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[ARCHER CEDRIC RALEIGH]

AND I WONDER IF I EVER CROSS YOUR MIND

FOR ME IT HAPPENS ALMOST ALL THE TIME

Archer Raleigh was a man of simple ambition. He did not want much, and required very little. He made enough money that he could eat well, live comfortably, party on the weekends, and got laid about once a week. More if he desired. His powers were fairly fantastic like that. Not creepy in that they had to think he was at least mildly attractive before he could turn that up to full-fledged lust. Of course he had to be careful about that, because that many pheromones floating around weren't contained and would probably attract more than just the woman Arc was going after. On more than one occasion things had gotten a little out of control, resulting in Arc running down main street being chased by a pack of girls who he could swear were foaming at the mouth. Luckily it helped him develop control quicker than might have come from practice. Necessity was a bitch like that.

Archer Raleigh was a simple man with simple ambition. It was until you saw his full life at it's fullest that you would be able to see differently. The fact that Archer also went by the name Batesior, a super hero who did not so much right wrongs as simply fought the evils plaguing our fair city of New York. Batesior used somewhat... unconventional means, leading him to being written about various times. He'd let some old man light himself on fire and run around screaming while taking care of the current villain of the day. The old man was severely burned by the time the fight was over, and apparently had to wait almost an hour before someone called an ambulance. He died in the hospital. On the bright side, there was one more villain in jail.

You see, Archer wasn't the sort of hero who supported charity or generousity or caring or love or any of that other sissy bullshit that they could save for a prime time special of the Care Bears or something of the sort. He cared about other people well enough, but had the very strong belief that if you were stupid enough to get yourself killed that the rest of the world was better off without you in it. He was a strong upholder in the Darwinian theory, survival of the fittest and culling the gene pool. He wouldn't go out of his way to kill someone, because he liked to think of himself as a generally good human being with slightly chaotic tendencies at times. However, if some villain was stupid enough to pick a fight with him armed with super strength and a nice pair of tits Archer wouldn't think twice about putting them in their place. He'd used super strength while training at Chryfder as was fairly familiar with the control of it. Mainstream powers and what-not. And the fact that she was a rather unfortunate looking female villain (you'd NEVER catch that mug on a hero) made it easy to get her to drop her guard at least long enough for Archer to get one hit in.

He didn't MISS, per se. But he hit her a little harder than he should have. Practice or not power mimicry was a fickle superpower and sometimes Arc couldn't control himself or whatever he was using. The villain went flying off of the roof of the building they had been fighting on, falling about six stories. That... well... that wasn't going to end well. Batesior peeked his head over the edge of the roof to see as the body impacted the sidewalk below. At least there had been no civilians moving underneath at that particular moment. Oops.

TAG: THAT SMEXY BITCH JULES. OUTFIT: BATESIOR COSTUME. ARTIST & LYRICS: HERE & HERE. TEMPLATE BY: SPARROW ! @ CAUTION. ONE LAST THING: RAWR A ROUGH IDEA OF HIS COSTUME IS UP. SORT OF.

[JULES FRIEDRICH VOLKOV]

“i'd rather laugh with the sinners then cry with the saints”

--  billy joel  

Why the Hell was Jules in Manhattan anyway? Furthermore, why was he walking down the sidewalk rather than driving? Ontop of that why wasn't he drinking, drunk, snorting, or high? The only thing that really made sense was the casette player clipped to his expensive leather belt with the headphones over his ears playing David Bowie at levels that likely weren't healthy for his ears. But it was that or listen to the irritating hustle and bustle of Manhattan traffic and pedestrian racket. Honestly, Jules never really listened to the radio. Because frankly he hated about 95% of the music they played, he hated what was popular now, at least most of it. It was all just utter shit and he wanted very little to do with it. So Jules stuck mostly to stuff from the 70's and 80's outside of the residual disco shit. Admittedly though those new guys coming up, Daft Punk, were pretty entirely fantastic. He'd follow their career with interest after he'd seen that music video for their thing Da Funk. It was an accident, too. Just walking around, passed a shop with televisions in the window, saw it and went inside to see what the fuck was going on and suddenly found himself introduced to the Francophone wonders that were Daft Punk. Shit like Collective Soul and that though? Fuck it. Fuck the Grunge straight to the deepest bowels of Hell. Of course Jules knew that Martin was hardcore into all of that shit and it was kind of understandable, purely in theory. The guy had studying and shit to do, a day job, and a kid he was raising on his own. Jules understood in theory that that shit was tough. Otherwise he just got entirely hung up on "What the unholy fuck is that shit you're listening to? Turn it off. Now." and never much thought beyond it. Martin was a big boy, he could fuck off and find someone who cared more.

