Name: Abra, the Virtuoso of Aces and Eights
Gender: Male
Misc: 6’0”, looks 27, Caucasian, bisexual
Spoiler for Appearance:
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Abra wears a beautiful three-piece white suit, softer than silk and gleaming like freshly fallen snow. Standing out on this white outfit is a crimson red necktie, held in place by a platinum tie clip. He has platinum cufflinks, white gloves, and black leather dress shoes. It’s needless to add that everything is of the finest quality. His golden blonde hair is slicked back so that nothing is hiding his electric-blue eyes. He can create one other thing besides swords with his cards, and it’s a top hat. Acting as a fashionable accessory and also as a spare deck if need be. He always has the top of the line electronic device encased within pure gold encrusted with diamonds.
Tl:dr= Devilishly handsome (emphasis on the “handsome”- Abra)
Spoiler for Personality:
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He knows what he’s doing, both in battle and in his own personal life. He’s a professional in all accounts due to his experience. However though he takes his pleasure seriously, he still enjoys talking and jibing his opponents. As simple logic dictates, the worse they do, the better you do. And he still finds beauty inflicting chaos, pleasure inflicting madness, and joy inflicting despair. He’s a professional artist, and his medium is death. “Perfection isn’t ever enough.”
Spoiler for Abilities:
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Abra specializes in using playing cards, always with a few decks on hand hidden in his various suit pockets (chest, sleeves, pants, lapel, side, inside). His cards can morph into swords, protect himself from projectiles, and can even be used as a projectile itself. He himself personally is capable of teleporting about short distances, maximum of a few meters. He’s physically lithe and acrobatic.
Spoiler for The Final Gambit:
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Abra has five blank playing cards, capable of absorbing solid objects under a certain size as well as if they’re inanimate. He cannot absorb large quantities of liquid or things that aren’t solid like fire or plasma, he would only steal a single unit of it: a droplet, an ember, a bolt. However he can steal fireballs or icicles as they’re solid projectiles. He can steal moving cars; however the car will maintain its current velocity when he releases it. He can steal shot bullets as well. The cards are blank in the start of every fight. His size restriction is a car.
Spoiler for Weakness:
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He hates being taunted or underestimated. Being belittled by those who he belittles really gets him on edge. He can easily get hotheaded and led about just as he is capable of making others hotheaded and dance to his notes.
His cards, though magically imbued, are still cards. So they are vulnerable to fire, water, and sharp objects. Except for his swords, a sharp object will destroy a card, even one of his Final Gambits. Even though they can magically store objects, they are still cards, and when destroyed will drop the object it was holding. However if they are empty then any object that hits them will be absorbed instead.
Spoiler for Backstory:
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“I relished in the grandeur, basked in the limelight. But… it’s not enough.” Abra spun his mask and sighed. “I need more, I want to feel alive.” He jumped up, “I want to be ENTERTAINED!” He snapped his mask across his knees, throwing it off the stage. He kicked the throne over and glared at the troupe that stood around him, covered in blood with raw meat in their hands. They had just finished their latest performance and were feasting upon the audience. Everyone was present and Xerxes and Artemis jumped up surprised as they woke up from their light siesta from next to the throne. “I don’t want this anymore!” He yelled. “You guys bore me now, away! Away with all of you!”
Stefan looked at Abra, “But that’s not within the contract.” He swallowed. “We cannot just leave.”
Abra jumped from the stage and marched up to Stefan, grabbing the clown by the head and smashing him into the ground. He stamped down in anger, punctuating his statement with his violent action. “If I say leave, LEAVE!” He pulled out a knife made of cards and stabbed Stefan in the heart, dissolving the body into black smoke.
“Just saying leave won’t make us leave.” Tum Tum piped up. “We’re not the ones you signed the contract with.”
“Oh if you’re not who I wrote it with who was it? Him? Was it him?” Abra pointed at his shadow and snapped his fingers. “Hey wake up you bastard! We got a contract to rewrite.”
The room grew dark, the crumpled curtains got whipped into the air as some type of presence weighed upon the setting. It seems like all light was sucked from the room as Marionette came out of the pitch blackness, filling the room, each of its arms reaching the far corners. The rest of the troupe dissolved into black smoke and flowed into the puppeteer. It leaned down, its bone-white mask’s nose inches away from Abra’s face. “The contract cannot be rewritten.” It whispered, the sinister hissing echoing around the concert hall.
