patientxâ˘xobservantxâ˘xhedonisticxâ˘xrestlessxâ˘xstreet urchinxâ˘xnarcissisticxâ˘xdistrustingxâ˘xcreativexâ˘xviolentxâ˘xchain-smokerxâ˘xself-sufficient
N A M E || Marco Costa
O R I G I N || Milan, Italy 1939
A G E || 31
O R G A N I Z A T I O N || the commission
D E P A R T M E N T || Operations
Marco remembers very little about his life in Italy. All he remembers were the air raids, the crumbled buildings around him. The woman he called mother might as well had been a stranger. He spent most nights on the streets with the other children, most of them orphans. Theyâd break into wherever they could for food, it wasnât much but it kept them sated.
One morning a man along the docks offered Marco some coin to carry his bags for him. He didnât think anything of it, mostly considered trying to see if he could get away with robbing the man. Seeing Marco for what he was, a street urchin, the man saw an opportunity. He offered passage for Marco to Argentina, even could give him a job. Marco had never considered a life beyond this, but he knew better than to say no to the chance.
Heinrich was never a paternal figure for Marco, though he did always demand a sense of authority. He wasted no time putting a gun in the boyâs hand, though heâd also put a book in the other. It wasnât that he was exceptionally smart, but he grew to be literate in time. Eventually Heinrich had him learn Spanish, English and German as well. It was necessary in Marcoâs position to speak the language of the folk he interacted with.
Information was the most valuable asset and Marco was an extractor. It could be done at the end of a scalpel or just a simple pair of pliers could do the job. Heinrich gave him the tools, but Marco had the talent for it all on his own. It took an inherent lack of empathy to enjoy torture. Fascinated by the way skin peeled from flesh, there was beaty in the way the tissue tore apart. Heâd recreate these images in his sketches, a hobby to keep his hands busy in idle moments.
Heinrich was a busy man, he had many enemies. He had come here a rich man, and while he owned the big house and the people in it he had little cash flow. A scientist at his core, his only monetary motivation was to maintain funding for his experiments. He had friends in high places who could connect him with ways to make big money, though it wasnât with the most savory sorts.
Marco was the one who handled the ones who fell from Heinrichâs favor. His rivals being found mutilated and left out for display was enough to keep the bulk of them at bay, though Heinrich couldnât stay safe in his mansion in the mountains forever. It was fun work and good money while it lasted, but soon Heinrich grew paranoid. He was losing his wits from years of self-experimentation, his mind deteriorating. He began killing his own people, accusing them of plotting against him. Marco was the only one heâd known as a child, the only one he was confident enough of his own hold on. Marco could sense an oncoming shift, even if Heinrich insisted their trust was unwavering. It would only be a matter of time before Heinrich killed him, and truthfully Marco was tired of the old manâs games.
A week later Marco was turning in Heinrichâs head for a bounty, delivering it to the Colombians personally. Marco told them to keep the money, he wanted a job. The burgeoning drug industry in the States was making demand high. There was still so much up for grabs, and a lack of leadership that lent to the sort of chaos that Marco was inclined to. They seemed to like him enough, he didnât ask questions and did as he was told. Others who had been around longer had grown bitter with time, sowing seeds of discontent cultivating disorder.
Marco left suddenly, he had a sixth sense for getting out before the water got too hot. He fled to Brazil, out of the Colombianâs reach. Hiding out in a remote village in the Amazon, spending most of his day swimming in his sweat and being eaten alive by bugs when the Commission recruited him. He enjoyed the work, though the benefits could be better. He had a record for taking his time, though he always got the job done. He had two years until retirement, he just had to power through.
present day
Marco was deceptively quiet. People often considered him to be soft-spoken, maybe even shy. Truth was he preferred to do the talking with someone tied up to a chair while he sharpened a knife. He was used to people trying to get him to talk or laugh. It was usually the funny guy, per lâamor di dio how he hated the funny guy. He preferred to work alone for that reason, though it wasnât always possible. He reeked of nicotine, the smell never able to settle long enough to grow stale. When Marco went for a mission, he took his time. It was like savoring a fine whiskey, a drink heâd grown the predilection for in his travels. Heâd stalk his targets like a lion stalking itâs prey - shoulders sunken laying low until itâs moment to strike. Sometimes he even played with them a little before he killed them, just to make it a little more fun for him. It was frowned upon within the commission, which is another reason why he preferred to work alone.
He wasted no time between missions, he hated idle moments. In those rare moments of peace he buried himself into his small leather bound journal with pressed paper illustrating graphic moments of violence. It was how he soothed the chaos within when he couldnât externalize it any other way. He rarely slept, and when he did it was always fully clothed in a chair - never allowing himself a moment of true peace. He wouldnât even know what that looked like.
fc: Michele Morrone xâ˘xhex: 9C0D0D
