Vampire The Masquerade RPG
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The Times
The Kindred Chronicle
Key Figures
THE MONSTER OF EALING
Last night, several people reported the sighting of a "screaming red monster" in a quiet neighbourhood of Ealing. After a power shortage in the area, a building caught fire. It was then when, what was described as a "man shaped, footless creature" emerged from the flames, leaping, running, and screaming. One woman has told our reporters that the man had "teeth like a wolf, and the face of the devil". Police officers are still trying to get to the bottom of this; neither the power shortage nor the fire have still been explained. A spokesperson from Scotland Yard has stated that the "so called monster" might be a wounded person, escaping the fire.

TRAGEDY IN TOOLEY STREET
The police has found the bodies of three TFL workers in the construction site at Tooley Street. One of their colleagues raised the alarms last week, when the three workers didn't attend their shifts. The bodies of the men have been found in a deep hole, uncovered by the refurbishment works that are taking place in the area. According to the Police, the bodies were horribly mutilated, which has led to the wildest speculations. The names of the three workers are being kept anonymous, following the wishes of their families.

HOROSCOPE
MARCH 8 - PISCES
You are used to making sacrifices, to prioritising the happiness of others before yours. Even though that is a noble attitude, there are times in life where the only healthy alternative is to embrace your own selfishness and allow yourself some enjoyment. Reserve one hour per day to do something you really like. Treat yourself! Your colour for this month is blue.
Echoes from the past ring back into London. Their intensity increases until they are deafening. What once was a faded memory of a glorious time, now becomes a shocking reality. The consequences of actions taken decades ago ripple into the present, altering the lives of everybody in the City. Unguided and blind, Kindred wander around, trying to make profit out of the reigning chaos.


The appearance of four mysterious figures turned the city upside down. Mistrust and jealousy became the official currency of London. Serpents and fiends rise to power, misdirecting the blaming eyes of the Camarilla towards imaginary enemies. Only those with clear vision and the ability to trust each other strive, while the rest run towards a shallow grave.



Across The Board
Current Chronicle: Dragons and Lions; Pride and Fire
Current Season: Spring
Controlling Sect: Camarilla



Index
Getting Started
General Information
Central London
North London
East London
West London
South London
Miscellaneous
Out of Character


Population: 31

Camarilla
Anarchs
Other
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 5 (6)
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 7
Tremere: 2
Nosferatu: 3
Gangrel: 1
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 0
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 0
Nosferatu: 1
Gangrel: 1
Setites: 5
Sabbat: ???


THE CAMARILLA

Prince

Nobody

Sheriff
Meredith Furlong
Hounds
Robyne Sheridan
Rosella Marie Allain


Keeper of Elysium
Davvad Bisset

Grand Harpy
Catherine Wilke

Primogen
Ventrue: Marcus Antonio Russo
Brujah: Thomas Krusen
Gangrel: Alexa Mallik
Malkavian: Ellora Reese
Tremere: Hannah Sundling
Toreador: Arsenio Pozzi
Nosferatu: Dogan Khojak



ANARCHS

Baron

Khoza

Baronets
Enfield: Leslie
Haringey & Barnet: Clarice Harris
Harrow: Jelena Korolenko

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Welcome To The Night

You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality.

This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories.

Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness.

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That Time I Almost Died
Topic Started: Wednesday, 15. January 2014, 01:22 (554 Views)
Moses
Neonate
* * *
Mississippi Moses walked behind his charge. A simple charcoal suit covered his muscular frame. A soft blue shirt and a bright red tie completed his outfit, tailored enough to hide the pistol holster tucked under his armpit. Today he had a black suit trench coat folded over his arm, not for fashion, but to conceal the loaded magnum he held in one scarred fist.

Pulling a private security gig should be easy. At 6’1 and 240 lbs the black man was a hardened veteran of both the military and private security. But today he’d gotten a memo announcing that his ward was being targeted for assassination. Apparently this squeaky clean lawyer had been blackmailing a member of the Triad over a child molestation case; instead of taking it to court he’d used the evidence to get over a million from the target. Who, unfortunately for Mr. Dumb Ass, had enough connections to get a professional to do the job. This shit just made Moses job even harder; though he wasn't the only one on watch. Two other men, both former Marines, were on task with him. Both men had their pieces out, rounds chambered, all concealed and ready to go.

