They call me 47 because I'm the last on a list. I saw the others. Some were mutations, pustules lining their skin. Some were feral, futile trying to smash the glass tubes they were contained in. Each had a barcode on their neck, just like me. Y'know how they knew I was finally the success they were waiting for? I didn't flinch when my brothers were gassed before me. I watched them die slowly. Painfully.
Occupation: Assassin.
Physical State: Broken leg, multiple gunshot wounds, death(?).
Powers, Abilities, Paraphernalia.
47 is a product of a black project sponsored by CLASSIFIED, with his genetic structure and brain patterns altered in specific ways to make him more useful than an average man, but still expendable. He proved incredibly lucky, surviving many more missions than the other clones. He is a sniper, but is only an average shot at close range. His other expertise is demolitions. He fights with a blend of judo and brawling. His brain is in a state of epilepsy, with different parts firing when different triggers occur. He can't dodge bullets unless he sees one being shot, and doesn't always move that fast. His aiming skills only trigger when he has a sniper rifle, he can't kill with a playing card. His standard equipment is contained in a single belt with lock picks, holsters, spare ammunition, and assorted useful tools. When using larger weapons, he carries a lead-plated duffel bag with images of standard things someone of his assumed profession would carry burned in.
Log in to comment