Post by godot on Aug 10, 2010 0:41:28 GMT -5
GABRIEL ADRIAN NICOLAU
music meister
I am FLAME and I am FIRE,
I am DESTRUCTION, DECAY, DESIRE.
I'll HURT you.
I'll HEAL you.
And won't you think I'm pretty[/size]
name;; Gabriel Adrian Nicolau
(In case you're, you know, too damn blind or stupid to look up and see it.)
Gabriel— “Strong man of God.” One of the seven archangels. In Islamic tradition, he gave the Qur'an to Muhammad. Blah blah blah.
Adrian— Something boring. Some popes and saints had it. Blah.
Nicolau—A slightly more interesting, but still ultimately dull form of Nicholas. Seriously, what kind of tool has "Nicolau" as a last name? Jesus Christ, it's a rhetorical question. I soooo see that it's my last name, you don't have to point it out. Smartass.
nickname;; Music Meister. So much better than my, ah, quote unquote “real” name. And if you can’t figure out why, you’re stupider than you look. Unless you’re cute. In which case, it totally works for you, sweetie.
age;; Twenty four. Give or take. Mostly take.
date of birth;; December Fifth. Fashionably late to the party.
gender;; Male. Obviously. Would you like me to prove it?
occupation;; Singer / Villain / Awesome. Why yes, that last one is an occupation. It’s a full time job, dear. It also happens to be the one I'm the best at. Not that I'm not the best at the other two, but it's like... diamonds compared to the purest gold compared to, like, god's dick or something real.
sexualorienation;; I’m open to anything and anyone. Unless I don’t like you or you’re ugly, in which case, I’ll only be open if I’ve been drinking. Heavily. You know what? If you're ugly, not even then. Just do the world a favor and kill yourself or invest in plastic surgery or go home and watch Jersey Shores.
When I'm standing top the bright lit city[/size]
hair;; Red;; His hair is naturally straight, typically worn short and combed back, though that’s bound to change from moment to moment depending on his whims. He owns an astounding and almost absurd amount of hair care produces tucked about to pull off those changes when he wishes.
eyes;; Blue;; His eyes are a touch small for his face, though not terribly so, and fairly spaced apart. However, more often than not, he’s wearing sunglasses of one kind or another, so his eyes are typically hidden, anyway. (Years of standing under bright lights have left him with sensitive eyes. Go figure.)
height;; 5’ 7”
weight;; 145 lbs.
build;; While the Music Meister may not be the strongest or most athletic person alive, years of taking good care of himself and exercising regularly have left him with a sturdy, sinewy build.
piercings;; Currently, none;; He’s had a few piercings in the past, but they’ve all healed up after his time incarcerated in Arkham, and he hasn’t bothered to go get any of them re-pierced.
tattoos;; None;; He claims he doesn’t want to risk ink poisoning. More likely, he's just an utter wimp when it comes to needles.
style;; There’s a lot to be said for a man who, despite not having a home anymore, still has a rented space for all of his clothes. (And a keyboard, guitar and violin, but that’s beside the point.)
Meister likes looking good. Not just likes; he's obsessed with it, and more than a little obsessed with himself. Thus, no expense is spared in buying clothes for himself. On a normal, “casual” day, he’s still wearing a button-up shirt, tie, dress slacks, and dress shoes. If it was chilly, he threw in a suede jacket, of whatever color matched what he chose to wore on that day. If it was downright cold, he typically threw in a long coat and scarf, as well as gloves. Anything more formal then “Casual” was met with a suit of whatever color he felt like wearing. And, no matter how formal or informal the occasion happened to be, sunglasses of some sort were a given.
And I'll take your hand and pick you up[/size]
favorites;;
-- Music;; This is such a given, I don’t see why I bother explaining it. If you can’t figure it out, you’re fucking retarded.
-- Power;; Yes. This is also a given. I like being in power. I like being able to control people. I like making them do what I want. Greedy? Selfish? Maybe. But, it works for me, and I don’t feel bad about it. Plus, I totally deserve it, unlike most of the other hacks you see vying for it. Really: me or them? Think about it. But don't think too hard, god knows you aren't capable of it.
-- Clothes;; Okay, while I’m sure everyone would adore it if I went naked everywhere, I do really like clothes. Nice clothes, mind you. Suits, jackets, shirts, shoes… ahh, I love not being stuck in a tee-shirt and jeans—because, let’s face it, just a t-shirt and jeans is really lame, and I am not lame.
-- Money;; I like being able to afford what I want. Sure, I can just steal it, or trick someone into giving it to me, or earn it through other means, but nothing beats the feeling of flashing some green and feeling everyone around you envy you just that much more.
