PROJECT: NERO

Given that our job requires transport to many different continents, we have recruited a different number of sea-faring crews consisting of non-humans to bring them together and provide Project:Nero with only the best naval support.

The flagship of the fleet is a heavily modified Destroyer-Auxiliary ship that also serves the purpose of acting as a merchant ship. The Captain of the ship, also known as the Admiral given his position, is the subject of this psychological profile. Given there are four other admirals serving under him on the ship, each of them coming from specific backgrounds, this is only the first part of the profile on the Sailors. Besides, they all act like they only have 3 brain cells between them, and all 3 belong to The Captain.

NAME: Captain Owen Burrows (according to him, his first name is actually Captain)

RANK: Fleet Admiral and Director of Project:Nero’s naval operations, dubbed Project:Caligula

ALIASES: Captain, Admiral, Heathen (only close friends may call him this; I found this out the hard way), Seraph (Dean will fight you if you call Owen this)

SPECIES: Undead (Subspecies: Angelic Spirit)

HEIGHT: 7′10″

WEIGHT: 500 lbs. 

NOTABLE ABILITIES: 

In Captain Owen’s past life, he was a talented captain of a massive 300-person Norwegian Drekkar. Yes, you heard right, we are dealing with a fucking viking here. His alias has been lost to time, but according to him, he fought in the Legendary Great Heathen Army in the Invasion of England in 865, serving under Ivar the Boneless as a Hersir. In other words, Captain Owen was a general involved in organizing one of the most legendary viking raids in history, and the only reason he died was trying to claim Wessex for Ivar. Do you know what this means? It means Owen not only proved himself by rising through the ranks of a somewhat chaotic militant system as a HUMAN, and then commanding them with ruthless efficiency. Of COURSE we made him the fucking Fleet Admiral.

As one who is in-between the stages of life and death, Captain Owen does not have a true physical form. That is to say, he does not have a face, and gazing upon him for too long can lead to prolonged eye strain, blindness, madness, or death. That’s only when he isn’t trying. If the Captain so wished, he could emit so much light and heat from his body that any single mortal gazing upon him would be completely incinerated. 

His numerous experiences in battle and skill with any types of weapons makes him a versatile fighter if the situation were to ever come to fruition. 

Owen has an undeniable charisma and commands a level of respect from everyone he meets. Even the comparatively arrogant Collective knelt in front of Captain. Let me say that again. A self-important hive mind KNELT in front of this man.

Owen’s tactics and stratagems are so complex and well-detailed that if he had existed at the same time as Sun Tzu, I am certain he could have gone toe-to-toe with him and won. I am glad that whatever deity came to claim Owen’s soul saw how bright his mind was and let him stay for a while longer.

NOTABLE WEAKNESSES:

Due to his many, many, MANY victories, Owen has developed a bit of an invincibility complex, which is ironic for a man who has already died once. The only one keeping his hubris in line is the lovely Cassandra Baptiste, his partner. Regardless, arguing about tactics with Owen is futile.

Owen is, unfortunately, not one for being left out of combat, and in the case of invasions, he will jump off the fucking ship just for a chance to fight up close and personal. I suppose it is fortunate that all of his companions come from fellow raider backgrounds.

Thats it. Thats all I can fucking think of. This man is a beast.

MENTAL DIAGNOSES:

PTSD.

Hyper-Aggression.

High-Functioning Autism.

OCD.

A timeless observer’s analysis.

Throughout time, humans have been strangely fascinated with the concept of life born through that which is inherently lifeless. These questions on where life came from have been the basis for debates throughout almost all of humanity’s life. Divine beings were created solely as the Guardians of the strange planet, to act as the shepherd for the confused and dazed sheep known as mankind. Scientific theories were introduced. Religions were founded.

And, most interestingly, wondrous stories were created.

I am as old as the stars in the sky, and yet I have never seen something so wondrous as the creativity of the human spirit. I find myself shifting into ancient libraries, staying for years on end, then journeying through time to read more. Perhaps one of the most interesting tales I have gotten my hands on is Pygmalion; the concept is simple, but the mere basis speaks volumes about the breadth of humans. A simple sculptor named Pygmalion creates the most wondrous statue, who then comes to life, adopting the name Galatea. He falls in love with her instantly. Many stories have been adapted to follow this theme; After Mr. Shaw converted the myth into a play, it was then adapted into a movie called “My Fair Lady”. The character of Pygmalion was the basis for a Batman villain many years later. Perhaps it spoke to humans on some other level?

That is not important. What is important is how my favorite group of inhumans dealt with this concept.

I have been observing the members of Project:Nero for some time, and the things I see are wondrous, perhaps even more wondrous than humans.

It was a normal day for the task force, for some measure of normal. The usually stoic and cold Swampy, the undead zombie, was even more stoic today. Unlike popular depictions of zombies, Swampy fully remembered all of his past life. He was born Daeshim Clarence Song-Kim, the son of a Korean immigrant who served as the American Expedition Corps’s cartographer, and a Choctaw woman in what is now modern-day Baton Rouge. They lived a quiet life near the Bayou and mostly lived as farmers and fishermen. When his parents fell ill, Clarence traveled to the city in an attempt to find help, but instead he was quickly beaten and mugged by the local criminal element and left for dead. 

The young boy had managed to crawl all the way back to his home, 40 miles away, only to find his parents long dead. Wracked with grief, he had thrown himself into the swamp to rest for eternity. He woke up around 50 years later, which brings us to present day, where Clarence is currently emotionally dead and serves as the team’s expert marksman.

They had been briefed on their mission. A psychiatric hospital (I believe they were still referred to as asylums or bedlam homes in those days) had been overrun by an apparently supernatural contingency that was highly dangerous; as such, only the undead members of the team were to be sent in. Theodore the Ghoul and Clarence the zombie, with the vampire, Isaac, on standby to get them out at a moment’s notice.

The job ended up being fairly simple. Most of the assailants were already dead, as were all the doctors. There were few human survivors, and yet something felt off to Clarence. Telling Theodore to go on ahead, Clarence had ducked into the nearest room, brandishing a Winchester rifle at the seemingly lifeless body in the corner. He would not be fooled. He could smell the blood on them, but he could also hear their breathing, soft and almost unrecognizable. 

A braver man than I, Clarence approached them without fear. The barrel of his rifle was pressed up against their skull. A dainty, shaking hand moved up to hold the barrel in place as the lifeless body finally started to move, looking up to face the zombie.

Remember my mentions of Pygmalion earlier, and how nonsensical it seemed? It’s actually quite relevant. 

The porcelain skin of the woman was the same color as her hair and eyes, and in that moment, Clarence was reminded of someone from his past long ago.

The flash of recognition in his mind was enough to make him lower his gun. The woman did not try to attack him, and so he simply helped her up. She was dressed in a hospital gown, and later searching of the building revealed the details of something called “Project Pygmalion”, involving extensive surgery and modification of patients, turning them into dolls for the purpose of human trafficking.

Needless to say, the building was burnt to the ground. The woman, who later identified herself as Darlene, insisted on staying with Clarence. I say insisted, but she turned out to be mute; the only way you could tell her feelings was the way she held onto Clarence.

The woman had an effect on him. He found himself speaking more as he tried to help her adjust to life in the Task Force, as one of them. The duo attended therapy together, even though Clarence had never once even entertained the idea of listening to the druid. Simon, for his part, did not complain about this development, because having Clarence attend with another person was better than having him not attend at all.

You have heard it here first, folks. I am a fool, and the only thing missing is a decadent court to laugh and make fun of me.

The first rule of my job is to never, ever catch feelings. It is true for all succubi, but especially true when you try to fully embrace your role as a seductive little devil.