Jules Volkov was a complex, confusing man with ambitions the calibre of which even he wasn't entirely aware of until he decided he'd achieved the want of the day. He was a self-aware excentric. A man who enjoyed his drink, his cocaine, his women and flamboyant gay men. And despite seeming rather out of control and irrational at times, Jules was entirely in control and he knew it. The tricky thing about superintelligence was that he couldn't really get out of control unless some huge unpleasant catalyst threw his brain for an extreme loop. He'd discovered that while he did drink large amounts, there was a limit. He'd discovered that his secret mild case of rather disguisable OCD extended into his drinking and cocaine snorting. Lucky him, he supposed. Unless his life changed drastically he figured he'd be fine with it. Just as he tapped the end of his cigarette twice before smoking and just as he got up at four AM every day on the dot to practise for two hours precisely, he could only consume so much alcohol before he stopped with no solid reason in his head for doing so, and could only snort so much cocaine before he stopped with similarly no reason. But overall superintelligence was a strange thing with a boon of pros and a list of cons. He supposed it was just showing truth in the saying that there was method to one's madness. But damnit he wasn't insane. Insane meant ill, and if you were sick you weren't a winner. Jules was a winner.

But why was he in Manhattan? Ohh, right. He was on his way to threaten a business tycoon who'd been looking at Jules' company the wrong way. Some greedy fat little man, he figured, sitting in a lofty office on the top floor with windows as walls peering out over the city like some tyrranical overlord. Jules was just pissed that the man thought he could get his grubby money-grabby paws on his business like a sticky child grabbed and took toys from other children. Well fuck that entirely. Apparently the little man had a place down this way and it was a nice day out and everything, so Jules decided that he'd walk the last little way. Twofold reason though, he supposed. It was nice out and he didn't want the bastard putting a tag on his car. It just seemed the underhanded thing the man would do because Hell, Jules would too. He fished his cigarette holder out of his pants pocket and opened it nimbly with dexterous fingers. Flicking one out and tapping the end, he clipped the case closed and then got his lighter out to flip the top in a practised motion to light it and dragged contentedly the first inhale of a fresh cigarette. It honestly tasted the best, he felt. The first drag of the first cigarette from a brand new pack just freed from it's wrapping. He smoked Du Maurier cigarettes, always had and always would. Jules had been smoking since the wee age of 14 and planned to continue with the habit. After all, he could phase the build-up of tar and junk out of his lungs. It was the ultimate in disgusting practises, leaning over the bathroom sink or doing it in the shower, concentrating and phasing thick gooey black tar out of his lungs and then wiping his chest clean with a damp towel. The stuff reeked to high heaven, too. So with that practise, his physical activities (just the knife fighting and rigorous tapdance, swing, and ballroom) and the smoking, it kind of evened out and he had slightly-above average lung capacity. Which, he imagined, pissed people off to no end.

