ANAMNESIS

YOU FORGET THE SANE CORPSES.

[paraextant]

@PARAEXTANT: Blot / 25+ / GMT+ / any pronouns

Private, dependent writing blog affiliated with talesfm. DNI if unaffiliated. Posts may occasionally feature mature and potentially triggering content, proceed with caution.

— FEATURING:

K. ADAMSEN / profile⁰¹ threads⁰² headcanons⁰³ playlist⁰⁴ pinterest⁰⁵

— MISC:

wanted connections / plots

[belowthetable]

Open starter

As soon as the lights went off, there was a gun in her hand. Doing her best to listen and scan her surroundings, trying to search for the danger. It was difficult to make out anything other than the screams of those around her. She had disappeared from the main ballroom, not caring much for the toasts and other grandeurs of the event. She was there for appearances, not to make small talk. There was a feeling deep inside of her that knew something was off, but she ignored it. After all, in the Bastion, what could go wrong?

The blade that went into her side was quick, and it surprised her. Not simply because of the sudden pain, but by how swiftly it had happened and how she wasn't able to stop it. There had been plenty of injuries to her body over the years, but those were bad luck, not her lack of trying. All that came from her lips was a soft grunt before the gun swung around towards where the assailant had just been. Though she was hesitant to shoot, out of fear that it would hit someone important, she couldn't help herself, unloading two rounds and hearing them both hit the wall.

Slowly she crept through the halls, gun extended as she moved. Finally the lights came on, and her eyes did their best to adjust to the new setting. In seconds the gun was pointed to the back of someone's head, her eyes not well adjusted enough to take in whose. "Show me your hands."

[paraextant]

Some minutes ago, he was never really there at the gala. Not in any sense that mattered; the invitation wasn't a suggestion, but a contrived formality of what's required in this world he's come to inhabit, him being-not-being-there or not. So he'd been there, weightless in a pressed suit, necessitated but disinterested, neither standing too close or too far from the social ledges that carved out the hierarchal terraces constituting the Bastion's necessary existence– a self-reproducing circumstance, and so British. He'd left the ballroom for a moment after he'd heard the effervescent speeches, listened to the nervousness shimmering underneath, felt the jittery tension motioned in the taut pomp and choreographed flare of the evening until⸺

Blackness. Seconds of before stretched thin in slow moving flickers. Violent flashes. In the darkness, through the heavily paced drumming of boots above the scattering patter and screams in the ballroom, he felt himself again. 26 again, just touched down in Bagram, or somewhere at 35, listening to a debriefing in Riyadh, as his American handler navigates the appropriate parlances in contracting him about a man who he'd kill. As if the words 'contractual obligation' neatly reasoned senselessness into order. It's still senseless now, and he moves exactly like someone numbed by this senselessness, and made a new animal of himself from it, would. Instinctually blooded. Honing his body into a lean, skulking shape, hands familiarly clasped around the grip of his gun, pressing himself close to the hallway's walls.

Then lights flood the space again, the harshness jarring the space into clarity again. Turning around by the swivel of his hips, an economic turn of a heel and his arms draw up to shoot before her voice reached him. Seeing her mouth move before the words register ('—your hands'), his eyes narrow, then blinks, blank faced, almost casual. Then his eyes shift to her hands and back at her face, as if he'd needed reminding, lowering his aim finally. The barrel of his gun pointing to the ground in a show of half-concession. "You can see my hands." he says, flat without negotiation; mutually unassured of each other, he doesn't make demands of her. It's only fair. He watches her still, unmoving. There's a tightness to how she stands, holds herself, with a lean strength drawn from a dogged, private practice. It's the kind of behavior that breeds a particular self-demanding competence that thrives in the Bastion, now that he recognizes that. He sees it's something else too, a self-protectiveness, "Are you hurt?"

[anarchicchaos]

Attending functions this grandeur had been part of the requirements over her time spent working for the table. her attire matched the elegance that spread across the bastion. stepping into a time warp where for a night, there would be peace, and all that would be gone within a blink of an eye come morning.