Combining that with a high-risk job with creatures in direct service to different Gods, as well as several flesh-eating behemoths, topped off with a healthy dose of human-made weapons in everyday life, there is no reason for me to grow attached to anything or anyone, let alone to find myself falling in love. The concept is nice, but ultimately not for me.

I curse and spit at whatever cosmic being made me fall in love with the soft-spoken, slow, behemoth known as Amos. If anyone can give me what I need, it isn’t him. I already know for certain I can’t give him what HE needs. No, I think it would take more than the heart of a lowly demon to heal his wounds.

I have not confided in anyone, and yet the druid, Simon, seems to stare at me with what I can only assume is a mocking smile. A plague upon him and his house. At least I have enough self-awareness to know who is and isn’t out of my league. The druid is blind to Ms. Agave’s feelings, so he is not one to talk.

I do not know when it started. Perhaps it was after the 500 billionth suicide mission we were sent on (given my constitution and general aversion for full-scale combat, I consider every mission a suicide mission).

All things considered, things could have gone much, much better than they did -- they also could have gone worse, but the fact remains that I nearly failed in my job. 

After centuries of seducing and killing young men, taking down a young lieutenant should not have been a problem at all. I had succeeded in seducing him; that was never an issue. The problem arose in the fact that the man was too paranoid for one as unimportant as him. The only reason he was to be taken out was due to Mr. Takahashi’s insistence on wiping out the lieutenants. 

Every part of his tent was trapped, rigged up with silent alarms, and despite the drug I had slipped in the alcohol we shared together, he remained infuriatingly alert. When I went to stab him, he shrugged me off and gave me the most embarrassing fight of my life. I had only two choices: stay there and accept the beatdown, sacrificing my life in return for my utter failure to complete the mission, and keep my comrades out of it, or I could set off the alarms around the camp, drawing attention from all sides and ensuring a conflict that would surely bring my comrades to me.

I am ashamed to say which one I picked.

The speed at which my comrades rushed to my aide was surprising, but what was even more surprising was the fervor with which they fought, especially the behemoth. Even Doctor Fero had shown up.

They made quick work of the camp and despite being chewed out to hell and back, I retained my position. Back at our forward camp, I was surprised to find myself joined in the common room by the behemoth. I am sad to say I never really struck up a conversation with Amos before, but I felt... almost compelled to when seeing how he had fought for me. What imagined worth did I have, for him to fight so ferociously?

“Why did you fight so hard to save me?” 

I remember his answer clearly, even if it had been years ago.

“Because you’re worth it.”

In what capacity? What was I to him? An owed favor? An asset? A friend?

Despite telling myself otherwise, I found myself laying awake that night, desperately trying to figure out what I was to the man. The mystery, it seems, has only consumed me since then. With my interest in the man growing, I noticed the little things he did. How he got up at 8 every morning, before the undead and demons, but after the spirits and angels. How cute he was when he was tired, his hair disheveled and his voice deep and ragged from sleep. The way he carried himself.

He was no longer slow, he was deliberate. He was not hunched over, he was cautious. He was not reckless, he was powerful. Gods above, he was powerful.

I sometimes wonder if he has ever used the full extent of his power, even though I know he almost certainly has not.

I find myself forcing consciousness upon myself earlier, just to get a chance to sneak a peek at Amos’s sleeping form. He is a cuddler, evidently, shown in the way his body curls up around an imaginary space and the way his hands need to be underneath something. I find myself moving him in my head, managing his position and trying to fit myself against him.

I would prefer not to dwell on this member of the team for too long. As it stands, The Collective Formerly Known As TJ Valentine is the only human on the team to show no signs of genetic alteration of any kind, despite having the most dramatic changes given to him. It is hypothesized that The Collective Formerly Known As TJ Valentine has completely mastered the limits of his mind, body, and soul and pushed past what humans are capable of. If this is the case, then The Collective Formerly Known As TJ Valentine was capable of achieving complete enlightenment and, indeed, borderline Godhood at the tender young age of 3.

Excuse my non-clinical terminology, but The Collective freaks me the fuck out. It is capable of extending its own Hive Mind and Telepathic properties to beings other than itself, even if only for a short time, and yet it shows nothing but contempt at the thought. It claims that perfection is to be achieved by the Self and one should not rely on others to claim that perfection.

Is this the ideal? Truly, the ideal? A near-emotionless husk capable of self-multiplying at an astounding rate, with no wants or needs? Is this what is intended of us?

Apologies. My many years spent as a philosopher, questioning the meaning of life, have been put in jeopardy just by being in the same vicinity as The Collective. I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t unsettled.

I suppose we should start.

NAME: The Collective Formerly Known As TJ Valentine

ALIASES: The Collective, The Self, The Cell, The Hive, The Mind, The Ascendants

HEIGHT: 6′0″

WEIGHT: 200 lbs.

NOTABLE ABILITIES:

Given enough time, there is nothing The Collective cannot achieve.

The Collective refers to a group of identical organisms with all the organic life signs and biological and genetic makeup of a human being - that is to say, clones. There are no less than 10 clones at one time, and identification of the main body is impossible.

The Collective are capable of reproducing asexually at will, though unlike cells, the process is instant and does not obey the laws of conservation of mass. The process is so instantaneous that any hopes to identify a certain synapse or pattern in the brain during the time of duplication is impossible, as the duplication is imperceptible to even a supercomputer.

The Collective’s capabilities and the true extent of their power is unknown, but they are our main forces when a direct and sustained attack is needed. Given The Collective’s inability to feel pain, as well as the inability to even truly damage The Collective, victory is inevitable.

The Collective does not experience hunger, thirst, or fatigue; whenever one of these necessities would be needed for any organic being, The Collective simply re-absorbs its clones for a burst of energy, and begins reproducing again. 

The Collective cannot be killed, injured, starved, poisoned, or hurt in any way that is meaningful. Logistically speaking, this should make The Collective the single most useful member of the team. We will get into why that is not the case in a moment.

The Collective is capable of minor telepathy, such as relaying information through objects, or through its Clones; as such, one Clone is assigned to every member of the team at all times, in case of emergencies and the need to communicate. For operatives such as the Succubus or the Stalker, this makes staying in the field for longer incredibly easy, as well as untraceable forms of communication.

NOTABLE WEAKNESSES

The Collective’s ultimate belief in their own abilities has lead to several underestimations in battles, and downright insubordination. Despite being at the very bottom of the command structure for the express purpose of having the Collective learn how to follow orders, the Collective remains arrogant and will only follow orders it agrees with.

The Collective does not wish to admit it, but sometimes when a clone spends too much time with a certain team member, like for instance, with me, they slowly start to become an individual, taking on that team member’s characteristics, but subtly, like a teenager slowly coming into who they are, influenced by the environment around them. While this is delightful, in my opinion, it also severs the clone’s connection to the Collective, resulting in an almost completely normal human individual, albeit with above average intelligence, reflexes, and strength.

Should any injuries befall the original body (hereby referred to as Clone 0), all subsequent clones will be created with these scars. They are perfect replicas, but this also extends to disabilities. It is for this reason that Clone 0 is kept locked in their room and protected by 50 layers of security.

The Collective cannot carry out complex plans or orders as of right now. The extent of their abilities seems to be zerg rush attributes, though they are currently working on specialized teams; machine gun crews, mortar crews, radio squads, intelligence officers, and a medic corps has already been established; additional military command structures will require extra time.

PSYCHOLOGICAL DIAGNOSES:

God complex.

Misanthropy.

Explosive Personality Disorder.

BACKGROUND:

If you came here looking for a sob story, you will find yourself disappointed.

I was born Tyler Joseph Valentine, son of Mary Jaqueline Baptiste-Valentine and Arthur Patrick Valentine.

