Post by Karl the Unfettered on Jun 20, 2009 15:45:15 GMT -5
Name: Romeo
Original Name: Raphael Swagger
Race: Human
Age: 25
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 205
Birth place: Empress Teta, Cinnagar (slums)
Appearance:
Original Picture: residentevil.wikia.com/wiki/File:LeonShotgun.jpg
Obviously nothing I ever drew.
Romeo is tall and intimidating, with only a slight tan despite all the time he spends outdoors. He has dark blue eyes and a prominent nose, and his blonde hair is kept in a neat bowl cut; his thin lips tend to be compressed in a dispassionate, analytical line, and his eyes never stop moving behind the dark shooters' glasses he wears.
Or, so he was, anyway. Now he has become somewhat ragged, with a face full of unevenly-shaved stubble and his bowl cut gone long and shaggy; his nose is crooked like he'd been in a fight, and while his eyes are still cold it is clear he is desperately repressing something inside himself. Overall he is now somewhat ragged and grungy, the after effect of the RELIC chip's failure and his own inability to truly deal with that.
Personality: The RELIC chip degradation that has begun plaguing some of the Green Meadows assassins has also surfaced in Romeo, with potentially disastrous results. He is prone to severe fits of rage and fury, alternating with black depression which he seeks to allieve with drink (naturally he cannot get drunk like normal people can given his increased build, but that doesn't stop him from drinking anyway). The fits come and go, and in between he is alternately indifferent or terrified of when the next fit will come.
Overall, though, he has barely managed to maintain the facade of the intelligent, sarcastic, yet polite young fellow his victims saw before their violent, untimely deaths, keeping his fear well hidden beneath it. Other emotions, joy or sadness, have been slower to completely emerge; feelings of lust are intermittent in severity and frequency, depending on what sort of females are in his line of sight. So far he's managed to keep from becoming a serial rapist, though as the chip degrades further no one can say where this will go.
Parts of his mental conditioning remain, however. He can still analyze a building on the spot and discern escape routes and structural weaknesses, and some aloof part of his brain yet maintains the calculating, dispassionate intelligence he was known for when he was still a regular agent of the facility.
Profession: Assassin/Hitman
Skills: Green Meadows Assassin Training
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 9
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 8
Leadership: 3
Unarmed: 6
Melee Weapons: 5
Ranged Weapons: 6
Specialized Combat Training: Slugthrower Shotguns: 9
Special Non-Combat Training: Demolitions: 8
Alignment: -3
Bio:
The man who would one day be known only as Romeo, was not born under that name. No, he was born in the slums of the planet Empress Teta, in a small hovel at the edge of one of the few remaining natural lakes; the body of water was of course tainted and befouled from the refuse of the planet-wide metropolis, leaving them reliant on finicky piping for drinkable water. Back then, his name was Raphael Swagger, and he tended towards sickliness and starvation, conditions that weren't helped along when his parents were accidentally killed in a skirmish between swoop gangs; an unfortunate circumstance, but one that happened all too often.
Uncertain what to do with the little brat, some of the more conscionable gangsters tried to find a place for him; such a place was quickly found when some mysterious fellows claiming to represent some hospital or other somewhere showed up and offered a good deal of money for any unwanted youngsters. Raphael was thus sold, and so he began a new life.
A completely new life; almost immediately, they began doing unethical things to him, planting chips in his head and erasing all earlier memories. More specifically they planted a RELIC chip in him, or a Reactive StabiLizing InterfaCe chip, leaving him with but the basics needed for survival; reading, speech, walking and using his hands, etc.
It was strange, not having memories. He looked around, he thought about things, yet none of it stuck. Nothing the staff of the facility didn't want to stick, anyway; he was put through a lot of training, mental and physical, mundane and military, martial and critical. He did very well on all the mind games and intellectual exercises, though he also excelled in the physical workouts as well; martial arts, not so much, since it turned out he was more of a gunner.
Specifically, he was good with shotguns, a somewhat outdated sort of weapon that used hollowed shells full of anything you could think of; metal slugs, salt, rubber pellets, exploding chemicals, and of course fine lead or steel balls. The sturdy firearms also made excellent makeshift clubs, and with a bayonet on the end were passable spears. It was further found he was good with volatile and incendiery chemicals, as well as putting them together with wiring and components to create bombs and explosives.
