forum A Hell of Their Own Making | one on one, closed

Started October 18, 2022 by @Mojack group

tune

(sorry for taking so long, I hope he's alright?)

Name: Marcus Jay
Age: 25
Gender: Demi-guy, AMAB
Pronouns: He/they
Orientation: Biromantic demisexual

Appearance: Marcus is a tall, but not too tall, standing at 6'1", with a muscled form. His muscles are not overly bulky, though, and tend towards the leaner and more streamlined. He is still very strong, just not bulky. He moves slightly quicker than normal people, with a lot of grace to his movements. He has a few long scars in neat, horizontal lines on his left bicep, along with a scattering of other scars from the various fights and battles he has been involved in. They also have a scar in the shape of a cross over their heart. They also have a small tattoo on their right shoulder of the outline of a lily, which they got due to personal reasons. Their grandmother was a very devout Catholic, who unfortunately believed that her grandchild's soul was lost the moment he was injected with the blood of Eorr. Thus, she would pray to Saint Anthony of Padua, the saint of lost things, to bring back her grandchild's soul. One of Saint Anthony's symbols is the lily, representing purity.
He has dark hair, which is shaved down to a very short stubble so that it won't be a liability of any kind in a fight. His eyes are a steel grey, and he has thick dark eyebrows that tend to be drawn together. He has a pretty chiseled face, with a sharp jawline and sharp cheekbones. There is a scar cutting along the left side of his cheek, going from the middle of his cheekbone down to his jaw, and a little onto his neck.
Clothing: Tends towards dark, utilitarian clothing. Black t-shirts or tank tops, a jacket, and dark cargo pants are his norm, since cargo pants tend to be easier to move in than jeans, plus more storage capabilities. When more "casual", tends to wear hats such as beanies or baseball caps, and sunglasses. Otherwise, he wears whateved DAMD gives him for the mission, no matter what that may be. Often wears fingerless gloves, as well, to protect his palms from injury. Also likes to wear various rings, though obviously not on missions.
Personality: Tending towards being more quiet and reserved, Marcus is razor sharp in almost all aspects of who he is. He can be impatient, and prone to a temper that flares all too easily but dies away again almost as quick. Can have mood swings, too, and definitely has a tendency to shout when upset, or make mountains out of molehills. Once threw a steel bar past his supervisor's face, narrowly missing impaling the man. He faced severe discipline for that, and the government nearly ended his time with DAMD for it. He isn't sure what would have happened, had he killed his supervisor. A normal jail wouldn't hold him. After that, he has done more work to control his temper, but it still flares up on occasion.
Background: His parents worked for DAMD, and when he was very young, signed papers to allow him to be injected with the blood of Eorr once he was old enough. Unfortunately, they died when he was 6, leaving him in the care of his grandmother, who had to be informed about the program due to now being his legal guardian. She could not, however, override the paperwork his parents had signed, and so when he turned 8 he was given the injections. She resented his parents and DAMD for allowing it to happen and, by extension, resented him. She didn't understand what the blood was, she only saw the subtle changes and the way DAMD was training her grandchild. So she began bringing Marcus to church with her almost every day, asking the priest to pray over him and bless him and "Cast out the demons". Most of the other kids at school avoided him, since they didn't like him. He lived with his grandmother and his parents were dead, and his grandmother was weird. She would insist on smudging his forehead with holy water before he went to sleep, and he often fell asleep to the sound of her praying over him, her frail hands hovering over him as she prayed to God and Mary and the saints to bring her grandchild's soul back to them, to restore them to her. So he grew up with a lot of religious trauma from that. The climax to that came when he was 11 and his training began ramping up and the changes due to the blood became more obvious. She got the priest (who she had convinced Marcus was possessed), and some of the devout members of the congregation in order to give him an exorcism. This exorcism was far different from the others, which had mostly been holy water and prayer. This one, some of the members held down the young boy, and while the priest chanted in Latin, someone carved a cross into his skin over his heart, another carving the lines into his arm, while he was essentially water boarded with holy water, all for the purpose of forcing out the "demon". Luckily, DAMD had somehow found out about it, and was able to save Marcus before the procedure could lead to his death. After that, though, he was removed from the grandmother's care and placed with a family associated with DAMD.
Other: Plays guitar and has a good singing voice. Hates religion/Christianity, but still finds himself praying automatically when something bad happens, since it was so ingrained into his mind at a young age

Thump thump. Thump thump.

He glanced at his digital watch - a temporary accessory for the mission - before looking at the road ahead. Twenty minutes after 10 PM. Right on schedule, if the briefing proved to be truthful.
The motorcycle roared as he pushed forwards, closer, to the convoy. He could see it ahead of him now. The approach was a bit unconventional - but in such a flat area…well, the best cover he’d be getting is tall grass. And to note, the bike was loud. Certainly, the trucks were loud too. But anyone protecting an important package was going to be keeping an eye out. They’d look in the mirrors. Notice that in the mostly empty, straight road - a motorcycle, its rider clad in odd, tactical looking gear.
To them, it could be a costume.
It could be an unusual person.
It cold also be an enemy.

