shivershiver

Common Bonds

Huzzah!

Common Bonds

From beneath his cap, Clint vigilantly observed the alleyway encounter unfold, his body fully concealed by the all-encompassing shadows that plagued the South Side. His eyes, accustomed to darkness, quickly adapted to the poorly-lit alley and began profiling both individuals. The Walking Woman was fairly thin, a typical trait for the South Side, but she didn’t carry herself like many of the slummers. Her clothes were well kept, and she was quite clean. If Clint had to guess, he would say she was a North Side college girl who went on an “excursion” to the South in search of drugs or danger. He'd seen many of their broken bodies lying on the street. However, even in the face of a total stranger, she didn’t lose her cool composure. Perhaps there was more to the Walking Woman than the eye could see.

The other shadowy figure from the rooftop, the Roof Girl, was the polar opposite of the Walking Woman. She was easily identified as a South Sider by her shabby clothes and thin frame, let alone her skyline activities, but her body language was timid and meek, a fatal flaw that could very well result in death in the South Side. Clint was surprised the young girl even made it to adulthood, although it could hardly be called that, as she was maybe just over 18. The South Side had a strange way of shortening its resident’s childhoods though. A voice cut through the dark, confident and kind, and while he couldn’t see whose mouth moved, Clint was certain from the tone it was Walking Woman speaking. He couldn’t make out what she was saying either, the words garbled by the throb of harsh electronic music emitting from rundown bars on Main Street. With a flash, the Roof Girl closed the gap between the two and extended her arm towards the other. Every muscle in Parker’s body tightened, like a tiger waiting to pounce on its prey. He gripped the police baton tighter, his knuckles cracking and heart pounding.

A scream cried out, but not from the alley. Clint spun around, accidentally knocking over a metal trash can that he’d hid behind, just in time to see a disheveled girl with one heel on run past the entrance to the alley; moments later, another figure dashed by, in their hand a silver blade turned crimson from the luminous lights of a trashy nightclub reading “Seven Sins.” Parker, knowing all too well the possible outcome, dashed out the alley, forgetting the two women behind him; he almost reached the exit before his a sharp pain, all too familiar, stabbed into his left knee, bringing him to a staggered limp. He gave a sharp yelp and a curse, but fought the urge to collapse. The agony was brought on by an old wound, a shattered knee from a motorcycle accident ten years ago. The wound healed, but without proper stretching, a simple run could cause him considerable pain. Clint forgot to stretch today.

Parker hastily lurched around the corner, and quickly wished he hadn’t. Slumped against the brick wall was an emaciated young girl with blood blossoming from several locations on her dirty white shirt, the hilt of a knife jutting from between her ribs. Her lifeless blue eyes stared upwards, directly at a hooded man with a hundred dollar bill clutched greedily in his red-stained hands. The man turned just in time to see Clint standing before him, swinging his left arm to extend his baton with a swift click-click-click. The two had met before, obviously not under the best circumstances, as the hooded man dropped his money and began stepping away, a stammer caught in his throat. Clint recognized the man from the small tattoo of a cross on his cheek; he gave him a good beating before for threatening prostitutes, but Parker never thought he would be capable of this. He decided to make sure he wouldn’t ever be capable of such atrocities ever again. The man threw a few punches at Clint, landing two solid blows to his jaw and stomach, though he barely reacted. In a blind rage, the vigilante swung the baton at the man’s head, resonating a solid crack which brought him to his knees as he clutched his bleeding head. Clint kicked the man over and gave him hell. He reached for the knife in the girl. Parker broke his hand with the baton. The man tried to cry out for help. Clint crushed his throat in with his boot. He continued stomping and stomping with his good leg until nothing was left of the man’s head caved in like a rotting pumpkin. He never even thought to simply shoot the man.

Hands shaking with rage, Clint pulled his scarf down and tossed his hat into the street, running a bloodied hand through his hair. He slowly sank down next to the dead girl, knee still stiff, with his eyes fixed on the single crumpled bill that sat on the sidewalk. He’d given it to her.

