Derek's Backstory

[subtle fox]

{ Backstory for one of my characters. The numbers are time, month, day, year.

19:27.06.19.32

Bright lights. White tiles. Lights, tiles. Then lights again. Everything was blurring together, then coming into such sharp clarity that he could spot every tiny crack in the ceiling. There was a voice in his head, screaming at him to get out of here. But he couldn’t move, he couldn’t hear. All he could do was watch as the white passed overhead. Then, slowly, as if he were only just reaching the surface of a deep pool, muffled sounds filtered into his clouded mind. The sound of hard rubber wheels skidding along a smooth floor. An incessant, repetitive beeping, shrilling forth vigourously. Voices: some shouting, others low and forceful. He couldn’t make out what most of them were saying, though. The pain prevented him from focusing on anything other than the white tiles, the bright lights, the beeping. But the deadly words he heard from one of the people with the forceful voices, just before he lost consciousness, lanced right through to his numb mind: “He’s going to the Pit.”

04:13.06.16.32

His phone was ringing. Derek groaned, slit an eye open, and held it in front of his face. It was 4:13. In the morning. Muttering a few choice profanities to the caller with an obvious death wish, he accepted the call and rolled out of bed.

“Good morning, Mr. Vanne. You’re needed in San Francisco.”

“What?” Derek stood, gripping his phone. “When? I’m nine hours away, dammit. I need some more warning.”

“Tomorrow, sir. Or rather, today. And he says this is your warning, sir. He wants you in by 14:00. You’ll get your task objective then.”

Biting back a few more curse words he paced the tiny room, not speaking.

“He says he can always find an incentive.” This time the voice had undercurrents of a threat in it.

Derek froze for a moment. Then he loosened his muscles, and bottled up the spark of rage that the man’s words had lit. He wouldn’t let him provoke him into anger, especially over the phone and through a messenger.

“Yes, of course,” he replied calmly, “Tell him not to worry. I’ll be there.” He hung up, and after a tense moment he hurled his phone at his bed. It must be important if they’d had to put that card on the table. God, it got him every damn time. He couldn’t help it, though; not when they threatened Lyssa.

So after packing what little he had (he only carried the bare essentials) and wiping down the room, he woke up the aged receptionist and signed out of the motel.

06:06.06.16.32

Two hours later he was on the Needles Freeway, heading towards San Fran. This time he had a tiny sports car, with enough room for him and his pack, and nothing else. But it was so much better than the last vehicle they had forced him to use. He’d been appalled by its condition. It was luck of the draw, this part of the job. And this time he’d been lucky.

09:31.06.16.32

Another three hours later and he was passing through Bakersville, only stopping for a coffee, the restroom and some gas. He had no time to linger, what with four hours to go, and five to the meet deadline. So long as the traffic wasn’t too bad, he’d make it.

13:08.06.16.32

It was an hour until the meet. The traffic had been tolerable, and he’d definitely seen worse. He’d parked the car in the back end of a mall parking lot, and now he was sitting in a small cafe of sorts. He had a sandwich sitting, unheeded, in front of him, and his attention was focused instead on the newspaper he was holding.

Page 19 was proclaiming in bold print that some massive convention was being held in San Francisco, in two days’ time. Organized by independents, it was focusing on the ethics of the Pits throughout the US and some of Europe and Asia. There was a side article, too, of some government official advising strongly against going to the convention, run by “ ‘sadly misguided members of our easily influenced, young generation’ ” and most of the accusations they were making were “ ‘based on humours, at best’ ”. “And anyway,” the article continued to add, “there’s been no solid evidence produced that these Pits even exist, even by the leader of the largest anti-Pit movement, Aron Gilsson. All they say is that the recent ‘disappearance’ of many known criminals is proof alone.” Derek let the paper fold closed. So. Now he knew who he was to target.

