Post by Emmet Fawkes on Dec 4, 2008 21:43:33 GMT -5
“Look at me!!”
"But really, the point is I can be anything, I do anything. One day I might cripple a guy attempting to rape you, the next I might cripple you. Wanna know what day it is today? Today is a day when my fondness of knives exceeds my fondness of flammable things. Today, I suspect, is a ‘kill everyone in the room’ day. Feels like the sort of day I’d gas a class of kindergarteners on. But I don’t see any little kiddies round here so you’ll just have to do."
Name: Honestly, he's not sure what his real name is anymore. In his stupor, unable to realize what was, is or had been real in his past, he made up his own name but swears, swears that its his true birth-given name: Emmet Tiefer Fawkes. Although, he'll compulsively lie and make up pet-names that suit his purpose. For some unknown reason, he's unreasonably attached to clown names, he'll introduce himself as Buster, hoarsely cursing that his mother loathed him and named him so. Introducing himself on other occasions, he may say that he's named after his dearest father, Chester.
Favorite Alias: Bishop
Age: 28
Race: ½ Kukkahenkilo ½ Human, assumed Caucasian
Fantasy Race: None
Ethnicity: ½ German, ½ Bohemian
Nationality: German
Economic Class: Semi-Wealthy
Emmet does not agree with the economy, like the evangelical rebels back in the day, and could be considered quite impoverished to those that see him. Though, he does gain his fair share of Rands to keep him from crippling forward on the streets and starving, through criminal and disgusting foul play.
Gender Identity: Male
Sexuality: The man could be described as being indefinitely gender-blind or having an undefined sexual orientation, unwilling to choose between sexes, he's quite promiscuous. He'd like to be called Pomosexual, which is someone who shuns sexual labels.
Political Belief: Anarchist
Religious Belief: You could easily point your finger at him and call him nihilistic. He believes humanity has no moral obligation, no obligation to worship the feet of anyone, only scum sink to their knees in prayer. Other times, he grows bored and becomes a faithful advocate. He's skeptical of most religions because of the obvious lack of physical and scientific evidence, thereof he's only dipped his toes and tested the waters of a few of them. At the time being, Emmet's been praising Satan and follows His strict commandments: of spreading love and kindness to those that deserve it, and not waste it on ingrates, of representing indulgence instead of abstinence, of representing vengeance instead of cowardly turning your cheek, of representing all of the “so-called sins” as they all lead to gratification, Satan's become his best friend.
Organization: Null
Occupation: Hitman, Emmet's usually sent out because of his esteemed notoriety for getting “the job done” in creative ways. Breaking and entering was something else he was gifted at. Sometimes, he's sent to clean-ups because he isn't queasy, and he takes the bodies to study. Most often, they let him roam free and call him up when he's needed. What he does in his off time is a mystery.
Skills:
- Makings of a Psychopath: Emmet is guiltless and lacking any moral structure that every human possesses, he'd gladly butcher you where you stand whether your a quivering, big-eyed little boy or a pregnant mother whimpering for her child to be spared, if they didn't have or give him what he wanted. Those who stand in his way are seen as tools, and if they're useless, then they shouldn't be littering the already chaotic world with their wasteful lives. He'll sink to lowest levels to get what he needs or wants, without having a second thought.
- Flexibility: The normal life in “society” doesn't appeal to him. He gets bored with things easily; doesn't like returning to the same location numerous times, he's very static. He can easily adapt, and become comfortable in any situation—taking a step ahead of everyone to slip through their grasp like a weasel, or gaining the upper hand by coming up with a last-minute plan.
- Perceptive Actor: Emmet can see error, falsehood, and secrets; see that which people hide from others and themselves, and use it effectively against them. He's an amazing actor which can effectively manipulate, threaten, blackmail and lie to others to get what he wants. He knows how to “push someones buttons,” and can leave people speechless—either from shock, fury or terror. The man can turn into a smooth-talking, charming gentleman to a rasping, growling man demanding everyone's attention.
- Immunity to Pain: Emmet has become so accustomed to feeling physical and mental pain, that he's grown a certain immunity, dulling it. It isn't to say that he doesn't feel it, he does. Although, he's more likely to cackle in his fluctuating voice, writhing on the floor and slather his own blood on you, screaming, “Woo-hoo-hoo! Look at you go. None of that will work, none of that will work!” He's not frightened by physical abuse anymore.
