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This is my first time out of the gate playing Eliot. If you have suggestions for me, please feel free to leave them here. :)
Eliot sits at a table in the Hotel bar, a glass of whiskey at his elbow and a deck of cards in his hands. He shuffles the cards as expertly as a Vegas dealer, the cards slipping through his fingers in elaborate arcs and fancy spinning motions. He's alone at the five seater. Eventually, he reasons, someone will come along. Someone always comes along in this place. Perhaps they'd want a game or a drink. He's tired of being alone and he misses the sound of voices tumbling over each other to be heard. He misses them.

The cards get shuffled to one hand as the other reaches for his glass. He's mid-sip when he hears the sound of a gun being cocked from the door of the bar room. It doesn't do him any good to be sitting facing the door when his mind is so far from the present. His own fault, really. It has been minutes, maybe hours, since he even looked at the thing.

He raises his head as the glass lowers. It makes the final distance to the table with a loud thunking sound. The man standing in the doorway... it can't be. Not here. Not now.

"Hello, Spencer my old friend." The oily smile on the face behind the gun makes Eliot's skin crawl.

"Moreau," he answers. He rises slowly to his feet, hands clearly visible on the table. There is no one on Earth who knows what Eliot Spencer is capable of better than Damien Moreau. If he is going to get out of this alive, he knows he is going to have to be very careful.

The other man doesn't so much as blink. Only the hand holding the gun and Moreau's eyes track Eliot's movements. Moreau's other hand remains casually tucked behind him at the small of his back. His suit is impeccably tailored and his hair carefully slicked back, as always.

"What are you doing here? How the hell did you even find me?" Eliot steps carefully, slowly to the side. He's going to do his best to get out in the open and make a clear path from himself to Moreau. It's his only chance.

"Come now, Eliot. I will always find you. Just like I always win, in the end. Always."

Eliot smirks at him. "You keep thinking that, Moreau, and one day you're going to be real surprised."

"That's possible." Moreau agreed cheerfully. The gun in his hand never wavers as it tracks Eliot's progress to the center of the room. "I'll certainly keep that in mind. Still, you know what it means to really win, Eliot? To really have the last laugh? You have to make your transgressors pay." His grin widens. "So, that's what I did."

"You haven't done anything but talk, yet, Moreau."

Moreau's eyes widen in mock surprise. "Oh, no. Not to you, Spencer. I was referring to the others. Your Mr. Ford and the rest of that pitiful bunch of white hats you've joined up with. You see, your betrayal was understandable. Expected, even. Merely a small, human resources issue with an unruly former employee. Ford, though? Ford and his insufferable minions... they're the ones who had to pay first and pay the most."

Eliot feels his blood run cold at Moreau's words. The man's lying. He's got to be. And there's no way for Eliot to know for sure. He doesn't let anything show on his face or in his voice when he speaks again. "You're full of shit, Damien. They're too good for you."

"Not if they don't know I'm coming. And you didn't tell them about me, did you?" The cold laugh Moreau gives sends shivers down Eliot's spine. It's a sound he knows well. All he can do is shake his head in defiance. He can't believe it.

"Oh!" There's that same look of mocking surprise. Eliot wants nothing more than to beat it right off Moreau's face. "I almost forgot. I have something for you, my friend."

Reflexes have him flinching away as Moreau holds up the object he had been hiding behind him. At first, what Eliot sees doesn't make sense. It takes several long minutes of hard blinking before the faded, much-loved, stuffed rabbit in the man's hand becomes clear to Eliot. The dark spots on the fur... it can't be blood.

"No," he breathes.

"I'm afraid so. I hunted them down, Spencer. Each one. Ran them to ground and then burned the walls down around them. I saved this one for last." He shakes the rabbit, smirking in amusement. "This one... what was her name? Parker?"

He pauses as if waiting for an answer, but all Eliot can do is breathe in ragged breaths and shake his head in ever diminishing denial.

"Parker. Yes, that was it." Moreau continues as if he got the answer he sought. "She screamed for you before she died, you know."

