Some people want to watch the everything burn. Makes it harder for those of us who are stamping out the flames.

Name: Michael Bennett.

Age: 33

Gender (Or Lack Thereof): Male.

What Makes You a Misfit?: He's a disgraced former service member who's trying his best to make the world a better place. He's an outcast in the veterans community, he's wanted by the feds for effectively using magic in a public setting and not wanting to join them, and his preferred type of magic is what some would describe as gross.

What Do You Think About the Party?: Michael is of the opinion that the others are probably just a group of young adults looking for a place to be, or looking to avoid getting black-bagged by the feds, or both. Either way, he's in it for the long haul, and is trying to at least keep things from going too far off the rails. Or at the least derail it in a way that helps people. He tries his best to convince people to avoid outright murdering people, but when the chips are down, he'll back them up. Even if it's to save someone from the consequences of their own actions.

What Do You Think About the Classified Crew?: Michael thinks that they're just soldiers, no different from what he was. The only difference is he was indecisive when they asked him, and they weren't. They're people, and they don't deserve to die just because they followed orders. But at the same time, if it comes to it, they knew what they signed on for, and he isn't going to come quietly.

Appearance: A 6' tall, 185 lbs. Caucasian male. Face and body bears a few minor scars. Green eyes. His hair is a dark brown, and kept in a crew cut. His facial features are rather sharp, and his body appears to mostly be muscular, save a relatively small beer gut. He has a well-kept beard that extends a couple inches past his chin, and bears a couple small whisps of silver. Typically wears blue jeans and tee shirts, and owns a leather jacket that he'll put on if the weather's right for it.

Personality: He tries to be very calm and rational, and always attempts to find a peaceful solution to a problem. He'd prefer not to have things come to blows, and when they do, he personally resorts to violence only when the situation is dire. He tries to stay positive upbeat, but he gets grumpy when he has to fix other people's messes when they should know better, or if his arthritis is acting up. He tries his best to show everyone the respect they deserve as people, and though he tries to by a patient man, his patience is finite. If he does lose his patience with someone, he is not afraid to give them a full dressing-down in his best drill sergeant voice.

Skills/Abilities: He was a marine, and has all the training that comes with it. However, the small bouquet of medical issues that he suffers from prevents him from running and climbing like he could before he joined the service, but that hasn't affected his marksmanship or CQC technique at all. He's also a trained combat medic, and knows how to treat anything from gunshot wounds to chemical burns, and everything in between.

Powers/Magic: Michael has a natural proficiency in the art of controlling blood (hemomancy), and is able to pull or push blood into or out of an open wound from up to ten yards away, and freely manipulates blood that isn't currently in someone, including causing radical increasing or decreasing in it's temperature. Though he can do more to someone the closer he is to them, and needs to touch someone to do something especially nasty like stop someone's blood flow altogether. Usually, he uses it from on-the-spot blood transfusions, to freeze blood to close open wounds, and to prevent others' blood from flowing into certain areas (effectively creating a magical tourniquet). He is not capable of turning someone into a meat puppet individuals by manipulating their blood.

Backstory: Michael grew up near Athens, Georgia where he dreamed on one day protecting people and serving his country by enlisting. When he did, he got sent to the middle east straight out of boot camp, serving as a combat medic in the 3rd Marine Division. He served with distinction, and ended up serving for multiple tours of duty. He ended up happening upon a natural talent for magic when a squadmate got shot in a firefight, while he was running low on supplies. He discovered his talent as a hemomancer when he subconsciously sealed up the blood vessel that had been hit, saving his friend's life. He was also wounded in that firefight, and was sent back stateside, where he met a couple of men who claimed to be feds. They made all sorts of lofty promises, but when told them he'd think about their offer, he later learned they weren't taking no for an answer. One failed attempt to sneak up on him, a brief firefight, and several hours later, Michael had gone AWOL, and fled into the night. Officially, he's been dishonorably discharged, but isn't quite considered a fugitive from the law due to the questions it would raise. It's been four years since that fateful night, and he's been doing his best to stay one step ahead of the feds, and to use the gifts he's slowly been improving to help people. He's also since decided to avoid fighting where he can, mostly because he's realized he far prefers saving lives to taking them, and that saving people without killing other people is very possible with the right words to the right person.

