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Jeremiah Baker

1 · 251 views · located in The Abandoned Slums

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

Description

Dossier Information Available to All Current Bounty Hunters
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Name: Jeremiah Hauc Baker

Age: 26

Height: 6'2" / 188 cm

Weight: 173 lbs / 78.5 kG

Hair Color: Silver-White

Eye Color: Brown with orange tint

Known Markings: Incredibly scarred hands, usually wears gloves / An entire sleeve tattoo stretching from elbows, up and across shoulders, and down entire torso. The tattoo depicts various icons in alchemic, steam, and mana sciences, red and blue dragons, water, crescent moons, fire, machinery, ice, and star patterns

---WARNING: CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS----

Last known picture, cross the Main Street Fountain in Wing City, Terra. Photo has been enhanced to depict him and him alone.

Image

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
BOUNTY ALIVE: 625,000 CREDITS OR EQUAL WORTH IN SELECTED CURRENCY
BOUNTY DEAD: 475,00 CREDITS OR EQUAL WORTH IN SELECTED CURRENCY

Personality

An isolationist by desire and nature, he is however prone to stints of social interaction, much like a binge drinker is drawn to periods of heavy drinking. Calculating, logical to a fault, with an arrogance that is only matched by his sheer charisma. Has no known weakness for alcohol, but eyewitness accounts say that Jeremiah is addicted to a self-created drug known at 'Drops', a form of condensed mana. Effects are unknown, and his addiction is not hazardous to his health as he has apparently been using this compound for recreational going on six years.

Equipment

----WARNING : EQUIPMENT IS UNKNOWN. JEREMIAH HAS BEEN KNOWN TO CARRY FIRE ARMS, VARIOUS FORMS OF ALCHEMIC GRENADES, VARIOUS FORMS OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICES, STORED MAGIC IN VARIOUS FORMS, AND STEAM POWERED WEAPONRY. NEVER CONSIDER HIM UNARMED : END OF WARNING ----

History

A revolutionary scientist and engineer, Baker let his genius lead him down the wrong path. Wanted for various charges of Illegal Weapon Sales, Arson, Theft. Four cases of Involuntary Man Slaughter. Three charges of Conspiracy to commit Treason and/or Terrorism. Charged in connection with various gang and / politically related bombings.

So begins...

Jeremiah Baker's Story

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Finding a place to grab a drink this late at night had never truly been all the difficult before. However, when events in your life cause you to veer down roads you never would have considered before, your options and standards tended to change accordingly. Jeremiah was not looking for a drink however. Alcohol was a vile substance that robbed intelligent men of their most useful traits and eats away at the clarity of memories, and our time in the mortal realms. He damn near silently stepped into the humble, if famous bar, scanned the patrons already established therein, and took a seat in a corner booth, away from the others.

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At first, it didn't hurt. Then, it did. Pain sometimes took a long while to travel from the nerve cluster it disturbed, to the brain, and then back. The man who preferred his last name to his first didn't let out a yelp. Din't even cringe. He merely stood, and slide further into the booth, a pair of wire cutters springing into his hand seemingly out of nowhere. Muttering, in a language few would recognize and even fewer would understand, he started making his own repairs to the seat. Always something to tinker. Always something to tweak.

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One more, Baker decided to take the patrons in. A very short, seemingly very rude women. A curvier women with freckles. Some kind of...undead. Disgusting creature. A man in a fancy suit, who sported wings. Various others. None that drew his interest for now. It took a certain spark in one's eye to draw the attention of a internationally wanted genius. Arms dealer. Whatever. He took a note of every single event that flashed before his eyes. A humdrum of chaos. Anyone who came looking for him would be drawn into it. Wing City had been the perfect place to hide out after all...

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Chaos. Violence. Acting without a rational thought. These were not his kind of people. But he was stuck with them. He never sought out interaction, a lie to be sure, it always found him. He took inventory of himself, and found that everywhere was in the pocket, satchel, or strap that was designated to it. Weapons, tools, ingredients, instruments, wallet. He was still complete for now. Left hand in left, middle, inner jacket pocket. Thumbing the ignition switch on a RedswatheIZZ801, a small gearbox bomb filled with liquid fire and swirling, barbed shrapnel. Just in case any of these...people decided to get too familiar with the recluse of a scientist.

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Things were getting very interesting. From what he could tell, sentient animals. Wizards. Midgets. It didn't really matter to Jeremiah. He just loved the show. However, the urge to toss a bomb or two was growing excessive, and only his even, cool disposition, tempered by years of study and mental fortitude stopped him from igniting this obvious festering hellhole. He had still not said a word to a soul aside himself. No orders. No food. No drink. No drugs. He was trying to go clean, at least for now.

