TASHO NAGINATA
"No need to get physical; it'll all be over soon."
HERO
xxxxxxALIASx﹗x
xxxIxxxxx█ Sharpshooter
xxxxxLAGEx﹗x
xxxxixxxx█ 26
xxxxxiGENDERx﹗x
xxxxxxxxi█ Cis male
xxexxxHEIGHT/WEIGHTx﹗x
xxxnxxxxx█ 6' 165lbs
xxxxxxORIENTATIONx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Demisexual
xxxxxxOCCUPATIONx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Weapon's Training instructor for LeVane Academy. Inactive Hero atm.
xxxxxxPERSONALITYx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Blunt and terribly honest. Hates keeping secrets, as they leave a bad taste in his mouth. While his general exterior is hard and borderline unapproachable, he'll visibly loosen up around children. He has a soft spot for children, especially abused ones, and is known to go out of his way to rescue kidnapped kids. Despite being quiet, he actually can't stand complete silence, so he'll go out of his way to create small talk with a stranger (or student and/or fellow teacher, int he school's case) if he can't play music for some white noise.
xxxxxxPECULIARITYx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Absolute Accuracy - Complete control of a weapon's aim. In other words, he will always hit his target. Every time.
Limitations. Tasho has to learn how to use a weapon like any normal person in the beginning. If he doesn't understand how a weapon works, like a crossbow for instance, his control over the arrow will fall short. It is also important to note that his peculiarity works best with long-ranged and throwing weapons. He's not going to be able to "hit his mark" with a sword if he's standing miles away. He also, and this is the most obvious one of course, has to be able to actually see his target. Meaning that if the target is out of his scope's range, then he's not going to be able to use his peculiarity on them. This also goes hand-in-hand with being blindfolded as well. If the man can't see, his complete accuracy is a lost cause. For instances where he cannot see, Tasho tends to rely on his blind training with short-range weapons, or sound if he's going to risk a firearm. It is also important to keep in mind that a target can still dodge if they suspect they're being attacked, for a bullet can only curve so much (though he's gotten to the point that he's very good at tracking his target(s), so it is extremely rare that he misses in this regard).
xxxxxxLIKESx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Purple themes, colors
xxxxxxxxx█ Black coffee
xxxxxxxxx█ Bladed-end Rifles
xxxxxxxxx█ Background noise
xxxxxxxxx█ The smell of a fired gun
xxxxxxDISLIKESx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Child Abusers
xxxxxxxxx█ Yakuza
xxxxxxxxx█ Silence
xxxxxxxxx█ Being woken at an ungodly hour
xxxxxxxxx█ Hunting
xxxxxxHISTORYx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ I usually incorporate some darker elements in my backstories, and this one is no exception. So, read at your own risk ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Blank slate.
Tw: Child abuse and mentions of homicide. Some swearing.
‶My earliest memory is of a pale hand retracting, my head filled with a foreign fuzziness. Hushed voices surrounded me, but I couldn't make them out no matter how hard I tried. And then it's all black.
No, that's not right. Let's back it up a bit.
I had this one hazy visual of a woman—she looked just like me—smiling, hair hanging around her face like she was peering down at me. Her lips moved like she was saying something, but try as I might, I could never figure it out. I had no doubt that the woman was my mother, but my father refused to talk about her no matter how many times I asked. It got to the point that he'd punish me if I did ask, so I eventually just gave up on the notion after he belted me for daring to ask my Aunt Mien about it. I learned then that asking about my obvious lack of memories was useless, and trying to disobey his orders was just as bad.
While I could recall nothing of my life before seven years, I still carry everything after with me to this day. I don't wish to bore you with every detail, though, so I'll just skip to the basics.
For years, my life had quite the strict pattern. I'd get up just before the crack of dawn to go hunting with my father, who usually had me do the bloody work. We'd hull the day's kill back to this log house he moved into for this foreign couple to prepare, breakfast usually just some bread and jam. He'd then lock me up in my room to complete the day's online assignments (pulled me out of public school in favor of individual studies, keep me from spreading his secrets of course), the best hours of the day. I always breezed through the program to have as much time to myself as possible, and usually spent it cataloguing the prior day's events in a journal (my father never thought to check the floor boards beneath my bed for some reason).
After dinner was when s**t hit the fan. I'd be forced to leave my room by four if I didn't already call for my father to let me out beforehand, which I often didn't of course, and we'd help set the table to eat with the foreign cooks (I later learned they were just fellow operatives). Then father would retrieve his assault pack and make me change into this disgusting latex battle suit I hated very much.
