Chapter Text
The pair stood at the entrance of the wooden building which looked to be the offspring of a brothel and a bar.
They shuffled inside, squeezing past large men with broad shoulders, skinny men with sticks for arms and legs, and women with hips so curvy that they resembled an hourglass. The stench of alcohol hit them in waves, each wave growing stronger and mightier the deeper they ventured in. “What are we doing here again?” Dexter asks, his eyes wandering around and basking in the familiarly rowdy atmosphere. Unsurprisingly unbothered by the smell. He passes by a couple sitting at the bar and, as Dexter slows down his pace, he smoothly nabs a glass drink of blood-red wine that was sat so opportunistically beside them.
“For the fourth time, Dexter, I'll share any information that is pertinent to you; all you need to know is that I need you for your abilities,” Cyrax states sternly, wandering around and unknowingly dominating the room of drunk men and women with his mere presence. Every one of the beer patrons hung their heads with shame or spite as they walked by. Dexter quickens his stride to go beside Cyrax and match the speed of his lengthy legs. In reply, he rolls his eyes, then closes them as he raises his arm, drink in hand, tilting the glass towards his lips before it is so rudely taken away.
“Not even a sip?” Dexter asks sassily at him as he observes Cyrax's gloved left hand carrying away his prized drink and setting it on a booth table on his right as they pass by. "If I needed you this greatly, I’d much prefer it if you were sober.” The tall man sighs. “However, once we're done with this, I could care less if you're scurrying around drunk. So, if you do wish to make this quicker, keep an eye out for a tan, black-haired woman with red streaks across her face.” He says. "Yes sir, yes sir." Dexter mocks using the unbearable tone of an adolescent. And, as they continue searching, a hit, similar to one that he’d get from alcohol, of realization struck him. “Wait, why didn’t you simply send a couple of soldiers to do your dirty work for you? What makes this so personal to this leader, hm?” He inquired. Cyrax briefly glanced at an eye-catching clock mounted on the wall that read ‘Time is dead here’. The words were written in bold with red paint.
“Is that really a question?” Cyrax responds irritably with a question of his own, suddenly looking down at Dexter. “I’m here to supervise an insubordinate child who wields unimaginable power who is, simply put, undeserving of them. However, one thing about those great abilities of yours is that your use of them is incredibly predictable.” Cyrax scoffs and a mere smirk cracks upon his face. “It’s almost amusing.”
“Dexter!!!” A short-statured, plump woman suddenly screamed amidst the barrage of unhygienic people. Dexter, who was profoundly offended by Cyrax's remark, had his mouth agape in shock. He gave a fleeting squeak before swiftly closing his mouth and instantly perking his head up above the crowds. Like that of a dog.
“Oh, Honey!” Dexter yells back, a goofy, bright smile swelling on his face. Dexter thought he had smelled something familiar. “I’m surprised that you remember the names of women you sleep with.” Cyrax says. Dexter doesn't intend to raise his neck and face Cyrax despite the murmuring that he hears. “When you’re stuck on this earth for infinity, it’s…” Dexter pauses, sighing fondly as the woman squeezes through the crowd. “almost disrespectful not to stick to memories. Everything dies in the end; I may as well relish in every second before it all fades away. Make their stories live on.” He says.
Cyrax too glances pithily at the woman before surveying the room in a reminder of why they’re here. Engulfed in the stench of beer and foul body odor. He pockets Dexter’s points, folding them neatly in the back of his mind; reserved for later. He's rather amazed that he hasn't yet discovered a stain on his clean, formal attire when he looks at the mess of spilled beer and drugs that are strewn haphazardly on the floor and the tables. “I’ve seen the rock bottom of the greatest empires in history, I’ve seen all there is to see… And it all fades away. It shouldn’t be any less important.” Dexter finishes, his solemn words brushing off his tongue and face when the small, bun of a woman eagerly approaches. She jumps onto him, gripping his shoulders as if he were her last meal, and pressed onto him on the tips of her toes. Not like it was a problem. He leaned down to grasp at her waist and her long lashes upon her lovely face fluttered, and she pecked his cheek ecstatically in response.
She recoils abruptly after aggressively patting Dexter’s shoulders when he attacks her neck with kisses, and Cyrax adjusts his stance to avoid the sway of their bodies, the way one would simply steady their weight. When she steps back from Dexter and puts her hands on her hips, Cyrax is finally able to capture a clear view of what he saw as she walked towards them with a body that was obscured by silhouettes.
The woman had a dark green scarf wrapped carefully around the roots of her light brown curls of hair that hid the coat of oil on them, and she was chubby and had rosy cheeks with a scar in the shape of a snake plastered on her chin. Similarly, her skin looked as soft as the finest linen. A scent of buttermilk and vanilla radiated off of her and Cyrax was slammed by a bright shine of light from her golden teeth every time she smiled.
However, her clothes were anything but comforting. She styled an emerald green button-up coat sown together with excellent, beautiful golden embroidery ruined by beer stains, and an obvious corset underneath that could do anything but contain her width and weight. She wore large but tight pants that were dark black and old, worn, brown shoes with several holes in them. He eyed the empty yet vibrantly decorated dagger holder strapped to her right thigh. He wondered if she had owned the one that gleamed nicely out of the few weapons stored on the few shelves near the entrance, and made a mental note in his head to remember. Naturally, he had caught her eye the same.
