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BASICS

• Name: Lukas Volkov
  
• Nickname: none that can be used in polite company
  
• Gender: Male
  
• Age and Birth Date: 38, October 14
  
• Occupation: ex-Army Ranger Staff Sergeant, currently a hunting guide/survival expert with a supplemental income as a pulp-novel writer of stupid action serials
  

APPEARANCE
Standing just a hair under 6 foot 4 and built on the stocky side of life, Lukas is a bear of a man. While he doesn’t have what he considers “pretty boy muscles” (aka a defined six-pack and the sort of definition you see on Calvin Klein models), there is no pretending he doesn’t have serious muscle mass and strength. He stands firm, feet planted solidly, arms often crossed over his chest or thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. He fairly radiates steadfast pig-headedness and, unless he is “on the job,” his walk carries a bit of the swagger a man tends to have when he knows he is, nine times out of ten, the toughest mo-fo in the room.

He wears his hair cut short but not very short; it is far from military standard and tends towards a bit of bed-head with some definite and well-kept sideburns. His hair is very dark brown, bordering on black, but has a few strands here and there of early gray. He usually sports a five o’clock shadow and the scruff has more than a bit of salt in the pepper, so to speak. His eyes are dark brown with some gold flecks, often narrowed in thought or anger or just against the sun’s glare. He has some fun crows-feet, some lines around his mouth that are just as much a result of frowning as smiling, and some furrows to his brow. Resting expression? Somewhere between Slightly Sad Hound Dog and Smirking Judgement b***h-face. He has a great (if rare) laugh, though, and his smile totally changes the chemistry of his face.

He also has various tattoos but none of them are in color and some were obtained while drunk. The only one that has any kind of meaning or sentiment to it is the large Army Ranger Star on his left upper bicep. Other notable tats include barb wire around his right bicep, an eagle over his left pec, a dagger and roses up the inside length of his left forearm. Flash art is king here.

Jeans, cargo pants, t-shirts, flannel shirts, combat boots, hiking boots. Leather bomber jacket, beanie for cold weather. The man is utilitarian and basic, wearing dark and natural colors. He owns no suits and only one dress-shirt and one pair of dress pants. No dress shoes, though.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan - especially as “Papa” John Winchester and Clay from The Losers

PERSONALITY

Negative: anger issues, distanced, impatient
Neutral: street smart, stubborn, dry sense of humor
Positive: self-aware, protective, honest

He is pretty much an a*****e but he knows it and tries to control it (some) so… That counts as a point in his favor, right?

Seriously, though, Lukas has some serious anger management issues that had more than a little hand in his eventual less than honorable discharge from the military. Let’s just say that he has never quite learned to “use his words” and so, when pushed to the limit and frustrated beyond his control, he solves problems by punching them. He has punched many things and only very rarely felt bad about it. There is an underlying current of suppressed violence to Lukas and he knows that sometimes, when he punches you in the face, he is totally overreacting but he cannot seem to avoid it. Aware as he is of his temper and reactions, he tries his best to control it all with studied politeness and limiting social contact when he’s already upset. He’s not completely stupid, after all.

He does not suffer fools gladly and has little patience for those who insist on remaining ignorant. In his world, you learn or you die. It is that simple. Mind you, this does not mean he is any kind of tactical genius or scholar; Lukas never did particularly well in school but he has street smarts and plenty of life experience under his belt. He also has heaps of common sense. Life has thrown s**t at him and he learned to throw s**t back. He is stubborn as a mule and twice as likely to kick. Also? Not a sharer. He might come to know you but he is damned if he will let you into his soft underbelly, thankyouverymuch.

For all of his punching tendencies and growls, Lukas has a surprising amount of charisma, most likely rooted in his extreme alpha-male-ness. He presents himself to the world with a devil-may-care attitude that translates as self-assured and confident. He also has focus to him that, if he finds you interesting enough to turn it on you, can be damn flattering. He pays close attention to his surroundings and does not miss much in the big picture but, as noticed, his emotional antenna are stunted and so he misses finer, emotional cues often. His sense of humor is dry as the desert with a turn towards gallows-dark at times. However, he is never laughing at you; you are just a fellow passenger on this goofy big blue marble. He is also blunt and honest and you would be an obtuse idiot to not know where you stand with him.

On the smaller, softer side of Lukas… We have his love for animals and his fondness of children. He is protective of both and you harm either one in his presence at your own risk. Of course, he is also still Lukas so he is not very comfortable with kids and isn’t about to tell them white lies. Sure, kid, there is a monster under your bed… Here is a baseball bat to take care of it. Kids, being little monsters themselves, react to this well and will gleefully hang from him.

Family

Recruitment

It had started a month ago. The dreams that he could not quite remember, waking up in a sweat that felt different than his war dreams. The movement just on the edge of his range of vision that made him whip around on high alert. The bare whisper of an echo that sounded almost like words in the wind as he walked the perimeter of his land. The longer it went on, the more dangerous it got. He knew this. Lukas had a temper and counted himself lucky that he lived alone and far from others.

