This post outlines sections from my character's backstory.
If you would like to roleplay, reach out to me on the Homecoming discord or in game.
In-game Handle: Sablex
Discord: mrjameston
*Warning - There are themes of violence in this backstory. Do not read if that bothers you*
The cold air lightly caressed the figure as they silently traversed a dimly lit sidewalk. The right hand remained securely tucked into the pocket of the hoodie, while the left gripped a convenience store bag. The perpetually awake city felt strangely desolate that night, devoid of any visible souls except for the occasional passing car. Alongside the Brownstone residential buildings, the figure walked with head slightly bowed, seeking refuge from the biting wind beneath the hood.
Amid the quietude, thoughts remained undisturbed as the figure made their way back to a small apartment. The city's streets, still unfamiliar, posed a navigation challenge, a testament to the newness of this start. Yet, uncertainty lingered about what to make of this fresh beginning. Embedded skills, honed and perfected from an early age, resided within, but their utility proved elusive—nothing legitimate, it seemed, only avenues tainted with illegality.
A sudden, brief scream pierces the quiet city neighborhood, its echo lingering before abruptly dissipating. The figure's head instinctively rises, and his steps come to a halt as he scans the surroundings. Brown eyes fixate on the darkness of an alleyway merely 15 feet away. With cautious determination, he proceeds toward the alley, the convenience store bag in hand and the other still tucked in his pocket, peering into the obscure depths before him.
His gaze remains fixed down the alley, searching for any signs of movement. Silhouettes, illuminated by distant lights at the other end of the alley, come into view. Two male figures and a female. The female struggles to rise, but the two men restrain her, hurling insults as they dominate the scene. Setting his bag on the ground, he comprehends the gravity of the situation unfolding before him.
As if propelled by an instinctive response, his hand seizes the gaiter wrapped around his neck, swiftly pulling it up to conceal the lower half of his face. His steps lead him down the alley, unwavering focus fixed on the unfolding scene.
"Alright, I'm done. Get her purse," one voice commands, prompting the two silhouettes to move toward the alley's exit, intending to depart.
He continues to follow them, only shifting his gaze as he passes their previous location. Distant street lights cast a partial glow on the woman's face, revealing shock and terror as she glances back at him. His eyes briefly meet hers before refocusing ahead. "Hey! Guys!" he calls out, his voice breaking the alley's stillness. "Where did you get that purse?"
The duo halts and turns towards the new voice. As they approach, one of them, holding the stolen purse, brandishes a gun. "We got it from that broad. Why? You want it back?" he sneers.
With caution, the man raises both hands, withdrawing them from his pockets, taking a step back as the armed figure draws nearer. The tension in the alley thickens, shadows concealing the unfolding confrontation.
As the two men close in, the one wielding the gun advances, aiming to press it against the hooded man's head. The ominous proximity heightens the tension in the dimly lit alley, shadows casting an eerie backdrop to the unfolding confrontation.
In a sudden and fluid motion, the hooded man's left hand jolts forward, deflecting the suspect's hand holding the gun away. Simultaneously, his right hand swiftly moves to his hip, drawing a pistol from a holster. Tucking it along his hip, two shots resound, causing the first man to stagger and fall back.
With a decisive snap of his body, the hooded man secures the grip on his weapon. The second man, reaching for his own firearm, is met with two more thunderous shots, causing him to stumble backward. After a brief pause, a third shot, aimed at his head, resonates through the alley, and the man collapses to the ground.
The sudden eruption of gunfire shatters the stillness, each shot resounding like thunder in the previously silent night. The staccato bursts echo through the air, leaving an indelible mark on the hushed surroundings. The abrupt reports pierce through the peace, their intensity seizing the senses.
Relaxing his posture, the hooded man lowers his gun, allowing it to fall to his side. His gaze shifts over the two figures; the first man, shot and still moving slightly on the ground, and the second, now motionless.
Silently, he proceeds toward the surviving man and the purse lying nearby. Without uttering a word, he bends down, carefully picking up the purse with his left hand. While standing and facing the woman, he raises his gun, pointed at the man's head, and lets one final shot thunder through the alley. The man's movements abruptly cease.
