From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

Jeffory "kicking it old school."
No Pickles
Player: @BigLammo
Origin:	Mutation
Archetype:	Blaster
Security Level:	25
Personal Data
Real Name:	Jeffory West
Known Aliases:	Pickles
Species:	Human
Age:	42
Height:	5'11
Weight:	175
Eye Color:	Blue
Hair Color:	Black (Graying)
Biographical Data
Nationality:	Irish (American)
Occupation:	Structual Engineer
Place of Birth:	New York City, New York
Base of Operations:	Steel Canyon, Paragon City
Marital Status:	Unwed
Known Relatives:	September West
Known Powers
Psychic
Known Abilities
Telepathy, Empathy, Mind Manipulation, etc
Equipment
Newspaper
No additional information available.

[ Inspiration: No Pickles ]

The Psychic

At first he had no clue as to who he was. The information, blurred in its clarity yet as sharp as a knife when it struck his mind, was coming in too fast. Then it flickered away, closed to all but the faint sound of breathing. At least it registered on his mind that he was alive. Then, like a switch flipped and a light turned to full illumination, it began once more - the assault of information.

Time and place in his mind, with the flood of thoughts, memories, and personalities - had been all but obliterated. He was late for work. He was walking down the street. He was fearing for his life in a Skuls mugging. He was down, dead in a gutter. He was walking for the first time. He was the essence of all those below him. It was as if he were reading a book without flow and reaching into the pages itself, binding the ink of words into his very being. It continued. Work, fear, death, birth, happiness, kettle whistling. Kettle whistling?

That was right. He left the tea boiling over just in case he would need an anchor to reality, so he would not lose himself in the minds of those around him. Wise choice. Now, it was time to concentrate. It hurt to but the lesson was long overdue. He thought of the lives it could have saved ten years ago and instead of losing himself in pain, he dove his conscious into helping others. Of being the hero he once dreamed.

A hand. He saw a hand. At first, the image was made of fuzz, motion a static mix of different colors and shape holding no meaning but for the most basic pixelation. A psychedelic game of Pong. As the loud whistle droned on, mixing into the background and becoming less than noticed, it was clear. He now had a name.

He was Robert Jackson, freshly paroled. The smell of gunpowder was fresh on his nose. It had been twenty years since he used a gun. It was old, heavy in his hands. Could he use it just this one last time? Was this the last time? There was always more to score.

Now he was Jennifer Heart, newly wed. Life was great. There was a smile on the lips not his but familiar to his body all the same. With a husband like the one she had just nabbed, there was no more reason to work the streets. He promised he would take care of her now, keep her away from bad influences. She was happy to have found him, be held in his arms. She just couldn't stop thinkign about what Vinnie would do when he found them.

He was Charlie Smith, late for work. Again. Shit, what would happen now? Last time it was a dock in pay. His manager wouldn't like it at all. But hey man, when you have a family of four others to provide for you take money any way you can get it. Maybe if he gets paid, he'll head to the slots. Hit it big.

That was enough. It was time for him to stop. he proved it could be done and passed with flyign colors. Getting back would be the hard part, he knew.

He was a corpse. Long dead and buried, but now dug up and being manhandled into a dufflebag.

Not it.

He was a widow, aged forty-two. Life had changed in the past thirteen years. The taste of bred from a deli in Moscow filled his mouth. With it, came the thought of sickly babies, born into knowing nothing else but pain, incapable of basic thought - perhaps for their entire lifetimes if they lived past two weeks old. Bad thoughts. He looked to recent memories. A daughter, September, now too old to need a father and too new to the world without one. He wasn't there for her first kiss. Not even prom. More recent. A soft, seductive smile that was fire-engine red. He entertained that smile from time to time. He was falling for it but she wanted to take it slow - so he had to hide most his feeling to thoughtful caring instead of being there in total support for Monroe. She was never the type for that, anyways. Still, she never could quite hide the attraction and joy.

With a sigh of relief, Jeffory West raised up from his spot on his apartment's floor. On the kitchen floor, a pool of tea sat, knocked over by its own screaming. He had found himself, proving what could be done with his powers through concentration in the process. Yes, now he was ready. He was The Psychic.