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Dred
A soldier born to kill, taught with a blade, fear is never an option. Personality Dread was one of seven child soldiers bred to become top assassins. To say he is " Nice" would be a lie, he is and will always be a soldier at heart, he shows very little in terms of emotion as this was something he was never trained to do, he follows this protocol to this day. Enjoys being on a job and constantly doing something, if a job is in need of someone with his particular set of skills, he will always answer the call. But he has one vice, growing up the way he did, he did not have the opportunity to have pets and things of that nature and once he was able to be on his own, he began to travel and eventually ended up on the forest moon of Endor and this is where he gained his vice, he began to adore the small furry creatures called " Ewoks". This grew into him being a fan of Furry creatures. Beliefs N/A. Biography "Testing shall begin." "Subject: Dread." The monotoned female voice boomed from the large grey intercom in the far right corner of the room. It matched the rest of its surroundings; dull and plain. The only source of light-- which came from a single fluorescent bar above- gave it the same atmosphere as an interrogation room. And there standing in the center, directly beneath the light was a platinum haired boy. He was an odd looking child; ghastly pale in complexion, pale rose stained lips, and cream colored irises which nearly whited out his eyes. His body was lean and toned more than the average athletic child, and was riddled with light scars. The environment in which he stood gave him a glow, his form contrasting greatly against the surface of the dull grey walls and shadowed corners. He looked only to be about seven years of age. "Subject: Dread; test preparation commencing." "Objective: Survival." That same voice spoke robotically over the intercom. Repeating this sequence of words incessantly. Steam arose from the small vents in the flooring. The air was frigid; yet the boy showed no sign of being chilled. No gooseflesh, no shivers nor chattering of teeth, only small puffs of visible breath. He stood fully erect, almost like a small soldier at attention. Yet he wore no uniform, only a pair of white shorts. One could see the word "Dread" tattooed on his right calf and left pectoral. Beneath the intercom-- and to the right of it-- the stone wall began sliding up, revealing a large mirror. An electronic whirring filled the domain as it began its ascent. It was near deafening, and didn't cease until the panel disappeared into a long rectangular slot cut from the ceiling. "Subject: Dread, Begin." After the voice went silent, a pair of large iron doors ahead of the child opened slowly. Light poured into the room, brilliant and white. Snow flurries drifted into the room, beginning to blanket the concrete flooring. Two more panels behind him turned about within the wall, and revealed two Blaster rifle barrels in each. That was his incentive. His hands balled themselves into knots, his face relaxed and calm; yet those eyes.. devoid and empty. Almost as if he were a piece of machinery rather than a boy. He drew a breath, and sprinted into the blinding light ahead. The temperature change was abrupt. The howling winds cut through him as he took off across that snowfield. He could hear an air raid siren, followed by the distant chatter of Blaster fire and much to his horror; dogs. He loathed those dogs, and one was accredited to gracing him with the majority of his scars. He quickened his pace, retaining steadiness of breath and form, and continued to run blindly toward his unseen objective. His survival. From his peripheral view, he could see other children running, keeping pace until they were either struck down by a stray bullet or fell into the frigid snow. His feet stung relentlessly, and had began to grow numb. Just ahead; he could hear the shouting voices of men and then more Blaster fire, the child to his left began to near him, apparent perceiving to use him as cover from the soldiers ahead. Unacceptable. He dropped low and gripped his knees, the boy behind him-- possibly a few years older-- stumbled over him and went face first into the snow. No sooner had he done so he leapt upward and took off again at a full sprint. The boy behind him shrieking in terror as a hound descended upon him. He knew that it would buy him more time as he neared his destination. The greyed shadow of his station appeared amidst the bleak yet chaotic white. This was it. He grit his teeth and pushed himself further, and then, a searing pain exploded in his right arm. He snarled and tumbled to his right knee, then to his belly. He had been grazed by a Blaster bolt, just barely. If it had been only a space further inward; he would've lost his right arm. Then dead. He looked down to the already congealing wound. He hadn't time to inspect further, for the soldiers ahead were closing in on his station. If they captured it before he