The muffled, tinny voice from the radio crackles the atmosphere of the interior of the Police car as Matthew drives down 53rd and 6th. The crimson glow from the taillight speeds along the black road behind the white and blue steel beauty as it hovers past closed restaurants, and a doctor’s office, and a Starbucks. Matt’s bony hands clutch the steering wheel until his knuckles are white and his fingers are red. He quickly lifts the radio receiver to his mouth and clicks the button on the side. “10-4, I’ve got that, Stace” Matt turned into 47th and let the car glide down the little road without any extra speed. Matthews’s partner held onto the dashboard like he was afraid he might go crashing through the window pane. He was a portly man who looked to still be capable in a fight. His white mustache crossed his upper lip like a badge itself. “Ease up there, cowboy.” Terry McGillan said quietly, not wanting to instigate. “It’s an emergency, Terry.” Matt said, smile on his face. He turned up into 8th and around another corner toward the docks. The two boys in blue exited the vehicle in proper police protocol when dealing with a shooting call, guns drawn. They eased up to the chain-link gate and tested it, it didn’t open. “Ah, damnit, don’t tell me I gotta hop this goddamn fence.” Terry blurted, holding his gun to his side like some kind of play thing. Matt holstered his gun, and without saying a word, mounted the fence. He flopped onto the other side unscathed and went to retrieve the keys that were likely in the guard house a few feet away. He wasn’t even near it before he heard a single gun-shot, then another. A white flash illuminated the far off dock and Matt could see some standing figures etched in the distance. He sprinted down the concrete road to the dock and the gunshots. “Hey! Hey, hold it! Wait for back up, boy!” Terry screamed behind Matt as he dashed down the pavement. “Son of a bitch—“ he whispered to himself, half-running to the radio in the car. He called in back-up in rushed, yet professional tones. Matthew’s sprint was even and fast as all hell. His pistol was in his hand, his index finger readily extended near the trigger. Now that he was closer Matt could see two standing figures, drenched in the shadows of the sepia colored lamplight. One tossed a body into the river and the other held what looked to be a bat. On the ground were three bodies, laid out like dolls, a woman kneeled like an angel under the bat-wielders shadow. Matt quickly stopped in place, no more than 25 feet from the scene and pointed his gun forward. He was sweating a little and his vision shook but his hand was gratefully steady. The barrel lined up with the chest of the man holding the bat. The man lifted the bat behind his head and twisted his body. “Freeze! Right now! Police!” Matt’s voice was load, clear, commanding. He felt a rush of adrenaline, the confidence gleamed from his badge and gun. He felt good about himself. The man with the bat let his bodyweight take over then, the bat swung around his body like a comet to a planet and crashed into the head of the woman kneeling. Her body slumped to the floor and Matt was certain he saw a piece of her skull skitter across the concrete. The man who was previously dumping a body wheeled around and his hand lifted from his coat. Matt shifted his weight and brought the pistol’s barrel to the left, his hand went a little too far and so he brought it back and fired. The man to the left twitched and almost fell to the ground, his gun hand dropped to his side and he fell to one knee. The man to the right, holding the bat, sprinted off down the dock lane. Matt fell to one knee and took better aim, just as the man with the gun, who remained near the bodies, tried to do. Matt fired two more shots, the second capped the man. Matt rose and sprinted toward the bodies. What he found there was a heart-splitting disaster. Two men and two women dead, all beaten and shot. Matt looked at the latest victim, most of her head was leaking onto the floor. He was drawn in by the gruesome display. It called to him, not just in desperation, as dead bodies do, but aesthetically as well. That single thought made Matt shiver, and he glanced down the lane to make sure he wasn’t being aimed at. But just as he turned away he saw something in her cold, pale face. She had familiar almond eyes. Matt searched her nametag only to be struck with utter shock. Miyahara was her last name, Janice Miyahara. His heart was pounding through his shirt and his could feel the pulsing of his chest. Matt stood, he was wrapped in his blues, the badge on his chest gleamed dangerously in the lamplight. Two more cop cars wailed at the entrance, the red and blue lights breaching the darkness. Matt sprinted down the dock lane like he’d never sprinted before, he was propelled by the thirst for knowledge, just as he’d always been. This time is was deep, it was emotional, and it was for his family. A figure just disappeared behind a truck, seemingly a gas truck, it’s metal cylindrical train shining. Matt approached it quietly, yet quickly. He turned the corner that was the truck only to receive a personal greeting from a bat. It swung in the air trying to hit is head, knocking the gun from his hands as he recoiled backwards. The bat swung into the trucks train instead. A big dent formed around where it was struck. Matt drew his billie club and blocked another attack. The man wore a leather jacket, corduroy pants. Matt smacked the guy in the stomach with his club and tried for the head. The man ducked and hit Matt in the ribs, then he grabbed the cop by his collar and threw him against the back of the truck, knocking the air out of his lungs. Matt thought about his grandfather’s training, it was always about presence. About maintaining a consciousness even when you should not have one, a presence. Matt maintained consciousness and so blocked the incoming, lethal bat attack. He lifted his club over his head and knocked the bat into the train once more, this time directly at the point where it’d already been hit. A small rupture expelled gas and then whatever incredibly dangerous toxic waste the train was housing. The waste completely covered Matt’s assailant, knocking him to the ground and drowning him in the stuff. Matt was able to get away with only a spray on his face. However, when he got the goop from his eyes, and it wasn’t painful to try opening them any longer, he did so only to find darkness. “I’m… oh, hrmm… I can’t see anything.” Matthew sobbed as Terry ran up to him, crouched on the floor. Both of their voices cracked with shock and despair. “You’re going to be alright, kid.” “Fuck, Terry… No, no, no, no, no!” He screamed loud enough for every cop and pedestrian in the area to hear him. He yelled and no tears streamed from his white eyes though he felt like crying until he was dead. Spittle fell to the floor as he writhed and sobbed in Terry’s grasp. He knew right then that he’d never see again. Terry felt like he’d lost his son all over again, and so he cried when the boy could not.

