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Kevlar

Traitor

0 · 322 views · located in Alternate Marvel Universe

a character in “Dark Avengers: The Galactus Wars pt 1”, as played by DustAndEchoes

Description

Name: John Thatcher
Alias: Kevlar
Age: 28
Height: 6'1"
Hair: Red
Eyes: Green
Occupation: Gunman for hire
Legal Status: Traitor to US Armed Services. Wanted in several countries.

Physical Characteristics: Slim body type. Burn scars cover much of Thatcher's torso, stretching down his left arm, right leg, and across the back of his neck. These scars partially destroy a tattoo on his right shoulder of a harp with a sword drawn across its strings. Scars may be hidden most times by his choice of clothing.

Abilities: Excellent marksman, with the skills to efficiently use even weapons he is not familiar with. Expert close-quarters combatant, with emphasis on kill-strikes from difficult or odd angles. Peak physical conditioning and mental discipline, enabling him to push his body beyond population norms; even through injury, drugs, or fatigue. Experienced tactician, infiltrator, and evasive survivalist. Fluent in Mandarin Chinese, German, and Russian.

Image

History: John Thatcher had a normal American upbringing, choosing to enlist in the Army out of high school. His determination and talent quickly earned him a place in the Special Forces program, where he was eventually placed in the auspicious Delta Force. While still 'the FNG', Thatcher was told stories of small arms fire coming through the belly of helicopters into the family jewels of unlucky soldiers. To prevent this, he sat on his kevlar vest every flight. It's here that he earned his nickname, though later people would assume he just called himself that for the armor he wore. For several years, Thatcher followed his team, solidifying his place as his unit's go-to man for light-handed or quick-kill work, as well as the most likely to get into trouble for his quick mouth. But it seems, as they say, every man has his price.

Communication with Thatcher's unit was broken on an operation in an unstable and unfriendly country. A recovery unit found evidence of a well-timed ambush in a fire-gutted valley, with Thatcher's body conveniently missing from the count. Investigations soon found a large sum of money from an unknown party had been transfered to an account tied to Thatcher, and the ex-soldier was declared a traitor. Weeks later, he resurfaced, working for every kind of cartel scum he'd ever been trained to put down. Always a skilled infiltrator, he avoided several elimination attempts, and has eventually found the need to (reluctantly) return to U.S. soil.

Note!: The following is known only to Kevlar, a German PMC unit called the Nachtengel, and any PC who cares to follow the rabbit hole. (I'd appreciate you asking, first.)

Thatcher was in that valley right alongside his brothers, overwhelmed by local forces who'd known their entry route. Taking cover in a barn-like structure near the river, the Deltas could only continue to shoot for their lives. Eventually, their erstwhile bunker was set on fire, and the Deltas began to die. From here, all Thatcher recalls is fire, pain, and fear. His gear ignited, and in a panic he stumbled against the burning wall of the hayloft. Weakened by the fire, the timber gave way, and he fell from the second story into the mud, where the flames extinguished. Too injured to move, he went unnoticed until the barn was embers and the enemy began dragging him back through the jungle. He supposes, now, that they figured they could wring more money from their benefactor; either as a living hostage or to kill him to ensure he'd never talk. He doesnt remember gunfire cutting them down, or the shocked expressions of his saviors.

The Nachtengel, a small mercenary team that had worked with the Deltas on several occasions, had been in the area, and close enough to make out a broken call for help in the jammed radio channels. If it werent for his helmet and goggles shielding his face, they may never have recognized the badly-burned man. By the time they patched him up enough to move back into civilization, he'd already been pinned for the death of the team and declared a traitor to the US. Swearing them to secrecy, Thatcher preffered it that way. Someone with operational acess had planned all of this, and now he had the kind of reputation that would let him skulk about in the underworld, using their resources at the expense of his own reputation. He wanted to know -exactly- where the head of the snake was before he started cutting...

(Minor changes may follow. Thanks for reading!)

So begins...

Kevlar's Story

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Character Portrait: Kevlar
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Thud!

The low impact rattled dust and sent tiny pebbles cascading from a section of debris inside a decimated warehouse. What sparse light there was filtered through an abused roof and exposed the charred and shattered interior. Shipping crates that hadnt survived spilled their highly illegal contents - the usual assortment of narcotics and weaponry - out onto the floor. What hadnt been destroyed by fire or blasted apart with explosives littered the walkways. There was blood here, as there was in much of the city. A few corpses belonging to those that'd guarded this underworld safehouse, and a few corpses belonging to the enemy, now so much inert goo. Just more casualties in the recently passed Hell on earth.

