Watcher in the Dark
- Name / Alias: Randall Copland / Watcher in the Dark / Watcher / Dark Watcher
- Age: 28
- Alignment: Villain
Public Information:
Bodies were found following a Shriek attack underground. Vertical cell phone footage shows a pitch black ‘angel’ was flying away from roughly where that happened.
Physical Appearance
The breaker state primarily is an idealized form of his natural body, transforming Randall’s slightly above average height and lanky build into an Adonis. He stands at 6’6” bare chested with trim muscular body, his eyes literally glowing robin’s egg blue. His features are healed and become sharper and more defined, classically masculine. If you put a picture of his form’s features next to the real Randall you could say ‘Oh I see the resemblance’, but when he’s Watcher in the Dark, it’s like someone took the idea of his features and placed them into a Ancient Greek Statue.
Moreover, he gains large pitch-black feathered wings, their wingspan twice that of his arms, and his veins glow with a brilliant white light.
At the same time as the transformation, splotches of liquid black as tar starts to bubble out of his skin and wings as if his body was a fountainhead for it. It quickly will cover his body entirely, occasional shimmers of light escaping from the pitch.
His human form isn’t so impressive. A tall man, he stands at 6’3”, and is lanky in a way that says he doesn’t eat enough, his arms jutting down slightly-too-long with a few fingers on his left hand never managing to close. A fetching, confident grin always plastered on his face.
His face in particular isn’t pretty. Several scars from surgeries go across his left cheek, which has a depression in the sinus cavity under his eye. His nose doesn’t so much have a bend as it does a roundabout, stitches were put in his skull at one point, and one ear was apparently almost torn off going by the healed stitches there as well.. His eyes are ruined, one is missing, and one is blinded. He does have a strong jawline that’s cleft in the middle, and his hair is a lovely reddish brown, kept in a short crew cut. Close inspection show that several of his teeth are implants.
Mentality
Randall is easygoing on the surface, but also ambitious, resentful, and doesn’t easily forgive or forget slights. He’s confrontational when he can be, good at sucking up when he has to, and overall has a bit of a domineering, weasley personality, he’d get a laugh out of kicking someone he dislikes when they’re down, justifying it with a thought like ‘Fuck’em, they had it coming anyways.’
Generally an amiable guy, outgoing and charming. He’d be the one to throw a superbowl party for the office. When he’s playing nice, people find it easy to be friends with him, even if he can be a bit rough around the edges.
Comfortable with using his fists to make a point, a bit chauvinistic.
Resources
Early 2010s Nissan sedan. Small apartment. Civilian reputation as a drug dealer that’s fairly trustworthy.
Wealth Level: 4
Equipment His only equipment is a matte black ceramic mask without any features besides a nose, irregular triangles forming a sort of modern art aesthetic
Skills
Essentially a salesperson, controlling costs, packaging, sharp eye for people who don’t fit in or are acting strangely, haggling. Creative making of stashes and hide-a-ways. How do I say he’s made a living out of selling drugs without just saying it? Can ride a motorcycle.
Power:
Upon transitioning into their breaker state, they gain access to several benefits.
They enjoy a slight enhancement to their strength, enough that a full punch could reliably crack ribs and that any weight routines done would be ‘impressive.’ There’s a slight increase in bone density, tendon strength, improvements to the cardiovascular system and other minor physical enhancements. His body won’t stop a knife, but things like tight turns and high G-Forces, hard landings, etc, are less of a concern. Comic book ‘average human ‘gets in a car wreck and walks away with a limp and cuts/bruises’ durability.
He can fly, with a wingspan of 14 feet, and a cruising speed of about 30 miles an hour, although with extra effort this could be a bit higher. In a long dive, there horizontal speed can approach ninety miles an hour. His wings always act as ‘inked’ surfaces should something touch them, providing a defensive tool for him. Things that go through the wings will always appear directly underneath him if he is above the ink, or to the nearest available ink if he is not.
Watcher begins to drip an inky black liquid from their body, which spreads to cover the ground. Those who walk on it would find themself continuously being gradually sucked down into it, like it was soft mud or quicksand. Staying still for several seconds can lead to it becoming difficult to leave, and even running around on it is far more difficult as it sucks and clings to your feet.