-- Sex;; Blow me. No, literally. I’m open.
-- Attractive people;; I salute you, pretty people.
hates;;
-- The flying rat;; Batman. Always Batman. Seriously, if you asked any villain in the city what they hate most, his name pops up. And if it doesn’t, they’re obviously lying or not villains in the first place. I mean, come on! The guy wears tights and a cape and, first of all, thinks it’s attractive, and then he ruins our fun. It’s like a giant flying cockblock, only worse.
-- The rest of the bat family;; Do they live in a cave? Do they hang upside down? Or does he just molest them all and make them wear those ridiculous costumes? I should feel sorry for them, as they probably just really need to get laid, but I don’t. Nothing in the world, not even flying cockblock can make any sane man (or woman or whatever the fuck they are) dress up and do the things they do. Actually, just kidding. I can.
-- That screaming stuff people call music;; It really isn’t, and sounds awful. I suppose there is an upside to it, though; those “singers” have to lose their voices, eventually. The downside: They're recorded. Available in a trashcan near you.
-- Being harassed;; I’ve always had issues with this. Luckily, now I have ways of dealing with it. (I must say, telling people to commit suicide is actually a great stress reducer.) Seriously: I'm better than you. You have no place to make fun of me or bother me.
-- Arkham;; Okay, Arkham is an insane asylum. It’s supposed to cure the mentally ill, or whatever they claim to do. Why is it, then, that I feel more unhinged after finally getting out of that place than I did going in? Oh, because I was perfectly SANE going in. Do they feel the need to throw every costumed villain in that place…? Apparently. I certainly didn’t belong there. Didn't then, don't now. And I'll be damned if I ever go back there.
strengths;;
-- Voice;; For more than one reason. To start, it’s amazing. (Been singing my entire life, thank you very much.) Not only that, but I can control people with it—an ability I happily abuse. Can you do that? No you cannot.
-- Music in general;; Look up. Yeah. See the name? “Music Meister?” It’s definitely that, and not something lame, for a reason. I’ve been singing and playing instruments my entire life. I’m well versed with music. If you can't figure all of this out, once again: You're a fucking idiot.
-- Intelligent;; Believe it or not, I’m not an idiot, and am actually really good at being quick, clever, and getting myself out of trouble.
-- Creative;; Very. In more ways than one. (Would you like to see?)
-- Good liar;; You have to be. That’s like, a job requirement. I just abuse it more often than others may. And by “abuse,” I mean “employ effectively.” Have to be politically correct, you know.
weaknesses;;
-- Fighting;; Yeah, see, I’m a lover, not a fighter. I can hold my own against most normal people, but this is Gotham, and “normal” is abnormal here. (Bats and clowns. It’s like a fuckin’ awful Stephen King novel around here.) I still usually carry my cane around, though. Just in case. (Plus, it's awesome.)
-- Poor Planner;; Okay. I’ve had great schemes fall apart thanks to my inability to see the consequences of what I do. X causes Y, which is turn causes Z to screw me over. I get all excited and miss the minor things. (Admittedly, anything small I habitually ignore...)
-- Insomniac;; Alright, this is one of those “poor planning/ bad luck” moments. In Arkham, they put me on some drug to make me sleep. When I broke out with the rest of them, I didn’t think, “Hmm, maybe I won’t be able to sleep without this medication.” Apparently, I’m not as chemically tolerant as most of the people there, and have spent many a night awake. This would be acceptable, except my bed is empty, which is never acceptable.
-- Flashy;; Stealth and I will never mix. I need to be loud, I need to be seen, I need to entertain. It’s just my nature. Case in point? My death trap idea. Big. Flashy. Laughably ineffective. (See above: Poor Planner.)
-- Arrogant;; Whoa. Whoa whoa. Whoa! How is being amazing a weakness? Really? Really!
-- Prone to depression;; Call it genetics, or creative drawbacks. I get depressed pretty easily, and it's hard to get out of that state. If singing doesn't fix it, nothing does.
Except sex. Sex fixes everything.
quirks/habits;;
-- Is constantly singing, humming, playing an instrument, or tapping his foot to some beat, whether or not there’s music actually playing;; It’s playing in my head, and that’s enough. Isn’t sharing smiled upon? Besides, you know you like it, and it's better than anything you might be listening to.
-- Flirt;; Yes I am.
-- Womanizer;; Yes I am.
-- Cracks his hands;; Old habit, from playing the piano, mostly. My hands get stiff if I leave them for too long, and no one wants that. (Now, other stiff things…)
goals/dreams;;
-- To become famous;; As a performer or a supervillain; fame is fame.
