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Hey, thanks for swinging by, and stuff.

Relevant information as follows.

Time zone
๐Ÿ„ GMT+1.

Preferred RPs
๐Ÿ„ High Casual to Advanced.
๐Ÿ„ Superhero RPs.
๐Ÿ„ Superhuman RPs.
๐Ÿ„ Mutant RPs.

๐Ÿ„ PMs.

RP Experience
๐Ÿ„ I have been RPing for about 12 years.

๐Ÿ„ Writing.
๐Ÿ„ Meeting new people.
๐Ÿ„ Making characters.

Personal Shit
๐Ÿ„ Age, (27).
๐Ÿ„ Country, (Sweden).
๐Ÿ„ Gender, (Male).

Most Recent Posts

The RP has moved to the Discord full-time. All RP will happen there.
Chapter 1

War of Attrition

๐Ÿ’€ Research Facility - North California.



Sterile walls coated a prison cell discreetly fashioned with modern implements. A sleek surface covered floor and walls alike, painting them a sterile silver, which complemented the flat bed accenting a distinct cleanliness. One would be justified in considering the young mutantโ€™s confinement a containment chamber, rather than more conventional venues of arrest. Dim lights were enough to conjure forth a faint, if noticeable glow emanating from pale, white skin, a frame which contrasted itself with black features, notably the large, raven eyes reminiscent of an alienโ€™s visage.

A long, slender tail gently swayed from one side to the other, a curious gaze lingering upon a window which in turn offered view of the beholder himself, a mirror staring back at the pale, sylph-like being. A mirror masking the presence of others, privately scrutinizing their captive, warranting him the esteemed title of โ€˜science experimentโ€™. A keen eye would perhaps have been able to notice the bandaid upon his arm, attempting to hide the small, black circle which had formed beneath its soft, cotton square.

Dressed in the scarce contribution of shorts and a tank top, the mutant did not appear to display signs of distress. Rather, a presentation of apathy made itself clearly known upon his inhuman features, clawed feet slowly padding against a cold floor as he approached the window, each step clicking with those taloned digits meeting the hardness beneath. โ€Are you afraid of me?โ€ Came a question, his words draped in a tune matching the boyโ€™s appearance, a ghostly, phantasmal sound to dot his mellow voice.

There was a pause that wrapped itself around this one-sided conversation, a halt which eventually found itself dispelled once the mirrored surface staring into the cell faded to allow for a proper exchange. โ€œI am terrified of you,โ€ a response trickled through the protective glass, a voice fittingly belonging to a well-presented woman dressed in what could have been expected from a scientist. A white coat hiding the proper, black suit beneath. โ€œAnd intrigued by you,โ€ she continued. โ€œMy name is Dr. Aideen O'donnell, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Rivers,โ€ the tall, orange-haired woman finished, her Irish accent bleeding through the introduction.
โ€Connor,โ€ a correction, โ€I donโ€™t think my parents want me to be a โ€˜Riversโ€™.โ€ His words appeared to follow the same solemn, monotone, and mellow song throughout the boyโ€™s verbal expression.

โ€œFamily can be a tricky thing,โ€ the scientist continued, a small smirk managing its way to her red lips, as green eyes met the large, black orbs staring back at her. โ€œI am sorry for delaying, before finally meeting you, Connor.โ€

Again, a short pause lingered as the boyโ€™s gaze shifted towards his caged surroundings. โ€Do you usually talk to your experiments?โ€ A calm question slipped past Connorโ€™s sharp teeth, his head tilted ever so slightly, โ€every time that door opens..,โ€ the boyโ€™s claw rose to point at the metallic surface sliding aside when a path to his cell was allowed, โ€you put me to sleep with.., gas, I think.โ€

โ€œAs I said, Connor,โ€ Dr. Oโ€™donnell spoke, โ€œyou are quite terrifying,โ€ she continued. โ€œHowever, to answer your question,โ€ the womanโ€™s eyes narrowed, โ€œyes, how can I come to understand you, if I do not converse with you?โ€

โ€Itโ€™s a nice change, I guess,โ€ the somber creature offered, his brow raised at the sentiment, โ€Iโ€™ve never talked this much.โ€ Considering his next statement, Connor eventually proceeded, his slender, clawed hand gently placed upon the glass separating doctor from experiment. โ€Can I ask you a question, before itโ€™s your turn?โ€

A curious smile bridged itself across Aideenโ€™s features. She was enjoying this conversation with a boy previously expected to be little more than a savage. To her knowledge, Connor had been locked in a basement throughout the course of his life. A television and books provided him with the outside world, and one ought then to ask, who had taught him the art of reading? The answer that Connor was self-taught found itself in a combination of educational channels and a desire to understand. A mutant quite literally born in darkness, clawing his way towards the light with little more than effective curiosity. โ€œOf course. What would you like to know?โ€

โ€Why do I scare you?โ€ His question surfaced quickly, not mere moments following Aideenโ€™s response.