If someone were to become engulfed in it they would find themselves trapped in an alternate dimension, looking up to the outside world with a hazy barrier between them, watching the rest of the world as if on the see through side of a one-way window that extends out to the area that is covered by the ink. Comparable to a second, identically laid out floor underneath a building, missing any furniture or doors with a glass ceiling. Tunnels in the dark.
He can enter this parallel dimension too by touching the ink (his wings don’t count for this), able to do so quite quickly, and the ceiling is permeable for him, unlike other people.
This ink is photosensitive. Exposed to daylight, it will gradually ‘burn’ away, while when exposed to direct contact with fire or focused beams of light it does so much faster. Those inside the field when it’s being burned away will perceive the walls as collapsing or compacting.
People are not in danger while in here. They can breathe, they won’t get tired, the ground is soft. When the ink splotch they are in is destroyed, they will find themselves in the real world again a moment later, dazed and confused for a second or two with no memory of moving there.
Secondary - Their own shadow is their minion. While within typical 'loud conversation' hearing range it whispers to them in a voice that only they can hear. These whispers are interpreted in their mind and 'visualized' in the way you might envision a landscape described in a book, and are good enough to be almost a replacement for sight, although there is a slight delay. Driving would be dangerous for them, but they could fake sight well enough to have a conversation with someone and not have them realize that they are blind.
This shadow isn’t attached to their body. It holds roughly human level intelligence towards the mental commands he would give it. It doesn’t truly have any range limits, but once outside of earshot they won’t provide him with any information, and will have to return to relay said information. It can ‘run’ at the speed of a normal human, although it doesn’t tire. It can exist in direct sunlight, although it will appear as a human sized and shaped shadow that isn’t connected to anything. It’s vision is unhampered by light level.
It can utilize all standard human senses, making it an excellent wallflower.
