Heads up I’m going out of country until September! I can do short posts on mobile but I’ll wait for my cue :)
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“Tetsu Foundry…” Muttering came from a firework of curly red hair, its host crouched over an Eden roadmap. It was something that could have come from a travel office, a simple grid of streets and businesses across the city-state that had been utterly ruined with scarlet scrawl, lines, and circles. It was the thesis of a conspiracy theorist, and Thomas Dempsey looked the part. “Ninth Ward… got it… Ninth Ward… eugh!”
He gave a hiccup and physically leaned away as Magpie, still bloody from battle, passed by him on her way to the restroom. He looked like he was fighting not to jump. While his nostrils flared at the ironraw stench of blood, he looked relieved once the other contractor was gone. Nothing happened. Nothing much did, these days. That didn’t mean it didn’t still scare him. That didn’t mean he could let his guard down. Lucky for him, Dempsey wasn’t the type to relax. Ever.
“E-everyone? Is that figurative?!” The redhead’s nervous, wheedling voice pitched over the others, paper crumpling between his fingers as they tensed. It seemed it was not—while there weren’t many people in the safehouse at this hour, the situation was time-sensitive. The scribbled bounty on Ana's wall had proven itself a threat, and Dempsey had no choice but to answer the call to erase it. But I’m not prepared! Dempsey thought, breath hitching in a moment of panic. He hadn’t had time to make any new mods to combat this particular threat! He hadn’t—well, he hadn’t even been out on a high-stakes assignment since the time the fire hydrants exploded—
Bits of chewed nail were already flying as Dempsey vanished to grab his equipment and reappeared next to Cider, skinny and wide-eyed with a sniper rifle in one hand and a pair of pistols at his waist. “I-it might still have a blind spot or other hidden vulnerabilities,” he said in a mess of rapid syllables, the words blending together like machine gun fire. He gave a little jerk and his eyes darted around like the strokes of a child’s crayon before his attention snapped back. “Can capture alive or incapacitate if healing is infeasible. Nets, tranquilizers. Arm-stubs potential weak points?” He directed a nervous little laugh towards Cider, the first real indication he'd been speaking to her the whole time.
The twitchy contractor never seemed to stop moving, not until the moment the impromptu fighting force departed—he was running back and forth to grab some new bit of equipment, coming back with a piece of body armor ajar or a paper ball stuck in his hair, then stood nervously a little ways from the rest of the group, chewing his fingernails again. “Mph!” he exclaimed suddenly and spoke up, “Can I say something? Ask something? Wh-who’s leading this sortie, ma-ma’am?” Not him! He was no good at giving orders! He’d freeze like a rabbit, and long-distance snipers didn’t make the best communicators!
He gave a hiccup and physically leaned away as Magpie, still bloody from battle, passed by him on her way to the restroom. He looked like he was fighting not to jump. While his nostrils flared at the ironraw stench of blood, he looked relieved once the other contractor was gone. Nothing happened. Nothing much did, these days. That didn’t mean it didn’t still scare him. That didn’t mean he could let his guard down. Lucky for him, Dempsey wasn’t the type to relax. Ever.
“E-everyone? Is that figurative?!” The redhead’s nervous, wheedling voice pitched over the others, paper crumpling between his fingers as they tensed. It seemed it was not—while there weren’t many people in the safehouse at this hour, the situation was time-sensitive. The scribbled bounty on Ana's wall had proven itself a threat, and Dempsey had no choice but to answer the call to erase it. But I’m not prepared! Dempsey thought, breath hitching in a moment of panic. He hadn’t had time to make any new mods to combat this particular threat! He hadn’t—well, he hadn’t even been out on a high-stakes assignment since the time the fire hydrants exploded—
Bits of chewed nail were already flying as Dempsey vanished to grab his equipment and reappeared next to Cider, skinny and wide-eyed with a sniper rifle in one hand and a pair of pistols at his waist. “I-it might still have a blind spot or other hidden vulnerabilities,” he said in a mess of rapid syllables, the words blending together like machine gun fire. He gave a little jerk and his eyes darted around like the strokes of a child’s crayon before his attention snapped back. “Can capture alive or incapacitate if healing is infeasible. Nets, tranquilizers. Arm-stubs potential weak points?” He directed a nervous little laugh towards Cider, the first real indication he'd been speaking to her the whole time.