He'd taken not but his third drag at his cigarette when he rounded the corner in time to see a woman, shrieking her head off, come plummeting downward and impact - nay, splash - on the pavement. And then civvies around the area started to panic, flip their everloving shit, and scatter. Jules, on the other hand, looked on with interest. He was kind of jaded and utterly unsurprised by violence as he was the instigator of much, just so very much, violence himself. "Huh..." Jules spoke to himself and then craned his head upwards to see maybe where she'd come from. But... but heyyy. He knew her! She was the ass-fugly chick! She was a villain! Goddamnit but she had a face not even a blind mother could love despite all attempts to bribe her otherwise. Jules had literally screamed a little when he saw her up close. And then threw up in his mouth a little when she came on to him. But looking upwards he saw a head poking over the side of the rooftop and had to squint a tiny bit before he recognised a superhero. Batsey something, some shit starting with a B that had Jules thinking "Bastard with a foreigny-sort-of-Italian-or-Spanish twist," which was of course entirely inaccurate but that never really stopped Jules from... well doing anything. Inaccuracies and technicalities were frivilous little problems and easily ignorable. He knew about Batesior though, a dude with strange morals, and Jules felt like he could work out a deal with him that'd be to both party's mutual benefit. He just had to get his goddamned attention... Jules did a bit of fiddly stretching inside his mouth, changing his tongue, and gave the most shrill whistle he could muster. Then he gave a wave and mimed out as best he could "I saw that, shoved her did you? Stay there. I want to talk to you." And he hoped the message got across.

tagged: archerrrr. location: manhattan. words: fluh, screw that. outfit: this here including pocket contents, fweeeee notes, if any: teheheheheh, casette players.

  template by .strangerinthesky @ caution v2.  

[ARCHER CEDRIC RALEIGH]

AND I WONDER IF I EVER CROSS YOUR MIND

FOR ME IT HAPPENS ALMOST ALL THE TIME

If Archer gave two cents what the sanitation workers of the city would have to do with the mess he created he might have cared. Luckily being more of a vigilante super hero rather than a typical do-gooder meant that he didn't have to give a damn and could run off into the night. Ur... mid-afternoon. Whatever. One thing was for certain, that was going to make someone REALLY unhappy tp have to clean up. And yet... Batesior almost liked her better this way. Yeah, at least he wouldn't have to put up with the constant hyena cackle whenever she said something she consider funny, witty, insightful, or 'delightfully evil'. Why was it that villain phrases always sounded so fucking gay? In any case, she was infinitely more quiet, which was a godsend. And as for her face... well...

Hm? What was that? Someone down below apparently wanted to play charades with him. How very strange. Not that New York wasn't full of them, but typically he would expect more shock and possibly anger at a dead body falling to the ground from the heavens. Not this guy apparently. Hm... actually... it seemed a little bit more purposeful than simple flailing about. And he had completely missed any symbol that was supposed to indicate whether this was a book, movie, song, etc that was being described - nor was there any note of syllables or indication of what it might sound like. No, this was not charades at all. This was Arc being told something. Hm, well... whatever it was he was walking inside the building now. Chances were he'd (it was a he wasn't it? otherwise deady mcgee down there wasn't the only unfortunate female in the nearby premise) take the elevator up to the room to speak with Arc. Archer could wait.

Looking a little closer as the man went out of site the blond thought to himself. He looked familiar, but obviously was not some close associate that Mr. Raleigh wouldn't know where he'd seen that face before. Maybe from television? An actor? Hardly. For all of the hype about the city there were just so many people you'd hardly find yourself face-to-face with some sort of celebrity. Oh well, he was sure that he'd put a name to the face quickly enough. Assumedly. Because Arc wasn't really sure any more. But if he just watched Fatty McSnotFace take a tumble off of a building and still wanted to talk to Arc chances were he couldn't be too bad. Maybe he was going to get a medal or something. That'd be awesome.

TAG: STELLA. OUTFIT: BATESIOR COSTUME. ARTIST & LYRICS: HERE & HERE. TEMPLATE BY: SPARROW ! @ CAUTION. ONE LAST THING: RAWR A ROUGH IDEA OF HIS COSTUME IS UP. SORT OF.

[JULES FRIEDRICH VOLKOV]

“i'd rather laugh with the sinners then cry with the saints”

--  billy joel  

Jules considered himself not to be a typical villain. It might've been his inordinate self-love speaking, though, so he could've been wrong. But that was so incredibly unlikely that he hardly considered it worth his time to suspect even remotely. He was layered, and shit. Other villains were one-trick ponies; they stuck to a particular turf and stuck to particular themes and schemes and were virtually broken records incarnate. Jules felt that he was different and ergo superior. Of course, he thought that he was superior in other ways for a multitude of other reasons too, but it probably would've been surprising had people learned that he kept a whole store of skills and abilities secret. It was simply that bragging decreased from the awesome inherent in, say, being able to fly a helicopter, or spelunking or something. Jules only learned spelunking because he liked the word but that wasn't relevant. His point was that he was a varied and multi-layered person who didn't limit himself in his villain or business pursuits. And damnit if other villains did it all the time.

