Guanyu
04-06-2005, 03:29
OOC: This first post is setting up the RP, and is mainly for interest purposes. It'll take another post or two before it's ready to start as an open RP. My idea would be that someone would RP the government of the planet he's on, or other citizens, but that's open to change.
IC:
One hundred and forty years of training, six hundred years of Black Ops work, a nondescript man thought, and I’m reduced to sitting in a bar, drinking the local swill and pining after better days. Hell, I don’t even know what planet I’m on. Not that it matters. Nothing matters anymore. Is a man without a purpose still a man?
It wasn’t the first time he had asked himself that question. In the past thirty years he’d had plenty of time to consider his peculiar situation. Once, he’d been a warrior, a soldier, a killer. Nothing had mattered but the mission. Get the job done, he’d always told himself. Everything else was secondary. Now where did that leave him? He had no mission, no cause. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was simply…himself.
Problem is, I don’t know who I am. he thought suddenly. How can I be myself without an identity? His job had always required him to be nobody, to be invisible. He’d gone through more false identities than there were people in this city, most likely. But none of them had been him. “Who am I?” He mumbled to himself. “No longer a soldier, but still a killer? A killer with no one to kill, perhaps.”
Suddenly he stood, an expression of distaste on his face. “This stuff tastes like shit.” He began walking for the door, but the bouncer, a large man with muscles that looked like corded steel, barred his way.
“You didn’t pay,” the man growled. The killer looked at him, his eyes unreadable. Kill him. The voice came from inside his head. It was the voice of his past, the voice of his training. Anyone who gets in the way of your mission is an enemy, and must be removed from the equation.
But he had no mission. Well, no matter. He wasn’t about to pay for that disgusting drink in any case. His right arm shot out, grabbing the man by the throat and hoisting him without effort into the air. The gems of the twin rings on his left hand suddenly popped off, revealing hidden blades underneath. He gave the man a vicious smile. “Did you know that the human eye pops when you stab it with something sharp?” The bouncer’s eyes widened in fear as the man’s left fist came flying toward his face.
The killer reveled in the blinded man’s screams of agony as he walked down the block away from the bar. This, he recalled, was why he was no longer Black Ops. His superiors had begun to suspect he enjoyed the violent part of his work more than was appropriate. They had been right.
IC:
One hundred and forty years of training, six hundred years of Black Ops work, a nondescript man thought, and I’m reduced to sitting in a bar, drinking the local swill and pining after better days. Hell, I don’t even know what planet I’m on. Not that it matters. Nothing matters anymore. Is a man without a purpose still a man?
It wasn’t the first time he had asked himself that question. In the past thirty years he’d had plenty of time to consider his peculiar situation. Once, he’d been a warrior, a soldier, a killer. Nothing had mattered but the mission. Get the job done, he’d always told himself. Everything else was secondary. Now where did that leave him? He had no mission, no cause. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was simply…himself.
Problem is, I don’t know who I am. he thought suddenly. How can I be myself without an identity? His job had always required him to be nobody, to be invisible. He’d gone through more false identities than there were people in this city, most likely. But none of them had been him. “Who am I?” He mumbled to himself. “No longer a soldier, but still a killer? A killer with no one to kill, perhaps.”
Suddenly he stood, an expression of distaste on his face. “This stuff tastes like shit.” He began walking for the door, but the bouncer, a large man with muscles that looked like corded steel, barred his way.
“You didn’t pay,” the man growled. The killer looked at him, his eyes unreadable. Kill him. The voice came from inside his head. It was the voice of his past, the voice of his training. Anyone who gets in the way of your mission is an enemy, and must be removed from the equation.
But he had no mission. Well, no matter. He wasn’t about to pay for that disgusting drink in any case. His right arm shot out, grabbing the man by the throat and hoisting him without effort into the air. The gems of the twin rings on his left hand suddenly popped off, revealing hidden blades underneath. He gave the man a vicious smile. “Did you know that the human eye pops when you stab it with something sharp?” The bouncer’s eyes widened in fear as the man’s left fist came flying toward his face.
The killer reveled in the blinded man’s screams of agony as he walked down the block away from the bar. This, he recalled, was why he was no longer Black Ops. His superiors had begun to suspect he enjoyed the violent part of his work more than was appropriate. They had been right.