Assassins

Number: #16.

Birth Name: Acai.
Alias: Rouge.
Job Description: Discreet assassin/mercenary.
Details: Poison Specialist.
Species: Arctic Wolf, Anthro.
Personality: Elegant, beautiful, and dangerous, Rouge is the woman every man wants.
She is highly cunning and shows this through every thing she does; her hits are always exceedingly well planned and almost an art form how capable she is of pulling them off.
She takes great pride in her work although never gloats to anybody; although the assassins she works with knows her as an excellent poison worker, she is more then that. Rouge is so manipulative that most of those who assume they are her ‘friends’ don’t even know where she works; and don’t carry. She finds exactly the buttons that allow her to have control over people and presses them until they breaks.
Romantically, Rouge is rarely without a man on her arm. But unlike most girls, she is never the submissive one in the relationships, and forces all the men to bow to what she wills them to do; if they do not, she quickly rids herself of them.
Occasionally she can pull off a wonderful playact, and most especially these facades lean towards innocence and compassion. With her golden eyes softened and only a tiny smile on her pretty mouth, Rouge can practically convince everybody that she’s the child she can shrink to.
As for her family, Rouge hasn’t seen any of them in years. She is unaware whether they are alive or not, and as much as she would love to find them again, a part of her continues to persist that she never does. Whether this is for her own safety or for theirs is difficult to imagine; but either way, she never goes after them, even to the home town where they probably live.
Almost everybody knows her as her alias, Rouge, and only her family and childhood friends even know that her real name is Acai. It’s what she considers her ‘codeword’; if anybody speaks it then they are either deceptively good at finding information, or someone that, for the moment, she can trust.
Likes:
Alcohol - Rouge has a familiar love for all alcoholic beverages. So timeless that her liver has been shot before, it takes loads of the liquid to make her even the slightest bit drunk; unfortunately. She almost always has a wine glass in one hand, although occasionally she will delve into the poorer of liquors, such as brandy and vodka. This most likely happens when she is forced to deal with the lowlives that sometimes stray into her workplace and ask for a job.
Her Boss - Her boss is a bold, playful woman named Noel who has succeeded in literally owning some of the world's greatest assassins. This includes the infamous, voiceless Reticent and her angelic younger sister Brevity, a twin set that Rouge has had the fortune of meeting only a few times. She does however enjoy dealing with Noel, as her boss seems to recognize that Rouge dislikes being around people, specifically women.
Career - She loves her career. Killing people, whether honorable or crime, has always been a love of hers. Like most mercenaries who kill for a living, Rouge has felt the occasionally breath of godliness; holding a sniper gun in her hand and deciding whether or not to shoot is an amazing feeling.
Tattoo - Her pride and joy, simply put. Whatever clothes she wears, she makes certain that her tattoo can be sign. This is tied into what is considered her 'signature'; she always leave behind a delicate pink petal.
Motorcycles - She is constantly riding her motorcycle, the vehicle she calls her "baby girl". It is a bold, sleek black little thing that she loves more perhaps than anything else in her life; and every time it gets scratched or shot up or even blown up as it did once, she immediately takes it to the nearest mechanic and pays them whatever they want to fix it without being forced to buy another. Her motorcycle is older then her.
Dislikes:
Crowds - The hate of being in crowded places, or merely with multiple people, has never been understood by her but she has yet to grow to like it any more. The feeling of being jostled and pressed against from all sides has always irritated her, and even by that it makes it more difficult to do her job.
Women - Rouge hates women. They represent a certain brand of competition for something that she strongly hates competing for; and no, not really lovers, but really her career field.
Commitment - Even from birth, Rouge knew that she was never destined to be in a committed relationship. Although she takes many lovers, as soon as she tires from their antics, she leaves them in the city and moves on; and she never regrets it. Because Rouge is so dangerously beautiful, she gets many requests from men and women alike to be with them, but she has never given in to the temptation to settle down with somebody else.
Children - As sad as the fact is, Rouge absolutely despises children. They are her favorite subjects to kill, in fact, in some twisted way. She would never, ever, have a child; the mere idea makes her sick to her stomach. Most clients cannot believe that she would murder a sappy, innocent child, but in this realm she is merciless. She has nothing to give to this children. Perhaps a part of it is tied into how her fellow children treated her when she was small herself...