- Marksmanship: Emmet's become quite a renowned marksmen among the Russian mafia, and amongst them, you have to be at least decent. His undamaged eyes have been injected with various chemicals scrounged up from humid, untested pits of pollution—heightening his sense of precision when shooting. He's learned the mechanics, maintained and kept a large arsenal of guns at his disposal—although he enjoys using blunt weapons, knives and sharp objects to get up and personal.
- Art of Medicine: Emmet had numerous interests as he grew up: psychology, physiology, sociology, sciences, psychiatry and medicines. Since medicine is revolted and scarce, illness looked down upon and seen as weakness, his interest in it was only heightened, like a forbidden fruit he was not permitted to reach. Soon after his release from prison, he'd stolen many books from private libraries that taught such notions (foreboding notions), and he self-taught himself many procedures of surgery, and medicines made from who-knows-what kind of biochemicals.
- Ambidextrous: Able to equally adapt in the use of both the left and right hands, there's no real dominant hand, no cross-dominance. It's not that useful, but it enables him to off-set people who are left or right-handed.
- Transformation: Emmet is able to transform into the three Kukkahenkilo forms: plant form (Castor Oil Plant), which is poisonous and often deadly, his human form and his inbetween state. He cannot switch genders, though.
Weaknesses:
- Loss of Memory: Emmet is so caught up in the horrible acts he commits, that he's lost sight of his past, and can't differentiate what really happened—and he's obsessed with digging up the truth. To fill the gap of his unknown childhood, he pathologically lies and makes up stories to suit his purposes. His loss of perception of what is right and wrong, and the trauma he suffered as a child, has caused him to constantly forget the most important things.
- Disfigurement: Emmet dons hundreds of masks he's stolen, fabricated—and mostly stolen—because of mass scarred tissue on his face and half his body. He covers his body in clothing, masks, and makeup, to hide the ugliness he claims he has. The scars are numerous: across the bridge of his nose, a Glasgow grin jaggedly ripped at the sides of his mouth, burnt tissue across his ear and neck, mottled lashed tissue on his back. He's a fancy-work of disfigured art. No one has been fool-hardy enough to try and remove his mask.
- Eisoptrophobia: Emmet has an illogical fear of seeing oneself in mirrors or reflective surfaces. Anything that depicts his appearance, he'll cringe away from, become irrationally aggressive towards anyone around him (blaming them for purposefully planting it there for him to see, despite the logic of his accusations) and desperately attempt to break, crush, or mutilate said surface.
- You Are Beautiful: Easily distracted by good-looking women, he doesn't know whether to kiss them or kill them, so he fancies that he should do both. There are other small distractions such as valuable items with economic worth, he's a detestable kleptomaniac, and swipes things all the time—even if he doesn't need it.
- Deep Blue Sea, oh god: One of the sufferers of Hydrophobia, Emmet's terrified of deep bodies of water. Water itself doesn't scare him, but things like: the ocean, rivers, crossing bridges with water underneath it, drowning, and such gives him goosebumps. He'll freeze up.
- Impeding Quirks: Emmet's oddly attached to cats. He's not even sure why. He'll go out of his way to rescue a kitten or cat, and bring it back to keep. If anyone mentions this quirk to him, he gets incredibly snappy and defensive. (Are cats exstinct?) Emmet doesn't trust anyone who can't remember his name, but often forgets peoples names. He collects plants. He'll never eat or drink any food or beverage that he hasn't prepared personally. Calls women pet names, "Honey, babe, beautiful, m'aam, lady, toots, babycakes," etc. He pantomimes/acts out things. He cracks his knuckles, neck a lot. He hums Beethoven, Chopin, Frankie Sinatra, or old jazz tunes when he's bored. He thinks the color red is unlucky.
- Through the Fire: Fire causes him to nearly faint because of his Kukkahenkilo genes, from his father, but because of his human counter-part, it only remains deadly and not always fatal.
Powers: None
Weapons: Exotic weapons make him happy, he likes collecting them. Being picky, he doesn't like using the same tactics or "trademark" weapon, but his favorite has always been: Bagh Nakh. The pair of long-bladed knives he holds between his knuckles, he usually dips them with poison. He's not much of a fighter, but he threatens people with an assortment of blades: tanto's, flip-knives, chakram's, and Kama's. Sometimes he'll just use blunt objects.
