Post by Otto Berg on Jan 19, 2017 21:15:50 GMT -5
Quincy
Feed, Chamber, Lock, Fire
Face/Off
Name: Otto Berg
Age: Twenty-something
Gender: Male
Titles & Duties: hahaha, that’s a good one—oh, you’re serious
Feed
‘All the ways you wish you could be, that’s me. I look like you wanna look, I fuck like you wanna fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not.’
— Fight Club, 1999
Height & Weight: 190 cm, 90 kg (approximates)
Hair & Eye Color: Tousled dark blonde hair, bright green eyes.
Reiatsu
Thin and colorless, somewhere between wispy cigarette smoke and someone’s breath on a cold day. A subtle kind of spiritual signature, far from the bombastic displays of power of his peers. The kind of signature people are prone to missing if they aren’t paying close attention. Just the way he likes it.
Appearance
With a body that’s stereotypically Scandinavian, Otto stands a little taller than most with a fairly athletic build, and had it not been for his easy smiles and the relaxed, almost overly casual way of carrying himself, it’d be easy to find him ever so slightly imposing. He exercises frequently, not out of concerns for his health or a need to perform miraculous feats of strength but rather out of vanity: Otto takes a great deal of pride in his aesthetic, and while his youth lets him get away with certain indiscretions, his vices (at least as far as his health is concerned) are relatively few in number and he indulges in them with an uncharacteristic moderation. A strong jaw and chiseled features compete with boyish vigor to give him playful good looks, and it probably wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that he’d perfectly encapsulate the phrase ruggedly handsome in a decade or two.
Despite looking like he could hold his own in a fistfight, he moves like someone who’s never been in one: relaxed, carefree, and with the confidence of a smooth talker, not a martial artist. He’s not the reliable sort and it shows, which is just the way he likes it. It’s not quite a bad boy look—he’s not, he promises—but he’s a far cry from coming across as virtuous.
He’s well-groomed, of course (his vanity at it again), with his short hair always meticulously styled to look messy without being unkempt, his nails neatly trimmed and his clothes freshly ironed, but despite his efforts still manages to maintain a certain devil-may-care approach to his appearance. His everyday wardrobe is predominantly casual; jeans, a t-shirt in a bold, solid color, and a dark jacket are a staple, but he picks his garments with great care and has surprisingly good taste. Feckless and lazy he may be, but he doesn’t necessarily dress the part.
Around his right wrist he wears a silver Thor’s hammer pendant, and he carries the smaller of his two pistols well-concealed in a shoulder holster. When the larger sees use, it is typically strapped to his thigh in a drop leg holster.
He speaks Swedish with a bubbly Gothenburg accent, Finnish with his mother’s Helsinki accent, and while his English is otherwise immaculate, there’s the faintest hint—really, really subtle—of a Swedish accent there intermingled with the occasional Cajun twist.
Positive Traits
PRIMARY: Easygoing – Far from a hard worker himself, Otto is the kind of guy that doesn’t sweat the details. He doesn’t see the point in getting all riled up over something that probably doesn’t matter all that much in the grand scheme of things, so he takes it easy and encourages others to do the same. Stress is bad for you. Chill out. Take a breather. The sun will rise tomorrow morning no matter what you do, so why lose your head?
MAJOR: Pragmatic – If, in the unlikely event of a problem arising that absolutely must be solved, Otto isn’t one to try to reinvent the wheel. There’s an answer for everything, and it’s usually the most practical one. Despite his (many, many) flaws, there’s no claiming he isn’t realistic or sensible.
MINOR: Loyal – He may be the black sheep of the family, but Otto isn’t the treacherous type. A little on the underhanded side, sure, but he sticks up for people who have treated him right.
Negative Traits
PRIMARY: Vain – At his core, Otto is a very shallow person and he makes no effort to hide it, choosing instead to embrace his superficial nature and make the best of it. He appreciates beauty in himself and others as long as it’s right there on the surface: the intangible isn’t quite as important as the tangible, and anyone who says otherwise is probably just ugly. Aesthetics are everything and the extra effort is well worth it.
MAJOR: Criminal – Flying in the face of the family business, so to speak, Otto engages in a wide variety of both recreational and professional criminal activity. He keeps it a secret from his family—or attempts to, at any rate—more to avoid inconvenience than out of shame. He never really understood the shame in it.
MAJOR: Sexist – Though he harbors no particular ill will towards women in general (quite the opposite!), Otto can’t help but subconsciously compare most them to his older sister. He finds the vast majority of women vapid and ignorant in comparison, and as such writes most of them off as disposable pleasures.
MINOR: Contrarian – Happy to argue for arguing’s sake, Otto’s the kind of person that will deliberately take a stance opposite someone else’s just for the sake of getting on their nerves.
MINOR: Racist – A national pastime and a defining trait of all Scandinavian countries—the more they try to deny it, the more you know it’s true. Otto’s is subtle, but there all the same.