Each month was a new place, but the same masked faces giving me orders. More specifically, my father received a mission via paper, and I a verbal command to see through. It was rare that he went with me on my "adventures," as I liked to call them. Usually I followed a man called Bullnicker on tactical-based missions, deep into the night, with my prior objective being sniper stakeout while the older guys searched the perimeters. I never got to see the paperwork my father received, so I never knew what exactly I was carrying out and why, but one thing always remained the same:
I had to kill a very specific target.
Every night.
A child assassin who always hit his mark, working under the illusion that I was doing good for my father, helping him to pay for our expenses or something. It always felt so, so wrong though. Especially when my target was a seemingly harmless little girl, or a mother laying her infant to rest. None of it made sense to me, and carrying out these missions in the dead of the night was always suspicious in itself. Even so, I told myself not to question, to just do what the cranky Bullnicker ordered, no matter how many close calls I made or fellow teammates died under fire during particularly nasty operations. My avid journal-keeping was the only thing that kept my days from running together coupled with my only hold on sanity.
But my resolve didn't come until I was issued a new type of ammunition. The 25mm rounds crackled under my touch, and I had a half a mind to question just what the hell they were made of. I got my answer when I had to resort to them to save my fleeing teammates. I hit the head-guy in the leg with it, my intentions only to slow him down to spare as many lives as I could, but the round had an unexpected effect. The bullet exploded in the man's calf and sent ripples of what must've been hot, white electricity throughout his body, the sparks of which echoed off his body and bounced onto the pavement.
The man didn't even stand a chance. His men saw the light and dispersed in fear and confusion, myself sitting back from my rifle to gawk at the still-twitching body far below, foam leaking from the sides of his mouth. I packed up my assault immediately after and returned to the base on my own. I got s**t for leaving of course, but I was too freaked to care. I also asked about where the bullets came from, but the secretary refused to share any information. I quickly learned in the beginning that my status meant s**t; only my father held the details and I was a mere pawn, so I should've known that it'd be useless to ask questions, but I asked them anyway.
My tenacity to satiate my curiosity was what led me to make my first friend in a house of horrors.
The next night I made a bold move. I slipped past the safety of the waiting room under the guise of "having to use the bathroom," and explored all kinds of corridors. Until I came across a peculiar room. It some kind of armament workshop, except only a single boy stood behind a table. He was so small he had to use a stool, had to be at most four years. I thought, what the hell is a such a little tyke doing there as he cupped his hands against a large round. White light leaked through the cracks of his fingers, and realization hit me like a brick. I opened the door and stepped in, frowning at how utterly messed up the scene was. What was even worse was that the boy cowered at my entrance, thinking I was some adult come to punish him until he saw that I was just a mere middle-schooler.
Being so young, he was quick to share his sob story with me, how his sister sent him to stay in this horrible place and never came back. Having worked for the place for so long, I understood some inner workings, so it was easy for me to assume that the boy's family had sold his peculiarity for money, or something to that effect. I thought then that this kid had it worse off than me, and made it my goal to make him happy in whatever way I could, even if it was just via quick, sneaky visits before the night's mission.
Of course, I never expected my father to die in combat. We got loped into an emergency evacuation, some shouting "f**kin' feds" and similar curses. This was when I learned that the organization was called the Yakuza, as that's what the supposed "feds" called us. Father was lost in the scuffle, and I somehow ended up with Tai, the little electric boy.
We lost a lot of members that day, my father included, and the yakuza basically did with me what they did with Tai: made me stay cooped up in a room until mission time, no regards for proper education or anything. The food was basically gruel, too, an enlightenment I didn't know I needed until I tasted it.
My life was a lie, and I was tired of it. So I opted to run away, even offering to take Tai with me. But he was worried for his family's sake, the same people that clearly abandoned him to slave away his precious childhood—much like my dumb a**. It really hurt to leave him behind, so I promised to come back for him, that I'd make the yakuza regret taking away our freedom.
Too bad I was a little too late.″
Help comes too late.
Tw: Swears and homicide. Poor decision-making.
‶I made the mistake of returning to the log house to gather my favorite belongings, only to discover that the place was unsurprisingly burned to the ground. Beneath all that rubble, my journal somehow survived. I chalked it up to having been beneath the house, though, since there were only minor burns. Real trouble came in the form of two foreign figures, their accents not-so-unfamiliar.
The two foreign cooks. If there was anything my father did right, it was all the relentless training he'd put on me before dinner and after my school work, because all of those instincts kicked into gear when the fools tried to reason with me rather than try to subdue me first. I didn't think twice before whipping out a pistol and shooting them both in the heads, straight for the kill.
The fact that killing had become second-nature to me made me sick. Literally.
An officer named Jenny found me hours later, sitting next to my bile and flipping through my journal, war marks from my victims' blood painted across my cheeks, trying to find myself again.
