Everett Mack, Mr. Everett, Mr. Mack, Everett, Mack, etc.
Approx. Height (for reference IC):
5 feet and 11 inches, 180.3 cm
170 pounds, muscle, hard, but not defined.
Polite. Not friendly, but polite. Small talk is fine, but anything other than that is reserved for his mother, and she's been dead for about four years, now and his father was strung up and set on fire years before that. Now, don't get him wrong, if you want him to talk, he'll talk, but he isn't going to profess his love or crack a joke anytime soon. He was here for the money and that's the only reason he'd stay with a crew. Werner Blythe, or Everett Mack, as he is called by the crews he is regularly hired on to, is an individual who does his job and does it well. For anyone he doesn't know, Everett Mack is a quiet individual who does his thankless job, grabs his money, and leaves. This is him, in most situations, just another face in the crowd.
His quiet demeanor was earned throughout his life as a criminal, basically forced into the life after the death of his father and every one of the people in the village, save for his mother. Lionel Blythe was a bit of a father figure to him, in the capacity that he was a man and he was giving him guidance on how to be a criminal. For years, he's spent his time killing in revenge for his family that he lost in Mexico, and it has truly taken its toll on the boy who had once been called Werner Blythe. He has turned from an angry streetpunk into a quiet and eerily reserved businessman in the business of killing for money, driving for money and doing almost any crime in return for monetary gain. He has since become an irritable but polite and very reserved character, choosing actions over words.
The last of his idealism from Mexico culminated in his interest in the organization known as DAS, though his idealism came to a head with his realism, and he knew that he'd be killed if he was seen by any other associates, working with the anarchist organization. He still harbors an inkling of idealism, and he often has to fight off any urges to help DAS in their cause for fear of being tracked down after and plugged in the head in his sleep by a gruff Russian looking to save up enough money to finally go the hell back to Russia. Living like this can turn a man hard, no matter how tough one thinks they are. Because of this, Werner is angry and easily irritable, stemming from his very mild PTSD gained from a life of nothing but gunfights, living in fear of the man who would show up at his door looking to tie up loose ends. But it is the only life he's known.
To him, the name Everett Mack is his real name. It was the name he always had, Werner Blythe died a long time ago for him. Werner Blythe represents the man with a sense of justice, a want for revenge, a sense of right and wrong and an idealism that had no business being in the mind of a man in his line of work. It was the name of a dead man, a dead man that was everything Everett Mack was not. Everett was quiet and reserved, polite at times, he did his job, handled his business, got his money. He'd retire, and everything would be behind him, at least that's what he hopes for. It's true that Everett Mack is two men.
Good shot with firearms
Experienced in unarmed fighting
Good at being just a face in the crowd
Training in technical driving
Good at working with a team
Just as good as going it alone, but will seldom do this
Somewhat reclusive outside of jobs
Very distrusting of others until proven otherwise at least three times
Is not a big person on "fraternizing and friendly banter"
Water, the open ocean, to be more precise.
Dying at the hands of a sadistic madman, being shot is probably inevitable, but being carved like a turkey on thanksgiving just isn't something to look forward to.
That knock on the door that precedes the suffering of many gunshot wounds from an irate Mexican gangster.
When one grows up in Mexico, one ends up as one of two things- a criminal or dead, presumably by being killed by a criminal. The other person is usually a criminal before being dead too, but they were bad at it, so they're forever lost to the mists of history, only remembered by an unmarked grave in the desert. Thankfully, though, Werner was a good criminal. A very good criminal, indeed. With the death of his father at the hands of an angry mob boss, his mother tucked him away somewhere safe as the rest of the village burned after it was found out that they didn't have enough money to pay back the erratically shifting amount of protection money to this certain mob boss, one Carlito Rojos. About a year after Werner learned about this happening, he also found out that his father was the brother of Lionel Blythe. Another boss of a mob from across the northern border, perched upon the rolling hills of California, ruling the opiate business and expanding into black market weapons. Now, Lionel Blythe had a base of operations in Mexico with a shortage of employees. So, he hired two people. They got killed. So now, he was stuck with his brother's wife's kid, who he had heard was already very much of a rapscallion and general ruffian. Werner knew how to shoot and he knew how to swear, two things he'd learned from his father and his friends. Already, he was a bit over-qualified for the job that Lionel Blythe needed doing. So, Lionel transferred one of the younger men from his home branch in California to take Werner under his wing. This man's name was Reginald Blakely, a young gangster and soon-to-be oldest friend of Werner Blythe.