-- Take over the world;; Yes. Cliché dream, I know. Still… wouldn’t that be awesome? Complete and total control. No one to hold any power over me, because I’m at the top of the pyramid. Yes, please.
-- Get control over The Bat;; Or any of the bat family, really. Now, that would be a useful little slave…
-- Revenge;; On all of those useless bullies who picked on me when I was young. Again with the cliché. But you know what? It would feel great to see them all knocked down. Permanently.
-- Get his own place someday;; I had an apartment, but that got taken away after being arrested and incarcerated and everything. And since I’ve lost most of my funds and everything, I’m sort of at square one again. Oh well. Once I get—See, steal or trick people into giving me—enough money, I’ll have my own place again. And honestly, I can wait and continue sleeping through the cities available attractive adult population.
overall personality;;
“Full of himself” are three words that quite accurately describe him.
Gabriel is what you get when you have a kid with a lot of talent, a lot of ambition, and little to no morals holding him back. Because his childhood crimes were impossible to link to him, he never got caught for doing what he did, and furthermore was often coddled by teachers who saw him as the victim, and thus never really learned to differentiate between right and wrong. What’s right for him is what feels good; he’s a hedonist at heart, and he’ll doggedly pursue anything pleasurable. (That doesn’t hurt his voice, that is.) What’s wrong for him is anything that takes away that pleasure; namely, the Bat, the authorities, and Arkham asylum.
It’s moot to say he’s a born leader. His voice allows him to take control of people—quite literally, he can make them do anything merely by singing to them. They’ll protect him, they’ll steal for him, they’ll kill for him, all of this is quite possible if he simply tells them to. What his power doesn’t cover, his pure charm does. The Meister is very good at talking to people, and manipulating them into situations where they have to do what he says. He’s also good at getting people to like him, being very likable if he tries, and lies, hard enough.
Ambition in big with him, and he wants the big things in life. He wants control, power, money, fame, sexual partners. Greed is not a bad thing; he encourages it, practices it in everything he does. More is better, less is worse.
Though, greed and lust are hardly the worst of his sins. He has no boundaries, never having learned any when young. While he won’t directly commit crimes unless absolutely forced to, he won’t hesitate to make other people do things for him, from small things to worse things, like murder. Yes, he’s killed before—or, more accurately, made people kill for him before. And he’ll do it again, if he absolutely must.
And he won’t apologize for any of it.
And keep you there so you can see[/size]
father;; Malcolm Nicolau {Pianist; Waiter; Fifty };;
My father was… interesting. About the only thing he did for me was teach me to play piano. Music was actually the only thing we ever did together; he tutored me, showed me new songs, new instruments. The rest of the time, he wasn’t present. Off working, or sleeping around, or doing whatever it was he did. I honestly no longer gave a damn once I was about, oh, eight.
mother;; Anna Nicolau {Nurse; Forty eight};;
My mother was a good woman, but I’m pretty sure she was always unhappy. I think she had a family sooner than she would have liked, so she probably missed out in some things she could have done without a brat and a husband. (No matter how perfect that brat was.) Still, she treated me well, and was always pleased with me, so I have no real complaints.
siblings;; None;; I’m an only child. Why want another, when you already have perfection?
relatives;; None;; No one interesting enough to mention or remember, anyway.
pets;; None;; Ew. I hate animals.
hometown;; Nowhere interesting. Some little town in North Carolina. You've never heard of it, and I'm never returning to it. Moving on.
currentlyliving;; Gotham;; More or less. Technically—Very technically, the kind of technically you have to squint to see—I’m homeless. I get by with sleeping with people and showering and using their washing machines when they fall asleep, or breaking into people’s houses and sleeping there when they’re not home. It’s actually quite effective—until they come home, that is. Then it's usually just awkward.
history;;
Gabriel was born the first, and only son to Malcolm and Anna Nicolau, named after one of the archangels thanks to his religiously minded mother. His parents only married due to his conception, and it was very obvious in the way they acted; while both had their ways of showing affection for the boy, they hardly spoke to each other, let alone did anything else martial partners were expected to do. Young Gabe didn’t notice.
His mother tried to teach the boy morals and ethics, taking him to church when he was very young. But church made him sleepy—the long sermons and hot, stuffy rooms were bound to put any child to sleep. So his father tried a different approach, showing him the chorus, and, best of all, the huge church organ. He liked that most of all; he liked it even more when his father touched the keys, and made the instrument come to life.
Malcolm found something to share with his son. He was a professional pianist, but demand was low, and thus he was out of work more often than not. He found another delight in teaching his son how to play the piano when he was very young, and shortly after, how to sing. Gabe was very talented at both, and proved it quite early.
