Member
Name: Atter Sombre Aliases: "Mr. Black", "Lennard Swartz", "Dave", "Nassir Muhammed Al-Jesar", "Jorge Negra", "Alexi Cerny", Innumerable Others
Age:48
Gender: Male
Appearance: Looking distinct is for people with the luxury of having identities. Atter on the other hand seems to have been almost born to be anyone anywhere. He stands at a rather average height of five foot ten with an average build. Dark brown hair starting to gray now, he often dyes to maintain a more youthful look when he needs it. He has light brown eyes set into a strangely forgettable face. He used to hate how terribly normal he looked, but, now he can see the real benefit to being forgotten. Despite having a knack for putting on any face he needs Mr. Black maintains a sense of who he is by keeping his loose and laid back stance in just about everything he does. Even the junk addled tweaker he's playing seems to have an odd air of ease even while pining for his next fix. The heartless road-side bomber posses a sense of serenity while screaming death to America. As of now the old agent has a close cropped corporate-sociopath hair cut. Letting the graying of his hair show through. His face is shaved perfectly smooth with the precision of an obsessive compulsive. He has the body of a part-time cross fitter, all the better to blend in with all the mid-life crisis consumed day-traders he was recently embedded in. With that all done though he's looking forward to a real change. Something grungier, with filth, like the bad old days in the first Desert Storm. Maybe a beard?
Agency/Organization: Maintains at least minor membership in numerous organizations both military and civilian including the Department of Agriculture and The NKA
Education: The best way to learn is to do. Atter didn't have much of a formal education in his early life. Learning his craft by imitating those around him and running scams in Marseille until he had enough skill and money to start a college education. A quest he quickly abandoned due to lack of enthusiasm about academic pursuits. After that his education became almost entirely practical.
Background: Born to a poor Parisian woman and a refugee man from Algeria. Atter found his early life in Marseille a testing affair. Both parents working as much as they possibly could just to try and scrape by in the gang infested French-African districts of the port city. Living in that strange blend of European and African; poor and rich; destroyed and rebuilt; gave the young man a quick grasp of how the world wasn't a place of consistency, meaning, or even justice. He learned quickly, and early, that in order to live here you had to take what you needed. He made a big show of joining his local block's gang and played the usual roles a child plays in gang-land operations. However, he knew the rules. He knew that the larger gangs around were going to eventually take their territory and rip up their supporters. Atter betrayed his gang. He fed information to the other gangs pitting them against, not only his own but, any other local gangs he had information to trade on. He did this for years. Helping to keep the slums in a prolonged state of street war and stability. His first taste of what he would later make his stock and trade. The situation was not made to last though. Eventually the Marseillian police grew tired of the criminal element and began a harsh crackdown. Atter, seeing potential for a real sense of order, was all too happy to help the police by providing tips. Soon enough, the criminals didn't rule the streets anymore, and, in the death throws of the gang-land rule his parents were killed in a market shoot out. In his early teens, Atter, found himself in a world alone. He only cried a little though. He cried because he told them not to go to the market. He told them to hide. He cried only a little because you can not control the idiocy of others. In the next years his skills changed to fit his new environment. You didn't need to sell out people for security. You just had to have the resources to buy it. He acquired those resources by becoming a doppelganger. He crafted himself into whatever and whoever he needed to be in order to yank on the soft spots of those with more than they needed. He took. He stole. He thrived. He tried to go to school. Tried to learn, but, found none of it exciting and even less profitable. He left college and ran more scams until he found an opponent too aware for the young thief. He found someone who did what Atter did but not for gain, he did it for something called The West. This man, this agent didn't turn Atter in. No, he found a useful asset. He used Atter. Taught him things. Then, when he was done in Marseille, he took him out of France. Took him into the world.