Reginald Blakely did indeed take Werner under his wing, and once Reginald taught Werner everything he could, they learned what neither of them knew how to do. Lionel Blythe hired some of the Mexican police force to teach the two how to drive and how to fight in some way that wasn't akin to swinging their arms and screaming. Well, really, that was all their fighting style was, but, after the kind crooked police officers taught them how to kill or incapacitate whoever they were told to kill or incapacitate, they were a force to be reckoned with. Both already knew how to shoot decently, coupled with their ability to put up a good fight with anyone wanting to kill them, made them full-fledged tools for Lionel Blythe to employ in his illegal dealings. So, now that their training period of a little over three years was complete, Werner being twenty and Reginald being twenty-three, it was time for their initiation. It was not a very sophisticated procedure that they underwent. It just consisted of heating a stovetop to the point of being bright red and pressing the tips of their fingers to the thing, eradicating any trace of a fingerprint that either man had. Finally, Lionel's almost-untraceable duo of heartless killers was ready to do some heartless killing. It was about this time that five lanky, young, cocky and ambitious independent drug dealers started pressing up against the Blythe turf. Needless to say, a couple of knives in a dark bedroom after a night of drinking really has a fatal effect on five lanky, young, cocky and ambitious independent drug dealers.
They were dead. They were bad at being criminals. Now, Werner and Reginald were officially better criminals than those five drug dealers and anyone like those five drug dealers. They were no longer virgins in the ways of killing, and they were certified hitmen once they got those seventy American dollars in payment for their services. It was a very low-level hit, but it was a special moment in their criminal careers, it was baby's first cold-blooded murder. Both Reginald and Werner decided that this life was for them. It wasn't like they had a choice, as they were both firmly planted in the firm grip of Lionel Blythe and his family associates in California. Now, as you can imagine, Lionel had a score to settle with a particularly angry Mexican mob boss that absolutely, positively loved throwing his weight around and knocking down any village that dared to trifle with him. The Blythe name was not about to be pissed on, especially not by some arrogant prick like that. Lionel was planning this whole time, but he knew that his two young prodigies were not yet ready to take on this big of a job, especially knowing that it was personal, not only for him, but also for Werner, his nephew. Lionel was doing this for Werner a little less than he was doing it for him, but the fact that they were all family within this particular situation of revenge dictated that he at least keep Werner in some of his motives in this. As fate would hold, Werner was not yet ready and still had much to learn about killing and how to get away with it. He was good at it, but Lionel didn't need a "good" killer, he needed a "goddamned excellent" killer.
So, Lionel kept putting him out there whenever he needed someone to disappear. He also sent him out when some of his Mexican associates needed a Wheel-Man. Werner always had Reginald along, the both of them would remind the Mexicans just who was providing them their taxi services, and together, they became that much better at being criminals. They had very many times where they could practice. It was sink-or-swim, just like everything they did, and they damned sure swam. After four years of working Wheel-Man jobs for Mexican heist crews and killing for money, Werner and Reginald had earned a lot of respect from Uncle Lionel. It seemed that now was as good a time as any to start working towards the prize of vengeance and holy retribution for the life of Werner's father, Lionel's brother. Werner knew what he was in for, Werner wanted it more than he wanted anything. All of his life was spent in pursuit of acquiring the skills necessary to put that twenty or more leagues under the sea for putting his father two-and-a-half feet under the Mexican sand. The first target was the lower level drug dealers in the immediate area, and one by one, over a course of a year, over half of the low-level drug dealers within the city that were paying dues to the Rojos gang were gone. Dead. Kaput. Burned alive, shot, cut-up and fed to sharks, hanged, any number of vicious and depraved fates.