The first Eliot realizes that he's on his knees is when he feels the cold, dull throb of the impact shoot up his upper thighs. It's a muted sensation, not penetrating the haze that's descended on him. The only movement Eliot manages is to move his head to track the rabbit's progress as it sails across the room to land before him.

Definitely blood.

"This is your doing, Spencer. You understand that, don't you?" Moreau's tone goes conversational as he steps closer to Eliot. "If you'd just been there. Done your job. They might be alive now. Your one job in the world and you failed. Then again, that feeling of blood on your hands... it's not a new one, is it?"

He knows he can't answer that. It's true. More lives have ended at his hands than he cares to think about. This team, this project... they were his chance at redemption. His chance to save people, help them, rather than hurt them. Now, it is all over. Gone. Snuffed out by a monster Eliot himself had brought right to their front door.

His head raises slowly when he feels the cool press of a gun barrel against his forehead. His eyes blink, unfocused, up at Moreau.

"I'm of two minds on whether or not to kill you, you know. On the one hand, the satisfaction of watching a bullet break open your thick skull would be wonderful. On the other hand, watching you live with the knowledge that you've single-handedly caused the deaths of the only real family you've ever had...? That's damn near orgasmic. I'm telling you, Eliot. It's a tough decision."

"Let me help you make up your mind," Eliot hears a voice he dimly recognizes as his own answer back.

All the years of training, practice, and effort... they all pay off in this one moment. Guns and their specific range of efficacy. The bad guys, they always get too close. He's on his feet with the gun twisted neatly out of Moreau's grasp before either of them have a good chance to take a breath. His hands move automatically over the cold metal, expelling the clip and working the slide action to kick the chambered bullet out. His left hand is tossing the now useless gun aside even as the right swings a fist at Moreau's face.

He doesn't remember much of the next few moments. When he comes back to himself, his arm aches and blood that's not his own drips from his knuckles. Well, not entirely his own. He stands dizzily and looks down at the ruined face of the man who ruined his life. Twice now. Then he turns and walks slowly back to where the ruined, stuffed rabbit lay. Eliot reaches down to pick it up and tucks it gently into the bend of his arm. As he's standing again, he hears the wet, sticky sound of Damien Moreau's laughter through blood and broken bone.

"I win... you know. I still... win."

Eliot woke a moment later, shaking and soaked through with sweat. A split second later, he was bolting for the bathroom as bile rose in his throat.

sixwordstories: Friday night dinner.

If there hadn't been a pretty girl involved, the lure of access to a processional kitchen might still have been enough to entice Eliot out on Friday night. His own kitchen was renovated, state-of-the-art gear for the home kitchen, but it wasn't the shiny, chrome wonderland he remembered from the academy. He'd never want to work in a kitchen, to be sure, but a visit from time to time was a treat.

The fact that there was a pretty girl involved meant that he was outside the Hyperion Hotel at six-thirty on the dot with shopping bags full of ingredients and equipment. A dressy button down and nice slacks were visible under the as-yet-unbuttoned chef's coat he wore.

Eliot smoothed his hands down the front of the jacket once, then knocked a little uncertainly. Knock, or go right in? It was a hotel, but someone's home...

He split the difference and cracked the door open enough to peek his head inside. "Fred?"

plentyofroom: Timeline of events.

1. I don't have a white horse, but you can come along for the ride. - [COMPLETE] - Eliot hates surprises...

2. Testing the Lines of Communication - [COMPLETE] - Is anyone out there?

3. Do Ya Like the Hard Kick of Old Kentucky Bourbon or the Slow Burn of Tennessee Rye? - [COMPLETE] - Eliot climbs into a few bottles of whiskey and Sam Winchester watches.

