First impressions are important, or so the saying went, and so Pooky really should have found the pig-headed, racist prat of a Malakite whose name he
hadn't bothered to learn off putting as hell, and ignored the call to help the group with Frostfire, as they were perfectly capable of managing on their
own. It'd be good for his mostly ornamental blood pressure, and not tempt him into putting an arrow through the angel. Even if it would only inconvenience
her as much as it did him, which was to say, not much.
However, Celestial racist attitudes set aside, he was reformed, and as such he had a slight sense of duty to the
youngins to keep'em safe. Especially the poor half-demon girl who was probably feeling the weight of the Malakite's ire in his absence.
So he'd gone along, and been surprised to find that any real squabbling had vanished in his absence. The team worked together fairly well in clearing out
Frosty's hideout(again), destroying the summoning altar(again), and beating Frosty's second in command to get the key to his penthouse(again). And as
long as Pooky stayed out of sight, the urge to ventilate the higher-than-thou angel also taking up residence on the team was pretty non-existent.
However, during the final charge, there wasn't exactly ROOM to ignore her as they came up the hall, and while the woman charged in foolhardily enough,
Pookie watched, intending to get some sort of cathartic joy in seeing her wind up flat on her face, her holy heiney exposed for a proper judge of the feminine
form to more properly appreciate. Which would be himself, of course. One thing Pookie had never held against the Heavenlies was their personal appearance,
after all. And when they didn't bother with the armor and just went with those toga robe hybrid things because a bra was too "modern"? Rawr.
As it went, however, she did not, in fact, faceplant. Rather, the Malakite was as dangerous as all in her choir, and Outcasts fled before her righteous anger
even as Pookie was pinioning others from afar, be they charred by her blade, incinerated by her breath, or fricaseed by the blessed flames that wrapped around
her bare hands. She was a berserker, charging in with absolutely no care for her own personal safety and bringing down a disproportionate amount of enemies in
response, as simple Paragon thugs simply had no clue in hell(Pookie winced at the unintentional pun) how to deal with someone whose sole existence was built on
punishing them for their misdeeds.
And after the job was done, seeing her standing there, heat from the battle causing steam to roll off the frozen pillars of the room, eyes alert and looking
for another target, Pookie felt a small sense of certainty crystalize in him. He excused himself, took an Ouro portal out, and began to plot.
***
"You're plotting."
"Yes, Pete."
"About what?"
"About that new Scrapper in Riot."
"The angel? Isn't that...um...some kind of violation of parole or something?"
"Not exactly. And even if it were, I'd do it anyway."
"Why's that?" the cyborg asked, leaning back against a wall curiously.
Pookie gave him a rakish grin. "Because it's a damn shame Heaven be wasting a perfectly hot white girl like that. I'm gonna pull out the stick
jammed up her ass if it kills her. A few times if need be. Getting to thumb the nose at her bosses in the process just makes it more fun."
***
Some distance away, Rahabiel dismissed the armor about her with a thought, the red and gold plates vanishing in flashes of cleansing flame. Something about the
day irked her, but she couldn't quite place it. Probably the Imp. Being forced not to strike him down due to technicalities was obviously disconcerting one
of such clear purpose as herself.
Surrounded by fire all her existence, Rahabiel didn't even notice the burning smell coming from behind her. Nor did she think to look back and see the
handful of black feathers dropping from her wings, each burning about the edges till they collapsed into black dust.
---
"Oh, silver blade, forged in the depths of the beyond. Heed my summons and purge those who stand in my way. Lay
waste."
hadn't bothered to learn off putting as hell, and ignored the call to help the group with Frostfire, as they were perfectly capable of managing on their
own. It'd be good for his mostly ornamental blood pressure, and not tempt him into putting an arrow through the angel. Even if it would only inconvenience
her as much as it did him, which was to say, not much.
However, Celestial racist attitudes set aside, he was reformed, and as such he had a slight sense of duty to the
youngins to keep'em safe. Especially the poor half-demon girl who was probably feeling the weight of the Malakite's ire in his absence.
So he'd gone along, and been surprised to find that any real squabbling had vanished in his absence. The team worked together fairly well in clearing out
Frosty's hideout(again), destroying the summoning altar(again), and beating Frosty's second in command to get the key to his penthouse(again). And as
long as Pooky stayed out of sight, the urge to ventilate the higher-than-thou angel also taking up residence on the team was pretty non-existent.
However, during the final charge, there wasn't exactly ROOM to ignore her as they came up the hall, and while the woman charged in foolhardily enough,
Pookie watched, intending to get some sort of cathartic joy in seeing her wind up flat on her face, her holy heiney exposed for a proper judge of the feminine
form to more properly appreciate. Which would be himself, of course. One thing Pookie had never held against the Heavenlies was their personal appearance,
after all. And when they didn't bother with the armor and just went with those toga robe hybrid things because a bra was too "modern"? Rawr.
As it went, however, she did not, in fact, faceplant. Rather, the Malakite was as dangerous as all in her choir, and Outcasts fled before her righteous anger
even as Pookie was pinioning others from afar, be they charred by her blade, incinerated by her breath, or fricaseed by the blessed flames that wrapped around
her bare hands. She was a berserker, charging in with absolutely no care for her own personal safety and bringing down a disproportionate amount of enemies in
response, as simple Paragon thugs simply had no clue in hell(Pookie winced at the unintentional pun) how to deal with someone whose sole existence was built on
punishing them for their misdeeds.
And after the job was done, seeing her standing there, heat from the battle causing steam to roll off the frozen pillars of the room, eyes alert and looking
for another target, Pookie felt a small sense of certainty crystalize in him. He excused himself, took an Ouro portal out, and began to plot.
***
"You're plotting."
"Yes, Pete."
"About what?"
"About that new Scrapper in Riot."
"The angel? Isn't that...um...some kind of violation of parole or something?"
"Not exactly. And even if it were, I'd do it anyway."
"Why's that?" the cyborg asked, leaning back against a wall curiously.
Pookie gave him a rakish grin. "Because it's a damn shame Heaven be wasting a perfectly hot white girl like that. I'm gonna pull out the stick
jammed up her ass if it kills her. A few times if need be. Getting to thumb the nose at her bosses in the process just makes it more fun."
***
Some distance away, Rahabiel dismissed the armor about her with a thought, the red and gold plates vanishing in flashes of cleansing flame. Something about the
day irked her, but she couldn't quite place it. Probably the Imp. Being forced not to strike him down due to technicalities was obviously disconcerting one
of such clear purpose as herself.
Surrounded by fire all her existence, Rahabiel didn't even notice the burning smell coming from behind her. Nor did she think to look back and see the
handful of black feathers dropping from her wings, each burning about the edges till they collapsed into black dust.
---
"Oh, silver blade, forged in the depths of the beyond. Heed my summons and purge those who stand in my way. Lay
waste."