Liena weaves through the crowd, no real destination in mind, but following the path her steps may lead her. a greeting uttered to those she had the pleasure of meeting, and those, that relied on the business her area provided. she took pride in her abilities.

The heat that came from the crowd led her off in the direction of a balcony for fresh air. she was not surprised to find another standing there. her head shakes at him, a smile spreading across her lips. "no thank you." liena did not smoke, it was a habit that never appealed to her. "how are you finding the night?" the last real event at the bastion was the death of the antonini.

[paraextant]

Declined, an unquestioning 'ah, alright' loose shrug of a shoulder and slight nod of his head, then he slips the pack of cigarettes back into his suit jacket's inner pocket. The mild upturn of his smile skews a lopsided right in the corner of his mouth, fastening around the cancer stick as he reaches into the same pocket for a lighter. He doesn't quite look at her yet – only seeing her face from the impressioned edges of a brief half-lidded glance – but he's listening. Humming a low, noncommittally considered pause to her question. A thumbed, rote click and flicker of the silver lighter sparks up the cigarette, and a tiny pinpoint glare blinks at the end as he draws in a deep, decided drag. Considering her question again: it's an unexpecting one, less genial and more courteous, something you expect a variation of over shuffled papers. He's got nowhere to be, so he's patiently receptive.

"Well," Kristian turns his head away momentarily to exhale, a wispy arc of thick smoke trails after the languid motion as he looks back at the crowd, the lighter tucked back into his jacket. Nothing's changed, just the perspective distance and the balcony's columned doorway framing a vast and tedious tableau he'd secluded himself from. Unreal in its familiar mundanity, as if he's at some distant relative's party; formally aware by invitation but altogether disinterested in presence. "I just found myself here, is all." he says, dismissively dry in tone, hinting to a sense of an even, willing humour when he does finally look at her, smiling purposely this time. The cigarette drooped halfway towards the center of his mouth now.

"Liena." he says her name, in a faint thrum of his voice. It's a delayed greeting and recognition. "Come here alone too?" he asks, though he knows the answer. Without much to do, he may as well act familiar.

[paraextant]

STATUS: Open (1/5) LOCATION: The Bastion @ Ballroom Gala

A sense of tentative civilization garlands the gala. The narrowed, drifting sweep of his sight intuitively acquaints and dismisses the meticulously considered fixtures and tinsels of this event; like the sensibly curated menu – no overbearing cygnets carved out of ice stiffly bowing their necks or cuts of Chianina arranged into tender terraces to be seen – white table cloths figurative and literal straightened over to obscure obscene associations like 'swan-song' or 'slaughter'. It wouldn't do, after a speech about memory and a dictum for the future. He passes by a waiter setting down a wide, shallow crystal bowl of Fine de Claire oysters arranged in an unfurling whorl on a bed of ice– the slender morsels sure to pragmatize appetites, and still appease with its distinctive flavor. A selection made by an enterprising hospitality always accounting for taste.

Appropriate. Kristian supposes, with a twitch of his lip, as he walks on, the flute of champagne pinched between his fingers (barely sipped, flat by now). He isn't persuaded– doesn't care to be, beyond the tenuously mutual deference constituting the hotel's architecture. A murder in a room elusively renders the interior, after all (despite industrial cleaners and a recarpeting). The way an abattoir can never be truly clean, only sterile. As he languidly weaves his way to the balcony, he catches snatches of conversation – static and innocuous jaw-talk – the low string-hum of the live band's double bass unintentionally conspiring to intone what can't be said in a chesty refrain. Condolences elude him. He's decided he doesn't want to talk to anyone.