did, he'd be screwed. He scrambled up, his arm throbbing and filled with a sickening dull ache; his legs felt as if they were strands of rubber. He ran and ran until he reached the outskirts of the bunker, a boy of about fourteen years was already ahead of him. His adrenaline pumping, his heart about to burst in his chest, he planned his next course of action. As the older boy stopped at the door-- by stopping; nearly slamming into it-- Dread sustained his sprint. The older boy knelt quickly and began digging in the snow. Each station was fitted with a numerical keypad, the code would be buried before the door in an airtight capsule. As the elder boy dug frantically; Dread tucked his body and rammed his left side into the adversaries left temple. The elder boy's head struck the iron door; and he slumped forward in a daze. Chapter 2: It was dark, until he stepped a few feet ahead, then the room became very bright from the overhead lighting. It dispersed the darkness with an audible click. Most likely by this came about from motion detectors, and yet again; a dead end. His heart leapt into his throat as he heard the men behind the door. "Hurry! We're not getting paid to lolligag here!!" Panicked, he ran further into the small space ahead. He couldn't close the door behind him, it appeared to stay open by the mechanisms triggered from the scanner --meaning, he had walked into a deathtrap. He ran to the small grate to his left and began to pry at it's edges with his newfound blade. He worked methodically, jamming the bladetip into each corner, then yanking down on the hilt. He did this repeatedly, a small film of sweat forming on his brow, until the grate fell forward with a clang. It was loud, and he cursed under his breath. He ventured forward on his hands and knees slowly. It wasn't a very large space, only big enough for a child to pass through. He continued this way, sliding his palms across the surface, as well as his needs, never daring to strike the sides with his elbows or the knife- which was clamped between his teeth. He couldn't see a damn thing, the only light that followed him into the ventilation shaft had long disappeared. It almost seemed to mock him from afar, and then he felt his fingertips strike a wall. The cold fresh air howled above, like winds caught in a sails rigging, he could feel the faint caress of it running over his the beads of sweat on his body. Peering upward, he could see a small light at the top. Time to go up. He stood, spreading his palms, and the soles of his feet against the duct walls. Shifting his left and right, making sure not to slip; he made his trek upward. He did this uncomfortably for about fifteen feet- nearly falling and almost breaking his teeth when he bit down harder on the blade-- until he reached two horizontal openings above. The passage to the left was dark, very dark, so he dismissed it. He worked cautiously to the right ledge and pulled himself over, there was light in this one. Strong light. He began his sliding crawl once more, and approaching the grate, he peered through. A small room- most likely the second story's depot and bunking quarters, and straight ahead, a soldier guarded the door. Only one issue remained; the grate which he rest his face upon. He placed the knife between the slats and pried them apart. The aluminium spreading, and opening slightly. All he needed to do, was to pry it open just enough and remove the slats. This was a slow and grueling process, and silence was an utmost necessity. At one point, he nearly dropped the knife. Sweat had began to roll from his brow, and his body ached. Then, something happened that made his stomach churn. The sound of an explosion below. It rocked the ventilation shaft, and small particles of dust rained down onto him. He became very, very still. Through the slats, he eyed the man ahead, hoping the noise from below and the rattle of the ventilation shaft wouldn't draw attention to the grate. The guard looked as if he were going to turn around, but he was twisting; attempting to pop his back. The child sighed with relief. Below he could hear the men shouting. "Clear!" said one voice. "Where is that little bastard?!" said their leader. "Sir, he's entered the ventilation system." spoke another. "Private, order all ventilation systems sealed.. then gas them." "Right away sir." Out of time. He crawled back, placing his rear to the bottom of the shaft. Drawing his legs back he thrust them forward and kicked open the grating. The guard hadn't had anytime to respond, turning to see the noise from behind, his gaze fell upon an apparition of sorts. Whatever approached him looked like a white blur, and before he knew it; a bloodied boy rolled out of the ducts mouth. He began to raise up the assault rifle in his hands about to fire on him and, a pain swept through his torso. His limbs felt weak, almost as if the gun he were holding was made of lead. Looking down, he saw the hilt of a combat knife jutting from his chest. He had been struck in the heart, a perfect