Testing, Testing, 1, 2, 3

[HighVoltage]

The Irreverent

Welcome to the desecration, baby

Name:

Marcus Atkins

Current Age:

23

Age at Embrace:

18

Clan:

Iratus

I'm a rat.

Not a snitch, God knows I’d rather snort garlic powder than spill someone’s secrets. It’s not out of any sense of loyalty, just because I’d kill someone if they spilled mine. No, I’m a rat in the sense that I get into places and situations I’m not really supposed to.

Oh it’s truly a touching story. Daddy left when I was too young to remember him, Mommy married a jackass. Soon as I turned sixteen, said jackass decided he was tired of me mooching off him, and I was either gonna pay him for the roof over my head or be kicked out. Dear old Mom just stood there while her son packed a bag and stormed off.

Alistair was the only other person I had left, but he was just a kid like me. He helped where he could, mainly by busking on the street with an old guitar his dad had lying around. He was good, and the money we made helped more than I could do on my own. Then he was gone. Just disappeared one day, no goodbye or anything. The last thing I had going for me, fucking shattered. I wound up under a bridge that night, drinking my sorrows away with the resident bum there, some guy called Ripley. He was a good listening ear, but he was pretty sure he knew what happened to Alistair, that he was taken by some assholes called “Requiem”.

Now I didn’t know who they were at the time, but I was pissed. I was gonna get him back, and there was no way in Hell I was gonna be stopped. Ripley offered to help, and before I knew it he had latched himself onto my neck. It hurt like hell, and I’m pretty sure I passed out more than once. I don’t know how long it lasted, but once the pain finally subsided I was filled with hunger and fire, ready to get Alistair back.

He was dead.

Ripley had been piss-drunk when he bit me, and apparently anyone taken by Requiem is never heard from again. So I ran, again, away from Ripley, away from everything, shouting into the night for Alistair, shouting myself hoarse. Instead of finding my friend, however, I found myself outside a bar. Not just any bar, but jackass’s favorite. And as luck would have it, he had just begun to stumble home. It was only then that I realized I was starving. He tasted like oil, greasy and acrid. But I could finally think clearly. Fuck Ripley, but more importantly fuck Requiem. I was gonna find the one who took Alistair and I was gonna make him pay.

But what does all that have to do with what I’m doing right now? Why am I spilling my life story to this guy who doesn’t understand half of what I’m saying? He’s certainly not Requiem, hell he doesn’t even know what I am. All he knows is this homeless-looking guy broke into his house, past his security, and is rambling on while he’s bound and gagged. But he’s afraid. Sure, an adrenaline high is one thing. But drinking someone while adrenaline is coursing through their veins? That’s a whole new level of high. I chuck my phone onto the nearby table, rough guitars and a growling voice bleeding through the speakers. I look down at the trussed-up suit, his eyes wide in fear. I grin at him, a tongue running over my fangs as he finally realizes what’s about to happen, as the rough voice slides into the chorus, a voice worn down by years of drugs and alcohol and life and living that I sure as shit can’t have anymore. But I can sure as shit do this.

C’mon baby, eat the rich.

 

[HighVoltage]

Name: Mariko "Mari" Ito
Age: 25
Gender: Female, she/they
Appearance: Mari stands a bit shorter than most, with long dark hair that she often lets hang loose. When working on her projects, she does her best to keep it out of her face with a cat-ear headband that she jokingly refers to as her "thinking cap". She always dresses rather smartly, usually in some form of slacks, a vest, and a button-up shirt. One constant is the fox-paw charm that Mari keeps on her belt at nearly all times, as a reminder of her mother.
Features: Mari has lived her whole life with a heightened intelligence. While she was never tested, she personally wouldn't consider herself a genius. She's simply a problem solver. Perhaps as a result, some would call her emotionally stunted, unable to process her own emotions or those of others very well.




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Alias: Kitsune
Powers: Like a cat, Kitsune has nine lives. She uses one of these lives whenever she dies, returning to life within 60 seconds. Any damage she's sustained prior to resurrection will heal, but she will still feel the phantom pains left behind. Kitsune regains one life per lunar cycle, approximately 30 days, and is constantly aware of just how many lives she has left.
Alliances: Founder and leader of Nine Tails Inc., working alongside Shiba
Equipment:

• A modular "laser" pistol that can be modified to serve the purpose of other guns.
• Two knives, the blades of which can be heated or given an electric current.
• A handful of proximity alarms with 3D cameras that feed into her helmet.
• Suit made from a slash-resistant, puncture-proof durable fabric.
• Mask with built-in voice modifier, HUD, targeting system, and short-range communicator connected to Shiba's.

