DARK KNIGHT
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OF xxx. A xxx. WICKED xx.x ARMY
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TEAM THE VANGUARD xxxxxxxxRank COMMANDER
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Posted ImageDog Tags & Vitals Name Mercer, Gavin A. | Social Security 248-91-7331 | Blood-Type B Positive | Religion "God's gonna sit this one out." | Military Branch U.S. Navy | Career Navy SEALs | Team 10 | Enlisted Rank Chief Petty Officer | Years of Service 11 | Age 32 | Date of Birth May 14, 1983 | Height 6'10" | Weight 687lbs | Hometown Seattle, Washington | Birthstone Emerald | Eyesight 15/22 | Eye Color Brown & Gray. | Hair Brown, kept short | Phobias Watching Lost | Orientation Right-hand dominant | Smokes Tires, not cigarettes. | Drink(s) Mostly water. | Sexual Orientation Heterosexual | Zodiac Aries
Element, Yang, Fire. | Chinese Zodiac Pig
Element; Yin, Water. | Stereotype(s) TBA | Psychiatric Evaluation Suffers Amnesia, chronic headaches | Sin Pride, Wrath, Gluttony | Virtue Gallantry | Alignment Lawful Neutral |
Residence: Warehouse 42, Lower East Side.
PENDING.
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♞┆ A P P E A R A N C E
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General Appearance
At first glance you pick up a few things. Gavin is rugged, time-tested and weathered monster with those clever, calculating eyes... you know he has the map of the world on his face.
The Washington Brute towers at 6'10" and sheathed in olive-tone skin. A mess of barely maintained dark brown hair adorns his head, usually stuck up in front; but hair on his head isn't where it stops. His chest, arms and legs have a mat of thick hair across them, though he usually attempts to keep his face clean shaven, shedding the 'homeless hooligan' image he's cultivated over the years. However, now and again if he gets to be too busy, he simply doesn't have the time to shave, in which case a thick set of stubble starts to push through the skin on his face.
Since his time in prison, Gavin boasts an even more powerful physique than the one he entered with. While he was never truly out of shape he had slacked in his time before prison, succumbing to booze, cigarettes, bad food, etc; but once in prison, once the forced-cold-turkey of his bad habits came to pass, his body started thanking him for it. The Monster is in peak physical condition for a human being, with powerful and defined musculature; not that there was much else to do in prison besides work out and try not to get shanked. He's most proud of his chest and shoulders; the mass of which make him turn sideways through most common doorways. He has truly become a mountain of a man, a frightening sight to behold. Suits in his size would be painfully expensive.
All in all, prison seemed to give him something back he'd been missing; discipline. With a healthier lifestyle and more pointed outlook he's a much more clean cut individual than the one who'd gone in... though he's still a man you'd think twice about before bringing home to the folks.
Oh, and lest we forget; Trademark Smirk.
Fanwork of "Nathan", courtesy, Mrs. K
Distinguishing Marks, Scars & Tattoos
There's a scar slicing through the flesh on Gavin's left cheek [Cheekbone-to-jawline], large and discolored enough you can see it from across the room. How, you ask? Well, he got it when he fell in a junkyard, ten years old. [I'll let you in on a secret. That's not what he tells people.]
Off-color scar across the middle of his neck. Horizontal scar across the bridge of his nose [one too many breaks].
Quarter-Sleeve tattoo from his left shoulder down to mid-bicep. Mostly tribal, some nerd mixed in.
Do Not Go Gentle written, bold, inside his left forearm.
Trident-looking brand seared into the calf of his right leg.
Half a dozen metallic circles adorn his forearms and chest [As seen in picture] - large caliber rounds embedded into his flesh instead of bouncing off. Random fluke.
Wardrobe Malfunctions
Typical day? You'll find him in his "combat boots" - he'll always just call them his work boots. Dark jeans or cargo pants. COCKY belt buckle. Since his time in prison he's returned wearing more button-downs than t-shirts...likely just a way to distinguish between the man that went in and the man that came out. He owns a few jackets; trench, leather, motorcycle... but nothing flashy.
V O C A T I O N:
Day Job; Security Consultant for Standard Operations Shipping.
Owner and Operator of "The Shit" [Until Pyramid Head Returns]
Niwa's Resident Vigilante, Renegade, Outlaw, Rebel, Revolutionary, & Sentinel;
Niwa's Dark Knight.
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♞┆ P S Y C H I A T R I CxxxxP R O F I L E
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You thought these streets were paved with gold, but they're dirty and dark.