And then school began, and Gabe was taken away from his piano and his singing and his music and stuffed in a classroom with twenty little brutes that were all bigger and wore nicer clothes than he did. None of them appreciated music; most of them didn’t even know what a piano was, and laughed at him for singing to himself when he was alone. (Which was most of the time.) His teachers, however, did notice, and placed him in the school chorus. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
The school chorus was nothing compared to the church choir. Though he was little, and the church itself bored him to tears, and he really didn’t care about God and Jesus and whatever he was singing, he loved singing in the large group of adult voices. And he excelled at it, too; little old ladies thought he was the cutest thing ever, and mobbed him and praised him after church every Sunday, pinching his cheeks and giving him little sweets and basically spoiling the boy and convincing him he was god's gift to them.
No amount of singing made the years slow down, and Gabe swiftly grew up. He wasn’t the only one; the other children grew bigger, and stronger, and meaner, and delighted in picking on the “queer,” his nickname for most of his young life. He despised it, and soon grew to despise school, and all the people that attended there. The only thing that kept him going was the chorus, which, while he was the only male, was filled with females that at least thought he was fantastic and brave for being the only boy in chorus. (He always adored attention.)
Everything changed one day. He was about thirteen, when a few boys entered the room he had been practicing in. They started picking on the boy as they were wont to do, crowding around him and jeering at him, shoving him and calling him names. Gabe shut his eyes and kept singing, the higher part of the song coming to him easily despite his maturing voice… and the jeering and shoving stopped as he reached the higher registers. He peeked, and saw the boys with blank looks on their faces, just staring at him. As if they were waiting. He pushed the closest boy to see what he would do, and was surprised when he did nothing. The boy just waited. So Gabe tried something; he edited the lyrics, making suggestions to the boys to dance.
They did.
Gabe smirked, impressed, making them do more and more things, realizing he could control them if he simply wanted to. It dawned on him that he could make them do anything if he wanted to.
The world could bend to his will.
He had a power, a way of getting back at all the kids who made his school years miserable. Of course he abused it as he went through the rest of his middle and high school years. The abuse started small: he made them do his homework for him, carry his stuff, cover for him if he skipped class or went somewhere or did something he wasn’t supposed to. Then it increased, just because it could. He made them steal for him, beat up people he didn’t like, cheat for him.
And he just sat back and laughed and sang and played.
Eventually, though, school came to an end, and he was forced to chose a college, one where the people he abused couldn’t follow him to. He easily got accepted into the Boston Conservatory for Music, and majored in voice and piano. By this time, not only had he matured into a young adult, but his abilities had grown as well. He could take control of all but the most stubborn of minds, and control larger groups for longer.
And, yes, he abused it in college, as well.
But he wanted to see how far he could take it. He and his roommate, some other male tenor, were both set to try for the same solo in the senior showcase. Gabe wasn’t about to give him the chance to go to that audition, so, while the two practiced singing the night before, he adjusted the lyrics again, dipping into his higher ranges as he subtly told the other singer to kill himself. Overdose on Tylenol.
He did.
And Gabe got that solo.
And graduated with a B.F.A in both Voice and Piano.
But he wasn’t satisfied with Boston, and hated the freezing winters, so he opted to move to a different city to look for work. Gotham was an easy choice; huge city, a lot of people. There must be work there for a singer or pianist somewhere. So he moved there, got an apartment, started looking for work.
He looked.
And looked.
And looked.
No one was hiring. In fact, Gotham was sorely lacking in the entertainment section. What they lacked in entertainment, though, the people made up for in crazies. Gabe wasn’t blind to the costumed criminals, and the costumed heroes, battling it out on the streets. But he never really gave much thought to them until a costumed super robbed the bank across the street from a place he was waiting at. He watched the man blow a hole in the wall, rob it blind, and escape with who knows how much cash before the cops even arrived.
Gabe got an idea.
He already had a power. All he needed was a costume and a name. After pulling an all-nighter looking up villains and heroes around the world, fictional and real, he came up with a name: Music Meister. The costume fell into place.
Why not play to his strengths? His voice? Music? Piano? It seemed perfect.
So he started committing crimes, taking control of people and using them, either as a distraction or a major component in the crime itself. He stole, he mugged people, he did anything he could dream up. But it wasn’t enough, and he was quickly growing board. He needed something big, something more people would see. Meister wanted the whole damn world, and felt it was rightly his.
And, after hearing about a satellite, he had his way to get it.
He managed to get the satellite, using a group of heroes and villains who had the same idea as him to take it over—and even to distract The Bat, when he finally showed up. It was too easy. It was too easy to escape the bat when he figured out where he was hiding out, too.
