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colpevole's Journal
Created on 2008-04-12 19:03:28 (#15359979), last updated 2008-04-25
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Basic Info| Name: | Schuldig |
|---|---|
| Birthdate: | 1986-12-02 |
BioBASICS | |
NAME: Schuldig FAMILY: Neutral RANK: Bartender; freeloader AGE: 21 SIGN: Cancer ETHNICITY: German | |
backstory | |
When Schuldig was a young boy living in Munich, he was caught up—by the dogcatchers, as they were known on the street—a group of government officials, as part of an international crime prevention operative, meant to round up the street children for experimental purposes. Every war needs soldiers, improvements in technology; men who are bigger, faster, better, stronger. In those days, when Schuldig was a delicate fifteen, the government was just beginning to delve into the world of experiments, and they used the urchins for that sole purpose. Schuldig was one of the lucky few, unrepresented and anonymous, to find themselves sedated and under the knife. But it didn't suit him. The conditions were nightmarish, the drugs sub-par, and the treatment, as one might expect, abominable. There was only one thing to do: and that, of course, was to get the fuck out of there as soon as he could. It wasn't easy, but Schuldig was dedicated. There was no way he was staying in that shithole longer than he had to, and when the time was right, he busted out. Unfortunately, he was already in such an advanced stage of experimentation that those in charge couldn't afford to lose all their hard work. They had to finish the job they'd started, or lose a hell of a lot of time and money in the process. Schuldig made it from Munich to Copenhagen hitching rides and stealing wallets and learning to live with an empty stomach. In Copenhagen, it seemed, he'd finally shaken the men following him. That was where he met Badou Nails. The two needed each other—or at least, each of them needed somebody. Both of them were running from something; and maybe that was what bonded them, what formed an instinctive trust and kinship from the very first moment. It was even possible that they were running from the same people. Whatever it was, they didn't have long to foster their more delicate feelings. On the third night of their budding friendship, the men looking for Schuldig caught up with them. In the chaos that ensued, Badou lost his right eye, and Schuldig lost the desire to stay in Copenhagen any longer than absolutely necessary. Keeping each other in tow, they made it to the airport. Somehow. Sheer determination, a whole lot of hand-squeezing, and the knowledge that if they didn't get the hell out then, they never would. It was almost impossible, and Schuldig never lost the respect fostered for Badou Nails in those whirlwind hours. With stolen money and a desperate bid for the quickest flight out of Copenhagen, the two made their way towards Reggio Calabria. It seemed as though they would be inseparable from the moment the flight touched down on Italian soil. But they underestimated the Antimafia Commission's role in genetic experimentation. They weren't expecting Schuldig to be grabbed straight off the street that very night. Then, the AMC was given the chance to finish the experiments that had been started. Once again, Schuldig went under the knife. He has few memories of the days—weeks—months—he spent kept under AMC protection and under AMC lights. Too drugged and too young to be frightened, Schuldig became known as file no. 63, mostly successful, with the occasional hitch. Because he was not perfect, he was released under provisions—those who made him kept an eye on him—but he had no delusions of grandeur, no driving force. He just had telepathy. Now and then he was called on for ritual AMC work, though he was not affiliated: to spy on someone, to eavesdrop, to offer information. Unwilling to get Badou caught up in these activities—after all, he'd already cost him his eye—Schuldig distanced himself. Their relationship would never quite be the same again. For a while, Schuldig supplemented his income the way all lonely little girls in Reggio Calabria did: he made porn. Hand held cameras, offensive lights, some asshole shouting directions and all the sexiness of a dead, wet octopus, Schuldig found it was nevertheless something he could do, something he could trade in. He worked a few shoots until he was paired with a man named Sha Gojyo, a natural redhead, and the two had a certain chemistry together. It wasn't exactly sexual, but they made good movies together, including Schuldig's favorite, Red, Raw and Randy. Which was a work of fucking art. It was on one of those shoots that Schuldig discovered he was allergic to fake fur, one of the props for the video's cave-man premise. Only then, when he was forced to hide his sneezes against Gojyo's shoulder as vivid cries of ecstasy, did they first get acquainted. Now, years since their first meeting, the two have maintained an easy alliance, almost like a friendship. Sometimes, Schuldig even gives the guy a tip or two, quiet and subtle like. He looks out for his friends, after all. Soon, he learned to use his powers not for good nor for evil, but for money. Drug money. Drugs quieted the sounds and also, they felt good. It was an easy fix, and Schuldig had fallen in with the wrong crowd, spending most of his time with his new "old friend," Axel, in a shitty apartment shooting up. His favorite pastimes in those days were getting high and watching episodes of Xena: Warrior Princess. He paid his rent doing the odd job for the feds—no one knew what he could do, and he kept it that way. Only those with files on him were aware of his special abilities, and fuck if that didn't make it easier to live a normal shitty life. He saw what happened to those experiments who couldn't be stealth. And he liked shitting around when he could, taking the piss, buying drinks and dancing. It was everything he'd ever dreamed of when he'd thought of the bright lights and the big city. Anyway, life was good. Life was a song. He even got a job as a bartender at a Monacello-owned establishment where the information flew fast and furious, and he could steal this and that on the sly. It was a good place to work, and an even better place to meet people… | |
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