Alongside faggy outrageously gay sayings and phrases, they tended to do other stupid shit too. Like world domination and trying to destroy the planet. Hell, suicide was one thing, homicide-suicide was another thing, but blowing up the planet entirely? Fucking. Retarded. If they wanted to off themselves Jules would personally hand them a pill bottle, glass of milk, and a plastic bag to put over their head, and tell them to go nuts. But if they weren't itching to get on with being dead, and they still wanted to destroy the planet... Well Jules was a very confused and irritated man. What the fuck? Seriously. You can't enjoy that shit, damn it. World's gone. Once Jules was sure Batesior was staying put, he crossed the street and made a hasty beeline for the elevator. He whistled rather chipperly while he waited, jabbing the button to the topmost floor with his thumb and leaning against the wall. What was with elevator music? It was bloody atrocious. Always some relatively mainstream song turned utterly horrible by using clarinets and soft jazz backup tracks. Honestly Jules was waiting for the music scene to stop sucking so much. Just en masse. Jules was still smoking idly while he waited out the elevator ride with some woman a little too young, in his opinion, to have a brat but yet some wee wretch hanging onto her skirt hem.

It was a shame, too. The little blonde haired blue eyed boy was ruining what was otherwise a hot woman. She looked, eh, twenty three? The kid looked four. She gave him something of a withering look for smoking in an enclosed space, with a bundle of groceries in her arms and the kid toddling about and occasionally blurting out a stupid nonsensical string of words. Jules removed his sunglasses and returned the look in kind and watched while realisation and recognition dawned and suddenly the young woman cowed and shushed her child. But that wasn't quite good enough, so Jules hit the button for the floor approaching and with a sharp gesture, pointed them both out of the elevator without a word. They scurried. And people wondered why Jules sometimes equated people to rats and vermin. Not really... well, it was easy to misinterpret that. Not that he aimed for genocide, not that he thought them to be lower creatures and he a superior life form, but that they acted like rats. They scurried and they scavenged and consumed, acted so dirt stupid, and insisted on being somehow filthy. Oh, he was at the top floor now... Jules snapped out of his reverie and, tapping ash off the tip of his cigarette, he went in search of the stairwell.

Not too hard to find, there were signs and shit, so he climbed the steps and phased through the door to locate that hero with questionable morals. Having found him, he walked over and peeked over the side of the ledge and down to where the splattered fugly lady was. He whistled and let it lapse into a tiny chuckle, "Y'know, she's better looking now?" Jules straightened up and leaned against the ledge, then put his sunglasses back on to guard his eyes from the glare of the sun. Where were those retards that liked trying to block out the sun when you needed them? Damned slackers. "No introductions required, yeah? Right, so, here's the deal... Oh shit, wait," Jules hucked his hands up mock-dramatically, "I come in peace or whatever. This is a business proposition. You want to listen or no? Because I've got somewhere to be and a greasy bastard to yell at, and if I waste my time only to be told you're not interested based purely on who I am... I mean that's just a kick in the nuts, man, seriously."

tagged: archerrrr. location: manhattan. words: fluh, screw that. outfit: this here including pocket contents, fweeeee notes, if any: teheheheheh, casette players.

  template by .strangerinthesky @ caution v2.  

[ARCHER CEDRIC RALEIGH]

AND I WONDER IF I EVER CROSS YOUR MIND

FOR ME IT HAPPENS ALMOST ALL THE TIME

Archer watched as the man he knew to be Jules Volkov approached him, phasing right through the door. He didn't look enthused about the matter, and rightfully so. As far as super powers went phasing and elasticity weren't exactly show stoppers. Probably useful, but definitely not interesting to watch. Not that Archer's powers were flashy in the least, but they had the potential to be. And there was also the fact that he could pretty much get a hook up whenever he wanted. That, in his opinion, was worth a little bit of a sacrifice in terms of looking like a bad ass. Priorities, right?