shot. "You.." he started to say, falling to his right knee. The boy was already upon him gripping the knife, twisting it counter-clockwise, and pulled it free. Then the boy slashed and sliced, hacking and chopping at his neck. He stood above the man, a large mass of blood began pooling at his feet. He held the severed head in his left hand, and turned slowly to the camera that had just viewed his barbaric act. Gritting his teeth, he hurled the head toward the camera, he missed, but still his point was made he figured. He moved about the bunk station, rummaging through the open lockers and drawers. He found nothing that would fit, but he did find a pack of cigarettes. Chapter 3: All the rest was trash. Annoyed, he moved back over to the body and relieved the corpse of his sidearm. It was a blaster pistol, he took the man's belt, cut it in half and punched a hole in it to where it fit snugly about his waist. He slid the knife, blade out, into the belt and approached the door. Behind him, a steel panel slammed shut over the vent he had just exited. Standing before the door, he kneeled before opening the door slowly. Outside, he was met with a dimly lit corridor to the right, a dead end; and to the left was a stairwell. Much to his disdain, a guard stood near the stairwell, yet as before; this one had his back to him too. He thought of taking the dead soldiers clothes and attempting to pass off as one of them. He realized this was a ridiculous idea, firstly; he would have to explain the blood soaked attire, and secondly, he was too short. He had to do his work quietly. Quiet and careful. He walked silently upon the balls of his feet, glad the flooring was smooth cold concrete. He could finally feel his limbs and extremeties, yet he felt wracked and sore. Sneaking closer now directly behind the man, that odd child had already drawn the knife, holding it's large fixed blade upright. He had previously placed the blaster pistols barrel into his makeshift belt behind his back, where it sat snugly yet awkwardly. He could hear the static on this soldiers radio, followed frequently by brief bursts of random chatter. The descent of stairs beyond his foe, were boxed; yet spiralled. This gave him options, but he needed to make this clean and quick. Dressed a bit more heavily then the previous man; whom he had decapitated, this one word light armor around his torso and limbs. He carried the same sidearm and blaster rifle as the former. He leaned over, and saw the male had his weapon on safety. Good. Rearing his right arm back, he aimed his blow toward the foes lower spine. Here, there was a small gap between the bottom of the vest; and the top of his trousers. He stabbed him, the blade turned horizontal as it entered. He twisted, pulled the crimson slicked blade back out, and stuck him again; this time just a space above the first entry wound. The soldier gave a cry first high in tone and loud, when the blade hit him again; it was cut off into a grunt. His legs wobbled and he teetered, to which the child shoved him forward and watched him tumble down the stairs. The soldier looked like a ragdoll of sorts, his right leg snapped, the bone broken and tearing through his left pants leg. He had also urinated himself, a large patch of wet appearing in the crotch of his bottoms. He cried out, cursing and screaming. The child hurried down the first angle of stairs, and silenced him, the cold blade cleaving through the guard's throat. He wiped the bloody knife blade on his shortslegs and returned it to it's resting place. The blaster pistol was then drawn, held in both hands, and the safety disengaged. He was highly efficient with blaster pistols, being one of the few to receive a perfect score on his exams in small arms. He knew the remaining ten soldiers were throughout this lower floor. He scurried down the steps, the barrel held low. His pace was near silent; save for the sticky pull of bloody feet from concrete. As he stepped onto the first floor, he heard distinct chatter. He pressed himself to the wall, the blaster pistol still held low with both hands, he slid to the outer corner, and crouched. Turning his head just to where his left eye could see them; he saw four men standing there in what appeared to be a lobby of sorts. They were joking around from the sound of it; meaning, they figured they had caught him in the vents. He still held the element of surprise. And he was about to surprise the hell out of them. "I'm about to relive the guard upstairs, you have a cigarette?" the first guard said. "No, I left them in my locker upstairs." said the second. "Well, lemme get one then." "You got a credit?" "Screw you. I'll ask Burns for one then." "Well, Burns is in the room. You do that." they were only about twenty-five feet distance, he noticed a few more pass from other doors. He waited, stalking them from his little corner. It felt like ages, they continued to joke around with idle banter about women and what they were going to blow their pay on. He took this chance to study