John Smith

Real Name: John Smith
Hero/Renegade/Villain Title: Fleetfoot
Title: Jackass-of-all-trades
Alignment: Renegade
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Hair: Light Auburn/Brown
Eyes: Dark Green
Height: 5'8"'
Weight: 175 lbs.

Costume Description/Image: John tends to wear his assassin gear, preferring its light weight and mobility over anything else.

Personality: John tends to hold a professional demeanor in all of his endeavors. Having experienced pain in his past, attachment is beyond him. He only holds loyalty to those who pay the most. Human life, to him, is fragile and finite, and he has no qualms with ending it. In much the same regard, he doesn't fear death. This being said, he is a highly capable fighter, and extremely dangerous to the unknowing or careless.

History: In preparation for the inevitability of war, it was destined that some people would grow fearing it. In this same respect, those people would do anything to prevent it. This led to the creation of the SCP. And acronym for Secure, Contain, Protect, the SCP was founded to raise warriors meant to combat the rising amount of super`powered humans. A facility built deep underground, its goal was to prevent the abuse of unnatural powers. In order to do this, it specialized in training average humans, using small amounts of super DNA to mega-enhance their physical abilities.

This is how John Smith was raised. His mother, a wastrel lost to her own heroin addiction, gave him up in return for a hefty sum of money. He was then placed in under the care of the SCP. From day one, he was subjected to injections. At first, it had horrible reactions in his body, making him violently ill through most of his young life. It wasn't until he'd turned 13 that the DNA finally awoke inside of him. He was quickly enlisted into the combat division.

What most took years to learn, John excelled. Just under 4 years, he had completely mastered hand-to-hand combat, and was adept in gun play. Preferring dual revolvers and SMGs over their heavier counterparts, he was dubbed Fleetfoot. His incredible speed mixed with his sharp intuition and combat prowess made him a horror to foes, whether in close combat or medium distance. Top of his class, John was regarded as the SCPs most gifted fighter. Naturally, after graduation, he was quickly scooped up by those with the cash to catch his attention.

While Johns primary role is to hunt down Super-humans and eliminate or capture them, he chooses to spend a lot of his time working as a mercenary. Money is the word in his world, and naturally the highest bidder gets the prize. He is currently traveling through the States with a small caravan, biding his time until he meets a challenge.

Equipment
Having no super natural power whatsoever, Johns strengths lie in his physical and intellectual prowess. Using his super intelligence, he's designed his own load-out of weaponry.

Bladed Gauntlets and Boots: Hidden in the wrists of his gauntlets and the soles of his boots are specially designed blades. Fitted with Solarium cores, they are superior to normal steel, and nearly indestructible. One careless mistake could be the difference between life and a sliced jugular.

Maria and Marley: Dual handguns designed specifically for Johns fighting style, most people would find these guns difficult to use. Both are designed with an internal rotor, which can rocket a bullet at almost double the average speed of a magnum slug. While he uses normal .45 rounds, the sheer velocity from these shots is enough to shatter diamond.

Carly: The final weapon in Johns small personal armory, Carly is a custom Thompson Machine Gun. Favoring its large ammo capacity and compact design, John carries it in a special holder fitted into the back of his outfit. The chamber is fitted with both an under-barrel for shooting slugs short range, and a silencer for silent kills.

Power Grid
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Power Grid colours: Green/Black



Roleplay Sample
Silence. That was the key to this job. In the next room was the target. A young philanthropist with a nasty habit of hooker-slaying. It didn't matter to John either way. 5 grand was 5 grand. He checked the drum on his Thompson, Carly, once more. He wanted this to be quick, and what better way to do it than with a Prohibition-Era machine gun?

Using the shadows, he slipped through the cracked-open door. The clicking of letters on a keyboard reassured him that the target was unaware of his presence. Good. He stepped closer, finger stiff at the trigger and awaiting the perfect moment to fire.

It was then that the lights flashed on. Panels along the wall slid down, revealing multiple armed men. They were only thugs, handguns pointed at him.

"I see the party already started. Well, here's your guest of honor."

He stood tall, watching his opponents carefully. They were all bigger than him. But, as any well-trained fighter knew, size didn't matter. John slipped Carly back into her holster. He wouldn't need her for this. Cracking his neck, he awaited the first move.

It came soon enough. The flash of gunfire was almost impossible to miss. Long before the bullet had left the gun, he was a step back. It whizzed by harmlessly, burying into the dry wall with a loud thud. Shortly after, bullets were flying. This was when he was most efficient. He functioned best in the heat of combat. It was what he was bred to do. Bullet after bullet zoomed by, not a single shell coming in contact with him. The click of empty clips told him that they'd wasted every bullet. It was their mistake.

The one behind him, a burly, unshaven man, charged at him. John didn't flinch. Instead, he greeted the behemoth with a well placed fist to the face. He was sent reeling back, crashing through the wall.

"If you're going to kill me, do in. I'm bored."

His words spurned the rest. Apparently common sense wasn't a gift these men had. Charging a person who could dodge their poor-placed shots must've seemed like a great idea. They were quickly on him, and one threw a blow into his gut. It had almost no effect, the glare in his eyes hardening. There was a flash of steel, followed by the spout of blood now erupting from the mans throat. A blade jutted from Johns wrist, buried in the poor sods throat.

Thugs aren't so tough when they see such an effortless kill. They backed away, leaving a clear path to the man tapping at the computer. His cocky attitude betrayed him. He believed his goons could handle one person. Why bother with it? Of course, this notion was ripped from his head as he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his skull. There were no words. A loud pop, followed by the gore of blood and brain coating the computer screen. Holstering the gun, John turned away, walking out without even a second glance at the idiots staring awestruck at the dead man.

Needless to say, John ate rather well that night.

Approved until stated otherwise