 

[HighVoltage]

Name: Mariko "Mari" Ito
Age: 25
Gender: Female, she/they
Appearance: Mari stands a bit shorter than most, with long dark hair that she often lets hang loose. When working on her projects, she does her best to keep it out of her face with a cat-ear headband that Spork gave her once as a joke. She always dresses rather smartly, usually in some form of slacks, a vest, and a button-up shirt. One constant is the fox-paw charm that Mari keeps on her belt at nearly all times, except for when she's working.
Features: Mari has lived her whole life with a heightened intelligence. While she was never tested, she personally wouldn't consider herself a genius. She simply sees things in terms of problems to be solved. Perhaps as a result, some would call her emotionally stunted, unable to process her own emotions or those of others very well.

Alias: Kitsune
Powers: Like a cat, Kitsune has nine lives. She uses one of these lives whenever she dies, returning to life within 60 seconds. Any damage she's sustained prior to resurrection will heal, but she will still feel the phantom pains left behind. Kitsune regains one life per lunar cycle, approximately 30 days, and is constantly aware of just how many lives she has left.
Alliances: Founder and leader of Nine Tails Inc., working alongside Shiba
Equipment:

• A modular "laser" pistol that can be modified to serve the purpose of other guns.
• Two knives, the blades of which can be heated or given an electric current.
• A handful of proximity alarms with 3D cameras that feed into her helmet.
• Suit made from a slash-resistant, puncture-proof durable fabric.
• Mask with built-in voice modifier, HUD, targeting system, and short-range communicator connected to Shiba's.

 

[HighVoltage]

To Mariko Ito, everything is a puzzle. Everything can be solved. Even if there is no perfect solution, the one that gets closest to the desired outcome is usually the one that she chooses. Thus, she chose to be friends with Spork.

It was not a choice of ulterior motive, but merely proximity. Being the only two children their age in close proximity, their mothers were desperate for the two to be friends. She did not mind Spork's company, and saw their blindness as nothing more as a problem she added to her 'To Be Solved' list.

Over time, however, this opinion changed. What had once been a friendship formed of convenience began to develop into something more. While Mari saw their blindness as an inconvenience, others saw it as a disability, something to be mocked. Feeling protective, she would have done something about these bullies if not for Spork crafting their own brilliant plan. The blind kid can't see after all, so who's to say they know where every person is standing in a room. And if they received a subtle tap to let them know their target is in range well, that's just being a good friend.

Being friends with the blind kid meant Mari was an outcast, however. Not that she would have known, she was too busy reading and concocting plans to bother with friends. Her father always said that she wouldn't get anywhere with her nose stuck in a book all the time, but her mother was always supportive. She told Mari about how intelligent foxes were, and they quickly became Mari's favorite animal, with her mom even making a little fox-paw charm for her.

The number of people Mari trusted went from 2 to 1 on one fateful day. An unexpected slip and fall sent Mari's mom to the hospital in critical condition. She was not allowed in to hear her mother's last words. She did not cry. Not on the way home. Not in her room after. Not at the funeral.

But weeks later, while with Spork.

It was an ugly grief, one that had been suppressed and held down for as long as it could be. Mari expected Spork to push her off or tell her to stop crying. Instead, they did their best to console her, and Mari realized just how good of a friend this goofball was.

They showed the world what the phrase 'thick as thieves' truly meant. They stuck together through high school, synchronizing their schedules at every opportunity and ensuring assholes were dealt with properly. As college came and went, Mari found herself on the business end of a double major in Robotics Engineering and Electrical & Chemical Engineering, with a minor in Physics. While Spork dropped out halfway through, she wouldn't dream of letting them go. Even after she graduated, they continued to share a space.

Mari first discovered her powers when she was mugged walking home one night. She stubbornly refused to give the man her money, and in exchange he gave her a bullet in the back of the skull. Sixty seconds later, she woke up on the dirty asphalt, a drum pounding in her head and the clear vision of a nine ticking down to eight. She made her way back home and did what anyone in that position would do.

Get even.

Mari researched endlessly, finding the man online, tracking his movements, finding his daily routines. She dipped down into the more unsavory parts of the web, hoping to find someone to track him for her. Instead she found his name and face tied to a hitman listing. She accepted it and, remembering the numbers in her mind, listed it under Nine Tails Inc. She worked feverishly, almost high on the sensation of data discovery and experimentation as she began to work on proper tools. She knew she couldn't kill him with a weapon she owned, so she had to craft her own. She took all the precautions, found him one night and fulfilled the contract.

