Post by Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice* on Feb 22, 2013 17:49:53 GMT -5
Name: Jason Brin
Race: Human
Age: 29
Height: 5'0"
Weight: 122 lbs
Appearance: He has very, very short, blond hair. It is combed straight forward, if at all. He has a very clean and neat appearance. No beard or mustache. He's a rather pale man, with an almost perfect skin. His nose is just a little bit pointy, but that is Okay, for his determined eyes and all other features are fairly handsome, averaging him out. He has a small but well built body. He has finely tuned muscles and a well shaped body. Many underestimate him because of his size, though.
Jason has the scars of a warrior, visible to only those who care to take a look. Most of his scars are within, but he has plenty of exterior motives for pain as well. A slash along his right thigh, running from the very bottom to top. Several blaster reports all along his back. A tiny chunk of his right ear has been blown off in an explosion, slightly dimming his hearing, he wears hooded clothing in order to mask that wound.
His eye color is bright blue.
Personality: Jason suffers from Dual-personality disorder. The normal side of him can be incredibly shy, but kind and sweet, however with a short fuse that makes him easy to frustrate. He does not trust most sentient beings he meets. His other side is a psychopath who is afflicted with lust, wrath, envy, and wrath. He is depraved, and if you meet him, your not going to live.
Birth place: Coruscant
Faction: Sith
Rank: Initiate
Previous Faction: Exchange
Previous Rank: Interogator
Lightsaber: N/A
Color: N/A
Practiced Lightsaber forms: N/A
Shii-Cho
Makashi
Soresu
Ataru
Shien / Djem So
>>Sub-form Backhanded
Niman
>>Sub-form Jar-kai, or Dual Wield
Juyo
Double Bladed Combat
Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices:
Telekinetic: 4
Telepathic: 0
Body: 2
Sense: 0
Protection: 0
Healing: 0
Destruction: 5
Specialized Skills:
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 7
Leadership: 3
Unarmed: 8
Melee Weapons: 5
Ranged Weapons: 4
Bio:
Jason Brin has a very complex, sad history.
childhood
He was born into a military family in the Republic. They were loving parents, but very demanding as well. They got him the best Coruscant educations, and he earned some of the highest marks in his classes. Unfortunately, they always pressed a military career or ideals into him. It was mostly his father. Since he was young, he simply accepted the constant pro-republic, patriotism that his father was shooting left and right, that is when he was home. His father was rarely home, leaving every few weeks to go do a mission of some sort. He'd be gone for whole months at a time.
His mother suffered from this, crying constantly for reasons that Jason could not understand, saying that his father was away and she kept saying that Jason was the only one who stayed around for her, the only one who cared. Jason, at the age of 5, promised his mother that he would always be there. That she could trust him and count on him. That he would protect her with his life. What he didn't know, was that the situation was different.
His father was a bad man. While a soldier and loyal to his countries, he was a very lustful and wrathful person. The night Jason was conceived he had been lustful beyond control, and had raped Jason's mother. She had been an easy target for him. She was so ashamed that she hadn't admitted it, and a few weeks later, she found out she was pregnant. Jason's father had hung around then, and when he came back, he found out. He had been harassing her constantly, goading her self-esteem and trying to get more...sex out of her. At last, she had turned to him with tear filled eyes and told him she was pregnant, that he had done this to her.
Instead of feeling guilt, the man turned to her with a dark look and used this to his advantage. He told her that she must marry him and submit to him. Otherwise he would kill the unborn child in the womb.
She had no option but to marry the man and give into him, and it gave her some comfort knowing that his job took him away to many places. She hoped beyond hope that one day, he would die out there. But Jason's father was too -good- at his job to die out there, unfortunately for her and him.
Jason didn't know all of that, he thought his mother was simply lonely. She wept all the harder at his innocent promises, at his childish naivety. As he grew even older, to ages eight and nine, he began to realize the conflict in his house. It was a vague sense that lingered in the air. A sense of yearning for freedom. A sense of despair and hopelessness, and an underlying sense of hate.
At this time, Jason did not know of the force that stirred within him, and no Jedi sensed it within him; he had yet to allow it to fully awaken. It wouldn't be until he was thirteen until that sense would awaken. For now, he could just feel the hatred and the despair, the passion and emotion. And it allowed him to breath.
The fights and arguments between his parents grew more intense, more heated as the boy grew. When he was ten, he remembered one fight where they were simply screaming and screaming at each other. The cacophony was so loud it hurt his ears. He had nightmares about his parents ripping at each others throats, then turning on him.
His relationship with his father was awkward at best. He was expected to perform well, and whenever he made an error, god-forbid, he was yelled at again and again. Every opinion he expressed, from the ages ten to eleven, was shot down and corrected fiercely by his father, leaving him without opinion and only the iron fist with which to fear and confide. He never dare purposefully disappoint his father, nor did he ever question him, after a while.
His father was imposing, and quick to anger, correct, and judge. Jason could not find the heart to defy, not then. When his father barked a command, Jason snapped to, and he did exactly what was told of him. He did everything very perfectly, very strangely, because he remembered perfectly everything his father told him. Whenever he was told to perform a chore, he did so without complaint, but when his father saw him, he grew infuriated and said he was doing it all wrong. More than half the time, he was indeed doing it wrong, but it was method that mattered now, not reason.
His father would shove him aside saying "no, no, no, this is how you do it, and pay attention idiot!" Words that stuck with him forever. Words that demeaned and terrified. His father would show him 'how it was done' and then demand he do it. If he didn't do it right, he was yelled at once again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Until it was right, just right. And whenever he was told to do the job another day, his father made a point of hovering above him for a few minutes and watching him work.
There was a single chore he did in all his life that was not father approved. And this was clean out the trash compactor.
When he was thirteen, a friend at school showed him his first passion; music. Until then all he heard was his dad's patriotic songs, on a single album, and perhaps some crap he heard on the radio. Now, his friend showed him a holovid of a rock group. He was amazed, he could feel the pure emotion flowing through the music. Every riff had a thought and feeling to it, every note. It was as if through the instruments that the men played, they spoke not through their mouth, but through their heart. As if the amplifiers were connected straight to the soul.
He fell in love instantly. He began to spend his allowance credits on music, buying or downloading holo-vids on his personal computer. He made sure not to listen to anything while his father was home, and kept it quiet for his mother. He preffered it that way anyways, private, a reflection of himself and his emotions. A special little time where he could live, and not just obey his father's commands. It was safety, and a haven. It was where he could be Jason Brin.
When he was thirteen his musical tastes began to shift toward the darker side, toward hate and defiance. He appreciated almost any kind of sound, but he really appreciated the metal sounds and the rap-styled singing.
Through this new love affair with music, a change in his attitude grew. He became bolder, defiant. Angrier. His father snapped at him, and he snapped back, often resulting in a heated argument with his Dad slapping him.
One day, when they had to go to some inauguration ceremony of sorts, promoting some sergeant ceremoniously, Jason had an argument over whether or not to go. He said that he didn't know the guy and didn't want to go. His father called him out, saying he was being disrespectful, and telling him to go outside into the vehicle immediately and that he had no choice. Seeing Jason's obvious frustration, he shouted, "And don't you dare slam the button."
Out of fear, Jason tried not to slam the door, but as he was closing the door a sudden, inexplicable rage boiled within him. He slammed his fist into the button to close the door behind him, and headed off toward his car. He heard stomping footsteps, the door opening behind him, and his father charging right at him, slapping him so heavily across the face that he fell backward and hard into the steel floors of the garage. He gave a short wail of pain, but it was not the end of it.
Terror stricken as his father lifted him up from the ground, ripping buttons off his nice shirt as he did so, he brought him up to his feet, and screamed at his face. He screamed so loud and hard that poor Jason thought he was going to die then and there. His face stung, his nice shirt ( one of his favorites ) was ruined, and he was wounded inside.
The father knew that he was more angry than he should have been. He knew he didn't handle that situation well. But he could not come to admit that he was being consumed by his own Wrath. He did not apologize to Jason, or his mother. Because of this, his wrath only swelled, a mixture of self-loathing made him an even worse monster, because he would not admit his wrongs, which only amplified the self-loathing. And amplified the abuse.
Jason suffered many such abuses, worst of all when his father was yelling at him because he would occasionally scoop up a piece of his steak with his hand and pop it into his mouth. His father told him sternly not to do that, and though Jason tried, he eventually slipped up and totally forgot to use his fork.
The dig of the steak knife as his father shouted and extended his arm cut painfully into the flesh of Jason's finger, the serrated edge leaving a scar. He kept his finger, but the fact that his father had actually cut him with a knife left a deeper running scar, and a longer lasting pain than the loss of a stupid finger ever could.
What he would never know is that his father hadn't done it intentionally, he had been meaning to seize Jason's hand, and it was a reflexive seize, he hadn't even had time in his instincts to drop the knife. So by pure accident the blade went out first and SLICE! His father never said a word about it, never apologized for it. Did he, in the end, think himself weak if he'd apologize? It was a speculation that Jason never made, nor did he care to make. There was no forgiveness in his heart.
When he was fifteen his mother grew bolder than ever before. She dared to stand up for herself, to shout and defy the man that was her husband. He struck out at her, so hard and so viciously, and with Jason in the room. Jason watched the color fade from her, watched as her body whipped back, eyes closed and tears flowing, watched as she went out cold onto the ground beneath her.
And he stared at his mother, his beloved mother, lying on the ground. He couldn't tell that she wasn't dead. He couldn't tell that she was just knocked out. But to see his own mother's form laying there, still as a stone...It drove him over the edge. The edge of hatred, and this was his first true step toward the dark-side. Before his feelings of hate could grapple him though, he had a moment of silence, a moment where sadness, terror, and anger welled within him all at the same time. And yet, underlying feelings of hope and adventure for some reason bristled within him at the same time.
In the moment, he felt the sadness. A rush of despair veiling his thoughts. He could not bare to lose his mother, could not think to live without her. She had been the only one he'd ever truly connected with at this point. Memories flooded him, and he remembered her holding him tightly within her arms. He remembered her cradling the small boy, and singing him to sleep. He remembered his promise.