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The tiny ones had fled. Everyone seemed familiar to each other now. Leaving one man to be the lone stranger. Now that the wizard had calmed down, Baker took his finger off of the metaphorical trigger. Such things would probably only draw attention to him anyway. Not from these barflys. They mattered not to him. No, he was concerned with standing out for the guilds, the communities, the lone rangers. No, Baker would not leave a trail for the Hunter's to seek out.

The setting changes from gambits-bar to The Abandoned Slums

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Perhaps it was his latent paranoia creeping up on him, but Baker couldn't help thumbing the detonation trigger on what bombs he may be carrying at the moment. He honestly had no recollection of which ones he grabbed from his laboratory shelf all those days ago, but what he did remember was his goal. Somewhere, out there, among the rabble and the downtrodden, his customer was waiting. The moon was high. The glow from the city lights, even this far away from the metropolis center, hid the stars behind a veil of light pollution.

One thing he wasn't used to. The lack of stars. They were, sometimes, inspiration for his more crazed designs. Alas, what else was a man to do, when hunted from his home world? Instead of his normal attire, Jeremiah had instead donned a civilians garb. Gone was his red lab coat, the various protective instruments and layers. Instead, his wardrobe was simple. White shirt, almost as white as his pale indoor skin. Blue jeans. Military combat boots. A long, baggy grey hoody. He looked like a hoodlum. Damn it all...

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Deception. Ambush. Scanning the face ahead of him. Body language. This wasn't his first rodeo. He had been set up before. Plenty of people wanted his head, dead or alive. He was worth it. Though the bounty seemed to fluc-No time to think about that at the moment. That sense of dread was only creeping further and further up his spine.

No. His contact was already seconds late. Baker was very precise, and anyone ordering from him would know his reputation and his requirements. If they were late, it had to be fake. Something of a motto. He needed to get out of the slums, far away, back to his safe house. Arm the booby traps.

A bead of sweat fell from his chin.

Jeremiah looked from side to side. The hood blocked some of his peripheral vision. However...Something out of the very corner of his eye. Passing. Intrigue. Curiosity. A hunger. He could feel it. Or he was going even madder then he already was. Either way, next thing he knew it, Jeremiah was booking it down the slums, knocking homeless, gangbangers, and bystanders aside like they were very solid stacks of paper.

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That was it. Now he had a target. The various shouts and insults flung his general direction could not all be applied to him. 'Crazy sword lady' was definitely, he hoped, not one of his monikers. Flushing it from the depths of his coat pocket, the poor hunter scientist armed the...Oh, look at that? RU-IGNCRY. Not one of his favorites, but it might actually help him get away. Twirling mid run, he not only slowed for a fraction of a second, but tossed the small, diamond shaped box at the roof line. He hoped, for his sake, the girl's reactions were slow today.

About half a second after it left his hand, he felt intense heat as his back, and felt himself propelled forward, followed by a gush of cold wind. Shaking his head, he attempting to get to his feet. Behind him, the scene would be stand-still blue flames. Frozen fire. Still not to his feet, he could only hope that he rid himself of his follower...

Since when was his luck that good?

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Caught. God. Damn. It. He couldn't reach his revolver. Or his bombs. A guttural growl. How unlike him. If he was going to be taken down, might as well succumb with grace. Besides...most men would...not mind this kind of thing. A woman with enough flexibility to literally dodge an incoming incendiary, while also being able to boast a ridiculous body to boot, pinning him with her…by his midsection. Yes. However, right now, Jeremiah had bigger concerns then controlling his blood flow.

“So. It seems that perhaps, you have won. How marvelous. For you.” Boots. His boots. He needed to somehow flip the switch. Thrusters. Hopefully the very short burst of pyromana would throw her from her personal Baker-Brand perch. And he could try to escape once more. “Could I perhaps get the name of captor? For the record book?” His tone was anything but serious, and despite his obvious predicament, it held its trademark arrogant, charming, flow-like-honey tone.

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While painful, her new position did give his lower body a slight bonus to its leverage. "Oh. I don't know. Obviously I am the one you're looking for. No one else can make biomana bombs in this city, or on this damned continent. I'm not going to deny your accusation." A smug smile, trying to hide the fact that he was practically kicking his boot against the sidewalk. He heard sirens in the distance. "Might as well accept credit where credit is due, and all that."

Running the numbers in his head. If things went well, he'd jumpstart his booster-boots, skid on his back for about three seconds at thirty plus miles an hour, and then hopefully get up and run before his hunter would know what was even happening.

