The Smoking Gun
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
| |
| Even in the dead of night, he pursues his target relentlessly. | |
| The Smoking Gun | |
| Player: Me | |
| Origin: | Mutation |
|---|---|
| Archetype: | Corruptor |
| Threat Level: | Unknown |
| Personal Data | |
| Real Name: | James Thorpe |
| Known Aliases: | Thorpe, Tinman, Inspector Gadget |
| Species: | Human |
| Age: | 22 |
| Height: | 5'9" (before suit) |
| Weight: | 213lbs (with suit) |
| Eye Color: | Unknown |
| Hair Color: | Unknown |
| Biographical Data | |
| Nationality: | None |
| Occupation: | Mercenary |
| Place of Birth: | Paragon City |
| Base of Operations: | Unknown |
| Marital Status: | Unknown |
| Known Relatives: | Andrew Thorpe, brother |
| Known Powers | |
| Healing | |
| Known Abilities | |
| Excellent marksman, some martial arts training, quick reflexes | |
| Equipment | |
| Cybernetic suit; Weapons Union issued Onslaught Rifle | |
| "Anytime, anywhere, negotiable fees" | |
Contents |
A Good Start
Yeah, we all start somewhere. You want the whole story? You got it.
Youth
Well, I guess I had a normal childhood; happy, healthy parents, and a stress-free atmosphere. My father was a fisherman, just a simple man caring for his family. My only sibling, an older brother, went off to college when I was young; my parents weren't keen on having a ton of kids, so I was the second, and last. I wasn't coddled or anything; my mother ran a full-time real-estate company out of our home, near the docks, and my father was a hard-working fellow who taught me my love for the water. My father was an avid hunter as well, and showed me as much about hunting and survival as he did about sailing. Well, they grew old, and my mother was the first to go, peacefully, in her sleep, just before I finished school, and my father didn't last much longer... Can we talk about something else?
School
I went to school like any other kid, made good grades, stayed out of trouble. Skipped out whenever I could, though. Heh. Dad used to call into the school all the time, claiming I was sick, so we could spend the day out on the boat, or take a hike through the hills and go shooting. Mom used to come along with us sometimes, but stayed home more often towards the end...
Anyway, I played some soccer, off and on, and everyone told me I could muster up some fancy footwork on occasion, but I never stuck with it. My real passion was the shooting team. Dad taught me how to handle a rifle since the day I was old enough to walk, and I made quite a few impressions, taking home several trophies every season, even a couple of Paragon Tournament trophies, where the gifted kids compete. Can't say it was really all that supernatural, just had a nack for it. Steady hands and a good eye I guess, not to mention plenty of practice.
Can't say I was all that innocent of course, some petty vandalism here and there with some buddies from school, even a bit of foolin around with some of the cute girls. All in all though, I was well-suited and ready to graduate and move on when the time came.
It's All History
Idealism
Knowing all that, it's easy to understand why I joined the Paragon Coast Guard. My love for open water, experience with navigation, and strong sense of duty led me to the recruiter's office, where I took an entrance exam and was signed up as a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Shore Patrol Cadet less than a week after graduating from school. I did really well, blew through the general seamanship and weapons training, even got to show off during a brief marksmanship tournament. Fame and fortune, though, were not my cup of tea. My head was full of idealism, and I bled 'Semper Paratus'. Did some dock patrol for awhile before getting stationed aboard the now-infamous PCGS Crester. Made some good friends, and worked my tail off makin sure I was up to snuff on Shipboard rules and regulations, and stayed at the top of my game with a weapon. Learned about small side-arms too, crew served weapons, like the Baretta and the Desert Eagle, but had no peers what could use a rifle like I could.
Well, one evening, I'm on watch on the bridge with my good buddy Sam, a Second Class, when we get a call to intercept a suspicious freighter. Not unusual to get a call like that; someone's gotta check out all the various goods that make their way to and from Paragon City This particular light freighter, the Mayfaire, had refused to admit, or at least been dodgy, about its port of origin, so Port Authority gets on the sqwawk-box to me n' Sam, with orders to look into it. Soon enough, we're pulling alongside a ratty old freighter with 'Mayfaire' in black letters, barely distinguishable through the mess of sediment, on the bow. As we suit up to board, Sam mentions that it looks like somethin the Rogue Isles would churn out.
