The Harlequin

[color=darkslategrey][font=gothic]I have only one thing to say... The Hervey Bay characterisation was perfect.[/font][/color]

[COLOR=darkslategrey][FONT=gothic]Bruises were interesting things. They were like life, in a way. A swirl of darkness that slowly faded to a sickly green. Prod them, they slide away, only to come straight back. Leeches sucked them clear. They were inflicted in a twisted mix of hate and love. Bruises were never quite the same, no matter how many you saw. In the old days, the bad days, the days when the shells rained down and men walked with gas masks in one hand, I saw a lot of bruises. In his time working in Otaku City, I've seen even more. Bruises, black eyes, splints... I've seen a lot of injuries, though they're rarely fresh. I've never seen someone pained by them though. Only a dull acquiescence, and even sometimes a warped acceptance. The only pain I ever see, I see in people eyes. I can see a lot of it now. She's a pretty young thing, no more than 8. Still far, far too preciously young to have learned the realities of life yet. I intend to show her some of them tonight, as only I in Otaku City can. She looked up at him, her deep, liquid eyes rippling my reflection over her unshed tears. What I see makes me sigh. Prematurely aged by 28, with tight lines around his eyes, and the wary set of someone who keeps still and quiet because to do otherwise was to make oneself a target. I never picked that up during the war. No, it was my time here, with these people, with my new activities, that lent me that cast. At my sigh, she hugs herself close. Her arms are so pale, so flawless. In a few short years, they'll be marred by those thin, vertical scars I'm so used to spotting. It's almost a reflex by now. Her hands are twisting in her little blue dress, the callouses on the back of her knuckles telling me her skinniness isn't just due to a lack of food. She's bulimic, and has been for nearly a year, if I'm right. She's scared. Scared of going home, scared of staying here, scared of me, scared that I'll hurt her. She doesn't know how right she is. I sigh again, and sit down. She takes the chair opposite me, relaxing slightly at the sight of the coffee table separating us. I catch her eye, smile slightly, and lean back, crossing my arms. She holds my gaze a moment, and drops it. She's used to showing submission. That won't help her here, not at all. When she doesn't look back up, I lean forward, and finally start to speak. "Your name is Sara, isn't it little one?" She looks up, and nods, hesitantly. I wasn't really asking. I know her well. I've watched her for months now. I knew her elder sister, I knew her mother, and I knew the reason why her relations were no longer with her. "Do you know who I am?" "...Mr Kastor?" I smile, warmly now. She knows who I am. She knows she's not here by chance. That's good. It makes things easier. "You can call me Vadim. I'm only Mr Kastor to people I don't know." "But if you don't know them, how do they know what to call you?" My smile widens. She's sharper than either her sister or her mother. It might help her. It might not. That entirely depends on how the next fifty five minutes go. She'll cry, she'll scream, she'll suffer like she never has before, even in this city. At the end of it, she'll come out either broken or a new person, and not even I can control which. I answer her question with a shrug, and move straight to business. "Sara....What you do, when you put your fingers down your throat... Do you know why you do it? Do you know what makes you do it?" Living in Otaku City is tough. You do what you can to survive. Quite often that involves hurting people. I pride myself on my ability to hurt people. In my soldiering days, I hurt people with guns, and knives, and even my hands. Now, I use my mind. I make people see what they don't want to see about themselves. I take them to the brink of collapse, and sometimes back again. I make them see the dirty ugly truth about this place, and I make them see that there really is something better out there; that what's happened to them isn't fair or just or good. Sometimes that hurts them the most of all. Being an ex-soldier in a city worse than any warzone is tough. Being a psychologist here is even tougher.[/FONT][/COLOR]

[color=Purple][font=Century Gothic]Didn't think I'd be back here.... Anyway, I don't really have time to write anything off the top of my head, but I probably should mention I handled the Battle Arena for a while there....I don't remember any of the time frames though. Also, I may be a little biased, but I feel Latham Adatym should get a mention. Even if it was a ridiculous collection of mainly incomprehensible descriptions of ....something, it was rather extensive, particularly for an rpg started by somebody who'd never posted anything before. Also, I can probably provide a few details on my wonderful old friend cloricus at some point...I'll see what I can come up with. [/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]OOC: Post much? Well, that had done a rather neat job of tearing it. In one of his more typical displays, Lynch was the first out of the room, walking quickly and muttering to himself about something in a thick enough dialect it was likely nigh incomprehensible. Which was probably a good thing, given that his disconnected ramblings included one or two personal comments that were likely best not to air. The noise was such a familiar background entity that he had no trouble tracking the footsteps that followed after his. Larce was quiet on his feet, impressively so, but he didn't quite seem to have the knack of lift his foot without a breaking a slight suction on the hard floors. Lynch picked up his pace slightly, turning off a side corridor rather than head straight back to his quarters. A slightly muffled exchange behind him revealed that while Larce may have been slightly surprised by this, everyone else was unconcerned. He had something of a dilemma on his hands, and he needed some privacy to think it over. He could work out from the outset that Larce's entire approach was slightly forced, and simply wouldn't work well with the team. If he wasn't acting naturally, the strain would eventually shift to resentment, and there wasn't that much that was worse than a superior who wasn't fond of you, and was perfectly capable of ordering you to walk into a building full of angry, weapon bearing people with few compunctions about summary knee cappings...Well, there were a few things, now that he thought about it, like that hooker in New Orleans after it turned out the mission-based credit card you'd been given had expired...but that was neither here nor there. On top of Larce's personal issues with the situation, there was also the fact that being treated in such a cavalier fashion was going to rub several people raw. Lynch was quite willing to watch the byplay that would no doubt ensue, and he was fairly confident that failing some rather major complications, he'd come out of it rather unscathed, but he was quite happy with the general status quo that existed in his life, and he figured anything that had the potential to result in the widescale destruction of several parts of a major city had a fair chance of disrupting that. To varying extents, the team were strong minded, pragmatic, independent operators. They followed the chain of command, but in the field, they were all experienced enough to know that sometimes the mission simply went to hell, and the only way to salvage it was to snatch opportunity as it came. If anything happened to jeopardise the original parameters this time around, Lynch was fairly certain everybody would blame Larce for his approach, and they'd all start taking matters into their own hands. Which would likely end up with himself, Boom