Retracting his firearm into the hip holster under his clothing, the hooded man walks back down the alley toward the woman. As he reaches her, he gazes down with a solemn look in his eyes. "Here's your purse," he conveys through the muffled voice under his neck gaiter.
The woman takes the purse gently, a lingering fear still evident in her eyes as she looks at him. He moves to speak, but the distant wail of sirens prompts him to raise his head toward the other end of the alley. "Wait here, the police will be here soon," he says softly before making his way to the alley exit to retrieve his bag.
How had he come to this point? He had just taken the lives of two men, yet an unsettling numbness settled over him. Despite the gravity of the situation, a conviction lingered within him—an assurance that these two had met the justice they deserved. The woman, tragically, had not been spared in time, but the two assailants would never inflict harm again. In his mind, that was enough. The weight of his actions felt both heavy and strangely justified, leaving an indelible mark on the hooded man's conscience.
New Beginnings
14 years ago
Richard enters Mark's room, the atmosphere laden with unspoken tension. The subdued glow of a lone lamp accentuates the rugged contours of Richard's face, concealed beneath the tactical attire emblematic of the Shadow Vanguard. Despite the formidable exterior, a subtle warmth emanates from his eyes as he gazes at Mark.
"Mark, lad, mind if I join you for a moment?" Richard's words resonate with the gravity of seasoned wisdom, tempered by a paternal care.
Reclining on his bed, Mark fixates on the television screen, absorbing the unfolding program. A hand casually rests behind his head, projecting an air of relaxation as his gaze traverses the luminous images. The distant echo of footsteps prompts his attention to shift from the TV to the door, where Richard makes his entrance.
"Sure, come on in," Mark utters softly, adjusting to a seated position. His hand instinctively powers down the TV, placing the remote on the bed beside him. "Something come up?" he inquires with a hint of curiosity, his eyes probing Richard for insight.
Upon entering, Richard quietly closes the door, enveloping the room in a dimly lit ambiance, fostering an aura of partial secrecy. His discerning gaze takes in Mark's composed demeanor and the subtle transition of attention from the TV to his presence.
Moving purposefully, Richard selects a chair, situating it close to Mark's bed before settling into it. His eyes convey a blend of comprehension and genuine concern, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken nuances in Mark's demeanor.
"Indeed, lad, there's been a matter weighin' on me mind, and I reckoned it's time for a bit of a chat," Richard remarks. His eyes, both serious and caring, lock onto Mark's. "You've got the makin's of a stellar operative, there's no denyin' that. Yet, I've observed a certain...distance, a burden on your shoulders. Something more than the gear strapped to your back. What's troublin' you, Mark?"
Mark maintains eye contact with Richard, a brief pause accentuating his contemplation. Despite his youthful appearance, there's a palpable gravity weighing on the young man, a burden seemingly accumulated beyond his years.
"The night you found me," Mark begins, his gaze momentarily drifting away from Richard, "When I was going to kill my dad's killer, and you stopped me."
His eyes swiftly return to meet Richard's, carrying a questioning intensity. "Why? Why did you stop me from doing it?"
Richard's gaze remains unwavering, a blend of remorse and empathy reflected in his eyes. Leaning slightly forward, hands clasped together, he imparts his perspective.
"Mark, what you were aimin' to do that night, I understand the pain drivin' it. Loss, grief, it's a fire that can consume a man. But revenge, lad, it's a path that twists and turns, leadin' ye to places you might never find yer way back from. I've seen it happen, too many times."
A brief pause follows, allowing the gravity of Richard's words to permeate the air.
"I stopped ye, not out of judgment, but out of concern. You've got potential, lad, potential to be more than a vessel for vengeance. What happened to your father, it's a wound that'll scar, but it doesn't have to define ye. I've seen too many good men lose themselves in that pursuit. We need you focused, sharp. Not lost in the shadows of the past."