Appearance: Bishop wears masks, but when he doesn't he wears a vast variety of disguises: clown makeup is a favorite, in strange patterns. Without makeup or his masks, no one would even know it was him. Most of the time, he'll wear the makeup underneath the masks just in case. Describing him with the makeup, his face is angular and holds some kind of alarming charisma, although he's a little rattled looking, and very masculine. There's a certain charm about the way his cheekbones are shaped, and how squared-off his chin is—yet pointed as a sign of boyhood. Stress lines on his forehead, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and permanent marks where his eyes crease together. The man has deep black cynical eyes. His slightly curly locks were slicked back into a messy whatever-you'd-call-it hairdo. There was no beauty secret to how he styled it, he simply slicked it back and let strands fall wherever they went—often licking his fingers and slicking his bangs back. He often dyes it, any color he feels like at the time.
Bishop's dimples are high-up, almost at the same height of his broad nose. There's ugly scarring that stretches from the corners of his lip—a Chelsea Grin, where a blade of some sort was dragged through his mouth, causing jagged scars. A fork-like scar is scraped into the bottom of his lip, and another one across the bridge of his nose. There are three markings across his cheek, which stretch down to the backside of his neck. Burn marks mar his left ear. There's a claw-shaped scar across the right side of his throat, and several scars and markings on his back. However, if you don't see him donning his clown makeup, he wears masks—assortments of different masks from all over the world. Nearly no one has seen his true face, no one knows whom he is.
The man has a rolling gait, often with slumped shoulders. Careful in the way he moves, as though he was a coiled spring under constant pressure, just waiting for the right moment to unfurl and strike. He moves in manners which always insists he has an ace up his sleeve, confidence oozes out of him, and his posture reflects that he always has the upper hand.
Keen to dress to impress, Bishop's always sporting different kinds of suits: pinstriped dark, double-breasted, single-breasted, blue dress-shirts, purple dress-shirts, his modified black top-coat, shined shoes, any kind of vests with lapels, anything that's classy, he wants it. He changes clothes like a girl. He often disguises himself with other peoples clothes.
Here's page one of his masks, yes, it was quick, yes, I suck at coloring and can't match colors: i17.photobucket.com/albums/b63/Lunat/MASKScopy.jpg
Personality: [Condensed Version] Emmet's reached a point where he can no longer be called insane, he's reached a super-sanity. He's impulsive, spontaneous, inhumane and disgusted with those around him—everyone's just a toy, a pawn set down on his chess world. Like a chameleon, he'll mold his stories and himself to gain peoples trust, to intimidate them, to make them angry, to toy with their emotions and see them squirm. Desiring nothing, he believes he lives in this world to open societies eyes, to spit in the face of the ones governing the world, and live a dangerous, reckless life. He seeks revenge, but ends up striking out at random. Emmet's a two-sided coin: psychotic, deranged, intelligent and clever, one moment he'll be calm and collected and almost charming, and the next moment, he'll be outraged, jealous or laughing hysterically. He tells people that, "the man behind the man doesn't exist, its the legacy he leaves behind."
People don't generally like anything about him, besides the fact that most of the times, he's right, he fights for freedom, and yet he does it in such destructive ways: he's psychotic, he kills without thought, he hurts people without reason, he does things on a whim, he acts randomly and without mercy—and he's completely ruthless. He intrigues people. He scares people. The man's so good at getting what he wants, that he spends little time being cautious or worrying about it.
[Detailed Version] Emmet isn't exactly insane—rather, he's too clever for his own good. Insane doesn't even begin to describe the man. He's outright deranged, evil and crooked, an unpredictable masked-man who only desires wreaking chaos on those around him and proving that organization is futile and meaningless. He molds himself, like his stories, to fit the situation. A true chameleon in nature, he'll pick different personalities to coax others, taunt them, gain their trust, deceive them, seduce them, or do whatever he feels like doing. With his twisted mind, he enjoys playing with his “food” before he eats it, even if said food is his apparent ally, everyone's disposable in his mind. The man's incredibly spontaneous and random, he does things on a whim, whether or not it benefits him, just for the sake of doing what he wants to do when he thinks of it. In situations where he's pressured, he remains almost irritatingly calm and neutral—despite his theatrical, dramatic displays and shows he puts on—reveling in the fact that he never does things “according to plan” because plans are for those who fail. When you have no plan, you can't fail.