every aspect of them and their characteristics. Their attire, and their gear. It seemed every member of this squad was equipped with the same rifle, and sidearm. A couple had fragmentation grenades on their hips as well. Chapter 4: He rested some, yet he remained alert during, his left eye stayed on them and the right occasionally glanced toward the stairwell. "I'm headed up, I may just lounge on the sofa and read one of those books you got 278." said the first. "You get caught doing so, and they'll fire you. They might even sic one o' those kids on you." said the one named Davison. "Well, I reckon them kids ain't nothin', we got most of them today. I suppose all that training is for nothing." "Maybe you're right. But stay alert regardless." said Davison. He heard the other soldier start his approach. The child checked his weapon, and readied himself. Drawing in a deep breath, he then pushed at the wall and spun out into the open. "It's the kid!!" shouted the approaching soldier. His comrades flipped their weapons into fire mode and drew down on him. All of this happened so fast, yet through those cream toned eyes; it was slowed to nanoseconds. The iron sights of his stolen blaster pistol swung past the soldier directly in front of him, his exclamation seeming to have slowed to an unintelligible drawl- in the child's enhanced mental state- to that of 278. The white dot, found it's mark, and the child fired a single shot before swinging back to his original position. The effect was immediate. A flash, followed by a deafening explosion filled the lobby and corridor. The approaching soldier was thrown head over heels and landed against the wall across from the platinum haired boy. He had shot the fragmentation grenade located on 278's hip. Rising from his crouch, he issued a shot to the rolling and screaming soldiers head, and turned to run through the lobby. 278 was in pieces, and a blackened, crimson spray with hunks of debris filled the lobby. The lights had all been blown out, save for the one at the end of the hallway. The other two, lay writhing in agony, blood pouring from their ears and eyes. As he darted past them, he shot both in the head. A door to his left opened, and the two who began to scramble out were put down, three shots to the first one's torso and one to the throat and groin of the other. One soldier, frantic and screaming, turned around a corner and managed to fire off a burst, at the boy. He was met with a bolt to the kneecap, followed by one more to the head. The dust and cloud from the grenade did him good. It covered his approach, yet it choked and burned his lungs as well. His bare feet were cut and scraped on the debris, and when he finally cleared it all, he ran smack into an elevator door. He pounded the button, and just to be safe; he reloaded his blaster pistol. As the elevator lowered he returned to the last man he shot. He pulled a canister grenade from the dead man's waist, and did a head count. Nine dead, only three left. He returned to the door and knelt beside it, on the left- if you were to face it. His pistol readied, he held his breath with anticipation. The elevator rumbled to a stop, and opened. No one inside. The boy stood and stepped in, facing the panel, he looked at the buttons. 2F 1F B2 B5 He pressed "B5", and was dismayed that the elevator remained dormant. Beneath it, he noticed a slot; most likely for a key -which he didn't have, nor had the desire to find currently-, so he pressed B2 and the doors closed. The elevator cables whirred above, and some shitty lounge music played from it's speakers. He realized his mistake, no doubt the soldiers would've heard the explosion above, and he had just delivered himself to them on a silver platter, or elevator in this case. Frantic, he pressed the emergency button. Nothing. He looked up, there was a small grate above it was left open, obviously for maintenance work. He knew that's where he needed to be. He moved to the left wall, and then charged toward the right. He jumped and kicked off the wall, his left hand outstretched; vainly trying to find purchase. None was found and he slammed into the left wall. He tried again, this time his fingers just grazing the edge, he gave it one more shot. Tucking his pistol into his belt after engaging the safety, he leapt upward with his all. And his fingertips caught the edge, his left fingers slipped and he swayed there trying to pull himself up more, the right fingers slowly slipping. He pushed with his feet on the air, as if it would boost him up, nothing. He swung himself from right to left, much like a humanoid pendulum in the elevator's center. And that time he got it, yet the sharp metal dug into his hands and cut into them. It didn't matter, he pulled himself up onto the cold dark of the elevators exterior. The brakes hit and the doors opened just as soon as he made it up. Almost as soon as the door opened, blaster fire rained into the small space and peppered the inside. Chapter 5: The squad leader had been awaiting the