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 Posted: Wed May 22, 2013 10:21 am
Toxin  My name is: Marko Balkic
My Alias is Toxin
I have this many candles on the cake 19
I am on the side of: Titans
I have these quirks: Toxin is a bit of a loose cannon. Headstrong, temperamental, and a problem with authorities. Definitely more on the side of 'anti-hero' than a straight up law-abiding hero, he'd be just as quick to finish off the bad guy as the bad guy would be to finishing him off. He's less in it for the actual saving of people, and more just to beat the ever-living snot out of villains; he figures the less villains there are, the less he has to worry about people getting hurt. He's smart, witty, sarcastic, definitely not afraid to hurt your feelings, and even a tad manipulative when he wants to be. Marko is the kind of guy who gets what he wants, acts on impulses, gets results, and does what he wants to do, consequences be damned. If you're trying to stop him, you can expect a fight, whether or not you're actually on his side; in his mind, you're either with him or against him. And if you're between him and whatever he's set out to do, you won't stay that way very long.
We cant all have sad stories now can we? Marko was born to a small farming family in Bosnia, on the Serbian border, at the 'end' of the war going on there at the time. Of course, the fact that the war was 'over' didn't stop a renegade bunch of Serbian militiamen from coming to his family's farm, shooting his father in the face at dinner time, raping and brutally murdering his mother and older sister, then carting him off to a labor camp in the mountains. When he refused to work and killed the people who tried to punish him, they instead took him to the military camp and began training him as a child soldier. He grew up under their tutelage, resenting them every step of the way; when finally they let their guard down, he destroyed the entire camp singlehandedly and walked away.
His particular set of skills served him well as he walked across Europe, entering into all kinds of... not-so-honest work, mainly becoming an assassin-for-hire or a mercenary. He protected all kinds of criminal drug lords or whatever as he trekked across the continent, working his way to the coast; of course he'd heard of America, and of course he wanted to go there. But getting there was a long ways coming, and he had to get a decent amount of money first, too. He got himself quite a reputation as a bodyguard for various mafia bosses in Russia, carried out an unknown number of hits in the Ukraine, wreaked havoc across the Balkan States in a campaign of terror as per his hiring to keep the fear from the war alive and well, and in Italy he was one of the most dangerous men in the mafia. All this made him a feared and respected man with a solid chunk of change in his back pocket at all times; he had several Swiss bank accounts with quite a bit of money.
That's when he came to America. Thinking he'd seamlessly transfer, he came into Jump City and hooked up with the wrong deal; he failed a mission, through no fault of his own, and one of the crime lord's pet hackers bankrupted and stranded him. He had no idea until he returned to report on the mission, where he was met with an ambush and beaten relentlessly. He managed to take quite a few of the men out with him, but there was only so much he could do when they took every precaution against him. So he was beaten and battered and bruised, left penniless and with everything taken from him. That's when he met the crime lord who'd employed him, face to face. It was the sole survivor of the incident at the military camp, a member of the militiamen who'd butchered his family a lifetime ago. Marko lost it, and even in his broken state managed to take the man's life. Unfortunately, he also destroyed most of the building and killed one of the only people who could get what was left of his life back, that hacker; he fled into the night, lost and alone and left again with nothing.
Where most would give up here, slink into a hole and wait to die, Marko is not most people. It was here, alone and broken on this cold, rainy night, that he looked up. And saw the light on the horizon. He stood, forcing himself onward, following the light... Until he came onto the top of that hill, standing there in the rain, staring out over the ocean at the tower across the way. Titan Tower. As if it were a sign. He resolved then to end his criminal days, turn the other cheek as it were. And offer his services to the Titans, hoping they would take him in.
My power lies with-in:
Pathogen and Toxin Manipulation: if it's poisonous, toxic, or otherwise dangerous to the integrity of your health and wellness, he can control and manipulate it. He also has the ability to generate his own special brand of toxin, a black smoky substance that causes incredible skin and lung irritation on contact immediately, and can cause unconsciousness in as little as a minute; within five, death usually occurs. He can also solidify it to become an almost sand-like substance, or even a liquid ooze; contact with the concentrated versions of this causes immediate blistering and lesions that pop and spread on contact, and direct ingestion of it can cause death in as little as one minute. In addition, Toxin can become a 'cloud' of toxic chemicals for a short time, giving him a form of faster transportation that's halfway between flight and teleportation.