Background:
One flick of her wrist swirled the crimson liquid into a vortex of sinful color.
A wicked grin curved her beautiful mouth as she lifted her gold gaze from the stemmed glass and onto the client that sat before her.
The young woman fidgeted and dabbed the edge of a napkin to the corner of her eye. Rouge knew already she didn’t like her. When the silence stretched on for another full minute, she carefully lifted one elegant eyebrow.
With a faint blush, the woman looked hard at the ground. “I’m sorry, I just can’t believe I’m actually doing this…”
An irritated tick appeared in the light drumming of her fingertips against the shell of the glass. The woman glanced up swiftly and bit her bottom lip, seeming to finally catch on that this stranger didn’t have all the time in the world. Reaching down, she delicately picked up her black leather purse from the ground and shook out from its depths a thin manila folder. “Here. Your boss told me this would have all the information you needed.” She stretched it out to Rouge and the assassin transferred her glass to her free hand and lay the papers out on her lap.
“You may leave now.”
The words were cold; the voice was hypnotizingly sensual, but there was no layer of warmth beneath it. The billionare rose to her tiny feet and shuffled quickly towards the door.
“…you’re killing your husband?” The words were drawled, the comment lazy, but the metallic eyes that watched the other were surprisingly sharp. The woman paused in the doorway and looked back through the shadows to where Rouge sat. A frown pulled down the edges of her pouting mouth. “The woman who referred me here told me you’d…” She seemed caught off guard when a low-throated, thrilling laugh drifted out of the corner.
“I wasn’t expecting such an entertaining mission.” She purred, and closed the folder just as the woman escaped out her door. She brought the lip of the glass to her mouth and stole a deep, long drink. “Entertaining indeed.”

alias: Ren.
pronounced: [wren].
true name: Unknown.
career: Discreet assassin/mercenary.
job description: Throwing weapons specialist.
gender: Female.
species: Anthro Red Panda/Wolf.

accessories: Those ninja stars she got as a child are almost always present on her body; if they aren't, at least one is. She has a specially made belt that has small, nimble pockets for all seven of the ninja star set and she most often wears it. She favors these weapons and dislikes most others, although she can easily handle herself when using a sniper rifle and chooses that as her second favorite.

personality:
Surprisingly, Ren doesn't at first glance, or even under focused scope, seem like any sort of women who would at one point of time entertain the career of an assassin.
She is fairly exotic and well-raised, and due to this she is generally quiet and reserved. She was raised with believing that manners are something more important and in fact this facade gets her in much further then something more complicated would serve.
Without a loud mouth, or being verbally aggressive in the slightest, Ren is easy to be around and easy to make friends with; although inwardly, she is always suspicious and faintly worried that this friendship, this negotiation, will in the end stab her in the back. This makes it much more difficult to earn her trust, but once she makes somebody her friends, it becomes something for life.
In the group itself, Ren only handles the throwing objects as this is all she feels comfortable with. If she is forced to, she will submit to a gun; but a flare of gunfire and the flickering lights of bullets makes her fall back into the vortex of memories that sometimes swirl her back into remembering the death of her parents.
Likes: Tea, flight, ninja stars, antiques.
Dislikes: Handguns, liars, ships, the rich.

backstory:
Even as a child, I had dreams of flying.
I would wake up from my nursery nap with the roar of wind in my ears and a tattered pulse from adrenaline. My grin would reach from ear to ear. Sometimes, when my babysitter was distracted, I would zoom around the house and make noises like an airplane. My father was so proud. He thought his darling little girl was going to be a pilot.
But when I was sixteen years old, I discovered a certain item called a ninja star. I had seen the prop used in movies before, of course, and had always thought the glittering idea was appealing; but I had never looked into it. The present arrived the evening before my birthday and I had scampered up to my room, hiding the box beneath my jacket. I just assumed that it was from a friend; and it was only when I looked at it in private, and realized that it was marked with a mere single note, that I recognized that it wasn't.
The note said something entirely too simple. It read: "If you can't fly, make other things."
I had taken it as a joke. I had a particularly clever friend at the time and blamed it on her; but when I had wiggled the top of the box off and peered inside, those smirking throwing stars grinned back at me. They were not fake; the numerous sides glistened with polish. They were sharp enough to slice my fingertip when I casually picked one up.
It was only then that my fascination started. In the beginning, I tried to hide it from my mother. She was such a sensible women that she wouldn't appreciate the tomboyish behaviour in me, I was sure. So I tucked those prized possessions into a corner of my bedroom that I knew would never be touched and began practicing, and in a year, I was good enough to hit a mark feet away.
Within two years, I was good enough to be considered the best. But those who are the best are known only to themselves, for there is a danger in being better then anyone else; namely that all your competition wants you dead. I didn't think anybody would take it seriously. I bragged to a few friends and the reputation spread.
I guess the rumors reached the wrong ears. I guess some rival assassin figured I was somebody's apprentice, somebody's upcoming weapon, and they snuck into my house one night and slaughtered my family. I was left alive with a tattered scar across my lower stomach that should had gutted me. I woke up in the hospital days later with only a memory of revenge to keep me alive.

