PatientBean
Nallore
Lord Wraith
Melissa
Skai
Qia
PapaOso
Izurich
Pirouette<Snipped quote by Roman>
Nope. Should be pretty clear who they are by the foreshadowing, tho.
Turns out I didn't know who you were alluding to because I didn't know the character existed.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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Ribbit.
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Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
Turns out I didn't know who you were alluding to because I didn't know the character existed.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Is the guy in the shadows with the smile Joker? Because said figure has called Batman 'Bruce' twice now and Joker infamously doesn't give a shit about the man behind the cowl.
Are we only waiting on Christine? If so then she might have to just recap in her next post (if and when) and we move on without her. Don't feel like you have to delay if you don't want to, Chic.
I like this new side of Aiden and Belle's reaction to him. Hopefully this CTF game should wrap up our b-plot nicely.
J o h n C o n s t a n t i n e
"A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
"It's not always like it is in the books."
- John Constantine
Fire. Oh god, fire. Licking flames marred the horizon like the ridges of mountains, burning nothing and everything. It seemed to absorb light rather than emanate it, exuding a thick blackness that, nonetheless, still illuminated the twisted landscape in a way that made John feel nauseous. Far below him, pinpricks of agony went on in their suffering, skewered and crushed and lashed, their torture brazen and subtle and unending. Stronger souls put on airs of resistance, stifling their own screams, while in the distance the more wretched spirits simply writhed in dirt and scum, the pain and torment of this place etched into their very being by the eons. Others had been twisted into obscene parodies of Man, a mocking affront to God through the perversion of His most beloved creation. All was curated by devils, convicts of this prison who had made their cells their kingdoms, and overseen by their demonic generals. John conjured their names to mind, each flitting in and out of his consciousness like nymphs through the glen, their eagerness to be known and dreaded imprinted behind his eyes: Mammon, King of Worms and Wealth, eyes searching ever downwards for gold; Belial, the Impure Lord, destroying all that lies before and behind; Moloch, the False Idol, who feasts upon children; Mulciber, Mockery of the Creator, great architect of sorrows and sin; and Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, devourer of carcasses and mouthpiece of Satan. Ah, Satan, the Most Unclean, the Son of Perdition, the Father of Lies, the Dragon, the Beast, the Adversary; Lucifer, King of the Bottomless Pit. A story old as anything, and John had done his research in Ravenscar. He was here - he was always here - but John would escape his gaze for now.
Somewhere, off in the distance, a light blinked into life among the flames, a burning point of pure white that outshone the oozing darkness of the fire surrounding, piercing through all of Hell's great disgust to focus John's attention completely. He felt himself moving, no longer transfixed by the cavern's horror, and stumbled forwards, legs battling against the mire of dark, sickly discharge that seemed to ebb from the ground itself and coat the earth. His feet were drenched, and as he advanced - somehow passing over the void of agony that lay beneath him, apparently existing on a separate plane - the mire clung to him ever more tightly, climbing past his ankles to lap at his shins, then his knees, each step requiring twice the effort of the one preceding, until John was dragged onto his hands, crawling and dragging his body toward the white light that beckoned him, his journey taking him millenia, but the light never moving, never getting closer, but always reaching out to him, as if to say keep going, John. Keep crawling. Come for me. Just a little bit further...
He slumped into the mire, the mud overtaking him as exhaustion took hold. The ground enveloped him, swallowed John whole, and he could feel himself suffocating, drowning in the viscous, foul liquid for centuries before he was spat out below, the pinpricks he had looked upon so long ago growing larger and larger as he fell to join them. He craned his neck upwards, hoping for any sign of that light, the beautiful, pure shining star that had goaded him forth.
There was nothing but inky blackness.
Not even the flames.
But still, the voice echoed around him.
Save me, John. Come for me. Save me. You put me here, John Constantine. You put me here. Save me, John.