*** Three months after the accident***

Laudanum is a tincture of opium and alcohol, and is often used, recreationally, with hard liquor. It is an incredibly addictive reddish brown liquid, and some of the stuff sat in a snuff glass on Matt's nightstand. His head was hunched over his bare curved body. Some scars laced his back from days gone past, and the most recent scar was ever present, as it always would be. Matt lifted his head into the smokey air, his face bore the burned stains of a splash mark, splayed across his nose and eyes; they were a cold white, inattentive to the world. He grasped the glass of liquid dreams, and brought it to his lips. He tilted his head back and some of it dripped into his mouth when the door of his room was opened. Matt took the glass from his mouth and set it back on the nightstand. Karen Page stood in the doorway, her hands placed firmly on her hips. Her blue eyes pierced through the smoky darkness. Karen walked into the room and opened the window blinds, releasing the bright, mid-day sunlight into the room. Matt could feel the heat of the sun on his forearms and across his collar bone. He quietly sat as Karen walked around the room, picking up bottles of liquor, loose clothes, and dishes. She took them from the room, purposefully ignoring Matt, and into the living room. Matt grabbed the Laudanum from the night table and sipped it. He was flushed with euphoria, then relief, then memories, then sadness, then shame, and finally anger. He smashed the glass on the nightstand next to him, breaking it utterly. His hand was immediately cut up, some rogue shards managed to cut is forearm slightly as well. Matt could feel the warm, sticky, liquid on his hand and arm, and was thrown back into sadness. He could sense the long corrupted tendrils of insanity creep up beside him as Karen entered the room again, annoyed. She looked at Matt’s hand in shock, completely confused about what’d happened, she quickly left the room. Matt stood, mostly naked, and began on his way to the bathroom. Karen bumped into him as he tried to leave his room, medical supplies flying from her hands; she allowed a small scream of shock to escape her mouth. “Get back in bed.” Karen said, after picking the medical supplies from the floor. Matt stood in the doorway, his eyes blankly staring at the space above her head. “I can take care of it.” He said softly. “There’s fucking glass in the cuts, just let me help you!” she almost yelled but managed to keep her voice down. Karen pushed Matt back into the room. She led him to the bed and sat him down. He was silent, tears welled in his eyes and he wasn’t sure why. Karen began removing the glass from Matt’s cut up hand, then cleaning it. He was able to keep the tears from falling. “I could have handled this on my own.” “You can’t even handle getting high on that antiquated shit alone.” She began applying the bandage. “You should really slow down on that stuff.” Matt didn’t respond. “I come in here in the morning and you’ve already had a glass…” “Why do you come here?” Karen stopped what she was doing, stared into the almond shaped orbs of white. She didn’t quite know what to make of the statement. After Matt was released from the hospital Karen started dropping in to clean up after Matt, feed him, clean him, and most importantly, love him. The two had been going out for about three months prior to Matt losing his sight. Karen stepped up to the plate with magnificent grace and dignity. So, when Matt asked her the question, she made an insult of it. She stood, letting the bandage unravel at her feet. “What are you talking about? I come here because I want to help you.” She said, before walking to the door and turning on her heels. “You goddamn asshole. If you think I come here so you can just insult me, then fuck me like some street corner slut you have another thing coming!” Matt stood quickly, furry in his blind eyes, “I never said that, Karen.” “It’s the shit you don’t say that’s more fucked up.” This time she yelled “I’m sorry.” Is all he could manage. “Oh, yeah. So you just apologize and what? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Take all your shit then brush it off?” Matt remained quiet. “You just want to me fall into your arms?” Karen walked forward to push Matt on the bed, anger streaming from her cold, blue eyes. Matt suddenly saw the outline of what he knew Karen to look like. He smiled for a moment, caught one of Karen’s flailing hands. She looked up at him, her bright blues reflecting the beating sun, scowled, and started slapping Matt in the head. “You cocky bastard.” The thoughts in Matt’s head raced a mile a minute. What was that? Was it a flashback? A hallucination? Can the blind sometimes catch glimpses of the world? Whatever the case, he would have to do plenty of research. Matt grabbed Karen’s other hand from the air and wrapped her arms around him. Her pallid cheek met Matt’s hard chest and for a while she was still angry. Then she noticed that their heartbeats were in-synch, then she wasn’t so angry. Matt fell to the bed hugging Karen, they sat there for a few moments. Karen stared at the slowly setting sun, Matt couldn’t help but continue running the questions in his head. Soon Karen and Matt were kissing, then they were laying down, passion overtaking them.

