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Corso Asange Hart

The hand that feeds you.

0 · 194 views · located in Earth

a character in “Facility”, as played by The(Doctor)Horrible

Description

>>CLASSIFIED FILE<<

Name: Corso Asange Hart

Aliases: The Foreman, Dr. Hart, The Hand, The Facility

Age: 33 (( On file ))

Gender: Male

Face Claim: Alexander Skarsgard
Image

Extra physical info: Blond hair is perfectly straight and close cut except for one side which hangs over an eye. Slim, soothing way of moving and speaking. Melodic tenor.

Staff Position: He is the Facility.

(( Off file and unknown: Corso is a Powered himself, and a downright strong one. He's a deal maker, and knows how to use his abilities. Any bargains he sets are sealed indefinitely. This includes promises made to him. He's very careful not to be caught in his own trap, and targets those too weak of mind to understand the severity of what they enter into. As manipulative as he is, he understands the ins and outs of every deal he brings about. It's how he has control of his staff. ))

Personality: Corso Asange Hart requires order in all things. He ensures it. Nothing happens without his knowledge or permission. Wrenches in machines are quickly and efficiently taken care of with as little mess as necessary. If required, however, he'll be all too happy to drench the aftermath in acid and sterilizer. He's very private and knows that he is far above all others not only in the Facility, but the world. It is a simple fact to him. So he holds his head high and keeps his hands clean. He prefers to give orders to others and watch their flawless execution. He finds beauty in things not normally considered such: the way the body and mind can be manipulated both separately and together, either by their own means or by specific stimuli. This covers anything from the spawning of a Powered to the reactions of broken inmates when re-taught their place. He only appreciates screaming or loud noises when caused by his design. He's focused to the extreme, never losing sight of what he wants and never giving up until he has it. Any means necessary.

Biography: Not on file. (( Born and raised in wealth and status, Corso was taught at a young age that he was superior. His physical attraction got him far, not to mention his genius and ruthless will. He progressed quickly in life, entering into an esteemed university in Italy to practice a double major of psychology and biomedical sciences three years early. That same year, he recognised his power upon accidentally making a sarcastic deal with an enemy of his. Dignified as always, he mentioned that he would move aside if the other dropped dead. The other hit him and dropped dead. He moved aside needlessly, and not by will of his own. Upon further practice, he learned that a touch sealed the deal.

He knew how far this could take him, this newfound ability, so he put it to use. He wanted to know if there were others, but they all had such... mundane powers. They were beneath him. They were a menace. So he did what he needed to: locked them away for purification and science. Staff was easy enough to acquire: find a drunkard, a druggie, a con, and offer something they wanted in exchange for control. Thinking him a fool, they would enter the deal. He would then have complete, unfightable control over them. This has also been done to random people on the street for abilities. A light for good marksmanship, a called cab's rider for technological aptitude, et cetera.

It was a fascinating concept, the ability of random bodies and/or minds to alter themselves into something extraordinary. He wanted to know if it could be passed on. Curious and fascinated as ever, he began experiments with what he dubbed "Receivers," those with at least one trait which labelled them more susceptible than most. To his distaste, none worked. That is, until he found Lily and Nova. Lily was tracked as a Receiver, yet upon being called in as a Powered he made the trip himself with a Squad. After extraction, he realised there was another: Nova. The girl who had called in her friend in exchange for her own stability. He adopted her, finding her personality intriguing. To this day, he has not made a deal with her out of curiosity alone. He began running secret tests. She is the only one who took on Powered abilities. Oddly enough, though she doesn't know, they share the requirement of touch for their abilities to work. Tests are still being run.


Likes (at least 3): Power -- Sterility -- Order

Dislikes (at least 3): Chaos -- Being looked down upon -- Being questioned

Strengths (at least 2): Manipulation -- Control

Weaknesses (at least 2): Not on file. (( Pride -- Need for order ))

Fears (at least 1): No conscious fears (( Losing control ))

So begins...

Corso Asange Hart's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: SETTING Character Portrait: Corso Asange Hart
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Wayland stood tall, back rigidly straight, head held high, feet set firmly shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, hands loosely held at his sides, staring straight ahead, a look of firm unflinching resolve, and acceptance on his face.

He could see nothing before him however. The tint of his walls was such that now he was in a black cube, headed to be tortured. It should have been a maddening experience, but he felt nothing, content in the knowledge that he had just won a small victory. It did not matter how small.

The only warning before the images began playing was a split second of agonized giggling, before the torturous scene was played. The very walls acting as massive flat screens. He caught sight of the inmate splayed across the table for only an instant seeing his burned skin, and shaved head, before he closed his eyes calmly. He could still hear it, could hear the words of the torturer, and the maddening laughter of the inmate, but he didn't watch it. Shut his eyes to that insanity, remaining in the exact spot, with the exact posture as before, features a mask of cold calm. The look of a man ready to face the same kind of fate.

Do not bite the hand that feeds you. He'd heard the phrase a hundred, hundred times since being imprisoned here. It was like something you'd tell an animal, a dumb beast.

