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Draven Fox forges a new family to fight the war against Dr. D |
[Introduction]  It started with six of us. Six families torn apart by the arrogance of a man who fancied himself a god. Dr. Dean Velenti "Dr. D" as he called himself; decided that human DNA wasn't enough. So he spliced ours with that of animals, twisting our bodies, rewriting our futures, and creating something the world was never meant to see. That something...was us. We were children; unwilling, unknowing. Test subjects. Creations. Weapons. Survivors. My name is Draven Fox, once the leader of the original Genetic Six; now the head of a new movement: G6 Unlimited. What began as six has grown. We are many now. Not just survivors, but fighters, thinkers, builders, each of us shaped by our past, but no longer chained to it. After the events in North Dakota; after the fire, the blood, and the truth that finally made it to daylight...we scattered. Each of us tried to forge a life outside the shadows. Some succeeded. Some didn't. It’s been ten long years since that day, and though the scars have faded on the surface, they run deep beneath. The government knows everything now. The Genetic Six are no longer secrets. The practice of gene-splicing has been outlawed...at least on paper. But there are still whispers in high places. People in power who want the research revived. Refined. Controlled. And none louder than Cameron Frost. We’ve seen what “volunteer-based” experimentation looks like. We lived it. And we’ll die before we let it happen again. They thought they buried us. They thought we’d fade away. But we’re still here. And this time, we’re not running. This time...we’re taking control. Rules For this campfire 1. If you want to be a part of this campfire then send me an email and I'll send you a list of the possible characters you can be. 2. No killing characters unless approved by me. 3. I have a plan, so major plot twists unless approved by me first. 4. Watch your mouth in here people, stick to the rating. 5. Spelling and Grammar, try to check your addition for any mistakes, though a few is okay we all make typos  6. If you have any questions or need help; email me I'm willing to help anyone. 7. You'll be emailed certain info for your character that needs to be added on occasion, so be prepared for that. 8. Do your best to add a quality addition. 500 is the minimum. 9. IF, after you've contacted me and asked for inspiration, but found nothing working for you, skip yourself or ask to be skipped. 10. Everyone has 2 days to add their addition before being auto skipped; even me. Characters Draven Fox - Age: 28 - Aka: One - Leader/Tracker Dire Wolf/Fox Hybrid DNA - tracker, strategic, stealth, cunning, leadership - Batman is at 2343485  Zaeyeon Fox – Age: 18 - Aka: Six - Tech Specialist / Hacker / Powerhouse Electric eel DNA – bioelectricity, tech interfacing - coffeehouse  Chameleon 64 - Age: 26 - Aka: Cam - Infiltration Kitchen sink combination of DNA - Subterfuge / Defensive Combat - #Stitch
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Name: Draven Fox Age: 28 Species: Human Animal Hybrid (Dire Wolf / Red Fox / Bengal Tiger) Appearance: In his human form, Draven stands at 6'1", lean yet powerfully built like a distance runner or apex predator. His musculature is honed for both speed and strength. His skin is a deep, warm bronze with rich undertones, etched with faint, irregular patterning across his shoulders and spine; ghostly remnants of the splicing process. His wild, tousled hair is dark auburn, streaked with black and silver at the tips. His piercing amber gold eyes become slitted and reflective when angered, glowing eerily in low light. In full hybrid form, Draven reaches 7'1", his frame cloaked in sleek black fur with distinctive brown V-shaped streaks. His tiger DNA makes him even more muscular and imposing than standard hybrids, his claws are thicker, his bones denser, and his roar carries a paralyzing resonance. His eyes burn amber, flashing silver under the right light. His clothing is practical and tactical: dark hooded jackets, fitted combat pants, and terrain ready boots. Around his neck hangs a worn wolf tooth pendant a memento of his brother Gabriel, and one of the few connections to the life he lost |