And with that memory of a promise he'd made to protect, his grief turned to terror. How could he fail his mother so wholly? What could he have done in any event against this seasoned soldier. This man's muscles were twice his size. The fact was, Jason's father had killed before, and Jason had not. And when their eyes met, his father's visage did not soften, and Jason became filled with such terror that he could not breath.
Then came the anger. His mother lay dead, so he thought, and -that- man was the cause. He couldn't control himself. The hatred within him flowed easily through his veins, pumped from his heart and through every single part of his body. To his head, to his feet, to his arms. It heated up his body and turned him bright red, his body shook and convulsed with such rage that he thought he may just explode. It was like a beast, trapped in a steel cage. Awakening for the first time in a lolng time, rising up within, and then thrashing and bashing and destroying the bars that kept him trapped. He felt it slam itself against the walls that held it in, the walls of his mind and willpower. Something he had secretly feared all his life, he now embraced.
The beast opened the cage.
He gave a shouted, a cry of roar that was unintelligible. His father new then the anger that lay before him, but he did not know the true meaning of this. He watched as Jason grabbed a coaster off the side table and threw it straight at him, blocking the first missile, then the second, taking pain to his arms. Jason reached into his pocket and procured a knife that had been given to him by a friend at school. It was a simple pocket knife, but Jason's intent was to kill, murder his father.
A sick, depraved feeling within him rose. That beast was gaining it's freedom, and it wanted to torture, and beat, and thrash, and kill. It wanted to hear his screams and beat its fists against his conscious body over and over, wanted to tear across him, open huge gaping holes, open up trenches and irigate the lands with his father's blood. The beast was filled with hope and blood lust, and this was his sense of adventure and hope.
He met his father's arms, felt a quick defensive maneuver, and then everything was dark. The beast writhed, then fell to sleep, to remain dormant within, fell to sleep along with Jason.
The Man and the Beast
He woke up a day later in his bedroom to his mother sitting beside him, and he was filled with such relief and happiness that there was no room for anything else. The beast within, the rage and anger, subsided. He hugged her, kissed her, and renewed his long ago promises. No harm would come to her. He promised her this, and he promised too that he would stop that man. He would get them both out of here.
The next time her father left on a mission, she explained to him, tentatively, how he came to be born.
And the beast twitched to life again. It was a subtle thing to his mother, something she couldn't hope to catch. The slightest narrowing of his eyes, the brief curl in his lips, and the dangerous edge that his eyes took on. This was the very first case of Schizophrenia that he experienced. A second personality within him, one dubbed the Beast, the other the Man. One primal and vicious, the other human and understanding. One wanted to kill, and right now the other did not argue.
But the Beast was put down a short-time later. The Man, Jason Brin, knew that he had duties to uphold. He knew that if he was ever going to defend his mother, he needed to learn how. He couldn't just kill the man upright. He first needed to learn how to fight, then get a job. Then he planned on getting a shuttle to the farthest Outer Rim planet he could find.
So he went to school, and he formed the Brawlers Club, still fifteen years old. It was a group of students who met secretly behind school, or anywhere really, formed a circle and fought until the other one no longer could. It started off with just him and a few friends. They punched, rolled, kicked, bit, and head-butt until the other either gave up or was knocked out. Rare did they give up in the heat of a battle.
He went home with bruises. Swollen and pulverized. But he hid it well from his parents; and he went back out, and he learned to block, and return punches. He started watching 'how to box' holovids on his computer, and developed his own martial style of street-fighting. It was a combination between boxing, wrestle throws, and standard street-fighter techniques.
His particular style was one that absorbed hits instead of deflecting him. He was practically made out stone after a number of punishing fights, and so he could take a blow that would fell any rookie, shrug it off and punch them harder, square in the face in their surprise. He took advantage of openings, and he had a unique fighting style where he coaxed his opponent into attacking fake openings, making them think he was vulnerable, but then slamming them hard and fast, a quick spin, an acrobatic kick to the side of the face, an adjustment, and then three punches to the face as they fell down. That was his best move.
By the time he was seventeen, he was a great, self-styled fighter. He was the best in the Brawlers Club, and for a year remained undefeated. He and his mother remained on the down low, though the tension with his father was thick in the air. You could cut it with a knife.
He graduated early at seventeen, taking his exams a year in advance and passing with high scores. Then he looked for a job, and found two good ones, one was an arena fighting, with rules and strict competition. The fighters would be better than he was use to, but the rules made the pain he endured nothing compared to the wild brawlers club, with few rules and fewer enforcement.
The other job, he had stumbled upon by mistake. He in an interview for a secretary job, when he heard on the radio, which his boss was playing on very low, an add for a singer at a local cafè. He promptly quit his secretary job and headed for the cafè.
He made decent money at the cafè, singing well. Incredibly well. Eventually he caught the attention of a local artist, who was also a singer. They told him that with training he could become incredibly rich off of his talent. So, he thought to pay for vocal lessons.
He got the money required in his pit fights. Every weekend he charged out recklessly, and showed off a combination of acrobatic, flinging quicks, holds, and punches. He duped, he feigned, and he used every trick in the book. But he was not up against amateurs. The first day, he was like chewing gum. Tough at first, but quick to tire against a real pro. Their punches were heavy, their fists powerful, and they themselves much stronger.
By the second week, he fought for two more days, and left with arms completely bruised from blocking vicious hit after hit. The next week, he learned to hit back. He took out the bronze tier in that third week, having fought everybody already and learned their style. By the fourth week he was still in a bronze tier, but this time he took up a hearty chant, and sang the whole time as he viciously pumelled his enemies.
He ascended quickly, loving the glory of the fight, the challenge of the local pro's. Eventually, he went into the Gold Tier, where he fought a man named Artemis Entreri. ( Important note: This is the one who taught my other character, Graffion Maruhuey, how to be an assassin. ) It was no contest at all, he got in one good punch at the man and then was down. His opponent was out to humiliate him though, and did not knock him out right away.
Jason got back up and charged Artemis, only to be tripped down again. He got up over and over, and was down again and again. The battle was almost called off because it lasted and hour, with Jason refusing to give up and Artemis a patient hunter. When the announcer shouted for a stop, Jason cried out that he'd figured out the enemies tactic, and called for one last charge.
He thought he had Artemis figured out, he was a fast dodge, an incredibly fast one, but he also had power behind his punches. He used his enemies momentum against them, flipped them, put them off balance and before they could recover, WHAM! Jason thought he could outwit the clever assassin.
He charged in, went for a punch straight at the man's face, it was a faint of course. The man started to dodge, but knew of the feint, he watched as Jason shifted his weight and did a backlash, reversing his momentum and bringing an elbow toward Artemis' face. Artemis deflected the attack, then hopped over a spinning, low kick. He ducked and dodged a punch as Jason finished his spin by coming out with a high fist. He felt Artemis rearing for a punch, knowing it was Jason's moment of weakness. But Jason knew the dance well, and had been ready. He spun to the side, grabbed Artemis's flying fist and yanked him further, throwing him off balance.
Unexpectedly, his opponent had rolled forward and come up, turning, and with speed that he could not believe delivered three powerful kicks to Jason's chest, sending him flying. When he landed he hit his head on the ground so hard he was out of it. Or so he would have been, had the beast not taken over.
He had to win. He had to win. Failure was not an option. If he lost now, he wouldn't be paid enough to finish his vocal lessons, and he needed that because he had a big show in a week, and if he didn't perfect the high notes, which he had one last note left to learn within his skill, he would fail. And they'd wait another few weeks to be able to get off this planet and away from his father's reach.
The beast rose, and with fury he charged, recklessly, flying with all his speed and acrobatic talent. He got whooped again and again, but the battle was so great that onlookers stared shocked at the ferocity. Punches and blocks, kicks meeting each other, it was like watching a martial arts movie, except it was real, and very much unpracticed.
Artemis matched Jason's fury with elegance, discipline, timing, and thought. The victor was clear, and after another twenty minutes, Artemis had had enough of the Beast. He upped his speed, putting forth his all, something he rarely did in combat. The Beast couldn't keep up with the flurry, and was tiring much quicker, losing his resolve. But he -had- to win. Failure's not an option.
Unfortunately, he wasn't the one picking. A kick so hard that it broke his jaw, and Jason was out cold.
He woke up in the hospital, and learned the price of failure, and the price of stubbornness. Had he given, he may have gotten a loan. But since he did not, his jaw was broken. Good-bye singing. He and his mother were once more stuck with the bad man for a while.
Jason, while recovering, got quite a shock. It was him in there, not the Beast. The Beast was quelled once more. It took rage or emergency to bring the Beast, like a machine that was in operation, but needed to be fine tuned. The shock for him, though, was Artemis Entreri.
The assassin entered the room and explained that he was in town for a 'job' though he didn't say what kind of job, and said that he heard tell of a fighter rising through the ranks and using cunning and viciousness to win. He explained that it had been a long time since he'd had a really decent fight, and so he watched a fight of Jason's. And he observed something peculiar.
First, that Jason learned the movements of his opponent. He didn't have a pre-planned strategy, per-se, but instead fought for a bit, learned the movements and predicted the dance. Then made his move. Something Artemis admired and rarely saw in an opponent.
The other was that Jason had a kind of sick desperation in his stance and attitude. A subtle thing, but Artemis had been trained in the Echani ways. He could read people based on their fights, and he could tell that when conflict arose, Jason literally changed into someone else. His eyes narrowed, he took a dangerous look into his eyes, he seemed primal, and had this devilish, sadistic curve to his smile. He seemed thrilled whenever he spilled blood or broke a bone in an opponent. A sick happiness about him. These were all things that Jason was oblivious to.
Artemis happened to know a bit about psychology, a side-hobbey of his. He explained to Jason what he thought, and diagnosed that he may have an incredibly rare case of schizophrenia, where certain actions or emotions can create a wall between two personalities, two styles and lives in a person. And he explained the Beast to him. Jason remembered only flashes of the final moments of his battle, and everything was a bit of a blur. He remembered vividly the thrill mostly.
