Preston Blair by Froople
TEAM: The Syndicate
KIT CLASS: Master Training
Survival - 12 wins!
Brutal - 3 fatalaties!
HexxJo's Cool Character Award!
League Wins: 9
League Losses: 3
Out Of League Wins: 3
Out of League Losses: 6
Total Wins: 12
Total Losses: 9
Scotsman Of Doom - Win 19-3
Speedy, the Pseudo-Octogenerian - Win 13-3
Symphony / Alexis Ward - Win 11-4
Mr. Jack Revolution - Loss 7-8
Immortal Raven - Win 10-6
Norm Can't Drive - Win 9-4
Admin Red - Win 13-2
Checkered Knight - Win 16-8
Landon Kills You - Win 16-14
Landon Kills You - Win 20-15
Mean Cuisine - Win 31-11
The Victorian - Loss 18-21
The Eighth Day - Loss 9-16
Colonel Joseph Richardson - Loss 11-12
Forte - Loss 14-18
Mr. Hero - Win 18-13
Chakos - Loss 13-16
Lovecraft - Loss 12-19
Celeste Ivory - Win 11-7
Seryph Gibbons - Loss 8-13
Solarwind - Loss 9-10
"The greatest lovers were murderers first." - Every Time I Die, "She's My Rushmore."
It is morning. The sun creeps over the horizon, its pale rays of morning light peeking in through your blinds like a hesitant voyeur. The warm, hazy glow splashes against your face, banishing the mist of sleep shortly before the alarm goes off. You wake up. You climb out of bed. Your cat lies on the floor at the foot of your bed, his dour, almost expressionless face resting prone upon his outstretched paws. You lean down to pet him, scratching him affectionately behind the ears. You shuffle into the bathroom. The room is dark. You relieve yourself in silence, staring down into the blackened void of the toilet, one hand pressed against the wall in front of you for support. A satisfyingly prolonged yawn escapes you, that tingling sensation rippling pleasantly down your spine like a muted orgasm. You flush the toilet, washing your hands in the sink afterward.
Turning, you casually pull back the shower curtain. There's a woman's body in the bathtub, naked, lovely, her arms dangling precariously over the rim of the tub. You smile.
Her name was Vanessa. You'd been dating her for three and a half months. The two of you met at a quaint used bookstore(DearMom:Love.At.First.Sight.). You took her to the movies. You bought her roses. You called her "pumpkin." Last night, she admitted the full extent of her feelings for you. The two of you had just finished making love, lying naked atop the rumpled sheets on your bed, bodies intertwined, still heaving from the sweaty exertions of your spent passions. You knew her confession was coming even before she spoke. Afterward, she looked at you with those expectant, watery eyes, clearly waiting for you to return her sentiments. You told her you loved her. It wasn't a lie. You then tenderly kissed the crystalline tears that rolled down her cheek, tears of joy, tears of relief. She fell asleep in your arms, her supple, nude form nestled up against you in a gesture of unabashed intimacy and trust. You lay awake for hours, savoring the warmth of her body, the intoxicating scent of her strawberry-blonde hair. You then slowly disentangled yourself from her, kissing the small of her back before silently rolling out of bed. You returned with a knife in your hand. Without hesitation you stabbed her in the heart(ILoveYou). You smoothed her hair reassuringly(It'sNotYourFault) as she struggled vainly, gently clamping your hand over her mouth(HUSH.) while you murmured heartfelt farewells in a hushed tone(SoonYouWillBeNoMore). But you didn't apologize. Oh no. There was nothing to be sorry for. At last her struggles ceased and she lay still. The ensuing silence was soothingly deafening. You snuggled up beside her until that blessed warmth deserted her body, stroking her hair as you traced your fingers along the smooth expanses of her pale skin. You then gingerly deposited her corpse into the bathtub and went to bed. You slept soundly and dreamt of humpback whales(their. Gigantic. forms. Breaching. the. water. Tasting. the. air. for. one. sweet. Transcendental. (oh-don't-let-it-stop) moment. before. Plummeting. back. into. the. Depths. of. the. ocean).
Personality: You don't know why you do it. It doesn't matter. You could no more stop doing it that you could stop breathing. You don't know what triggers it. You don't know when it will hit you. Sometimes days will go by. Sometimes months. It can be anybody. Men. Women. Children. It doesn't matter. But sooner or later, the Compulsion sets in. And then the courtship begins. You used to succumb right then and there, waiting only until you could do the deed in private before you butchered them(SoRash). But since then you've learned restraint. You've learned control. You've learned that murder, like sex, can be all the more intense when the intimacy of genuine affection is added(Love(?)). Only when you can truly appreciate a person's life can you then fully enjoy the subsequent passing of that same life. Sometimes the ensuing "courtship" can last for months. Sometimes longer. Of course, you still have your fill of the occasional "one-night stands"(WhamBamThankYouMa'am--OrSir). But those provide only limited, short-term gratification. In the end, it's the ones you love that you live for. And kill for.
| Standard Normal human strength.||Agility:|
|Superior This fighter can dodge, weave and move |
with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.
|Standard Normal human endurance. ||Mind:|
|Standard Normal human mental resources.|
Women are the easiest. You like women. And women like you. They're all looking for the same things: love, romance, that proverbial knight in shining armor to come along and sweep them off their feet; they're looking for the storybook ending, for the man who can write that ending for them. So you give them what they're looking for. You make them laugh. You pamper them. You satisfy them under the covers. You make them feel special. They love you for it. You love them back. And then you murder them. You like women. And women like you.
