<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/5/51/Wicked.jpg/399px-Wicked.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Wicked (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=173794.msg8209926#msg8209926)<br/><strong>Occupation/Status:</strong>Zhayedan Squad/ Deathbeast<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Test Laboratory Briefing Room<br/><strong>Action Summary:</strong>Waiting<br/><strong>Tagged Characters:</strong>Anyone<br/><strong> Open to Others?:</strong>Anyone<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/>There were times when Wicked knew it best to be quiet. He basked in the momentary affection Maybelline shared, enduring her prattering for the sakes of being stroked, though his thoughts were elsewhere. All of the Prototypes were of remarkably high intellect, but the young man was often mistaken for a hulking imbecile. Not that he minded, there was precious little that truly troubled Wicked. His stoicism was no mere affectation, he was utterly without narcissism or self doubt. He had learned to keep himself to himself, even when he was permitted free speach he usually chose not to exercise the privilege. For one thing, most of those with whom he associated were in stark terror of him.<br/><br/>Even besides his rather remarkable ability to render living, breathing, thinking people into lifeless muck, the young man had many other unnerving traits. None of the technicians and scientists assigned to Wicked had seen him quite the same since he had diagnosed Dr. Vicks with a brain tumour. To humans, with their rather dull olfaction, the notion that one could divine more of the individual human's condition from a mere whiff than a combination of the finest diagnostic technology interpreted by the finest medical minds was rather troubling. Of course, the realisation that one could not lie to the young man who could rip dismember and eviscerate combat soldiers as easily as a man might debone a roast chicken went a long way towards cementing Wicked's reputation as someone best left to his own devices.<br/><br/>He tasted whiskey on the air, the Laphroaig that Commander Montgomery had received from his son for Christmas still tinted every one of the man's breaths. A long lingering scent, he could tell that the man's bloodstream was purged of the drink, though the fear remained. The man preferred natural soldiers, boys who could be broken down and remade into fighting men. Creatures like Wicked and his brethren weren't natural, they came to warfare as though it was mother's milk. Wicked did what came most naturally, propping his head up on a fearsome fist, fixing his emerald gaze on the Commander.