Artemis explained that at times, a secondary personality can 'take over' his body and mind. They discussed it at length, and Artemis's intent was to warn. He warned that if he was not careful such a strong case of multiple personality disorders could lead to a fight, inside of him, for his body. Jason thanked Artemis, and shared his story with him, and admiration for Artemis's prowess.
Artemis grinned, and gave Jason money for a shuttle, explaining, "Kid, I'm not a nice man. But occasionally I take pity on others. Here. Take this money, you remind me a lot of my apprentice, Graffion. He killed his dad because there was no other way to free himself. Don't let that happen to you. Or you'll be on the fast track to heartlessness. To me. You'll lose yourself, and that's not a good thing. For some of us out there, it is too late. But you can get away."
Jason never forgot those words. When he recovered, and Artemis had long ago headed back to Nar Shadaa, mission completed, he went straight to the terminal, and booked passage on a ship for the following day. A ship to Nar Shadaa, his father had no authority.
Upon returning home, he found the grave news that his father was indeed home, where-as he was -suppose- to be out on a trip. A trip the Republic had canceled last minute. And there was some sort of problem with the shuttle tickets, so they had called the Brin household to try and settle it all out. Jason had to get tickets under his fathers name, because he was too young to legally buy tickets. And his father had answered the call.
Jason happily entered the building, and saw a small smidgen of blood on the floor in front of the doorway. He tentatively and fearfully entered into the living room, to see his mother, dead, and blood all over the couch from the repeated punches she'd taken. His father looked at him with tears in his eyes and moaned that he hadn't meant to do it. He had gone too far this time and he knew it. His anger had consumed him, and he was finally admitting it. He finally asked for forgiveness, and apologized.
Sometimes redemption is too much to ask. In that single, awful moment of realization, the force awakened inside of him. It was pure fury rippling through his core, rippling out from him, which focused every bit of force energy he didn't know he had at his disposal. It had always been there, but it destroyed its cage now.
Jason, who had no formal training, felt the dark side calling, and despite his limits, he seemed to have a natural affinity for...Destructive force powers. He felt his body heat up again, the blood pulsing through him, and he felt like exploding, like the heat that pulsated throughout his body would just vibrate out and catch everything. To his right, a chair immolated instantly, the fires burning through it. The walls around him also caught, and the hungry flames spread quite entirely.
The beast awakened, and he wanted his father to -sing- a song! He ran forward and he tackled the man, who was out of his mind with terror. He pushed his fathers form against the wall, and the beast took delight in pinning his arm against the sill, but bottom portion on the wall and the top half, forearm and up with the joint resting cleanly against the gap...And he nearly giggled with glee as he, with one good punch, snapped his fathers arm, bending it the wrong way and listening to the sounds of bones cracking in a thousand different places, splintering. A larger bone stuck out cleanly and a thousand shards of broken bone sprayed out.
The excruciating song that came out of his fathers lips was manic, and tore through the air. And the Beast, this new Jason, laughed at his fathers pain and misery. He wanted him to feel, physically, the beating that ran through his heart spiritually. He wanted to break this man on the outside as he'd broken Jason on the inside. Quick. Efficiently, and yet lasting forever.
"Let us play some drums!" He had cackled, removing the bones from his bleeding arms, some that were still connected, beating his father into submission, and while he screamed in pain, he slammed the bones into him repeatedly along the skull and chest.
He had tortured the man in many other ways in the short amount of time he had, among them breaking his right leg, and stabbing out his eyes with the bones he held.
Then he heard the sirens, and was out of there, letting the flames decide whether or not to consume his father. For now, he just let the man stow in the smoky building, conscious and aware, pain sweeping across his body.
Jason was now a full victim of Multi-Personality-Disorder.
He took the two tickets for his shuttle, and got off planet immediately, headed with godspeed toward Nar Shadaa. The Beast had to rest now, and so Jason was himself again; the two tickets in his hands symbolic of the two people on the shuttle; not him and his mother as he wanted. But him and the Beast.
Road to Perdition
Nar Shadaa, the perfect home for a run-away man dealing with a sadistic personality. The moment he touched down he met the Exchange. Two thugs who demanded toll. Wrong guy to mess with, "Back off. Now." Was the only warning that the two thugs got. One was a Twi'lek and the other an Aqualish.
Bastards didn't even stand a chance.
The Beast saw another chance to play off his anger. He dodged blaster fire, and got right up in the Aqualish's ugly face, punching, kicking, and thrashing him completely. He beat the thing into submission entirely. The Twi'lek was already swinging its vibro-blade. A fine dodge, and then a quick tangle, and Jason was on top of the thing pinning it, "Tell the Exchange to back-the-hell off!" He told him, and then proceeded to pull the Twi'leks head appendage right off with significant strength.
The Aqualish ran in fear, and the Beast tore into the Twi'lek with his sword, killing him. The other Shuttle passengers and any lookers-on had fled or were watching from cover. Jason simply stole the guys gear and weapons, strapped it on himself, and walked into Nar-Shadaa.
Jason had a lot to deal with now. Too much. He had to find a home in a hostile world, make money...Put down the Beast within, and of course, learn what he could about this new feeling that pulsed in him. It was interesting...Being a force-sensitive on Nar Shadaa. It had a different feel than Coruscant, even though it was modeled after it.
Unfortunately for him, he had caught the attention of the Exchange, and a local Dark Jedi in hiding.
The Exchange were quick to get to him, sending an emissary and a group of thugs. At this time, Jason was working for a local cantina, and making just enough to afford himself a small aprtment.The Exchange emissary met with him and discussed Jason's brutality, eventually offering him a job with the Exchange.
So it was that at the age of eighteen, Jason was accepting jobs from the exchange. He would go rough up somewhere here and there, kill a few stubborn folks maybe. Mostly, he did body-guard duties for deals, promising those who broke any deals with the exchange a rather painful death.
He worked these simple jobs for the exchange until he was nineteen, embracing the pain and suffering of others. He would take pleasure whenever a victim would yelp, and grin from ear-to-ear as he stared at their black and blue bodies, just before he killed them or let them go.
Sensing the hatred that built up inside of Jason, a Dark Jedi named Ordus Caros came to his doorstep. At first, they simply stared at each other, and it seemed that if any one of them moved, they would break out into a bloody battle. But Jason calmed first, he sensed the tension within the other, and he sensed the Force within Ordus, and he knew that this man could help with answering a few questions within Jason.
The man offered to train Jason in the dark arts, that his own legacy could survive longer, and when Ordus became older and useless, his destructive arts would not be lost with time. Jason grudgingly accepted.
The training was very secluded, very focused. It was solely on the force Destructive arts. There were a bit of touch-ups here and there on body force powers, but otherwise it was only Destructive. Destruction seemed to come naturally to Jason. It was only a few months under the Ordus Caros's tutelage, but Jason learned and excelled in the force Immolation, Crushing( Telekinetic ), and Grip powers.
In many ways, for Jason this truly was the road to perdition.
Redemption
A recording studio heard Jason's singing talents. When he was twenty years of age, he was approached and signed on to Brudie Studios, a music production studio on the far side of the Nar Shadaa planet.
Jason immediately severed all ties with the Exchange, and moved from the sector, this did not go over well with the Exchange, but they did nothing at first.
His life became cleaner, Jason managed to push the Beast down under a more peaceful and serene environment. He had conceded that there was no need for the Beast, there was no need for his hate and anger. Slowly, that little bit of hope within him rose up. Perhaps...Perhaps he could indeed live a normal life from henceforth?
It was concluded entirely that he would not ever allow the Beast in again when he met the love of his life. Sarita Cathros was a beautiful Twi'lek dancer who danced on stage when he sang, and they bonded together quite well, having many meaningful conversations.
Jason made up a past, one that wouldn't scare Sarita away. He told her stories of a childhood that he could be proud of, and in effect buried away all of the painful memories that bit away at him. He became someone else, and he was fine with it, because as it was, his life seemed to be getting better and better. He fell madly in love with Sarita, and she him.
When he was 21 they married, and she was impregnated. Jason's songs were getting noticeably happier, and his music was indeed catching on. He was making money for his wife and his soon-to-be child, and that made him happy. It wasn't long until he had a live-tour, and was paraded all over Nar-Shadaa. By the time he got finished with the tour, he returned to find his child born. His wife no-longer partook in dancing, and was a stay at home mom for the length of her pregnancy.
His child and wife, at the age of 22, became his shining light. The meaning and reason to live, and be good. He was determined to be a good, honest man.
But with money, came a lot of attention. And on Nar-Shadaa, those who get too much attention eventually see the Exchange. Again.
Hostage
He opened his door after work, and thought it strange that the lights at home weren't on. After flicking them on, he almost fainted in shock to see several exchange thugs crowded into his living room. They were quite, they were silent. He stared at them, unsure what to do. His first thoughts were for his wife and child, and as desperation overtook him he opened his mouth to talk, but the lead thug lifted a finger as if to shush, explaining that his wife and child were gone out shopping, completely safe.
So of course his next thought was anger. He cried out to them, demanded they leave him and his family alone, claimed he was merciful for letting them leave alive. It certainly was a sobering moment for him when the reply came back, mentioning that they too were merciful for allowing his wife and child to return home this night alive.
The exchange decided to cut him a deal, he would work for them by funneling profits in his career toward their organization. He would also assist them in the matter of torture. The deal was, when they needed him he would interrogate information from people, on top of giving them a portion of all his singing profits. Jason lived a modest life, and had a reasonable house, despite his sums of money, so he had plenty to spare. However, it was the idea of becoming the torturer once again that terrified him. He had no choice though, the terms were, that at any moment they could decide just this;
To kill his family, to burn his child. They had the resources, the manpower, and the influence to do so. It wouldn't matter whether or not they tried to run, because no matter where they went they would be found. Jason had no choice to comply.