THUD!

This time more forceful. A wooden beam that'd fallen across a steel door rattled and shifted in a pile of concrete. The edge of the door cracked open to the tune of a strained grunt from within, and slowly the gap widened as the obsticle scraped and slid asside. With a final brutal shove, the door is open enough to admit the slim profile of the man who stands there, peering out into the destruction with a short AR-15 aimed into the darkness.

"Is it over?"

He turns his head over his shoulder to hiss a sharp command for silence, remaining half-concealed in the shelter of the doorway for a very long, terse moment. But no immediate threat reveals itself, and he takes a few cautious steps into the warehouse's center. Balanced in his other hand, he holds a detonation device, and several dim red lights blink obediently from their hiding places amongst the wreckage. It's another few minutes before the armored man lowers the rifle, letting it hang against his chest by its sling.

"It's quiet.." Kevlar beckons to the doorway, letting his gaze still scan the building.

His erstwhile companion is likewise armed with a pistol, but his rumpled suit betrays him as the kingpin of this little operation rather then any measure of true warrior. His moan of despair is reserved for the state of his shipments and operation rather then any great love for his dead henchmen.

"Lookit this mess! It's going to take me -months- to rebuild! Jesus, if it's even worth rebuilding in this fuckin city!" He holds up a bag of lab-ready chemicals for emphasis, the dry powder sifting from its busted plastic wrap. "When I hired you to protect my goods, I thought you -"

Kevlar stops him right there with a hard glare and a snapped response, "When you hired me, it was to run out the competition. No one said -shit- about monster aliens." He points out as he removes a tripwire tied to an improvised incindiary device. The murky light made him visible only as a ghostly silloughette, reminding the overgrown thug that the mercenary was not someone he could badger like his street crew.

"All told, I think I did a damned good job. Not to mention I saved your worthless ass during all of this." A gloved hand indicates the carnage, "If only because the dead dont pay. So, speaking of which, where's the cash?"

A stammered response isnt what he was looking for, but it's the one he gets. Something about the fire and did he think this was really the time... The angry excuses stop short when Kevlar takes two steps to cross the distance. The thug begins to bring the gun up, but Kevlar is already too close, and uses his forearm to pin the tender, fleshy part of his target's wrist against a crate. The gun falls from numb fingers, and Kevlar brings his long combat knife up to tickle the man's jugular.

"I was really hoping you were going to be smarter about this. You have money, dont bullshit me, you people always squirrel cash away for a rainy day. Well guess what? It's pouring. Your sorry ass is just lucky you had that bolt-hole in here, or I'd've left -days- ago. One more time. Where's. My. Money?" He brings his covered face close enough to the other man that the tactical goggles on his head are in danger of digging into the others' forehead. A little rougher then he preffered being, but it drove the threat home.

"A-Arright, arright! Just hang on a fuckin' sec! I got a deposit uptown, arright?? It's yours. Everything I owe ya. It's in the Fitz building, if that's still standin'."

He releases the man, returning his knife to its place at the small of his back. His other hand casually brushes dirt off the shoulders of his former employer, "There. Now we can leave as friends."

Turning to pick his way out of the crumbling warehouse, he stops to take a few of the spilled boxes of ammunition from one of the busted crates. As an afterthought, he looks to the beleagured gangster standing in the middle of his ruined empire.

"I really hope that building -is- still there, or I'll be in touch."

And with that, Kevlar slips out onto the ruined streets to make his way carefully back into the city's heart. It was quiet, but that didnt mean it was over..

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Character Portrait: Kevlar Character Portrait: Batwoman
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Batwoman - Gotham Ruins

With a grunt, Batwoman jerks tight a knot in the rope now hog-tying a grime-encrusted member of Gotham's seedier class. They'd been at this for a while, now; scrambling over damaged buildings and peering into deserted skyscrapers. With the police force in shambles and first response nearly non-existant, it was all that the caped she-crusader could do to simply remove criminals from the area and leave them tied up somewhere conspiquous. They might be picked up eventually, or several hours from now maybe their friends would find them first. Either way, being beaten and trussed up by a masked vigilante would leave its emotional toll, and they would think long and hard before engaging in any more criminal activity.

