Monsters and Men ApplicationCharacter You're Applying For:
"Quarry "Powers And Abilities:
No powers. Quarry is a trained assassin and army sniper who is an expert in shooting, hunting and tracking, and even investigation.Origin And Backstory (In A Maximum Of Four Paragraphs):
A successful high school baseball athlete without the grades for college, or the skill for the pros, Quarry enlisted in the Marines after school and married his high school sweetheart, Jennie. Quarry soon signed on with special forces. He became a member of the Marine Corps Forces Recon unit just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were heating up. He worked countless black operation across the two countries in the mid 2000's.
After waging war for so long, Quarry finally returned home for peace and could not find it. He was still haunted by the things he'd done in the Middle East and he longed for a return to that violent lifestyle. His disillusionment led to angst and his wife began to seek comfort elsewhere. When Quarry found out that his wife was cheating on him Quarry went to confront the man and killed him.
Quarry was in the process of disposing of the body when a man approached him. He simply called himself Broker and he was the the head of an organization that provided many black services for those in need. Broker said that he had been watching Quarry for a while and liked what he saw. He would make the body disappear if Quarry would come to work for him as an "independent contractor." Although she could never prove it, Quarry's wife suspected he had killed her lover and left.
Now, Quarry works as a hitman and muscle for hire in Broker's mysterious organization and, after years of work, is chaffing under the older man's strict rule.Supporting Characters:Broker
-- Quarry's handler and head of a nationwide organization of assassins, drug dealers, and thieves.Abby
-- Broker's wife and currently Quarry's lover.Boyd
-- Quarry's assassin partner. Transgender woman.Parker
-- Thief and Quarry's associate.Character Picture:Sample Post:Chicago
Quarry cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and he began to settle in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a building that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low. Joe Sampson had led him here. Sampson, a mid-level drug dealer with the Chicago Outfit, had engaged Quarry for his services. A quartet of stick-up boys had been harassing Sampson’s men for almost a month, bootjacking drugs and cash and becoming a serious thorn in his side. It took Sampson a hot minute to figure out there was an inside man.
The inside man, Little Roy Lewis, was using the robberies to fund his own drug habit. When Joe found out, he’d called up Quarry and agreed to pay him to close out four accounts. A lot of guys who hired Quarry talked like that. They used vague words like ‘closing an account’ or ‘settling a debt.’ Quarry imagined it was because they didn’t want to use the word kill. It made it real if they said it, and guys like Sampson and all the others thought of themselves as being above it. And, Quarry figured, they kind of were. After all, they were hiring him weren’t they? He’d gotten on Little Roy’s trail that night and followed him across the Southside until he disappeared into the building. That had been a little after nine. And so he waited.
He waited until nearly forty thirty in the morning before he made his move. KGB time, they called it. The old Soviet secret police always committed their arrests and assassinations between four and five in the morning. It was the sweet spot where night was beginning to fade away, but morning was still not quite there yet. Even most night owls were soundly asleep by four AM.
Quarry slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and carried a Beretta with a suppressor attached to the end under his coat. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly. Quarry pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his nose when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrine. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. It was all inside a gym bag. At least two pounds of heroin wrapped in cellophane. Recovery was very rarely part of his job, but Sampson was willing to pay for it. Alongside the stash, Quarry found nearly twenty thousand in tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills, and four machine pistols. Quarry tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and slung it over his shoulder.
He slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Flashbacks went through his mind, killing a Bosnian national in the 90's with a sniper rifle, garroting an Al-Qaeda cutout in Iraq. Quarry didn’t believe in the stereotype of born killers, but he was a killer now thanks to Uncle Sam. Like a chunk of coal, the government had applied pressure and polished him up to turn him into a sparkly diamond of murderous potential.
The four guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. He kept the flashlight beam low and aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off four quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, four bullets exploding the four men's heads. He fired off four more to each man's heart to be sure he was dead before calmly walking out into the early morning air. Quarry tucked the gun into his coat and climbed into the car. He drove six blocks away before burying the gun in a trashcan, and six more blocks before he dumped his gloves in another trashcan.