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David MacMillan

A a world-weary gun-for-hire with a professional demeanor and a quiet distaste for the supernatural

0 · 705 views · located in The Infinite Void

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by SylentStand

Description

Name: David MacMillan

Species: Human
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Weight: 198 lbs
Current Occupation: Security Consultant
Allignment Neutral Good

Affiliations:
Security Advisor to PMC 'Searchbloc'

Armament:
- Concealed Snub-nose .38 (Extra loaders w/ silver-nitrate leaf available)
- Collapsable aluminum walking stick

Overview:
A tall and lanky man with a deeply lined face and regulation black hair graying at the edges. Built conservatively and slightly haggard from a lifetime of overwork. Despite this, he is well versed in combat strategy and hand-to-hand techniques accumulated over a long and dangerous career, though slightly hobbled by injuries and disfigurements. The ex-soldier is commonly attired in a threadbare charcoal-gray bush jacket and a commercial-grade kevlar vest for personal protection. Stiff leather work boots offer a professional appearance and a stout kick alike. Grown old before his time, he walks with a limp and a cane on a warped and twisted leg.

Personality:
Once a young idealist who recklessly pursued the career of a bounty hunter, MacMillan has matured into a tactful and professional businessman through his later years, though he has not lost his soldier's edge. No longer confident in his immortality, he relied on tact and cunning to avoid tricky situations, often going to great lengths to assauge ill will and maintain professionalism. Now wearied and disillusioned by the hardscrabble life of the amateur mercenary, he has become a careful man who wishes only to see the job through and keep himself alive.

Skills:
MacMillan comes from a military background and was once a competent marksman. Holds an up-to-date certification in EMT training as a matter of rote. Through the years he has taken on (often inadvisably) many foes with unnatural abilities and traits, leaving him with permanent scarring and a healthy respect for the unknown.

So begins...

David MacMillan's Story

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David MacMillan 's eyes flashed to Autumn. He could barely discern her words over the gunfire. He pushed her away. "Get outta here!"

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marveled at the woman's foolishness even as he staggered to his feet and unclasped the browning Hi-power from his waist. "Get the hell out of the way! He'll kill you!" He physically shoved her aside, and brought up the .45 so that the O-ring matched up with Maelik's head. "I'll kill you if I have to! There's no other way!"

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David MacMillan didn't get a chance to finish. The handful of talcum powder he'd been fixing to hurl into the demon's face slowly drifted from his hand. Maelik had halted on his warpath, becoming almost... placid. David decided on a tactical withdrawal, slowly moving to the stairs. With any luck, a SEAL team could be warped into the Multiverse and meet him on the roof. Even a couple of D-boys wouldn't be amiss right now.

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David MacMillan reached the cover of the stairwell and took the time to reload his H&K. As an afterthought, he trained his sights on Mammon while he was still reeling from the knife wound. Maelik was otherwise occupied, David could leave him alone. He was pissed and self-righteous, but he wasn't stupid. Demons could take a lot of punishment, and this was beyond the capabilities of one man in torn riot gear. He took the shot. A hollow-point round ripped into the demon's torso of flesh, flattening itself and shredding everything it touched into a pancake of blood and gristle.

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David MacMillan stared at the newcomer incredulously. Through a lull in the firing, he took the time to shout a warning.

"Hey, trooper! Get your head down!" He hollered as he sent more HP shells zipping downrange to irritate Mammon.

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David MacMillan gritted his teeth in pain. "Nh- Ahh..." The plexiglass visor on his helmet began to spiderweb. Still, the demon kept pressing down with impossible force. "So you say... Gah! Jesus..." he pleaded, his eyes unfocused. His eyes flicked to the doorway. Where was the cavalry?!

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David MacMillan 's head whirled. So little time left. His bucket was creaking, lights flashing, dazzling lights and sounds. He was passibng out, he knew. Dazzling... His hand reached to his grenade belt of its own accord...

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David MacMillan felt the floor shake, felt the pressure give, felt everything but the pin in his hand. It was too late. He fell, tumbling through to the basement, wondering how long the fuse on his grenade belt had left. To attempt removing all his fragmentation grenades would be a comedic exercise in futility. He wondered how long he had--

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David MacMillan tumbled apart into rags and what looked from afar like gray clots of dirt, but weren't. He'd bitten off more than he could chew.

