Mission #39: Death Race 7 (Virus, Jetster)

[viruswithshoes]

SPOILER: Click to show

{MISSION # 39}There's a race taking place on the Island that you're on! The prize is supposedly a rare weapon of some kind! However, people have immediately turned to using dirty tactics in order to win and are not above killing someone in cold blood! Participate in the race if you dare.

As a rule, Dagon Basqiat didn't throw away scraps so it seemed appropriate to find a temporary job on Scrap Island feeding shipwrights in the middle of building small vessels for a race he cared nothing about. He lit up a dark red cigarette packed with dried hot peppers as well as tobacco, giving his smoke a smell much like the pepper spray some Marines used in riot control. Tucked under his arm was a large wrapped sandwich. Rolled out mizu mizu bun baked and stuffed with mizu mizu meat and cheese.

Former ships and present bonfires lit the way for Dagon which he took to mean that sabotage was not only allowed in this race but encouraged.

He stepped through the charred remains of a few vessels before coming across one of the participants either brave or foolhardy enough to keep working while bands of ship burning ruffians were on the loose.

A cold, salty wind blew through the remains of Dagon's blond hair, forcing him to reconsider his tendency towards cutting the sleeves off of coats and shaving his hair into a mow-hawk. He placed his sandwich a few feet away from the ship builder who looked to be a young woman close to his age.

The smoking chef meant to leave his food and go about his business but instead found himself reflexively slapping at a bottle throws his direction. As the okama's damnable luck would have it, the molotov cocktail not only hurt his hand but also his foot when the bottle fell into it in all it's shoe-less glory. Having worked with smugglers and other criminals for years the somewhat feminine looking man knew how to quickly yank out the rag fuse of such an incendiary device before it exploded.

Molotovs were Dagon's least favorite cocktails next to the prison wine margaritas one of his crewmen used to make when desperate for alcohol.



Another man with another cocktail of one part bottle, one part fuel, and one part rag charged at Dagon who sighed, buried his foot in the dirt underneath the unlit bottle of fuel and kicked it towards the man rushing towards him. The man started running when he noticed the small red dot of Dagon's cigarette which was flicked casually in the direction of the fleeing man.

"Sorry for interfereing in your death race."



Dagon turned to leave feeling a little sore and a bit curious if this race would lead to any more fights. While racing didn't interest him, fighting did.

"Miss? Would it insult your honor of I stayed?"

The okama fighter assumed the woman would liken it to someone stepping into her fight and would respect any yells for him to leave her the hell alone.

[jetstertsyko]

Jayden Zeit was truly, truly extraordinary. Not only did she build extremely well, but also amidst practical chaos. She had set up small, easy traps to keep away saboteurs, but unfortunately, that meant she had to replace them every five minutes. She was also a very...very slow builder. She tried really hard to build fast. But she could not lift anything, other than her tools. She was just...weak...Oh, boy. Oh, I forgot to mention, she was building a ship. Now, wood was not exactly her specialty. She could build a ship if she needed to, like she is now, but she felt a lot more comfortable with metal between her hands, instead of splinters in her fingers...

"OOOOwwww....owowowowow....damn splinters..." She said in disdain as another trap was sprung, sending the man careening over a building. She grabbed a pair of tweezers and began to pluck them out, sitting down to rest her feet. She grumbled as she did so, cursing her luck. She really wanted that prize, though. She began to work again, a cold wind blowing over the town and causing her to shiver.

Suddenly, a man came over and placed down a sandwich, before reflexively slapping a molotov heading his way. And it looked like it hurt, too, since it seemed to stop dead and slam onto his foot. He then kicked up some dirt at another man, flicking his cigarette at him as well, planning to light him up. Finally, he asked if he could stay and help. Jayden chuckled, seemingly amused by the antics of the man.

"Damned if I cared, do what you'd like. Long as you don't get in my way and maybe helped me out a bit." She then stood. "One question, though. Who the hell are you, and why should I give a damn that you exist?"

[viruswithshoes]

Those are two questions...and quite philosophical ones."

Dagon sat down in the sand gently to avoid setting off any more traps. He'd been warned prior to coming to deliver his sandwich and walked while gently sweeping the ground with his foot. It was a joke in his old crew of smugglers that the only one of them with irreplaceable limbs was the best at finding hidden traps. Successful trap avoidance was usually greeted with mock disappointment from his crewmen that he wouldn't join them as cybernetic brethren.

"I'm Dagon." He then shrugged and whipped his blond mohawk out of his face. "As for why you should care...I see no reason. Someone once said that the only thing that will redeem mankind is cooperation. Someone else once said that hell is other people. Both are valid philosophies."

"Either way, I can lift things and you look like you need some muscle, that is, for building and defense."



The philosophical okama had a complicated relationship with defending people. Growing up with a little brother ingrained the instinct in him but he also saw the less than desirable results when he defended every obnoxious action of someone weaker. One off protection jobs seemed ideal.



Dagon silently took direction from Jayden as to what to lift and what to hold, basically, doing the job of a vise in some cases and a lever in others. Occasionally, there was a gratifying sound of an explosion from one of Jayden's traps. Fetching tools and holding things steady for someone crafting something made Dagon nostalgic for his childhood where he would sometimes help his father fixing small gadgets. While learning how to physically build was not an interest personally, Dagon liked being part of the process. What Dagon intended to build was a coherent and eclectic martial arts style and philosophy from different sources. Much like how his father would cannibalize and re-purpose different parts to make a different item.



As they neared finishing the boat and there was a lull in the attacks and work Dagon leaned against the nearly completed vessel and looked over to the shipwright.

"Is there a prize or are you competing just to compete?"



OOC: I give you permission to use Dagon next post for helping out with the ship.