Organization: Cult of Badassery (Independent)
Organization Rank: CEO
Two things about this woman never fail to get her noticed: her cobalt-blue, blindingly unsettling eyes and her nearly frost-white blonde hair. Of course, her sharp tongue and abrupt nature also have the tendency to get her noticed, although they are not so much her appearance as, well.bad attitude. Those previously mentioned, almost neon coloured eyes fluctuate from nearly lifeless to a blazing, furious cold in seconds. But whether strung out, knocked flat, counted down or held on high, the woman's bright orbs never lose their strange sense of total awareness.
These dark-glinting orbs are framed by a messily chopped froth of frost-blond hair, it length varied from mid-back to feathered bangs. Occasionally streaked in blue, pink, or orange, her hacked-at mane gives the distinct impression that Resink alone ever touches those locks, though upon the rare moment that a 'competitor' grasps them, it means the end to whatever confrontation is at hand. No one touches her tresses unless they want a wild-cat on their hands. But regardless of her personal views on the subject, her brilliant eyes and near-white hair cause her to stand out in almost any crowd.
As for the rest of her, well.some would call her erotically dangerous, whilst others would perhaps call her overtly confident. Milky skin, kissed by the sun, glides smoothly over firm, unyielding muscle, though it is pulled in places by the remnants of unprofessionally-stitched wounds. There is very little - if any - fat to the 1.8 meter (6') tall woman, though if it is due to the constant hard living or the drug abuse is a tricky question. Always hunched at the shoulders, the woman should appear meek: she is far from it. This posture lends her body the manifestation of a tightly coiled beast, one that prowls rather than walks, one that snarls rather than speaks. The sum total of this bestial form is manifest in Resnik's complete and utter awareness of her body, and the space around her. Surprisingly enough, this same-said hard living hasn't yet reached her stunning - yet cold - façade. Below those electric eyes is a pert nose and full, pale pink lips. Her face would perhaps be beautiful were it not for her dark expressions and constantly down-turned lips.
Sporting a flamboyantly coloured bra and barely-there, thin white t-shirt, Resnik makes it quite clear she doesn't care in the least what others may think of her dress. Speaking of which, a much-worn, shredded skirt hugs her hips and upper thighs - but nothing else. Perhaps if in cooler weather, the woman will don jeans that have seen better days, though who knows if they actually do anything to keep warmth in. Of course, to give her some semblance of 'cold weather wear', Resnik is never seen without a fur lined, ragged jacket, which has followed her around for as long as she can remember - which isn't long, on some days.
Rounding out her general wear are a pair of beaten leather steel-toed boots that have most certainly seen better days. Just as her jacket has been considered a companion for years, so too, have these boots become a part of her very being. In most circles, those two items are nearly as famous as she.
However, when in her element, all clothing becomes nothing more than a hindrance. The jacket, shirt and occasionally the bra are removed for complete movement - and to keep them safe from the blood splatter. The jeans - or skirt in some instances - remain, as do the boots. Something new, is added, however: tape. White and perhaps the most expensive item she owns, the tape is used on nearly every occasion her knuckles meet flesh. Wrapped about her wrist and fingers, the tape keeps her hand from breaking on solid hits, and her fingers from cracking when she chooses to land a particularly mean blow to a hard surface, i.e. a man's face.
Somewhere, in all this mess of clothing, there is room for her two 'weapons' of choice, though she does tend to keep a couple more toys in a battered nylon duffle bag.
Resnik’s life began just as any other: there was a mommy, an unwitting daddy, bad choices and a lot of alcohol. Soon enough, her mommy and daddy got married, because that’s what you’re supposed to do; of course, mommy and daddy didn’t really want to be married, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that when Resnik was being made a bun in the oven, across the country, another woman was makin’ a baby with a less-than-willing male. A coven of very displeased and very endangered witches had decided enough was enough. They would show the world their gods still existed, and they would start with the biggest granddaddy of them all:
Oh yes, that dude. The creator of their other gods and a god that encompassed many things: the sky, the sun, the heavenly fires, and yeah, every other god. So they summon (read: ripped him from the heavens) this fellow to implant his power into the child they were sure would be created from this ritual rape.
