Member
IzurichVincent Freud Movius
*Warning language
Codename: Chroma
Age: 28
Appearance:
“I’ve never hired an assassin before,”
“.......”
-nervous laugh- “Right, I am suppose to leave you the location of the dead drop”
“......”
-nervous laugh again- “You don’t talk much do you”
“......”
“.......”
-nervous laugh- “Right, I am suppose to leave you the location of the dead drop”
“......”
-nervous laugh again- “You don’t talk much do you”
“......”
Eyes will always draw to the scar on his neck. It’s probably the first thing the eyes are drawn to. Then people ask questions;
“What happened?”
“Not to be rude, but can I ask what happen?”
“Not to be rude, but can I ask what happen?”
So the answers change depending on the mood;
“My rabbit got loose and attacked me,”
“My ex girlfriend, am I right,”
“Not to be rude, but is it your business?”
“My ex girlfriend, am I right,”
“Not to be rude, but is it your business?”
Usually when he talks it's clear he has some damage. His voice is hoarse and raspy, sounds like a patient with throat cancer. It can be unsettling to hear. It can be annoying for him to use as some of his words fade out mid sentence so sometimes the context is loss anyway. He sounds like death, with the whispering, hoarseness, like a corpse that had walken off the slab, and rose from the grave. It doesn’t have nuance to it or any of the subtly that make a voice a voice.
As for the man most are drawn to the scars and the stories they tell. They don’t care about the Caucasian man. Lucky for them Vincent doesn’t care too much for them either. With a look of boredom every time he’s stuck in a painfully boring conversation about mundane worries. Pale skin, and a handsome pensive face the most surprising thing to some in the room is his actual age.
Except that if they looked hard enough for the details they’d realize it wasn’t at all that surprising. Dark bags under his eyes and reddened bruising around his eyes give away his age and his sleepless nights. While his hair is something to do to give his appearance meaning. His therapist, hired by his sister Rosely, told him to do one thing in his life that felt significant to him. He chose to style his blackish blue hair in the stylish way it is seen now. Then it stuck as a routine rather than something he bothered to care about out of vanity.
His piercings are from his youth. Something he can’t quite shake off. The dogtags are mementos, keepsakes. He’s not sure if whether they are from friends or people he’d like to tell people were his friends. His red coat all though quite stylish was bought out of its uses, not because he really cared for fashion. The faux military coat has a fur trim, and he chooses to wear plain long sleeve t-shirts. Either of black, red, and forest green variants.
While he’s always seen wearing any color of cargos, gray, black, tan, or green. With rather worn army jungle boots, with scuffed leather, missing chunks of the laces. He himself stands at an impressive height at 5’9”, 175cm, he just stands around like nothing impresses him with his piercing ice blue iris gaze.
At 135lbs, 61kg, he’s extremely lean and well toned. He’s got what some would say lazy muscles. When they are relaxed they look like nothing, but when he flexes they show up, showing how lean he really is. And how much power he hides. Also probably not the only thing he hides.
Personality:
If someone was to assume by appearance alone then they would simply write Vincent off as some dark edge, malicious individual who enjoys the thought of hurting others. What they would miss is quite the opposite of what his appearance gives off. Vincent sometimes does portray the saying not to judge by its very annoyed looking cover.
While true Vincent finds small talk annoying and downright a bore, that doesn’t mean for an assassin that he is cruel or full of malicious intent. Those who do know the quiet killer actually have quite the opposite reaction to him. They see him as quite a warm person, someone who actually values and sees the world with warmth. Which is ironic considering he has done nothing, but kill for a living.
It’s because he understands death and fear, has been closed to those feelings so many times that he wishes not to inflict it in others. Which seems like an odd stance considering his job as an assassin. But unlike some people who take assassination as a hobby or something downright for fun he comes at from a soldier's point of view. It’s a service of duty, not cruelty.
He’s often very procedural with his clients and very procedural with his kills. It’s never more than enough energy needed to exert a clean kill. He sees wasting any more energy as that a waste of energy. All these other assassins with killing cards and bullshit to draw attention to themselves. He prefers to stick quietly to observing the situation. No flourishes. No bullshit. No embellishments.
With that said Vincent a man who has experienced a lot of tragedies in his life. It clearly affects him on an internal level more than an outward level. He’d never let anyone see him falter like that, often he will soldier on with his own problems. Though it does leave him restless nights. Insomnia riddles his brain, just as much as probably the depression he so denies he probably has or maybe ignores he has or doesn’t recognize he has.
Sometimes certain things stir different emotions in Vincent. The smell of laundry reminds him also of fire and the smell of burning people. The backfire of a car makes him twitch. People suddenly touching him out of nowhere or sneaking up on him makes him nervous. He has a habit of zoning out and just watching people as if scanning for someone in disguise.