Common Bonds

solamelike said
I liked the tracker idea, I needed a reason why the guns wouldn't be super advanced :p

Thank ya! It was just my way of making an excuse so I wouldn't have to describe new futuristic guns :D

Embrz said
Excellent! Hopefully Nicole won't get the crap beaten out of her first... (lookin at you, Clint...)

Hey, I can't help it that Nicole is cruisin for a bruisin!

Common Bonds

Whew, posted. I decided to throw in a couple of new technologies since it is the future and all, even if it is a slum. If anyone has any problems with the stuff I make up, just lemme know and I'll gladly change it! Also, would it be a good idea to add a list of gadgets and tech crap we make up and add it to the front page so there isn't any confusion? I know I'll have a hard time keeping up with everything.

Common Bonds

He’d been told that, at the turn of the 21st century, South Side wasn’t a bad place to live. It was a middle-class area, and the sprawling manor, white picket fence American Dream existed as a much more modest apartment, but the people were still the same. They had hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Hopes that the economy would turn around some day, dreams of their children living an even better life than them, and aspirations to live in the high rises to the north. Somewhere along the line, however, the South Side lost sight of their goals. Perhaps all the wealth moved north. Maybe it was some conspiracy to further the gap between the classes. Some were even bold enough to state that the government was at fault for South Side’s decay, intentionally pulling almost all police forces out, fencing the river off, and diverting all funding from the South to the North. Of course, this was all speculation. Nobody would ever know the truth. All that could be said is in 40 years, South Side transformed from a blue-collar haven into a monstrous shell of its former self, filled to the brim with poverty, drugs, and violence.

Clint Parker heard these stories from the few older residents, most of them having died at the hands of criminals or simply jumping ship. When these hollow-faced men and women spoke of the glory days, the bright glint in their dull eyes suggested they told the truth, although it was hard to believe when looking at the sprawling shanty town. Clint, having only arrived a year ago in Calson City, usually failed to spot these tiny shards of the past, though they did occasionally shine through the layer of grime that coated the city. The crumbling brick building of a dentist’s office, shattered windows looking like gaping maws. Abandoned hospitals filled with the homeless, no longer receiving the care they desperately need. In truth, the old city was long-forgotten, with the current youth concerned only with how to survive today instead of laying the brickwork for tomorrow. Every day, the shards continued to fade, and soon none would remain.

Clint’s shadow appeared only as a faint, shimmery avatar of himself on the cracked and beaten sidewalk, as the only light in the street was that illuminated from the neon signs of businesses. The purple, blue, and yellow neon lights, advertising loose whore and slot machines, were obnoxious to most, but Parker found them comforting, having lived much of his life beneath the bright signs of Las Vegas; still, Main Street in Calson City was a far cry from The Strip. Prostitutes lined the streets, but they weren’t the voluptuous, eager girls like the ones in Sin City. These men and women were walking skeletons smeared in make-up, their clothes loosely draped around them and track marks marring every inch of exposed flesh. Their advances were not playful or teasing, but straight-forward and desperate. One truly miserable girl, looking only 18, practically threw herself onto Clint as seductively as she could, though she just came off as pathetic. Her low-cut grubby shirt revealed little, save for the bones beneath her skin, and the girl’s miniscule shorts were held up only by her pelvic bone. The prostitute wrapped her scrawny arms around Clint’s neck and whispered the dirtiest things she could think of, her voice barely choking back the sobs in her throat. Clint’s heart sank, and he gently pulled the girl’s arms off, but as she began to fall, he swiftly caught the woman in his rough hands.

