Alignment: Very tricky. Obviously, his job leans him towards the evil side; however, there is something inside him just dying to be converted. After all, his love of life could lead him either way-- towards pleasure at the cost of others, or a desire to protect life. Greatest Fear: Darran most fears himself. Below the level of his consciousness, he's afraid of sinking so far into the blood-- becoming dulled to and even appreciative of the horrors of being an assassin-- that not even his lovers or Kein will be able to pull him back out. And not only that, but if he loses the value of human life, he'll also lose the desire to protect Kein. Motivation: Darran lives life in the moment, for the moment, savoring every pleasure he can so as to quell the darker side of him that can't be satisfied by anything less than killing. Writing Sample: Howard T. Brun. Founder and owner of Stenato, Inc. Manufacturer of memory chips. Refused rush shipment of last five orders. Unacceptable. Brown eyes. Grey hair. Three percent of the last shipment arrived flawed. Unacceptable. Forty-nine years old. Five feet, nine inches. Two percent of the shipment before that. Unacceptable. Tailing began at eight forty-five p.m. precisely, as he walked into his favorite bar. Disgusting. The man stayed for more than four hours. Whiskeys. Many of them. And then he was pulled into a dark alley on his way home. Very quiet. Too drunk to put up much of a fight. Too much blood. Debbie paused in front of the door, shuddering slightly. What would she find in that man's apartment today? More blood splattered in the sink? More clothes to scrub stains from? It was a comfort, that the man was always gone before she arrived to clean up, but she wasn't sure if she could do it anymore, even for Brian. But there was still today to face, even if she gave notice, so she turned the knob and opened the door. On the threshold, she froze. The apartment was entirely dark, meaning that he hadn't pulled back the shades that morning, as he always did. And then, there were also the bloody footsteps leading in and a red-inked handprint on the wall as if he'd planted his hand there to steady himself. Even though he always tried to be so neat... Howard T. Brun had hit the wall of the alley hard, then blinked up in muddled astonishment. "Whudda wan' from me, no money, no mon..." True. He had an account at the bar. But money wasn't the issue here. Wasn't at all. "Miserable bastard," his voice came out lower, rougher than he'd expected. Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. "It's not about the money, is it, fucker? It's about you neglecting everything, letting everything go to hell for your goddamn drinks--" Steel sinking into an oversized paunch, a mouth slack with drooling bloody amazement as jowls quivered, then something shifted and the face shimmered and took on prominent cheekbones, darker skin, brown almond-shaped eyes shot through with broken blood vessels and a shiny red drunkard's nose-- Oh no, no, no. Debbie followed the trail with her courage screwed up, clutching the mop as if it could somehow be protection. She knew it was dangerous, but something about the atmosphere was very wrong, and she couldn't just back out and run away down the hall. She hesitated once more at the door of the bedroom, then took a deep breath and flung it open. Darkness. Face in his hands, trying so hard to breathe. Not working, not working. Sound, light, door opening, head jerking towards the sound but muscles refusing to move, refusing to react, refusing to defend. Was there anything left to defend? Debbie stared at the figure huddled against the wall, blood splattered on nervous fingers and smeared in great streaks around wild eyes-- wild not with murderous intent, but with blind, frightened confusion. Slowly, she let her breath out. There was nothing, anymore, to fear; now she knew all she had to do was comfort a scared, lost child. For it was a child that she saw. |