That was a small victory, she decided. Word would spread quickly that the Bats were still patrolling their streets and had not died or been driven off. Fear was a powerful prevention program; Bruce had stumbled onto that years ago when he'd first decided on a motif.

In the meantime, she had a long, long day ahead of her, and she sits the thug at her feet on the curbside before dusting her hands off. Green Arrow was about, somewhere, doing something similar no doubt. Above the skyline, smoke rose and sirens still fitfully wailed. It would be a very long time before the Gotham she loved regained any semblance of 'normal'...

----

Kevlar - Downtown

Jesus, but the city had been hit hard. He'd been in third-world warzone shitholes that looked in better shape. On the plus side, police attention was elsewhere, and Kevlar could all but walk the debris-strewn streets openly.

With his rifle and pistol worn openly, the armored gear he wore covered lightly in concrete dust, and the belacava concealing his face; the individuals out here who were looking for easy money or notoriety still had the brains to steer clear. He saw them, occasionaly, picking through the busted storefronts or watching him from the alleyways, but they werent his concern. At least not yet.

Trotting swiftly across a broad street, Kevlar enters his target building. The marble lobby was dark without city power, but tapping a switch on the side of his goggles throws the whole area into the bright green reliefs of night vision. Somewhere in here was his money, and Kevlar unfastens the strap that secured his pistol in its holster. Looters in here were going to get a very unpleasant suprise, if they stood between him and his goal, and it would -not- end with them trussed up prettily on the sidewalk.

For a few moments, now that the symbiotes were dead, Kevlar can enjoy being the deadliest thing on the streets. And damn did it feel good.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Green Arrow Character Portrait: Kevlar Character Portrait: Batwoman Character Portrait: (Dark) Iron Man
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Batwoman

Call it fasionably late. As Arrow scans his targets, one of the men seems to be suddenly missing from the left side entrance of the ground floor as a black arm wraps around his neck and jerks him into the shadows of the door. Not an eyeblink later, all hell breaks loose in true Bat family fassion.

A low 'Chuff!' sends a hand-sized grappling hook out of the door and up into the exposed rafters, where it wraps itself. The line goes taught just as some of the thugs are noticing the shadow in the doorway has a trailing cape and a distinct 'eared' mask. Batwoman swings in, feet first, with the edges of that cape snapping out ala wings. For most other superheroes, the cape was an acessory, something that tied the rest of their 'look' together. Years ago, when Batman had incorporated the serrated material, he had a very different goal in mind. There is a breif hesitation as the sinister, iconic cape impacts the criminals psychologically - who in Gotham didnt know the legends surrounding the Bat - and there is a second window as, when the guard in front of her manages to shoot a single pair of rounds, he unconciously aims off-center at the distracting, flowing cloth; completely missing slender Batwoman in the center.

Bam!

The impact is hard and sudden; two booted heels taking Thug A (Who was standing near the gathered mafia heads) straight in the chest with a wince-worthy sound. The force of it sends his gun into the air and his body flying back into one of his cohorts, with Batwoman landing on top of the pile as she releases the grapling line.

Without straightening, her arms snap out one-two from the folds of the cape, and bladed batarangs sail into the hand of one thug, and jam into the gun of another. Leaping off the chest of her latest victim, Barbara's hands plant themselves onto the shoulders of another bodyguard, taking him down with her in an unarmed attack.

Suprise and speed are a real bitch; she's already eliminated six of the ten. Feel free to join in on the shouting, scrambling party, Arrow, or you might end up with only leftovers.

----

Kevlar

In the belly of the Fitz Building, an inner-city corporate safehouse for financial assets, electronic records, and accounting data, Kevlar sits in an abandoned security officer's chair with his boots propped up on the desk. He's counting his money, of course, whistling a light tune to himself and wearing a very satisfied smile on his face - belacava and headgear resting on the desk along with his rifle. It was a pretty haul, he had in his posession. Part of it was the contents of the drop box he was promised in return for his talents back in the warehouse district, but after going through the trouble of securing it, Kevlar had decided that he may as well go shopping while here.

The place was quiet, of course. Corporate loyalty didnt extend very far in private security firms, so when downtown began taking the worst of the assault people had gotten out by any means necessary. Some security doors had been left wide open in the haste. Anything behind those had been looted long before Kevlar had gotten there. He'd even suprised a pair still in the act. He didnt give a shit for what watches and cell phones were in the Lost and Found, so he'd let one of them go. Just one, though. The first had been stupid enough to pull a gun and attempt to mug him.

