murdoc

NEVERENDERS [nightmare eyes + murdoc]

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“Sure you will.” Blue starts, but bites back the rest of the retort. He wasn’t in the mood for a verbal joust, and he doubted Skav was as well. A quick look over the shoulder confirms that they didn’t have much time left to get out of here. He doesn’t even notice the glass hurtling their way until he hears Skav’s comment, chock full of that trademark sardonicism even in the face of danger. Blue, on the other hand, just lets out an exasperated, near-delirious huff of laughter, eyes flickering to the shards splayed across the ground, and then to the darkened patch on Skav’s shoulder. It had missed him by an order of magnitude, but it seemed the crow-masked Razor wasn’t quite as lucky.

“Jesus, what have you been eating?” Blue grunts with effort when Skav drapes even more of their weight on him, stumbling past the threshold that separated Quincy’s Bar from the cold, wet world outside. The moment rainwater hits skin, a dull ache awakens in his muscles, the muddied soles of his boots struggling to find purchase against slippery, metal stairs. With every second that crawls by, the climb seems to become more and more insurmountable, though it’s all he can do to grit his teeth and press on. The rainwater is starting to seep into his clothes, and he feels his stomach drop when he almost trips face-first into the pavement. Fortunately, Skav’s is there to steady him, their weight acting as a counterbalance even if they weren’t consciously aware of it.

Before Blue can ask where the Qrow was, he gets his answer. It’s hard to tell quite where they are through thick curtains of rain, but he trusts the street lamps lining the sidewalk will light their way. Taking a deep breath, he tightens his grip around Skav’s torso, prepares for the journey ahead.

And then, out of nowhere, Skav’s shoves him away. There’s a brief moment where he’s seized by shock and confusion and anger, a caustic, chemical cocktail of emotions swimming through the recesses of his brain, though it doesn’t take long for him to notice the figure careening towards them. Dog-mask is surprisingly agile for his size, and he reaches them in a matter of seconds, but his baseball bat goes wide and swings into the ground, splintering on impact. Like thunder, the sound of wood against concrete is deafening; the threat of violence a more effective deterrent than violence itself. Ears ringing, he finds himself unable to do anything other than watch, scrabbling back when dog-mask gets too close. Their adversary looms over them, the shattered stump of a baseball bat quickly forgotten, and it is only then that he catches sight of a glint of metal - sharp, serrated, and deadly.

On instinct, Blue reaches for his own switchblade - slowly, gently - while dog-mask’s attention is fixed on Skav. His heart pounds in his chest, but his grip is steady, waiting for a chance to strike.

Mustering up every last shred of energy, Blue launches himself at dog-mask, aiming for the throat. The Bomber, however, ducks out of the way with a second to spare, and the blade only scores a line through his jacket. Then, he catches Blue by the wrist, forcefully wrenching the knife out of his hand. It falls to the ground with a resounding clang, and Blue can almost feel the shit-eating grin underneath that mask, but he doesn’t let that bother him for too long - he couldn’t. With all his strength, he twists around to clamp a hand on dog-mask’s forearm, pulling the man with him as he falls backwards onto the sidewalk.

Blue knows it took him by surprise when the grip on his wrist weakens, though it only offers him a moment of respite for him to come up with a new course of action. Hooking an arm around dog-mask’s neck, he uses the other’s heft as leverage, pushing him onto his side. He’d almost forgotten about dog-mask’s knife, but a flash of metal, and the blade is pressed close to his neck - a particularly unfriendly reminder. Blue closes both hands around the Bomber’s arm in an effort to push the knife away from him, legs kicking all the while.

“You’re fucking dead, you little shit!”

“Skav!” Blue hisses through gritted teeth, his grip beginning to waver. The cold metal bites into his skin, and beads of red ooze from the still-shallow cut. “A little - shit! A little help here?!”

NEVERENDERS [nightmare eyes + murdoc]

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At Skav’s question, Blue shoots a quick glance at the group to confirm that, yes, they were, in fact, still looking. They weren’t being very subtle about it, either, and he almost snorts when one of the men turns to look their way, his movements dull and heavy-handed. Still, the fact that the Qrow was parked a block away did not bode well, a sense of dread beginning to well up in the pit of his stomach. The group was sat closer to the door than they were, so making a break for it was out of the question. More likely than not, they wouldn’t even be able to set foot outside the bar before they got the shit kicked out of them.