With that said Vincent really captures his dark tragedy with a sense of dark humor that other people don’t quite get. While yes Vincent is a man of tragedy, he’s also a man with a deep sense of wit, he has very sarcastic nature, though his deliver can be matter of fact, and loves telling people absurd things just so he can adjust a social situation to his favor.
Vincent likes films they tend to take his mind off of things, he likes to feel like he has a sense of direction and purpose without it he feels anxious and restless. He likes to read home garden magazines too, not sure why he just thinks all that time and effort really comes out in the photography. He also likes his routine and structure and doesn’t like to deviate it from much.
He dislikes harsh foods, things like too spicy, or too strong coffee hurts his stomach from time to time. He dislikes people wasting his time and he definitely hates showboating. He doesn’t like talking much, the breathlessness that comes with it and the meaning lost on people sometimes seems to make it a waste of fucking time as they tried to play vocal charades with him. Most of all he hates loud noises, rowdy behavior, and has a particular dislike of children. It isn’t that he won’t be nice to them. He just prefers them to stay away from him.
“I’ve survived being sacrificed. I survived cagey Russian allies. I came back home to not be met with any merits or benefits, I joined the UAA gives me something to do so I do not become lazy and fat or depressed. Or all three. And you’re complaining to me that you cannot afford a purse, that I could care less about.”
Life is insignificant to begin with. You’re born into a world, a circumstance, a circumstance that some people do not have the power to change and that will be your eternity. That is your foundation or your base, that foundation or base says a lot about you. Born May 11th, to a circumstance. That circumstance was being born in an impoverished neighborhood, with four other kids before him.
His two eldest brothers Connor, Thomas, his two eldest sisters Anne, Rosely. In a multi generation household, Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, and an Aunt. His two younger siblings, both girls, Mariah, Lucy, would come later.
They were the real modern Charlie family, except instead of worrying about Golden Tickets it was about making enough money so the protection agency doesn’t come to take the kids away. Seemed like a not so smart plan.
All of that detail though is significant context to an otherwise insignificant existence if it continued that way. If there was anything about any kind of trailer trash is that it recycle itself. Like those papers stamped, made with recycled goods. All trash is compacted together to spit out more trash, to then live in the same system that both punishes you for being poor, but also keeps you poor.
So then when opportunity throws you a bone, do you take it? We’re not talking winning the lottery here, that probably been much better. Desperate people will do desperate things to escape their situations, their reality. So if a man walked up to your door and tried to sell you a magic ritual that would suddenly make you rich. Would you take it?
That’s exactly what happened when he was thirteen, a magic man came to the door and sold an offer you couldn’t refuse. That’s how he worded it.
“Excuse me ma’am and good sir, I noticed the weeds in your front yard, your cars are several decades old and don’t look like they have been driven in a while. And so many wonderful bundles of joy running around this place. So I Timothy Zimbo, have an offer you cannot refuse. It will change the future of their lives and yours drastically,”
What kind of name is Zimbo anyway? It sounded like a scam the moment he walked to the door. Yet, ironically later on you’d recognize it wasn’t really a scam. Just someone really bad at their job.
“Zimbo,”his father liked to puff out his chest, and look rather impressive, but he had a big pot belly as he remembers and did nothing, but complain about the job market, “What is this offer you speak of?”
The fact “The Man of the House” entertained such a silly notion should have told you the foundation he wanted to escape from.
“What if I told you about a ritual I could perform, that would make you millionaires overnight. All you need to do is sacrifice one of the children and the others will have extraordinary luck that will make living wonderful again,”
“Well I’d say I’m willing to try anything,”
“Well I’d say I’m willing to try anything,”
So that’s where the sacrifice came in. Parents who are willing to sell off their children in hopes to have a rags to riches story is wildly incompetent, and should be looked at with scrutiny. The family all sat around in the living room trying to pick each other off like this was the top hit new board game of the century. Fun for the whole family, Who to Sacrifice in a Wildly Negligent Parenting Choice.
“Grandma is going to die soon,” - Mariah
“She’s not a child” - Mom
“How about Rosely, she’s got that leg shorter than other,” - Thomas
“What are we talking about?” - Lucy
“Does anyone find this wildly incompetent?” - Anne ←--someone speaks some sense, finally
“No” - Dad
“She’s not a child” - Mom
“How about Rosely, she’s got that leg shorter than other,” - Thomas
“What are we talking about?” - Lucy
“Does anyone find this wildly incompetent?” - Anne ←--someone speaks some sense, finally
“No” - Dad
It goes on in a loop. For a while. Ten minutes. Than twenty. Then an hour goes by. No one has made a decision yet. Is this how the future is going to be? You know what happens to poor people who suddenly become rich? They spend all their money, blow it all off, and go back to the very bottom of the fish bowl so to speak. Was this his future? Was his future going to be a series of bad decisions out of desperation, over and over again and not learning anything because money was the foundation of success? Well then he rather die before that happened. They could all be rich, to be miserable later.
