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Aberrant: 200X - Michael Heller, aka "EMPEROR NARCISSIST!"


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Okay, so now that I have a moment to think about things, I'm sitting down here in a hotel room they usually reserve for God or one of his angels to hash out where I was, where I'm at, and what I should do next.

I'm Michael Heller, 43 years old, a washed-up wrestler-turned-Mite-shooting canvas-tester-turned-Greek-god pit-fighter. A lot of people would look at my career and say I was a testimony to the human spirit. From the outside, I guess it looks that way, but I can now admit that I had something much more powerful on my side than "spirit" or "determination": I had denial, and a special combination of luck and stupidity that whatever universal janitor is out there bestows on the truly chowderheaded when he's in a whimsical mood. I should have been a "wet clean-up" on his TO DO list a long time ago. Instead, I got a new life before the old one ran out. I won't get another one.

27 years of my life have been focused on being an internationally-known wrestler, a deity of the squared circle. It sure seemed easy enough, but the Hulk Hogans and Ric Flairs and The Rocks of the world are paid big bucks to make it look that way. The first ten years should have taught me that I wasn't ever going to reach the heights I dreamed of; I wasn't enough of an actor and definitely wasn't smart enough to sell myself to the audience. But what else could I do? It wasn't like I'd ever paid attention in school. I knew I'd never cure cancer or be an astronaut or make a top-selling computer system. I sure didn't have the schmooze that a budding salesman or lawyer needs. All I had was a strong body and a willingness to get it knocked around if it meant a paycheck. And in the old days, before people started getting uncanny little nodules in their brains that let them push the laws of physics headfirst into the toilet and give them swirlies, that was good enough to earn a living if you were tough and lucky. By the time the novas came out in full force, I was losing my toughness and running out of any luck I might have stored up.

Fortunately, I had ethical flexibility on my side, which supplemented my denial quite nicely. As these nuclear-powered titans were busy putting honest, hard-working wrestlers out of a job, some of them were busy donating precious bodily fluids that could help the desperate among us try to keep up. Yes, I'm talking about Mite. Why not? Toward the end, the anabolic crap was part of my diet, so why not take up the hi-test stuff, right? Except even if you don't overdo it and explode, it will take its toll on you regardless. It's like cigarettes and booze and meth and steroids, and the side effects are twice as harsh. And hey, it's not like my higher-ups were ethical paragons; give them plausible deniability, and they were more than willing to cheer you on, just as long as you could keep performing.

Three years ago, my muscles started spasming uncontrollably, cramping enough to injure myself. Then came the heart attacks, then the bad news: there was a cancer lurking in my bone marrow. And do you think I had health insurance? Fuck no. Why would I do that, when I'd always assumed I'd die in the ring anyway? So, I got booted out and told they'd have a spot for me, assuming I ever recovered. Friends I'd made stopped coming around, and any chance I had at a serious relationship was cut short (heh!) by my Mite-induced impotence. And the fits of black despair, and the rages. Shouldn't forget about those rages.

And then, a few months ago, I hit bottom, and decided that I simply didn't have what it took to keep on going. My denial had finally run dry; I was a car with bald tires spinning in the snow until it became ice, and the gas ran out. I scored some Mite, and injected it, and was going to keep lifting weights until my heart gave out. My only goal was to give the world a good-looking corpse. At least I could die looking like a warrior.

When the headaches hit, I was sure I was going to stroke out and die in a coma. I got furious, and started throwing shit around. I didn't quite realize how easy it was. Or how I was walking and walking...I walked to Texas, from New York. By that time, my headaches let up and I started thinking more clearly than I ever had in my life. Everything felt unreal and more real than it had ever felt before. Thank the Maker that I was able to get enough food on the way. I've made sure to find those nice people and send them some money for the heaping helpings of food I chomped down. Anyway, I made it to Texas, Dallas Texas, and to the home of one B. B. Bartlett, who by sheer luck was there to stare at me in sheer disbelief when I stopped by.

