DJAtomika — Roleplayer Guild

"You listen to me, punk. I've seen more death than you could ever imagine. Now, if you don't want to be a part of that history, back off."

| Name/Nicknames |
 "Christopher Francis Hurk. Lotta people just call me Hurk though."

| Race |
 "Werewolf. Y'think the guys would've caught on, and I think they have, but they're cool with it."

| Age |
 "34."

| Appearance |
 "I'm five nine, with dark woody brown hair, scruffy and messy. Light gray eyes, mostly from my turning. Skin's...normal white man colour, if a little tan. Got some callouses on my knuckles from dirty work, scar over my nose too.

Unlike the guys I work with, I prefer more casual clothing. I normally prefer wearing a turtleneck sweater most days, with jeans and work boots and full fingered gloves. Got a little brass locket my dad left me too, it's on a collar I wear around my neck. Got a little bracelet too, small thing, wooden cubes that spell my name around my right wrist."

| Personality |
 "I'm an alright guy, I guess. I get very protective of my friends, especially people that have stuck by me even though they know what I really am. I like the friends I've made over the years, and I'd hate to see them leave.

I also love my good ol' fashioned rock music from, like, the 80s and 90s. I love hanging out with my friends, having a meal or a drink, long walks in the park to admire nature, um, the sound of the ocean too. If I'm on a job, I'm dedicated, although things do distract me a bit easily."

| Bio |
 "I was 17 when I was turned. I was out with my father on a hunting trip when, one night, I was pounced on and mauled liberally by one of those big angry fuzz monsters. He fought it off with a silver knife, but by then I'd had the werewolf curse in my blood. He didn't care. He took care of me, locked me in a meat locker during the full moons, and when he passed away he left me with his locket with a picture of our family in it. Our mom passed on early in my life, when I was still very young. She went of breast cancer, and when she did, dad broke inside. I guess that was why he spent so much time with me.

After he went though, I kinda lost my way in life. Santa Somabra was a big city, still growing at the time, but I didn't feel any...connections with it any more. That was when I chose to enlist.

I was sent to Afghanistan on my first tour. Spent eight months there, fighting turban-headed extremists hellbent on removing the good guys from the equation over there. And every month, for one night I had to go AWOL because of my curse. Back then, it wasn't much of a problem; people didn't ever think there would be werewolves in the military, and in that warzone our rest was rightfully given. No one paid any mind if a soldier disappeared in the night, as long as they were back in their beds by morning. That's what I did, and I lasted my whole deployment surviving with my curse.

It was during my third tour in the Afghan provinces that I met Anthony Alonzo. Awesome guy, first real best friend I ever had, and the first man I told about my curse. He didn't mind at all, as  long as it didn't bother anyone or kill any of our own men. After that tour was over, I'd spent about five years in total in Afghanistan, and frankly I was aching to go home. With Alonzo in tow, of course. By then we were...something more. Not sure how much you're gonna judge me about that, but Alonzo and I were together when we got back to Santa Somabra. He moved in with me and stayed with me the whole time.

Looking for work after my five years of war was hard, especially with the stress and twitchy fingers from all the fighting I had to do. Thankfully, Alonzo knew a guy who knew a guy who hooked us up with the Martovannis as guards. We were given a nice, hefty pay packet every month to wander around their opulent mansion, day or night, or to stand at the gate to receive visitors. Me and him, we did that for a few more years, thought I'd be stuck as one of them for life. Wasn't the case though. That was around the time we met Andy DiMaggio. Scary bastard, for a zombie. Me and Alonzo, we helped the guy out. Brought power back to the city, found his old friend too. Then we were given the task to help them with their werewolf problem.

Now, the Hunters. Those guys, I didn't care for, even with my own curse. That night, even as I was struggling to hold back my curse, I went out with the boys one last time.

That was when my lover died. Sacrificed himself to save the rest of us from a gruesome, horrible death.

After that night, I felt like dying. I was broken inside, without a reason to continue living. Then I saw that Andy and his friend Benjamin had separated from Bloodbloom after their "contract" was done. They'd gotten paid in full, then made their own bodyguard agency, whole nine yards. They started recruiting some of the better operators and free-lancers in Santa Somabra, and me with nothing better to do with my life, decided to join them for one last hurrah."

| Other |
 "I'm the most modern of the regular bunch, so I happen to have and use some modern weapons. Beretta M9 pistol, was my sidearm in the army and it's served me ever faithfully since. Got myself an AR15 too, the commercialised one since American gun laws prohibit civilians from owning automatic firearms. Also have a Taurus revolver, part of the "service issue" that came with working for the Boys."