Atter moved with his mentor. He learned more and most of all he learned to understand that ideology was the only thing that mattered. Governments rose and fell, but, ideas were eternal. His mentor taught him ways to make people tell you what you wanted and how to get it. Introduced him to people, powerful people, who needed people like them. In only a few years Atter had made a transition. He wasn't Atter anymore. Now he was just a moniker. He was a name on page no one could quite place. He was just "Mr. Black". He worked plenty of jobs for plenty of people. Sometimes he worked for both sides. Feeding them little trickles of good information to keep them snapping at phantoms just like in the old days. Sometimes he covered himself in a new identity working with terrible people until the time came to deliver them to whatever piece of shit god they wanted. He killed civilians in the name of freedom and terrorists in the name of tyranny. He was everywhere that The West, as he understood it, needed him to be. He watched speeches from the mouths of world leaders demanding peace, freedom, and enlightenment before he paid warlords to murder their rivals with weapons from that leader's country. It was glorious hypocrisy.
Eventually The West didn't matter anymore. It turned into proxy wars of minor groups supported by countries operating on behalf of whoever was paying their bills. It was wars for oil, diamonds, or drugs. It was about having tyrants in far off places that will bow to your will when you need them to. It finally hit Mr. Black. That's what it had always been. The West never really existed. Mr. Black lost something when he realized this. He grew bitter, cold, hateful. He'd been lied to. Betrayed by the one person who taught him everything he could do. He had been used and turned into a tool just like those warlords he was, all too often, eating dinner with. He hadn't seen that man in years. Heard he retired. Got some weird cushy job working lobbies for De Beers. Mr. Black went back to the United States for the first time in ten years, and, found the old man easily. He had gotten lazy, sloppy, weak. He stood over his sleeping body in the four-poster bed covered in silk sheets in his Miami high rise. He wanted to wake him up. Yell, scream, threaten, and get him to admit he had used him. That would not happen though. It was too late for that. It was remarkably easy to slip a powerful sedative into the old man's cocaine. The old man had done plenty and now would not rise until late the next day with a terrible headache. Instead Mr. Black just sighed. All things come to an end and all traitors had to be eliminated. He spun the suppressor onto his Sig, loaded with sub-sonic rounds, and, gave his old teacher the hollow point blessing. Painting his silken pillows with blood, skull, and brain matter.
Mr. Black moved to a new target. A new philosophy. Fight for what feels right. Go where the fires are the hottest and find out if they need retardant or gasoline.
Being in the darkest corners of the world a society make you come face to face with plenty of disturbing things. Most, maybe all, are just the desires of man run wild. However, sometimes you see something beyond just simple human darkness. there is something out there. Not God, Yahweh, Allah, Ganesha, or any other named thing you could guess. It's deeper, darker, whispered in incomprehensible non-sense that hold all too many meanings. The first time Mr. Black came face to face with this idea was in the mid nineties working with Kurdish seperatists in Turkey. At first he just assumed the whole village he was working with had some splinter ideas about the Great Allah, strange enough already, but, soon found things were not as they seemed. They spoke a language he had never heard and could not place it's origins in anything in the region. They smiled all too often. Everything was yellow. Hell, even the houses. The stone was your normal brown desert sand stone but they had gone out of their way to turn it a sickly yellow. They loved the color. Mr. Black, at the time under a different name of course, tried to convince them to abandon the color in favor of camouflage but they just laughed him off. The raids were finally what drove him to search farther. They slaughtered. they didn't care who or why. They reveled in the bloodshed and never once praised the ever-present Allah. So he looked. He searched the homes he wasn't allowed into. He found things he couldn't understand. Words scrawled on walls that made his head swim. Books that were bound in something too smooth, too... wet. He smelled sulfur and blood where there was none. He started to love yellow himself. He knew these people were not right. It was wrong here. It took him ten hours to make the devices he needed. That next night he turned the blasting cap and turned the village into a crater. 108 "people" died. Good riddance.
