Beckett D'Custer

## Appearance

Eyes- Brown

Hair- Greying

Skin Tone- Tanned

Notable features/defining traits-

Wrinkles, crows feet, standard signs of aging. Two recently acquired scars on his chest from bullet holes. Scar on his hip from a knife.

## Combat

**Experience- 3 Weeks. One of which he was unconscious.**

Preferred method- Unknown, he’s still learning the ropes.

Abilities-

Deathly Commune- He can convene with the recently deceased.

Hellish Gunslinging- Unbeknownst to him, his gun, the one that killed the previous War, has become more powerful for it, a firearm for fighting those other than human, though it’ll still punch a nice hole through any fleshy mortal in its wake.

**Fighters Reflex- His reflexes are sharper, like lightning. Back to his prime.**

**Deadmans body- His body is not as mortal as it once was, rapidly healing, and far more durable than a middle aged man's body ever should be.**

## Personality

A fighter to his final breath. That's how he’d be described. Though fighting took many forms. Some would argue his descent into alcoholism was an admittance of defeat. Yet he still works, and works hard. Maybe it’s because the work is all he's got.

Hes stubborn, and can be quiet at times. He’s blunt, authoritative and sometimes, outright rude.

## History

Crazy how life turns out. One day you're sitting at home, staring down the bottom of a whiskey glass with a cigarette burning between your fingers, the next leads you to a gang tenament. A gang war was brewing and everything led back to this guy. Brad Derringer. Maybe it was a joke from the Chicago PD, putting these two together. BD and BD. They had almost wound up friends through all this. Almost.

But what was all this? It was hazy. Constantly shifting walls and ceilings, lighting that didn't dance off the paint like it should. The metal of his sidearm reflected no light. His partner, a faded silhouette. He was dreaming. He realised that. Why did he realise that? Normally he wasn't aware of his dreams. They were incorporeally and incomprehensible. But it felt real. Alive. Not a dream. A memory.

But he didn't remember how this memory ended. He continued down the dimly lit corridor he and his partner had been led to. The final piece of the puzzle. The Jackal. An arms dealer to both sides of the gang war. The inciter. The instigator. It may not end with him, but further battles would. They didn't knock. Custer slammed his boot through the door and it flew off its lock, inside a flash of light. Another flash. Bright bursts of energy. Brad flew back. Custer stayed standing, his own metal exploding as the silhouette inside flew.

He's stable.

Is he going to be okay?

Yes Miss Kennedy. He should pull through but right now he needs rest.

More light. It was clear. It was white. Nothing in his dream, or his memory. Whatever it was, it wasn't white. But this light was. It beckoned to him. Called his name like whispers in the night.

He tried to open his eyes but couldn't. Because they were already open. He was awake. The light came from the ceiling, and his eyes averted from its brightness to the warm touch on his hand. Sarah. Her hand lay on his. His eyes went to hers. "Hey."

"Hey." He responded groggily. He took grasp of his surroundings. He was alive. Mostly. The beeping of his heart monitor, the white walls and ceiling, Sarah's face. It all reminded him he survived. "Is Brad-"

"Sorry Beckett. He-"

"I got it." He replied tersely, sitting up slowly and observing the gown and blankets that draped him. "Why did you come?"

"I heard you got shot. I thought you had a natural aversion to bullets?"

"So did I. If I'm alive then-"

"Memory fuzzy?"

"It's not used to the sensation of bullets."

"They won't tell me anything about the case. But your captains here too. Me and her have been here since you came in."

"Wow, the two women in my life spending time together. Must've been enlightening."

"I- I'm sorry I shouldn't have come I just-"

"It's fine. It was good to see you. Just not used to you still being here when I wake up."

A silence dawned on the room. Even the heart monitor seemed to quieten down in the awkwardness. "I'll… I'll go."

"Yeah." He almost regretted agreeing. But it was best. So many feelings dwelled within alongside the burning sensation in his chest. Memories of so many things left unsaid. Better left unsaid. He silently added. Passing out the door, the next visitor came in. The captain? No. But Sarah's eyes were that of recognition. She thought this was the captain. Who was it really?