@Kingfisher Hey dude, remember him?

"Listen buddy, I've been around as long as Santa Somabra's been a city. Seen big shots come and go, seen fortunes made and lost. This city's a hellhole, no denying it. Only thing that matters is what you make of it."

| Name/Nicknames |
"Andy Fontaine diMaggio. But to those in the know, they know me as Font. Everyone calls me Andy. Just Andy."

| Race |
"I'm a fuckin' zombie, what d'you think?"

| Age |
"Y'know? I'm not really sure myself. I've been around for a while since the city got started as a city, then I died and got rezzed, um, so I think I'm about 90 ish. It doesn't matter to me anyway, I can't age, I'm not even alive to begin with."

| Appearance |
"Where to start? I'm five feet ten, give or take an inch or two, with salt-and-pepper hair. Funny how it's all stayed up there even though I'm dead. Can't grow, can't die, so it's like I've got a perpetual widow's peak. Cool beans.

Anyway, I'm from a long time ago, so I dress with the times. Slick black fedora, with a white band around the body of the hat. Got a playing card in there, the Jack of Clubs. Got a white tie, black shirt, black vest, black suit jacket with a white pocket square. White scarf. Black suit pants, black shoes, black socks, black gloves. Black everything. All the better to hide my deadness from the world.

I'm not as decayed as that picture up there either. Most I got is a whole chunk missing off my right cheek, it exposes my jaw and teeth and everything. And then there's my chest, got a hole clean through where my heart used to be. I'll get to the why in a bit."

| Personality |
"Oh hell I'm not taking some psyche test am I? Ah screw it.

Some people say I'm slick. Others say I'm cruel. Whatever the case, that's me when I'm on the job. I gotta be, y'know? My line 'o work, chump needs to be both 'a those, with a good dash of cunning put into there too. This city's a cruel mistress. Guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do to survive.

Off the job? Sure I'll drink with you. Sure I'll chat. I'm real nice if you want to get to know a walking corpse. Just don't test me. There's only so far I'll go before I have to slap a bitch."

| Bio |
"History, huh? Well lemme share some with you, kiddo.

I was human once. Way back when the mob ran this town. No, not those idiot ogres, the real mob. Humans. People. People who wouldn't hesitate to put a pair of concrete shoes onto rats and send them to the bottom of Butcher Bay. People who would gun down their opposition by the truck load. A brutal, violent time, it was.

I was an enforcer for the biggest family in Somabra. The Santoni family, real big shots. The money they raked in from the bootleg liquor and guns they ran built this city, kiddo. It built the foundation for many, many things. However, not all of it was smooth sailing. I was the guy Mr. Santoni called when he had a problem he couldn't solve on his own.

Yeah, yeah I whacked people. What's so surprising about that? These days it's hard to find someone that hasn't killed someone else on the street. I've sent many a crooked man to hell, either with a bullet or a blackjack to the back of the head. Mr Santoni never let me put concrete shoes on anyone though, that was his shtick.

One day, he sent me to the mansion of a rival family. He wanted me to whack them all. Sent a crew of guys with me to make sure the job went right.

Long story short? We fucked with the Nyctari. And they fucked us back.

When I woke up I was tied to a chair in the basement of the mansion. Fella interrogating me was a sucker, of course. They all were. Asshole wanted to know who I was working for.

Rule number one about working with organised crime: never rat. If I'd ratted, I'd have been the one with a pair of tailor made stone footwear sitting at the bottom of the bay. So I kept my mouth shut, and boy oh boy did they try. Cut me everywhere, stabbed me, even branded my cheek.

Then one of the others caved and suddenly we were all expendable. The sucker tore my throat open and drank me dry, then staked me in the heart and buried my body in a plywood box under the dirt.

I didn't know how long I was out, I only knew that when I came to, I was pissed. Broke out of that box and the dirt like a demon enraged, but by then everything was over. Santoni was dead. Family scattered. City under the Nyctari. I found myself out of work. And also very, very dead but still standing and moving. The only thing that had prevented me from being a sucker like them was the stake in the heart. Turned me into a dead man walking instead.

So I survived the only way I knew how: whacking people. I sold my services as a gun for hire, destroying lives for money like I'd always done, and still do today. People in the undercity know me. I know people.

