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XavierCREDIT WHERE IT'S DUE:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pete_Wisdomhttp://www.comicvine.com/pete-wisdom/29-14819/http://marvel.com/universe/Wisdom,_Peter
BASIC INFORMATIONCANON OR ORIGINAL:
X-Factor (ex-SHIELD)FULL NAME:
Peter Paul WisdomCODENAME:
37DATE OF BIRTH:
June 13th, 1974MARITAL STATUS:
Single SEXUAL ORIENTATION:
HeterosexualBASE OF OPERATIONS:
N/ATIME AT INSTITUTE:
N/AREGISTERED WITH SHIELD?
London, EnglandKNOWN RELATIVES:
Harold Wisdom (Father), Ann Wisdom (Mother, Deceased), Romany Wisdom (Sister, Deceased)PHYSICAL APPEARANCEHEIGHT:
Muscular, but not bulkyEYES:
Rarely wears any color; usually can be found in a black or gray trench coat, white shirt, black tie, black pants, and black shoes. When the situation calls for it, Wisdom also owes a few very tasteful, tailored suits.
Wisdom has been known to wear an eye patch from time to time, even though he has perfect vision in both eyes.UNIFORM:
Either whatever he's wearing at the time, or on rare occasion, a standard SHIELD/STRIKE-esque uniform minus the department logos.POWERSGENERAL DESCRIPTION:
Wisdom can absorb ambient thermal energy as well as solar energy through his skin. He can then store this energy, using it to create what he calls “hot knives.” These knives, which originate from his hands, are made up of pure heat. Wisdom has complete control over these knives, using them as highly accurate projectiles that can either stun, burn, blind, and/or slice through a person. They can also be used to create thermal drafts, allowing Wisdom to slow his decent from a fall.WEAKNESS:
Wisdom can only create around 15 hot knives before having to “recharge” with energy, stopping him from using his powers temporarily. Also, besides his powers, Wisdom is completely and utterly human. No defensive abilities to speak of.PERSONALITY
Pete Wisdom is an antihero. Cynical, rude, sneaky, and seemingly indifferent Wisdom’s life as a spy has exposed him to the darker side of both humanity and mutant kind. These experiences have made him become disregardful of his own well being; Wisdom often gets in over his head. This is more troubling then one might think, since Wisdom is a lone wolf by choice and choice alone. Much needed partners or back-up are scarce. Despite this, Wisdom is talented at earning loyalty, a stock-in-trade skill set for any spy that wishes to keep their contacts over the years. People know that no matter his words, Pete Wisdom is damn good at what he does, and a good spy doesn’t let an equally good contact’s name or info slip out.
Although a surprisingly fierce patriot, Wisdom’s dedication to his work is not fueled by a sense of duty alone. He enjoys, even craves the risk and danger that only the world of espionage can bring. He has an addictive personality, and he knows it. He tends to stay away from excessive drinking, gambling, but smoking caught him up at an early age. Wisdom is a chronic chain smoker, going through a minimum of a pack a day. He doesn’t use a lighter or a match of course, since a simple touch of a hot knife works well enough. Wisdom laughs whenever a “spanner” tells him smoking is unhealthy. In his mind, there are a lot of things in his world that are much unhealthier than a cigarette.
Underneath this outer layer beats a noble heart, a trait gifted to Wisdom by his mother when he was young. Killing comes as natural to him as breathing since his time in Black Air, but only to those he feels “earn it.” Wisdom abhors collateral damage, taking it personally when civilians are put in danger.
In the movies, spies tend to know “everything.” They’re experts at reading motives behind motives, they’re well versed in their opponent’s weaknesses, they know subplot after subplot after subplot. Wisdom isn’t a movie spy. Yes, he has countless contacts due to his line of work, but in actuality Wisdom relies on quick thinking, bluffing, and pure luck more so than careful meticulous planning. Wisdom doesn’t believe in the perfect plan; even if he did, he couldn’t pull one off in a million years. Wisdom’s style is to wait in the shadows, see his chance, run in blazing, and fall back when the heat is too much for even him to handle. Plus, movie spies tend to have super fancy cars (Bond) or excellent driving skills (Bourne). Wisdom has never learned to drive a car, doesn’t have his license, and heavily relies on public transportation.
Wisdom’s attitude towards mutants and being a mutant was a silent pride growing. He never has bragged about his powers, never used his powers unless he needs to, yet he doesn’t have any negative views towards them. When he discovered he played a part in mutant suppression however, Wisdom’s pride became vocal, now opening showing his bias towards mutants over humans.
Finally, on a small note, Wisdom does have a soft spot (that he hates to admit) for animals. He had a few pets that comforted him as a child.HISTORY: PRE-APOCALYPSE
Peter Paul Wisdom was born in the poor borough of Tower Hamlet, part of the East End in London, England. His father, Harold, was a detective sergeant and criminal profiler at New Scotland Yard while his mother worked odd jobs around the city. Both Pete and his older sister Romany had a hard childhood, filled with poverty, crime, gangs, and family drama. On his 18th birthday, Peter joined the military.
