RPGKevin Kearney
Nicknamed "Fox", this Irish-American pilot seems to function more on charisma than any actual talent.
a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Riverstyx777
Last seen at: Forest Border
Groups
Description
Fox stands at a modest five feet ten inches, with a very slim build of one-hundred fifty-five pounds. Unsurprisingly due to his heritage, he is immensely pale, yet he does not tan nor burn. Shaggy, nearly unkempt long golden blonde hair purposefully frames his face, almost always perfectly messy. Beneath those golden curls lie startlingly steel blue eyes, though they are usually hidden by a set of dark-tinted Aviator sunglasses. Upon his chin lies a bit of scruff that he absolutely refuses to shave, and also finds it quite amusing to play with. Deviating from the stereotypical pilot look, Fox wears simple tank-tops (AKA "beaters"), band tees, and well-worn blue and black jeans with black combat boots. At his left hip sits a wicked-looking combat knife, a gift from his late father. On his back or his shoulder, he carries an old Springfield Bolt-Action Custom Sniper, another gift from the dearly departed.
Personality
Fox's personality is that of a “devil-may-care” attitude. He is extremely laid-back, joking, and rarely serious. Lazy would almost be a fitting adjective for this adolescent, but one would find themselves in a difficult situation if they ever directly accused him. Quite on the contrary, Fox is a very hard-worker, when it suits him. Although, on the other hand, one may think he is the ne'er do well-type, since he seems to ride out his life on looks rather than talent. Indeed, if he really wanted to, he could, but he prides himself in being one of the best pilots in the world. His last name literally means “cunning” in Gaelic, and he truly is an intelligent fellow.
Beneath this bright, chipper surface lies a bit of a dark past, and at times, it can show.
Equipment
Fox's pride and joy; his Catalina PBY, "Night Wolf".
Kevin Kearney's Story
- 63 • Page 1 of 4 • 1, 2, 3, 4
Kevin Kearney slips into the bar, a slick grin playing across his thin, pale face. Pausing just a moment to slip the Springfield slung on his back into a more comfortable position, the young hotshot pilot slips a cigarette in between his lips and lights it. With a smirk, his steel-blue eyes flash around at the other patrons beneath dark-tinted lenses before he sidles up to the bar. "Oi, where's the bartender?" Fox says loudly, his crisp, Irish-accented voice carrying throughout the bar as he slips the pair of Aviator sunglasses from his face and sets them into the collar of his plain white tank top.
Kevin Kearney rolls his eyes, but flashes a brilliant crooked smile at the barmaid. He took a drag from his cigarette before speaking. "Well, Miss if ye wouldn't mind getting me a Jameson's, that'd be great," he said, much quieter than his earlier outburst, though his strong voice still carried. Catching the tail-end of the glare from the ostentatiously dressed man a few seats down, Fox smiled a bit wider, if that was possible. He'd have a word or two with that man after he had his whiskey...
Kevin Kearney shrugs, ignoring the girl's comment, and takes the drink placed before him. Sliding down a few seats closer to the peculiarly clad man, he takes yet another drag from his cigarette and then takes a swig from the glass. It sure as hell wasn't whiskey, but he wasn't complaining. Besides, Fox wasn't here just to drink, he was also here to find some form of amusement. "Hoo, damn, that's a nice burn," Fox observed, before scanning the man a bit more closely. It seemed that this poor fool was stewing in some old-fashioned armour of sorts. "Oi, mate, are you fucking wearing plate mail?" Never one to beat around the bush, Fox preferred to be blunt. Yet there was some tact involved as well.
Kevin Kearney uttered a low bark of laughter, but it wasn't sharp or abrasive. This fellow couldn't possibly be serious, so Fox took it as a joke. His steel-blue eyes shimmered in almost a dangerous yet jovial manner as he looked the man up and down again. "Yeah, well I've got my own set of plate-mail, welded and framed meself. It's actually protective, too. And it sure as hell en't turning me into stewed meat like yours," Fox laughed again, finishing his cigarette and placing it in the empty glass before him.
Kevin Kearney nearly lost himself to the mirth rising within him, but he managed to keep it to another low bark of laughter. "Mate, you obviously haven't seen what I do fer a livin'," Fox replied after composing himself once more with a toss of his perfectly imperfect shaggy golden locks. "In a sense, I do wear that armour. Or rather, my Cat does."