Anthony Masters remembers very little of his own life. From what he has gathered from service files, he has served with the military and S.H.I.E.L.D. all of his adult life. He served in the US military in 1990s, particularly in the Gulf War. When he showed a perchance for stealth and close-combat in the field, he graduated from basic infantry to Covert Ops over his tenure and upon returning home from service, was offered a place at S.H.I.E.L.D. where he ran several successful missions. His most recent run was an undercover stint in the Crime Syndicate in New York, where he gathered valuable intel on the gang’s current objectives. Prior to the incident that lead to his condition, he had just begun serving as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s chief hand-to-hand trainer.

The reason for the gaps in his memory is from an experimental serum, originally developed during WWII, which was modified by S.H.I.E.L.D. using notes of the original Super Soldier program. Masters volunteered to be the test subject. Repeated testing showed that Masters had developed the ability to memorise and duplicate any person’s movements merely by watching them. The side effects of the experiment were that this memorisation ability came at the cost of his personal memory. Masters began forgetting where he was, what the testing was for, even who he was. In order to bypass this, S.H.I.E.L.D. inserted a syntho-organic, micro-data storage device into his brain, that was linked to it but could not store or erase new memories from it, only access the ones stored on it. Masters has direct access to this device so he can manage what specific memories he retains. As a result, Masters requested that he put back on active duty under the new code name: Taskmaster.

My name is Anthony Masters. I’m currently 32 years old. My birthday is February 24th. I am a former US Army soldier and Special Covert Operations operative. I joined the Army when I was 19 and served as a S.C.O. when I was 25. Look up “Masters Service Record” in S.H.I.E.L.D. database for full details. Both my parents are dead. They were killed in a house-fire when I was serving overseas. Their names were Bill and Virginia Masters. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. as the head CQB trainer and currently work in the field under the codename: Taskmaster.

Reason for memory loss: memory override due to possession of my photographic reflex power. This power was gained upon injection of a serum that granted these powers. Fighting Styles saved and filed for later use: Wing Chun Savate Capoeira Karate Muay Tai Sambo Judo Aikido Jiu-Jitsu Fencing Kyudo Camouflage Stealth techniques Canne de combat Armament Marksmanship Recently discovered ability to mimic others voices. Must investigate further.

1. Photographic Reflex Memory: Ability to duplicate almost any physical act that he sees done by someone else only once. This includes combat movements, sleight of hand, practice-based exercises (e.g. piano), marksmanship, archery, gymnastics and aerobatics. A side effect of the photographic reflex is that the speed at which the techniques are observed can affect his movements, increasing in velocity, giving him a burst of near-superhuman speed. He has also discovered that he can copy the vocal muscle movements of others to mimic their voice patterns. 2. Superior Athletic Capabilities: Taskmaster is a naturally athletic individual who has trained his body to near peak-perfection, even rivalling many superpowered heroes and villains in terms of athleticism and physical conditioning. 3. Expert Tactician: His years of Army, Covert and S.H.I.E.L.D. service have shown Masters a myriad of different tactical strategies and procedures. 4. Equipment: Taskmaster utilises a variety of S.H.I.E.L.D. tech, depending on the mission at hand. No matter the mission, he always carries the same equipment: a pair of SW1911, custom-built in black often with silencers attached and a modern double-edged shortsword, based on the classical xiphos used by the Greeks, updated with a modern grip and metal blade,a mix of titanium and secondary adamantium for cost-effectiveness. He also wears a custom bodysuit uniform, made of a prototype fibre mix similar to Kevlar but much thinner and elastic to allow easier hand-to-hand combat. Taskmaster made some personal modifications to the suit, reinforcing the forearm and shin pads to allow harder strikes and protect better when blocking. He also added a face mask to hide his identity, induce fear in his rivals and because one of his pupils thought “thought it looked cool”.