And so he did, and the only lamenting, the only hint to his family he gave, was that perhaps he was a little crankier now. But you can be certain that when he slept at night, the slightest sound throughout the house sent him out of bed and running through the house with a flechette shotgun well in hand.
Recurring Nightmares
His torture sessions seemed to come as just that. Dreams, where he would fade away and a horrible demon would emerge. The first victim came three weeks into the deal. He arrived at the torture room, an out of the way storage section. Jason didn't know who the man was, or why even he was torturing him. All he knew was the information that he needed: Where was Tangret. Who was Tangret? Perhaps some spy in hiding, some politician, some man who owed them money. Didn't matter to Jason, all that mattered was where he was.
The transition into the Beast was smooth, easy. It was natural for him, something he was use to. Something he enjoyed. The things he put these men through were things that no man should go through. He knew just where to hit them, and just how to keep them conscious, with him. His favorite part was the screams, the wailing. Beautiful music to his ears. Those who observed his torture session would sit far down the hallway, out of the room and plugging their ears, shuddering at the sounds of horror and pain that came from the victims; and perhaps even more shocking, the ecstasies that Jason went through, the pure joys.
And when he returned home he was himself, the Beast was gone. He came home relaxed, hugged his wife and kissed his child goodnight, and it was a dream.
What his wife didn't know was that he didn't have normal dreams because of it. He only lay on the bed staring at the wall, pretending to sleep.
Victims came and went, came and went. He broke them, every-singe one. It never took more than just one time asking to get the information. It didn't matter who they were selling out or what job they had, nothing was like Jason's torture chamber. However, he never exceeded nor went under the twenty four hour mark. Twenty four hours of pure torture, setting a timer at the beginning and waiting for it to buzz.
And he didn't even ask them for information before that timer went off...
Death of Innocents
When Jason was 25 it happened. The exchange pushed the line. He walked into his torture room, peeked forward at his newest victim, and blanched. A 12 year old kid sat strapped into the chair. Jason fell back through the door, his face white. He turned to the two men that supervised his torturing, and was getting ready to say no, never, heck no, getting ready to just kill them and run off with the child. Three things stopped him then. The first was the passion of a woman, Sarita. The second was the smile of another child, his own. And the third was the small grin that cracked across his face, as the Beast came in. It didn't matter to the Beast, man, woman, child, they were all screams. It was all just one great symphony.
And so he approached the child, Jason screaming at the Beast to stop, to have a conscious. But the Beast was something of lust, wrath, depravity, and instinct. It knew how to fight Jason off. The more pain Jason was in, the further the Beast could control him. So he used the force to slowly start crunching his own bones in, starting to break his own wrist. Jason stopped fighting, and the Beast had control.
And how the child screamed. There were no exceptions, no mercy. If anything, the kid got it worse because of what he was. The timer ticked, and the kid spilled his guts. The Beast was finished, and Jason, who could no longer even be called The Man anymore, returned.
He was sure to keep the recording of the child's screams. He played it over and over in his head. Screaming at the top of his lungs, tears dripping. He would not -allow- himself to forget. It even inspired his hit song, "Echoes of the Child's Scream"
Escaping the Bonds
He lived with the shame in his heart, but he did not show it. Jason, throughout his life, had been carved so that his exterior might as well have been durasteel. Inside, he was a wad of cookie dough, but nobody ever got there. From age 25 to 27, he tortured, he sang, and he loved his family. He felt like a lie, but knew that he must protect his family and knew that he would burn the world...
He would burn every world in the galaxy to keep that smile on his beautiful daughter's face.
He was even quite terrified that it may include, one day, another child. But, as it happened, his greatest fears ( That he would walk into his torture chamber and see the minor form of a child in the seat ) never came into reality. He was never truly tested.
And then one day an idea came to him. The Exchange didn't actually care about his family. They cared about him. If he were to die, the Exchange would let his family go. But it couldn't be suicide. They would hurt them just to be spiteful. No, it had to look like he did everything possible to live. So he decided to stage his own assassination. He hired a pirate crew.
During one of his concerts, the pirates struck. It was made to look like a crazed and deranged fan. The fan shot him in the middle of the show. As he was escorted away, the fan found him again and lit him on fire. The stage security and the medics were all fooled into thinking that it was him, when really the pirates had snuck back and replaced his body with another. The flaming corpse was easily "identified" as Jason Brin. He was free from the shackles of the Exchange.
Unfortunately, he was also forever separated from his family. The only way to keep them truly safe was to remain death. So he had to forsake his band, his career, his family, his job, and everything he had ever known. And he knew his daughter would cry. But her only possible chance as a Brin was for him to gone forever. There was simply no other choice, o he did it.
Finding yourself wholly and completely empty with no purpose in life is a rather quick way to wind up in the depths of depression. He became a refugee on Iridonia after the pirates had dropped him off. After hearing of a project by the sith to escort the willing poor and homeless to the Sith Temple for recruitment, Jason found himself thinking of the force that he controlled and of his incomplete training. He reluctantly found himself joining others on a transport to the Sith Temple to become an initiate.
RP Sample:
The steel door between Jason and his quarry opened up, reveling a pale light that silhouetted his form. Inside of the room, the single spectator, sitting in a steel chair with his arms and legs strapped in, looked up. To him, Jason appeared some sickly angel of death in the door-frame, his head hunched down just barely. Jason was short for an Angel of Death, but thoughts like this little crossed through the men in his chair, especially after the torture session.
Jason's smooth strides through the room took him closer to the man, still silhouetted. The door behind suddenly shut in a creaking, loud bang. Jason reached into the back of his coat and produced what appeared to be some sort of recorder, placing it on the table and hitting the record button. Then, he slinked over to his victim, put his arm around his shoulder, and brought his face in sickeningly close, the only light bulb on high, a sickly red light, illuminating his face. His victim stared into his eyes, and was overwhelm with terror as he saw the glint in Jason's eyes, a twisted sickness in his attitude and an essence of pure hatred spewing from within him. This was the beast, and the dominance and hatred the projected from him was nearly insurmountable.
"Welcome to my," He paused, his eyes looking around for just a moment, "Humble abode." He said, his voice low and tone demeaning, "Your gonna help me out with something, buddy. Your gonna make a song for me."
Like an involu8ntary spasm Jason whipped his forehead into the jaw of the poor victim, causing the man to grunt and spin. A twist of Jason's body and he punched the man in the gut hard, so hard it forced the man to lurch forward, his breath coming in pained and labored gasps. Jason reared his head back and rolled his eyes, as if in ecstasies, as if absorbing the pain of this pain into pure pleasure.
A loud smacking noise became evident as Jason brought his hand to the mans face several times, sadistically, wildly, as if with no other intention than to prove that he could. Jason took a few steps back, staring at the man in the chair and moving about awkwardly, bending his head in forward as if to inspect something. Then he turned around and walked over to a concealed tray, pulling it out and setting it on the ground before the man. There were many pots on the tray. He took one and removed it, revealing a fillet knife.
"No! No! No! No!" The victim cried, tears running from him as Jason applied it to his leg, painfully peeling away the outer layers of skin, drawing screams and squeals from the man. Jason continued cutting, talking off the skin and muscle around the calf. When he was done, he reached back and dropped the bloodied knife, removing a container from underneath another pot. He opened the container and spilled the contents along the mans leg; alcohol, all along the leg to cause incredible pain that shot up and down the mans nerves, and at the same time cleaned the wound. The next thing he did was produce a cloth, taking a salt container and pouring it along the inside of the cloth, and then taking the cloth to the exposed, bleeding leg, and rubbing the cloth rapidly against the leg.
The man tried to resist, screaming and kicking, but the bondage held his legs to the chair. He couldn't do anything except for scream and sob like some pathetic child. When Jason was done listening to him whine, he tied the bandage on so the man didn't bleed to death, and slapped him hard in the face. "Today your a man!" Jason shouted, "Today you are REAL! For nothing is proof of existence like pain, and no man can be such without terror. All your life you've thought you've known pain and terror. But today, you will experience it, truly and utterly."
"I know pain, I know terror! You have shown it to me! Please, whatever you want, whatever you need, ask and I'll tell you!"
"Ah...But that would be to easy." Jason said, reaching for another pot and procuring a clamp, sizable enough for a finger or toe. "How about we work our way from the bottom...Up."
He removed the mans boots, and placed the clamp on his pinky toe, letting the man panic for a few minutes, then beginning to clamp it, slowly applying more and more pressure. At first the man took it stoicly, but as the pain multiplied, after he thought it couldn't get worse and he did he just whined, whined like a dog begging for attention, whined like Jason remembered whining every time he went to sleep, when he was a child. And that thought spurred the beast on.
SNAP!
~*~
Twenty four hours, of this beating, slashing, clamping. All of it done carefully, so as to keep the victim awake, starving, thirsty, but alive. Exactly twenty four hours, and Jason was finally finished. He pressed the stop button on his recorder, wiped blood from his hands and turned to the man, pulling out a letter, opening it, and reading, "Two days ago, you stole 25,000 credits from an Exchange deal, conned my bosses out of it. There were three of you who took part in the deal. Who were the other two?"
"One...Was a Twi'lek named Fanty. The other," The man choked on tears and hesitation.
"Orlson..." Jason said, calling out his name, "Please don't tell me."
Orlson lifted his human head up, furrowing his brow in confusion, "I so loved our dear little song, didn't you? Please," He leaned in, and he let his voice become hatefilled and borderline demonic, "I want to make an entire album together..."
"Christili Akdes..."
"You daughter? Orslon Akdes? Do you speak of your daughter?"
"Yes..." The man whimpered, ashamed but terrified.
"Very well...Mercy upon your soul."
With that Jason took a few steps back, and focused, anger once more rising within him, and the thoughts of sparks and flames within his mind. A conflagration began within the man, but not on his skin or clothing, literally -inside- the man, metling his internal organs, skin, muscles, bones, and then punching through his skin, smoke and fire protruding from the mouth, his eyes just exploded, and before the final fires consumed him and turned him to ashes, Jason laughed wickedly.
