Daken Akihiro Aug 11, 2015 0:49:04 GMT
Post by Deleted on Aug 11, 2015 0:49:04 GMT
NAME: Akihiro. Last name unknown.
ALIAS: Daken. Daken Akihiro.
MEMBER GROUP: Mutants
POWERS AND ABILITIES:
Daken has inherited most of Wolverine's powers, as following:
REGENERATIVE HEALING FACTOR: Daken has an accelerated regenerative factor that allows him to regenerate damaged or destroyed tissue with a much bigger efficiency than any normal humans. This power is commonly referred to as 'healing factor'. The actual speed of his healing isn't known, but he has shown to be able to regenerate from several gun wounds, severe burns, sword cuts, all in a matter of seconds. Perhaps the actual speed that he recovers is slightly better than Logan's, since Daken doesn't suffer from the adamantium poisoning that Logan goes through, which forces Wolverine's healing system to work on overdrive.
His healing factor also grants him immunity from Earthly diseases and infections. Another side effect from the healing factor is the fact that Daken ages much, much slower than a normal human. Although he's over 60 years old, he still looks like a man on his late 20s, with the physical prowess of a man on the top of his shape. It also prevents him from being effected by chemicals. That includes drugs (medical or not, painkillers will have no effect on him, neither will hallucinogens) or even alcohol.
SUPERHUMAN SENSES: Daken's senses are superhumanly acute, sometimes comparable to those of some animals. His sight is much more enhanced than a normal human's, allowing him to see at greater distances and with perfect clarity, even in darkness. His hearing is greatly enhanced, allowing him to detect sounds that are normal humans couldn't hear, at a far greater distance as well. His sense of smell is so acute that he can detect people by scent, even if they're hidden, or even if the scent is mixed with other smells, or if it's faint in the air. He can also detect changes in someone's scent, such as the chemical changes that happen when someone's lying.
ENHANCED STAMINA: Thanks to his healing factor, the toxins that are usually expelled during exercise are dealt with faster, which allows Daken to have a stronger stamina than a normal humans.
QUICK REFLEXES: His superhuman senses allow him to have a faster reaction time than normal humans.
CLAWS: Daken's claws are similar but not identical to his father's. While Wolverine's come all three from his knuckles, Daken has two that spring from his knuckles and one from his inner wrist. His razor-sharp claws are made of bone, a more resistant, dark-colored bone material that is sturdy enough to cut through concrete and steel. He has no adamantium in his body whatsoever, so the amount of actual surfaces he can cut through is limited by the fact that although very sturdy and durable, his claws are indeed just bone.
All of his razor-sharp claws are made of bone, a more resistant, dark-colored bone material that is sturdy enough to cut through concrete and steel. He has no adamantium in his body whatsoever, so the amount of actual surfaces he can cut through is limited by the fact that although very sturdy and durable, his claws are indeed just bone.
PHEROMONES: An unique trait that comes with Daken's mutation is the ability of projecting pheromones from his body. Those pheromones are physical in nature and not psionic at all. With those, he is able to cloak his scent, manipulate emotions such as fear and desire on those that are affected by his scent. For the pheromone to be effective, he must be within a certain proximity, enough so that his scent can be inhaled by the person he's trying to affect. And it is through his scent that he manages to activate this power, so any disruptions to the area around him, such as large winds or anything that would prevent his victim to breathe would disrupt the effect of his pheromones.
Some of his weaknesses can be found exactly in his heightened senses. He cannot turn them off, so anything extreme done to those senses could harm him. Extremely loud sounds, for example, can be highly painful to the point of making him unable to act or react. Bright lights will be a lot more painful to him since he can see them much brighter than normal humans.
Daken can die by decapitation. Without his brain connected to the parts of the body he needs to heal, he will eventually die. Although his bone structure is sturdier than ordinary bones, is still possible to decapitate him a very sharp blade or sword. If Daken ever happens to be without his healing powers (due to a power inhibitor collar, for example), he can be killed easily as he would not have his healing factor. However, as soon as his powers are restored, he would heal just as before.
Carbonadium - The substance, when introduced in his system, halts his healing factor and begins poisoning him slowly.
Adamantium - Adamantium is a poisonous metal that while in small doses might only cause his healing factor to slow down, if it's ingested in some form in high quantities, enough to cause the healing factor to go on overdrive trying to heal him, it could damage his nervous system to the point that he would eventually die.
While Daken's resilient, he needs his brain connected to the rest of his body in order to survive explosions. But it also goes both ways. While he's capable of regenerating body parts (such as hands, or fingers, or feet, etc), he cannot fully regenerate his body if it's completely gone (for example, an explosion that destroys most of his body).
