Diminishing Returns

Nico Cinder

Sam Raimi's Revenge
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Nico crumpled up the flyer for Dante's Abyss and threw the rubbish back across the bar at the Alexei, resident bartender of Luci's Dive. The paper bounced harmlessly off the devil's head.

"No."

Alexei merely stared back, polishing his mug. Nico sneered. This went on for longer than necessary, some might say.

"Fine," sighed Alexei.

"Fine?" asked Nico.

"Sure. Don't go."

The boy thought he felt a twitch in his eye. "You're serious?"

"No," the demon replied.

"They gave us fake money last time!" the unwilling participant moaned.

"The money is not fake, you just have not figured out how to spend it," Alexei said, bending over to pick up the ball of propaganda. "We would like to have more, anyhow. Your showings have been comparably average in recent years. Perhaps you have learned enough to go even farther in this iteration. Repetition is the core of mastering...well, anything, I would suppose. Violent bloodsport is no exception. I expected more of a bloodthirst out of you, young Nico, if I am to be honest." Nico stuck his tongue out and made a stupid face at the stone faced demon.

"Blowing people up gets boring about as fast as getting blown up does," the young punk said.

A rare chuckle escaped from Alexei, but the laughter doesn't quite blossom into a smile. "Empathy? From you? No, surely not. Maybe some twisted version of it."

Nico tried to hold back a wince, but wasn't sure if he managed. Damn demons and their cutting tongues. Alexei can shove it, though. He wasn't going, not this year. He'll find an even easier way to get Alexei even more money. To hell with Dante's Abyss.



---


And to hell with Nico, for the registration line was before him. He was over it. By the time he got to to the front of the line, he was ready for a nap. The Syntech employee handling him had a similarly exhausted expression. Their nametag read "Pots".

"Name?" asked Pots.

"Nico Cinder."

A flicker across the registrar's face. "Welcome back, Mr. Cinder. What are you bringing to the competition this year?"

"Ah..." Nico scratched the back of his head. "Couldn't tell you. Death and destruction? I guess?"

Pots didn't seem very convinced by the magical finger waggles Nico added to the end of that declaration. Nico sighed, swinging around the Red Chord over his shoulder. He played an overly chirpy, dipped in dressing, dancing lightning kind of riff. He finished up the lick with a hanging twang. Then, he smashed the instrument on the ground, as if he were making to chop the world down with his guitar right then and there, in one fluid motion. Nico stood there breathing rocks, surrounded by shards of crimson wood. A curled guitar string dug into his forearm, through the fabric of his hoodie.

It was Pots' turn to sigh. "On your way to the teleporter then, Mr. Cinder."
 

Nico Cinder

Sam Raimi's Revenge
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In some dark corner of Markov, a waylaid container with Syntech logos stamped all over it began to shake with a vehemence. The lidded top flipped open like a trap door, and a scruffy looking dude in a black tank top popped his head up for air with a gasp. Mikey had been hanging out with the Cindies for a while now. As far as cults went, they really hadn't asked anything that heinous of him, and he'd been in several by this point in his life. Digging around in one of big bad Syntech's corpo dumpsters was menial, and a little sketchy, but likewise not that big of a deal to the guy. The homies were all well and good too, good for a drink, or a game, or a destruction of property. Figured this was the least he could do for the good of the homies. With a grunt, he tossed a bag of something clanky over his head and out of the oversized trash can, following close behind it. Mission accomplished. Time to get out of here and finish the other mission: resurrect Nico Cinder.

"Hey!" a gruff voice called out from somewhere stage right. "What are you doing here? That trash is Syntech property. Shoo shoo! Scat rat!"

The rat skibbityscatbatbappityed on out of there with the goods before securitative action could take place. Mikey didn't really see a point in getting caught up when he had two working legs and a perfectly good alleyway to his left. The security officer jogged up to the dumpster, a bit perturbed. It would seem that it wasn't a system error - there was still a trash bin that had never been disposed off. He watched the intruder scamper off with little interest.