“What brings you here, huh?” She says towards the tall man with a grin, her hands remaining firm on her wide hips. Seemingly unaware of his title, or perhaps too inebriated to realize and care. Regardless of the shine of his chic shoulder plate— his army symbol was carved into the metal. She was standing before one of the most powerful men on the planet. “Rose women!” Dexter gleefully answers. Too gleefully for being at such a place but it fits his image. “I know why you’re here!” The small lady responded, scrunching her nose as she pitched her head towards Dexter. Perfectly mimicking his voice of glee and she turns to Cyrax in an aloof manner.
Her eyes focus on his boots for an amount of time which would typically be considered rude behavior and didn’t try to hide her intrigued, perverse facial expressions when she trailed her eyes higher. She proceeded to rub her chin comically while she scrutinized every stitch of his cape and every cut of his chiseled facial features, focusing on every piece of clothing on him as though he were a detailed painting. Cocking her head to see his face, she unashamedly stared at his eye and her gaze traveled deep into the pitch black of the tunnel.
Eventually, she squinted her eyes in search of something but ultimately shrugged wryly as she gasped a deep breath, a shrug that implied she failed to find whatever she was looking for.
Another one attempting to open the book and look inside at its contents.
Within a moment, eons of this exchange pass. “Who’s your friend?” She says, her face relaxed but eyes remaining focused on Cyrax, determined to ravage around in his mind. She still tried to search, even subconsciously; Cyrax sighed briefly in indifference at the attempt.
“A friend,” Dexter says skittishly before Cyrax had the chance to respond and he straightens his posture as he directs the topic of conversation. An air of shame forms around him, uncharacteristic at best. “ And, what business has brought you here, Honey?” He huffs and smiles compromisingly. Cyrax watched as the woman crosses her arms, sharply jolting her uncentered gaze to Dexter. “Rose women.” She replies, almost arrogantly. “You know, the mistress is quite upset with you. You haven’t visited her in forever! I’m all fine and dandy with forgetting how to ride you, but she ain’t!” The woman sneered, her Scottish accent as sloppy as her trying to remain upright.
Cyrax leans back tiredly, his eyes distracted by taking notes of everyone in the room. He doesn’t have time for this. “And, as much as I’d love to pick things back up where we left off,” She purrs, fiercely straightening her jacket as she narrows her gaze with a devilish smile on her face. “I’d rather not get any more siren juice on this jacket!” Dexter’s smile widens, and his eyes were glossy with nostalgia. “Speaking of that deadly beauty, where is she?” He asked. Honey rubs the tip of her nose casually with her thumb. “Where she always is, in the back next to the bar. You come looking for her?” She softened her voice and furrowed her lined brows. Dexter starts to speak, but Cyrax steps forward, snatching the chance away. “We’ve arrived in search of a black-haired, tan woman with red battle markings across her cheeks.” Cyrax describes bluntly, his words firm, exact, and eager. It takes little time for the woman to glance up at him interestingly and smile weakly at him with tension pulling into the middle of her face. She hums with a nod of her head, insinuating that she’s processing the information but her enamored eyes never stray from Cyrax’s entire being.
“Then she’s just the right gal! And, just a heads up, she's with Shelia May who’s screeching her ear-bleeding songs tonight so don’t go walking in without a knock or two, yeah?” She warns and Cyrax hums attentively. “Yes, thank you. Good day.” The tall man concludes roughly in a hurried manner before darting his eyes at Dexter with a rigid glance that yells "Don't get into trouble" and shuffles past them in the immediate lead of her directions.
“What a sturdy hunk right there.” Honey’s hooded eyes stayed on Cyrax’s back like a wart until he shuffled out of view, and she scratched her chin as she faced Dexter. “Yeah, he’s… something,” Dexter replies just as stiffly as Honey looked. “What’d you see of him?” She asked and Dexter shifted his weight in thought and shimmied his hands to rest on his forearms. They stood in comfortable silence, or what could be considered silence between them with the lively bar music and chatter drowning them out. “Nothing… I’ve never seen it before, he’s… empty. It’s a void,” Dexter shudders. “Whenever I peer into his aura, there’s only black where emotions would be but he, he’s hiding them, I know it. I can’t see them no matter how hard I try but he has his emotions behind a dense, pitch-black veil, I’m sure of it.”
Honey pursed her lips, soaking in the information as she trailed her scratching fingers onto the nape of her neck. “I couldn’t see and smell anything either, his thoughts are quiet, straightforward, calculating… Barely a breath. It’s strange, the barrier to his mind is clean, thick, wide, and tall, and no cracks in sight.” She murmurs. Dexter hums in agreement. The degree of incognito that Cyrax carries with him is beyond the capability of men they've encountered who have no idea of experiencing emotions and no concept of what emotions are. If it weren't so horrifying, they would've thought it was impressive. They sighed in sync and Dexter shook his head. "I better go make sure he didn't get into any trouble," He jested, earning a small chuckle from Honey. "Catch you later, Exen." She huffs. They hug shortly before Dexter follows the unforgettable scent of riches and spice down a shaded hallway decorated by lovers and addicts. He inhales all of the contrasting, distinct smells with ease before venturing further and calmly following the now vibrant stench of blood.