NAPS
Xander Cage

Private. Selective.Multi-verse/ship.

Mun/Muse 21+ Written by Erick

Est. 1/2017

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For a crash course in Who The Fuck is Xander Cage, click here:

Xander Cage 101

brazenlass:

“Oh please. I ain’t wasting computer time on you. Library only gives me an hour, an’ nobody can rely on wikipedia.” Nicole snagged the ketchup, making a neat little pile on her plate for her own fries. And then she started on her burger, speaking in-between bites without regard for manners. Most of her food stayed in her mouth.

“So lemme get this straight. You pulled that stunt to make a buck. You don’t like annoying rich fucks but your political stance goes about as far as ‘keep government outta commerce’. You were briefly famous an’ you’ve deluded yourself into thinking Russian supervillains are real. I miss anything?”

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Maybe she shouldn’t be sassing the hand that fed her. But she’d managed briefly to convince herself that she found someone who could empathize with the class struggle, only to be disappointed that his rage didn’t run as deep as hers. But what could you expect? 

Fine, Wikipedia was self-editable so it wasn’t necessarily the most reliable thing on the internet. He started eating his burger, letting her run it down even though she got more than half of it wrong. She’d just met him, they were all logical jumps that made sense, they just happened to be false. 

“A lot,” he said around a mouthful of fries. “All the tricks I did made me money, but that ain’t why I did ‘em,” Xander’s whipping the phone back and doing a quick search for Anarchy99 and the bio-terrorist lot he’d almost single-handedly thwarted. “My politics are a lot more complicated than that, I was famous more than ‘briefly’, and–” as he said that, he slid the phone back to her, there was an article, with the title “Prague Saved from Near-Fatal Terrorist Gassing,” and a picture of his face, along with a shot of him  parasailing off the weapon. “Russian bio-terrorists who almost killed the whole city. Pretty super villainy to me.” 

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His issues with the class struggle were plentiful, and not something he often discussed, but he also had managed to carve himself out a nice spot in, he supposed, the upper-middle class, considering Xander’d been legally dead for almost fifteen years and lived off the grid. “I could send the food back,” he wouldn’t. “Look, the streets are rough, I ain’t arguing that.” but? There was a but. “Insulting the hand that feeds you’s a good way to not get another hand next time.”