Character: Namae (Seth Reever)
Series: Original
Played by: Thomas Dekker
Details:
Physical description:
Let's put it this way. If you saw him on the street on a dark night where the lights are dim and there's no one around, you'd probably want to turn the other way.
Because he's got this insane look about him, y'know? He's tall, built - not muscular, but lithe, sinewy - like some big huge nasty hunting dog. Then there's that missing arm. It's one of the most noticable things about him. That missing right arm. It's cut off just below the shoulder - he's got maybe four or five inches of his arm left - and he doesn't even bother to hide it, either. It's either a sleeve he's left empty, fluttering in the air with each step he takes, or he tears off the sleeve of his shirt, shows off the bandaged stump wrapped in a messy covering of bandages that barely hide the burn scars spanning his chest and back and neck. It's a macabre feature that he flaunts, almost proudly. Crazy bastard.
Insanity, it's manifold, it shows in his face, too, 'cause he's got the eyes of a mad dog. They're usually narrowed, leering, dark brown-black glaring at the world - he hates everything, he just can't find room in his mind for anything but fury and filth. Dark hair - unkempt, ragged, falling in messy spikes around his face - a crazy dog's fur, bristling - his clothing's not much better, either - dressed neatly, he might even manage to look nice, but he just doesn't bother, it's all just a covering, just something to accentuate his insanity -- heavy-duty clothes in muted military greens and dull grays, instant back-alley camoflauge that's rip-torn.
You see him on a dark street coming towards you with a lead pipe in hand - the end of it's matted with black-brown-red and dripping something thick and viscous - and he's got that same furious glint in his eyes like he does when he's beating in a poor civilian's face in. Which way you gonna run?
History:
Hey. Hey you. Yeah, you. You look curious about that guy over there. Yeah, that one. The one missing half his right arm, nursing his cigarette. Oh no, you don't need to hide it, I know you were staring at him for the past few minutes. And hey, I'm not saying that's bad. He's a weird one, that one. Really weird. Wanna know what he's like? Well...I don't know the details either, since he won't talk to anyone, really, but I guess I could tell you what I pieced together from rumors and stuff. You ready? Okay, here goes.
Well, he was born to normal parents. Pretty decent people, I hear that his dad was a low-level accountant for the government and his mom worked at home or something, watching over him and his four siblings, but that's not the point. Anyway, he had a decent childhood. Maybe a little deficient in luxuries, seeing as the family wasn't rich, and always pushed aside by his siblings in the battle for attention, but that's not too bad, right. Then again, humans are never satisfied, are they? He ended up always envying the rich and the powerful, the government people, the shadowy organizations that were called 'corporations' but were really violence-for-hire firms. He thought, someday, I'll succeed, I'll join them, I'll join the higher ranks.
And well, he did.
Entered the top college on a scholarship, and graduated as salutatorian, with top-grade marks. And was approached by a government official the day after his graduation, with a job offer. Of course, he started out low, like everyone does, as one of the low-rank bodyguards, but he was an ambitious guy, and did everything he could to go up in the ranks. He was smart, vicious - shrewd - fought his way up until he was standing pretty at one of the top-level positions for the Joy Division, that prestigious government branch. Those people who were employed to deal justice the hard way, through violence, hired for their smarts and ruthlessness, their willingness to fight for in the name of 'justice'. A regular success story, huh? Poor guy works hard, goes a long way. And he got quite up high in the hierarchy when, well, the shit started going down, because he'd made himself quite a few enemies on his way up.
You can pretty much guess what happened next, eh?
Hmm, I think it was a grenade? Yeah, probably. Some of the people he'd bumped out of their places on his way up ganged up together and blew up his house. Called it a gas explosion to cover it up. He was lucky enough to get out of it alive, though with a pretty big price. His right arm was burnt beyond repair, had to amputate it later, which is why there's that stump there. Got out in one piece otherwise, though, since he had damn good reflexes and got out in time, but then, of course, the other guys saw that and started giving chase. So, yeah. I forget how it happened, but he managed to hide away into a morgue, where the others couldn't find him.
You know what Murphy's law is, right? Yeah, well, it kicked in then. He was hiding in the room where the corpses are kept before being disposed of, and, well, one of the assistant at the morgue closed the door behind him. Keep in mind, morgue doors are pretty strong, to keep the corpses from being fucked around with. And they lock. So there was, trapped inside a freezing room with a billion and one corpses, and no way out. Skin scorched half off and arm burnt to a nice black crisp, starting to rot. I woulda gone a little crazy like that, too.
To make a long story short, it was a few days later - three or four, I think - that the door was opened and an assistant came in to add another corpse to the already existing pile. And he was still alive then, but fucked up like hell - made a grand exit by breaking the assistant's neck and impaling him on the doorknob. Can't blame him, can you? He probably had to munch on a dead body or two, too, to live, then. And surrounded by dead bodies the entire time, with no way out? That's some fine, fucked-up shit, isn't it? Yeah, it is. So he went a little insane after he got out. Sure didn't help that his coworkers-turned-traitorous-bastards had reported him dead, and the government had erased all records of his existence. Why bother to confirm? He'd probably die soon, anyway. Poof, and he was no longer a person. Just some mangy dog running the back alleys.
Went digging into the underground network, and searched out the rebel army that was fighting against the government - went smashing into their headquarters - killed like five people on the way there - and demanded to be let in. And he was freaky enough that they let him in - he looked ready to kill someone if he wasn't let it, like some mad dog, or something. He had the skills, too - remember, rising-in-rank bodyguard - so there wasn't anyone who was going to refuse him entrance too much. And, well, it was pretty blatant that he hated the government and how quickly it had tossed him aside, so he had all three requirements to enter, didn't he? Hate, strength, and determination. But truth be told, I think it's all just anger. Think about it. You do everything you can in an organization - granted, mostly for yourself, but still - and they fuck you up like that.
