Radar/Arky Prp Play section

~ Again, I think this is self explanatory...

This was decidedly not how the youngest Byrne brood were accustomed to spend his evenings. The middle of the week usually meant absolute chaos at the office; a conundrum that consist of one cluster fuck after the other. A problem he believed, personally, stemmed from the fact that the higher ups had a knack to locate the a collaboration of the most simpleminded individuals he'd had the misfortunate of meeting; moronic to the point of detriment, poster children he'd not so much as blink to find spread across headlines for requiring emergency care after using super glue as lubricant or juggling toasters in the bathtub.
No, Alek would normally be bent over a desk in his too quiet office, face in hands as he methodically sorted through the mountain of leave requests and projection charts for the next fiscal year.
The crowd in the bar was raucous with a cacophony of cheers and boos, absorbed in the sports game plastered on every flat screen, and nobody batted an eye at the sour faced man with a cane when there were men and women in brightly colored jerseys with their faces painted.
Why me, he bemoaned to a god who'd never listened to a word he said anyway.
A trait shared by his elder brother, Mal, who were the source of this night's disruption with an unexpected invitation to a night of 'brotherly bonding'. Alek always held a bit of a love-hate relationship with his brother. Sure, the elder tend to grate on his every last nerve... then again, he'd also been the one to not bat an eye when the lightning and thunder battered at the windows and the frightful child that he were fled down the hallway to hide beneath the safety of Mal's blankets.
Family always brought up a black and white silent film of memories he would rather not rewind. His home, his childhood, had been unpleasant. His embittered father had been short on words, but in their limited, strained, interactions father had been quite clear from an early age that it was entirely Alek's fault that his mother had perished. This blame born of grief for the loss of his beloved wife had spread, like a cancer and poisoned father's mind and made any gathering difficult. Mal would try to smooth over the awkward patches of water under the bridge with cheery talk and presents that were just a hair off course of his brother's interests. Alek would regale everyone with vague answers of how work and physical therapy was going, and their step-mother would side-step all conversations to try and keep the peace.
There was little bonding involved anymore.

Frustration bled from the man's aura as he shuffled in the clustered space, awkwardly cramped in the corner to avoid the boisterous crowds, eyes roaming over the patrons like a hawk, scowl intensifying at the lack of his brother's face among them.
Fuckin' late. Go figure.
The establishment was full of hearty laughter, aesthetically pleasing women, top shelf drink and a certain Gothic charm; a sharp contrast to Alek's muted colors, dark attire with a darker yet expression, creating a blurry, abstract canvas. The man would be seen as the living embodiment of those where's the oddball picture games, sticking out like a sore thumb. The guardsman didn't speak a word, per usual, content to sit back and ruin people's day with bitchy glares and snide comments concealed by obvious fake coughs.
A typical day in the life of one, Aleksander Byrne. He make zero efforts in looking casual, keeping all facial expressions dry and severe, but in such a comfortable atmosphere with the emotionally constipated young man, failure was imminent.
Least people didn't approach the sad looking fuck with the don't fuck with me face, and he'd taken full advantage of it at every opportunity.


The smell of sparked desire between yearnful daydreams; hot coffee wafting from Styrofoam; petrichor; cleaning disinfectants as they dried on the leather seats before being hastily wiped away from a still yawning artist. The sound of the artists and piercers checking inventories and getting ink out for the very first customer of the way. The sight of bundled up pedestrians huddled on the street waiting for the crossing lights outside to turn green; the city only just on the cusp of waking for yet another tedious day of sin, sweat and debauchery. The feel of the biting cold against the pale skin of his exposed face and slivers of his ears from where they part lustrous ivory curls; the strain in his legs and aching lower back from a particular meal of a man who had fed him over the weekend; the way his fingers tapping deftly at the keyboard of his phone, that dreadfully familiar Gindr notification ping going off seemingly without end.
These feelings were a symphony, a boring, cold, mundane symphony, but a symphony nonetheless.
This was the lifeblood of the human world, even in the middle of freezing winter, and Abaddon would not deny the way it sung to him. There was something enthralling about the hustle of the inner city that made his head go quiet. He couldn’t explain it, no matter how mundane his days were or how repetitive the work, he never grew tired of the city.