The twitchy contractor never seemed to stop moving, not until the moment the impromptu fighting force departed—he was running back and forth to grab some new bit of equipment, coming back with a piece of body armor ajar or a paper ball stuck in his hair, then stood nervously a little ways from the rest of the group, chewing his fingernails again. “Mph!” he exclaimed suddenly and spoke up, “Can I say something? Ask something? Wh-who’s leading this sortie, ma-ma’am?” Not him! He was no good at giving orders! He’d freeze like a rabbit, and long-distance snipers didn’t make the best communicators!
“--So it seems the people who arrive here, like us, end up joining a guild for professional training in a particular field. The coinage we received from Silver Moon typically covers this tuition, if you would, but little else after that point as I understand it.”
Torn between his desire to share Etono’s information accurately (but also succinctly) Matteo ended up being more vague than he probably could have been in the interest of time and effort. It was much easier to make small conversation with anyone who would participate as they descended from the steps of the enormous church amidst the other huddled masses, finding their way back to the plaza where the fivesome had first parted ways. Now that they were here, however, the half-blind youth had to play catchup quickly. Alas, the life of a procrastinator. “I was told the open guilds presently are the priests, magicians, warriors…”
As if remembering Old Bear from the night before, Matteo mysteriously vanished and managed to position himself behind the tallest member of their group, the blonde girl whose name he still hadn’t learned. He continued walking as if nothing had happened. “Ah, but the magicians require a studious mind, if I recall. Thieves and rangers were options as well. And fiend knights,” he added thoughtfully as he followed the others into the office, the rush of tobacco-scented air and the dry tones of the recruiter assuring him they had returned to the right place.
“Right, hello again,” Matteo said faintly from the back, raising his hand, “Apologies for bothering you-- we were hoping you might have a guild directory to get us started. It also seems one of us who ‘arrived’ last night was accidentally left behind when the guards escorted us here.” He indicated Muu. Honestly, he had no idea whether that was accurate or not (or how the girl had been separated from them) but it sounded plausible, and if Matteo could shift the blame to someone else he certainly would. “Muu?” he prompted.
Torn between his desire to share Etono’s information accurately (but also succinctly) Matteo ended up being more vague than he probably could have been in the interest of time and effort. It was much easier to make small conversation with anyone who would participate as they descended from the steps of the enormous church amidst the other huddled masses, finding their way back to the plaza where the fivesome had first parted ways. Now that they were here, however, the half-blind youth had to play catchup quickly. Alas, the life of a procrastinator. “I was told the open guilds presently are the priests, magicians, warriors…”
As if remembering Old Bear from the night before, Matteo mysteriously vanished and managed to position himself behind the tallest member of their group, the blonde girl whose name he still hadn’t learned. He continued walking as if nothing had happened. “Ah, but the magicians require a studious mind, if I recall. Thieves and rangers were options as well. And fiend knights,” he added thoughtfully as he followed the others into the office, the rush of tobacco-scented air and the dry tones of the recruiter assuring him they had returned to the right place.
“Right, hello again,” Matteo said faintly from the back, raising his hand, “Apologies for bothering you-- we were hoping you might have a guild directory to get us started. It also seems one of us who ‘arrived’ last night was accidentally left behind when the guards escorted us here.” He indicated Muu. Honestly, he had no idea whether that was accurate or not (or how the girl had been separated from them) but it sounded plausible, and if Matteo could shift the blame to someone else he certainly would. “Muu?” he prompted.
“Hee hee hee—so nice, Mista-Cop, treat Jun-He to nice lunch!”
His cheeks were stuffed as a swollen purse with Republic City’s cheapest cafeteria fare, sauce dribbling from the corner of his mouth. The sandwich had been a surprisingly easy bribe for a such hard man to find in the urban metropolis. The grubby teen could be quite a difficult person to actually pin down when you wanted to find him. At least he wasn’t difficult to catch—once food was promised, he’d practically led the way back to the police station. It wasn’t the first time he’d been taken there to report a situation he’d witnessed, and it wouldn’t be the last.