On my first birthday, the house burned down.

On my second birthday, an angel came down from above.

On my third birthday, I found God.

I am the peak of humanity. I am the final form of a flawed prototype.

Polished, sleek, clean.

The last person to join our Team, just at the end of 1910, it should be noted that Mr. McCarthy is the most innocent of us all. Despite his skills, most of the team sees him as someone to be protected; this is in large part due to his naivete and ever-growing fondness for his teammates, as well as his ability to endear himself to anyone he meets.

I figured this was one of the more imperative profiles to go ahead and get out there, because Mr. McCarthy, as an extremely empathetic man, serves as the team’s emotional translator. His unique ability to see everyone’s perspective makes him a good storyteller, and I would be lying if I said that he wouldn’t be an asset to the transcription of this project. As such, Mr. McCarthy will be providing incident reports and analyses of interpersonal behavior on the team.

NAME: Siomon Mac Carthaigh

ALIASES: Simon, Mr. McCarthy, Druid, Sentinel, Crybaby, Loverboy, Tree-hugger

AGE: Born 1432

HEIGHT: 6′6″

WEIGHT: 200 lbs.

SPECIES: Enhanced Human (Subspecies: Magic; Divine)

NOTABLE ABILITIES:

Mr. McCarthy is a hyper-sensitive person. While for most people this would be a hindrance in every-day life, Mr. McCarthy’s job as a guardian to those who cannot speak for themselves is only made easier by his aptitude for emotions and stimuli.

Due to Mr. McCarthy’s connections to Abnoba and Cernunnos, he is strengthened whenever connected to the Earth; note that, while in other cases, this would be incredibly restricting due to wording, the Celtic gods are not ones for word puzzles or riddles. Anything made from Earthly materials qualifies as “Earth”, essentially meaning Mr. McCarthy is, for lack of a better term, omniscient. 

We would be absolutely fucked if aliens came to Earth, but otherwise, Mr. McCarthy is a radar, GPS, sonar, AND targeting system all wrapped into one. 

Mr. McCarthy’s magic serves to make him the single best surgeon and combat medic on the team; his high value to the team means the brass is unwilling to send him out directly into the fray, however, so Ms. Agave serves as the field medic, with Mr. Takahashi taking those in dire need of medical attention directly to Battalion to be addressed by Mr. McCarthy. He has never once lost a patient.

Though his abilities are not as extensive as Mr. Kennedy’s, Mr. McCarthy is capable of shifting into a number of different creatures, as is the case with most druids. His favorite forms are the bear, the goat, and the raven.

Mr. McCarthy is somehow capable of siphoning his divine blessings to the team, providing energy, vitality, and strength to each member of the team. To say I’m jealous would be an understatement. If I could spread even a single brain cell, a single DROP of Apollo or Thoth’s great enlightenment to ANY of my team members, we would have taken over the world by now. As it stands, Mr. McCarthy is only to provide blessings for short-term engagements, as one of the side effects of blessing people with Cernunnos’s will is... ah... increased fertility. This means lots of hormones, and the need to breed clouding every person’s better judgement.

Mr. McCarthy’s natural affinity for spirits, plants, and animals has helped his relationship with Ms. Agave immensely, and oftentimes the two bounce off of each other, working as a cohesive unit. Ms. Agave has expressed a potential interest in having her family moved to The Tearmann Grove, a forest in Northern Ireland under Mr. McCarthy’s protection. 

Mr. McCarthy’s increased stamina, strength, endurance, speed, and vitality (we will not mention the fertility part) has helped him to carry out tasks that would normally require the strength of hundreds of men; as it stands, Simon’s addition to the team has meant that Mr. Amos no longer needs to do all of the heavy lifting.

Cernunnos’s blessing has granted Mr. McCarthy massive rams horns that, should he find himself cornered, he can use to gore enemies; not even the strongest armor can stand up to his horns.

Finally, the druidic runes and tattoos inscribed on Mr. McCarthy’s body provide a sort of defense system, should anyone attempt to capture him; touch must be verified and approved by Simon first, otherwise his body will naturally reject any and all contact in a rather... excruciating manner. Imagine going to place your hand on him in one spot and ending up being burned with the fires of a thousand suns, or placing a hand on another rune and feeling the pain of being put to death in an electric chair. His body is a temple, but more or less one of those temples you see in an Indiana Jones movie.

NOTABLE WEAKNESSES:

Simon has an incredibly weak constitution. It is hard to tell what will set him off, but if something is gross or upsetting enough, he will either cry, run away, or vomit. This has made confronting him with problems infuriatingly confusing because on one hand I trust this man to put his hands inside of my guts when they’re falling out, but at the same time he is a child I wish to hug and assure that everything will be alright.

Despite his tolerance for emotions and stimuli, he has been known to be overwhelmed at times, rendering him incapacitated in a multitude of ways for days. During this time, Mr. McCarthy can generally be found laying in bed, trying to read a good book or sleep. The symptoms are very common with those of fatigue and exhaustion.

Simon’s many blessings have the unfortunate side effect of giving him the disposition of a wild animal. Is he capable of reasoning? Yes. Does that mean he is any less bestial? Hell no. I once walked into the common room to see him in his goat form, chewing on a tin can. He stared into my eyes as he swallowed it whole. It was a traumatizing experience.

Simon requires an extensive amount of time for meditation and preparation before a task is to be carried out, and interrupting even one of his chants or incantations is grounds for starting over. In worst case scenarios, interrupting a chant has been known to summon horrible demonic entities. Be fucking careful people.

Simon is averse to violence, as am I. He is not above getting his hands dirty when need be, but that is a last resort. He has described himself as a lover and not a fighter, and despite being the guardian of both this team and his sacred grove, the druid only uses force when all else has failed.

DIAGNOSES:

Hyper-sexuality, due to increased vitality given by Cernunnos.

High-Functioning Autism.

Hyper-Sensitive Persons Disorder.

Empathy.

ADHD.

BACKGROUND:

Hello! Simon here!

There is not much to tell about my family; my father was a Celtic druid and my mother was a Greek acolyte. My twin sister and I followed much of the same route.

Keep in mind when I say “twin”, my sister does not look a thing like me. I am pale, with some tan marks here and there, with the appearance of an Irishman, while my sister has the skin color and complexion of a Central Asian woman. This is how it has always been in our family.

Our names, bodies, appearances are all determined by who we choose as our patron deities. We have been coveted by Gods of every major pantheon; our decision is made when we are 18, and then our bodies change to match.

I was seduced by Cernunnos and Abnubo, and so when I made the decision to serve them, I was given rams horns, suns for eyes, and a pale complexion with long red hair. I chose the name Siomon Mac Carthaigh. She chose the name Minerva Stanis. She was deadset on serving Athena ever since she was 12.

I headed out into the world, emigrating to Ireland to begin planting and caring for my Sanctuary. A Grove where creatures of all kind could live in peace. It is my only purpose in this life. I guard it with my life.

Sometimes I write to Minerva, who owns a small book shop in Athens that she uses as a front for her alchemy and witchcraft. Sometimes she writes back, tells me about all the battles she had seen with Athena. Sometimes I smirk to myself. She never wanted to be a champion for glory, never wanted to fight, and she chose Athena simply because she would give her freedom; and yet Athena had just as many enemies as the next God.

It ended up that I had the most peaceful and relaxing job of the two of us. I hang out with animals, tattoo my body, and tend to plants. At least I did.

In the early 1900s, I received a divination from my patron Gods for the first time in 30 years. It was time for me to spread their will and serve alongside mortals. I was told about this project, despite it barely being a thought in Dr. Fero’s head. I sought them out, but by the time I arrived, Dr. Fero had already found everyone else.

Now I listen to people’s problems and provide emotional support. Still not as bad as fighting Manticores.