“Shut up” - Vincent
“Language” - Mom
“I’ll do it, I’ll sacrifice myself. Just so we can stop having this dumb conversation, should be ashamed we’re choosing family members like cattle to sacrifice. How am I the one with common sense?” - Vincent
“Language” - Mom
“I’ll do it, I’ll sacrifice myself. Just so we can stop having this dumb conversation, should be ashamed we’re choosing family members like cattle to sacrifice. How am I the one with common sense?” - Vincent
It didn’t matter that he might have been scared then. It didn’t matter that he was nervous about dying. The family rejoiced. They thanked him. His mother offered to make his favorite treats that day. He didn’t accept the offer. He made the decision because watching them made him realize how much he looked to nothing towards his future and made him realize he rather be off dead, then live another moment like this. So then, why was he so scared?
How it really happened wasn’t so glamorous. Step one and stepped to went off with a hitch. But then Zimbo and his sister or his wife, it was never really clear who she was in relation to Zimbo began to bicker. He wasn’t losing conscious near as fast as he should when the couple began to bicker.
“It’s suppose to say bond of the living blood weaves wealth,”
“That’s what it is said,”
“No it says family blood weaves virtue and strength,”
“Well, I don’t know Latin,”
“That’s why you let me write the spells,”
“I wanted to be useful” -flirtatious leg around Zimbo’s-
-sounds of sirens-
“Shit the cops,”
“What about the kid?”
“Eh leave him, he won’t be able to say anything,”
“Hear that they won’t believe you!” the woman shouts as the two run off
“That’s what it is said,”
“No it says family blood weaves virtue and strength,”
“Well, I don’t know Latin,”
“That’s why you let me write the spells,”
“I wanted to be useful” -flirtatious leg around Zimbo’s-
-sounds of sirens-
“Shit the cops,”
“What about the kid?”
“Eh leave him, he won’t be able to say anything,”
“Hear that they won’t believe you!” the woman shouts as the two run off
So his neck tickled, but it also felt numb. Like blood trickled out of it. But he couldn’t scream, only managed to gurgle on his own blood. Whenever he did so it felt like liquid was rolling upward. It tickled across his skin, but he had no idea why. He had been preparing for that moment, the moment where you begin to drown in your own warm liquid. Instead his neck felt very numb, almost paralyzed, blood would ooze out, then run back upward.
He hoped the cops would find him, without him having to scream for help. He couldn’t even if he wanted to scream for help.
Luckily, if you can call it lucky. The cops did find him. He ended up at the hospital.
Then the cops come to question you. They ask all sort of questions, painkillers were nice though. There were many things that came through his mind when it comes to questioning him.
What he told them was less than impressive than pretending to be a zombie. But it would be funny, right. He just told them some freaks attacked him with a knife, spoke a language he didn’t know, and he didn’t know them. Or how to describe them because he lost a lot of blood. Serviceable lie. But, what do you tell the cops? Where would the kid with paralyzed vocal cords go, if his parents went to jail?
It seemed like nothing changed. Or would change. It seemed that uncertain future was back with a vengeance.
That’s how life goes, end of story. Live happily ever tragedy. Not quite.
This story picks back up at eighteen, and we thought we were done with this story. It’s the same tragedy tale spun over and over again. Connor was up to no good, in and out of jail for drug trafficking and dealing with gangs.
When you have no sense of self identity you tend to seek for a place to belong, guess the gangs were suited for him. Rumor is Anna was shooting porn, though Anna tells a different story. Rosely was taking her clothes off for money, she says it was liberating. Grandma died on the same day he was found and brought back to the hospital. Though no one saw any connections yet.
Thomas, who was younger than Connor, hung himself in the house a year ago. Mariah and Lucy were encouraged to keep up middle school and not to follow in their eldest sister's footsteps. Though a rumor in the middle school that bled to the high school he went to said Mariah had given some upperclassmen a blowjob.
Not sure how accurate stories of teenagers are.
Vincent didn’t want any of those options. Be stuck in fast food like his mother for the last ten years, be stuck like his father his fat ass glued to the couch by his own sweat, he certainly didn’t know if he’d make a good stripper, nor a good gang member either. He wanted a different story. To survive what he survived and to go back here, felt like really like the most nihilistic way to reinforce life had no greater purpose.
While turning in applications for the next disappointment in job placement, he stopped and paused at a recruitment center. For the armed forces. It was like one of those little moments in the TV where the building glows and despite him not believing in God, heard God’s almighty choir sing “awe”.