In any case, villain or not Batesior hadn't had any interactions or dealing with Mr. Volkov. He wasn't really sure why, either. There was probably a reason, but he wasn't really sure what it was. Was Jules Volkov straight? Archer had seen something in a tabloid when he was buying groceries at one point about him sleeping with a woman - tabloids these days were so fucking boring apparently that qualified as front page material. But regardless, that rarely meant anything. Firstly, TABLOID. Secondly, having sex with one woman didn't make you straight. Not that the blond wanted this guy getting all flirty and fun around him. Ew, no. He'd worry about that situation if and when it ever came to that though, not before.

Archer grinned slightly as he was told the villainess he tossed over the edge of the building. He shrugged a little, knowing that it was true but not necessarily wanting to be the sort of jackass to kill someone and be like "HAH YEAH, SHE WAS AN UGLY COW". He would save that for another time, or for a villain he knew a little better. Yet again, times where pheromone manipulation wasn't necesarrily the best power set. Uggos need not apply. The blond listened as Volkov continued talking and rolled his eyes. Three sentences in and all ready this guy was sounding like a tool. Archer supposed he shouldn't really be that surprised, not to stereotype villains or anything (because well, he sort of broke the molds in terms of hero behavior) but they tended to be more dickish than heroes.

"Go ahead and talk. I'm not going to punch you in the face or anything, if that's what you're worried about. Or the nuts, I guess. But I'll hear you out," he said with another half-hearted shrug. Archer was the sort of man who didn't mind dealing with "evil" if it meant a profitable gain for himself. After all, the ends justified the means, right? And it wasn't hurting any one to just LISTEN. Little kids were told they needed to listen more all the time. So he was just doing what society wanted, and hearing this guy out. And if it turned out this proposition was going to be a good deal for him, so much the better. If not, well... he could probably nab some phasing powers and fall through the floor or something. That might work.

TAG: THAT SMEXY BITCH JULES. OUTFIT: BATESIOR COSTUME. ARTIST & LYRICS: HERE & HERE. TEMPLATE BY: SPARROW ! @ CAUTION. ONE LAST THING: RAWR A ROUGH IDEA OF HIS COSTUME IS UP. SORT OF.

[JULES FRIEDRICH VOLKOV]

“i'd rather laugh with the sinners then cry with the saints”

--  billy joel  

Oh God, Elasticity so wasn't a show stopper in the way a guy wants. Elasticity is gross. Jules really didn't even use it all that often but it was just the sort of power that, if a guy had it, everyone knew. Because it was gross. There was something entirely unwholesome about being able to stretch and contort and misshape your body for various purposes. Sure, he could in fact use his hands clasped together and stretched as a parachute. He could grab the skin on his sides and stretch it to make himself in a human glider. He could make himself sixy feet tall and spindly as hell, or thirty feet tall and perfectly proportional. Except he didn't do those two last things because no one made clothes that fit that sort of stature. Despite whatever anyone may think, Jules wasn't a fan of running around ass naked. But phasing, done properly and precisely, could totally be a show stopper in Jules' opinion. And really, that was the only opinion that mattered any. Jules set up his persona, the one he wanted to project and have the masses see, and what they made of it was what they made of it. All the same it was very carefully constructed.

Jules only knew Batesior by reputation and had never actually met him face to face under any circumstances before. Probably just technical issues. Jules was here while Batesior was over there pheremoning womens or something. Didn't he watch a dude set himself on fire before? Pretty sure he read about that and kind of laughed til he cried. That was really what got Jules thinking about this sort of plan, an agreement between the two of them that found them both mutually benefitting. It was just a matter of spinning it properly so the guy took him up on it rather than have Jules standing there thinking about the time he just wasted. But he'd see how it went. "Right, great." Jules pulled himself up to sit on the ledge, not concerned about falling or being pushed. It was verging on ridiculous how many times his uncle had actually pushed him off a rooftop as a survival lesson. He'd now taken to packing a parachute or something, a super-slim number he could wear under his shirt and phase to have billow out behind him while he fell. Didn't have it on him then though, didn't need it really, but it was kind of showy and far less disgusting than stretching his hands into a fleshy parachute.

