It's not a name he chose for himself. Some of his peers are a tad more poetic than others, more dramatic than others, and while he would have preferred to remain unnamed, his exploits had earned him some level of infamy. He was so very, very careful to leave no witnesses alive, but he did miss the occasional camera here and there -- security footage, or some last ditch effort on the part of his victims to earn themselves justice through candid filming. Not that it would do them any good, since he wore a different face, sometimes even a different body, on each assignment.
This meant that the footage of his work reached certain hands, were viewed by certain eyes, and the name Myriad floated among the circles that mattered. Over the decades, he earned himself some freedom in choosing his clientele. The jobs came to him, rather than the other way around. He was given "first dibs," as it were, and had earned himself a reputation for his trustworthiness, his professionalism. Refuse or accept, he always had his reasons for doing what he did -- though he rarely divulged them, at the time; those who attempted to cross him received no mercy, and so his reputation for brutality grew, as well. It meant that clients contacted him with a healthy dose of caution.
When he's called in to eliminate one Charles Oliver Maxwell III, he does not bat an eye.
Myriad had left his home system quite some time ago. He was a younger man, then, more inclined to think with his heart than his head, and disagreements with his parents -- regarding his habits, his lifestyle, his dalliances with other men -- had driven him away. They had tracked him down, of course, had confronted him in the evening in some modest apartment with a cadre of thugs and demanded he return home to fulfill his duty as their sole heir. He refused and drove home his refusal via a long, metal blade that burst its way through their chests.
There's a twinge of familiarity as he looks over the Maxwell file. A young man after his own heart, he assumes. Someone who abandoned his home in hopes of finding himself, escaping the pressures of his family and kin. A shame someone wanted the young man dead. Myriad turns down the contract, in the end, and while the client's representative had frowned in disappointment, he had the good sense to not ask why, or to attempt to convince him otherwise. They say their goodbyes, and Myriad takes his leave.
This does not, however, stop him from tracking down the Maxwell boy. This does not stop him from finding him on a planet on the outskirts of their home system. This does not stop him from following the young man, and keeping a watchful eye on him.
Myriad, for reasons that are solely his own, takes a liking to the younger man.
He watches from a rooftop nearby when a hitman finally arrives at Charlie's apartment, the man slipping in through the windowsill. Moderately skilled, Myriad thinks, as the assassin slinks toward Charlie's sleeping form, and he manages to surprise the young man with a slash across his chest. After that, the fight devolves into a mess, with the Mover throwing what few things decorated his apartment at his assailant. Myriad tuts disapprovingly when it's over, and the would-be assassin is reduced to a bleeding heap on the floor. Sloppy work, he thinks. But then again, Myriad had expected very little when he had hired the man to attack Charlie. The Changer had been so very curious to see how the Mover would react -- and he had performed beautifully, for an amateur.
It's his turn, then, to slip into Charlie's apartment, and the young man is losing a battle against unconsciousness. He doesn't resist when Myriad rips apart his sheets to stem his bleeding, when he flicks a hand to send copies of himself to collect Charlie's sparse belongings, and by the time the makeshift bandages are in place, Charlie succumbs to pain and blood loss. Which makes it all the easier to transport the young man to Myriad's ship.
They leave the planet behind, and Myriad sits beside Charlie's bedside, observing him. Whenever the younger man begins to rouse, he gentles his voice, placing a hand lightly on Charlie's shoulder. ]
AUception
It's not a name he chose for himself. Some of his peers are a tad more poetic than others, more dramatic than others, and while he would have preferred to remain unnamed, his exploits had earned him some level of infamy. He was so very, very careful to leave no witnesses alive, but he did miss the occasional camera here and there -- security footage, or some last ditch effort on the part of his victims to earn themselves justice through candid filming. Not that it would do them any good, since he wore a different face, sometimes even a different body, on each assignment.
This meant that the footage of his work reached certain hands, were viewed by certain eyes, and the name Myriad floated among the circles that mattered. Over the decades, he earned himself some freedom in choosing his clientele. The jobs came to him, rather than the other way around. He was given "first dibs," as it were, and had earned himself a reputation for his trustworthiness, his professionalism. Refuse or accept, he always had his reasons for doing what he did -- though he rarely divulged them, at the time; those who attempted to cross him received no mercy, and so his reputation for brutality grew, as well. It meant that clients contacted him with a healthy dose of caution.
When he's called in to eliminate one Charles Oliver Maxwell III, he does not bat an eye.
Myriad had left his home system quite some time ago. He was a younger man, then, more inclined to think with his heart than his head, and disagreements with his parents -- regarding his habits, his lifestyle, his dalliances with other men -- had driven him away. They had tracked him down, of course, had confronted him in the evening in some modest apartment with a cadre of thugs and demanded he return home to fulfill his duty as their sole heir. He refused and drove home his refusal via a long, metal blade that burst its way through their chests.
There's a twinge of familiarity as he looks over the Maxwell file. A young man after his own heart, he assumes. Someone who abandoned his home in hopes of finding himself, escaping the pressures of his family and kin. A shame someone wanted the young man dead. Myriad turns down the contract, in the end, and while the client's representative had frowned in disappointment, he had the good sense to not ask why, or to attempt to convince him otherwise. They say their goodbyes, and Myriad takes his leave.
This does not, however, stop him from tracking down the Maxwell boy. This does not stop him from finding him on a planet on the outskirts of their home system. This does not stop him from following the young man, and keeping a watchful eye on him.
Myriad, for reasons that are solely his own, takes a liking to the younger man.
He watches from a rooftop nearby when a hitman finally arrives at Charlie's apartment, the man slipping in through the windowsill. Moderately skilled, Myriad thinks, as the assassin slinks toward Charlie's sleeping form, and he manages to surprise the young man with a slash across his chest. After that, the fight devolves into a mess, with the Mover throwing what few things decorated his apartment at his assailant. Myriad tuts disapprovingly when it's over, and the would-be assassin is reduced to a bleeding heap on the floor. Sloppy work, he thinks. But then again, Myriad had expected very little when he had hired the man to attack Charlie. The Changer had been so very curious to see how the Mover would react -- and he had performed beautifully, for an amateur.
It's his turn, then, to slip into Charlie's apartment, and the young man is losing a battle against unconsciousness. He doesn't resist when Myriad rips apart his sheets to stem his bleeding, when he flicks a hand to send copies of himself to collect Charlie's sparse belongings, and by the time the makeshift bandages are in place, Charlie succumbs to pain and blood loss. Which makes it all the easier to transport the young man to Myriad's ship.
They leave the planet behind, and Myriad sits beside Charlie's bedside, observing him. Whenever the younger man begins to rouse, he gentles his voice, placing a hand lightly on Charlie's shoulder. ]
Try not to move. You've been badly injured.