They have an enhanced ability to visualize things that were described to them. Someone who was described in some amount of detail would be able to be visualized as exactly what a person with sight would see. A generic description of hair and eye color, height etc gives them a slightly better idea of what someone looks like, but describings things such as lip or chin shape, skin health or nail length etc gets them to a perfect visualization. This extends to general environments as well, descriptions of a clearing in a rainforest that focus on things like the humidity, the smells and the animal sounds would give him the same exact visualization of the area being described.
This works in conjunction with their Minion Master power.
Trigger type: Cluster Trigger
Example
"͙̰̤͎T̵̪h҉̼͓̲͖̰ę̣̣͙̖y͍̝̺̼'͇̘͕͠ͅṟ̰̦̩͇͓̟ḛ͖͞ ̗̱̰̲̫̭̼͇̠͡ͅf̜i̹͠g͙ḥ̺t͈̞͈̻͖i̤̳̳̤͎̩͡ǹ̤̠̯̰̳̻̗g̱̩̗̱͓.̞̩͓̘̥̖͖͘ ̗͘H̺e͈̭͓̘̥'͇̠͔̦́s ͕̦̪̝̠͇͕͠s̱͇̱̗̘͖͇h͓o̶̖͕̦͓̯ụ̙̜͝t̛͉̼̹̘̟̼̬i̫͍̖n̮̲͖̹g̦̲ ̻͔̟̹͍̗a͔̩͎̫ͅt̠̥ ̤̼̫h͓ḙ̺r̢̲̦̲ ̻͔á̝̪̖̲̞̬b̡͙̤o̱ư͎̜̫t͈̝̬̙̘̰͢ ̱̟t̢̞͚͕̤̦͎ͅhe̱ ̬͡u̶̳̟̩͙n͍͙̗̩͍̫̞p͓͖̱̦͔̟a̗̞͍̠í͉d̪̮͉ ̼̬͉͘b̠̬̰͕ͅi̭̥͓̟̗̱͟l̯̣l͝s͈̘,̫͖͍̮ t̘͖̱he ̫g̫͈͓̲̜͚̲a̬̯̕m̢͕̫̲͈̘̤͈b̷̜͎͚̗̝li̩n̞̮͎g̝͎ͅ,̸̯̼͓ ͏̯͔͉̼̟͉͚a̕ͅn̮̙͙̭̹̩͟d̨̰̹̦ ̳s͚̣͉͔͎͕h̡̭ẹ̣̟̩ ̬͖̟̬̻͎d̶̥o̞̤͕͇̕es̷͈̼͈̼n̗̥͚̮̻'͇t̬ ̮̙̭͖͜li͍̩͖͉͡k̜̝̥̲̦̼e͉̕ ҉̻̤̩b͎̗͎̼e͚͍̹͢i͕͡n̷͙̝̟̮g̹̟̙̣̭̭̝͘ c̞a̛̰l̼̠͕͖͚l͏̬̱̜ęd̬̖̞͘ͅ ̵͉͔̱͉o̙̝̠͍̻̥̕ͅu͉̥̫̤t͏͉͕͍͕̰ ͈̥̬͚o̼̫̙̙̲̰n͓̙̫̙ ̫t̘̞̤̀ha̮̱̞͕̝t̼̯̰̣̬͙.͖͎̺̫̜̭̝ ̡̯̜̳͔̹͓͎T̀h̪̕e̛̜͉̖̲͇͙͎i̦r̠̺̱̳ ̪͓̗̲̜̟͢v̰̜̫͔͔̲o͚̘͎i͚̪c̵͓̹͓̰̟͙͕e̸͕͈̟s̵ ̻̝̥͇a̡͕̰̹̼̯̩ͅr̨̗͕e̝̭̭̫̮ ͚b͕̯̖̕e̺͉̬͇i̵͉̫n̙͖͝g͏̭ ͎̪͖̝̼͕ŕ̰a͇̣͖̥̺i̥̟̗͉s̗̫̗e̳͓̗̪̫d̝͇̱͚̳̻͈͠ -̢̣̣̣̘͖͎͔ ̢̩̲̪̝̞̫͓ṭ͖̰̭̣͔̰a͎̲̰̱̖l̦̹̣̫͖̰ͅķ͚̮i͔͓͝n͔̦̝͍̣̳g̘̭̯͚͖ͅ ̯͇̻̪̲̠a̠͕͇̰͈͡b͚̬͎̝̰́o̩͇͙̖͇͞u̘t͏͖̮͍͖̱͕ ͇̜̰̕h̵͚is̡͔̪̹͚̖̭̫ i̸̬̼̫̞̲̙̜n͉͖̩͖h͔̻͎̫e̖̩̺̝̳r͙̠i̖͎ͅt͇̀a̴͚̤̩ṉ͍̳̟̫̪̝c̼͓̘̪͚ͅe̫̳.͔̟͔̰ ͔͖͜S͚h̫̹̗̠̣͖̕e̜̯͚ ̬̦̯̻͞t̷ò̬o̥k̖̺̦̘ ̮͇i̘̞̪͎̳͝t͓ ̱̣̦̻̫a͉͇̟͔͍͖̲̕n͏͉̭̦̳̺͈͈d͉͖ ̥̘͍̟̤̣͘p̴̳̺̣͈͇i̭͚̯͡s͍̩͕̮͔s͈̠̣̱͖͓ͅe̥̳̹̬̙d͔̥͈̩́ ҉̮̟̫͕̦̠̰i̗͕t͇̬̭͈ ͔̯̣̻͓aw̶̺̙̣̠̳ạ̯̥̣̮͇̙͞y̗͈͚ ͎̙̬o̵̬n̜̯̘̫͝ ̠̦͍̺̪̟s̮̘̫̲̭̺̟l̩͉̲̻ọ̰͢t͠s͉.͈̦̮̣͟"̮
"They're fighting. He's shouting at her about the unpaid bills, the gambling, and she doesn't like being called out on that. Their voices are being raised - talking about his inheritance. She took it and pissed it away on slots."
"I know! I can fucking hear it!"
A floor below, the argument pounded through the the ceiling into Randall's apartment, who sat with a pillow wrapped around his ears, desperately trying to sleep.
