Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-25389303-20190924011526

"Enemy terminated," Trago grumbled as the giant Grimm sank back down into the darkness, discarding his spent weapon to the yacht floor and assuming a vigilant stance. Scanning the deck of their ragged boat, the robot expected to find Diaboli's commanding figure amongst the dwindling crew. When his master could not be located, alarm flooded the bodyguard's systems like a poison corrupts a vein.

"Commander? COMMANDER?!" the robot boomed, his call ringing out across the ocean like a siren. His orange eyes flashed in the darkness as he stalked back and forth - very nearly trampling the wounded duo as he marched quickly past. Unable to locate his master, he eventually froze in place in the middle of the deck, uncertain.

Then he heard it. The faint sound of flesh against metal, the the subsequent groan of warping steel. On the starboard side, a dark, ghoulish hand had emerged from the surrounding waters, grasping the metal railing with a diamond-shattering grip. Raising his arms, images of various Grimm flashed through the robot's artificial mind, and he prepared to fire a jet of flame at the encroaching creature.

Then another hand joined the first - a human hand. And after a brief moment of rest, a hiss of pain filled the air as Diaboli heaved himself over the railing, to collapse on the cold wood floor.

"I'm here...Trago...I'm here..." Diaboli mumbled quietly into the deck, his chest heaving painfully as it fought to purge the toxic air from his system. His words of reassurance weren't enough for Trago, however, who immediately hurried to the crime lord's side.

"Commander, you are wounded," Trago observed unhelpfully, steadying Diaboli as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position.

"I'm...I'm fine..." Diaboli replied faintly, his ice-blue eye staring past his lieutenant with an empty gaze. Propped up, the degree of the man's injuries became apparent. Burns littered the left side of his body - his flesh scalded by superheated water. His face and chest had been largely spared, with only a faint redness indicating the underlying agony, while his arm had bared the brunt of the damage. His left forearm, previously wiry and well-defined, was now a mess of mottled black flesh and scorched muscle. Even now, pieces of shrapnel stuck out from the darkened mess, while tendons now bared to the salty ocean air could be seen contracting and relaxing as their owner forced himself to his feet, swaying like a seasick sailor as he staggered over to his discarded shirt.

"Commander, you are--" Trago began, only to be quickly silenced by a wave of the man's blackened hand.

Grimacing, Diaboli raised the cuff of his shirt to his mouth and bit down, before savagely tearing his head to the side. With a ripping sound, the sleeve tore away, while the rest was discarded to the ground. Pinning one end between his forearm and waist, Diaboli quickly bound his scorched hand with the blood-stained fabric, hissing loudly through clenched teeth as he worked.

"Fan-freaking-tastic..." Diaboli muttered as he sharply tied the knot to his makeshift bandage, "...that's how I am."

Adequately put-down, Trago was Diaboli's obedient shadow as the crime lord slowly made his way to the bridge. The progress was slow, with his previously restless gait replaced with a laborous trudge, and at the foot of the steps his empty gaze settled on a glass object, discarded and forgotten, nearby. Retrieving the bottle from its lonely resting place, his weary mind recalled the Bluthardt's whiskey from their encounter on the bridge, and allowed himself a small smile.

The sound of shouting from within the cabin tore Diaboli's gaze away from the drink, and he audibly groaned. Hardly a minute had passed since their victory, and they were already creating him more problems.

Leaning heavily against the low railing, he made the first step.

''More stupidity. ''

He made the second step.

''More distractions. ''

He made the third step.

More work.

He faltered on the fourth. By then, his entire body was trembling, and no amount of willpower could make him ascend that final step. It was all he could do to turn away, and to lurch unevenly back down those tiny steps. Swaying, he made it a few more feet, before collapsing painfully against the cabin wall.

"...Ah...fuck it..." Diaboli sighed, slumbing down to the ground and burying his head in his hands. Beside him, the bottle of whiskey stood open and waiting to be drank. "Why do I even bother with these people..."