-slides military package on table-
“The hell is this?” - Dad
“Joining the military” - Vincent bright smile
“Honey that is very dangerous” - Mom
“So is letting your kid be sacrificed to an insane man” - Vincent
“The hell is this?” - Dad
“Joining the military” - Vincent bright smile
“Honey that is very dangerous” - Mom
“So is letting your kid be sacrificed to an insane man” - Vincent
Off to boot camp. It wasn’t so bad. He struggled with push ups, still hates push ups, can do them, still hate them. He also had a trick up his sleeve no one else did. Don’t think he didn’t notice he could control his blood for five years. He knew. If he could make it past basic boot camp, then perhaps all of this was for something and there was a future after all to the look toward.
In the whole of his eighteen years of existence he had never been outside of America, let alone his own city. He knew other cities existed and other parts of the world existed because of school and he actually paid attention, but he probably would have never known or guessed he’d have something to look forward to and also hate later in his years two years after bootcamp.
But first, he was nineteen when he heard of their mother’s tragic demise. If you remember those graphic Canadian PSAs about kitchen safety, with the woman and her face melts off. Well that was his mother, who tripped over boxes and landed face first in the oven fryer while it was on during the work week in front of customers. No one even then was making the right connections. Life continued on after the service as it had. Most were even surprised his mother was the first to go before Connor, considering what Connor was up to.
At twenty he was shipped off to Russia. It be the first time he was outside of America. His duty or mission really was to babysit the cold war between Russia and China after a series of Homeland Security worries. A more straightforward way to put that is that Russia had been experiencing a string of terrorist attacks and begged for America’s assistance.
Assistance they gave, he was one of a couple hundred sent in to replace the soldiers who lost their lives to China’s attacks. Meanwhile on his travels to Russia, the death of Mariah had traveled along. She had been walking home from high school where a gang member shot her and drove off. Now the deaths were started to pile and some wondered if the family was cursed.
Vincent wasn’t sure how to feel about that. That there may be a family curse. On one hand it was nice that they finally got their just desserts for what happened. On another hand, Mariah was his youngest sister, his baby sister in fact he changed her diapers. He wasn’t sure if it was entirely fair.
Sometimes it felt like he was in Russia for no reason. Then other times it felt like he was in Russia for a reason. Whenever something unexpected happen. Death is never expected. It’s always the worst surprise party you ever got. Like long day at work, your tired, and want to sleep, you just got fired, open the apartment door surprise. Fuck me now you have to deal with people.
There were a lot of people he either convinced himself were his friends or were really his friends, who became twisted imagery. Bombs would go off and people would blow up like pieces of people. They weren’t even human any more at that point. He wonders if he took their tags as a feigned sense of sentimental value or if he really cared.
About bombs, he was twenty-two when he learned his father’s heart went out. He had a heart attack when he was twenty, but that didn’t do him in. Instead Death took Mariah. Two years later his father goes. He’s still in cold Russia. Where sometimes it was eery and quiet. Other times it glowed orange, snow would melt from the heat, and blood would forever paint the streets. Then silence. Like Death toying with them.
Like a stupid human with a laser point, who showed it to their furry friends. They know what it is. There’s the light. Then it’s gone, where did it go. There it is again.
Yet, he didn’t regret Russia. He didn’t regret military life honestly. He wanted to become one of those old senior officers you see, who could no longer fight, but instead recruited new kids, gave orders, and taught other kids. Until you were forced to retire. Beat sitting in a trailer park running to each dead end job right after another.
You want to know how I got these scars? Not how that line goes. Well this one my anthropomorphic rabbit took a knife and cut me in my sleep. This one? Do you want to know what Napalm feels like? I can show you.
At twenty-three his platoon and he were chosen to deal with some kind of security issue. A rumored warehouse being used by the Chinese to import illegal arms into the Russia. Rumors were true as they often are when you get a too useful information from an all too reliable source. A spy, or an ally spy. Didn’t matter.
Napalm is like acid eating away at your skin. It smells like fuel and laundry detergent. It brings you back home to clean clothes as it tricks you when it lights up orange. One minute you’re seeing an image you only see in TV and movies of laundry hanging on a clothes line. Then they all catch on fire. Except it didn’t quite go the way it was suppose to.
The warehouse plumed with smoke. There was orange. The napalm was already warming up, but didn’t quite ignite. Some soldiers stood around in confusion, they knew what Napalm was supposed to do. While others caught on fire in their shock and surprise. Like people candles on a birthday cake.
You cannot really say someone gets over something like that. It’s that laser pointer all over again. Death. No Death. Death. I am just kidding cute little human creation.
If Death was toying with him. Little feather on a dangly toy above his head. Then Death wasn’t toying elsewhere. Lucy was next on its chopping block. That’s the last of his little sisters. He had changed their diapers, dressed them, walked them to school. Some sick boy raped her, when she tried to run she was butchered. Made to look disgusting no longer a beautiful woman, just a people corpse.