Pushing open the tattoo parlor door with a fingerless gloved hand, Abaddon felt the awash in warmth, the air latent with the scent of fresh ink, warm milk and something so uniquely, demonic, hit his chilled face. Tugging his gloves off, he wove between loitering customers as he made his way to the front desk of the parlor.
As he approached a artist, a young woman with vibrant bubblegum pink hair and glowing ochre skin with golden tones that caught the Victorian style candelabras with each movement, he shot her a dazzling grin.  "Morning, lovely~" he purred, flesh of pearly teeth as he perched against the back of the desk. "I've an appointment for eight o'clock, I hope it's alright that I came early-" The man last night certainty did. "-it is my first time, I got a little nervous." Magenta eyes flicked up, cherry-red lower lip woven between teeth as he chewed, in apparent nerves.
"Oh no, it's okay sweetheart!" The woman replied, a sympathetic sparkle as she pat his arm soothingly. "Lemme just check the schedule, first," she added, a smile offered before she turned her attention back to the computer screen. She falls quiet a moment, only a soft click of keys as she checked the schedule, lips forming the words as she read silently to herself the notes beside the appointment and unique request, in choice of artist.
"You would be..." Her lips part in surprise, eyes round as she read the name once to herself and then, with a breathless sigh- "Mister A. Nellsechs?"
"Yours truly," Abaddon answered with a impish laugh, a flutter of butterfly lashes as he offered a wink.  "I prefer Abby, though."
"That's a- erm, a very unique name-" the woman, Lacey as her name tag read, clearly making efforts to contain herself. "We nearly wiped it off the schedule, thinking it was a prank."
"Oh no, no..." Shaking his head, he loosens a laugh and reassures.  "I used a pseudonym..." His lips pucker into a slight pout, tapping both the tips of his index fingers as he mimicked the pleading emoji. "I'm shy." he lied easily.
As if, he internally mused. If I'd used my actual name that darling boy would've evacuate and evacuate.
Relief flooded the girl's eyes, unfettered laughter filling the air shortly after. "What, couldn't of picked something less conspicuous?" she teased, a flicker of something heady in her umber stare as she leaned on her elbows, lessening the distance between them.
"I considered Ben Dover, but it didn't have the same pizzazz, y'know?" he smirked, relishing in the attentions. Even though he had his fair share of paramours, he had to admit Lacey was a pretty young thing. The saying was live and let live, no?
She snort, dabbing at the corners of her eyes as to not smudge her cat eye eyeliner and mascara. "Mygawd, I love your vibe." Her smile turned to a pout as she mused, "You are going to drive him crazy though, bet." Her eyes twinkled. "Are you sure you don't want to swap artists? He won't even get in for another half hour..." She remarked, sounding more than a little wistful.
While the invitation was, admittedly, tempting... the incubus was unfortunately determined to see his aims to fruition. Which, sadly, meant less hands on time with pretty girls and boys and more serious endeavors. If he wished to be taken into consideration by the other sins, garnered with the same smidgeon of respect, it was now or never.
"This time I'm pretty set on the design... but rain check-? If it goes as well as I think it will, you'll be seeing more of me,"he offered readily, saying everything and nothing of his desires in the half-hooded stare shared.
A rosy tinge to her cheeks, Lacey nodded, the aroma of her sinful thoughts spilling down in heavy lungful to his debauched senses. A delicious treat, but he not quite enough to satisfy his needs. "Seth never disappoints, I look forward to seeing you."
The artist turned away, as another customer approached, impatiently flowing off the inked woman in waves. "If you'd like, you can wait in the room- down the hall, first door to the left? I'll send him back when he comes in," she suggested.
A offer Abaddon was all the more pleased to accept, graceful smile as he gave a nod and followed the directions, pausing at the backroom to admire the framed sketches. A serpentine glare captured in a dragon's stare, atop a throne of ice. Plethora of beautifully captured flowers, from the common daisy to the rarer hibiscus, vibrancy in their dazzling colors. The demonness straddling a flaming crucifix he scrutinized a moment, a soft chuckle as he shook his head and carried on his merry way.
Oh la la, I wonder if he'd immortalize me in someone's tats... y'know this ass would look sofine as a tramp stamp.
Giggling to himself like a schoolgirl pre-tentacle molestation, Abaddon slipped onto the private room, leaving the door open a sliver so he could hear outside.
Alas, so he was left in sudden conundrum - flighty attention span running wild, yet the incognito tabs did not entertain him and the group chat he shared with the other sins was left, sadly ignored no matter how many suggestive selfies he continued to send.
Unlike white leather and thigh haltered whips, idle hands was not a good look on Abaddon, who made himself far to comfortable on the tattoo bench.