Violent. Headstrong. Ruthless.
Gallant.
Squad Leader.
The Unstoppable Monster.
"They call me Dangerous; a Monster...A Warrior...A Guardian...
I am all of these things."
Walking Hand Grenade
The world is dark. When you see the darkest depths; the worlds black underbelly... once you understand man's capacity for horrors, you can never truly look away. When Gavin regained his memory it became clear why he'd lost it in the first place. His mind's attempt to block out all the horrible things he'd seen in his life, give him a fresh start in a new place - but the world is dark no matter where you hide, and horror found him again. In the aftermath his mind, in an attempt to sort through everything, schism-ed, making a more permanent shield for his brain while keeping his memory intact. Consider, you have two people before you; a broken, dark, world-weary man who has seen more than any person ever should... and a defense mechanism mask that the world is privvy to, one that laughs and smiles, one that makes friends and shares easily. The duality is what keeps him whole.
But underneath everything, on all sides, is a quiet, smoldering rage. Make no mistake, Gavin is a very dangerous man.
Leadership & Loyalty
To say Gavin is a born leader wouldn't be directly either true nor false. He was born to lead, but does, however, dislike the notion. For the longest time he was all in it for himself. The Military life changed him [some may say for the better], and that's where some of his buried qualities shined through. He cares for the people he's with, even if he does his best to pretend to be an ass about certain things. He'll wear a jaded mask and pretend to be aloof, not care, but he'll be the one supporting you when the chips are down. It's that quality [and a blunt decisiveness] that often easily allows men [and women] to rally behind him.
He will force everyone around him to perform at their best, accepting nothing short of personal excellence. He has the capacity for patience and will attempt to teach what he knows to those he feel need to know it.
The Vendetta
Before prison, Gavin had started an effort against crime in the city... but since prison his distaste for crime and injustice has only grown. Despite this, Gavin has proved to have fantastic faith in humanity, instilled by his parents. Gavin's rage, his need for vengeance, is twisted only with his greater ideal of justice. He now refrains from killing; he feels this would not make him any better than the criminals he fights. He understands, even better now what it's like to lose someone; that a murder is more than just a singular act. He sees the ripples. The people it affects. Following up on some of his own...victims, he realized he left children without fathers, grandfathers... no one should have to suffer like he's suffered; like he's made others suffer. Never again.
Inability to sit still. It kicked him out of Sniper Training and will one day get him into trouble. He's a restless soul.
Lack of impulse control makes him a risk-taker. Sometimes, those outcomes aren't so great. His disregard for social norms, rough-and-gruff nature and inextinguishable taste for danger make this man chomp down more than he can chew on numerous occasions. Gavin is.... Gavin is that friend you had in high school - the playboy who had all kinds of women, played sports like a pro, and got shitty grades despite being whipcrack cunning, a maelstrom nerd and a walking encyclopedia. Then he became a partier - he's the one who picks a bar fight just to see what happens - just to push buttons. He's funny, rash, sarcastic, horribly bitter, manipulative, crude and boisterous. Intelligent but mmisguided - right and wrong. Confused? We all are. Let's make it simple. From day to day, situation to situation, moment to moment you never know who's going to be at your side. The masks of Gavin Mercer are many.
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♞┆ G I F T S / S K I L L S / A B I L I T I E S / P O W E R S
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UNSTOPPABLE;
The Cause; During his time in the armed forces, Gavin was part of a small group of gifted soldiers to try an experimental Super Soldier drug. It interacted differently for each of the eight men subject to it; one even died within a week, but the manifestation in Gavin was by far the least overtly noticeable, and easily the most natural.
The Effect; The drug blossomed into a strange and powerful psychosomatic meta ability. While it took months to first even note any effect, it has been realized that his meta is strongly fixated to his desires in times of great emotional or physical duress. His meta has never manifested an ability that did not involve his own body, so even though he is capable of changing reality, he can only change himself in reality. Basically; his ability will only ever affect his own body, never the outside world.
It should be said that the psychosomatic meta is not trite or transient and does not change Gavin for light matters; it instead is triggered by events that relate to powerful, deep subconscious desires and memories. Suffice to say, a hissy fit about who ate the last piece of pizza won't trigger a change - but a world-shattering, life-altering event (like getting his memory back and nearly dying) would.