-Clink-

The metal bottom of his boots opened, the striking of metal on flit in the hidden compartment igniting the pyromana within. A literal explosion at the base of his feet propelled him, on his barely protected back, across the concrete. It hurt. A lot. He did his best to ignore the pain. He was going to fast. With a crash, he barreled into a unfixed trashcan, spilling its contents across the street. He was a good one hundred and seventy feet away. He could feel a warm pool of his own blood seeping from his ragged back. More scars. Yaaaaay. Staggering, he slowly got to his feed, before once more attempting to run away.

Time traveled, three and a half seconds. Speed, 33mph. Distance, 169.71 feet. Only protection, a shirt and a thick hoodie. Not his best day.

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Despite his wounds, despite the agonizing pain his body was in, his mind was in full control. Calculated damage from a normal round, if he did not manage to dodge, would be substantial. Possibly life threatening, considering all things. However, for now, his mind was in full control. Pain receptors and emotions were dampened by logic and reason, to an extent. His mind flared and in the allotted time he had, Jeremiah did two things:

One, was a steam-bang. His take on a classical smoke bang. Loud, deafening noise followed by blinding light, and in this case, scolding hot steam. He tossed this right over his shoulder, which would hopefully allow the heat of the steam blast to cauterize his skin's surface wounds. The other device?

Well, that was his own revolver. With a duck and roll, which, according to him, gave the fugitive scientist a sixty-four, rounded down, chance to evade the ballistic, he drew the destructive IzzBam Carrion. Four small caliber rounds, composed of metal shrapnel covered in a thin veil of liquid pyromana, exploded from the muzzle and towards his pursuer.

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He saw both incoming attacks. Which, despite his minds rapid reaction times, he desperately wished she hadn't used a two pronged assault. His body could not act fast enough in its battered state to fully avoid both attack. A wound from that round would end him. He'd be killed, or caught. Maybe not caught, but disabled. He opted for a risky strategy. He fired off his other four rounds before ducking his head, and charging the women low, at an angle.

The sirens were getting closer.

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Despite everything going on, Jeremiah was sporting a half smile, eerie when coupled with his cold, dead, emotionless eyes. "It seems we have a problem." His last bomb was lost somewhere on the street with his tattered shirt and hoodie, along with his extra rounds. He fought for control of their struggle, weakly. It wouldn't be too long until his body would give out completely.

"I propose we go our separate ways, animal girl." There was almost a coy undertone to his voice, a purr. His smile grew even as he attempted to wrap his hands around her throat, dropping his gun. "Its a good idea, for both of us." He hated taking life directly, but he would if it meant his escape...

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"Oh, I'd really like you to reconsider, but I see your point. I'm worth a lot. Probably even more now, with another public gun fight and more of my little play things going off." That same grin, cooing as she scraped his stomach ever so 'gently'. He did however, retract his hands, actually falling on his thin, almost bony ass with a audible groan.

His body had taken that exact moment to lose its strength. He could little more then breath heavy gasp of air, the physical toll demanded of him actually shutting him up. He could little more the twitch and groan as he was dragged away.

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He tried to gurgle a response, or at least put up a faux resistance. But he honestly couldn't muster up the wit or strength. Things were looking bad, but he was nowhere near death. Hopefully, the sirens would catch up to them. He had better odds of escaping their custody then he did hers. Grim times ahead.

He examined the house for awhile, his vision fuzzing in and out as he did so. It was...downtrodden would be a kind word. The outer slums of wing city certainly didn't share in the general new-age grandeur of the center business and living districts. Such a shame. Everything certainly wasn't equal here.

He tried to say something silly, or charming, but all that came out was a groan.

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He could almost place the scent as soon as she mentioned it. However, at least for now, he was still in a state of...being a deadweight ragdoll in her arms. He really didn't mind so much. Honestly, she had a few things he liked in his women. Too bad for him he decided to never really care for them. Emotionally. Or even physically. He just liked nice things to look at. Which in his mind, summed up to explosions, workshops, labs, and women. Not weak, twiggy women either.

Those were gross.

He liked the unique. A lot. This time however, he did manage a nod. It was almost putrid. If he had anything in his stomach, it would have exited, stage upwards.

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Dear gods. This crazy women was going to get him killed. He could survive prison, he just much preferred to not go. Death however, was one thing that Jeremiah had a strong distaste for. And from the looks of it, this wasn't the vampire of nobility he had heard of. No, this thing was probably akin to a feral, rabid wolf. Wild and killing for blood and the thrill.