With each half-masticated bite, the part-timer’s muddy eyes never left the police officer. “So nice… oh, but Jun-He know what you up to, Mista-Cop.”
Surprise registered on the officer’s face for only a moment before he leaned forward. “Do you now? And what’s that?”
The boy kicked back in the chair, resting his boots on the edge of the table as his broad grin expanded to take up his whole face. He wiggled his toes through the holes in the tips to punctuate his theory. “You try soften Jun-He up, make him feel good!”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh. Then you make Jun-He like you, he trust you. You count on Jun-He, he count on you too. Get close, see more often. Talk more.”
“All right, go on. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, Jun-He.”
“Yes! Very-smart, Jun-He—oho, you give good food, but you no trick him! Jun-He know all.” Far from offended by what could have been taken as an insult, Jun-He’s chest swelled with pride. He popped the last bite in his mouth and gestured grandly, waving both his arms in the air. “He see all! He hear all! You, Mista-Cop, you have question?”
The scrawny boy’s words hung in the air in a moment of silence before his fork slipped off his empty plate and clattered to the ground. “Ah. I’ll get it, one moment.” The police officer bent down to retrieve it, fingers groping blindly along the ground. He hadn’t expected the informant to be so blunt, to cut to the point so quickly. He’d been planning a smoother transition into the next stage of the investigation, but—
“Is OK, Mista-Cop. Jun-He know what you want know.”
“Jun-He, I—” The policeman bumped his head on the bottom of the table and winced. “It’s somewhat of a delicate matter, legally, can we conduct this conversation somewhere more… private—”
“NO!” The vehemence of the reply took the officer aback, but there was far more. Jun-He crossed his arms. “Hah! He save you trouble. Jun-He know what Mista-Cops like you want, and he say—NO! Cannot marry Mista-Cop, what you thinking?!”
A pause. Shock. Dawning disbelief.
The grubby teen’s face split again in an exaggerated smirk and a tittery giggle escaped him. He covered his mouth with one hand and flapped the other at his speechless “date”, suddenly very coy. “Waah, you no look at Jun-He like that! Make him think, ‘oh, maybe-ok, maybe Mista-Cop be good wife for Jun-He afta all… bring home good-check, keep Jun-He safe…' but NO, cannot be! No-no-no! He too young, too potential, too…” He patted his own grimy cheeks, “Too beauty for being bride! Jun-He no that kind of girl!”
Normally, the expression on the face of a person’s conversation partner would clue them in when there had been a misunderstanding, but Jun-He should have gone to an eye doctor and gotten a heavy prescription ten years ago and facial nuances almost always escaped him. He ignored the officer’s horrified expression and prattled on instead, shrill tones getting louder and louder as the desperate policeman looked around himself, at a loss for what to do. “Oh, you no first to offer to Jun-He—giving foods, giving moneys, wear ugly mask...he say NO!”
Amidst his horror, the policeman recognized the key piece of information he’d been looking for. “Wait, wearing masks? And these people offered you money to... were there other people your age there too?”
Jun-He threw his arms up in the air. “Wah! Yes! But no-worry, Jun-He eat one and they only fake coin, metal taste all wrong.” He chomped on the end of the dirty fork to demonstrate and then waved it in the air to punctuate his next complaint. “Hah, he think they make out of melting-can, tasting like soap! Anyway, Jun-He go home after-that, have dinner with Po—Po is friend, Jun-He have dinner with him every day always-always—eat tasty stew, full of fish. Hey, why you wanna know what Jun-He have for dinner Mista-Cop?!” He stopped, squinting suspiciously at the officer desperately taking notes.
“By Raava, Jun-He...this might be the key to exactly what we were looking for.” The policeman stood up, face flushed with excitement at the new intel. The masks, the trafficking, the coinage…it was too soon for someone like him to go making assumptions, but if they acted quickly they might just put a stop to something big before it could even begin. “You can go home now, that’s everything we needed. Thank you again!”