That stung a little. To be honest Lucy had nothing to do with their family. She was just four when they were choosing who to sacrifice. She was out of all them, maybe innocent. He knows how that sounds because no one is really innocence, but out of the family he only really knew her as that little girl.
Two things lasted in his memory at that time. Lucy’s haunting image. Her corpse begging for his assistance, begging for big brothers help. He didn’t know what she looked like when she was butchered less than a human, he could only imagine. And people lighting orange. Maybe his family. Maybe soldiers he knew. Maybe just people on the street.
Still he swallowed the bitter pill. Continued on. The term is soldier on. Soldiered on. His Russian allies, whether he or the Americans trusted them was not the point, had trained them or showed them Sambo over the years. Life still seemed good despite visions of death. Moments of silence. Moments of violence. All sudden. Some point the unexpected became unexpected. You’re no longer that fresh kid eager for things to happen.
You always expect something. Even now the smell of laundry brings back the burning visions, like images in your head melting in the fireplace. Screams whisked away with the sound of roaring, crackling flames. But there was laughter too.
Eggnog on Christmas. Calling back to the family, and singing Yule time songs. He thinks he understands now the relation of a soldier and swimming in self medication. Lots of the time the laughter came from rowdy, drunk soldiers, passing shot after shot. He thinks they wanted to forget. Was it weird then for him to remember?
Every brush with death. Every experience reinforced that he was alive. He had reason. He had purpose. How could he forget? How he could regret what he decided would be better than the dead end path his family would have been on? Guess most of them were dead now. It really did seem like they were cursed. So he refused rounds, he just liked to watch the other soldiers.
He likes to say at twenty-four his dreams were dashed. Yet, another case of too good to be true information at the tips of the American general lips. Though this required a more subtle approach, as it was said one of the enemies leaders was traveling between Russia and making routine trips back to China. Back and forth.
No one was really sure if this was true. But that’s the thing about too good to be true information, it always end up being embellished or completely true.
Him and ten others were chosen to confirm the information true or not. A few snipers to watch over them like little lethal angels from far away. Nothing in these cases ever felt like routine. Routine was different than uncertainty. Things always in these moments felt suspicious.
That’s how all the soldiers felt that he worked with.
Something wasn’t right. Nor was something quite wrong either. Their instinct was easy to trust the moment they fell right into an enemy ambush. More like stealthily stumbled into an ambush. A battle broke out, they had been waiting for them.
They didn’t quite have the numbers and that little thing known as Death slinked closer. Nearly holding him in its arms.
At some point with no ammo left, it was him and another Russian man on the enemy side. Turned into one of those laughable moments where the enemy throws away his gun for a more “honorable” fight despite the dishonorable ambush.
Too bad for the enemy he had a trick up his sleeves. Or so he thought. Mixing sambo with invisible knives not on his person. The Russian man of course did not take too kindly to this trickery. Exchanging blows, after blows. It’s not like a sharp pain you cry out to. It was like a short punch to the gut and you haven’t realized what has happened.
Especially for him considering the ability he wields. He only noticed the numbing sensation it feels like when his blood is both spilling out and yet at the same slowly reversing back where it came from. He stumbles back a little, but continues to carry on anyway. Wounds have closed up for him before in the past this was just the same.
A second blow in the same area though. Another punch with sharp pain. But his blood kinesis usually dealt with it fine. If death is this close. Stroking his cheek like a lover than he’d take this man with him. A third blow, the sensation of burning in his open wound. Bile mixed with blood. Fine if this was his end. Perhaps he too was affected by the curse the way the others did.
He’d gladly nestle up to death. He threw a knife in vital areas of this Russian man. It shouldn’t take too long for him to die too.
When he came around. He’d learn he survived, somehow. He didn’t bleed out as quickly as he should have, well he expected that. But that his stomach had been badly stabbed through. At twenty-four he saw the military life fade away as he was medically, honourably, discharged in order for him to recover from his stabbing.
A year or so of recovery, he spent it living with his sister Rosely. At twenty-five Anna died during a pornshoot, she tripped over some wires, and landed on bed post cracking her head, snapping her neck at the same time.
His current weight has something to do with him losing some weight due the inability to eat properly during that time. But you soldier on, right?
He was looking at running towards brick walls if it were up to Rosely. She insisted him see a therapist during this time as well. Vincent did as his older sister insisted though. Since she was helping him out and they were the last few alive. Connor seemed to still be alive and well despite his criminality.
“Vincent Movius, that’s quite a last name” - Therapist
“Suppose it is,” - Vincent
“Vincent, I’d like to get to know you my name is $@#$,” - Therapist
“I read on the card” - Vincent
-laughs-
“First I’d like to thank you for your service for this country. Honestly I admire it,” - Therapist
“I spent four years in Russia,” Vincent “Whose country was I really serving?”