Mark's gaze lingers on Richard, absorbing the weight of the spoken wisdom. Gradually, his eyes drift away from Richard, the impact of the conversation settling in. Richard, in this moment, embodies the paternal figure Mark never had, offering guidance reminiscent of fatherly advice.
"As a kid, I thought I'd follow in my dad's footsteps. Deputy Anderson, just like him," Mark murmurs softly, a gentle sigh escaping him. "But life didn't unfold that way. And now, I don't think I'm anything like him."
Richard's countenance softens, the weathered lines on his face reflecting a profound understanding.
"Mark, though yer path may differ from yer father's, it doesn't mean ye ain't akin to him. The flame, the commitment to justice, it's all there. Just treadin' a different, more perilous road, I grant ye that. It ain't about bein' identical; it's about upholding the essence of who ye are and where ye hail from."
He takes a moment, selecting his words with care.
"Yer journey, it's one for justice, I can see that. But revenge, it'll tarnish the very justice ye seek. Bein' like yer father goes beyond a title; it resides in the heart and the choices we make. I've witnessed darkness consume many, lad. Don't let it grip ye. Yer father's legacy endures within ye, yet it's up to ye to shape it."
Richard's words envelop Mark like a comforting blanket, providing a semblance of solace in the unfolding narrative. Even in this moment of reassurance, Mark acknowledges the truth – this isn't the conclusion of the story. As Richard aptly mentioned, a perilous road lies ahead, and the journey ahead is fraught with challenges.
Richard discerns the subtle shift in Mark's demeanor, detecting a fusion of acceptance and determination. In a gesture of reassurance, he places a firm yet comforting hand on Mark's shoulder.
"Ye possess strength, lad. Stronger than ye might reckon. But remember, strength transcends the battlefield. It resides in the choices we make, the burdens we bear, and the path we carve. Yer father's legacy, it's in capable hands. Take the lessons, the pain, and let it mold ye into somethin' greater."
With a nod, Richard gracefully rises from the chair, embodying a fusion of mentorship and camaraderie.
"If ever ye need to talk, I'm here. We all are. Now, rest up. Tomorrow brings a new skirmish, and ye need yer wits about ye."
He strides towards the door, leaving Mark to ponder the lingering echoes of wisdom that fill the room.
Bad Choice Road
13 years later
The door to Mark's room creaks open, revealing both Sophia and Richard standing at the entrance. Sophia's enigmatic aura contrasts with Richard's weathered yet resolute demeanor.
Taking a step forward, Richard's gaze reflects a blend of concern and understanding, while Sophia's penetrating eyes scrutinize Mark, assessing the toll recent events have exacted on him.
With a voice infused with empathy, Richard speaks, "Mark, lad, we've heard that ye're leavin'. Care to discuss it before rushin' into any hasty decisions?"
Sophia maintains her silence, her focus locked on Mark, an inscrutable expression concealed beneath the shadows of her hooded eyes.
Mark's arm lay ensconced in a cast, causing the sleeve of his hoodie to protrude outward. His countenance presented a tapestry of cuts, pronounced bruising, and fatigue manifesting as heavy bags beneath his eyes. At 29, he remained a young man, yet the toll of recent events rendered his youth indiscernible beneath the visible damage etched across his face. With his free hand, he methodically packed his belongings—clothes, armor, personal effects—all thrown into a duffel bag.
A poignant pause seized him as he cradled one of his Sig Sauer P226s. The once familiar heft of the steel felt foreign as it rested in his palm. His gaze descended to the firearm, stoic eyes fixating on the black steel. In that moment, his mind replayed the sequence of events, contemplating the missteps, the what-ifs, and the heavy cost paid in the form of lost friends and a brother.
The resonant echoes of footsteps along the steel floor outside alert Mark, prompting him to swiftly stow away the first Sig Sauer P226 in his bag. With practiced efficiency, he seizes the second P226, concealing it amidst clothing in the same motion.
As the door opens, Mark shifts his head slightly, catching a glimpse from the corner of his eye to identify the intruder. In a gruff and hoarse voice, he declares, "There's nothing to talk about." Resuming his focus on the bag, he continues forcefully stuffing clothing into it.