RP Sample:
He calmly sat at the bar, taking in the atmosphere with a smile. A man in black sat down next to him, probably no more that twenty three, and trying his best not to look at the man who appeared at least a decade older than he actually was. "You here for me, son?" Michael asked, as he calmly sipped the small glass of whiskey in his hand, enjoying the burn as it passed down his throat. "Well, you've come all this way. Least you can do is let me buy you a drink. I'm too physically broken to run from ya anyways, so it's not like ya have to worry about me making a break for it." He turned and looked at the G-Man with a smile, before waving down the bartender, and setting down a couple of bills, enough to buy the man a whiskey.

As the G-Man sipped the drink, Michal did his best to hide his free hand under the table. As the fed drank, he quickly felt himself getting lightheaded, as Michael's spell slowed his heartrate. Not enough to cause any damage, but enough that he was going to fall unconscious in a couple minutes. Michael just had to keep him busy. So, he did the best thing he could think to in order to buy time.

He started talking.

"You know, I wonder what a young man like yourself is doing, working for... who ya work for. Personally, I'd think someone like yourself would be better suited as a police officer than a fed. Keep the peace... protect folks... get a nice retirement... maybe find a nice girl... and they really do appreciate folks like that. Outside the bigger cities, of course." As he talked, the young man nodded along, humoring the old man, appearing to be actually listening. And completely unaware of what he was doing. That is, until he collapsed onto the counter and started faintly snoring.

"Lightweight." Michael chuckled as he finished his drink and stood up. Fortunately he knew the bartender, so when he asked to leave out the back the bartender obliged him without asking any awkward questions. He figured the evening air would be good for helping the buzz wear off, anyways. After all, he had people to meet up with.

Name: Vincent Ryder

Age: 27

Gender: Male

What Makes You A Misfit?: Vincent's been in his fair share of trouble with the law. Not only does he not see the sense in hiding his powers, but he also has no qualms about using them in the fights that he "gets sucked into."

What Do You Think About The Classified Crew?: Considering the fact that the Classified Crew had killed his entire family, destroying the only sense of stability he had ever had when he was still young, and forcing him to more or less be on the run ever since, saying that Vincent hated them is a bit of an understatement. If given the chance, he would gladly burn their headquarters to the ground, but even though he'd never outwardly admit it, he knows he isn't strong enough to take them on by himself.

Appearance:

Vincent stands at about 6'0" with shoulder-length black hair, usually in an unkempt state, steely gray eyes, and a scar that runs diagonally through his eyebrow, narrowly missing the corner of his eye. His has a well-built, toned physique with tattoos that cover his right arm, which glow when he uses his power. His outfit of choice is a black shirt of some kind, usually a t-shirt or sleeveless, jeans, boots, and his trusty overcoat. He also carries compressed lumps of steel in his pockets so he always has raw material on hand.

Personality: Vincent isn't a total idiot, but he isn't exactly the brightest crayon in the toolshed, either. He's also a bit of a hothead and enjoys a good fight a little more than he probably should, figuring most problems can usually be solved with a good punch and if not, then it's not a problem worth solving most of the time. That said, he's quick to trust, to his detriment and benefit, and if he considers someone a friend, he has their back for life.

Skills/Abilities: To see him and hear him talk, one may not initially think that he's not only rather decent in the kitchen, but that it's one of the few passions he has aside from fighting. He's also a halfway decent mechanic, his primary magic making it easy for him to create the parts and tools he needs.

Powers/Magic: Vincent's main ability is two fold, one part being a form of ferrokinesis, the manipulation of metal. Specifically, he can alter and shape iron, creating a wide assortment of items with the only limits being his imagination and supply of raw materials. The second half of his main power is the manipulation of raw carbon, capable of drawing it out of the carbon dioxide in the air or even manipulating the structure of the carbon within his own body, giving him ability of creating a kind of dermal armor for himself. While he has an instinctive knowledge of how his power works, explaining it is an entirely different story.

