Noire

The Gifted: A Fast Paced Superpower RP (Relaunch)

Ding.

A lattice of interconnected, jointed steel slowly descended, the elevator’s engine rumbling as the chamber slid down the steel cable.

Near the bottom, the mercenary was impatiently tapping his foot, occasionally glancing at his watch. He was in desperate need of energy; coffee, pills, anything. The latter night having been spent entirely awake, scrawling notes and information on cracked paper, listening to late night talk shows, and pasting various photos and information in documents. His eyelids were heavy and dark, showing signs of fatigue. His hair was disheveled. His suit’s tie was undone, and the blazer’s neat folds crumpled. Luckily, he had finished the night’s daily work a couple of minutes earlier, and he was finally free to take a leisurely stroll to the nearest café available.

The elevator’s doors opened, sliding by with a slight hiss of steam. In the elevator shaft, a middle-aged man stood, holding a briefcase.

He wore a lofty, dark pin-striped suit, horn rimmed spectacles and a freshly conditioned chestnut brown sweep of hair. Thomas crossed the car’s threshold and took a place beside the man, tapping the lowest floor. He sighed, watching as the elevator shuddered to life, its age old engine creaking and spewing. The elevator was like an aged, old metallic horse, it’s hooves dulled by wear and tear, and it tended to take it’s time traversing the floors. It could take anywhere between five or ten minutes before it reached its next destination. He sighed, sitting against the elevator’s rusted metal wall, listening as the steel cable began to inch them up the floors. “Hey! Nice morning, isn’t it?” The suit said, his smile warm and inviting. He adjusted his scarlet tie. “I’m thinking about a trip to the beach after work, you know. The family’d really appreciate it.” “I’m.. sure.” Tom replied, showing disinterest. “I’m sure they would.” “I haven’t been travelled anywhere with them in months.” He said, oblivious to Tom’s reluctance to speak. “Work, you know. I haven’t seen you around this building before. My name’s John. Where do you work? What’s your name?” “My name’s Henry. Henry Schmidt.” Tom lied, adjusting his tie. A thin, cold smile grew on his face. “It’s funny that you mentioned my occupation. I actually work with metahumans.” [ It was a couple of months ago, he had been assigned by a local gang to assassinate a rival’s gang member. He was to kill the target quickly with no trace. The apparent target’s ability was excellent aim; the man could literally not miss a target if he was truly focusing. It had been a relatively simple manner of cleaning the target. He entered the house in his smog form, sliding through the slit in an open window. Once he was in, he waited until the earlier hours of the morning to strike; once an ample amount of time had passed, he slid into the room, and filled it with a dark, fiery soot. The man had died quietly, quickly, and Tom simply had to siphon the remaining smoke back out of his body to finish the job. ] “Metahumans? Hm. It sounds like a pretty dangerous job.” John remarked, chuckling. “I just work with a paper company.” “Oh, it’s pretty dangerous. I mean, I nearly get killed sometimes.” Thomas replied, tapping his watch. “It’s worth it though for the end, especially for the payout. “I can imagine how great of a pay it would offer.” John nodded, grinning. “So, you ever get noticed for your work, Henry?” “Sometimes. But not often.” Tom added. “Not many people know who I am. I usually go by aliases or nicknames. There’s not many people alive that know my full name.” [ He had once been recognized, out on the streets. He had failed to kill an old, greasy man. He had started to flood the room with smoke, but he was one of the very few that managed to survive, by waking up midway through it. He had caught a brief glimpse of his face before Tom dissipated and retreated. The old man saw him, walking in the streets with a cup of coffee, and had immediately began to run. Tom noticed, unfortunately for him. Tom followed him, ducking between the crowds inconspicuously, trapping the man into a quiet alley. He didn’t bother to waste his powers again. He shot him and dissipated into the sky, a swirling cloud of smoke. ] “Ah. I see. So… uh, this whole debate is going on in my office.” John said, the floors slowly passing by. “I mean, people are arguing left and right, talking about metahumans being good and bad or whatever. You have an occupation in metahumans; you know anything about that? Like, which ones to avoid?” “I don’t really believe in good and evil. It’s subjective.” Tom said, watching the numbers switch. “From their perspective, they could be the good guy. From ours, the bad. I’m neither good nor bad. What I do is my job. But I’d stay away from Elijah Craig and Jaden McFadden. They’re nasty sons of a bitches.” “Alright. Hey, I think my floor’s coming up!” John exclaimed, watching the elevator shudder to a stop. “It’s been good talking with you, Henry. I suppose I’ll see you around the office sometime.” “Great.” Tom said, staring at his watch. The rest of the elevator ride was spent in silence.

