Markus Ransom

[Markus Ransom]

Markus Nathaniel Ransom



“I'm drunk and I'm feeling down
And I just wanna be alone
You shouldn't ever come around
Why don't you just go home?
Cause you're drowning in the water
And I tried to grab your hand
And I left my heart open
But you didn't understand
But you didn't understand
Go fix yourself”



Full Name: Markus Nathaniel Ransom
Nicknames: Second Lieutenant Ransom, US Marines; Marky, Ransom, ‘Two Face
Physical Age: 40
Date of Birth: March 4th
Hometown: Bronx, New York
Current Residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Occupation: Weapons dealer
Relationship Status: Eternal Bachelor
Character Type: Humans
Affiliations: Neutral; if it has to do with people, he wants no part of it.



Gender: Male
Hair: Mostly cut short, in regulation military style.
Eyes: Dark brown.
Height: 6’4”
Weight: 240lbs
Body Type: Muscled from years in the military, but sporting enough softness to make him seriously hate his current civilian life.
Best Feature: His sense of honor. Though he hates the world, hates his life and…well, hates just about everything, he puts a lot of emphasis on his helping others.
Worst Feature: The scars that take up most of the right side of his face. Thanks to some bad intel and some REALLY bad warlords, he’s now the modern-day epitome of the Two Face. Sans the crime syndicate, of course.
Sexuality: Straight
Personal Style: Favors comfortable clothing lately, but is a fan of a pair of slacks, button up shirt and military issue boots.
Face Claim: Thomas Jane



Abilities: As both a man with a criminal and military background, Markus knows the ins and outs of both worlds. He’s proficient in many forms of combat, strategy and reconnaissance, and has more connections to the Navy than any one man should.



Personality:

Eternally calm and collected, Markus has the air of one used to being in charge, and has a definite problem with taking orders from what he lovingly refers to as ‘stupid people.’ Which, or so he claims, makes up just about the entire population of Lousiana. At the same time, however, he knows how to grease the wheels, and will graciously seem subservient to those that he sees holding the reigns in the city.

All the while sniffing out their weak points, of course, but that’s what any good soldier does in a wartime situation. And according to Markus, all situations, even the relaxing ones, are wartime situations.

As one who had seen and contributed to scenarios one would pin to the fantasy of movies, he is eternally at the ready, as if waiting for a kill shot to finally end his life. Paranoia only begins to describe his inability to relax, and sometimes, it gets to a point where he’d probably be happiest dealing his wares through middlemen, while holing up in some booby-trapped house on a hill somewhere.
But oh wait, he does that, doesn’t he? Not that his current partner could be called a ‘middleman,’ but it has been quite some time since the ex-Marine has seen the light of day.

At the same time, however, he absolutely hates seeing the weak beat on by those stronger, and tends to revert to vigilante justice, if only to make his own conscience stop nagging at him like the bitch that it is. And, if not watched carefully, a hidden chivalrous streak tends to force him into very compromising situations with damsels in distress, as crying women tend to make him act honorably, much to his gall. There seemingly isn’t anything that fazes the strange man, but he has been known to become very uncomfortable around children, especially toddlers.

…And if one dared bring out a weapon of any kind- especially anything fire-related- near his person, even in jest? The normally suave, sophisticated figure will turn into a rage-filled berserker whose only thought is to escape, by any means necessary.



Likes: (At least 4)
• His solitude
• Tom Hanks’ WWII movies
• Weaponry
• Nonfiction novels


Dislikes: (At least 4)
• Fire
• His solitude
• Sympathy
• Macaroni and Cheese


Strengths: (At least 4)
• Can do wonders with anything that goes bang-bang
• Is a trained warrior
• Can handle any situation
• Has a very strong will


Weaknesses: (At least 4)
• Is quickly becoming a hermit
• Paranoia
• Anything fire related will send him into fits
• BBQ chips




Mother: Hilary Monn
Father: Travis Monn
Siblings: N/A
Others: Gunnery-Sergeant Lou Ransom (‘adopted’ father), Eliza Ransom (‘adopted’ mother)

Bio:

Born and raised in the bowels of the Bronx, Markus is the very cliché product of what happens when God- or whoever the hell is Upstairs with that annoying ass sense of humor- chucks an alcoholic bastard into a marriage with a soft spoken, easily love-struck woman with her own abusive past. So, growing up with that kind of a happy childhood, it was safe to say that Markus chose a lifestyle that was a bit different from the rest of the world.