13:58.06.16.32

He was standing in the lobby of a high-end hotel, back straight, as he alternately watched the time and the room behind reflective sunglasses. Once it hit the o’clock, he entered the second-to-last elevator and inserted the key he’d received from a pretty receptionist. A family entered the elevator with him, but they got off at the next floor. He exited at the top floor, and into an incredibly affluent space. It probably took up half of the floor, if not more; and the personal lobby room was large in itself. Such obvious luxury always unnerved him; it made things seem more important than they really were. Just being what he was, Derek disliked how it warped his perceptions so easily.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Vanne,” the messenger spoke up from the couch. Derek, despite having quite a high rank, and the expertise to go with it, had never actually met with him. It was always the messenger.

“Afternoon,” Derek replied as he completed his habitual surveillance of the rooms. These places were always so open that he hardly had to spend more than a minute, but caution had been drilled into him from a very young age.

“I gather that you have figured out, for your self, who your target is?”

Derek nodded as he settled onto a matching chair.

The messenger slid a folder across the polished coffee table. “Here’s what the newspapers don’t tell you. Tell me once you have finished, and we’ll talk about your part.”

Picking up the thick folder, Derek flipped to the first page. It held the basic physical records. So did page two, and the third was medical history. He quickly absorbed this information, and moved onto the history of his target, and the current known state.

Aron Gilsson: born in Iceland. Parents: divorced, then the mother dies. Left with little brother and father, still passed elementary and high school with good grades. Graduated from a university, top of his class. His brother disappeared, and Aron was sucked into the world of the activist, focusing mainly on the Pit rumours. Several protests and conventions organized everywhere, from the US to China to the UK, and many other countries. All this Derek took in silently. In secret, he was growing to like this Aron, and it was impressive how close to the truth he really was. Doing what he did, Derek got more than rumours, he got first- and second-hand accounts—from the spectators.

Every new story he heard made him sick, to be honest. To think that this was at all allowed by law was beyond intolerable. But it was the government officials and billionaires who supported it, and why shouldn’t they. Not only did they get plenty of entertainment from watching criminals and unwanted people fight nearly to the point of death, they profited from every bet made on his or her favourite champion. They were becoming richer than ever through this inhumane ‘sport’, as the inner circles called it.

Managing to read through the last of it, he placed the folder back onto the table. It was obvious that Gilsson was becoming a problem for the government. They couldn’t arrest him for simply speaking out, though. Thankfully, the government was not entirely corrupt; only just enough that it happily backed the Pit. These were the types of problems Derek was assigned to: some type of well known person, loved by the people and hated by the government, had to disappear. But now that Pit rumours were appearing everywhere online, and even being talked about in the streets, these problematic people couldn’t disappear, they had to die, publicly. So they chose Derek Vanne.

“You will be set up with the identity of a reporter for a local newspaper. There will be plenty of reporters at the convention, so you’ll blend in well.”

Derek nodded. The convention was the obvious choice for this. Reporters already on scene, security spread thin throughout the huge space that it was to be held in, and a crowd to disappear into once the act was done. In the hour before the meeting, he’d quickly checked the technological security of the convention building. It was pretty archaic, limited only to closed circuit television cameras. He doubted they were watched particularly vigilantly.

“We can’t have this come back to us, in any way. Of course, you understand that if you are caught, you will be automatically discharged from this organization and arrested. Perhaps even thrown into a Pit.”

Willing himself not to show any reaction, he smiled, and replied, “Of course.”

“Now, we assume you have a place to stay? Your equipment is in the car in the hotel’s garage.” The messenger handed a key to Derek, then stood and walked into the elevator.

11:45.06.17.32

It was moments like these when he forgot who he was now. Lyssa and Derek were sitting on the balcony of her apartment, just like when they were kids and still had parents and happy thoughts around. Legs dangling off the edge, they were both quiet. Derek truly appreciated this about his little sister, that they could both just enjoy each other’s company in silence.