The Gifted: A Fast Paced Superpower RP (Relaunch)

“-eautiful day. It’s an excellent time fo-“ The radio droned on, filling the quiet office. It sat atop an oaken desk, its gears and wires whirring and humming. A shuttered window lay behind the desk, letting in soft, warm light. The desk was adorned with various supplies; a mechanical typewriter, a stack of worn, leather bound books, a glass of amber liquid. A teenager sat behind the desk, his eyes focused on the typewriter in front of him, tapping away at the keys. His black suit was neatly folded, fresh and pleasant, his loafers resting on plywood flooring. A neat, pressed stack of empty manila folders lay to his right, smelling faintly of wine and ash. The typewriter contained a paper, of which he planned to slot into a manila folder once he had successfully completed it. By the desk, a disheveled filing cabinet sat, its pull-out drawers opened and messily stuffed with manila folders, almost to the point of bursting. Each manila folder was labeled with a name. The names were members of the metahuman population of the city, organized in an A-Z system. The manila folders each contained a detailed dossier on a metahuman within the city, accompanied with photography and notes. The more popular metahumans contained more detailed descriptions and photography, while the lesser known contained little information or notes. They all contained power information and a threat level, however. Thomas Wick took his job as a mercenary seriously; he made sure he knew all of his potential victims and/or co-workers. He made sure there was always another plan to refer to. He never panicked or broke in the middle of a job; that was what unprofessional mercenaries would do. He sighed, pulling the paper free of the typewriter’s clasps. It had become almost an obsession of his to be professional; he countless stacks of notes, plans, and backups. He had become accustomed to spending long, late nights, sipping from a glass of Scotch and typing away. Thomas reached to his glass, sipping lightly at the smoky, oak liquid. As a mercenary, he made sure he could be prepared at all times. Even now, sitting at his desk, drinking Scotch, he had a plan of escape and action. He always did, in either jobs or daily life. If he was given a job, he would not stop for anything until that job happened to be done. He usually suffered from insomnia, in fact. A few metal filing cabinets adorned the office walls, some dented, and others corroded. One filing cabinet contained plans of how to kill each metahuman. While some were easy, such as D-listers, others were slightly more difficult and costly. For example, Ruby Greenfoot would be a costly and dangerous metahuman to kill. She wasn’t afraid to put a bullet in someone’s brain if needed be, and controlling technology was a potent skill, considering she had essentially mastered the ability. He tried to keep little electric technology in his room, but it was near impossible to live without it, unfortunately. The boy began finishing up the paper, scrawling in green ink, “low threat level.” As he began to straighten it, tucking the photos in, he felt a crawling, burning sensation in his skin. A low plume of fiery smoke wafted by. He quickly strapped his gas mask back on, the black rubbery material bending around his skin as he took a breath of filtered air. He still needed to keep that on, unfortunately. One day, he’d be in public, he’d start leaking smoke, and he’d end up killing someone without intending to, which would be an embarrassing death. Killed by accident. He made sure all of his victims were assassinated were finished cleanly and dignified. He tucked the finished manila folder under his arm, tucking it in with a thin smile under his mask. Another profile finished, another metahuman documented. He intended on meeting with several of the ones he documented; Elijah Craig, Ruby Greenfoot, Light. They were all particularly interesting ones.

The Gifted: A Fast Paced Superpower RP (Relaunch)

I'd love to see a meet-up between Jaden McFadden and Beau De La Fontane. That'd be interesting.

InFamous: Generations

I'm still here. I'll also try to get a post up, soon.