Loosed from the mutely shimmering cavalcade of the crowd, he sets the champagne flute on an abandoned drink trolley parked by the balcony door. He stands behind the balustrades, hands in his pockets, London's landscape unfurling in smears, conversation and music coalescing into nonsensical murmurs vibrating against his back. The feeling of plateau's consolation a lukewarm and unsmiling voice in his head: someone's dead and you're not. He should smoke now, he supposes. Fishing out a crumpled pack of Dunhills, he slots a cigarette in the corner of his lips, stalled, when someone else joins him by the balcony. He blinks, and it's a thoughtless formality when he offers the pack to the other person. "Smoke?" singular, 'want to' discounted from the invitation, a slight hike of his lips into a smile. Amiable in just the way everything here is supposed to be: sensibly so.

[paraextant]

⸻ mads mikkelsen, 58, cis male, he/him ; ] welcome to the bastion, KRISTIAN ADAMSEN. we’ve had a problem with our system, please help me readjust your files. it says here you are FOURTY EIGHT and have been around london for FIVE YEARS, correct? yes, i’ve read an article about you - they said you can be PATIENT and CYNICAL, is that true? no matter, i’m sure your position as a ASSASSIN (LEFT SIDE ASSOCIATE)  will conceal all of that. all done now. i hope to be seeing more of your  SELF-OBSCURING PATINA OF BROKEN MACHINES CRUSTED INTO COMPLICATED HUSKS, THE DIFFICULTY OF SAYING-DECLARING ‘I’, KNEES HUMBLED BY THE BOLES AND THE RHIZOMATIC SEAMS OF EVERYTHING EVER KNOWN in the future. enjoy your stay, and remember the rules.

TW: brief mentions and descriptions of suicidality, depersonalization, PTSD.

OVERVIEW

— BASICS

BIRTH NAME: Kristian Adamsen

ALIASES: History of multiple aliases/identities over the years

NICKNAMES: peepaw (kidding, n/a for now)

GENDER: Cis male (he/him)

SEXUALITY: heterosexual

AGE / D.O.B: fourty eight / November 22nd

NATIONALITY: Danish

HOMETOWN: Østerbro, Copenhagen, Denmark

OCCUPATION / AFFILIATION: Assassin / Left Side

INSPIRATIONS: Jef Costello (Le Samourai), Nikolai Luzhin (Eastern Promises), William Tell (The Card Counter), Alejandro Gillick (Sicario), Murakawa (Sonatine), Kishibe (Chainsaw Man), Neil McCauley (Heat)

— INTERPERSONAL

STATUS: Single. Never married, was briefly engaged in his early thirties, a fleeting moment in his life he describes as 'not sad, just necessary'. Any current long-standing intimate relationships are usually mutually transactional in nature.

FAMILY: Herman Adamsen (father, deceased), Birgitte Adamsen (mother, alive, estranged), Henrik Adamsen (older brother, deceased), Natasja Adamsen (younger sister, alive, estranged)

LANGUAGES: English, Danish, Russian, German, conversational French

— MISC

playlist

pinterest

APPEARANCE

FEATURES: The weathered touch of the years sands the edges of his face; chiseling the structure, drawing up the zygomatic crests of his cheekbones to prominent arcs. The length of his hair's a little past his nape, greying mostly at the bangs and temples, gradually diluting once dark brown strands into a mousy-silver-blonde tinge; usually swept back, neatly coiffed without particular – though passably neat – effort. Typically sports a light stubble. A wide and firmly shaped mouth, bow-like, stern and unsmiling, drawn into a taut, neutral line. Hooded, deep-set, heavily lidded as to seem almost languidly indifferent, dark hazel eyes. Bears an inscrutable, watchful gaze, polished by a certain knowingness, tempered by an apathy towards some unspoken and foregone conclusion, and darkened by a perennial weariness.

BODY: Six foot tall, and fit. Broad chest and shoulders. Emanates a sense of disciplined, purposeful strength, not muscularity for the sake of aesthetics. Much of the emphasis of musculature is in the arms, shoulders, and back. Large calloused hands and thick, deft fingers.