----

I glared at him.
"No, not rem." Folding my lips into a pout, my eyes grew sharper. "Ren. Like the bird, a wren?"
He frowned back at me, obviously tasting my sass. Although I softened my expressions a little, I could tell the damage was already done. He handed my resume back to me with a pompous gleam to his beady little eyes. "Well sorry, Ren, but we don't need your kind working here."
I growled and ripped it out of his hand, careful not to upset the meticulous order of the papers. "My kind?" I repeated, on the verge of a temper tantrum. My stomach scar was hurting. The nurses had warned me again and again not to do any activity with it, but I had figured it was okay; it had been three months since the accident. I could feel the skin tearing at the seams there and winced, but hid it.
He politely stood and shook his head. "I mean with disabilities." His gaze went straight to my stomach, where a small spot of blood was beginning to soak through my shirt. I took a deep breath and steadied my shaking hands.
"Thank you for the interview."
The office door rattled in its hinges when I stalked out of there.

-----

When my family had been slaughtered, for some reason the first thought to come to my head did not involve surviving. In fact, I comfortably lived off the welfare of my neighbors for months while I helped the policemen and the funeral home, and it was only then, only when the last cop car pulled out of my driveway, that I realized what a mess I was in.
The house didn't technically belong to me. My father had never wrote a will; or if he did, it had not been uncovered by his lawyers. None of my items were even mine now. And the carpet in the front foyer, the shag carpet I used to bury plastic horses in and pretend they were lost at sea, was soaked so thick with blood that even the heavy carpet cleaners couldn't save the pristine white color. An ugly stain washed blood red waves onto its banks.
So I took all my clothes, my personal belongings, a ring to remind me of my mother, and left. I hitch-hiked my way across the country, looking for any place I might belong, and finally settled in a small town in Maine. That was where I began looking for work I was never granted, because according to all the local employers, my lack of healthcare and the festering wound that required daily medical treatment was too much of a downfall.
I got creative, and for a few months, it actually worked. I avoided people looking too closely. I survived for three months; and on the cusp of talking a soft-hearted man into a job, a young woman woke me up from my warm spot on a bench. I was quick to correct my position, jerking myself awake, and gave her room. A ninja star that was tucked as a reminder into my waistband uncomfortably prodded my side and a slight gap in the rise of my shirt made it glitter in the morning sunlight. I blushed when she saw it and carefully pulled the shirt back down.
She remained silent for a while, waiting for something I suspected, and finally quirked a grin. "What are you doing out here?"
I squared my shoulders, used to people being inconsiderate to me. I could tell she was quite a few years older; although it didn't show in her psychical form, her age made my teeth ache. "I'm waiting."
She turned half her body towards me and her grin widened. "Hun, what you're waiting for is me."
I drew back in half a second, both wary and faintly blushing again. Crap. I didn't think a woman would ever hit on me. "Um, I'm sorry, but I think you mis-"
"No, you misunderstand." Abruptly her voice was all business and a focused serious note of irritation in it made me flinch. "I'm here to collect you. My boss requested we get a throwing star specialist, and you're the best of the best." Her words were carefully chosen. She seemed almost earnest. "I found you through the newspapers. We need the best one there is; and thats you."
Suddenly, she lifted her head with a frown. "Dammit. Boss is calling." Rising to her feet surprisingly elegantly, she grinned at me, and after a moment I caught a glimpse of a gorgeous blooming tattoo that detailed the shoulder of one of her arms. I blinked at the exquisite artwork.
"I sent you those ninja stars you know." She remarked casually, running a hand through her short-cropped hair. I stared up at her. I had never even thought about that mysterious gift again; it had been one of the least of my worries, my mysterious benefactor. "You did?" I asked, disconcerted and just totally stunned. I wasn't expecting that.
The young woman laughed and offered me her gloved hand. "The name's Rouge." She introduced lazily, and her dark eyes danced. "I'll come back to pick you up in a few hours." She turned on a delicate heel and sprinted into the falling shadows, disappearing within seconds. I leaned forward and buried my face into my hands. For a second, all I could see, as though someone had in turn tattooed it to the back of my eyelids, was that leering beauty of a painting that had marred her pure white fur.
Rouge. What an unusual name...