Robi felt his mutation heightening - his right arm crackled, beginning to reinforce itself. His half-cloak blew in the wind, although his mutation would be hard to notice on the bike. He wasn’t too worried about being noticed though.
The only thing that mattered was the mission. Capture and maintain the package - then return.

At this point, he neared the back of the convoy. But Robi quickly noticed that the vehicles at the back were not the ones pictured in his briefing - no, something completely different. He briefly glanced at them, their windows blacked out - they were a ways away from the other vehicles. Three of these armoured vans, he noted.
A new party has entered the hunt.
They didn’t seem to bother him. If they noticed, they kept it on the down low. And they likely did, as his bike moved on past them. Forwards. To the true convoy. He wasn’t sure what the people in the armoured vans were doing here. Did they know? About the package?
But time was moving, and there wasn’t any to spare in thought. If they became trouble, Robi would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Now, he was really at the convoy.

His clawed right arm tapped the metal of the bike. Although he was focused on staying on the bike, his blood was pumping with anticipation.
One chance. To fail this…would not be a good look on my record, Robi thought, briefly. He neared the middle truck. Focused all of his sensed.

Thump thump. Thump thump.

A stir, a commotion. They’d noticed the motorcycle rider seemed to stand up, even while the bike moved at considerable speed.
He lifted his right arm, flexing his claws, then glancing at the broad side of the truck. Things seemed to happen in slow motion - yet the actions, in reality, were a mere few seconds. Robi jumped, and the bike lost control, spinning out without its rider - pushed by the momentum of him launching himself from it. Into a considerable height.
Not a height a human could jump.
And on top of the truck, Robi breathed in, pulled back his right arm - and thrust it forwards, ripping into the metal of the truck’s roof. He allowed his mutation to extend itself - from his right arm, across his chest - no, the entire shell, his ‘shield.’ His right arm still hooked in the metal, he kept a tight hold as the truck wavered; he could hear movement within. No doubt preparing to fire.
His shell covered his entire body by the time he launched his other arm into the metal to meet his right one, although it would still need more time to reinforce itself. Not that he planned to remain like this for long.
With his two arms joined in the metal, he pulled them away from each other, tearing a hole in the roof. Wasting no time, he jumped down.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Guns, all around him. All held by some person. Some aimed at him. Not all - some weren’t ready for the situation, others stricken with fear - in a way, unpreparedness in itself.
Closest gun. Robi looked up, the mostly featureless face of his shell an alarming sight. He quickly batted it out with of the closest merc’s arms with such force, he was certain he broke bones. Not his. Theirs. The merc yelped out, and the others shot.
Even with the guns unloading on him, he hardly reacted. No - just a demonic thing, standing in the centre of a truck. The floor littered with bullet shells. He took it, until the guns stopped - then shot out his right arm, commanding the mutation to form it into a long, sharp point. Too small of a space to contain it, the arm shot towards the front of the truck. Piercing whoever sat in the front. When the truck began to shake, throwing everyone inside off balance, he knew he’d gotten the driver.
He retracted the sharp point, fresh blood dripping from its edge, a hole now in the barrier separating the front of the truck from the back. Only giving it a moment’s glance, Robi was able to spot the case - a large, reinforced thing - could be carried by a single person.
His target was acquired, and all he needed to do was eliminate the hostiles.

————

When one of the trucks in the convoy swerved out of control, the others quickly slowed down, stopped - and sooner than later, mercenaries piled out of them, a few of them equipped with radios, no doubt making the call that their shipment had gone horribly wrong. It was doomed from the beginning, with DAMD on the prowl.
But this..thing… wasn’t DAMD. In the distance, the discarded, damaged motorcycle lie smoking. No visible markings on it, yet it was specially designed (or at least modified), carrying a small bit of armour on it, giving it a sleek look.

The DAMD team quickly slowed down, too. Not too close to the mercenaries, though. It wouldn’t be smart to approach like this, not with the ‘unknown.’
The mercenaries held their weapons. A few of them were visibly fearful - many of them were probably better at hiding it.
Where was it going to appear? Had it already left? A few of them glanced around, uncertain - before the back of the truck’s doors flung open. And a shadow stepped out.
A mutant. A mutant, carrying a case - the case of the Blood. A mutant that…appeared to be observing its surroundings.
The mercenaries did not immediately fire, as the mutant looked around. There was a strange, barely audible clinking noise - small, thin wisps extending from the mutant’s body appeared to be removing bullets from itself. Discarding each shell on the rocky ground. Not one of the bullets had managed to injure the mutant— if only, proved to be a minor annoyance. Quite quickly the wisps stopped, finishing their work - and retracted back into the shell.
DAMD had special weaponry to deal with the more resistant mutants.
These guys did not.
The mutant’s mouth briefly parted, as if it sighed, then it stepped forwards. Only one step, the mutant stopped, and looked around some more. On one side, hired mercenaries, eager to get back the Blood of Eorr stolen from them. On the other side - a DAMD interception team, also wanting the Blood of Eorr.
And ahead of them, an endless field, on all sides of the road.

There seemed to be a standstill, with no one really willing to take the first shot.