14:08.06.17.32

Derek had the floor plans memorized, the pamphlet advertising each speech and their times ingrained in his mind, and the plan of execution and escape routes equally lodged in. He had chosen his ‘A’, the first tool he would use. If that failed, he would go to his ‘B’, and so on. He was an expert at hiding weapons on himself, and sneaking them past any sort of security. Luckily, there were only some old metal detectors. They would have worked on regular knives, but he used a set of rather robust nylon fibre knives, and they hadn’t failed him yet.

10:55.06.18.32

Derek was physically prepared for tomorrow. But there was this strange, alien feeling haunting a corner of his conscience: doubt. He’d been studying pictures, newscasts and video clips of Aron for the last day and a half, and he couldn’t deny that he was a nice guy. Maybe even a good person. But that wasn’t what bothered him, not entirely. He’d killed good men and women before, people who probably didn’t deserve it. But this was his job, and that was what bothered him.

He’d sworn to himself that he’d protect Lyssa with his life. But with each job he took, the stakes were raising. He wouldn’t be able to protect Lyssa from a Pit. Would it be possible to ask for a discharge after this job? Or just some leave time, to spend more time with his sister. They hardly saw each other any more. So he left a voicemail on the messenger’s current number, requesting just that.

18:38.06.19.32

He’d left a note on Lyssa’s kitchen table, promising to see her soon. It felt like a lie.

18:52.06.19.32

Derek was in the crowd of reporters at the front doors, lanyard around his neck, fake ID in a wallet, and notepad and pencil in hand. There was just a meter-high metal fence and two men keeping the reporters and cheering activists back. Aron Gilsson and many other leaders of activist groups were due in eight minutes.

19:00.06.19.32

None of the reporters had been checked for any sort of concealed weapons. Derek was almost feeling sorry for the security, but a sudden rise in volume of cheers snapped him out of it. He still had a job to do. He jostled his way through the reporters, ignoring the muttered insults. This was going to be an easier job, and he’d go back to Lyssa’s and hide the note and be a family again.

There was Aron, stepping out of a car with a group of four others, all young adults. They were smiling, even laughing. Then they were enfolded in a moving shield of muscle. Derek cursed. These weren’t the hired muscle overseeing the fences. They were professionals, and they were here because of him, because he didn’t think when he’d sent that voicemail to the messenger. Of course they’d see it as some form of defection, and now he was a bigger threat than even Gilsson. He knew too much, and they were going to kill him.

He swore again. It wasn’t like he was aspiring to overthrow the government and take control. He just wanted to be part of a family again. Drawing a knife out he ran the list of possible escape routes. But were there snipers? He had less than a minute before the men found him in the thick crowd. He slipped back, turning a full circle. [censored]. There they were, up in their cosy little nests, scanning the crowd. Why couldn’t they have waited until Aron and his entourage went inside? There, Derek wouldn’t have to worry about a rifle bullet between his eyes. He could have even finished the job he came to do.

He noted more men seeping into the crowd, conspicuous in their suits. Even more conspicuous were their guns. Then, without warning, one of the men surged out from the crowd, and Derek was barely able to duck the man’s fist. Turning, he ran, pushing people aside. While he was beyond skilled at hand-to-hand combat, the odds were no where near in his favour. And as if to solidify that very fact, just before he reached the edge of the crowd, a shot rang out.

Chaos ensued. Screaming civilians cowered and scattered, leaving Derek sticking out like a sore thumb. More shots were fired, and he was hit in the shoulder. Instantly, he knew it had slit open an artery; the blood was dark as it pumped out. His knife was wrestled from his grip, then, to his shock, thrust into his abdomen. Oh, God. Of all the places they were really going to kill him here, in the middle of San Francisco.