"̯͙̞ͅT̨ẖ͚͓̮e̖̱ŗ̘̖̭e̞'̲̲͕s͔̯͔̤ ̜̩̰̼͞ͅͅá̖̪ ̹̮s̮̠͉̖̭̟p̮̘̼͔̘̠͟i̹͘der͈̲͈̭͎̗ ̙b̬̹͉͖͍y͏̜͙̱͈ ̫̀t͍͈̭̫̪̖͢h͕̭̞̺̮͘e̝̱̲͎̗̝͘ ̕f͍o̞̻̭o̥͘t̡ ̯̩̣͞ͅo̠͇̘̝͍̤̖f̩̠̞ ̳̫̠͖t͕̳̹̝̘̱̼h̯̥͍͈͠e̪̭ ̨n̜͍̝i͙̭̗͇̺͖͜g̜̻͎͟h͏͓̹̖̪̮̥t̶͈̳s͎̥t̤̦̬̬̟̻̟aṇd̲̺̜.͍̺̟̀ ̧͍̜I̙̺t̳̹'͈̪͔̬̤͎̲͝s͇̣̩̖̥͇̬ ̟͙̣̮͓̮͉s͍͈̪̮͍̪͞m̞̹̪͞al͓̬̩̩̟̺l͙͍͢é̯͈r̫͉̳ͅ ̸̩̺͖t̹̹h̰̬͟an҉͚̜ ̦͕̼͍̱a̸̦͇̙̘̘ ̼̰̮d͓̻̭̪ͅi͚͇̠̦̬ͅm̯̲̞̭̻̹e͡,̩̙̯ ͉̭̬b̗̹u̜̰i̸l̗͚̬͝d̼i͡n̼̣̤̖g̶̪͍̝ ̷̞a͕̜̻ w̱̕é̯̦̙b̺͙͈ ҉͇̞͉̳̘̳͍t̬h̦̝̜̼̣at̹̠ ̮̠͕̺w͈̪͎i̢l͔͈̳̜͈̥l̲͕̙̗͝ ͓̯̗̭̞ͅc̺͓̞̬͓̪͈͟oń̫̲̺̫̱n̺̬͖̻̕ę͚̮c̱͍͍͕̲͚̖t̟̀ ̧͖̗̗f̸r͍̣̘͇̤̼͜o̸̫m ͏̺͖͍̠t̖̣͉h̞̬̰̬͢ͅe̹͇͔̠ ͉̥͇͡f̴̼̯̫͎̙̞͖lo̰̰̬̬̭͇ơ̬̲͉̭̯̰͓ṟ̯ ͘t̥w̘o̭̻̣ ̧i̠n͇̼̥̣̙c͍̙̠̮̩̰̼̕h̵͕̣̺͈̝e͇s̗ ̛̻̰̫͈t͓̳̞̠o̤͖ ̗t̨h̭̻̞e̷ ͙̯̲̼̼̩͙r̜̫̞͙i̢̠̟̭̝͉̗ͅg̨̪̻̯̖̭̭h̻̗̣̘̰̩̟t̨̫ ̸̪͉͖̣͈̥ͅo̬f̦ ̧ͅt̗hẹ̘̹ ̤̝̝̬͇̭pr̦è͎͉̺̞͔̮s͇s̸̲̙͚-̲ḇ̲͕̯o̵̳̘̙̱a͏̹̦r̢͈̮͓d͈̯̲ͅ ̜̦̦ͅĺ̞͈̲̱̗̩e̝̟͓͙̦̟͔g̺ ̧̫̖̭͕-̮̼̫̘̺"̼̘̖̬̳͔̝
"There's a spider by the foot of the nightstand. It's smaller than a dime, building a web that will connect from the floor two inches to the right of the press-board leg -"
"Do you ever shut up?!"