Psychology
Otto’s an easygoing, flirtatious kind of guy, always on the lookout for a good time while taking great care to avoid responsibilities. He’s the kind of person that cruises through life not because everything comes naturally to him, but because he realizes perfection is wholly overrated. Life is finite. There’s more to it than a career and hard work. You only live once. The list of truisms goes on, but the idea remains the same: there’s no sense in worrying about everything, because sooner or later everything crumbles to dust anyway. It’s far more important that you enjoy yourself. Everyone doesn’t have to cure cancer or solve world hunger.
It’s that attitude that defines Otto and keeps him anchored in the here and now, the only time and place that really matters. His problems aren’t really very serious ones, and even if they were, there’s a solution to everything. He’s remarkably good at finding solutions, even if they’re not always particularly inventive.
He’s not a very hard worker nor is he very dedicated, and it’s the kind of thing people can usually get a good handle on within minutes of meeting him—Otto’s the unreliable sort, and asking him for help is usually the same as inviting trouble. It shows. His profession—if you could call it that—is perhaps a result of this attitude, or perhaps a result of his habit of flying in the face of tradition and the established order. He comes from a family that have made upholding the law their business, so naturally he decided to become a thief. They pride themselves on their Quincy heritage, and Otto—well, Otto doesn’t really care for that junk. Maybe he never did. The point is, many times he goes his own way just for the sake of going it alone. To be different. Maybe to get a rise out of someone, he’s good at that, too.
As far as other people go, it kind of depends. Most people he’s fine with, but then he’s got the whole woman thing—they’re nice to look at, usually a chore to have a proper conversation with—and he finds most Quincy overzealous. They bitch and they moan about how they were unjustly purged, but to Otto it seems pretty obvious that they invited it. To him—and indeed most of the Scandinavian Quincy families—their dubious gift is one best used in moderation, as a last resort. Collectively, they escaped the brunt of the purges because they kept to themselves and were the only ones with the sense to see that indiscriminate slaughter was a bad idea. Blinded by their fervor, the rest of the Quincy brought their suffering upon themselves, and Otto just can’t bring himself to feel sorry for them. None of the Bergs can.
It’s a pretty good example, really, of his own stance on right and wrong: you’re only breaking the rules if you get caught. Keep a low profile and you’ll sail through life untouched by the heavy hand of justice, and Otto’s very good at keeping a low profile... When he needs to. A lot of the time, he doesn’t. Make that most of the time, actually. The important thing is that he gets away with a lot of things he maybe shouldn’t, because despite how lazy and careless he can be, there’s certain things he pays an inordinate amount of attention to—mostly out of self-preservation.
For as long as he can remember, Otto’s been an avid cinephile, and as someone who grew up doing a fair bit of hunting and later spent a few years in Dixie, he’s understandably a bit of a firearm enthusiast. He’s also quite fond of cars, engines, and motorsport—rally being his discipline of choice.
Chamber
‘I know what you’re thinking. Did he fire six shots, or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?’
— Dirty Harry, 1971
Quincy Cross
Far from an actual cross, the traditional Scandinavian Quincy emblem has been the Thor’s hammer since time immemorial, one of the last bastions of the Old Culture. The Northern Quincy have used it as a focal point for their powers for as long as anyone can remember, and it’s unlikely they’ll ever change. Otto wears his in the form of a pendant around his wrist, just as much a chic fashion accessory as a way for him to tap into the powers of his bloodline. Every once in a while, someone will ask if he’s some sort of neopagan. Every time, he laughs and assures them he is not.
Spirit Weapons
A hallmark of the Berg family’s spirit weapons is that they’re very rarely spirit weapons at all. Instead, they tend to carry firearms through which they channel their Quincy powers. Any gun will do in a pinch (and in an even greater pinch, the vast majority of them are capable of discharging energy from their fingertips, not entirely unlike a Hollow’s Cero), but typically they each carry something specially personalized and modified to better accommodate firing bursts of spiritual energy. Otto’s taste is decidedly Swiss, as he favors his SIG Sauer P229 chambered in 9×19mm, a compact version of the P226 his father carries as a service pistol. He also owns a full-size Sphinx 3000, skillfully rechambered by the family butler in 10mm Auto. He always carries the P229 with him, and the Sphinx spends most of its time locked away—save for those rare situations when Otto deems it necessary to quite literally bring out the big guns.
Signature Ability
More a product of conscious and deliberate training in his formative years than an arbitrary gift, Otto’s talent is one of concealment. The family pastime is hunting (animals, mostly, as well as the occasional Hollow), and Otto uses his innate Quincy ability in order to manipulate spiritual particles to shroud himself in a form of cloaking, or active camouflage. When used it makes him very difficult to perceive, to spirits and mortal beings alike. Naturally, as he grew up, he found other uses for this talent—not all of them legal—and has constantly refined it to better capitalize on the freedoms it grants him.
Lock
‘Because the house always wins. Play long enough, you never change the stakes, the house takes you—unless when that perfect hand comes along, you bet big and then you take the house.’
‘Been practicing that speech, haven’t you?’
‘Little bit, did I rush it? Felt like I rushed it.’
‘No, it was good, I liked it.’
