REVOLUTIONIST, nicklaus strauss
posted Sept 13, 2018 12:58:07 GMT -6
AGGIE COLE, SISTER MARY, and 1 more like this
[nospaces]
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[attr="class","omapponetop2"]revolution calling
[attr="class","omapponetop1"]FILES LOCATED UNDER
NICKLAUS STRAUSS
NICKLAUS STRAUSS
[attr="class","omapponetopp"]
NICKLAUS STRAUSS
LOOKS LIKE KURUSU AKIRA FROM PERSONA 5
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FILE NAVIGATION
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ABOUT NIKKI
ABOUT NIKKI
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NIKKI, DEATH MACHINE
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NIKKI, DEATH MACHINE
[attr="class","omapponebasicsbot"]
20 YEARS OLD
[attr="class","lnr lnr-gift"]
20 YEARS OLD
[attr="class","omapponebasicsbot1"]
CIS MALE
[attr="class","lnr lnr-shirt"]
CIS MALE
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HE / HIM
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HE / HIM
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DEMISEXUAL
[attr="class","lnr lnr-heart-pulse"]
DEMISEXUAL
[attr="class","omapponebasicsbot"]
BI-CURIOUS
[attr="class","lnr lnr-heart"]
BI-CURIOUS
[attr="class","omapponebasicsbot1"]
SINGLE
[attr="class","lnr lnr-users"]
SINGLE
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MAY 3
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MAY 3
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TAURUS
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TAURUS
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HITMAN
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HITMAN
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RECENT STATUS
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eye for an eye, and blood for blood. for every action, reaction - and death is business.
eye for an eye, and blood for blood. for every action, reaction - and death is business.
[attr="class","omapponepersonality1"]SUBJECT TEMPERAMENT
[attr="class","omapponepersonality2"]
Do we have freedom? Do we have equality?[break][break]
No, no, no.[break][break]
Rebellion and uprising, anarchy packaged prettily. He screams his throat raw in the name of authoritarion upheaval, bleeds dissent as gods do ichor, and if there were ever a person in the world who disdained the “status quo” above all others, it could very possibly be him. Passion (misplaced, perhaps) is his strongest trait, a simultaneous point of strength and source of personal downfall, the sort that keeps him alive where despair would have otherwise swallowed him whole while keeping him set on a path that will certainly lead to his demise. There is evil, true evil infecting the world he has been born into, and if no others will, he will certainly uproot it with his own hands, no matter the personal cost. This, he will share with any who would hear, any who wouldn't; he's let his life been consumed by it, almost every action he carries out done so with the intent to see the world conform to his ideals and his vision of a perfect reality. Iron-willed devotion, then, mixed with the naivety of a boy who never really grew into his age. For all of the harshness and cruelty in the world around him, so quick is he, still, to believe in the possibility of perfection.[break][break]
Utopia is what he craves, but a member of such is not the persona he dons. Biting, scathing, all-consuming – in order to combat the worst of the world, one must become even more vile than it, and in his quest for humanity's collective peace, he has conformed himself to be more ruthless than the rest. To kill without grief is a skill oft earned late. To Nikki, killing is a pleasure, one step toward a greater goal. He would stain his hands scarlet to the end of the abyss if he believed it to have weight, tangible meaning, and no vile crime is not worth paradise. It bleeds into the rest of him, though. So much must he bare his fangs that he finds himself flashing them to anyone who dare look his way, spitting acid through grit teeth at those who would dare speak up first. He defaults to anger, settles on suspicion. These are the very people he swears to save, but he is no shining saint, and he will never be able to smile prettily for the camera lens. Hollow may be the curses, but curses are what he gives, all the same. What an unpleasant child. (A growling chihuahua – a bloodthirsty pit bull. Where he sits can change in a matter of moments.)[break][break]
At his core, though, that's what he is: a child, crying out against the unfairness of his world, lonely in his self-isolation, fearful to stray from his path of martyrdom. He understands little of his surroundings, his peers, himself, and clings futilely to those who would reach out first and the thoughts they would pump into his mind. (He's being used – a pawn in someone else's game – but he's never been wise enough to see through the lies of others -[break][break]
(And if utopia of mind comes only the cost at the life of a villain, he will gladly let himself be used just a little bit longer.)