There’s another pause before Blue speaks again, raking a hand down the side of his neck to focus his thoughts. His nails leave behind angry, red lines on pale skin that fade away to nothingness just as quickly as they’d surfaced, but for now, it’s enough. He feels the buzz in his brainstem waver in response to the pain, like the bright, warm flame of a candle fighting against gusts upon gusts of biting wind. He mourns the loss, but only for a second, quickly remembering that he had better things to worry about; and the little plastic baggie in his pocket promised a rapturous taste of heaven if they only just made it out of here in one piece.

“Better come up with it quick, big guy,” he murmurs, moving to sprawl across his side of the booth like a long-limbed octopus. The group was getting restless - he could tell - their glances and conversation growing increasingly agitated. They’d expected to wait, of course, but not this long. Skav’s unnatural resistance to the drug was surely proving quite the nuisance, and Blue is almost awed by how they haven’t yet been knocked out cold. “I don’t think those guys are gonna wanna wait much longer.”

When Skav knocks over their glass, Blue flinches, recoiling from the spilt, amber liquid like it was poison. He looks up from the accident just in time to see a few curious faces, people reverting to basic instincts and muscle memory. It doesn’t take long for Blue to catch on to his companion’s plan, and he immediately moves to put it into action. No time like the present, right?

Blue then grabs the glass, and climbs to his feet with surprising grace. There’s a moment of hesitation, but the icy anger clawing up his spine far outweighs it. Did they think the Razors were easy targets? Did they think Skav was? Did they think he was? For a brief moment, he can barely resist the urge to stalk up to group and give each of them a faceful of glass, but instead, he just swallows his rage, fingers tightening around the makeshift weapon. If they were going to make it out of here, he needed to stick with the plan, however hastily thrown together it was.

“Hey, asshole!” Rearing his arm back, he lobs the glass at the biker, and he’s quickly rewarded with a grunt of pain when it shatters against his skull. Crystalline shards pepper the ground beneath him, some stained with bright red blood, some remained pristine, but it does get him the expected results. Soon, there’s shouting - something about how he should kiss his ass goodbye - the heavyset, tattooed beast of a man charging at Blue like a bull at the sight of a matador’s red cape. He doesn’t wait to get hit, leaping across a table to get to where the masked men were sat. The one wearing a dog mask grabs him, hands closing around his arms like a vice, but he manages to wrench himself free, ducking out of the way just in time to send the biker crashing into his would-be assailant.

It sets off a chain reaction, the other masked men on the biker in a instant, and soon, the ones crowded around the arcade machines join in as well. Blue, for the most part, is unscathed, managing to stumble from the altercation with nothing worse than a busted lip. The masked men and bikers were far too occupied to pay him any mind, though it would only be a matter of time before they realised that he was the one they should be after.

“Can you walk?” Blue hisses at Skav, but he doesn’t wait for a reply before he grabs them by the arm, forcibly pulling them to their feet. “Here, lean on me. We have to get the fuck outta here.”

NEVERENDERS [nightmare eyes + murdoc]

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This is not Blue’s type of place; and if he weren’t in search of a cheap drink, he wouldn’t even be here. The smooth jazz, the vinyl-seated booths, the hardwood floors… suffice to say they were a far cry from what he’s used to. Barely an hour ago, he was still on the opposite side of town, in a club pounding with basslines so loud he could feel the vibration deep in his bones. He doesn’t remember much, of course. After he’d taken one of those cute little tablets with the smiley faces printed on them, the world had narrowed down to neon flashes of light and the press of bodies around him.

But by now, the high has mostly worn off, though there’s still a warm, pleasant buzz skittering just beneath the surface of his skin. Apart from that, however, he’s surprisingly sober. Blue vaguely recalls the echo of laughter, his laughter, as he dragged someone along, face buried into the side of their neck in his endeavour to score a free drink. Whoever he’d accosted, they were terribly stingy with their money, and he hadn’t ingested nearly enough alcohol to accomplish his goal of getting blackout drunk. The fact that he wasn’t currently tripping over his own feet is evidence enough, but he does plan to change that before the sun crawls from beyond the horizon.

The bartender doesn’t even spare him a second glance when Blue steps inside, eyes trained on the TV as she wipes down a perfectly clean whiskey glass. People grew accustomed to the strangest things, and the inhabitants of San Marzano were no different. These days, animal masks were everywhere, when just a little over a year ago, you wouldn’t be able to catch anyone wearing them outside of Halloween. The trend spread through the city like an epidemic, infecting its youth with nebulous efficiency, and really, it was only a matter of time before the local rabble-rousers caught on. Subconsciously, Blue tugs lightly on the hem of his mask, due to some strange, compulsive urge, making sure it’s secure.