— Ocean’s Eleven, 2001
The Berg family traces its line back to times when Sweden could call itself a major force in the European political scene, though the origin of the Bergs is not quite so grandiose. Originally hunters and gamekeepers with an affinity for the spiritual, the Bergs came into land ownership in the far north as a reward for outstanding service in the numerous Swedish military campaigns in the early 1600s, and the family came to exemplify the old Swedish spirit: a distant, hard-working, somber people. They witnessed the rise and fall of the Swedish Empire, the subjugation of modern-day Finland, the ill-fated union with Norway, and for every decade that passed, the Bergs isolated themselves more and more, content with remaining undisturbed in their snowy homeland.
Out of mutual respect, however, they remained on fairly good terms with the other Scandinavian Quincy families despite the ever-shifting political landscape, and together the majority of them adopted a policy of spiritual non-intervention whenever possible. The frightfully low population density meant Hollow-breeds were uncommon to begin with this far north, and when the Shinigami conducted their worldwide purge of the Quincy, they recognized that many of the Scandinavian Quincy had posed no threat and were left unharmed. The typical Quincy hatred for the Shinigami understandably never took root among the Scandinavians, nor were they able to muster very much sympathy for those who had been culled.
Not quite nobles and not quite commoners, the Bergs were largely left alone up until the end of the 19th century, when the small town of Arvidsjaur was founded not far from their estate. They watched with interest as the town grew, and deciding their time in relative isolation had come to an end, they resolved to take an active interest in the the maturation of modern Sweden.
Otto’s grandfather, a doctor, was the first person in generations to take up residence away from the estate, moving to Gothenburg to practice medicine at Sahlgrenska Hospital following the death of his parents. For a few short years, the old house remained empty. When Otto’s father, Oskar, was born, however, Otto’s grandmother wanted her son to grow up surrounded by the family heritage and they decided to split their time between Gothenburg and Arvidsjaur—something Oskar would later do for his own children.
Otto was the second of two children, and like his father and older sister Sofia, four years his senior, spent most of his early childhood in the far north, where he was taught the family craft while he attended primary school. Otto’s mother, Maija, a young Finnish woman from a wealthy Quincy family of former aristocrats (which some would claim made them more Swedish than anything else) decided she would be the one to train her children—enlisting the aid of her elderly butler Alvar—in order to allow her husband to focus on his career as a police officer.
From a very early age, both Otto and Sofia learned to hunt with all manner of tools and weapons, diligently practicing their marksmanship with bow and rifle alike. They both took to firearms more readily than they did the bows, but while Otto eventually became the better hunter, Sofia was by far the better Quincy. Her affinity for the Quincy arts was prodigious, and Otto looked up to her a great deal, immensely proud of his older sister. Sofia in turn adored her little brother and doted on him constantly, encouraging his studious nature. In all things, she led by shining example, and when she moved to Gothenburg to attend high school, Otto was heartbroken. He saw her only sporadically, and he took solace in his companionship with Alvar, who regaled him with tales from his time as a sniper in the Finnish Army and who eventually became the inspiration for Otto’s signature move: weaving reishi around his body in such a way to become nearly invisible, a useful tool not only for a hunter, but for Otto’s future, less savory endeavors.
By the time Otto began high school, Sofia had already shipped off to Uppsala University, where she chose to study law in pursuit of her dream of becoming a prosecutor. Otto had no such dream, and he felt lost without his sister’s guidance. With puberty came a pronounced rebellious streak which manifested mostly as a systematic revolt against his father’s wishes, and he broke from it all at last by fleeing to the United States for university.
The subtle air of rebellion that pervaded the South resonated with him deeply and while he didn’t care much for his studies—barely managing to eke out a passing grade—he eventually came to realize that his time spent in America was the most edifying period in his life. For all the jokes Americans—and indeed the rest of the world—liked to make about their freedoms, for Otto it was purest truth: it was a place that took for granted things Europeans could only dream of. He took to that lifestyle like second nature and by the time he eventually returned to Gothenburg, he was a changed man.
In Otto’s absence, his father had earned himself a promotion to chief of police. His sister was making waves in the legal community—excelling as she always did—and it seemed clear she would be the one to carry on the family tradition. Freed from all responsibility, Otto spent a month or two loafing around aimlessly, taking odd jobs to keep himself afloat. It was late one Saturday night when he was watching the 1999 remake of The Thomas Crown Affair starring Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo that a sudden idea struck him:
He could do that. In fact, he could probably do it better.
Feed, Chamber, Lock, Fire
Face/Off
Name: Otto Berg
Age: Twenty-something
Gender: Male
Titles & Duties: hahaha, that’s a good one—oh, you’re serious
Feed
‘All the ways you wish you could be, that’s me. I look like you wanna look, I fuck like you wanna fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not.’
— Fight Club, 1999
Height & Weight: 190 cm, 90 kg (approximates)
Hair & Eye Color: Tousled dark blonde hair, bright green eyes.
Reiatsu
Thin and colorless, somewhere between wispy cigarette smoke and someone’s breath on a cold day. A subtle kind of spiritual signature, far from the bombastic displays of power of his peers. The kind of signature people are prone to missing if they aren’t paying close attention. Just the way he likes it.