Beyond simple keycard doors and the occasional electronic lock, however, Kevlar had gotten creative. Expending some of the remaining ordinance from his contract had been worth it to get through those steel doors. Here, in the heart of the building, generators kept muted lighting on and vital systems on standby. In these rooms were the data centers and the deposit boxes. Pilfering the contents had netted Kevlar enough cash to feel very secure in his decision to come to this rathole city - to come back to the USA despite the warrant on his head. Getting a chance to enjoy his prize without worrying about the police showing up was just icing on the cake, he could almost forget the kind of chaos going on in the streets, and the hard time he'd have until his underworld network started trickling again.

Bip!

Kevlar leans a boot away to look at the computer that had made the noise. Something was going on; acessing it. Bringing his legs down and scooting the chair up to the monitor, the mercenary watches the lines of data curiously. He was no egghead, but he wasnt an idiot. Someone was doing... something. Something that seemed to be linked in a network throughout the city - he recognized the names of other datacenters. He really would've thought it would've taken longer for someone to start getting their shit together.

The program continues to run, acessing the Fitz Building's protected servers and doing whatever it was the client had designated them for. Now who had the kind of resources to survive and start - Oh. Now that was interesting. Stark Industries' logo appears nestled in the corner of the datastream.

Stark was active in Gotham, eh? He knew their work from when Tony was heavily involved in the military. Some of his designs had made the Spec Ops community drool at the chance to get them, some of his weapons still made the rounds on the black market. Where Stark went, shit was going to go down. It was definately worth knowing that Stark Industries was here doing... what? What was the program doing? Kevlar didnt have the technical accumen to answer that question, but he knew people that did.

Watching the computer banks for another long moment, Kevlar decides the profit of information is worth the risks. Tugging on his concealing 'cava and the tactical headgear, he selects a handled data bank and gives it a hard yank.

Back at Stark's tower, Tony's flawless diagnostic run hits an unexpected snag. Where there were once green returns, red errors now glow as the program discovers one of its many networked points to be simply... missing. It'd been there a moment before and working fine. The likelyhood of the servers being destroyed was slim - they were built like bunkers, and the symbiotes were no longer causing mass damage. That left the second very disconcerting scenario; that someone had just physically stolen a very important peice in his network's puzzle.

Because that's just how Murphy works. Worst possible problem, worst possible time.

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Character Portrait: Kevlar Character Portrait: (Dark) Iron Man
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Kevlar

Stark would know the layout, no doubt, having been here to set up these network servers in the first place. The signs he finds arent good.

Behind one of the first doors into the secured areas is the corpse of a young thug, long gone cold. Given the war, a body wasnt unusual, but this poor bastard hadnt had a chance. Arm broken, nose shattered from being bounced off the wall, and dispatched with a single bullet into the back of the head. It was quick, skilled, and not the usual calling card of Gotham's street types. Farther down, where heavy steel doors couldnt be moved without fingerprint scans and retina verification, the news gets worse. The steel doors are marked by slagged hinges and scorched metal; someone with precision charges had made short work of what had otherwise survived the symbiotes and the looting.

The safe boxes in these rooms have been neatly rifled through and their valuables taken, and in the bank of blinking computer lights, the empty data port mocks Tony.

Back out on the streets, Kevlar is a ghost. Skirting overturned vehicles and abandoned blockades, he takes the time to glance down at the bulky datacore in his off-hand. In his right, he taps a long-memorized series of numbers into his comm gear, fitting it into his ear as he moves.

"Long time, no word, Friend." The voice on the other end is garbled electronically, but the tone is familiar. "I was beginning to think you were dead."

"Would you miss me, Puppet?" Kevlar scoffs with mock sweetness.

"I would miss your money. How can we help you?"

We. Of course, we. If Kevlar ever dealt with the same person twice, he would never know with that trademark garble. The network known only as 'Puppet' was a shadow organization of information, underworld funds, and neutral communications. Their name was an intentional misnomer; they pretended to be the puppets of their clients, but were in a position to pull every string that suited them. Kevlar didnt know how tangled the web was, and he had no real desire to start finding out. They werent people you lightly crossed, and he'd been working with them for years. He needed them.

"I've got something that might be worth your attention. Data bank. Part of some kind of program. It's Stark Industries."