The clownish crusader gets very excited about new ideas and projects, but neglects the more routine aspects of life—believing that routine is boring. He gets bored so easily, that its one of the main reasons for his inhumane behavior. He hates society and enjoys spitting on it by disobeying authority, and outright plotting anarchic schemes—anything against “the man” tickles his fancy. He always seems to have plot holes or an ace in his sleeve in any situation. He's often aggressive, fact-oriented, in-your-face, brief, and a fast thinker when circumstances call for immediate reaction. The upper-hand is his safe haven, his sanctuary.
Emmet's impulsive. No one would take a “freak” seriously, he gets frustrated when trying to behave normally, so he makes them feel uncomfortable. He'd pace around them, peer closely at their necks, smell their hair or grab the back of their heads to drag their face inches from his own—just to see them squirm. Gender makes no difference to him. One moment he'll grab their wrists, and pull them close, maybe whisper sweet nothings in their ears while calling them “Doll face,” “Beautiful,” or “Sweetheart,” and then slam them against the wall without hesitation—being a women doesn't restrict him from doing anything. Attention is what he wants, and what he usually gets. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. When he makes mistakes, he makes it work out for him anyway.
Emmet's moody and dark and extremely intense. He can be cool and calm one moment (well, as cool and calm as he can be), and then wild and crazy next. He seeks revenge on those that have hurt him—and his revenge is often much worse than anything imagined. He's a feared individual, and takes challenges very seriously. He will do whatever it takes- with no exception- to get what he wants. He's borderline-cocky, clever and tells the world exactly what he thinks- and he apologizes for nothing! When you think he'll do one thing, he does a 360 and does the exact opposite. One moment you think you might understand something about him, and he'll leave you gaping behind him. He's reached a certain “super-sanity,” he's not insane at all, but on the contrary, his thoughts are so complex that they go beyond the boundaries of sanity, insanity and any form in between.
Story:
A high-pitched palm against cheek sound echoed through the nearly empty kitchen. A young boy clutched the side of his face, the rest of his face was a horrified sheet-white, in contrast to the blistering red on his cheek. His mother had that look on her face. That it's-your-fault-its-all-your-fault look. His head hurt and his ears wrung, as his mom took his arms and shook him violently. His arms hurt but his mouth seemed to lose function—he just gaped at her. She was crying and hissing those words at him, “Nothing! No-good! You weren't even wanted, you shit!” Those words made him stomach turn, made him feel nauseous. Her face was all art work, all art. When he stared at her, all he saw was mean artwork painted across her face, especially her eyes. A work of art, he saw shades of green, black, blue and yellow. Sometimes, he'd see purple, it was all like a deep-color of mismatched paint splattered there by some genius artist.
Sometimes his face looked the same. Her eyes were both different, one looked like the earth; deep, dark, mysterious and twinkling, and the other looked warm like melting chocolate; breath-taking, nurturing, kind and human. No words needed to be spoken, that silence churned his stomach made him queasy. He wanted to fall to his knees. The look in his mother's eyes as he hissed and breathed above him made him want to crawl away. The only thing he could do was wrench his eyes away from her. The silence made him want to scream in horror, a scream that could shatter windows, glass and anything fragile. The look still seethed into the top of his head. All of that, you-are-nothing-good, your-not-enough, you-are-nothing, burned into him; shear disgust.
“C'mere, look at me!! Look at me!! I'm gonna' teach you a lesson.”
Sometimes his face looked the same. Her eyes were both different, one looked like the earth; deep, dark, mysterious and twinkling, and the other looked warm like melting chocolate; breath-taking, nurturing, kind and human. No words needed to be spoken, that silence churned his stomach made him queasy. He wanted to fall to his knees. The look in his mother's eyes as he hissed and breathed above him made him want to crawl away. The only thing he could do was wrench his eyes away from her. The silence made him want to scream in horror, a scream that could shatter windows, glass and anything fragile. The look still seethed into the top of his head. All of that, you-are-nothing-good, your-not-enough, you-are-nothing, burned into him; shear disgust.
“C'mere, look at me!! Look at me!! I'm gonna' teach you a lesson.”