Intense training: Marko has been trained from a young age to be one of the most lethal people around. He is incredibly fit and athletic, and knows various forms of martial arts including jujitsu, CQC, capoeira, taekwondo, bokator, and Real Aikido, among others. His endurance is near-superhuman, and his strength can make Olympians and pro MMA fighters cringe; he's also incredibly skilled with most weapons, although he prefers the efficiency of guns for the most part. Lacking those, he goes for combat knives over swords and the like.
What I carry with me: He also generally carries at least one combat knife with him, and is almost always armed with twin Colt Super .38's (named Kuga and Posmora, which is "Plague" and "Pestilence," respectively, in Bosnian.)
What I rock too: "War is the Answer," Five Finger Death Punch
Any extra information: While his ability to turn into smoke renders him more or less immune to physical attacks, energy attacks are still in full effect (even in cloud form) and his powers can be lessened while in hard rain or a strong, constant wind.
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Posted: Wed May 22, 2013 7:02 pm
Marko "Toxin" BalkicYour Potentially Poisonous Pal Company: Thoughts: Feeling: There was a sudden sharp pain in his abdomen as something solid and obviously metal connected with his ribcage. He doubled over in pain, and felt hands pulling back his arms and tearing the bag off his head. He gasped for air, trying to blink away the blue spots threatening to overwhelm his vision. "Ow," he grunted, forcing a smirk as he looked up at the interrogation room. "Normally I'm on the other side of this situation," he admitted jokingly, letting the voice portray the levity of the situation and infuriate his captors. "So, what's it? This some kind of stupid joke? I do something wrong? Aside from botching that last job, but that was ********' Weasel anyway. Not that he's gonna vouch for me. He ain't exactly in the condition to talk, if you know what I mean," he spat, smirking up at one of the men holding his arm; if memory served, that was Weasel's brother. He chuckled, frowning as the man slapped him. He was still feeling tingly from the taser that had started all this, but as soon as he had fully recovered these men were not going to be doing too well.
Soon. But not soon enough. The crowbar that'd just slammed into his ribcage introduced itself- roughly- to his back, and he felt himself lurch forward. Adrenaline somewhat numbed the pain, and he tried to struggle against the men. To no avail, of course. Then one of them went and dug through his jacket, removing his holsters and taking a look at his guns. "You should really buy me dinner first," he muttered, smirking as the man felt for the rest of his weapons. "Or, y'know, a movie. I hear there are a few good ones playing." That earned him another sharp rap from the crowbar, as the men muttered anxiously among themselves. Waiting for the boss to come, maybe. He sighed, not even trying to struggle anymore. He was basically useless until he could use his powers again, and he was still dizzy.
Then the door creaked open. And a white pinstripe suit walked in. The man almost looked ridiculous in that getup, like he just stepped out of the '20's or something. But his suit only distracted him for a moment as he started looking up slowly. "So, bossman. Nice to finally mee-" He froze. That smile. That cold, heartless smile. Those eyes, those seen-too-much, weren't-sorry eyes. It couldn't be. It was impossible. Yet that man stood before him; that man who, a lifetime ago, half a world away, had kicked his family's door in during the middle of dinner, and blown his father's brains across the table. All over Marko's face. Recognition met the both of them, and the man's eyes lit up suddenly. Oh, yes. He remembered.
Now Marko was dizzy for a whole different reason.
The man began talking. Marko heard nothing, saw nothing but that smoking gun, that killer's smirk over his family's meager meal in a small farm in a foreign land. A black ooze shot from his arms suddenly, crawling up the skins of the men; they screamed as it went, their skin almost sizzling as it blistered up in a horrid rash. Pus-filled lesions and cysts began raising through the sludge that had made its way to the men's faces, and began filling their mouths and noses even as they pulled away and screamed. They clawed at it, but it was thick like tar; it stuck to their faces, and they began suffocating. Not that it mattered; the sludge had made it into their systems by now. They had less than a minute. Their bodies became swollen, grotesquely bulging in odd places, and a strange purplish discoloration began. Their eyes bugged out of their heads, and their tongues swelled until they couldn't even scream anymore. Their veins ran black before they finally succumbed to that agonizing death. Yet, the screaming continued; harsh, animalistic. And a distant part of Marko's brain registered that it was him.