The Manifestation;- The Armor; In short, he's a walking tank. The man's bones are several times as stronger and heavier than an average human, to support everything he puts his body through. His skin is odd; the word 'metallic' comes to mind - but it's not just his skin. His muscles, organs, tissues, his entire body down to the cellular level seems to be more durable, harder, than the average human. He does still feel pain, just to a proportional degree. His body is capable of repelling ballistic assault from nearly all handguns, but is less resistant to rifle-caliber rounds.(For ballistic purposes, his dermal armor related closely to Type IIIA Ballistic protection) - he remains stabproof.
Note; Gavin still bleeds. It appears to be that his dermal layers get progressively tougher/denser in succession, so while his first one or two may open in an attack, his armor remains unpenetrated; so just because he looks bloody and wounded does not mean he's suffered major damage.
- The Strength; During his fight with Hisen, Gavin acquired super human strength. While he cannot casually toss cars around like Superman, Gavin is capable of tremendous feats of strength - crushing items too strong for normal humans, for example. For reference, Gavin could lift the front half of a bus up over his head, but the weight of the entire bus [back wheels not touching the ground] would be far too much for him. Examples of his strength would include [though not limited to] flipping over and throwing vehicles, punching straight through brick walls, ripping street signs straight out of the pavement, etc.
Note; He's also become quite fond of leaping around, now that his legs support powerful, enhanced jumps. Some might even say he can leap tall buildings in a single bound.
- Numerical Limitations;
- Gavin's straight vertical leap can put him 35' into the air, 7x the olympic record for vertical leap, and roughly the height of a three-story building. (It is suspected that he cannot jump as high as his superhuman strength suggests because he's pushing so much extra weight off the ground)
- Gavin's long-jump launches him 200' from his initial jumping point; the force of which has been noted to leave small dents in pavement - no craters or potholes, but little bumps. This is roughly 7x the olympic record, or the equivelent of jumping nearly 70 yards down the length of a football field in a single bound.
- Gavin's strength is harder to sum up numerically, since all situations are different. As he can lift up and throw a small car, but barely lift the front half of an average schoolbus, his strength limit lies around 5 tons, or the ability to lift and maneuver around 10,000lbs. He cannot lift buildings off their foundations, he cannot generate powerful soundwaves by clapping his hands together, and the technology/weight equipment to test out his actual limits per pound in relation to things like the bench press, deadlift, curling or squats simply does not exist.
DAMN FEW;
Eleven years of training and experience as a Navy SEAL Operator, (plus an entire life in Niwa as a vigilante) have given Mercer a very diverse and powerful set of skills, including;
- Expert-level Combat Proficiency, including multiple forms of martial arts, unarmed tactics, concussive/blunt weapons, bladed weaponry, nearly all modern firearms, and heavy weapons, including machine guns & rocket launchers.
- Guerrilla warfare tactics, demolitions [above and under water], reconnaissance, combat diving.
- Parachuting skills required for infiltration.
- Survival in urban and remote areas. Principles, procedures, equipment and techniques that enable Mercer to survive, regardless of climatic conditions of environments, and return home.
- Combat diving; using SCUBA and closed-circuit diving equipment for infiltration, underwater explosions and tactical reconnaissance.
- Vehicle proficiency; Motorcycles, snowmobiles, jet skis, skis, ZODIAC and other assault-boats, and all-terrain vehicles.
- Languages; A decade plus as an operative has taught Gavin nearly half a dozen common languages. He is fluent in (American) English, Japanese, Mandarin, and understands most [conversational level] French, Spanish, and Farsi. Though he knows a few key words in other languages [things like bathroom, cab/taxi, food, sleep, gun] it's not enough to get by.
- Criminal Mind; Between time as a SEAL and a vigilante Gavin has learned (through a mix of experience and study) the mind of a criminal. Living with them in Osore for nearly a year helped. He's gifted with criminal insights and has a good mind for how they think, along with a keen eye for body language.
- Miscellaneous skillsets; A powerful mind for learning. Interrogation techniques. Adept escapist. Disguise and misdirection. Expert tracker (though, not a gifted detective).
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♞┆ H I S T O R Y
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History "We're surrounded." "Good. That simplifies things."- To really understand Gavin we need to go back. Back before the graduation, before the grenades, the bullets, the terror, the platoons. Back before the blood and the bounties. Back before fame and plunders, before crime and punishment. Before Seattle's simple life was a small speck in the distance. Back before Gavin was Chief Petty Officer Mercer. Birth to 11 years
Gavin Mercer was born in Seattle to William & Vivian in the spring. Further details don’t exist because nothing really happened of any significance. He was a good baby, very quiet and playful. He had a knack for getting himself into places he didn’t belong, pulling out shelves to make makeshift ladders to reach high cupboards, and sticking forks in light-sockets.