Race: Human
Age: 29
Height: 5'0"
Weight: 122 lbs
Appearance: He has very, very short, blond hair. It is combed straight forward, if at all. He has a very clean and neat appearance. No beard or mustache. He's a rather pale man, with an almost perfect skin. His nose is just a little bit pointy, but that is Okay, for his determined eyes and all other features are fairly handsome, averaging him out. He has a small but well built body. He has finely tuned muscles and a well shaped body. Many underestimate him because of his size, though.
Jason has the scars of a warrior, visible to only those who care to take a look. Most of his scars are within, but he has plenty of exterior motives for pain as well. A slash along his right thigh, running from the very bottom to top. Several blaster reports all along his back. A tiny chunk of his right ear has been blown off in an explosion, slightly dimming his hearing, he wears hooded clothing in order to mask that wound.
His eye color is bright blue.
Personality: Jason suffers from Dual-personality disorder. The normal side of him can be incredibly shy, but kind and sweet, however with a short fuse that makes him easy to frustrate. He does not trust most sentient beings he meets. His other side is a psychopath who is afflicted with lust, wrath, envy, and wrath. He is depraved, and if you meet him, your not going to live.
Birth place: Coruscant
Faction: Sith
Rank: Initiate
Previous Faction: Exchange
Previous Rank: Interogator
Lightsaber: N/A
Color: N/A
Practiced Lightsaber forms: N/A
Shii-Cho
Makashi
Soresu
Ataru
Shien / Djem So
>>Sub-form Backhanded
Niman
>>Sub-form Jar-kai, or Dual Wield
Juyo
Double Bladed Combat
Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices:
Telekinetic: 4
Telepathic: 0
Body: 2
Sense: 0
Protection: 0
Healing: 0
Destruction: 5
Specialized Skills:
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 7
Leadership: 3
Unarmed: 8
Melee Weapons: 5
Ranged Weapons: 4
Bio:
Jason Brin has a very complex, sad history.
childhood
He was born into a military family in the Republic. They were loving parents, but very demanding as well. They got him the best Coruscant educations, and he earned some of the highest marks in his classes. Unfortunately, they always pressed a military career or ideals into him. It was mostly his father. Since he was young, he simply accepted the constant pro-republic, patriotism that his father was shooting left and right, that is when he was home. His father was rarely home, leaving every few weeks to go do a mission of some sort. He'd be gone for whole months at a time.
His mother suffered from this, crying constantly for reasons that Jason could not understand, saying that his father was away and she kept saying that Jason was the only one who stayed around for her, the only one who cared. Jason, at the age of 5, promised his mother that he would always be there. That she could trust him and count on him. That he would protect her with his life. What he didn't know, was that the situation was different.
His father was a bad man. While a soldier and loyal to his countries, he was a very lustful and wrathful person. The night Jason was conceived he had been lustful beyond control, and had raped Jason's mother. She had been an easy target for him. She was so ashamed that she hadn't admitted it, and a few weeks later, she found out she was pregnant. Jason's father had hung around then, and when he came back, he found out. He had been harassing her constantly, goading her self-esteem and trying to get more...sex out of her. At last, she had turned to him with tear filled eyes and told him she was pregnant, that he had done this to her.
Instead of feeling guilt, the man turned to her with a dark look and used this to his advantage. He told her that she must marry him and submit to him. Otherwise he would kill the unborn child in the womb.
She had no option but to marry the man and give into him, and it gave her some comfort knowing that his job took him away to many places. She hoped beyond hope that one day, he would die out there. But Jason's father was too -good- at his job to die out there, unfortunately for her and him.
Jason didn't know all of that, he thought his mother was simply lonely. She wept all the harder at his innocent promises, at his childish naivety. As he grew even older, to ages eight and nine, he began to realize the conflict in his house. It was a vague sense that lingered in the air. A sense of yearning for freedom. A sense of despair and hopelessness, and an underlying sense of hate.
At this time, Jason did not know of the force that stirred within him, and no Jedi sensed it within him; he had yet to allow it to fully awaken. It wouldn't be until he was thirteen until that sense would awaken. For now, he could just feel the hatred and the despair, the passion and emotion. And it allowed him to breath.
The fights and arguments between his parents grew more intense, more heated as the boy grew. When he was ten, he remembered one fight where they were simply screaming and screaming at each other. The cacophony was so loud it hurt his ears. He had nightmares about his parents ripping at each others throats, then turning on him.
His relationship with his father was awkward at best. He was expected to perform well, and whenever he made an error, god-forbid, he was yelled at again and again. Every opinion he expressed, from the ages ten to eleven, was shot down and corrected fiercely by his father, leaving him without opinion and only the iron fist with which to fear and confide. He never dare purposefully disappoint his father, nor did he ever question him, after a while.
His father was imposing, and quick to anger, correct, and judge. Jason could not find the heart to defy, not then. When his father barked a command, Jason snapped to, and he did exactly what was told of him. He did everything very perfectly, very strangely, because he remembered perfectly everything his father told him. Whenever he was told to perform a chore, he did so without complaint, but when his father saw him, he grew infuriated and said he was doing it all wrong. More than half the time, he was indeed doing it wrong, but it was method that mattered now, not reason.
His father would shove him aside saying "no, no, no, this is how you do it, and pay attention idiot!" Words that stuck with him forever. Words that demeaned and terrified. His father would show him 'how it was done' and then demand he do it. If he didn't do it right, he was yelled at once again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Until it was right, just right. And whenever he was told to do the job another day, his father made a point of hovering above him for a few minutes and watching him work.
There was a single chore he did in all his life that was not father approved. And this was clean out the trash compactor.
When he was thirteen, a friend at school showed him his first passion; music. Until then all he heard was his dad's patriotic songs, on a single album, and perhaps some crap he heard on the radio. Now, his friend showed him a holovid of a rock group. He was amazed, he could feel the pure emotion flowing through the music. Every riff had a thought and feeling to it, every note. It was as if through the instruments that the men played, they spoke not through their mouth, but through their heart. As if the amplifiers were connected straight to the soul.
He fell in love instantly. He began to spend his allowance credits on music, buying or downloading holo-vids on his personal computer. He made sure not to listen to anything while his father was home, and kept it quiet for his mother. He preffered it that way anyways, private, a reflection of himself and his emotions. A special little time where he could live, and not just obey his father's commands. It was safety, and a haven. It was where he could be Jason Brin.
When he was thirteen his musical tastes began to shift toward the darker side, toward hate and defiance. He appreciated almost any kind of sound, but he really appreciated the metal sounds and the rap-styled singing.
Through this new love affair with music, a change in his attitude grew. He became bolder, defiant. Angrier. His father snapped at him, and he snapped back, often resulting in a heated argument with his Dad slapping him.
One day, when they had to go to some inauguration ceremony of sorts, promoting some sergeant ceremoniously, Jason had an argument over whether or not to go. He said that he didn't know the guy and didn't want to go. His father called him out, saying he was being disrespectful, and telling him to go outside into the vehicle immediately and that he had no choice. Seeing Jason's obvious frustration, he shouted, "And don't you dare slam the button."
Out of fear, Jason tried not to slam the door, but as he was closing the door a sudden, inexplicable rage boiled within him. He slammed his fist into the button to close the door behind him, and headed off toward his car. He heard stomping footsteps, the door opening behind him, and his father charging right at him, slapping him so heavily across the face that he fell backward and hard into the steel floors of the garage. He gave a short wail of pain, but it was not the end of it.
Terror stricken as his father lifted him up from the ground, ripping buttons off his nice shirt as he did so, he brought him up to his feet, and screamed at his face. He screamed so loud and hard that poor Jason thought he was going to die then and there. His face stung, his nice shirt ( one of his favorites ) was ruined, and he was wounded inside.
The father knew that he was more angry than he should have been. He knew he didn't handle that situation well. But he could not come to admit that he was being consumed by his own Wrath. He did not apologize to Jason, or his mother. Because of this, his wrath only swelled, a mixture of self-loathing made him an even worse monster, because he would not admit his wrongs, which only amplified the self-loathing. And amplified the abuse.
Jason suffered many such abuses, worst of all when his father was yelling at him because he would occasionally scoop up a piece of his steak with his hand and pop it into his mouth. His father told him sternly not to do that, and though Jason tried, he eventually slipped up and totally forgot to use his fork.
The dig of the steak knife as his father shouted and extended his arm cut painfully into the flesh of Jason's finger, the serrated edge leaving a scar. He kept his finger, but the fact that his father had actually cut him with a knife left a deeper running scar, and a longer lasting pain than the loss of a stupid finger ever could.
What he would never know is that his father hadn't done it intentionally, he had been meaning to seize Jason's hand, and it was a reflexive seize, he hadn't even had time in his instincts to drop the knife. So by pure accident the blade went out first and SLICE! His father never said a word about it, never apologized for it. Did he, in the end, think himself weak if he'd apologize? It was a speculation that Jason never made, nor did he care to make. There was no forgiveness in his heart.
When he was fifteen his mother grew bolder than ever before. She dared to stand up for herself, to shout and defy the man that was her husband. He struck out at her, so hard and so viciously, and with Jason in the room. Jason watched the color fade from her, watched as her body whipped back, eyes closed and tears flowing, watched as she went out cold onto the ground beneath her.
And he stared at his mother, his beloved mother, lying on the ground. He couldn't tell that she wasn't dead. He couldn't tell that she was just knocked out. But to see his own mother's form laying there, still as a stone...It drove him over the edge. The edge of hatred, and this was his first true step toward the dark-side. Before his feelings of hate could grapple him though, he had a moment of silence, a moment where sadness, terror, and anger welled within him all at the same time. And yet, underlying feelings of hope and adventure for some reason bristled within him at the same time.
In the moment, he felt the sadness. A rush of despair veiling his thoughts. He could not bare to lose his mother, could not think to live without her. She had been the only one he'd ever truly connected with at this point. Memories flooded him, and he remembered her holding him tightly within her arms. He remembered her cradling the small boy, and singing him to sleep. He remembered his promise.
