From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
|Good Cop And Bad Cop Left For The Day...I'm A Different Kind Of Cop|
|Detective Stan Walker|
|Player: @stan walker|
|Real Name:||Stan Walker|
|Known Aliases:||Walker, Walker of Worlds, Shadow Walker|
|Nationality:||American and Proud|
|Occupation:||PPD Detective, Licensed Super Hero|
|Place of Birth:||Saint Louis, Missouri|
|Base of Operations:||New Orleans, Louisiana|
|Known Relatives:||Lynn Walker (Mother; deceased), Stan Walker Sr. (Father; deceased), Mike Walker (brother), Carla Walker (Ex Wife), Etianna Walker (Wife; deceased), Amaris Walker-Luna (adopted daughter), Asher Walker-Luna (adopted son), Shitty (Walkers dog and best friend in the world)|
|Invulnerability, Super Strength, A highly skilled hand-to-hand combatant with training over the years consisting largely of Chinese Kenpo, Tek Su Chang, Judo, American boxing, Tae Kwon Do, and PPCT. Walker is also skilled in the use of different martial arts impliments, and is a qualified firearms instructor. He has limited knowledge of bladed weapons, and also posesses a real bad attitude.|
|Flight, Super Speed, Heated Vision|
|Standard Issued Equipment by the PPD, Handlink to a personal computer that is linked to the PPD database and scanner.|
|No additional information available.|
- Sebastian Kain
- Grae Knight
- Gwendolyn Snow
- Kane Luna
- Devona Nightshade-Luna
- The Rev
- Monalysa Versailles
- Striking Speedster
Former Supergroups: Bone Squad
Walker is seen as agressive, , happy, unpredictable, and constantly angry. All of this stems from the disappearance of his wife and thusly her death. He has no self worth and thinks rather poorly of himself. It is his belief that "No matter how many he saves, He couldn't save the one who meant the most to him." For that reason though he will never show that side to anyone. He punishes himself internally, and blames himself for his wifes death. Stan Walker is a loner and firm believer of the ends justifying the means. He has been accused more than once of "excessive force" when making arrests by the newspapers, and television. Walker is one that walks the fine line between good and bad, stepping off occasionally on either side. Odds are if you see him when he's not "working", hell be drinking heavily, and chain smoking alone in a dark corner table at "Cape's and Cocktails."
Walker was a Detective for the Saint Louis Police Department. One particular evening after leaving a "gentlemens club" he came across four men in the parking lot assaulting a young woman or so he thought. The assault was nothing more than a ruse, as he dispatched the four thugs he heard the woman's voice whisper "My Hero..". He recieved a blow to the head knocking him unconscious. He woke the next evening to discover two puncture wounds on his neck, in time he learned what they were and thusly what he was...a vampire. Shortly after his arrival to Paragon City, tragety struck leaving Walker near true death seeking vitae. A powerful hero in Paragon near sacraficed his own life for Walker's, slicing a vein open allowing Walker to drink. The potency of that hero's blood increased Walker's physical vampiric abilities tenfold.
When Stan Walker was first "Embraced", his vampiric gifts gave him the Fortitude to snap bladed weapons and stop firearm rounds that came into contact with his skin. Since the incident in Paragon with the above mentioned hero's blood he now posesses a more powerful version of Invulnerability. The likes of which now bladed weapons as well as fired rounds shatter against his skin. It has been tested that SAM missles have little effect against the vampire. The new Invulnerability gift also allows Stan to go out during daylight hours with little to no consequences. Yet he still is vulnerable to certain banes. Psionics, and magical items can injure and possibly kill him.
One of the biggest and most often used suprise that Walker recieved from his "Embrace". Upon the original "kiss" Walker posessed great strength, which allowed him to lift approximately nine tons. Since recieving the heroes blood it is estimated that Stan Walker can now lift approximately one hundred tons. It appears that his strength is proportionate to how angry he is.
Using such feats of strength does take its toll on him and he requires more "vitae" after such act is performed.
Another of the vampiric "gifts" upon his embrace. Walkers sense of sight and hearing became more acute than that of a normal human. His vision is just as keen in inky blackness as it is during daylight hours. His hearing has increased to the extent that he can hear a whisper at fifty feet.
A latent ability in Walker learned later in his existance in Paragon City. It appears that as Walker's anger grows, not only does it increase his strength, it causes another effect as well. It is well known that when crimson flames start leaking out of Stan's eyes, hes not a happy Stan. These flames are nothing more that a warning to the true power, heated vision. Bursts of white hot and pure unadulterated anger that spew fourth from Walker's eyes. Walker is able to control the intensity and the size of the beam fomr 1 inch, down to a smaller diameter of a centimeter. Pending on how far gone his temper that is. This power caused him to go to MAGI to request a pair of "specially designed" sunglasses. As he grew tired of the plastic and metal smoldering when said power was unleashed. That and he was tired of spending nine bucks everytime he nneded a new pair of shades.
Due to the nature of his "gifts" Stan Walker can fly at speeds reaching approximately 750 miles per hour, his land speed is quite a bit greater reaching speeds of 5000 feet per second. Moving at such speeds causes Stan Walker to percieve everyone around him is moving in slow motion.