When he was nine they injected more chemicals and did more enhancing surgery, and that marked the beginning of hyperaccelerated puberty; in four years he did ten years' worth of developement. The constant pain medication did little to keep the growing pains down, and even the RELIC chip could barely control the intense fury and rage he was subjected to due to the massive levels of testosterone and other hormones in his body; all they could do was make him forget the worst episodes, and try to channel his anger into productive endeavors like training and instruction. It became quite clear he would not be one of their stealthier operatives.
These years also marked further implants and enhancements; vision enhancing lenses, cartilege and joint reinforcement, the complete removal of certain bones and unnecessary body parts. He became extremely powerful, both physically and mentally, and his training progressed well despite the anger management issues.
In time his body stabilized, and the surgeries and cybernetic implants were finalized; he was drawing near to the end of his training. What they were training him for, he had never really thought about, but now he realized he should have thought about it and tried to ask; all he got was some sort of explanation about covert ops and necessary action. Naturally he wondered about that; he wasn't a covert person at all, more of an overt person since people tended to die horribly and buildings got blown up when he had his way with them in the simulators.
In any event, when he was 16 he was given a knife and some rope and packed off to Dxun, the Demon Moon. He knew from his studies that it was a home for the Mandalorians, the burial place of Dark Jedi, and a stronghold of the "Dark Side" (whatever that was). But that didn't quite matter to him; what did matter was he had to live for a month in the place, and he meant to do just that.
Immediately after being dropped down he set off into the jungle, thinking he had seen an old wreck during the descent. It took him an hour to reach the site, and he had to carve up a small band of cannoks (which turned out to have passable meat once cooked, and one of them even had a salvageable blaster pistol inside its guts), but he made it to the site he had spotted; sure enough, a mouldering Republic shuttle of war was found there, which he was quick to take shelter in.
Naturally there wasn't much left of the spartan amenities, but the power core still had a charge, which he used to spark the beginnings of a small fire in what was once the dormitory; on this he cooked his cannok meat, and in here he spent his first night scavenging what he could to fashion crude grenades and detonators for his defense. On the second day his position was attacked by more cannoks, though they were swiftly distracted by maalraas beasts; he used a few of his makeshift bombs to scatter the whole lot of them at once, then took his time picking through the leftovers. Maalraas, it turned out, not only had better meat than cannoks, but also decent hide; he skinned this and stitched it together, then hung it to dry and cure to make a raincoat.
The rest of that first week passed in such a manner, until his coat was ready and he felt he could set off; he had even scavenged enough battered pieces and components to repair the blaster he had found, though it was an unreliable fix and he was determined not to have to rely on it. He went further in the direction he started, on the assumption there'd be more stuff that way; sure enough, he came upon the fresh remnants of a Mandalorian camp. Five of them, by the looks of it. Being more careful now, the young man followed their trail, his hands ready on his armaments.
Soon enough he found them, and scaled a tree to get a better view. As he had thought, there were five; they didn't seem used to the jungle, since they had made the fatal mistake of relaxing around their fire, apparently assuming it would keep away most of the predators. They didn't have long to enjoy this assumption; an incendiery tossed into their fire filled the clearing with a raging inferno, killing three of them immediately and badly burning the last two. These were dispatched quickly, their throats expertly slit, and their killer proceeded to search the remains.
He found a better blaster pistol, and something far more exciting; a flechette rifle. This was a more contemporary variant of the outmoded shotgun, firing scores of metal shards in a wide arc before the wielder; not quite his thing, but certainly close enough. Some trail rations completed the haul, and he decided to find their ship; surely they would have a ship, greenhorns like that always had a ship since they were sure to chicken out and want a quick way off-world.
They did have one, but it wasn't as big as he had hoped, and of course the navicomputed was locked so he couldn't pilot it; nevertheless he was able to hole up inside for the remainder of his stay on the Demon Moon, and when his handlers came for him they found him quite comfortable indeed. As they lifted off with the other survivors, he was told he had passed; up until now they had referred to him by number or word, but now he was to be given a name again. To have a proper name, after so long being anonymous... it would have been an emotional moment, had he been allowed to have one.
They christened him... Romeo.
After that his education become more specialized, and he focused on shotgunning and demolitions; he was also instructed in architecture, structural engineering, and various practical arts related to buildings and structures (plumbing, wiring and electrical, extermination, etc). At last he was given his first real assignment; a merchant had snubbed certain powerful individuals, snubbed them badly, and they wanted an example made of him and his organization. A loud, powerful, unmistakable example. So they decided to give them Romeo; he would do his thing just as they wanted.