PLAYBY: Lewis Tan
PLAYER NAME: Betsy
AGE: 30+ And now one year older *cries*
OTHER CHARACTERS: if you have any.
Pen and paper. Such an antiquated method of communication nowadays with smartphones and tablets but that is only for those that actually know how to use such things. I doubt he does. In fact, I doubt he owns a cellphone, not even those old ones that look like bricks. Highly disappointing, I know. An email would have done the trick but then again... what mystery is in wondering who that message can be from, who has found your address, and why you're being hunted for this time? No, even if he did have those technology items, I would still have chosen to write him a letter with my own hand. Even though I probably will never send it. Not until it's the right time.
I looked briefly back at the body that still lay asleep in my bed, and I couldn't help but grin, as it mattered little if I even remembered his name. I did, though, because my memory is just that good. It's of little importance though, because while he was hunting me down, I turned the tables around and made him the prey. In a few minutes, he woke up, rubbing his eyes and watching me sitting by the desk in this expensive hotel room I had booked for the night. Standing up, he walked towards me, placing a kiss on my neck, to which I simply smirked, and glanced back at him as he tried to peek at whatever I was going to start writing. Foolish of him to think I would give him any clues whatsoever.
"Slept well, I see."
He stretched behind me, as if he had no care in the world. "Like a baby. You?"
"Couldn't sleep." I stood up abruptly, leaning to give him a last kiss before patting his bottom with a cheeky grin. "Don't you have somewhere to go?"
"I do," He said, then reached for a knife, touching its blade to my throat. "But not without getting your head as my prize."
My laughter echoed through the room, almost eerily so. Foolish, really. Was he sent on his own? Was that bounty still on my head? And if it were, did he even know who he was dealing with? Apparently not. I dropped my pen as if it had been a weapon, a sarcastic gesture, really, but truthfully, I was enjoying this. "Oh handsome, go on." Tilting my head upwards, I allowed the blade to connect even further to my skin, gritting my teeth as I grinned at the same time. Pain, I felt it every time. Yet every time it mattered so little. "Go on. Slit my throat." I pressed my neck further against the blade, making a wound that started bleeding. "Go ahead. Slice my throat open. Ah the smell of fear. Always a lovely scent."
He was speechless, and slowly lowered his weapon. And as soon as he did, the wound, once open and bleeding, began closing, almost as if by miracle, instantly leaving nothing in its place, not even a small scratch. Then, the peculiar sound and the three bone claws, two from the knuckles, one from the inner wrist, sprung forward, plunging into his stomach. He muffled a cry of pain, but it was too late now. "I'm not a man of second chances."
Bones are not as sturdy as steel. Not as sturdy as adamantium. Yet they do the job well done, especially when they are razor-sharp and can cut through concrete and steel. Thank you, daddy, for this little gift. It has always come in handy. As I removed them, covered in the blood of the man that attempted to kill me, I lowered his body to the floor, then cleaned them with his own shirt that was tossed on the floor only hours before. And to think this was how he thanked me for making him scream... Too bad that now he didn't even have a chance to before he died.
In any case, I picked the pen again, and the sheets of recycled paper, and continued to do what I had planned on doing the moment I woke up. A letter, that might never reach its destination.
There might come that day in your life when you will regret all the mistakes you've made. There might come the day when you will look at the mirror and wonder if your past will one day finally catch up with you. Let me tell you one thing, the past always catches up with you. No matter how much you try to hide from it, how much you believe you're safe from it. No matter where you are, when you live as long as you have, you know very well that you have no other choice but face all that you've done.
Do not think for one moment that I believed every single word that was told to me as I grew up. My life was nothing but lies, daddy. Lies that you brought upon me by simply existing. Hadn't you been who you are, I would not have been born, I would not have been stripped from my dead mother's womb. Perhaps you would ask me if I would rather be dead. Ask me now, and I will say I don't, but that is simply because I've learned how to take from life what I want and take it by any means necessary. I learned to enjoy what fine things I could get from it, the soft touch of a beautiful woman, the rougher touch of a handsome man, a glass of fine French champagne and the taste of a nice caviar. No, I don't enjoy those nasty-smelling cigars I've heard you're so fond of. Or that bitter taste of beer that you seem to enjoy so much. There's much between us that is different, dear dad, and I like to keep it that way.
When you left, because you've left, and that much I'm sure of, my dead mother still carried me alive in her womb. He came, tore her flesh apart, removed me, and only through the healing factor that you've given me through your strong genetics kept me alive. He nurtured me, made sure I would be a healthy baby, then left me at the doorstep of a young Japanese couple, unable to have the child that they so desired. They saw my arrival as a blessing from the heavens, that little unborn baby, bright blue eyes like his father's even though his father would never get to see them. Born from a Japanese mother and a Canadian father, I was only a half-breed to all the traditional Japanese family. I did not even take much after her as I did take after yo.My eyes, they were yours. My height, yours. My hair... probably yours as well. Another little gift you've given me, but don't worry, daddy, it doesn't really stop there. It only gets better.