Flurry of feathers.
Sky white as a fresh canvas.
The world a blur of rippling motion.
Voices, chanting, screaming, laughing, holy minds and holy lies blind to the darkness lurking in the stare in their own reflections. Crimson rivulets spill down his cheek.
A hand ascends to wipe it clear, to wash away, the next... nothing.
In the darkness of an alleyway outside an abandon church, stands a figure bathed in monochromatic shadows. Daylight catches on ruddy colored feathers, the descending angels discernible as little more than pounds of flesh and bone; a perfect semi-circle of carnage with this man at its center, back to the brick wall, the length of both arms stained with the lifeblood of this fallen heavenly host.
There is damage to the skin, a jagged slit down his shoulder that needs immediate care, yet its damage to the mind that takes longer for him to recover from. For rewiring back to empathy, to humanity, and a sense of self that required him laying prostrate against the brick wall, head in hands, thoughts fuzzy. Enough pieces of the puzzle lay in chunks around to surmise what had transpired last night, though the presence of angels raised more questions than it answered.
How had they found him?
The whereabouts of the first man sentenced to Hell weren't exactly posted on heaven's notice boards, nor his movements easy known even by the task forces that seemed dead set on torturing him for eternity.
It left a bitter taste on his tongue, and after the bloodshed, he found reprise of being in a quiet alleyway alone welcomed wholly. The taint noises of people walking the streets and cars honking made this place locked away in silence to mimic deafness. The adrenaline lingering in his stem made him numb but he knew soon the pain would settle in. His only hopes being that soon he would doze off to avoid the worst of the agony while lost in slumber.

Closing his eyes had its own risk though, so soon after the literal fight for his life. It was all he could see plastered on the back of his eye lids.
Barbed feathers, the pale moon above, and searing pain in his left arm.
All that being the more comforting of the scenes, what really haunted him were the echo of bones crushed in hand, and all that indescribable noise of all that was the mutilation of the angels bodies. A vicious onslaught unceasing long past the point of their demise. It worried him that he might ever forget that sound. The visions of the dead, and horrid screams still made his stomach feel ill but he had nothing left to throw away but the bile that threatened to eat him from the inside out.

Still his eyes were pasted shut to try and avoid opening them, as if some how it would teleport him back to that moment where he swore he saw Abel just watching him behind the eyes of a blackbird when it bore down over him. Another shiver rocked his body at that thought, pushing him further into the stone corner that he instinctively tucked himself against.
That was until, he heard the shuffle of footsteps and muted heartbeat announcing he were alone no more.
His eyes only lifted up high enough to capture the legs of this intrusive presence. Not a angel, but something else.
What had started with irritation was now a slow boiling anger as he unfurled from his tight ball. Ignoring the pain in his injured arm, where serrated feathers had buried into his flesh, and the sting form his relocated, former dislocated ankle, as he made to his feet. Shaky and pained, he manage to somehow look as dangerous as possible. "You'll head back the way you came, if you know what's good for you," he hissed in greeting, not looking to play friends with this obviously out of place character. "Besides shouldn't you be in school or some shit? Cause you look like you tripped and stumbled into the wrong hole, dumbass kid." he had to lean on the wall to keep himself upright but some how the very look In his eyes was daunting enough.

Seth came in a couple minutes late, but had brought Lacey her favorite coffee as an apology. "Sorry." he said. "Friend who usually gives me a ride needed some consoling. Her and her girlfriend had a pretty nasty breakup. Luckily the little whore skipped town before I could get my hands around her throat." Seth grumbled. "Who's the first to come in?" He asked, heading behind the counter to check the schedule with Lacey. He was actually in a decent mood, and with his thoughts preoccupied and already high strung about wanting to pummel his best friend's ex, Seth hadn't sensed Abaddon's presence quite yet.

---

Harley had no idea how or why he was here, but he had his bat, and figured this injured man was a target. This wasn't hell, so Harley deduced this was a kill quest instead of torture. And so, being very self confident-one might even call him prideful or arrogant-he started to laugh, spinning his bat. He stalked Cain from between the pews, the black and white demon moving fluidly as he circled the much more skilled and ancient killer like a shark, looking for an opening. "Oh, I think you're the one who doesn't know what they're doing here!"

---

Zachariah sat upright. He didn't know how or what happened, but something suddenly felt.... wrong. He pulled himself away abruptly from the women who had been in his bed and pulled on some pants. Barely missing a beat, he paged Rosa and had her track down Cain for him. Unfortunately, Rosa couldn't find him, so that meant Zachariah, being paranoid, would have to go about this old school. "Boss," Rosa caught Zachariah before he left through the front door, "Please be careful. Don't do something stupid and get yourself in trouble. We're running out of places to hide..."

"I'll be fine. I need to make sure Cain is okay." Zachariah promised. Once outside, the fallen took a deep breath and focused. Before his fall, he had been a sort of heavenly bounty hunter, and a damn good one. Tracking people down had been half of his bread and butter back then, and while he didn't like reliving the past, Cain's wellbeing took priority right now. Figuring out the direction cain was, Zachariah took to the skies and started flying there as fast as he could.