He soon ventures further into the bar, boots thumping heavily against the wooden floor. It’s only then that he catches sight of a familiar face. Wait, scratch that, it was a mask; a mask of pitch black feathers and eyes of crimson glass. Blue has to take a moment to weigh the pros and cons of approaching them. On one hand, he really isn’t inebriated enough to deal with Skav’s ramblings on such a nice Sunday night, but on the other hand... He notices the group of masked men sitting at a nearby table, casting furtive glances at the crow-masked Razor when they think no one’s looking. It’s a poor attempt at subtlety, to say the least, when even someone like Blue can discern their foul intentions with a glance.

With a practiced nonchalance - back hunched, hands stuck in his pockets - he strolls closer to where Skav is seated, sliding into the booth opposite them. Briefly, his gaze flickers to the glass on the table, quarter-filled with a swirling, amber liquid. They didn’t look like they were planning on polishing off the rest of it, and judging from the way they swayed slightly in their seat, it was an easy enough matter to draw up a conclusion.

“Don’t you know not to take drinks from strangers?” His tone is wry, but when he leans over the table to clamp a steadying hand on their shoulder, the gesture betrays his concern. More than anything, getting out of here was first priority, though he doubted they’d get very far with the state Skav was in. They might’ve been handling it better than most others could ever hope to, but they were still grossly outnumbered, as Blue would realise when he slumps back into his seat. And the icing on the cake? They were too far away from Razor territory to even think of calling backup.

God, they really were screwed, weren’t they? He probably should’ve been a tad more worried, but the lingering effects of molly dulled his panic to a faint, unobtrusive thrum of apprehension. Heaving a sigh, Blue leans forward once again, though this time, he only does so to whisper conspiratorially. “Please tell me you parked the Qrow nearby.”

NEVERENDERS [nightmare eyes + murdoc]

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N A M E

Blue

A G E

21

G E N D E R

Male

A F F I L I A T I O N

The Razors

Y E A R S W I T H G A N G

Blue has been with the Razors since he was eighteen, though up until recently, he’s been a rather passive part of it.

Growing up is never easy - especially so for a scrawny, little Korean kid living in San Marzano. Born out of wedlock between his druggie mother and an absent father, the young Blue spent the first few years of his life within the walls of a crack house, surrounded by people who spent most of their time passed out in a pool of their own vomit. He’d never gotten much in the way of formal education, only having went to school up till fifth grade, but hey, at least he stayed there long enough to learn how to read, write, and count.

Blue doesn’t like to talk about it, but he used to have an older half-brother. Keyword: used to. He was seven years older than Blue, already well into a crack addiction by the time he’d even heard of it. Blue didn’t get into the habit of using till he turned fourteen, when his brother dropped a plastic-wrapped 8-ball of meth in his hands. An early birthday present, he said, teeth bared in a shit-eating grin.

Two months later, they found him dead, overdosed on a badly laced batch of crack. The city police came and took him away; didn’t say anything about the distinct lack of parent, nor the glassy, red-rimmed eyes of Blue, obviously not caused by crying.

Left to fend for himself, Blue followed in his mother’s footsteps and took to the streets, loitering around street corners, offering “favours” in exchange for money. Climbing into strangers’ cars and scuffing his knees on filthy asphalt became second nature to him, though it was all he could do to put it to the back of his mind.

And then one day, he got careless, caught by a plainclothes officer when he went out too early in the afternoon. Blue had sauntered up to the him, high off his mind, purring in his ear, asking whether he needed a little extra spice in his life. Blue was sentenced to a twelve month-minimum hold in a juvenile detention center, quickly lengthened to fourteen when he tried to wrestle the officer that removed him from the courtroom to the floor, and once again to sixteen when they found him giving a blowjob to one of the cafeteria workers.

When Blue finally got out, he went right back to what he was doing before. The addiction that ended within the walls of juvie caught up with him faster than he’d liked, and there was only one thing left he could do. He supposed it was inevitable, really, when one of his customers decided he didn’t want to pay, and when Blue demanded he fork out the cash, things went south real quick. Broken and bleeding, he stumbled onto the front steps of the Grotto, where he stayed until the wee hours of the morning.

Believe it or not, after that, the Razors took him in. For a couple of months, he followed other members around like a lost puppy, watching and learning about how things worked - an errand boy of sorts - eventually getting involved in drug deals himself. It wasn’t an easy process, even landed himself in prison once or twice, but he got through it, as he always did.

