[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/WIA4zqR.gif[/img][/center] [center][img]https://d30y9cdsu7xlg0.cloudfront.net/png/49993-200.png [/img][/center] [center][h2]Bounty's Rest, New York.[/h2][/center] [center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jz8c17upEwM]"What can I do ya' for?"[/url][/center] Throwing his tired feet onto the coffee table, the young-looking male manage a deep breath of comfort before placing the soda bottle to his lips. It was called the Bounty's Rest, a cheap motel in the ghettos of New York located within an area most would avoid. A cesspool of crime, villainy and chaos. It was understandable how the police branded this area a no-go zone. Bravery walks hand in hand with foolishness, they say. Heading into this backwater alley within New York's borders would amount to little more than stupidity. "So tell me, Sandy." Old Man Doc spoke, his dark and raspy voice hinting at the vast amount of cigarettes he had infected his lungs with throughout the years. The man's ebony dark skin painted him an afro American, something he often felt the need to remind people of with his choice of words. He was the owner of the Bounty's Rest, a motel at first glance but the truth laid in the name. People came to Doc with contracts and the hunters renting a room within his complex would be assigned jobs, some less savory than others. For a small percentage of the pay, Doc would let these bounty hunters stay in his motel for as long as they continued to accept contracts. Milo had been doing so for a handful of months at this point. "Getting any hope for the world?" [color=ec008c]"No."[/color] The boy returned, taking another sip from his drink as he lazily watched the news on an old, raggedy television propped up in the lobby. "What's a brother gotta' do to get ya' to say more than one word, hm?" Doc chuckled, cracking open a can of non-brand beer. Running his fingers down the white beard which had started to form beneath his chin, Doc adjusted the cap atop his head and got up with a soft grunt. "Ain't as young as I used to be!" He continued, patting his back as he circled the counter and sat on the sofa besides Milo. "I've had me people from all over stayin' here, y'know?" Doc spoke, taking a swig of his drink before nodding to the television. "You seem em' niggas come in here with guns n' powers but a fuckin' sword?" The old man laughed heartily, reaching for Milo's Japanese katana resting against the sofa's cushions. "That's rather new." [color=ec008c]"I'm not people."[/color] Milo commented, referring to his engineered creation rather than a natural birth. He was designed from the start to be a weapon no one would suspect, an assassin who worked behind the scenes with a cloak of invisibility in the shape of innocence. He never did consider himself human, and it was for obvious reasons, but Doc and Milo had initiated quite philosophical conversations due to the comment. Milo on the other hand never seemed to care much. "There ya' go again, Sandy." This part of town drew racial comments a common occurrence. Milo's design was based on his creator's son who was middle eastern, making Milo appear to have olive skin and dark features. It warranted his nickname, Sandy, referring to the ethnical home place of a desert. "Ya' can think, can't ya'? A brother can feel!" Doc nudged Milo's side, dropping the katana back to its previous position. "Say, what kind of music do ya' like?" [color=ec008c]"Don't really care."[/color] An expected response, but Doc grunted all the same before reaching for the stereo controller, turning on some old nineties hits. "There we go. Gotta' have some life in here, ya' know?" Doc finished, ascending to his feet before he started towards the counter and reached for a folder. "How do ya' feel about gang bangers?" [color=ec008c]"They bleed a lot."[/color] Milo zapped through the channels disinterested in his surroundings, occasionally sipping from his soda with halfway closed eyes. "You fuckin' psycho." The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, this job just came in. Looks like a new group of gangsters are popping up. Run by a meta, n'I know you like those, brother." Stealing Milo's attention, the boy turned his focus to Doc who grinned in response. "There we are, a nigga's alive!" [color=ec008c]"What kind of meta?"[/color] Milo ignored most of what Doc had been saying, phasing directly to the point. "Super strength. That kinda' shit gets you respect roun'ere, y'know?" Doc finished, dropping the folder onto Milo's lap to allow the boy a better view of what he was getting into. Hispanic, large, tattooed, male, the typical. It was what you expected, nothing new and nothing special, but things had been rather dry recently. [color=ec008c]"Fine."[/color] The boy stated, dropping his feet to the floor and slipped into the black and white converse shoes he had by the sofa. Doc had strict rules, no shoes on the table. The man usually got his way, despite his age and seemingly fragile appearance. One should however not judge a book by its cover as Doc was known by something else entirely on the streets. "Don't die, kiddo." The old man shot Milo a grin before turning the music up. "And get a haircut, you fuckin' emo." [color=ec008c]"Can't.[/color] Milo was the epiphany of 'frozen in time'. The boy's regeneration prevented any change to his body and a single strand of hair falling from its place would immediately be replaced by another. Perhaps this semi-immortal frame was what had drawn Milo so cynical and indifferent, seeing the world wither and die around him while he remained the same, forever. A depressing thought, but Milo found himself bathed in blood too often to think about much else, recently. Heading out the door, Milo didn't bother hiding his blade. Everyone here owned a weapon, and everyone was armed. Anything else was a death wish.