They raised me as their son and named me Akihiro, after my own father. You know, that name has such a beautiful meaning, dad: bright glory. But in a strict Japanese household, you are treated as well as your race allows you to. I was not like them, I didn't look like them. I was the Mongrel, the bastard child, the half-breed, Daken, they called me, whispering it behind walls, on the corridors, laughing as I passed by. They thought I did not hear it. How foolish of them, because thanks to you, I could hear everything. All of them, there was none of them that spared me from it, even the servants thought themselves better than me. And when the adults were not looking, they would resort to more physical violence. Such was the beautiful environment I grew up, dad. And while I believed my adoptive parents loved me, my mother only seemed to tolerate me as I grew up. Only my father would show me any affection, not even my mother would treat me like her own son, only giving me the small amount of care that I needed to survive. It was all because of that man that took me away from my mother's womb instead of letting me die with her.
Or was it really your fault, dad? I always seem to end up pondering that very same thing, over and over again.
I was only thirteen when my mother finally got the wishes she had been hoping for her entire life. She was pregnant of her first child, and the look of joy in her face was almost contagious. I would stay at a distance as she spoke with my father, and while he tried his best to make me feel welcome, she grew more and more distant as time went by. Once she carried a legitimate son in her womb, it became even worse. Until my baby sister was born, or at least, it would have been how I would have seen her if only they had given me the chance. But once that little baby was born, she forgot I existed. No, if she had simply forgotten, it would have been a lot easier, dad, but she didn't. She began to loathe my own existence. The fateful day arrived when I overheard her saying that I was not their real child, that she had never loved me and simply put up with me because she had no choice. That's when I would find out another beautiful gift you've given me. Anger ran through me, anger, pain, the feelings of rejection, the bottled up emotions of thirteen years of struggles, thirteen years of trying to be accepted as a part of a family, only to be treated as less than a servant. And with that, claws, bone, darker than a normal bone structure, two coming from my knuckles, one coming from the inner side of my wrist, tearing through my mother's stomach as she held her little child, the child that was meant to be my sister. Razor sharp, lethal, and I was only thirteen, dad. I was a killer at thirteen.
My father, not able to withstand the pain, killed himself. My father, who had been the only person to show me love, the only one that cared about me, that would treat me like an equal. And there, he was gone, taking his own life because I had taken his wife's and daughter's. And in the middle of that pool of blood, some that I had stained my own hands with, he came again. Took me away, said he would explain things. He would teach me who I truly needed to become.
Thing is, dad... he wanted me to become you.
I was barely a man when he sent me to the same training camp that you had been a part of, many decades before. He made me train under the same masters. He made me go through everything you went through. The purpose, dad, was very clear. They could not get you so they wanted the second best. Yet I would never settle for second best. Yet I learned all that I had to learn. He told me one thing though, dad, that I will never forget. "Learn to look out for yourself, kid. Because no one else will." Wiser words that he ever said, in the end. I took all I could, as much as I could. They wanted me to become you, and at first, I complied, because it suited me. I played the part of the prodigal pupil that only nods his head and follows orders, because it was the way I had to become as good as I could be. But one day, I decided to turn the tables. I had enough of their schemes and manipulations, enough of their mind games. I disappeared for a while, and of course, as they thought they had lost their little prize boy, they sent people after me, entire search parties at that, but failed to find me, as I had proven them I had learned just that well. Then, one day, I returned, and killed every single person in camp before confronting the man that had forced me to call him my master for all those years. And as we fought, and I wounded him, I could have killed him but he managed to escape. That gun was pointed to my face, and I smiled in the face of death, because I knew better. I waited for him to pull the trigger, and when he didn't, I recovered from the blow that had tossed me to the ground, stealing his gun, emptying all the bullets on him yet he would not die. When I was ready to cut his head off with my own claws, he appeared again. The same man, the same that had stolen me from my mother, preventing me from killing the man that was going to kill me. For some reason, all I had to do was nod and agree with him. And retracting my claws, I allowed my former master to simply bleed from his wounds, walking away with the mysterious man that seemed to have such a close grip in my life.
