Valentine Knight, also known as 'The Sword of Damocles'
Nickname(s): Known to the greater public as the Sword of Damocles; has dozens of false identities he uses for airports and such, however.
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Role: 'Wild Card'
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Role: 'Wild Card'
Appearance
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Black
Height: 6'4"; and well-built at that, although not overly heavily.
Clothing: Usually wears a long leather duster, with a rather high collar (refer to picture); the coat is actually inter-weaved with 'Dragon Skin' ceramic plates, rendering it almost bulletproof to anything up to standard-size rifle rounds. Underneath this, he usually wears heavy-duty ceramic combat armour, which covers nearly his whole body, and underneath that, light cotton pants and a dress shirt (for breathability) or a warm jumper (if he's expecting cold weather). He will typically wear a balaclava that covers his face up to the bridge of his nose, and matte-black anti-flash sunglasses, as well as leather combat gloves and 'jump-boots'. Jump boots are usually seen used by the Russian Spetsnaz, and combine the best aspects of a running shoe and a combat boot; the soles are wrapped in layers of tough cloth, rendering it nearly silent, and it is done up with many clasps and buckles; it is light enough to be run in, but solid and heavy enough to shatter a man's leg or ribcage with a solid kick.
Weapon(s): Switches regularly depending on what he's doing, but always utilises military-grade equipment, and expresses a preference for assassination using anti-materiel weaponry (typically in .50 BMG, 14.5mm or 20mm). He also notably always carries a twelve-inch combat knife, wickedly curved, with a dip in one side of the blade, and his signature weapon for close quarters use is a .500-calibre Smith and Wesson revolver. Lastly, he is also an astoundingly skilled hand-to-hand combatant, utilising the Russian 'Systema' style, and rumour has it that he was once trained in it by the infamous 'Spetsnaz' special forces unit.
Other: Is incredibly experienced in the art of explosives, responsible for several major terrorist attacks in the last few years; he is also well-trained in the areas of deception, manufacturing of false identities and manipulation of those around him. Do NOT put him at the wheel of a vehicle, however, unless you wish for its occupants to suffer the same fate as his enemies.
Hair Color: Black
Height: 6'4"; and well-built at that, although not overly heavily.
Clothing: Usually wears a long leather duster, with a rather high collar (refer to picture); the coat is actually inter-weaved with 'Dragon Skin' ceramic plates, rendering it almost bulletproof to anything up to standard-size rifle rounds. Underneath this, he usually wears heavy-duty ceramic combat armour, which covers nearly his whole body, and underneath that, light cotton pants and a dress shirt (for breathability) or a warm jumper (if he's expecting cold weather). He will typically wear a balaclava that covers his face up to the bridge of his nose, and matte-black anti-flash sunglasses, as well as leather combat gloves and 'jump-boots'. Jump boots are usually seen used by the Russian Spetsnaz, and combine the best aspects of a running shoe and a combat boot; the soles are wrapped in layers of tough cloth, rendering it nearly silent, and it is done up with many clasps and buckles; it is light enough to be run in, but solid and heavy enough to shatter a man's leg or ribcage with a solid kick.
Weapon(s): Switches regularly depending on what he's doing, but always utilises military-grade equipment, and expresses a preference for assassination using anti-materiel weaponry (typically in .50 BMG, 14.5mm or 20mm). He also notably always carries a twelve-inch combat knife, wickedly curved, with a dip in one side of the blade, and his signature weapon for close quarters use is a .500-calibre Smith and Wesson revolver. Lastly, he is also an astoundingly skilled hand-to-hand combatant, utilising the Russian 'Systema' style, and rumour has it that he was once trained in it by the infamous 'Spetsnaz' special forces unit.
Other: Is incredibly experienced in the art of explosives, responsible for several major terrorist attacks in the last few years; he is also well-trained in the areas of deception, manufacturing of false identities and manipulation of those around him. Do NOT put him at the wheel of a vehicle, however, unless you wish for its occupants to suffer the same fate as his enemies.