Moses would have said that nobody could take down a man he was guarding before he saw what happened next. They were pushing down the courtroom steps and a man, his face a mass of scars and a fucking cane to help him walk got pushed in their path by the media. Jones reached out to push the man back and Moses had chills when he saw what happened next. The dude just MOVED; faster than Moses had ever seen in person, that cane snapped up and crushed Jones’ larynx like an egg. It swept to the side and Jones’ gun went off towards the crowd. The fucker was already spinning when Red stepped up and his gun started barking. Sometime in that spin the cane separated and the guy had a fucking SWORD in one hand, and a length of metal cane in the other. The bullets blasted holes in the dude’s coat but that blade, held tip down had already come up and slit Red open from crotch to chin. Moses hadn't been standing still. His thick arm was pulling the lawyer behind him as his gun focused in and opened fire.

He didn't even come close. The man had used his cut to drag Red between them and the bullets just sank uselessly into Red’s back. The long steel cane snapped down on Moses’ wrist, but even causing his hand to go numb he couldn't make the big man drop his gun. The guy had crouched down and was coming up low from Moses’ offside. The blade spun around and lashed out, sinking into Moses stomach deep enough for the pain to cause him to collapse onto his knee. His numb hand wouldn't respond, fingers unable to pull the trigger. Moses almost missed the sword slash that passed OVER his head and slit the lawyer’s throat. He didn't miss that fast fucker following through with the slash to turn in a circle and join the mod of media screaming and running down the stairs.

By the time the ambulance picked him up the scarred son of a bitch had disappeared in the fucking sun like some kind of ghost. Police said it was a professional hit man. Some fucker named Bo Vex. He was wanted by Interpol, Scotland Yard, the FBI and half a dozen other agencies; none of whom had a good description of him to work with. Moses couldn't help them either. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, heavily scarred face; that was all he’d seen. All he knew was the guy might be the fasted human he had ever seen. Like something from the Olympics. It took 6 weeks for his stomach to heal up enough for him to go back to work. He got hired by the Black Horse company, as far as he was concerned, he hoped he never heard the name Bo Vex again.
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Toran
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The Formerly Hated
* * * * * *
Cameron had a problem. He was out in the cold. At 29 his team had been completely destroyed taking some madman in New York and he was left in London with an established alias that would get his sentenced to death in several countries if he was taken and no resources to draw on. In sort, he was screwed seven ways to Sunday.

Step one in avoiding getting caught for doing the job he’d been recruited by the UK government to do was dying his hair black and taking out the blue contacts he’d always used. Then he stopped the false limp and carrying the cane that contained his so-very-deadly blade. In short, turn into a normal, if freakishly scarred, young man.

He had no idea how to do that. Fifteen YEARS of training in slipping through crowds, avoiding face shots on cameras, sword work, gymnastics and he didn't have a single skill that would help him hold a legitimate job. It didn't help that he was also legally dead according to the government. He wasn't about to start using his Bo Vex passports. No way to tell which had been compromised when the team went down.

29 years old, a trained government assassin specializing in supernatural collaborators and he was stuck in London unable to get a job selling chips at a pub. To say he was in a poor mood as he walked home from trying to get another unskilled job was to put it mildly. He almost kept going when he heard the yelling. Still, he looked over, his brown eyes blinking at the sight. There was a young woman in a dress being shoved against a van by two… By that point he was moving. He jumped and rolled, sliding across the roof of the car on his back. One hand caught the edge enough to spin him. Instead of slapping into the back of the poor woman’s head he pivoted around her, his foot catching one man’s jaw with a sudden kick and with a twist of his hips he landed between her and her attackers.

The other thug slashed at him with a knife and Cameron twisted to let it slide between his arm and his ribs, his arm twirling around the thug’s until he was holding the man’s arm against him. Then his knee snapped out, caught his partner in the face and his leg unfolded to kick UP and into the back of the thug’s head. Coming down he kicked his foot back off the car behind him and he and the thug snapped forward, smacking the thug hard into his partner. Then the slim man rode the two to the ground. The girl wisely took the time to run.