boys arrival since he heard the explosion above. He knelt behind a column in the rear, his rifle pointed at the elevators door. His two comrades were ahead of him one kneeling behind an overturned table and the other behind an adjacent column. "278, respond." he said into his com-link. "278, respond!" No response. "Alright boys, let's assume the worst has happened. When those elevator doors open, light that tin box up." He said this into his com-link, so if one of his squad members made it. They'd know better than to enter the elevator. Then, the door opened. "Kill that little bastard!!" the captain shouted. As the door breached he issued a few three-round-bursts into the door. The others under his command followed suit. The captain, then realizing the boy hadn't been in there; called them off. "Stop! Cease fire!" The other two did as told. The other, hiding behind the pillar adjacent to his leader ran forward and stopped to crouch beside his ally near the overturned table. His partner ran ahead, while the former provided cover. He stopped, his back pressed to the wall; and the first man ran to the opposite side of him. The back wall was riddled with blaster holes, yet, there was no sign of the boy's coming down, save a smear of bloodon the left wall. "Sir, he's not here." said the man to the right of the door. The captain became frustrated, this child had given him the most problems out of the bunch. And with his other squad members not answering his call; it also made him a little paranoid. He knew the extensive training these children underwent, and he had seen a couple teams- such as his- get slaughtered during these field tests. "Take the elevator up, and I'll take the stairwell. We'll form a pincer and corner that little bastard." He called out to them. They nodded, and entered the elevator, and he began to take himself to the stairwell entrance. The boys heart pounded in his chest, and his ears rang from the blaster fire below. He could barely make out what the leader was saying; but he could already tell what they were planning. It was simple, and rash. He barely looked beyond the opening before the cable next to him stirred. Then, with a whir and strained groan; the elevator began its course upward. He was poised on the balls of his feet in a squat. The blaster pistol, lay next to his right leg yet ready for use, yet he had another plan. Rising some, and trying his best to maintain balance; he drew the grenade from his belt loop. He studied it, gripped the handle, and pulled the ring. These had a two second delay, which was enough time for him to shield himself in the corner when it detonated. Scooting over-- looking like a crab of sorts, and under better circumstances it would've been comical-- he lowered himself again. The grenade was tossed nonchalantly into the small opening. Then he buried his face and ears into his knees. The guards stood alert, each with their backs to an opposite wall, and facing one another. The plan was to sweep the area beyond the elevator doors and meet up with the captain at the center. Somewhere, mid-way through their ascent; a elongated can fell from the ceiling and struck the soldier to the right, on his head. Before either could give an outcry; the interior of the elevator was filled with a brilliant flash. The concussion emitted in such an enclosed space mashed them to their respected wall, and both hit the floor. He lost his balance, the concussion grenade had rocked the elevator and threatened to throw him into the cable and it's works. He caught himself, and crawled over to the pistol. Below, the two men screamed in agony and duress, he quickly drew down on both and delivered a shot to each. Only one left. He climbed down, ungracefully, and landed in a crouch as the doors opened. He tucked and rolled, bringing himself to the door's right side, his pistol held close. The other men lie dead in the hall. No sign of his last foe, nor sound of him. He cautiously stepped out of the elevator, and darted to the left. Reaching the corner of a wall, he sat and waited, his pistol held down toward the stairwell entrance. The elevator door behind him attempted to close, but one of the soldiers legs was hanging out. It would slide closed, stop, and open again, the now distorted lounge music still playing in the background. He had made quite a mess here, the cameras which lined the hall all pointed to him. "They" had been watching the entire time, and no doubt; would be pleased with his work. He began to lose focus, his thoughts overflowing with unanswered questions, and theories. Then he was snapped back to reality by the door at the end of the hall being kicked open. The commander had arrived. Chapter 6: He plowed through the door, his right shoulder throbbing from the impact. His entry was supposed to be quiet, but apparently some asshole finally decided to follow protocol and keep the door locked this time. Staggering out into the corridor, he stood near the stairwell which led to the bunking quarters. His foot kicked the bolt