Recipient: Doctor Carter King-Fero, Director of Project:Nero

Sender: Agatha Ives, Director of Central Intelligence Agency Covert Affairs

Doctor Fero,

Firstly I should like to congratulate you and your team on yet another successful mission. Given the nature of this correspondence, I refuse to elaborate further, but just know I am well aware of the sacrifices your team has made for this country, and though I cannot publicly endorse or compensate you for your efforts, this country thanks you.

On to the nature of this letter, I felt it only fair to warn you about what the boys at Washington have cooked up for you. As you know, the Committee of Supernatural Affairs was created after the Roswell incident as a diversion from ACTUAL supernatural affairs and to dissuade the public from investigating and, potentially, disrupting your efforts.

I regret to inform you that the Senate has been pushed to dissolve the Committee due to a lack of ‘results’. Throughout the years the Committee has dedicated itself to doing absolutely nothing, for your sake, but now I fear there are only two outcomes.

One, someone in Washington grows a conscience and decides to go public with the actual details of supernatural and paranormal sightings, undoing the work that your team has performed alongside the DOD and DOHS. Which, invariably, will lead to mass panic and, likely, the disintegration of society as we know it.

The second, less likely and less dangerous outcome, is that Washington leaves the Committee dissolved, claims “heresy” and “superstition”, and keeps the American people at large in the dark about the going ons. Of course, this would not change much, given we’ve never truly made any attempts at transparency, but now that we live in the information era, and the fact that you would not have an entire subsection of Congress to help you erase evidence of your existence, it would create a tricky situation, your only options being to hire a genius-level hacker whose full time job would be to silence those who know too much, or we would have to completely outsource your team, sending you across the globe.

Given that Washington wishes to focus more on foreign than domestic affairs, I would say the second option would only make your job more difficult and leave you with an even bigger workload.

Please take into consideration these words, think carefully about your next course of action, and be prepared for a storm in case the Committee is dissolved.

Signed, Agatha Ives

_________________________________________________

RECIPIENT: Agatha Ives, Director of Central Intelligence Agency Covert Affairs

SENDER: Doctor Carter King-Fero, Director of Project:Nero

Dearest Agatha,

Give me the techie.

The brass never cease to amaze me at how ridiculous their codenames for our operatives are. Ms. Agave could slice any of them open and they give her a nickname that basically equates to a harmless bush, just because it is associated with a bush.

Ms. Agave is thankfully one of the least complicated members of this team, so this profile should end up being rather short. 

NAME: Dinah Agave

ALIASES: Ms. Agave, Shrub, Prick, Cowgirl, Desperado

AGE: 44

HEIGHT: 5′6″

WEIGHT: 185 lbs.

SPECIES: Agave Barrel Cactus Dryad; American Southwestern; Century Variation

NOTABLE ABILITIES:

When it comes to survival, it seems that none of our operatives can beat out Ms. Agave. Dryads are known to take on the attributes of the plants they serve host to, and Ms. Agave seems to have taken the barrel cactus’s acclimation to harsh environments, ability to subsist on little water, and general energy stockpiling abilities to become almost completely self-dependent.

This holds true for endurance and stamina as well. 

While Ms. Agave is no Aloe plant, she does seem to have profound healing abilities. Being the most natural being on the team, one literally connected to the Earth, it seems only natural. As such, Ms. Agave seems to be the plant-based equivalent of a universal plasma and blood donor, and provided she is given enough water, she can pump out an endless amount.

Ms. Agave also seems to be one of the few nonhumans on the team who bothered to pick up a gun before being recruited. Her former location was in what was previously the “American Frontier”, the Wild Wild West; she witnessed many encounters and seemingly scavenged what she could to become a legendary figure in her own right, and a deadly gunslinger.

I suppose nobody ever figured out that if you just shot the cactus she always stood next to, you wouldn’t die.

Ms. Agave’s aim with lever-action firearms is unrivaled, so much so that our resident cold-blooded sniper (who doesn’t even have a heartbeat to trip him up) was outgunned by Ms. Agave.

While nearly all other operatives on the team seem to be highly specialized in some form or another, Ms. Agave is a jack-of-all-trades. She is skilled in CQB and adept at providing firing support to front-line combatants such as Agent Shepherd or Agent Shifter, her high adaptability and low maintenance allows for her to be dropped behind enemy lines and engage in surveillance activities (she’s a fucking cactus, what enemy would shoot a cactus unprovoked), and she has seen enough and been around long enough to help me with the more technological aspects of my job, as well as serving as a go-between for the rest of the team and our head strategist, Mr. Takahashi.

This being said, Ms. Agave’s unique natural skills allow her to instantly tame any wild beast, sometimes even better than Mr. Amos can, and she is skilled at the art of terraforming, surpassing what even modern science is capable of.

As a cactus dryad, Dinah is capable of summoning the large, pin-like needles that surround her body at will, serving as a biological form of extra armor, though given the ready availability of other armor types, this seems to be redundant and only useful as a last-ditch effort. As it stands, the needles she produces while in Dryad form are much longer than that of a normal cactus and can be weaponized as crude projectiles.

As of [DATE REDACTED], Ms. Agave has been discovered to have an altered, superior state when continuously hooked up to a water source. The constant influx of water through apparatus similar to an oxygen canister mixed with an IV bag have significantly improved Ms. Agave’s response times, sturdiness, durability, strength, and cognitive activity. Some of our younger human colleagues have described her as the dryad version of a fictional character known as “Bane”. Given that both Bane and Ms. Agave are technically Mexican superhumans capable of great feats of strength and intellect and rely on various liquids for both sustenance and power, I would say the comparison is not completely unwarranted.

NOTABLE WEAKNESSES

Do you remember how I said water was a great source of strength for Ms. Agave? It also turns out to be a great weakness in many ways.

You see, the laws of nature dictate that no one species can be dominant, and if something does not have a natural predator, evolution will either make it so they do, or it will find ways to make them weaker. When evolution gave cactus plants their extreme adaptability, prickly spines, and resilience, it came with an unspoken contract. Immobility. Complete fucking immobility. Through intense training of her dryad form, Ms. Agave has slowly begun to overcome that, but she is still not as mobile as the typical human; indeed, were it not for the support devices hooked up to her, she would be even slower than Mr. Amos.

Given that Dinah still infuriatingly obeys the laws of nature and physics, she, like any other dense and immobile object when placed in water, will sink and drown. Swimming is a definitive no.

Dinah is insusceptible to psychological attacks and yet this also leaves her as the least relateable member of the team. Nobody seems to understand the gravity of a situation such as Dinah being in danger. Due to her status as a jack of all trades, she is one of our greatest trump cards, and even though the others should know better by now, they have a tendency to overestimate her abilities.

“Dinah got captured? Can’t she just like turn into a cactus and then escape by herself?” No Dean you absolute himbo, she CAN’T, and even if she COULD, we do NOT abandon team members.

Dinah is unable to speak, and unlike Dean’s telepathic communication abilities, she can only use sign language and written language. She is also unskilled in the art of body language despite logic dictating that, as a nonverbal communicator, other nonverbal communicative forms should be even easier. This is not the case.

DIAGNOSES

Inconclusive evidence.

BACKGROUND

My name is Dinah Agave. Doctor Fero was kind enough to at least allow me to write my own background.

There isn’t much to say, I suppose. I used to have a nice family, and being a barrel cactus wasn’t so bad.

Humans came along and the predictable, inevitable happened. The once peaceful desert was now inhabited by loud, somewhat annoying folks.

I remember the town vividly. They called it a boom town; lots of prospectors came and went, and law had yet to come to the waste. Well, law as the humans knew it. Somewhere along the line, the humans began to build closer to our edge of the valley... but never beyond. It was like we were used as markers. Eventually a sign with the town name was placed to sit next to us. It brought unwanted attention.