“Then don’t rewrite it! Rip it up! Get out of my body!”
“You could not have reached this status without us!” It howled, rearing its head up. “We demand payment then! Your soul! We shall have your soul!”
Abra laughed. “Who in their right mind would give you that? I gave you enough souls to pay for a million of your petty little contracts.” The knife in his hand grew to become a sword and he raised it menacingly. But Marionette simply stared at the magician and the sword crumpled into useless playing cards.
“Without our powers, you are nothing.” It hissed. “Now we will take what is ours, then the contract will be fulfilled and we will leave.” It reached for the magician.
Abra pulled out a silver dagger. “Without me, you’re nothing.” Abra taunted and stabbed himself in the chest. He only wished he had his real face so that he could smile in that bastard’s face before he died. He collapsed onto his knees, and staring down he saw his broken mask. Picking up the snapped bottom half, he held it to his face. “Abra, Kadabra, bastard.” He collapsed onto the ground.
Marionette screamed in laughter and spiraled down to Abra’s level, “You fool! We shall have your soul, the contract deems so.” It stood over Abra and leaned in. “You have achieved nothing.”
“No I achieved everything.” Abra pulled the knife out and stabbed Marionette in the face, hooking it under its mask to stab it in its mouth. The blessed metal burned the demon and it wailed in anguish, trying to fly away but bound to Abra by his shadow. It collapsed onto its side and Abra pulled his knife out and began hacking away at the monster, getting into a crouch to begin sawing off its limbs. Every cut cracked the portal on his face and he saw chips of the portal clatter on the floor. He fully dismembered Marionette and finished it off with a stab in the heart. “Good bye you fuck.” He laughed. It dissolved into black smoke, and he breathed in deeply. “Good bye good bye good bye!” Abra stamped down on the plague doctor’s mask. The pieces of mask and portals melded together and they formed five blank white cards which the magician picked up and put in his pocket. He snapped his fingers and the disarrayed sword recombined back in his hand. The wound on his chest healed thanks to the density of magic he absorbed, but a vast majority of it had already vented out of his body, unable to be contained.
Spoiler for Demonstration:
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He whistled, drumming his fingers on the card table, making the ice cubes in his glass dance and clinks. He stared at the audience sitting before him, though audience would be stretching it. Physically they were all on the same playing field but in actuality, they all knew he was on a pedestal, created by the mound of chips that sat before him. They were like peasants, gripping at the tails of his coat hoping it would drop a few coins for them to fight over. Holding their breath as they waited for all that money to get to his head and make him do something stupid and he’d lose it all. But they will suffocate, he smiled and looked down at his cards, then at the row of five on the table. He had two pairs, not a bad hand but he could tell the woman at the far end had better and she was loving it.
She wasn’t like other girls, she didn’t flock around men of power and money, wanting for small tokens of affection. No she was one of the men, holding a dominating presence in her emerald tight dress that clutched onto her body down to her thighs, a slip cutting down from just below her waist so that it revealed just enough to almost be pornographic but still be… Dignified. Her high 5 inch green stiletto heels allowing her to stare at the taller men in the eyes while she could look down on the shorter ones. She used her womanly charms like the best, she has beautiful mocha skin and the most stunning green eyes. Her long brunette hair framed her beautiful face and made everything a beautiful harmony that even a painting couldn’t rival with. A beautiful golden brooch hung an expensive gem low into the crevice of her breasts that were either a gift from God or a gift from a plastic surgeon. She kept her legs crossed so that one could always see the fine toned curves of her leg. He enjoyed the mixed messages she was sending him, most were those of annoyance and irritation that he was drawing all the money and attention to himself, but others were of lust and want, afterall it wasn’t often you met someone with more power and money than you.
It wasn’t surprising he was getting all the attention, he had the looks to attract the most beautiful of women and the personality to entrance even the most serious of men. His golden blond hair was slicked back, catching the sunlight to create a halo of light. His pure white suit practically completed the angel-like image he had. His electric-blue eyes dazzled with merriment and intelligence but nothing escaped its piercing gaze, as if he was staring directly into your soul. The same eyes that were staring at the woman now, watching her barely hold in her excitement; through the dilating of her pupils, the small flexes in her face to keep it straight, and the slight twitching of her fingers. It was an interesting show to see as normally she kept a very passive, yet seductive poker face. What could it be… Full House? Straight? Royal Flush? He wondered if he should feed her ego and give her a bone… A morsel for her to then began following like a trail of breadcrumbs. No one else interested him as much as she did, there were a few men in black suits and an old man. A few spectators circled about, mostly waiters and prostitutes. He tapped his glass and watched it promptly exchanged for a fresh Jack and coke, he pulled one of the smaller chips, a mere 1k and flipped it behind him and heard the satisfying smack of someone shooting out his hand to desperately grab it.