And with that memory of a promise he'd made to protect, his grief turned to terror. How could he fail his mother so wholly? What could he have done in any event against this seasoned soldier. This man's muscles were twice his size. The fact was, Jason's father had killed before, and Jason had not. And when their eyes met, his father's visage did not soften, and Jason became filled with such terror that he could not breath.
Then came the anger. His mother lay dead, so he thought, and -that- man was the cause. He couldn't control himself. The hatred within him flowed easily through his veins, pumped from his heart and through every single part of his body. To his head, to his feet, to his arms. It heated up his body and turned him bright red, his body shook and convulsed with such rage that he thought he may just explode. It was like a beast, trapped in a steel cage. Awakening for the first time in a lolng time, rising up within, and then thrashing and bashing and destroying the bars that kept him trapped. He felt it slam itself against the walls that held it in, the walls of his mind and willpower. Something he had secretly feared all his life, he now embraced.
The beast opened the cage.
He gave a shouted, a cry of roar that was unintelligible. His father new then the anger that lay before him, but he did not know the true meaning of this. He watched as Jason grabbed a coaster off the side table and threw it straight at him, blocking the first missile, then the second, taking pain to his arms. Jason reached into his pocket and procured a knife that had been given to him by a friend at school. It was a simple pocket knife, but Jason's intent was to kill, murder his father.
A sick, depraved feeling within him rose. That beast was gaining it's freedom, and it wanted to torture, and beat, and thrash, and kill. It wanted to hear his screams and beat its fists against his conscious body over and over, wanted to tear across him, open huge gaping holes, open up trenches and irigate the lands with his father's blood. The beast was filled with hope and blood lust, and this was his sense of adventure and hope.
He met his father's arms, felt a quick defensive maneuver, and then everything was dark. The beast writhed, then fell to sleep, to remain dormant within, fell to sleep along with Jason.
The Man and the Beast
He woke up a day later in his bedroom to his mother sitting beside him, and he was filled with such relief and happiness that there was no room for anything else. The beast within, the rage and anger, subsided. He hugged her, kissed her, and renewed his long ago promises. No harm would come to her. He promised her this, and he promised too that he would stop that man. He would get them both out of here.
The next time her father left on a mission, she explained to him, tentatively, how he came to be born.
And the beast twitched to life again. It was a subtle thing to his mother, something she couldn't hope to catch. The slightest narrowing of his eyes, the brief curl in his lips, and the dangerous edge that his eyes took on. This was the very first case of Schizophrenia that he experienced. A second personality within him, one dubbed the Beast, the other the Man. One primal and vicious, the other human and understanding. One wanted to kill, and right now the other did not argue.
But the Beast was put down a short-time later. The Man, Jason Brin, knew that he had duties to uphold. He knew that if he was ever going to defend his mother, he needed to learn how. He couldn't just kill the man upright. He first needed to learn how to fight, then get a job. Then he planned on getting a shuttle to the farthest Outer Rim planet he could find.
So he went to school, and he formed the Brawlers Club, still fifteen years old. It was a group of students who met secretly behind school, or anywhere really, formed a circle and fought until the other one no longer could. It started off with just him and a few friends. They punched, rolled, kicked, bit, and head-butt until the other either gave up or was knocked out. Rare did they give up in the heat of a battle.
He went home with bruises. Swollen and pulverized. But he hid it well from his parents; and he went back out, and he learned to block, and return punches. He started watching 'how to box' holovids on his computer, and developed his own martial style of street-fighting. It was a combination between boxing, wrestle throws, and standard street-fighter techniques.
His particular style was one that absorbed hits instead of deflecting him. He was practically made out stone after a number of punishing fights, and so he could take a blow that would fell any rookie, shrug it off and punch them harder, square in the face in their surprise. He took advantage of openings, and he had a unique fighting style where he coaxed his opponent into attacking fake openings, making them think he was vulnerable, but then slamming them hard and fast, a quick spin, an acrobatic kick to the side of the face, an adjustment, and then three punches to the face as they fell down. That was his best move.
By the time he was seventeen, he was a great, self-styled fighter. He was the best in the Brawlers Club, and for a year remained undefeated. He and his mother remained on the down low, though the tension with his father was thick in the air. You could cut it with a knife.
He graduated early at seventeen, taking his exams a year in advance and passing with high scores. Then he looked for a job, and found two good ones, one was an arena fighting, with rules and strict competition. The fighters would be better than he was use to, but the rules made the pain he endured nothing compared to the wild brawlers club, with few rules and fewer enforcement.
The other job, he had stumbled upon by mistake. He in an interview for a secretary job, when he heard on the radio, which his boss was playing on very low, an add for a singer at a local cafè. He promptly quit his secretary job and headed for the cafè.
He made decent money at the cafè, singing well. Incredibly well. Eventually he caught the attention of a local artist, who was also a singer. They told him that with training he could become incredibly rich off of his talent. So, he thought to pay for vocal lessons.
He got the money required in his pit fights. Every weekend he charged out recklessly, and showed off a combination of acrobatic, flinging quicks, holds, and punches. He duped, he feigned, and he used every trick in the book. But he was not up against amateurs. The first day, he was like chewing gum. Tough at first, but quick to tire against a real pro. Their punches were heavy, their fists powerful, and they themselves much stronger.
By the second week, he fought for two more days, and left with arms completely bruised from blocking vicious hit after hit. The next week, he learned to hit back. He took out the bronze tier in that third week, having fought everybody already and learned their style. By the fourth week he was still in a bronze tier, but this time he took up a hearty chant, and sang the whole time as he viciously pumelled his enemies.
He ascended quickly, loving the glory of the fight, the challenge of the local pro's. Eventually, he went into the Gold Tier, where he fought a man named Artemis Entreri. ( Important note: This is the one who taught my other character, Graffion Maruhuey, how to be an assassin. ) It was no contest at all, he got in one good punch at the man and then was down. His opponent was out to humiliate him though, and did not knock him out right away.
Jason got back up and charged Artemis, only to be tripped down again. He got up over and over, and was down again and again. The battle was almost called off because it lasted and hour, with Jason refusing to give up and Artemis a patient hunter. When the announcer shouted for a stop, Jason cried out that he'd figured out the enemies tactic, and called for one last charge.
He thought he had Artemis figured out, he was a fast dodge, an incredibly fast one, but he also had power behind his punches. He used his enemies momentum against them, flipped them, put them off balance and before they could recover, WHAM! Jason thought he could outwit the clever assassin.
He charged in, went for a punch straight at the man's face, it was a faint of course. The man started to dodge, but knew of the feint, he watched as Jason shifted his weight and did a backlash, reversing his momentum and bringing an elbow toward Artemis' face. Artemis deflected the attack, then hopped over a spinning, low kick. He ducked and dodged a punch as Jason finished his spin by coming out with a high fist. He felt Artemis rearing for a punch, knowing it was Jason's moment of weakness. But Jason knew the dance well, and had been ready. He spun to the side, grabbed Artemis's flying fist and yanked him further, throwing him off balance.
Unexpectedly, his opponent had rolled forward and come up, turning, and with speed that he could not believe delivered three powerful kicks to Jason's chest, sending him flying. When he landed he hit his head on the ground so hard he was out of it. Or so he would have been, had the beast not taken over.
He had to win. He had to win. Failure was not an option. If he lost now, he wouldn't be paid enough to finish his vocal lessons, and he needed that because he had a big show in a week, and if he didn't perfect the high notes, which he had one last note left to learn within his skill, he would fail. And they'd wait another few weeks to be able to get off this planet and away from his father's reach.
The beast rose, and with fury he charged, recklessly, flying with all his speed and acrobatic talent. He got whooped again and again, but the battle was so great that onlookers stared shocked at the ferocity. Punches and blocks, kicks meeting each other, it was like watching a martial arts movie, except it was real, and very much unpracticed.
Artemis matched Jason's fury with elegance, discipline, timing, and thought. The victor was clear, and after another twenty minutes, Artemis had had enough of the Beast. He upped his speed, putting forth his all, something he rarely did in combat. The Beast couldn't keep up with the flurry, and was tiring much quicker, losing his resolve. But he -had- to win. Failure's not an option.
Unfortunately, he wasn't the one picking. A kick so hard that it broke his jaw, and Jason was out cold.
He woke up in the hospital, and learned the price of failure, and the price of stubbornness. Had he given, he may have gotten a loan. But since he did not, his jaw was broken. Good-bye singing. He and his mother were once more stuck with the bad man for a while.
Jason, while recovering, got quite a shock. It was him in there, not the Beast. The Beast was quelled once more. It took rage or emergency to bring the Beast, like a machine that was in operation, but needed to be fine tuned. The shock for him, though, was Artemis Entreri.
The assassin entered the room and explained that he was in town for a 'job' though he didn't say what kind of job, and said that he heard tell of a fighter rising through the ranks and using cunning and viciousness to win. He explained that it had been a long time since he'd had a really decent fight, and so he watched a fight of Jason's. And he observed something peculiar.
First, that Jason learned the movements of his opponent. He didn't have a pre-planned strategy, per-se, but instead fought for a bit, learned the movements and predicted the dance. Then made his move. Something Artemis admired and rarely saw in an opponent.
The other was that Jason had a kind of sick desperation in his stance and attitude. A subtle thing, but Artemis had been trained in the Echani ways. He could read people based on their fights, and he could tell that when conflict arose, Jason literally changed into someone else. His eyes narrowed, he took a dangerous look into his eyes, he seemed primal, and had this devilish, sadistic curve to his smile. He seemed thrilled whenever he spilled blood or broke a bone in an opponent. A sick happiness about him. These were all things that Jason was oblivious to.
Artemis happened to know a bit about psychology, a side-hobbey of his. He explained to Jason what he thought, and diagnosed that he may have an incredibly rare case of schizophrenia, where certain actions or emotions can create a wall between two personalities, two styles and lives in a person. And he explained the Beast to him. Jason remembered only flashes of the final moments of his battle, and everything was a bit of a blur. He remembered vividly the thrill mostly.