Personality
A complex, if not divided man, Valentine has spent years fighting and killing, and knows almost nothing but the horrors of war. It is not known when he started what he is now doing, or how, or why; it is unclear when his pattern of murders, assassinations and terrorist attacks began, but it is clear that it has been going for at least eight years, and possibly well longer. He has an incredibly strong sense of justice and what is right, his morals made clear to the world for a long time; he has, in an odd statement sent to news agencies around the world, stated that 'There is nothing inherently wrong with evil, for it can be stopped by the law - and nothing inherently wrong with power, for those with power are necessary to the running of our world. But those who combine the two, those who the law will not stop, those are who I hunt, and they are who I will strike down like the beasts they are.' He has almost no moral qualms in the pursuit of his goal, and once killed four hundred civilians in a bomb attack to wipe out a corrupt CEO who had been bribing the government to continue business; indeed, Valentine seems to apply perhaps a 'profit/loss' system to this, believing that if the number of lives saved or greatly improved exceeds the number of innocent lives taken, he is still righteous. In the very, very few interviews he has ever given, mostly to independent journalists at undisclosed locations, he almost gives hints at being psychologically damaged, likely a consequence of almost a decade of warfare, as well as perhaps the beginnings of his sanity cracking. He occasionally refers to 'others', believed to be once companions of his; in his early days, he was reported to be operating with the assistance of other individuals, although for at least five years, he has operated exclusively independently. Half the world seems to view him as an insane madman, and the other half views him as a righteous hero - but just who he believes he is, remains to be seen...
Hobbies: Does enjoy writing poetry, philosophy and short stories in what little free time he has, although this is understandably usually dark and twisted. Other than that, he has effectively no time to himself.
Favorite Color: Usually seen wearing steel grey or black; he likes to consider himself above such personal preference, however.
Fears: He does not fear death, and to some extent, treats it as a relief; what he fears is dying for nothing, as it would mean that his great quest for righteousness and absolution had ended for nothing. Deep down, he also fears falling in love; it has happened before, and he knows that, at this stage, it would inevitably mean the death of his loved one.
Weaknesses: His great ruthlessness turns many against him, as his 'profit/loss' system of morality and seeming lack of empathy makes him look just as evil, if not more so, than those he kills - and, moreover, this is quite possibly accurate. He is also incredibly infamous, his steel-grey armour and black duster the personification of death in the eyes of many; his appearance in a location is sure to have the police of at least half a dozen nations crawling over it before long.
History: Almost nothing is known of the Sword of Damocles; indeed, nobody but his closest associates even knows his true name. What is known, and extremely publicized, is his service record; he has, to date, destabilised the governments of three third-world nations, brought down several multinational corporations, assassinated major political figures in America, Japan, China and Britain, and possesses a kill count believed to stand at over two thousand individuals, approximately half of which consists of civilians or medical professionals caught in the crossfire or assigned as 'collateral damage'. It is still unclear whether all this is the actions of a single individual, or multiple individuals operating under the same name and using the same techniques; but what is clear is his intentions, and the change his actions have brought...
Favorite Color: Usually seen wearing steel grey or black; he likes to consider himself above such personal preference, however.
Fears: He does not fear death, and to some extent, treats it as a relief; what he fears is dying for nothing, as it would mean that his great quest for righteousness and absolution had ended for nothing. Deep down, he also fears falling in love; it has happened before, and he knows that, at this stage, it would inevitably mean the death of his loved one.
Weaknesses: His great ruthlessness turns many against him, as his 'profit/loss' system of morality and seeming lack of empathy makes him look just as evil, if not more so, than those he kills - and, moreover, this is quite possibly accurate. He is also incredibly infamous, his steel-grey armour and black duster the personification of death in the eyes of many; his appearance in a location is sure to have the police of at least half a dozen nations crawling over it before long.
History: Almost nothing is known of the Sword of Damocles; indeed, nobody but his closest associates even knows his true name. What is known, and extremely publicized, is his service record; he has, to date, destabilised the governments of three third-world nations, brought down several multinational corporations, assassinated major political figures in America, Japan, China and Britain, and possesses a kill count believed to stand at over two thousand individuals, approximately half of which consists of civilians or medical professionals caught in the crossfire or assigned as 'collateral damage'. It is still unclear whether all this is the actions of a single individual, or multiple individuals operating under the same name and using the same techniques; but what is clear is his intentions, and the change his actions have brought...
Excerpt
Two thousand, six hundred and thirty-eight.
That was how many people dead at his hands, Valentine mused, as he sat in the back of the car. The lights of the city rushed past, a dark blur, like stars in an empty sky, but far too numerous; they were glaring, and it seemed cold, hostile, aggressive. But he did not dwell on this; he had to think, had to focus.
Had to kill.