“Please, mister, I’ll do anything, I haven’t eaten in days,” she begged, looking up into his eyes. Clint looked into her face, but failed to see the sunken eyes, filthy skin, and matted hair. Instead, he saw the woman she could be. Bright blue eyes full of life, healthy dark complexion, and a white smile that never ceased. He was startled when he realized the girl bore a striking resemblance to his own mother when she was a girl. Parker slowly helped the girl to her feet, and gently placed a crumpled hundred dollar bill into his skeletal hand. Cash was rarely used in the North Side, replaced largely by transactions via smartphone, but cash remained king in the crime-infested South Side. 30 years ago, when Clint was a boy, one hundred bucks would take you a long way; his mother managed to stretch one bill for an entire week, making sure her only son was properly clothed and fed. Rising costs of living quickly ensured this would no longer be possible, and the girl would be lucky if she could feed herself for a day or two. Still, she trembled with excitement as she clutched the bill, but her face rapidly twisted into a face of horror when she realized the man had just handed her more than four times her usual charges. What degrading acts was he about to inflict upon her?

Clint saw this look in her eyes, and shook his head. “Consider it a gift,” he said softly. “Just make sure you hang onto it, alright?” The young woman nodded and squealed with joy before running down the street, apparently reinvigorated by the cash in her hand. Clint stood idly for a moment, watching as she disappeared into the night. For all he knew, she could be running to the nearest dealer to buy zydrate, the newest drug that plagued South Side. Zydrate was unlike any other drug on the market, as it used nanobots to deliver mood-altering drugs to the brain, thus rapidly decreasing the time it took for the effects to be felt. The glowing blue substance was injected intravenously, and gave the user similar side effects to heroin, but much more potent. Many users die their first time, as they always believe they can handle larger amounts like the longtime addicts. The streets were becoming filled with bodies, and in their hands they clutched little glass vials half-full of zydrate. Still, the girl could very well be rushing off to buy food for herself, or possibly her child. The thought sent chills down his back. Maybe he should have given her more.

Clint cleared his mind of the incident and continued walking down the busy street. The only cars that drove past were from 2020 and under; the year Congress passed a new law that required all automobile manufacturers plant tracking devices in their vehicles. Shortly after, in 2022, another law passed that required weapons to have the same chips. Nobody wanted to be tracked by the cops in South Side, so they opted for older models, sacrificing performance for security. However, there were those capable of removing these tracking devices from the object; Parker, having worked on cars for most of his life, could remove the chip from any vehicle with the right tools. Firearms, however, were a little more difficult as the work was more precise, and many newer models were including fingerprint identification systems that prevented anyone but the owner from operating the weapon. These added difficulties made weapon designers and weapon smiths invaluable members of the criminal community. Clint took a turn off the main road, burying one hand into the pocket of his jacket, and pulling down the bill of his simple black baseball cap. Clint stopped suddenly at the mouth of the street though, as he heard feet gently pounding on the corrugated metal roofs above him. He looked down the narrow alley and spotted a solitary woman walking in his direction, evidently oblivious of both his presence and the individual above her. Parker hated those types; the South Siders who ran on the rooftops, preying on the weak below, safe from both fist and bullet. Perhaps he was a little jealous as well, knowing fully well that his injured knee would never allow him to perform such acts. Clint felt the familiar metal grip of his extendable police baton in his coat pocket, and had a feeling he might need to use it as the figure jumped down from the rooftop and before the woman. He decided to hang back and wait to see what would happen before barging into the peculiar encounter.

Common Bonds Character sheets

Clint Parker

Name: Clint Parker
Age: 35
Gender: Male

Sexuality: Heterosexual
Race: Caucasian
Position: Wheelman/Vigilante

Appearance: Clint stands at 6’0 with broad shoulders and lean muscle, weighing in at 190 lbs. His hands are rough and strong from a life of working on his vehicles, but fumble with more precise work, a few of his knuckles having broken and mended improperly. His right pinkie finger is missing from the first knuckle up, leaving a rounded stump. Most of his body is a mess of scars and tattoos accumulated over time, most faded, and others very new. While some might consider scars to be attractive, few would consider those that mar Clint’s skin very appealing. Most are non-uniform splashes of rough flesh from burns or road rash, but a few, like the two that dig into his cheek, have been acquired through other means. Where there are no scars, Parker has filled his skin with large tattoos, ranging from Japanese-esque murals to simple, sprawling designs, none with any deep meaning.