What wasn’t too easy was getting the bat out of his hair when he really needed him out of the way. And, thanks to poor planning, and a very attractive heroine who temporarily distracted him, everything fell apart right when he had the whole word. He lost it, and was promptly arrested.
But he had the whole world for two minutes, and he wanted it back.
Costumed villains got a special place. Arkham asylum. He tried to argue that he wasn’t insane, he was just better than them all, but no one listened. They gagged him so he couldn’t sing, gave him medication to keep him calm or asleep, tried to “cure” him. Cure him of what? His abilities? That wouldn’t happen. His need to take over the world? Hat wouldn’t happen, either.
He hated Arkham. He missed singing, terribly. Meister tried to hum around the gag, but that hardly worked. The best day of his life came when there was a breakout when two guards were escorting him back to his cell. A group of criminals got out, and started releasing others. The two guards took off to take care of the issue, and Meister wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass.
He ran. Like hell.
After a few stressful hours of running, hiding, and figuring out a way to get un-cuffed and un-gagged, he was finally free. And there was no way in hell Meister was about to be caught again. He broke into an empty house and stayed there for a few days as the cops and heroes tried to capture all the escapees. They didn’t succeed—many of the criminals evaded capture.
And things just went downhill from there. There were more breakouts, and soon, the city was overrun, and people were afraid. Meister enjoyed it; who was going to look for him, when there were bigger issues to worry about?
That’s his logic, anyway, and he’s sticking to it.
Now, he’s trying to go about getting back everything he had. (Everything.) he doesn’t quite know how, and he’s still a bit depressed from Arkham, but he figures that will all pass eventually. And then, Meister will have his world back.
It’s just a matter of time, waiting and planning.
And singing. Of course.
As long as you're alive and care[/size]
name;; I'm still Godot
age;; Old.
experience;; Eight or more years.
activity;; As active as I can be, which isn't saying much.
whyyoujoined;; You know why I joined.
phrase;; Meister does not care enough about you to warn you about Pluto. It must suck to be you.
example;;
Oh, hell. He really should have thought of this before he had gone all super boy on their asses.
There was yet another reason he knew this gang and their members well, not just the fact he took a keen interest in every gang that popped up in the city. One of their members has been rumored to be gifted, just what sort of gift he hadn't been able to determine until just a few nights ago. Some of his informants had clued him in about her; how she was supposedly a run away who ran straight into the arms of the first gang that would take her, how she had gotten by for all this time with only minor crimes that she managed to pull off without a hitch, robberies and the like. How the leader, a coward of a man who ate through men like most gangsters ate through bullets, was getting tired of not using her to her full potential, and was rumored to be thinking of using her for something bigger than taking money from old people in dark alley ways. And those rumors, as he had learned a few nights before when he finally found her, had turned out to be correct.
What a disaster that night had been. He had gotten a clue from one of his sources that a few of the members, the young woman of interest included, had gathered somewhere to talk about something, and how they had seen them only a few minutes earlier. Jekyll ran like a bat out of hell to get there in time, and even then only got there in the nick of time to stop her from either getting killed by pissy gangsters, or killing someone herself. The ability to convince people to do anything, eh? Sounded like hypnosis of some sort, by however means he couldn't tell quite yet. Eye contact? Voice? Mere presence? That was on his list of questions to ask her when he first found her, learning her name was Whisper. But that was about all he learned. 'Go to hell,' he believed her exact words had been, leaving him less than surprised that she cocked an attitude and rejected his offer before storming off. Damn it, way to be tactless once again, Donny. Perhaps this is why he was failing miserably at recruiting as many people as he liked.
But damn it all if he wasn't going to keep trying. He had been in her, in Whisper's position before, and he knew exactly how it felt. Hell, it might have been him in her shoes a few years previous, telling The Invincible Man to go to hell before prowling away to go run until he could hardly breathe or move, let alone think about his predicament. But at least Jack had been smart then, smarter than Jekyll was now, and had been patient and waited for the lost boy to come back to him. He was smart enough not to go beat the shit out of the gang members that had been wailing on her, effectively making him even more of a Defender of Justice or some other shit to her and thus giving her even more of a reason to hate him. So, maybe he was less than surprised that the first words out of her mouth were: What the fuck are you doing here?