"I CAN'T." He yelled back, startling himself awake with the forcefulness of his reply. There was a bubble of silence, and then John drew the first ragged, stale breath of the day, and it was broken; the sounds of traffic and the city filtered in through his window, and he could hear the creaking of floorboards above him, the faint sounds of strong, angry words floating down through his ceiling. The sun shone harshly outside, spilling onto his bed, and John threw off his covers, propping himself up as he wiped his face of sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the fourth night of the same dream, and it had always played out the same way. Failure, accusation, and tortured pleading. John sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as shaky hands fumbled around in the drawer of his bedside table to find the lighter and the nearly-empty pack of Silk Cut cigarettes that dwelled within, a fag quickly finding its way to his mouth in one hand as the other flipped the lighter open and lit the wick. He held the flame to the end of the cigarette and drew deeply as it caught alight, drawing the toxic smoke into his lungs and pushing it out in one motion. His heart began to calm itself, though his mind still raced. These were not mere nightmares, imagined illusions of horror born of external stress. These were deeper, more vivid - John would say premonitions were he not a cynic. But a cynic he was, and he was quite content to endure these dreams for as long as they would persist, a subconscious desire to be punished eager to inflict such lucid terror when John's waking mind was not there to suppress his inner demons.
"I am in his kingdom, John."
John flinched, ducking sharply as he reacted to the vicious whisper that came from just behind his shoulder. He stood from his bed, cold air stinging his naked torso as the duvet fell from around his shoulders. Smoke from the lit cigarette drifted lazily upwards, ash falling to the ground and pooling around John's feet. The room was empty save for him, but the voice had been so clear and direct that even the deepest cynicism John could muster failed to dispell the belief that something - someone - had just spoken to him.
"Find the house of Nergal, John."
"Fuck off." John said loudly, and then he heard a stomp on his ceiling as the 88-year-old lady above disapproved of his vulgarity. The room was still again, and John poised himself for a third intrusion, carefully sucking on his cigarette as he moved across the bedroom to his closet, fishing out a shirt and a pair of slacks, pulling the trousers over his legs and buttoning his collar as the keen silence of his apartment remained steadfastly unbroken. He didn't want to think about who was talking to him, delivering ominous, cryptic messages and pleading commands. Instead, he pushed his tie up to the top of his collar and walked out of the bedroom, leaving his dreams and spectral visitor behind him. In the kitchen, he stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray that sat in the center of the small round table and snatched his coat from where it hung on the door, slinging it over his form while his free hand snatched the flask from the inside pocket, feverishly pulling and twisting at the cap before he swung it to his mouth, taking a large gulp. He stowed the flask again, and held a hand out, parallel to the ground. It twitched slightly, and Constantine drew it into a fist until his knuckles were white and his fingers ached with the pressure. Smoke rose from the cracks between his fingers and he opened them, fire bursting from his palm and smoldering painlessly. He watched the flames dance across his skin, lashing at his wrinkles and hopping the callouses at the base of each finger. The voice from his dream echoed in his head as the flames span round and round. The house of Nergal...
John's cigarette burnt to its last end in the ashtray as the door to his apartment slammed shut behind him, another already lit and hanging from his lips as he took the stairs two at a time down towards the building's lobby.
"What Hath Night To Do With Sleep?"
C.I
"A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed:
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed:
Such place Eternal Justice had prepared
For those rebellious, here their prison ordained
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far removed from God and light of Heav'n
As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole."
- John Milton, Paradise Lost.
For those rebellious, here their prison ordained
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far removed from God and light of Heav'n
As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole."
- John Milton, Paradise Lost.
"It's not always like it is in the books."