Cameron rolled off the gang bangers onto his back, twisted like a break dancer and flipped back to his feet, but the two men weren't climbing up just yet. The fast, nimble man grabbed a car antenna and twisted it off, his wrist sweeping around to snap it off the first thug’s ear. The man screamed in surprise and pain and the slim length of metal lashed out again to slap his companion in the nose. Blood exploded into the air. The two scrambled to their feet, more confused than truly injured. A series of fast whipping slashes hit them, ears, elbows, wrists. They curled in on themselves and ran. Cameron grinned. For a moment he felt good about himself. Then he realized exactly how fucked he’d be if the cops got called and took off running.

“Fucking hell,” he thought. Time to move again.
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Toran's Voice

Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me....
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Toran
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The Formerly Hated
* * * * * *
Thing about the ghettos is that you can often find a job even when you don’t have any ID or references. Camden was being rebuilt; plenty of bosses were willing to pay under the table if you were willing to take a bit less than the usual amount of pay in return. Which is how Cameron finally got a job; not that cooking pizza was a particularly demanding job but he was willing to put in the work. Hot hours, shit pay, some truly gross cleaning jobs to take care of.

Course, Cameron was good at blending in and as long as he kept his left side towards the customers and his hat pulled low, he was just another young man slinging pie. But, as things so often do, the situation changed. Cameron was a people watcher, training just made it worse. So when he noticed the couple fighting, he also noticed the tracks down their arms and the bulge her purse and his back. He was probably the ONLY person who wasn’t surprised when they jumped up, pulled guns and started screaming for everyone to get down. Before anyone really knew what was going on, he reacted. The flat round sheet he’d thrown spun through the air and slammed into the man’s face, coming in just under his eyebrows. The crack-SPRANG sound was brutal and he collapsed screaming and holding a broken nose and eyes filled with tears. By the time his partner looked up Cameron had jumped the pizza counter and dropped to roll between two tables. The screaming junkie aimed and went to fire only to realize the slim, medium sized man had popped up right before her like a demented jack in the box. His hands whirled and her gun was aimed down; she pulled the trigger and fired the weapon into her own foot as he stepped in and head butted her scream short.

The crowd was running, voices were screaming and more than one person was yelling for the police. Cameron just tucked his head down and slipped out with the running throng, rounding a corner and vanishing. He threw his hat into the trash and peeled off his blue t-shirt to reveal a red one directly beneath it. The shirt followed his hat into the trash and the black haired man walked down the streets; hands in his pockets and a light whistle on his lips. Nobody looking at him would think he knew ANYTHING of the madness that just took place in the pizza joint. Course, he was back to being homeless and out of work. Shit just kept coming up.

After a few blocks he grabbed a fire escape and started climbing. Snagging the backpack and coat he’d stashed there he slipped into them and starting walking along the building’s roof. Gaining momentum he jumped snagged a flag pole and flipped himself to the next roof. He kept going, familiar with this area from practicing his escape routes. The next roof he jumped to without needing assistance and let his feet slip out from under him, sliding on his side under a series of clothesline’s hung by the tenants. His foot caught on a brick lip and he turned the obstruction into a somersault that flipped him over the hip high wall and onto the next roof. Finding his footing even as he ran he jumped and snagged a drain pipe on the side of the higher building next door. Lowering himself hand over hand to the ground he shrugged his coat settled, brushed off his pants and started walking as though there was nothing off about him at all. Disappearing into the night to find a new place to crash.
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Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me....
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Toran
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The Formerly Hated
* * * * * *
Some things were best done in silence… and this was one of those things. The night was chill, the air filled with the noise of a city that neither knew nor cared what went on within it. The apathy of anonymity suited tonight’s work well. Such was generally the nature of things. There are those who suspect dark deeds are done in the still of the night, when the moon was dark and the sky was pitch black. The truth was, dark deeds were done nightly, under the pale orange of traffic lights and to the never ending sound of cars, buses and pedestrians going about their lives. So it was on a night like this, a perfectly ordinary city night, that pain and punishments were set to be handed out.


He walked down the streets, oblivious to any danger he might be in, casting a normal shadow on a normal evening. It was without a clue to his own danger that the first blow struck. The long lead pipe took him in the ankle, cracking the bone and causing him to twist until he spun completely around to flatten his back against the wall and try to remain upright. His eyes opened wide in surprise and panic... which made them perfect for the mace which sprayed across his face, blinding him and bringing tears to his vision. His mouth opened to scream in pain only to find a ragged scum covered cloth thing jammed hard into his jaws.He brought his hands up to reach for his face only to have the pipe coming back around and slam into them painfully. He thought he heard a snap even as the impact knocked his head back against the wall with a sickening thud.