You be thankful I'm not on a job right now, kiddo. I wouldn't be talking to you otherwise."

| Other |
"Well I guess my personal armaments will do. I got myself an old Thompson, nice little Chicago Typewriter. Classic, that one. I use it every job I got. Other than that, I have myself one of those newfangled pistols, the M9. Dinky little thing but it's accurate. Also got a Benelli twelve gauge pump action too, and a sawn off in a coat. And if all those don't work, I got a pair of knuckles, for the real dirty work.

I know people too. Gun runners, Dust dealers, you name it. The undercity is one place I feel safe in, kid. You make connections, and people will know when you go down. Sometimes people will know beforehand so they can warn ya.

I tell ya, in all my years this city hasn't changed much. Sure the people at the top of the pile of shit are different, but it's still a pile of shit in the end. Can still do the same things to get what you want here, just like the old days. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

"Now you listen, tough guy, you can burn me, hurt me, do whatever you want. But you so much as lay a finger on the people I consider family and I'll see to it that you are cut into pieces and fed to the fishes! Understood?"

| Name/Nicknames |
 "Benjamin Franklin Kiddo, but eh, everyone calls me Kiddo. Or Ben. Whichever."

| Race |
"Human, or eh, I used to be. Now I'm a zombie, hehe, funny how things turned out for me."

| Age |
"Hmm, now that's a toughie. I was in the business a while after I left, uh, then I got capped so, hmm, I guess I'm roughly about 109 now. I'm older than Andy by a few, but hey, when did that stop us, eh?"

| Appearance |
"I'm six feet two. With about a hundred and eighty pounds of meat on me. Hey, nobody said I was fit and frankly I ain't. Got brown hair, short, swept back a little. Turning grey too, cus I'm old like that. I'm also as pasty white as the frosting on a cake. Being dead does that to ya, heh heh.

Anyway, unlike Andy, I prefer to dress less, eh, striking to the eye. Got myself a nice brown trench coat, like the one the old guard used to wear. A fedora, dark brown leather, tanned too, with a blue band around the body. Navy blue vest, white shirt, blue tie. Brown slacks and loafers too. Andy says the ensemble makes me look like a policeman but hey, I'm no good guy, I'm just as bad as the rest of 'em. Oh, and I like to have a flower pinned to the chest of my coat or whatever jacket I wear too. Fancy stuff.

I got killed by gettin' shot in the chest, I'll get to that later, but that left me with a nice little connect-the-dots puzzle on my body. Scar over my neck too, from when I got my throat slit before, and I got an eye out from when, eh, I got somethin' put in there. Something sharp and real painful."

| Personality |
"Well, eh, Andy says I'm more a family man than a mobster, and frankly he ain't wrong. In my youth, however, I used to be a real pepper pot, oh yeah, a real fiery action guy type. He and I were like the two sides of the same coin only, he was the calmer, colder side and I was the angry, fiery side. We worked real good together, oh yeah, but more on that later.

When I was younger I was quite hot headed, but now? Do you know of somethin' called tranquil fury, kid? I may be, eh, old and dead but I still got that fire in me, and it's a big fire too. I get angry, ooh you better watch out kid. Like lighting fireworks in a china shop, cause you know things are gonna break and the inside is gonna be a mess, just like how I leave the people that cross me. Where d'you think Andy got so ruthless, eh? He got it from me when he was just startin', that's where, heh heh."

| Bio |
"I lived through the age of the Santoni family. Watched them rise and fall, I did. Back then I didn't know Andy at all, I only heard rumours about him. The last I heard of Andy in the 20s was that he got capped real good doing something he wasn't supposed to. That was when the family fell. I was in my early twenties then. Heard all the stories over the radio.

I got into mob business shortly after. Found myself working as a triggerman for a smaller family, the Martovannis. Back then the family wasn't the titan it is today, they were real small, just barely treadin' the surface of the organised crime world. Papa Martovanni was a, eh, pasta chef, and a damn good one too, but he ran a business on the side sellin' liquor and cigarettes, the illegal stuff. Traded in bodies too, from what I heard. Guy was paid good money in exchange for bringing in blacks from down south or from across the oceans, or yellows from Asia. Anyone that disagreed with Papa, he sent me to deal with 'em, and I got good at it too. Real good. This was the 30s, mind you. America was still buildin' its way to the top.

Then, two decades later, when I've been working for the family for ages, who shows up but the legend himself. Andy diMaggio, and he'd seen better days, whoo boy. By then, Papa's empire had expanded to accomodate the better part of Somabra's growing Downtown district, and he was lookin' for some new muscle to help him keep things under control. So I, eh, took Andy in. I offered him a job under Papa, said somethin' about, you know, eh, keepin' the faith. He bought it, of course, but there was somethin' different about 'im, something that had grown within him after he died thirty years ago. Of course, it might've just been him bein' sad over being a zombie, but I could be wrong.