"Just trash stealing trash."
 

Nico Cinder

Sam Raimi's Revenge
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A single brazier was lit on the starkly wooden stage. It was, perhaps, the only chunk of wood in the entire bar, everything else consisting of some variation or combination of metal, leather, marble, or glass. Ironically, it was also probably the most expensive furnishing in the entire building, made out of some rare, dark colored wood. It almost shone black in the soft light glowing about the room. Lined down the pit below the brazier on stage were two rows of assorted degenerates and misfits, an amalgamation of maybe twelve of them, give or take. Alexei, rather well known for never leaving his spot at the bar unless Nico was on duty, stood behind the counter, polishing a mug. He watched with a small amount of amusement, as the Cindie known as Mikey walked on stage with a plastic grocery bag full of pointy...things.

"Brothers, sisters. A-Alexei," he began. The bartender nodded, careful not to show the smile playing at the edge of his lips. Mikey cleared his throat. "I come to you, with wooden remnants of the furious Red Chord, instrument of mass carnage, wielded by the Most Metal One, Nico Cinder. The shards of this artefact will be burned upon this sacrificial pyre to feed flames for mere minutes more, in his name, for his name, by his word. Do you dudes have any objections?"

"Hell no!" shouted the Cindies. They were kinda in synch. Some of them kinda like, death growled it. So it lingered, y'know.

Mikey nodded. "Then, by the power you now grant me, a goon of little to no renown, a nobody of no import, I now summon Nico Cinder to this earthly plane."

The punk unceremoniously dumped the red wood chips and bits of guitar string and screw into the flames of the brazier. "Once again, curses always fall. Once again, shall noise be made. Once again, shall Nico Cinder raise fucking hell."

The pyre flames roar, greedily subsuming the corpse of The Red Chord. A perfect circle is drawn in the air behind it, sparking into existence as a ring of flames chasing each other. All thirteenish people gathered en screaming masse beneath this portal, raising their hands up because they knew what was happening next. Nico was shot from this window with an ungrateful force, landing in the arms of his friends in a gentle crowdsurf. They let him down to the floor feet first, patting him on the back and making a general cheerful ruckus. As soon as Mikey hopped off the stage and hit the ground, though, it was his turn. Everyone, including Nico, rushed over to him and lifted him up on their shoulders, chanting his name. Mikey, you see, had just finished the last bit of his joining ceremony. The last thing on everyone's list to become an "official" member of the Cult of Cinder was to help in the resurrection of Nico himself. This status barely even actually existed. There were no real requirements, or joining process. It was more of a rite of passage for those that had stuck around the group for long enough, longer than the usual revolving door of hooligans that found themselves in Nico's company.

"Well done, Nico," Alexei said, level as ever. After everyone calmed down a bit, they all scattered haphazardly about. Music was played, drinks were poured, flammables were lit. Nico sidled up to the bar for a beverage of his own, which Alexei happily served him. Happy as he ever seemed to be, anyways.

"Welcome back. You did well this year. I especially enjoyed the part where you ate a child's head. And, we've already received your prize money. You actually managed to procure quite the lump sum this go round."

"Yeah, suppose so. Guess you were right, practice and all that." Nico said, almost in a mutter.

"Not only that, but you even beat back some of those encroaching charlatans. You died in the process, but it's at least good to see that you have your priorities straight. No point in paying this place off if it's just going to be reduced to rubble."

"And meat," Nico added.

"Yes," Alexei said with a sigh. "And meat."

Nico sipped on his drink, watching the Cindies galavant about. Causin' a ruckus, as they tend to do. Alexei nodded in their general direction. "What do you plan to do with these...fellows, that keep following you around?"

"Nothin'," he shrugged. "Give em - and me - a place to hang out. Let loose. Be how they be. How we be, I guess."

Alexei stared at them. At Nico. "A safe haven?"

