Post by John Doe on Oct 3, 2019 21:29:35 GMT -8
Basic Information
Name: Unknown
Nickname(s): John Doe
Age: 53?
Height: 6'1
Weight: 195 lbs
Blood Type: O
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Hetero
Eye Color: Red
Hair: White
Mental Information
Personality: John is a man with a self depreciating sense of humor that tinges on the morbid and dark side. He likes a good laugh, and likes to help people. He wants to leave a mark on the world, something that will last longer than him. In some way shape or form. He doesn't want to be forgotten any more than he already has been. However despite the best of intentions and attempts at good humor his temper is prone to violent and rapid flareups. Very easy to provoke and hard to calm down, he has a bad habit of over reacting to situations that trigger him, either hitting too close to home from the war, or hitting some other sore spot in his psyche.
More than his desire to do good is a desire to have a purpose. To be put to use for something, you could say it was almost programmed into him. And he has spent decades looking for a task that he can dedicate himself fully toward. Something bigger than himself, something that can make everything he endured worth the price he paid. So far nothing has proven to be truly worthy, and his past would be masters had to face his wrath when he realized how much of his little time was wasted in their false purpose.
Physical Information
History Information
History: John doesn't remember his childhood. Or most of it. He couldn't tell you where he came from or who he was. It was a mystery from a world that no longer existed, so long ago that even the fog that prevented him from remembering was easier to reach. And, frankly, it didn't matter. Whoever he had been born as was long dead and forgotten. Even before the war, because he remembered the war. And he was already long dead by then.
No, his earliest memories were of blood and screams. A daily existence being strapped to tables while liquid fire was pumped into his veins while his bones were tempered like steel. The Doctors that worked on him were blurs with ever shifting faces, obscured in a drug-fueled haze. As were the countless men, women, and children that he ripped apart limb from limb in the underground fighting pits that the early experiments were tested in. Hundreds of them thrown into deep pits with nothing but the fire in their blood, and their fingernails as weapons. The drugs puppeteering them to rip out each other's throats and eyes, drinking deep of the violence until only one stood.
Time and again he stood, laughing as he drowned in the blood of his fellow prisoners. Wishing that it was him laying as a crumpled heap under the blood stained boot of someone else, because he was so tired, but so happy that he ripped them all asunder because it meant he could eat. He still doesn't know if the whispers he hears in his sleep is the fire in his blood talking, or the good doctors talking to him. He still expects to wake up in those pits, but he hasn't in a long time. Not since he ripped his arm out of the metal shackles on the bed. It was funny; the others fought much harder. He stabbed the doctor in the neck a single time with the long screw that had until moments ago kept him restrained, and the doctor fell to the ground clutching his throat, unable to keep the blood from pouring out of the wound. No regeneration, no sub dermal armor. He vividly remembered how weird that was, and how funny it was to watch him die. So helpless, more so than the children they had fought.
It wasn't long after his escape that the war started. He always figured it was to find him; he was their gold standard. They told him every time he slaughtered the others. That as a survivor he was the current gold standard. And he knew that much from his old life, gold was valuable. Even if it was less so in the post war world. But he knew.
The war was surprisingly easy for him to survive. Those that were not like him were meat to be picked apart, and those that were similar to him were now mindless and unthinking. Easy to fool. They would have been fodder in his pit. He did what he had to in order to survive. Blending in with Barker's troops to steal the medication he needed to keep his blood from killing him, and ripping off their heads if they threatened him in any way. The ones similar to him not under Barker's thrall were easy enough to avoid. They expected the patterns of the mindless, but he was smarter than they were, and they would pass him by as he hid. He didn't obey the whispers anymore. They had no control over him or his mind.
All good things must come to an end, and so to did the war. Peace was struck, and the cracks in which he survived began to shrink. But he'd spent to many years adapting and surviving to give up now. He would make himself useful in this new world. He was different from the feral ones and there were plenty of people willing to put his skills to their vision. And he wanted to be part of that vision. But time after time his Masters fell short, and time after time the call of his blood was too much to contain and they would always find themselves dead at his feet.
Now, decades later old facilities were getting harder and harder to find, and with it the medication he depended on to remain who and what he was. John Doe knew he was running out of time if he didn't get more medication, and that meant he either needed to find another stash or means of treatment, or find his true calling to leave his mark. He didn't want to be like the ones in the pit, remembered only in his nightmares. He didn't want to be like the boy before the fire and blood. Forgotten to even time itself. As long as he could remember he didn't have a past, and so he would find a future, even if it was the last thing he ever did.