Jump to content

Aberrant: Dead Rising - Benedict the Iron Chef


Recommended Posts

Real Name: Benedict Prydford

Nicknames: Iron Chef

Occupation: Empassioned cook

Place of Birth: London, UK

Apparent Age: Late twenties, early thirties

Marital Status: Single

Eruption: Cooking competition where he was on the menu

Height: 184 cm

Weight: 92 kgs

Hair: Pale blond cornrows

Eyes: Clear green

Distinguishing Features: Benedict is a big man, with the blocky build common in the Southern regions of the UK. He has his facial hear trimmed to a neatly "friendly mutton chops", a pair of small round glasses on his sharp nose and is never seen without his cook's apron and chef's hat.

A scar on either side of his mouth, as if he was cut on his cheeks sideways, are possible hints to some past tragedy. While hard to see (that is why he cultivates the mutton chop) it is obvious to the super-observant types.

Known Powers: As of yet, not much is known about Benedict's abilities. His sense of taste and smell are superior to all but the most perceptive supers, however. Olivia now knows that he carries an extra set of sharp teeth - and not in his pockets.

Skills: Exceptional cook, with a keen sense of taste and smell. He could make a cake out of cardboard and it would go down like a feast of heaven. His skill at the actual preparing of food is matched by his showmanship, as he prefers to cook with passion and flamboyance.

He also has some minor experiences at tending a herb garden, irigation, fishing and animal husbandry.

Personality: Benedict is like a gigantic teddy bear, always in good spirits and with a never-say-die attitude. Having grown up in the fires of the professional kitchen, he remains calm and confident under stress. He lives for the good life, and it shows. The best way he knows how to make a difference in the world is by his cooking, and so he lets his dishes do the talking for him.

Gear: Apron, chef's hat, bullethole-ridden RV with modified kitchen and apparel, enough spices to make a zombie army taste better, two very sharp cleavers and a suit of patchwork armor made of discarded pots, pans and woks (for emergencies, you see).

Link to comment
Share on other sites


The recent events have left Benedict a bit shaken, but he clearly remembers visiting from England to join a cooking competition in the US. In fact, a large city very closeby was hosting it, crowds of interested foodies observing the two dozen or so lucky folks to make it into the cooking challenge. If they'd win, there'd be money to gain as well as an RV rebuilt as mobile kitchen.

It was somewhere between the time challenge and the desserts that disaster struck, and the first zombies came crashing through the glass doors. Benedict did not know how long the zombies had been there - he had been focused too much on his cooking to notice anything.

Fact of the matter is that in the end, he was one of the few to survive and run off in the RV. Turns out that besides a kitchen, it makes a very convincing zombie mob basher. It could have been more complete only if there had been a giant hotdog on the roof...

While he counts his blessings at having survived the ordeal, he knows he's no longer the same. He can do things he could not do before, survive things that should've killed him.

At first, three weeks of driving in the wasteland, he thought the zombies might've gotten to him, that he was going to be like them.

But his mind was clear (if a bit odd) and his needs did not involve the need to eat Human flesh. Instead, he felt the urge to cook, to produce perishables of value to raising the spirits of battered Humanity.

Armed to the teeth and carrying a four inch cookbook, he slammed the door of the RV shut and drove towards what he hoped to be a Human settlement. On the way, he survived three zombie attacks and a raid by a gang on motorcycles carrying automatic weapons.

He mentally prepared himself for the akward questions, as he parked the mobile kitchen a mile off and prepared a plate of creamy desserts. Nothing like a clear presentation to get your point across.

Out of the window of the RV and occasionally its bullet holes he observed the outline of the Refuge against the horizon. Tomorrow he'd either be safe from zombies and raiders, observing the sunset under the enjoyment of a homebrewn alcoholic refreshment, or he'd be riding off again, out to find the next port of call.

Link to comment
Share on other sites


This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies.

  • Create New...