The Mayfaire
You might have heard the stories, or read it in the paper: 'Shore Patrol Recruit Lost at Sea...' and so on and so forth. You want the real story? Of course you do; noone can tell it like I can.
Just Another Drill?
So me 'n Sam, we're all geared up, feelin confident, but not overly so, as we head up the gangway to the deck of the Mayfaire. Had a couple of other guys with us, more for show than backup. Lookin back, I don't even know why we brought em with us. One was a new guy, older, not completely inept, but had never been tasked to a boarding team, and so volunteered to go with us. The other guy had been drinking the night before, and was complaining about a headache. Well, Sam gets up to the deck before me, where one of the 'faire's crewmen is standin, and asks to speak to the Captain. The guy mumbles somethin, and Sam gestures for us to follow the guy. We all head through a hatch to a narrow passageway, lookin like a buncha riot cops in full gear. 'Headache', I'll call him, the guy with the drinkin problem, had removed the extra plating inside his vest, to shed about 15lbs, before we left. Had I known he had done it, I wouldn't have let him come with us, and I know Sam woulda said the same. I guess my first clue that something was amiss was that there were no fire extinguishers on board, at least, none that I could see. If the Port Authority got wind of that, there'd be a good two weeks worth of paperwork for us to sort through while the Mayfaire sat in impound. I caught a backwards glance from Sam, and I knew he was startin to get suspicious too.
When we were lead to a ladderwell headed below-decks, Sam stopped and gave me that look again. We had a brief exchange over our headsets, and decided that the bridge was very unlikely to be found below. The fellow leading us on stopped on the steps and motioned for us to follow. We were all carrying shotguns loaded with harmless beanbags, just in case someone had to be taken down without lethal force, and Sam and I carried sidearms, little 9mm peashooters, in case things got out of hand. There was an akward silence while Sam stared at the guy on the ladder, and I felt the Mayfaire lurch.
Balls to the Walls
No sooner had the akward silence been broken by frantic shouting over the headsets, then the whole place broke out in chaos. We all turned to face the way we came, except for Sam, who had leveled his rifle at the fellow who had led us in. We were pinned at the ent of a narrow passageway, with the ladderwell behind us, and armed men pouring around the corner of the long passageway in front of us. I heard a shot from Sam's rifle, and a muffled thud, as he dropped the guy on the stairs. I was closest to Sam, with Headache and the new guy between me and the men running down the passageway toward us, most of them just beginning to opening fire with antiquated assault rifles. Antiquated or not, those were real bullets flying at my team, and I couldn't maneuver to get a good shot with my pistol. Sparks flew from the deck and bulkheads as the attackers drew closer, and I made the call. Grabbing the harnesses on the back of their vests, I heaved Headache and the new guy backwards, and Sam and I took the brunt of the fall down the ladderwell. At some point during the tumble, I made out what the shouting over my heaedset was about; the Mayfaire had begun moving.
Well, we landed in a dark cargo hold, dimly lit by the light coming through the hatch at the top of the ladderwell. Sam rogered up that he was ok, and the new guy was dazed but had no trouble standing. Headache didn't respond; I figured he must've been knocked unconscious. I grabbed Headache by the vest and dragged him to cover behind a large crate, to where Sam and the new guy had already moved. Sam had his pistol out, and was shouting into his headset that we needed backup. About that time, the smugglers reached the hatch, and began pouring rounds into the bay. Sam and I knew what to do; we each peeked around one side of the crate- it was about nine feet wide; plenty of room to cover Headache and the new guy- and began firing away. The bad guys at this point hadn't realized that they were standing in a well-lit hallway, and we were in a dark room. It's not hard to get a headshot on a sillhouette who can't even see you. I figured there must have been about 14 guys in the passageway, because by the time the firing stopped; Sam and I had half a clip left each. Some of them had fallen down the ladderwell, littering the deck, and some had fallen in the passageway, while a few had finally turned and run. Turning my attention to my own comrades, I discovered that Headache had a chest wound and would need immediate attention. The new guy hoisted him onto his shoulders as Sam and I ran ahead, clambering over the bodies on the ladder, picking up a couple of rifles along the way, determined to get Headache out alive.
