Hall Of Fame!

Survival - 10 Wins!

Brutal - 3 Fatalities

AFFILIATION

Alignment: Hero

Team: Solo Hero

VITAL STATS

Strength: Standard

Agility: Standard

Mind: Standard

Body: Standard

RECORD

Personal Wins: 10

Personal Losses: 0

Tristan

I had everything when I had Jeanne. She was my inspiration, she was my comfort. The only time in my life that I might have actually known what love is was when I was with her. When I was with her, I was almost happy, almost whole. But I was always one step from falling apart, and I must have said something slightly wrong -a transposed word in some conversation caused an hour-long rant on her part, with such severity and such harsh words...so I went to Mike's. I hate remembering what happened -but every detail is so sharply written on my mind, replaying itself over and over again. There was an unusually attractive young woman named Sara there that evening, and for some reason, she knew who she wanted to take her home at closing time. And for a million reasons, I was a sitting duck. Do I have to spell it out? And then, Jeanne forgot all about her rant, and acted like everything was normal. Obviously, I never told her about Sara, but the duplicity and guilt ate me alive like a nasty flesh-eating virus. I still could have persuaded the world that I was just freakin' fine, if it hadn't been for one chance meeting between Jeanne and Sara. And that was the end of my relationship with Jeanne, and that, for all practical intents and purposes, destroyed any chance of happiness in my life for now and all time. Forever condemned in my own mind, and rightfully so, Jeanne and I could have lived that dance forever, but I wasted the chance that I'd been given. What's left of my honor flogs me mercilessly for what I've done. What's left of my heart -there's nothing left, and nothing short of a miracle could bring it back. Except for these bitter dreams, I've reached a point of utter emptiness.

Very few people are completely transparent and genuine. I'm not one of those people. Jeanne didn't fall in love with me, she fell in love with who she thought I was. The man she saw was tall, dark and handsome, with ambition, determination, a great sense of humor, loving, and all those really great qualities. But what she didn't see, what I didn't let her see, was that I was a broken man, my strongest ability was acting like everything was fine, when in fact I was desparately lonely, terribly insecure, and scarred from rejection. Yeah, I'm a computer nerd, making loads of money, good looking, write a nice poem every now and then, but my life's not completely happy. My "happy" family's all screwed up, and almost every relationship I've ever had -friendship or otherwise, has fallen apart for any number of reasons. I don't know, I guess I was born with a chip on my shoulder, or I got that from my old man. Dig a little deeper, and you'll find in my soul this need for "vindication" -to prove that I'm worth something, that I'm right. Maybe "vindication" means acceptance, and I've always felt rejected. Maybe "acceptance" means love, and I don't know if I've ever truly known love. For me to feel needed by someone is a sort of validation of my depressed life; for me to feel truly wanted, that would leave me elated. But since my night of infidelity and subsequent loss, if anybody can love me, if anybody does love me, I can't feel it and I couldn't feel it. The guilt of it all almost drives me to the edge, but instead of ending it all, my sanity has frayed to the point where all I have is daydreams and nightmares, an obsession with a fantasy of getting her back, by hook or by crook.

Immunity: Pheremones

     Immunity: Standard

One last look in the mirror - I almost had to smile, because I do clean up nicely. Sport coat and slacks, a little hair gel, and I could almost be a stud. I guess I'm ready for this blind date my co-workers set me up on. Some girl named Teresa, and I meet her at the new resturant on 95th Street. As I drive downtown on this Saturday night, I wonder to myself what business is it of theirs that I've had a non-existent love life for the last year, but I guess it's all right. The night progresses, Teresa turns out to be very smart, lots of fun, and extremely attractive. She's paying her way through college by being a cheerleader for the pro football team in town. She was interested in me, apparently I was impressing her. I still have a few moves on the dance floor, and so did she. I was driving her home late that night, and she suggested we go inside for some "coffee". The way she looked at me and the way she kissed me left me with no doubt that she was talking about something a little more intimate than sipping a latte. Wow, wasn't that a "penetrating" insight. But...no, I have to be going. I'll call you later. Cranking my "Bat out of Hell" album on my way back from the date, and just like the song "Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad", there's only one girl that I'll ever love, and I'll never get her out of my heart. The memories of Jeanne still assualt me, even now, even while I was on this date, every redhead always brings back memories that I don't want to face, that I can hardly stand to remember any more. Physical chemistry is 90% mental, and again I'll be sleeping in my own bed, by myself, tonight.