The only well-known event on his early life is the death of his mother and sister. The Wisdom children had been asked by Ann, who had at this time become divorced, to come visit her. Romany agreed, but Pete didn’t. He and his mother got into an argument. Sadly, Pete’s last words to his mother were yelled before he slammed down the phone. Two days later, only hours after Romany arrived, the serial killer Michael Ryan broke into the house and butchered the two women as they waited hopefully yet futilely for Pete to show up. Pete hadn’t due to the argument, and to his day blames himself for the deaths of his sister and mother.
After serving for four years, Pete’s mutation finally manifested during a mission. He was a “late bloomer” in terms of mutations. It has been theorized that Pete subconsciously fought the manifestation, stalling it’s grow until finally the stress that filled his life became even too much for him to bear. This instantly caught the attention of MI:6, who recruited him as one of their field agents. Receiving some of the best training in the world in both espionage and tactics, Pete swiftly rose through the ranks before STRIKE got their hands on him. The higher ups within MI:6 gladly released Pete from their ranks. He’d begun to make them look bad.
Not even 30 years old, the 27 year old Pete was one of the first agents of the then newly created Black Air division of STRIKE. His missions were more or less the wet works; assassinations, tactical strikes, lethal espionage. Time and again, other divisions were assigned to assist Pete in his missions. On several occasions Pete worked with the Psi division agent codenamed Psylocke, aka: Betsy Braddock. Pete knew the instant he saw her in action that he’d need to keep tabs on the purple headed beauty, but this began difficult after she left STRIKE joined a group named the Hellfire Club many years later.
Pete had already been twisted into a cynic since he was a child. His work in Black Air made him into the lone wolf he is today. Pete had already been losing his sense of patriotism while working for MI:6, but with Black Air, Pete Wisdom warped into a reliability. He often disobeyed orders, carrying out missions the way he saw fit. Black Air despised this, but Pete got the job done nonetheless, so they kept him around. It wasn’t until much later that Pete started snooping around within his own agency; something in his gut didn’t settle well with what he’d been assigned to do more and more.
What he uncovered appalled him. Black Air, unbeknown to STRIKE or anything, had begun “monitoring” mutant activates in highly illegal fashions. His superiors caught wind of his own secret investigations, but before they could do anything about it much larger, more important problems had risen: Apocalypse. DURING APOCALYPSE (April 5th through April 12th, 2009)
Pete was located in London when the Horseman known as Death attacked. He barely managed to escape the carnage; his skills, quick thinking, and pure dumb luck are what kept him alive. Out of the 15 man squad Pete was forced to work with, only he survived the gauntlet as they tried to run from their outpost in downtown London to one of the hidden WWII bunkers. POST-APOCALYPSE
Once Apocalypse was thwarted, London was in ruins, millions lay dead in the streets, and Black Air still remembered Pete Wisdom’s meddling. To keep him from uncovering any more shady actions, Pete was given a “rubbish” assignment: work with SHIELD as a liaison for STRIKE, and observe how the richer, more organized Americans set out rebuilding New York. Maybe they had something the British could use to rebuild London more quickly. Pete knew the mission was bullshit, but he went along with it.
Eventually and enviably, Pete was “promoted” as a permanent liaison to SHIELD. Working as a SHIELD agent now, Pete continued his disobedient, rude, yet effective mannerisms. This merely resulted in his new superiors becoming rather furious with him. Yet another agency wanted Pete Wisdom gone. However, STRIKE refused to take Pete back after SHIELD asked they reaccept their former agent. Instead, they found another outlet: X-Factor. It was a match made in heaven. Pete, an obviously defiant towards SHIELD, would be the best choice to work between SHIELD and X-Factor; X-Factor didn’t trust SHIELD, Pete didn’t trust SHIELD, so maybe X-Factor would trust Pete.
Now a member of X-Factor since early April, Pete Wisdom works in tandem with both his new teammates and SHIELD, although he doesn’t really intend to be rather loyal to the latter…SAMPLE RP POST:
“Whiskey. Bushmills, if you got it.”
Pete Wisdom slouched over the bar in the East End of London. The air was a choking cloud of nicotine-rich smoke and was saturated by the stink of London’s criminal circle. He didn’t know why, but criminals in London always smelled to Pete. Maybe it was his subconscious honed by years of living among such people as a youth that tricked his senses. Maybe he really was crazy like a few of the STRIKE shrinks suggested. Maybe they really did stink. Pete didn’t care, it made his job easier.
“Cheers” Pete said to the bartender as a glass full of liquid pleasure was slid his way, carefully catching it before it fell off the bar. Pete may have been English, but he drank like an Irishmen: whiskey, dry and strong.