- John Constantine
Fire. Oh god, fire. Licking flames marred the horizon like the ridges of mountains, burning nothing and everything. It seemed to absorb light rather than emanate it, exuding a thick blackness that, nonetheless, still illuminated the twisted landscape in a way that made John feel nauseous. Far below him, pinpricks of agony went on in their suffering, skewered and crushed and lashed, their torture brazen and subtle and unending. Stronger souls put on airs of resistance, stifling their own screams, while in the distance the more wretched spirits simply writhed in dirt and scum, the pain and torment of this place etched into their very being by the eons. Others had been twisted into obscene parodies of Man, a mocking affront to God through the perversion of His most beloved creation. All was curated by devils, convicts of this prison who had made their cells their kingdoms, and overseen by their demonic generals. John conjured their names to mind, each flitting in and out of his consciousness like nymphs through the glen, their eagerness to be known and dreaded imprinted behind his eyes: Mammon, King of Worms and Wealth, eyes searching ever downwards for gold; Belial, the Impure Lord, destroying all that lies before and behind; Moloch, the False Idol, who feasts upon children; Mulciber, Mockery of the Creator, great architect of sorrows and sin; and Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, devourer of carcasses and mouthpiece of Satan. Ah, Satan, the Most Unclean, the Son of Perdition, the Father of Lies, the Dragon, the Beast, the Adversary; Lucifer, King of the Bottomless Pit. A story old as anything, and John had done his research in Ravenscar. He was here - he was always here - but John would escape his gaze for now.
Somewhere, off in the distance, a light blinked into life among the flames, a burning point of pure white that outshone the oozing darkness of the fire surrounding, piercing through all of Hell's great disgust to focus John's attention completely. He felt himself moving, no longer transfixed by the cavern's horror, and stumbled forwards, legs battling against the mire of dark, sickly discharge that seemed to ebb from the ground itself and coat the earth. His feet were drenched, and as he advanced - somehow passing over the void of agony that lay beneath him, apparently existing on a separate plane - the mire clung to him ever more tightly, climbing past his ankles to lap at his shins, then his knees, each step requiring twice the effort of the one preceding, until John was dragged onto his hands, crawling and dragging his body toward the white light that beckoned him, his journey taking him millenia, but the light never moving, never getting closer, but always reaching out to him, as if to say keep going, John. Keep crawling. Come for me. Just a little bit further...
He slumped into the mire, the mud overtaking him as exhaustion took hold. The ground enveloped him, swallowed John whole, and he could feel himself suffocating, drowning in the viscous, foul liquid for centuries before he was spat out below, the pinpricks he had looked upon so long ago growing larger and larger as he fell to join them. He craned his neck upwards, hoping for any sign of that light, the beautiful, pure shining star that had goaded him forth.
There was nothing but inky blackness.
Not even the flames.
But still, the voice echoed around him.
Save me, John. Come for me. Save me. You put me here, John Constantine. You put me here. Save me, John.
Save me, John.
Save me, John.
Save me, John.
"S A V E M E J O H N . A N D S A V E Y O U R S E L F .""
"I CAN'T." He yelled back, startling himself awake with the forcefulness of his reply. There was a bubble of silence, and then John drew the first ragged, stale breath of the day, and it was broken; the sounds of traffic and the city filtered in through his window, and he could hear the creaking of floorboards above him, the faint sounds of strong, angry words floating down through his ceiling. The sun shone harshly outside, spilling onto his bed, and John threw off his covers, propping himself up as he wiped his face of sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the fourth night of the same dream, and it had always played out the same way. Failure, accusation, and tortured pleading. John sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as shaky hands fumbled around in the drawer of his bedside table to find the lighter and the nearly-empty pack of Silk Cut cigarettes that dwelled within, a fag quickly finding its way to his mouth in one hand as the other flipped the lighter open and lit the wick. He held the flame to the end of the cigarette and drew deeply as it caught alight, drawing the toxic smoke into his lungs and pushing it out in one motion. His heart began to calm itself, though his mind still raced. These were not mere nightmares, imagined illusions of horror born of external stress. These were deeper, more vivid - John would say premonitions were he not a cynic. But a cynic he was, and he was quite content to endure these dreams for as long as they would persist, a subconscious desire to be punished eager to inflict such lucid terror when John's waking mind was not there to suppress his inner demons.
"I am in his kingdom, John."
John flinched, ducking sharply as he reacted to the vicious whisper that came from just behind his shoulder. He stood from his bed, cold air stinging his naked torso as the duvet fell from around his shoulders. Smoke from the lit cigarette drifted lazily upwards, ash falling to the ground and pooling around John's feet. The room was empty save for him, but the voice had been so clear and direct that even the deepest cynicism John could muster failed to dispell the belief that something - someone - had just spoken to him.