Appearance
With a body that’s stereotypically Scandinavian, Otto stands a little taller than most with a fairly athletic build, and had it not been for his easy smiles and the relaxed, almost overly casual way of carrying himself, it’d be easy to find him ever so slightly imposing. He exercises frequently, not out of concerns for his health or a need to perform miraculous feats of strength but rather out of vanity: Otto takes a great deal of pride in his aesthetic, and while his youth lets him get away with certain indiscretions, his vices (at least as far as his health is concerned) are relatively few in number and he indulges in them with an uncharacteristic moderation. A strong jaw and chiseled features compete with boyish vigor to give him playful good looks, and it probably wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that he’d perfectly encapsulate the phrase ruggedly handsome in a decade or two.
Despite looking like he could hold his own in a fistfight, he moves like someone who’s never been in one: relaxed, carefree, and with the confidence of a smooth talker, not a martial artist. He’s not the reliable sort and it shows, which is just the way he likes it. It’s not quite a bad boy look—he’s not, he promises—but he’s a far cry from coming across as virtuous.
He’s well-groomed, of course (his vanity at it again), with his short hair always meticulously styled to look messy without being unkempt, his nails neatly trimmed and his clothes freshly ironed, but despite his efforts still manages to maintain a certain devil-may-care approach to his appearance. His everyday wardrobe is predominantly casual; jeans, a t-shirt in a bold, solid color, and a dark jacket are a staple, but he picks his garments with great care and has surprisingly good taste. Feckless and lazy he may be, but he doesn’t necessarily dress the part.
Around his right wrist he wears a silver Thor’s hammer pendant, and he carries the smaller of his two pistols well-concealed in a shoulder holster. When the larger sees use, it is typically strapped to his thigh in a drop leg holster.
He speaks Swedish with a bubbly Gothenburg accent, Finnish with his mother’s Helsinki accent, and while his English is otherwise immaculate, there’s the faintest hint—really, really subtle—of a Swedish accent there intermingled with the occasional Cajun twist.
Positive Traits
PRIMARY: Easygoing – Far from a hard worker himself, Otto is the kind of guy that doesn’t sweat the details. He doesn’t see the point in getting all riled up over something that probably doesn’t matter all that much in the grand scheme of things, so he takes it easy and encourages others to do the same. Stress is bad for you. Chill out. Take a breather. The sun will rise tomorrow morning no matter what you do, so why lose your head?
MAJOR: Pragmatic – If, in the unlikely event of a problem arising that absolutely must be solved, Otto isn’t one to try to reinvent the wheel. There’s an answer for everything, and it’s usually the most practical one. Despite his (many, many) flaws, there’s no claiming he isn’t realistic or sensible.
MINOR: Loyal – He may be the black sheep of the family, but Otto isn’t the treacherous type. A little on the underhanded side, sure, but he sticks up for people who have treated him right.
Negative Traits
PRIMARY: Vain – At his core, Otto is a very shallow person and he makes no effort to hide it, choosing instead to embrace his superficial nature and make the best of it. He appreciates beauty in himself and others as long as it’s right there on the surface: the intangible isn’t quite as important as the tangible, and anyone who says otherwise is probably just ugly. Aesthetics are everything and the extra effort is well worth it.
MAJOR: Criminal – Flying in the face of the family business, so to speak, Otto engages in a wide variety of both recreational and professional criminal activity. He keeps it a secret from his family—or attempts to, at any rate—more to avoid inconvenience than out of shame. He never really understood the shame in it.
MAJOR: Sexist – Though he harbors no particular ill will towards women in general (quite the opposite!), Otto can’t help but subconsciously compare most them to his older sister. He finds the vast majority of women vapid and ignorant in comparison, and as such writes most of them off as disposable pleasures.
MINOR: Contrarian – Happy to argue for arguing’s sake, Otto’s the kind of person that will deliberately take a stance opposite someone else’s just for the sake of getting on their nerves.
MINOR: Racist – A national pastime and a defining trait of all Scandinavian countries—the more they try to deny it, the more you know it’s true. Otto’s is subtle, but there all the same.
Psychology
Otto’s an easygoing, flirtatious kind of guy, always on the lookout for a good time while taking great care to avoid responsibilities. He’s the kind of person that cruises through life not because everything comes naturally to him, but because he realizes perfection is wholly overrated. Life is finite. There’s more to it than a career and hard work. You only live once. The list of truisms goes on, but the idea remains the same: there’s no sense in worrying about everything, because sooner or later everything crumbles to dust anyway. It’s far more important that you enjoy yourself. Everyone doesn’t have to cure cancer or solve world hunger.
It’s that attitude that defines Otto and keeps him anchored in the here and now, the only time and place that really matters. His problems aren’t really very serious ones, and even if they were, there’s a solution to everything. He’s remarkably good at finding solutions, even if they’re not always particularly inventive.