Resistances: Avatar

     Resistances: Standard

Sunday morning. Alarm goes off at 7:30. The sport coat and slacks I wore last night come out again, this time matched with a tie, as I get my Sunday best on and head to the church. Like every Sunday morning for so man years, I'm in my place as the church service starts, right on the second row. The hymnal in my hands, and the songs of hope and faith echo in my voice but not in my soul. The plate passes by, and the same check I write every two weeks goes into that plate, not because of any special plea from the minister but out of a habit I thought at one time would be right. And the pastor was on fire or anointed or however you would say it - The faithful were praising God, hands uplifted, the sinners were on their knees, and the altar was packed with those coming forward for the redemption promised from the blessed gospel. But it was a redemption I couldn't lay hold of. I had been one of the faithful, but that faith was precious little comfort to me now, for whatever reason. And I had been one of the sinners, sins like crimson, and could they ever truly be made as white as snow? While I didn't "lose my religion" last night with Teresa, I had assuredly fallen far from grace on another night - the slip that brought me to my knees. Heaven and the love promised from this faith must be far out of my reach. And the judgement - this hell I live in must be the first part of it. I'm probably counted among the damned already, and the words of the pastor couldn't heal this broken heart. As was the case every Sunday, when I left the church, I left it emptier than when I had entered.

One Track Mind of Pain

     Closed Mind: Standard

It's now Sunday afternoon, I'm visiting my friends in the suburbs. My game face comes on - pretending to be happy and whole. My job's going well, thanks for asking. Yeah, those were great days at college. Like another song goes, "...even if it kills me, I'm gonna smile." Behind this smile, this mask, is a world of hurt and pain. Does anybody know that there are days I sit in my cubicle, staring at the screen, too depressed to do anything? Do they know that I hate the job, the commute, the good-natured "teasing" of my co-workers? No, they can't tell. They can't see past the mask. To explain why I could go to church and go out just as empty - to figure out why I can't accept the love that some of my friends have for me - to understand why I can't break out of my shell...these are things I don't know. While I'm with my friends, like now, most of the time, I can put up a pretty good front, no one can tell that my mind is a never-ending maze of guilt and pain. Heck, my mind's so screwed up, even the hypnotist at the new year's party couldn't get me to relax. Oh yeah, I was trying to be a good sport, but as much as I tried to focus on his stupid gold watch, I couldn't let go. It's like I'm locked into a world of misery, my mind and emotions strangely disconnected from reality and acceptance. Things that should move me, like patriotism and family, don't move me any more. Tragedy and loss somehow don't shake me anymore. And the good things - like Teresa, last night - while she was defintely attracting me on a couple of levels, my heart and mind are so far from that. All I have are screwed up daydreams of getting Jeanne back.

My best friend Andy

     Commander: Superior

Another late night at Mike's Tavern, in the heart of the city. It's not that trendy, it's not the best bar around, but it's my accustomed hangout. J.R., the bartender, is setting me up with another Coke, as he asks me why I don't drink. I give him my standard b.s. answer about not trusting myself even sober, much less drunk. Somehow I don't feel like explaining to him exactly why I don't drink. Glancing up at the TV, watching a college basketball team - the conference powerhouse is getting a run for it's money tonight on the road. Andy, my best friend, is the DJ here on Karaoke night, and that's why Mike's Tavern is my accustomed hangout. We've known each other for five years, lived across the hall from each other in the dorms at college, and he's probably the only guy who can see past my fa§ade - and so I don't even bother with it when I'm around him. He's the only guy in the world that I'd ever be able to cry in front of, not that I've ever cried in front of him, but he's the only guy that I could cry in front of. So many crazy nights at college, so many nights here, karaokeing all sorts of songs, so many times he's been there for me, and so many times that I've been there for him. If the crap ever does hit the fan, he's the one guy I'd want next to me in the foxhole. But of course, that's what friends are for, he says. Andy's a classic study in the difference between a "friend" and a real friend. He's the guy who's seen my heart of gold and seen my feet of clay, and still considers me a friend. I sit at one of the booths, alone, drinking my Coke and staring out the window...

Time to Rock and Roll

     Commander: Superior

• Ranged Attack Only
• Ranged and Melee Attack

...Glancing out the window of the bar that night, a thousand-yard stare, past the streetlights, past the falling snowflakes that would make driving back to my apartment a real pain later tonight, past the resturant across the street, looking out into nowhere. The smell of cigarette smoke fills the air - a smell I'm used to, from all the secondhand smoking I do. Andy's cranking the music up front and a couple of drunks are singing "Love Shack" very badly- almost every time I'm here somebody sings that stupid song. As I glance back from the stage, back out the window...Well, I'll be damned. That's Jeanne across the street at the resturant. And her two gal-pals Lisa and Marsha. Lisa's stupid little sports car is going to have a helluva time getting through this snow. Wait a second - who are those three thugs in the panel van? Andy!!! Get over here!!! You see this!!! Oh, hell no, that thug didn't just slug Jeanne. In less than five seconds we're out the door, I'm chasing as Andy gets his 4x4 going. As the van drives off, Andy pulls in next to me and I jump in. It's a chase, in the snow, four wheel drive through the snow-covered roads of the city. The van fishtails as it tried to make a left turn and ended up going right as this "high-speed" chase goes. We're both armed - Andy with a revolver and me with an automatic - dangerous, and really pissed off. I smile to myself as I remember the time Andy and I beat up three punks who were harassing a few ladies at Mike's three months ago. Andy gave one of those losers a mean wedgie, and I've got a mean left hook. Snow flies into the car as Andy rolls down his window and squeezes off a shot at the van's back tires.