A P P E A R A N C E

Blue isn’t the tallest, nor the the most intimidating of figures. He stands just a hair off 5’6”, with lean muscles and light olive skin stretched over a lithely built frame. Much like how an animal puffs itself up to ward off any potential predators, Blue has taken to doing the same with his appearance. His skin is peppered with countless tattoos, though most of them are rather poorly done. To name a few, the words ‘INHALE’ and ‘EXHALE’ are tattooed on his thighs, two black X’s just above his navel, a crudely drawn crown on his left forearm, a smiley face on his right hand, and a small heart on each of the first knuckles of his middle fingers.

He wears a mask depicting a hissing, green snake - its forked tongue and pointy teeth testaments to the venom-spitting Blue. As for how he dresses, well… “skanky” would probably be the best word to describe it - quite possibly a habit leftover from his streetwalking days. When he’s not out on business, he favours anything made of leather; leather jackets, leather pants, leather chokers, combat boots, you name it. Other times, loose-fitting tees paired with booty shorts (yes, booty shorts) or ripped jeans are his go-to choice. He definitely tries too hard, but because he likes to think he’s an expert at these things, he somehow manages to make all of it look effortless. Much like his personality, his voice is particularly loud and somewhat grating on the ear. While he says it’s to make up for the muffling effect of the mask, he’s always spoken like that, even before the phenomenon swept across San Marzano.

If there’s anything Blue hates, it’s standing up straight. Of course, addressing his posture could probably help with the whole 5’6” situation, but it’s far too much effort and he doesn’t wanna. Most of the time, you’ll find him standing with his shoulders rolled forward, hands stuck in his pockets as he snaps and snarls at anyone who looks at him wrong. Apart from the collapsed veins lining the insides of his elbows from shooting up one too many times, fading bruises are visible on the surface of his skin. They’re mostly from getting thrown out of clubs after getting a tad too drunk on jello shots and picking a fight with some guy twice his size, but hey; live fast, die young, right?

P E R S O N A L I T Y

With an ego bigger than his rather unimpressive frame, and a penchant for telling people to fuck off, it’s easy to peg Blue for a textbook case of Small Dog Syndrome. Naturally, this means that he isn’t the most pleasant person to be around. Though this isn’t to say he’s all bad - just that he’s hard to like (much less to love, but don’t tell him that). While he might not be the brightest, nor the most knowledgeable, he is a good judge of character, and it takes little time for him to classify someone. He is particularly good at thinking on his feet, but doesn't often give much thought to long-term consequences.

The guy is, by nature, extremely impulsive, both in the things he does and the things he says. As far as he’s concerned, life’s too short to sit around let shit just happen, it’s all about the now, and how you handle the people and things that surround you. If he likes something, chances are he’ll let you know it, and if he doesn’t, well, he’s never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter as well. Suffice to say, he has a terrible habit of mouthing off and getting his ass kicked. He doesn't abide by the rules, he doesn't play fairly, and he certainly doesn't let anyone think they can get one up on him. Try as he might, he’s never really had the best poker face in the world, and it tends to give him away more than not.

Interestingly, while he has a rather obnoxious habit of grandstanding, he has very little tolerance of the habit in others. Blue frequently admonishes others to get to the point. But with a keen wit, a penchant for absurdism, and a horrifyingly macabre streak, you get the sense that he always has a snicker hidden at the corner of his mouth, even in the worst of situations. You know shit’s gotten pretty fucking heavy when Blue gets serious and loses the grin. Completely indifferent to major events unless they directly impact him, he has never met a boundary he wouldn’t cross. He’ll go to bat for you if you make him laugh, if he likes your style, or if you have something that tickles his fancy (cigarettes, ugly puppies, and cheeseburgers, just as an FYI).

S T R E N G T H S

▲ Blue is resourceful, able to think incredibly fast on his feet. While his long-term planning isn’t quite up to par, he’s quite proficient at making split-second decisions that rescue him from sticky situations.
▲ While some people might be held back by such petty things as “dignity”, “morality” and “self-respect”, those are three things that Blue has long since abandoned. If something needs to be done, you’ll be damned well sure he gets it done no matter the cost.
▲ Blue is a stubborn son of a bitch, and his endurance - both physical and mental - is definitely something to write home about. He can take a hell of a beating, pushing through it with bruised ribs and bloodied teeth, though it’s an easy enough matter when you’ve been through the shit Blue has.