For fifteen years we worked together, me and him, tearin' up the Somabra strip like nobody's business. We were bonafide triggermen alright, and by the fifties and sixties we were as close as close could get without either of us bein' a queer, heh heh. By then, though, I had myself a dame. Love of my life, complete with two kids! I was already lettin' Andy do most of the work so I could have some time with my family, but two years of that and I realised I had to get out. So I talked to the Martovanni head. Papa had passed away about a year after Andy came in, so leadership was now under his son, Porfiri Senior. He told me that sure, I'd been around for ages and now that I had a family I was free to go, under the protection of too, so I had a lifeline in case things went south. I bid a fond farewell to Andy and we parted ways. He stayed with the Martovannis for a while, and I moved. I took my dame and my kids and went upstate, to Washington. Settled down there, made peace.

That wasn't the end of things, however.

A while later, maybe, eh, in the mid eighties or nineties, I can't remember, my dame passed away. She'd gotten old, bless her soul, and her years of smokin' had gotten to her. Lungs as black as the ashes she became after she was cremated. By then my kids were out of state, hell they were already out of college and workin', makin' their own families. It left me, an old goon, alone and unwanted. So I did the only thing left in me.

I went back to Santa Somabra.

Biggest mistake of my life.

As soon as I got back and settled down, I got contacted by the Martovannis. Said that, in the time I'd moved out, someone had put out a hit on me. A hit, in that day and age, could you believe it? Of course I got scared, I tried to defend myself, but in the end, what's an old man do against an attacker who's fifty years his junior?

The hitman, I can't remember who he was, ambushed me when I was coming home from buying groceries. Guy attacked me with a knife at first, shoved it through my eye, that's how I got this scar here. I fought him off and tried to run, but he chased me down with a shotgun. Cornered me in an alley with no escape. I got a chest full of buckshot and a cut throat for my troubles. That ended me real quick.

I was buried in Somabra City Cemetery, in a small marked grave on the edge of the whole place, thanks to the family. Some of the old guard had found out about my death, found my body and they put me in a box and into the dirt, where I belonged.

Or, at least, where I thought I belonged.

I stayed dead for all of twenty years, I found out later. I never remembered dyin', actually. I remembered gettin' shot, and everythin' fading to black. Then it felt like an eternity of black, floating in a sea of nothing 'n tryin' to get my bearings. After that, suddenly, I felt myself become solid again. I felt the box against my hands, crumbling into mulch in the dirt around me, but I felt seventy years younger! I scrambled out of my grave like a shot and woke to a changed city. Of course, comin' back from the dead was a shocker, moreso when you realise your body's kinda gone pale and you look like death.

I poked around the old city, the Undercity, lookin' for my old contacts. Eventually I found one in Paul Santos. This was 'fore I got embroiled in the city again, see, and he told me that Andy was still around. I never did have the heart to see him again, so I skulked around in the shadows, doing odd jobs.

Then, out of the blue, I got approached by a lady. A fellow undead, just like I was, but she was a looker, hoo boy, lemme tell ya, gazongas for days! Anyway, she had a proposition for me: be a triggerman for her and in return I could have a comfortable life back or be put back in the ground. I couldn't refuse so sure I said yes. It was only later that I found out I was workin' for that skank, the Cannoness. It was after I bumped into Andy at the power station.

Now, eh, I'm back in business, back together with my best partner. And we're gonna tear some shit up."

| Other |
"Unlike Andy, I ain't so old fashioned. I prefer the newer weapons, like them semi-automatic pistols and machine guns and assault rifles and stuff, but I can't help but do some things the old way. I keep myself armed with a .44 Magnum Special, one of those huge hand cannons. Keep it with me at all times, even got my name engraved on the side of the barrel. Was my old gun, actually. I'd been buried with it, as a show of faith by the Martovannis. Other than that, I keep an AK-47 too, and a Benelli M1014 automatic shotgun. Heavy arms, but they're reliable and easy to keep.

I've got contacts too, just like he does. Most of the Undercity network knows who I am, more by reputation than anything else. But where Andy earned his by respect, I earned mine through fear.

And now that I'm back, my reputation's on the line. People here know about me, see, and with Andy, the two of us were the most dangerous men in the city for fifteen years straight when we were cruisin'. I'd hate to let that sorta thing go in this day and age. These newfangled crime bosses need a show of good ol' fashioned mobster rep. That'll show 'em how to really run things."