Can't Touch This

     Force Field: Supreme

• Reinforced Defenses

...Why those punk retard sons of bitches had kidnapped Jeanne and her friends, I could only guess, as we followed them down the road. I figured it had something to do with forced carnal knowledge, which really made my blood boil. Of course, those bastards weren't expecting Andy and I to come in to stop this. We were going right into the danger zone - and this was one really big drug house, I noticed as we drove in, or was it a gang headquarters. Drug money had bought it, drug money had armed it, drug money kept the lawn mowed and would keep the falling snow shovelled, and drug money put in the best damn sound system I had ever heard, playing some metal rock I'd never heard before. I had heard about the local Mafia - well, Mafia or not, nobody messes with Jeanne like this! We jumped out of Andy's truck, our pistols in our hands. The cold bit my hands but my leather gloves would've thrown off my aim. Oh, crap! Shots fired... several gangsters in black leather, toting heavy artillery, pointed right at me. I had never killed before, but in four seconds, there were two guys cashing in life insurance. Whether it was luck or skill or what, just like in every other daydream I had, these guys couldn't hit me or the broad side of a barn as I made my way towards the three story house. Two more thugs coming out the front door, both of us shooting at the same time. I remember thinking as I pulled the trigger that those jerks would find it pretty hard to use a gun holding it sideways like that...

Spirit and Guts

     Iron Will: Superior

...Ow! Fudge! Gosh Damn it, I guess they did manage to get a hit. I've never been in this much pain, as the bullet ripped through my left shoulder. Pain rippled and shot through my arm as I continued to run. I took a half second to catch my breath as I took cover behind an Escalade. I've never been known for being tough, never been confused with Arnold or Sylvester or Jean-Claude, but tonight, for Jeanne, for the chance for vindication and redemption, for honor and duty and for all those other things, I'd press on - I'd prove to the world, and I guess to myself, that I've got a pair. I got up and squeezed off two more shots. One of them shattered the window of the H2 behind the gangster I had targeted. The second one put a blood-red stain on the expensive yellow sport utility vehicle. I yelled for Andy to follow me in - I had got a glimpse of where the three girls were. Andy, you go left, they took two of the girls that way, and I'll go right up these stairs. Here, take this thug's rifle - military surplus. Crap, don't worry about me, this is just a flesh wound. And Andy, if I don't make out, take care of my sister. Jeanne doesn't have till the end of the night to hold out for a hero, so here I come, up the stairs to the loft, throwing myself at the door, which broke open under my weight and momentum...

Goodbye

     Projectile Attack: Superior

• Ranged Attack Only
• Target Seeker
• Ranged and Melee Attack

...This gangster's pad sure was a helluva lot nicer than mine. He's got mahogany desks, a persian rug, 60 inch plasma TV, monster stereo, king size four-post bed with satin sheets, a fully-stocked mini-bar and a fully stocked gun cabinet. I would have liked to discuss his style, especially to ask him where he got that Streets of Fire poster that hung prominently on the wall behind him, but since I just saw this butthead club my ex-girlfriend with the butt of a large pistol, I decided that style tips would have to wait. For one split second, all was still. There I was, in my leather jacket, bloody stain on my shoulder, my gun hand circling towards it's target. There he was, in some sort of fur coat, with a large medallion around his neck, and his own weapon pointing at me. And there she was - the one I had loved, the one I had betrayed, and the one I would rescue, or die trying to rescue, blood trickling out of her mouth, she must have been dazed from that blow. I silently thanked my old man for the one thing he had done for me - bought me this handgun one Christmas because he thought I was in a bad neighborhood. The moment ended - and the reaction time of the gangster was about even with my reaction time, as both guns fired at the same time...

The shot was true

     Marksman: Superior

My marksmanship, though, was superior to his. Weeks of practicing at the range downtown had turned my hand and gun into a skilled tandem, and I could be supremely confident as I pulled that trigger. But that split second of confidence ended in a blur of pain. It hurt more than the first injury. The forty-five slug ripped through my right lung and out my back, and I fell to the ground. But my shot had went through the middle of his face, just aside of his nose, and had exited out the back of his skull, a bloody stain spraying on the carpet as his body dropped like a deadweight. Somehow, I was conscious of the blood draining out of my body, and with it, my life. They always say that your life "flashes before your eyes". I always thought that was a bunch of bull, but as I felt myself dying, I could see so much of my life passing before me - the father who never was happy with me as I was, the brother who was always better than me, the friends who never noticed me, Jeanne - the one time in my whole sad life I felt loved, times I was almost happy. Pain was beginning to blur my eyes and my thoughts, but my mind was still giving me a "This is Your Life". The argument. Sara. I was such a damn fool. Losing Jeanne. The much deserved agony had haunted me to the point of no rest. I thought to myself "I'm paying for that betrayal with blood" as I witnessed my own blood mixing with the gangster's own viscous blood. Maybe I've atoned for my sins. Now maybe, I can go peacefully. My fading consciousness was somehow aware of Andy running in...Andy, take care of Jeanne...Perhaps, in the arms of the angel, I could find some comfort...