Do we have freedom? Do we have equality?[break][break]
No, no, no.[break][break]
Rebellion and uprising, anarchy packaged prettily. He screams his throat raw in the name of authoritarion upheaval, bleeds dissent as gods do ichor, and if there were ever a person in the world who disdained the “status quo” above all others, it could very possibly be him. Passion (misplaced, perhaps) is his strongest trait, a simultaneous point of strength and source of personal downfall, the sort that keeps him alive where despair would have otherwise swallowed him whole while keeping him set on a path that will certainly lead to his demise. There is evil, true evil infecting the world he has been born into, and if no others will, he will certainly uproot it with his own hands, no matter the personal cost. This, he will share with any who would hear, any who wouldn't; he's let his life been consumed by it, almost every action he carries out done so with the intent to see the world conform to his ideals and his vision of a perfect reality. Iron-willed devotion, then, mixed with the naivety of a boy who never really grew into his age. For all of the harshness and cruelty in the world around him, so quick is he, still, to believe in the possibility of perfection.[break][break]
Utopia is what he craves, but a member of such is not the persona he dons. Biting, scathing, all-consuming – in order to combat the worst of the world, one must become even more vile than it, and in his quest for humanity's collective peace, he has conformed himself to be more ruthless than the rest. To kill without grief is a skill oft earned late. To Nikki, killing is a pleasure, one step toward a greater goal. He would stain his hands scarlet to the end of the abyss if he believed it to have weight, tangible meaning, and no vile crime is not worth paradise. It bleeds into the rest of him, though. So much must he bare his fangs that he finds himself flashing them to anyone who dare look his way, spitting acid through grit teeth at those who would dare speak up first. He defaults to anger, settles on suspicion. These are the very people he swears to save, but he is no shining saint, and he will never be able to smile prettily for the camera lens. Hollow may be the curses, but curses are what he gives, all the same. What an unpleasant child. (A growling chihuahua – a bloodthirsty pit bull. Where he sits can change in a matter of moments.)[break][break]
At his core, though, that's what he is: a child, crying out against the unfairness of his world, lonely in his self-isolation, fearful to stray from his path of martyrdom. He understands little of his surroundings, his peers, himself, and clings futilely to those who would reach out first and the thoughts they would pump into his mind. (He's being used – a pawn in someone else's game – but he's never been wise enough to see through the lies of others -[break][break]
(And if utopia of mind comes only the cost at the life of a villain, he will gladly let himself be used just a little bit longer.)
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[attr="class","omapponetabs2"]MISCELLANEOUS
][attr="class","omapponemisc"]
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MISCELLANEOUS INFO
[attr="class","omapponemisc4"]
● The only child of a textbook definition case of a dirty politician. Nikki's strong distaste for the political realm and those who inhabit it comes from first hand experience – namely several years of abuse at his father's hand – and a hefty deal of bias. After all, when the only politician you know growing up is the object of all your hate, it'd be difficult to not look at the others in a negative light from the get-go.[break][break]
● An ineffectual liar taken to the extreme. He sweats, he laughs nervously, he stumbles over his words; every stereotype of a poor liar is taken and amplified in him. The only ones who can be fooled by his falsities are those more gullible than himself, which are frighteningly few in number.[break][break]
● Lacks an actual license, but knows how to drive a motorbike. The one he “owns” isn't even so much his own as one he borrows from the base from time-to-time. He gets driven around the city by other members of the Operation more than he takes the bike for a spin, anyway; the only reason he tries to ride it at all is because he thinks it makes him look cool.[break][break]
● Almost never seen without his trenchcoat, a piece of dark fabric that was once an expensive piece of clothing and has been worn down by love and time. The coat was originally a possession of the Doctor, in all actuality, passed down from contractor to hitman on a night Nikki holds dear but will never speak of to anyone. It's useful for work, with its myriad of inner pockets perfect for stowing away weapons; more than that, though, it holds a great deal of sentiment.[break][break]
● An absolute lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Not that he has any reason to drink when he's “happily” hitched to the needle, anyway.[break][break]
● Nikki will only ever introduce himself as "Nikki", and nothing else. There are only a handful of people in the city who know his last name, as well as his relationship to his father, and the smaller the number he can keep it, in his eyes, the better. "Nick" was what his parents called him in his youth; today, he'll snap and snarl at anyone who would dare try to use it.