I thank my mom for how she raised me,
And my neighborhood, daily, that jumped and chased me,
It only made me what I am today.
Strange, but true. Childhood growing up in the slums of Seattle was a little more on the rough side than one would imagine. The chasing and jumping is literal; not only was Gavin not quite the best student in school, he was a bit of a dork. He got bullied; the type of bullying that can make or break a person, and Gavin broke. No, that’s incorrect. Gavin was broken.
It was a bad day at school and worse so when an unfortunate turn of events had him spilling his lunch tray all over the school’s biggest, meanest bully. End of school and not only the bully [Let’s call him Wade] but Wade’s posse were waiting for Gavin. So he ran. He ran through the ghetto and the dirt; the grunge and the fear until he found his way to the Junkyard. He hid; he tried to catch his breath and stop shivering. He tried not to let his mind wander as to what would happen if they found him. They were turning to leave when a walking furball of cliché let out a loud noise, staring down at Gavin. They turned; his heart fell into his stomach and he turned to run.
Unfortunately his feet didn’t turn to run with him, what with being ensnared in the wreckage of the vehicle he hid behind.
The splash of blood against the rust-colored dirt was warm against his face. For a few moments he lay there; for a few moments was everything fuzzy; then the sound of laughing; then the sound of indistinct voices, chatter, a general negative tone.
When he woke up he was in the hospital. Three broken ribs, a shattered nose, and a serious desire to never go back to school. It took some three months to really heal, but by that time he’d transferred to a new school district. But the scar under the bandages never healed, and with a two year old to help take care of, he knew he couldn’t let it happen again. Gavin knew that he couldn’t let his past mistakes shape his new world and knew that if he let himself get pushed around, what example would that set?
He got pushed, his first day at his new school.
He beat the crap out of that boy.
11 to 17 years
“They say you can retrieve items for people. I have a job offer for you.”
“I’m listening…”
Two weeks after the move to the new school, the first fight, he was released from Out-Of-Class-Suspension and circulated back into the population. Only to find a photo from the inside of his locker missing [his baby brother]. Within an hour he had tracked it down, asking around, skipping classes and causing trouble. The bully who had started it all had taken it as payback. When cornered, he threatened to rip it in half; so Gavin punched him in the throat, threw him to the ground, and with a foot on his throat [and the teacher frantically trying to quiet the cheering in the class], warned the man to never again touch any of his property.
He never did.
Word spread quick about the fight; about the bully of bullies, Gavin Mercer. Of course, it helped an eleven year old boy beating up kids in high school? It wasn’t unheard of, but rare, something you’d only hear about from the next town over. It was in that time that someone approached Gavin and explained that he, too, had had some property recently stolen and wanted it back. The reward? Paying for his lunch. He agreed, and the next day, the child was returned his toy. He got his lunch paid for. A threat and a bruised knuckle seemed to be a good thing. He had a knack. He was the school Mercenary. Anyone could hire him for a few dollars here and there, and he’d either beat someone down or get back some property. Skateboards, jewelry, trinkets. You name it, he could do it.
It got a little more serious in High School. It turned from classroom follies to kids the next town over giving him a wave. He was a hometown legend by 16; smalltown slum knew his name. He was “The Sentinel”. He could get anything for anyone even if it landed him in the Infirmary. He’d been ambushed more than once and had his own small troupe of muscle [two of his best friends that came with him every now and again.]
Somebody with a slightly serious problem heard about Gavin. That somebody had an uncle. That uncle was a little bit on the shady side and had since had his last “retrieval expert” …perish, suddenly. A week later, Gavin was sitting in a parlor of some seedy criminal underling. Cigar-smoke and bourbon floated through the awkward silence. Until…
“I hear you’re a man that knows how to find things. I’ve got a job for you.”
“I’m listening.”
Three weeks later he stared into the Madrid sun and slipped over slums. Given a vehicle to head out, a name, and half the money upfront, Gavin had all he needed to perform his job. He almost took out a hobo before he found what he was looking for; the cave. Avoid pirates, avoid getting shot at, find this “Alex” guy and head on home. Except the Alex in the cave wasn’t a man, but a young woman - namely, creepy-guys runaway daughter, gone got lost on her way to college. She had no intentions of going back, but that didn’t stop Gavin from throwing her over his shoulder, getting back in the ship and returning to Seattle.