and Larce wandering right into a very hostile situation, and have Bon Bon getting an itchy trigger finger. The upshot being that a lot of people would get killed, and it would likely be very public, and very messy. Lynch might have thought that "Operation Silent Fox" was a dodgy idea, but things were precarious enough as it was without a major fiasco right at the outset. Breaking out of and into one's own building was occasionally challenging, but that was okay. A minute or two, an air duct, and some scaling later, he was quite comfortable perched on a rather narrow window sill a floor up from where he should be, calmly scribing a note entailing exactly why that approach was a bad idea, with a concise psychological assessment of all concerned parties, a hurried example, and a recommendation or two, all posed from an entirely anonymous perspective, in a rather strange scrawl. Lynch fervently hoped Larce went to the effort of having the handwriting analysed. He was quite certain it would cause some confusion to find out the note had been written by one Washington Irving. Falsifying hand writing wasn't too hard. Finding somebody good to emulate was. And the note lay neatly rolled up on Larce's bed, with Lynch back out the window, just before Larce's footsteps could be faintly heard outside. Lynch made it back to his quarters without anyone noticing him, but he had a welcoming party waiting for him. Boom, unsurprisingly, was the first to question him. "So, what did you do to him? Break anything vital?" "Nothing, yet. Just a few recommendations." Lynch's reply came back clipped. He wasn't too surprised that the others had tagged his intention to say something to Larce, but he was mildly disappointed that they'd misinterpreted why he wanted to say anything at all. Threatening a superior over a difference in work ethics simply wasn't his style. Sidestepping the raised eyebrows and implict questions, he slipped into his room, closed the door, and started mentally working out how of the standard equipment he'd actually give in and use, and how much he'd either discard or replace with his own variants. The first thing to go was the issued body armour. It was too constricting for his tastes, and he had his own, far more mobile set. As he debated the pros and cons of various automatic weapons, Lynch absently wondered if the simple fact that the note couldn't be traced easily would tie it to him. He suspected that was the case, but if there was no proof, he could play the tacit angle as much as he liked. Games within games. Just the way he liked it.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]OOC:To make up for the lateness, I'm turning the brightness on my monitor up so it seems, to me at least, extra shiny. I recommend you all do the same. Larce was a dabbler. It might not have been immediately apparent what exactly he dabbled in, but it was obvious, to Lynch at least, right from the outset that he'd strayed over the line of the law. Anybody who's first reaction upon walking into the room was to look for potential exit strategies, and who payed as much attention to people's hands as their eyes, was obviously used to being hunted. And he wasn't a ghost. They were too easy to spot. Flawless acting skills are all well and good, but they do tend to stand out where they shouldn't, if you know what you're looking for. Larce didn't have the complete control to have been transfered from intelligence. Equally obvious was the fact that he wasn't part of Lynch's ...rarified profession. The simple fact that there was a reaction, even if it was only a slight dilation of the pupils, to the mention of violence implied a level of discomfort that simply didn't appear in a trained asassin, sanctioned or otherwise. Of course, it was possible he was a sadist, but tracking the pulse in his neck hadn't revealed any elevation, so that was unlikely. Lynch decided this one was definitely the avoidance type. Computer crime or blue collar fraud was a possibility, but those types were rarely practiced enough at running, and they normally didn't end up in situations like this. Of course, it took some considered thought to work out another instance when criminals had ended up in a situation like this. Lynch didn't include himself in that. But he was sure it had happened nevertheless. Eventually, the kicker came from Larce himself. As he leaned over to elaborate on some likely irrelevant point or another to Bon Bon, who didn't seem overly thrilled with her rather less than substantial role, Larce instinctively used Bon Bon's raised arms to mask his own hands. A visual block that was really rather smooth, innocuous if you didn't know what you were looking for, but a dead give away if you did. "Larce" (and Lynch thought the call sign should have told him from the first) was one of those people born with an insatiable curiousity about what other people have in their pockets. Lynch wasn't particularly bothered by the fact that Larce was some kind of thief. An assassin with moral scruples was kind of a joke. There were things that were right and wrong to other people, Lynch was sure, but really, something was either a good idea or a bad idea. It was ramifications that counted, not some higher minded intention. Meaning that if Larce was willing to make this work, he wouldn't bother Lynch too much. Of course, should he feel a light tug on his pocket, or find that his room's inventory tended to show a slight fluctuation, he might have to take steps, but that was a game left for another day. At the moment, Lynch had two concerns. Firstly, and the most important, to his mind at least, was whether or not to share his information with the rest of the team. Chances are they might well work it out for themselves. He was interested to see how long it would take them. On the other hand, telling them would give him an opportunity to see an unadultered reaction. It would probably unsettle Larce too. Which could make things interesting, and possibly even lead to his disappearance. This isn't to say Lynch was at all disloyal to the rest of the squad. It was simply that he dismissed a lot of things as ultimately unimportant. To date, he knew, no one else had managed to figure out the standard that he used to determine that, but that didn't bother him. For now, he'd keep silent, he decided. It would hardly be fair to off balance the team and Larce even more with his revelations, and Lynch was honestly curious as to how well Larce would do. The second, and far less important concern, was the mission. Though it was obvious everyone else was less than impressed by the arrangement, Lynch wasn't too bothered. Having a sniper as backup had always been simply because they worked well together, not because he thought he needed the cover. If it was enough of an issue that he couldn't skulk into a place, chances are the situation would call for Boom's specialised talents more than Bon Bon's anyway. The way things normally worked in such operations, Lynch's initial, silent assult (normally with knives, Lynch preferred them to guns) lead to people running away, right into Bon Bon's sights. If he had to kill those people himself, so be it. Assuming there was any killing to actually do. Lynch suspected that the briefing Larce had received took a different slant to the one he delivered. Chances were, the original one had involved a lot more concentration. Larce seemed to be trying to pass things off as an intelligence gathering operation, with a little bit of a flash-bang as a distraction. Lynch didn't really have a problem with guns or explosives, and they certainly were useful on occasion, he just felt they lacked a personal touch. He might have been slightly biased in that regard though. He figured it quite possible Larce would agree there. The man had obviously been trained with weapons, or else he wouldn't be here, but Lynch wasn't sure whether the aversion to violence was universal, or just a problem with guns. It probably didn't matter, given just how indirect they were expected to be. Walking softly and carrying a sharp knife seemed to be the marching orders, gor now at least. This "Operation Silent Fox" suggested a more long term approach to things however. Which meant Larce might be forced to change tact sometime soon. Which could be interesting to watch. A few seconds deliberation on the "operation", and he silently counted it a good thing he wasn't interested in bragging to people. It would be terribly hard to be proud of being a part of something with such a terrible name.