4. Rise and Shine - [COMPLETE] - Winchester brothers, part deux.

5. Prepare Yourself. You Know It's a Must - [COMPLETE] - A little musical tension relief.

6. Mulder's arrival - [ABANDONED] - Still masquerading as an FBI agent, Eliot makes contact with a real one.

7. Emergency - [COMPLETE] - Jack Harkness calls for aid in finding Handy.

8. Masquerading as a Man With a Reason - [COMPLETE] - Eliot goes on the hunt for Handy.

9. Lost and Found... and Lost. - [COMPLETE] - Message to Jack, updating the Handy situation.

10. Attack of the Swamp Thing - [COMPLETE] - Catching up with Handy a second time. Also meeting Gil Grissom.

11. Going Off the Rails on a Crazy Train - [COMPLETE] - Final capture of Handy. Assistance from Dean Winchester and Bobby Singer.

12. Delivery for Jack Harkness - [COMPLETE] - Message to Jack alerting him of Handy's capture.

13. I've Seen Better Days - [COMPLETE] Treating injures in med lab after Handy's capture.

14. Attempted Escape - [COMPLETE] - Trying to talk some sense into Martha Jones.

15. Universal Transmission - [COMPLETE] - Answering the call for blood donors for Julian Bashir.

16. From the Siege of AR-558 to the Hotel California ... Again - [COMPLETE] - Have blood. Will travel.

17. They've Got Catfish on the Table. They've Got Gospel in the Air. - Culinary therapy with Dean and Grissom.

18. She loves flag flyin', hot apple pie, cold beer, and a football game. - Meeting Ellen in the kitchen. A tasty time is had by all.

19. Hide the spoons... - [COMPLETE] - Eliot meets Adora Cain.

20. Proper introductions. - [COMPLETE] - Further introductions and a mutual love of pie.

plentyofroom application: Eliot Spencer

Your name/Pseudonym: Mal
Your personal LJ: karmaschild
Your email: karmaschild [at] gmail [dot] com
Your chat handles: junkyarddog (AIM)
Do you currently have any other characters in this game? If so, which one(s)?: Bobby Singer.

Character's name: Eliot Spencer
Character's canon: Leverage
What type of canon is your character from?: TV Show
Character's LJ: leverage_hitter

Brief history of your character (100-200 words): Not a lot is known about the early history of Eliot Spencer. It can be inferred from his own words that he made a promise both to his first love, Aimee, and "to the United States government" that he enlisted in some branch of the military at a young age. His bravery and competence helped him rise quickly through the ranks and soon found himself taking on dangerous special-ops missions. These lengthy, secret missions eventually caused the rift between him and his intended fiancee. He returned to the US on leave to find her married to another man. Afterward, he threw himself into his work and did not return to the States for years.

Following his career in the US military, he traveled the world, picking up a spectacular array of fighting skills, abilities, and experience. It was during this time that he discovered he had a natural talent for violence and crime. During his early criminal career, Eliot was not a nice man. He became a legendary 'wetwork' artist among the seediest of the criminal underworld, most notedly working for criminal mastermind Damien Moreau. Late in the 1990's, he had a change of heart and abandoned his assassination work for retrieval jobs.

There is a price on his head in three (or five, if you believe Jim Sterling) different foreign countries, including half a million dollars in Myanmar.

In 1999 Eliot obtained a Master Chef status from the Accademia Italiana della Cucina in Milan, Italy. Shortly thereafter, he returned to the US where he continued his retrieval work until 2008 when he agreed to a one-time job with a team headed by ex-insurance agent, Nathan Ford. The team successfully foiled a double-cross from their employer, landed a record breaking payout of 32 million dollars each, and, in the process, Eliot discovered he had a taste for bilking rich scumbags out of their money.

Somehow, he just never managed to go back to working alone...

Brief synopsis of your character's personality (100-300 words): Eliot is angry all the time. His temper is hot and extremely dangerous. Fortunately, he is also a master of control. Although he can be prodded to frustration and annoyance fairly easily, it takes a concerted effort to drive him to all out anger. Once that happens, all hell breaks loose.