W E A K N E S S E S

▼ Blue has a tendency of letting his emotions get the better of him, clouding his judgment.
▼ While he’s lightning quick on his feet, he isn’t the best in a fight. He’s never been formally trained, and it shows. Blue fights like his life depends on it - and most of the time, it does - clawing, biting, going for soft spots whenever possible. He isn’t afraid to resort to dirty tricks, either, even if some might call him a coward for it.
▼ Diplomacy is a huge problem for him, and he has a terrible habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. This has already gotten him into trouble more than he’d like, though it seems kicking the habit is a task easier said than done.
▼ Long-term consequences escape his notice, and he doesn’t pay much thought to how his choices might pay off or hinder him in the long run.
▼ Blue is an addict, and he sinks a substantial amount of cash into feeding his drug habit. Needless to say, things get ugly when he doesn’t get his fix.

L I K E S

✔ Money, cars, clothes, and any sort of material goods he can get his grubby little hands on. After two decades of getting dealt a shit hand, he’s grown incredibly materialistic. Blue’s pride and joy is a secondhand VFR Interceptor he got for cheap. It’s not what you normally see amidst the roaring muscle cars characteristic to the Razors, but it’s much easier to get around on a motorbike.
✔ Food. It doesn’t matter what kind of food it is, though he does seem to favour anything deep-fried. It’s kind of a miracle that he doesn’t weigh two-hundred pounds by now, given his borderline ridiculous eating habits.
✔ Animals - everything from a slobbering Rottweiler to a glassy-eyed goldfish. What can he say? They’re infinitely more likeable than humans are, and much easier to understand, too. Who wants to fuss with interpersonal relationships when a trusty dog by your side could do the trick?
✔ Getting drunk and/or high. He doesn’t think there’s a drug in the world he hasn’t true yet. Not long after he finished his eight-month sentence, he began indulging his old vices. He’s not in as deep as he used to be, but he’s getting there.

D I S L I K E S

✘ Coffee. Blue hates the stuff, and he finds it hard to believe anyone actually enjoys it.
✘ Open/unlocked doors. They make him feel like he’s being watched, like anyone could just barge in, and it’s bad enough to keep him awake the entire night in a state of paranoid vigilance.
✘ People who think they’re better than everyone else. It’s kind of hypocritical - considering all the shit-talking he does - but all the same, there’s nothing he hates more than arrogance, especially when it comes from those who don’t deserve to place themselves on a pedestal.
✘ He doesn’t like sleeping in beds. Whenever he needs to conk out, he’ll do it in a bathroom - in the bathtub, more specifically - or on the floor if the former option isn’t available.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

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O T H E R

Blue’s weapon of choice is a simple switchblade. It’s not the biggest, nor the most intimidating, but as they always say, it’s what you do with it that counts.

T H E M E

The Dead Weather - I Feel Love (Every Million Miles)

NEVERENDERS [nightmare eyes + murdoc]

<sub>Based off Ѧasks by DeadBeatWalking



everybody's got something to say
about your life and the choice you made
they see the world through tired eyes
and we refuse to live in black and white</sub>

Ѧasks

Took a little longer than expected, but I finally posted.

Ѧasks

“ _{Don’t wither, this is all for the selfish me. You have to stay just as you are right now.} ”

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This, Blue thinks as ribbons of sunlight stream through the curtains, is the last time he lets anyone talk him into staying the night.

With no small amount of effort, he forces himself to pry his eyes open, dark irises searching the room for any signs of familiarity. There’s a fleeting moment of panic as he scans his surroundings, though it disappears just as quickly as it’d surfaced, and he almost slaps himself for his stupidity. Memories of the night before came flooding back in a haze-shrouded blur - the drinks, the drugs, the rough, calloused hand tangled in his hair… No, he decides with a grim resolution, bringing up a hand to rub at his sleep-crusted eyes. It wasn’t even noon yet; the crushing existential crisis could wait till after he’d had something to eat. Dealing with emotions on an empty stomach was quite possibly his least favourite thing to do.

Swallowing down the bile that’d threatened to climb up his throat, he slowly, delicately extricates himself from the tangle of bedsheets and limbs, pushing himself up to a sitting position. The bitter tang of stale beer still lingered on his tongue, features contorting into a grimace as his body screams for water. There’s an ice pick lodged in his frontal lobe - or at least that’s what it feels like - and he has to take a moment to bury his face in his hands, stifling a groan of complete and utter misery.

It was then that, out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement, the disturbance accompanied by a quiet yawn. But when his companion dropped right back into dreamland without another peep, Blue lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, carding fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at smoothing the greasy, black locks back into place.

“Shit.” Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, Blue hisses when he stands up. There’s a terrible crick in his neck, like he’d just went on a dozen consecutive rides on the world’s fastest roller coaster, though he supposes it wasn’t all too far from the truth. Slowly, he begins making his way to the bathroom, bare feet padding across scratchy carpet, a yawn tumbling past his lips. Since he was already here, he might as well make the best of things, right? After all, it wasn’t often that he got to shower in a fancy hotel bathroom, and apart from the crumpled tens scattered haphazardly on the nightstand, it was the least he deserved for the shit he went through last night. Even without looking in the mirror, he knew that the fresh, purple bruises littering his skin would remain blindingly obvious for the rest of the week.

