Daikatana
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
| |
| Daikatana | |
| Player: User:Darkaine | |
| Origin: | Natural |
|---|---|
| Archetype: | Scrapper |
| Security Level: | 44 |
| Personal Data | |
| Real Name: | Paul Dalton |
| Known Aliases: | none |
| Species: | Human |
| Age: | 23 |
| Height: | 5' 10" |
| Weight: | 175lb. |
| Eye Color: | Blue |
| Hair Color: | Blonde |
| Biographical Data | |
| Nationality: | American |
| Occupation: | Adventurer/Scholar |
| Place of Birth: | unknown |
| Base of Operations: | Paragon City, RI |
| Marital Status: | Single |
| Known Relatives: | none |
| Known Powers | |
| Katana, Regeneration | |
| Known Abilities | |
| master and scholar of various forms of martial arts | |
| Equipment | |
| Akima's Blade | |
| No additional information available. | |
Contents |
Affiliation
Member of the Paragonian Knights Minor association with the Urban Bushido
Personality
Committed to fighting for freedom and human dignity
Powers
Katana
Has studied various forms of swordplay for years.
Regeneration
His regeneration and his sword skill are the result of a level of mental discipline that lets him tell his body what to do and control his own injuries. He can’t be stunned or held unless he is distracted, and fights with a sheer commitment and focus of mind. When focused, he can exert a control over himself that appears supernatural but is really just sheer commitment.
Abilities
Student of Martial Arts and Weaponry. Is knowlegable about various fighting styles and the necessary counters.
Equipment
- Akima's Blade
- Standard Comm Gear - Allows communication with allies and teammates
- Medical Teleporter Transponder - Should he fall in battle, teleports him the the nearest hospital
Weaknesses and Limitations
Has no real super powers. He cannot fly. He cannot teleport. He cannot leap buildings in a single bound. He cannot outrun a speeding bullet.
Allies
Rogues
Character History
Special Thanks to Gabriel's Fury for the following Bio and Story.
http://www.cohguru.com/forum/showpost.php?p=39551&postcount=25
“Insanity in individuals is something rare - but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule...Out of life’s school of war; what does not destroy me, makes me stronger.” -Freidrich Nietzche
The wind whips through the light fabric covering my body as I fall. Short of the soft fluttering sound of cloth, the night air is otherwise hot, silent, and still. I am calm, as I always am during these times, and my thoughts are in the past.
--
I think I heard the gunshot. I can never quite remember. But sometimes, I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night with a shotgun blast ringing in my ears.
“Paul?” an older man’s voice weakly calls out. “Paul, where are you?”
“Here paps!” I call out, running around the side of the house. The sight that greets me would burn itself into my memory forever. My grandfather was lying on the porch of our home, the boards of which were covered in blood. Here was the man who had raised me when I parents died. Here was the man who had told me the stories of the great war and his fighting at Iwo Jima. Here was the strong, elderly patriarch who I had looked up to through my ten years of life, bleeding to death from a gunshot wound as a dusty Ford pickup drove away with the few meager belongings that a migrant worker judged were worth the life of this elderly war hero.
“Come here boy.” He said, propping himself up as best he could. As I walked forward, he was working a floorboard loose with one hand while holding his awful wound with the other. I stood over him, too stunned to say a word. “Boy, you’re on your own now.” He said matter of factly, as he tended to do. “I got one thing I want from you when you can.” He continued, gasping for breath. Reaching below the floorboards, he withdrew a long package wrapped in cloth. “The war’s over….someday, when you can, you need to find the boy who gave me this….” He handed me the package “…and give it back.” My grandfather winced hard. “I owe him that much. He was the bravest man I knew.” And with that, he died.
I sat on the porch, unfolded the cloth, and looked at the plain Japanese sword in my lap.
I never cried. --
The two metal clad freakshow don’t hear me land behind them. I fall into a crouch and push into a forward somersault, my blade unfolding from my body like a flower, hissing through the air to slice through the knee of the first. Already overbalanced due to the giant hammer attached to his right arm, he looks startled as he collapses to one side with a grunt, still uncertain what just happened. I reverse the stroke and cut his throat, silently hoping the medical technicians at the Ziggurat are fast enough to save his life. I ride the forward momentum of my somersault and stand, throwing out a palm strike behind me as I do. I can’t actually see my other opponent, my attention still on my recently defeated foe, but I am a student of human nature. He will have looked when his friend fell over: The feel of his nose crunching under my wrist confirms this assumption. Pulling the blade tight in to my body and spinning around, I parry a clumsy half-hearted swing made with an oversized scythe intended more to drive me away than hurt me as the Mohawk pierced warrior struggles to see through eyes now tearing from his broken nose. He inhales to shout, and I drive the katana forward, punching the blade through his abdomen and instantly silencing him, the wall behind the painted warrior sprayed with a fine crimson mist. He collapses forward and vanishes. Sweeping the blade fast from right and left to shake free the blood, I slip further into the industrial complex.