The Gifted: A Fast Paced Superpower RP (Relaunch)

Name: Thomas Wick Alias(s): N/A Age: 19 Affiliations: Mercenary Factions: Underground Movement Description:  Tom Wick prefers a suit to more casual outfits. He likes to appear imposing and important, like someone who could cause some damage. The suit isn't specially fitted to his requirements, however, and if he's not concentrating, trying to filter his smoke, he can often end up burning it to ashes. His eyes are usually cold and uninterested, unless something can pique it. His eyes would light up like embers if that were to happen. Powers: Thomas Wick can manipulate smoke to his will. The power, while at first, sounds weak, his smoke is heavier. He mixes the gas with ashes and embers, adding a hint of fire to it. The smoke can be derived from his own body, generating it from his pores, usually accompanied by a burning sensation in his skin, and the feeling of his energy draining. However, despite his apparent ability to create smoke, his lungs simply haven't adapted to the smoke powers, and he's forced to constantly wear a gas mask, to ensure he doesn't accidentally inhale his own smoke. The ability to manipulate and control smog is a powerful ability, surprisingly. It serves it's purpose in combat excellently. The smoke can serve as both hinder and hurt the target. The smoke, once enough is inhaled, can kill a civilian or badly pain a Meta's lungs. The embers and ashes add an extra, powerful burst in punch power. They let him sear and push opponents when he shoots at them with it. He can even boost the power of his own punches and kicks with the fiery smog. To add to it, the teenager can create powerful, smoky tendrils, similar to tentacles.  The cloudy smoke tendrils can whip at enemies, and while wispy and easily broken, can severely hinder target's line of sight. Not only that, but his feet can let out a jet of powerful, fiery smoke, thrusting him forward. It lets him, in a sense, fly. He has little control over it, however, and mainly just uses it to thrust himself forward, making it over rooftop gaps or ditches. If the need arises, he can also simply begin rapidly pumping smoke out of his body, usually resulting in a massive, heavy cloud of smoke, choking most humans within a certain radius, permanently damaging and sometimes choking Metas. However, he rarely uses it, considering it can start to overload his own gas mask, and knocking him out from the fatigue. Doing something like that would be suicide. His powers don't end at simply bending smoke, however. The boy's own body is oddly composited. He seems to switch in and out of solid and gaseous form, usually to his will. If he wishes it, his body can become smokey and wispy. Tom's appearance in this ashy form appears as a dark, smoke silhouette, flickering with embers and appearing to glow. If he's gaseous, attempting to touch him simply results in his silhouette flickering and distorting. In his smokey, ashy form, he can float through thin slits and small holes, but he can't manipulate smoke or fight. He can crudely fly while smokey. The form usually tires him, requiring him to hold together his silhouette, draining his energy. Thomas' reaction to smoke is debatable. Contrary to belief, his powers don't actually make him invincible to smoke; weak lungs can't stand up to the powerful, ashy substance, yet his eyes and skin can hold well against the smoke, appearing to simply slide it off. While he's not completely sure of how of why, he thinks it may be because his lungs haven't gotten much exposure to the smoke in comparison to his outer body, which gets a regular dosage of smoke each day, growing immune to it. If his gas mask were to ever get broken, he'd quickly choke to death on his smoke. The boy mainly keeps to the shadows in terms of power management. He doesn't go strutting down the city, burning down buildings and choking out civilians while dodging the military. He keeps a generally low profile, but keeps his gas mask on at all times. Occasionally, even without prompt, his body will generate smoke, and that would result in a long, untimely, painful death, assuming he weren't wearing it. If his gas mask were to get broken or knocked off, he'd be guaranteed a loss. He would never risk death by using his powers. Skills: Thomas Wick has a wide array of skills, mainly specializing in the shady side of society. His skill range includes rudimentary bomb manufacturing, drug manufacturing, and lock picking, amongst other potent abilities. A multitude of these skills were accumulated from both experience and literature, heavily deriving most of his skills from an original copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook, an important source of knowledge. If you left him alone with a canister of gasoline and a slab of styrofoam, he'd develop napalm. The boy's combat skills aren't much to experience. The teenager knows very little about battle, and heavily relies on his powers within a fight, giving him an edge over an opponent. If one were to strip away his powers, Tom would hardly be able to fend off a ten year old. His reflexes are quick, but his jabs and punches are pathetically lacking. In a fight, he tends to use his smoke as both a method of attack and escape plan. While his opponents are desperately looking for him through the smoke, he changes form and slips away. Equipment: Tom tends to keep little on him, with little space to place it. He keeps a pack of cigarettes, (He doesn't smoke, however.) a lighter, and a revolver. On various occasions, he'll pocket tubed chemicals, in case the need for a bomb arises. Ranking: C Brief History: Thomas Wick was quickly finding life to be unfulfilling. He found it boring and droll, with little fun to be found. It was difficult as a 14 year old living in the inner city. Especially having smoke powers, and posing a constant threat to accidentally suck all the clean oxygen out of his parents. His life was mostly locked in his room, with a sealed door, wide, open windows, and a lack of a smoke detector. It was dull. The only thing that stood out in his life was his older sister, Alice. She actually showed him kindness and empathy. She actually tried to teach him, where his parents were too scared to send him to school. He loved her company, and was like a parent to him. However, even she couldn't stave off his desire to look for something else in life. He spent most of his days drawing pictures and reading an old, beaten copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook, left to rot. It wasn't long before he began to feel rebellious and angry. He wanted to live out a real life! With powers! He quickly abandoned his family, leaving with a book and ten dollars. He didn't care much for his parents, but he hoped his sister wouldn't mind. Tom quickly began to start a small reputation in the under world, using his extensive criminal knowledge, and earning money.