1. Full Physical Duplication: Taskmaster cannot copy a feat that requires a power to accomplish. E.g. he may observe someone lifting a huge weight and be able to duplicate the correct movements but cannot replicate the superhuman strength to fully accomplish the act. 2. Energy/Projectile Duplication: Cannot duplicate any energy/projectile capabilities for the same underlying reasons. 3. Underlying Disciplines: He can mimic certain actions but not actions that occur after or are connected to the action. For example, he can mimic a dive into water but not how to swim (unless he observes the swimming action) or mimicking a song that he observed on the piano but he cannot compose his own as he does not know the musical scales. 4. Random Amnesia: When Taskmaster copies a new action, it copies over old personal memories (except those saved in his organo-drive) However the organo-drive can only hold a small amount of information as, due to the intricacy of the surgical procedure, the device could not be that large. So if Taskmaster learns new information, then duplicates a new action, this may copy over the new information. The override is random in what memories it goes over.

While I love the mainstream superpowered characters like anyone else, I love 2 other types of characters in the Marvel (and indeed, the overall comic) Universe: the lesser known superpowered characters (such as Deadpool) and the characters that have nothing but their wits and maybe a slight edge. I feel Taskmaster fits into the former. I became fascinated with Taskmaster after learning of him through the Deadpool comics. I feel he would be an excellent character to play in the roleplay as his backstory is very vague and he is one character who has not been revisited and rehashed to death, meaning many avenues have not been explored and I intend to do this.

Not giving too many details away, I plan to reinvent Taskmaster as a “good” but more in the vein of the down-and-dirty hero, the antithesis of Captain America, the hero who does what needs to be done for the good of everyone.

His eyes jerked open suddenly, his whole body shaking as his brain jumped back into the realm of consciousness. He tried raising his arms, feeling they were heavy. He looked down and saw straps wrapped around his wrists, securing him to the metallic chair. He tugged helplessly, the chair bolted to the floor, a blank steel table in front of him. Panic rose in his chest, his head darting side to side and taking in his surroundings. The room was dark, covered in shadows except for the area around the table, which was glowing with a white light, highlighting every feature in his eye line. His breathing quickened with each new question that crossed his mind: Where am I? Who’s taken me? Why? Then a more terrifying question popped up, causing him to go rigid with fear: Who am I? That’s when the screaming started. He tugged and rocked in the immovable chair, screaming for help at the top of his lungs. “Help!! Someone help me please?! Where am I?!” A door behind him opened, flooding the wall in front of him with light. A mirrored panel stretching the wall gave him a glimpse of himself. He had short, jet black hair and a stark red bruise on his cheek. The door closed just as quickly as it opened. A sharp set of footsteps approached him from behind, stepping around him and sat down across from him. The man who sat in front of him was quite plain. He was wearing a dark suit, white under shirt and red tie. His hair was combed back and he wore a small United States flag lapel on his jacket collar. He looked him straight in the eye and smiled lightly. “Do you know who I am?” He tugged at his bonds as he begged for his freedom. “Please, just let me go. Who are you?” The strange man continued to speak. “Do you know who you are?” He began to panic as the strange man somehow knew what had happened to him, probably even caused it somehow. “What did you do to me? Can you reverse it? Please…” He continued to waffle for his life, his release or anything he wanted. The strange man laid out the file that was in his hands and watched him continue to struggle. After several minutes, he placed his hands on the table and quietly said just 3 words. “Tony, please stop.” Tony stopped struggling in his chair, staring at the man sitting across from him. The stranger had said the name so calmly and assuredly, it sparked something in his mind, a sense of…familiarity. “Is…is that my name? Tony? Who are you? Where am I?!” “I’m Agent Jacob Strzeszewski. I’m the Head of Special Internal Operations for S.H.I.E.L.D. You’re currently at the Triskelion, the operations centre of S.H.I.E.L.D. Do you remember how you got here?” Tony shook his head. That’s when he heard a noise behind him, a soft shuffling of feet. There was another person in the room with them. They moved around behind Jacob, sticking to the shadows. Tony called at the man in the shadows. “Please, I just want to know what’s going on?!” The man stepped out, the light flooding every feature. The man was grizzled, his face covered in old scratches and scars. A long, black leather jacket draped his shoulders and trailed along the floor as he stepped out from the darkness. His jet black hair had the vaguest trace of grey and a large black eye patch covered his right eye. The uncovered left was fixed on Tony. “You’ve been through a rough patch, kid, but you’re safe now.” “Who are you? What are you going to do to me?” The man in the jacket smirked, reached forward and slid the open file across to Tony. The file had his picture and his full name with a classified stamp: ‘Anthony Masters’ “The name’s Colonel Nick J. Fury…and we’re going to give you a second chance.”