"Find the house of Nergal, John."
"Fuck off." John said loudly, and then he heard a stomp on his ceiling as the 88-year-old lady above disapproved of his vulgarity. The room was still again, and John poised himself for a third intrusion, carefully sucking on his cigarette as he moved across the bedroom to his closet, fishing out a shirt and a pair of slacks, pulling the trousers over his legs and buttoning his collar as the keen silence of his apartment remained steadfastly unbroken. He didn't want to think about who was talking to him, delivering ominous, cryptic messages and pleading commands. Instead, he pushed his tie up to the top of his collar and walked out of the bedroom, leaving his dreams and spectral visitor behind him. In the kitchen, he stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray that sat in the center of the small round table and snatched his coat from where it hung on the door, slinging it over his form while his free hand snatched the flask from the inside pocket, feverishly pulling and twisting at the cap before he swung it to his mouth, taking a large gulp. He stowed the flask again, and held a hand out, parallel to the ground. It twitched slightly, and Constantine drew it into a fist until his knuckles were white and his fingers ached with the pressure. Smoke rose from the cracks between his fingers and he opened them, fire bursting from his palm and smoldering painlessly. He watched the flames dance across his skin, lashing at his wrinkles and hopping the callouses at the base of each finger. The voice from his dream echoed in his head as the flames span round and round. The house of Nergal...
John's cigarette burnt to its last end in the ashtray as the door to his apartment slammed shut behind him, another already lit and hanging from his lips as he took the stairs two at a time down towards the building's lobby.
A quick google has decided I'm heading down to Forbidden Planet on friday and picking up the first volume of American Vampire i can find. That shit looks sweet.
I'm off thursday/friday so should be able to respond far more rapidly this weekend.
B e l l e D ' V o i r e
Winter, Evander, and Christine. Memories, Ice, and...something. Chris hadn't engaged at the dance, or in any of the group's classes for that matter, and her general attitude made Belle wonder about how much of an advantage her team's extra person actually was. Her new knowledge of Sebastian and Aiden certainly weighed their chances heavily, although it did also give her some idea on strategy. She measured her options while the others discussed. Winter chirped up first, probably trying to break the tension that lied between the two girls.
"So, where should we hide our flag and what should everyone do? I'm pretty fast and agile, so I could probably be part of the hunting party, but I'll leave it up to you all if you have a better strategy."
Belle nodded slowly. Evander replied.
"I think a preferred place where we could hide the flag is probably a place where there's only one 'entrance'. You know, like there's a wall behind them so the defender could probably see where the enemies would come from. As for what I can do, I'm flexible. Just tell me where to go."
Belle chimed in.
"Under a knot of roots, inside a tree hollow, hidden in a thorn-bush. Somewhere out of sight and awkward to get to. But they'll have 360 degrees of access no matter where we put it, so we should defend it from where we have the most vision of the area - that's from height or distance."
Carefully - Evander and Chris were still unaware of the true purpose of Jonas' group - Belle flexed muscles, reaching out to the innumerable insects that swarmed this forest. She could almost feel their response, a low murmur of chittering legs and beating wings. Yes, Queen it said.
"Evander, you should defend. Sebastian's too full of himself to hang back and I have a feeling Aiden's got something to prove on this trip, so I'll expect both of them to be coming after the flag. Winter, Chris and I will swarm Brynn. Three against one shouldn't be a problem."
She looked around, trying to spot the particular insect she wanted. She found it quickly, carefully focusing to isolate it.
"Reckon we ca-"
Belle stopped mid-sentence as a roaring gust of fire erupted from the trees on the other side of the clearing, the smell of roasting wood and a great belch of smoke quickly following. Belle lost her train of thought completely, flashing back to the dance for a split-second, to the terror and helplessness.
You are not helpless, Queen.
"Winter, Chris, we're going. Evander, you're staying, and prepare yourself. Aiden is not playing as a team-building exercise."