Artemis explained that at times, a secondary personality can 'take over' his body and mind. They discussed it at length, and Artemis's intent was to warn. He warned that if he was not careful such a strong case of multiple personality disorders could lead to a fight, inside of him, for his body. Jason thanked Artemis, and shared his story with him, and admiration for Artemis's prowess.
Artemis grinned, and gave Jason money for a shuttle, explaining, "Kid, I'm not a nice man. But occasionally I take pity on others. Here. Take this money, you remind me a lot of my apprentice, Graffion. He killed his dad because there was no other way to free himself. Don't let that happen to you. Or you'll be on the fast track to heartlessness. To me. You'll lose yourself, and that's not a good thing. For some of us out there, it is too late. But you can get away."
Jason never forgot those words. When he recovered, and Artemis had long ago headed back to Nar Shadaa, mission completed, he went straight to the terminal, and booked passage on a ship for the following day. A ship to Nar Shadaa, his father had no authority.
Upon returning home, he found the grave news that his father was indeed home, where-as he was -suppose- to be out on a trip. A trip the Republic had canceled last minute. And there was some sort of problem with the shuttle tickets, so they had called the Brin household to try and settle it all out. Jason had to get tickets under his fathers name, because he was too young to legally buy tickets. And his father had answered the call.
Jason happily entered the building, and saw a small smidgen of blood on the floor in front of the doorway. He tentatively and fearfully entered into the living room, to see his mother, dead, and blood all over the couch from the repeated punches she'd taken. His father looked at him with tears in his eyes and moaned that he hadn't meant to do it. He had gone too far this time and he knew it. His anger had consumed him, and he was finally admitting it. He finally asked for forgiveness, and apologized.
Sometimes redemption is too much to ask. In that single, awful moment of realization, the force awakened inside of him. It was pure fury rippling through his core, rippling out from him, which focused every bit of force energy he didn't know he had at his disposal. It had always been there, but it destroyed its cage now.
Jason, who had no formal training, felt the dark side calling, and despite his limits, he seemed to have a natural affinity for...Destructive force powers. He felt his body heat up again, the blood pulsing through him, and he felt like exploding, like the heat that pulsated throughout his body would just vibrate out and catch everything. To his right, a chair immolated instantly, the fires burning through it. The walls around him also caught, and the hungry flames spread quite entirely.
The beast awakened, and he wanted his father to -sing- a song! He ran forward and he tackled the man, who was out of his mind with terror. He pushed his fathers form against the wall, and the beast took delight in pinning his arm against the sill, but bottom portion on the wall and the top half, forearm and up with the joint resting cleanly against the gap...And he nearly giggled with glee as he, with one good punch, snapped his fathers arm, bending it the wrong way and listening to the sounds of bones cracking in a thousand different places, splintering. A larger bone stuck out cleanly and a thousand shards of broken bone sprayed out.
The excruciating song that came out of his fathers lips was manic, and tore through the air. And the Beast, this new Jason, laughed at his fathers pain and misery. He wanted him to feel, physically, the beating that ran through his heart spiritually. He wanted to break this man on the outside as he'd broken Jason on the inside. Quick. Efficiently, and yet lasting forever.
"Let us play some drums!" He had cackled, removing the bones from his bleeding arms, some that were still connected, beating his father into submission, and while he screamed in pain, he slammed the bones into him repeatedly along the skull and chest.
He had tortured the man in many other ways in the short amount of time he had, among them breaking his right leg, and stabbing out his eyes with the bones he held.
Then he heard the sirens, and was out of there, letting the flames decide whether or not to consume his father. For now, he just let the man stow in the smoky building, conscious and aware, pain sweeping across his body.
Jason was now a full victim of Multi-Personality-Disorder.
He took the two tickets for his shuttle, and got off planet immediately, headed with godspeed toward Nar Shadaa. The Beast had to rest now, and so Jason was himself again; the two tickets in his hands symbolic of the two people on the shuttle; not him and his mother as he wanted. But him and the Beast.
Road to Perdition
Nar Shadaa, the perfect home for a run-away man dealing with a sadistic personality. The moment he touched down he met the Exchange. Two thugs who demanded toll. Wrong guy to mess with, "Back off. Now." Was the only warning that the two thugs got. One was a Twi'lek and the other an Aqualish.
Bastards didn't even stand a chance.
The Beast saw another chance to play off his anger. He dodged blaster fire, and got right up in the Aqualish's ugly face, punching, kicking, and thrashing him completely. He beat the thing into submission entirely. The Twi'lek was already swinging its vibro-blade. A fine dodge, and then a quick tangle, and Jason was on top of the thing pinning it, "Tell the Exchange to back-the-hell off!" He told him, and then proceeded to pull the Twi'leks head appendage right off with significant strength.
The Aqualish ran in fear, and the Beast tore into the Twi'lek with his sword, killing him. The other Shuttle passengers and any lookers-on had fled or were watching from cover. Jason simply stole the guys gear and weapons, strapped it on himself, and walked into Nar-Shadaa.
Jason had a lot to deal with now. Too much. He had to find a home in a hostile world, make money...Put down the Beast within, and of course, learn what he could about this new feeling that pulsed in him. It was interesting...Being a force-sensitive on Nar Shadaa. It had a different feel than Coruscant, even though it was modeled after it.
Unfortunately for him, he had caught the attention of the Exchange, and a local Dark Jedi in hiding.
The Exchange were quick to get to him, sending an emissary and a group of thugs. At this time, Jason was working for a local cantina, and making just enough to afford himself a small aprtment.The Exchange emissary met with him and discussed Jason's brutality, eventually offering him a job with the Exchange.
So it was that at the age of eighteen, Jason was accepting jobs from the exchange. He would go rough up somewhere here and there, kill a few stubborn folks maybe. Mostly, he did body-guard duties for deals, promising those who broke any deals with the exchange a rather painful death.
He worked these simple jobs for the exchange until he was nineteen, embracing the pain and suffering of others. He would take pleasure whenever a victim would yelp, and grin from ear-to-ear as he stared at their black and blue bodies, just before he killed them or let them go.
Sensing the hatred that built up inside of Jason, a Dark Jedi named Ordus Caros came to his doorstep. At first, they simply stared at each other, and it seemed that if any one of them moved, they would break out into a bloody battle. But Jason calmed first, he sensed the tension within the other, and he sensed the Force within Ordus, and he knew that this man could help with answering a few questions within Jason.
The man offered to train Jason in the dark arts, that his own legacy could survive longer, and when Ordus became older and useless, his destructive arts would not be lost with time. Jason grudgingly accepted.
The training was very secluded, very focused. It was solely on the force Destructive arts. There were a bit of touch-ups here and there on body force powers, but otherwise it was only Destructive. Destruction seemed to come naturally to Jason. It was only a few months under the Ordus Caros's tutelage, but Jason learned and excelled in the force Immolation, Crushing( Telekinetic ), and Grip powers.
In many ways, for Jason this truly was the road to perdition.
Redemption
A recording studio heard Jason's singing talents. When he was twenty years of age, he was approached and signed on to Brudie Studios, a music production studio on the far side of the Nar Shadaa planet.
Jason immediately severed all ties with the Exchange, and moved from the sector, this did not go over well with the Exchange, but they did nothing at first.
His life became cleaner, Jason managed to push the Beast down under a more peaceful and serene environment. He had conceded that there was no need for the Beast, there was no need for his hate and anger. Slowly, that little bit of hope within him rose up. Perhaps...Perhaps he could indeed live a normal life from henceforth?
It was concluded entirely that he would not ever allow the Beast in again when he met the love of his life. Sarita Cathros was a beautiful Twi'lek dancer who danced on stage when he sang, and they bonded together quite well, having many meaningful conversations.
Jason made up a past, one that wouldn't scare Sarita away. He told her stories of a childhood that he could be proud of, and in effect buried away all of the painful memories that bit away at him. He became someone else, and he was fine with it, because as it was, his life seemed to be getting better and better. He fell madly in love with Sarita, and she him.
When he was 21 they married, and she was impregnated. Jason's songs were getting noticeably happier, and his music was indeed catching on. He was making money for his wife and his soon-to-be child, and that made him happy. It wasn't long until he had a live-tour, and was paraded all over Nar-Shadaa. By the time he got finished with the tour, he returned to find his child born. His wife no-longer partook in dancing, and was a stay at home mom for the length of her pregnancy.
His child and wife, at the age of 22, became his shining light. The meaning and reason to live, and be good. He was determined to be a good, honest man.
But with money, came a lot of attention. And on Nar-Shadaa, those who get too much attention eventually see the Exchange. Again.
Hostage
He opened his door after work, and thought it strange that the lights at home weren't on. After flicking them on, he almost fainted in shock to see several exchange thugs crowded into his living room. They were quite, they were silent. He stared at them, unsure what to do. His first thoughts were for his wife and child, and as desperation overtook him he opened his mouth to talk, but the lead thug lifted a finger as if to shush, explaining that his wife and child were gone out shopping, completely safe.
So of course his next thought was anger. He cried out to them, demanded they leave him and his family alone, claimed he was merciful for letting them leave alive. It certainly was a sobering moment for him when the reply came back, mentioning that they too were merciful for allowing his wife and child to return home this night alive.
The exchange decided to cut him a deal, he would work for them by funneling profits in his career toward their organization. He would also assist them in the matter of torture. The deal was, when they needed him he would interrogate information from people, on top of giving them a portion of all his singing profits. Jason lived a modest life, and had a reasonable house, despite his sums of money, so he had plenty to spare. However, it was the idea of becoming the torturer once again that terrified him. He had no choice though, the terms were, that at any moment they could decide just this;
To kill his family, to burn his child. They had the resources, the manpower, and the influence to do so. It wouldn't matter whether or not they tried to run, because no matter where they went they would be found. Jason had no choice to comply.