He was sent in, and he spent some time examining the building from afar, getting a feel for the weak spots one could see from outside; it was a relatively new structure, sturdy and solid, but its foundation wasn't on good bedrock and the duracrete was already cracking slightly. Invent a problem with the plumbing, or insert some vermin, and voila; instant entry. He went with the plumbing issues, causing the pipes to back up; his support made sure he was called in to address the issue, and he entered with his supplies and his arms in a large pack at his back.
Once inside he was given free run, and he went about planting his explosives in likely areas, making sure not to miss the basement. He made his way up floor by floor, innocuous and unnoticed even as his pack was getting smaller; just below the main board room, where he knew the merchant and his executives were in a meeting, he locked down the elevator and put his weapons together, main shotgun and twin sawed-offs, a few throwing knives and a silenced pistol. Then he reactivated the elevator and rode the rest of the way up.
The secretary in the anteroom was shot in the forehead with the pistol before she could raise an alarm, then he brought the large gun up to his shoulder and walked calmly into the boardroom. Such was his calm, collected professionalism that the men in the room didn't at first register that the plumber had just walked in with an old-fashioned boomstick, not until he blew away the merchant in a horrendous explosion of smoke, powder, and tiny metallic slivers.
After that it was a red blur, as Romeo made his way back down the building with no stealth at all, blasting away with his guns and screaming out furious battlecries all the while; the RELIC chip had triggered an intense battle fury in him, making him an unstoppable charging fury. No one he ran into survived his run; no one else left survived the destruction of the building as he waltzed out the front door, calm and professional once again, sawed-off guns in their holsters and long gun sloped over his shoulder, the remote in his other hand as he strode away.
He had performed exceedingly well, just as requested, and per his orders he returned to Green Meadows, quickly and efficiently. He felt no joy, no grief, nothing at all save for a vague disquiet at the overwhelming fury that had taken him over, however briefly, and a dull sense of triumph at his success. Upon his return, however, all of that faded away when his handlers erased the memories of the mission, leaving another hole in his mind; it was as if he had never left.
After that it was more of the same, missions and training and spare relaxation; in those rare moments he read, or played board games to keep his mind active, or sparred in the training rings, or practiced at the firing range. He wasn't deployed quite as often as some of the others; his was a special approach, where the needed tack wasn't stealth and exact precision but a quick, hard blow-out and an empty gaping crater in the ground.
One day, then, he was out on another mission, a man living in a high-rise needed to be taken out for whatever reason; he never asked questions, who or why, he just got a name, a face, some timing details, and went off righteous on them. It was a textbook assault all throughout; the initial inspection, the structural sabotage, the insertion and the careful approach to the target, then the brutal elimination and the violent departure. Unfortunately he didn't leave fast enough, or the detonators went off too soon; whatever it was, he was caught in one of the explosions, and thrown into the air on the shockwave.
The blast knocked him away, fortunately out of immediate sight beneath some rubble; physically he was ok, but in a freak of timing the incident happened to coincide with the degradation of the RELIC chip in his head. When he woke up he was horrendously confused, feeling things for the first time since he could remember; he remembered things too, like killing everyone and blowing up that building he was lying under. A few bystanders saw him as he stood and rushed over, thinking he needed help; he misconstrued their intent, though, and shot them automatically. Then he ran, unwilling to face the rest of the crowd and unable to handle the roil of seething things inside his head and his chest.
It has been approximately a month since then, and he still hasn't managed to get a handle on the sudden flux of emotions. All he can do is try to hold them back and keep a calculating, sarcastic demeanor; lots of drinking aids in this, though he needs to drink a lot more than normal to get any effect out of it. His predictable, comfortable world with Green Meadows has been shattered; he can't go back and he can't go forward, so for now he's stuck in limbo.
Password: Vornskr
RP Sample:
A dark and dingy cantina in some spaceport somewhere, full of smokes and smells. At the bar, a tall and very muscular young fellow with a hard face sits, slumped over a tall glass of something quite strong. His name is Romeo, and his life currently sucks.
"Barkeep," he hissed, banging a fist on the bar, "bring me another one."
"Sir, I-" the unfortunate Bith began.
"I said bring me another damn drink!" Romeo roared, rousing himself to glare fiercely at the alien.
"Y-Yes sir, right away," the Bith stammered, reaching around. "Please, no violence in my cantina, please..." The muscular young man didn't reply, he simply slumped back down.