You see, as a cactus, I am not interesting. I am not supposed to be interesting. This is how it is. But humans are fascinated by the mundane aspects of nature, perhaps because they strayed so far from their own true selves, and time and time again, my family and I remained the only ones in the town unchanged. I remember one day a young woman from a nearby town came stumbling through the night, seeking refuge.

She collapsed just before the entrance to town, just at my feet, and her blood soaked my spines.

What followed was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life.

The body disappeared and for the first time in my life I ceased to be aware of anything. It was terrifying. This sleep you humans talk about is horrible. When I... awoke, I was dressed in leathers of all kinds, a long duster, and a wide-brimmed hat. I looked down and what were once nice little spines had changed into horrible fleshy human arms, ending in multi-limbed little things called hands. My body once straight and hard was now curvy and soft, and I felt myself slouch uncomfortably from the weight of the world. Why do humans fight against the gentle breeze, against gravity?

It seemed the woman who had stumbled into town in a bloodstained dress, who died at my feet, had been resurrected, only with my memories and perspective. Disgusting. If humans have such a thing as a soul, then I hope hers found the peace it needed.

Still, this body had its uses. I could now stand as a watchful guardian for my family and, begrudgingly, for the town I had come to care about. Thousands of so-called vaqueros, cowboys, and desperados came to the town. So many outlaws, too. I didn’t have much except for a six-shooter and a lever-action rifle. 

And fucking invulnerability. That too.

None stood a chance and I became known as the Agave Guardian. Stupid, but it gets the point across. Eventually the town bustled into a metropolis and my work was done. The Sheriff once saw fit to award me with a gold star, unofficially deputizing me. I think all of them in that town knew the truth. I wasn’t just some woman who appeared overnight. 

My confirmation that they had always known came in the form of some G-men showing up in the early 1900s, accusing me of being a “dryad” and conscripting me into their little task force.

Ah, Carter is such a sweetheart. He plays all tough but one simple flutter of my eyelashes and he’s around my thumb.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but only one post.”

What a darling boy.

You know what this blog needs? More style. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a reason Carter designs his posts these ways, in the style of reports and unbiased journals, but when even he fails at being unbiased, one must wonder how good a job he is doing of hooking in readers.

Should I tell you a story? I think I shall.

Once upon a time, there lived a sweet, naive young succubus. His name was Nathaniel, and he was born beneath the spires of the Vatican, far below ground, deep in the pits of the inferno. His parents loved him and, despite the connotations, a demon really knew how to be happy in those times.

He did not want for anything, for the material was useless. He did not want -- he craved.

Love, affection, desire. These are what a succubus dreams of. 

Yes, demons have dreams too. And just like humans, parents love to entertain a child’s dream for as long as they can.

All I... all Nathaniel wanted was to fall in love and raise a family. It did not matter which sex he ended up with. Having a child was as easy as willing one into existence, provided you truly connected with your partner.

Succubi do not age. They do not truly change. When they are willed into existence, they shall forever have the attributes they are born with. When I was willed into existence, I was regrettably made rather short. Four foot ten. Yes, yes, get your jokes out now. Shorty, lil’ guy, blah blah blah. I have heard it all before.

Well, our bodies may not change much, but there are certain subtleties that humans don’t pick up on. Those parts of us change. The color of our eyes, the depth of our chin, the length of our brow. Minute by minute, as I sit in front of you, I will eventually become irresistible to you. It is as inevitable as a human taking a breath.

Yet it is not always convenient. Living a life where one’s looks are always changing, where appearance does not mean a thing, can sometimes lead to dysmorphia. Disconnect between the soul and the body. I am thankful enough to know who I am... and yet my mother’s stories did make me want.

‘One day you will find someone who can see the real you,’ she told me. ‘And then you will know you have found your one true love.’

It has been several hundred years. I have not met them yet.

Like any youngling impatient and craving such a life-giving thing, I went mad from the waiting and escaped to the surface. It was not pleasant.

I don’t wish to go into any further details, but know this.

I suppose I should preface this by explaining myself to you. You see, while all of these documents are highly classified and secretive, I also want  to make sure you will read them. Call me biased or whatever, but every good writer has a message, even if they are merely documenting truth. Facts without an overarching theme or message is just journalism, and that is not what this is.

We are real. We are more like you than you could ever know. And by the Gods, I WILL have you understand us by the end of this project.

The following is a brief description of the relationship between our resident angel and demon. Specifically, a Persian Peri and a Japanese yokai. 

As two beings from different sides of the supernatural meter, divine versus unholy, good versus evil, blessed versus cursed, you would think that Mr. Al-Hashemi and Mr. Takahashi despise each other. The truth of the matter is they get along better than anyone else on the team. Both have been denied access to their homes for being too unnatural, not fitting the bill; Mr. Al-Hashemi is a mischievous sex addict whom at one point took up a job as a prostitute, while Mr. Takahashi is a reserved and oftentimes quiet yokai that inhabits the darkness that follows us. Indeed, it is an angel’s job to be disciplined, thoughtful, and even-tempered, while it is a demon’s job to be ruthless, maddening, and irrational.

Mr. Al-Hashemi’s debauchery knows no bounds (though I should clarify he is NOT a predator), and Mr. Takahashi’s debauchery is less than that of even the most pure angel.

There have been times when I have caught them, though. The unmistakable pull towards each other; a magnetic force that should have incited hatred, instigated war.

The first time it happened was after our first mission as a 10-man unit. The giant and the succubus had left quickly, as neither were used to being around others for very long, and the two undead had taken a liking to each other very quickly. The three female-aligned members of the team, the Fury, the dryad, and the cryptid, all decided to retreat to get to know each other better. If you’re able to count correctly, then you will note this only leaves me, the angel, and the demon.

The tension was palpable. I cannot say that I have ever truly felt fear in my life, but in that moment, I cursed the brass for being so reckless and stupid as to bring a divine being and a demonic being together.

Fortunately, I had still been thinking in terms of Christian mythos. Not all angels and demons are like ours, thank the Gods. The two of them quickly turned into good friends, and I was amazed at how... handsy they were each other. 

I am no prude but male intimacy between friends is not something I can say I am familiar with. It seems that even after 3,000 years I have not learned to separate the platonic from the romantic.

Is it platonic though?

Mr. Al-Hashemi does not speak. His voice does not work. And yet Mr. Takahashi understands him just fine. They kiss each other on the cheek and for a moment I swear their gazes linger. There is a profound connection there that I long for with somebody, anybody. I fear that even if soulmates exist, I will never have the same connection as Seraph and Shadow.

They go to bed together each night. None of us are sure if they sleep together or... ah, “sleep together”. We dare not ask.

Now my mind is delving into places I would rather keep closed off to the likes of you. My point was to humanize us, not fetishize us.

Ugh, where was I?

The teamwork that the two of them exhibit is amazing, but the both of them have their own respective fields. When engaged in tactics that require aerial superiority and tactical information, when espionage, brute-force, and long range fighting doesn’t work, Seraph takes to the skies. The Fury, Sister, is usually right beside him, but their job is to distract. Crowd control.

Seraph finds the target he’s looking for. A commander, a tactician, anyone who would know enough. At the speed of light, the Seraph has captured them and brought them to Takahashi’s waiting arms.

Then Takahashi begins his work.

When I tell you that Takahashi is a reserved and all-around pleasant man, make no mistake. He’s just as capable of violence as the rest of us. His type is simply... the more brutal, more psychological kind.

Civilizations have risen and fallen, wars have constantly been waged, and yet the question we always find ourselves debating is whether torture is humane.