They had successfully gotten the attention of the Rojos. The Rojos knew about them, all too well, a mob such as the Blythes were no doubt making waves. Bloody, horribly violent waves. Soon, the minor street bosses took six months to find and take out, the last dying in a hail of gunfire too heavy for Werner or Reginald, but the police responding to the scene gunned down a Mexican man in the payroll to the Rojos. Job done. It took a year to find Carlito Rojos' lieutenants, nine months to kill them all quickly and quietly. It was through this that the city of their current residence hailed Werner and Reginald as heroes of a sort, ridding the streets of the criminals who had been tearing apart families and making it hell for the little man. Deep down, in Werner's blackened, jaded, and rough heart, he liked the praise. Liked the recognition, the fame, the status of being somewhat of a vigilante. It was all ripped from him on the day of Lionel Blythe's death. The closest thing that Werner had to a father had accidentally fallen into an industrial sized meat grinder at the packing plant and may or may not have been enjoyed by a lower class Mexican family in their tacos. It was sick, it made him angry, it made him vengeful, it made him silent, angry, seething with a quiet and unsettling rage. Werner and Reginald were on their own now, as far as the Blythe mob in Mexico went. They still had their contacts within the Mexican police and they used them. Within a few weeks, Carlito Rojos was found. He was in hiding, a private storehouse filled with drugs and jumpy guys with automatic weaponry fit for suppressing a beach landing the size of two Normandy's.
Werner worked his way in, got up close to the storehouse. Reginald took out the guards from afar. They worked as a team, as Reginald took out the guards on the outside of the storehouse, Werner slipped in, slit a few throats, popped a few guards with a silenced nine-millimeter. He found his way into that bastard's office. He was a man now. Werner had been ripped away from his family and hidden from danger at the age of fourteen. Now, at the age of twenty-seven, with ten years of killing under his belt, he looked the man who had killed his father, his mother and his uncle in the eyes. Primal fury, a pure animalistic anger took him over then. A month later, Werner would be somewhere in the states, knowing that there was a backlash coming. Reginald would be somewhere doing something, perhaps the same thing that Werner would be doing- freelance work. Mexican police would find nothing of Carlito Rojos, save for some stories told by a few people. He was shark shit now. Just what he deserved to be in Werner's eyes. It was very soon after that that Werner severed any ties to the Blythe family, which was easy due to the fact that all members he knew were dead. He left Mexico for the US soon after.
It was when Werner's plane touched down at Hades city international airport that Everett Mack was born. A simple man, a contractor in construction, as his papers said, taking jobs from anyone who could pay him enough to warrant the use of his skills against whoever had gotten on his client's nerves. Of course, for all the authorities knew, he was putting up drywall and laying tiles. For the past four years in Hades, though, one may hear of one Everett Mack, the newcomer. He takes any jobs he feels are on his level, making waves just like in Mexico. He took on a life so similar to the one he led in mexico, not being able to find any other place for himself in life. He couldn't see himself doing some sort of tedious manual labour, no. He needed to have a gun in his hand, a wheel to be behind, dirty money to stuff away in a hiding place. He wasn't proud of it, but he knew where he came from, he knew the things he did and knew how to do, and so he scoffed at any notion of taking up any other work. Violence was ingrained in him, it was his life, it was him.
He'd been a violent man for his whole life, and there was no better place for violent men than the streets of Hades. He only has one purpose and a very particular set of skills only marketable to a select few people.
Thanks to his new friend, V1va, a curious woman who he has only met in the flesh once, he has not gone jobless. V1va gives him the information on jobs and he does them, V1va takes her share of the pay and the two live happily ever after. Until the next job, of course. The two met before Werner's exodus to America, Hades city to be exact, at the recommendation of V1va. V1va was one of his father's assets in Mexico, the one who set him up with the information on jobs that he sent Werner and Reginald on. Through familial connections, V1va reached out to Werner, this being the first time the two would meet in the flesh. She gave him an offer he was in no position to refuse. He accepted, needless to say, and V1va and Werner shook on it. They were partners now, V1va was Werner's contact and the one to give him jobs that needed doing. With this, Werner had a very high quality forged passport into the states under the name of Everett Mack, and the hitman, wheel-man and gunman had arrived in Hades city shortly afterward. Four years that Everett Mack spent setting up his safehouse, and now that he's settled in just enough, he aims to take on more important, bigger jobs.