I'd be mad as a raging dog, too.
Personality:
There was a time, back when he was something close to a normal person, you see. Sure, maybe a little snippy, and overly ambitious, and too much of a Social Darwinist -- but sociable enough, laughing at jokes and making almost-friends, and you know, being a person. Haha. Yeah. Long time ago, though -- before his magnificent TNT crash-and-burn. All that bullshit? Gone and out the window. All that matters now, is just one thing: fury.
Oh, don't get him wrong, he's always been a bit of a mad dog, living by a razor-strict "the strongest survive" agenda. Because that's the rule of the world, isn't it? Whoever crawls to the top of that arbritrary hierarchy established by society gets everything, and that's that. This belief of his, it's never changed, been the same for the past twenty years. The only thing that's changed is that -- those stupid rules about "honor" and "justice" and "playing it fair"? None of it matters in the end. Like how his subordinate so happily blew his life to burnt shards, erased his existence as a human -- ruined him? It was solid proof: all that matters is strength. The will to live. The will to fight.
And so he lives on, powered by rage, angry, bristling fury at everything and anything. Makes no attempt to hide his contempt for morales and justice and authority figures -- they're all just things that the weak cling to -- and sneers at almost everything. The only this he comes even close to respecting is pure, unhindered strength, and the ability to wield it without hesitation. (The only two people he's ever respected are his ex-superior, the kindest, most friendly killer you could ever meet, and his older sister, who regularly beat the shit out of him when he was younger.) But everything else? Empathy and camaraderie and pity and love?
Ha.
Not even fuckin' funny.
With a reckless disregard for everyone's safety -- almost including his own -- and a complete lack of care for anyone's life other than his own, he's largely a lone wolf, almost literally -- biting and snapping at anyone who he sees as an enemy. Oh, he's not a stick of dynamite, no, it's not quite like that -- he's usually composed enough, a little sarcastic and overly blunt, maybe, but not anything that would seem abnormal. Maybe a little apathetic, too. Impervious to whatever's going around him, as long as it doesn't involve him, he won't give a flying fuck.
That, of course, is when he's in a good mood, when he's rational.
When he's not, well, that's a different story altogether.
Because that's when he starts tearing at necks. Rub him the wrong way just the slightest bit, and he'll knock you down and start pummeling you, all without saying a word. And if he needs something with a bit more range, iron pipes are everywhere on the streets, right? His favorite weapon's a lead pipe. He'll fight dirty, too, if he needs to, in order to beat you to a bloody pulp, then toss you to the dogs to chew on as a midnight snack.
Rage, rage, pure and burning -- he hates people who look at his missing arm with pity, loathes people who think that it would be easy to make him their lackey -- he's a mad dog laying there, quietly, then lashing out at any hands that dare disturb him.
(Better chain him up, but would you really want to try and lock down a bastard like him?)
Skills/Special Abilities/ETC:
If we're talking magic and shit -- you're barking up the wrong tree, he doesn't know any of that -- but if we're talking pure force, pure violence, pure and simple methods of beating a person's skull in until their die bleeding out the eyes -- then you're at the right place.
Originating from a world where killing is just another every-day activity, he's been fighting all his life -- got into more fights than he can ever remember back when he was young -- and he's been properly trained in a bizarre mix of the deadliest martial arts, picking and chosing moves at a haphazard random, aiming for only one thing: win at all costs. Lean and sinewy and built for combat, he's a formidable opponent despite his missing arm. After all, you can laugh at his disability for only so long before the cast-iron pipe smashes your head in. And with a fantastic tolerance for pain, lightning-quick reflexes, and absolutely no qualms about fighting dirty -- he'll bite, he'll kick, he'll stab you in the back if it means he lives to fight another day -- you really don't want to make him your enemy, because believe it, he will ensure your death. Shrewd, too -- he's much smarter than most people will give him credit for -- he knows when to avoid a fight, when he's at too great an advantage. He'll hang back, hold his fury in catch for the right moment.
And just one more thing, and it's this: anger. Pure, unfiltered, undirected rage -- at everything and anything -- it fuels him, this bitter, festering hatred, and it's what drives him forward -- won't let him die. Beat him down, tear his skin, break his bones -- it doesn't matter, he's too furious to stay down for long, he'll get back up, force himself back up and keep on biting.
Put it like this: a rabid dog. That's all there is.
Why so Special?:
Wipe that fucking smile off your face, and take your sympathies and ram them up your ass -- oh, look, the poor handicapped man, we should take pity on him -- see, that's the wrong way to take it, because him, he's made of rage and complexes, always fighting, never dying. Take the volume knob on a rabid dog and crank it up to MAXIMUM, then a bit more until it's stuck there. You want bland? Wrong place, baby, because this piece of trash won't stand for anything less than the limelight of a gasoline explosion.
What are they bringing to Nuadoria?:
A comfortable length of lead pipe, a
Heckler&Koch USP with some ammo, a
KM2000, and a
gas mask, mostly. (The gas mask serves two purposes: obscuring his face -- remember, he's a terrorist -- and protection against standard police tear gas & etc. Just as a note, so that it doesn't seem like a random thing to carry.) -- other posessions include: apartment keys, wallet, stolen cash, a computer data chip, & other miscellaneous now-useless crap.