| Name: Zaeyeon "Six" Fox Age: 18 Species: Human-Animal Hybrid (Electric Eel DNA) Appearance: Zaeyeon stands at 5'8" with a strong, athletic build compact and agile, with quick reflexes and sharp eyes. Her skin is a smooth mahogany-copper tone with a faint bluish shimmer when viewed under certain light, especially when her bioelectric abilities activate. Raised scars resembling lightning bolt filaments run faintly along her arms and down her back evidence of her early conditioning and the energy channels etched into her flesh by experimentation. Her hair is jet black and often worn in a high braid or under a hood, though it occasionally flares with static when her emotions spike. Her eyes are bright steel-blue, and in moments of heightened charge, they pulse faintly like circuit nodes. She usually wears tactically flexible armored jumpsuits embedded with conductive fibers, gloves with interface pads, and a modified visor headset she built herself to link with comms, drones, and hacked surveillance systems. In her downtime she often wears a black hoodie with a glowing blue seam lining her own nod to stealth. In her transformed state, Zaeyeon's body becomes more conductive and luminous. Her skin radiates a faint bioluminescent glow along her veins and scars, and her hands emit arcs of crackling electricity. Thin, fin-like ridges protrude slightly from her forearms and spine, allowing for discharge modulation and heightened environmental awareness, especially in water or metal-rich environments. She can release directed shocks, overcharge tech systems with her touch, or use her body like a living battery. In full combat charge, the surrounding air becomes ionized and carries a faint scent of ozone. |
| I used to count the days by the sound of footsteps outside the reinforced glass of my cell. Heavy boots. A pause. The hiss of the lock disengaging. The door opening. A clipboard. A syringe. That’s how you tell time when your childhood is spent in a cage. They called us many things: Subjects. Assets. Weapons. We called ourselves something else: The Genetic Six We didn’t ask for the animal DNA they stitched into us. We didn’t ask to become something the world wasn’t ready for something we weren’t ready for either. We weren’t born monsters. They made us this way, under flickering fluorescent lights that smelled of bleach, blood, and burning hair as our bodies twisted and screamed themselves into something new. When the compound fell in North Dakota, the truth came out. The world finally saw what we were. The government stood in front of cameras, swore it was over, swore it was wrong, swore it would never happen again. Gene splicing was outlawed. They buried the science, buried the bodies, and buried us in silence. But not everyone was content to let the past stay dead. They think the experiment ended with us. But you can’t kill a ghost, and you can’t bury fire. And some people in power want to finish what was started. My name is Draven Fox, leader of the G6 Unlimited. And this is the story of how the past never lets you go and how sometimes, you have to burn it down before it takes everything you love again.   The rain fell like whispers over Seattle’s rotting rooftops, soft and constant, as if the sky itself was afraid to raise its voice in this city of neon decay and quiet hunger. Draven crouched on the edge of a water-streaked rooftop, the dark hood of his jacket pulled low, eyes scanning the street below where steam rose from manhole covers like the last breath of the world. His ears picked up the hum of distant neon, the soft rumble of a generator, the crackle of a power junction failing two blocks down. It wasn’t the city he was listening for. It was her. Zaeyeon “Six” Fox She was supposed to be in hiding. She had been for years, living like a ghost in the wires, dropping rumors, hacking dark networks, vanishing before anyone could catch her scent. But she wasn’t as invisible as she thought. Draven knew her pulse in the circuits, her breath in the static. She was family. The only family he had left. And she was in pain. He moved quietly down the fire escape, boots silent against rusted metal, until he reached the street. The old telecom tower loomed above him, dark and gutted, an abandoned corpse of a building. But deep inside, he could feel the prickle on the back of his neck, the static in the air. Zaeyeon was here. He found her three floors up, in a half collapsed server room lit by flickering blue screens and the faint glow of her bioluminescent veins. Her back was to him; black hair pulled into a high braid that sparked at the tips. She was elbow deep in a fried console, electricity dancing from her fingers, lighting up dead wires. “You’re getting sloppy,” Draven said. She didn’t turn. “Or maybe I wanted you to find me.” Lightning pulsed along her arm, and the screen in front of her flickered to life, dancing with lines of code, security camera feeds, names. One name pulsed red: CAMERON FROST “Tell me you’re not going after him alone,” Draven said. Zaeyeon let out a brittle laugh that cracked like glass. “He’s pushing for a new ‘volunteer’ gene program. You know what that means, Draven.” “I know exactly what it means.” She turned to face him, her storm gray eyes bright and pained, ringed with blue light. Her face was tired, older than her eight-teen years, with the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying your blood like a curse. “Do you ever