Meanwhile, one of the bouncers had finally gotten tired of his antics; pushing the barkeep around a little was one thing, but this guy was crossing the line.
"Look, bud, you're startin' ta get on our nerves here; gonna hafta ask yeh ta leave," the thuggish man grunted, looming over Romeo, who only looked back up at him from beneath a thick fringe of dirty hair.
"Piss off," he muttered, laying his head back down and wishing the barkeep would hurry.
That was the wrong answer. "Bud, I said-" he began, clapping a hand on Romeo's shoulder. It was the last thing he would say; quick as lightning Romeo spun around, knocking the bouncer away and yanking a pair of guns from somewhere in his long black coat. A split second later an explosion and a gout of flame erupted from one of the guns, completely incinerating the bouncer; he screamed in pain and staggered about, clutching at his throat, before falling over and sizzling unpleasantly. The young man stomped down on his windpipe before he could scream again, face twisted in unspeakable rage.
"Shit," he hissed, glaring around; the other bouncers, faces set in grim resolve, had gathered around, assorted heavy stun guns in their hands. Romeo had no fear at all for himself, and no concern for the innocents; he just wanted to get drunk some more, and this was interrupting that.
"You shouldn'a done that, bud!" one of them shouted, levelling his piece; he never got any farther, as Romeo ducked and shot forward, siezing his ankles and yanking up. The bouncer crashed down, dropping his weapon; Romeo siezed it and turned it on the others, firing quickly and knocking them down before they could get a shot off themselves.
"Screw it," he muttered, automatically dissassembling the gun with uncanny speed; the parts clattered to the floor, and he vaulted over the bar, seizing a variety of bottles and shoving them into his pockets. "Not a word out of you!" he snarled at the barkeep, before uncorking one bottle with his mouth and downing the contents at one go.
"I've got to get out of here," he said to himself, vaulting back over the bar and striding out of the cantina; an incendiery grenade slipped from his coat, rolling to a stop amidst the stunned bouncers. Then it went off, engulfing them in fiery doom also.
The Bith, unable to believe what had just happened, stood and stared for a full ten seconds before gathering enough wit to call the authorities; but by then it was too late, they would never find Romeo no matter how they looked...
Original Name: Raphael Swagger
Race: Human
Age: 25
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 205
Birth place: Empress Teta, Cinnagar (slums)
Appearance:
Original Picture: residentevil.wikia.com/wiki/File:LeonShotgun.jpg
Obviously nothing I ever drew.
Romeo is tall and intimidating, with only a slight tan despite all the time he spends outdoors. He has dark blue eyes and a prominent nose, and his blonde hair is kept in a neat bowl cut; his thin lips tend to be compressed in a dispassionate, analytical line, and his eyes never stop moving behind the dark shooters' glasses he wears.
Or, so he was, anyway. Now he has become somewhat ragged, with a face full of unevenly-shaved stubble and his bowl cut gone long and shaggy; his nose is crooked like he'd been in a fight, and while his eyes are still cold it is clear he is desperately repressing something inside himself. Overall he is now somewhat ragged and grungy, the after effect of the RELIC chip's failure and his own inability to truly deal with that.
Personality: The RELIC chip degradation that has begun plaguing some of the Green Meadows assassins has also surfaced in Romeo, with potentially disastrous results. He is prone to severe fits of rage and fury, alternating with black depression which he seeks to allieve with drink (naturally he cannot get drunk like normal people can given his increased build, but that doesn't stop him from drinking anyway). The fits come and go, and in between he is alternately indifferent or terrified of when the next fit will come.
Overall, though, he has barely managed to maintain the facade of the intelligent, sarcastic, yet polite young fellow his victims saw before their violent, untimely deaths, keeping his fear well hidden beneath it. Other emotions, joy or sadness, have been slower to completely emerge; feelings of lust are intermittent in severity and frequency, depending on what sort of females are in his line of sight. So far he's managed to keep from becoming a serial rapist, though as the chip degrades further no one can say where this will go.
Parts of his mental conditioning remain, however. He can still analyze a building on the spot and discern escape routes and structural weaknesses, and some aloof part of his brain yet maintains the calculating, dispassionate intelligence he was known for when he was still a regular agent of the facility.