"̡̻͙A̵̼͚̳̲̭̥n̡d͞ ̱̹͓͖̯̦ͅa̞ ̸̥̰h͏̹͖a̳̝͙͕̭̞͝l͇͉̳͕f̧̬͓̲͎̟ ̰̳͓͇̰͔̟i̗ṋ͇͍͈̬c̟͔̙͍̫h̦̼ ̹̪̦̟̬͇̬̀u̸͎p ̢̹ṣ̪̫̦̙͍a҉͖̩̣͇͙̭̺i̬̲̪̙̼d̝͍͎̝͇ ̥l̨͚̲̠͖͈e̙̰͔̹̠̱g.̫͈͉̟͘ ̱̺I͔̱̝͎͕̙t̵͈̲'s̭͈̯͝ ̪̘̲̭̲͙c̝ol̲̰̝̳ͅo͍̯͕̻r̰̬ ̠̯͜i͍͔̗̞͖͚s̥̣̮ ̰͖b̦u̵̗̗̗̰͕̪r͓̪̞͈͈nt̡͚ ̟̣̼͡oc̶̪͓̺̰͚̹̭h̥̙̘̱̬̮̖r͙͎̖̱̼͉e̸̞͖̝̪̦̖ ̼wi̗͓͇̯̤͚̮t̯͙͇̩̝̝ͅh҉̳̗͕̣̼ ̭̥̭̰s̥̭̼̗̱̥ͅma͝ll̗͜ ̙̟̜͉̲͍͚d̘̰̥͓̩̤̻͟a̹̖͍̖̤̦r̬̖k͈͖͚̞̣͇e̥̩͈̳̩͜r̩̜̰ ̫̩̬̜b̗̖̣̰͚̭r̨̞o͚̬ͅw̛̼̩̯̲̼̗ͅn̲͈̞̝̰ ̳͓ͅh̭͉̜̠̦̬̱o̖͉̤̙̮̼̞ri̴͎̰̟̟͍̬̰z̢̼o̠n̞̘̰͖̯͘t͏̺̥̣̘a̼̮̥͚̬͙ͅl̷͕̠̜̱̤̝ ̝̣̼̯s̟͕͉t̪͙͓̥̝͓ͅr̲̼̩̙͚͕̻i҉̲͓̙͙̤ͅp̸e̤̪̼̣̝̫ͅs̤ ͍̟̯͡o̱̯͕̻͖̹n̦̟͕̮̻ ͓ͅįt͠'͈s ̢͕̣l̴ḛ̗̳̖̟̳g̢͍͕̫.̼̠̩͚̣̳͘ ̟̤̪̼̦̝̹̕Ṱ̱̠͍̬̰́h̝̩̲̝̫̳e̪̯͕̩̩ ̧̠̹͔n̪̟i͈̯̯͉͖͙g̸h̹͚̫̭t͔͍͘s̨͈̳ț̨̳a̱͙͡nd͎͉͡ ̴̥̠i҉̻͙̜s̷̳͍̥͎͈̯ ̗͉̥̠a ̯p̺̳͙̣̺̲̻a̯̹̭̲̞̼͢l͎̪̦̻̘ę͍̪͈̱̤̲ ̘̞͉s̲̝̥̰̺͈̜͢t̩̟̹͖̱̜̘r҉̻̝͈̞͕͖̫a͉̼̻͚͎w̷̻͓͓ ̠̻̜͔͓̱̟͠c̱̺o̸̦̗͔̼̪lo̷͔̟̲͇r͝,̣̜ ̡̖͎̯͈̹̘͔w͍̣̙͖̟i̲̯̱ṱ̥̱͉̀ͅh̗̗̰̪̰͉̠ ̜̣͔͚̤͉͝f̨̪o̭̻̻̣u̧r ̘̠͇̪̫͙s̗̬̲͉͍̰͖ḫ̴̥͙̜el̜͓͍͕̣͖ͅv̪̬͓̙̼̙͙es̳̕,͕̠̪̥͚̀ ̛̫͉̩y̴̪͉̖͙̤̻̜o̗͜u̲͡ṟ̰̹͉̤̰̹ ͔̰͕͈̳̹̖͠s̞̻͕̲͉̘h̗̹̫̬̞͎͠a͇͚m̜͓͓͕̹͚p̮̝̱̜̖̖̲͘o̡͈̲̺̮̗o̪͈͈͢ ͚s̨̜̰m̤̣͚͉̹̘e͉̺̫̮͍̤l̝̦͔̬͚̻l͎s̩͠ͅ ͇̱̥̠͉l̺̳̖̜̘i̙̤̠̙k̤̦̜̬̪ͅͅe̤͈͡ ͚c̢̙͕͉͇̗u̥̲̪c̩̘u̴͇̜̥̞ͅm̵͉b͍̳̤e̺̞̭̺͖̦̫r̹̖̦̳̟̮̘s̴ ̴̫̺͖a̫̰̺n͚̙͍̞̰̼̦d̸͕ ̛̘ͅc͙͈̠̜͔͖h̡͇̥̣̻̘̝ͅa̻̣̰̩̺ͅm͚̪̻͞o̫̯̙͔̭̘͎̕m̱͓̝͖̻͈̹͘i̥͓̲̙̲͜l̜̤͖͞e͏̥̦̬͙, ̴̠a̰̬ṇ̱̻̹̰̥̮ḑ͔̺̺̩̝̜̘ ̻͉̬̱͈̳̭M̫̗͍͎i̟̜̰̺̫͈̱c̦̩͓̣͙h̺̪͕̝̪͚e͙̪l͖l̶͓̗e̸͓͖͇̙̠ ͚̱͢j̶̹̥u҉͚s̼t҉͖͔̗͔ ̨̺ș̴͖l͓̭à͎͙̮̜̦p̫̘̣͈̝͖̫pe̗̥̗͔d̺̠̗ ̫̪͔͠J̗̲̖͜o͙͍r̺̖̰̻̦̩d̳͉̹a̛n͖̣.͈̯͎̠̯͉̥̀
"Stop. Please stop."
It wouldn't stop. His shadow had been talking to him, ever since the day he'd nearly died. Maybe he should be thankful that despite losing his eyes he could still 'see',, but right now all he wanted was sleep, something that was impossible as he both heard and had vivid pictures painted for him of the fight, of spiders hiding in the dark, the scent of his shampoo, all of this information constantly being pounded into his brain like it was a hammer till he felt like he was going crazy.
He needed a change of scenery.
Out, flying above the city, Randall is searching, for what he doesn’t know.
A chance encounter, he spots someone that he owed.
A hard landing and he’s walking up to them. “Jackie.”
Their head snaps towards the hulking devil, their mellifluous voice belying the bubblying sludge that poured off of them and soaking on the ground.