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]You know, I'd originally planned an elaborate and etymologically opulent apology as to why I hadn't posted. I think the scare tactics hit too well. [font=Trebuchet MS][b]Name:[/b] Orrin Fey (Orrin deriving from a root meaning Oak Valley, Fey deriving from a root meaning Raven) [b]Callsign:[/b] Lynch [b] Age:[/b]33 [b]Team Position:[/b] Stealth/assassination, and sometime team counsellor. [b]Bio:[/b] Irish born, Irish bred. Orrin was born into a quasi-typical Irish-Catholic family, with two older brothers, and a twin sister, in the [/font]South Armagh region.[font=Trebuchet MS] A slightly whimsical twist in fate had previously rendered his father Director Of Intelligence for the IRA a few years a previous, and it was this fact that shaped much of Orrin's early life. Most young boys normally had a toy gun or two to play with when they were five. Orrin trained with Kalishnikovs and Soviet[/font] made DShk machine guns[font=Trebuchet MS], though the heavier weapon, given it's normal anti-air applications, was markedly impractical for a boy his size. But, that's what he did. His oldest brother was already an active member of the IRA, and his next oldest brother was also in training. His sister, Orlaith, opted not to enter the family business, a decision that elevated her in the eyes of her family, rather than diminishing her. As well as their rather curious recreational habits, the Fey's were also another rarity for a family of that size (Orrin and Orlaith's parents went on to have two other children), a very much less than sedentary lot. Due to the dangers of staying in one place too long, Orrin's family moved around, though they returned to the South Armagh area at least once a year. Orrin's life during this time was fairly trying, to say the least. Trust is a commodity earned through time in areas like that, and the constant moves meant the children rarely had time to establish friends, relying on each other for companionship. Unable to talk about their home lives or weekend activities, they tended to avoid speaking much at all unless pressed. And in Orrin's case, "pressed" normally indicated taunts. Considering Orrin was well aware he could show up anytime he wanted with an automatic weapon and end things quite quickly he was, to put it mildly, a little irritated that other children treated him so harshly. So, inevitably, fists tended to answer words. Being one person faced against a group tends to not yield preferable results though, so Orrin suffered quite a few early beatings before finally learning to defend himself. At the age of nine, he started practicing martial arts. It was another year, however, before he managed to start giving as good as he got. There were a lot of black eyes in that period of time, and once a broken arm. These incidents were treated stoically by his family. After all, two and sometimes three members of the family wandered around at night risking being shot on a regular basis. During one long, harrowing year, where he lived in what passed for a small city, and there were enough other children to make things difficult, and no countryside to hide in on weekends, Orrin spent his hours outside school dodging packs, having to learn quickly how to hide and sneak around. Orrin's mundane schooling continued as well. He was a bright, but not exceptional student in most areas. In his religion classes however, he excelled. While there were elements of indoctrination and memorisation, there were also wide ranging and in-depth discussion, ranging from ethics, to human nature, to philosophy. Orrin had seen human nature at its worst, and in the case of his sister, at its best. He understood how people thought on an instinctive level, it seemed. Instinctive wasn't the case, of course, but he pretended it was to everyone except Orlaith. In actual fact, everytime they moved to a new area, Orrin quickly located a practicing psychologist or counsellor, and booked sessions. As such, he had quite an understanding of professional analysis techniques and the like. Quite an odd mix, in total, learning how people work from inside their head, and learning how people work by riddling them with bullets or blowing them up, then being free to examine their insides if one so chooses. That was pretty much life for Orrin until he turned fifteen. Moving back to their sometime home, he expected another difficult readjustment, even though some of the people in the area were starting to recognise them, for a brief period, then moving on. It wasn't, however, to be. The year was 1987. His father, in the post of Director of Intelligence, had master-minded a raid involving two cells that went terribly wrong. The eight men were ambushed and killed by the SAS, and civilian injuries were sustained. The other sticking point was that the SAS fired first. Pre-meditation and foreknowledge were obvious. Unfortunately, that lead several factions to accuse Orrin's father of duplicity. Unbeknownst to those factions, the British had actually intercepted a phone call pertaining to the attack. The civil injuries raised as much outcry as the killing of the eight men did, and faced with bad publicity, the British also went looking for someone to blame. So they, too, fixated on Orrin's father. Faced with rather dire prospects should he remain in Ireland, the family emigrated to America. Of course, on arrival, more than the typical customs officers greeted them. A curious thing happened then though. The cold-eyed NSA men who picked them up talked for a long time with Orrin's father, then released them. Whatever deal was struck, they were apparently allowed to stay. The family ended up in New Orleans, blending in well in the multi-cultural city, with its already strong Irish-Catholic population. If Orrin had throught Irish schools gave him a bad time, America was a nightmare. Being a short kid at the time, and, oddly, in a predominantly American school, he quickly earned the nickname "Leprauchaun", the usual feat of ingenuity typical of the unintelligent, insecure aggressive teenagers who think they have something to prove. Orrin went back to his psychology and martial arts, and whipped his tormentors into a blind rage, then left them prostrate until they stopped bothering him, but his exertions weren't finished. Having long hair, pale skin, and the bluest of eyes, Orlaith was becoming quite an attractive females. And didn't that just cause all sorts of problems... Ruckus and rampage notwithstanding, the pair eventually graduated, which left Orrin at something of a loss. Unable to really work out what to do with his life, he entered university and studied psychology for a while, before finding that the aimlessness of university (not to mention the level of work ethic required), didn't suit him. After a year and a half of that, however, he was given new direction. New directions, really. His father was contacted by the American military. The British, in light of the ruling that they'd violated human rights by not conducting a thorough investigation into the killing of the