"Stark? You have my attention.

"Iit's probably encrypted. I need someone who can crack this nut and tell me what it is."

"Wait one." A long pause while the other end of the conversation acesses whatever information he had at his fingertips, "Our eyes in Gotham are a mess, Friend. A lot of dead people in your area. But you're lucky; a few are still checking in. I'll give you the address, but his services arent cheap. You had better hope your prize is worth something."

"If it was important enough to be running after all of this? I'll take that bet."

"Gotham Warrens. Basement of the pawn shop on 26th. Puppet out."

"Love you, too."

Kevlar hoists the box to a more comfortable position in the crook of his arm and picks up his pace. Who knew what sort of reaction his theft would bring? Better to not be in the area to find out. If it was worth any real cash, he might have to pay a visit to the other locations on that list... see if he could make himself a tidy enough killing to be comfortable in Gotham for the months ahead. Wasnt likely he'd find anyone with enough stability to hire him for a while, and a man had expenses to tend to, you know.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: (Dark) Captain America Character Portrait: Kevlar
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Kevlar

"Hey!! Pal!!! Mind tellin' me your name? And maybe what your doing here!?"

The voice illicits an instinctual jolt of adrenaline in Kevlar, jarring him out of his focus. Anticipating an annoying encounter with some Gotham cop who didnt know to leave well enough alone; the sight of the red, white, and blue colorscheme actually causes him to pause when he looks back at Cap.

Standing straighter in mild suprise, the annoyance flips instantly to cautious dread. This... could end very badly. Captain's suspicions were clear in the way he steadied his shield, and Kevlar had only ever heared stories of what the super soldier could -do- with that shield. But Kevlar was a clever bastard, and he pulls information from every corner of his mind to construct his next few falsehoods.

Setting the shoebox-sized core down just beside his boot with a casual ease that encouraged onlookers to dismiss it as unimportant, Kevlar stands straight - almost to attention - and lets his shoulders fall slack. He lets his eyes widen and his voice rise into something that Captain would be used to, familiar with, and comfortable around; the hero-worship that often came from other soldiers of the Armed Forces. It's an easy lie to tell, and those lies are the best kind and the hardest to see beyond.

"Holy shit, you're Captain America!" He exclaims. The smile behind the belacava is audible in his voice.

Despite the assault rifle on his back and the pistol at his side, Kevlar's easy posture and friendly voice encourage trust, or at least vastly lessen the threat he first seem to pose. Like seeing a strange figure in your house before realizing it was an old friend. He looked and acted every bit a fellow soldier, doing exactly what he'd been ordered to do, without an ounce of guilt or dishonesty, caught in awe of the one and only Captain-freakin-America.

"Sergeant MacPhearson, sir! TF121, sent in to secure intel assets in the dark, sir."

Taskforce 121 was a joint force operation between several special forces commands. Large enough that it was impossible to know every face, and 'dark' enough that their soldiers were tasked to perform all sorts of irregular duties. Being outside of uniform in the middle of an urban warzone was perfectly within expectations. Of course Uncle Sam would have eyes and ears in Gotham, Cap himself was annoyed that the government was using the city as a pitri dish for symbiote warfare.

"Can I get your autograph?" He pats the dusty, insignia-less tactical gear as if looking for a pen before dropping his hands back to his sides, "Aw, hell.. Sorry, sir, I know you're busy. Really hit the fan out here, didnt it?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: (Dark) Captain America Character Portrait: Kevlar Character Portrait: Hyper-Galactus
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From far beyond the Messier Galaxy, some 120 million light-years from Dark Hero Earth, a being with the most advanced form of telepathy known to any race directs his attention toward two insignificant life forms which he discovers standing on a bright blue world. Using his ability of total cosmic awareness Hyper-Galactus scans the minds of the two humanoids, as Hyper-Galactus penetrates the thoughts of the darkly clad human he comes to know his deepest inner feelings, and every deceitful thought.

Reaching for one of the levers before him Hyper-Galactus contemplates vanquishing this dishonest and treacherous creature. Kevlar is spared obliteration, as Galactus calculates the expenditure of energy needed to tare this insect out of space and time. Knowing that this creature, along with the rest of the human race will be dealt with soon enough Galactus pulls his hand away from the lever.

His interest had been drawn away from the two creatures when he noticed the item that Kevlar had set upon the ground-He desired it, he needed to possess it.