Jules let his cigarette dangle out of the corner of his mouth while he spoke, handtalking made holding a smoldering cigarette a little risky, "You're a hero with questionable morals, I've got... virtually no morals at all. I mean, I've seen capes cap villains before and they at least frown because they've taken a life, no matter how despicable, or some shit. You just grinned at what I said. So I assume I'm right here." Of course he was, he was right pretty damned often and it was awesome, "I'm a busy guy and I can't have hardcore serious heros jumping down my throat when I have overdue library books. You're a busy guy looking to continue being a hero, stay famous, keep getting attention and applause. I'm offering a way for both of us to get what we want with minimal effort." It was very inconvenient, all those heroes getting in his face over small jobs. God forbid a guy try to get some plutonium. Screw asking what it was for, just pound his face in until he gave it back. Why always the face? He liked his face, Jules had a pretty face, and he wanted it to remain that way. "So what I'm saying is, I let you in on what I'm doing from time to time, you're the first on the scene to... 'stop' me," he made air quotes, "You get the fame and attention and adoration of the public, and I make my way out the back door with not a scratch on me, my face in tact, and what I came there for in my pockets. You got me? I pick up a bus of orphans and nuns, you save them, I get out with all the property, supplies, and important people I want. The newspaper reads Batesior wins the war, loses the battle. Big picture win for your reputation. Small time loss letting me go."

To his mind it was a brilliant agreement. They both came out on top without much risk. Jules would get what he wanted without serious risk to his wellbeing or risk of prison time, and Batesior would get what he wanted. Best of all, with him working with Jules, if he accepted the proposition, was that Batesior could easily tell other heroes on the scene to fuck off and let him handle it. "What do you say? I'd even tell other villains crashing my party to fuck off, no need for either of us to get our faces fucked up, right?" Jules was kind of notorious for saying things like "NOT THE FACE" when someone felt like pistol whipping him or something. He didn't want a single mark on his face, not a one, not ever. He'd fucking murder a bitch if they screwed up his face. Jules sat on the ledge, comfortable, kicking his feet just a little and scuffing the rooftop.

tagged: archerrrr. location: manhattan. words: fluh, screw that. outfit: this here including pocket contents, fweeeee notes, if any: teheheheheh, casette players.

  template by .strangerinthesky @ caution v2.  

[ARCHER CEDRIC RALEIGH]

AND I WONDER IF I EVER CROSS YOUR MIND

FOR ME IT HAPPENS ALMOST ALL THE TIME

Archer merely listened, zoning in and out slightly as he did so. He looked around the immediate vicinity, trying to find something to focus his attention on as the great and mighty Jules Volkov spoke. He honestly wasn't sure what the guy was rambling about at first, Archer probably had some mild adult onset attention defeficit disorder or something. But then again, when he did decide to focus in, what he was hearing actually made a lot of sense. So he decided that maybe, just maybe, giving this guy a solid minute of his time wouldn't be such a terrible idea. In theory, anyway.

Now then, as previously addressed Batesior wasn't exactly the most moral hero you would find zooming around. His idea of being a good guy was considerably different than what you would hear from the other heroes protecting the city. After all, if someone was stupid enough to light themselves on a tire fire who was Archer to stand in the way of their eventual demise? Really, he was doing everyone else in the city a favor by preventing them from having to deal with a senile old coot running around and possibly lighting them on fire due to sheer incompetence. And after explaining to people that really he was just sort of a mildly existentialist superhero tied in with strong Darwinian beliefs, he could go on his merry little way and not worry about having to listen to shit about not being a morally good super hero, not doing Gods work or whatever else they wanted to bitch about. He'd heard it all all ready. It took more than that sort of simple shit to phase Archer at this point. Being a super, you had to develop tough skin if you didn't want to get killed.