He noticed, absently, that his vision was going fuzzy, and somewhere along the way he had collapsed. That was a bad sign, wasn’t it? And when a man in a suit stood over him with a gun pointing at his chest, he knew he should be doing something. He’d gotten himself out of sticky situations before. The only difference was that the people who were trying to kill him at the moment had all his weapons now, and knew who he was. Still, he had to try. Holding his wounded arm immobile at his side, he aimed a powerful kick at the gunman’s kneecap. It barely grazed the fabric of his pants. The gunman smiled, shot Derek in the chest. Darkness rose to claim him.

19:27.06.19.32

Bright lights. White tiles. Lights, tiles. Then lights again. There were wheels, and beeping, and too-loud voices. He couldn’t make out what most of them were saying, though. But the deadly words he heard from someone who sounded just like the messenger lanced right through to his numb mind.

“He’s going to the Pit.”

[subtle fox]

{ This takes place over three years after Derek's escape from the Pit, which has yet to be written about. On a side note, I believe there is the name of another's character from the rp mentioned in here: James Prentice, who was made by Clio. . I just wanted to acknowledge this, and I hope you're not mad at me Clio. c:

The secured line hissed with static as Sean waited for an answer. Finally, “Doctor Khera says the readings are literally off the charts. Whose blood is that, O’Hearn?” The voice was full of suspicion.

“I have to go.”

“Wait, dammit! Tell me who it is; that’s an order, Captain.”

For a moment, there was only static. “It’s my boyfriend’s. It’s Derek’s.” There was a click and the line went dead.

Sean gently laid the handset back onto its cradle, hands quivering. Had he done the right thing? Should he have done something different?

“Who was that?” a voice called from the adjacent room.

“No one,” Sean called back, doing his best to imbue his own voice with the confidence he wished he had. “Just work.”

“You don’t have to go in today, do you? I just finished making breakfast. You always miss breakfast.” Derek appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. “It’s that thick French toast you love. This time, I remembered the blueberry sauce. And I went out and bought the light cream yesterday. I still can’t believe I forgot it last time.” Chuckling and shaking his head he disappeared back into the kitchen, only to come out moments later, laden down with their breakfast. “Well, come on, then,” he gestured to the table with his head.

Sean swallowed, shame welling up. What had he just done to this man’s life? To the man he loved? As he moved to the table he spoke up. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Is something wrong?” Derek paused in his table setting.

“No, nothing’s wrong, Derek.” He sat, and wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “Unless if you tell me there might be. Are you keeping something from me?”

With controlled movements Derek set a bowl down, barely making a sound as it touched the wood.

“Derek?”

His head was still bowed as he said, “You found the vials?”

“Yes.”

“There was one missing.”

Sean swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump forming in his throat. “Yes.”

“What did you do with it?” His eyes finally met Sean’s, who was shocked at the wild intensity he found within.

The doorbell rang. They stared at each other, then Derek followed him to the front door. Opening it just as a series of knocks finished, two people in black combat suits and a woman with her fist still raised were revealed.

Quickly recovering the woman glanced down at a clipboard. “This is the residence of Sean O’Hearn and Derek Vanne?”

“Yes,” Sean answered.

“Mr. Derek Vanne, we have procured sufficient evidence to bring you in for testing. Please allow these two here to escort you to the vehicle.”

Derek took a step back. “Testing for what?” he challenged, glaring at the three.

“For possible genetic contamination,” the clipboard woman waved her hand about. “It’s just a precaution, but it could be serious. We’ve only seen it in… a very select group of people. A group you shouldn’t have had any contact with. We just need to be sure.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was low, level. The two in black shifted.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Her glare attempted to pierce Derek’s stoic mask. “You have to come with us.”

“This is crazy,” Sean spoke up. “Let me see the papers. You aren’t the police; you can’t do this.”

The woman hugged the clipboard closer to her chest. “No, we work directly for the government. Mr. Vanne, if you don’t comply, I have permission to authorize force.” Her gaze slipped to Sean, staring directly at him.