"Saving your ass, that's what," Jekyll heard himself reply crossly before he could even think of a way to work himself out of this situation, his bleeding temper taking over before his rational side could even catch up, like usual. Fuck it, he might as well keep it up, then. He wasn't optimistic or naive enough to expect people to be thankful when he helped them; in fact, he rather preferred that they didn't go all "doting public" on him, because that was just creepy in his mind, and he didn't like people enough to spend time around them while they liked him or something. Jack and the rest were better at that, and as far as he was concerned, they could keep them. He'd keep snarling at the cameras, thank you very much. Not that they got much of that anymore, anyway; those MDS fucktards had royally screwed up their image in the public eye. While Jekyll was less than pleased about being doted on, he wasn't happy about being labeled a psychopath and told Hyde would have been a better name for him after all. Annoying public, can love you one day and hate you the next... But still, he felt justified in feeling a bit annoyed that, instead of being thankful at all, she seemed pissed off at him. Okay, so he was probably the last person in the world she wanted to see right this very instance, beaten up and not wearing pants, but it was better than continuing to be beaten, right? So she could not be a bitch and suck it up, then.
Perhaps this annoyance is what delayed him from trying to help her, instead misplacing his frustration, like usual, in the direction of one of the men who was still groaning and being a general wuss. Watching him for a moment with a feeling close to disdain, Jekyll glanced at his scuffed up tennis shoes, finding a few new drops of blood on them that he could use as a perfect excuse to hit the guy a few more times. "Shut up," he snarled lowly, bringing the dirtied shoe to the side of the man's face and lifting it slightly. The injured man managed to look up at him with something between fear, pain and hatred mixed on his face, making him appear even uglier than he assumed he had seemed before. With a derisive snort, Jekyll dropped his shoe, allowing the man's face to hit the ground with a wet slap; and, to add injury to insult, he raised his foot and kicked the side of the man's head, aiming for the temple. He struck true, and the man's head flew to a funny angle before settling back on the dirty cement, sounds ceasing to come out of his bloodied mouth. "That's what you get, bitch," he growled sagely.
That felt good. And the best part was he didn't feel bad about it at all, his conscious more than happy enough to stay quiet and let him enjoy the moment of pure, unrestrained brutality. They deserved what they got, and if they happened to die because no one, especially not him, was going to help them, well, no sweat on his brow. Less people for the justice system to treat well and put behind bars for a few months before so kindly releasing them. Useless. So useless.
Speaking of useless. Feeling a bit better than he had used one of the men as a living catharsis, Jekyll once more turned his attention back to Whisper, kneeling down in front of her as he watched her struggle to get up. Well, if one thing could be said of this girl, she was stubborn as a mule. Maybe even as stubborn as he was. After being beaten to the point of unconsciousness, possibly having several bones broken if not bruised, bleeding out of her mouth, nose, and probably a hundred other small cuts and other assorted wounds, she still had the energy in her to tell him to go away. Well well well, just for her decision to be a stubborn little bitch, he was going to be exactly what she didn't want him to be right now: the caring bastard. Or, as close as caring as he could get.
"Golly gee, you look hurt," he commented in his best Good Samaritan voice, probably coming off more like a very sarcastic asshat than anyone who actually cared. Well, he wasn't an actor for a very good reason. Deciding to flat out ignore her insistence that he go away, he instead watched her closely for a moment, trying to judge the severity of her wounds to the best of his abilities. While he was by no means a medic of any sort, he had been hurt and hurt others plenty of times before to know what was life threatening and what wasn't, and as far as he was concerned, experience was the best teacher on these sorts of things. Jekyll somehow doubted her wounds would kill her, if her annoying persistence to get him to go away was any indication of her will to live, but she at least needed medical attention of some sort; judging by the blood she was coughing up like a faucet, one of her lungs must have at least been punctured, and that could get nasty if it wasn't seen to, and soon. Fantastic, that. This was going to be a fun night.
With a roll of his eyes, he tugged off his warm jacket, unceremoniously dumping in on top of her as the cold wind began to breath through his thin sweatshirt, the way her teeth nearly clattered before she so stubbornly sneered at him not missing his eye. While he couldn't give a rat's ass if she was comfortable or not, the fact that she was still scantily dressed and not wearing any pants whatsoever had caught his attention as well, and for as much of an inhuman monster people believed he was, he was still a man deep down somewhere, and one that didn't fail to notice she had very nice legs. Better for him to give her a means to cover herself before he got too uncomfortable. Speaking of it, she had a nice face and body, too, from what he remembered from meeting her last for what few minutes they'd spoken, but the blood and that hateful expression on her face that was, no doubt, directed at him, sort of took away from that inherent beauty he had noticed before.
"Now, as you've noticed, I'm still here. As I'm sure you've also noticed, you're pretty screwed up. So we have a few options here," Jekyll told her shortly, his tone leaving no room for debate or argument. The last time he had attempted to speak with her, she had stormed off, leaving him in a less than happy mood that he had taken out on some other criminals, very much like tonight. Well, now she could hardly stand, let alone storm off, and he was going to take advantage of this unique situation before it passed him by, or she died on him or something else happened that would ruin the moment. And quite frankly, it was too damn cold to carry on, anyway. "You can either A, let me take you to the hospital, where I'm sure the doctors will noticed you've been beaten up and will have to file a report on you, which will probably bring a bunch of crimes to light you don't want everyone to see, or B, I can take you back to our HQ and let some of our medics piece you back together again. If you're a nice little girl, they might even give you a lollypop. Make a decision, hmm? I'm freezing, here."