Being an avid brawler, he had figured that just having one tool, despite it being a multi-tool of sorts, in his arsenal wouldn't cut it, so he found a tutor in an underground fighting coach to teach him his secondary magic: strength enhancement. While he isn't able to throw cars like his mentor could, he can easily flip them for cover or, say, push a truck by himself should it ever break down.

Backstory: Vincent and his twin brother, Isaac, were born to the Ryders, a family that prided themselves on their blacksmithing ability in times of old, thanks to their unique brand of magic passed down through the generations. Even when the government began cracking down on magic users, the Ryders continued their business, though they had to keep the more magical aspects hidden from prying eyes. Despite the danger, Vincent and Isaac's parents kept the tradition going by teaching both of their sons their magic. This not only involved traditional book learning, but due to the fine control the magic required, the boys had their right arms tattooed in special ink just like the rest of their family. The tattoos act as a focus for their magic, giving them greater control over the molecules they would be working with.

Then one day, when the brothers were young teens, the Classified Crew raided the Ryder home after receiving an anonymous tip. The Ryders fought back with everything they had, but were no match for the numbers and firepower the CC had on their side. Vincent and Isaac had fled at their mother's behest, but they didn't get far before they were ambushed by CC agents. The twins tried to fight back, but they were no match for their attackers. Isaac, having been more skilled with their family's magic than Vincent, held off the agents while Vincent, at his brother's urging, ran into the woods. To this day, he doesn't know if Isaac died that night or if he was still locked up in Area 66.

Ever since then, he had been on his own, living off of whatever jobs he could get, whether it be working in a kitchen, an autobody shop, or fighting for prize money in an underground tournament. He never stayed in one spot for long and always kept on the move.

RP Sample: helps me to see a glimpse of how your character acts): The sun had set long ago, yet Vincent walked down the street, whistling jovially to himself. He had just won another tournament and, after he got some food and paid for a motel room, he had a little money left over. He remembered a comic shop he had seen earlier that day, a rare one that claimed to be open 24/7, and figured he could get some reading material before he hit the road again. Wonder where I should go, next? he wondered to himself. Maybe south? I suppose I could head out west, though. I've always wanted to be a cowboy!

Just then, he heard a siren wail in the distance and instinctively ducked into a dark alley. He waited in the shadows for a few minutes as he listened. Normally, he wouldn't bother hiding, but he wanted to get those comics before he had to run again. When he heard the sirens fade, he let out a sigh of relief and started to step out of the alley, only to hear yelling behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a pair of men, one pressed against the wall as the other aimed a gun at his head. He turned away and briefly thought about walking away before he let out a sigh and turned around. "Hey, buddy," he called as he casually strolled up to the men. "Not very neighborly to hold someone up at gunpoint, is it?"

The gunman whipped around toward Vincent, his eyes wide and his gun shaking in his hand. "D-don't come any closer!"

Vincent stopped and cocked his head, as if thinking, then resumed walking as he replied, "Well, I've gotta come closer. People are sleeping and I don't wanna yell."

The man steadied his gun with his other hand and yelled, "I'm not fucking joking, man, stop! I'll shoot, I swear!"

At this, Vincent couldn't help but grin. "In that case, wouldn't you want me to get closer? It'll give you an easier shot."

The gunman started to see red. This guy wasn't just trying to call his bluff, he was openly mocking him. Not only was he keeping him from an easy score, but he was making him feel like a fool! Before he knew what he was doing, the man pulled the trigger.

Vincent's head rocked back as the bullet slammed into his forehead. The gunman, who had truly never shot anyone before, looked on in horror as the energy from the bullet pushed him backward. This was it. He was going to go to jail, all because he was trying to make a quick buck. The man had turned around to run away, but heard the sound that made his blood run cold: a quiet chuckle. He slowly turned back to find Vincent still standing there, only he was slumped forward, this time, still chuckling. The horror of going to prison was replaced with an entirely new sense of fear as Vincent slowly raised his head, still grinning as the squashed bullet fell harmlessly from his forehead. A muted glow shown through the sleeve of his overcoat and there was just enough light in the alleyway for the gunman to see that the upper part of Vincent's face was covered in what looked like a black shell.