History: Clint Parker never really had much of a chance at a normal life. His mother, Charlize, was a young woman who left her home in search of fame as a showgirl in Las Vegas. The naive girl was quickly seduced by a young man with a passion for cars, who later came to be Clint’s father. The man left Charlize, never knowing she was pregnant, forcing her to bear the full burden of an infant son with no means of an income and no family in Vegas. Without any other option, Clint’s mother resorted to prostitution in order to feed her child, often neglecting her own health for his. Much to Charlize’s disappointment, Parker slid through school with few interests, barely passing his classes. He deeply yearned to know his father’s identity, but was only told that his dad’s hobby was working on vehicles.

Seeking a connection to his absent father, Clint took this to the extreme, revolving his whole world around engines. From a young age, he worked in a ratty mechanic’s shop, absorbing everything he could about the rugged vehicles that came into the garage. When he turned 16, his first action was to purchase a beat-up motorcycle, which he rode constantly with fervent zeal. Clint also frequented the Church of the Latter-Day Saints with his mom from a young age, and the two were accepted graciously into the community. Parker dropped out of high school his final year when his mother died of unknown causes, the virus acting very rapidly on her already weakened body. Seeing no future for him in his hometown, he moved to Los Angeles with nothing but his bike and the clothes on his back, similar to his mother. His goals, however, were a little more realistic. With his vast knowledge of vehicles, Clint found a job in a decent mechanic shop within the city run by an older man named Luke. The aged mechanic, witnessing Parker’s skills as a driver on race tracks, recognized his unique skill set and offered him a different type of employment in addition to working in his shop. Luke suggested that Clint serve as a getaway driver for criminals on occasion, knowing several men within the criminal network. Luke told Clint that in his youth, he did the same, and saw the same abilities in him. Clint reluctantly took the job, for his mother and the Mormon Church instilled a strong sense of morals in him, but he was desperately hurting for cash. He slowly sank into the criminal world, building a modest reputation for himself.

At 27, Parker met a beautiful Italian woman of the same age at the mechanic shop when she took her beat-up car in. Having no vehicle for the night, Clint gave her a ride home and learned her name was Florenda Marino, and, like his mother, she sought fame in Hollywood. The two quickly developed an intimate relationship, with Clint constantly urging Florenda to pursue her dreams, as if to redeem his mother’s failed ones. Despite Clint’s relatively quiet disposition, the couple seemed to be made for each other. Unfortunately, after three years, Florenda broke off their relationship, always fearing he was involved in criminal activity. The apartment, while modest, was much nicer than what a mechanic could afford. Some nights, Parker would be out until the next morning, though he never reeked of booze as one would expect. She realized just how dangerous he was when he burst into their apartment with a gunshot wound to his shoulder and hastily pried the bullet out, asking her to stitch the open hole. Florenda helped him, then promptly packed her bags and left. The last time he saw the woman, her stomach was looking slightly larger than usual, but he thought nothing of it.

Clint continued his life without Florenda, though with less enthusiasm and ambition. He began questioning his life as a criminal, albeit a fairly tame one, and if it was one he could truly be proud of. Luke, however, was practically a father to him, and constantly encouraged his illegal career, so he stuck with his life as a wheelman. In the back of his mind, though, Parker felt he should become something greater than a glorified criminal. One day, a small package was delivered to the mechanic’s apartment filled with his mother’s belongings, sent by the current occupant of his run-down childhood home. He found a photo of his mother with a man whose features were very similar to his, and Clint assumed this man to be his father. He also found an unsent letter with an address in Calson City, and upon opening it discovered it was meant to be sent to his father. With these in tow, Clint left his home once more, the wheels of his bike pointing to Calson City.