I will tell you now: your government does not care about being humane, especially not when they employ the likes of us.

Takahashi works efficiently and quickly with little regards to his victim’s rights. Once we have enough information to map out the battlefield, Takahashi’s work is done, for the most part. He disseminates the information into well-thought strategies, and serves as our foremost Tactical Operations Officer.

Usually when the briefings are over, it is just like that night. I am alone with the Seraph and the Shadow, and their eyes quietly ask me to leave.

Ah, Mr. Amos. The Starwatcher. The Shepherd. The Survivor. There are many names that my massive friend has taken over the years, but the only one he seems to consciously retain is “Amos”. Any attempts at a first or even middle name have been met with failure, and it has been confirmed that Canadian Mountain Giants do not even adhere to a typical giant nomenclature or tribal structure; that is to say, Amos is not his clan’s name, and Mr. Amos’s refusal or inability to divulge any more information than he has already given us makes finding records of him or his tribe next to impossible, unless one of you schleps feels like hiking through the Canadian wilderness. I’ll leave the moose fighting to the RCMP, thank you very much.

I am told by Mr. Amos that remark could be construed as offensive and inaccurate to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Yet, if they do not FIGHT the moose, how do they mount it?

I am being told now that they do not ride moose.

My apologies. It seems that even they have enough sense not to pick a fight with those massive death machines.

One of these days I must have a word with Epimetheus.

Regardless of the hellish landscape my massive friend is from, he IS a dear friend of mine, and the only one amongst our company who surpasses me in age. His wisdom shows, though his age does not. He is pleasant company, if a bit quiet and reserved at times. I sometimes worry he only interacts with me out of fear of angering my patron god Apollo again -- we shall get to that part soon.

Anyhow, I suppose we should get this underway. Once again the lovely Doctor [REDACTED] has deemed herself fit to evaluate Mr. Amos’s mental state. Even though nobody asked, I’m starting to think that these psychological evaluations are just excuses to try and assign labels to that which is inherently unique. Classifying that which cannot be classified. Which of you scientists has lived for over 2000 years? Nobody? That’s what I thought.

NAME: Amos

ALIASES: Mr. Amos, Goliath, The Shepherd, The Slaughterer, The Survivor

AGE: Approximately 4,500 years old, by his own estimation

HEIGHT: 20 Meters (non-suppressed), 3 Meters (suppressed)

Note: Mr. Amos requested we use the metric system because, and I quote, “America needs to get with the times” and “Citizens of other countries might read this”. Mr. Amos is wrong on both accounts, but nonetheless I have accommodated his ridiculous request, if only because I remember what it was like to not be beholden to America’s rules. For any of you Americans scrolling through this (I’m assuming that would be all of you), his respective heights are 65 feet when not wearing his suppression amulet and 9 feet when wearing the suppression amulet. Approximately. I promise you I tried every method under the sun to get the man under 9 feet but it is impossible.

WEIGHT: 9071 Kilograms/20,000 pounds (non-suppressed), 1,360 Kilograms/3,000 pounds (suppressed)

Again, I tried every method under the sun to make this giant hunk of muscle be able to walk around without leaving craters everywhere, and 3,000 pounds seems to be the best I can get. Gods watch over you if you get in-between this man and his protein.

SPECIES: Giant/Goliath (SUBSPECIES: Canadian Mountain Giant)

NOTABLE ABILITIES:

Gods above, what CAN’T he do?

Apologies, but one cannot help but be in awe of the giant known as Amos.

For starters, with the assistance of an amulet I made specifically for him (you know, because I’m a savant), Mr. Amos can solve the problem of not being small enough for human interaction by shrinking considerably, reducing his overall mass. Your human law of conservation says this is impossible, but Apollo and Thoth spit in the face of your Einstein.

Even while in his shrunken form, Mr. Amos is proportionately strong for a man of his size. Further testing over the years has shown Mr. Amos actually retains his strength of his non-suppressed form at 100% efficiency, and his strength is actually so great that we as weaklings are incapable of differentiating between his different levels.

On a side note, have I mentioned how beautiful this man is?

No, really. This is INCREDIBLY important. When you think of a giant, a certain image comes to mind, right? Some gnarled, ugly, unwashed heap of muscles and meat who doesn’t even know what a loincloth is.

Unfortunately for my poor little heart, Mr. Amos’s species seems to have properties similar to only one other known creature: the fucking succubus. Which is just fantastic, because one of my comrades is a succubus.

This means that Mr. Amos, as well as Mr. di Carina, constantly make subtle changes to their appearance with every passing second to appear more and more beautiful, and constantly release pheromones designed to make sentient creatures of ANY gender attracted to them. This means that, somehow, if Mr. di Carina is ever rendered out of action, the fucking GIANT is our next option for seducing someone. Terrific.

A notable distinction is that succubi surpass expectations of gender; for instance, Mr. di Carina is constantly adjusting to standards of beauty, appearing male to some, and female to others, and retaining an all around feminine appearance in spite of it all. However in all known instances, Mr. Amos has only ever appeared to fit the observers ideal of an attractive male.

I feel guilty for objectifying Mr. Amos, despite how many times he has assured me it is perfectly fine. Gods grant me the strength to continue.

Mr. Amos is capable of traversing massive bodies of water and land in little to no time. The strain on his body appears to be nonexistent, though with his appetite it would be unable to tell if his body is expending more energy than is the norm.

As befitting a giant, Mr. Amos has a ridiculously high pain threshold. Many have compared the man to the fictional character “The Juggernaut”, and indeed it would be a comprehensive comparison if not for Mr. Amos’s weaknesses.

NOTABLE WEAKNESSES:

As mentioned before, Mr. Amos has been compared to the fictional Juggernaut of Marvel series fame. However, if the Juggernaut is an unstoppable force like a freight train, then Mr. Amos is more of a... unstoppable Sherman. He has traded Mr. Juggernaut’s weakness to psychic powers and a binding contract to a deity for moving about as fast as a turtle.

I should clarify. Mr. Amos is not slow by any means, but the mere power in his steps and his dense body means that gravity is constantly weighing down on him, and were he to pick up speed, the already massive craters he calls footsteps would eventually dig through to the Earth’s core and he would all die. Mr. Amos moves deliberately and once he reaches his target, they will be decimated. However, this makes hit and run tactics very disadvantageous, and instead makes Mr. Amos a useful front line combatant and siege unit; I wish that we had been able to make use of Mr. Amos’s abilities when fighting in the Somme.

As mentioned before, as the biggest member of Project: Nero, Mr. Amos requires a massive amount of sustenance. I have seen 90 nobles of the most wasteful houses go through less food in a week-long feast than Mr. Amos does. Apparently this insatiable appetite does not disturb the ration officers; I saw one of them reading a book by some Welsh author about giants and such and the ‘why’ became clear.

Due to his inability to be stopped combined with his high maintenance, we are currently only really able to bring Mr. Amos’s giant form out as an ultimate trump card... and because the chaos caused would not be able to hide our existence to the world anymore. The government only authorizes the transformation if they don’t want any survivors or witnesses.

Subsequently, this treatment of Mr. Amos as an emergency-only monster, deemed to chaotic compared to the likes of even Mr. Takahashi have lead to some... harsh treatment of Mr. Amos by the human outliers of the science team. It has not been good for Mr. Amos’s self-esteem and were it not for the fact that I have no real authority and we must meet a human quota, I would order these hateful beasts to be executed painfully and without mercy.

As of recently, Mr. Amos’s age has finally caught up with him, at least mentally, and the anguish of his perfect memory and knowledge of the past has caused him to become closed-off, lowering team morale.

Make no mistake. I may be the de facto leader of this little ragtag group of freaks, but Mr. Amos is the heart.