He told me about you, dad. Years later, that was when I knew all about you from his lips. He told me about your life with them, a life that he claimed you didn't remember. He told me about your escape, how you retreated to Japan to try and lead a normal life. He told me about my mother, how in love you were with her, but how insane you became when you found out she was carrying your child. You feared me, dad, that is what he told me. And then, you killed her, while she still carried me inside her, hoping I would die, hoping I would not overshadow you and overthrow you. And then, he came to save me, rescuing me from my fate, like a careful protector, only watching for my well-being against the evil father that had given me the right to live, only to wish to take it when it didn't suit him...
Too bad for him, dad, that I didn't trust a word that he said. One thing though he had been right about: it had all been because of you.
It was only a few years later that I decided I had to figure things out for myself. But I didn't want to find you, not yet. I had acquired a taste for life, a taste for pleasure, and I didn't want to face my ghosts until I was fully happy with what I had acquired. I needed to establish myself, be economically self-sufficient before I could start tracking you all over the world, in every single corner where you might have crawled into, until I found you and pulled you out like a bug. I went to Milan, I worked with fashion designers, I've manipulated them with great skill to give me what I needed. I've indulged in beautiful women and handsome men, the tastes of fine drinks and expensive, luxurious hotels, the kind of pleasure that a man could have because there was nothing for him to lose. Thanks to you, dad, I am able to be myself, I don't have to care about getting drunk, or being ill, or catching a disease because I was too careless to protect myself. I could live my life to the fullest, yet I knew that I would have people looking for me. Just like you, apparently. Or so I was told. You don't remember anything, do you, dad? You don't know your real name, where you're from, who did what you did to you. Maybe I could even have the answers for you... or I would bring you even more questions. One or the other, really. But it matters little to me, dad. Because my quest in life isn't to give you anything. Not love, not pride, not acceptance, nor pity or sympathy. My quest in life is to be a constant reminder of all that you are, all that you have been, all that you could be and all that you made me become.
They told me I had to become you. Yet, I feel I've become something much better. I'm not bound by moral codes or foolish sympathy towards those around me. I'm not tied down by love, affection, any morally-correct emotion that society deems important. I say I even have a heart... it just likes to play hide and seek on occasion. People are just pieces on a chessboard, you can move them and use them so they knock the others out, until you reach your final goal, until it's time for the king to be dethroned, and then, check-mate, and you are victorious. You no longer need them, and you could even be merciful to keep them alive, or you could end their lives if they threaten to end yours. It's a game of cat-and-mouse, it's a food chain, where the strongest will eat the weakest and life continues that way.
I am not here to be a prodigal son, dad. This letter, if it ever reaches you, isn't meant to make you feel happy about yourself. I'm here to be a constant reminder of all that you've done. I'm here to be your nightmare and your redemption if you so wish. I'm here to jolt your memory with images that you don't even recall are yours. If I am how I am, dad, it's because of you. If my mind has been twisted into this array of conflicting thoughts and emotions, it's because you exist, it's because you haven't allowed yourself to die when you should have died, before you decided to spawn your seed only to leave it behind to his own fate. You could have looked back to rescue your wife, yet you didn't. You could have come to retrieve her body, and then maybe you would have find out I was alive, yet you didn't. You could have done something instead of running like the coward you are. You like to think yourself as a strong man, dad? No, you're indeed weak. Had you been strong, you would have gone back to the wife that apparently you seemed to love. You would have heard the still-beating sounds of your son's heart, and you would have tore her womb open to retrieve the one that carried your blood in his veins, instead of leaving him there to die with his mother, allowing someone else to retrieve him, to shape his mind and body to become the weapon that you refused to be. They only got me because they couldn't get you. For many years that had been a tough pill to swallow, but now, I am fully aware of who I am, all that I've become, and it's all thanks to you. Because you ran, like a coward, without no regard for those that you left behind.
But I am my own man now, dad. You'd be so proud... I will be the ghost from your past that will haunt you in your sleep. When you look into my eyes, you will see yours, mirrored there, with the pain of the years of suffering I carry on my shoulders. But they made me stronger, they made me who I am, they made me understand that of all that pain only made my skin grow thicker. You will look at me, you will look at what I can do, and you will know that if I am how I am, it is because of you. Don't try to redeem me, dad, because I'm beyond redemption. Don't try to save me, because I am far too lost. All that you can do now is look at me and regret the day you were born, because that was the day that you leave nothing but destruction and death everywhere you went. That would be the day that you were fated to doom your life and those of the few that happened to be around you. Including that of your only son. I hope you're proud of yourself."
Once the letter was done, I placed it inside the inner pocket of my leather jacket.. And a few minutes later, a grin on my lips as everything burned. Soon enough the cops would arrive. Soon enough, firemen would start trying to save what was lost.
And as I made my way through the crowd, there was nothing I regretted. When one has lost the ability to feel, there's no space for regret.