Taking a long sip, Pete took out and lit an ever present cigarette. That was one of the benefits of a seedy bar like this: a bloke could smoke inside and no one would mind. His eyes darted around the room, always on the lookout. A couple of regulars swayed, singing along to a song on the jukebox. Few blokes were playing pool. Almost every single one of them was packing heat, a hired goon employed by the owner of the bar. Luckily Pete packed a totally different and much more lethal sort of heat.
There were a decent amount of women, not half of them pretty. One of the prettiest however was walking Pete’s way. Judging from her path, she’d come from behind the curtain on the far side of the bar. Perfect.
“Mr. Clarke?” The woman said. My God she was a looker, Pete thought to himself. Pity.
“Yes marm, I take it Mr. Westwood is ready?”
Larry Westwood was an arms dealer in the East End. He was also the brother of Louis Westwood, an important political figure in England. This gave Larry an edge over his rivals, and with that, along with an almost literal army of thugs all around London, meant that Larry was almost untouchable by the law. But not today.
Pete followed the woman with legs that went on forever. Stop it; focus Wisdom, the British mutant though. Through the curtain stood two pillars in the shape of humans; Pete barely came up to their shoulders, though he was rather certain their abundance of muscle made up for their lack of brain power. They performed the usual search for weapons, of which Pete had none.
“Hands off the wedding vegetable chaps, I don’t swing that way.” Pete said with a smirk. One of the bodyguards grunted and gave Pete a shove. Luckily, Pete managed to not spill his glass of whiskey. The Irish believe that when you die, you have to meet St. Peter at the gates of heaven, who dunks you into a barrel headfirst. In that barrel is all the booze you’d ever spilled during your life and if you drowned, to Hell with you. Pete thought the Irish knew what they were talking about when it came to drinking, and thought it best to take what they said for granted.
“Oi, watch it meathead. Just ‘cause your tall don’t mean it’s proportional.” Pete said to the human gorilla. The man moved forward as if to hurt Pete more, but the beauty of a lady stopped him.
“Errol, back” she said rather forcefully. Errol gave another grunt and complied. Pete merely smirked even wider and leered to Errol as he passed.
“Good boy Errol” he said, and followed the woman into the backroom. Errol and the other lunkhead followed. Within the backroom, Westwood and four other men were playing poker. That’s how Westwood did business, over a game of cards. It was like how some women only called people while they drove, or how stock brokers had meetings during a round of golf. If you wanted to deal, you had to get dealt.
“Ah, Mr. Clarke, pull up a seat.” Westwood said. The woman that led Pete in left the room quietly. Pete nodded, complied, and the game began.
Hands passed, as did a few hours. The men spoke business; locations, prices, deals, trades, the lot. It was almost impossible to get where Pete was right now. One had to have been in contact with Westwood for months, had extensive background checks, cover stories for everything. Only agents with clearance like Wisdom even stood a chance. He’d been trying to get here, in this card game, for a very long time under the perfect false identity of Mr. Robert Clarke; it was the one place Westwood was most vulnerable.
The game was coming to an end. Two men were out, and the other two low on chips. Pete and Westwood were the chip leaders, and all four remainders had gone all in. This was it, the final hand.
“So, tell me again Mr. Clarke, what was it you wanted again? Something about heavy artillery?” Westwood said, flicking the tips of his cards habitually. Pete shrugged and took a drag of a cigarette, speaking as he let out the smoke.
“Oh no, just information. You show first?”
Westwood revealed his hand on the table. “Pair of kings. What sort of… information?” He suddenly shifted his mood, from casual to tense. The bodyguards at the door followed suit. Pete grinned, and set his cards on the table. Two aces, two eights, and a jack.
“Just the information you gents provided tonight, enough to stop you and your little operation for good. Dead man’s hand.”
The room exploded with action. Pete’s fingers started to glow as guns were drawn. In a flash, searing hot blades arced from Pete’s outcast hands into the four men playing poker. In another, the guards behind him shared a similar fate. Westwood fumbled his gun, and made a bolt to the door. Pete stood up and thrust a fist into the arms dealer’s gut. Hot knives carved into Westwood’s body. Blood boiled; the smell of cooking flesh filled the air. Westwood had an almost confused look on his face, as if he couldn’t believe he was dying.
“You… you…” Westwood tried to go on, but the blood flowing from his mouth began to choke his words.
“You lose Mr. Westwood. See you in hell.” Pete whispered into his ear, and withdrew his hot knives. Westwood fell to the floor, his wounds cauterized by the heat. Pete stepped over the body and out the curtain. The goons, having been informed Pete was a client of Westwood’s, were oblivious to the fate that had befallen their employer. By the time they had, Peter Wisdom would be long gone.
When the spy had left the bar, he tapped his ear to trigger the two-way radio virtually invisible within its crevices
“Information acquired. Target eliminated.”
It had been Pete’s first kill as an agent of Black Air; the first of far too many.