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Ghostwalker

Marcel Lamare

Marcel Lamare (Ghostwalker)

Profile
Alias(es) The Wraith, Black Mamba
Alignment Neutral Evil
Race Human
Gender Male
Age 31
Birthday February 9th
Blood Type B+
Main Ability Ghostwalker Suit
Birthplace Paris, France
Nationality French
Affiliation(s) Several Employers
Occupation(s) Assassin, Hacker, Spy
Base of Operations Mobile
"When I see a glitch in the system, I exploit it."
― Marcel Lamare

Marcel Lamare is a French assassin, hacker and spy. Being a freelance assassin, Marcel has no true allegiance to anyone, frequently changing from work with terrorist organizations to governments. Losing his left eye during a fight with Charlotte Vorster, he has since implanted a cybernetic one. He goes by the alias of Ghostwalker.

Background

Rebirth

I am Ghostwalker. Though I was not always.

The streets of Paris were cold that night. They always seemed cold to me. To shivered as I sulked down the narrow alleyway. This was my reality. I was dying inside. I need to be revived.

This night was different, however. As I viewed the alley of the slum, there was a light on in Le Palais Bleu, my former building. My former home. It was no longer a palace, no longer the stronghold I once knew. The days of the warm summer breeze gently pushing me through my life were all but memories. Memories that made me bitter. I longed for those days. I was now alone with a cold stillness. There was no longer a breeze, not even a cold one. My bones remained steady, not even broken by a chill in the air that sent me to my knees. I pushed forward, no force behind me.

And yet, someone had taken up residence in my home. The Palais was no longer a palace, but to the rats. But all the same, someone had made my former home their new home. A dim amber was shining through the highest windows. The light projected itself onto me through the lowest windows, through the soot and cobwebs, a twisted and diseased green hitting me. The beauty of the light had been corrupted. Corrupted by my palace. My former palace.

I knew it was no longer my home. That the days I would spend happily in the lobby were past. That the only happy memories made in this place now were during the trips of the addicts who would spend a night within her walls, only to be driven out by the aura of death inside. The ghosts never ceased to torment the drifters who found themselves sheltered by her rotting corpse.

Despite my mind telling me that it was my home no longer, I could not resist the her call. I had to see who had brought life and light to my palace once more. I rolled up my sleeves and begin to climb the rotting wooden husk of my beloved palace. I tucked myself through one of her shattered eyes, looking down into her core. Her lobby was nearly empty. Years after my palace was abandoned, there was nothing left. All I saw was an ancient couch, as well as a long crate next to it, a lantern placed carelessly on top of it. The source of illumination in the dying halls.

And upon that couch was the one who had brought my palace to life. A man. A man I recognized. A man we all recognized. A ravenous animal. A monstrous psychopath. Vincent Gore. He had killed his friends. Murdered defenders of truth and justice in a world falling apart. He was constantly on the news. On posters everywhere. Evil incarnate.

But he did not seem evil. He was broken. His bones were shattered, his cuts untreated. He was bleeding. Bleeding over that couch. The final thing left in the corpse of my palace. Shaking, I removed a gun from my jacket pocket. I could turn him in, easily. I could receive the reward money. I could finally feel something again. Maybe even rebuild my palace. It all seemed like such a good idea at the time.

I jumped down in front of him. Up close, he appeared even worse. His blood was unnatural. It was nearly black, and it was everywhere. He slowly looked up to me, and I raised my pistol. His didn't blink. He had a face of stone, and simply continued clutching his wound, as if he were challenging me to speak.

"Get up. I'm taking you in."

Stupid of me. I said it with all the confidence of a slug speaking to a boot. He merely stood, hand still trying to hold his guts in. Clearly someone had found him before I did. Inhaling sharply, I saw blood coming from his bottom lip. His canines were stabbing into it.

"You aren't doing anything. You've never killed anyone in your life. I see it in your eyes. Put down the piece before I make you put it down."