Alone again, the street rat pouted and folded his arms. “They always love and leave Jun-He… waah…”
He wandered off to try and find a bathroom.
His cheeks were stuffed as a swollen purse with Republic City’s cheapest cafeteria fare, sauce dribbling from the corner of his mouth. The sandwich had been a surprisingly easy bribe for a such hard man to find in the urban metropolis. The grubby teen could be quite a difficult person to actually pin down when you wanted to find him. At least he wasn’t difficult to catch—once food was promised, he’d practically led the way back to the police station. It wasn’t the first time he’d been taken there to report a situation he’d witnessed, and it wouldn’t be the last.
With each half-masticated bite, the part-timer’s muddy eyes never left the police officer. “So nice… oh, but Jun-He know what you up to, Mista-Cop.”
Surprise registered on the officer’s face for only a moment before he leaned forward. “Do you now? And what’s that?”
The boy kicked back in the chair, resting his boots on the edge of the table as his broad grin expanded to take up his whole face. He wiggled his toes through the holes in the tips to punctuate his theory. “You try soften Jun-He up, make him feel good!”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh. Then you make Jun-He like you, he trust you. You count on Jun-He, he count on you too. Get close, see more often. Talk more.”
“All right, go on. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, Jun-He.”
“Yes! Very-smart, Jun-He—oho, you give good food, but you no trick him! Jun-He know all.” Far from offended by what could have been taken as an insult, Jun-He’s chest swelled with pride. He popped the last bite in his mouth and gestured grandly, waving both his arms in the air. “He see all! He hear all! You, Mista-Cop, you have question?”
The scrawny boy’s words hung in the air in a moment of silence before his fork slipped off his empty plate and clattered to the ground. “Ah. I’ll get it, one moment.” The police officer bent down to retrieve it, fingers groping blindly along the ground. He hadn’t expected the informant to be so blunt, to cut to the point so quickly. He’d been planning a smoother transition into the next stage of the investigation, but—
“Is OK, Mista-Cop. Jun-He know what you want know.”
“Jun-He, I—” The policeman bumped his head on the bottom of the table and winced. “It’s somewhat of a delicate matter, legally, can we conduct this conversation somewhere more… private—”
“NO!” The vehemence of the reply took the officer aback, but there was far more. Jun-He crossed his arms. “Hah! He save you trouble. Jun-He know what Mista-Cops like you want, and he say—NO! Cannot marry Mista-Cop, what you thinking?!”
A pause. Shock. Dawning disbelief.
The grubby teen’s face split again in an exaggerated smirk and a tittery giggle escaped him. He covered his mouth with one hand and flapped the other at his speechless “date”, suddenly very coy. “Waah, you no look at Jun-He like that! Make him think, ‘oh, maybe-ok, maybe Mista-Cop be good wife for Jun-He afta all… bring home good-check, keep Jun-He safe…' but NO, cannot be! No-no-no! He too young, too potential, too…” He patted his own grimy cheeks, “Too beauty for being bride! Jun-He no that kind of girl!”
Normally, the expression on the face of a person’s conversation partner would clue them in when there had been a misunderstanding, but Jun-He should have gone to an eye doctor and gotten a heavy prescription ten years ago and facial nuances almost always escaped him. He ignored the officer’s horrified expression and prattled on instead, shrill tones getting louder and louder as the desperate policeman looked around himself, at a loss for what to do. “Oh, you no first to offer to Jun-He—giving foods, giving moneys, wear ugly mask...he say NO!”
Amidst his horror, the policeman recognized the key piece of information he’d been looking for. “Wait, wearing masks? And these people offered you money to... were there other people your age there too?”
Jun-He threw his arms up in the air. “Wah! Yes! But no-worry, Jun-He eat one and they only fake coin, metal taste all wrong.” He chomped on the end of the dirty fork to demonstrate and then waved it in the air to punctuate his next complaint. “Hah, he think they make out of melting-can, tasting like soap! Anyway, Jun-He go home after-that, have dinner with Po—Po is friend, Jun-He have dinner with him every day always-always—eat tasty stew, full of fish. Hey, why you wanna know what Jun-He have for dinner Mista-Cop?!” He stopped, squinting suspiciously at the officer desperately taking notes.