He didn't even remember who she was.

Mari was ecstatic, not because she'd just killed someone, but because of the new breed of puzzle she'd just solved. She knew this was the beginning of something great. But she had to keep it from Spork.

 

[HighVoltage]

She didn’t believe it the first time she read it. She barely believed it the second time. By the time Lily had finished a third reading and was beginning a fourth, drops of moisture had soaked into the paper, threatening to smudge the green writing. She couldn’t do a fifth, as the letter swam in her vision and she set it on the table, tears silently dropping to the floor.

What did they mean? Lark couldn’t be dead, they couldn’t be. Lily didn’t want to think about the pieces that were clicking into place in the back of her mind, the wistful glances, the lingering moments they had spent in contact with her, their sudden appearance and subsequent piracy, it had all been because of this. How long had they known? How many of those moments had there been, Lark filling up their personal scrapbook with memories to look over before their death? The postscript ran through her head, but she brushed it away. There was nothing else there, it was wishful thinking. Lark doesn’t, didn’t, do love confessions.

Lily remained like that on the couch, head held in her hands, shoulders wracked with silent sobs, for who knows how long. Lark would, they always would. When she finally managed to take a breath, she caught sight of something. Oh shit, the card. She hesitated, hoping that this was still all part of some big joke, that the card would have a little message scrawled on it teasing her. But Lark didn’t do that, they were mischievous, not cruel. Lily took the card from the envelope with a trembling hand, unfolding it to read the enclosed message.

The place was vaguely familiar, she knew the street and could look up the building on the way. The time, shit. Lily checked her phone, the time was soon. Shit shit shit. Lily jumped to her feet, running to her room to grab her shoes before she stopped, flicking off the bathroom light that she had accidentally left on. She stopped dead in her tracks. The shower. If she’d read the mail first thing she might have been able to stop it, she could’ve gotten there sooner. Tears welled up in her eyes before she blinked them back, she couldn’t afford to waste time crying. She slipped on her shoes and flew to the door, stopping as soon as her hand touched the knob, as a familiar emerald light filled her apartment.​

 

[HighVoltage]

-

V

eljara -

Name
Freyja Ragnarsdóttir

Age
22

Appearance
Freyja stands 6 feet tall with a muscular build, a testament to her time spent in various gyms. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is usually kept up and out of the way, and her eyes can range from the warm blue of a summer sky to the frigid blue of an ice sheet. She boasts an impressive spread of tattoos covering her hands, arms, and back.

Enhanced Physique
Freyja's physical prowess can be described as "a bit above peak humanity". While her strength, endurance, and reaction time would technically be considered superhuman, they barely fit the definition. This does not come naturally to her, and Freyja is proud of the work she must put in to be at this level.

Gifts of the Past
Freyja can summon several ancient weapons at will, including swords, spears, and axes. She is proficient with them, and wields all of them with deadly skill. She can also read and speak not only Old Norse, but any languages that may have descended from it as well.

Bringer of

Ragnarök

Veljara wields the fires of Muspelheim, donning her flame-drenched valkyrja form with but a word. She appears as an ashen-skinned valkyrie, her wing tips trailing into flame, an elaborate horned helm and mask covering most of her face. She wears minimal armor, preferring mobility over stalwart defense. In this form her physical abilities enhance even further, including her durability, to levels where she can easily pierce a man's chest with naught but her hands.

The flames that burn within her often seek an outlet, and Veljara is more than happy to oblige them, adding fire to her weaponry or simply wielding it as a weapon all its own. She can control the intensity of these flames as she likes, although hotter and brighter flames require more of her energy. The flames replenish over time, but she can also draw fire from this realm into her to fuel her reserves.

As a chooser of the slain, Veljara sends those that have died in battle to Fólkvangr or Valhalla. Or at least, she should. In actuality, the only deaths in battle that Veljara tends to are those against her. She takes those she has slain, and adds their essence to her flames. When she needs them, she can call them forward as fiery draugr to fight on her behalf, although they serve as little more than cannon fodder that seeks to kill. Whether they fight out of loyalty, force, or a desire to prove themselves so they may be sent to a better afterlife, none can say.

Code by Reyn
Header art by frostworksart
Sidebar art by Drawsouls

 

[HighVoltage]

When Sköll and Hati sink their fangs into the sun and moon, when Jörmungandr causes the seas to roil and Naglfar sails, when Fenrisúlfr and Surtr walk free in Midgard, when the three roosters crow and the Gjallarhorn is blown, Ragnarök will come. The Æsir, the Vanir, the jötnar; all will fight. All will die. Until that day comes, I can only prepare.