They declared they just want the best for us, but then called us it, declaring that anything that happens to us is our own fault. It made him sick, made him want to rage, to thrash around his cage, allow his power to run free, but he didn't, wouldn't, do anything like that and they might change their minds and take Cassandra as well.

There ain't no getting off this train I'm on. He thought grimly.

He could feel the crane slow, his cell being lowered to the ground. The speakers and video cutting out as his cell came to a full rest. He opened his eyes to the sight of a room that he did not expect. There was a table, it's molecular structure coming into his head on an instinctual level, he saw it's construction, and the heat that tempered it, stainless steel high quality. The chairs too.

The only indication that he was surprised being a tiny narrowing of his eyes, he never moved from his position, using his peripheral vision to take in the entirety of the room. He examined the new sight, the first new site in years for several minutes before the door on the far side of the room opened admitting a man he had never seen before.

Confident, well dressed, immaculately groomed, he was sure of his standing, sure that he had all the power, and in this situation he'd be right. It made Brimstone want to growl.

The man slowly walked up to the table, settling himself casual as you please into one of the chairs steepling his hands in front of his mouth and observing him.

Wayland's eyes had locked on to him the minute he'd walked into the room, analyzed everything about him exactly as he did everything else, weighing how he could be used, or if he could be at all. He however would not be the first to talk. He would show these people no weakness. So they remained like that for several minutes before the man finally spoke.

“What's your name, Thirteen-Thirty-seven? Or do you remember it? He was a soft spoken man, surprisingly, voice a soothing tenor. It set Brimstone's teeth on edge. “Unless of course you'd rather I use that address.”

As if you don't already know, he thought furiously. I didn't throw it away, you lot tried to steal it. He couldn't not reply, so he spoke calmly, but firmly never changing his standing position. His voice raspy from little use, with a underlying rumble like a large engine.

“My name is, Wayland Smith.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Corso Asange Hart
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"Wayland Smith..."

The man seemed to ponder this for a while, sorting it away into various folders in his head. Rather interesting name. American. Hardly as interesting as the man before him, though. He kept his head tilted as a curious smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Tell me, Wayland Smith, how would you like to be addressed, any nicknames, Mr. Smith, just Wayland?" He'd wanted to be near this one for a long while, but never had the opportunity. He was just so well behaved. A nice little metal man. Without cause, he wasn't likely to pull a cell out. Simply wasn't orthodox. Besides, he would hate to send the wrong message. Good behaviour leading to being moved? Heavens, no.

Completely at ease, the man shifted his fingers into a single clasped fist to rest his pale chin upon. He was a stark contrast to the singeing man outside the Facility. Hardly looked like he received any sun at all. All in all, he looked beautiful. All smooth lines and grace, blemish free. Yet the true beauty in this room was the anomaly of Wayland Smith.

"How did it happen?" the man asked softly. Genuine curiosity peered through his smooth voice. "I know a great many things about you, but that was never found."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wayland "Brimstone" Smith Character Portrait: Corso Asange Hart
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“Wayland Smith...” It bothered him for some reason. He couldn't place his finger on it, but there was something up with the mans voice. It made his ears ring somewhat to hear it. Not the ringing most people hear, but a low metallic ring like a bell, and he didn't know why. It was disconcerting.

“Tell me, Wayland Smith, how would you like to be addressed, any nicknames, Mr. Smith, just Wayland?” Wayland appeared to ponder the question seriously for a second, but his mind was a storm of thought. Why am I not being tortured? Who is this man? Where am I? Question after question piled up, he however let none of this show on his face. He remained still as a statue, face set in rigid lines.

The man casually rested his chin on a single clenched fist. What did what he called him matter anyway? He wondered. Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, He couldn't figure out this ones game. Everyone to this point has been simple, low level grunts. This man, the way he's dressed, I bet you're right up at the top aren't you? He thought to himself.

“How did it happen?” He asked, in that same melodic voice that Wayland was growing to despise, his ears ringing with every syllable. “I know a great many things about you, but that was never found.” Oh, I see your game, I'm just an interesting little mystery to you aren't I? You'd just loved to figure us all out. Wayland grinned ever so slightly showing his teeth, and ignoring the question for the moment.

“Just Wayland is fine.” He rumbled out, relaxing his own posture into something less formal, but no less rigid in its bearing. “As for nicknames, some of the other prisoners seem to be fond of Brimstone.”

He let that hang in the air for a second, as he scratched his cheek, acting as if in thought again, but really watching the mans reactions, after a moment he replied.

“Honestly,” He started. Staring off into space for a second, lost in thought. Remembering the night he became like this. All he could remember was the soul searing agony of his Granny's death, and then the smell of ash, and flame before he passed out. He frowned as he recalled something, the pain was very much real. It had felt as if his whole body was on fire, then his senses were overwhelmed by ash, and smoke, and he woke in the facility. “I've no idea how I came to be like this, just born luck I suppose.” He tried, but couldn't keep from adding the last part to his sentence.

He'd always been comfortable around flames, temperatures that would make others uncomfortably warm rarely made him sweat. He was born with a higher than average core temperature as well, but he'd never thought anything of it, never considered why he loved metallurgy so much, or why he was so good at it. Curious.