Sortie
The Mayfaire was at full-steam, but it takes awhile for a ship like that to get some momentum, so for the time being, she was lazily drifting ahead, dragging the Crester alongside her. By the time me and Sam shoot our way to the gangway, though, she's startin to pick up a bit, and the stress was evident on the mooring lines. Sam grabbed headache's feet, and the new guy had his arms wrapped under Headache's shoulders, and the three headed down the gangway to safety. I had turned to cover them, noticing that the Fifty-caliber machine gun on the Crester had been picking off those crewmen dumb enough to take a look over the edge of the Mayfaire at the Crester; likely to take potshots at her. I watched Sam and the new guy meet up with a medic and lay Headache on a gurney, and I turned away from the gangway. Over my headset I had heard that the Crester was being dragged and would have to cut the ropes mooring her to the ponderous freighter. Most of the Mayfaire's crew had been neutralized, and my best bet would be to make it to the bridge and shut this rig down. Dashing unopposed, but still clutching my rifle, for the hatch most likely to take me to the bridge, I let my reflexes take over as I heard the distinct, deafening snaps of mooring lines, either cut, or torn from the stress.
Standing outside the hatch to the bridge, I slowed my breathing and listened for movement inside. Hearing none, I slowly peeked around the corner. A single man lay across the helm, bearing a single gunshot wound to the head. The Captain of the Mayfaire. I ran to remove his body from the controls to shut her down, when I noticed a small device laying on the deck by his feet, smeared with blood. I recognized it right away; it was a standard demolition charge detonator. I fumbled for it, picking it up and wiping thick blood off of the display. 4 linked charges; just under 5 minutes. I knew the makeup of ships like this one well enough to discern where one might place explosives for best effect, and found myself racing back down the passageway to the engine room, intent on disarming them. 4:43... I didn't bother throttling the Mayfaire down; if I couldn't defuse every one of those charges, I'd at least make sure she was as far away from the Crester as possible. I shouted into my headset for my crewmen to turn the Crester around and haul ass.
Crunchtime
Sure enough, I found two explosive charges in the engine room, right where I knew they would be, and removed the detonation primer carefully from both. I had taken off my headset for better visibility, but tucked it into my vest as I rose and sprinted towards the cargo hold for the last two charges. 3:17...
The steps in the ladderwell to the hold were slick with blood, and I don't remember slipping. I remember seeing the detonator skitter across the floor away from my hand. As it rotated, I watched it count down. I remember the pain in my legs; I had likely broken them both. I remember crawling towards the port bulkhead, and pounding agaist it in frustration and agony. I remember the fire. One of the crates of suspected contraband came tumbling at me, as the Mayfaire finally began to pitch to port, taking on water. The crate couldn't have weighed more than 200lbs, but at the speed it was traveling, it's impact against the bulkhead reminded me, oddly enough, of a fly striking a winshield. I thought I was losing my mind at the time, only imagining, from that mental image, that it had painted the bulkhead above me with an irridescent green goo, just like what a fly would leave behind. I remember fire. I remember that that substance, whatever it was, burned hotter than any pain imaginable. I was coated with it, and it was burning. As the ship pitched forward, I went tumbling like a ragdoll, a burning ragdoll, ricocheting off of, or through, any number of identical crates. I lay half-conscious on the deck, as the emergency lights flickered out, and I alone was casting eerie shadows on the walls, from a fire that seemed to feed on my desperation. I saw water rushing in at me from all sides, and even as the Ocean took me in her embrace, I found the fire still burned.
Decorated
Heard through the grapevine since then that I've been awarded a medal or two post-humously. You don't care about that though, you're interested in the suit I'll bet.