Between this, he still often finds himself staring out over the lights of the city at sundown, the pink sky does something to him. Calms him, takes his mind off of the blood that's stained his skin for years. As he looks at one building, he sees the megacorporations that shift and turn at will with no heed of whose balance they upset, whose lives they ruin, just like Mexico. He looks to another building, he sees the Family, the people who he has worked for for a long time now, just like Mexico. He looks to the streets under them and sees the rampant murder, rape and fornication, just like Mexico. But mixed in, hidden between the streaks of blood are the men and women of DAS, an organization that works to clean its streets because the police can't, just like Mexico. He remembers the feelings he had when he watched those news stations in Mexico, the newscasters who talked of vigilantes who were cleaning the streets of the infamous Rojo Family with a fervor that had been unseen and would stay unseen to this very day. He remembers how good it felt to kill Carlito Rojo, a man not unlike the many people holed up in their towers, putting out hits on men and women, extorting the poor and beating the crippled.
DAS is a light in the dark for him. DAS stands for all the good he has left in him, the idealism, the sense of justice, the good that was in Werner Blythe. But DAS would also be his death if he was caught by the Family in his assistance to the organization. For every person he killed for DAS, every job he did for them, it was money out of the pocket of the Family, and the Family already knew Everett Mack very
well. Everett was caught between his good and his bad, but he knows the reality of the situation and shoulders his burden, calls V1va for a job, kills another person he had never met before in his life. It isn't a glamorous life, though there is money, it isn't a romantic life, though the Family offers women, and it isn't an easy life, though the Family offers protection. Werner Blythe, the man who had ridden Mexico of the scumbag named Carlito and his business, the man who had forsaken his family and dropped off the face of the planet, he was dead, for all anyone knew. Succumbed to his wounds from a gunfight with Carlito, survived being stabbed by his goons only to bleed out, the last feeling seeping through his veins in place of his blood was the cool and smooth feeling of a revenge fulfilled. Everett Mack is the man to look for now, miles away from whoever Werner Blythe was.
But there are men who still remember Werner.
Profession & Preferred Work:
Exceptional Wheel Man, thief and hired gun. Usually hired on to heist crews, is a freelance agent within the underground and makes sure to cover his tracks so not many people know this, or can find him after hiring him, only through he, himself, allowing them to do so, can they hope to find him. That, or a lot of hard work.
The Blythe Family.
It's always been about the money, he just wants to be left alone to retire and live out his days quietly, perhaps well off, but far away from any of the vices of society.
Though, through his dealings with mobs much more ruthless than what he's seen with his particular branch of the Blythes, he's uncovered a soft spot in his heart for the plight of the common man, and DAS may find his services of use to them.
Simple garb, can usually be found with a leather jacket over a flannel shirt, over a white t-shirt. Jeans and simple sneakers, black. A suit, if on the job, black, with an anonymizer, a device that simply rests over one's face and makes it blank, so to speak, eliminating any defining characteristics of the face.
Tools of Trade:
Never leaves the house without at least one knife in a sheath on his hip and a handgun tucked away in his jacket, otherwise, usually brings the equipment appropriate for the job.
Simple apartment in the innercity, sparse arrangements, one couch, one [insert period appropriate device to stream media equicalent to today's television], food in the refrigerator, multiple weapons scattered about the house in various well-hidden compartments, bed.
Character's Personal Wealth:
Has no fingerprints. Burned some of them off when he was ten and the rest was burned off by himself before he killed two men with a rusty pen-knife for the equivalent of seventy American dollars.
Smokes tobacco and is no stranger to alcohol.
Quite the fixation with 1960's music and will almost always be playing it on his speakers at home, in his car, or any other car he is given for a job.
Character Tier of Play (Main Character, Secondary, NPC)