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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 · 649 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 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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"War makes brothers of the strangest fellows, cap'n. I can't say much for your Zorro chum, but I'd sure love to meet him." He plucked a lightly-minted toothpick from his vest and politely turned upwind of the lighter's flare, the smell of smoke awakening an unpleasant craving within his pallete. "I understand. If you'll have me, I've some unique abilities to bring to the table. I wasn't just some dumb jarhead, right? Intelligence and logistics. 'S how I found you, actually." He glanced to the weapon in his hands. "But, uh, I can fight too. I was trained as a sapper before they POG'd my ass."

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"Buddy, we wrote the book..." MacMillan squinted a little as he suddenly percieved a slight change in personality from the sitting man. "I can run Microsoft office, operate a cash register, remotely uplink and retask a military satellite. Any of that doing it for you? 'pologies, preacher, but some things have to be learned as you go. We can't all don leather threads and count ourselves amongst the hardasses of this world."

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David MacMillan 's mouth opened and shut on the air, unsure if he ought to take offense at the double-edged observation or not. He settled for an uncomfortably firm handshake instead, flexing his muscle a little, as it were. "Hope it's a good one. You can call me Mac. Got a name yourself?"

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David MacMillan watched him go.

The setting changes from The Ruins to Gambit's Bar

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David MacMillan simply stepped back and let it hang, recognizing the vampire for its palor and slightly off-color smell. As the vampire staggered ever-so-slightly off balance, MacMillan drew on him with his free hand.

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The soldier snorted out a bit of must that had lodged itself in his nose. He spoke directly to the vanishing vapor cloud. "You wanted anywhere? C'mon, if you had to value your hide, where would you place it? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

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"Hey, you flakey bastard, you attacked me! I was just valiantly rushing to the aid of the wounded!" He slung his mossberg up on one shoulder to adopt his signature defiant stance. "You forfeited the right to neutrality when you started mackin' on human blood. As far as any judicial system is concerned, that makes you a black-hearted criminal. The fact that they'll pay through the nose for the medicinal properties of your fangs just makes the pot sweeter."

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"Oh? I hadn't realized. That makes you the living undead! You lot are more difficult to put down than a yeast infection. I hear it helps if you piss on it, though I might be thinking of trench foot..."

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"Well, see, that's the thing. You're the infection here -- and if an infection is allowed to rage unchecked, everything gets rather fetid. Once in a while an antibody has to come by and stir things up. Your kind is a blight."

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David MacMillan glanced about, checking his angles with drilled precision, dropping into a shooting stance, silver-nitrate loaded ready. "I figured you for one of those lowly subserviant castes, vampire. Is this your boss?"

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"Half angel my kevlar-cushioned ass. You're just asking for trouble." MacMillan kept up a facade of calm as he strafed for the doorway. "You lot with your noses held so high. You'll never see the blade that kills you from your ivory tower."

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David MacMillan came in from the rain with a minimum of fanfare. In posession of a known and disliked face, he had on an OD-green tactical shemagh, a wafer of thin fabric wrapped tightly about his lower face, effectively disguising him in conjunction with a black operator's cap. He thought himself rather enigmatic, but in fact, the wrapping merely made his neck look fat. The battered Kalashnikov at his side was unmistakable, however, and it rattled against his thigh as he took a seat amongst several of the more outlandishly-garbed regulars as to lose himself a little better. He eked out a tiny bit of bartop space as a makeshift FOB and began putting away light brews as fast as the feeble robot tap could put them up.

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David MacMillan felt a strange feeling of misgiving sweep over him. A brief flash of firelight and slavering fangs stabbed at his mind, but the operator was working on a buzz, and had no time for such interruptions. Defaulting to the age-old Special Forces tradition of selective focus, he centered the universe on the glass in his hand. It worked like a charm, and went down easy.

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David MacMillan blinked, started, and sat upright. No stranger to depravity or dark thoughts, the images coming to mind now were by no means the worst of him... but they were entirely, infuriatingly undesirable. He pushed back from the bar, wondering if he'd been slipped some sort of hallucinogen. His lip twitched away a bead of sweat as a runaway train of memories loosed its brakes and tumbled off down a path of sporadic gunfire, the crack of death too near to comfortably measure... Fangs, musk, and... her. The soldier's back arced suddenly and his cap fell away. "Get outta my head, you... you bloody bitch! I've nothing to do with you!" he snarled at a sudden memory. Alarmed, he staggered to his feet, sweating profusely. He surmrised that he was in worse condition than he'd allowed for. He had to get away from the crowd...

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David MacMillan felt his palms go numb. A familiar feeling of disease flooded his system. Slowly, he turned, knowing without understanding what he knew to be true. On turning, his eyes hardened as he beheld a visage ripped straight from his most painful memories. Not an enemy soldier with face twisted by rage, not some horrible demon, indeed not even a man. MacMillan's mouth opened and shut once on the air before he slowly drew his weapon to point at the illusory figure. "Allison... Why are you here, dammit? Where's your furry boyfriend, eh? If you'd just told me you'd been infected, we could have helped you! Damn it, why?! We could have been together! But no, you thought you had it made. Big bad werewolf, all the power you'd ever craved, you heartless bitch. That man you killed -- that man you ate -- he was my friend! Well, I'm not going to let you get me! I'm going to end your bloody life here and now!" the hunter snarled, rage and despair threatening to bring him to his knees.