Patched
You guessed it; I'm not actually dead. Here's how:
A Patron Saint
I woke up on a hospital bed; feeling like I'd spent way too much on drinks the night before. I half expected to find a less-than-attractive woman beside me as I looked to my right. What I saw, an extremely tall, crimson-clad fellow, standing by my bedside, sent visions of fire through my mind, and I felt pain wash over every fiber of my being. My body would have been convulsing, were it not for the restraints securing me to the bed. I began to scream and curse in words that don't exist, and found the memories of what had happened. More pain greeted me, and I lost consciousness again.
Knighted
When I came to, I don't know how much later, I was held upright in what might have been the same room. I expected to still be restrained, and moved my arms cautiously. I found no restraints, but felt... different. I realized with shock that my vision was not the same, and with more shock that no other sensation felt natural either. Convinced I was dreaming, I raised my hand to pinch myself, and found myself un-pinchable. I was... wearing... some sort of metal; it covered me from head to toe. I looked down to my feet, and discovered I was stnading, but could not move my legs. The crimson-clad figure I had seen before entered my field of view. I struggled to comprehend what exactly was going on when, without warning, he reached forward to strike my face. Despite my shock, I involuntarily leaned backwards and to the side, avoiding contact with the crimson hand. He laughed, pleased at my performance, and began to speak.
"Night Bot, our patient zeems to be reschponziff. Velcome, Herr Thorpe. Can you hear me?"
My tired brain made sense of the words for me. "I can hear you. Where am I?"
"Haha, Vee Vill get to zat in due time, let me introduze myzelf, I am Nacht Sniper"
"Doctor... Sniper, am I... ok?" That accent, was it German? Where the hell am I?
"You are as ok as you can be right now, but I need to inform you of your rebirth into zhis new family..."
The Round Table
So, as you've no doubt gathered by now, it's the Weapons Union who dragged me from the shores of Mercy Island and installed whatever was left of me into this suit.
Operation Void
Apparently I was the beginning of a program called 'Operation Void', an all-out recruitment campaign designed to fill substantial losses after the Weapons Union had gotten into a mess alongside the Survivors of Vega, another organization we work with from time to time. Our current focus exclusively, Operation Void is meeting with some succes, thanks primarily to the efforts of Nacht Sniper. He sure is industrious.
Promotion
I've been devoting my time to Operation Void as well, and when recruitment levels began to show promise, I was promoted to Specialist Mercenary. I now study under Nacht Sniper, hoping to learn and improve marksmanship techniques.
Operation TBD
Still on the drawing board is an idea Nacht Sniper and I came up with to ease integration into the Union. I suggested we specify specialized teams with specific chains of command, catering to certain types of work or areas of expertise, such as magic, an area in which we're severely lacking in experience. I believe our lack of knowledge and experience with magic was the biggest flaw in the botched operation with the Survivors of Vega. Although I dont understand or deal with magic myself, I recognize the need for a well-rounded mercenary group, capable of dealing with any situation.