For a while he considered it his last act of orders. He defended his own territory but he reverted back into schoolwork - he let his knuckles heal. It wasn't long before it was graduation day. Busy with his 'extra curriculars' Gavin had put no thought into college and so, diploma in hand, parents and friends standing by taking pictures, he felt lost; forlorn. That all changed when a man in a dark blue suit and a funny hat approached Mercer - asked him if he'd thought about his future and pushed an envelope into his hands. The Navy was calling...
A Global Force for Good Year; 2000.
The bus ride north from Chicago O'Hare to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center wasn't so much long as it was dull. Enough time for a 17 year old boy to think about what he wanted in life. What the hell he had just signed up for. Why not the Air Force, or the Marines? Why not the Army or Coast Guard? Growing up in Seattle he'd never really been averse to water; hell it rained every day. The Navy, though...living on a ship, visiting ports around the globe. What should he be? They'd told him his ASVAB scores qualified him for anything up to and including propulsion systems, but as far as what to decide what he wanted for the next four years, he'd had no idea.
The bus screeched to a halt; off the metal coffin and onto the next chapter.
Breaking Gavin Mercer of his defiant nature wasn't easy. Boot Camp was a 9 week transformation that included Conditioning, Swimming, Marching, Drilling,Attending Navy classes, & Weaponry. At first it was just a bunch of paperwork, daily psychical exercises. Swimming wasn't so bad. The blue NWU's weren't bad, fit well, and you could even roll up the sleeves; a privilege not afforded to the Army.
It was during the third week when things got a little screwy. He had been on auto-pilot. Five minutes to shower, shave, brush teeth and be dressed. Pushing it, but alright. Making your bunks? Euch. But he didn’t mind so terribly. What eventually got to Mercer was the bayonet course; or rather, some jackass on the bayonet course. Tripped Mercer with a sneer and thought he was cool. It got even more cool when Mercer came up off the ground and smashed the butt-end of his rifle into the man’s jaw. That sick popping sound reverberated through the shouting and in a moment a flurry of other recruits and instructors were between them.
He spent five days in the Brig. Closest thing to a prison he had ever been to in his life.
Fresh out of the stockade he was halfway through Battle week. On a thin bridge, both recruits are given a staff and one instruction; knock your opponent off the bridge. Mercer was up against the same man who had tripped him in the third week. He had a score to settle. Unfortunately, the five days out had made him sloppy, and after the initial blow to the head, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. That moment was all he needed to get his leg swept out and send him crashing to the ground. A dark silhouette hovered over him. It was his Drill.
“Your hesitation killed you right there Private. Act with your instincts. You freeze, you die. And never hit soft.”
He helped Mercer up, and back onto the bridge. Those eyes burned, and that dark smirk rolled on slow. He heard the Drill telling him to move like a warrior; He heard the whistle blow. Heard his own voice yelling like one, and he felt the ferocious slam of his staff against his opponent. He hesitated not; he conquered. King of the Bridge. King for the moment.
The more Mercer learned in the academy, the more he realized, he didn’t know anything. The more he realized, everything that they were learning in their rapid, furious pace of instructions were very light surface scratches on topics you could spend years learning. And he wanted more. Next was Martial Arts; a weeklong effort to condition your body to respond instinctively. Make your body as lethal as it is with a weapon.
Further into the camp, the recruits learned to face and overcome fears. How to feel the fear of a situation and act anyways. To climb, to rappel. Battle-usage? Scaling buildings, and getting back off of them. Life usage? Limitless. Was Mercer afraid of heights? He’d never thought so, but having to do it was an interesting enough time.
Holding your breath is one thing. Controlling fear is another.
They learned how to get through obstacles. They learned to love daily running; being shouted at. They learned organization. Structure. Regimented meal times. Then, they learned how to take order out of chaos. How to embrace the inevitable. To know that they, someday, would die and nothing in the world could stop that. To be courageous until the last moment; the Navy way. The excruciating labor intensive exercises. Push-ups until you pass out; the kind of sharp mental power you would have to see to believe. Mental fortitude and intense physical exertion all while keeping emotions in check. To soldier meant all of those things; and all of those things were breaking the back of our recruit, but he had only two weeks left of initial academy before it was over. He could handle it. Two more weeks.
How to act tactically. Respond to changing situations, watch your follow partner's back and overcome objectives. With the sound of bullet fire constantly burning through the air you stop flinching and after a while you don’t hear it. You can think, calmly, collectedly, in the face of mortal danger. Well, some of them could. Near the end of it all, the cannon-fodder was starting to get separated from the advanced recruits. The men from the boys.