He’s not a very hard worker nor is he very dedicated, and it’s the kind of thing people can usually get a good handle on within minutes of meeting him—Otto’s the unreliable sort, and asking him for help is usually the same as inviting trouble. It shows. His profession—if you could call it that—is perhaps a result of this attitude, or perhaps a result of his habit of flying in the face of tradition and the established order. He comes from a family that have made upholding the law their business, so naturally he decided to become a thief. They pride themselves on their Quincy heritage, and Otto—well, Otto doesn’t really care for that junk. Maybe he never did. The point is, many times he goes his own way just for the sake of going it alone. To be different. Maybe to get a rise out of someone, he’s good at that, too.
As far as other people go, it kind of depends. Most people he’s fine with, but then he’s got the whole woman thing—they’re nice to look at, usually a chore to have a proper conversation with—and he finds most Quincy overzealous. They bitch and they moan about how they were unjustly purged, but to Otto it seems pretty obvious that they invited it. To him—and indeed most of the Scandinavian Quincy families—their dubious gift is one best used in moderation, as a last resort. Collectively, they escaped the brunt of the purges because they kept to themselves and were the only ones with the sense to see that indiscriminate slaughter was a bad idea. Blinded by their fervor, the rest of the Quincy brought their suffering upon themselves, and Otto just can’t bring himself to feel sorry for them. None of the Bergs can.
It’s a pretty good example, really, of his own stance on right and wrong: you’re only breaking the rules if you get caught. Keep a low profile and you’ll sail through life untouched by the heavy hand of justice, and Otto’s very good at keeping a low profile... When he needs to. A lot of the time, he doesn’t. Make that most of the time, actually. The important thing is that he gets away with a lot of things he maybe shouldn’t, because despite how lazy and careless he can be, there’s certain things he pays an inordinate amount of attention to—mostly out of self-preservation.
For as long as he can remember, Otto’s been an avid cinephile, and as someone who grew up doing a fair bit of hunting and later spent a few years in Dixie, he’s understandably a bit of a firearm enthusiast. He’s also quite fond of cars, engines, and motorsport—rally being his discipline of choice.
Chamber
‘I know what you’re thinking. Did he fire six shots, or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?’
— Dirty Harry, 1971
Quincy Cross
Far from an actual cross, the traditional Scandinavian Quincy emblem has been the Thor’s hammer since time immemorial, one of the last bastions of the Old Culture. The Northern Quincy have used it as a focal point for their powers for as long as anyone can remember, and it’s unlikely they’ll ever change. Otto wears his in the form of a pendant around his wrist, just as much a chic fashion accessory as a way for him to tap into the powers of his bloodline. Every once in a while, someone will ask if he’s some sort of neopagan. Every time, he laughs and assures them he is not.
Spirit Weapons
A hallmark of the Berg family’s spirit weapons is that they’re very rarely spirit weapons at all. Instead, they tend to carry firearms through which they channel their Quincy powers. Any gun will do in a pinch (and in an even greater pinch, the vast majority of them are capable of discharging energy from their fingertips, not entirely unlike a Hollow’s Cero), but typically they each carry something specially personalized and modified to better accommodate firing bursts of spiritual energy. Otto’s taste is decidedly Swiss, as he favors his SIG Sauer P229 chambered in 9×19mm, a compact version of the P226 his father carries as a service pistol. He also owns a full-size Sphinx 3000, skillfully rechambered by the family butler in 10mm Auto. He always carries the P229 with him, and the Sphinx spends most of its time locked away—save for those rare situations when Otto deems it necessary to quite literally bring out the big guns.
Signature Ability
More a product of conscious and deliberate training in his formative years than an arbitrary gift, Otto’s talent is one of concealment. The family pastime is hunting (animals, mostly, as well as the occasional Hollow), and Otto uses his innate Quincy ability in order to manipulate spiritual particles to shroud himself in a form of cloaking, or active camouflage. When used it makes him very difficult to perceive, to spirits and mortal beings alike. Naturally, as he grew up, he found other uses for this talent—not all of them legal—and has constantly refined it to better capitalize on the freedoms it grants him.
Lock
‘Because the house always wins. Play long enough, you never change the stakes, the house takes you—unless when that perfect hand comes along, you bet big and then you take the house.’
‘Been practicing that speech, haven’t you?’
‘Little bit, did I rush it? Felt like I rushed it.’
‘No, it was good, I liked it.’
— Ocean’s Eleven, 2001
The Berg family traces its line back to times when Sweden could call itself a major force in the European political scene, though the origin of the Bergs is not quite so grandiose. Originally hunters and gamekeepers with an affinity for the spiritual, the Bergs came into land ownership in the far north as a reward for outstanding service in the numerous Swedish military campaigns in the early 1600s, and the family came to exemplify the old Swedish spirit: a distant, hard-working, somber people. They witnessed the rise and fall of the Swedish Empire, the subjugation of modern-day Finland, the ill-fated union with Norway, and for every decade that passed, the Bergs isolated themselves more and more, content with remaining undisturbed in their snowy homeland.
Out of mutual respect, however, they remained on fairly good terms with the other Scandinavian Quincy families despite the ever-shifting political landscape, and together the majority of them adopted a policy of spiritual non-intervention whenever possible. The frightfully low population density meant Hollow-breeds were uncommon to begin with this far north, and when the Shinigami conducted their worldwide purge of the Quincy, they recognized that many of the Scandinavian Quincy had posed no threat and were left unharmed. The typical Quincy hatred for the Shinigami understandably never took root among the Scandinavians, nor were they able to muster very much sympathy for those who had been culled.