The Suit
I know all you really care about is the suit. Well, here's the scoop:
Specs
It keeps me alive, and it's got some cool bits, like a jetpack or what have you, but I've got to say I'm still getting used to it. I've had to begin learning how to shoot again. I can shoot pretty good, don't get me wrong, but to be as good as I was before will still take alot of calibration. To be honest, I'm not even sure how much of 'me' is left. Do I still have a face to speak of under this helmet? And what of my arms? Legs? Torso even? Only Nacht Sniper knows, and he's not very forthcoming. I can consume food and drink from special attachments on my suit, and although I can taste stuff, I don't know if it actually nourishes me. I don't get hungry or full, so I can't help but assume that I'm not actually digesting anything. Ultimately, I want to see if I can find a way to shed the suit, but I'm unsure if I could even be extracted from it, much less survive without it. Apparently, the Weapons Union had recognized me somehow, or deduced who I was, after Nacht Sniper found what was left of me, and decided to graciously allow me to use it. What is the Weapons Union, you ask? Well, they're a group of mercenaries, pure and simple. If you can afford it, they can make it happen. I owe them for saving my life, and the suit and the weapons they provided. I'm working for them full time, taking on odd jobs from local brokers, and assisting with Union operations, till I can clear my debt to them. Yeah, The suit makes me stronger than I would be normally, which comes in handy mostly for running and jumping. Mobility is important when you need to get in close, unload a wad of buckshot in your enemy's face, and get out. Best thing about it though, and I'm not really sure if it's me or the suit, to be honest, is these little vents on the bulky forearms. While everyone says the suit is warm to the touch, and the air enting out of the arms can be uncomfortably so, I have to be careful where I point them. In combat though, If an ally takes a round or two, and is lookin bad, I can focus on those vents in my forearms, and some kind of gas pours out, igniting a in ring of fire around me. Believe me, I'm not at all used to it yet, but it makes things easier on a team, 'cause that gas seems to seek out and cauterize wounds on nearby comrades. Works on me too when my suit starts gettin banged up, I'm not sure how. People say the sensation isn't unpleasant, and the image of that ring of fire expanding outward with me at its center has to have some kind of an impression on the enemy. I can focus and raise the temperature of my hands too, not enough to do any damage if I had to get into a fistfight, but you can see steam coming off of my arms in the rain sometimes. That's really the coolest thing I've noticed about my new life, and as soon as I can get my shooting skills back up and running, I'll definately be a force to be reckoned with. My vision is different too; the suit allows me to see in infrared and low-light, and has good peripheral and proximity motion detectors.
I'm still not sure if Nacht Sniper designed the suit himself, or procured the designs, or even ouright commandeered it. I've seen similar suits around, one in particular worn by Nacht Dreadnaught. Dread, as I call him, worked with Nacht Sniper in the 5th Column awhile back, and aspects of his suit very closely resemble mine. Perhaps it's a 5th Column thing, or Nacht Sniper got the suit, or just designs for it, from the Council. Dread's suit doesn't work the same as mine, from what I've gathered, so the resemblance is mostly cosmetic. Said he's worn it for some time though, and I can't help but wonder why anyone would choose to. Recently, Nacht got me into his lab again and installed some more upgrades; I believe it's the beginnings of a stealth system, but I cant be sure. The best part about the additions though, is the removable helmet. Apparently, enough of my head was left to make a rudimentary face, albeit with wires and junk, but it's a face! I hope this same technology might some day be used to free me from the suit.
Odds and Ends
So, that leaves a few questions still unanswered, doesn't it? Let's see.
Odds
Would I go back to Paragon if I could? Maybe. You know sometimes I sneak off to Pocket D and talk to folks from Paragon about how much I miss it, but don't tell anyone. Where were the heroes when the Mayfaire went down, with me aboard? I have no idea. Who was behind the Mayfaire, smuggling those chemicals and biological agents? I've sinced recognized the markings I saw on the crates, and I think I know who was behind it, and I think Nacht Sniper has figured it out too, but that's between us and them. Trust me, when I get into a position to take my revenge, it aint gonna be pretty. And what of the brother I mentioned earlier? That's an interesting question...
Ends
Well, Andy graduated from college, and became some hotshot lawyer. Some young gold-digger married him for his money, and they moved to a new city. She divorced him just after that, and took him to the cleaners. His firm went bankrupt, or fired him, or something.
So you've got to be wondering why I'm telling you all this. Maybe I need a friend, maybe I just need to get it out, or maybe, just maybe, I'm makin all this up to mess with ya. You decide.
Well, we're almost here, I'm gonna set you down for a minute. You're startin to get a little heavy, but at least you've stopped strugglin. I gotta make a call real quick before we go in.
"Thorpe, reporting"
...
"Yeah, we're almost there."
....
"He's alive and well"
.....
"O really? You don't say... And how much alive?"
......
"Ok thanks. Thorpe out."
Sorry, Andrew, that was your ex-wife. There's been a change in the contract; looks like your number's up, buddy.