eight IRA members that had precipitated the Fey's flight, were importuning America for extradition. The American military, however, sensed opportunity, and, pragmatic as ever, went for it. Given the family's rather myriad talents, they were willing to ignore the request, in return for the one of the Fey's lending their talents to the military. Not really much of a choice. Given that his two older brothers had already settled down, and one of them married, and Orrin didn't really have anything better to do, he volunteered. Orrin's "training" was something of a farce. He could outshoot, outfight, and in many cases outlead the people trying to instruct him. Given his knowledge of the human mind, he had little trouble appealing to people in such a way that they gave him their all, and as such, he was generally placed as squad leader in group exercises. Rather than being ridiculed for his differences, here he was praised for them. And soldiers, as a rule, ask few questions when they know they aren't wanted. All this had a curious effect on Orrin. He found, much to his surprise, that the close camaradarie strained more than the thoughtless taunts and abuse did. He preferred solitude. Being able to look deeper than surface level emotions meant that in close company, he was inevitably reacting to what people really thought, which tended to cause a lot of strain. As such, he started bending his training towards more solitary pursuits. He didn't have the perfect accuracy at long range to become a sniper, and he still relished the thrill of hand to hand combat anyway. Eventually, when his abilities attracted even more notice, he was started on the RRR training program. Here, there were things to learn. His combat abilities needed very little refinement, but he learnt any number of other interesting things too. A myriad of ways to kill people when it wasn't polite to do so, infiltration techniques ranging from the ancient Nin-jitsu to penetrating bank vaults, and other such generally less than legal skills. His ability to determine how his targets would think and react gave him an enviable edge. Eventually, he was placed in the 3R unit he currently serves with. The rest, as they say, is history. Orrin's call sign, "Lynch", pertains to David Lynch, the director. During a training exercise, a minor combat operation in which Orrin's squad of near recruits faced off against a squad of more experienced soldiers lead by his main instructor, Orrin was found to, apparently, be lying asleep, propped against a tree. The entire enemy squad surrounded him after careful surveillance, and the instructor, a Major by rank, promptly kicked him awake and demanded to know what kind of soldier he thought he was, to have apparently fallen asleep while scouting. Orrin simply smiled, and told the man that "The owls are not what they seem". Most of the squad just stared at him for that odd statement, the Major had the presence of mind to look up. The rest of Orrin's squad was sequestered in the tree, the nice, concealing cameoflage having up until now down a very nice job of hiding them. They were also, in an interesting turn of events, pointing their weapons at the Major and his men. When asked about the line he'd responded with, Orrin explained it was from a show called Twin Peaks, a rather odd piece of television created by David Lynch. The name stuck. Not American by birth, and having seen enough of the world to have few ideals, Orrin is hardly a patriot. He is, however, completely commited to his family, particularly Orlaith. After all his training, Orrin could probably evade capture should be ever tire of military service. His family, however, would rapidly be sent back to Ireland. His father and brother would be arrested, and the rest of his family under threat from hardline IRA factions. As such, Orrin devotes himself to his work with little concern for personal safety. [[b]Backstory] [/b]There was, as they say, something to be said for standing still. You could blend in with a crowd, slip from shadow to shadow, or under the cover of darkness, you could disable security cameras or rely false footage, you could disable security guards...Even if you were the size of a plane, you could paint yourself black, get yourself reshaped, and slip through radar. Being invisible was an art. And despite all that, it was amazing how little people noticed you if you just stood still. At the moment, Orrin was standing very, very still. Admittedly, the room was dark, and he was in shadow, but given he was less than ten feet away from the other occupants in the room, any movement would presage discovery, and that, in short, would be painful. There were four people in the room, three people who knew that meeting like this, with these people, in this place, could be a death sentence if the wrong people found out. Unfortunately for them, the wrong people have long ears, and sentence had already been passed, and now stood in the same room as them. There was little the four men had in common, other than the kind of gleam in the eye that unerring marks the whacko on public transport that other commuters avoid. This gleam was a little more shiny though. The glacial scintillation that marked a true psychopath. The men were, in fact, leaders of four para-military groups operating in some of the more volatile Southern states. On the surface, they lead normal lives in normal communities. They were archetypal weekend warriors though. Orrin knew them all well, both their public and private lives, though he'd never spoken to them, never even laid eyes on any of them before sidling out of the alcove that had sheltered him prior to their arrival. He'd studied every report on them, had copies of their diaries made, even read the comments teachers had made about them and references employers had provided them. They all had names, though Orrin refered to them in his own private way. [i]Cower.[/i] The man was a consumate door mat, had been all his life. Abused as a child, pushed around, he fostered the kind of vicious discontent that leads to schoolyard massacres and domestic violence. Orrin knew that was a thin veneer over a morass of insecurity and fear. The right words, in the same drunken slur his father used when he beat him, would leave the man prostrate and whimpering like a child. Orrin sometimes enjoying doing that kind of thing to people. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be possible at the moment. Anyway, with his grandoise visions of revenge filling his head, the man wouldn't break as easily as he normally would. This was his chance to get back at the society that kicked him everytime he fell down. He'd still break though. They always do. [i]Catamite.