Profession: Assassin/Hitman
Skills: Green Meadows Assassin Training
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 9
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 8
Leadership: 3
Unarmed: 6
Melee Weapons: 5
Ranged Weapons: 6
Specialized Combat Training: Slugthrower Shotguns: 9
Special Non-Combat Training: Demolitions: 8
Alignment: -3
Bio:
The man who would one day be known only as Romeo, was not born under that name. No, he was born in the slums of the planet Empress Teta, in a small hovel at the edge of one of the few remaining natural lakes; the body of water was of course tainted and befouled from the refuse of the planet-wide metropolis, leaving them reliant on finicky piping for drinkable water. Back then, his name was Raphael Swagger, and he tended towards sickliness and starvation, conditions that weren't helped along when his parents were accidentally killed in a skirmish between swoop gangs; an unfortunate circumstance, but one that happened all too often.
Uncertain what to do with the little brat, some of the more conscionable gangsters tried to find a place for him; such a place was quickly found when some mysterious fellows claiming to represent some hospital or other somewhere showed up and offered a good deal of money for any unwanted youngsters. Raphael was thus sold, and so he began a new life.
A completely new life; almost immediately, they began doing unethical things to him, planting chips in his head and erasing all earlier memories. More specifically they planted a RELIC chip in him, or a Reactive StabiLizing InterfaCe chip, leaving him with but the basics needed for survival; reading, speech, walking and using his hands, etc.
It was strange, not having memories. He looked around, he thought about things, yet none of it stuck. Nothing the staff of the facility didn't want to stick, anyway; he was put through a lot of training, mental and physical, mundane and military, martial and critical. He did very well on all the mind games and intellectual exercises, though he also excelled in the physical workouts as well; martial arts, not so much, since it turned out he was more of a gunner.
Specifically, he was good with shotguns, a somewhat outdated sort of weapon that used hollowed shells full of anything you could think of; metal slugs, salt, rubber pellets, exploding chemicals, and of course fine lead or steel balls. The sturdy firearms also made excellent makeshift clubs, and with a bayonet on the end were passable spears. It was further found he was good with volatile and incendiery chemicals, as well as putting them together with wiring and components to create bombs and explosives.
When he was nine they injected more chemicals and did more enhancing surgery, and that marked the beginning of hyperaccelerated puberty; in four years he did ten years' worth of developement. The constant pain medication did little to keep the growing pains down, and even the RELIC chip could barely control the intense fury and rage he was subjected to due to the massive levels of testosterone and other hormones in his body; all they could do was make him forget the worst episodes, and try to channel his anger into productive endeavors like training and instruction. It became quite clear he would not be one of their stealthier operatives.
These years also marked further implants and enhancements; vision enhancing lenses, cartilege and joint reinforcement, the complete removal of certain bones and unnecessary body parts. He became extremely powerful, both physically and mentally, and his training progressed well despite the anger management issues.
In time his body stabilized, and the surgeries and cybernetic implants were finalized; he was drawing near to the end of his training. What they were training him for, he had never really thought about, but now he realized he should have thought about it and tried to ask; all he got was some sort of explanation about covert ops and necessary action. Naturally he wondered about that; he wasn't a covert person at all, more of an overt person since people tended to die horribly and buildings got blown up when he had his way with them in the simulators.
In any event, when he was 16 he was given a knife and some rope and packed off to Dxun, the Demon Moon. He knew from his studies that it was a home for the Mandalorians, the burial place of Dark Jedi, and a stronghold of the "Dark Side" (whatever that was). But that didn't quite matter to him; what did matter was he had to live for a month in the place, and he meant to do just that.
Immediately after being dropped down he set off into the jungle, thinking he had seen an old wreck during the descent. It took him an hour to reach the site, and he had to carve up a small band of cannoks (which turned out to have passable meat once cooked, and one of them even had a salvageable blaster pistol inside its guts), but he made it to the site he had spotted; sure enough, a mouldering Republic shuttle of war was found there, which he was quick to take shelter in.
Naturally there wasn't much left of the spartan amenities, but the power core still had a charge, which he used to spark the beginnings of a small fire in what was once the dormitory; on this he cooked his cannok meat, and in here he spent his first night scavenging what he could to fashion crude grenades and detonators for his defense. On the second day his position was attacked by more cannoks, though they were swiftly distracted by maalraas beasts; he used a few of his makeshift bombs to scatter the whole lot of them at once, then took his time picking through the leftovers. Maalraas, it turned out, not only had better meat than cannoks, but also decent hide; he skinned this and stitched it together, then hung it to dry and cure to make a raincoat.