Kevin Kearney finally lost it, laughing for a full three minutes before he regains his composure. "N-ooo, mate. It's on my Cat, my Catalina," Fox chuckled, but realised that his explanation wasn't thorough enough for this obviously unadvised soup can of a fellow. "My plane, mate."
Kevin Kearney rolls his eyes once again, catching that patronizingly sarcastic undertone quite adeptly. It was the story of his life, always automatically assumed to be inept due to his lack of experience in life and the rest of that merda. "Mate, I would prefer if you did not treat me like a child," he muttered, his face growing serious and his eyes taking a hard light. "I assure you, I am no child. And I don't think you would like to find yourself on the receiving end of anything coming from me..."
Suddenly, a large black prop plane appeared on the horizon, directly before the setting sun. Several smaller jet planes appeared on the prop plane's tail, obviously attempting to shoot it down. Sitting in the pilot's seat was none other than Kevin Fox Kearney, a wanted hot-shot pilot. He flipped a switch and ran to the bow of his Catalina PBY, "NightWolf", sliding open the bow's ventral hatch and pulling up the thirty millimeter cannon there. Three successive shots later, the tailing jet planes all went up in smoke, but not before they managed to light up the prop plane's tail with some machine gun fire. "Shit, come on Wolf! You can make it to land!" The Irish-American youth shouted, tripping over the chain of fifty caliber bullets coming from the curtain mid-ship twin machine guns. He managed to make it back to the pilot's seat just as the plane bucked. "Shit!" He shouted once more, muscling more than guiding the plane into a splash landing right on the shore.
With a huff and a splash, the plane-boat nosed itself back into the water, the tail all but completely gone. The twin engines cut out quickly, as the pilot inside was hurrying to assess the damage to his baby. The side hatch opened near the ominous fifty caliber machine gun on the port side, closest to the shore. From that hatch appeared a figure of average stature and thin, lithe body. Even in the gathering darkness, the last rays reflected off the perfectly imperfect shaggy golden locks and dark-tinted Aviator sunglasses. On the pilot's back was a Springfield Bolt-Action Custom sniper rifle, and at his hip was a vicious combat knife. It took but a moment to ascertain that he wasn't going anywhere for a bit, and he tossed the knife and Springfield back into the plane before diving off the side into the lake. Another moment and he made it to the shore, shaking his shaggy locks that seemed to always stay in their unique state. -c-
Beneath his dark-tinted lenses, Fox's alluring steel-blue eyes shimmered in a dangerous fashion as he surveyed the stranger before him. "Oi, are you me welcoming party?" Fox laughed, though he shifted his weight into a loose defensive stance. "Or are ye the advance guard for the twats that damn near blew up my Wolf?"
On the opposite edge of the lake, barely visible from the shore that the city was on, a series of booming explosions shattered the peace and serenity. Suddenly, a roar was heard, and a mid-sized twin-prop black plane erupted into sight. The port-side engine was on fire, and causing the plane to buck threateningly. To add insult to injury, as it were, the tail was all-but destroyed. It was a wonder how the pilot kept it aflight. With a guttering exclamation, the starboard engine started smoking. No matter how skilled a pilot was at the head, this plane was going down. Nosing down into the water expeditiously, the plane-boat splashed down, miraculously remaining in one piece. It took a few moments after the vessel drifted to the shore for something to stir within. The stern hatch suddenly kicked open, and a lithe, bloodied figure appeared. This haggard and worn fellow took in the damage waveringly, then suddenly crashed into the shallows of the lake.
Though the pilot was quite bloody, it seemed only that his nose was broken and a few lacerations on his face and upper torso, having only been covered by a thin white tank top, now blood-stained. Immediately as he was turned over, the young man jerked into consciousness, thinking he was in danger once more. Steel blue eyes snapped open beneath dark-tinted Aviator sunglasses as he tried to sit up quickly. "O-oi, what's this no-now?" Fox smiled weakly as he managed to perceive the girl leaning over him. "They send a lass to make sure I was put out ta dry?" His voice, though quiet, was quite distinct and strong, despite his recent near-death experience.