The Gifted: A Fast Paced Superpower RP (Relaunch)

Well, now I'm imagining a dance squad of clones completely in sync with each other.

The Gifted: A Fast Paced Superpower RP (Relaunch)

Name: Thomas Wick Alias(s): N/A Age: 19 Affiliations: Mercenary Factions: Underground Movement Description:  Tom Wick prefers a suit to more casual outfits. He likes to appear imposing and important, like someone who could cause some damage. The suit isn't specially fitted to his requirements, however, and if he's not concentrating, trying to filter his smoke, he can often end up burning it to ashes. His eyes are usually cold and uninterested, unless something can pique it. His eyes would light up like embers if that were to happen. Powers: Thomas Wick can manipulate smoke to his will. The power, while at first, sounds weak, his smoke is heavier. He mixes the gas with ashes and embers, adding a hint of fire to it. The smoke can be derived from his own body, generating it from his pores, usually accompanied by a burning sensation in his skin, and the feeling of his energy draining. However, despite his apparent ability to create smoke, his lungs simply haven't adapted to the smoke powers, and he's forced to constantly wear a gas mask, to ensure he doesn't accidentally inhale his own smoke. The ability to manipulate and control smog is a powerful ability, surprisingly. It serves it's purpose in combat excellently. The smoke can serve as both hinder and hurt the target. The smoke, once enough is inhaled, can kill a civilian or badly pain a Meta's lungs. The embers and ashes add an extra, powerful burst in punch power. They let him sear and push opponents when he shoots at them with it. He can even boost the power of his own punches and kicks with the fiery smog. To add to it, the teenager can create powerful, smoky tendrils, similar to tentacles.  The cloudy smoke tendrils can whip at enemies, and while wispy and easily broken, can severely hinder target's line of sight. Not only that, but his feet can let out a jet of powerful, fiery smoke, thrusting him forward. It lets him, in a sense, fly. He has little control over it, however, and mainly just uses it to thrust himself forward, making it over rooftop gaps or ditches. If the need arises, he can also simply begin rapidly pumping smoke out of his body, usually resulting in a massive, heavy cloud of smoke, choking most humans within a certain radius, permanently damaging and sometimes choking Metas. However, he rarely uses it, considering it can start to overload his own gas mask, and knocking him out from the fatigue. Doing something like that would be suicide. His powers don't end at simply bending smoke, however. The boy's own body is oddly composited. He seems to switch in and out of solid and gaseous form, usually to his will. If he wishes it, his body can become smokey and wispy. Tom's appearance in this ashy form appears as a dark, smoke silhouette, flickering with embers and appearing to glow. If he's gaseous, attempting to touch him simply results in his silhouette flickering and distorting. In his smokey, ashy form, he can float through thin slits and small holes, but he can't manipulate smoke or fight. He can crudely fly while smokey. The form usually tires him, requiring him to hold together his silhouette, draining his energy. Thomas' reaction to smoke is debatable. His weak lungs can't stand up to the powerful, ashy substance, yet his eyes and skin can hold well against the smoke, appearing to simply slide it off. While he's not completely sure