Sean gripped Derek’s arm, turning him around. “I’m so sorry, Derek. I’m so sorry. Please, don’t listen to them.” Derek eased his clenched fists open and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend. They ignored the woman’s impatient throat clearing, and the shuffling sound as one of the combat suits shifted awkwardly in place.

“It’s okay; I’ll see you soon,” Derek said, and with a soft kiss, turned and was escorted away.

Many minutes later Sean finally let the door swing closed. His face was pale and expressionless as he reached for the handset. Pressing redial he waited impatiently for the line to connect.

“This is Doctor R. Khera.” Static filled the line. “Sean, is that you?”

“Some conceited mother dog arrived just ten minutes ago with two gun-toting puppies in tow. How the hell did they get here so quickly?” His voice was hoarse as the words burst out. His knuckles were white as he gripped the phone.

“They patrol areas regularly; you know that.” He paused, and the sound of whirring machinery could be heard. “Wait, they showed up at your place? Sean, what’s wrong? Whose blood did you make me run?”

“It doesn’t matter. Where do they take suspects? What tests do they give?”

“Oh, my god. It was Derek’s. That was Derek’s blood. Holy mother. He’s one of them?” The doctor’s voice through the handset was incredulous; the British accent strong.

“What? One of what? Dammit, Rajan. Tell me where they’re taking him.”

“Now, Captain, you’re not having any second thoughts on this, are you? No sudden qualms?” The voice, deeper than the Doctor’s, made Sean halt in his pacing.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“I’m sure you don’t. How about the doctor and I enlighten you? Be at the labs in half an hour.” The line went dead.


The doctor was standing in front of a bank of screens, animatedly pointing to graphs and scrolling pages of information. Sean, standing just behind him, could hardly make sense of the huge amount of data.

“This blood sample has one of the highest concentrations of this marker, you see,” Dr. Khera continued. “And if you look here,” he pointed at a list of various diseases—old and new, common and unknown, “According to the antibodies I found in the sample, Derek’s not only had the flu innumerable times, he’s had strains that existed only back when they called it grippe. There’s antibodies here for yellow and scarlet fever, for the bloody Plague—the Bubonic one, and a few others I think. Yes, right here, you see?” His face was lit with a wide grin of disbelief. “There’s even two I don’t know. Never seen them before, nor have any of my colleagues I’ve sent it to.”

“So what does this all mean?”

“You remember, four or five years ago, the Pit north of San Fran was blown up, right? It was actually the prisoners who blew it up. Or open. At least a few hundred escaped, and during all that, their files and records—the soft and hard copies—completely disappeared. So the government couldn’t round any of them up. They all vanished, I guess; started new lives.”

“But weren’t those Pits some underground fighting ring for the entertainment of the rich? You know, criminals and others ostracized by people with money and power? What do they have anything to do about Derek?”

“Yeah, but the Pits also turned out to be test sites. At least, they were in the last two years of the global operation. The fittest fighters would be brought into a different section and injected with some serum we’re still trying to deconstruct. Then they’d be exposed to all sorts of diseases and put through various possibly fatal or injurious experiences.”

“Wait, are you saying Derek was one of these people? He was in a Pit? No. I don’t believe it. He’s no criminal.”

“I don’t know Derek as well as you do, but people can stoop pretty low when they’re faced with unpleasant circumstances.” Rajan shrugged. “And I’ve always thought he had a sort of… off feeling about him.”

“Stop talking about him in the past tense,” Sean snapped. “And you’re right about one thing; you don’t know him at all.”

“And how well do you know him, O’Hearn?” The Commander, standing a few steps away, finally spoke up.

“Pretty well, sir.” His voice was still hard, but it was obvious he was trying to respect the man’s rank. “We’ve been together-”

“For just over three years. Have you met his family? Has he ever told you what those monthly weekend excursions are for? Has he ever told you why his whole body is covered in scars?”