With the sharp command issued, Belle carefully hurried into the woods, back towards the clearing but on a path to skirt its edges. The fireflies she had isolated previously split up, spreading dots of light across the trees and shrubbery. Around her feet, millipedes and spiders followed her wake, while out of sight there was the low hum of wasp and fly wings. Aiden was dangerous, and Belle was preparing to subdue. She just hoped she didn't need to.
Winter, Evander, and Christine. Memories, Ice, and...something. Chris hadn't engaged at the dance, or in any of the group's classes for that matter, and her general attitude made Belle wonder about how much of an advantage her team's extra person actually was. Her new knowledge of Sebastian and Aiden certainly weighed their chances heavily, although it did also give her some idea on strategy. She measured her options while the others discussed. Winter chirped up first, probably trying to break the tension that lied between the two girls.
"So, where should we hide our flag and what should everyone do? I'm pretty fast and agile, so I could probably be part of the hunting party, but I'll leave it up to you all if you have a better strategy."
Belle nodded slowly. Evander replied.
"I think a preferred place where we could hide the flag is probably a place where there's only one 'entrance'. You know, like there's a wall behind them so the defender could probably see where the enemies would come from. As for what I can do, I'm flexible. Just tell me where to go."
Belle chimed in.
"Under a knot of roots, inside a tree hollow, hidden in a thorn-bush. Somewhere out of sight and awkward to get to. But they'll have 360 degrees of access no matter where we put it, so we should defend it from where we have the most vision of the area - that's from height or distance."
Carefully - Evander and Chris were still unaware of the true purpose of Jonas' group - Belle flexed muscles, reaching out to the innumerable insects that swarmed this forest. She could almost feel their response, a low murmur of chittering legs and beating wings. Yes, Queen it said.
"Evander, you should defend. Sebastian's too full of himself to hang back and I have a feeling Aiden's got something to prove on this trip, so I'll expect both of them to be coming after the flag. Winter, Chris and I will swarm Brynn. Three against one shouldn't be a problem."
She looked around, trying to spot the particular insect she wanted. She found it quickly, carefully focusing to isolate it.
"Reckon we ca-"
Belle stopped mid-sentence as a roaring gust of fire erupted from the trees on the other side of the clearing, the smell of roasting wood and a great belch of smoke quickly following. Belle lost her train of thought completely, flashing back to the dance for a split-second, to the terror and helplessness.
You are not helpless, Queen.
"Winter, Chris, we're going. Evander, you're staying, and prepare yourself. Aiden is not playing as a team-building exercise."
With the sharp command issued, Belle carefully hurried into the woods, back towards the clearing but on a path to skirt its edges. The fireflies she had isolated previously split up, spreading dots of light across the trees and shrubbery. Around her feet, millipedes and spiders followed her wake, while out of sight there was the low hum of wasp and fly wings. Aiden was dangerous, and Belle was preparing to subdue. She just hoped she didn't need to.
I would like to rescind my Ghost Rider and submit this in replacement:
"S'just the way of it, son. We all sell our souls sooner or later."
There will be a second sheet for a less ostensibly heroic character at some point this week, but I don't want to take on more than two right now.
If anyone would like Ghost Rider, feel free. Otherwise this sheet will override its spot.
C O N S T A N T I N E
"S'just the way of it, son. We all sell our souls sooner or later."
J O H N C O N S T A N T I N E ♦ F E B U A R Y , 1 9 9 0 ( 2 6 ) ♦ M A L E ♦ C H A O T I C G O O D
C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:
My Constantine is a highly-edited mash-up of the three canon interpretations that currently exist; a mix of his early days in DC Vertigo's Hellblazer, his later appearances in the DCU alongside more commonly known heroes like Superman and Batman, and his newest incarnation in DC's New52. Several events are yet to happen to Constantine, if indeed they happen at all, and others have been removed entirely to allow a more streamlined, intuitive history. My Constantine is younger, brasher, bolder, but still tormented and scarred, with some aspects edited and shaken up to allow him personal quirks that will serve to truly mark him as my own interpretation of his character. Hopefully, he is one that will enter the AbsoluteComics universe a better fit, and one that will not appear jarring alongside the capes and costumes of other characters.