alias: Roy.
pronounced: [roy]
true name: Noctis.
career: Discreet assassin/mercenary.
job description: Katana specialist.
gender: Male.
species: Anthro Timber Wolf.

accessories: He is never seen without his favored weapon, the katana. This Japanese 'ninja' sword is worn is a special sheath that goes up the middle of his spine and between his shoulder blades, where it is easily reached from a mere pull from behind his head. Although Roy is adept at using other weapons [specifically other long blades such as the broadsword], he is best at this and prefers to use it in any circumstances. Hand-to-hand combat is his favorite, and he has a natural aversion to guns.

personality:
Arrogant, impulsive, and handsome, Roy has nearly everything going in his favor.
He is a proud man but it is not below him to speak to people, as is common to see in men and women who are rich. Instead, Roy finds an odd sense of pleasure in making friends; and although he rarely trusts them as far as he can throw them, he likes the idea of best friends. This rule is shared when it comes to lovers, as although Roy takes too many to even keep count [gender doesn't bother him in the slightest], he has never had someone he actually loved.
A bad connotation with guns makes him wary to use them, and this is one of the few things he is actually afraid of; the flash of guns will remind him of memories he would rather forget so he pays little attention to the automatic weapons and prefers instead the comforting presence of his katana.
He is very impulsive and this makes him a wild card in the field, which can prove either highly useful or very irritating. Because he does exactly what he wants, he and his boss get on horribly; and he finds himself in fights with them quite often. He is defensive whenever somebody tries to tell him he has done something wrong, or he's wrong in any way. Roy is the kind of man that loves being right, and every time he is he makes certain everyone knows it.
Unlike most assassins, Roy doesn't suffer beneath a grudge for other mercenaries and merely joined the task force to get back at them. No, instead, he truly loves the feeling of being God; he chooses who gets to live or die. This egotistical moment that is felt for only a few miliseconds when he puts his sights on someone is something that cannot be replaced by anything else; and Roy has tried all sort of different things to try and get off the high of being a murderer. Some consider his attitude about killing a liability, but so far he has proved himself three times over.
dislikes: Sniping, guns in general, murderers without payment behind them, rival assassins, working in a group setting, being stabbed in the back, betrayal in general.
likes: Butler, his father, his katana, various other swords, being cool, smoking, hand-to-hand combat, money, women and men, watching Rouge snipe people, watching Ren kill people with her ninja stars, Rouge and Ren together, teasing them, working with them [his one exception to groups], following his instincts.

backstory:
It wasn't like he started out with this bizarre love of weapons and dispersed blood. He lived a vaguely normal childhood; as mundane was one can be under the tutelage of parents who had earned their millionaire status as teenagers. He had no siblings, no close friends his age due to the fear of kidnapping. He was surrounded consistently by his bodyguard, an older man who he insisted everyone call Butler. They were, in his opinion, the closest of friends.
His father took a deep sense of pride in his young son, and took him out often to his worldwide business, teaching him the smartest of ways to keep money and grow an investment. The relationship with his mother was farfetched and awkward; she eventually succumbed to the passion of drinking, and he rarely witnessed her outside of her room; when he did, she traversed the halls like a wispy, starved ghost.
By the time he was nine he had correctly established his place in the world. He had created a bank account that had already earned double the profit he had expected, had achieved winning multiple awards for scholars, and was promised his father's business when he retired. But there was a dark side to Roy's happy childhood that even he didn't know about. His bodyguard, the man he affectionately called Butler, was a master at nearly all fighting skills; and he had been protecting Roy since he was three years old. When Roy was ten, his father lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and told his boy that there had been seventeen death threats against him; and it was time for his precious son to learn how to defend himself.

The lessons were brutal and neverending. It was Butler that ended up as Roy's teacher, and he showed little mercy for the boy he had practically raised. In the beginning they used blunted swords; but eventually, as he grew in talent, they switched to weapons that would do true harm when wielded properly.
Not surprisingly, Roy took straight to his training. He had always loved the greedy feeling of power, even since he was a toddler, and now he was drunk on it. He knew he was good by the telltale evidence in Butler's careful expression; the briefest raise of an eyebrow, a tiny quirk of a smirk to his mouth. When Roy was eleven years old, he officially surpassed his mentor in all the arts; but Roy had a favorite, and that was his katana.
Butler allowed him to graduate and reported back to his father, and Roy remained with his single most prized possession, possibly the only item he had ever honestly worked for to earn, and he nicknamed his sword Aeneas. He had not once been forced to use it on something living; and that single, important rule was broken on the morning of his thirteenth Christmas.