[/i] A true Bible Belt Christian. He believed everything he did, and more importantly, everything he planned to do, was God's will, and any who said otherwise were evidently sinners needing to be cleansed. Unable to be reasoned with, with sanctimonious self righteousness ringing in every drawled syllable, the man had started his career in a big white tent on the side of the road. Like most evangelists who decided the morally bereft needed cleansing though, the man had his secret vices. He'd twisted himself around almost enough to believe the children he used for release fitted into God's plan, but his secret shame could still unman him if applied correctly. [i]Blood-lust[/i] If ever there was a model for the Medieval berserker, this man was it. The kind of man who bought a semi-automatic for hunting, just because he couldn't stand the thought of putting only only bullet in an animal. The kind of desire for pain that only came from a tortured past. An odd kind of Stockholm Syndrome, confronted with enough cruelty, a person eventually becomes what they hate most. Orrin was aware of the scars and pocked burn marks that graced the man's back. Although murderous, and, as Orrin knew, possessing a few bodies buried under his house, the vestiges of morality inside him, combined with a long standing fear of being caught, would leave him terrified if, say, a cop happened to pull him over for a breath test. A compulsive and exact obeyer of the law, except for the murders. Perhaps recompense, some sense of balance. The last of them, [i]Starry-eyes[/i], was a slightly different case. Convinced by the inflammatory rhetoric he heard and spoke, he believed the government was corrupt, the corporations were corrupt, the environment was being sacraficed for money and power, and authority was ruthless and could not be trusted. He regretted what he was about to do, but considered it necessary. Unsure whether he would go down as a villian or martyr in the history books, he constantly agonised internally over the course they'd planned and the men he'd planned it with. Only his convictions drove him forward. Orrin pitied him, in a way. He knew firsthand that the man was right. The revolution, however, was not now. Maybe later. Their plan was simple, and it hinged on one fact that a lot of people, particularly the CIA and their ilk, stepped carefully around admitting. If you have enough people willing to die, it's ridiculously easy to assassinate a president. You get enough people with guns and bombs and no fear for their own safety, and the target in a public place, and no security force on earth will be able to stop you. It only takes one lucky shot. Unless, of course, some heartless, murderous government wraith sneaks in to your secret meeting and dispatches your leaders before any kind of agreement can be reached, at the same time the FBI pick up the rest of your more rabid members. Orrin sympathised, he really did. But he had a job to do. And while he would have enjoyed verbally making these people squirm, that wasn't an option available to him. And since the alarm on his watch just vibrated ( wouldn't do to have it beep, would it?), he'd just been informed that the rest of the operation had been carried out. They'd wanted the main body of offenders picked up, on the very off chance that Orrin failed and the ringleaders had a chance to escape and warn their followers. Orrin took that precaution as offensive, but his opinion hadn't been asked, and he'd been smart enough not to give it. It was, however, time to get to work, if he wanted to be cliché about it. And, peversely, he did. Moving slowly and soundlessly, he unsheathed his weapons of choice for these killings. A pair of short, blackened combat swords. Rather than the typical double bladed style, these were more similar to wakazashis, and expertly balanced, despite the fact that the hilt of each weapon was only marginally rounder than the blades, and no crosspiece was present. They were Orrin's personal weapons, made for quick, in close kills and easy concealment. The men stood in a loose square, with Orrin's vantage point placing him about six feet back from the centre of one of the "walls" of the square. Not an ideal position, but it afforded him the chance to introduce a little flair. He dove forward into a quick roll, swords in hand. Coming to his feet, he stepped foward and lashed out with both blades, horizontal forehand strokes that opened twin lines across the throats of Catamite and Starry-eyed. Spinning 180 degrees, even as his swords continued through and up to cross into an x above him, Orrin continued his motion in the same direction, stepping backwards this time, with twin backhand stroke that left two more cut throats, and him standing with his blades by his sides, critically surveying the results of his work. The last seconds, as always, were revealing. If you really wanted to get to know someone, you either surrounded them with either death or sex. People at their most primal were people at their most revealed. Catamite looked like he wasn't sure whether to rail against God for betraying him, or thank the Devil for ending his predation. Cower looked almost resigned, like he'd expected this to happen. Blood-lust looked merely angry. Starry-eyed, even in the last moments of life, stared at him accusingly, like he was the conspiracy theorist's Black Ops murderer out to protect the nation and more importantly, those controlling it, at any cost. Which, unfortunately, he was. Orrin shook his head and turned away, cleaning his blades and resheathing them with an ease that bespoke long practice. His part was over. After he'd been given sufficient time to disappear, others would come and remove Blood-lust's body, and any sign it was ever there. Afterwards, a search of his house would reveal the victims buried there, all tortured, and eventually killed with slashed throats, and a knife matching the weapon that killed these three men would also be discovered. Nobody holds all their secrets through a death like that. Not the one doing the dying, nor the one who administered the fatal strike. Orrin's secrets might have only been revealed to himself through that passage, but revealed they were. Every time he did something like this, and every time he allowed himself to think about it, the more he realised he enjoyed his work. To somebody trained to understand motivation and the subconscious, that wasn't as disconcerting a notion as it should have been. He knew he wouldn't end up a psychopath killing for fun and profit. He might, however, end up an American patriot...And that notion really chilled his blood. Shaking his head, Orrin left, issued a few quick reassurances to the soft enquiries directed to him by the rest of the team outside, and allowed them to lead him off into the night, following a pre-arranged withdrawl plan. He could have disappeared anywhere in this city, but he was expected back. Orlaith floated back into mind. Orrin thought for a moment about the girl who'd refused to take up arms for country and family, and scolded him when he'd defended her honour at school. Reconciling her pacifict nature with the work he'd done tonight wasn't easy. But it was possible. And that was he dealt with these days. Not easy, just possible. There was a sense of proud competence in that, one he knew that the rest of the team, a group of people he knew as well as he knew his family, agreed. It's good to be good.[/font][/color] [/font]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]I'm going to stand out a bit here and state that I actually prefer Mezmerize to their earlier albums, mainly on the basis that it's more experimental, which I consider to be a lot more interesting, and like on Steal This Album, they've really started showing the guitar talents in a lot more effective way. Sure, the standout tracks don't necessarily equal the standouts off earlier albums, such as Peephole or what not, but as an overall album, I definitely think it's the best to date.