“Suppose it is,” - Vincent
“Vincent, I’d like to get to know you my name is $@#$,” - Therapist
“I read on the card” - Vincent
-laughs-
“First I’d like to thank you for your service for this country. Honestly I admire it,” - Therapist
“I spent four years in Russia,” Vincent “Whose country was I really serving?”
That’s how conversations went. Vicious circles of repetitive nature. To simulate him back into society. But you never forget the things you have seen in orange.
At twenty-six simulation seemed impossible. A revolving door that lead to repetition. He never did like when nothing happened. Worse was sometimes a car would backfire and take him back to a time. Laundry would always be associated with flickering people silhouettes. Several jobs, a few paychecks, ended up in an apartment. But there was no purpose. No purpose like a sick nihilistic joke rubbing it in his face.
Eventually he had one of his hallelujah moments when the UAA was secretly recruiting. Knowing how to kill people was something he had learned to do. It felt like something that would bring him a purpose once again.
That’s been his current focus with little distraction. He’s known to be sort of silent, Vincent never really liked talking ever since his vocal chords were paralyzed. The shortness of breath and losing his voice mid sentence always ruined the desire to have full length conversations. Most of his reputation comes from his ruthless procedural assassinations. It really emphasizes his military background.
He wasn’t really known for anything until more recently between the age of twenty-seven going twenty-eight. Probably also the most tearing thing. Connor and him never had much of a relationship when they were growing up. He was also so willing to throw his family to slaughter. He got a client’s dead drop to kill a notorious gang leader.
There were two things Vincent did not know. One, his mark would be Connor, and two he was followed by another assassin. When he did infiltrate the expensive estate Connor, It seemed Connor had benefited from their family misfortune. Connor was waiting for his assassin that night.
He looked different than Vincent last saw him. Like their father, but more sinister. Hardened, but also very weak and vulnerable. He was nervous and scared, but he also tried to play tough. Though he let his guard down when he realized who he was.
“Vincent,” - Connor
“I’m glad you didn’t forget what I looked like playing gangster for so long,” - Vincent
“So you came to kill me? Saw my name,”
“No, not necessarily” - Vincent - “I had no idea you were the target till now”
“Is this the part where you ask for me to say something to redeem myself to convince you not to?”
“I do not need convincing,” - Vincent - “Unlike the rest of our family. I don’t lust so much for my own families blood. Our sisters are dead Connor. Lucy cries out to me every night. I cannot save her even now.”
“Because you were busy playing soldier!” - Connor - “How come you’re not there? Why are you working as an assassin for the UAA nonetheless?”
“Did you stop thinking about us Connor?” - Vincent - “I never did. If you had thought of us, you’d known I got stabbed. I am at this point in a romantic relation with Death. It….they are dead.”
“Don’t get all sentimental Vincent, this is the most talkative you’ve been ever since that incident. And when you did talk you threw it in our faces,” - Connor -
“You were not the victims,” - Vincent -
“No! Thomas hung himself not because of our shitty situation, because every time he saw you he felt guilty for what we had done. He was hung in the room we shared and I had to wake up to his corpse the next morning staring at me with glazed eyes,” - Connor - “Fuck you...for coming in here. And….trying to reconnect….you just love to hammer in people’s…..guilt….and regret.”
“I wish you had said something like that a long time ago,” - Vincent
“I didn’t know how….”
“I’m glad you didn’t forget what I looked like playing gangster for so long,” - Vincent
“So you came to kill me? Saw my name,”
“No, not necessarily” - Vincent - “I had no idea you were the target till now”
“Is this the part where you ask for me to say something to redeem myself to convince you not to?”
“I do not need convincing,” - Vincent - “Unlike the rest of our family. I don’t lust so much for my own families blood. Our sisters are dead Connor. Lucy cries out to me every night. I cannot save her even now.”
“Because you were busy playing soldier!” - Connor - “How come you’re not there? Why are you working as an assassin for the UAA nonetheless?”
“Did you stop thinking about us Connor?” - Vincent - “I never did. If you had thought of us, you’d known I got stabbed. I am at this point in a romantic relation with Death. It….they are dead.”
“Don’t get all sentimental Vincent, this is the most talkative you’ve been ever since that incident. And when you did talk you threw it in our faces,” - Connor -
“You were not the victims,” - Vincent -
“No! Thomas hung himself not because of our shitty situation, because every time he saw you he felt guilty for what we had done. He was hung in the room we shared and I had to wake up to his corpse the next morning staring at me with glazed eyes,” - Connor - “Fuck you...for coming in here. And….trying to reconnect….you just love to hammer in people’s…..guilt….and regret.”
“I wish you had said something like that a long time ago,” - Vincent
“I didn’t know how….”
The conversation was short lived when the assassin Snakebite interrupted the reunion. In truth Vincent hesitated and may have never wanted to kill Connor. But the family was cursed wasn’t it. Snakebite came down the ceiling panels and pierced Connor vertically through the head and slicing him into pieces. Like he wasn’t even human.