"Wanna try again?"

The gunman dropped his weapon and ran screaming, ironically for the police, his would-be victim running right next to him. Immediately, Vincent began to hear more sirens, growing louder this time. He sighed as his carbon armor vanished. "Well, shit," he muttered. "Guess I won't be getting those comics, after all." With that, he turned on his heel and ran.

Name: Anita Walsman

Age: 21

Gender(or lack thereof): Female

What Makes You A Misfit?: She is one of many witches on the run wanted from the government. While witch is sort of an umbrella term, she actually belonged to a coven. The coven wasn't evil, more along the lines of neutral good, but the government's knowledge of witches is archaic to say the least. Her coven was discovered and raided, yet she along with a few others escaped. Luckily she wasn't processed and remains anonymous.
What Do You Think About The Classified Crew?:

Appearance(face claims are allowed, as well as just descriptions):


Rebecca has long brown hair which she keeps in a messy ponytail and she has green eyes and slim facial features. She stands at around 5'7 and weighs 135 lbs with a slim build. Her most notable feature is the full sleeve tattoo she has on her left arm which she uses to be identified by the other members of her coven (They use full sleeve tattoos to identify each other). Her choice of clothing consists of black skinny jeans with the typical rips in them for fashion, a white shirt that hangs down at the front and back with cuts at the sides and off the shoulder sleeves. She wears a blue croptop vest and red and white hightop sneakers along with a few accessories which include a choker, a necklace, and two bracelets.

Personality: Having no family of her own save the coven she belonged to, Rebecca can be classified as the big sister of the group. If she considers someone a part of her inner circle she takes care of them, that being said, she not overbearing. She will check in on you if one of her friends is feeling down and needs an ear to vent, she's there. Having a big sister also means that no one is allowed to mess with what she considers her family except her, which means expect a little bit of teasing every now and then. What's that? You're older? Tough, she's the big sister.

Skills/Abilities: Having knowledge of herbalism has given her a little medical knowledge. She won't be able to perform brain surgery, or any surgery for that matter, but she can pop a bone back into place and keep injuries from getting infected. She has some form of street smarts, at least enough to know how to not make herself a target or bring any suspicion to her

Powers/Magic: Being a witch, Rebecca has access to many magical abilities including but not limited to spellcasting, herbalism, and magical channeling,

Spellcasting: She is able to cast spells by using the mystic forces of the supernatural world allowing her to invoke specific magical effects and phenomenons. These effects are guided and governed by meticulously structured formulae that produces a diverse array of expressions that can mystically effect her reality by channeling mystical energies in a myriad of ways that she bring these formulae to life. Once cast, she can use these spells in a myriad of ways such as offensive spells, defensive spells, supportive spells, and other ways.

Herbalism - potion creation: She is able to create potions with various magical effects. Physical and mental enhancements, bewitchment, curatives, shapeshifting, and other effects. She can create these potions in the form of liquids, candy, powders, and even pills, however, she cannot just create these potions at will. Making such concoctions require certain ingredients as well as time. As far as time is concerned, the bigger the effect, the more time it takes to create. On the ingredient side, she requires certain items that may or may not be available at that time, and certain items that would not be available through normal means.

Magic channeling: She is able to channel and harness external and internal magical energy and use it for a variety of purposes. such as teleportation and other means. She uses herself as a conduit for said magical energy to pass through although it takes time and complete concentration for her to use.

Backstory(Optional):
RP Sample(Optional; helps me to see a glimpse of how your character acts): Being on the run from the government was harder than she expected. She narrowly escaped the last few encounters she had with their agents, and if it wasn't for learning how to blend in from Anya, she would have been caught a long time ago. It didn't last long in her first few months on the run. Whenever it seemed like she was a step ahead, they easily caught up to her, and to make matters worse, she lost contact with Ally, Jess, and Zara. Things were not in her favor, and the only thing she had going for her was that she hadn't encountered her pursuers in months.

