Takarik's Origin Story




“…owhere near sufficient for our purposes. Development is irregular at best in pairs 14 and 37…”

“…showing no signs of improvement… project… shelved... careful…”

“…cant the lot… destroyed… left to… visor..”

Takarik’s first moments awake were spent on all fours, hacking up liquid as he tried to take a breath. His world began as fluid, but now he was on something slick and cold, a dark gray color. There were other bodies nearby- some moved, others did not. There was a sliver of light that spilled across the floor, widening out into a blinding square that reflected off the slime-like fluids coating the smooth flooring. He was growing cold as the air sapped the warmth from all the liquid, and reflexively he shivered.
Boots moved across the floor, and then there was a soft hiss, followed by the soft sound of gas igniting. The newly conscious Tak lifted his head just enough to look, and saw a man in dark clothing- some sort of jumpsuit- with a mask and what seemed like a flamethrower. The man pulled the trigger, and an unmoving body- blue-skinned like Tak- was enveloped in fire. When the flames stopped, the body continued to burn.
Takarik crawled towards the exit, still gasping for breath. There were others moving, but he was only vaguely conscious of them- his survival was the only thing that filtered through the fugue-like state he was in. The boots moved, and the fire blossomed forth again. He kept moving, finally crawling through the door. The world beyond was harsh- rough concrete and noxious odors, brightly lit by a noonday sun. He dragged himself behind a large brown dumpster and curled up in the shade. He could hear others moving- but for the moment, there was only sleep.


When Takarik’s eyes opened again, he was alone. The door he had crawled through was shut tightly, and there was no sign of anyone nearby. He was in an empty lot, the only features being the dumpster he was behind and a nearby sewer entrance, the grating partially open. Night had fallen, but there seemed almost more noise than before- people were about, nearby. Tak pulled himself to his feet, hobbling across the parking lot. He saw people moving back and forth on the sidewalk, but no one seemed to be paying attention to him. Behind another building he rested, trying to determine what was going on.
Instead he realized he was hungry- and cold, and naked. Pushing off the wall, he moved into an alley and began searching through the refuse littering the area. There wasn’t much available, but a torn shirt and blanket gave him some protection. Nothing was even close to food; he moved out past the alley and onto the sidewalk.
What greeted Takarik was the steady mass of people and thin layer of gray that coated all of King’s Row. His eyes followed the power lines stretching northwards, only to be jarred back to his immediate surroundings as he was pushed aside by a passer-by. No one seemed to take notice of his appearance- perhaps this was normal. He followed the flow, walking south along the road.


“So you have no idea why you can speak English?”

Takarik shook his head, then lifted the steaming mug up to his mouth and sipped at the soup within it. “No more than I know anything else.”

The man, Simon Teller, shook his head and walked to his desk. “I’d say you were suffering from amnesia, but that wouldn’t explain what you remember of the lab- if that’s what it was. I’ll talk to a few people, see if we can’t get a hero to try and find that building you told me about. Maybe that can provide some answers. I’d also like to send your photograph over to Atlas Park, see if anyone recognizes you.”

“Your call, doc. I’m not sure why you think I’d be a hero though.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly normal for someone’s eyes to glow- usually if you run across someone like that in Paragon City, they’re either a hero or trying to take over the world.”

“So why wouldn’t I be one of the ones trying to take over the world then?”

“Just call it a hunch. Anyway, your laugh isn’t maniacal enough.”

“That explains the bad jokes.”


(More to be added dependent upon time, requests, and inspiration)