“By Raava, Jun-He...this might be the key to exactly what we were looking for.” The policeman stood up, face flushed with excitement at the new intel. The masks, the trafficking, the coinage…it was too soon for someone like him to go making assumptions, but if they acted quickly they might just put a stop to something big before it could even begin. “You can go home now, that’s everything we needed. Thank you again!”
Alone again, the street rat pouted and folded his arms. “They always love and leave Jun-He… waah…”
He wandered off to try and find a bathroom.
I'll try and post on my work break tomorrow afternoon! Toug it turns out my keyboard is only alf funtional apparently as I'm finding out wile writing tis message so I'll get bak to yall on tat... alas
Name: Thomas Dempsey
Alias: Nailgun
Personality: Dempsey is a nervous wreck. He’ll jump if you talk to him and his eyes always seem to be roving, searching for an escape route. He carries a nervous, building energy about him that tends to make other people uncomfortable, particularly in combat situations where the order is to remain calm. Too bad, since Dempsey is never calm. He seems constantly convinced he’s going to die and hell, you can’t decide if he’s terrified or excited about the possibility. He speaks in fast jumbles, panics when he lies, and laughs to cover it up. Dempsey doesn’t like to be touched and will physically flinch if made contact with, which his official file blames on PTSD. He spends most of his time modifying or fiddling with his weaponry, which is both creative and compulsive. The man is surprisingly intelligent and has a lot of knowledge packed in under all that pent-up anxiety. He’s very much a follower, doing what he’s told and cowing to the whims of others in a disagreement. If there’s one thing Dempsey can be counted on for, though, it’s a steady trigger finger. He might be terrified, but he’s no coward—he’ll stand his ground and deliver when the going gets tough.
Appearance: Dempsey appears to be about thirty years old. Average in height and weight—lean build if not for extensive combat training, which shows in broad shoulders and wiry upper body strength. Probably the first thing your eyes would be drawn to would be his hair, which is… large. Thick reddish-brown curls spring at least to his shoulders, which he typically keeps tied back or under a hood/helmet on jobs. When unbound, the sheer volume of hair becomes something like an afro, dwarfing his long, narrow face. His complexion is pale and slightly freckly, with an outthrust jaw and patchy red stubble. He has very light gray eyes. There’s some kind of scar visible on the left side of his face, but it’s not clear what caused it.
History: From a paramilitary family, Thomas Dempsey Jr. never had much resemblance to his father. His father was a high-ranking officer in EPOL and was widely respected by others in the ranks for his leadership and other abilities. From the time he was born, Dempsey was trained and groomed to enter EPOL. Before she died, his mother desperately tried to cultivate other options for him, forms of self-expression or trade that didn’t require such a violent lifestyle. For a mediocre child with little natural ability in any one field, however, combat training won out. You didn’t have to be talented to shoot a gun and do what you were told. Skill would come with time.
He was young when he was officially accepted into the academy (via connections, not by merit) and began going out on EPOL missions, and (while nobody dared tell him or his father) the general consensus was disappointment. He was no prodigy, despite his origins, and Dempsey had to work twice as hard just to satisfy the sergeants and instructors. Even now, the rumors that he wasn’t actually his father’s son began to spread as those in the paramilitary force sought a reason why he fell so short of the mark. Embarrassed and disappointed, Thomas Dempsey Sr. effectively disowned him, claiming his wife had been unfaithful and turning his back on his son.
Trapped in the system nonetheless, Dempsey was a solid long-range sniper and his first unit began to specialize on raiding illegal weapons caches in the south Wards. Exposure to seemingly every kind of bootleg gun available seemed to spark some creativity in Dempsey’s mind and he began to modify his own weapons, which he got in major trouble over once the officers found out. There was no room in EPOL for ingenuity from a nameless scrub. To punish him—or maybe to test him—he was reassigned to “front lines” in supposedly the most dangerous territory. Gang members and civilians all blended together, and sometimes there was no distinguishing between the two. He risked his life every day in often radioactive territory, and though they never saw him behind the EPOL helmet, he saw every one of their faces, which still haunt him.
