The Greatest Weapon
Hey, a short little humorous one-shot featuring Biker doing a little introspective thinking about what his greatest weapon is.
Biker hunched over his drink, casting sidelong glances at the other patrons of the bar, which went by the name "Charlie's", as the rain pattered down outside. He had decided to take a moment to re-familiarize himself with the town of Bayville, while Hack and the others went through the introductions between the Brotherhood and Jon's group. He needed some space after the incident in Cleveland, which his little 'family' had been perfectly willing to give him. He downed his tequila with the flair of a Mexican bandito, and signaled the barkeep for another round. As he did so, he felt eyes burning into the back of his skull, and several presences behind him. He fought the urge to roll his eyes as a rough, slightly slurred voice came from behind him. "Hey freak." He ignored the man, and casually examined one hand, the metal plates in his gloves glinting in the dim light.
He had always loved brass knuckles, and when he had been informed of Jon's plans to remake the entire team, he had asked for these to be integrated into his design. They were direct, brutal, and efficient, much like he himself seemed at times. In a rage, he could use the slightly clawed tips to tear his way through a two-inch plate of stainless steel if need be. The rough voice was back again, accompanied this time by a rough shove. "Hey freakazoid, I'm talkin' to you!" Biker felt his tail twitch in annoyance, but he kept the leash tight on his temper.
He turned his examination to the gun strapped to his leg. It was one of a matched set of Berenja model pistols, doubled barreled beauties whose shots were so powerful that the shockwave of the bullets were able to cause severe damage. They were powerful, but hard to control. The kickback from one was enough to tear a normal man's arm from his socket, while both would more than likely kill an him. However, despite the power and danger of the weapons, they required precise control. In a firefight, even the slightest error in aiming could lead to the downfall of a teammate. He had this type of control over himself as well, though to most he seemed wild and reckless. Every move he made was thought out to at least some extent, and he prided himself over his control of his temper.
Once more the rough voice intruded on his thoughts, this time joined by the jeers of a few others. "Hey freak, you think you're better than us?" At that, Biker turned around, and gave his patented three-point glare to the jerk. The boozed up trucker quailed under that gaze. Biker mentally smirked, and decided to pull out his most devastating weapon. He very slowly, and deliberately blinked the eye in the middle of his forehead. The trucker went pale white, and fell to the floor. His friends threw scared glances at the intimidating virus as they hauled him away. Biker turned back to the bar, and shared a smile with the bartender as she slid his tequila across the counter. He raised it in salute to the woman, and went back to his thoughts. He had many weapons, but his greatest was the one that didn't do any harm.