The rest of that first week passed in such a manner, until his coat was ready and he felt he could set off; he had even scavenged enough battered pieces and components to repair the blaster he had found, though it was an unreliable fix and he was determined not to have to rely on it. He went further in the direction he started, on the assumption there'd be more stuff that way; sure enough, he came upon the fresh remnants of a Mandalorian camp. Five of them, by the looks of it. Being more careful now, the young man followed their trail, his hands ready on his armaments.
Soon enough he found them, and scaled a tree to get a better view. As he had thought, there were five; they didn't seem used to the jungle, since they had made the fatal mistake of relaxing around their fire, apparently assuming it would keep away most of the predators. They didn't have long to enjoy this assumption; an incendiery tossed into their fire filled the clearing with a raging inferno, killing three of them immediately and badly burning the last two. These were dispatched quickly, their throats expertly slit, and their killer proceeded to search the remains.
He found a better blaster pistol, and something far more exciting; a flechette rifle. This was a more contemporary variant of the outmoded shotgun, firing scores of metal shards in a wide arc before the wielder; not quite his thing, but certainly close enough. Some trail rations completed the haul, and he decided to find their ship; surely they would have a ship, greenhorns like that always had a ship since they were sure to chicken out and want a quick way off-world.
They did have one, but it wasn't as big as he had hoped, and of course the navicomputed was locked so he couldn't pilot it; nevertheless he was able to hole up inside for the remainder of his stay on the Demon Moon, and when his handlers came for him they found him quite comfortable indeed. As they lifted off with the other survivors, he was told he had passed; up until now they had referred to him by number or word, but now he was to be given a name again. To have a proper name, after so long being anonymous... it would have been an emotional moment, had he been allowed to have one.
They christened him... Romeo.
After that his education become more specialized, and he focused on shotgunning and demolitions; he was also instructed in architecture, structural engineering, and various practical arts related to buildings and structures (plumbing, wiring and electrical, extermination, etc). At last he was given his first real assignment; a merchant had snubbed certain powerful individuals, snubbed them badly, and they wanted an example made of him and his organization. A loud, powerful, unmistakable example. So they decided to give them Romeo; he would do his thing just as they wanted.
He was sent in, and he spent some time examining the building from afar, getting a feel for the weak spots one could see from outside; it was a relatively new structure, sturdy and solid, but its foundation wasn't on good bedrock and the duracrete was already cracking slightly. Invent a problem with the plumbing, or insert some vermin, and voila; instant entry. He went with the plumbing issues, causing the pipes to back up; his support made sure he was called in to address the issue, and he entered with his supplies and his arms in a large pack at his back.
Once inside he was given free run, and he went about planting his explosives in likely areas, making sure not to miss the basement. He made his way up floor by floor, innocuous and unnoticed even as his pack was getting smaller; just below the main board room, where he knew the merchant and his executives were in a meeting, he locked down the elevator and put his weapons together, main shotgun and twin sawed-offs, a few throwing knives and a silenced pistol. Then he reactivated the elevator and rode the rest of the way up.
The secretary in the anteroom was shot in the forehead with the pistol before she could raise an alarm, then he brought the large gun up to his shoulder and walked calmly into the boardroom. Such was his calm, collected professionalism that the men in the room didn't at first register that the plumber had just walked in with an old-fashioned boomstick, not until he blew away the merchant in a horrendous explosion of smoke, powder, and tiny metallic slivers.
After that it was a red blur, as Romeo made his way back down the building with no stealth at all, blasting away with his guns and screaming out furious battlecries all the while; the RELIC chip had triggered an intense battle fury in him, making him an unstoppable charging fury. No one he ran into survived his run; no one else left survived the destruction of the building as he waltzed out the front door, calm and professional once again, sawed-off guns in their holsters and long gun sloped over his shoulder, the remote in his other hand as he strode away.
He had performed exceedingly well, just as requested, and per his orders he returned to Green Meadows, quickly and efficiently. He felt no joy, no grief, nothing at all save for a vague disquiet at the overwhelming fury that had taken him over, however briefly, and a dull sense of triumph at his success. Upon his return, however, all of that faded away when his handlers erased the memories of the mission, leaving another hole in his mind; it was as if he had never left.