Early on, Eliot learned to channel his massive temper into controlled, directed bursts of violence used for a purpose. In spite of his early years as an assassin, he now prefers to leave his opponents alive whenever possible. That doesn't mean he won't hesitate to kill if he feels he has to in order to survive or to protect someone he cares for.

The list of people he cares about is short. His team, Nate, Parker, Sophie, and Hardison top the list. He is also known to have a nephew that he keeps track of, although it is unknown if the boy is the child of a sister or brother. Eliot does not see him often.

His word is his bond. It takes quite a lot to impress Eliot and even more to earn his trust. Once his trust is earned, he would follow you right into the gates of Hell if necessary.

He is an animal lover and extremely protective of children. He is an enthusiastic, master level chef and a connoisseur of French champagne.

He does not like guns, although he is an expert in their use. He is also highly intelligent, although he plays his intelligence down in most situations. Being underestimated, more often than not, plays to his advantage.

What is your character's sexual orientation?: Straight.

What is the point of your character's canon in which you are introducing your character?: During season 2, following "The 3 Days of The Hunter Job".

Is your character alive or dead at the point of entry to the game?: Alive.

What skills does your character have?: Eliot is a weapons expert. He can handle, shoot, and identify by the sound of the shot, every firearm currently used in military action. He can use knives in hand-to-hand combat as well as throwing projectiles. He is a master of a variety of military fighting styles such as Israeli Army combat methods and martial arts including, but not limited to, having a 7th Degree Black Belt in Kenpo Karate, a 5th Degree Black Belt in Aikido.

He can pick a lock in a pinch, but greatly prefers the more expedient method of simply kicking the door open. He is a skilled conman and liar. Eliot is an avid horseback rider. He is also a skilled mechanic, owning both a Harley Davidson motorcycle as well as a 2009 Dodge Challenger.

Mistrustful of food processing methods and companies, he also prefers to grow his own food.

Initial personal inventory:
1. A sheath with 3 throwing knives worn under the jacket like a gun holster.
2. A notebook filled with an array of fake IDs, badges, and passports.
3. Smartphone.
4. Fishing rod and tackle box.
5. A roll pack with an assortment of professional chef's knives.
6. Earbud communication device.
7. Acoustic guitar.
8. Electric guitar with amplifier.
9. A military issue duffel bag with various clothes and costumes inside: FBI, TSA, IRS, Homeland Security, a plain black suit, chef's uniform, his favorite combat boots, jeans, and button down shirts, etc.
10. His car.

This way to the intro post!

plentyofroom: Intro post.

The Challenger's powerful engine rumbled as Eliot pushed the accelerator down. They'd just wrapped up a job in Washington DC which Eliot opted to drive to and back. It was only a seven hour drive (five hours, if he was in a hurry) and it saved him a ride on an airplane, trapped with Hardison's inane yammering. That meant he didn't have to get annoyed and Hardison didn't have to have any bones set and cast. Everybody won.

The open road was soothing, even if it was all interstate and concrete dividers. A time or two, he found himself drifting along, his mind blank but for the hum of the tires on the road and the growl of the engine. Eliot shifted in his seat, turning his head first to one side then the other to crack the vertebrae that were complaining from staying in one position too long. It would be time for a brief stop, soon. He was four hours out of DC and while it wasn't really a long way to go, the hour was weighing on him. His personal obsessive nature just wouldn't be satisfied until after he'd seen his crew onto a plane and watched the thing take off. Once they were in the air, he was free to relax and worry about getting himself home. The downside was that it was well past dark when he finally got on the road.

It was the darkness, perhaps, or his overall level of exhaustion. Whatever the cause, it took several minutes for Eliot to realize that something had... changed... about his route. There were no concrete barriers between the east and westbound lanes. A simple, double-yellow line marked the blacktop. The towering, metropolitan buildings had vanished. In their place were open expanses of desert dunes as far as he could see in either direction.


In New England?

He was dreaming. Had to be. Jesus Christ, had he fallen asleep at the wheel?

