livingcontrivance - Tumblr blog

[livingcontrivance]

i do enjoy "living weapon" characters but specifically living weapons who did in fact do absolutely horrific things which at least a part of them enjoyed and thought was good and right at the time, and that no amount of not knowing any better or guilt they feel in hindsight will ever make up for. i love living weapons who are "irredeemable", and no it's not their fault that they were made that way or pointed in the directions they were by the hand that wielded them, and yes they are victims, but so were their victims. living weapons who some people will never be able to forgive, but who still wake up every day and try to do better than what's expected of them. a sword that uses its blade to cut wheat to make bread for the people who once lived in fear of its arc falling on their heads.

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Fantomex by Eric Canete

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hey x-men '97 muses ,,, we should talk plots -- : )

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so ... might make a blog for earth-72's weapon viii 👀

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"Do you think you know better than the writer"

Yeah actually I do. And I've read more comics than them too.

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i’m sorry you have such negative feelings about me killing all those people 🙄

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Uncanny X-Force

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On a whim, he had chanced his luck, opened his mouth, not to ridicule, but with the intent to make an offer instead. And, as much as he had hoped to reach agreement, he takes the rejection in stride, nodding to the other when warned of the perils involved. "It would certainly not be the first time. Dying is... something of a speciality of mine." Taken off the board by his enemies, only to mysteriously arise anew, no further elaboration is given on this point; not when there were far more interesting matters to discuss.

And yet, before he could get there, something in the back of his mind calls for a cautious tread, urging him to step carefully as he toured these strange streets and its overwhelming, dystopian sprawl. Had the maglev cars not been enough of a hint, it had become abundantly clear to the thief that he's not on home turf, nor anywhere that he recognised for that matter; and yet, it still does not fill him with dread.

"Something more valuable? Do you mean like that watch of yours?" Reaching high, Fantomex held firm under the stranger's gaze, calling their bluff by showing that they weren't the only one being observant. No technology expert by any means, he was willing to guess that if he planned on making it home, he'd need to acquire one of those. "Quite the sophisticated piece of technology, you've got there. Could it be that I'm in the future?"

@livingcontrivance asked: "Monsieur! I hope you do not mind but, I must ask, is it true that you no longer use your original costume? If so, would you be willing to sell it to me? Of course, you can always refuse -- after which I will simply return and acquire it myself. Have a nice day!" (heyo! have a random thing if that's okay! 👋)

It's not every day that, Miguel has had encounters with strange individuals on the streets of downtown; the forgotten ill-lit city below uptown with the highest crime rate in the united states that the public eye had long given up on and refuse to portal and protect the innocents who have no choice, but to fend for themselves and their families.

Even if this stranger shown no signs of being a threat, Miguel still stood his ground and kept his eyes locked onto the other man, while reading his body language as they ramble on about rather or not he would be willing to give up his old suit in exchange for money, which was the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard.

"Sorry.. it's not for sale.. and acquiring it might get you killed. If I were you I would look else where and find something that's more valuable than a suit." That was somewhat of a bluff to make the other rethink about going with that insane plan to steal his suit. There was nothing in this mess up world that would convince him to give up something that was an important part of himself. It helped him grow, and open his eyes to see the corruption Alchemix have placed upon Nueva York.

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The sound of that confused response sees his eyes fill with a carefully curated amount of glee, quite amused, but he did not let the feeling linger. After all, he wasn't actively working to trick or deceive the Spider, but rather gather details-- of which, he managed to gather in abundance.

"My apologies! I meant no disrespect. I am not... familiar with how you vigilante types keep in touch, is all." A calling he did not feel a need to partake in, much preferring to break the law than take matters into his own hands. "Comme c'est fascinant." Parting with more gibberish to perplex the masked hero with, Fantomex stilled at the mention of biological surprises hiding in the recesses of carefully placed stashes.

"Surely you have heard of washing, right?" Or maybe they hadn't, which wouldn't surprise him. These types appeared to put everything on the line to save their rancid cities. He could never see the appeal. "And besides, why go to the trouble? What has this city ever done for Spider-Man, eh?"