Sophia's gaze, partly concealed by the hood, reveals a subtle concern as she absorbs the sight of Mark. Richard, positioned beside her, wears an expression of tacit understanding.
Leaning against the doorframe, Richard addresses Mark with measured words, "Mark, lad, we've weathered much together. Ye've every right to make yer choices, but let's not part without a word. What occurred on that mission, it's not a burden ye carry solo."
Sophia remains silent, her presence emanating a quiet intensity. Despite the shadows veiling her eyes, there's a sense that she comprehends the gravity of the situation.
Softening his gaze, Richard adds, "Ye're wounded, Mark, not just in body. Departing won't erase the past. We've confronted darkness side by side, but we've also discovered strength within our unity. Allow us to share the load, whatever it may be."
Richard's words hang in the air, but as the room absorbs their resonance, a simmering anger begins to manifest within Mark. Closing his duffel bag with purpose, he stands in silence for a moment before pivoting to walk directly toward Richard and Sophia. In the full illumination, the extent of his injuries becomes starkly evident. Deep knife cuts, now stitched closed, trace a harrowing path from his forehead over his brow and along his cheek.
His left and right eyes both bear a black hue, surrounded by bruises that mark his forehead and cheekbone. A once-busted lower lip, now in the process of healing, completes the visual testament to the physical toll.
A fiery intensity burns in Mark's eyes as he gazes between Richard and Sophia. His voice, not raised but carrying a soft rage that threatens to erupt, delivers a revelation. "The organization abandoned me based on faulty intel. I'm breathing right now because I fought my way out and left none standing."
His eyes shift between the two, pain etched deep within the damaged orbs. "They murdered my brother before my eyes, my mom disowned me, and my friends are dead," he utters through a voice strained by pain. "I fully appreciate the gravity of my situation."
Richard's gaze remains unwavering, absorbing the weight of Mark's revelations without flinching. Instead, he meets Mark's eyes with a sober comprehension.
Sophia's concealed eyes flicker with a glint of empathy, silently acknowledging the scars etched across Mark's face.
Choosing his words with care, Richard responds with a weighty tone, "Mark, what transpired is an egregious injustice. No one should endure the torment ye faced. We mourn the loss of yer brother and the anguish that's befallen ye. But departing won't erase the past, lad. We're here to stand by yer side, to pursue justice for the wrongs inflicted upon ye."
Though silent, Sophia emanates a sense of tacit solidarity.
Richard's eyes reveal a blend of sorrow and resolve, "Leavin' may seem necessary, but don't let the shadows of one mission obscure the broader perspective. Together, we can still set things right."
He imparts a subtle nod, signifying an acknowledgment of the profound gravity of the situation.
Sophia, her hooded gaze unwaveringly focused on Mark, imparts words of quiet intensity, "Pain reverberates through the shadows, Mark. I've witnessed it consume many. Your choices, your burdens, they mold the road ahead. Departing may offer respite, but shadows have a knack for trailing. In this struggle, you are not solitary, whether you opt to confront it or turn away."
Her words carry an enigmatic weight, a blend of understanding and an unspoken challenge. The ensuing silence resonates with the unspoken intricacies of their shared history.
Mark's gaze lingers between the two as he pauses, contemplating the weight of his decision. After a few moments, he speaks again, frustration evident in his gritted teeth. "There's nothing left for me here. I can't place trust in anyone anymore," he declares before turning back to his duffel bag. With a mix of care and clumsiness, he slings it over his shoulder before facing Richard and Sophia once more.
"Don't trail after me, and don't keep watch. I don't need anyone anymore," he asserts softly, making his way forward between the two and exiting the room. The door closes behind him, leaving behind a palpable sense of finality in the lingering silence.
Sophia's hooded gaze tracks Mark's departure, a subtle nod acknowledging his choice. Richard, a silent observer, wears an expression that blends sadness with understanding.
As the door closes behind Mark, the room descends into a solemn stillness, the weight of his departure casting a shadow upon the memories shared within those walls. The echoes of his decision reverberate, leaving behind a poignant emptiness in the wake of his absence.
