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</div><br/><span style="font-size: 22px">Christopher Warner</span><br/><b>Zodiac Sign: </b>Zodiac Aquarius<br/><b>Current Persona: </b>Chris<br/><b>Time:</b>Late Summer<br/><b>Location: </b>Joint Force Base Victory, Camp Stryker -> Zodiac Island docks<br/><b>Mood Song: <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FlbSOLBMUvIE&amp;hash=17eb048b9a3762ef7978f71b503f6516" href="https://youtu.be/lbSOLBMUvIE" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank"> Home - Michael Buble</a><br/>
Wearing: </b>Green tshirt, desert MARPAT pants, USMC beanie<br/><b>Tagging: </b>Addy (<a class="username" data-user-id="6055" data-username="Dragongoddess" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/6055/">Dragongoddess</a>), Lysander (<a class="username" data-user-id="9340" data-username="Vibia Sabina" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/9340/">Vibia Sabina</a>)<br/><b>Mentioning:</b><br/><hr class="bbc-hr"/>Chris startled awake, reaching for his gun the second he was conscious enough to function. He scanned the barracks, M4A1 in hand, then stood down and let out a visceral grunt of frustration. He had just gotten over these nightmares, just started getting past the weight of fallen comrades on his shoulders, and now this... It was hell on replay, and the channel never seemed to change. He couldn't even get salvation while the tv was off, since the images were burned into his brain.<br/><br/>The next time he had focus, an MRE was in his lap, the sound of a Blackhawk rotor spinning up and lifting off the ground pounding in his ears. His gear bag was laying under his seat, kept stationary by his legs. At least the trip would be short, or as short as he could get. Seth had always been testing drones, and there was plenty of military activity whenever somebody's powers made a big panic on the public half of the island. A military helicopter wasn't out of the ordinary to the heroes base, at least in the heyday of superheroes.<br/><br/>Chris settled into his meal, chili and cornbeard, with pudding for dessert. The helicopter hit a patch of rough winds, then clear skies out the sea. The helicopter floated above a small island and its even smaller sister, and Chris pointed out where he wanted to land. A small motion, and the helicopter swung about to follow his instructions. Rather than letting the crew land, Chris thanked them for the ride, set his finished meal on the empty seat next to him, grabbed his gear bag, and jumped.<br/><br/>Normally, the lack of a parachute would be a problem for people jumping from a helicopter, especially one situated about a thousand feet overhead. Chris even debated whether he even wanted to finish the jump, but as he got closer, he spotted a familiar redhead with an attitude. He couldn't traumatize her like the scene that had played out the day prior for him. He wouldn't let her go through that sort of grief.<br/><br/>Chris used his fingernail to make a tiny cut on the palm of his left hand, then his body emptied of blood in an instant. The crimson liquid rushed up his body, clinging to his shoulders like a backpack. 100 feet from the ground, the blood mimicked a parachute, slowing his descent drastically. Then Chris free fell the last 20 feet or so, his blood pooling at his hands and feet as he crouched and landed, cushioning his contact with the ground.<br/><br/>"You would not believe the week I've had..." Chris grumbled as he stood up, pretending like he hadn't just defied death.