So after hearing everything that Volkov had to say for himself, Bastesior tilted his head up towards the sky. He was grateful for his mask, and his identity being kept secret because of it. In some ways he thought that Volkov was a very smart man for putting it all out there for the public. He didn't have to live a double life. He had a much easier time in that respect. But cutting a deal with Batesior, Archer Raleigh had nothing to do with him still if he so desired. In that respect maybe this wasn't such a terrible idea after all. The blond man gave a low "hmmm" in the back of his throat, mulling it over. Actually, it was a pretty sweet deal. No one would get hurt, Volkov would get the money or whatever he wanted, and Batesior would get the glory. Win-win, in so far as he was concerned. And hell, if things took a turn for the worst he could always tell him to go suck it and go back on things. The ends justify the means and all of that sort of shit. Right? Right. "All right, I think we could manage some sort of agreement," he said with a bit of a smirk playing on his lips. "Just understand me when I say that I don't approve of innocent non-supers getting hurt, all right? Someone comes after you with ideas of grandeur stuck in their head and other shit like that, they can have whatever's coming to them. But yeah, sure man. I think that'd work out just peachy". Batesior reached out a gloved hand, a sort of gesture with which to seal the deal. There would be no official paperwork to tie Archer to a villain, because if that sort of nonsense leaked into the media... well... he might be branded as not-a-hero. He liked to think of himself more as an anti-hero anyway.

TAG: THAT SMEXY BITCH JULES. OUTFIT: BATESIOR COSTUME. ARTIST & LYRICS: HERE & HERE. TEMPLATE BY: SPARROW ! @ CAUTION. ONE LAST THING: RAWR A ROUGH IDEA OF HIS COSTUME IS UP. SORT OF.

[JULES FRIEDRICH VOLKOV]

“i'd rather laugh with the sinners then cry with the saints”

--  billy joel  

Jules had a habit of not thinking or speaking in coherent straight lines and he knew it. In fact, he tended to exploit it when he noticed he was doing it and making it worse would just so totally fuck with whoever was attempting to listen to him. But it did make communicating sometimes harder than he would've liked it. He tried pretty hard then to make himself understood because, damn it, his offer was a good one for both of them. It was simply that there were some plans that were like stepping stones to bigger better plans. And those steps getting screwed up because of some tight-wearing domino mask clad weirdo with a heroism fetish decided to come and crush all his henchman and do their damnest to stop him. Seriously. Huge pain in the gnads. Well, that and Jules had other things he liked doing too and generally they were more sucessful when he wasn't wincing over bruised ribs and nursing a split lip and a weird gimpy hip problem that had people thinking he'd had scary rough sex. It wasn't always the answer, people, Jesus. He'd really worked himself up a reputation for things hadn't he?

After a few seconds of watching Batesior's eyes kind of glaze and refocus a couple times, he saw him clue in and wrap his brain around Jules' offer. It was totally reasonable. Besides which Jules was pretty sure about Batesior's love of Darwin and his theories of evolution and all of that, so by that logic, Jules deserved to keep on living because damn it he did it well, whereas the peons who got in his way because of sheer stupidity deserved whatever the fuck they got. Jules liked Darwinism. But beneath all of that nonsense lurked another reason Jules was kind of eager to get Batesior in on a deal. He knew that phasing happened at a frequency unique to each individual so Batesior and his damned mimicry bullshit wouldn't be able to match the frequency Jules worked on, but all the same, he liked phasing through a wall and knowing it would take the hero a few minutes to get around or punch through it. There were no barriers for Jules when he was making a getaway but there were for the capes. It was supposed to work that way, and he didn't really like that Batesior could circumvent that. So generally the entire thing was one huge self-loving greedy plan to get what he wanted a little easier than usual.

Jules put his hands up "Hey, look, that's fine. I can work with that. So long as they don't get in my damned way we're fine. But ground rules here," Jules held up a digit and began counting off rules, important rules, rules that he didn't want to negotiate much, "No hitting me in the face. If one of my cars are around, don't throw it, don't crush it, don't scratch it, for the love of God. If you're going to chase after me to make a show of it, fine, but the limit is about six city blocks before you stop. Don't kill all of my henchman, alright? That shit just makes me look bad, it's hard enough to find decent lackeys right now, the market sucks. And if I've got a hot chick on my arm, don't snake her from me, not fucking cool." And that was it, but clearly the rules were never just one sided so much as Jules would've loved it if they were. "Now, for rules on my end, I won't hit you in the face. I won't cause you undue physical harm outside shit to make it look real. I won't damage your goods or vehicle should you have one on the scene, and if there's a hot woman in the hostage pool - because I don't pick from them, they get all weird and stockholmy - she's free to moon over her hero. We'll work a system there, I move to grab her you pitch me across the room or some shit, elasticity keeps that from being too troublesome anyway." Jules eyed Batesior's outstretched hand suspiciously, as was, frankly, his nature. He was one paranoid son of a bitch. Wasn't there some less... touchy way to seal a deal with somebody? No paperwork, God, screw that. But... ehh, he didn't want to touch. He narrowed his eyes for a second and then decided to bite the bullet and shook his hand stiffly and briefly, then released.