of how of why, he thinks it may be because his lungs haven't gotten much exposure to the smoke in comparison to his outer body, which gets a regular dosage of smoke each day, growing immune to it. If his gas mask were to ever get broken, he'd quickly choke to death on his smoke. The boy mainly keeps to the shadows in terms of power management. He doesn't go strutting down the city, burning down buildings and choking out civilians while dodging the military. He keeps a generally low profile, but keeps his gas mask on at all times. Occasionally, even without prompt, his body will generate smoke, and that would result in a long, untimely, painful death, assuming he weren't wearing it. If his gas mask were to get broken or knocked off, he'd be guaranteed a loss. He would never risk death by using his powers. Skills: Thomas Wick has a wide array of skills, mainly specializing in the shady side of society. His skill range includes rudimentary bomb manufacturing, drug manufacturing, and lock picking, amongst other potent abilities. A multitude of these skills were accumulated from both experience and literature, heavily deriving most of his skills from an original copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook, an important source of knowledge. If you left him alone with a canister of gasoline and a slab of styrofoam, he'd develop napalm. The boy's combat skills aren't much to experience. The teenager knows very little about battle, and heavily relies on his powers within a fight, giving him an edge over an opponent. If one were to strip away his powers, Tom would hardly be able to fend off a ten year old. His reflexes are quick, but his jabs and punches are pathetically lacking. In a fight, he tends to use his smoke as both a method of attack and escape plan. While his opponents are desperately looking for him through the smoke, he changes form and slips away. Equipment: Tom tends to keep little on him, with little space to place it. He keeps a a cellphone on him, a small canister of gasoline, and a lighter. On various occasions, he'll pocket tubed chemicals, in case the need for a bomb arises. Ranking: C Brief History: Thomas Wick was quickly finding life to be unfulfilling. He found it boring and droll, with little fun to be found. It was difficult as a 14 year old living in the inner city. Especially having smoke powers, and posing a constant threat to accidentally suck all the clean oxygen out of his parents. His life was mostly locked in his room, with a sealed door, wide, open windows, and a lack of a smoke detector. It was dull. The only thing that stood out in his life was his older sister, Alice. She actually showed him kindness and empathy. She actually tried to teach him, where his parents were too scared to send him to school. He loved her company, and was like a parent to him. However, even she couldn't stave off his desire to look for something else in life. He spent most of his days drawing pictures and reading an old, beaten copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook, left to rot. It wasn't long before he began to feel rebellious and angry. He wanted to live out a real life! With powers! He quickly abandoned his family, leaving with a book and ten dollars. He didn't care much for his parents, but he hoped his sister wouldn't mind. Tom quickly began to start a small reputation in the under world, using his extensive criminal knowledge, and earning money.

The Gifted: A Fast Paced Superpower RP (Relaunch)

Looks good. I'll be working on my CS soon.