When Blue finally steps into the bathroom, locking the door behind him, the icy-cold floor tiles send a shiver up his spine. For a moment or two, he contemplates ignoring his reflection, but it isn’t long before curiosity wins out, the glass surface drawing him closer like a moth to a flame.

Blue wasn’t quite sure what he expected, though he can’t say he’s surprised, even if he barely recognises the face staring back at him. Absentmindedly, he draws a finger along his jawline, and then down the side of his neck, unflinching even when it brushes against a sore spot. Without the mask, he looks like someone else, feels like someone else. He’s far too used to seeing the facade of a hissing, green cobra, that whenever he looks into a mirror, it’s like he’s inhabiting a body that isn’t his. Blue is quite sure that the person in the mirror is him, always has been - everything from his dark strands of hair, to the nails on the ends of his fingers and toes - but all the same, a seed of doubt manages plants itself in his brain. Which one is the real him? Is it the one with the face of a snake, hands stained with blood; or the one with the eyes sparkling with mischief, teeth bared in a crooked grin whenever he fills his pockets with ill-gotten money?

And then, he’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“You in there? I need a piss.”

Blue just snorts, rolling his eyes, slapping himself lightly on the face to tether himself to reality. “I’m just getting in the shower. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Well, hurry up—”

In two long strides, he had made his way over to the door, and unlocked it with a ‘click’. Through the crack of the door, he sees the man standing outside, looking at him with an eyebrow raised. Blue, however, just arranges his lips into a crafty smirk, mirroring the man’s quizzical expression with a teasing facsimile.

“You know, if you wanted to join me, all you had to do was ask.”

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An hour and a half later, Blue had raided the mini-fridge, cleaned himself up and began making his way to the Grotto, the deafening roar of his VFR Interceptor speeding his way through the streets. He’d contemplated heading back to his shitty apartment - because goddamn, was he exhausted - but on a day like this, the last thing he wanted was to stuff his face with stale Chinese takeout while watching The A-Team. That was no way to live, and coming from someone like him… you get the picture. He’s never exactly been the poster boy for a wholesome, healthy lifestyle. If anything, he was the antithesis of it, and he’s more than willing to bet on it.

As the sun beats down on him, wind blowing through his hair— wait, no. He’d already put his mask back on, when he’d stopped in a filthy alleyway two blocks from the hotel. So, what was the wind blowing through, again? Now that’s a question for the ages, though he eventually decides to turn his attention back to swerving out of the way of oncoming vehicles. Mostly because ‘not dying in a fiery car crash’ remained rather high on his list of priorities.

And then, he spots a black Camaro, shimmering in the morning sun. Blue might’ve been mistaken, but he only knew of one person in town with a car like that.

Squeezing the throttle, he races to catch up with the car, swerving left and right to cut through traffic. As he gets closer and closer, the screeching of rubber against asphalt fills his ears, and for a moment or two, he almost swore he could smell something burning. Still, the Interceptor does its job, and within a minute, he was right up beside the Camaro, glancing into the driver side window.

It takes him maybe a second to confirm his suspicions. That feathery mess of a mask, those red-amber eyes - yup, it was them. No one else had a mask like that, and even if they did, they probably didn’t get it custom-made like Skav probably did. Blue is unable to suppress the laughter that bubbles up from his throat, even as he presses down on the horn to catch their attention, if they hadn’t already noticed him there. These masks did have pretty terrible peripheral vision, after all.

Ѧasks

Will start working on a post once I get home. So hyped. \o/

Ѧasks

Dropped Blue in the character tab, and added the sections I missed out the first time.

Ѧasks

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N A M E

Blue

A G E

21

G E N D E R

Male

A F F I L I A T I O N

The Razors

Y E A R S W I T H G A N G

Blue has been with the Razors since he was eighteen, though up until recently, he’s been a rather passive part of it.

Growing up is never easy - especially so for a scrawny, little Korean kid living in San Marzano. Born out of wedlock between his druggie mother and an absent father, the young Blue spent the first few years of his life within the walls of a crack house, surrounded by people who spent most of their time passed out in a pool of their own vomit. He’d never gotten much in the way of formal education, only having went to school up till fifth grade, but hey, at least he stayed there long enough to learn how to read, write, and count.

