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I'm also interested in joining. I'm a huge One Piece fan.

Full Name: Amos, plus a whole bunch he never uses.

Nicknames/Aliases: Amy

Age: 34

Gender: Male

Description: Amos looks at people like he doesn't care if they were to stay, leave, or drop down dead in front of him, save for the handful of folk he respects. Brown hair, and familial dark eyes make his face fairly unremarkable, save for the tech embedded in a few places around his face. His face grows a bit more remarkable when his energy activates and his left eye begins to glow with an unsettling read hue. Beyond this he's long, dark, and mean, with a slight snarl that tends to form on its own.

Personality: Gruff, standoffish, mean, with a humor that exists solely for jabs and sarcasm, Amos isn't, and doesn't want to be your friend. If he likes you though, he'll treat you well. He's not the type to start an issue, and prefers to keep fairly quiet.

Skills: Amos is a skilled hand to hand combatant, and close range marksman. His weapon of choice is two 50.Cal revolvers, slung low on either side of his hips. If these aren't available, he's more than happy to beat something to death with any available instrument, or his bare, mechanical hands.

Weaknesses: Amos's strength comes from his cybernetic enhancements, and in theory, someone of significant scientific intellect could figure out how to disable him.

Brief History: Amos is a former member of a fairly famous mercenary group one that became quiet famous, due to the feats of his ancestor, a human male who single-handedly slew a transformed Jotun, at the cost of his own life. The modern incarnation built around this legend had slowly transformed into a public service group, one that focus on conserving life during times of disaster, and providing intelligence for institutions liked the blessed.

Amos, preferring the blood and grit of real combat, broke off from this institution, and struck out on his own, trading his talents for coin until fate put him in the path of the Blessed.

There was an incident, and he was recruited.

Later, he signed up for an experimental program, which left Amos with a body enhanced by the very best Blessed technology. Human technology, to combat the worst of what the inhuman world could throw at them.

Other: Enjoys smoking. Close friends with Clifton.
Oren's plan made sense to Mako, he could tell this really wasn't her first rodeo. She was one of the few that had been in these kind of high stakes situations, he could tell. Shame the other two experienced fighters had been blown to pieces. Makorai took a deep breath, and prepared his rune, till looking at his other team member. He'd keep her alive for this run. That was his solemn, silent promise to himself, and to her. That wasn't a dig at her experience, she clearly had it by the way she could focus her power, but the simple fact that a P.I. would never have a reason to be ground zero during a Jotun incident.

"I got your back Dawn." He responded, softly.

His eyes closed, but his world wasn't darkness. There was still the muted glow of the sunlight lighting his eyelids. Next came a length of fabric, one that looked like it had been torn from something larger, and expensive. He tied it around his eyes, securing it firmly in the back.

Makorai took a deep breath, and the rune on his forehead glowed. In his minds eye, Makorai could see a scene unfold from all angles, he could see Amity's face, twisted in rage, he could see the Jotun, focused on tearing her opponent apart.

He could see the chaos of Dawn's illusion SWAT teams busting in.

His hands blurred around his weapon, switching ammunition and tweaking the firing mechanism to switch from bolt action to semi-automatic.


The future wasn't a passive stream. It was active, it could change on the fly. It could even be influenced.

Staying beside Dawn, Makorai raised his rifle, and began to fire into the building, shooting with a sight far beyond his mortal eyes. High caliber rounds ripped through fence and wall alike, each one passing inches away from Amity, and toward the vicinity of the Jotun, enunciating the threat Dawn's phantoms posed. No bullet would hit his teammate. He knew where she'd be, seconds before she did.
It was as Makorai looked toward Dawn expectedly, waiting for her input on how they should proceed, when he heard the explosion. A body soared past his field of vision, and landed with a wet slap on the adjacent pavement. As Makorai looked over, surprise clear cut on his lightly reddened face, blood began to pool around the body. The skull had been split by the concrete, which was quickly being soaked by fluid and brain matter. Eyes wide, his brain identified the corpse from recent memory. It was that kid, the strange one who was kind of creepy.