Distasteful really. At least all his clientele had various reasons. Sometimes stupid, but honestly, a real reason. Not some instinctual, illogical garbage.

"Might...I suggest...we leave? I'm..." A very slight cough. "Not very armed...Anymore." Bombs and gun on the street. Most he had on him was a few gears, a screwdriver, and a small box-cutter.

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Dear gods. This crazy women was going to get him killed. He could survive prison, he just much preferred to not go. Death however, was one thing that Jeremiah had a strong distaste for. And from the looks of it, this wasn't the vampire of nobility he had heard of. No, this thing was probably akin to a feral, rabid wolf. Wild and killing for blood and the thrill.

Distasteful really. At least all his clientele had various reasons. Sometimes stupid, but honestly, a real reason. Not some instinctual, illogical garbage.

"Might...I suggest...we leave? I'm..." A very slight cough. "Not very armed...Anymore." Bombs and gun on the street. Most he had on him was a few gears, a screwdriver, and a small box-cutter.

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Let her deal with the bestial undead. As he was recovering, searching for his second wind, call ti whatever you wished, he was using this time to plan his next move. Luckily, he wasn't bleeding too much. Barely at all. His steam-bang had done wonders for his bag. Sure, it would have a lot more scar tissue now, but injuries were something he was used to, in the end.

He wanted to speak. Jeremiah always wanted to say something. Right now, he couldn't. Or rather, wouldn't. He was almost feeling well enough to at least stand on his own. He'd be able to run before too long. They were only a single story up. The fall wouldn't be too bad.

He wondered, if and when, he'd tell Kaliska about the other feral vampires, cluttering the rafters...

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"Oh darling...I thought you'd never ask. Will you pay for dinner too?" All the same, he wrapped his thin arms protectively around her midsection and shoulders, doing his best to stay fastened to her. After all, if his plan didn't work, he'd be left here with them too.

A glance overhead. They were getting bolder. Moving in. He could see them all now. Two females, one male, one whose gender was...questionable. Four in all, five counting the one in front of them. A colony all their own, and they were the invaders. Baker would've given anything for his gun, or more explosives, or even a single mana-coil. Anything to make light, or fire, or steam.

"We'll talk about the more complex facets of our relationship later, love."

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His plan was not working. She had realized everything far too soon. As long as he timed it perfectly, however, he might be able to wound her, and then run on his own. Not very fast, but it was possible. Anything was possible, with resources and planning. He did a poor shard of shielding himself from the glass. A few minor lacerations.

As they fell, he deftly brought his screwdriver from his back pocket, and waited. It had to be perfect. The timing, the angle, everything.

The ground was coming up fast. A dirty backyard of the slums. Half junkyard, half cesspool. But they were aiming for the, luckily, clearest part of the yard. Might land on an old chair, part of a fence, for some reason, the hood of an old combustion engine vehicle.

Right before his feet scraped the dying and dead grass, he would do his very best to slam the point of his tool, meant to create, into the thigh of his captor...

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He was dropped, hard, before they even hit the ground. Landing on what must have been a pile of half fluffy garbage and half concrete rubble, Jeremiah groaned, loudly, doing his best to clamber to his feet. His body was still week, and honestly, the impact hadn't helped much.

Still, the scientist had gotten the better of his captor. Again. Staggering, he pried a piece of steel rebar from the many piles of debris and swung it experimentally. A few more practice swings as he made his way towards the girl, grinning. "You know whats sad, bounty hunter filth? Its not that you thought you could catch me. You did that, for a short period of time." He raised the bar above his head, aiming down between her third and forth vertebrae.

"Its that you thought I'd let you keep me." With that, he let his attack fall, and waited.

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The blow struck with a satisfying thud. However, he found himself gurgling, the pain of his own wound reeling fresh in his mind. She was good with improvised weapons. With a hacking cough, he pulled the tool from his collar and stuffed it roughly back into his denim jeans. "Good throw. I doubt even I could've mimicked it."

With disgust, he threw away the bar of metal. It had been barbaric. Necessary, but that doesn't mean Jeremiah liked it. He wanted to believe he was more refined then that.

After some general preening, he gazed upwards towards the vampire homestead. Every worthy foe deserved a favor, and he could sense, almost taste, the hatred in Kaliska's voice when she spoke to the blood sucker. So, seeing as how it was broad daylight, and no one would be around to see him do it...Bake did something he loathed with a passion...

He summoned magic, and magic alone. No tech. No experiments. Just pure arcane arts. And with a whoosh, the house erupted into flames. Once again, sirens blared in the distance, even as Jeremiah, wanted criminal, hopped the fence and made his way towards one of his many hideaways.