N O T E S:
T I M E L I N E :
♦ 1990 | John Constantine is born in Liverpool. His mother (Mary-Anne) dies. His father (Thomas) blames him. His sister (Cheryl) is left to raise him. Life is shit.
♦ 2001 | Thomas Constantine is sent to jail for burglary and petty voyeurism. Cheryl and John are sent to stay with family in Northampton. John discovers he is the next in the line of 'Laughing Magicians'. John begins to practice magic. Life is bearable.
♦ 2010 | John and his friends start up a punk band called 'Mucous Membrane' and find small success. After a gig in Newcastle, John stumbles upon a horrific carnage - Astra, an abused child, had unconsciously used latent magical power to summon a monster to slaughter her oppressors. John convinces his friends to help him summon their own demon to slay said monster; they succeed at the summon, but fail at the bind, and the demon Nergal slays the monster and takes Astra's powerful soul to his kingdom in Hell. John's friends are scarred for life, and John himself is committed to Ravenscar Psychiatric Hospital. Life is shit.
♦ 2015 | John is released from Ravenscar and moves to the US after a failed reconciliation with Cheryl. He develops a bad smoking habit along with some hard drinking, but does strike up a charming friendship with a chicago cabbie called Chas. John starts up a freelance investigation office, as well as occult business on the side, and tries to make his way in the world. Life is bearable.
♦ 2016 | John has been having bad dreams.
♦ 1990 | John Constantine is born in Liverpool. His mother (Mary-Anne) dies. His father (Thomas) blames him. His sister (Cheryl) is left to raise him. Life is shit.
♦ 2001 | Thomas Constantine is sent to jail for burglary and petty voyeurism. Cheryl and John are sent to stay with family in Northampton. John discovers he is the next in the line of 'Laughing Magicians'. John begins to practice magic. Life is bearable.
♦ 2010 | John and his friends start up a punk band called 'Mucous Membrane' and find small success. After a gig in Newcastle, John stumbles upon a horrific carnage - Astra, an abused child, had unconsciously used latent magical power to summon a monster to slaughter her oppressors. John convinces his friends to help him summon their own demon to slay said monster; they succeed at the summon, but fail at the bind, and the demon Nergal slays the monster and takes Astra's powerful soul to his kingdom in Hell. John's friends are scarred for life, and John himself is committed to Ravenscar Psychiatric Hospital. Life is shit.
♦ 2015 | John is released from Ravenscar and moves to the US after a failed reconciliation with Cheryl. He develops a bad smoking habit along with some hard drinking, but does strike up a charming friendship with a chicago cabbie called Chas. John starts up a freelance investigation office, as well as occult business on the side, and tries to make his way in the world. Life is bearable.
♦ 2016 | John has been having bad dreams.
There will be a second sheet for a less ostensibly heroic character at some point this week, but I don't want to take on more than two right now.
If anyone would like Ghost Rider, feel free. Otherwise this sheet will override its spot.
D E S I G N A T I O N : E N F O R C E R
M A N E A ◼ O C T O B E R 2 0 0 0 ( 1 7 ) ◼ F E M A L E ◼ A U G M E N T E D
"Preliminary tests yield positive results. Subject may be ready for field deployment."
▼ A P P E A R A N C E:
"Despite all our work, subject appears remarkably...human. This will serve us well."
//STATS:
//DESCRIPTION:
◼ HEIGHT | 5'3"
◼ WEIGHT | 120lbs
◼ BUILD | Lean and toned. Large muscle mass.
◼ HAIR COLOR | Blonde
◼ EYE COLOR | Clear blue.
◼ OTHER | Manea has several small, precise surgical scars in various places across her body where technology has been installed. The tattoo on the left side of her scalp covers heavier scarring from intensive neuro-surgery she receieved at a young age.
◼ WEIGHT | 120lbs
◼ BUILD | Lean and toned. Large muscle mass.
◼ HAIR COLOR | Blonde
◼ EYE COLOR | Clear blue.
◼ OTHER | Manea has several small, precise surgical scars in various places across her body where technology has been installed. The tattoo on the left side of her scalp covers heavier scarring from intensive neuro-surgery she receieved at a young age.