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]Having come back to the inn to find Oniur already in residence, so to speak, Morrslaed slid the glass into the common room and walked around the back. Hunched up in his cloak, he was appeared just another derelict walking into an alley. The supposedly inconspicuous guards hadn't noticed him on the way in. They didn't notice him on the way out either. There was no way they were going to notice Shikyo, of course. He wasn't particularly fond of her cloak, he preferred keeping her much closer than that. He could still pinpoint where she was, but not having the visual contact perturbed him. Not that he'd let it show to anyone but her, as with most things about the two of them. He half figured she continued using it to underscore some kind of subtle point. Before Onuir could come outside and start cauterwauling to the guards about their disappearance, a circuitous route took Morrslaed and attendent invisible to the opposite side of the street behind the men-at arms. Casually walking up behind them, he drove a fist into a kidney, turned, and walked off. He got about five steps before the shock wore off and the guards started chasing them. He felt Shikyo step aside and stay out of it, which was fine with him, since he didn't want to have to worry about her and evade the men without killing too many of them. He'd start injuring them if they lost interest, of course, but at the moment he wanted them alive and vocal. Immediately setting a pace that would force them to work without flagging, except for the particularly fat corporal, he lead them into the bazaar, and the pursuit was immediately picked up by several other men at arms. A few more several paces in front of him turned to capture him, only to have Morrslaed flip right over them and continue. Darting into the first tavern, he snatched up a tankard and hurled it across the room at an off-duty halberdier, causing the man to erupt in a howl of curses and draw steel, several other guards following suit. Immediately running out, Morrslaed repeated the process in several other taverns up and down the street, avoiding the clumsy attempts to grab him and the few stray crossbow bolts with ease. Eventually he had in excess of one hundred men chasing him, and he figured that was enough. He now turned his attentions to the various stalls, particularly the more prosperous ones, and weaved his way through them, his less agile pursuers overturning carts and tables in their haste and anger. Slowing occasionally to throw the odd taunt, Morrslaed led them around for a quarter of an hour or so, just up and down the main street, before vaulting onto a stall roof and from there into a third story window. He was out of the building and away before most of men at arms released he'd even left. With the bazaar in chaos, merchants importuning shrilly for recompense, and looters out in force, there'd be far too much going on for the next few days from the guards to be worrying about him. Just the kind of personal headache he liked to deliver to positions of authority. Turning his mind to more important matters, he made his way back to the inn, but could find no sign of Shikyo. Fighting down momentary panic, Morrslaed took a deep breath and slouched against the wall of the alley, pulling his hood down a little further and simply waiting. About fifteen minutes later, a soft voice murmured "Miss me?" in his ear. Morrslaed visibly sagged with relief. He never would have chanced such a public display had Shikyo been visible, but with no one to make the connection, he was content to let the extent of his feelings show. Even with her invisible, he had no trouble seeking out her hand and grasping it tightly, unwilling to separate himself from her for another period just quite yet. Still, they had work to do, and no doubt at least one of the guards had started to circulate a description of him. It would make life interesting for a while.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]Normally the first one up, being the slightly more paranoid one, Morrslaed was unsurprised to find Shikyo calmly beside him, her even breathing natural beyond the extent that even one as practiced as they could fake. Without disturbing that measured meter in the slightest, or even ruffling the covers appreciably, Morrslaed rose and dressed, taking care that the various weapons he frequented were in positions that wouldn't vivisect him should he sit down. He'd seen it happen, and even though he didn't find it neccessary to augment his weapons with poison, it was still good practice. He slipped out, locking the door behind him. The lock was nothing that any footpad worth their salt couldn't defeat in a matter of seconds, but the noise that would create would be enough. Drawing his hood slightly further down, he descended the stairs to find the barkeep just opening up. The man tossed him a jaundiced look, no doubt due to Morrslaed's cavalier treatment of him last night.[/i] Barkeep: Care for a drink yet? Morrslaed: Amontillado. [i]With a slight start of surprise, the barkeep shook his head and ambled over to the counter, leaning across and uncorking a bottle, while fumbling for a glass with his other hand. Morrslaed accepted the drink with a nod and the flick of a few coins, and downed it in one. Looking critically at the stained and dusty glass, washed clean by the two streamlines of alcohol, one in and one out, it occured to him there was probably a better use for it.[/i] Morrslaed: Mind if I borrow this? [i]The barkeep simply snorted and waved him off, given that most of his patrons drank from tankards or flagons, and that that was the first time in years that a bottle of anything had had to be uncorked. This wasn't the most sophisticated joint. It also made Morrslaed slightly curious as to whether he'd misjudged the weight of one of the coins he flicked at the barkeep. For an assassin and criminal, he had quite an objection to coin filing. It made things difficult when he couldn't be damned actually looking at the money he was using. Tucking the glass into his cloak, Morrslaed stalked outside, swearing softly as the morning light proved a little brighter than he had expected. The bazaar was already busy and crowded, though from what he could see, the illict bargainings had wrapped up a little earlier than usual. That wasn't really a problem, since the person he was after was technically an honest businessman. About as honest as anyone in this city. He kept his eyes more on the floors of the alleyways he passed than anything else, not being particularly concerned with the morning denizens of the street. Eventually spying what he wanted, he put the glass he'd acquired to use and continued on his way. The entrance to Sali Dabu's Emporium was slightly off the main street, requiring a bit of a cut across what appeared to be a large open field. It was basically to give the crossbowmen watching the store a clear target, but Morrslaed wouldn't have been concerned about them even if he wasn't known enough not to be bothered. He should have been anyway. The characteristic heavy twang of the crossbow rang out to his left, so he spun right, a shuriken arcing out from his left hand to impact the windlass, his right hand removing the crossbow bolt from the air. His characteristic weapon was still quivering when he completed the spin, which was identification enough for one of the "concealed" bowmen to stick his head up.[/i] "New guy...we don't expect him to last long" [i]Morrslaed new very well that was an invitation, but decided to ignore it, offering the man a wry smile and nod, and continuing on his way. As soon as he entered the hovel that served Sali Dabu as a storefront, he knew things had changed since he'd been here last. Several heavies lounged around nonchantly, whereas before Dabu had never bothered with extra security. Still, his eyes lit up when he saw Morrslaed, something unexpected, that nevertheless had him fingering the glass in his cloak. One of the thugs walked up to him, a hand on the billy club in his belt.[/i] "We're closed" [i]Morrslaed just looked at him. Then disembowled him with a katal, completing the motion cleanly enough that he only had to take one step back to avoid the mess. Returning his katal to its normal position, he dropped the next with a spinning heel. He retracted that leg before dropping it, then stabbed it out to shatter the knee of a third. Using that impact as a spring board, he smashed the tip of his boot into the fourth's temple, then pulled his heel back into the back of the third's neck, a task made easier by the fact that that one was now down on his remaining good knee gasping. With four of his fellows down, three of them with one leg that hadn't touched the ground since being lifted, the last two decided it would be best to leave. The crossbowmen outside disagreed with them, apparently. Dabu just shrugged ruefully.