His footing stolen by the broken ankle, blinded and doubling over it pain, he first blade sunk into his side like a bolt of riven fury. He vomited into the rag, starting to choke even as more blades sunk into him. Over and over, stabbing again and again; reducing him to a curled and bleeding thing on the ground. His life was draining rapidly from him into a fast pond under his form, but it wasn't fast enough for the attackers. The pipe swung again and a sound like a half-baked pot shattering echoed down the alley. Then again, and again. Then there was no sound but the rattle of a long wet pipe clanging off the group and footsteps. Impossible to say how many, too many echoes about. After a bit there was no sound at all but the steadily diminishing pssssss of blood spraying from a severed artery; but it didn't last long.

After a time, there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Just the coppery smell of blood and the sour stink of piss and shit to mar the fresh dumpster air of the alley. What remained behind wasn't a person anymore. It was meat, broken and drained. Food for the rats and vermin.
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Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me....
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Lynx
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Lord Torchwood
* * * * * *
Cameron had managed to hold this job for a month. A MONTH. He was doing pretty good. Then again, under the table bus boy wasn't exactly a hard job for a man who was 28. Let alone a well paid assassin. Well, not all that well paid anymore. Being disavowed sucked. He was growing out his hair, letting it fall across the left side of his face. It made him look like some emo kid but at least it made it harder to spot the distinctive scars. Still, at 5'10 and nearly 160 lbs he was at least of average enough build to be overlooked. His habit of dressing in clothes just a touch shabby and in bland colors made it even easier to forget you'd seen him. In this restaurant all you really saw was the bright green apron and the hat. At least he wasn't a waiter. Suck to have to wear 37 pieces of flare or whatever those fucking buttons were called.

Still he took his normal route home. Climbing the fire escape until he got onto the roof and practicing his parkour and escape routes. He was getting to know the top of Camden pretty well. But today he was considering trying to get to one of Bo Vex's safety deposit boxes. He'd have to use an alias ID and then change his appearance. But if he could do it he'd have access to enough money to pay his rent for a while. He cursed himself for not having set up more stashes around England. But this was HOME BASE. He wasn't supposed to have needed to scrounge around roughing it while working for the Crown. That fucking failed Op in NYC has screwed everything. Try to retrieve one lost operative and suddenly your whole team is screaming and shooting each other and going completely insane. I didn't know what they'd stepped into there, but it had fucked everything. The whole cell got closed down and as the only living member he'd been disavowed.

Bloody crown wouldn't even take care of it's own. Not this time. And for FUN his cover story had been an international assassin. Which means he had half a dozen organizations, the entire American alphabet soup AND Interpol constantly watching for his blood or hair or whatever to show up. All the worse since he didn't have MI7 covering his tracks and destroying the samples anymore. Man this was fucked. Not as fucked as the fact that some asshole had moved a rather large bench right where he normally landed after a somersault flip from one roof to another. Coming down on his back hurt like a fuck. Standing up gingerly and rubbing his ass he walked to the roof access and came down into his apartment. At least today he hadn't had to kill anyone.
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“if you consider a woman less pure after you've touched her maybe you should take a look at your hands”
Permanent Fangs - Flaw Sharpened teeth from fangs back - Frenzy Mark
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Malia
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I'm a Queen
* * * * *
The young man stood in the abandoned warehouse with his feet spread, his head down, his eyes closed. 5'10 and slim, he had a rangy athletic build. His black hair was held back by a simple red bandanna and his left arm was a mass of twisting scars, as though something had badly clawed his side. He was in a white athletic shirt and a pair of dark gray wind pants, his feet bare on the wet concrete. Held before him was a long, double edged piece of steel. Roughly three and a half feet long with an eighteen inch handle the weapon lacked a pommel, knot even the minimal one found on a katana. The steel hilt was a twisted pattern of metal ridges that matched the thirty eight inch steel scabbard that completed the cane's disguise. It was dangerous to have it out, to expose it, but he needed to practice.