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David MacMillan entered quietly. He swapped a two-cred coin for a low-quality house brew and slid in to take a seat amongst the other patrons and their respective groups. The beverage was on the countertop more than his mind, however. He absently began searching faces in the dully reflective siding, looking for any hint of dissidence in the assembled.

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wasn't sure he liked the looks of more than a few of the patrons. They were a motley crew, strangely equipped and outlandishly outfitted, some with a more... toned, appearance than others. It was somewhat difficult to separate the sheep from the goats, but he didn't see any wolves, per se... Well, perhaps one.

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MacMillan felt a seed of cautious alarm bloom in his mind as he glanced over a chatting couple. Something about them... They gave the impression of fickle infatuation, but something seemed off. His honed intuition picked up on something vaguely unsettling about the female, and he paused to wonder if she might be quite as human as she appeared. His hand absently looped about the faint impression of the magnificently concealed mossberg, and he was momentarily sobered. Had he loaded silver nitrate or incendiaries?

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David MacMillan drew a deep breath and parsed it out through clenched teeth. He wasn't the 'point' anymore, and the affairs of whomever he might encounter were no longer his business, lest he be slapped down hard by the administrative pike. What did it matter, human or not? He wasn't authorized to do a thing about it, and what would it matter if he could? He recalled with a shudder the events that had forced him to relearn the basics of movement all those months ago. There had been a demon then, too, hadn't there? And for all his bluster and skill, he'd failed utterly. He jerked upright andpushed away from the bar, turning a sharp about-face. Out of the corner of an eye, perhaps attracted by a furtive movement, he noticed a young lady staring at him, and stared back, blankly.

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David MacMillan shook the dull cobwebs from his mind that occasionally threatened catatonia and stalked stiff-legged to the center of the room, ekeing out a little space for himself. He stood rock-still and silent, peering out at the world through dimming eyes, the roaring in his ears now accute. Everything seemed to spin slowly around, silent, slow, sliding from view. He dipped a hand into his jacket and came out with a closed fist, index and thumb pointed outward at ninety degrees. He eyed the 'weapon' curiously, as though it were an unexpected development, and slowly raised it to point at the ceiling.

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David MacMillan blinked hard, checked himself, and slowly lowered his hand, a tinge of embarrassment flushing his features. He lowered his arm, clumsily playing it off--but not before he took the time to snap a deliberate 'shot' off at the demoness. Staggering a little under the weight of his suddenly too-heavy chest rig, he slid into a booth and popped open his aid kit, downing a cellulose pre-packed dosage of medication, chewing for rapid absorbation. Almost immediately, his vision cleared a little and the dullness that clung to his thoughts retreated. He was about ready to pack it in, but the clink and clatter of a grenade startled him to his feet once more.

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His eyes fell on the device, desperately searching for the spoon. Before he could plot his next action, the young man he'd been observing hurled himself upon the device in a selfless but ultimately foolish act. He threw himself down anyway, knowing the penetrating capabilities of such a device through unarmored civilian flesh.

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David MacMillan got up, snarling, his ire fully aroused. He stalked forward to grab Bo forcibly by the shoulder and collarbone, taking her to her knees in a submission hold. "That was a really shitty thing to do, ma'am. A really shitty thing to do!"

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David MacMillan stood silent. Once he might have stood agape at the ease in which he'd been duped, uncomprehending that somehow, impossibly, his obviously superior training had not been enough. But now he knew differently. As human, he was fallible. The toxic-green razor-wire scars across his back were proof enough of an intimate brush with the supernatural. He knew now, and the knowledge was maddening. What good was the guardian who could not protect? The ridiculed hero? He retired to a far booth in something akin to despair. His face remained blank.

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David MacMillan eyed the patrons from beneath tired brows. None of them spared so much as a glance in his direction. He was beaten, worthless... They were mocking him in their thoughts, he knew. Mocking, jeering... Not dangerous... So many voices. What if they weren't human, any of them? What if he were the last human in the bar? What if they were all arrayed against him, in it together? As the roaring in his ears began to swell once more, his hand dipped to fondle the coolness of his steel.

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David MacMillan snapped his head back and knocked it against the siding, suddenly aware of his surroundings again. The avenging angel shrieked and drew away. He blinked to clear the image, glancing over at the woman in an adjacent booth. "Are you talking to me?"