Open Wounds and Teardrops
You always go for the heart(Always). Perhaps it's the symbolism. Perhaps because it's quick. Ultimately, however, it really doesn't matter. You've long since given up trying to psychoanalyze yourself. The "why" is no longer relevant. You just do what feels... right. It seems to have worked out so far. Yes?(Yes.)
- Power: Thrusting Attack
- Ranged and Melee Attack! Attack is equally effective at range and up close.
Murder is your passion. Killing is your job(NeedToPayTheBills). Necessity forces you to whore out your predatory proclivities, which you do reluctantly. And so the Syndicate, like the master of some death-dealing harem, snaps its fingers at you, summoning you forth. And you, ever the obedient concubine, crawl forward, eager to serve. The Syndicate says "kill." So you kill. This is, of course, all metaphorical; your charm and integrity never stray from you, your smile ineffable as you hear the name of your next target(s). While you disdain the vulgarity of carving your way through droves of faceless, nameless goons in an orgy of bloodshed, the utter cheapness of the hired kill is, admittedly, one of your guilty pleasures(PleaseDon'tTellANYOne).
Business Before/After Pleasure
Murdering is a rite to you. A sacred event. It requires a very specific set of circumstances to take place for it to maintain its sanctity. You need(NEED) to feel the life drain from their bodies. You need(NEED) to feel their blood spilling over your hands. You need(NEED) to reassure them. You need(NEED) to hold them. Killing someone from afar strips virtually all intimacy from the experience. Yet, circumstances often force you to resort to such methods. While the satisfying *thud* of a blade being hurled into the chest of an adversary is mildly refreshing, it's ultimately a shallow and lacking experience.
You come home to find an unmarked manilla envelope slid under your door. You toss it on the kitchen counter, dutifully feeding your dog before you plop down on the sofa to examine its contents. Another job. You look at the name. Thomas Bishop. It rings a bell. You read his file. Ex-crooked cop turned vigilante. Cute. You read on. Caused quite a commotion a few years back. Been off-limits ever since. Not surprising. A man with a reason to kill has a reason to live. And yet, it seems they now want it done. By you. But it has to be done right. One shot. Can't risk another reprisal. And so you find him. You watch him. You follow him. You trail him to his bars, to his alleys. You watch him mug the muggers, scrounging around for money in their dead pockets. The man is a joke, a shattered soul, the shards of his life shoddily taped together like a broken vase. There is no civility in him, no beauty; he kills merely to survive. He is the hyena feeding off the jackal. He reminds you of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, thought once to be the deadliest predator in history only to be revealed as nothing more than an oversized scavenger. Pathetic. You get ready to end his life swiftly and coldly. But then the unexpected happens. It hits you. The Compulsion. No longer is he your target. He's your victim. You smile. Screw the money. You must kill him Your Way(MyWayOrTheHighway), not Theirs. Let the "courtship" begin.
Lipstick on the Collar
It's nearly two o'clock. The bar is getting ready to close. You sit at a forgotten table in the back of the room, nursing a half-empty bottle of beer. Lite beer. You're not there to get drunk. Thomas is at the bar, as per usual, drinking himself into a stupor. The place is almost devoid of people. There's Thomas, the bartender, a middle-aged woman talking to herself in a corner and a man in a black suit. The man in black. You smile. Another hitman. Not the first. Certainly not the last. The Syndicate must be getting impatient. But Bishop is yours. You'll fight through hell to protect him. Until you kill him. You pay your tab and quietly button up your coat before you step out into the cold night air. You follow the route that Bishop always takes back to his apartment. You slip into an alleyway, the shadows embracing you like a long-lost lover. You welcome them. You look at your watch. Just enough time for a smoke. You stare up at the starless, murky night sky, ignoring the usual aromas of piss, booze and blood that permeate the back alleys of Lowtown. It's not long before you hear the familiar shuffling of feet that announces Bishop's stumbling, awkward approach. He's humming some old tune to himself--Roy Orbison, you think--blissfully unaware of the danger stalking him tonight. You put out the cigarette. You watch him walk by from your nook, smiling fondly as if observing an old chum. Fifteen seconds later the man in black walks by. He doesn't see you. You count to three and move in behind him, slinking in like a panther's shadow. You clamp a hand over his mouth and drive the blade into this chest up to the hilt, twisting it viciously. He fumbles frantically for the silenced pistol in his holster. You get ready to stab him again but the man is already dead by the time you pull the knife out. You look ahead. Bishop is still making his way home, oblivious. You smile. Anything for a friend.
- Power: Blending
- Kit Power Link: Master Training