“You took something of mine.”
Their protests and pleadings go unheeded while he picks them up by their neck, completely ignoring the strikes and kicks that they flailed at him while they went through their pockets.
Bitch robbed him at gunpoint six months ago.
With their money and a few suspicious baggies taken, he slams them hard against a wall, once, twice, enough to leave bruises and maybe a concussion before pressing them facedown and screaming into the sludge till they were engulfed by it.
Backstory
Randall had been brought here to die. Bleeding, battered and barely awake he’d been taken underground, his suppliers screaming about him being an informant, being a cop, it kept changing. His protests didn’t matter, and he’d lost the strength to shield his head a good time ago.
It was quiet here. He tried to gather his breath, get his orientation but it was pitch dark and he could barely get his legs underneath him, let alone stand.
Other people started screaming, begging, a low whoosh sounding frequently, a few gunshots going off and then no more.
Jolts of adrenaline pound through him as he realizes that they were underground, in the catacombs, of what this was. He had a chance now, a slim one but it existed. Stumbling in the dark he moves as if in molasses, everything slowed, sounds of dying people swirling around his head, breaths of air tickling his skin as the screams grew louder, then thinned.
He couldn’t see. In the lightless tunnels he stumbled blindly searching for a wall, a marker, anything to give him a path forward, the sticky warm air bathing over him, the scent of blood heavy, whatever was happening was wrapping up and he would be next, he was trapped and he couldn’t find a way out, the sounds and the wind everywhere, right there, and nowhere all at once. Randall’s delirium, disorientation and his desperate need to survive crescendo into pure terror as his stumbling walks traces circles in the dark.
Trigger.
Starting Reputation:``` -3E
Submitted April 05, 2019 at 02:03AM by Shimme https://ift.tt/2I0wmt8
No comments:
Post a Comment