Personality: Mr. Black is not a person easily nailed down. He can turn aspect of his persona up and down like a dimmer switch and never makes himself too attached to a particular aspect of a persona to not be able to abandon it. The real trick of being someone else is to let other project what they expect onto you after all. Be who others expect and they will never expect when you give them two in the back of the head. However, inside Mr. Black in like a calculate. Not immensely smarter but always doing an internal calculus about what everyone around him is doing. Keeping his eyes and mind working to take in his surroundings and stealing the little secrets that people keep. Always working to compile lists of what makes people twitch, what they want, what they love, and how they sound. Either filing them away for later impersonation, blackmail, or elimination. Black values truth more than nearly anything else and jealously guards his own motives, thoughts, and past. Often he finds it easier to make up things to tell others about himself to satisfy their curiosity letting them think what they will and using that false-truth like a leash to make sure the dogs around him don't snap too close to his face or at the wrong targets. Mr. Black finds humor however in pretty much every situation. He's far from a machine. Often when he is with those whom he is not trying to dupe in some ways he can sometimes seem manic and possessing a shockingly dark sense of humor. Whenever he is confronted by something beyond his understanding his first reaction is always skepticism. After all, most things in this world are perfectly explained. Usually, when you see something odd it's an intentional fabrication designed to confuse and once the curtain is pulled back it's just some man who wants others to stare at him in wonder. Mr. Black endeavors to create a full picture. Understand the situation then make a call. if it does turn out to be something on the wrong side of logic and rationality then it has to be destroyed. There isn't room in this world for things that do not make sense. While Mr. Black's morals are on the blacker side of gray he does have lines that he will not cross. Any oath given by Mr. Black, and not given as part of a manipulation, he refuses to break. These promises are very few and very far between, after all, honesty is for soldiers and idiots. Additionally no information will be held back from his team if its absence might compromise the mission, assuming compromising the mission isn't his mission.
Skills:
Gifted(+5): Persuade, Disguise
Adept(+3): Awareness, Interrogation, Stealth
Average(+2): EoD, Criminology, SERE
Novice(+1): Hand-to-Hand, Crafting, Marksmanship: Handguns, Psychology
Languages: French(Marseille and Algerian dialect) English (Numerous American and English accent) Egyptian Arabic, Spanish(Mexican dialect), Ukrainian, Russian(Ukrainian accent), German(Low accent)
Contacts:
Anton "Zed" Guara: Cartel Sicario Operates out of Mexico City
Kyrsten Sinema: House of Representatives, AZ D (Casual affair maintained for connections)
Weaknesses:
Physical: Age: Mr. Black is old for an operator. Too old really. His strength, endurance, and agility aren't what they used to be and never will be again. he has to rely on others to do the heavy lifting.
Mental: Ruthless: Mr. Black is comfortable working outside of government intervention and on his own oversight. because of this he often is at odds when working with direct government operators. He is willing and un-phased by the deaths of civilians, peace officers, and other Geneva protected activities.. Success if his primary focus.
Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: Whatever passes for local normal clothing or a nice suit to look respectable when that needs to be done.
Weapons:Sig Sauer P320(9mm) compact, folding knife, garrote wire set into the wrist band of a watch.
Tools/Equipment:
Phones (normal and dedicated comms) pen, pen LED light, high power laser pointer, fake credentials or ID, pocket pepper spray, lock gun.
Operational Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: Same as normal day clothing though modified with military boots(if not already normal), balaclava, with overcoat, pancho, over-robe, or some kind of extra top layer to conceal carried equipment.
Weapons: Sig sauer P320 Compact(Sig .357 sub-sonic hollow points), USMC KABAR Fighting knife, Local group's favorite machine pistol or SMG with folding/retractable stock, hand held home-made explosives if time and supply allows and if needed.
Tools/Equipment: Same as normal loadout+, suppressor for Sig and SMG/machine pistol if available, light police issue kevlar vest, Sig rail flashlight laser sight combo, IR flashlight, folding light-duty gas mask, air-tight goggles, light molie mesh, X2 additional mags for both firearms, IR scope.