//DESCRIPTION:
Short but dense, Manea's body shape combined with her steely, emotionless stance and face makes her look every inch of the tactical, effective soldier she was bred to be. Her facial features are sharp and distinguished, and her hair, other than the shaved half, is worn long and straight in a traditional, minimalist style. Faint scars can be seen on her arms, legs, back and stomach as the result of multiple precise surgical incisions.
▼ B I O G R A P H Y:
"This is a great success. We can only hope further projects exceed the accomplishments we have made here."
Born early 2000 in central Johannesburg, South Africa, Manea (though not yet named thus) spent three rough but good years with her single mother, often looked after by her older brother while her mother worked long, gruelling shifts across three separate jobs in order to provide for her two children and herself. Manea's mother managed to keep the three of them clothed, fed, and sheltered, but there was precious little money for much else - her brother was a rapidly-growing young man, she herself needed expensive baby nutrition, and their extortionate landlord often lumped extra fees onto the rent for damages, noise complaints, tardiness, or turning down his sexual advances. They got by week-to-week, and Manea felt loved: her mother a flowing spring of warmth and nurture, and her brother an ever-present figure of protection and energy.
Manea does not remember them now.
Like much of Johannesburg, Manea's block was heavy and violent with gang activity and conflict. Disputes over drugs, money, territory and various other forms of contraband often flared into overt aggression and gunshot theatrics, gang members wounding and killing each other in a constant, chaotic scramble to seize the upper hand in what surmounted to little more than a few stained dollars atop a dusty pile of dry earth. Manea and her family did well to keep their heads down and avoid the brunt of the loosely-organised crime that otherwise bled through the city, only accepting its fringe influence into their small lives - the landlord, the cash-in-hand 'employment', the gang members jeering in the street. It rarely entered the complex of flats that held their home; until November, 12th, 2003, when a clear and still night was interrupted by a full-scale militarised police raid on the entire building. In truth, it was the Black Lotus Society masquerading as government agents, but the truth of their aggressors mattered little to the scores of people beaten, slashed, and shot dead at their doors, in their homes, dragged out into the halls and put down. Manea screamed in fright when a soldier kicked down their front door in a single, focused strike, and screamed again when they put a bullet through the chest of her brother, rupturing his lungs and his heart, killing him before he even reached the ground. It was when their barrels turned on her mother that the screams stopped, and instead a determined, unnatural fury overtook her. The soldier pulled the trigger, ripping a hole through the hand of Manea's mother before making another in her throat, and then yelled as Manea beat and bit his legs with all the angry ferocity a three year old could muster. The soldier's gun turned again, his finger starting to squeeze the trigger before his CO stepped in and pushed the barrel toward the floor, a growing sense of amused curiosity overtaking him about the toddler's unflinching, furious resolve in the face of carnage and tragedy. Instead, Manea was tazed, bagged, and abducted from Johannesburg, an impromptu inductee of the Black Lotus Society. She would never see South Africa again.
Manea does not remember them now.
Like much of Johannesburg, Manea's block was heavy and violent with gang activity and conflict. Disputes over drugs, money, territory and various other forms of contraband often flared into overt aggression and gunshot theatrics, gang members wounding and killing each other in a constant, chaotic scramble to seize the upper hand in what surmounted to little more than a few stained dollars atop a dusty pile of dry earth. Manea and her family did well to keep their heads down and avoid the brunt of the loosely-organised crime that otherwise bled through the city, only accepting its fringe influence into their small lives - the landlord, the cash-in-hand 'employment', the gang members jeering in the street. It rarely entered the complex of flats that held their home; until November, 12th, 2003, when a clear and still night was interrupted by a full-scale militarised police raid on the entire building. In truth, it was the Black Lotus Society masquerading as government agents, but the truth of their aggressors mattered little to the scores of people beaten, slashed, and shot dead at their doors, in their homes, dragged out into the halls and put down. Manea screamed in fright when a soldier kicked down their front door in a single, focused strike, and screamed again when they put a bullet through the chest of her brother, rupturing his lungs and his heart, killing him before he even reached the ground. It was when their barrels turned on her mother that the screams stopped, and instead a determined, unnatural fury overtook her. The soldier pulled the trigger, ripping a hole through the hand of Manea's mother before making another in her throat, and then yelled as Manea beat and bit his legs with all the angry ferocity a three year old could muster. The soldier's gun turned again, his finger starting to squeeze the trigger before his CO stepped in and pushed the barrel toward the floor, a growing sense of amused curiosity overtaking him about the toddler's unflinching, furious resolve in the face of carnage and tragedy. Instead, Manea was tazed, bagged, and abducted from Johannesburg, an impromptu inductee of the Black Lotus Society. She would never see South Africa again.