Parker never found his father, only traces of the man. What he did find in Calson City, however, was more work. The south side was teeming with criminals seeking to score jobs in the north and get away with their loot, and luckily Clint had just the skill set they needed. He kept this up for a few years, still searching for his dad, but another burning passion slowly replaced it; the struggle of the sick, weak, and poor. Clint was constantly a witness to the suffering of these poor souls at the hands of gangsters, and slowly began fighting back the constant waves of filth oppressing the helpless. His days became split between defending the poor from criminals and helping the very same gangs get away from sinister crimes. Clint doesn’t dress up in spandex and fight using his utility belt and ancient martial arts; the truth is much less romantic. His uniform is whatever street clothes he happens to have, along with a black loop scarf pulled over his nose to conceal his identity. He uses a handgun, police baton, and brute strength to achieve his goals. In his free time, though, Clint still actively searches for signs of his father. All the while, both of his reputations, one as a criminal and the other as a savior, continue to grow.

Personality: Like his life in Calson City, Clint’s personality is split in two. When working as a getaway driver, he is a shrewd and stiff individual, never laughing and using few words. Clint is concerned only with doing his job and surviving to be paid, and if that means taking another life, he will do so in a heartbeat. Parker does not fraternize with his “co-workers” and never revealing anything about his personal life or beliefs to ensure they don’t discover his other life. He is practically a machine whose sole purpose is to evade authorities, and he does a fine job of it, hence his clean criminal record. Clint is the perfect getaway driver, never asking any questions, and doing exactly as he is told. Whether or not he takes pleasure in these actions is unknown.

Outside of his work, Clint still maintains his relative stoic demeanor, although to a lesser degree. He loosens up tremendously, but is still extremely hesitant to trust anyone. His strong morals are exceptionally apparent, many of which stem from his time in the Mormon Church. While his time within the community was limited, he was accepted as a member, and the lessons he learned are still evident more than a decade later, although his faith in God is uncertain at best. Parker possesses a strong desire to do good in the world, and even more so now to counteract the work he does with criminals in order to survive. He is very charitable to those less fortunate than him, donating his time and much of his money to the poor stuck in the slums. Clint doesn’t sleep around much, unlike many who take advantage of the desperate south-side girls, and he is very compassionate towards prostitutes, this weakness stemming from his mother. Having seen the suffering she constantly endured to raise him, Clint is willing to assist any of these individuals, even allowing some to sleep in his apartment building. Parker also avoids all vices, like alcohol, gambling, and drugs, as he sees daily how they tear people apart.

When Parker conceals his face and defends the weak, these traits still exist, but are combined with a great deal of wrath towards those who seek to harm the poor. He tries not to kill the perpetrator, usually opting for a good beating with his police baton, but if the crime is more heinous than others, or the offender is putting up a good fight, Parker may draw his pistol and wound them. In several cases, Clint has savagely beaten men to death, sometimes with his bare hands, in a fit of blind rage, usually when he arrived too late to stop them. In even more severe instances, the criminal begged on their knees for mercy, but Clint simply placed a bullet in the back of their head, although he is trying to stray away from murder. Still, his sleep is rarely affected by these actions, as he finds them entirely justified. What keeps him staring at his ceiling is the victim of the crime, sprawled out on the filthy concrete with no one caring about their broken body.

Other: Clint is armed with a 21” extendable friction-locked police baton along with a .45 handgun from 2015. He is also the proud owner of a black Japanese sports bike from 2019, which he maintains with the utmost care. Parker doesn’t like running for extended periods of time, as he broke his left knee many years ago and the injury still pains him with extended use.

Common Bonds

Clint Parker

Name: Clint Parker
Age: 35
Gender: Male

Sexuality: Heterosexual
Race: Caucasian
Position: Wheelman/Vigilante

Appearance: Clint stands at 6’0 with broad shoulders and lean muscle, weighing in at 190 lbs. His hands are rough and strong from a life of working on his vehicles, but fumble with more precise work, a few of his knuckles having broken and mended improperly. His right pinkie finger is missing from the first knuckle up, leaving a rounded stump. Most of his body is a mess of scars and tattoos accumulated over time, most faded, and others very new. While some might consider scars to be attractive, few would consider those that mar Clint’s skin very appealing. Most are non-uniform splashes of rough flesh from burns or road rash, but a few, like the two that dig into his cheek, have been acquired through other means. Where there are no scars, Parker has filled his skin with large tattoos, ranging from Japanese-esque murals to simple, sprawling designs, none with any deep meaning.