think about who we are?” she asked quietly. “What we’re made of?” “All the time,” Draven said. She looked away, jaw tight. “You weren’t created by the man who tortured you. I was. I’m his daughter, Draven. I’m what he made me.” Draven took a slow step forward, lowering his hood. His amber eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. “I don’t care who made you,” he said. “You’re my sister. And you don’t have to face this alone.” Zaeyeon’s hands trembled, and the lights flickered around them as the power inside her slipped. “I don’t want to be his legacy.” “You’re not,” Draven said. “We are.” They stood in silence, the only sound being the rain tapping against shattered windows. Draven reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. There was a shock, a crackle of electricity, but he didn’t let go. “Frost wants to bring the program back. We’re going to stop him.” Zaeyeon looked at him, blinking hard, and for a moment, the lightning in her eyes softened. “Then let’s burn it all down,” she whispered. Draven nodded. Outside, the rain fell harder, and the city below seemed to hold its breath. |
| The ride felt longer than it probably was. Mountains and pine trees blurred past the window, too open, too wild after years of hiding in cities where shadows and back alleys were her only cover. Draven didn’t talk much, not that he ever did, but his presence was heavy. Solid. When the road curved and the compound came into view, her chest tightened. It wasn’t what she expected. No steel cages. No sterile labs. Just structures carved into the rock, reinforced but camouflaged, almost like they belonged to the mountains themselves. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, not antiseptic. She swallowed hard. It felt wrong to breathe this kind of air. Too free. “Cozy,” she muttered. “Better than a cage,” Draven said. Inside, the place buzzed with life. Two recruits sparred in a dirt yard, their fists clumsy but determined. Others moved crates of supplies, laughing and arguing like ordinary people instead of broken lab rats. Zaeyeon felt her skin crawl, electricity flickering along her veins. She didn’t know what unnerved her more, their easy smiles, or how badly a part of her wanted to believe in them. Her eyes caught details the way they always did. Wires in the walls, surveillance blind spots, the telltale hum of a comms hub two floors down. She could hack this place in her sleep. She could bring it down in minutes. That was easier to think about than the ache blooming in her chest. Draven led her through the halls like he belonged here. Maybe he did. The recruits nodded at him with respect, whispered his name like he was more than a survivor, like he was a leader. She wanted to scoff, but part of her agreed. When he stopped at a door and keyed it open, she expected another barracks room. Another reminder she didn’t fit anywhere. Instead, she froze in the doorway. Bed. Desk. A shelf with books. A window that looked out on forest, instead of concrete walls. No locks. No cameras. No observation glass. Just...a room. Her throat tightened. “It’s yours,” Draven said. She blinked at him, electricity prickling down her arms. “You...set this up? For me?” He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t think you’d want to bunk in the labs. Figured you’d want space.” Her hand brushed the edge of the desk, tentative. It didn’t vanish. She wasn’t dreaming. For a second, she was thirteen again, standing small and scared in a sterile cell, her father’s voice echoing in her head: You are mine, Zaeyeon. My creation. No. Not anymore. She forced a smirk. “Space, huh? Planning on me sticking around?” His amber eyes caught hers, steady and burning. “Planning on you being home.” The word slammed into her chest, cracking something open. She turned away quickly, pretending to study the window. The sun spilled across her cheek, and for once, she didn’t feel like she needed to hide. |
| Buzz buzz buzz. Spark spark spark. Cam -- currently under the alias of Cameron Thomas -- worked on the car that was kept above him with metal arms. He had worked many jobs since the dissolution (if you could call it) of the "end" of gene-splicing, and that fiery night in North Dakota. As he had no passport or even an ID or drivers license, he also had to work the "lower class" jobs like working at gas stations and scrapyards, and autoshops like this one. But he didn't mind this kind of work -- it often gave him a wonderful, if brief, break of his brain from thinking about other things. Things like being a test tube baby at some sort of mad science facility. He had been "born" as a late teenager, and while he had grown in the past ten years to look more like an adult, he often gave his age as something like mid-twenties or early thirties, he guessed that he would probably be in that range for longer than the "average" person. He had been, for some reason, kept from most of the rest of the kids at the facility, which often left him feeling lonely and a little jealous. But he'd had Dr. D. The man checked on him constantly, provided him with board games and an old Nintendo 64. Cam64 -- that's why Dr. D had named him that. He'd felt that he was his father. He'd created him, hadn't he? And he said it was for some great reason, some great destiny, even if he never told him what that was exactly. A few times, he'd even given him a cupcake for his "birthday". So Cam willingly accepted all of the painful experiments. He would have done anything for the doctor. Until the end... until the fire... Then Cam had seen the others in duress, and he had to make a choice. In the aftermath, many had gone their own ways, while some had set off together. Though he had helped them, he didn't feel like he belonged with any of them. So he went his own way. For his first few months, he spent his time surviving in the forests, and his pale form had accidentally created a new cryptid -- "The White Walker" -- not because he was in any way icy, just his "normal form". This he found hilarious. He had been named "Cam" (Cam64) because, among the kitchen sink of DNA that had created him, it was also because he had the primary ability to nearly completely change his appearance (Cam -- Chameleon), his bones and muscles bending and breaking. Needless to say it was painful, and he'd acquired a sort of "allergy" to his own powers, so that the longer the he spent time in a different form, he started to get these little purple hives. Of course he'd be allergic to himself. In his regular form, he was incredibly pale, had pointed ears, one sharp canine on top and another on the bottom. The most odd things was that while his left eye was blue and quite normal, on the other side he had three more eyes in a sort of triangle formation. These did at least have some sort of use, like one (while focusing) could sense body heat, and another (also while focusing) gave him simply slightly more efficient vision in the dark, sort of like a cat. He was... A monster. And yet even monsters loved, didn't they? Being born a teenager, his "hormones" had still kicked in a little later, so he felt natural things like an attraction to those of the opposite sex. But more importantly, he had a strong desire to simply find someone who would accept him as he was... To look at him and not be afraid. To embrace him. He wanted that even more than a kiss, just to be held, someone being so willing to hold him. Not that a kiss would be bad... And for once, he thought he might be close. He had met Sarah Hall at a coffee shop (him being disguised of course), and she had actually approached him. (He never went to bars or drank alcohol, because it decreased his ability to keep up his fake appearance. Although, to be truthful, when he was really down and alone, he'd get drunk on purpose, just to... stop feeling). Anyway, the two of them had gotten closer over the last few weeks, but every time he had a nasty feeling in his core because he knew that he was lying to her. But what was he supposed to do? Show her who -- what -- he really was? Sometimes when he was alone and thinking too much, he would think of his time under Dr. D, and almost wish that he could go back. At least Dr. D hadn't recoiled when he saw him. And he made him believe that he had some greater purpose. Why? Why had Cam turned against him in the end? He didn't like seeing others hurt, even if the "others" were those he hardly knew and held some jealousy for. Did he really have some greater purpose? "Stop thinking," he told himself. Buzz buzz buzz. Spark spark spark. Someone tapped his shoulder to get him up, and he lifted up the safety helmet. His current form was of a young black man with green eyes. All they had to say was that it was time for him to be relieved, so he went to sit at a chair and chugged some water. He tugged off one of his gloves to see his dark hand. He curled and uncurled his fingers. What he wouldn't give for them to be his real fingers... |
| Draven lingered for a moment after leaving Zaeyeon at her door. He’d seen her fingertips trace the edge of the desk like it might disappear if she touched it too firmly. Relief and wariness had both been in her eyes. Ghosts never really left you, they either settled or they haunted. He hadn’t taken ten steps down the corridor when Dante Reddick joined him, falling into stride without a sound. Few people could match Draven’s pace. Dante did it with ease. The tri-mix hybrid: German Shepherd, Doberman, Labrador, but moved with a predator’s calm, broad-shouldered and leanly muscled beneath his dark jacket. His presence was steady, but violence lingered close under the skin, leashed but never gone. His eyes swept the hall in quick, efficient passes, always cataloging