The girl's attempt seemed to amuse Fox greatly, and he attempted to laugh, but his breath caught up short. It was quite obvious that he had at least one broken or fractured rib; probably from when his entire body slammed into the control panel. So, even in his amusement, all Fox managed was a pained grimace. His head fell back into the sand, nearly all his energy spent saving his plane from complete destruction. "My accent tends to be misleading, I'm sorry, lass," he murmured, though his voice remained quite crisp. "Being put out ta dry simply means ye be hanging in the wind. Put ta death." Despite the maudlin talk, Fox seemed quite jovial.
Kevin Kearney all but stumbles into the bar, looking a little worse for wear. The white tank top stuck to his thin, lithe body, still wet with sweat or water, and a blood stain or two. There was a large rent in the left knee of his equally wet black jeans, as if he had to crawl through a small opening, along with a few singe marks. Barely hidden beneath large Aviator sunglasses was a small yet deep cut, though the bleeding had been staunched. Albeit a bit haggard, this young man still seemed to have a bit of energy left in him as he lurched his way to the bar and sat heavily.
Kevin Kearney stumbles up the street towards the bar, looking bedraggled and weary. Indeed, his clothing was soaked, and there were more than a few bloodstains visible on his once white tank top. There was even a large rent and several scorch marks on his blue jeans, as if the pilot had to crawl his way through something. Barely hidden beneath large, dark-tinted Aviator sunglasses was a small, yet deep cut, running the length of his right eyebrow. As he pushed through the door, he found himself almost immediately accosted by some strange creature. Without hesitation, the thin, lithe young man fell back, pulling his Springfield to bear. It took but one shot to send the creature back, but Fox wasn't done. Quicker than most would think possible, he fired three more successive shots from the bolt-action rifle until he was satisfied. With a pant, Fox gazed around and found that there were more, but they were occupied by other patrons. Weary, the young man sat down in the corner, away from the fighting.
Kevin Kearney sits with his head on his knees, his long golden locks still perfectly imperfect. The Springfield still in his left-hand, though the chamber was empty, and it didn't seem like Fox had any spare rounds on him. It was just what he needed after crashing his Catalina into the lake, to find that his idea of salvation just turned out to be another Hell. "Out of the frying pan, into the fire..." Fox muttered dourly, though his voice still retained much strength. His head suddenly snapped back, against the wall, where he sat in the corner. No matter how tired or weak he was, he'd make it out alive, somehow...
Kevin Kearney snapped his head in the direction of the approaching woman, bringing the emptied Springfield to bear. As his steel-blue gaze weakly registered behind those dark-tinted lenses, he relaxed but only slightly. It seemed as if the woman, or whatever she was, was offering to heal him. A low laugh escaped his lips, strong despite his obvious state. "No, lass, I need no healing. 'tis merely a few cuts and bruises," he drawled in his lazy Irish-American accent. "All I need is a spot o' company whilst I rest up." Despite his easy way of talking, his eyes remained constantly vigilant for any threat whatsoever.
Kevin Kearney allowed himself a weak smile, and another low laugh, though this time it caused too much pain for him to hide his broken ribs. Catching his breath short, a sharp pain tore its way up his left side, and he dropped the Springfield in an attempt to abate the pain. Again, he smiled weakly at the beautiful woman who seemed genuinely concerned about him. "Very well, ma'am, if you insist on wasting your valuable energy on a worthless waif like me, then so be it," he managed to breathe out. "But tell me one thing... Why would you want to help one so insubstantial such as meself?" The fatigue and pain and stress had brought out a rare side of Fox, causing him to revert to a defensive, cynical individual.
Kevin Kearney stiffens as the strange man walks up and stabs him with a syringe. Fox did not react in any other way, having been accustomed to the pain at this point. Well, pain was a factor for most of his life, but not all of it physical. Still, Fox said nothing as he felt the chemicals coursing through him. What was there to say to a man who just walked up and stabbed you with a syringe?
A dangerously playful smirk played across the young pilot's face as the man before him squared off in the typical masculine fashion. There was no need to do such things, but it would do to play his foe's games until he knew he had the upper-hand. Barely a muscle stirred as the larger man approached Fox. When the man finally struck out, that was when Fox moved, leaning back the slightest bit so as to catch the right hook on his hardened abdominals. It was almost a surprise to find that this young man was so lithe and so fit, as he continued leaning back to make a jab-kick at the inside of his foe's knee. If it struck, it would certainly weaken the knee, possibly even snap the joint. Fox certainly knew a thing or two about the human body to be able to hold his own...
- 63 • Page 1 of 4 • 1, 2, 3, 4
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