Except, witches are a bit nearsighted at times, and forgot to mention that this god should head on over to their copulating couple, not just any old fornicating pair in the general region. So, instead of creating their perfect god-baby, these witches cast the guy into a wham-bam-thankyou-ma’am embryo called Eliska.
But they fucked it up, even more so than previously thought.
That part doesn’t come until later in the story, so just keep reading.
Anyway, when tiny Resnik was born, her life was fairly decent. She had a roof over her head, she had food, and occasionally she got to watch television when the neighbors forgot to close their apartment door during the summer. But something was happening to dear old dad; he was having difficulty holding down a job, and came home often smelling of something Resnik couldn’t put her five year old finger on.
Things were better for a while when she began school, as she was out of the apartment and away from the sight of her father roaming through the rooms, muttering to himself about “paydays’ and “just another job”. She made a few friends, nothing particularly great, and it was around this time she noticed a sort of...dislike of other people. She would become irritated at their constant talk, or their ignorance (some of them didn’t know what it was to wash your underclothes in the sink because there wasn’t money for the laundry facilities) and a sort of anger had begun to make itself known.
That never went away.
In fact, it started to grow.
Just in time for her father to take a turn for the worse. He would lay his hands on her mother, jerking her around, or bruising her arms as he made a point. Her mother, she began to see, was a weak woman, someone incapable of fighting back. At the time, Resnik didn’t understand why she thought that way, because her mother was just trying to keep things together. But that didn’t stop them from getting so much worse. They had to move, leave her home city to settle in a bigger one, a place her father said they could “get lost in”. What she didn’t understand at age eight was what he really meant: where they can’t find me.
So thus began their roaming lifestyle, hopping around from one apartment complex to another, skipping out when the rent was due. They would squat in empty rooms until the tenants returned, kicking them out with threats of police (not that it ever happened, since the tenants were just as shady). Her father took to drinking heavily with what money they had, swinging freely at her mother and more often than not leaving blood on the floor, on her clothes (Resnik learned at a young age how to scrub blood from clothing).
The young girl attempted to continue with her studies, if even by herself, but her forced lifestyle made that difficult. She carried math books and english poems (something she was proud of, the fact she already knew a sufficient amount of English at age ten to read it) and sat in libraries until closing, reading everything she could.
If anyone ever noticed her ragged clothing, or her heavily duct-taped backpack, they never said anything.
People are willingly blind, a fact she came to realize quickly.
By age twelve, she had learned timeless art of pickpocketing, and the shameless act of lock picking. But never, ever could she bring herself to beg, as something inside her growled and rankled and told her no. She took odd jobs as she could, but a majority of her time was spent by self or shielding her mother from her father, sometimes an all-day task. She learned from watching him the subtlety of body language; she could guess if he was going to strike out or simply furl inside himself and nurse a beer; she learned her mother’s fear and the signs of a failing will; most of all she learned how to manipulate the situation where she could, drawing her father’s attention and easing him into another mood.
Occasionally this worked. Occasionally it didn’t.
But he never hit her, and to this day she wonders why.
Maybe now that she understands a little of what resides in her, she thinks that perhaps he saw that, perhaps he saw the monster in her and didn’t want to awaken it. Tough for him, because at age thirteen, it shook off all shackles and made its presence known. He had been rather reserved for a few days, and that always meant trouble. She had been on edge, but decided to head out to her favourite library anyway. Of course, as usual, she remained until closing.
When she opened the door to their back-rent apartment, she was greeted with the sight of her father kneeling over her bloodied, battered mother, choking the life from her.
Pure, hot, giddy rage spilled through her.