He spoke with the conviction of someone who wasn't dying. And I felt every word of it. My hand shoke more. Cold sweat ran over me. He was right. I had done things I wasn't proud of, but I had never killed anyone. But I didn't move. I was confident he would come to his senses.

And just like that, I was on the ground.

He ran up with speed he should not have possessed and broke my nose with a single hit. I felt the bones dislodge, and it felt horrible. Blood rushed from it immediately as I looked up at him. He was still clutching his abdomen with one hand, the other now clenched in a fist at his side. My pistol was at my side now. I quickly reached out for it, only to be slammed in the face by his boot. More blood, this time from my mouth as well.

"I gave you once chance to leave," he spat at me, full of venom. "Now you've earned a grave." Getting on his knees, just above me, he unsheathed a knife from his side. With the same speed of a viper, he jammed it down at me. I barely reacted in time, shielding my head with my arm. The blade went through easily. I screamed.

"Bravado is wasted on the young," he lamented, angrily, as he gripped the knife harder. "But now..." he continued, as then he tore the knife from my flesh, "your life is wasted too." While he spoke, I saw a chance. Another desperate chance. I slammed my knee into his stomach, ramming his hand into the open wound. Hollering in pain, he fell off for a fraction of a second, but that was enough. Still on my back, I threw my arm to my side, grabbing the pistol.

Just as quickly as he had fallen off, he was back on me, now with the blade along my throat. I felt my own warm blood on the cold steel as he began pressing the blade further into me. I struggled to use my injured arm to keep him at bay, but it was hardly effective. I was only barely able to keep it from removing my head from my body.

"Don't stall. You're already dead."

His words rang in my ears for a single second. A single second that felt like years. He was right. I felt dead. I had felt dead since my palace crumbled. The palace I was about to die in. But for as dead as I felt, I was not ready to die. I was scared. Using my other arm, I struggled to bring my hand under beneath his chest. The hand wielding my pistol. He quickly felt this, and pushed his blade down harder, beginning to draw blood from my neck. And just as the my arm nearly gave way...

I heard a a piercing ring.

He slumped down on top of me, air escaping his throat, but no words came of it. The knife slide from my neck to the floor next to my shoulder. I laid there as his hand became loose, and I felt his innards finally give way onto me. I just laid there, shaking. I could not understand what I had just done. I was terrified of what I had just done.

Finally, I slowly moved out from under him, and stood. I took one step, and nearly fell down. I was covered in his blood. Blood both brought out by me, and whoever he had previously encountered. I looked up at the lantern. The evil device who's light compelled me into my former home. I hated it. It made me do this. I could have never done this. I hated it, I hated it so much.

Crunch.

Before I knew it, the lantern was smashed at my feet. The light dissipated from my palace, and its natural darkness crept in. It enveloped me completely, and I finally felt cold. No more stillness, but finally, I was cold. I turned slightly, nearly falling again, finding my eyes on the crate. Despite the dark, I managed to read the numbers upon it.

55-92-3007.

Curiosity had tempted me once again, just like with the light. The damned light that I hated. Yet I could not resist the questions built up inside of me. I would hate the outcome of this, I was sure of it. But I had to know. Even to his last breath, dying and alone, the man had held onto this. I had to know what it was.

As I pried open the crate with my hands, I felt splinters snap into my palms, but I did not care. I removed the top, and saw what he had been keeping. A suit. His suit. The suit of a ghost. The suit of the Skinwalker. He had fought in this outfit. A perfect assassin, a skill he used to betray his comrades.

But now it was all alone, before me. Perfectly encased. And then I felt warm. A warm rush passed through me. And I knew what I had to do. If he could become a ghost. So could I. I would no longer need to feel still. I would never be still again.

I would walk with the ghosts themselves, and become one of their kind.

Midnight

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Information

Appearance

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Themes

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Personality

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Abilities

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Trivia

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