Arnold Ulysses

Background
From the day he was born in 1979, Arnold had always wanted to be a detective. Ha! Just kidding. This is the new World of Darkness, not a DC comic series. Arnold Ulysses doesn't remember much about his early childhood, and prefers to keep it that way. A few flashes of intensity, anger, rage; maybe some pain here or there. But those are only feelings, not images or recordings. His earliest "real" memories come from around when he graduated high school, equally disliked and feared by his classmates and teachers for his ability to dig up information. He knew which teachers were having marriage problems, which kids had it out for him, and what he could hold over their heads to keep them at bay. When he graduated he was so notorious among educators for his blackmailing tactics that no respectable college would accept him, leaving him stuck with a bachelor's degree from the shittest community college that Florida had to offer. Wasn't like he had anyone but himself to blame, but still. With a better degree he might've shot higher, but with debt piling up and nowhere to go he decided to join the police force. A few months of training later and he was a certified detective. Turned out he had a knack for making connections. Unfortunately.

Arnold enjoyed a brief honeymoon period with the department. He made it through his first couple of cases with ease (though more through luck than talent), quickly shaking off the lack of respect that came with being the new guy. After a few months of more dutiful and incredibly boring work he started getting the juicer stuff; break-ins, arsons, robberies, and even the occasional murder. Arnold might've gone on to have a fairly respectable career in the police force. If he hadn't started noticing things, that is. Strange things. Things that couldn't be entirely explained away. Unidentifiable claw marks covering blood-splattered walls, houses with boarded up windows in the middle of summer, and pieces of evidence that literally exploded when anyone touched them. Arnold could turn a blind eye to these easy enough, but the one thing he couldn't ignore were the murders. Fellow officers and detectives found dead from incredibly brutal killing. Beat cops found with their heads chopped clean off, police commissioners reduced to literal puddles of skin and blood, lab techs killed in massive controlled explosions; it was horrifying. Worse still was the total lack of evidence of said cases ever happening. After the initial investigation of the crime scene and the filing of some mandatory paperwork the case would be closed and the records would either be destroyed or handed over to some outside agency that was "taking over the investigation." One day however Arnold was assigned one of these cases, though this one was a little different than most.

The scene was even worse that Arnold could've imagined; a man was found dead on his kitchen floor, his entrails ripped out and spread around like something out of an over-the-top SAW parody. More unidentifiable claw marks could be found on the floor and near where a screen door once stood. As he examined the gouges nearest to the body more carefully he noticed something strange; the tile covering the floor seemed to be fresh even though the rest of the house was at least 10 years old. Arnold carefully pulled some of the tile away, revealing a trap door hidden beneath the floor. What was left of the body seemed to be reaching for it. The detective called for help and after several minutes of frantic digging the door was unveiled. Arnold and two other officers stepped down into the darkness, having no idea what lay ahead.

The rooms inside were like nothing he had ever seen; blunt weapons, knives, DIY weapons, and even a few guns lined the walls. Tripwires and canisters of what could only be poison gas sat unattended next to springs and pulleys. Was this guy trying to rig up traps? For a moment Arnold even thought he heard strange noises in the distance, but neither of the officers following him heard them. He shook his head, dismissing the sounds as mere paranoia. Slowly and carefully Arnold pushed through to what had to be the nerve center of the operation. It was a tiny, oval room filled with filing cabinets and a stack of shitty TVs on one of the walls, sealed doors and lockers scattered around like Easter eggs. VHS tapes, photos, files filled to bursting. This couldn't have been the work of one man. He reached for a file and flipped it open; inside was an incredibly detailed dossier on one of the cops that had suffered an. . . unpleasant death. Where and when he slept, his combat statistics, family and friends... "God almighty," Arnold whispered to himself, "This guy's some kind of serial-"

He stopped short, the words caught in his mouth. A picture of the cop fell out onto the table, only it wasn't him. It was some kind of monster, a gigantic furry creature in the process of gutting a small child. Arnold flew to the other files and threw them on the table, some of them familiar and some of them not. None of them were human. With every picture came a new atrocity; murder, rape, cannibalism, brainwashing and mind control. . . This was looking a lot less like a serial killer's den and more like a nerve center for some kind of special forces unit. These people weren't murderers, they were soldiers. Connections began to form in his mind. Were all the people being killed really inhuman, or only some? Is this where all the files were going, or did it go deeper than this? How many other officers were really-

The shot rang out behind him without warning, putting all his questions to rest. Arnold turned around slowly, one of his escorts aiming his pistol straight between Arnold's eyes while the other bled out on the floor. He looked hungry. "Put down your weapon! Hands behind your head!" the monster yelled, its voice sounding just a bit less than human. The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor as the rest of the responding officers ran in to assist. The detective could only back up slowly, his hands in the air as he prayed the thing in front of him wasn't going to shoot him. He was right, but not about the monster. The man in the kitchen hadn't been working alone.