Just two halves strewn along. Gore and innards exposing what a person is. A tightly wrapped packaged of vulnerable meat.
“Sorry about that Chroma” - Snakebite - “A man has to eat right.”
He didn’t know what he wanted out of Connor at that time. He couldn’t save Lucy. Looking at Connor, big estate, lots of money, even an attempt on his life. So pathetically weak, and yet ironically he made it, how strong. Something about Connor’s death stirred something in him. Was it rage?
So he cut Snakebite up into ribbons of a person as well. Not even human. It spread quickly in the UAA that he had managed to butcher Snakebite, he didn’t care what people made of him. He didn’t care for the money on Connor’s head either declaring;
“Snakebite killed Connor, but I disposed of him. Give the money to his family if he has any. I warn you the next assassin who follows me when I work, will get butchered just like him. My affairs are my own. I don’t care for your competition. I care for my job. I care for results.”
Battle Rites
Combat Style:
Vincent is not a one trick pony when it comes to combative capabilities. That’s what he says when people rely on one or two methods of combat and killing. Vincent his highly methodical, he’s fast, but fast because he’s unpredictable. He mixes a bit of Sambo with hidden knives inside his coat, or that’s what people assume.
More realistic, everything sparring wise would be lethal breaks
And one that's more stylistic, but I felt it could help emphasize the lethality
And one that's more stylistic, but I felt it could help emphasize the lethality
What Sambo is, is a Russian Martial Arts often either used for tournament sparring or taught to soldiers in close quarter combats. Sambo is a mixture of counters and breaks that leave an enemy immobile. Though doesn’t mean that Vincent doesn’t add lethality to it. Adding painful jobs with his knife in his counters or sweeping with a an array of knives before coming under you to grab your leg and break it. Though Sambo is often more used when he is actually in a combat scenario.
As an assassin and not a combatant Vincent is precise, quick, methodical, and efficient. He doesn’t like sloppy jobs. He doesn’t like flashy deaths. He often pincushions someone in all of their vital spots with his sharp knives paralyzing them and killing them in the same process. Though all of this happens very sudden and its very rare that his marks ever see him.
It isn’t that Vincent moves fast. It’s the simple fact that Vincent has already found the best vantage point and has taken advantage of it in some way or another. Vincent moves in a very unique, very unpredictable movement. His stances and dodges are often fluid motions that catch someone off guard and give him opportunities of where to strike next.
Equipment: NA - I need no other methods of equipment
Powers:
Hemo Kinetic -
Vincent is not someone to showboat or speak of his powers to most people. He likes them to believe that within his baggy coat he is hiding several knives. Few know his secret and few even know the origins of his strength and powers.
Ever since the ritual done on him, Vincent has been able to control his blood in various ways. Each various way was never a natural progression and it doesn’t take long to realize the strength of his power was always connected to the death of his family members. Every time a family member died, the more control and more power Vincent had over his HemoKinesis abilities.
Some abilities are passive and others are active abilities he is capable of performing. Give or take he had to experiment a few times to get these powers right, before he decided to use them willy nilly in battle.
Passive
Slower blood flow, Vincent’s blood doesn’t dump out the floor in buckets like a normal person’s blood does. In fact his blood flow is a lot slower, and slows down the rate of blood he loses when he is injured. Which means Vincent can take a massive amount of punishment before he’s bleeding out and dying.
Wound closure, while Vincent cannot necessarily fix major wounds, like huge chunks of flesh missing or big gaping wounds. His body usually does a good job of closing up minor to medium wounds fairly well. You watch as his blood races up his skin, goes back inside the wound and closes up.
Blood pressure and blood flow control, it’s natural to also say Vincent has some control over his own blood flow and blood pressure. Though it’s not necessarily something he thinks about to do so. But it is this control that allows him to Expel Knives and Absorb expelled Knives back into his body.
Foreign Material infusions, it seems Vincent has the ability to infuse foreign substances into his blood. Giving his knife unique properties to them. To sharpen the cutting power of his knives, he currently self inserts bits of ceramic into his skin to infuse into his blood. He does this preemptively, not during battles. The Knives once infused with this foreign substance keep their properties of ceramic.
Active
Bloody Knives - Vincent has the ability to harden his blood and Expel them out as Knives. That is the secret to his knives. They are hidden within his body.
With these Knives Vincent can perform a few unique attacks alongside his standard knife throwing he has created himself, he guess they are flashier than what he likes;
Bloody Hurricane - an ominous ill wind begins to pick up, as he releases several knives at once that pass through a target like wind. They move so fast that most people can only briefly capture the glimpse of light they give off as they cut through the target like they are made of paper.