Blue doesn’t like to talk about it, but he used to have an older half-brother. Keyword: used to. He was seven years older than Blue, already well into a crack addiction by the time he’d even heard of it. Blue didn’t get into the habit of using till he turned fourteen, when his brother dropped a plastic-wrapped 8-ball of meth in his hands. An early birthday present, he said, teeth bared in a shit-eating grin.

Two months later, they found him dead, overdosed on a badly laced batch of crack. The city police came and took him away; didn’t say anything about the distinct lack of parent, nor the glassy, red-rimmed eyes of Blue, obviously not caused by crying.

Left to fend for himself, Blue followed in his mother’s footsteps and took to the streets, loitering around street corners, offering “favours” in exchange for money. Climbing into strangers’ cars and scuffing his knees on filthy asphalt became second nature to him, though it was all he could do to put it to the back of his mind.

And then one day, he got careless, caught by a plainclothes officer when he went out too early in the afternoon. Blue had sauntered up to the him, high off his mind, purring in his ear, asking whether he needed a little extra spice in his life. Blue was sentenced to a twelve month-minimum hold in a juvenile detention center, quickly lengthened to fourteen when he tried to wrestle the officer that removed him from the courtroom to the floor, and once again to sixteen when they found him giving a blowjob to one of the cafeteria workers.

When Blue finally got out, he went right back to what he was doing before. The addiction that ended within the walls of juvie caught up with him faster than he’d liked, and there was only one thing left he could do. He supposed it was inevitable, really, when one of his customers decided he didn’t want to pay, and when Blue demanded he fork out the cash, things went south real quick. Broken and bleeding, he stumbled onto the front steps of the Grotto, where he stayed until the wee hours of the morning.

Believe it or not, after that, the Razors took him in. For a couple of months, he followed other members around like a lost puppy, watching and learning about how things worked - an errand boy of sorts - eventually getting involved in drug deals himself. It wasn’t an easy process, even landed himself in prison once or twice, but he got through it, as he always did.

A P P E A R A N C E

Blue isn’t the tallest, nor the the most intimidating of figures. He stands just a hair off 5’6”, with lean muscles and light olive skin stretched over a lithely built frame. Much like how an animal puffs itself up to ward off any potential predators, Blue has taken to doing the same with his appearance. His skin is peppered with countless tattoos, though most of them are rather poorly done. To name a few, the words ‘INHALE’ and ‘EXHALE’ are tattooed on his thighs, two black X’s just above his navel, a crudely drawn crown on his left forearm, a smiley face on his right hand, and a small heart on each of the first knuckles of his middle fingers.

He wears a mask depicting a hissing, green snake - its forked tongue and pointy teeth testaments to the venom-spitting Blue. As for how he dresses, well… “skanky” would probably be the best word to describe it - quite possibly a habit leftover from his streetwalking days. When he’s not out on business, he favours anything made of leather; leather jackets, leather pants, leather chokers, combat boots, you name it. Other times, loose-fitting tees paired with booty shorts (yes, booty shorts) or ripped jeans are his go-to choice. He definitely tries too hard, but because he likes to think he’s an expert at these things, he somehow manages to make all of it look effortless. Much like his personality, his voice is particularly loud and somewhat grating on the ear. While he says it’s to make up for the muffling effect of the mask, he’s always spoken like that, even before the phenomenon swept across San Marzano.

If there’s anything Blue hates, it’s standing up straight. Of course, addressing his posture could probably help with the whole 5’6” situation, but it’s far too much effort and he doesn’t wanna. Most of the time, you’ll find him standing with his shoulders rolled forward, hands stuck in his pockets as he snaps and snarls at anyone who looks at him wrong. Apart from the collapsed veins lining the insides of his elbows from shooting up one too many times, fading bruises are visible on the surface of his skin. They’re mostly from getting thrown out of clubs after getting a tad too drunk on jello shots and picking a fight with some guy twice his size, but hey; live fast, die young, right?

P E R S O N A L I T Y

With an ego bigger than his rather unimpressive frame, and a penchant for telling people to fuck off, it’s easy to peg Blue for a textbook case of Small Dog Syndrome. Naturally, this means that he isn’t the most pleasant person to be around. Though this isn’t to say he’s all bad - just that he’s hard to like (much less to love, but don’t tell him that). While he might not be the brightest, nor the most knowledgeable, he is a good judge of character, and it takes little time for him to classify someone. He is particularly good at thinking on his feet, but doesn't often give much thought to long-term consequences.