● The only child of a textbook definition case of a dirty politician. Nikki's strong distaste for the political realm and those who inhabit it comes from first hand experience – namely several years of abuse at his father's hand – and a hefty deal of bias. After all, when the only politician you know growing up is the object of all your hate, it'd be difficult to not look at the others in a negative light from the get-go.[break][break]
● An ineffectual liar taken to the extreme. He sweats, he laughs nervously, he stumbles over his words; every stereotype of a poor liar is taken and amplified in him. The only ones who can be fooled by his falsities are those more gullible than himself, which are frighteningly few in number.[break][break]
● Lacks an actual license, but knows how to drive a motorbike. The one he “owns” isn't even so much his own as one he borrows from the base from time-to-time. He gets driven around the city by other members of the Operation more than he takes the bike for a spin, anyway; the only reason he tries to ride it at all is because he thinks it makes him look cool.[break][break]
● Almost never seen without his trenchcoat, a piece of dark fabric that was once an expensive piece of clothing and has been worn down by love and time. The coat was originally a possession of the Doctor, in all actuality, passed down from contractor to hitman on a night Nikki holds dear but will never speak of to anyone. It's useful for work, with its myriad of inner pockets perfect for stowing away weapons; more than that, though, it holds a great deal of sentiment.[break][break]
● An absolute lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Not that he has any reason to drink when he's “happily” hitched to the needle, anyway.[break][break]
● Nikki will only ever introduce himself as "Nikki", and nothing else. There are only a handful of people in the city who know his last name, as well as his relationship to his father, and the smaller the number he can keep it, in his eyes, the better. "Nick" was what his parents called him in his youth; today, he'll snap and snarl at anyone who would dare try to use it.
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+star wars
+motorcycles
+rainstorms
+nickleback
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[attr="class","omapponemisc21"]
-crowds
-politicians
-withdrawals
-competition
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[attr="class","omapponetabs3"]SUBJECT BIOGRAPHY
][attr="class","omapponebio"]
[attr="class","omapponebio1"]
You are young, but even your youth cannot save you from the sharp sting of raw, uncut hatred.[break][break]
In the city, between rotting brick walls, in homes with ceilings splatter-painted with holes that leak and mold that sprawls, children your age suffer fates worse than your own. Even you, always foolish, even for your age, can see this. The private school you are enlisted in does not blind you toward the uneven shape of your peers – the lens the media would pull over your view of the social structure can only distort, never fully cover. People starve. People struggle. People die. The Strauss name comes with money, though, with prestige, power. You have no reason to want – no reason to starve, to struggle, to strangle. You have no reason to hate. Selfish boy, you hear a thousand times, stupid, heartless, selfish boy. I give you everything, and this is what I get in turn?[break][break]
You are young, and you're given everything a person your age could hope for: education (you drop out when you are sixteen, your report cards drowning in the letter “f”, your own attitude toward it apathetic), money (you steal it from your parents, slip it to shady figures you know only by an alias, trade it for liquid in needles that sends you high above the clouds), and a family (and you leave them, your politician father and your doormat mother, never once looking back toward the man who curses your name and strips you of your right to be his successor).[break][break]
But maybe you are selfish. Schooling, funding, parental “love” - you've tasted it all, and returned it with contempt. You want something more out of life. More than what you've been given; more than what even your drugs can afford you. For years, you struggle between hits, coasting through jobs, wondering what exactly it is that you want -[break][break]
And you find it, in the same moment that you find the one man who can give it to you.[break][break]
[break]
Hindsight affords you a laughable image: you, dumbstruck, caught as a thief in the eyes of a pig on the outskirts of the park, and he, fists raised high, voice raised high preaching to a crowd of banshees. You stare at him as though he is something otherworldly – even now, you believe he must be, a gift from the gods, the karmic balance to the hellfire that rages on around the world – and he defines all you know, all you feel in words that you have never thought to string together so and words that have never graced your ears.[break][break]
He speaks of a revolution calling –[break][break]
you hear it, you hear it so loudly –[break][break]
and in that moment, you know what it means to feel love at first sight.[break][break]
[break]