And Mercer, from everyone.
The Gauntlet was the last week of basic. 96 hours of nonstop physical and mental battles. Adapt, Achieve, and Overcome. The words were shouted like Mantras. With no food, no sleep and no moral support the men carried on. They were ordered ridiculous tasks. Perform duties without speaking. Trust in each other. Mercer had never trusted anyone in his whole life, but when that bridge went out from under his feet and he jumped, he had to trust that the recruit in front of him had his arm out and waiting - and he did. Marching with hulking pounds of gear. And after it was all said and done, after the march through the rain and the mud, they reached the arena; and collectively, they battled each other hand-to-hand. Battle, when you’re tired. Battle when you thought you couldn’t march another ten steps and battle knowing that, if you hesitate, if you let your guard drop, not only will you die, but your troop dies with you. This is where you dig deep; this is where the men shine and the boys die.
The march back was slow, but the trumpets were loud. Gear unloaded they marched to the parade field, and the Drill was there, along with their lieutenants and a commander. His voice boomed over the echoing silence; the speech went on for some time but all Mercer was focused on was the ass of the recruit kitty-corner to him, the faces of his parents in the crowd [with their camera] and the thought of his decision, within the last week, of where he would go from here.
“Ninety six hours ago you left here and embarked on the Gauntlet. I know you are tired. I know you are in pain. I know you are hungry. But you are still here. Here to join with those that came before you. To claim the title of Sailor.”
“The Navy is a way of Life. You will Forever be a Squids. Don’t Ever forget that. Congratulations. All of you. You’ve earned it.”
The sergeant shaking Mercer’s hand smirked at him, and for just a moment, pulled him close. He mentioned something about being a trouble-maker, whom he thought would be out sooner rather than graduating with high expectations, and then he mentioned something about further training. Before Mercer could answer, he was gone.
The new recruits, the 72 men that he had enrolled with, all turned to one another. One raised their hat to the sky; then, one by one, they all did. And, one by one, they all started to chant; a chant that echoed through all the pain and exhaustion;
"Anchors away!" SEALS Training Conducting clandestine missions behind enemy lines. Capturing enemy targets and intelligence against impossible odds. Bringing a threatening act of sea piracy to resolution in the blink of an eye. When they say “The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday,” it’s a motto backed by legendary achievements. Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S)
PHASE ONE, PHYSICAL CONDITIONING.
SEALS class 229.
0500.
Ninety seven recruits on the field; more names than instructors care to remember. Gavin was 57.
It starts with running. Marching had started becoming a staple of life; leg muscles turning into powerful cables. Then the pushups - his chest, growing; tricep cutting away from the rest of his arm. Gavin was always in shape, but Basic had carved him out of wood. Now, he was being forged.
By the start of the second week, the class was down to fifty four students; nearly half of what they started with.
Third Week, Hell Week. Remaining recruits; 31
Even more of the same, only harder - a nonstop barrage of tasks, sleep deprivation and physical exertion; exposure to the icy California coastal waters and the sun bearing down on you, bouncing right off that white sandy beach. Sleep came in four hour blocks every third day. They always said if you can make it through hell week, the other weeks of training were simple; and they were part right. After Hell Week training tampers off to give your bodies time to heal before you enter phase two; focusing on teamwork, ironing out faults. It was intensive, but passable. All you needed was the right attitude.
PHASE TWO: COMBAT DIVING
Diving School. Length of training; Nine weeks. Remaining recruits; 18. [Plus ten, rolled in from another class]
For the first two weeks of second phase, class 229 learned the basic of diving physics, diving medicine, and diving decompression tables for a written test.
Once passed, we move on to Pool Week.
"Upon ascension, always exhale. If you ascend higher than your bubble trail, the gasses in your lungs will expand and explode."
Even men who had never thought they feared the water found themselves in awe of Mother Nature's most powerful, crushing force. One wrong move underwater meant certain death, no matter how skilled you were, or how many text messages you sent in a day. This training; the long, intensive dives; carrying forty pounds of c4 to attach to the hull of a ship - this combat SCUBA diving was what separated SEALS from the rest of the worlds special forces. Sea, Air, and Land. No restrictions, no borders.