...
"You know we can't attack without hard proof," an older Jenny crossed her arms at me, but I held my ground.
"It's not a mere hunch, Jenny! I know these people, and I just know that this is them, that they're holding so many children against their will, blackmailing them with familial safety. It's disgusting, and I refuse to waste any time investigating for proof I'm not gonna find." I spat, standing up from the chair across her desk.
"Your emotions are high right now," she shook her head, and my trigger hand twitched. "If you would just give us a month or so, we ca—"
"They change locations every month!" I cut her off, breaths shallow. But my tenacity proved fruitful once again, for she visibly letted up, flopping down onto her big business chair.
"I'm tired."
Jenny was the one who brought my broken fourteen-year-old self to the local orphanage, where I learnt that my mother was murdered by my now-deceased father. Unsurprisingly, no other family member wanted to take me in, so I was stuck with all the other angsty teens. I mostly kept to myself so-as not to unintentionally let loose on one of them, choosing to devote myself to catching up on school. I focused solely on the best method to obtaining Tai's freedom: the path of the hero. At first, I felt dirty trying to be what I clearly was not, but the little boy's once hopeful gaze proved to be one strong motivator, that much I could say for sure. So I stuck to my resolve even through adoption, telling my parents of all of three years that I was going to become a hero to "truly turn my life around."
What a joke.
High school and my beginning years as a hero distracted me from why I walked down the bloody path in the first place, but one look at a particularly scarred, bald-headed foe had it all come reeling back to me full-force—in the middle of a grocery store, no less. While that b*****d Bullnicker may have missed me, I sure as hell never forgot his ugly mug and went right after him. My feet just moved, body falling back into step with my old stealth methods. It was how I found the month's Yakuza base, the only instinct I couldn't curse.
And that was how I led the feds to taking down the cursed organization yet again, and I made damn sure that Bullnicker didn't escape this time. The b*****d was brought in for questioning from me personally, and Jenny of course (I was a hero, not a cop).
"He ran away, you know." Were Bullnicker's first words to me, staring at the table. He looked so, so tired. And old.
"Oh yeah? And I gained two heads. Where the f*ck is he, Bullnicker? I know damn sure he wouldn't leave when he thought his shitty family was in danger," I ground out, and Jenny put a hand on my shoulder.
"Sharpshooter." She warned.
"And like I said, he ran away." Bullnicker sighed, daring to look up at me. "Lazlow off'ed the kid's family, so he went fickin berserk on us. Sent the whole buildin' into an electric fire and became one with the lights. Slippery weasel, I tell ye—" Bullnicker didn't get the chance to finish his sentence because a bullet was fired into his head. Jenny's intern gasped behind her, while Jenny was otherwise silent. Didn't even flinch.
"...Sorry. Force of habit."
Jenny wanted me to take a step back from all the gang drama, said that I needed to calm down after my "little episode in her interrogation room." So she told me about possibly teaching hopeful hero futures about weapons, that a position had recently opened up at the academy nearby. I used to teach other young fighters back in the organization, so it didn't sound like such a bad idea to me. Just a minor setback. So I concurred with her, but only on the exception that I'd at least be able to research where Tai could've possibly gone off to, unable to shake what Bullnicker said. "No promises," she had said, hinting that I could only do as such. But Tai had waited long enough for me to save him, and I while I had failed his estranged family, there was no way I was going to give up on him again.
Hero law be damned.″
‶Look at you now.″
xxxxxxAPPEARANCEx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ If one looks close enough, they can see a small, white-ink 'x' on the upper left side of his forehead—a common mark indicating memory erasure. Besides that, he has both ears pierced. He usually just wears simple silver loops, but sometimes he'll change it up with silver crosses to match his favorite ponytail accessory. Hero suit, and with mask.
xxxxxxTHEME SONGSx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Pull the Trigger , Danger Nets and Myself.
xxxxxxOTHERx﹗x
xxxxxxxxx█ Hero Status: Operation Save Tai. Current? Research level. Pending Tactical Movement. Cover? Working as a new teacher to satisfy living expenses.
Inventory. Weapons (1 bladed-end rifle with multi-purpose scope [strapped to back], 1 249 automatic SAW [in storage], 1 rocket launcher [in storage], 1 pocket knife, 2 throwing knives)
Ammunition (2 grenades, 1 rocket round [in storage], 4 30-round magazines, 2 100-round mags)
Other (1 mini cp bottle for weapon jams, 1 terry cloth, 1 small CLS [combat.life.saver] kit, 1 night-vision eye piece)
Notes. Click profile image for more references ヽ(o＾▽＾o)ノ Purple hex codes Voice