Age:48
Gender: Male
Appearance: Looking distinct is for people with the luxury of having identities. Atter on the other hand seems to have been almost born to be anyone anywhere. He stands at a rather average height of five foot ten with an average build. Dark brown hair starting to gray now, he often dyes to maintain a more youthful look when he needs it. He has light brown eyes set into a strangely forgettable face. He used to hate how terribly normal he looked, but, now he can see the real benefit to being forgotten. Despite having a knack for putting on any face he needs Mr. Black maintains a sense of who he is by keeping his loose and laid back stance in just about everything he does. Even the junk addled tweaker he's playing seems to have an odd air of ease even while pining for his next fix. The heartless road-side bomber posses a sense of serenity while screaming death to America. As of now the old agent has a close cropped corporate-sociopath hair cut. Letting the graying of his hair show through. His face is shaved perfectly smooth with the precision of an obsessive compulsive. He has the body of a part-time cross fitter, all the better to blend in with all the mid-life crisis consumed day-traders he was recently embedded in. With that all done though he's looking forward to a real change. Something grungier, with filth, like the bad old days in the first Desert Storm. Maybe a beard?
Agency/Organization: Maintains at least minor membership in numerous organizations both military and civilian including the Department of Agriculture and The NKA
Education: The best way to learn is to do. Atter didn't have much of a formal education in his early life. Learning his craft by imitating those around him and running scams in Marseille until he had enough skill and money to start a college education. A quest he quickly abandoned due to lack of enthusiasm about academic pursuits. After that his education became almost entirely practical.
Background: Born to a poor Parisian woman and a refugee man from Algeria. Atter found his early life in Marseille a testing affair. Both parents working as much as they possibly could just to try and scrape by in the gang infested French-African districts of the port city. Living in that strange blend of European and African; poor and rich; destroyed and rebuilt; gave the young man a quick grasp of how the world wasn't a place of consistency, meaning, or even justice. He learned quickly, and early, that in order to live here you had to take what you needed. He made a big show of joining his local block's gang and played the usual roles a child plays in gang-land operations. However, he knew the rules. He knew that the larger gangs around were going to eventually take their territory and rip up their supporters. Atter betrayed his gang. He fed information to the other gangs pitting them against, not only his own but, any other local gangs he had information to trade on. He did this for years. Helping to keep the slums in a prolonged state of street war and stability. His first taste of what he would later make his stock and trade. The situation was not made to last though. Eventually the Marseillian police grew tired of the criminal element and began a harsh crackdown. Atter, seeing potential for a real sense of order, was all too happy to help the police by providing tips. Soon enough, the criminals didn't rule the streets anymore, and, in the death throws of the gang-land rule his parents were killed in a market shoot out. In his early teens, Atter, found himself in a world alone. He only cried a little though. He cried because he told them not to go to the market. He told them to hide. He cried only a little because you can not control the idiocy of others. In the next years his skills changed to fit his new environment. You didn't need to sell out people for security. You just had to have the resources to buy it. He acquired those resources by becoming a doppelganger. He crafted himself into whatever and whoever he needed to be in order to yank on the soft spots of those with more than they needed. He took. He stole. He thrived. He tried to go to school. Tried to learn, but, found none of it exciting and even less profitable. He left college and ran more scams until he found an opponent too aware for the young thief. He found someone who did what Atter did but not for gain, he did it for something called The West. This man, this agent didn't turn Atter in. No, he found a useful asset. He used Atter. Taught him things. Then, when he was done in Marseille, he took him out of France. Took him into the world.