Not quite nobles and not quite commoners, the Bergs were largely left alone up until the end of the 19th century, when the small town of Arvidsjaur was founded not far from their estate. They watched with interest as the town grew, and deciding their time in relative isolation had come to an end, they resolved to take an active interest in the the maturation of modern Sweden.
Otto’s grandfather, a doctor, was the first person in generations to take up residence away from the estate, moving to Gothenburg to practice medicine at Sahlgrenska Hospital following the death of his parents. For a few short years, the old house remained empty. When Otto’s father, Oskar, was born, however, Otto’s grandmother wanted her son to grow up surrounded by the family heritage and they decided to split their time between Gothenburg and Arvidsjaur—something Oskar would later do for his own children.
Otto was the second of two children, and like his father and older sister Sofia, four years his senior, spent most of his early childhood in the far north, where he was taught the family craft while he attended primary school. Otto’s mother, Maija, a young Finnish woman from a wealthy Quincy family of former aristocrats (which some would claim made them more Swedish than anything else) decided she would be the one to train her children—enlisting the aid of her elderly butler Alvar—in order to allow her husband to focus on his career as a police officer.
From a very early age, both Otto and Sofia learned to hunt with all manner of tools and weapons, diligently practicing their marksmanship with bow and rifle alike. They both took to firearms more readily than they did the bows, but while Otto eventually became the better hunter, Sofia was by far the better Quincy. Her affinity for the Quincy arts was prodigious, and Otto looked up to her a great deal, immensely proud of his older sister. Sofia in turn adored her little brother and doted on him constantly, encouraging his studious nature. In all things, she led by shining example, and when she moved to Gothenburg to attend high school, Otto was heartbroken. He saw her only sporadically, and he took solace in his companionship with Alvar, who regaled him with tales from his time as a sniper in the Finnish Army and who eventually became the inspiration for Otto’s signature move: weaving reishi around his body in such a way to become nearly invisible, a useful tool not only for a hunter, but for Otto’s future, less savory endeavors.
By the time Otto began high school, Sofia had already shipped off to Uppsala University, where she chose to study law in pursuit of her dream of becoming a prosecutor. Otto had no such dream, and he felt lost without his sister’s guidance. With puberty came a pronounced rebellious streak which manifested mostly as a systematic revolt against his father’s wishes, and he broke from it all at last by fleeing to the United States for university.
The subtle air of rebellion that pervaded the South resonated with him deeply and while he didn’t care much for his studies—barely managing to eke out a passing grade—he eventually came to realize that his time spent in America was the most edifying period in his life. For all the jokes Americans—and indeed the rest of the world—liked to make about their freedoms, for Otto it was purest truth: it was a place that took for granted things Europeans could only dream of. He took to that lifestyle like second nature and by the time he eventually returned to Gothenburg, he was a changed man.
In Otto’s absence, his father had earned himself a promotion to chief of police. His sister was making waves in the legal community—excelling as she always did—and it seemed clear she would be the one to carry on the family tradition. Freed from all responsibility, Otto spent a month or two loafing around aimlessly, taking odd jobs to keep himself afloat. It was late one Saturday night when he was watching the 1999 remake of The Thomas Crown Affair starring Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo that a sudden idea struck him:
He could do that. In fact, he could probably do it better.
The car door slammed shut behind him and Otto stretched, the black leather motorcycle jacket not doing much against the cold. It had been warmer in Gothenburg, but then that wasn’t saying much: this was Arvidsjaur, 1,200 kilometers north of Gothenburg and... What was it? 110 kilometers south of the arctic fucking circle? That sounded about right. There was a muted metallic click as he lit himself a cigarette and took a long drag.
For ten hours (fourteen, if you followed the legal speed limit, but Alvar did have a bit of a lead foot) he had been stuck in the back seat of the Mercedes with nothing but his thoughts and the butler’s atrocious taste in music to keep him stimulated once conversation had dried up. That, Otto estimated, had been about nine and a half hours ago. He loved Alvar dearly, of course, but the man was old school Finn. He didn’t say much. Even when he spoke, he didn’t say much. Thankfully, he wasn’t that big on music, either.
And now, here Otto was: back at the ancestral home of the Berg family, their wonderfully rustic estate in the middle of nowhere. He had grown up here, and by all accounts it had been a very good childhood. It stood to reason, of course, that in retrospect he had decided he hated it.
‘Your father’s waiting for you,’ said Alvar, his Turku Finnish soft and rolling. Otto shivered as he finished his cigarette, and the butler gave him a critical look.
‘I told you to bring a warmer jacket.’
‘That’s not why I—’ he replied, also in Finnish, but gave up immediately. There was no arguing with Alvar. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he muttered as he held the door open for the older man as they stepped inside.