PSYCHOLOGICAL DIAGNOSES AND PERSONALITY TRAITS:

Mr. Amos has a severe case of survivor’s guilt, as well as imposter syndrome, though his feelings of fraudulence appear to be completely unfounded as the man has been nothing but forthcoming.

As of Mr. Amos’s deployment to Vietnam and his subsequent return home, routine psychological evaluations seemed to indicate development of post-traumatic stress disorder and late-onset dissasociative identity disorder, if there truly is such a thing as late-onset DID. It is more likely that the giant has been battling with this disorder his entire life, and the harsh conditions and psychological trauma suffered while in Vietnam simply made him unable to mask his suffering anymore. I cannot imagine what it must be like to suffer for over 4,000 years in silence. The man has been suffering from survivor’s guilt for over 2,000 years as well, indicating that whatever happened to his tribe, it happened long before Europeans ever made contact with the Americas.

Mr. Amos seems to have an intense fear of death, as if the concept never occurred to him before.

Behind a deeply troubled man lies a heart almost as massive as he is. No, not literally. That would be biologically impossible. As Dr. Fero previously stated, Mr. Amos is certainly the most beloved member of his team... by his fellow squadmates, at least. I have nothing against Mr. Amos, do not get me wrong. However, the also aforementioned treatment of Mr. Amos by my fellow humans does not make me eager to approach him and inevitably cause more pain.

Mr. Amos is a deeply spiritual man, and seems to be in tune with nature. He is all-loving, and this attitude seems to endear him to everyone, especially the mostly prickly Agent Shrub. Yes, that was a pun, and no, I will not tell you why. I suppose you’ll find out once we get to Agent Shrub’s profile.

Even despite his fear of humans, Mr. Amos has made efforts to understand us - something that I cannot say my colleagues have done. Mr. Amos is a skilled baker and farmhand, and his skill levels equal those of one with PhDs in horticulturalism, herbalism, agriculturalism, animal behavior, science, and even culinary arts. I cannot describe the cakes he makes, for they are filled with something that we humans cannot even grasp. When we say something is made with “love”, I’m not sure we even know what “love” is. When I first tasted some of Mr. Amos’s pastries, I cried. Everyone always does. It tastes divine. It reminds me of... well, I shouldn’t get into details of my own life.

Mr. Amos has shown signs of a crippling loneliness and every time I look at him I want to help. I know I cannot, but when I catch glimpses of his eyes I see a man in need of love.

Note: The rest of the lines have been scribbled out, crossed out, drowned in white-out, and are evidently too embarrassing for Doctor [REDACTED] to repeat.

BACKGROUND:

Hello, all. I will try to keep this short.

My name is incomprehensible in the human tongue, and so I go by Amos. I once had a first and middle name, but the shame of losing my tribe has caused me to discard them.

I couldn’t protect them, and I cannot protect the ones I care about. I will not lie to you and pretend that I read Carter or Yvette’s analyses of me. I will instead tell you the plain, hard facts of my life.

I was born to a loving mother named Viktoria, and a just-as-loving father named Isaac. For a while, life was happy. Giants of my type generally live longer than humans can comprehend; death by old age would not happen until thousands of civilizations would rise and fall. I did not have to worry about mortality. Even when I died, I knew the Gods would reincarnate me as something infinitely more beautiful, such as a gust of wind, or a bird, or a flower. Such is life.

Our clan was exempt from most of the horrors that other giants faced; there was no such thing as war for us. There was no shortage of supplies, no shortage of responsibilities or things to do. We were shepherds. Farmers, bakers, herbalists, apothecaries, we were the providers, the caretakers of this world. Epimetheus’s favored tribe, we carried on long after he and Prometheus were punished for their hubris.

Our clan cared for all the sacred, exotic animals of the different pantheons, but chief amongst them were the Greeks. Athena’s owls, Poseidon’s stallions, Dionysus’s leopards... the most important were Apollo’s sacred cattle. For a while we were happy. Good at our jobs.

And perhaps if that peace had lasted, you would not be hearing from me.

When humans first came to the continent, we welcomed them with open arms. They were kind and kept to themselves; they held much of the same views about land as we did. Unfortunately, humans carry so many viral diseases that they even poison each other accidentally. It was no surprise, then, that left and right giants started to come down with what was only called “the pestilence”. With fewer farmers to tend to the vast fields, to take care of the animals, our crops and livestock dwindled. Panic and mass hysteria set in. Some giants left to try to feast on the very humans that had brought this plague -- but that in and of itself is against the nature of giants. Hatred is not in our veins. We do not resent mankind for bringing sickness. It is simply the will of the Gods.

And so those who feasted on human flesh were stripped of their clan names and their rights, marked as monsters.

But the pestilence and famine continued, and finally death came to us. In Christian mythos, there is a fourth horseman, and if you know who he is, then you should be able to predict what came next.

War. Infighting broke out amongst us. I was hardly a child; 2000 years old. My parents, who should have lived for tens of thousands of years more, were cut down in the blink of an eye. So enraged and desperate where we, so powerful was the cursed horseman’s influence, that we made weapons that should not have been able to kill us, and yet did -- through the power of hatred or through ingenuity, I do not know. What I do remember was seeing my former clansmen feasting on the remains of my parents. Once again they had turned to the unthinkable, the horrible, in order to survive this horrible time.

When the war was over, thankfully the winning side were not the cannibals. The cannibals were not only marked as monsters, but it was decided that they should be executed as well. So disgusting and long-lasting were War’s repugnant effects that once we learned how to kill each other, we still used it. They were killed. It was the will of the Gods.

With our quelled numbers, it was theorized that surely we should be able to survive on the food now, yes? No.

Giants still starved. Babies passed due to the pestilence. And we still killed one another.

Eventually my more weak-willed kin gave up hope. Truly there WAS no way of the Gods. They had abandoned us.

And once the Gods abandoned us, why should we keep ourselves from taking what was no longer sacred, but instead sustenance?

I watched in horror and fear as the four horsemen left before my very eyes. With each bloodied hand that dug into a bull or cow, I could feel the gentle warmth of the sun turn to a blistering fire.

Before my very eyes, the four horsemen were replaced by one angry God.

Apollo vaporized my tribe. I was the only one not to eat the cattle. No, I had instead prayed every day to Apollo as I lovingly tended to his remaining cows.

And for this, he spared me.

The rest is all relative.

Learn from my mistakes. Please.

Allow me to preface this, dear reader, by saying that I was perfectly capable of assessing myself in a non-biased fashion. Yet my colleagues, both human and inhuman, disagreed with me. Something about embellishment and the likes. The very notion that I should exaggerate or show bias on a scientific or academic research paper, ESPECIALLY on myself, is pure idiocy.

Nevertheless, Agents Shepherd and Sister ensured me that they would make sure it was accurate. Is it ironic that I trust a carnivorous giant and one of the three Furies better than my other comrades? No, irony is perhaps not the best word. Maybe disturbing?

Enough. The point is, I am posting these profiles on every member of our team, excluding the human scientists. Since I am the one giving words to the going ons, serving as your narrator, I found it appropriate the first entry should be about me.

I compiled all of my biological data and had Dr. [REDACTED], the resident therapist and psychiatrist, perform the psychological evaluation.

NAME: Carter King

ALIASES: Dr. Fero, Agent Statue

AGE: Born 35 BCE

HEIGHT: 6′2″

WEIGHT: 2,500 lbs. (when petrified), 210 lbs. (when unpetrified)

SPECIES: Enhanced Human

NOTABLE ABILITIES:

Subject possesses a genius level intellect, and boasts knowledge of many civilizations that have risen and fallen.