The next few seconds would've made Inglourious Basterds look tame; a hail of strange, glowing gunfire exploded from the left side of the room, tearing away at the flesh of the monster and revealing. . . something. The thing reached for its gun only a moment too late, a hatchet swinging around out of nowhere and lopping off its head. Seconds later six armed police officers rushed down the corridor yelling, showering the men that had saved Arnold in gunfire. Somewhere an alarm rang out. Smoke began to pour from the filing cabinets, fire beginning to fill the tiny room. Arnold and the rest of the police began to flee, yelling and screaming as the walls fell down around them. The trap door wouldn't budge at first, the might of all seven panicked men being just enough to break it to pieces and allow them to escape. The fire spread quickly and soon enveloped the entire house, taking all the proof of what had happened inside with it.

That was the last case Arnold Ulysses ever worked as a police detective. His eyes had been opened that day, and hell if he could close them back up again. He was a detective. It was his job to piece things together - to dig up, analyze, and connect what no one else could. All his researched dug up were so called 'hoaxes' and 'conspiracy theories,' but damn if they didn't seem strangely convincing. Blurry pictures of "vampires" similar to ones he had found at a crime scene, claw-shaped gouges explained as the mark of a "werewolf" that almost exactly matched the ones he had seen, and even strange semi-scientific explanations for his "exploding evidence." These weren't lovable, humanized creatures either; they were vile, horrifying monsters that saw humanity as little more than tools at best. The men down in that cellar had been protectors, not murderers. They had lit a candle in the night, fighting back the darkness that surrounded humanity. Who was Arnold to see that candle snuffed out?

He resigned only a few days after the incident, the FBI taking over the case under suspicions of "domestic terrorism." Within a month he was headed out of state, not because he was running but because he wasn't ready. He didn't have enough knowledge, experience, or even support to fight back those things in a state where everyone knew his name and history. He would be gutted within a week, having failed the human race. All of his friends, neighbors, fellow officers of the law -- he saw them differently now, and they saw him differently in return. They looked at him with alien, suspicious eyes. They looked hungry. Arnold had read somewhere that North Georgia didn't have quite so many inhuman. . . things living in it just yet, so he set out for Atlanta. Maybe he couldn't fight the monsters with brute force or flashy guns, but he could fight them with wits. With intelligence, connections, and planning. Maybe he would start a private detective agency, tailing spouses by day and monsters by night. He'd gather all the information he could and give it to the guys with the guns, whoever they might be. That was around three months ago, and despite all his searching Arnold still hasn't been able to make contact with anyone else like him. Anyone else dedicated to beating back the darkness that the monsters impose. But he refused to give up, and for good reason too; for whatever reason, Arnold Ulysses felt things were about to change.

Physical Appearance
Arnold doesn't really stand out in a crowd. A trait that can help in his line of work. Arnold stands at around 5'10 with black hair and green eyes, having a build that suggests speed over raw power. He likes to dress as well as his job allows, but blending in or remaining unnoticed usually takes precedence. Usually he'll be wearing a cheap looking suit and jeans for disguise purposes, but once in a while you might catch him in an old noir-style suit and tie, complete with nice shoes and fedora. That's just for the hell of it, though.

Personality/Mannerisms
Arnold is usually friendly, though his camaraderie is tinged with suspicion. One might even say he's paranoid, but that's not an unwelcome condition for a Hunter. He's also fairly cautious, liking to get all the facts before making any important decisions. In extreme situations he may throw the dice, but other than that he'll take careful observation and skulking in the shadows over taking chances and getting messy any day. If things come to combat he prefers light yet strong weapons that don't leave much to chance, like revolvers or silver knives. Tactics - the kind that Cells purchase with PXP as well as simple planning - efficiency and clean kills are all favorites of his. The element of surprise never hurts either.

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