Metal against flesh, bullet to the brain – you've never met a man so dedicated to his work that he would die so needlessly for it, but the sight before you has your heart racing faster than you can ever remember, and it's not just because you may very well bear witness to a living person's self-inflicted death. “I swear to give my life for you – ” he'd said to you, “– if you would swear to give yours for mine.” Verbal oaths would have done just fine anywhere else, Cross My Hearts and pinky promises to fealty and dedication. This, however, the gun in his hand and the single bullet in its revolver, reminds you that you are not just anywhere. You're in the presence of a god: unyielding, undying. You know his life won't end here, not at this desk, not in this building he has lead you to (it doesn't; he pulls the trigger and the gun clicks out its refusal), so you will make sure yours doesn't, either. The weapon glides across the table and into your waiting hand, its weight unfamiliar in your grip and the single bullet reloaded into its slot, and you swear in this moment, this limbo, teetering between your life and death that you will give everything you have and more to this deity and his cause.[break][break]
You point the revolver at your first ever victim and, unshakeable, pull the trigger.[break][break]
(Empty air brands you: You are property of the revolution.)[break][break]
[break]
From that point on, it goes like this: a ring of the phone, a voice through the line, and suffocating static through your mind. What happens in the in between, from the point of the call to the time you return to the apartment he lets you live in, is an afterthought at best. These motions demand less thought with every successive mission, carried out through the memory of muscle while your mind may wonder as it pleases. What things slip through the haze you unknowingly create, however, resemble nightmares more than daydreams: honey-sweet orders filtered through the receiver, victims begging to their last breath, blood on your hands, on your coat, where does it all go when you “wake”? The “you” you view through time wield a gun with precision you would've never dreamed of a year ago, bullets fired through craniums, from a thousand feet or from the distance as wide as a sheet of paper. It's no wonder they never show the photos postmortem.[break][break]
It's (terrifying) liberating.[break][break]
You're changing the world. (He's changing you.)[break][break]
But you grow disenchanted with vague victories; you want to taste their breath as they go, feel their bones beneath your fingers as they snap. Everything is stripped bare in those final moments. You want to see it for your own eyes – see what marked them dead men to begin with.[break][break]
You snatch the reigns back from your own body and learn what it feels like to parade as Death itself. It's a high unlike that which your payment can afford you, a power trip so strong you begin to think yourself absolutely untouchable. The law will never find you. God Himself cannot strike you down. And all the while, you beg, selfish, selfish, for more from your own god, sat behind his desk – [break][break]
– smiling, always smiling.[break][break]
[break]
Mankind and all its terrors instill no fear in you now, for all their brimstone and fire. The dead could roll in and claw out from their graves all they please, so far as you are concerned. You know it better than they, after all: death. You wear it as a coat, drown yourself in its scarlet, swallow it whole as if it were ambrosia served from the deity who has saved you from ruin. What have you, death incarnate, to fear from any of these things? Time and time again, now, you have stared true evil down to its core, and you have stripped it, layer by layer, of its power over you and the innocent lives of the world. If your hands are stained for glory, you will wear red with pride. Even if all others think you worse than the demons in hell, you will bear the weight of their hatred in your crusade against hate in its very essence. For if not you, who will?[break][break]
Dawn settles over Seattle in monochrome; tonight, as every night before, you vow to paint it crimson.
You are young, but even your youth cannot save you from the sharp sting of raw, uncut hatred.[break][break]
In the city, between rotting brick walls, in homes with ceilings splatter-painted with holes that leak and mold that sprawls, children your age suffer fates worse than your own. Even you, always foolish, even for your age, can see this. The private school you are enlisted in does not blind you toward the uneven shape of your peers – the lens the media would pull over your view of the social structure can only distort, never fully cover. People starve. People struggle. People die. The Strauss name comes with money, though, with prestige, power. You have no reason to want – no reason to starve, to struggle, to strangle. You have no reason to hate. Selfish boy, you hear a thousand times, stupid, heartless, selfish boy. I give you everything, and this is what I get in turn?[break][break]
You are young, and you're given everything a person your age could hope for: education (you drop out when you are sixteen, your report cards drowning in the letter “f”, your own attitude toward it apathetic), money (you steal it from your parents, slip it to shady figures you know only by an alias, trade it for liquid in needles that sends you high above the clouds), and a family (and you leave them, your politician father and your doormat mother, never once looking back toward the man who curses your name and strips you of your right to be his successor).[break][break]
But maybe you are selfish. Schooling, funding, parental “love” - you've tasted it all, and returned it with contempt. You want something more out of life. More than what you've been given; more than what even your drugs can afford you. For years, you struggle between hits, coasting through jobs, wondering what exactly it is that you want -[break][break]