"Sure. Why not? And they can bring me back like they have been, anytime I bite it out there trying to do our lord and savior's bidding. I can have a place to plot. You can make money off of 'em-"

"They have not paid for a single drink."

"And they're not gonna, silly," Nico said with a chuckle. "You don't make money off of these types like that, that's just cruel. Nah nah, stick to your regulars, I'll stick to mine. The money will come, whether we're looking for it or not."

"We are."

"And it'll cooooome," Nico cooed, winking at his handler. "It's the long con, baby. Every time."

"Yes, well. Time is not something you may find yourself having in the coming months. Those abhorrations playing such a part in this year's competition is no mere coincidence, no 'one and done'." Alexei had not stopped polishing his mug. "They will come for this place you dream of. And everything else, while they're at it."

Nico smiled one of them smiles that was just a little too big for the face it was painted on. Feeling around in his jacket pocket, he deftly retrieved a cigarette and found a spot for it between his teeth. Alexei kindly lit it for him with one of the matchbooks laying around the bar top. The punk, still smiling, ran a shaky hand through his hair. His eyes met the bartender's through stranded bangs.

"No one fucks up my dreams, Alexei. No one but me."
 

Nico Cinder

Sam Raimi's Revenge
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Roy Mustang needed folks that were good at killing unmade, but honestly just about anyone willing to kill unmade would do. Luckily, after watching this year's iteration of the Abyss, he was reminded of someone that might fall into both categories. It was rather difficult physically finding this place, what with there not being a sign outside and all, but his contacts in the government at least gave him somewhat of a trail to follow. There was some distant music he could hear, once he was outside what could've been the right building, so he decided to take a chance and just go through the door. His assistant was not far behind him.

Nico, from behind his perch at the bar, saw them come in, too. Saw him, remembered him- kinda. Moreso, he remembered what it felt like to have a machete go through your skull, and the smell that sizzling unmade flesh gave off roasting over an artillery fire. This was besides the point though. The timing here? Comical. Pure comedy gold. Never had he ever been so happy to see a man in uniform.

"No wait, don't tell me," Nico said, stopping Mustang before he could even speak. "You came because you heard of our insanely popular catering options."

The kid gestured wide with his arms. The bar was devoid of any sign of life, save for the odd blue mood lighting. Hawkeye looked as if she wanted to say something, but Mustang shook his head.

"I must admit, Nico, I had not even realized you resided here in the city of Markov until recently," the officer said bluntly.

"Yeah, been trying to keep a low profile. Get a grip on life in the Crossroads. I just landed in Cevanti, and had to make it work," he said, taking a dainty sip out of something he already had poured before they walked in. "Trying to, at least. As you can see, I mostly been keeping the lights on by dying in the Abyss every year."

"So you aren't native to these worlds, are you?" Mustang said, taking a seat at the bar with a pensive look on his face. Hawkeye chose to keep standing, sort of looking around at all the things Nico had hung up on the walls. Trinkets, paintings, collectibles. Shiny things. A souvenir or two from Dante's Abyss. "But you seem to have a bit of an affinity for Markov. Enough to set up a 'business', here."

"No, reckon I'm not. Hell, what does any of that mean anymore anyways though, amirite?" the bartender said with a giggle. "Get you two something to drink?"

"But furthermore," Mustang said, ignoring his question. People had been doing that to him a lot, lately. Fuck, what is it gonna take to sell some alcohol in this bar?

"You sacrificed not only your chance at winning the competition, but your very life to fight those unmade horrors again. Have you grown to care for this place, really and truly?"

"Hey, calm down buddy, my life is like a sideways 8. Ain't worth nothing, I got a million of 'em."

Mustang grinned. God, he loved reading files on people. "But that one, you spent getting killed by Saren."

Nico dropped his glass, reveling in the shattering noise it made and the silence that followed.

"You here for what I think you're here for?" He asked in a low tone.

"Yes, I believe so."
 
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