โ€œThat isnโ€™t obvious?โ€ The woman asked, before earning a shake of Connorโ€™s head.

โ€My parents picked โ€˜Demonโ€™, or โ€˜Devilโ€™,โ€ the mutant explained. โ€I imagine you have a more detailed description.โ€

โ€œYou are quite a well-spoken boy, arenโ€™t you?โ€ The doctor chuckled. โ€œYou are neither a Devil, nor a Demon, Connor,โ€ she began. โ€œHowever, mutants are more dangerous than both. You actually exist.โ€ Crossing her arms, Dr. Aideen Oโ€™donnell continued, โ€œyour very being is death, Connor. Everything from your blood, to the powers you wield are a biohazard of the highest order.โ€ The womanโ€™s explanation did not seem to phase the boy, but rather, his expression confessed to a desire for more. โ€œBut, if Demons did exist, I think youโ€™d be a rather good candidate.โ€

โ€Demons do exist, Dr. Oโ€™donnell,โ€ the teenager finally spoke. It was then that a phantasmal force began to manifest itself around his clawed hand, the energy soon extending to the confines of his room, as if a ghostly wind encircling the teen, and yet remaining sealed within his cell as to not touch the doctor. โ€And weโ€™re face to face with evil, every day.โ€ Connorโ€™s hand slid down from the glass and followed the motions of his Necrotic Force, reminiscent of fingers through a breeze. โ€What do you have to be afraid of? What is it.., Dr. Oโ€™donnell.., that true evil fears?โ€

I'll start tinkering on a character.

You okay with a mutant (meta) who is neither a villain nor a hero? Someone on the start of an anti-hero path, as a gang-member and a bit of a hoodlum? A character with powers but no actual, formal experience.

In summary - an inexperienced mutant living in a bad neighborhood, and does some bad shit for reasons they believe are right.

Or would you rather we play more battle-hardened and experienced soldier-type characters?
I am interested in this.

๐Ÿ’€ Brookside Bar.

๐Ÿ’€ Evening.

๐Ÿ’€ None.

Change. It was the bulk of what had transpired following Azharโ€™s involvement in the destruction of a mobster family known as the โ€˜Guglianosโ€™. Whether a positive or negative shift, Azhar was quite unsure, but a twist in the narrative it truly remained. A bright smile had made way for a far more mellow expression, and a talkative young man had paused ceaseless chatter. He recalled the countless conversations held between himself and the ruling bodies of HERO, which in turn allowed for a spiritual journey to follow. Fifty-seven people killed, or rather, erased. What remained was fabric, each individual article of clothing scrubbed clean of DNA. โ€˜As if they had never existedโ€™, was a sentence Azhar had been afforded during the many interactions now drilled into his pale skull. Perhaps most shocking of all was Azharโ€™s lack of a new bracelet, despite the old trinketโ€™s destruction. Additionally, he was assigned rather specific assignments, all of which were less than public in their execution.

One would be forgiven in response to confusion, but the development of this specific mutantโ€™s career maintained a single path. He could not escape who he was, and denying his nature was a childโ€™s naive dream. No, for Azhar, other doors had opened. Of course, the change came hand in hand with his growing control where a man by the handle of โ€˜Moroccoโ€™ taught the deathly creature how to conduct himself. Had the story been written by a more lighthearted author, perhaps Azhar would have surpassed his inner desires, his biological programming. However, such was not the case, as reality dictated.

Rather, for the dark mutant now enjoying a glass of whiskey in a street-side bar, the outcome found itself split down the middle. He did, indeed, manage to profess control over himself, but that desire to extend a deathly touch would forever remain. Azhar was a virus, an entity with one sole purpose, which was to spread. Such was the nature of any creation such as himself, be it a mindless infection or an inhuman being neither homosapien nor โ€˜giftedโ€™.

