Mort Rouge la Squelette
Revolutionary or Terrorist?
France fell to Communism, and Mort was an orphan when it happened. To cut spending, orphanages were shut down, countless left on the streets to die. Mort struggled to survive, find food and money. She fought on a daily basis. She grew up whispering in peoples ear's, making them question their government. When Morte got older, she met many friends across the country. Orphans, Rich Kids, scum of the street. She formed a resistance, broke everyone out of jails, who later joined their cause. There were three hundred and twenty six who followed her, and two of them were rats.
They fought, all under her. She was their General.
They all died, and she got every single one of their names tattooed on her back, save the two rats who were her most trusted Lieutenants. She gets the ink refreshed every year on the anniversary of their deaths. She's given up on France, and came to America illegally. She wants to prevent the same thing from happening in the U.S that happened in France, and moved to Gotham to try and live.
She is an alcoholic, proud, hates bureaucrats and is straight to the point. She gambles and sleeps most times at bar's. She has no tolerance for people who annoy her, and is pretty naïve when it comes to the English language. She doesn't like people anymore and doesn't trust anyone. She drinks herself to sleep, and tends to be a loud and angry drunk.
In France, she was so close to succeeding, that the victory wine had already been opened. That's because Morte is an excellent strategist. Another was that they avoided all civilian contact, choosing to leave them out so they could keep their support and not spill any innocent blood. It worked, and to this day, she scorns anyone who catches civilians in the cross fire.
But, her moral compass doesn't always point north. She'll steal to survive, and has no qualms about killing anyone who's asking for it. But, she isn't a murderer. Back in France, they called her a terrorist. She has a brand on her wrist, a tattoo numbered 000001, so everyone could see she was undesirable number one. Mort hates it when people called her over-zealous, or an anarchist. She especially hates it when people call her a terrorist and will most likely kill anyone who tries to refer to her as such.
She likes telling her story to anyone who would listen so they could learn her mistakes. But Mort finds the only people who've heard bit's of her life were two people. The rest she didn't find responsible enough. Though, she doesn't like talking about prison. Before she jumped ship to the U.S.A, she was put in prison. They shaved her head, and starved her, as well as put her though various other tortures. What they were trying to do, was brainwash her, so they could win back the popularity with the common people. Mort never broke though. She took it, and spat in their faces.
Mort Rouge la Squelette also does a lot of odd jobs. She's a mercenary (though reluctant and very rude…Not many want to hire her because of her standards and attitude.), plays guitar at her favorite bar (where she drinks herself to sleep nearly every night), and every once and awhile works for a restaurant and movie theater. Gary, the owner of the bar she was currently in, was going down to the docks to get some absinth (which is illegal in the U.S) and found her.
She's very proud. She's angry at the world and hates it when people take things for advantage.
She absolutely will not compromise in any argument. Ever.
Mort will also die for any one of her friends. She nearly did, in France. Her best friends choose to save their own skin's three hours before the final battle, and she's never forgiven them for it. She even curses them when she's drunk. In fact, she blames Loup and Cosette for the death of her army. Mort blames them for everything.
When she was five, and the orphanage closed down, she had to run away from the cities or be shot on the street. The government frowned upon street scum. She met Loup and Cosette when she was seven, and they were her family. She protected them fiercely, and asked for nothing in return. A large number of the scar's on her body comes from protecting them.
Mort Rouge la Squellte was currently sitting in a bar, drinking her twelfth shot. She poured another, looking at it apprehensively.
"Stupides, inutiles, bâtards trahissent ... Loup et Cosette …" She grumbled, her brown eyes narrowing. She was wearing an old, red, marching band jacket, elegant black embroidery lining it. She had the collar up, her short black hair gently gracing across it. She was wearing tattered blue jeans, and a black shirt. It was the same thing she always wore, and she refused to publically wear anything different.
"Hey, More, you gonna lock up?" The bartender asked. She gripped the empty shot-glass tightly.
"'Ow many times do I 'ave to tell you, Old Man? It's MORT!" Mort snarled. The older man chuckled, and patted her arm fondly.
"Yeah, whatever. Key's are on the counter, lock up when you feel like it, and don't drink all my whiskey." Gary said, walking upstairs.
"Au revoir, tell your wife 'ello," She called, her words thickly accented. He grumbled, and she shook her head, frowning playfully. "Lazy 'ass old man," She muttered. Mort sat on the bar to look out at dark streets of Gotham, snow lazily falling. She snorted.
She should've been basking in the glories of France, not this shit hole.
Mort smiled, and grabbed the bottle of cheap Canadian whiskey. She took a long swig from it, before she started singing.
"Oh, such a sad, sad tale I 'ave to tell, I've rode to 'heaven and been damned to 'hell. I sang my prayers, I've done no wrong, but Jesus doesn't care…" Her heavily accented voice rang out. Her voice was pleasant, but the emotion behind the words was staggering. She ran her hands through her short hair and looked at the tattoo on her wrist.
Then the door opened and she covered her wrist with her jacket.
She didn't even turn her head.
"Get 'ze fuck out, we're closed." She said coldly, taking another swig of whiskey.
"Doesn't look-" A strange voice began, and she snapped. The bottle went flying, and in a flash she was up off of the bar and throwing barstools at the man with no resolve. He dodged them easily, after all, Mort was pretty drunk.
Then she stopped. The man had clown paint on his face. She smiled.
"Ah, Monsieur Pietre, sil vous plait moi fureue." Mort amended quickly. Then she started swaying and fell down, looking at the ceiling. The clown giggled horribly and said something, but Mort's mind was mottled and she forgot how to understand English.
She hopped up swaying, and glaring at him horribly. She must've remembered why she was angry with him in the first.
"Get out clown!'Ou are not at 'ze cirque, and we are closed," Mort yelled, grabbing another bar stool. He giggled again, and her anger flared. She pulled out her gun, and pointed it at him, loading it.
"Now, uh, you're not going to shoot me." The clown said, and she paused.
"Of course I will shoot you, zilly clown. 'Oo do you think I am?" Mort asked rhetorically. The clown giggled.
"A drunk wash-out?" He offered, and she marched up to him. She was furious at being insulted.
"'Ow dare you," She said, her voice a harsh snarl that slapped the quiet atmosphere around them. The clown man glared at her, daring her to do it while he smiled manically.
Then she brought down her pistol across his face, before punching him solidly in his stomach. She grabbed his greasy hair, and slammed his face into her knee before throwing him back towards the door.
"Get out of 'ere, scum. 'You are not welcome 'ere." Mort said, her voice dripping with venom. How dare some American whelp, who's life has been nothing but roses and freedom, have the gall to call her that? Especially a clown bastard.
Needless to say, Mort Rouge la Squelette was no longer drunk.
She was considering killing the clown for uttering such an insult.
Then he giggled. And giggled. And giggled. Her light brown eyes slid to look at his face, taking it in better. Something was definitely off about him. And she didn't like it.
"What's so damn funny clown?" Mort asked, glaring at the clown man spitefully. In all honesty, Mort felt a little stupid for even letting the man coming in here in the first place. First off, he sobered her up, and secondly, she wasn't really sure if he was a cirque clown.
He had on a purple trench coat, green vest and purple button up shirt with a green tie. Also, in the dim light of the bar, she started to notice twin scar's on his face, curling up from his lips like a grotesque smile. In fact, his shrieking laughter was starting to bother her. It filled the room, and made a cold chill creep down her spine. In case you didn't know, Mort doesn't like it when things scare her.
Because she tends to beat the shit out of them.