Bloody Dance - how laughable you think as he throws one knife your way in a straight shot, you decide you can dodge the quickly coming single knife. That suddenly expands into five knives the closer you get. It seems that he can expel multiple knives, but hide 4 in one knife to look like a singular, then they spread out like the needles of pine cone.
Special Techniques:
100 Bloody Needles
Because Vincent blood can infuse with any foreign material or substance be it a liquid or a solid, Vincent can sacrifice at least 10 of his knives. At current he only has 10 knives inside his body at a time, which leaves him completely weaponless so he uses this as more like his ace in the hole. The victim unknowingly harbors a knife inside of them that is infusing with their own blood.
Making copies of knives inside of them. Eventually the individual begins to feel a stabbing pain inside of them, but by then it's already too late. Vincent has a sense of the knives inside the individual and can detonate them in a way. This detonation has the individual exploding, expelling a hundred or so knives out of their body.
Though Vincent can detonate these Knives early for lesser amounts of damage. In 5 minutes the amount of knives should be 60 and they take about a chunk of health away from an individual. In 10 minutes the amount of knives should be 80 and takes a moderate amount away from an individual. In 15 minutes the amount of knives should be 100 and is often the most lethal in an Ohko.
Your Turf: The Pit Concussion
Arena Description: Abandoned Warehouse
“Your risk to tetanus in this place is just as likely as you being ripped to shreds,”
Upper Floor
Disheveled, abandoned, a forgotten business lay waste in ruin. Graffiti from competing gangs mark the walls, the sound of hungry beast on the higher floors. Something about this scenario seems setup. Seems strange.
Then you find yourself falling to your doom. Hitting tile floor with a thud. And there is a hidden kingdom of trains, all lined up in different orders, different doors opened, a flickering light, the stairs out are blocked off. Seems someone has designed an elaborate maze down here.
Lower Floor
“You like to think yourself a hunter, have kills under your belt. That’s nice. Now the Hunter becomes the Hunted,”
Twisting tunnels. Blocked exits. Blocked entrances. Twisting trains leading into one tunnel, into the next. You could get lost in a place like this. It isn’t a battle of the physical anymore, it transcends that. As you realize you have been turned into the prey. There’s a predator lurking, and he knows this place better than you.
You have to be as cunning as him. As alert and aware as him. Navigate and survive this lethal death trap.
There are three ways of getting into his Arena, smart assassins know the train station he is actually located at is an abandoned project that can be found through a network of abandoned tunnels. Others less fortunate assassins will most likely head to the warehouse of the higher floor and fall through a pit trap. Some smart, but unlucky souls will realize the red container carries an elevator that takes them down.
Arena Tactics:
Chroma is not a flashy guy. He doesn’t like style over having substance. He prefers substance over style. And doesn’t like big, flashy fights, jumping off of walls, giant shoot outs, etc. The man is unorthodox in every way and so his game is unorthodox.
He uses a mental game, to gain the upperhand before he ever fights physically. And even then you become quickly aware to his strength and cunning. Ever seen a man holding himself up by his arms and legs on a sub train luggage rack. Instead of using doors, he jumps from one window to the next. Or someone who isn’t obstructed by seats, using them as makeshift cover.
Reality is despite Chroma’s age, he has the gymnastic fitness of high school girl in her gymnastics class. With upper strength to pull himself up into places he shouldn't be able to. Leaping off of sub roofing, leaping through windows, hurdling over train seats like they are nothing. He certainly becomes quite the prowler, a dog of the underground tunnels.
*By gymnast, while true assassins in the UAA can be super fit at his current age, it’s not that Vincent is only super fit despite his injuries from war. It’s that Vincent is weirdly flexible as well, he can fit into narrow gaps, being thin helps with this, he can squeeze himself under the seats a little bit, etc.
Minions:
Cyber Pit Hounds
The warehouse seems to crawling with these freaks of nature. Part dog. Part robot. Part flesh. Part mutant. They have strong bites. Are unnaturally fast, unnaturally strong, and have supernatural jumping capabilities. Able to jump from the top railings of the warehouse down to the floor.
Steel Siders
The Warehouse originally sat in the middle of the territory between the Steel Siders and Crimson West use to fight. The Warehouse still has their gang signs and messages to one another signed in spray paint. When Vincent decided he wanted the warehouse himself, the Steel Siders didn’t really want to get on his nerves considering the way he looks.
Crimson West
There’s nothing more frightening than to get on the UAAs bad side. And Vincent was an assassin, he also probably was very powerful. Is what their gang leader Ludo Santiago thought at least. He’s given up his war with the Steel Siders for the most part because of this curren coalition of gangs.
Misc:
A stupid red jacket.
For whatever reason Vincent dislikes Smashmouth's music and doesn't like when people utter their name. Whenever they do, he becomes more violent than usual and will threaten whomever uttered the name Smashmouth their lives.