~
▼ M O T I V A T I O N / O B J E C T I V E:
"Your designation is ENFORCER. Your purpose is [REDACTED]."
What is driving your character? What makes them tick? Why do they act the way they do.
▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:
"Subject seems to have taken to the implants well. All tests exceed expectations."
//ABILITIES:
◼ REFLEX ENHANCER| Nanotechnology that binds with Manea's central nervous system, aiding the conduction of any and all electrical signals sent and received, speeding them up and allowing Manea to react to incoming stimuli faster and more accurately.
◼ NOCICEPTOR LIMITER| Nanotechnology that restricts the synapse reaction of her body's nociceptors, sensory receptors that detect potentially damaging stimuli such as pressure, heat, or cell damage/death. This dulls any pain stimuli to Manea's brain.
◼ HYPERTROPHY ACCELERATOR| Nanotechnology that emits testosterone at an increased rate while also aiding in the process of rebuilding muscle. This allows faster and larger volume muscle growth, and also reinforces existing muscle structure, affording Manea extra strength.
◼ OXYGENATION BOOSTER| Nanotechnology that works alongside Manea's existing red blood cells, carrying more oxygen from every breath to her working muscles, as well as breaking down build ups of citric acid to allow extra anaerobic muscle activity. Combined, this allows Manea's muscles to work at higher capacity for far longer.
◼ RECONSTRUCTION AMPLIFIER| Nanotechnology that aids Manea's existing healing capacity by boosting cell regeneration. This implant allows Manea to repair open wounds, broken bones, and internal damage in as little as 12-18 hours. A good night's rest will allow the the combination of her nanotech to heal nearly any damage.
All put together, Manea's implants and nano-technology allow her to lift and manipulate objects as heavy as the average motorcycle with relative ease, sprint at a maximum speed of roughly 30mph, and maintain this speed for 20-30 minutes before exhausting herself, ignore pain up to and including broken bones without ceasing function, catch arrows and thrown weapons out of the air with minimal injury, and heal nearly all major wounds or fractures within 18-24 hours of rest period. She is a formidable combatant, and is deployed as such.
//SKILLS:
◼ HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT| Manea is highly-trained and extremely effective in close-quarters combat, able to block or counter nearly any incoming strike as well as disarm her opponent/s of multiple kinds of weaponry and turn it to her advantage. Manea rarely loses the upper hand when her enemies come within arm's reach.
◼ FIREARM PROFICIENCY| Manea is highly-trained and extremely effective with many different kinds of firearms, ranging from basic pistols, to black-market SMG's, to high-end assault rifles, to powerful marksman snipers.
◼ MELEE PROFICIENCY| Manea is highly-trained and extremely effective in the use of multiple forms of melee weaponry, including blades, clubs, and axes. Her training also allows her to improvise weapons from her surroundings if she is unable to find anything more formal, or is somehow disarmed.
//LIMITATIONS:
◼ TBD | Test
//WEAKNESSES:
◼ TBD | Test
[/indent]▼ N O T E S:
//SUPPORTING CAST:
//STOMPING GROUNDS
//PARAPHERNALIA
▼ ALLIES
▼ FRIENDS
▼ ENEMIES
◼ TBD | Test
▼ FRIENDS
◼ TBD | Test
▼ ENEMIES
◼ TBD | Test
//STOMPING GROUNDS
◼ TBD | Test
//PARAPHERNALIA
◼ TBD | Test
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