I wasn't thinking that clearly, obviously. Why would he be home? He has an empire to run, an empire of novas willing to break each other's skulls for fame and riches. I'm rich, he's wealthy, and the people backing him are engines of wealth creation. But there I was, swollen to three times as big as life, and vehemently interested in talking to him. No, he didn't recognize me. Probably had no idea who I was even when I jobbed for him.

But he is first and foremost an exploiter of opportunity, and was more than willing to look sad and mollify me, and sweet-talk me back into the fold. Now I've got health, dental, paid vacation time, food expenses, and some sharp people training me in the fine art of exploiting myself to my best advantage. If I really pop? Profit-sharing on top of all that. All I have to do is keep quiet about my "lost years" on Mite, and survive honest-to-Jesus brawls with titans capable of wrecking whole cities with an hour of prep.

Not so bad, as second lives go, but I think I might want to diversify my portfolio a bit...

Click to reveal..
Emperor Narcissist (Michael Heller)

Age: 43

Nature: Gallant

Allegiance: Himself/XWF

Strength: 5 (Well-Built)

Brawl: 4, Might: 5

Dexterity: 5 (Coordinated)

Athletics: 3, Drive 2, Martial Arts 3, Melee 1

Stamina: 5 (Resilient)

Endurance: 5, Resistance: 5

Perception: 5 (Alert)

Intelligence: 5 (Pragmatic)

Linguistics 2 (Spanish, Italian)

Wits: 5 (Shrewd)

Arts 1, Biz 2, Rapport 1

Appearance: 5 (Cut)

Intimidation 3, Style 2

Charisma: 5 (Cool)

Perform 2

Manipulation: 5 (Wise)

Streetwise 3, Subterfuge 2

Mega-Strength 5 (Crush), Mega-Dexterity 4 (Physical Prodigy) Mega-Stamina 5 (Durability, Resiliency), Mega-Appearance 1 (Awe-Inspiring), Mega-Charisma 1 (Center of Attention) Mega-Wits 1 (Quickness), Mega-Intelligence 1 (Tactical Prodigy)

Attunement 1, Eufiber 5, Influence 1 (XWF), Node 2, Wealth 5

Quantum 4, Quantum Pool 28, Willpower 7, Taint 1 (Mega-Dex), Initiative: 18 Soak: 15 Bashing, 8 Lethal (+5/5 with Eufiber) Walk 7m, Run 21m, Sprint 47 m

BP: 7 for +1 Quantum, 8 for 4 Willpower
NP: 7 for +21 Attributes, 
42 for Mega-Attributes, 
2 for +12 Abilities (1 extra from Taint)
XP: 4 for Wealth 3, 6 for Wealth 4, 
8 for Wealth 5, 4, for Eufiber 3, 
6 for Eufiber 4, 8 for Eufiber 5, 
2 for Node 2, 
6 for Mega-Appearance 1 w/Awe-Inspiring, 
6 for Mega-Charisma w/Center of Attention, 
5 for Resiliency Enhancement, 
6 for Mega-Wits w/ Quickness, 
6 for Mega-Intelligence w/ Tactical Prodigy, 
and 2 for Biz 2. 1 xp unused.
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Physical Description: 6' 6" and 255lbs of impossibly cut and tight physique. Blond hair (straight, looks like it wafted out of a shampoo commercial), blue eyes, mutton chops connected to a 70's mustache, a chin that would kick Bruce Campbell's chin's ass in a minute. An easygoing attitude like "The Dude", a swagger like Vin Diesel, a voice like Patrick Warburton channeling Brock Samson, and the wink-and-smile charm of Burt Reynolds in his prime.

When "on", he is messianic.

Click to reveal..
He has Appearance 5 (Cut), Mega-App 1 (Awe-Inspiring), Charisma 5 (Cool), and Mega-Cha 1 (Center of Attention). He tries not to do that outside of the ring or for fan events.
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