"You listen to me, punk. I've seen more death than you could ever imagine. Now, if you don't want to be a part of that history, back off."

| Name/Nicknames |
 "Christopher Francis Hurk. Lotta people just call me Hurk though."

| Race |
 "Werewolf. Y'think the guys would've caught on, and I think they have, but they're cool with it."

| Age |
 "34."

| Appearance |
 "I'm five nine, with dark woody brown hair, scruffy and messy. Light gray eyes, mostly from my turning. Skin's...normal white man colour, if a little tan. Got some callouses on my knuckles from dirty work, scar over my nose too.

Unlike the guys I work with, I prefer more casual clothing. I normally prefer wearing a turtleneck sweater most days, with jeans and work boots and full fingered gloves. Got a little brass locket my dad left me too, it's on a collar I wear around my neck. Got a little bracelet too, small thing, wooden cubes that spell my name around my right wrist."

| Personality |
 "I'm an alright guy, I guess. I get very protective of my friends, especially people that have stuck by me even though they know what I really am. I like the friends I've made over the years, and I'd hate to see them leave.

I also love my good ol' fashioned rock music from, like, the 80s and 90s. I love hanging out with my friends, having a meal or a drink, long walks in the park to admire nature, um, the sound of the ocean too. If I'm on a job, I'm dedicated, although things do distract me a bit easily."

| Bio |
 "I was 17 when I was turned. I was out with my father on a hunting trip when, one night, I was pounced on and mauled liberally by one of those big angry fuzz monsters. He fought it off with a silver knife, but by then I'd had the werewolf curse in my blood. He didn't care. He took care of me, locked me in a meat locker during the full moons, and when he passed away he left me with his locket with a picture of our family in it. Our mom passed on early in my life, when I was still very young. She went of breast cancer, and when she did, dad broke inside. I guess that was why he spent so much time with me.

After he went though, I kinda lost my way in life. Santa Somabra was a big city, still growing at the time, but I didn't feel any...connections with it any more. That was when I chose to enlist.

I was sent to Afghanistan on my first tour. Spent eight months there, fighting turban-headed extremists hellbent on removing the good guys from the equation over there. And every month, for one night I had to go AWOL because of my curse. Back then, it wasn't much of a problem; people didn't ever think there would be werewolves in the military, and in that warzone our rest was rightfully given. No one paid any mind if a soldier disappeared in the night, as long as they were back in their beds by morning. That's what I did, and I lasted my whole deployment surviving with my curse.

It was during my third tour in the Afghan provinces that I met Anthony Alonzo. Awesome guy, first real best friend I ever had, and the first man I told about my curse. He didn't mind at all, as  long as it didn't bother anyone or kill any of our own men. After that tour was over, I'd spent about five years in total in Afghanistan, and frankly I was aching to go home. With Alonzo in tow, of course. By then we were...something more. Not sure how much you're gonna judge me about that, but Alonzo and I were together when we got back to Santa Somabra. He moved in with me and stayed with me the whole time.

Looking for work after my five years of war was hard, especially with the stress and twitchy fingers from all the fighting I had to do. Thankfully, Alonzo knew a guy who knew a guy who hooked us up with the Martovannis as guards. We were given a nice, hefty pay packet every month to wander around their opulent mansion, day or night, or to stand at the gate to receive visitors. Me and him, we did that for a few more years, thought I'd be stuck as one of them for life. Wasn't the case though. That was around the time we met Andy DiMaggio. Scary bastard, for a zombie. Me and Alonzo, we helped the guy out. Brought power back to the city, found his old friend too. Then we were given the task to help them with their werewolf problem.

Now, the Hunters. Those guys, I didn't care for, even with my own curse. That night, even as I was struggling to hold back my curse, I went out with the boys one last time.

That was when my lover died. Sacrificed himself to save the rest of us from a gruesome, horrible death.

After that night, I felt like dying. I was broken inside, without a reason to continue living. Then I saw that Andy and his friend Benjamin had separated from Bloodbloom after their "contract" was done. They'd gotten paid in full, then made their own bodyguard agency, whole nine yards. They started recruiting some of the better operators and free-lancers in Santa Somabra, and me with nothing better to do with my life, decided to join them for one last hurrah."

| Other |
 "I'm the most modern of the regular bunch, so I happen to have and use some modern weapons. Beretta M9 pistol, was my sidearm in the army and it's served me ever faithfully since. Got myself an AR15 too, the commercialised one since American gun laws prohibit civilians from owning automatic firearms. Also have a Taurus revolver, part of the "service issue" that came with working for the Boys."

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