"Um, barn-juno, white, X-suit guy...?" And dependent on whether this was a current X-Man, or one of those rag-tag alternative mutant vigilantes... Let's just say, he's seen such characters and their 'good' deeds. If you can call suicide missions, or the few citing of riots a good deed, anyway.

Altruistic mutants were mostly trusted by him, but there were some that would rather show him what his insides look like.

"Hey, I can't speak for the other, younger Spider-Man, nor for that one who suspiciously poofs like some impish mutant I know. But if you've found some old duffels and school bags on rooftops that happen to have my old suits, BURN THEM!... You know, for, sanitation, cuz, they're old, funky. Surely some cultures have grown on them by now."

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It was harrowing to think, the sort of effect that actions could cause. Many a time, he had opted to embrace cowardice, be absent when the sum of his actions came back to bite him. The part he had to play in Morgan's rearing, just by the very virtue of attending to Evan and ensuring that nurture won over nature in his sped-up rearing, was more than enough to make him guilty, a feeling as corrosive as battery oil, for his non-existent soul.

He detested it, as much as it supplied a new boost of energy; more machine than man, he schools his expression into a toughened visage, listening as the man spoke of his struggle to simply persist. "You endure. That is the most any of us can do." Weary that such words may draw debate, or worse, Fantomex hops quickly to his own update.

"It's been... about the same for me." Losing the courage needed to maintain eye contact with Morgan, the thief resorts to staring at the floor, uses it as a focal point as he continued. "I am... certain I was dead for some of it. Then E.V.A. attempted to revive me... but it brought be back wrong." Split into thirds, as well as a near fatal brush with craving power to plug the broken parts of his shattered and bruised psyche with.

"I am thus more than likely not the same person you last met, either. So, at the risk of sounding... daring... I propose we... start over. What do you say?"

Morgan's life had not been easy....nor happy. The only place he had ever truly called home had been torn away from him, the two descendants of Apocalypse who rebelled against his "father's" psychotic beliefs raising him like their own child having been slaughtered by the very people they escaped from.

And the utter stain of being a clone of En Sabah Nur meant Morgan would never be truly accepted. Not like Evan was. Not even En Sabah had wanted anything to do with his eldest clone.

The ancient mutant violently disowning the youngster, calling him weak and a pathetic waste of his DNA.....it was no wonder why the once hopeful teenager had grow up to be stony and cold.

His voice nowhere near as kind as it used to be. Instead, it sounded like the voice of someone who fought....and just couldn't stop fighting.

" I've been....I hate saying 'surviving' but that's the closest I can come to it....what about you?"

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Fantomex vs. Gambit(AoA)

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For a crucial moment, he gives the question some genuine consideration, if only to work loose the lingering resentment he still felt for enduring such a hideous experience. He should've learnt by now that, be it under Logan's or Cable's leadership, X-Force would always mean the death of him-- in some shape or form, anyway.

Still, much like the other, in a showing that he can bury even wretched hatchets, Fantomex expels a sigh rather than a ceramic bullet, muttering beneath his breathe in pidgin French as he begrudgingly takes the man at his word. "Then why didn't you lead with that?" Brows furrow at the mention of his competition, causing his own nettled ego to drown out the animosity he possessed for their shared history.

"That card-wielding poser is nothing like me." And so he claims, anyway, tone noticeably clipped as he folds his arms defensively. As annoying as it was to admit, Cable had him interested, now. "If you want the best, then look no further, Nathan. You've seen what I can do. So, tell me more about this mission?"

Arms folded across his chest, Cable hardly blinks at the gun barrel pointed at his glowing cybernetic eye even as it was just as quickly pointed away. He wasn't expecting a warm welcome anyways, and was prepared for the opposite.

"Would it make you feel better if you did?" Now that Nate had full access to his telekinesis back, a bullet wasn't much of a threat.

Hearing the accusation does sting just a bit, but Nate was good at compartmentalizing the past, every action, every choice, justifying all decisions regardless of how cold or callous they may seem. Yeah he handled Fantomex pretty shittily, but bygones were bygones. The past was the past, well he could change it, but that'd be a waste of his time.

"You're not the first to think so, and look I ain't here with any apologies. I did what I did, it's in the past. I have had bigger fish to fry and shit to deal with than your grievances. Now you haven't even heard why I'm here, or what I was gonna ask."