A Glimpse Into Walker's Mind - by Gabriels Fury
My head itches.
Itching and nausea have to be the worst feelings ever, and while not getting sick was one of the benefits that came with vampirism, I have discovered over the years that I still can, and do itch. Like now. Pulling my collar up and adjusting my single lens wrap-around shades, I resist the urge to scratch and force my hands down to my side as I lope across the wet pavement in the early evening headed for Micky’s tavern.
Steam pours from manholes scattered seemingly at random across the mass of streets below the highway overpasses roaring above, the commuters to and from the suburbs oblivious to the seething life that moves suspiciously about below them. I pass an army surplus store and a jewelry & loan, catching a look at myself in the dull reflection the glass. Long leather trench pulled around a black turtleneck and jeans, shades that make me look like Cyclops from the X-men, and finally the awful purple Mohawk and spider web of tattoos temporarily applied to make me a dead look like for a local drug dealer and Freakshow go-between named Torque. They itch. It’s making my foul mood worse.
Most people like to forget places like this; streets filled with the homeless trying to survive under the bustling city that literally thrives on their backs. Criminals can hide here forever from any sin, making it their own personal sanctuary from the law and each other when things get hot. Problem is, this is the ideal place for some of the most dangerous transactions and ugly deals to go down, and so I like to keep tabs on things when I can. That, by the way, is how I found out about Torque and the ill timed hit that was planned for him.
I take a last drag on my cigarette and flick the butt into an alley, letting the smoke curl out slowly through my nostrils and mix with the humidity that hangs around here like a fog. Tipping my shades down for a moment, I let the red glow of my eyes peer out and take in the area around the bar across the street, my senses absorbing every detail. Takes willpower to filter what someone like me can hear and see. There are twenty one patrons inside. The rustle of their clothing against metal betrays many of them as armed. I can hear conversations, and even the rats moving in the walls. I smell sweat, blood, and fear. Yep. I’m in the right place. I’m tempted to wave to the Family scout on the roof that’s supposed to be watching for me, or Torque rather, but pull my last cigarette from my pack with my teeth instead. Lighting it, I make sure he sees me before I go in.
So why am I here? Well, an alliance of local super groups in bright red, white and blue costumes got together and had the stupid idea that they were going to put the screws to the Freakshow. Using their dramatic powers and Saturday night-drunk-pickup-line sounding battle cries, they tore into about six or eight local Freakshow operations, and emerged victorious to go home and get their medals and pats on the back. Meanwhile, the real peacekeepers were stuck with the fallout as the rest of the Freaks got really edgy. Fighting crime isn’t about the good guys beating the bad guys. Fighting crime is about balance; Keeping the bad guys fighting each other and too weak to be dangerous to common folks. I’m not the only one that knows this, and when the Family found out the Freakshow hornet’s nest was stirred up, they decided to give them one more push. If the Freaks went berserk, the Family would be able to make a fortune off the construction and clean-up crew contracts they have with the city. The Freaks would make a mess, law enforcement would drop the hammer on them, the Family would make a killing while walking scott free. The only casualties would be the local businesses and regular joes caught in-between.
That’s where Torque comes in. Torque is a middle man for the Freaks and other criminal groups, and usually helps collect money owed for protection services the Freaks normally provide. Today, the Family was going to off him on a big collection day, steal his profits, and blame it on the cops. That was before I found out. Not that Torque was terribly cooperative before I pulled out most of his real Mohawk by the roots to make my disguise: Note to self: Torque talks after just three fistfuls of hair. Wimp. In any event, I hope to give the Family a little lesson that will make them unsure of the Freak’s abilities, and in the process, restore some of that lost balance.
I walk into Mickys and take a deep, refreshing breath of second-hand smoke. Walking over to the bar, I swing a leg over a stool and glare at the bartender until the greasy weasel looking red haired bastard comes over and just stares at me while chewing on a toothpick.
“Shot of Cuervo, no training wheels.” I growl, then slap the bar as he starts to turn away. “Make it two.” He gets my drinks. The place is filled with mostly petty thugs and bottom feeders. Some of them I recognize from wanted posters, others are just the generic punk-for-hire waiting for a chance to earn some weekend cash to buy whatever passes for a prostitute around here.
My ears twitch as I feel, rather than see, several men come up behind me. One, a kid in a medium build with a five o’clock shadow and dressed in a vest with a leather tie sits down next to me and stares. I’m being ID’d. I throw back my first shot, the burn from the alcohol making my lips pull back from my teeth a moment before I realize that might not be wise. Glancing sideways briefly, I’m relieved to notice that junior here is too preoccupied checking out my hair and ornaments to have noticed the brief exposure of my dagger shaped canines.
I crush out my cigarette and rap a new pack against the bar to pack them. They’re being careful. Surrounding me. Cutting off my escape. I need to keep them guessing long enough to be sure I know where they all are before things get ugly. Then, I see her.
