Oddz
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Second car in my lineup of I-don't-know-how-many. The story is the main part, the statistics, weaponry and everything else - except the driver handle - are pretty much interchangeable with anything. Enjoy.
CAR NAME: ROGUE
DRIVER HANDLE: THE JACKAL
DRIVER NAME: UNKNOWN
CAR DESCRIPTION: BLACK AUDI A8, LIGHTLY ARMORED WITH STEEL PLATES AND HEAVY MACHINE GUNS MOUNTED ON THE HOOD. SEVERAL MISSILE PACKS ARE STAGED ON THE TOP AND SIDES OF THE CAB.
SPECIAL: SHRAP MISSILE - MISSILE SPEEDS STRAIGHT OUT SOME DISTANCE BEFORE EXPLODING INTO A SPHERIC RADIUS OF SHARP, BURNING STEEL, INFLICTING DAMAGE TO ALL ENEMIES WITHIN RANGE.
CAR STATISTICS: SPECIAL:▀▀▀▀▀ SPEED:▀▀▀▀ HANDLING:▀▀▀▀ ATTACK:▀▀▀ ARMOR:▀▀ MELEE:▀
+++ +++
They call me The Jackal.
That is, they would if they lived long enough to learn my alias.
Hit man, contractor, assassin, gun for hire. I’ve heard them all. The Jackal is the one that catches my fancy.
Sitting on the inside, looking out, you start to wish that my business had been your fate. Rather than sitting in your little shit hole, wondering how long your food’s been dead before it actually made it to your plate. It allowed me time to think, though. Time to plan.
I had been working on a pretty big case. One man, several killings. Like what I do but lacking a purpose. A real fucked up freak. I only work by description though: I don’t like passing around names. Long story short, my investigation is exposed, and I land myself here.
Then one day I get a visitor. Staying true to my methods, I told him I didn’t need his name. Seeing his scabby face told me more than any generic, self-serving title could.
He didn’t have to invite me to his little game: I asked first. When you pick up as much intel as I do, you hear about things like “Twisted Metal”.
It was a pointless little contest, but you-know-who tells me he has a couple people in mind that may just be who I’m looking for.
I didn’t need any gut feeling that this guy was telling the truth.
+++ +++
I was trained in it all: Search and destroy, recon/sitrep, sting operations, and good old fashioned assassination. My specialty, however, was infiltration.
So it would be fair to say I was a little out of my element.
It was a quick in and out. Walk in, cap the guy and walk out, like nothing ever happened. I couldn’t tell you where things went wrong. Guess someone was snooping around enough to see something suspicious.
My rule with the cops? To get along, you got to go along, then look for an outlet later on. And of course, my organization disowns me once I’m apprehended. Can’t blame them; I was trained to make sure things never go wrong, and to be aware of the consequences if they do.
But I’m a killer at heart. There’s still a mark out there with the Jackal’s name on it, and I intend to collect.
+++ +++
And that’s how it ends. Kind of seems unfair to put a trained killer behind a couple tons of steel and lead, but I guess that’s why I don’t run these sorts of things.
And as promised my gracious host held up his end of the contract. Two former contestants, whom he thinks may be who I’m looking for, bound and gagged in a chair, and a pistol loaded with not one, but two bullets.
A hit man never had it so easy.
These people were a real mess, too. Freaks, one with a burning clown’s head and the other a relative to Edward Scissor Hands.
Time to do the dirty work. I knew who I was after. Raised my gun, chambered the round, cocked the hammer, and… BAM!
First round right into the knee of my host. The man called Calypso.
What could I tell you that I haven‘t already?
I work by description. His face told me more than any generic, self-serving title could.
“A real fucked up freak”, “one man, several killings”. Calypso’s competition alone has killed thousands, both in and out of the tournament.
Picking up intel, it’s impossible to hear about Twisted Metal without hearing about Calypso. They’re synonymous.
So, I did my job. Infiltrate. Getting into jail, having Calypso bail me out, killing off several people who were also contracted. Planned everything out to work without fail. After all, it’s what I was trained to do.
Staring down the barrel, last shot ready to go, I looked into his eyes. It was a match made in bloody, exit wound heaven.
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