Pretender 2 - Copper

The copperish metallic scent of a thunderstorm fills the air.

 

Sniff.

 

Smells like rain.

 

I pulled the my hood down and kept walking. Ignore the people staring at the dirty stranger in the trenchcoat, hood pulled over his eyes in the early evening. And its not even raining yet.

 

That night was the night that I met the Blonde.

 

She was sitting at the bar, whisky on the rocks clutched in a tumbler. A dagger lay within reach on the polished wooden benchtop.

 

Bourbon and coke, please. And plenty of ice.

 

Can't take your alcohol straight?

 

I've got a sweet tooth, so sue me.

 

By right, I should kill you for what you're doing to the bourbon.

 

And what in Hades gives you the right to do that?

 

Faster than I could imagine, there was a sudden glint of silver and I felt metal prod me in my groin. Dangerous place to be. It must be the dagger.

 

But no, it was not. The dagger still lay on the table, untouched. I glanced down.

 

Uh, uh...keep your eyes up and look at me, sweetheart.

 

She smiled, smug at herself. Stunning eyes, that's for sure. As blue as cornflowers.

What a way to introduce yourself. I'm Poet, by the way.

 

The Blonde. Nice to meet you.

 

I heard a snick and then the cold metal withdrew. I sneaked a glance down. And what seemed like a revolver with double barrels disappeared swiftly underneath her jacket pocket into a shoulder holster. Never seen a weapon like that before.

 

Never seen a gun, boy?

Not one like that, I haven't.

 

Yeah, not like that, I have not. I reached behind me and felt the relative safety of the Staff of Mercy, as I have named it. I get a kick out of thinking that death dealt with the staff is done as an act of mercy. Snapped in two, it fitted the holsters that attach across my back, out of sight, and perfectly indistinguishable to any idiot that decided that my wallet would be good pickings for the day. More likely, the idiot would get a cracked skull and broken shoulders, elbows, hips and knees to start off  with.

 

And daemons would be caught completely off guard.

Give me two seconds and I can probably unsheath it, land 2 killing blows and the screw it together to form one lethal hunk of metal. I'm pretty sure I can take the Blonde on if I needed to. And I have not quite determined whether she is friend or foe just yet.

 

But she has turned back to her drink and gazing into the distance. A quick once-over. Leather brown jacket, white tank top, black mini skirt and leggings. Her blonde hair tumbled like silk over her shoulders as she tipped the tumbler back and drained the rest of her whisky. Crunching on the ice, she signals the bartender for another one.

 

Then she spins around on her bar stool and seemingly sneers at me.

 

So what are you doing in the Ghetto? Who're you looking to kill?

 

What makes you think I'm wanting to kill someone? Can't I just be here?

 

Fat chance you're here for a holiday. Where are you gonna visit? The dump? Nah, you're here for blood. And I'm guessing....just guessing...that you have a two piece staff hidden underneath that trenchcoat.

 

I raised one eyebrow. Either she was good or she was really good.

 

No point talking so much if you don't have any proof of what you're saying, you know.

 

She turns and looks at me right in the eye.

 

My dead partner wore a two piece staff under his trenchcoat. There's no way I can mistake the shape of it.

 

Oh. I see.

 

My condolences. May I ask?

 

He had his throat torn out. And I'm sure you know who did it. Or what did it.

 

I paused. Daemons? How is that possible? I was one of the few who could see them. Who is this woman?

 

Oh yes, I see them too. Why do you think I would have this?

 

She held up her hand. A glove, similar to the one I'm wearing and slowly, it started to glow.

 

Purifiers. Now isn't that interesting.

 

She chuckled and turned around as her drink was placed in front of her. She takes a sip and murmured.

 

You're not the only one, you know. Don't we all have our daemons to kill? And your gloves makes it all too obvious. So you like the staff, then?

 

Yeah, I'm very much a hands on kinda guy. And you're a...what's the word?

 

BloodTaint, thanks.

 

Huh. Guess who's here for blood.

 

I never said I wasn't. I just said you were. What happened?

 

Mission. You know the drill. Assignments and all.

 

You're a Prophet? Really?

 

I made the purifying mark in the air with a glowing hand and whispered, "Sanctify."

 

A slight burst of holiness silently exploded through the air. Mortals would feel a sense of euphoria and happiness. Others, especially of the Dark, would feel sick to their stomachs and physically repelled. My little party trick, however, had seemed to had quietened down the entire bar. Everyone gazed in our direction and an electric current seem to run through the place.

 

Uh oh. 

 

"We've got a couple of Guardians in this place, boys," announced the bartender who drew a huge shotgun from below the counter. They did not look like the Dark. Not to me, anyway. Huh. Suddenly, the place bristled with blades and guns. What a wonderful world we live in.

 

The Blonde drew her double barreled revolver out and at the same time, grabbed the dagger off the counter top and nicked the tip of her finger. Blood oozed instantly. Blue blood. Very interesting indeed.

 

Being a BloodTaint, her powers lay in her blood. Her blood was her source of purification of her weaponry before she did battle, in order to bless her weapons and allow them to cause complete chaotic damage among her opponents. And with her being a blue blood, her talent and skills must have been exceptionally potent for her to be chosen to receive a Taint, where her blood is tainted with a drop of sanctified water. The unprepared would die a ghastly death as the water coursed through their veins whereas the prepared only felt heightened by the ritual, becoming stronger, faster, purer.

 

I drew out my staff pieces and again, the sharp flick of the wrists made them battle ready. They started to glow. As a Prophet, my powers lay in my hands, my staff and my chants. I choose to Sanctify by letting the power flow from my hands and enhance it with my words.

 

She looked at me and I looked at her.

 

I propose a toast. For blood then?

 

For blood. And hey.

 

I looked back at the bartender who seemed more keen on filling me with shotgun shells rather than liquor.

 

I still haven't gotten my bourbon and coke yet.

 

And with a cry of "Sanctify!", we charged into the fray.