She grabs my attention like a gunshot. My head snaps around and for a moment, I’m staring into the past. Dark, lithe, beautiful, her white hair and midnight skin standing out against the scum of this world like moonlight. My jaw drops. “Etianna?” I whisper. The crowd shifts, and the head turns to reveal an African American woman with strikingly black skin.
I realize both my mistakes.
First, It’s not her.
Second, I just took my attention off the situation at hand.
I turn my head back towards the bartender and find myself staring down both barrels of a shotgun held by the smiling grease ball bartender.
“Goodbye, Torque!” He pulls both triggers.
The blast rocks my head back as the muzzle flash explodes into my face, blowing the false Mohawk off and shattering my shades into a thousand slivers of plastic. At least I had the presence of mind to grab onto the bar. Oh, did I mention it hurt like hell?
“SON OF A B1TCH!” I shout, my head coming back forward and red fire blazing from my now exposed eyes. Now I was mad. And being near Mad Stan is a very, very unhappy place. Jacking my left hand back, I fire it forward and strike the muzzle of the shotgun with my open palm with enough force to send it shooting straight backwards out of his arms like a javelin to smash into the bottles of cheap liquor and neon Miller sign behind him. Unfortunately for him, his fingers were still on the triggers. He screams, grabbing his hand as blood fountains from the stumps.
At the same time, my right hand grabs the leather tie of the punk next to me and I yank my fist straight down. His head obediently follows, but that pesky bar gets in the way. “Ow!” I say as I piston his head into the bar. <Crack> “Ow!” <Crump> “Fricking OW!” <Thump> With three rapid pumps of my fist, I manage to shatter one Corona bottle and three shot glasses between his face and the bar. Letting go, he stands bolt upright, staggering around dazed with broken glass embedded in his face like a mosaic before teetering and falling over backwards.
The roar of machinegun fire greets me as I turn around, the bullets flattening against my marble hard skin as the patrons dive for cover or the door. You haven’t seen real speed and agility until you’ve watched a whole bar full of snitches, petty thieves, and turncoats run from gunfire. The place was empty before the first clips were.
I growl and pick up a bar stool. Swinging it hard, I smash the first gunner’s Tommy gun aside, then fire a low kick that knocks his legs out from underneath him. Before he can finish falling, I reverse the direction of the stool and smash it into his flailing body, the force of the blow launching him like a golf ball through the front window in an explosion of glass to slam into three other gunners coming to help.
“Four.” I quip, turning on the last immediate threat who, I suddenly realize, has a portable flame thrower.
The blast of white hot fuel rushed forward like a wave, engulfing the entire area of the bar including the screaming bartender. Fortunately, I’m quick. Terrifyingly so, so I’ve been told. He never saw me move, but when he lets go of the trigger, I tap him on the shoulder from behind.
“Naptime, jerkwad.” The kick isn’t graceful, but it works. My steel toe boot scoops between his legs from behind and hooks his groin with a thud that lifts him about three inches into the air. He drops the flamer, his trembling hands gingerly moving to his crotch before his eyes roll backwards into his head and he falls to his knees and pitches forward onto his face. Just about then, I hear the steady whine of an approaching motor.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I yell, followed by a string of profanities as I run for the door. The rocket tears into the bar and everything goes yellow and orange. The concussive force picks me up and throws me into the street, my hands waving around like some kind of avian reject. I twist in mid air and land on my feet, skidding backwards about ten feet until I hit a curb, fall backwards, and smash my head into a trash bin.
“DAMMIT!” I shout, standing and kicking the dumpster in frustration as I watch Micky’s burn. Scanning the rooftops, I see a team of two reloading what looks like a military grade SAM launcher. “Okay, punks, playtime’s over, I’ve had it with you.” I look around and find something to throw.
I crush out my cigarette and lean back in my chair.
“So anyway, that’s what happened.”
The captain sighs and rubs his temples. “We said ‘low profile’. We said ‘undercover’. We said ‘make it believable’. Was any of that unclear?”
I draw hard on a freshly lit Marlboro. “No.”
The Captain makes an exasperated gesture and leans forward shouting. “YOU THREW A MOTORCYCLE AT TWO MEN ON THE ROOF!”
I return his stare deadpan and shrug ever so slightly. “They made me mad.”
“I give up.” He spits and stalks out of the room, leaving me alone with the recording officer. He’s grinning. Writing, taking notes, but grinning.
“What?” I ask dryly.
“That’s so cool.” He says, never taking his eyes from the pad as he finishes his report.
“Yea.” I grin a bit. “Yea, it was.”
Random Trivia and OOC stuff
- Stan Walker's inspirations include (but are not limited to) Superman, Lobo, Spike, Neo, Vic Macky
- Stan Walker was the creators first serious attempt at a Role Playing Character
- Stan Walker in COH is a Invul/Energy Tanker, the character is RP'd as a Invul/SS Tanker, the creator of the character liked the graphics better for Energy, now kicks himself in the arse for doing so.
- If there were ever a movie based on the Virtue-verse, Stan Walker would be played by Michael Chiklis.
- The name "Stan Walker" was not 'lifted' from "Will and Grace"(not a fan of the show), the good Detective was actually created much, much earlier in the summer of 1992. The name was actually a name the creator of this character used when he performed on stage.