Reza Yazdi

'OP'

Played by: Jinx

INFORMATION

Human ex-Bee, Male, Unknown Age

Aliases: Party Pony, Overpowered, Horsefaced Chillah, Prince of Prance, Reza the Razor
Nationality: Unknown
Residence: Unknown
Employer: Unknown
Function: Unknown

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Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see…

TRANSMIT - initiate the debauchery signal - RECEIVE - initiate the death of immortality - I CAN'T HEAR THE VOICES OVER ALL OF THIS FUN - nightmares aren't a problem if you never sleep - WITNESS - OP.

Sweating bodies undulate to bassy rhythms. No one stops at a single drink. A neon sea of commercial television's favorite demographic overcrowds a warehouse of more modest trappings. Everyone here shares the singular goal of trying to forget. Enter the Mad Hatter of this Wonderland tea party, the pony-headed patron saint of party himself, OP.

It's hard to tell if he is enjoying himself or if he merely makes appearances to satisfy social decorum. He speaks and his horse mask betrays no emotion or energy. He dances and others join, mesmerized by his outrageous bravado. He drinks until he is the only one left drinking before moving to less legal forms of chemical coo-coo-ca-choo.

None of this is a special event for him. These details are not a flag waved high above the ramparts, but rather the bricks and mortar of the castle as well as the language spoken in its halls. Welcome to the Garden of Hedon, where OP attempts to pelvic thrust forbidden fruit straight off the tree. If the night is his mistress, his lawful wife in the day has not seem him in years.

The man in the mask was not always so. He was respected in certain circles, even admired by his younger students, as a masterful swordplay instructor. His ripostes both verbal and deadly were as intoxicating then as his lifestyle is now. Things changed after he turned in his red jacket and cross in for headphones and a vinyl equine head twenty years prior. Before he was known as OP, he was Reza the Razor.

Initiate migration sequence.

For almost three hundred years he wore red and white with boundless pride. Before that he wandered Persia as a sellsword for a century. He followed coin and women that chased the setting sun. Led to the seas by promise of easy pay aboard a trade ship, he bobbed and sloshed his miserable way to Europe, where he promptly swore off sea travel permanently. His exoticism made him a popular character amongst the locals, while his skill with blade made him interesting to the Templar.

Many objected to his admittance into the Order. None begrudged his talent. Two hundred and forty years, two hundred battles, and a thousand arguments come to pass. When he is given position as a teacher of the killing arts, cheers and murmurs bounce across stone halls. In time his instruction turns the tide for countless encounters. His supportive following grows ever larger, but you mortals are so given to base emotion, and jealousy grows in darkness far faster. What happens when the love of the new philosophy replaces the fear and respect of the old? Whispers in dark corners. Something must be done with this man.

A society shrouded in shadows tends to absorb a bit of its surroundings over time. A clandestine deal was struck with the opposition to remove an uppity thorn from bloated side. Reza was needed on the frontlines for a mission he wasn't supposed to come back from. Bad news traveled fast, and word of his betrayal of the Order was ringing in his ears even before the trap had been sprung. It was still too late for him to change the outcome. Thanks for the memories, send a postcard.

Initiate the superapiological hypothesis.

Unlike with the Templar, the Illuminati exuded a complete sense of situational control with their soon-to-be lab rat. Break the body first, then start the learning process. The recent increase in the appearance of new Bees was a troubling situation for the Illuminati. A market flooded with immortal soldiers reduces the value of all other commodities. There had been no luck in predicting how, when, or where new Bee hosts would pop up or who would be the first to indoctrinate them. Perhaps stopping the flow was the wrong angle to approach from. The thinktank came up with a more interesting question: can a Bee be stripped of its host?

So much pain. So few results. Recon showed even Orochi had gotten further into this endeavor than they had, and this angered upper management. Too much time. Too many resources. It was becoming a paranormal boondoggle. Almost all hope was lost until a breakthrough was made, and with startlingly effective results. The Templar now had one Bee fewer. But what to do with the tenacious host? Eradicating the evidence would be easy if not for the many bullets and blades blowing beautiful red flowers onto the sterilized walls of the facility. A sleeping Dragon had woken from its nap and was displeased at what it found in its garden.

He limped through the underbelly of Kowloon for three days after walking out of the red-splashed blue lab. It took another two weeks for him to even find a fellow Crusader. He was not met with open arms. He was a liability now, a compromised asset. There were rumors of failed defection. Even after grueling interrogation, the verdict was heartbreaking but not unexpected. Stripped of title, home, and purpose, he limped down the steps from Temple Hall and into a world he didn't understand or care to.

Recall the payphone monologue.

Ring, ring. It's for you. Are you enjoying your freedom? It was the least we could do for you. A package will arrive at 3:24PM tomorrow at the green door across the hall. Get there a few minutes early and sign for it. It is yours. Do with it what you will. Your mortal fate is in your hands now. Click.

The moment he opened the package he found purpose. In it he found a new jacket, phone, a mask, a business card, and self-actualization. Now he bends knee to no master, has no face, and abandoned his name. The occasional texts he gets from the unlisted number merely suggest tasks for him to occupy himself with, and any he completes rewards him well. The newest text gives him a titillating hint that karmic retribution may be in order in New Brunswick. An Illuminati research facility is attempting once more to cheat nature. It's time to return the favor.

Ring, ring. It's for you. Are you enjoying your freedom? It was the least we could do for you. A package will arrive at 3:24PM tomorrow at the green door across the hall. Get there a few minutes early and sign for it. It is yours. Do with it what you will. Your mortal fate is in your hands now. Click.

The moment he opened the package he found purpose. In it he found a new jacket, phone, a mask, a business card, and self-actualization. The newest text gives him a titillating hint that karmic retribution may be in order in New Brunswick. An Illuminati research facility is attempting once more to cheat nature. It's time to return the favor.