All the while, Marko was standing up. The man in the pinstripe suit had panicked, fled. He didn't particularly care. He could run all he liked; no one outran a plague. The man who'd came to be known as Toxin became a vaporous smoke, a thick cloud of black pestilence that flew after the man like the shadow of Death itself. He shoved himself down the man's throat, into his nostrils, filling his lungs and spreading through his body. The man tried to cough him out viciously, to no avail; he ended up coughing up a bloody chunk of throat, and Toxin let his smoky form become a bit more solid. Still inside the man's body, he became a sand-like texture, hundreds upon thousands upon millions of tiny black, toxic crystals solidified inside his body all at once, rupturing every vein in his body at once. He forced the man to take one, two, three steps. Pushing his rapidly dying body towards the next door. It was a jerky, rough motion, but he made it there before the man he was possessing had perished.
It was horribly strenuous work, but he made it to the control panel of the entire building. The warehouse. He tapped on the mic, and leaned into it. "Blow the place," he gargled harshly in the man's wheezing voice, controlling everything through the blood. "He's getting out, and you know what he'll do... Do it now!" There was a sudden timer. Ten seconds. Toxin smirked. "All the time in the world," he muttered in his own voice, returning to smoke and departing from the man's strangled body. The man in the pinstripe suit fell to the floor in a heap, laying there dying quickly. All the blood was pooling in the back of his body, leaving his front half looking pale and sickly; Toxin frowned a bit and spat on the man's soon-to-be corpse, and gave a smirk. "Видимо се у паклу, мотхерфуцкер," he grunted in Serbian, knowing the man would understand him even now. The timer hit three seconds. Toxin turned towards the ventilation shaft and evaporated.
He emerged moments later in the air, collecting himself from patches of smoke that tried to spread through the wind; he hit the ground as a cloud yet again, then it spiraled into a column of black smog as he emerged from it. He brushed himself off none too gracefully, glancing over his shoulder at the wreckage. There was no way anyone survived that. Which meant it was over. His good life, all his fun and his money, his whole life had just burnt down behind him, and was as much ash and smoke as he was. The adrenaline faded slowly as that realization crept up on him, dragging him down. The future was looking pretty bleak. It would take ages to work his way back to the top; his reputation had been torn to shreds.
And on top of everything, it began raining. "Of course," he grunted, looking up at the heavens with a frown. "Do you like hate me or something, man? The ******** did I ever do to you?!" His voice raised suddenly, until he was practically screaming; finally he sighed, and continued his walk. He only made it two steps before he fell to his knees with a sigh, staring down at his tattooed forearms, his still-bloody hands. There was no way he'd ever wash all that blood off, metaphorically speaking or not. They clenched into fists as he dug them into his forehead, cursing his whole life until this point. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! Stupid and selfish! Karati!" The curse echoed over the hill and vanished, drowned out by the overhead storm. He sighed, pausing for a moment as he considered just retiring. Giving up on the life of action and fun, getting a normal job and trying to fit in. Or maybe just running away, living like a hermit in some woods or something. But, no; that wasn't him. Not his kind of life, even now. He sighed, looking up from his fists.
Just a road in front of him. A road behind him. No turning back. He told himself that now. The road in front of him was on a hill; he sighed a bit, but had no real problem with hills; he was in perfect fitness. Hills were nothing when he had the calf muscles of a god. But there was a light just over the hill; in the complete darkness of the storm, that light touched him. Filled him, somehow, with something he hadn't felt in quite some time. Not since his escape from the prison camp, half a world away, a lifetime ago. That feeling followed him up the hill, filled him as he stood atop it, staring out over the dark water at the beacon in the distance. That feeling rushed throughout his entire body as he looked upon that tower, and smiled.
Marko Balkic felt hopeful.
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Posted: Wed May 22, 2013 7:14 pm
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Posted: Wed May 22, 2013 9:17 pm
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The_Enigmatic_King Vice Captain
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