PHASE THREE; LAND WARFARE
The land warfare phase is seven weeks long and teaches the class basic weapons, demolitions, land navigation, patrolling, rappelling, marksmanship and small-unit tactics. For the final three and a half weeks of training, the class went offshore, to an island off the coast. On the island, the class practices the skills they learned in Third Phase. The days become longer and more work intensive, set to mirror the work hours spent in the field.
During Third Phase, the class is taught to gather and process information that will complete the overall mission. There is more classroom work that teaches map, compass, land navigation and basic weapon skill sets. These skill sets allow the class to transition from having novice skills to becoming more comfortable out in the field. Most of this training is new to the class, and the learning pace becomes faster and faster. Mercer loved every minute of it; from the scaling down buildings to plotting courses on the map. He was proving himself as equal parts brain and brawn, climbing through enlisted ranks with ease. He was already an E3, not even done with training. His favorite part, though? He knew it was all just the beginning.
Parachute Jump School San Diego, CA; Ron Burgundy's home and the three most compressed, intensive and regimented training Mercer had seen yet. In three weeks his platoon would go from Frogmen [divers] to SEALS - earning their wings. Static line jumps, free fall - it culminated in following gear out the back of the plane, with a full gear loadout, under cover of darkness, and still making your mark. To say Mercer loved being in the air would...be a bit of a lie. While he could do it, was proficient at it [as he'd been making it a point to excel in everything he came across], he preferred other methods of deployment, and never carried a passion for the sky. SEAL Qualification Training (SQT)
Length of training; 26 weeks.
SEAL Qualification Training is designed to provide students with the core tactical knowledge they will need to join a SEAL platoon. It is the intermediate skills course that prepares students for the advanced training they will receive once they arrive at a SEAL Team. SQT includes weapons training, small unit tactics, land navigation, demolitions, cold weather training in Kodiak, Alaska, medical skills and maritime operations. Before graduation, students also attend Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training and qualify in both static-line and freefall parachute operations.
Talk about a long six months. Mercer was finding himself with a newfound love for weapons, tactics, demolitions and SERE. The thought of being a human weapon, capable of anything the world threw at him, bolstered his confidence, his pride, to unbreachable levels.
It was the first time Mercer had to make a fierce distinction between personal life and militant, Warrior life. If he was going to do this, he was going to go all the way. But that didn’t mean he was going to be a slave to the system; no.
It was six weeks in during grenade training when Mercer stood out again. The pin of the grenade does nothing except hold down the handle; once you throw the grenade, the handle flies off, and spring shoots into the capsule, fuse is lit and the device explodes. You have four seconds. Everyone on down the line tossed their grenades, one by one, out into the nothingness of the training grounds; except for the man two lines down from Mercer, Joe. Joe froze, grenade in hand. What’s worse, was the instructor was too far down the line to see it, and the other recruits were either frozen or trying to figure out what to do. It was in that moment, Mercer tackled Joe and threw the live grenade into the air; it exploded so close the shock, the heat, knocked most of the people near them back. But they were alive, with limbs intact. It was at that point, Mercer yelled at Joe; something about making him almost lose his favorite hand.
Well, he is a little crazy, after all…
Most of the Warriors in SQT shined, once again. And while they were shining, Mercer spent another three weeks in the Brig for knocking out an instructor who was physically harassing [far beyond normal smoking] the men in his squad. It was around this time, he started to get a bit of a black spot. The men knew Mercer. They knew him as Private Fuck-Up.
Life, was grand.
There was no final test. After the last week of training and another round at the range [until they all hit bullseyes with all ten shots], they were assembled back on the parade ground. The Captain was before them again, and he smiled at his expertly trained SEALS.
Mercer stood at ease, rifle over his shoulder and the sting of sweat in the corner of his eyes. The CO talked of accomplishment, he talked of pride and service. He talked of the necessity of SEALS, and then he told the platoon to remain standing.
The instructors wove through the crowd and held clipboards. For a moment Mercer thought of his family; the months it had been since he had seen them. The stories he could tell them, now, with pride.
The clipboard, the instructor, came round to Mecer, who stared at him blankly when he asked me where he wanted to go next. The sheet on the clipboard had a list of specialty professions. He looked over the list. When nothing stood out, he looked back, blankly, to the instructor.
“I have no idea, sir. They all sound so good.”
He smirked; “Tell you what, Private Fuck-Up. The Snipers are short-manned. We’ll stick you with them, see if they can’t straighten your sorry ass out. Prima-donna.”
“Aye, sir.”