and slid it into the baseboard, where it gave a loud chattering clink. "Frack it." he said, readying his weapon, he stepped forward and noticed one of his comrades slumped dead against the wall. Rounding the corner, he looked beyond and was appalled at what lie before him. Pieces of men lie strewn about the corridor, some lay dead in doorways and others had fallen either in flight or pursuit. And to top it off, the last two lie in the elevator straight ahead, the door ringing and attempting to shut every five seconds. "... Frack." Was all he could say. There was his squad, torn to pieces by a mere child. No. Not just a child. Some hideous experiment no doubt. Some demon. He grew extremely paranoid, and his knees began to grow weak. Here he was wandering in the open, and that "demon" could be anywhere. He regained his senses and took another step forward, tin crunch of rubble and glass beneath his feet gave an almost softened and apologetic sound. He had his gun ready, sweeping from right to left; and each door he approached he lunged forward expecting to see the boy. But no boy was found. A glimpse of something, behind the bench and potted plant near the corner. Something platinum toned. He fired on it screaming curses as he did so. The boy had watched him approach, and still aiming his pistol toward the last foe; he saw the fear filling the man. It was what he wanted, he wanted this man to hurt. To die. He watched him fire onto the corner, the starburst of the man's weapon flash in a fury. It was for naught, he had fired on the opposite corner. The boy had cut his hair, with the knife; and placed it in the large brush of the potted plant. It was a good bit of hair, and he knew in the man's panicked state that he would automatically assume the boy still hid there. Dred waited until the man finished firing in his anger, and shot him in the right kneecap, then the groin. His foe went down, howling in agony. The boy, arose from his position and calmly walked near the rolling and screaming man. Still, like a haunt, his skinny and bloodied body glowed in the dim light. His hair gapped and odd, much like it's owner, and eyes, colored with accents of cream; looked upon the fallen foe. No emotion. Lifeless. A Demon. He raised his pistol and fired.. The boy dropped the pistol, and walked over to the left wall. His upper right arm stung, filled with a tremendous ache and throbbing sensation. His body was smeared and spattered with speckles of crimson. His gapped hair matted, lacking its former pristine luster of brilliant platinum- lie matted against his brow. He produced the cigarette pack and matches from his makeshift belt, and lit one. No sooner had he slid down the wall, crumpling in an exhausted heap, one of the doors within the corridor opened. It had remained shut during the duration of his survival within this training compound. A flashing red light; now turning over to green as an audible buzz and click filled the surroundings area. It slid upward, and stepping out was a middle-aged man, clad in a business suit. The blazer and trousers were of the purest whites; and complimenting his aire of professionality, he wore a pair of thin-rimmed glasses and carried a datapad. His facial features were refined and sharp, and he had an odd pair of cream colored eyes. He approached the boy, and following in his wake were a dozen heavily armed men. Each were adorned in thick armor. They all formed a half-circle, weapons drawn and ready; about the man and boy-- who still lay against the wall smoking his cigarette. "Congratulations on passing your exam Dred." he said in a dry and flat tone. He checked off things on his datapad, and refused to look upon the boy directly. The boy stared up at him, wafts of smoke rising and escaping his nostrils as he listened with acute indifference. "Do you have any comments or personal questions on your grading result?" The boy didn't reply. "Very well." said the man, he finally looked at the boy, and held out his right hand to the general direction of a soldier. The soldier handed him a set of dogtags, with the title "Dread" freshly printed on them. He then unceremoniously tossed them to the boy. The boy made no attempt to pick them up, nor did he respond, instead, he removed the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it to his left. "I will personally congratulate you on your reception of your new name, Dread." he said this in a hollow manner, a slight hint of disdain held in his words. Almost as if he were reading from a screen ahead- without much enthusiam. He turned his back to the boy and started to leave. "Take him away." One soldier approached and struck the child in the head with the butt of his rifle, and all went dark. Roleplay Development None as of yet Abilities Trained in tracking, the use of almost all weapons ranging from close quarters to long distance, not a master of all but is training to become one. Stealth was key in his training. | DRED Assassin Merc
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