You can't keep an Olympic edge up if you don't practice. So despite the danger of a report of a scarred sword wielding man making it to Interpol or Scotland Yard, he needed to work on his edge. So he was here, in this abandoned building in Camden to practice. At the moment he was listening to the soft drip, drip, drip of water, preparing to launch into his katas.

Drip.
Drip.
Step.
Flow.

Like that he was moving. His foot swept back in a circle, the blade flashed and swung in a fast arc and suddenly he was twisting, turning, the blade was slashing, rising, falling, sudden chops, lunging thrusts, back strikes with the hard steel capped pommel. His style was not Japanese, was not fencing. It was brutal, efficient, a blending of a number of forms. All lethal. His blade work relied on speed, precision and deadly accuracy. His sudden side steps, twists, ducking, all moved with near perfect smoothness. His light green eyes flickering from imaginary target to imaginary target as he moved. Hunting phantom targets. Disarm, shift, stab, roll to duck incoming rounds, rise, flash forward and THRUST, rip the blade down, reverse and swirl to slash open the thighs of the men closing behind him. He was a beautiful and deadly machine, trained since he was 14. A human killer taught to hunt the monsters the hunted man.

Even his blade was unique. Steel with a high silver content, precariously balanced between being as flexible as steel and as hard to as silver. Because some beasts could only be killed by silver, and his government had wanted him prepared. Though in truth he had little chance of surviving an encounter with the true monsters, unless he ambushed them. So he had, doing his government's bidding. Bo Vex, master assassin. Killer of criminals. Killer of those who worked with the monsters was more like it.

Step, thrust, twist, lunge, slash, somersault, twirl, pommel strike, stab, step step, side roll, rise, slash.

A graceful dance of death with imaginary foes. His body soaked with sweat, his eyes driven. His government had put him out into the cold. With his team dead in NYC he was disavowed. His cover to dangerous and to embarrassing to bring him in. An agent with no resources, no allies. All he had was his skill and his wits. The killer. Alone.

Cameron spun to a stop, knelt and pulled his bandanna free of his black hair. He wiped his face, cleaning the sweat off the scar torn left side of his face, and the remarkably average right. He took out a clean cloth, wiped his blade down and slid it back into the scabbard. Returning it to it's disguise of a 5' walking cane of steel, elegantly carved with twisting designs that cleverly hid the spot where it separated. He was breathing hard. It had been too long since he'd done a full speed workout. He needed to take the time more often. All he had left were his skills. If he let his blade work deteriorate, well, there was a lot of people willing to come along and kill him for the work he had done. Some of them attached to his own government. Some days it didn't pay to be British.
English Norwegian Spanish I'm bad, and that's good. I will never be good, and that's not bad. There's no one I'd rather be than me.
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Lynx
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Lord Torchwood
* * * * * *
Bo stood calm, his cane in one hand. His opponent had two blades, theoretically an advantage. The man was also stronger, muscles rippling down his shoulders and forearms, possible advantage, possible weakness. If he was slow. He wasn't. He lunged one blade snapping forward in a sudden thrust, the other reversed and slashing low in a vicious blow at Bo's legs. The cane slid forward and clanged as it deflected the thrust out to the side. The average height brown haired hitman stepped in and leaped, curling his legs beneath him to let the slash go by. Even as his free hand came up to grasp the top of this cane.

The man was fast though, he stepped in and bodychecked Bo downward, using the in turned shoulder of his slash as a ram to try and drive the smaller man away. Bo was toppled, he landed on his back and skidded, then flipped his legs up and rolled in a somersault. His cane spun away. The man raced in his blades flashing downward. Only too be blocked with Bo's own sword across his feet, flat to block the descending blows. Then the smaller man spun on his back and spun both blades up and away as he twisted. He flipped onto his feet and came in, his blade slashing down fast and sudden.

The stockier man blocked with one shorter sword and his powerful arm and thrust at the leaner swordsman aggressively with his second. Bo twisted to let the blade pass his ribs and his own arm twisted and flipped his sword, suddenly slashing upwards on the inside of the man's block in a reverse grip. It broke the rules to release a weapon during a block, the chances of losing it were huge. But Bo counted on his speed and hand eye coordination to get him through it.

"STOP."