He unfolds his arms, placing his hands on his hips as he glowers at Fantomex, "Maybe I shoulda reach out to Gambit instead, he's a better thief than you anyways, and I need the best for this mission."

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He expected nothing less than a scorching reception, as sharp as the man's own claws. Much to his unending delight, Logan delivered, his disaffected tone being received like a charming tune as Fantomex chuckled to himself, unable to fully contain his amusement. "You know, if I had a nickel for every time you groused like this, I would have a small fortune."

Enough to live comfortably, without needing to steal. But thievery had always appealed to him, a distraction gladly pursued in place of other habits.

Beaten to an answer, Fantomex offers a slow shake of head, letting it and so many of his other usual complaints when it came to men like him slide. They'd been through enough experiences together that the faux frenchman could venture to say he tolerated the mutant-- a compliment that he extended to few individuals.

"Lead the way, then." Head on a swivel, he follows without question or debate, but unable to let the moment completely elapse without offering a snide remark of his own. "And also, that suit is hideous on you."

Ah, ain't this a familiar scenario? Just like old times.

Logan doesn't get the pleasure of a word or an 'ahem' in before Fantomex turns quick on his heels, plays his little 'oui oui, I am but a silly innocent kind-of-Frenchman and my hand just slipped into your pocket because I have a condition or three' bit.

Anyway: Logan stands here, a little more dressed up than usual, giving him a real clear mean look. He is decidedly not amused.

"There better fuckin' not, Jean-Phillipe. I got asked to back up the security detail," hence the questionable bolo tie, "for the night and I ain't gonna let my word slip for an old buddy. Y'even got an invite?" He quickly adds, "No, don't answer that, y'know I don't give a shit."

That being said, he's not totally unhappy to see him -- it's been a while, after all. His hand comes up to grasp a coated shoulder, body angling to the door to the courtyard. "C'mon, bub. Let's head outside."

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Uncertainty had prompted him to ask, laying to rest any doubt that had room to thrive. He's fairly certain now, that they've crossed paths in some shape or form, but it hardly matters in the long run. "Not intentionally, my blue-furred friend." He takes the reference positively, a smile that reached his eyes blue eyes curving his mouth under the mask. He could hardly stand to suffer fools lightly on the best of days, but for this he'd make a rare exception. And act cordial for a change.

"Oui, that is true!" A cover, no matter the shape, always served the same purpose. To disguise and hide that dwelt just beneath the surface. An expert at pretend, he finds it easy to agree, gaze straying for a moment in search of glasses, only to expel a pleased "Ah!" when the other man set a pair down before him. Intending to serve, a flex of hand, combined with a bit of flourish, sees the thief produce a small pocket knife as he brings the cognac closer.

The waxy seal is removed with a flick, coming up with an answer as began to use the blade to carefully extract the cork from the bottle. "Ehhh. Not in the slightest. I was just beginning to get a little...." Stir crazy? From being in proximity to those whom the very fibre of his hybrid makeup enticed him to take action against? "...bored, actually. With nothing to steal--" Or kill "--I find myself... at something of a loss for what to do here. I would welcome any suggestions, monsieur. You are, if I have heard correctly, one of Xavier's original X-Men, is that correct?"

"And here was I, thinking that my starring role as the romantic lead in Beauty and the Beast on Ice would render such inquiries moot. Am I really so forgettable? You wound me, Fantômas." The literary reference rolls off his tongue with good humour - in truth, he rather thinks he likes the idea of someone being unsure if they've met him before. It reminds him of a time when all he had to worry about was size thirteen shoes and being called a dork.

The thought of cognac has him thinking. It's three in the afternoon, not exactly the time to be knocking them back, but he can smell the tangs of prunes, figs, apricots, the tart tones of eucalyptus - even though the bottle might be stoppered, his nose is well developed enough that its piquancy can be savoured from here.

"Why not? As you say, it would be a shame to waste - and as has been said before, the worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk, they are sober."

Hank can be so very beastly, after all.

He even takes such a liberty as to select two very fine crystal glasses and fetch them for the other man to fill, inclining his head at the toast. "À ton bonheur. I hope I'm not intruding?" Should I still be calling you Jean-Philippe, or was that as much a fiction as Jean suspected?