SCARS: Many, mostly speckled on the torso and arms. Some old scars overlap older ones like a scattered and disconnected latticework patterning past pains. The most prominent is a long, jaggedly slanted, hypertrophic scarring from a knife just above where his left kidney would be.

CLOTHES: Comfortable, utilitarian and impersonal. An ensemble of black and greys, sometimes a combination of dull, earthy, cool tones. Nondescript, adequately well dressed at a glance. Plain, never bearing brand logos or insignias, the clothes bear a neat, yet well-worn severity. Courtesy of tailors at The Bastion's atelier, they're constructed with a practical craftsmanship instructed by sensible taste, and an eye for silhouettes taking his considerations for functionality without being garishly uptight or showy. He dresses with the sartorial habit of a man that defines his own uniform, bearing authority only to himself and no one else. Never accessorizes, with the exception of a vintage steel Chopard watch.

DEMEANOR: An air of disciplined dispassion, sustained by the undercurrent of a calmly reasoned belligerence – sometimes teething on leashed contempt – that might’ve hinted towards the disposition of a man who was much angrier in the past. Or perhaps still is. Impassively imposing, alert posture, sharply aware of himself and his surroundings. Restrained and unflinching; someone who moves with a poise honed from years of deliberate self-instruction, ready to bear down on someone or something.

SCENT: Perpetual redolence of cigarettes, hints of alcohol, and the cool, clean astringent whiffs of aftershave. Sometimes wears a cologne; the notes a blend of warm, and dry, pleasantly unintrusive aroma of musk, leather, cardamom, vetiver, and cedarwood.

VOICE: Faint, indiscernibly Northern European accent– indistinct enough for an untrained ear to place him anywhere. Low, husky, rasped from a lifetime's habit of chain-smoking. Never brashly grating or harshly gruff, more like an occasional half-bark. Grounded by a gravelly tone underfoot words spoken in a measured cadence, and perhaps…exhaustion.

PERSONALITY

— BASICS

MBTI: INTJ-A (The Architect)

ZODIAC: Scorpio

ALIGNMENT: Neutral Evil

TEMPERAMENT: Choleric-Melancholic

HABITS: A chain-smoker, and an inveterate alcoholic with an impressive tolerance that might, perhaps, inspire concerns for his renal health. An occasional, intentional sybaritic when the truth of his habits as little else but purposeless spasms of an atrophied desire can't be ignored. Otherwise he tends (prefers, with dignity, he'd like to think) to quietly mope in excess.

TRAITS: Patient, calculating, practical, introspective, reticent, observant, perceptive, thoughtful, resourceful, stubborn, cynical, world-weary, secretly sentimental. Somewhat solemn and capable of sincerity often presented wordlessly or…incomprehensibly. Inwardly unpredictable, operating within a hermetic logic and moral code that manifests as seemingly impulsive behavior to an onlooker; individualistic in tendencies. Self-effacing and wry, slightly (and charmingly) self-deprecating humor. Never too serious of himself to either affirm or deny outward impressions; a calmly assured "I know who I am and what I am" mellow attitude. Resigned, not necessarily a belly upward defeatist, though is inevitably inclined towards a sense of private nihilism. Surprisingly considerate – maybe even kind – when he wants to be.

— PSYCHOLOGY

Deeply compartmentalized, and subconsciously aware of it at a peripheral level. It's more reflexive rather than calculating (though it can be). A contingent pattern of thinking-reactions that intuitively sublimates underlying neuroticism and paranoia, which does manifest in instances of ritualized behavior (ie: repetitive checking). Has conditioned himself for so long that he's become hermetic even to himself.

Apathy and detachment describes his neutral state, which generally tends towards a degree of depressiveness and asociality. Mechanistically functional, and not necessarily or inherently antisocial traits. Outside of his tasks for the Left Side, he's not primarily reasoned or motivated by these attributes.

Experiences depersonalization-derealization symptoms, which are (relatively) manageable, and occurs in intermittent spells. Often has bouts of hyperarousal spurred by undiagnosed PTSD, filtered through a habit of (hyper)vigilance.

