Chris Cole | Hunter

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✧ Determination
✧ Courage
✧ Honesty

Negatives (At Least 3):
✦ Cynicism
✦ The inability to shut up and keep his ideas for himself
✦ Antisocial behavior

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Parents: Karen Sullivan (1956-1987) Nathan Cole (1950 - still alive)
Siblings: none.
Other Family: His ex-wife, Lauren Hewson. They stopped talking to each other 4 years ago.
Important Others: none.
History:

Chris lost his mother when he was 14, and so he moved in with his father, a Gulf War veteran obsessed with conspiracy theories and the oncoming end of the world (mostly caused by nuclear wars, or terrorism, or both).
Chris and his father didn't get along well, partly because the paternal figure wasn't exactly an easy one to deal with, partly because Chris never forgave his father for leaving his mother when he was just a kid. Thus, as soon as Chris was old enough to do so, he left his father and moved to Seattle, where he began his training to become a policeman. He will later move to Los Angeles, as far away from his father as he could manage to go, where he began his career in the LAPD and became, in the end, a Detective of the Robbery Homicide Division.
Life was finally good and normal: he met a woman, Lauren, they both fell in love and, eventually, they married. One year after the marriage, they got a daughter, Katy. When she was five years old she died, hit by a car in front of their house. Chris and Lauren's marriage didn't survive the tragedy. Chris divorced, losing everyone he cared about in just a few months. He devoted himself to his job, and he was good at that. Following the leads, finding the proofs, taking the suspects into the interrogation room and here, breaking them, word after word, question after question.
He liked his job.
He was good at it.
Until...

The case he was investigating with his partner was 'strange'. Not as strange as it would have looked everywhere else in the States, it was just 'a little' out of the ordinary here in Los Angeles. Two girls had been found on the LA hills, bled to death, with marks on their wrists and ankles. Both were young, attractive, and with no family. One was an aspiring actress from Nebraska, the other was a petty thief. It was immediately clear they were dealing with a serial killer, someone with a thing for bleeding his victims to death, and with a weakness for young, attractive women. The killer was choosing his victims, taking only who he could hope no-one would notice was missing or would care about.  Further investigation brought Chris and his partner to find out about the Sect. A Charles Manson kind of Sect, with pale people wearing black, hanging out in those goth pubs in the city outskirts, preaching about a Blood Moon and immortality and stuff like that. Quite appealing for people with weak minds, especially young girls.
Long story short: when Chris and his partner finally arrived the Sect's lair they found themselves in the most impossible of situations. They did find proofs that the homicides had been committed in that place: there were chains on the wall in the cellar, and the floor was sticky and red with blood. You could even smell it in the air. And, of course, they did find the members of the Sect. They followed the protocol. They pointed their guns to the suspects, shouted them to raise up their arms and turn against the wall... But before they could even declare them under arrest one of the boys --boys, they looked like bloody boys-- assaulted them, snapped Arthur's neck --even if he had just shot him in the shoulder with a .38-- and ripped up Arthur's throat with his fangs. Fangs. Chris shot, at least he tried to. One of them grabbed him by the neck and threw him against a wall. Everything went black. Chris knows that, if the backup they both had called before making irruption hadn't arrived in that exact moment, he would have died in that shack. Just like Arthur.
As things usually go with this kind of stuff, there was an inquiry inside the department, lot of talking with the higher ranks and the department's headshrinker. The truth Chris kept trying to tell them was taken as a sign of a mind put under too much stress, so they asked him to hand back gun and badge.
Chris accepted.
He had another gun, after all, and a badge wasn't of any use to hunt down the things that had killed Arthur and those two girls. He began to follow the tracks on his own. Of course, the killers had moved, leaving the State, heading to Las Vegas. Chris went after them. It was still dumb luck he managed to actually kill one of them, when he finally cornered him up in an alley nearby the Strip. In the fight, he decapitated him with a piece of metal sheet he'd found in the nearby dumpster.
So, what was he dealing with, vampires? Whatever. It could be. Evil has no end, no limits: he has seen it with his work in the Homicide. Humanity is able to do all kind of bad things. What if there's something else, moving in the night, making the shadows of this world even darker? It was something he could accept. As he would stoically accept that the right thing to do was to stop them. Yeah. What really mattered, in the end, was that there were still three of them left. They were murderers, like those he used to put in jail when he was still a detective. Just a kind of murderer harder to deal with.




Alias: Indy
How did you find us?: Google
Experience: I play on another RP forum here on Proboards, plus years of online rpg by chat and a few experiences with the 'face to face' World of Darknes rpg.
Other Characters: none
RP Sample:

It had been a long, hot day in Nevada, but now that the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon there was a new chill in the air that blew from the desert. It made a chill run down his spine.
He was outside his motel room, where the air stank with stale tobacco and sweat and general lack of hygiene –that's what happens when you travel cheap– taking in the desert air in deep, calm breaths. He leaned against the door frame with his shoulder, a bottle of beer in his left hand. His right hand was laying at his side, his thumb in the pocket of a pair of worn out, faded blue jeans. A white tank top covered his chest. The dressing patch on his right shoulder was clearly visible. It covered the slash the boy –vampire, he tried to tell himself, but the word still sounded strange to his ears-- had caused him. It would heal. Lifting up his bottle, Chris took another long sip of beer. Cold and bitter, just as he liked it. In the distance, a pair of lights became visible down the road. He heard an engine, then the gravel creaking beneath the tires of what the moonlight proved to be a pick-up truck. Chris frowned. The moonlight and the shadows played with the angular features of his face. He moved his right hand behind his back, making sure that his Beretta 92 was still resting in his belt. Slowly, he moved back inside his room, closing the door. Whatever it was that was coming, it was better to be ready for it. Something his father used to told him when he was a kid came back to his mind: when you hunt something with fangs, boy, be ready to be hunted by it...






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