'Couldn't be a bit nicer, huh Donny?' Wow. What an annoying time for his conscience to kick in, especially considering said conscience liked to sound like Jack when he was being an utter asshole and knew it. Okay, he could have been nicer to her. She was treating him like shit, but she just got beaten up by the people she probably thought were close to family, so far be it for him to assume she be nice and everything. But she'd been a bitch to him before, when she'd been perfectly healthy as far as he could tell, so maybe this was just her usual attitude. Did he have to be nice? No, he didn't. So if his conscience could kindly go shut the fuck up, he'd appreciate it, thanks.
There was yet another reason he knew this gang and their members well, not just the fact he took a keen interest in every gang that popped up in the city. One of their members has been rumored to be gifted, just what sort of gift he hadn't been able to determine until just a few nights ago. Some of his informants had clued him in about her; how she was supposedly a run away who ran straight into the arms of the first gang that would take her, how she had gotten by for all this time with only minor crimes that she managed to pull off without a hitch, robberies and the like. How the leader, a coward of a man who ate through men like most gangsters ate through bullets, was getting tired of not using her to her full potential, and was rumored to be thinking of using her for something bigger than taking money from old people in dark alley ways. And those rumors, as he had learned a few nights before when he finally found her, had turned out to be correct.
What a disaster that night had been. He had gotten a clue from one of his sources that a few of the members, the young woman of interest included, had gathered somewhere to talk about something, and how they had seen them only a few minutes earlier. Jekyll ran like a bat out of hell to get there in time, and even then only got there in the nick of time to stop her from either getting killed by pissy gangsters, or killing someone herself. The ability to convince people to do anything, eh? Sounded like hypnosis of some sort, by however means he couldn't tell quite yet. Eye contact? Voice? Mere presence? That was on his list of questions to ask her when he first found her, learning her name was Whisper. But that was about all he learned. 'Go to hell,' he believed her exact words had been, leaving him less than surprised that she cocked an attitude and rejected his offer before storming off. Damn it, way to be tactless once again, Donny. Perhaps this is why he was failing miserably at recruiting as many people as he liked.
But damn it all if he wasn't going to keep trying. He had been in her, in Whisper's position before, and he knew exactly how it felt. Hell, it might have been him in her shoes a few years previous, telling The Invincible Man to go to hell before prowling away to go run until he could hardly breathe or move, let alone think about his predicament. But at least Jack had been smart then, smarter than Jekyll was now, and had been patient and waited for the lost boy to come back to him. He was smart enough not to go beat the shit out of the gang members that had been wailing on her, effectively making him even more of a Defender of Justice or some other shit to her and thus giving her even more of a reason to hate him. So, maybe he was less than surprised that the first words out of her mouth were: What the fuck are you doing here?
"Saving your ass, that's what," Jekyll heard himself reply crossly before he could even think of a way to work himself out of this situation, his bleeding temper taking over before his rational side could even catch up, like usual. Fuck it, he might as well keep it up, then. He wasn't optimistic or naive enough to expect people to be thankful when he helped them; in fact, he rather preferred that they didn't go all "doting public" on him, because that was just creepy in his mind, and he didn't like people enough to spend time around them while they liked him or something. Jack and the rest were better at that, and as far as he was concerned, they could keep them. He'd keep snarling at the cameras, thank you very much. Not that they got much of that anymore, anyway; those MDS fucktards had royally screwed up their image in the public eye. While Jekyll was less than pleased about being doted on, he wasn't happy about being labeled a psychopath and told Hyde would have been a better name for him after all. Annoying public, can love you one day and hate you the next... But still, he felt justified in feeling a bit annoyed that, instead of being thankful at all, she seemed pissed off at him. Okay, so he was probably the last person in the world she wanted to see right this very instance, beaten up and not wearing pants, but it was better than continuing to be beaten, right? So she could not be a bitch and suck it up, then.