InFamous: Generations

"Ah!" Dean exclaimed, coming across the meeting site. "Here we go." The workshop of the engineer was an old, rusted sewer room. It reeked of booze and oil, and the sound of hissing steam and clattering steel was a must. The engineer was a jumpy, middle-aged man, behind multiple painful experiments and tests on conduits. The D.U.P's eventual fall drove him to New York, abandoning his old life in favor of shady, underhanded work. Yet another explosion of sound vaulted him forward, landing on a rigid steel traffic light with catlike grace. A more powerful explosion vaulted him again, landing him on the ledge of a concrete building. His form of transportation was an odd, fun mix of conduit abilities and light parkour. He was still attempting to further his experience in parkour, unfortunately, as his first few days consisted of bruised knees and scratched hands. He garnered several questioning looks as a powerful explosion of sound launched him forward, rolling onto an old, weathered sidewalk. He got up, dusting off his jacket. His transportation tended to attract dust, dirt, and trash. In front of him lay a conduit bar, The Amp. His age, unfortunately, usually got him shooed away from the bar each time he attempted to enter. He briefly peered in, catching a glimpse of several figures. He sighed longingly. In a couple of years, he could be a degenerate alcoholic. For now, the bar was unknowingly the host to the engineer's workshop. He slid around back, ducking through an alleyway. It was a dirty, old, asphalt alleyway, laden with plantlife. He slid the massive, grimy dumpster across a splash of graffiti, revealing a dark, carved cubic hole into the sewer room. The boy took one last look around, slowly dragging the dumpster back across as he lowered himself into the abyss. The odor of gasoline and smoke was already beginning to assault his nose, and the temperature grew noticeably more humid. He landed with a soft, dulled thump. The room was hardly illuminated, the only source of light being a small, soft orange glow, emanating from a wired bulb in the roof. The room was covered with intrusive pipes, furnaces, and vents. The roof was a maze of steel girders, the floor beaten concrete. On multiple, dusky oaken tables around him, lay various oiled, bronze machinery and gears. The engineer stood just several feet in front of him, facing away. He appeared to be working on a new project. A long, heated hiss filled the room. The engineer was holding a welder that smelted together steel plates. The boy slowly crept up to the engineer, attempting to get a better view of the machine. It appeared to be a gun of some sort, with a long, onyx barrel. A cobweb of neon green lines snaked the barrel, causing it to give off an eerie green glow. He continued creeping up to him, before, with a grin, shoving him with all of his might. The engineer nearly fell, screaming in surprise. The welder moved erratically. The fine, welded line in the process was ruined, completely off course. "Hey, Phil!" He laughed, doubling over. "You seem a tad jumpy!" "Eat shit!" Phil yelled, flicking off the welder. He swung around, sliding the sniper behind him. "I'm not in the mood for your goddamn games right now, conduit. I'm trying to make something here, you asshole!" "Hey, I've been waiting for weeks now. I'm a little antsy here." Dean said, defensive. "I'm going to need that weapon soon." "It's done, dickhead." Phil said, scowling. He nonchalantly slid the gun into a cabinet, and continued over to a steel container. "I've been frying my ass down here trying to finish it for you. Conduits left and right are coming here, requesting their own weapons and tools. The only reason I finished yours first was because it was so simple. I mean, just a couple of days ago, I had a tar conduit come in requesting a crossbow. That shoots tar slugs." "You know, Phil, hanging out with you tends to remind me how much I hate you." Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I want to use the weapon. Now." The engineer sighed, revealing a metal key. He slid it into the steel box, turning it, and opening it. A cool, damp hiss emanated from the container. "I've got it right here." He said, reaching into the box. "I don't see why you wanted me to make it. It would've been real easy for you to make one yourself with a couple of welding lessons. Unfortunately, you're just too stupid and impatient for that."

InFamous: Generations

Name:

Dean Finnigan

Age:

16

Gender:

Male

Appearance:

Side:

Neutral

Personality:

Dean’s personality is mostly a mishmash of all of his other sibling’s personalities. He inherited the sarcasm, the cynicism, and egotism of his brothers. He inherited his anger, his argumentativeness, and his temper from his sisters. He inherited his loyalty from his dogs. His entire persona is a very odd mix of clashing personalities. After his life seemed to have so heavily relied on his siblings, he seems to have modeled himself after their most abundant qualities. The unfortunate result is what his personality is. He enjoys mocking and insulting others, being sarcastic, and getting people mad at him.