The dealer looked to him and gestured to the table. “Do you fold or stay?”
He stared at those around him, as their eyes shifted from him to his mountain of chips. He knew what they all wanted, so why not trail them along as well? “I’ll raise.” He grabbed a small column that resembled a hundred grand and plopped it into the center. Just like the grand he tipped the waiter with, this column was pocket change but a fortune to those losing around him. Greed took over, and casting aside the doubt of losing yet another hand, the men in suits raised, going all in if need be. The old man however had enough years under his belt that he folded without saying another word. The old man intrigued him as much as the woman, but unlike the woman, the old timer was nothing impressive to look at so he just didn’t. He gave a slight smirk to the woman who had raised the stakes another one hundred grand as it rounded to him again and stated promptly, flipping his cards over to reveal his pairs, “I fold.” A king and a queen of spades to compliment their heart counterparts. He could see by the surprised and confused looks on the men’s faces that his hand would’ve beaten theirs so obviously they wondered why did he fold. He saw more of a look of dejection from the woman.
He split his chips into two, sliding a pile to the old man. “It was a good game sir, the pleasure was all mine.” Then he shoveled the rest of the chips into a briefcase and sauntered off. He listened to the scene behind him as all the other men went all in and promptly lost everything to the woman who, with a quick glance back to confirm, had a royal flush. His chuckle turned into a cackle as he walked over and redeemed his chips. The teller began making small talk and he complied, chatting with the woman and getting to listen to all the awful customers she had to deal with.
He enjoyed listening to the cute lady chatting and his ears perked as he heard what sounded like an invitation begin crossing her lips, but before she could start, a voice from behind interrupted them. “Excuse me I need to get past.” He turned to see the woman from the poker table, behind her two men carrying her chips for her.
“Win big did we?” He scooted out of the way for her to cash in.
“Would’ve won more if you had stayed.” She moved in close to him to let the men dump the chips onto the counter, her breath smelled of mint and vodka, mixing with her perfume to create a delicious cocktail of its own.
“Exact reason I left love.” He smiled and leaned in, whispering into her ear, “You best be careful with that cash, those men don’t look to be the happiest losing all their money.”
She whispered back. “This girl knows how to handle herself.” Her hand brushed his cheeks, her nails lightly grazing his face before she turned and took the money from the teller before striding away, turning back to see him watching her leave she added more movement to her exit. The two men that had helped her carry the chips flanked her and he shrugged, guessing they were her bodyguards or something until they grabbed her by the arms and began dragging her away. She began screaming in protest but a quick needle in the arm made her as limp as a doll. The employees turned a blind eye to the ordeal, but he followed, intrigued, ignoring the teller’s warnings to not get involved.
She was taken into a truck, thrown into the back as the men then got into the front. He waited a beat before in a puff of smoke, landed lightly on the top of the truck. Using a deck to create a makeshift bed, he laid down and waited for them to reach their destination. He stared into the sky, watching the stars mix with the lights from skyscrapers and airplanes and everything streak across his vision in blurred lines as the truck sped along. As it slowed to a halt he got up to be greeted by a dilapidated warehouse. “How… Cliche.” He sighed and sidled over to the edge of the truck, and as the two men circled around, he dropped on top of them, sliding a card into their skull and letting them fall to the ground.
Straightening his suit, smoothing down the wrinkles, he sauntered into the building. The scene before him didn’t surprise him. There was the old man from the poker table, and strewn about were more men in black suits. The click of a hammer echoed in the emptiness and he felt the cold press of a muzzle against his head. “How you get in here? What you want pretty boy?” His eyes slid over and he gazed at this man bold enough to hold a gun to his head. He ducked and hooked his arm around the man’s elbow, bending it before standing back up and pushing the man’s forearm against his bicep, lining the pistol with the man’s jaw before pulling the trigger. The bullet punched in through the man’s cheek and exited out of the side of his head, the large hole showering blood and gore into the air.
“Is that how you treat your friends?” He stared at the old man. “I must’ve given you a million dollars I feel like that means we’re more than just strangers to point a gun at.”