Well now, he was kind of dead.

A leg had fallen in front of him. He hadn't noticed in light of Volkir's final entrance. Mutely, he bent down and lightly touched the metal plated boot attached to it. His hand burned, but he hardly noticed. This boot beneath his palm had been attached to that one girl. The one with the heart on her sleeve she had so desperately tried to hide behind bravado. Makorai could feel his stomach drop.

Makorai stood up, and wordlessly took a deep breath, followed by a sudden flinging of his now empty sake bottle. It struck the top of the burning house and shattered.

"How about everyone stays the fuck out of there other than the girl who pulls off doors." He forced his words out through gritted teeth. If he had been greener he'd have asked himself how everything had just gone to shit. He knew now. This is how it happened. He'd repress it for now, repress their bodies and repress the events so he could focus, so he could shoot with a steady mind.

Makorai was foolish, but he wasn't entirely foolhardy. The flare, while obvious, and ignorant as some would rightly say, wasn't a symbol of brashness, but rather, a beacon for the brawn and booty that made up a point of the pyramid that was his team. He heard the rest of the team settle in behind him, moments before Amity struck ground like a living bolt of lightning, tearing the asphalt beneath her like it was gravel beneath a skidding truck.

Ahoy the- He stopped immediately, her eyes mirrored those of a beast more than a woman. He recognized that look, and in that recognition understood she wasn't going to hear anything he said.

He quickly realized that coordination was out of the question. Which was fine with him. He didn't have much of a head for planning.

"Dawn!" He called back, waving at her. "I'm..I'm probably just going to start shooting it so...I don't know."

He had planned on checking who was inside of the house before he started shooting, and, if possible, getting them out. Since that had already been accomplished by Mr Clean Cut, he figured it was time to start shooting shit.

Going into the house was a no go. Too hot, too much smoke. Hard for him to see. Instead. He'd find a vantage point.

"What do you want to do? Because I'm not running folk out of the area, we got enough people doing that."

I've been watching the OOC since I voiced my interested and pitched my character, so if a spot pops up, let me know.
Choppers and the like were for tough and guys who liked to wear leather jackets and hang out with other tough guys enjoying the company of their other tough guy male companions. Makorai's bike was a different machine from the fashion over function variety you'd see on the street. It was a dual-sport, an off-road bike with tires to handle the hot pavement, and the grassy hills the sniper favoured when he was out of the city. Complete with enough trappings to make it street legal.

Not that it was street legal of course, he hadn't paid for it to be licensed in quite some years.

Makorai had torn out of the gate, his body was the balance, the ballast, thrown to the opposite side of the bike, white knuckling the handlebars as he threw the thing to the ground, forcing the bike left while hitting speeds that threatened critical injuries if he lost control.

He brought the machine back up, and accelerated, raking his along its frame as he bobbed and weaved through the vehicles heading toward the disaster. Luckily, but predictably, most of the traffic was heading away from the Jotun. Not towards it.

His hand felt into his jacket, and he withdrew his cell phone, he dialed without looking.

The conversation was brief. A friend of his said she, and the other masons were okay. Jotun had left, gone down Highlands Boulevard from what she had heard.

Rather than indicate he was turning left, he just increased spead and swung over into the other lane. That's when he saw her. Like an earth-borne comet he saw a streak of familiar color rush over his head, and into the general vicinity that he was traveling in.

Spirits, if she could do that..

Makorai's bike slowed to a cruising speed as he rounded off onto one of the poorer districts of the city. Minus the wanton destruction he expected, it was near impossible to gauge where the Jotun was exactly. Eye witness had placed the Jotun here but...

"HEY" He yelled.He was at below cruising speed now, yelling amidst the sirens.

"I don't know what the hell you want!, But I'll give it to you if you come out! Let's fucking talk! Have a drink! I know you Jotun can talk!"

His vocal chords strained as he raised his pitch above the background noise.

He steadied the bike with one hand, and retrieved his bottle from the folds of his jacket. He uncorked it, and took a generous gulp. "OR ARE CIVILIANS EASIER PREY FOR A COWARDLY GIANT?!"

