Simon Phoenix

⟁ ILLUMINATI FIELD DOSSIER ⟁ SUBJECT: Eric Brooks / BLADE DESIGNATION: THE DAYWALKER CLASSIFICATION: Dhampir / Vampire Hunter AFFILIATION: Independent. Aggressively. STATUS: ACTIVE THREAT: SEVERE (Vampires: CATASTROPHIC) RECRUITMENT: Strongly discouraged. OVERVIEW Eric Brooks was born as his mother died from a vampire attack. The result was a biological insult to both species. Vampiric strength, speed, senses, healing and an inconvenient appetite for blood. One advantage makes vampire aristocracy profoundly uncomfortable: Sunlight doesn't kill him. Hence, Daywalker. A specialized serum suppresses the thirst. The sword handles everything else. Trained by Abraham Whistler, who taught him that diplomacy is best attempted after reloading. Whistler's influence remains evident. Particularly the reloading. CAPABILITIES / EQUIPMENT Modified titanium sword, silver ammunition, UV weaponry, garlic-based countermeasures and enough concealed hardware to make airport security reconsider its career choices. The leather coat is not armor. It simply appears to have survived everything. Against vampire leadership, subject generally requires a sword and an address. OBSERVED CONDUCT Laconic. Relentless. Unimpressed by supernatural titles, ancient bloodlines or declarations of immortality. Operational philosophy: identify vampire, eliminate vampire, decline further discussion. Recruitment pitches exploiting his heritage are ill-advised. MULTIVERSAL CONTACT Subject has established a close association with C. Sokolova. Relationship classification: HONORARY FAMILY. Sokolova affectionately calls him "Bol'shoy Brat" (Big Brother). Subject has not objected. This is considered significant. Both protect civilians and despise bureaucracy. Sokolova files reports. Brooks creates reasons for reports. Security fears coordinated operations. Security is correct. ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOL Do not offer blood. Do not interfere with serum supplies. Do not obstruct the sword. Do not mistake silence for inattention. If he enters, establish what he is hunting BEFORE attempting detention. If he draws his sword, evacuation takes priority over paperwork. If you are a vampire, this document is no longer useful. C. SOKOLOVA: "Bol'shoy Brat? Da, he's my big brother. Honorary, before someone demands blood samples. Doesn't talk much. Doesn't need to. Knows where to put the sharp end, and thinks vampire royalty is a target classification. Very sensible man. Security asked if I'd convince him to surrender his sword at reception. I asked if they wanted to keep their hands. They withdrew the request." GEARY: "She's adopted the Daywalker as her big brother. Of course she has. No family liaison roster. No confiscating his sword. And tell Security 'Honorary Big Brother' is NOT an authorized threat classification." ADMINISTRATIVE ADDENDUM Subject's coat, sword and sunglasses are NOT to be confiscated. Joint Sokolova-Brooks vampire eradication initiative: SUSPENDED. Reason: Neither participant was informed. Both independently expressed interest. Sokolova calls proposed operations "family outings." Security requested clarification. None has been provided. ⟁ EYE ONLY / DO NOT FEED THE HUNTER ⟁

Cassandra Ekaterina Sokolova ▪︎ 👁️⃤Illuminati Agent👁️⃤ Owner of ֆᴀɴᴄᴛᴜᴀʀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴜʟᴇs ᴏғ sᴀɴᴄᴛᴜᴀʀʏ ᴀʀᴇ sɪᴍᴘʟᴇ. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍs, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍs. (Secret World Legends OC. Altered/Anima Infused. MV Friendly, MDNI)

1/4 - OMAKE: HE GOT BETTER There was no prophecy. No crack of thunder. No ancient spell spoken beneath a blood moon. No warning whatsoever that reality had briefly decided to stop giving a shit. There was simply.. FWOOOMP. ..and King Arthur of Britain, Sir Bedevere, Sir Lancelot, Sir Robin, and several increasingly confused Knights of the Round Table appeared on a Brooklyn sidewalk approximately fifteen hundred years later than intended. Arthur stared at the automobiles passing in the street. Bedevere stared at the electric lights. Robin stared at a woman walking past while speaking to herself through tiny objects in her ears. Lancelot looked across the sidewalk. “Is that a tavern?” Everyone turned. Dark stone rose between the surrounding buildings, all Gothic arches, blackened metal, deep teal glass and cold silver. Above the entrance, illuminated against the Brooklyn night, one word provided the only information any of them currently considered relevant. SANCTUARY. Arthur considered it. “Tavern.” Problem postponed. --- The interior did not improve matters. There were lights without candles. Music came from a glowing box that nobody appeared to be playing. The bottles behind the bar contained substances of colors that Bedevere was reasonably certain did not occur in nature. And behind that bar stood a small white-haired young woman with vivid purple eyes, polishing a tumbler while watching six armed medieval men wander into her establishment. Cassie lowered the glass. “Hi?” Arthur narrowed his eyes. Possibly a sorceress. An unusually small one. Before he could inquire, Bedevere stopped walking. His face went pale. “Sire.” Arthur looked at him. Bedevere pointed. The front-left booth was darker than the others. Not merely a booth, Arthur realized. A cave. There were bones. There was darkness. And within that darkness.. Two white ears slowly rose. Then two red eyes opened. 🔴 🔴 Arthur stopped breathing. Fifteen hundred years disappeared. He was standing before the Cave of Caerbannog again. He remembered Bors. He remembered Gawain. He remembered Ector. He remembered teeth. He remembered screaming. He remembered.. “OH FUCK.” “RUN AWAY!” Bedevere screamed. Lancelot's sword was already out. Robin had somehow made it halfway back through the front door before anyone else moved. Cassie blinked. She looked at the knights. Then at the booth. Then back at the knights. “..Do you guys know Caerbannog?” Silence. Absolute, horrified silence. Arthur slowly turned toward her. “Caer..” His voice failed him. “..bannog?” A fluffy white rabbit emerged from the darkness. He hopped once into the light. Stopped. Looked at Arthur. Arthur looked at him. Fifteen hundred years of unresolved fucking history passed silently between them. Caerbannog's nose twitched.

Commissioned my big brother a flask. Blackened gunmetal, blood red, his sword, and the greatest observation about human stupidity ever committed to metal. Mine holds vodka. Jericho’s holds bourbon. Blade’s holds serum. Love you too, jerk. 🩸 ⟁

(ⲏₐₚₚᵧ ᵦᵢᵣₜⲏᴅₐᵧ @BTheDaywalker !!!!! *ԍᵢᵥₑₛ ₐₗₗ ₒғ ₜⲏₑ ⲏᵤԍₛ*)

(Renovations comete!)