Sitting up straighter in his seat, Eliot started to pull off the side of the road when he saw lights up ahead. Just a few yards, up in the distance, a driveway turned off the main road and twisted its way up to an enormous building. A man who'd traveled as much as he had knew a hotel when he saw one, even a really old one like this. The only question was: What the hell was it doing out here?

And, for that matter, where the hell was here?

He made his decision and turned onto the driveway, following it up to the main office where he rolled to a stop and killed the engine. The lights were on, although he saw no one moving around the perimeter of the building. Eliot sat behind the wheel for a long moment, trying to clear his head and hoping he might wake up from whatever crazy-ass dream he was having.

A thought struck him and after a moment of digging around in the duffel bag he'd tossed into the back seat, he retrieved his communication earbud and tucked the tiny device into his ear.

"Hey, Hardison? Nate? Anybody?"

Silence was his only answer. Either they were still on the plane or he was somewhere in which there was no signal to carry his message. He was fervently hoping for the former.

Well. There was no sense in sitting in the car all night and even less sense in getting back on the road. Whatever colossal wrong turn he'd made had him well and truly lost. Driving off without a plan would only make things worse.

He grabbed a zippered folder from his duffel and rummaged around until he found his FBI identification badge. The badge listed him as Field Agent Robert Morrison. Not his favorite persona, to be sure, but when in doubt.... go for the guys who don't tend to have jurisdiction issues. He pocketed the matching credit card, tucked his phone into the jacket pocket of the suit he'd, thankfully, been too tired to change out of, and got out of the car.

Inside was impressive. He'd stayed in a few swanky places in his time and this one ranked right at the top. Plush carpets, marble accents, crystal chandeliers overhead... it was stunning. It also made no fucking sense what-so-ever. Who built a place like this out in the middle of nowhere?

He smoothed back the few strands of flyaway hair which had escaped the elastic band that held his ponytail in place as he approached the front desk. The lobby was empty except for the man behind the desk. Eliot took the walk to the desk slow, forcing his overly tired mind to memorize every detail of the lobby and of the man's face.

"Evening," he greeted the man and flipped open the leather billfold that contained his badge. "I'm Agent Morrison from the Boston FBI office. I'm in town for a training session and seem to have gotten turned around trying to get back to my office to check in. Don't suppose you could point me in the direction of the highway?"

"My goodness. I'm afraid you're well off the beaten path, Agent Morrison." The man smiled the plastic smile of the too-long-in-customer-service and shook his head pityingly. "The highway is approximately three hour's drive from where we are."

Eliot growled low in his throat, frustration rising. There was no way. He might have drifted off for a few seconds or even minutes, but there was no way in hell he'd gotten that far off course. "Listen, friend. I'm sure whatever tourist trap scam you're running works great on the usual passersby, but you're interfering with the FBI right now. I don't think you want to find out what happens to people who screw with the Bureau."

"No, indeed, officer. I certainly don't want any trouble," the man answered back in a completely believable, timid voice. Eliot hated him even more for it. "I was merely trying to encourage you to stay for the night. It's late, it's dark, and you're ever so tired..."

Damned if he wasn't tired, too. Eliot felt his shoulders sag minutely and his eyelids felt even heavier. The rational majority of his brain was screaming about neural-linguistic programming even as he heard himself agreeing. "It is late. I really am tired... guess I'll take that room, after all."

He handed over Agent Morrison's credit card and cracked a jaw-popping yawn as he waited for the clerk to process it. The card was returned to him along with a receipt to sign. He signed, took his carbon copy, and pocketed the credit card and key he'd been given. Deep down, he knew something was wrong, but he continued to trudge along as if in a dream. Then, as he turned his back on the desk, intent on gathering his things to carry up to his room, he happened to glance down at the receipt...

Just above the signature in his own handwriting that read 'Robert Morrison', the credit card machine had clearly printed: Eliot Spencer.

Jolted into full alertness, he turned back to the desk, mouth open to demand an explanation from the clerk, he found himself alone in the lobby.


Eliot Spencer

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