It was pleasantly warm inside the foyer, and Otto realized just how long it had been since he had last set foot in this house. His mother, it seemed, had finally taken it upon herself to do something with the place, and Otto had to admit he was impressed. He knew she had good taste, of course, but this was a marked improvement over what he remembered. Stood to reason that things only started to improve after he left. He rolled his eyes.
‘Is he in the library?’ he asked, already moving toward the double doors.
‘Yes. Oh, and Otto?’
‘Hm?’
‘You know there’s no guns in the house.’
‘Oh,’ he said, feeling sheepish. ‘Right.’
He pulled the SIG from the small of his back, removed the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber, handing all of it to Alvar, who gave him an approving look.
‘Well, at least your taste in these is acceptable,’ he said. High praise, from him.
Otto only smiled.
There was a fire burning in the library fireplace, and it added a certain coziness to the room that was almost enough to counteract the chill in Otto’s father’s gaze as his son entered. Almost, but not quite. If it bothered Otto, he didn’t show it.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, in Swedish this time. ‘How’s work?’
Oskar Berg was chief of police in the greater Gothenburg region, and times being what they were meant he had a lot on his plate and too few officers to deal with it all. Otto knew this. Oskar knew Otto knew this. He did not, however, stoop so low as to take his son’s bait. Instead, he sat in his high-backed armchair and drummed his fingers on one of the armrests.
‘How was your journey?’ he asked, eyeing the younger of his two children suspiciously.
‘Not so bad. Bit dull. Alvar still doesn’t talk much.’
‘He appreciates the value of silent reflection.’
‘No, Dad, he’s just really Finnish.’
Oskar heaved a long sigh, shaking his head softly. ‘Sometimes I wonder where we went so wrong with you. You were such a decent young man, studious and polite, and now look at you. You went off to study in America and you came back big-mouthed and grating. All that time and energy, and what do you have to show for it?’
Otto looked thoughtful for a few moments. ‘Well, a big mouth, I suppose. And then there was that chlamydia scare that one time. Other than that, I don’t know. A fancy piece of paper? Did you know I had it framed and hung it in my bathroom?’
He had majored in something-or-other to do with... With... Well, it was probably related to history or something, he forgot exactly. Most of what he remembered was that the American South had been warm and pleasant, quite unlike this particular hellhole, and for that alone he had loved it. That, and the distractions, of course, which had existed in multitudes. He seemed to recall attending classes every once in a while and every so often cheating on an exam in between distractions (or perhaps he was getting things backwards), but it seemed so long ago. Well, at least a few years. He had lost count.
‘Where’s Mom and Sofia?’
‘Your mother is on her way here now for the weekend, and your sister is in Stockholm.’
‘Still prosecuting?’
‘Yes.’
That stung a little, but Otto didn’t say why. They both knew.
‘So why am I here?’
Now, at last, Oskar Berg offered a smile, but there was an edge to it. Something triumphant.
‘I have a task for you,’ he said, leaning back into his chair. ‘You’re to act as a representative for the family.’
Oh no, thought Otto. Quincy business. His father was a traditionalist in many ways—and surprisingly, in many ways he wasn’t—but if there was one thing he took seriously, it was his heritage. Otto, not so much. He carried the SIG, wore the little silver Thor’s hammer pendant around his wrist and every once in a while he’d use them, but most of the time he was a Quincy in name only.
‘I’m sending you to Japan.’
Otto laughed. ‘Yeah, uh, no. I like it here just fine, thanks. Besides, my Japanese is a little rusty. I haven’t been inside one of them since—’
‘You are going to Japan, Otto,’ his father interrupted forcefully, ‘Or I will make a point of telling both Maija and Sofia about your proclivities.’
Otto blanched, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would. You are my son and despite what you may think I love you dearly, but I wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest.’
Otto believed him. Well, at least half-believed; that part at the start was sketchy but there was no doubt in his mind his father would tell both his mother and sister about his not-quite-legal activities.
A stint in prison—even if it was a Swedish prison—didn’t seem like fun at all.
‘And if I say yes?’ asked Otto, hesitantly.
‘Then you will travel to Tokyo two days from now. Here,’ replied Oskar, reaching down the side of his armchair for something. He produced a small paperback covered in foreign glyphs and a dictionary.
‘That’s Genki,’ he continued with a smile. ‘The linguistics department at Uppsala tells me it’s very good. Your room’s been prepared, I suggest you get started immediately.’
Otto swiped the books from his father with a withering look.
‘This is entrapment,’ he hissed.
‘No, Otto. Entrapment is something cops do to thieves. You’re my son. This is just blackmail.’
For ten hours (fourteen, if you followed the legal speed limit, but Alvar did have a bit of a lead foot) he had been stuck in the back seat of the Mercedes with nothing but his thoughts and the butler’s atrocious taste in music to keep him stimulated once conversation had dried up. That, Otto estimated, had been about nine and a half hours ago. He loved Alvar dearly, of course, but the man was old school Finn. He didn’t say much. Even when he spoke, he didn’t say much. Thankfully, he wasn’t that big on music, either.