This whole feeling of being watched? It was bullshit.

Rolling his shoulders, Lukas turned on his heel and headed for the refrigerator. Maybe a beer would help. He opened the door, bent into the refreshing chill, and searched over the options on hand. He felt Tank pushing and leaning at the back of his legs, eager for a treat. He grunted a laugh and, balancing on one leg, he stretched the other behind him to give the enormous Rottie-mix a gentle shove with his foot. “Outta the way, knucklehead. You’ll get dinner when I get dinner. You know the rules.”

He turned his attention back towards the six pack on the fridge shelf more firmly. Tank merely leaned into him again and Lukas did not bother hiding his grin at the rough affection.

“Join me.”

Lukas stared at the jar of mayonnaise. Did it just talk to him?

“Join me.”

Maybe it was the mustard? He shook his head and straightened, drawing his head from within the depths of his refrigerator. Frowning then, he closed the door with slow deliberation. “Okay. Great. PTSD. Fantastic.”

***

“Join me.”

Lukas lowered the tumbler of scotch from his lips and frowned at the television. That voice again. It sounded like it came from the television but that was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? For one thing, it was definitely a masculine voice and his modestly sized screen was filled with the decidedly non-masculine features of Scarlett Johansson. In black leather. Her, he would join but…

“Join me.”

He scowled at his drink, drained it abruptly, and then bent forward to set it on the coffee table where he had his feet propped. He picked up the remote instead and lifted it to point at the receiver. “Yeaaahhh, maybe I should cut back on my drinking.”

With a firm push of a button, he shut the television off.

***

Lukas sat in the screened and covered portion of his porch the next day, the low table from the little seating area drawn close and covered with a soft cloth and bits of a disassembled gun. He sat comfortably, relaxed even. His heavy boots and flannel shirt and heavy-lined leather bomber jacket kept him insulated. The scarf draped loosely around his neck just served as extra precaution. Tank lay at his feet and snorted contentedly. A faint smile curved his mouth as his calloused fingers worked over cleaning the deadly machinery in front of him. It was almost like meditation, really, he thought. It was probably a bit too cold to be outside doing this and his bare fingers already protested each touch of the icy metal and he knew it was not entirely healthy for the gun but there was peace in the silent surrounding woods. Every so often a bit of melting snow fell or a bird chirped. Then Tank would snort in his sleep and twitch.

Suddenly, Lukas froze, his hands closing on the pieces tightly. He never lifted his eyes from his work, however, and the pause lasted only the span of two heartbeats. Then he proceeded to finish sliding a piece home with a sharp click. “If you’re looking for town, you took a really bad wrong turn,” he announced.

“Join me.”

The voice was the same from the previous times and Lukas finally lifted his eyes to look at the interloper cooly. The other man was taller than him but not so broad and he kept his hands tucked in the heavy coat he wore. Lukas’ mouth thinned with displeasure even as he noted the stance. Soldier. A soldier with hidden hands. That was rarely a good thing. He picked up the final piece of his pistol, the clip, and pushed it into place. His eyes never left the other man.

Not even when the man’s form wavered slightly as if he was being observed through super-heated air. Lukas felt himself tense unconsciously, remembering other sights seen through desert air. Very slowly, he sat back in his chair and brought the pistol to rest on his knee. The man’s hat was gone now, his coat different. What the hell was going on?

“Buddy, I don’t know what your game is but I’m past the joining stage of my life.”

The other man scowled, drew his hands from his pockets, and held them out in front of him. Another shimmer flickered and Lukas fought the urge to blink or look away. Especially when the shimmer appeared to solidify into a sword. The man glared at him. His grip tightened on his pistol. “Look, man, I don’t know who you think you are…”

“Lukas Volkov.” The voice, the same voice, cut him off roughly, angrily. The power in the words shook him and he felt in his gut that, if he didn’t shut up, he would hear some ear-shattering hollers. “Lukas Volkov, Hades take you, you are not hallucinating this and you will listen to me.”

The other man drew himself up further, seemed to grow impossibly tall, and pointed the sword at Lukas. “I am Ares and I have Chosen you,” he announced in solemn, implacable tones while the ex-Ranger stared at him before narrowing his eyes again. “If you accept my blessing, someone will come by within the next week to speak with you and you will say yes because it will mean magic in your life.”

“What? Like rabbits out of hats?”

A feral growl echoed from the so-called Ares’ throat. Lukas forced himself to ease the grip he had taken on his pistol. His expression dead-pan and revealing nothing now, he watched as Ares strode to the edge of the porch. “You will say yes.”

The words fell like lead on the ground and Lukas suddenly realized he knew the tone and the rhythm of them. It was an order. It was a boot-camp cadence. It was his life before this cabin and his self-imposed near-exile.

It kind of felt a bit like home. ******** up as that was.

Slowly, Lukas smiled at the other man. “Fine, whatever. ******** you, sure. I’ll say yes.”

After all, what else was he doing with his life at the moment? He could always say no later… Or get kicked out of the special magical club. Whichever.

(WC: 113 cool