What then, was one to do? Coldwater was a waste of Azharโ€™s abilities and the grayscale world they all lived in demanded more than the golden hand of heroism. Nothing quite as grand as Division X, Zee was prescribed a more singular group, one that consisted of himself, an Angel of Death, if the dramatic statement once ascribed to him held any value.

It would be fair to consider Azhar an Operative, rather than a Hero. He most certainly wouldnโ€™t classify himself as the latter, nor did he find any interest in the concept. Not anymore. Indeed, the boy still remembered thoughts as presented where he claimed a position of fame, a stage where he could prove that Monsters were Heroes, as well. He was proven wrong. Despite his best efforts, Azhar was unable to deny his biology, what he truly was, and that was assuredly not a Hero.

His friends, despite their collateral shortcomings, claimed such a title with flamboyant zeal. As for Azhar, he was done pretending. Morocco had taught the boy much, a wise and experienced man with an ability to tame the Devil. Zee was thankful for the opportunity, something which saved his life, in all fairness. Something which had been gifted by Samson, a young Hero by far surpassing his age with wisdom and foresight. Despite a blatant difference in personality, Azhar could see how Morocco and Samson confessed to a relationship akin to father and son.

Clicking his claws against the glass between those taloned fingers, Azharโ€™s attention rose to the bartender as she spoke, thoughts occasionally drifting to a party his companions were currently attending. Blake had extended an invitation to the Devil as well, and where Zee would have jumped at the opportunity a select few months earlier, this changed individual now occupying a bar in Brookside found little interest in such gatherings.

Yes, change, it was indeed a heavy word which encapsulated the passing of these months. From Hero to Operative, from bright to mellow, and most notably, from denial to acceptance. Azhar had embraced the darkness within, the emboldened yearning and horrific joy erupting from destruction. He had embraced it, and in its wake he had abandoned futile attempts at another outlook. If HERO had a less reputable section of secret assignments drenched in moral ambiguity, Azhar was unquestionably there, wielding powers previously sealed, in secrecy.

โ€œIโ€™ll be honest,โ€ began the bartender, her attention lingering on the young man before her. One could likely note his age, nineteen, and that drinking in an establishment such as this required an additional two years before the law looked favorably upon the act, but Brookside merely laughed at the notion. If you had the money, you had the right. โ€œI never thought Iโ€™d be serving whiskey to a Demon.โ€

"Just donโ€™t seal a deal with me, and youโ€™ll be fine," Zee commented, his sharp teeth revealed where the boy managed a small grin.

โ€œI dunnoโ€™,โ€ she offered, followed by a shrug of her shoulders, โ€œlotsaโ€™ folk around here would be more than willing to sell their souls.โ€

With that tail slowly swaying from one end to the other, Azhar tilted his head, a grin persisting. It would be a lie to claim that he didnโ€™t find comfort in a rundown establishment such as this, one of many in Brookside. All of the layers had been peeled away, leaving nothing but the raw truth meeting an onlookerโ€™s gaze. "Iโ€™ll keep that in mind," Zee sipped his drink, gently swirling the golden-brown liquid within.

โ€œSo, got a name there, Lucifer?โ€ Came a question dotting their friendly conversation. Indeed, Azhar had abandoned the Heroic name he once bore, for it belonged to someone else entirely, someone who in the passing of a mere few months had faded. A boy who enjoyed singing, a young man who sought to stand beneath the sun despite its unforgiving rays, a fond if naive memory which it now embodied.

"Lucifer works," Azhar agreed, before he proceeded to lean against the counter, "or Zee. Luciferโ€™s a bit too dramatic for this place, isnโ€™t it?" Despite the overhaul this specific Devil had suffered, his flair for the dramatic had lingered to some extent. No, he scarcely stepped onto stages anymore, and didnโ€™t sing like he had before. However, the theatrical young man residing within was not going anywhere, and only found himself developing further through a mellow, withdrawn position. Perhaps that was what gave rise to his new handle, but whatever had gifted him the title, Azrael would forever translate into โ€˜The Angel of Deathโ€™, which Azhar had now fully accepted.

I am actually going to dip out, so feel free to take the spot I had been gunning for!

Thanks for the opportunity, and I hope you all have fun!
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