Post by Michael Rook on May 17, 2012 18:24:16 GMT -5
"For mine own good, all causes shall give way"
Name: Michael Rook
Age: 20
Hometown: Hayward, California
Birthday: March 15th
Eye Color: Green
Height: 5'11"
Hair Color: Bronze-brown
Special Marks: A tattoo of a Grim Reaper holding a sniper rifle on his left shoulder-blade, with the words "Death From Afar" inscribed below. A tattoo upon the top of his left hand running up his trigger finger reads "Sinistra". Various innocuous scars scattered across his torso.
Gender: Male
Known family: Mother (deceased), Vincent Miles (godfather)
Test score: 175
Appearance:
With bronze-colored aviator shades, a leather jacket, and dark blue Levi's, Michael appears to be a typical biker, and he's damn fine with that. His undershirts are all dark purple or various shades of blue. His medium-length wavy brown hair falls down over his shades when at rest, and seems to gleam bronze when struck by sunlight.
Personality:
Michael is a contract killer. Which surprises most people, giving his amicable personality. He is friendly, cool-mannered, and slow to anger. There is absolutely nothing separating him from being a normal, polite person except for the fact that he takes lives for money. And his affability is a genuine part of his personality, not a mask.
However, his light attitude doesn't mean he isn't good at what he does. A consummate professional, killing is business, and business has been good. In it for the money, he eschews motives like sadism and bloodlust, viewing them as barbaric and simply unprofessional. He knows that what he does is amoral, he just doesn't view the whole "Good and Evil" thing to be of any special importance in the first place. Honor, standards and keeping his word is all well and good, so long as it doesn't get in the way. If his opponent is honorable and decent, that's great, because he can exploit it.
Special -Illegal- Skills: Terrifyingly precise aim. A master sniper, a professionally trained Hunter of Gunmen, Michael utilizes the CZ 550 Counter-Sniper Rifle to take out targets far beyond the visual range. Capable of hitting a target at a dead run out to one-thousand yards.
Likes:
-Hard Rock, Classic Rock, Classic Metal
-Cats
-Reading
Dislikes:
-Pretentiousness
-Dogs
-Loud noises
-Has a heavily-veiled distaste for humanity
Addiction: The Old Fashioned cocktail and Bourbon.
History:
Michael's tale begins with his mother. Molested by a series of step-fathers, disowned by her mother, scratched out a living on the streets; by all rights she should have grown into a bitter, abusive mother. Instead, she raised Michael with all the kindness she had, working herself to the bone to provide her son with a better life. His godfather, Vincent Miles, a man who had protected his mother when she was on the streets, was his only father figure. Vincent -an ex-USMC Scout Sniper and the President of a local motorcycle club, the Grim Angels- did his best to instill a rugged code into the boy, which helped Michael through the extreme ostracization and alienation of his peers. Michael learned early on to let most everything just slid off his tough skin and return the favor with a smile and, only when necessary, a fist; finding that amicability serves one better than wanton violence.
Perhaps if everything continued as it was, Michael would have grown into a success story of society, and have lived a peaceful life. However, when his mother was caught in the crossfire of a gang war and was put into a coma, and the hospital expenses began piling up, Michael began his life as a professional killer to pay the bills. However, despite his best efforts, and that of the hospital staff, his mother died of wounds sustained. Soon after every single member of the two gangs, even those who were uninvolved, were found dead, a single gunshot wound to a vital area. Michael wandered for nearly four years, taking contracts when he needed the scratch. Eventually Michael found himself alone in the Dark Forest Coast. Deciding that it would be good to stop and take a break, Michael enrolled in school, catching up on the life he abandoned. He spent a week and a half studying off and on, getting good enough marks to make the grade.
Password/Phrase: Mental health is for chumps
Role-Play Sample:
Michael hummed merrily to himself, the swingin' tunes of the Dire Straits dancing through his mind, and a small smile played upon his lips. He was, after all, in his element. A full moon, a crisp night, a target in his night vision scope. "The Green Thumb Attacker" is what they called the man in his sights, a sick bastard who violated women then killed them with objects ranging from branches, to gardening tools, to poisonous plants. And that just pissed Michael off. Four years on the road, he finally settles down for a rest in a nice beach house on the cool northern coast, and it turns out a freak has been running around, ruining the tranquility of the forest and the town adjacent, souring everyone's mood. Hell, Michael himself would have been a suspect if not for him have been blacked out in the bar when the last murder occurred. Michael's mood darkened thinking upon this tangent before returning to the present, and restarted his humming, "They don't give a damn about any trumpet-playing band, it ain't what they call rock 'n roll", he sang-murmured to himself as he moved his scope over his target's victim, his mind entering Flow.
