Code Name: Jelly Doughnut [You're a mistake! Just like the fluke at the Berlin Wall!]
Real Name: Jake Junker. Can be called in various forms. "Jaded Jake." "Jelly." Or simply "The Nut". Etymology: The last name is of Germanic origin, meaning "Young Nobleman", yet most adversaries of Jake simply like to term it in its much more insulting English form.
Power Type: Magical and Technological
He only has a single power, and it harms himself most of all. He personifies things. As in, they become literally human. It may be an object, or something metaphysical, like a concept. The thing is, everything has a soul. Everything. Most people just don't know that, and most things are unconscious of such facts as well, because, well, they're non-living to begin with. But the oldbies, those tribes of the past, they had the right idea. They believed that everything in Earth, especially nature, had a life force, and that humanity had to live in harmony with the world, treating everything around them with equal respect, for perfect balance to be achieved. They called it peace. To know, understand, connect with the world around then. What they didn't know was the harm of such souls unleased.
Jake, he was born with the power. The power to give...it, them...a body. A human body, with a human brain to think, with human emotions and memories. What he did not have was the power to control it. The moment the act of creation ended, the object would be set loose upon the world. And most objects aren't friendly. They don't have the mind power to be. Jake calls his creations 'Objections'. A fusion of the word 'object' and 'creation', and the ultimate unwillingness to be brought alive. Take, let's say, a table. Maybe this one has a timid personality. It comes born into the world, with only memories of being scalded by hot, steaming mugs, of years and years and years of immobility, of being squashed, pressed down on by dozens and dozens of hands. It is born confused, and terrified. And ultimately crazied. Perhaps it will conduct its own self-destruction. Some objects have done that in the past. Or take, maybe, a concept, like the idea of superiority. It becomes personified. Its ideals of dominating those around him (or her- Jarod can't control their gender either) are in full force. Quite literally, it immediately tries to defeat those around it. And most of the time, Jake is the nearest person around.
There are only very rare times where Jake's power in its raw form can benefit him. Very occasionally, the things which he creates have some semblance of reason. Sometimes, he can even persuade them into fighting for his cause as an ally, or doing his bidding. In that way, he gets a partner...sometimes. But the chances of that mostly rely on his charisma and persuasive charm, both of which he rather lacks.
Still, he has found a way to make his power somewhat...useful. Jake carries around a miniature LHC, that is, what was historically known as a 'Large Hadron Collider', that modern technology compressed into a gun form. The weapon works just like a gun (which actually is more or less Jarod's only form of defence), but instead of blasting holes or blasting things apart, it blasts its target into its sub-atomic elements. It's actually a very mediocre weapon in a relative sense- the warfare of humanity has long moved forth from singular elimination. In times like these, the best weapons are those which kill on a large scale. The MLHC (Miniature Large Hadron Collider- It's an oxymoron, but Jake doesn't really care), with its petty, singular beams, is small fry in the arms race.
But the thing is, the main purpose of Jarod's MLHC is not to take life. In fact, the wheels of fate often find the gun swivelling around to target its owner. Yet another disadvantage of Jake, to have his own weapon turn on him? Not so. You see, Jake's power of creating bodies includes emcompasses, well, his own. And Jarod had realised a long time ago that the physical realm only serve to hinder and restrict. Souls are forever existent.
The MLHC, thus, steps in to tear away the bonds of the skin. The vapourised Jake is fully conscious, though, admittedly, unable to do anything beyond observing or speeding around. He uses this skill to break into places or be utterly invisible, mostly, reforming himself when he's done with his business. With the technological influx of heat and spatial detection devices, being merely shrouded from the visual eye often means nothing at all. The world still knows that you're there. So there. Jake gains invisibility. It's still a really sucky and useless skill, or so he thinks.
My mother...I never really remember her as a human. She was always a Russian winter to me. A frosty smile, a chilly hug. "Hail", she cried, mockingly. "Heil my son, the little runt." I always wondered where was the softness of snow.
Of mixed Nordic-Prussian lineage, the Norr°nur-Preu▀en came to the world in the remains of East Berlin. Born into the House of Merlot, he was quickly discarded in disgust by the other magicians, who were mostly Russians. What use was a magic that brought harm upon the House? His creations were uncontrollable. A sign of a weak will. They could not defend. Worse, they brought misery. The eyes of the judgemental could easily see; in the croak of the voicebox, the dragging of the body, that his...manifestation...were in pain. In confusion. In conflict. They were monstrous abdominations. Not meant to exist. The House of Merlot was good. Their goodness was unquestionable. This outcast had to go.
It's hard to hold your head up when you have no reason to be proud.
Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. Social outcast. The phrase echoes on and on...
So Jake lived alone. It was an ironic horror that his skill was precisely one that needed charm and allure. If he actually wanted to do any good, he would have to cajole, beguile, coax, entice, tantalize, tempt, urge, wheedle, bewitch, captivate, convince his creations to be on his side. He could not do that. Never, never, never.
Goodness. It is a cold, cold word.
The public views him uneasily, the crowd parting away. A dull horror often dwells in the normal people he talks to. No, not intimidation. Jake will never achieve that stature. Just a feeling that the guy is not right. Not normal. Creepy. And it is the kind of unease that gradually causes one to shift away, eyes downcast, to the distance. Jake gets lonely lots. Society...he just feels sad that he'll never be a part of it.
It's funny. I used to care. Now I don't. I wonder if they know the darkness of a winter.
Jake was there when the Merlot were slain. Just...nearby. In a pub. The Nihlorn turned on the citizens after gloating on the wreckage of grandeur. Let's just say Jake stepped out.
It was said that his eyes were never the same again.
Imagine that you are in a void.
Imagine an inky darkness, a muted wide expanse that stretches on and on and on into the horizon.
Can you call it a horizon if it is dark? Where you don't know the where the sky and land embrace?
No buildings. Nothing rising up to block your eyes reaching far out into the distance.
Imagine that you are standing.
Imagine how the ground under your feet is soft.
You feel fluffy earmuffs on your ears.
You shiver, bringing your mitten covered hands up to warm them in your frosty breath.
You feel soft, cool touches on your cheeks. You can't see them, but you know they are snowflakes.
So thin...melting away after a featherlight brush.
The soft ground is a sea of bloody flesh.