History: Clint Parker never really had much of a chance at a normal life. His mother, Charlize, was a young woman who left her home in search of fame as a showgirl in Las Vegas. The naive girl was quickly seduced by a young man with a passion for cars, who later came to be Clint’s father. The man left Charlize, never knowing she was pregnant, forcing her to bear the full burden of an infant son with no means of an income and no family in Vegas. Without any other option, Clint’s mother resorted to prostitution in order to feed her child, often neglecting her own health for his. Much to Charlize’s disappointment, Parker slid through school with few interests, barely passing his classes. He deeply yearned to know his father’s identity, but was only told that his dad’s hobby was working on vehicles.

Seeking a connection to his absent father, Clint took this to the extreme, revolving his whole world around engines. From a young age, he worked in a ratty mechanic’s shop, absorbing everything he could about the rugged vehicles that came into the garage. When he turned 16, his first action was to purchase a beat-up motorcycle, which he rode constantly with fervent zeal. Clint also frequented the Church of the Latter-Day Saints with his mom from a young age, and the two were accepted graciously into the community. Parker dropped out of high school his final year when his mother died of unknown causes, the virus acting very rapidly on her already weakened body. Seeing no future for him in his hometown, he moved to Los Angeles with nothing but his bike and the clothes on his back, similar to his mother. His goals, however, were a little more realistic. With his vast knowledge of vehicles, Clint found a job in a decent mechanic shop within the city run by an older man named Luke. The aged mechanic, witnessing Parker’s skills as a driver on race tracks, recognized his unique skill set and offered him a different type of employment in addition to working in his shop. Luke suggested that Clint serve as a getaway driver for criminals on occasion, knowing several men within the criminal network. Luke told Clint that in his youth, he did the same, and saw the same abilities in him. Clint reluctantly took the job, for his mother and the Mormon Church instilled a strong sense of morals in him, but he was desperately hurting for cash. He slowly sank into the criminal world, building a modest reputation for himself.

At 27, Parker met a beautiful Italian woman of the same age at the mechanic shop when she took her beat-up car in. Having no vehicle for the night, Clint gave her a ride home and learned her name was Florenda Marino, and, like his mother, she sought fame in Hollywood. The two quickly developed an intimate relationship, with Clint constantly urging Florenda to pursue her dreams, as if to redeem his mother’s failed ones. Despite Clint’s relatively quiet disposition, the couple seemed to be made for each other. Unfortunately, after three years, Florenda broke off their relationship, always fearing he was involved in criminal activity. The apartment, while modest, was much nicer than what a mechanic could afford. Some nights, Parker would be out until the next morning, though he never reeked of booze as one would expect. She realized just how dangerous he was when he burst into their apartment with a gunshot wound to his shoulder and hastily pried the bullet out, asking her to stitch the open hole. Florenda helped him, then promptly packed her bags and left. The last time he saw the woman, her stomach was looking slightly larger than usual, but he thought nothing of it.

Clint continued his life without Florenda, though with less enthusiasm and ambition. He began questioning his life as a criminal, albeit a fairly tame one, and if it was one he could truly be proud of. Luke, however, was practically a father to him, and constantly encouraged his illegal career, so he stuck with his life as a wheelman. In the back of his mind, though, Parker felt he should become something greater than a glorified criminal. One day, a small package was delivered to the mechanic’s apartment filled with his mother’s belongings, sent by the current occupant of his run-down childhood home. He found a photo of his mother with a man whose features were very similar to his, and Clint assumed this man to be his father. He also found an unsent letter with an address in Calson City, and upon opening it discovered it was meant to be sent to his father. With these in tow, Clint left his home once more, the wheels of his bike pointing to Calson City.