The SEAL Trident was pushed into his hand - and that small trinket suddenly held more value than any item he'd spend his youth retrieving for any amount of cash. Assigned to SEAL TEAM 10, a team known for their worldwide deployments, he grew more excited. More traveling, more adventures; and more training. They weren't done making the perfect human weapon yet.
SEAL Troop (TRP) Training Upon reporting to SEAL Team 10, Mercer was already a Petty Officer 3rd Class. The platoon he was stationed with, The Sentinels, (he smirked at the irony; seemed he'd never shake that title) was about to take a mission to Korea when he showed up. The commanding officer of Team 10, Captain Ridley, shook his hand when he arrived at their duty station. By this point Mercer carried himself with a straight back, a proud chest, and movements that suggested his body was as poised to lean down and pet a cat, as much as it was to reach down for a pistol, duck and roll, and eliminate nine targets with nine well placed shots before being fired upon. After the brief tour of their facility, he met Lieutenant Martin - the man who would help mold him for the next ten years. Lt. Martin explained to Petty Officer Mercer that his Patrol, The Sentinels, were the guardians of the peace. He explained to Mercer that he would spend the next several months between light-duty/low risk deployments and advanced training.
"Hooyah, sir."
Another year and a half went by. Petty Officer Third Class Mercer had transcended from a recruit to an Operator, a Petty Officer Second Class Warrior, given the best training available to the United States Armed Forces. If the need ever arose, he could take up the position of the Sentinel's Scout/Sniper with his issued M14 weapon system. If for whatever reason he lost his weapons, he had been given further, and extensive, hand to hand combat training courtesy of the Naval Special Warfare CFC. Language schools were a must; Japanese was one of his favorites, along with Korean, Mandorin, Italian, and Spanish. Off-duty hours on the ship you could find him listening to language tapes while knocking around a punching bag. Mercer was given further training in Small Unit Tactics; how best to utilize small unit crews should he ever assume position of commanding officer in the field [in the event his NCO was injured, or worse], Urban warfare, air operations and special recon. Though he was never a big fan of lying on his stomach in the hot desert sun with a large spotting scope and a notebook, he knew it was part of the job. He knew he was defending his country. The point was; no matter what his command asked of him, he could perform it. Any role on the field team could be performed by Mercer; front lines and scout, recon and door-breacher. Each man on the squad could perform every task. They were one man armies working together.
They had trained another Operator; a human weapon. He wouldn't let them down. Deployments & Engagements Over the course of nine years Mercer continued his tours and missions with the men of SEAL Team 10, Sentinel platoon - operating in secret. He ran with the best and became one of the best. The loudest, the quickest. He was, at one point, captured behind enemy lines during an op; it took three days for the rest of his crew to find and retrieve him. Every trip back home, he visited his family; let them know he was safe. There were rumors within the Sentinels that he was frequently off seeing a cute little military girl. He dived underneath ships and blew holes in submarines; he cleared rooms out and rescued hostages. At one point he and his squad were elected as a political safety detail - taking a bullet in the leg covering the target earned him a Navy Cross ribbon. Rumors also stated that there wasn't anything Mercer would not do for his country. He disobeyed direct orders from a superior if he truly felt, in his heart, what he was doing was the right thing...
Once, stationed on the USS Gladiator, a helicopter dropping supplies had a system failure 100 feet from the boat and crashed into the ocean. Without asking or waiting for orders, PO1 Mercer was throwing on his wet-suit and pulling his SCUBA tank from the racks. The ship's CO, who was biased against SEALS and towards Divers, ordered him to stop; that his men would suit up and rescue the crew. Mercer was straddling the side of the ship.
"You touch that water and you will be court marshalled. Is that clear Petty Officer?"
Mercer saluted; "Sir yes sir."
Then his body crashed into the depths, pouring out towards the sinking chopper.
While it was direct disobedience, the fleet admiral commended Mercer for bravery, valor, with disregard to his own life. His actions that day earned him the Silver Star. He was becoming a decorated soldier. One of the highest paid jobs in the entire military, an elite fighting unit, and a very, very close knit group of friends and allies; people who always had his back, no matter what. He was on top of the world. Nothing could go wrong. Years went by like this; his rank ascended to Chief. His personal collection of firearms grew. His skills, honed. Things had started getting serious with the girl he was supposedly seeing. He was about to buy a house. The first thoughts of raising small little Mercers started flitting through his brain.
And then there was a mission to shores of Niwa...
And everything went horribly, horribly wrong. Edited by Cowboy, Apr 11 2013, 01:29 PM. |
Brother Darius - The Dragon King!
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3:24 AM Jun 18