“He wouldn’t keep something like that from me,” Sean replied quickly. Defending Derek was a compulsory action; too late did he realize that this had all started when he’d discovered Derek had, indeed, been keeping something from him. If he’d only known how big it really was.

“I’ll take that for a ‘no’.” A smug smile crossed the Commander’s face as he stepped up to the desk. “You may go now, Doctor.”

Rajan glanced over to Sean, then hurriedly left the room.

“Captain O’Hearn. I’m sure you don’t know this about me, but I collect antiques. Mostly furniture, and preferably from the nineteenth century and earlier. You could call it a passion.”

Sean didn’t know how to reply to this, and he knew it was best to let the Commander talk. Too often he’d seen that look of steely contempt and annoyance cross the Commander’s face as someone interrupted him.

“Many pieces can be quite delicate. Take, for example, a beautiful rosewood chiffonier from about 1820. Brass inlays, and legs so elegantly thin you’d cry if you saw them.” He passed a critical eye over Sean. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t. But what I’m saying is, some situations you can handle with all the blunt and direct manner of a bull. Other conditions, however. Others call for the same finesse; the same delicacy as I would use to handle that beautiful chiffonier. We don’t want to be the bull in the china shop.” He placed a USB stick on the desk, close to Sean’s hand.

“Not everything was erased,” he said quietly, tapping the stick. The door swished closed behind him.


Sean was sitting in his living room, the light from his laptop the only thing illuminating his pale face. His hand was pressed to his mouth and his eyes were fixed to the screen. What was playing out in front of him merited such a pose.

“This night’s fight is a special one,” said a commentator’s voice through the ear buds. “Not only do we get to see the return of one of this Pit’s greatest fighters, James Prentice, but the contestant is none other than Derek Vanne, a man who we all previously thought to be nothing more than a crazy reporter—or, rather, a reporter crazier than the normal bunch.” A static laugh rippled throughout the arena. “But it has just come to our attention that he is, in fact, the man responsible for the murders of countless political dignitaries and other, powerful people I’m sure we all knew at one time, before their untimely deaths.”

A camera had moved from the projection of the speaker on his rostrum and zoomed in on Derek. He had looked so scared, so vulnerable. So young. But once the commentator labeled him a murderer… it was as though a mask simply slipped off. The man who stood in the Pit, entirely relaxed with his cold pale eyes staring at the camera—he wasn’t the Derek Sean knew. He truly looked the part, and it was clear both the audience safe behind their computer screens and the older fighter stuck in the arena’s floor with him were suddenly, painfully aware of that.

Derek had been in a Pit. And he’d been put in there for a reason: he knew how to kill.


It was four in the morning. Reclined on the couch with a glass of something strong in his hand and the laptop resting on his stomach Sean blearily watched the screen. He saw Derek, smiling and bloody, walking off the arena floor yet again. He saw the first medical checkup performed by actual doctors. They were scouting for the best candidates for the tests that came later. Tests that involved Derek staring at a white wall for hours—Sean had watched every minute—and tests that ended in bloody vomit. Or in emaciation. In boils covering the skin, in apparent blindness, in paranoia and in self-harm.

Then, the next recording broke Sean out of his haze. It was only an audio recording, but the voice announced herself, in a very distinct British accent, to be a Doctor Huzane Khera.

“No way,” Sean whispered, reaching for the handset. But what came next made him pause.

“Vanne—Subject 018—is finally showing complete acceptance to the drug. Physiologically, that is. I think I’ve finally found a match. Subject 018’s required healing time has decreased drastically, and his immune system is actually stronger than it was before these procedures. It’s really quite remarkable.

“Hopefully I’ll be able to match the other subjects to the correct version of the serum. It’s absolutely remarkable. Really, it is. His eyesight is completely repaired after the ocular toxocariasis infection. Imagine if this drug could be developed to be free of the necessary genetic calibration.”

Sean blinked. He sat on the couch, and cradled the handset.

“End of recording.”