His hands moved on instinct, with a skill born of years of practice. He clicked a magazine into his rifle, pulled back softly on the bolt, then released it, hearing the satisfying, metallic 'thunk' of a bullet being chambered. It was a .50 BMG round, 'Raufoss'-model, a hybrid armour-piercing incendiary type. He'd seen one literally rip a man limb from limb with the force of an impact, and he knew full well that it could tear through a metre of concrete without changing course and while maintaining enough force to kill. He knew this round well; he had fired hundreds like it in his lifetime. But today, only one more addition would be made. It would only take one shot.
He was not in the business of missing.
He stepped out of the car, nodding to the driver; the car left him immediately. The driver was unimportant. The driver had been paid; the driver knew nothing except where to drop him off. From there, he walked.
First things first, he checked his gear. His armour was all in place, securely affixed; it felt heavy, but not too heavy. His coat was the same; it barely obstructed his movement, the latticework of plates completely bulletproof. His weapons were clean and ready to go; his knife was sheathed across his chest, his revolver in a holster upon his abdomen. His backup 9mm Glock was strapped to his right ankle. He had four magazines of .50 BMG rounds across his chest; always better to be prepared. He'd made the mistake of not being prepared too many times, lost too much to that mistake, to come unprepared. One shot was what he wanted. He did not always get what he wanted.
He jogged through a side-street, slinked through the shadows of a busy street, and then cut through another alleyway to a construction site. In a few weeks' time, it would become a towering high-rise apartment building, filled with thousands of smiling families. But for the moment, it was completely empty. For the moment, he would be alone, and that was what he needed.
He walked up its stairs with trepidation; his boots made no sound, the Barrett M107 in his hands only clinking slightly when he accidentally bumped it against a hanging chain. He froze at the noise, snapping up the huge weapon and scanning around; but he saw nothing, and realised what had happened. So he continued, until he reached its twelfth floor, just as he'd planned.
He lay down on his stomach, checking his watch. He was two minutes early. For most, that would be a good thing; it would give them time to set up, to prepare, to rest. Not so for him. Every second he lay still, the CIA of America, the DGSE of France, the GRU of Russia, and a dozen other ruthless intelligence organisations came closer to finding him, to killing him. He would not, could not, allow that to happen.
He checked his weapon, flicking off the safety with a soft 'click' that echoed in the empty space. The wall of this section of the building was not yet in place; he had a clear view out to the hotel on the other side of the road to the apartment building. A table lay set, laden with dozens of expensive dishes; it was unattended, for the moment. In a few minutes, his target would enter, and sit at the thirty-fourth seat. He would stand for a toast to the hotel owner's daughter, who was soon to be married; this toast would occur between thirty seconds and a minute after his target's entrance. His target's heart was his target; he needed a pacemaker, and a shot anywhere near it would shut down the pacemaker on account of electrostatic shock, driving the heart into fibrillation and ensuring no chance of survival. With a direct hit to center mass, the target would be dead in roughly three and a half seconds; with a hit anywhere else, the target would be dead within fourteen. Every detail here was meticulously planned, as always. There was no margin for error.
The target entered, right on schedule. Valentine exhaled softly, his finger curling around the trigger of his rifle; its bipod was unfolded, and it was balanced perfectly. He caught the target in his scope's crosshairs, leveling it at center mass; he knew the ideal time to take the shot, but he would take it immediately if deviations to the course occurred. As he lay there, weapon in his hands, cold metal against his leather gloves, his mind wandered, to those he'd lost over the ten years he'd fought for.
Leo; the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother, dead to save him, making a last stand so that he could escape.
Nina; his ally from the very beginning, he'd been forced to execute her, to put a bullet through her head, after she'd had a change of heart.
Monica; his oldest friend, abandoned him in fear, hating him now, helping the world's governments to hunt him down, her innocence of heart taken by those he'd forced her to kill in his name.
Stephanie. His heart caught at the thought of her name. Of that pale skin, of those beautiful, youthful features, of the warmth of her lips and the comfort of her skin. Of her light, soft laugh, more a girlish giggle than anything. Of her face soaked in blood as she cut a man's heart out to save his life. Of the look of horror upon her face as she realised what she'd done. Of the look of pleading at him to save her in her last moments.
The look of pure, unrelenting terror on her face as she died.
He closed his eyes, and when he re-opened them, all such thoughts were banished from his mind, replaced with a quiet emptiness. He saw his target stand, saw him raise his glass in a toast. He saw the smile on the man's face. A stark contrast with all those that man had killed, Valentine mused icily.
He pulled the trigger.
Two thousand, six hundred and thirty-nine.