tagged: archerrrr. location: manhattan. words: fluh, screw that. outfit: this here including pocket contents, fweeeee notes, if any: teheheheheh, casette players.

  template by .strangerinthesky @ caution v2.  

[ARCHER CEDRIC RALEIGH]

AND I WONDER IF I EVER CROSS YOUR MIND

FOR ME IT HAPPENS ALMOST ALL THE TIME

Archer couldn't help but laugh when Jules decided he needed to set down some ground rules. He wouldn't lie and say that rules were not important when it came to these sorts of work dealings. Especially when the people involved were from two different factions, rules were very important. That way things wouldn't end with Archer getting kicked in the balls and having a hairdryer being thrown at him while being screamed at that being on a break didn't mean he could go and sleep around with skanky little hussies. But that was neither here nor there. The point here was not being hit in the face was something rather important to the both of them, as Jules showed his actual face in public and Archer wasn't going to have his money maker getting fucked up if he could help it.

"All right, all right. Most of that makes sense. I'll give you that much," Archer assumed that Mr. Volkov at least knew his power portfolio and that's where the comment was coming from. The blond was fairly confident in his own abilities when it came to dealing with members of the opposite sex, however Volkov was about as much of an arrogant asshole as he was. So it was more likely that he was saying that Batesior wasn't allowed to use his powers to pull any girl off of his arm. "But I gotta tell you man, powers or not some women are just naturally drawn to me. I can't help it, it's almost like a curse," he said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Whether or not he actually believed that was not the point, the point was it was sort of true. A lot of rather unfortunate women were drawn to him just because he had naturally higher amounts of pheromones than normal men. And he was straight, good looking, confident, and not a complete sissy and general waste of space like a lot of guys Archer'd met in his line of mundane work. You wouldn't believe some of the guys that were out and about not getting plastic surgery. Ew.

"But I'll tell you what, I'll promise not to purposefully pump up the ol' charm if you know what I mean if you have a cute thing on your arm. But if she makes that decision of her own accord I can't be blamed for being a good looking son of a bitch, all right?" he asked, shaking Jules' hand as it was VERY hesitantly offered. It did not heighten Archer's opinion of the man, that was for certain. He wondered if it was an OCD thing, or if it was personal. For that matter, did OCD individuals who had issues touching other people find it difficult to have sex? Volkov, from what he knew, was a bit of a player. So that might not be it at all. Unless it was a hands only thing. Or a dude thing. Did he wear gloved when he had sex? That'd be a bit more awkward than socks, in the blond's opinion anyway. Now was probably an awkward time to be thinking about this. Though as they shook hands Batesior grinned a little bit, feeling the power of phasing flow up and into his body. Yep, he was sort of a bastard like that. But it'd be fun to play with for a few hours, get used to it. Make sure that if he needed it he wouldn't get stuck in a wall or a floor or something. God that'd suck. And the best part was the other man would have no idea it had been copied until he saw it.

"It's a deal then," he said grinning after Volkov pulled away from him, seemingly in a hurry. "All right, well... if there's nothing else you can think of, I'm sure we both have much better things to do than to hang around on an empty rooftop with each other..."

TAG: THAT SMEXY BITCH JULES. OUTFIT: BATESIOR COSTUME. ARTIST & LYRICS: HERE & HERE. TEMPLATE BY: SPARROW ! @ CAUTION. ONE LAST THING: RAWR A ROUGH IDEA OF HIS COSTUME IS UP. SORT OF.