He parked for a moment, and discharged his weapon into the air, it wasn't a rifle round, so there was neither stench nor sound of gunpowder. It was a flare round, sailing high into the sky, and exploding into a cascade of red.

He didn't yell in surprise, and perhaps that was the strangest bit about his reaction. The effects of the sweetness were common indeed, the popularity of honey had done well to bring it, and its users into the familiarity of every day life in London. That did not however, detract from the fact that a person had materialized inches from Montana, and inevitably, onto his table. The couriers eyes had gone wide, pushing his eyebrows into a surprised expression that ended below the nose, where his mouth remained in its stoic line.

Something had slipped into his hand when she appeared. It was reflex more than anything else. Within second plus a beat he had studied her person. Her clothes, as brash as they were together, were well tailored, with the material boasting a thread count that exceeded what the average person could, or would care to afford. A noble of some measure or kind. This was deduced rather quickly, which lead to the something being put away.

Her sudden appearance had done more than startle him, she had gotten the attention of the entire room, which had, much to his displeasure, put him as the side act to her attention.

Montana placed his finger on the puddle of drink left behind by her descent, and lifted it slowly. He brought the finger to his lips, where he briefly tasted the small bit that had collected on his digit.

The woman who discerned the boys intention had come around to, her eyes offered an apology, and in response, he gave a small. slightly askew head nod.

"It seems you overshot into my, and my potential employees food." His voice was evenly toned.

"and the dinner choice you've given us afterward is hardly sufficient." He concluded, referencing her proximity to his plate.
Montana had simply nodded and raised his glass a little higher in response to Jeffery's promise of aid in the future. While some people were filled with empty promise, this lad had a rather genuine quality to his personality, one that Montana appreciated, but also understood might land him into some trouble on London's streets. He doubted the young mercenary was unaware of the trouble such principles could bring, as it was a trait that had likely followed him since birth. Principles weren't things one had for convenience after all.

Just after Montana held this thought in his mind, he saw Jeffery notice the situation he had been watching with some interest for the past few minutes, and those same principles no doubt dictated that he get involved.

If his face wasn't such a mask of serenity, he might have blinked a few times at his request. 'Just go along with it', well, Montana had no one to blame but himself in his mind. He chose this table for it's proximity to the woman in red, who was without a doubt the most powerful creature within this room, and likely the surrounding area. That would mean should the person opposite turn around, he too would share the same view he did. Ah well.

Plausible deniability was the name of the game, but that allowed him to offer some help to the young merc, for one, he'd continue watching the situation, as that seemed like what a client would do, but as a client, it would be against character to get directly involved.

The woman however, with the soft grey eyes was the one to be wary during this little bit of theater. She was perceptive enough to notice the woman's bag had been looted, and he doubted her perception ended with catching skilled street urchins. Ultimately, the boy leaving peacefully would be decided with her. She would figure the story out for unlikely, but choose if she wished to take it further, or settle with returning the stolen goods.

However the third, and most dangerous player in this little game was that crimson woman. If the perspective one let them go, she still had the ability to act.

The courier idly sipped his drink, his dark eyes seemed more focused than before.
A lad such as this, he expected no less than brass tacks to measure what their conversation was about. The truth was complicated, and not easily explained without perhaps, baring a small part of himself to Jefferey, which wasn't something the older male was quite willing to do. His intentions weren't nefarious, but the wariness the traveling mercenary expressed, however lighthearted, was more than expected. Any person with a season under their belt would ask the same from his perspective. One group aside, from what he understood. The religious had a culture of simply accepting succor as divinely inspired, which mattered little to Montana either way. It was a simple observation.

"By virtue of you sitting across from me." He responded. An air of good humor surrounded him, but was kept somewhat at bay by his serious demeanor. "It would be unbecoming of me to order food and drink, and enjoy them in front of a road weary traveler."

He took another long drink from his glass, finally finishing it.

"Such is my nature. Conversation is perhaps all I want, To answer your question? No, I do not have any business with you at this time Jeffery."

"Unless you have anything you'd like to ask."

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