Emmet was born on November 25th 1980, on Christmas, into a family as polluted as the outdoors. They were impoverished and suffering from it, coughing in and out of the cabin-like house that was falling apart from its hinges. His human mother was a drunk who worked at the Global Bank, but wasted all said-money on liquor she acquired in less-than-prideful ways like selling her body on the street. His Kukkahenkilo father worked in a Manalist mine, mining crystals and coming home in a heap of exhaustion to sleep or beat on his wife in frustration from the Gray Disease deteriorating his body. He was dying and they both knew it, but their painful cycle of man-beats-wife-beats-son continued, and he'd retreat to his only safe-place in the creaky closet in the back of the house, holding himself and willing it all to go away.
Everything else in between is unknown, a blur of things he must've blocked out and forgot. Everything is real spotty when it comes to his past, but he remembers bits and pieces—like a puzzle. He was sent away. The place he was sent to, by his loving mother, was affiliated with the Russian Mafia, governing officials heard tell of this and came to arrest mostly everyone, except for those who fled. Emmet was unlucky enough to be tackled to the ground by a busty man, and was dragged down to an Anti-Drug commission. The only thing he really remembers is when he reached the prison.
The smelly prison was the place where he died and was reborn (matter of speaking, anyway), because of his quiet nature, he was exposed to most of the torturing by in-mates. Most of the time, he was beaten with objects. Burnt. Cut. Kicked. Beaten. Scratched. Anything under the sun, and the guards were no better. They were ruthless. Scars marred his back, his face, burns from chemicals and those freak-creatures maimed him. At some point, he must've snapped, because when one of the in-mates grabbed his face and tried to force him to do that-need-not-be-named, he bit the man's ear off and bludgeoned his face with a rock, and tried to mangle the man's face. The laughter that rang from his cell was almost inhuman. Something snapped, and it might've been his mind. After that incident, he wasn't the quiet boy he used to be.
Soon enough, his captors released him back to the bright-eyed world and all he wanted was revenge revenge revenge, people had to die. Traveling on foot, he'd break into houses and kill his victims in bizarre, creative ways that were almost comical, and he'd take their things and move on. In one of the houses, he found a mask that looked like an African dingo-dog, and he started to wear it to cover his “ugliness.” Whether or not it was fate or dumb-luck, a group of nihilistic people, part of the Null group, found him half-dead wearing a blood-soaked pin-stripe suit. One of them removed his mask, and recognized his Germanic traits, and they took him.
Waking up with a start, Emmet realized that he was moved and bandaged. They figured out the blood led to a small house with a butchered family, all hanging on neat little coat-racks, and they decided that they wanted to experiment with this man and create a new kind of chaos. They hadn't really experimented much on him, but they did inject a strange substance into his eyes, and into his neck to strengthen his bones. He'd been taught to use an array of weapons, and if he offered them his services, they'd give him medical books and bodies to work on. So, he decided, “Tsk, the start of a beautiful relationship, doll-faces.” The collection of masks started now, even though they saw his face, he refused to not wear them. They treated him sort of like an unwanted, strange, vicious stray-dog that wandered in; carefully and cautiously, like a prisoner of theirs.
For the rest of his years tucked under his belt, he's been sent off to kill people in horrendous ways such as force-feeding them large objects until they choke to death, setting up bombs around the perimeter, gassing esteemed buildings, once he crucified someone and laughed hysterically about how God would be happy to see him so he should smile, sometimes he brings poisonous flowers and lets them do their work. Nobody knows who this madman is, only that death follows him like a puppy. Some few details have been gleaned about him over the years. Death is his medium, and he thinks everyone should go out with a bang. He makes a point of separating his "art" from "the crap that sells". When doing a paid killing he desperately avoids using any trademark techniques. While he is usually a brutal killer, at times he can be little more than a naughty boy writ large.
Disappearing when Null needs him, and appearing at all the wrong times, he seems to have his own agenda. Notorious as the laughing killer, he wants to make himself known, and he wants to bring society to its knees. A true showmen, he's stepping on his stage and wants to make some art. The government's his target.
Bishop says he fights for freedom, but he's lost sight of what freedom actually means.
“Oh, yes! You wonderful human being you. Fill the churches with dirty thoughts and sinning virgins! Introduce honesty to the Manalists! Rub the Creditors with their own filth! Write letters in dead languages to people you've never met! Paint filthy words on the foreheads of children! Execute the freaks of nature! Burn your credit cards and wear high heels! Asylum doors stand open! Infect hospitals with the West Nile disease! Release the prisoners! Pollute your lungs! Fill the suburbs with murder and rape! Divine madness! Let there be ecstasy, ecstasy in the streets! Laugh and the world laughs at you.”