Chloe Adler. Redhead. Short Hair. Oval face. Pale. Naked. Hands chained above her. Bleeding. No major arteries cut. Coherent. Asshole wants her to feel everything.
Michael shifts his scope back to the killer. Justin Vichante. A familiar face in town, even to a newcomer. Married. Kids. A man about town. Dark hair. Fair skin. Fit. Probably a cycler. Privileged upbringing. New England Old Money. Very American Psycho of him.
713 yards. 59 degrees. Humidity 75%. Wind speed, 6 knots. Spin of the earth, 2.6in effect. Mil-dot set. bpm, 46. .308 Winchester round, kept in pocket, gunpowder heated up by body temperature. Round hotter. Goes farther. Sniper trick. Round chambered. Bolt set.
Slow trigger pull. Between heart beats. Recoil. Suppressor dampens sound. Arterial Spray. Good effect on target. Headshot. Medulla Oblongata pulverized. Spine severed. Dead before he hit the floor.
Michael returns from his static mental state. His talent, which he calls "Flow". That which allows him to block out everything but raw data and precise calculation, the only time he feels true peace. Exhilarating. He stands up, confident of his presence being the only one besides Chloe for miles. He had checked. Twice. Time to bask in a job well done. Peace should return to the area, and he can go back to a sleepy existence in a drowsy New England town. Now, to retrieve the girl and the bullet. Halothane, a good anesthetic. Not toxic or flammable like Chloroform. Mass-produced. Should do the trick.
[The next day]
The town is abuzz with the news. Chloe Adler, kidnapped just the morning before on her way to school, was found, of all places, in her bed, her wounds treated. The last thing she remembers is Justin Vichante's head exploding, and a few minutes later, everything went dark. She told officers where she was held, but upon arrival all they found was a burnt cabin with human remains charred beyond recognition inside. In the local seafood restaurant known as the Sand Dollar, a young biker surreptitiously pours a kick of bourbon into his coffee, then reaches for a loaf of bread to dip in his clam chowder.
Name: Michael Rook
Age: 20
Hometown: Hayward, California
Birthday: March 15th
Eye Color: Green
Height: 5'11"
Hair Color: Bronze-brown
Special Marks: A tattoo of a Grim Reaper holding a sniper rifle on his left shoulder-blade, with the words "Death From Afar" inscribed below. A tattoo upon the top of his left hand running up his trigger finger reads "Sinistra". Various innocuous scars scattered across his torso.
Gender: Male
Known family: Mother (deceased), Vincent Miles (godfather)
Test score: 175
Appearance:
With bronze-colored aviator shades, a leather jacket, and dark blue Levi's, Michael appears to be a typical biker, and he's damn fine with that. His undershirts are all dark purple or various shades of blue. His medium-length wavy brown hair falls down over his shades when at rest, and seems to gleam bronze when struck by sunlight.
Personality:
Michael is a contract killer. Which surprises most people, giving his amicable personality. He is friendly, cool-mannered, and slow to anger. There is absolutely nothing separating him from being a normal, polite person except for the fact that he takes lives for money. And his affability is a genuine part of his personality, not a mask.
However, his light attitude doesn't mean he isn't good at what he does. A consummate professional, killing is business, and business has been good. In it for the money, he eschews motives like sadism and bloodlust, viewing them as barbaric and simply unprofessional. He knows that what he does is amoral, he just doesn't view the whole "Good and Evil" thing to be of any special importance in the first place. Honor, standards and keeping his word is all well and good, so long as it doesn't get in the way. If his opponent is honorable and decent, that's great, because he can exploit it.
Special -Illegal- Skills: Terrifyingly precise aim. A master sniper, a professionally trained Hunter of Gunmen, Michael utilizes the CZ 550 Counter-Sniper Rifle to take out targets far beyond the visual range. Capable of hitting a target at a dead run out to one-thousand yards.
Likes:
-Hard Rock, Classic Rock, Classic Metal
-Cats
-Reading
Dislikes:
-Pretentiousness
-Dogs
-Loud noises
-Has a heavily-veiled distaste for humanity
Addiction: The Old Fashioned cocktail and Bourbon.