Atter moved with his mentor. He learned more and most of all he learned to understand that ideology was the only thing that mattered. Governments rose and fell, but, ideas were eternal. His mentor taught him ways to make people tell you what you wanted and how to get it. Introduced him to people, powerful people, who needed people like them. In only a few years Atter had made a transition. He wasn't Atter anymore. Now he was just a moniker. He was a name on page no one could quite place. He was just "Mr. Black". He worked plenty of jobs for plenty of people. Sometimes he worked for both sides. Feeding them little trickles of good information to keep them snapping at phantoms just like in the old days. Sometimes he covered himself in a new identity working with terrible people until the time came to deliver them to whatever piece of shit god they wanted. He killed civilians in the name of freedom and terrorists in the name of tyranny. He was everywhere that The West, as he understood it, needed him to be. He watched speeches from the mouths of world leaders demanding peace, freedom, and enlightenment before he paid warlords to murder their rivals with weapons from that leader's country. It was glorious hypocrisy.
Eventually The West didn't matter anymore. It turned into proxy wars of minor groups supported by countries operating on behalf of whoever was paying their bills. It was wars for oil, diamonds, or drugs. It was about having tyrants in far off places that will bow to your will when you need them to. It finally hit Mr. Black. That's what it had always been. The West never really existed. Mr. Black lost something when he realized this. He grew bitter, cold, hateful. He'd been lied to. Betrayed by the one person who taught him everything he could do. He had been used and turned into a tool just like those warlords he was, all too often, eating dinner with. He hadn't seen that man in years. Heard he retired. Got some weird cushy job working lobbies for De Beers. Mr. Black went back to the United States for the first time in ten years, and, found the old man easily. He had gotten lazy, sloppy, weak. He stood over his sleeping body in the four-poster bed covered in silk sheets in his Miami high rise. He wanted to wake him up. Yell, scream, threaten, and get him to admit he had used him. That would not happen though. It was too late for that. It was remarkably easy to slip a powerful sedative into the old man's cocaine. The old man had done plenty and now would not rise until late the next day with a terrible headache. Instead Mr. Black just sighed. All things come to an end and all traitors had to be eliminated. He spun the suppressor onto his Sig, loaded with sub-sonic rounds, and, gave his old teacher the hollow point blessing. Painting his silken pillows with blood, skull, and brain matter.
Mr. Black moved to a new target. A new philosophy. Fight for what feels right. Go where the fires are the hottest and find out if they need retardant or gasoline.
Being in the darkest corners of the world a society make you come face to face with plenty of disturbing things. Most, maybe all, are just the desires of man run wild. However, sometimes you see something beyond just simple human darkness. there is something out there. Not God, Yahweh, Allah, Ganesha, or any other named thing you could guess. It's deeper, darker, whispered in incomprehensible non-sense that hold all too many meanings. The first time Mr. Black came face to face with this idea was in the mid nineties working with Kurdish seperatists in Turkey. At first he just assumed the whole village he was working with had some splinter ideas about the Great Allah, strange enough already, but, soon found things were not as they seemed. They spoke a language he had never heard and could not place it's origins in anything in the region. They smiled all too often. Everything was yellow. Hell, even the houses. The stone was your normal brown desert sand stone but they had gone out of their way to turn it a sickly yellow. They loved the color. Mr. Black, at the time under a different name of course, tried to convince them to abandon the color in favor of camouflage but they just laughed him off. The raids were finally what drove him to search farther. They slaughtered. they didn't care who or why. They reveled in the bloodshed and never once praised the ever-present Allah. So he looked. He searched the homes he wasn't allowed into. He found things he couldn't understand. Words scrawled on walls that made his head swim. Books that were bound in something too smooth, too... wet. He smelled sulfur and blood where there was none. He started to love yellow himself. He knew these people were not right. It was wrong here. It took him ten hours to make the devices he needed. That next night he turned the blasting cap and turned the village into a crater. 108 "people" died. Good riddance.