The girl now wanders, but she is not lost. She knows that the end must come, and that she will play her role when it happens. But until then, the unworthy, those who have wronged her, must be slain. And Veljara is well-equipped for that task. Wielding the flames of Muspelheim, she can transform into a flame-drenched valkyrie with but a word, any arms that she desire at her fingertips, along with the knowledge of how to use them. She can read and speak Old Norse, as well as any languages that may have descended from it, such as Icelandic.

The flames that burn within her often seek an outlet, and Veljara is more than happy to oblige them, adding fire to her weaponry or simply wielding it as a weapon all its own. She can control the intensity of these flames as she likes, although hotter and brighter flames require more of her energy. The flames replenish over time, but she can also draw fire from this realm into her to fuel her reserves.

As a

valkyrja

, as a chooser of the slain, Veljara sends those that have died in battle to Fólkvangr or Valhalla. Or at least, she should. In actuality, the only deaths in battle that Veljara tends to are those against her. She takes those she has slain, and adds their essence to her flames. When she needs them, she can call them forward as fiery

draugr

to fight on her behalf. Whether it is out of loyalty, force, or a desire to prove themselves so they may be sent to the afterlife, none can say.

Code by Reyn

 

[HighVoltage]

It started with a girl, as these stories often do. Raised by two historians, lovers of the ancient world, she was brought up on tales of old gods, of myths and legends. Yet her favorites were the tales of the Norse pantheon. Time and time again, the girl would ask her parents to retell the stories that she knew by heart, and they would lovingly oblige.

But again, as so often happens with these tales, darkness lay on the horizon. Their contracts ended, work was scarce. Sickness befell them both, and their loving daughter would have drowned herself in debts if it meant that she could save them. And yet she couldn't. It was weeks before she could return to that house, the one that was once so full of warmth and laughter, now empty save for herself and the ghosts of memories long past.

It was even longer before she could dare to enter the office that her parents shared. Part of her still believed that as long as that door remained shut, she could still pretend that they were simply hard at work, absorbed in the translation of some new runic text. But eventually the door was opened, the curtains drawn back, the mounds of untouched paper, work that was to be done later, threatening to have her just close the door and never return. She gathered it all, the half-written theses, copies of ancient texts, runes painstakingly copied with hand and ink, all of which meant nothing to her anymore. It all went outside, to a small pit in the backyard. There had been happier times here, times of laughter and marshmallows, tales of giants and men and monsters, her father's low gravely voice paired with the dancing flames reflecting in his eyes that made a younger girl squirm up against her mother for protection, yet still keeping her ears uncovered to hear more of the story.

As the last of the papers were hauled away, something was still left: a circle of stone, red and gold, runes circling the outside that she could not understand, nor did she have any desire to. The rune in the center was nothing special, what appeared as a capital M with extra lines. As she held it in her hand, hot tears ran down her cheeks. The paper was just that; notes, research, other work being consulted. This was tangible. This was what this office was being used for. Her fingers gripped it tight, too tight. Whether to ensure she didn't drop it or to shatter it in her grasp, she did not know. The sun had set by the time the girl had decided. She stood, returning to the backyard, and placed the stone in the papers. A match was struck, such a small, simple thing, and tossed into the papers.

And as the remains of her parents, of their work, burned, the girl let loose her grief. Wracking sobs, cries of anguish and sorrow, rivers of tears. The two most important people in the world had been taken from her, and all she wanted to do was to have them back. She didn't care if everything else collapsed, so long as they returned to her. She stayed by the fire for hours, a wretched display, until the embers were all that remained. Well, almost.

The stone, that cursed stone that she had thrown in, was whole, undamaged by the flame. But it was not unchanged. The runes encircling it were glowing, and the symbol in the center had changed, shrinking and being placed at the top of what almost looked like a winged key. Some force compelled her, although she knew not what, and the girl approached the embers, reaching out and grasping the stone.

Her mind was flooded, rapidly shifting images flickering along her synapses: gods, men, dwarves, elves, monsters, runes, realms. It all seared through her, veins glowing under her skin as if the blood were replaced with liquid flame. Her grief, her shattered sense of self, was reforged in that moment, molded, heated, and tempered into a white-hot anger. The world took her parents from her, and she was going to take what it she was owed.

You can't expect the gods to do all the work.

Code by Reyn