After that it was more of the same, missions and training and spare relaxation; in those rare moments he read, or played board games to keep his mind active, or sparred in the training rings, or practiced at the firing range. He wasn't deployed quite as often as some of the others; his was a special approach, where the needed tack wasn't stealth and exact precision but a quick, hard blow-out and an empty gaping crater in the ground.
One day, then, he was out on another mission, a man living in a high-rise needed to be taken out for whatever reason; he never asked questions, who or why, he just got a name, a face, some timing details, and went off righteous on them. It was a textbook assault all throughout; the initial inspection, the structural sabotage, the insertion and the careful approach to the target, then the brutal elimination and the violent departure. Unfortunately he didn't leave fast enough, or the detonators went off too soon; whatever it was, he was caught in one of the explosions, and thrown into the air on the shockwave.
The blast knocked him away, fortunately out of immediate sight beneath some rubble; physically he was ok, but in a freak of timing the incident happened to coincide with the degradation of the RELIC chip in his head. When he woke up he was horrendously confused, feeling things for the first time since he could remember; he remembered things too, like killing everyone and blowing up that building he was lying under. A few bystanders saw him as he stood and rushed over, thinking he needed help; he misconstrued their intent, though, and shot them automatically. Then he ran, unwilling to face the rest of the crowd and unable to handle the roil of seething things inside his head and his chest.
It has been approximately a month since then, and he still hasn't managed to get a handle on the sudden flux of emotions. All he can do is try to hold them back and keep a calculating, sarcastic demeanor; lots of drinking aids in this, though he needs to drink a lot more than normal to get any effect out of it. His predictable, comfortable world with Green Meadows has been shattered; he can't go back and he can't go forward, so for now he's stuck in limbo.
Password: Vornskr
RP Sample:
A dark and dingy cantina in some spaceport somewhere, full of smokes and smells. At the bar, a tall and very muscular young fellow with a hard face sits, slumped over a tall glass of something quite strong. His name is Romeo, and his life currently sucks.
"Barkeep," he hissed, banging a fist on the bar, "bring me another one."
"Sir, I-" the unfortunate Bith began.
"I said bring me another damn drink!" Romeo roared, rousing himself to glare fiercely at the alien.
"Y-Yes sir, right away," the Bith stammered, reaching around. "Please, no violence in my cantina, please..." The muscular young man didn't reply, he simply slumped back down.
Meanwhile, one of the bouncers had finally gotten tired of his antics; pushing the barkeep around a little was one thing, but this guy was crossing the line.
"Look, bud, you're startin' ta get on our nerves here; gonna hafta ask yeh ta leave," the thuggish man grunted, looming over Romeo, who only looked back up at him from beneath a thick fringe of dirty hair.
"Piss off," he muttered, laying his head back down and wishing the barkeep would hurry.
That was the wrong answer. "Bud, I said-" he began, clapping a hand on Romeo's shoulder. It was the last thing he would say; quick as lightning Romeo spun around, knocking the bouncer away and yanking a pair of guns from somewhere in his long black coat. A split second later an explosion and a gout of flame erupted from one of the guns, completely incinerating the bouncer; he screamed in pain and staggered about, clutching at his throat, before falling over and sizzling unpleasantly. The young man stomped down on his windpipe before he could scream again, face twisted in unspeakable rage.
"Shit," he hissed, glaring around; the other bouncers, faces set in grim resolve, had gathered around, assorted heavy stun guns in their hands. Romeo had no fear at all for himself, and no concern for the innocents; he just wanted to get drunk some more, and this was interrupting that.
"You shouldn'a done that, bud!" one of them shouted, levelling his piece; he never got any farther, as Romeo ducked and shot forward, siezing his ankles and yanking up. The bouncer crashed down, dropping his weapon; Romeo siezed it and turned it on the others, firing quickly and knocking them down before they could get a shot off themselves.
"Screw it," he muttered, automatically dissassembling the gun with uncanny speed; the parts clattered to the floor, and he vaulted over the bar, seizing a variety of bottles and shoving them into his pockets. "Not a word out of you!" he snarled at the barkeep, before uncorking one bottle with his mouth and downing the contents at one go.
"I've got to get out of here," he said to himself, vaulting back over the bar and striding out of the cantina; an incendiery grenade slipped from his coat, rolling to a stop amidst the stunned bouncers. Then it went off, engulfing them in fiery doom also.
The Bith, unable to believe what had just happened, stood and stared for a full ten seconds before gathering enough wit to call the authorities; but by then it was too late, they would never find Romeo no matter how they looked...
