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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 · 698 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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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?"

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MacMillan's eyes grew an edge, and he defocused. "You know this look... I'm told this look was on my face when I was blown up, stiched back together by a cut-rate army surgeon and sent back out to fight what we can't beat, what we could never be... always the same, every failure, every time, every mission..." He grimaced horribly and slowly clawed at his eye socket, lost in memory. "Damaged goods, they said..."

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David MacMillan watched her go with hollow eyes. He waited a moment, and then dug around in his kit bag for a handful of shot shells, slipping them one by one under his duster to the accompanyment of a curious mechanical click. He counted them off in monotone as if explaining himself to the range master. "Twelve-gauge frangible, low velocity, good for the undead in urban environs. Twelve-gauge slug, annodized, silver nitrate. Good for shifters, vampires. Twelve-gauge, icendiary, waxed cardboard, don't get the magnesium wet..." Carefully he got to his feet, drawing aside his overcoat to reveal a wickedly matte shotgun of military design. "...good for everything else."

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MacMillan strode from the bar, a lethal glint in his eye. Next time, he avowed, next time there'd be a reckoning. He'd have that power for himself and use it to become the avenging champion of humanity that they all sorely needed. But tonight, his staples were bleeding through.

The setting changes from Gambit's Bar to The Ruins

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David MacMillan watched the exchange in youthful wonder, forgetting himself for a moment. It wasn't the lethal beauty of the weapon, nor its function that gave him room for pause, for indeed, the weapon upon his own shoulders had spat enough annodized silver in its time to sunder a pawnbroker, but the act itself. That two should meet in confidence and exchange weapons as freely as one might trade business cards boggled the mind. Was not the rifle part of one's own self? He nervously fingered his binoculars with moist palms. What action should he take? Announce himself and bluster in? Wait in the wings for an opportunity to prevent himself? It was times such as these that he wished the bud in his ear were connected to a buzzing chain of command.

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MacMillan cocked his head, straining to pick out their conversation. Snatches floated in with the wind, and he wriggled uncomfortably under the burlap sacking that disguised his prone form. From his vantage point, it was entirely too difficult to ascertain their motives simply by looking. The female radiated a soothing... cleanliness, and he found it easy to believe her motives pure. He was not sure about the other. Scruffy... for the third time in a week, he wished he might request reaper support for a close-in view to their very pores, but with the breakup of his own organization, such assets were no longer his to task, and indeed might even prove a danger to himself.

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David MacMillan watched her go. It was no leap of the imagination to assume that she might be on the hunt, as it were. He knew a thing or two of the hunt himself, but this was neither the time nor place. With infinite care, he slowly rose from his concealment, letting the sacking fall aside to reveal tattered cold war era utilities and a battered Mossberg worn down to the aluminum in some places. He approached the clergyman cautiously, one hand extended in careful greeting.

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The young hunter locked eyes with the man, saw him turn, saw the weapon come up -- and forced himself to remain standing. Though every drilled instinct told him to hit the deck, he nervously dropped his own weapon to ready rest and smiled thinly. "Friend, friend... Easy mate, we're both from the same side of the street. Cut from the same... ah, cloth."

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"I had considered that, yes. You seem of a reasonable sort, so I figured that we might perhaps reason. His eyes flicked about nervously. "And I do apologize for the pun. It was in rather poor taste."

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David MacMillan pursed his lips and was briefly touched with the image of a sleazy car-salesman before he opened his mouth to let a well-rehearsed proposal tumble out. "I know who you are and what you do. I'm a soldier, or rather, I was. I can be of great use to your people. I'm a man without an organization, and you're an organization without manpower. Maybe we could... ah, work something out?" He glanced up with nervous aprhension in his eyes, his words sounding forced and tired to his own ears.

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David MacMillan quietly murmered thanks to God and defaulted to the age-old special forces tradition of blustering through one's insecurities. "Silver, eh? Right to the point, done and done." He tumbled a crudely annodized silver knife through his fingers, with a great deal of concentration, but kept his eyes straight ahead as though it were no difficult feat. "Vampires? Yeah, I've seen vampires. Killed 'em too. Damn parasites walking around with their noses high -- leaves room to stick a blade in the intierm, y'know?" He grinned wolfishly and sheathed the blade in a fluid motion. "Where do I find this guy, preacher?"

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