Personality: Mr. Black is not a person easily nailed down. He can turn aspect of his persona up and down like a dimmer switch and never makes himself too attached to a particular aspect of a persona to not be able to abandon it. The real trick of being someone else is to let other project what they expect onto you after all. Be who others expect and they will never expect when you give them two in the back of the head. However, inside Mr. Black in like a calculate. Not immensely smarter but always doing an internal calculus about what everyone around him is doing. Keeping his eyes and mind working to take in his surroundings and stealing the little secrets that people keep. Always working to compile lists of what makes people twitch, what they want, what they love, and how they sound. Either filing them away for later impersonation, blackmail, or elimination. Black values truth more than nearly anything else and jealously guards his own motives, thoughts, and past. Often he finds it easier to make up things to tell others about himself to satisfy their curiosity letting them think what they will and using that false-truth like a leash to make sure the dogs around him don't snap too close to his face or at the wrong targets. Mr. Black finds humor however in pretty much every situation. He's far from a machine. Often when he is with those whom he is not trying to dupe in some ways he can sometimes seem manic and possessing a shockingly dark sense of humor. Whenever he is confronted by something beyond his understanding his first reaction is always skepticism. After all, most things in this world are perfectly explained. Usually, when you see something odd it's an intentional fabrication designed to confuse and once the curtain is pulled back it's just some man who wants others to stare at him in wonder. Mr. Black endeavors to create a full picture. Understand the situation then make a call. if it does turn out to be something on the wrong side of logic and rationality then it has to be destroyed. There isn't room in this world for things that do not make sense. While Mr. Black's morals are on the blacker side of gray he does have lines that he will not cross. Any oath given by Mr. Black, and not given as part of a manipulation, he refuses to break. These promises are very few and very far between, after all, honesty is for soldiers and idiots. Additionally no information will be held back from his team if its absence might compromise the mission, assuming compromising the mission isn't his mission.
Skills:
Gifted(+5): Persuade, Disguise
Adept(+3): Awareness, Interrogation, Stealth
Average(+2): EoD, Criminology, SERE
Novice(+1): Hand-to-Hand, Crafting, Marksmanship: Handguns, Psychology
Languages: French(Marseille and Algerian dialect) English (Numerous American and English accent) Egyptian Arabic, Spanish(Mexican dialect), Ukrainian, Russian(Ukrainian accent), German(Low accent)
Contacts:
Anton "Zed" Guara: Cartel Sicario Operates out of Mexico City
Kyrsten Sinema: House of Representatives, AZ D (Casual affair maintained for connections)
Weaknesses:
Physical: Age: Mr. Black is old for an operator. Too old really. His strength, endurance, and agility aren't what they used to be and never will be again. he has to rely on others to do the heavy lifting.
Mental: Ruthless: Mr. Black is comfortable working outside of government intervention and on his own oversight. because of this he often is at odds when working with direct government operators. He is willing and un-phased by the deaths of civilians, peace officers, and other Geneva protected activities.. Success if his primary focus.
Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: Whatever passes for local normal clothing or a nice suit to look respectable when that needs to be done.
Weapons:Sig Sauer P320(9mm) compact, folding knife, garrote wire set into the wrist band of a watch.
Tools/Equipment:
Phones (normal and dedicated comms) pen, pen LED light, high power laser pointer, fake credentials or ID, pocket pepper spray, lock gun.
Operational Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: Same as normal day clothing though modified with military boots(if not already normal), balaclava, with overcoat, pancho, over-robe, or some kind of extra top layer to conceal carried equipment.
Weapons: Sig sauer P320 Compact(Sig .357 sub-sonic hollow points), USMC KABAR Fighting knife, Local group's favorite machine pistol or SMG with folding/retractable stock, hand held home-made explosives if time and supply allows and if needed.
Tools/Equipment: Same as normal loadout+, suppressor for Sig and SMG/machine pistol if available, light police issue kevlar vest, Sig rail flashlight laser sight combo, IR flashlight, folding light-duty gas mask, air-tight goggles, light molie mesh, X2 additional mags for both firearms, IR scope.