[/i] Dabu: A new gang. Haven't been around more than two months. Morrslaed: What are they bothering you for? Dabu: They found out somewhere I do a sideline in information. [i]Information wasn't really a sideline for Dabu, the store was infact a collection of esoteric books and lore. But the information Dabu referred to generally revolved around street politics more than anything else.[/i] Morrslaed: I've got a single name for you. Kasuka. [i]Dabu's face went white, which was a pretty neat trick for someone who was naturally as dark as him. Morrslaed expected as such, even given his gratitude for removing the thugs. Pulling the glass out of his pocket, Morrslaed slammed it down on Dabu's hand. The scorpion inside was normally more than capable of killing in seconds, but at the moment its tail was trapped by the glass. Dabu was deathly afraid of scorpions, but was clearminded enough to know that moving his hand would simply release it. The black arachnid skittered its legs, digging small pinpricks into Dabu's hand.[/i] Dabu: You haven't gotten particularly nicer. Morrslaed: There are four unconscious or dead people in the room that would agree with you, but that's a fairly moot issue, since if any of them open their mouth, I'll take their tongue out at the root. You're rather lucky in that regard, since I don't like trying to decipher your writing, I need you to talk. [i]Morrslaed smiled, and took his hand off the glass. Dabu's quivering made it rock, not quite enough to dislodge it though. Enough to get the point across though.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]Far more impassive than his actions indicated he actually was, Morrslaed delicately flicked sand off his katals (OOC: Katals, not katanas...) and returned to the horses, the battle-experienced beasts requiring merely a touch to calm them. Eyeing Shikyo as she also returned, his words were measured, revealing more curiousity that the irritation that such cadence would usually entail. A quick scouting of the gates had revealed the current watchman was certainly not in their pay, and that the wall itself posed no difficulty. The chase to the city hadn't aroused attention, their pace being far less than they could have pushed, were they not expecting a trap.[/i] Morrslead: You don't truly believe that was her defense, do you? Shikyo: Of course not. The blunderer would never serve. Morrslaed: Which means we wasted time running her, and for naught. No doubt she'll have gone to ground by now. Shikyo: We will find her. Morrslaed: The place is a rabbit warren inhabited by vipers, more than a few of which would be happy to see us fall. Shikyo: Yet very few who would dare to work against us. Morrslead: Perhaps not directly. But abetting a runaway? If causing a caravan to disappear just before a checkpoint, and reappear just afterwards, miles from the city, is an easy feat to these, than one girl will pose them no difficulty. Shikyo: Having reservations? Morrslaed: Merely painting a worst case scenario. Chances are, whoever she was running to is in there, not out here waiting in ambush. Shikyo: And if that one was more than he seemed? Morrslead: Not a problem. For now, we'll need somewhere to picket the horses. [i]Another half an hour saw the horses tethered in a box gully, with enough water present to stop them from immediate dessication. If all went well, they'd be back to reclaim them rather soon, and there was plenty of forage available, and none of it green enough to give them colic. The walk back to the city took little time, both Morrslaed and Shikyo being experienced desert travellers, well used to the shifting sands, and having little need to conceal themselves with night coming on, and a slight wind provided enough sandspray to blur their image without discomfort. The watchmen on the walls made regular rounds, torches appearing as minor coronas drifting along the top of the wall before fading back into the mists of sand. From a distance, the city appeared much more impregnable then they knew it was. At least a score of smugglers routes existed in various positions in and out, and chances are they could scale a wall and be inside before a guard could notice. Even if one did, he wouldn't have the chance to sound any kind of alarm. Still, it was best to keep these kinds of things quiet. A charcoaled grapnel whipped silently upwards, the ends evoking a slight click as they dug into the porous, sedimentary rocks of the wall. Morrslaed stepped back, letting Shikyo ascend first, running admiring fingertips down her side as she did so. Her obsidian flank almost thrilled under the light touch, the tingle in his fingers providing ample distraction for the moment he allowed it too. And maybe just a little more... Hooking the bottom of the rope in a loop around his foot, Morrslaed took a single hand on the strand and ran upwards, using his free hand to coil the rope as he climbed. Without bothering to glance left or right, he vaulted straight over when he reached the top, shoulder rolling to his feet when he hit the ground, the grapnel wrapped around his shoulder again. They'd chosen a good place to enter, a smoky back alley just off the seedier end of the bazaar, the hearthrob of any trading community, particularly a desert bound one such as this. He and Shinkyo drew their cloaks around them, common enough with the sandy wind that even the high walls failed to stop from teasing through the city streets. Their appearances were well known to the populace at large, but there were enough connected ones around here to ensure they'd be well marked if they walked openly. Which, for most other jobs, they'd be willing to do, confident that few would dare act against them, and those few would easily dealt with. As it had been, a hundred times before. But given that they had yet to determine exactly who this girl would turn to for aid, Morrslaed judged it best that they remain anonymous for the moment, and let that unknown benefactor tip his hand. Aware that such games appealed to the obscurist in him, Shinkyo allowed him his fun. He'd make it up to her at some point. The level of hawkers certainly hadn't changed, nor had the quality of the goods, and many of the experienced were still present on the streets. Several knew faces seemed to have comandeered minor respect in certain quarters, but they'd both seen a thousand bravos rise and fall in the crime controlled streets of the bazaar, where guild alliance counted far more than individual skill. A universal rule to which they were the happy, glaring exception. The skill of the cutpurses hadn't changed either. Morrslaed had the waif's wrist in an iron grip before the grasping fingers had actually reached his pocket. This one had potential, he'd almost dismissed the touch. Looking down, a child of 12 greeted his eyes for a second, then looked away in abject terror. For a second Morrslaed thought he'd been recognised, but realised she was likely scared just due to the pressure on her wrist. Unwilling to attract attention, Morrslaed released her, gesturing impatiently for her to be off when she hesitated, shock at her survival momentarily overcoming the instinct to flee. Very few in this city, stranger or otherwise, were this forgiving. Morrslaed turned back to Shinkyo, who had an eyebrow arched.[/i] Shinkyo: And if the girl wasn't in fact simply a street urchin? Morrslaed: There are 52 bones in an adult human's hand. In someone has young as her, there might be as many as sixty. Shinkyo: Meaning? Morrslaed: When I decide to start breaking things, I have a lot of options. [i]With a low laugh, Shinkyo lead him aside, leaving the main strip of the bazaar behind for the moment, into the darker alleys were they were more familiar with the denizens. There was lodging, at least, to be found this night, before any work could be done.