It wasn’t through compassion or sympathy that he left his new squadron, however, even after he was moved back to weapons cache raids. Strange things had been happening to him, and people had started to take notice. Incidents where they were under fire and an invisible force would suddenly sweep his squad members off their feet, or a gun would shatter in his hands. It took a raid where a surprise assault in a weapons locker blew out every wall, crate, and gun except the one in Dempsey’s hands before he realized it was him. He was ejected from EPOL as a loose cannon, volatile, someone developing signs of supernatural ability without control. It didn’t take long for Ultralight to find him.
Five years have passed since Dempsey became a contractor for Ultralight, and he’s become somewhat of a weapons specialist. His kinetic bursts remain unstable and inconsistent, so he’s seldom assigned to the field anymore since the initial trial period where he attempted to master control of his ability and came away so shell-shocked that some weren’t sure he’d ever leave the safe house again. In that time he’s recovered some and subsists off of frequent small jobs, essentially “pest” extermination of smaller youkai and monsters. He’s never stayed with a cell for long, but frequently acts as a resource for contractors who need special mods to their guns or to pick his brain for his weapons knowledge.
Capabilities: Dempsey is excellent at long-range combat and is most useful (and safe) as a sniper, far away from actual danger. It’s not that he’s not skilled at a more melee range as well—he’s trained with pistols, shotguns, etc, and he makes pretty good snap decisions in a fight on the spot. He’s definitely a more “defensive” fighter at closer range. The problem is actually his more supernatural ability, which specialists estimate has been developing slowly over time spent in the more radiation-heavy wards (or possibly in response to some emotional turmoil, though that’s just the psych evaluation’s opinion). Dempsey seems to build up and then semi-randomly discharge kinetic energy, which bursts from him in a kind of shock wave. The size and strength of this wave varies, doing anything from simply shattering people’s glasses at a party to blowing out a building. He really has no control over it, but analysts note it seems to happen when he’s scared (always) and that taking stress in combat seems to amplify the effect.
Equipment: Sniper rifle (magnetic, modified scope) Pistol x2 (cartridge) Shotgun (cartridge, experimental model taken from Los Lados warehouse) Protective vest, light body-armor. Wears a lot of black.
Alias: Nailgun
Personality: Dempsey is a nervous wreck. He’ll jump if you talk to him and his eyes always seem to be roving, searching for an escape route. He carries a nervous, building energy about him that tends to make other people uncomfortable, particularly in combat situations where the order is to remain calm. Too bad, since Dempsey is never calm. He seems constantly convinced he’s going to die and hell, you can’t decide if he’s terrified or excited about the possibility. He speaks in fast jumbles, panics when he lies, and laughs to cover it up. Dempsey doesn’t like to be touched and will physically flinch if made contact with, which his official file blames on PTSD. He spends most of his time modifying or fiddling with his weaponry, which is both creative and compulsive. The man is surprisingly intelligent and has a lot of knowledge packed in under all that pent-up anxiety. He’s very much a follower, doing what he’s told and cowing to the whims of others in a disagreement. If there’s one thing Dempsey can be counted on for, though, it’s a steady trigger finger. He might be terrified, but he’s no coward—he’ll stand his ground and deliver when the going gets tough.
Appearance: Dempsey appears to be about thirty years old. Average in height and weight—lean build if not for extensive combat training, which shows in broad shoulders and wiry upper body strength. Probably the first thing your eyes would be drawn to would be his hair, which is… large. Thick reddish-brown curls spring at least to his shoulders, which he typically keeps tied back or under a hood/helmet on jobs. When unbound, the sheer volume of hair becomes something like an afro, dwarfing his long, narrow face. His complexion is pale and slightly freckly, with an outthrust jaw and patchy red stubble. He has very light gray eyes. There’s some kind of scar visible on the left side of his face, but it’s not clear what caused it.