She walked the streets, tired and wandering aimlessly as she reached the motel she had been staying at. Opening the door, she flopped down face first on the bed. Everything was a mess, she lost the only family she had ever known, she was on the run for the crime of existing, and now, she was had no way of getting out of this city save risking hitchhiking. All these thoughts swirled in her head as she tried to sleep, but to no avail. It would take half the night before she drifted off to sleep.

The sun beamed into the room and hit her eyes which she met with a wince as she opened her eyes and saw what time it was. "11:00, great, half the day, gone" she thought to herself. She forced herself up from the bed and smelled herself and was not pleased with what passed her nostrils. After half an hour of washing and another half hour scrounging up whatever meal she could find, she would find herself back on the street.

Abilities:
Profient in hand-to-hand combat, specifically daggers and bows
Knowledgeable about medicinal herbs and plants to make First-Aid items.
Can pick locks and keycodes easily.

Skills:
Misdirect and debate: She's good at distracting people with her words and body language.
Creative Strategist: Can find creative solutions to her problems.
Secretly she's multi-lingual in several different races/species languages due to being a royal of her kind.

Powers/Magic:
Vocal Pathokensis: Can use her singing voice to manipulate those who hear it.
Shapeshifting: She can shift into a black swan, a black spotted leopard, and a black and silver doe with antlers.


Botanokensis: Can control plants to fight with or draw extra power from in a pinch.


Cleome woke up in an Earth realm forest about 600 years ago, ever since then she's been wandering the world in search of where to go back home to the Fae realm. Fast forward to modern times and she learned that Earth isn't so welcoming to her kind. Someone spotted her in her Fae form with her antlers and wings, they called some soldiers onto her campsite. She was captured and experimented on for decades before she broke out after learning how to study number patterns and codes.

Cleo doesn't remember a lot about her life before waking up in the Earth realm. But she does receive flashes and dreams of what her life once was when she sleeps. Since her time in captivity, the experiments scrambled her thoughts, hence her aloof and spacey personality. She is extremely afraid of three things: needles, small cages, and iron cuffs. Loud and busy cities bother her sensitive hearing. Out of all the bad things that have happened to her, Cleome seems to find the brighter side of things in life. Like enjoying a piece of chocolate after a hard day's work.

Cleome just wants to live on a cabin farm deep in the middle of the woods with her plants and animals away from the bustle of people. Some day, hopefully soon, she can live out that dream.


'4...8...2...3...7...2'

Cleome only had so long before the guards would switch shifts and they would notice that she was gone. She smiled happily as the metal door slid open to reveal the receptionist's office. Before she entered, she sang her hypnotic tune soft enough that the receptionist was too enveloped to react. Cleo scurried up behind the receptionist and took the keycard from her pocket.

"Be a dear and erase all traces of me," Cleo cooed as she watched the receptionist look up her profile and begin deleting everything that had been recorded of her. The Fae woman couldn't help but think of how soft the blonde receptionist's hair was and how pretty the blonde would look in a window on the center of a sharp spike. Her focus returned as she hummed once again. "Good little human. Now erase all camera evidence of me leaving and once I am gone, forget about me," She patted the receptionist's head before she left out the door with the keycard to the outside world in hand.

Thankfully, the night was moonless and Cleome had to just avoid the spotlights. Twisting and fluttering, she danced and hovered in the darkness, moving like the ghost of a ballerina. Except she was not dressed in a pretty costume, no. The scientists never allowed her to wear something so special, she had to wear a white shirt and white sweatpants. A crime for one who saw the world in its brilliant hues of color.

Cleome made it to the guardsmen's personal vehicle parking lot just in time as the current shift was leaving for the night, or what was already morning? It was hard to tell without the moon. Cleo winced in pain as she sheaded her antlers and her wings became like a tattoo on her upper back, reaching from shoulder to shoulder. She found a guard that had a pickup truck and quickly slipped into the back while he was still discussing the night with another guard.

Just as the man was headed down the road, Cleome began to sing again, luring him in thanks to his window rolled down for his cigarette. His eyes glazed over as he pulled over to let Cleo in his truck. She smiled as she clicked her seatbelt and gestured down the road. "To the next town please," she spoke with such ease and kindness that her now mindless human slave had no choice but to obey while she hummed along with the radio.