Is passively suicidal, which makes him prone to undertaking risky assignments. Ideations are usually vague, noncommittal– a slow and perpetual downward hurtling.

ABILITIES

A trained marksman who (mostly) avoids excessive violence; favored for targets whom their killing is to send a concise message: you're neither tolerated or indispensable. Targets who don't inspire revenge, or the imagination for spectacular ends like a firey car bomb or even the low light of grisly dismemberment. Neither is he intended for those who don't aspire to unknowingly collude in their future cover up accidents; instead they're simply on an constantly expiring itinerary. His delivery, of course, is always acutely efficient.

Ambidextrous; an inborn trait. No preference for either hand – competent with both for any task – mostly uses his right out of habit.

Trained in close quarters combat, his martial arts style is a culminative blend from his military days in the Jægerkorpset (Jaeger Corps). When fighting, he primarily implements Brazilian jiu-jitsu and boxing techniques (he's somewhere between an out-boxer and a switch-hitter). Altogether a heavy hitter, his approach is designed to quickly incapacitate an opponent.

Though he avoids superfluous violence as a general principal, he's fully capable of brutality. It's characterized by an impersonal, and deliberately informed cruelty of someone who knows exactly who, where, and how to hurt. Ruthlessly methodized. A detachment from 'why' sterilizes this particular facet of his violence from showy, vicious maiming to a clarified, clinical competence.

— WEAPONS

Doesn't have a preferred or 'signature' weapon, only an array of methods. For self-defense, he carries a Gen5 Glock G29 9mm pistol in a shoulder/chest holster, and a small, curved, folding knife carefully tucked away into his jacket.

Employs a rotating ensemble of long-range sniper rifles for his assignments, as he's rarely in direct or close contact, so he prefers them. Selections may vary based on the targets, but otherwise they're chosen with preventative evasion sensibly in mind. Nothing too shiny or recent; they're easier to be traced and singled out, so he'll pick something already ubiquitously circulating in the black market. Keeps nothing. Unsentimentally conscientious to the task.

BACKGROUND

— TEMPORARY SUMMARY

Born yoked into a legacy of politicians and diplomats of some thing or other, in a family reared to be well-blooded as to be unassumingly unquestioned to the rest. Raised under the discerningly cautious, proud eyes of people who are also the surreptitious architects of the world. Those that legitimize the illegitimate. The so called king makers. Acquiescent to the aspirations of his last name, he joins the military shortly after university, and clawed his way into the Jaeger Corps. Was involved in a number of international joint operations before retiring from the Corps sometime in his thirties. It was a brief respite, as he was later recruited as a mercenary under a private American-British security company comfortably flush with government contracts. At fourty-two, he was well past the cut off of what a 'clean break' from that world could be, and more or less gnarled his way to London, to eventually be wrestled into the Left Side.

WANTED PLOTS / CONNECTIONS

To be updated and elaborated on later (along with his background) but for now!:

Acquaintances...friends...tenuous alliances of any variety. Easy to get along with (or at least he's capable of tolerating a lot) despite being tightly wound up inside. Isn't uptight about alliances or loyalties (with some healthy caution exercised ofc).

For some ideas, if your muse was in the military, depending on their age, he may have met/knew them through joint operations. As for law enforcement muses - particularly intelligence agents - may be aware of who he is.

A general note on impressions of his reputation: he's a lowkey kinda guy, and most people wouldn't know anything (aside from assuming he's just another talented grunt) unless they specifically know what to look for.

I still need to deeply think about his whole deal with romance/love/intimacy etc. For now I'll put a tentative 'hmmm idk' for anything definitive like exes etc, so I'd rather sidestep those for now. But! If you think you've got an idea or want to explore something within this area (romance/intimacy in general), feel free to lmk.

UMM...surrogate child(ren) looking for a (reluctant) father figure????

anything and everything you can think of! or see here.