History: From a paramilitary family, Thomas Dempsey Jr. never had much resemblance to his father. His father was a high-ranking officer in EPOL and was widely respected by others in the ranks for his leadership and other abilities. From the time he was born, Dempsey was trained and groomed to enter EPOL. Before she died, his mother desperately tried to cultivate other options for him, forms of self-expression or trade that didn’t require such a violent lifestyle. For a mediocre child with little natural ability in any one field, however, combat training won out. You didn’t have to be talented to shoot a gun and do what you were told. Skill would come with time.
He was young when he was officially accepted into the academy (via connections, not by merit) and began going out on EPOL missions, and (while nobody dared tell him or his father) the general consensus was disappointment. He was no prodigy, despite his origins, and Dempsey had to work twice as hard just to satisfy the sergeants and instructors. Even now, the rumors that he wasn’t actually his father’s son began to spread as those in the paramilitary force sought a reason why he fell so short of the mark. Embarrassed and disappointed, Thomas Dempsey Sr. effectively disowned him, claiming his wife had been unfaithful and turning his back on his son.
Trapped in the system nonetheless, Dempsey was a solid long-range sniper and his first unit began to specialize on raiding illegal weapons caches in the south Wards. Exposure to seemingly every kind of bootleg gun available seemed to spark some creativity in Dempsey’s mind and he began to modify his own weapons, which he got in major trouble over once the officers found out. There was no room in EPOL for ingenuity from a nameless scrub. To punish him—or maybe to test him—he was reassigned to “front lines” in supposedly the most dangerous territory. Gang members and civilians all blended together, and sometimes there was no distinguishing between the two. He risked his life every day in often radioactive territory, and though they never saw him behind the EPOL helmet, he saw every one of their faces, which still haunt him.
It wasn’t through compassion or sympathy that he left his new squadron, however, even after he was moved back to weapons cache raids. Strange things had been happening to him, and people had started to take notice. Incidents where they were under fire and an invisible force would suddenly sweep his squad members off their feet, or a gun would shatter in his hands. It took a raid where a surprise assault in a weapons locker blew out every wall, crate, and gun except the one in Dempsey’s hands before he realized it was him. He was ejected from EPOL as a loose cannon, volatile, someone developing signs of supernatural ability without control. It didn’t take long for Ultralight to find him.
Five years have passed since Dempsey became a contractor for Ultralight, and he’s become somewhat of a weapons specialist. His kinetic bursts remain unstable and inconsistent, so he’s seldom assigned to the field anymore since the initial trial period where he attempted to master control of his ability and came away so shell-shocked that some weren’t sure he’d ever leave the safe house again. In that time he’s recovered some and subsists off of frequent small jobs, essentially “pest” extermination of smaller youkai and monsters. He’s never stayed with a cell for long, but frequently acts as a resource for contractors who need special mods to their guns or to pick his brain for his weapons knowledge.
Capabilities: Dempsey is excellent at long-range combat and is most useful (and safe) as a sniper, far away from actual danger. It’s not that he’s not skilled at a more melee range as well—he’s trained with pistols, shotguns, etc, and he makes pretty good snap decisions in a fight on the spot. He’s definitely a more “defensive” fighter at closer range. The problem is actually his more supernatural ability, which specialists estimate has been developing slowly over time spent in the more radiation-heavy wards (or possibly in response to some emotional turmoil, though that’s just the psych evaluation’s opinion). Dempsey seems to build up and then semi-randomly discharge kinetic energy, which bursts from him in a kind of shock wave. The size and strength of this wave varies, doing anything from simply shattering people’s glasses at a party to blowing out a building. He really has no control over it, but analysts note it seems to happen when he’s scared (always) and that taking stress in combat seems to amplify the effect.
Equipment: Sniper rifle (magnetic, modified scope) Pistol x2 (cartridge) Shotgun (cartridge, experimental model taken from Los Lados warehouse) Protective vest, light body-armor. Wears a lot of black.
@Leah Oh, lmao I think I phrased my eye description poorly the first time (he just had black eyes) but now that I think about it the eye colors in Avatar were always very deliberate, I’ll go green to match earth nation <:
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