The old man stared at him, and a smile cracked across his grizzled face. “Yes, it would make make us more than strangers to point a gun at. It would make me having my men point a gun at some punk who’s sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.” The old man ended with a snarl. More guns were pulled out, some as simple as a pistol but others showed off shotguns and Uzis as well as other automatic weapons. “Smoke ‘im.”
The raucous spraying of bullets sounded like a murder of crows chorusing, smoke and the smell of gunpowder filled the air, the dull industrial lights not strong enough to filter through the dust and the filth. Bullets clattered onto the ground like small bells, tinking as they rolled over each other and bounced off pebbles. “Throw Mr. Goody Two Shoes over there into the ocean, or at least what’s left of ‘im.” The old man jerked his thumb at the epicenter of the chaos. “Now get the girl out of the truck, we got business to get done.”
“Let me guess, organ dealing? Prostitution? Hell maybe a little of both? Afterall there’s some parts of the body you don’t need.” Cards fell to the floor like falling leaves. He dusted his shoulders and stifled a yawn. He gave the men a wink. “And even with some scars, she’d still be a mighty fine specimen am I wrong?” He laughed.
“How? What?” The old man looked at him in horror. Other men began whispering, bantering words like demon and witchcraft about.
“Now now, you’re going to hurt my feelings with your words.” He disappeared in a puff of smoke and appeared behind the old man, holding a card to his throat. “Comparing me to something as lowly as the Devil himself. Truly truly insulting.” He tapped the card against the man’s throat, small pricks of blood pooling to the surface. “Now I would let you go, and you would like that right?” The old man struggled to nod. “Yes I would let you go, but you see, you toyed with my toy, and I don’t like to share.” He shoved the card in and watched as the old man’s heart pumped his blood into the air, a crimson geyser that sparkled in the light.
The dirt mixed with the blood, turning into a sticky, smelly mud. The smell of iron hung thick in the room and corpses hung off banisters like air fresheners. He picked his way through, throwing limbs out in front of him like stones into a lake, creating a pathway for him to skip upon as to not touch the floor and dirty himself. Hands still curled around their fire arms, decapitated heads with the faces contorted into awful combinations of fear and anger. He made his way across and walked to the truck, cutting open the lock and opening the truck doors like show curtains and revealing to him his sleeping princess. He walked over and collected her limp frame in his arms and walked out, strolling off into the night, waiting for her to wake up.
She woke up halfway to the hotel, the drug leaving her system and leaving her in her last state of consciousness, terrified. She struggled in his arms, scratching and kicking to break free but soon calmed to the sound of his soothing voice. “What.. What happened?”
“You were kidnapped, and was probably going to lose your kidney and liver then sold off as a prostitute. You know everyday mob stuff.” He shrugged.
She started at him perplexed, “And you saved me?”
“Guilty as charged, wouldn’t be able to call myself a man if I didn’t save a damsel in distress when I saw one.” He helped her onto her own feet.
“Well I don’t know what to say, how can I repay you oh fair knight?” She smiled coyly.
“How about joining me for a drink?” He smiled.
So they were real. He sat on the edge of the bed, blood coating his hand and stray droplets on his chest and face. He grabbed whatever was nearby and wiped his face, looking down to see her dress in his hands, the streak of red soaked into the green, creating an ugly brown. He walked around the erratic trail of clothing and made his way to the bathroom, stepping into the shower to wash off the sweat and thick smell of perfume and blood. He cleaned off and grabbing a towel, walked back out and stared at her lying on the bed. It wasn’t that she did anything wrong, it was simply that once he was sated of his hunger for flesh and the ecstasy of sex, she served no further purpose alive. She should be flattered, she served her purpose in life, she kept him amused through the entire night. Her gasps and screams, the writhing of her body, the feeling of it tensing under his touch, it was all perfect. It was this closer, more personal experience he craved, to stare deep into their eyes and watch the emotion change behind them like the seasons, from lust, to horror, then desperation. To smell their fear and his work, truly an immersive experience.
To hear their voices, after screamed hoarse and to neqr nothingness, to hear their voice, feel the faint breath on his ear as they beg. Not for the life they had been screaming for, nor for judgement upon him, but for deliverance. To be released from this hell he hsd turned their life into, from this neverending torment where he forced them to dance and sing. They begged to be cut from the puppet strings that held them up, to be released and simply allowed to crumble.
He sighed contently and began dressing, leaving his work for others to see.