The woman was somewhat tall, for a woman. Maybe 5'10. A cerulean blue hue to her eyes and an almost golden aura of hair. She stood in front of the bed, glossing over her surroundings. Identifying him as though he was merely part of them. "This the part where you kill me?"

"Afraid killing you would provide me far too much work for me to handle."

"What is it then? Want to talk to the man who shot your boss? Sending me a message from him?"

"He is not my boss, but of sorts, yes. What do you know of him?"

"I'm not playing your games."

"Please." The word came out like silk. Like he couldn't deny her plea. "Sold arms to anyone who bought them. Started a war. Gangbangers call him-"

"The Jackal. I've always called him War."

"Cute. What do you want?"

"It won't make sense to you. It doesn't need to. Allow me to explain the best I can." With one swift movement she pulled the plug on the machines. The beeping halted. Beckett jumped out of bed and began his charge only…

He froze. Nothing burned. It was in his head. His legs worked fine. His body felt at his peak. "You've healed sporadically. Though admittedly you've been here a good week. Wished for this meeting sooner but you've been unconscious for that time."

"A week? Who are you?"

"You can call me Il Viaggiatore."

Italian, The Traveller. That was quaint. “Right.”
“You’ll be… adapting to your new body. The spirit of war lays within you. It’ll be… hard to get a hold of. It’ll sound insane. But I assure you Becket D’Custer, it is not. In killing the man you know as ‘The Jackal’ you have ensured your right to take on his role.”

That was another week ago. Beckett treated it as a product of being shot. A blood-loss related hallucination. She disappeared shortly after. But he had made a miraculous recovery. Which meant back to work. Back to his normal life. A funeral for Brad. He felt indifferent. Slightly remorseful, if only because he’d have to deal with a new partner. Maybe he was the lucky one. Given a reprieve of this existence.

An existence that had led to him another rain-soaked crime scene with a flashlight in hand. Beckett ducked under the police tape and shone the light at the half-rotted corpse left on the train tracks. Not so much a corpse, but a splattered mess of blood and bone, with two main parts. The top half and the bottom half, split by the force of a train. He kneeled by the top half and set a gloved hand on his face, peeling open the eye. With the rain accelerating the decomposition it was difficult to ascertain the age of the body. He had to see his eyes. But when he looked in he found them staring back. Detective. It whispered.

Surely it hadn’t. Surely not. Yet as if sensing his disbelief it came again. Detective. Why do you stare at me so?

“You must be going crazy… hearing voices.”

Yes. My voice Detective. Carl Rigger.

“This is insane.”
Maybe you’re crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. But we can hear each other Detective, can’t we?

“Carl…” He reached into the top half of the body's jacket, pulling free a wallet from inside. Carl Rigger. 28. Born in Santa Monica.

See Mr Detective. It's me. I’m dead though aren’t I?

“Yes.”

Oh. I don't like the thought of that.

“Me neither.”

Do you know what killed me Detective?
“About 3,000 tons of metal on wheels.”
Yes… I remember the train. But that is not what killed me Detective. What killed me was denial. I knew she was trouble.

“Who?”
Red dress… Ruby… She never told me she had a husband. He found out about me Detective.

Maybe it was his brief encounter with death. But it wasn’t just a one-off. Every crime scene, the bodies spoke to him. Soon it became just a part of the job. An uneasy comfort in it. The kind where there was nothing else to do but accept it. He didn’t understand it and thinking about it hurt his head. How could he just accept it? What was his alternative? He wasn’t crazy. They told him things his mind could never conjure. Things he’d never otherwise know. It was real.

Then one day she arrived again. Il Viaggiatore. The traveller. This time he was sat in a bar, bottle in his hand, cigarette between his fingers. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. “The old War liked bars too. Said they incited violence.”
“You’re real.”

“Yes. I am. As real as you, as War, as the dead you’ve been speaking to.”
“You’ve been watching me.”
“Of course Detective Beckett D’Custer. It is my job. Yet you’ve not really listened to what I told you, did you?”
“It was crazy.”
“I never said it wasn’t. But we don't have time to explain I’m afraid. You’re requested in heaven.”
“You’re going to kill me?” His hand instinctively reached for his gun.
“No.”

And with a flash. He arrived in heaven.

Attainment-

Killed The Jackal, the old War.