And now, here Otto was: back at the ancestral home of the Berg family, their wonderfully rustic estate in the middle of nowhere. He had grown up here, and by all accounts it had been a very good childhood. It stood to reason, of course, that in retrospect he had decided he hated it.
‘Your father’s waiting for you,’ said Alvar, his Turku Finnish soft and rolling. Otto shivered as he finished his cigarette, and the butler gave him a critical look.
‘I told you to bring a warmer jacket.’
‘That’s not why I—’ he replied, also in Finnish, but gave up immediately. There was no arguing with Alvar. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he muttered as he held the door open for the older man as they stepped inside.
It was pleasantly warm inside the foyer, and Otto realized just how long it had been since he had last set foot in this house. His mother, it seemed, had finally taken it upon herself to do something with the place, and Otto had to admit he was impressed. He knew she had good taste, of course, but this was a marked improvement over what he remembered. Stood to reason that things only started to improve after he left. He rolled his eyes.
‘Is he in the library?’ he asked, already moving toward the double doors.
‘Yes. Oh, and Otto?’
‘Hm?’
‘You know there’s no guns in the house.’
‘Oh,’ he said, feeling sheepish. ‘Right.’
He pulled the SIG from the small of his back, removed the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber, handing all of it to Alvar, who gave him an approving look.
‘Well, at least your taste in these is acceptable,’ he said. High praise, from him.
Otto only smiled.
There was a fire burning in the library fireplace, and it added a certain coziness to the room that was almost enough to counteract the chill in Otto’s father’s gaze as his son entered. Almost, but not quite. If it bothered Otto, he didn’t show it.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, in Swedish this time. ‘How’s work?’
Oskar Berg was chief of police in the greater Gothenburg region, and times being what they were meant he had a lot on his plate and too few officers to deal with it all. Otto knew this. Oskar knew Otto knew this. He did not, however, stoop so low as to take his son’s bait. Instead, he sat in his high-backed armchair and drummed his fingers on one of the armrests.
‘How was your journey?’ he asked, eyeing the younger of his two children suspiciously.
‘Not so bad. Bit dull. Alvar still doesn’t talk much.’
‘He appreciates the value of silent reflection.’
‘No, Dad, he’s just really Finnish.’
Oskar heaved a long sigh, shaking his head softly. ‘Sometimes I wonder where we went so wrong with you. You were such a decent young man, studious and polite, and now look at you. You went off to study in America and you came back big-mouthed and grating. All that time and energy, and what do you have to show for it?’
Otto looked thoughtful for a few moments. ‘Well, a big mouth, I suppose. And then there was that chlamydia scare that one time. Other than that, I don’t know. A fancy piece of paper? Did you know I had it framed and hung it in my bathroom?’
He had majored in something-or-other to do with... With... Well, it was probably related to history or something, he forgot exactly. Most of what he remembered was that the American South had been warm and pleasant, quite unlike this particular hellhole, and for that alone he had loved it. That, and the distractions, of course, which had existed in multitudes. He seemed to recall attending classes every once in a while and every so often cheating on an exam in between distractions (or perhaps he was getting things backwards), but it seemed so long ago. Well, at least a few years. He had lost count.
‘Where’s Mom and Sofia?’
‘Your mother is on her way here now for the weekend, and your sister is in Stockholm.’
‘Still prosecuting?’
‘Yes.’
That stung a little, but Otto didn’t say why. They both knew.
‘So why am I here?’
Now, at last, Oskar Berg offered a smile, but there was an edge to it. Something triumphant.
‘I have a task for you,’ he said, leaning back into his chair. ‘You’re to act as a representative for the family.’
Oh no, thought Otto. Quincy business. His father was a traditionalist in many ways—and surprisingly, in many ways he wasn’t—but if there was one thing he took seriously, it was his heritage. Otto, not so much. He carried the SIG, wore the little silver Thor’s hammer pendant around his wrist and every once in a while he’d use them, but most of the time he was a Quincy in name only.
‘I’m sending you to Japan.’
Otto laughed. ‘Yeah, uh, no. I like it here just fine, thanks. Besides, my Japanese is a little rusty. I haven’t been inside one of them since—’
‘You are going to Japan, Otto,’ his father interrupted forcefully, ‘Or I will make a point of telling both Maija and Sofia about your proclivities.’
Otto blanched, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would. You are my son and despite what you may think I love you dearly, but I wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest.’
Otto believed him. Well, at least half-believed; that part at the start was sketchy but there was no doubt in his mind his father would tell both his mother and sister about his not-quite-legal activities.
A stint in prison—even if it was a Swedish prison—didn’t seem like fun at all.
‘And if I say yes?’ asked Otto, hesitantly.
‘Then you will travel to Tokyo two days from now. Here,’ replied Oskar, reaching down the side of his armchair for something. He produced a small paperback covered in foreign glyphs and a dictionary.
‘That’s Genki,’ he continued with a smile. ‘The linguistics department at Uppsala tells me it’s very good. Your room’s been prepared, I suggest you get started immediately.’
Otto swiped the books from his father with a withering look.
‘This is entrapment,’ he hissed.
‘No, Otto. Entrapment is something cops do to thieves. You’re my son. This is just blackmail.’