Biography:

Dean Finnigan was a small, impressionable child. The young boy was born into a family of three mutts, two sisters, one mother, and six brothers. The household was an unadulterated maelstrom of whirling porcelain, ripped drawings, and harsh words. The unfortunate family of children lost their father to a conduit, and their mother was seemingly too depressed and drunk to function. However, lucky enough, the family managed to get through, just barely. The three eldest brothers, Timothy, John, and Logan, had jobs, and were the appointed “heads” of the house. They managed to pull the family out of the rut by scrimping on the necessities of life; water, food, electricity. So, naturally, the youngest were hardly educated. As a child, Dean Finnigan was generally looked over as useless. He lacked strength or resolve, and seemed to hardly be able to do anything by himself. He even required help to make a meal. So, the boy mostly sat back while his brothers and sisters worked hard trying to survive. The unfortunate family lived in a small apartment, designed to hold a family of four, not twelve. A couple had to nap in sleeping bags on the floor, or in a repurposed kitchen cabinet. At the age of twelve, Dean Finnigan’s powers began to emerge. The first show of power he demonstrated was voice manipulation, imitating his sister after she tossed a box of tissues at him. He discovered he could mimic anyone’s voice and timbre perfectly, as long as he’d heard it before. He used it regularly, insulting his brothers or sisters using another voice, and watching a fight break out. It was how he managed to survive and entertain himself during the long years at the household. Soon after, audio manipulation emerged, discovered during a shouting match with his mother. His voice had practically shuddered the house, causing bits of plaster to crumble off the walls. It was after that that his brother’s didn’t seem to argue with him as much. As more and more time passed, he discovered his other various powers through other situations with his family. If fine china got thrown at him, he’d shudder it with an echo blast and send It flying off course. When his brother blew an air horn in his ear, he threw a Sonar Grenade and nearly made his brother permanently deaf. It went on like this for a long while.

As time passed on, his powers seemed to gradually begin becoming more unstable, rather than more controllable. With little proper training for his power and no time spent in Curdon Cay, It seemed, unlocking his abilities’ full potential was a mere pipe dream. Unfortunately, the state of the homestead seemed to also rapidly deteriorate as he aged. His mother seemed be in a horrible state, barely getting by. His older brothers, Timothy, John, and Logan, had left the house, looking to find business ventures to support the family. The two dogs had died, lowering the morale even more. The family seemed to be falling apart. As time passed, more kids began leaving, looking to find money on the country just like the older brothers. The rent was beginning to rear its ugly head. It didn’t take long before the apartment of twelve became an apartment of four; his two sisters, his mother, and Dean. The boy, disheartened, didn’t take too long to come to a decision. He, too, would leave the house, and return to support them. While not a smart choice in hindsight, Dean could hardly stand living there. The mere sight of it was unbearable.

So, the boy packed his bags, ready to abandon his old homestead. He left in the night, not stopping to exchange teary farewells or long goodbyes to his sisters or mother. On the way out, Dean Finnigan didn’t look back. He’d return soon.

Power:

Sound Manipulation

Power-:

Sonic Boom – He discharges a loud, compressed explosion of sound by his feet, propelling him forward. It can be used in rapid succession, allowing him to scale walls, travel streets, and launch himself at high velocity.

Echo Blast - He dispels a powerful, focused shot of sound, allowing him to disorient or pain an opponent. The blast severely affects the subject’s eardrums, resulting in almost immediately damaging and nauseating an enemy that comes into contact with it. The shot doesn’t do much physical damage.

Sonar Grenade – He unleashes a tight, compact explosion of sound. The sound grenade can explode with force, and momentarily deaf anyone within radius of the powerful explosion. The effect tends to last from a thirty seconds to a minute, plenty of time for him to escape.

Sound Wave – He releases a wide, large spread of sound, in the shape of a wave. It has a long range, and is particularly useful when he's surrounded. It can disorient enemies within range. It can vibrate powerfully, able to practically dismantle cars.

Audio Manipulation – He can adjust the audio of his voice, ranging from a mere, tiny whisper, only possibly heard by one, or make his voice deafening, and heard across the city. In combat, by magnifying his voice by tenfold, he can near deafen enemies by shouting.

Voice Manipulation – He can adjust the timbre, pitch, and tone of his or others voice with ease. He can imitate any accent or voice perfectly. While not being very useful in combat, it’s useful in mundane activities. Since mocking people is a personal favorite past time of his, he uses it whenever he's feeling sour and he needs to let loose on someone.

Other:

Dean Finnigan is an excellent singer, due to ease of controlling and pitching voice. He tends to not use that particular talent, though.