The guy is, by nature, extremely impulsive, both in the things he does and the things he says. As far as he’s concerned, life’s too short to sit around let shit just happen, it’s all about the now, and how you handle the people and things that surround you. If he likes something, chances are he’ll let you know it, and if he doesn’t, well, he’s never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter as well. Suffice to say, he has a terrible habit of mouthing off and getting his ass kicked. He doesn't abide by the rules, he doesn't play fairly, and he certainly doesn't let anyone think they can get one up on him. Try as he might, he’s never really had the best poker face in the world, and it tends to give him away more than not.

Interestingly, while he has a rather obnoxious habit of grandstanding, he has very little tolerance of the habit in others. Blue frequently admonishes others to get to the point. But with a keen wit, a penchant for absurdism, and a horrifyingly macabre streak, you get the sense that he always has a snicker hidden at the corner of his mouth, even in the worst of situations. You know shit’s gotten pretty fucking heavy when Blue gets serious and loses the grin. Completely indifferent to major events unless they directly impact him, he has never met a boundary he wouldn’t cross. He’ll go to bat for you if you make him laugh, if he likes your style, or if you have something that tickles his fancy (cigarettes, ugly puppies, and cheeseburgers, just as an FYI).

S T R E N G T H S

▲ Blue is resourceful, able to think incredibly fast on his feet. While his long-term planning isn’t quite up to par, he’s quite proficient at making split-second decisions that rescue him from sticky situations.
▲ While some people might be held back by such petty things as “dignity”, “morality” and “self-respect”, those are three things that Blue has long since abandoned. If something needs to be done, you’ll be damned well sure he gets it done no matter the cost.
▲ Blue is a stubborn son of a bitch, and his endurance - both physical and mental - is definitely something to write home about. He can take a hell of a beating, pushing through it with bruised ribs and bloodied teeth, though it’s an easy enough matter when you’ve been through the shit Blue has.

W E A K N E S S E S

▼ Blue has a tendency of letting his emotions get the better of him, clouding his judgment.
▼ While he’s lightning quick on his feet, he isn’t the best in a fight. He’s never been formally trained, and it shows. Blue fights like his life depends on it - and most of the time, it does - clawing, biting, going for soft spots whenever possible. He isn’t afraid to resort to dirty tricks, either, even if some might call him a coward for it.
▼ Diplomacy is a huge problem for him, and he has a terrible habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. This has already gotten him into trouble more than he’d like, though it seems kicking the habit is a task easier said than done.
▼ Long-term consequences escape his notice, and he doesn’t pay much thought to how his choices might pay off or hinder him in the long run.
▼ Blue is an addict, and he sinks a substantial amount of cash into feeding his drug habit. Needless to say, things get ugly when he doesn’t get his fix.

L I K E S

✔ Money, cars, clothes, and any sort of material goods he can get his grubby little hands on. After two decades of getting dealt a shit hand, he’s grown incredibly materialistic. Blue’s pride and joy is a secondhand VFR Interceptor he got for cheap. It’s not what you normally see amidst the roaring muscle cars characteristic to the Razors, but it’s much easier to get around on a motorbike.
✔ Food. It doesn’t matter what kind of food it is, though he does seem to favour anything deep-fried. It’s kind of a miracle that he doesn’t weigh two-hundred pounds by now, given his borderline ridiculous eating habits.
✔ Animals - everything from a slobbering Rottweiler to a glassy-eyed goldfish. What can he say? They’re infinitely more likeable than humans are, and much easier to understand, too. Who wants to fuss with interpersonal relationships when a trusty dog by your side could do the trick?
✔ Getting drunk and/or high. He doesn’t think there’s a drug in the world he hasn’t true yet. Not long after he finished his eight-month sentence, he began indulging his old vices. He’s not in as deep as he used to be, but he’s getting there.

D I S L I K E S

✘ Coffee. Blue hates the stuff, and he finds it hard to believe anyone actually enjoys it.
✘ Open/unlocked doors. They make him feel like he’s being watched, like anyone could just barge in, and it’s bad enough to keep him awake the entire night in a state of paranoid vigilance.
✘ People who think they’re better than everyone else. It’s kind of hypocritical - considering all the shit-talking he does - but all the same, there’s nothing he hates more than arrogance, especially when it comes from those who don’t deserve to place themselves on a pedestal.
✘ He doesn’t like sleeping in beds. Whenever he needs to conk out, he’ll do it in a bathroom - in the bathtub, more specifically - or on the floor if the former option isn’t available.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

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O T H E R

Blue’s weapon of choice is a simple switchblade. It’s not the biggest, nor the most intimidating, but as they always say, it’s what you do with it that counts.

T H E M E

The Dead Weather - I Feel Love (Every Million Miles)