Reaching for the nearest thing - a wobbling side table lamp - Resnik ripped the cord completely from the wall and swung. It hit the drunken bastard square in the temple, crumpling him on top of the woman he’d nearly killed. But the young girl couldn’t stop, didn’t stop, hitting him over and over until there was crimson splashed over her, the walls, and her terrified mother.
The demon that was her father was dead.
The god inside her was gloriously alive.
For hours, she felt freedom and elation, a heady taste of victory lingering on her tongue. It was better than any food, any drink; it slipped thorugh her blood like liquid electricity, and she couldn’t drag the smile from her face. Of course, she had to deal with a dead man in their apartment, and a crime scene that looked like something out of a horror film, but they dealt with it as they always did: they fled.
Her mother was a broken woman now, in more than just body. She drifted when she should have been focused, and that irritated Resnik to no end. The high she’d been riding had deteriorated into a slowly churning resenment that left an ashy taste in her mouth. She wanted that high again, but how could she tell her mother of such a thing?
Things only went downhill after that night, as her mother took to the oldest profession, and used what she made to buy a dirty fix, one that left her propped in an alley, barely dressed. Of course, Resnik attempted to keep her mother from simply dying on the street, but it seemed a futile effort by age fifteen. The woman seemed incapable of fending for herself, and that anger, that hatred she had been nursing turned on the woman she had killed to protect.
That is when she was “involved” in her first street altercation.
A client attempted to take advantage of her mother in broad daylight, with Resnik standing right next to her. The man made some rather rude comment about a “two-fer” and that was all it took.
She hit him with a fucking left hook that could have stopped a train.
He dropped to the filthy concrete without so much as a grunt, and Resnik was sure she’d killed the man. And then the white bliss rolled over her and she felt alive again for the first time in a long while, her body elated and her fingers tingling with excitement. She felt satisfied and insatiable at the same time, wanting more of what this violence gave her. So, she began looking for a reason to fight. Strangers trying to proposition her, fucking idiots attempting to mug her, kids making fun of her clothing (admittedly, she was reaching for that one), and then finally...actual fighters.
At first, these underground fights wouldn’t take a sixteen year old girl, but after she put one of their fighters in the hospital because he “caressed” her rear in just the wrong way, they began to look at her in a different light.
And so the legend began.
It wasn’t long before the fights became more intense, and the wins (and losses) brought newer emotions and higher highs. Something was fueling this intelligent, frothing rage, and she couldn’t understand it, though she relished its presence. Her body became hard and lean, and her fighting style took on a brutal aspect that made even some of the more seasoned onlookers cringe. Eventually, a small group of guys who had been dreaming of professional MMA (but could never make it) took her in as a little project; making money off her was never a bad thing.
Around this time, her mother died from drug overdose.
It was barely noted by Resnik.
By eighteen, she had decided to move on; the city was getting a little small, especially considering most of the police force knew her rap sheet by heart. She moved from city to city after that, always finding a fight, always chasing that high. It wasn’t long before she made “friends”, people who could get anything or make anything. They watched her fight, bet on her win or loss, then partied with her afterwards, loving the insanity in her eyes and the careless nature after a fight. They set her up with fake identification and places to stash her money (or herself).
They introduced her to designer drugs.
Of course, that high wasn’t what she had originally been chasing, but it helped take the edge off well enough. But the feeling of rage suddenly turned on her, and she could swear a voice nudged her fro inside, telling - no, demanding - that she stop with the narcotics. She ignored it, of course, but that didn’t mean it went anywhere. There were times when she could almost grasp what is was that forced her to fight like she did, but never was there a moment where complete understanding came.
Now, at twenty four, Resnik has been around Europe, and parts of England, always searching for that high. She is on the wanted lists of a dozen police districts, and must be careful where she goes next. But with the instruction of her “friends” and the small stashes of cash, she has been able to roam her world in a fury fueled quest for that next great fight.