--
I remember going through grandfather’s diaries, his notes, his albums of photographs. I saw the pictures of the boy, a kid with just the name “Akima” next to them. I was fascinated by this youth who was probably well into his advanced years at this point, having stood his ground over his family home with just this sword. One picture showed him standing defiantly against dozens of US troops, unwilling to move from the small shack that represented his culture, his life, and his honor. I learned from the materials that it was my grandfather who made peace with the boy. Who showed him respect that an enemy deserved, and when the conflict was ended, was awarded by that same boy this sword as a sign of respectful surrender with an understanding that it be returned when the war was finally over.
When I was twelve, I took my first trip to Japan to find Akima. While I never located the grown youth, the path I took to find him introduced me to teachers and scholars of the Japanese art of war, and my possession of the blade got me admitted to their instruction. What started as an effort to return a war souvenir, soon became a quest for knowledge and the development of skills: Mind over Body. Will over Desire. The Art of Deadly Peace. The sword and I became companions in a way that I had never imagined possible. I studied philosophy and war, human nature and combat.
When Paragon City placed the call for heroes, I went to sign up. I still remember the look on the face of the registrar.
“What are your powers?”
I just tapped my head.
“Mental powers? Telepathy? Illusion? Magic?”
“Willpower.” I said softly.
“Right. NEXT!” the registrar looked past me to someone with real powers.
I slapped my hand on the desk. Taking out a knife, I put the point in the middle of the back of my hand and slowly pushed it through my flesh, driving it into the desk. The representative looked on horrified. My face never twitched. My hand never wavered. And when I withdrew the blade, and raised my hand, I willed it to stop bleeding.
“Willpower.” I repeated.
“Sign here.” The registrar said, handing me the hero forms with a shaking voice.
--
I land on the floor before the last of the broken glass does from the shattered skylight I just came through. The massive Freak tank that leads this group turns, and seeing my lean, small form, bare-chested and bearing a simple blade, he laughs in a deep bass roar. Wasting no time, I step forward, my blade a spinning web of blindingly fast razor sharp steel. Sparks fly from his metal armor as the blade hits him in dozens of places the steady ringing of metal on metal sounding like the impacts of a machine gun. Growling, the monster swings a massive blade in a wide arc in front of him with enough force to split a redwood. I leap lightly upward, letting the blade pass underneath me, but kicking downward as it does, my foot hitting the top of the weapon and pushing me up over his head. Tucking into a pike roll, lash out twice as I pass, my blade striking both sides of the massive machine’s head before landing lightly behind him. Before he can turn, I sweep my weapon around, slicing hard across its back in three wide strokes.
More laughter. Turning to face me, the Freak sneers. “You’re fun, boy, but you’re way out of your depth. It’s only a matter of time before I gut you like a fish.”
I whip the blade to my right and left, then sheath it. I stand up straight and bow.
“That’s right, idiot, hold still.” He said as he winds up for the killing blow.
“Time, my honorable opponent, is something you do not have.” I say softly.
As if on cue, the Tank’s armor ruptures in a dozen places as fluids, steam, exhaust, and hydraulics spray from the precision cuts all over his body. Shouting in surprise, the Tank staggers forward a step, the backwards, as his massive cybernetic armor suddenly becomes impossibly heavy, unwieldy, and unresponsive. I stand stock still as he staggers around for a few more second before falling with a thunderous crash backwards onto the floor.
“Thank you for saving me from those scumbags!” a fat businessman in a tie calls out in a falsetto as he runs up to me after the fight.
I regard him with contempt. “Never dishonor the fallen.” I growl. “He had the will to fight and the determination to make sacrifices to do it.” I continue, pointing at the twitching Tank. “You are a parasite on society. I did not do this for you. I did this to keep the Freak madness under control. Get out.” I watch the hostage leave, sputtering in disbelief.
Sitting down, I take up a yoga position and focus my mind, my body healing rapidly as I do. Another assignment; another small victory. My grandfather was wrong, the war for freedom and for human dignity never really ended. Until it does, I will carry Akima’s blade into battle and fight to defend our home the same way he defended his village.
And some day, the fates willing, the war WILL end, and I can give Akima his blade, complete the circle, and keep my promise.
Info & Links
- D'Arkaine on the CoHGuru forums
- D_Arkaine on City of Heroes forums
- @D'Arkaine- Global chat
- Crey Industries File
- DonnyD.com