History:
Michael's tale begins with his mother. Molested by a series of step-fathers, disowned by her mother, scratched out a living on the streets; by all rights she should have grown into a bitter, abusive mother. Instead, she raised Michael with all the kindness she had, working herself to the bone to provide her son with a better life. His godfather, Vincent Miles, a man who had protected his mother when she was on the streets, was his only father figure. Vincent -an ex-USMC Scout Sniper and the President of a local motorcycle club, the Grim Angels- did his best to instill a rugged code into the boy, which helped Michael through the extreme ostracization and alienation of his peers. Michael learned early on to let most everything just slid off his tough skin and return the favor with a smile and, only when necessary, a fist; finding that amicability serves one better than wanton violence.
Perhaps if everything continued as it was, Michael would have grown into a success story of society, and have lived a peaceful life. However, when his mother was caught in the crossfire of a gang war and was put into a coma, and the hospital expenses began piling up, Michael began his life as a professional killer to pay the bills. However, despite his best efforts, and that of the hospital staff, his mother died of wounds sustained. Soon after every single member of the two gangs, even those who were uninvolved, were found dead, a single gunshot wound to a vital area. Michael wandered for nearly four years, taking contracts when he needed the scratch. Eventually Michael found himself alone in the Dark Forest Coast. Deciding that it would be good to stop and take a break, Michael enrolled in school, catching up on the life he abandoned. He spent a week and a half studying off and on, getting good enough marks to make the grade.
Password/Phrase: Mental health is for chumps
Role-Play Sample:
Michael hummed merrily to himself, the swingin' tunes of the Dire Straits dancing through his mind, and a small smile played upon his lips. He was, after all, in his element. A full moon, a crisp night, a target in his night vision scope. "The Green Thumb Attacker" is what they called the man in his sights, a sick bastard who violated women then killed them with objects ranging from branches, to gardening tools, to poisonous plants. And that just pissed Michael off. Four years on the road, he finally settles down for a rest in a nice beach house on the cool northern coast, and it turns out a freak has been running around, ruining the tranquility of the forest and the town adjacent, souring everyone's mood. Hell, Michael himself would have been a suspect if not for him have been blacked out in the bar when the last murder occurred. Michael's mood darkened thinking upon this tangent before returning to the present, and restarted his humming, "They don't give a damn about any trumpet-playing band, it ain't what they call rock 'n roll", he sang-murmured to himself as he moved his scope over his target's victim, his mind entering Flow.
Chloe Adler. Redhead. Short Hair. Oval face. Pale. Naked. Hands chained above her. Bleeding. No major arteries cut. Coherent. Asshole wants her to feel everything.
Michael shifts his scope back to the killer. Justin Vichante. A familiar face in town, even to a newcomer. Married. Kids. A man about town. Dark hair. Fair skin. Fit. Probably a cycler. Privileged upbringing. New England Old Money. Very American Psycho of him.
713 yards. 59 degrees. Humidity 75%. Wind speed, 6 knots. Spin of the earth, 2.6in effect. Mil-dot set. bpm, 46. .308 Winchester round, kept in pocket, gunpowder heated up by body temperature. Round hotter. Goes farther. Sniper trick. Round chambered. Bolt set.
Slow trigger pull. Between heart beats. Recoil. Suppressor dampens sound. Arterial Spray. Good effect on target. Headshot. Medulla Oblongata pulverized. Spine severed. Dead before he hit the floor.
Michael returns from his static mental state. His talent, which he calls "Flow". That which allows him to block out everything but raw data and precise calculation, the only time he feels true peace. Exhilarating. He stands up, confident of his presence being the only one besides Chloe for miles. He had checked. Twice. Time to bask in a job well done. Peace should return to the area, and he can go back to a sleepy existence in a drowsy New England town. Now, to retrieve the girl and the bullet. Halothane, a good anesthetic. Not toxic or flammable like Chloroform. Mass-produced. Should do the trick.
[The next day]
The town is abuzz with the news. Chloe Adler, kidnapped just the morning before on her way to school, was found, of all places, in her bed, her wounds treated. The last thing she remembers is Justin Vichante's head exploding, and a few minutes later, everything went dark. She told officers where she was held, but upon arrival all they found was a burnt cabin with human remains charred beyond recognition inside. In the local seafood restaurant known as the Sand Dollar, a young biker surreptitiously pours a kick of bourbon into his coffee, then reaches for a loaf of bread to dip in his clam chowder.