[/i][/color][/font]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]You know, just given our previous rpgs, you might want to consider adjusting that rating....I don't think it'll quite cover it somehow. [color=indigo] Name: Morrslaed Age: 25 Race: Human Class: Assassin Height: 6" Weight: 140 lbs Eye color: Grey Hair Color White Short Bio: Born in a caravanseri on the fringe of the desert to a whore and a camel drover, Morrslaed wasn't considered a useful child. Born an albino, and unable to tolerate any extended period under the desert sun, he had little to contribute to the inn he was born in, or to his father, and contributing to his mother's work didn't exactly strike his fancy, though it did occasionally spark in interest in some of his mother's clients. Learning how to run was an important lesson in Morrslaed's childhood. The unfortunate part was that there really wasn't anywhere to run, except into the desert. Being a rather contrary natured individual however, and despite his condition, that's where he ran. After one such incident, he was found staggering around, suffering heat stroke and delirious, by a group of desert nomads. Being a rather primitive sort, and pragmatic to boot, they saw more use in a ten year old boy than those at the inn, so Morrslaed fell in with them. Not that he was given much of a choice in the matter, mind you. Years of skulking around the inn payed off with the nomads, as most of their hunting was done by moonlight, with sneaking up on the creatures of the desert a vital part. Though his initial training consisted of spears and slings, once he turned 15, and was considered a man by the tribe, he was indoctrinated into the other time honoured ritual among desert tribes...Raiding. Quickly finding that caravan guards tended to have better weapons than nomads, Morrslaed made a point of appropriating whatever he could, working out how to use it, then deciding whether to discard it or not. By 20, a veteran of hundreds of skirmishes, he was proficient with most blades, and had introduced the nomads to bows, actually finding the tough desert trees made far more powerful short range recurves than the bows they captured, though the couldn't equal the range or stopping power of longbows. Two years after that, he left the tribe after picking a fight with the wrong member of a trading expedition, who turned out to be a female assassin who ended up having quite a few tricks to teach him. Since then, well...That's what we're here to find out. Equipment: Twin katals, several throwing daggers Armor : Black leather, with a white overwrap, leather braces and vambraces. [/color][/color][/font]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Well, I may as well throw something into the ring. I'm bisexual, I'm a slut, I'm open to, and have done, just about everything (I have a few limits), and I know several bisexuals who are exactly the same. Mind you, we all went to the same parties, so that could have helped. My family's fine with it, it's common knowledge, and I have absolutely no care what people think about me. Not to say this any kind of marker for the normal experience or anything, but I would agree that bisexuals are often described as sluts, or "greedy" around here, and I have to say it's accurate in my experience. Anybody want to have a problem with that?[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Liam gets to be a QUT bum with Prowse. For those interested, Ravenstorture was accepted into Biomedical Science at UQ, though she's deferring for a year. I should be getting my acceptance into the same course tomorrow, though I'm doing it immediately. Unfortunately, I have to live on campus though...[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Damn...Any other time I'd love to take a shot at running it, but you're not the only a hectic daily schedule. Last term, last year of school...Painful.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]"Redemption. Retribution. They are one and the same, a silver thread shot through blackness. The blackness is my soul, though behind it looms the light that welcomes when the past is rectified-"[/i] "Etc, etc. Why are you still here? And put that down, you'll hurt yourself." [i]Kjaeric R'al Xei sighed, and lowered his hand, claws curving gracefully to rest on the much pitted leather that bespoke many a musing and mournful pose. He alighted from his roof top perch, looking reproachfully at the other speaker, his heart bleak in his eyes, his hair flowing out behind him, blood red cape whipping around him despite the complete lack of wind.[/i] "You disturb me again Vincent, and still understanding eludes me like spiderweb threads, visible only when your light chooses to illuminate them, but covering me, inescapably, nevertheless." [i]Vincent rolled his eyes, slightly amused that his replacement goth idol was doing so well, partly in sympathy for the people that had had to put up with him for years. He wasn't really too concerned about his charge though, since they wouldn't really be running on a time frame until that aggravating monotone shouter with the grey hair and eye patch got her "Time Junctioning" machine up and running. Having spent many years with Cid, Vincent had seen dodgery machinery to every extent, but this had to take the cake. Of course, it was actually just a time travel machine, and something of a plane hopper as well, but they had to name things oddly here. Just another secret to add onto Kjaeric R'al Xei's broken, tragic past full of unspeakable horror and misdeeds, leaving him full of secrets and the need for redemption. Of course, Vincent had set half of it up, being a lot better at that kind of thing than Kjaeric was, but that was another thing. Kjaeric rose and spun, flicking his cape out, the corner missing Vincent's eye by the width of an interposed hand. Sighing, Vincent remembered he had to give some kind of cryptic advice, a harbinger of some dreadful fate awaiting his charge.[/i] "Remember, the demons within you do not sleep, and your redemption waits not in your soul, but in your body. Blood runs true, yet another fate lies in store for you. Form is not spirit, but yours must be both. Go in blood, come back in both." [i]Kjaeric nodded, once, and turned, walking away in apparent slow motion, one of the hardest tricks to teach someone to do conviningly. Mainly in terms of getting your boots to echo properly. Like every other melodramatic, melancholy action, Kjaeric managed it perfectly. As if that wasn't enough, he was actually alright in a fight as well. Which was a good thing, given the hell house. Hardly a fitting opponent, in fact one of the most ridiculous possible, but Kjaeric was taking himself seriously enough for the both of them. His speed gauge flashing full in front of his eyes, he ducked under a lazy bomb and drove his claws in several times. Not even bothering to look at the damage, he walked away, feeling his experience increase and a small amount of extra weight in one of the many extra-dimensional pockets that were requisite of all people in his profession. Most people used them to pull things like huge sword out from at random intervals. The alternatives weren't pleasant. Kjaeric used them for various other things, since his weapons were fairly light. At the moment, there was a small menagerie of ice weasels in one of them. But that was another matter. Stepping into the machine, and hearing "RUN", and a slight bump, and "Ouch, that hurt, ya know?", the world shifted, swirled into a spiral that froze for a second, and then he woke up somewhere else.[/font][/color][/i]