And you find it, in the same moment that you find the one man who can give it to you.[break][break]
[break]
hey, nikki, you know everything[break]that there is to do
[break]Hindsight affords you a laughable image: you, dumbstruck, caught as a thief in the eyes of a pig on the outskirts of the park, and he, fists raised high, voice raised high preaching to a crowd of banshees. You stare at him as though he is something otherworldly – even now, you believe he must be, a gift from the gods, the karmic balance to the hellfire that rages on around the world – and he defines all you know, all you feel in words that you have never thought to string together so and words that have never graced your ears.[break][break]
He speaks of a revolution calling –[break][break]
you hear it, you hear it so loudly –[break][break]
and in that moment, you know what it means to feel love at first sight.[break][break]
[break]
here's a gun: take it home,[break]wait by the phone
[break]Metal against flesh, bullet to the brain – you've never met a man so dedicated to his work that he would die so needlessly for it, but the sight before you has your heart racing faster than you can ever remember, and it's not just because you may very well bear witness to a living person's self-inflicted death. “I swear to give my life for you – ” he'd said to you, “– if you would swear to give yours for mine.” Verbal oaths would have done just fine anywhere else, Cross My Hearts and pinky promises to fealty and dedication. This, however, the gun in his hand and the single bullet in its revolver, reminds you that you are not just anywhere. You're in the presence of a god: unyielding, undying. You know his life won't end here, not at this desk, not in this building he has lead you to (it doesn't; he pulls the trigger and the gun clicks out its refusal), so you will make sure yours doesn't, either. The weapon glides across the table and into your waiting hand, its weight unfamiliar in your grip and the single bullet reloaded into its slot, and you swear in this moment, this limbo, teetering between your life and death that you will give everything you have and more to this deity and his cause.[break][break]
You point the revolver at your first ever victim and, unshakeable, pull the trigger.[break][break]
(Empty air brands you: You are property of the revolution.)[break][break]
[break]
we'll send someone over to[break]bring you what you need
[break][break]From that point on, it goes like this: a ring of the phone, a voice through the line, and suffocating static through your mind. What happens in the in between, from the point of the call to the time you return to the apartment he lets you live in, is an afterthought at best. These motions demand less thought with every successive mission, carried out through the memory of muscle while your mind may wonder as it pleases. What things slip through the haze you unknowingly create, however, resemble nightmares more than daydreams: honey-sweet orders filtered through the receiver, victims begging to their last breath, blood on your hands, on your coat, where does it all go when you “wake”? The “you” you view through time wield a gun with precision you would've never dreamed of a year ago, bullets fired through craniums, from a thousand feet or from the distance as wide as a sheet of paper. It's no wonder they never show the photos postmortem.[break][break]
It's (terrifying) liberating.[break][break]
You're changing the world. (He's changing you.)[break][break]
But you grow disenchanted with vague victories; you want to taste their breath as they go, feel their bones beneath your fingers as they snap. Everything is stripped bare in those final moments. You want to see it for your own eyes – see what marked them dead men to begin with.[break][break]
You snatch the reigns back from your own body and learn what it feels like to parade as Death itself. It's a high unlike that which your payment can afford you, a power trip so strong you begin to think yourself absolutely untouchable. The law will never find you. God Himself cannot strike you down. And all the while, you beg, selfish, selfish, for more from your own god, sat behind his desk – [break][break]
– smiling, always smiling.[break][break]
[break]
you're a one-man death machine -[break]make this city bleed
[break]Mankind and all its terrors instill no fear in you now, for all their brimstone and fire. The dead could roll in and claw out from their graves all they please, so far as you are concerned. You know it better than they, after all: death. You wear it as a coat, drown yourself in its scarlet, swallow it whole as if it were ambrosia served from the deity who has saved you from ruin. What have you, death incarnate, to fear from any of these things? Time and time again, now, you have stared true evil down to its core, and you have stripped it, layer by layer, of its power over you and the innocent lives of the world. If your hands are stained for glory, you will wear red with pride. Even if all others think you worse than the demons in hell, you will bear the weight of their hatred in your crusade against hate in its very essence. For if not you, who will?[break][break]
Dawn settles over Seattle in monochrome; tonight, as every night before, you vow to paint it crimson.
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call me
LEAP
call me
LEAP
[attr="class","omapponeplayer1"]
PERSONAL MESSAGES, BUT DISCORD WORKS BEST
20 YEARS OLD | SHE / HER | CENTRAL |
PERSONAL MESSAGES, BUT DISCORD WORKS BEST
[attr="class","omapponerenown"]
5%
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