threats others might miss. “Boss,” Dante said evenly, voice low and precise. “Dante.” He handed Draven a folded paper. No wasted words. Draven opened it and scanned quickly. Illegal underground fights. Same old rot. But one word hit harder than the rest: Splicer. “Witnesses confirm,” Dante said, his tone clipped. “Fast healing. Reflexes not baseline. They’re selling tickets to watch one of ours bleed for sport.” Draven’s jaw locked. Chains. Cages. Concrete floors slick with blood. The sound of people cheering while he and others like him were forced to rip each other apart. That was the legacy Dr. D left behind; monsters for crowds, weapons for power. “Location?” Draven asked. “Dockside, Old District. Ring shifts weekly, but this one’s got heavy money behind it. Someone’s protecting it.” Dante’s jaw ticked, subtle but sharp, like he was biting back a growl. “Could be bait.” Draven folded the paper and slid it into his jacket. “Bait or not, we can’t ignore it.” Dante’s hand brushed the hilt of the combat knife on his hip. Not nervousness, more like instinct. “When do we move?” “Tonight. Quiet. Recon first. If it’s a Splicer, I want to know who, and why they’re in that ring.” Dante dipped his head once, exact and controlled, almost military in its precision. But the pause that followed betrayed a flicker of something more. “Zaeyeon. Do you want her briefed?” “No,” Draven said too quickly. His voice softened a fraction. “Not yet. She has enough ghosts for one night.” Dante held his gaze, eyes steady, measuring. Then he nodded and dropped back half a step, taking up his place at Draven’s flank like the shadow he had chosen to be. The fights would be ugly. They always were. But this wasn’t about one Splicer in a ring. This was about a sickness crawling its way back into the world. And Draven wasn’t going to let it spread. Draven’s office was dim, lit only by the pale glow of monitors and the small desk lamp casting long shadows across stacks of reports. Maps and files littered the desk; fragmented intelligence on black-market labs, whispers of Splicer trafficking, and now, the underground fights. He leaned over the table, scanning the latest intel Dante had delivered. The Dockside location was flagged, cross-referenced against movement reports from Frost’s known associates. Nothing concrete, but enough to stink of danger. Dante stood at his shoulder, arms crossed, the image of restrained tension. “You’ll need eyes on the ground,” he said finally. His voice was calm, even, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. “Let me run point with you.” Draven shook his head. “No. Not this time. I need you here.” Dante’s brow furrowed, faint but visible. “Here?” “Someone has to keep this place locked down while I’m gone. If the Dockside ring is what I think it is, Frost isn’t going to stop at one fight. He’ll want us watching. He’ll want me drawn out. I won’t risk the compound.” Dante’s jaw flexed, the first real crack in his composure. “You left me behind when you went for Zaeyeon too.” Draven looked up from the desk, meeting his gaze. He hadn’t expected Dante to say it outright. There was no accusation in the words, but there was something sharper underneath: a quiet ache, the frustration of loyalty denied. “You’re my shield, Dante,” Draven said evenly. “When I step out there, I need to know this place is untouchable. That means you. I’m just doing recon. Nothing more.” For a long moment, silence stretched between them. Dante’s eyes narrowed, measuring, unwilling to yield. He wasn’t a man who begged, but the restraint in him carried the weight of an unspoken plea. “You won’t be fine,” Dante said at last, the calm of his voice edged with quiet defiance. “You’ll walk into fire and tell yourself you can walk back out. That’s who you are. And one day, you won’t.” Draven exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He stepped around the desk, resting a hand on Dante’s shoulder, a rare gesture, weighty because it wasn’t given often. “I’ve walked through worse than fire,” he said, voice low but steady. “And I’m still here. You have my back from here. That’s the only way this works.” Dante’s eyes flicked to the hand, then back to Draven’s face. The storm inside him was silent but real. Finally, with a tight nod, he yielded. “Fine,” he said, voice clipped. “But if you don’t come back, I’ll burn the Dockside ring to the ground myself.” A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Draven’s mouth. “That’s why I need you here. Someone has to keep the fire waiting.” Dante didn’t smile back, but the ghost of approval lingered in his silence. Draven turned back to the maps, already planning routes and contingencies. Recon only, at least that was what he told Dante. But in his gut, he knew better. Nothing about the Dockside fights would end clean. |
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