City of Roses
The Faceless Detective
Rasa is a Mirrorface, meaning he can be whoever he wants to be. His default mask is a tall, pale man, bald, with brown eyes. Completely indistinguishable from any one of the thousands of Portlandians walking the streets. You look away from him then instantly forget him. Just the way he likes it.
If his mask was lacking many features, his mien has none, namely because he has no face. No eyes, no nose, no mouth.
You can usually find him in a grey coat and fedora, a nice suit underneath, complete with a hedgespun tie clip.
Rasa’s an investigator by trade. The freehold members come to him and his motley when they need something (or someone) found. Amongst the mortal world, he has assumed the identity of Richard Storm, unknown to Storm’s daughter, Sophia Taylor.
Talking is usually his first instinct, but he always keeps his .45 ready just in case.
Long Term: I will discover my true identity.
Short Term: Investigating Bratva
Player: Point blank headshot.
Rasa’s Journal, August 4th, 2012
When you’re made into a different person more times than you can count, how long is it before you stop remembering who you really are?
I was a spy. A saboteur. A seducer. An assassin. Those were my jobs. But really, I think I was an actor. I was given a new role, a new mask to put on every time I was called out. The assignments didn’t really vary much: impersonate subject A, find secret B, kill target C. I can’t say how long I had been doing this routine. Last Call tried to explain it to me once, something about how time doesn’t really work over there. Been doing it long enough to forget though. I know that much.
I can’t remember who I was. No name, no home. No face. I do remember some things, but almost all of them are pretty vague. I remember places, buildings and such, but nothing too distinct. I had skills, once. I tried to think of where I learned them or who I learned them from. I can’t see their faces. No one in my memories has a face.
There is one thing I remember, clear as day.
The Ross Island Bridge over the Willamette, Portland. It was night, the fog had rolled in. I remember I was trying to do something. Something to protect people who were important to me.
I remember falling.
After that, well, most of us know how it goes: they take you, strip you of who you once were, get turned into their little pawn.
I escaped. Used every trick I learned. Did some things that’ll haunt me until the day I die. I only had one place to go to, the one place I remembered clearly. I had to find… ah that’s right. I had to protect my family.
Next thing I knew, I found myself dragging my sorry carcass to shore. Same place, different time.
I walked the streets for an hour before I found a dead man. Guy was bleeding out in an alley, but still alive enough to ask me for a smoke. I took his lighter gave him a cigarette. He saw my face in the light. He took one drag and said, “Like a blank slate.” After that, he stopped breathing.
I found out where he lived and, with not many other options, took over his identity. The guy’s name was Richard Storm, a P.I., mostly worked missing persons cases and the occasional cheating husband when cash was tight. Eh, I’ve had worse jobs.
I eventually managed to get in touch with other people like me. The Freehold took me in, gave me a new name. “Jack Rasa”. These guys are big on irony like that. So now I look for clues, trying to find out who I was. Maybe I still have another life out there, somewhere. People I used to care about.
But for now, I have my own crew to look out for. Good people. A little on the strange side, but still good people. We seem to have a knack for finding things, so the freehold likes to give us assignments. Been doing this for years, never gets old.
They’re family. My family. And I’ll do anything to keep them safe.