And so he did, and the only lamenting, the only hint to his family he gave, was that perhaps he was a little crankier now. But you can be certain that when he slept at night, the slightest sound throughout the house sent him out of bed and running through the house with a flechette shotgun well in hand.
Recurring Nightmares
His torture sessions seemed to come as just that. Dreams, where he would fade away and a horrible demon would emerge. The first victim came three weeks into the deal. He arrived at the torture room, an out of the way storage section. Jason didn't know who the man was, or why even he was torturing him. All he knew was the information that he needed: Where was Tangret. Who was Tangret? Perhaps some spy in hiding, some politician, some man who owed them money. Didn't matter to Jason, all that mattered was where he was.
The transition into the Beast was smooth, easy. It was natural for him, something he was use to. Something he enjoyed. The things he put these men through were things that no man should go through. He knew just where to hit them, and just how to keep them conscious, with him. His favorite part was the screams, the wailing. Beautiful music to his ears. Those who observed his torture session would sit far down the hallway, out of the room and plugging their ears, shuddering at the sounds of horror and pain that came from the victims; and perhaps even more shocking, the ecstasies that Jason went through, the pure joys.
And when he returned home he was himself, the Beast was gone. He came home relaxed, hugged his wife and kissed his child goodnight, and it was a dream.
What his wife didn't know was that he didn't have normal dreams because of it. He only lay on the bed staring at the wall, pretending to sleep.
Victims came and went, came and went. He broke them, every-singe one. It never took more than just one time asking to get the information. It didn't matter who they were selling out or what job they had, nothing was like Jason's torture chamber. However, he never exceeded nor went under the twenty four hour mark. Twenty four hours of pure torture, setting a timer at the beginning and waiting for it to buzz.
And he didn't even ask them for information before that timer went off...
Death of Innocents
When Jason was 25 it happened. The exchange pushed the line. He walked into his torture room, peeked forward at his newest victim, and blanched. A 12 year old kid sat strapped into the chair. Jason fell back through the door, his face white. He turned to the two men that supervised his torturing, and was getting ready to say no, never, heck no, getting ready to just kill them and run off with the child. Three things stopped him then. The first was the passion of a woman, Sarita. The second was the smile of another child, his own. And the third was the small grin that cracked across his face, as the Beast came in. It didn't matter to the Beast, man, woman, child, they were all screams. It was all just one great symphony.
And so he approached the child, Jason screaming at the Beast to stop, to have a conscious. But the Beast was something of lust, wrath, depravity, and instinct. It knew how to fight Jason off. The more pain Jason was in, the further the Beast could control him. So he used the force to slowly start crunching his own bones in, starting to break his own wrist. Jason stopped fighting, and the Beast had control.
And how the child screamed. There were no exceptions, no mercy. If anything, the kid got it worse because of what he was. The timer ticked, and the kid spilled his guts. The Beast was finished, and Jason, who could no longer even be called The Man anymore, returned.
He was sure to keep the recording of the child's screams. He played it over and over in his head. Screaming at the top of his lungs, tears dripping. He would not -allow- himself to forget. It even inspired his hit song, "Echoes of the Child's Scream"
Escaping the Bonds
He lived with the shame in his heart, but he did not show it. Jason, throughout his life, had been carved so that his exterior might as well have been durasteel. Inside, he was a wad of cookie dough, but nobody ever got there. From age 25 to 27, he tortured, he sang, and he loved his family. He felt like a lie, but knew that he must protect his family and knew that he would burn the world...
He would burn every world in the galaxy to keep that smile on his beautiful daughter's face.
He was even quite terrified that it may include, one day, another child. But, as it happened, his greatest fears ( That he would walk into his torture chamber and see the minor form of a child in the seat ) never came into reality. He was never truly tested.
And then one day an idea came to him. The Exchange didn't actually care about his family. They cared about him. If he were to die, the Exchange would let his family go. But it couldn't be suicide. They would hurt them just to be spiteful. No, it had to look like he did everything possible to live. So he decided to stage his own assassination. He hired a pirate crew.
During one of his concerts, the pirates struck. It was made to look like a crazed and deranged fan. The fan shot him in the middle of the show. As he was escorted away, the fan found him again and lit him on fire. The stage security and the medics were all fooled into thinking that it was him, when really the pirates had snuck back and replaced his body with another. The flaming corpse was easily "identified" as Jason Brin. He was free from the shackles of the Exchange.
Unfortunately, he was also forever separated from his family. The only way to keep them truly safe was to remain death. So he had to forsake his band, his career, his family, his job, and everything he had ever known. And he knew his daughter would cry. But her only possible chance as a Brin was for him to gone forever. There was simply no other choice, o he did it.
Finding yourself wholly and completely empty with no purpose in life is a rather quick way to wind up in the depths of depression. He became a refugee on Iridonia after the pirates had dropped him off. After hearing of a project by the sith to escort the willing poor and homeless to the Sith Temple for recruitment, Jason found himself thinking of the force that he controlled and of his incomplete training. He reluctantly found himself joining others on a transport to the Sith Temple to become an initiate.
RP Sample:
The steel door between Jason and his quarry opened up, reveling a pale light that silhouetted his form. Inside of the room, the single spectator, sitting in a steel chair with his arms and legs strapped in, looked up. To him, Jason appeared some sickly angel of death in the door-frame, his head hunched down just barely. Jason was short for an Angel of Death, but thoughts like this little crossed through the men in his chair, especially after the torture session.
Jason's smooth strides through the room took him closer to the man, still silhouetted. The door behind suddenly shut in a creaking, loud bang. Jason reached into the back of his coat and produced what appeared to be some sort of recorder, placing it on the table and hitting the record button. Then, he slinked over to his victim, put his arm around his shoulder, and brought his face in sickeningly close, the only light bulb on high, a sickly red light, illuminating his face. His victim stared into his eyes, and was overwhelm with terror as he saw the glint in Jason's eyes, a twisted sickness in his attitude and an essence of pure hatred spewing from within him. This was the beast, and the dominance and hatred the projected from him was nearly insurmountable.
"Welcome to my," He paused, his eyes looking around for just a moment, "Humble abode." He said, his voice low and tone demeaning, "Your gonna help me out with something, buddy. Your gonna make a song for me."
Like an involu8ntary spasm Jason whipped his forehead into the jaw of the poor victim, causing the man to grunt and spin. A twist of Jason's body and he punched the man in the gut hard, so hard it forced the man to lurch forward, his breath coming in pained and labored gasps. Jason reared his head back and rolled his eyes, as if in ecstasies, as if absorbing the pain of this pain into pure pleasure.
A loud smacking noise became evident as Jason brought his hand to the mans face several times, sadistically, wildly, as if with no other intention than to prove that he could. Jason took a few steps back, staring at the man in the chair and moving about awkwardly, bending his head in forward as if to inspect something. Then he turned around and walked over to a concealed tray, pulling it out and setting it on the ground before the man. There were many pots on the tray. He took one and removed it, revealing a fillet knife.
"No! No! No! No!" The victim cried, tears running from him as Jason applied it to his leg, painfully peeling away the outer layers of skin, drawing screams and squeals from the man. Jason continued cutting, talking off the skin and muscle around the calf. When he was done, he reached back and dropped the bloodied knife, removing a container from underneath another pot. He opened the container and spilled the contents along the mans leg; alcohol, all along the leg to cause incredible pain that shot up and down the mans nerves, and at the same time cleaned the wound. The next thing he did was produce a cloth, taking a salt container and pouring it along the inside of the cloth, and then taking the cloth to the exposed, bleeding leg, and rubbing the cloth rapidly against the leg.
The man tried to resist, screaming and kicking, but the bondage held his legs to the chair. He couldn't do anything except for scream and sob like some pathetic child. When Jason was done listening to him whine, he tied the bandage on so the man didn't bleed to death, and slapped him hard in the face. "Today your a man!" Jason shouted, "Today you are REAL! For nothing is proof of existence like pain, and no man can be such without terror. All your life you've thought you've known pain and terror. But today, you will experience it, truly and utterly."
"I know pain, I know terror! You have shown it to me! Please, whatever you want, whatever you need, ask and I'll tell you!"
"Ah...But that would be to easy." Jason said, reaching for another pot and procuring a clamp, sizable enough for a finger or toe. "How about we work our way from the bottom...Up."
He removed the mans boots, and placed the clamp on his pinky toe, letting the man panic for a few minutes, then beginning to clamp it, slowly applying more and more pressure. At first the man took it stoicly, but as the pain multiplied, after he thought it couldn't get worse and he did he just whined, whined like a dog begging for attention, whined like Jason remembered whining every time he went to sleep, when he was a child. And that thought spurred the beast on.
SNAP!
~*~
Twenty four hours, of this beating, slashing, clamping. All of it done carefully, so as to keep the victim awake, starving, thirsty, but alive. Exactly twenty four hours, and Jason was finally finished. He pressed the stop button on his recorder, wiped blood from his hands and turned to the man, pulling out a letter, opening it, and reading, "Two days ago, you stole 25,000 credits from an Exchange deal, conned my bosses out of it. There were three of you who took part in the deal. Who were the other two?"
"One...Was a Twi'lek named Fanty. The other," The man choked on tears and hesitation.
"Orlson..." Jason said, calling out his name, "Please don't tell me."
Orlson lifted his human head up, furrowing his brow in confusion, "I so loved our dear little song, didn't you? Please," He leaned in, and he let his voice become hatefilled and borderline demonic, "I want to make an entire album together..."
"Christili Akdes..."
"You daughter? Orslon Akdes? Do you speak of your daughter?"
"Yes..." The man whimpered, ashamed but terrified.
"Very well...Mercy upon your soul."
With that Jason took a few steps back, and focused, anger once more rising within him, and the thoughts of sparks and flames within his mind. A conflagration began within the man, but not on his skin or clothing, literally -inside- the man, metling his internal organs, skin, muscles, bones, and then punching through his skin, smoke and fire protruding from the mouth, his eyes just exploded, and before the final fires consumed him and turned him to ashes, Jason laughed wickedly.