Well, maybe not so different from the rest of the 'poor souls' in the slums and hell holes of the Bronx, but he always liked to think of himself as special.

After the fourth time of getting kicked out of the house by a drunken father, Markus joined a street gang at the tender age of 13, and ran with the usual dirty crowd. He stole for food and clothing, beat up on the competition, ran drugs and ammo for the right crowds, for the right prices; nothing special, when it came to his brothers and sisters on the streets. And hell, living as a snatch'n'grab was better than getting his ass kicked in by daddy, or, worse yet, having to watch ‘ol Travis rearrange momma’s face for looking at him funny. Especially when momma made the mistake of trying to slip Markus a few dollars on the sly.

So, with that lovely past, Markus was a shoe-in for working for a crew specializing in shakedowns. A tribute to his Greek fishmonger heritage, he even had the build to make a few knees knock, even if he was still in the pimple stage. But then, as all stories go, something happened that changed his life.

He’s still trying to decide if it was for the better.

The mark was like any other; unsuspecting, loaded after just coming out of the bank- obviously carrying some, with that dumbass grin on his face- and shooting pitying looks at the grifters playing up the would-be Samaritans waltzing up and down the streets. So what if he was a bit more twitchy than the average mooks? Or if his eyes were constantly roaming the streets. Markus was a pro, been at the game for two years now, and he needed some money to pay King Tarone if he was going to stay in the warehouse with the rest of the guys. Not to mention that his rep was at stake, with his take being the lowest out of all of them. Wasn’t his frikken fault that he’d caught a frikken cold…

Moving closer, he hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest, hand under his armpit ready to make a quick grab. Left pocket looked bulging enough, and those camos didn’t look like they had deep ones. With a pitiful cough, he moved toward the man, ‘tripped’ on an invisible crack in the sidewalk, and launched straight into the mark’s back. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and his dirty hand was clutching the wallet and sliding it under his shirt, as the large man straightened to help him up.

Now, if only he’d known that Lou Ransom was a retired Marine who’d gotten pick pocketed one too many times in spec op stints around the world not to know when he was being targeted.
It was safe to say that things changed drastically after that.

Taking him under his wing, ‘ol Lou became the father that he never had, steering him in a path much different from the one he was used to. At 18, he joined the military under the prodding of his mentor, and almost five years later, took up residence as Uncle’s newest, meanest Marine. For the next ten, Markus saved kidnapped dignitaries, hunted terrorists, and did other horrible, unmentionable things in the name of protecting his birthplace. Sure, he could give two farts about making sure asses like his father were safe at home, but the military gave him purpose; gave him a direction to follow, when all he had were itchy fingers and a blanket to his name. The military became his family, black ops his bread and butter, and the grateful eyes of the people he saved the fulfillment of all his dreams.

That is, until his unit was captured by a particularly nasty drug lord in a country whose name is on a need to know basis, and his teammates systematically exterminated, while base claimed that they had been gunned down at sea in a freak accident.

Politics. He fuckin’ hated politics.

For a year, Markus was tortured by his captors for refusing to give them codes and secrets that his government produced. He was whipped, drowned, shot, cut, and the right side of his face was burned in ways that plastic surgery could never fix. His hands were broken, his knees dislocated, a hot poker shoved into his right eye socket…and still, he refused to give away those damn secrets.

In the end, the drug lord decided that his silence was honorable- don’t ask; he doesn’t even get it- and left his prisoner in the jungle to die. Too bad for said pin that even a wounded Marine is enough to bring about the end of the world, and so, after lying low long enough to set his legs and get used to pain filled hobbling, he blew the ever living hell out of the village of huts and left the country.

And what did he get for his troubles? The threat of Guantanamo from his 'must-cover-my-ass' CO, a dishonorable discharge from his so called ‘family,’ and snubbing from his fellow brothers in arms.
Fuck the army. There were better ways to make a living.

Almost two years later, Markus now works alongside a fellow ex-military man, supplying God-knows-who with whatever weapons they might need. He doesn’t care who buys them, or what’s getting killed by his bullets; just the fact that, in his home, he’s finally got a place where he can spell out the rules.





RP Sample:
Admin Ok’d

[Max Blair]