Both men froze. Their trainer stepped forward to examine them. The larger man's blade was settled in Bo's arm pit, but it wasn't perfect. The angle was off. His jerking up would tear through Bo's bicep and do horrible damage to his arm, that was clear, but there was enough twist to keep it from severing the main trunk artery. Bo's blade however, the tip was resting right below the huge artery that fed the man's leg, and lined up to continue slashing upwards to open his stomach, spill his intestines and carve a nipple off.

"Winner is Cameron. He emerged maimed but alive."

The men on the stands cheered, it was a good battle. As most practice bouts were it had been fast and fierce. The other man grinned and shrugged his thick shoulders. Regarding Bo with bright blue eyes.

"Almost got you little man."

"Better luck next time Able."


Cameron woke with a sweat, breathing heavily. He hadn't had a dream of his training days in a long time. He'd been 16 when that bout had taken place. They'd already had him training for nearly 2 years. The man he was fighting had been nearly 30. His one real skill. Hand eye coordination and twitch reflex, great muscle memory. What the hell good is being a sword fighter in modern London? Who the hell fights with a sword anymore? Aside from the monsters. But you can't hunt monsters on your own. Shit'll just get you dead. Even when he did it, he had a team for backup, selecting targets, finding out their abilities, and staging the kills at a place of maximum disadvantage for the target. And almost always it was human servants they went after. Though some of them could get pretty inhuman.

He took a few deep breaths and rolled over to get back to sleep. He had an interview for an under the table dish washing job tomorrow.
color code 00CC00 #BC8F8F: Japanese Posted Image

“if you consider a woman less pure after you've touched her maybe you should take a look at your hands”
Permanent Fangs - Flaw Sharpened teeth from fangs back - Frenzy Mark
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Toran
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The Formerly Hated
* * * * * *
MI7 Classified File: Operation Black Shield

Age: Early 30’s
Gender: Male
Race: Caucasian Male
Average Height: 5’10.
Average Build: 158 lbs.
Hair color: Brown.
Hair Length: Short, styled long enough to gel in a number of simple styles.
Eyes: Light green
Race: Human
Distinguishing Features: claw pattern scars traveling down his face onto his neck. Left ear tattered. Left arm covered in scars. Left side and back also covered in scars. Man appears to walk with a limp in his right leg.

Reality:
Cameron Hughes, age 28: was born in Louth, Lincolnshire; England United Kingdom April 1st 1986 to Joy and John Hughes. Cameron was from a standard middle class family of no particular importance. His mother was a florist and his father worked in television and radio repair. As a child Cameron demonstrated a remarkable talent for physical activities.

1994-1998
He competed in figure skating, rollerblading, field hockey, all with remarkable skill; despite his being a boy of no significant size or strength. He was a very perceptive student, but not particularly gifted academically. He generally got by with meticulous note taking, and then studying. He didn’t show any particular flare for any subject, with the possible exception of drama.

1999-2000
In 1999 Cameron’s family was attacked by an animal witnesses described as a huge dog, a bear, a wolf or a great mutant mongrel of some sort. The animal killed his parents and badly mauled the boy, who was able to get away by climbing an extremely narrow drain pipe. Small town police were said to have hit the animal with their vehicle when they arrived on the scene, but while the automobile showed signs of serious impact, no blood or fibers were officially logged into evidence. Cameron himself was sent to the hospital and officially “died” of his injuries. Injuries which had torn his face open on the left side, traveled down his neck and shredded his torso, left arm and stomach. A number of secondary injuries included several broken ribs, severe lacerations to both legs and several jagged punctures to his right side.

Unofficially the 14 year old boy was debriefed by UK Government Agents who took down his reports of a wolf that doubled in size, and then rose to stand like a huge man-dog without disbelief.

2000-2006
His ability to remember what he had seen and his noted agility marked him as special. Cameron was officially killed and enlisted into a very small, very clandestine organization that handled sensitive matters the English Government did not believe the population at large could handle. Unfortunately a great number of these threats did not respond to classic weapons in reliable ways. While he did receive some basic firearms training it was generally felt that shooting these people and monsters tended to piss them off more than anything else. Whereas cutting off the head tended to work.

