Huck Grice

Starling — Offline

Huck Taylor Grice
Witch – Intangibility

Need to Know

- He/Him
- 40 (Feb 4)
- 6'2"
- Brown Hair
- Green Eyes (Silver Eyes)
- Carmine - Electi / Handyman Cover in Northwest Portland
- Lives in North Portland


⇛ Always scruffy. Can't be bothered to shave if he doesn't feel like it...and unless he's close to mountain man, he doesn't feel like it.
⇛ His fingers work better than a comb. Tousled is easy.
⇛ His clothes are quick, and cheap. Blue jeans. T-shirts. A flak jacket when he's at work. Nothing white. Stains are a bitch.
⇛ Calloused skin and age lines. A few scars spattered here and there, the most notable being on his left hip. An old bullet wound. Nothing you would see unless you got him naked.
⇛ Top of his left pinky is missing.

About Me

Ability Description

⇛ Intangibility.
⇛ Able to move through solid objects, or have solid objects move through him
⇛ Grice’s powers function with the demand of instinct, never having properly learned how to will them forward. As a result, left part of his left pinky finger inside of some rubble overseas during his escape


↑ Experienced, Tenacious, Adaptable, Efficient
↓ Sarcastic, Insensitive, Dangerous, Haunted
→ Tough, but tender-hearted, Reactive, Competent, Reliable


They taught him how to pull a trigger- where to aim, and how many shots to lay in. Fuck the politics. There was none of this rendering-care, prisoner-of-war bullshit. He was a ghost, and he had just one objective.

Kill your target, get the fuck out unseen.

SEAL Team 6 got the credit for most of their missions, but as Delta Force, attention was negative. Let the showboating assholes draw the praise, and the criticism that followed it. As long as the right people died, and none of his people died, Grice didn’t have any complaints. Except for the leaves- they chafed his goddamn ass.

Thus were the luxuries of survival.

It was a tale he knew too well, having grown up with a drunk for a father. By the age of seven, he’d honed his tongue and learned to work ire enough to ensure his Momma and brother never felt a thing. An additional eight years would grant him the strength to boot Cecil out for good, and while the price was a fractured eye socket and a broken arm, Grice found some way to smile through the pain.

The relief was fleeting.

Odd jobs sustained his family when he wasn’t at school, the military promising an easier means to provide, and with a background as a country-bred fuckup, there were no equal options. So, he signed his name away, and started embracing the suck.

Delta Force came after becoming a Ranger, the recruiter blunt-mouthed and made of metal. He admired the man’s character, but the paycheck seduced him- his Momma would finally get out of the fucking trailer park, and his brother would get an education that didn’t include getting a girl pregnant at fourteen.

What more could he fucking ask for?

A lot. A fucking lot. But he didn’t. Even the taste of his own blood wouldn’t make him speak, his body, somehow unscathed by the bomb that had claimed the lives of his brothers, now thoroughly repayed.

At least their special attention caused him to go mutant again, chains slipping through the middle of his wrists as if he were made of air, scalpel quickly turned on his dissector.


He tossed his file into the incinerator when he found it, hoisting an M4 carbine in his free hand. Sloppy motherfucking thing, but easier to use than the pen cap he had employed to acquire it. Life was made of little consessions, after all, but this compound was fucking unbearable.

He made short work of the people who were left, and released those he found caged. Mutilated. Drained. The vampires, he escorted after feeding, the guards plentiful and damn deserving. After torching the warehouse, he moved through enemy lines until he bartered his way home, the cash and ledgers he’d acquired eventually carving a path to Portland.

It didn’t hurt his little brother lived there, and with the small fortune he’d made, leaving Delta after another four years of service did not strike anyone as unreasonable. He’d done his time, now it suited him to pay attention to something he’d neglected for far too long- his heart.

It didn’t take Carmine long to recruit him, and after serving a measly two months as a hunter, his uppers knew that he was more than his mouth, and skilled beyond what his military record reflected. He was inducted into the Electi- a force charged with the most difficult targets. High profile assassination. Illegal infiltrations. Basically Black-ops all the fuck over again. Hell, there was a learning curve, but eventually, he surpassed his superiors, donning the mantle of leader in under a year, all the while playing the part of a regular human.

This organism was too vast for a quick-and-dirty. It would take time, and it would take research to bring the whole institution down. Meanwhile, he would do what he could for those trapped behind its walls, and perhaps pick up a crazy asshole or two to help with the suicide mission on which he’d embarked.


Face Claim: Chris Pratt

-He refuses to call himself a witch, and prefers to call himself a mutant because it’s more badass. Kitty Pride is obviously his favorite. Well, maybe third favorite. Deadpool. Wolverine. No explanation needed.
-And its Grice, not Huck.