Subject is completely invulnerable to any kind of physical damage when petrified; subject is also incredibly dense in this form, composed of rare gems and metals that fall off when the sun sets. Incidentally, dropping Doctor Fero into hot zones from high altitudes has created massive impacts comparable to those caused by mortar shells, and the sheer amount of gems Doctor Fero sheds during night has been enough to personally fund the Task Force on its own.

Subject is in peak physical form and it appears many of his organ systems, such as digestive, respiratory, and reproductive have been rendered unnecessary with his transformation. Though he is unhappy about it, Doctor Fero’s extra... “space” in his body has allowed for regenerative abilities previously unseen. Doctor Fero is unable to die, but this short term regeneration allows him to stay in the fight for long periods of time.

Subject has been granted blessings by both Roman and Egyptian Gods, vastly increasing his strength and speed.

  NOTABLE WEAKNESSES:

The most obvious weakness is subject’s nocturnal lifestyle and complete lack of mobility during the day. It should also be noted that Doctor Fero’s first few minutes after “reawakening” are spent in a feral, destructive frenzy that, while short-lived, is capable of causing irreparable and immense damage to those around him. It is for this reason that it is highly advised to run as far as possible when the petrified Doctor starts to shed his gems and crystals, as complete depetrification is sure to follow.

Subject’s immortality has lead to reckless actions and behaviors that can be classified as worrying at best and downright self-destructive at worst.

Subject is an incredibly slow learner when it comes to grasping technology; by the time Doctor Fero learns how to use a computer, we will likely have moved on to holograms as a society.

Subject is inexperienced with firearms of any sort and seems to detest violence as a whole. If sufficiently motivated, Doctor Fero can still fight on the same levels as Agents Shepherd or Swampy, though only in close quarters combat.

PSYCHOLOGICAL DIAGNOSES AND PERSONALITY TRAITS:

Doctor Fero appears to suffer from multiple trauma-related disorders, as well as many behavioral disorders that come with living for so long.

Notably, Doctor Fero is a textbook definition of a megalomaniac, one who exaggerates self-worth, has lowered feelings of empathy, and an excessive need for admiration and affection. Note that this does NOT mean Doctor Fero is incapable of feeling affection, admiration, or positive emotions for others. Most likely, Doctor Fero’s status as a megalomaniac is a result of being “blessed” by two Gods, and then forced to watch anyone you could ever care about die. Doctor Fero has outlasted everyone, and unlike most of the immortals on the team, he is well-known publicly - Carter is recognized as an important historical figure and any college level ethics or philosophy class WILL have at least one unit dedicated to deciphering his works.

It is theorized amongst my comrades that Doctor Fero suffers from intense insomnia, even if his current state does not require sleep. Doctor Fero also appears to exhibit many symptoms of one suffering from undiagnosed Bipolar Depression. Doctor Fero has gone through multiple bouts of mania during my time with him, characterized by extreme irritability, a lack of need for rest, an inability to focus on any one project at any time, and a massive crash towards the end.

Subject refuses to accept any of my diagnoses and seems to have a deep-rooted and irrational hatred of medicine, claiming that taking it would make him appear weak in front of his comrades.

Nobody on the team is without their problems, and Doctor Fero should know better than anyone. It appears he holds himself to a much, much higher standard than he holds other people.

As requested by my more… inhuman colleagues, I am to write a dissertation on my service for the United States Government, specifically from the times of the Second World War, up until the Gulf War.

Yes, you heard that right.

I served in many American wars, dating back from the 1940s to the 1990s.

That is 50 years for any of you simpletons out there.

“But Doctor,” you may ask, “wouldn’t that make you an old fart?”

Firstly, that is incredibly rude.

Second, I am older than you could comprehend. 50 years is nothing.

I do not age. I will outlive all of my friends, except for Stalk, Seraphim, Swampy, and Shifter.

There is another thing. Though you will find their personnel files when this project is inevitably retired and de-classified, you will not see me refer to my friends as their real names. We have all been assigned aliases based on our backgrounds, abilities, and abnormalities.

My name is Carter King, but seeing as I also have a Doctorate and would be referred to as “Doctor King”, I have been referred to as… Doctor Fero. It’s a pitiful attempt at a pun, given that though I am Egyptian and I indeed lived in the time of the pharaohs, I did not ever see them. I have no royal ancestry, though I am indeed as famous as those who are long dead.

For a while, I was a philosopher. I was born towards the end of Egypt’s glory days, and sold to Romans at a young age. It was not fun, but I learned that, just as with every other civilizations, the Romans had stolen their Gods and philosophical beliefs from those who came before them.

Though I am a scholar by nature, I suppose I believed in what people today would call “pagan” Gods. Apollo and Thoth were chief among my worship; the patron gods of literature and knowledge, after all.

At this point, you may once again find yourself asking, “Doctor Fero, what does this have to do with anything?”

At which point I will tell you to be patient. I’ve waited three thousand years to tell my story and I will not be denied any longer. So sit down, shut up, and listen.

Anyways, among all the great things the Romans had, freedom of speech was not chief amongst those. I made the mistake of speaking out against the Emperor and, whereas before my philosophical musings had made positive waves in the community, I now found myself facing the end of a spear instead. I was to be brought before the Emperor and executed.

What, pray tell, did I say to upset him so?

I did not say a thing. I asked.

I posed the question clearly and succinctly. “What is an emperor, but a mere human who holds the authority of the Gods?”

I was merely pointing out the hypocrisy in claiming to be a devout follower of Jupiter, and then ignoring the fact that none should ever claim to be above another.

We are humans. To them, we are insects.

The night before my execution, I was visited with an offer by Apollo and Thoth.

They had been following my work and did not wish to see my bright mind destroyed by morons. Should I accept their offer, I would live not only to see another day, but to see the end of the civilization that had kept me in chains for so long, both figuratively and literally.

I agreed, not knowing the conditions.

The next day, before the blow could be struck, I yelled to Apollo and Thoth, giving myself in freely and expecting salvation. It came in the form of petrification.

Which brings us to the next point. I am a living, breathing statue. Sure, at night, the rock and stone and dust crumble away and I move and breathe like a normal human being, but during the day I return to my statue form.

Eventually, as they promised, the empire did crumble. And I watched it all with a smile.

Unfortunately, people seemed fascinated with the Roman civilization and eventually stumbled upon me during the day. Assuming me to be a lifelike sculpture of… well, of myself (apparently my writings had survived the destruction of Rome and I became a known philosopher), and they carted me away to be kept in their primitive museums. I have been taken time and time and time again to be put on display. Thank God I was frozen in my tunic, else my unmentionables would be out on display for everyone.

Once I hit the newborn America, I watched their own civilization rise, and rise, and rise. Eventually they made a movie about me. At least, that is what I presume it is. A Ben Stiller film, if I’m not mistaken. That man is quite hilarious, in my opinion.

But back to the story.

The American government eventually discovered my supernatural properties and attempted to use it to their advantage at the turn of the 20th century. I was forcibly conscripted into a secret government program, though they at least had the decency to allow me to retain a title.

I am in charge of finding and recruiting… what do they call us, ‘cryptids?’ Monsters? I am in charge of finding beings that do not fit the societal definition of human and bringing them to Project: Nero to help us combat whatever threat America seems to want. Nazis, commies, Koreans (Swampy was particularly peeved when we went to war with his father’s homeland), and anyone who opposes us. Once they started asking us to fight abstract constructs like “drugs” or “terror”, I knew it was time to leave.

So, for now, I play along with the government, pretending to be on their side, while I plot with my comrades for a way out.

This Project used to be Project Apollo, named after the sun, the brightest thing in my life. I used to feel I had a purpose, a reason to keep going.

Now it is Project Nero, named after the most detestable person I know.

I shall keep you updated as I go, Dear Reader.

Trust nobody.