Perhaps this annoyance is what delayed him from trying to help her, instead misplacing his frustration, like usual, in the direction of one of the men who was still groaning and being a general wuss. Watching him for a moment with a feeling close to disdain, Jekyll glanced at his scuffed up tennis shoes, finding a few new drops of blood on them that he could use as a perfect excuse to hit the guy a few more times. "Shut up," he snarled lowly, bringing the dirtied shoe to the side of the man's face and lifting it slightly. The injured man managed to look up at him with something between fear, pain and hatred mixed on his face, making him appear even uglier than he assumed he had seemed before. With a derisive snort, Jekyll dropped his shoe, allowing the man's face to hit the ground with a wet slap; and, to add injury to insult, he raised his foot and kicked the side of the man's head, aiming for the temple. He struck true, and the man's head flew to a funny angle before settling back on the dirty cement, sounds ceasing to come out of his bloodied mouth. "That's what you get, bitch," he growled sagely.
That felt good. And the best part was he didn't feel bad about it at all, his conscious more than happy enough to stay quiet and let him enjoy the moment of pure, unrestrained brutality. They deserved what they got, and if they happened to die because no one, especially not him, was going to help them, well, no sweat on his brow. Less people for the justice system to treat well and put behind bars for a few months before so kindly releasing them. Useless. So useless.
Speaking of useless. Feeling a bit better than he had used one of the men as a living catharsis, Jekyll once more turned his attention back to Whisper, kneeling down in front of her as he watched her struggle to get up. Well, if one thing could be said of this girl, she was stubborn as a mule. Maybe even as stubborn as he was. After being beaten to the point of unconsciousness, possibly having several bones broken if not bruised, bleeding out of her mouth, nose, and probably a hundred other small cuts and other assorted wounds, she still had the energy in her to tell him to go away. Well well well, just for her decision to be a stubborn little bitch, he was going to be exactly what she didn't want him to be right now: the caring bastard. Or, as close as caring as he could get.
"Golly gee, you look hurt," he commented in his best Good Samaritan voice, probably coming off more like a very sarcastic asshat than anyone who actually cared. Well, he wasn't an actor for a very good reason. Deciding to flat out ignore her insistence that he go away, he instead watched her closely for a moment, trying to judge the severity of her wounds to the best of his abilities. While he was by no means a medic of any sort, he had been hurt and hurt others plenty of times before to know what was life threatening and what wasn't, and as far as he was concerned, experience was the best teacher on these sorts of things. Jekyll somehow doubted her wounds would kill her, if her annoying persistence to get him to go away was any indication of her will to live, but she at least needed medical attention of some sort; judging by the blood she was coughing up like a faucet, one of her lungs must have at least been punctured, and that could get nasty if it wasn't seen to, and soon. Fantastic, that. This was going to be a fun night.
With a roll of his eyes, he tugged off his warm jacket, unceremoniously dumping in on top of her as the cold wind began to breath through his thin sweatshirt, the way her teeth nearly clattered before she so stubbornly sneered at him not missing his eye. While he couldn't give a rat's ass if she was comfortable or not, the fact that she was still scantily dressed and not wearing any pants whatsoever had caught his attention as well, and for as much of an inhuman monster people believed he was, he was still a man deep down somewhere, and one that didn't fail to notice she had very nice legs. Better for him to give her a means to cover herself before he got too uncomfortable. Speaking of it, she had a nice face and body, too, from what he remembered from meeting her last for what few minutes they'd spoken, but the blood and that hateful expression on her face that was, no doubt, directed at him, sort of took away from that inherent beauty he had noticed before.
"Now, as you've noticed, I'm still here. As I'm sure you've also noticed, you're pretty screwed up. So we have a few options here," Jekyll told her shortly, his tone leaving no room for debate or argument. The last time he had attempted to speak with her, she had stormed off, leaving him in a less than happy mood that he had taken out on some other criminals, very much like tonight. Well, now she could hardly stand, let alone storm off, and he was going to take advantage of this unique situation before it passed him by, or she died on him or something else happened that would ruin the moment. And quite frankly, it was too damn cold to carry on, anyway. "You can either A, let me take you to the hospital, where I'm sure the doctors will noticed you've been beaten up and will have to file a report on you, which will probably bring a bunch of crimes to light you don't want everyone to see, or B, I can take you back to our HQ and let some of our medics piece you back together again. If you're a nice little girl, they might even give you a lollypop. Make a decision, hmm? I'm freezing, here."
'Couldn't be a bit nicer, huh Donny?' Wow. What an annoying time for his conscience to kick in, especially considering said conscience liked to sound like Jack when he was being an utter asshole and knew it. Okay, he could have been nicer to her. She was treating him like shit, but she just got beaten up by the people she probably thought were close to family, so far be it for him to assume she be nice and everything. But she'd been a bitch to him before, when she'd been perfectly healthy as far as he could tell, so maybe this was just her usual attitude. Did he have to be nice? No, he didn't. So if his conscience could kindly go shut the fuck up, he'd appreciate it, thanks.
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