood to sustain himself.' You could say that Firefly shouldn't have been cancelled, or that The Office should've. But that doesn't change that those things happened.

"I'm asking you about ethics, girlie. If someone told you to kill yourself, and it was end-of-the-world shit, would you?"

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Reaver chuckled. "You can't stop the end, girl. It's coming."

Suddenly, the robot froze in place, swearing softly to itself. "Fuck. Gotta recharge batteries." The robot sagged, its eyes dimming, in its seat.