Cameron was educated and pushed to his limits in terms of his hand eye coordination and physical dexterity, trained in blending in with crowds and using those moments of complete confusion to his benefit. Which basically boiled down as knowing when to run, when to walk, and when to stand still. While he's good at moving through a crowd and blending in, he tends to be awkward and easily flustered in actual one on one conversations.

2007-2014
By age 20 Cameron had grown into a degree of physical dexterity that could have made him a world famous athlete if he had revealed it. When the government identified a human collaborator or isolated creature of supernatural origin Cameron was sent to deal with the threat if at all possible. A small team was often slipped into position around the target zones to muddy the waters and confuse evidence. Their sole job to make identifying Cameron Hughes as difficult as possible. In this manner his scars were considered a benefit. Cameron’s natural features were extremely forgettable. He was neither large, nor small; neither handsome, nor ugly and that was something which his employers emphasized with careful plastic surgery. Hi scars stood out and thus made his actually features harder to remember.

Because his cover story centered around Cameron being an international hitman he was maintained in relative solitude outside of his support team. A handler dealt with his day to day expenses, took care of paying for his living arrangements and in general dealt with the normal things that expose people to the public. This had the unfortunate affect of leaving Cameron less than qualified to try and bluff his way through a career or attempt to hold down a normal job. He's not used to interacting in public settings and has no real marketable skills outside his time spent as a killer.

Disavowed:
Unfortunately Cameron’s cell recently suffered a serious setback during an operation in New York, to the point where they have been placed on inactive service; potentially indefinitely. While Cameron’s cover was not blown in the slightest, nearly his entire support and handler team died. Cameron was able to return to the UK and ordered to go to the ground in London, England. After that he was released in the cold. There is no indication he has been officially burned, but he has been ordered out of contact and left to his own devices.

Because of Cameron's distinctive scars and markings he's been forced to lay low in areas of the city where people are willing to pay under the table. Doing odd jobs and doing his best to remain off the radar of any social activities. Because he's been placed out in the cold the English government is no longer watching to ensure he doesn't end up in a prison for the various targeted assassinations performed under his alias Bo Vex.

Because he lacks any real career oriented skills and only a limited high school education he's been forced to make do attempting to get jobs as an unskilled laborer. While his hand eye coordination and reflexes are phenomenal he's not particularly strong and so is often passed over for manual labor jobs that center around a strong back.

Alias: Bo Vex

Cover: Hit man; specializes in taking down opponents from up close with sword work when possible, however has been known to resort to long range rifle work when the up close methodology is too risky.

Interpol File: Bo Vex is believed to be an Olympic level athlete who was trained by a government organization as a special operative. No government has admitted to this training however. While little has been discovered about the assassin himself, a file of targets has been made and is continually updated based on certain key witness reports. A heavy scarred average looking man who walks with a limp is noticed on the scene. Targets are then killed with a long, straight edged weapon.

Targets are chosen for moments of isolation, or moments when a crowd is guaranteed to scatter and cause confusion. The assassin seems to be at ease slipping among crowds and quickly shaking off pursuit by using the panic for his advantage. While torn and blood stained clothing have been found nearby no weapon has ever been recovered. Fingerprints and hair found at the crime scene match none on file, nor does DNA match come up with any close familial relationships in databases available for search.

Appendix: There has been suggestion that this assassin might be working with some criminal investigation organization as almost all of his identified targets have turned up as suspects or known individuals dealing with global level threat organizations. However, this line of questioning is continually denied by all organizations that might have the resources to train, fund and conceal such an individual. Also, there seems to be no geographic limit to where his targets are selected within, which indicates that if he does work for an organization of some Government, he is operated far outside any internationally recognized jurisdiction laws. The working hypothesis is that he actually works for an international criminal syndicate that uses him to police its competitors and associates as an enforcer.

Notes: Cameron has been focused on developing his skills for the last 14 years to the point of being somewhat inept with normal human interaction. His Handler and keepers have maintained most of his financials and day to day things like shopping, cleaning organizing. As a result his basic life skills are closer to an early teen than a man of nearly thirty. This has caused a certain amount of discomfort for him now that he's left out in the cold as he lacks the normal skills a teen develops to help hold down unskilled jobs. Basically, he's only good for the kind of jobs a kid gets straight out of high school.
Edited by Toran, Saturday, 12. April 2014, 21:23.
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Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me....
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