Parker never found his father, only traces of the man. What he did find in Calson City, however, was more work. The south side was teeming with criminals seeking to score jobs in the north and get away with their loot, and luckily Clint had just the skill set they needed. He kept this up for a few years, still searching for his dad, but another burning passion slowly replaced it; the struggle of the sick, weak, and poor. Clint was constantly a witness to the suffering of these poor souls at the hands of gangsters, and slowly began fighting back the constant waves of filth oppressing the helpless. His days became split between defending the poor from criminals and helping the very same gangs get away from sinister crimes. Clint doesn’t dress up in spandex and fight using his utility belt and ancient martial arts; the truth is much less romantic. His uniform is whatever street clothes he happens to have, along with a black loop scarf pulled over his nose to conceal his identity. He uses a handgun, police baton, and brute strength to achieve his goals. In his free time, though, Clint still actively searches for signs of his father. All the while, both of his reputations, one as a criminal and the other as a savior, continue to grow.

Personality: Like his life in Calson City, Clint’s personality is split in two. When working as a getaway driver, he is a shrewd and stiff individual, never laughing and using few words. Clint is concerned only with doing his job and surviving to be paid, and if that means taking another life, he will do so in a heartbeat. Parker does not fraternize with his “co-workers” and never revealing anything about his personal life or beliefs to ensure they don’t discover his other life. He is practically a machine whose sole purpose is to evade authorities, and he does a fine job of it, hence his clean criminal record. Clint is the perfect getaway driver, never asking any questions, and doing exactly as he is told. Whether or not he takes pleasure in these actions is unknown.

Outside of his work, Clint still maintains his relative stoic demeanor, although to a lesser degree. He loosens up tremendously, but is still extremely hesitant to trust anyone. His strong morals are exceptionally apparent, many of which stem from his time in the Mormon Church. While his time within the community was limited, he was accepted as a member, and the lessons he learned are still evident more than a decade later, although his faith in God is uncertain at best. Parker possesses a strong desire to do good in the world, and even more so now to counteract the work he does with criminals in order to survive. He is very charitable to those less fortunate than him, donating his time and much of his money to the poor stuck in the slums. Clint doesn’t sleep around much, unlike many who take advantage of the desperate south-side girls, and he is very compassionate towards prostitutes, this weakness stemming from his mother. Having seen the suffering she constantly endured to raise him, Clint is willing to assist any of these individuals, even allowing some to sleep in his apartment building. Parker also avoids all vices, like alcohol, gambling, and drugs, as he sees daily how they tear people apart.

When Parker conceals his face and defends the weak, these traits still exist, but are combined with a great deal of wrath towards those who seek to harm the poor. He tries not to kill the perpetrator, usually opting for a good beating with his police baton, but if the crime is more heinous than others, or the offender is putting up a good fight, Parker may draw his pistol and wound them. In several cases, Clint has savagely beaten men to death, sometimes with his bare hands, in a fit of blind rage, usually when he arrived too late to stop them. In even more severe instances, the criminal begged on their knees for mercy, but Clint simply placed a bullet in the back of their head, although he is trying to stray away from murder. Still, his sleep is rarely affected by these actions, as he finds them entirely justified. What keeps him staring at his ceiling is the victim of the crime, sprawled out on the filthy concrete with no one caring about their broken body.

Other: Clint is armed with a 21” extendable friction-locked police baton along with a .45 handgun from 2015. He is also the proud owner of a black Japanese sports bike from 2019, which he maintains with the utmost care. Parker doesn’t like running for extended periods of time, as he broke his left knee many years ago and the injury still pains him with extended use.

Simple Wikipedia

http://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantum_mechanics

Slice of Ghetto

Did somebody say hooker? Count me in.

Surviving: The End (character-centric; modern zombie survival)

finalcatharsis said
Actually, I don't believe he was killed. He was a walker, right? Are you coming back to the RP?

Well hot damn, I'm definitely in if the all-mighty ball-catching daughter-holding Azseth will have me!