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Name: Ben
Vitals Abilities: Skills: Personality Traits:
--Middle to Late 20's --Music-Induced Abilities --String Bass Virtuoso --Passionate
--5 foot 9 inches --Funny
--140 pounds --Forgetful
BACKSTORY
Ben was found behind a warehouse in Paris next to the shattered remains of a double bass. He spoke nothing they said. He was the only black man for miles. And he had a third-degree concussion, a shattered leg, huge gashes all over his torso, and contusions on his face.
In the hospital, the medical staff quickly learned that the man that had been brought to them was an enigma in a puzzle wrapped in a quandary. Once he awoke from his coma, he said nothing--not even his name. He just sat in his bed, casted leg in the air, and healed quietly.
Then, as part of the patient rehabilitation program, a small jazz combo was invited in and all of Wing B was invited. The nurse wheeled a listless, half-asleep Ben down in a wheelchair. He was completely uninterested until he heard the first number. Depending on who tells the story, it was Sidewinder or Night in Tunisia.
On the first note, Ben snapped awake, lurched out of his chair, stumped up to the stage, stole the double bass, and PLAYED.
He embarrassed the musicians. He shocked the doctors. He swung and dug and danced with the man-sized bass. Face twisted up in rapture, head rolling with delight, eyes searching for rhythms, Ben nailed it to the wall with his soul. At the end of it, the staff tried to make a move to pull him back to his chair, but they were booed by the patients and the musicians. Though he didn't understand the language, that was one thing that never needed translating; Ben flashed a white smile and got right back into it.
As the weeks rolled on, he became more and more responsive. He talked some French. He ate with friends. He sat in the courtyard and tinkered on the piano, at first tenatively, but then rollickingly, joyfully. But his memory escaped him. He could only remember flashes: a smoky club, a plan gone awry, nothing important. Not even his name.
Then, round midnight, in April in Paris, he was absentmindedly playing his bass in the open courtyard, searching himself. He HAD to have come from somewhere. He HAD to have had a history. But what? But what? Frustrated, he slapped out the worst interval in music--the tri-tone.
It withered the bush in front of him. He almost fell back over the bench.
He had discovered his powers--a strange variation on Music-Induced Abilities that let him influence reality by playing music. He took to this with as much gusto as he did everything. He practiced well into the morning hours, shooting down birds with sharp pizzicatos and bringing them back to health with gradually intensifying slid high notes, growing plants with relentless walking lines, and making fish jump from the pond with low bass chords. By the time the sun rose, his fingers were bleeding, but he wasn't close to done. With a feeling of finality, he got himself ready, and played...something.
It gave him his name.
Ben.
Though his ability had restored this one memory, it was a balanced event. In exchange, he had totally forgotten what it was he'd played in the first place. He still had his powers, though, and that would have to be enough.
He delved into his playing in the following weeks, studying Mingus, Miles, Monk, and many more. He revisited Jaco Pastorus, Donald Dunn, and kept patients up till two with his loud music. They didn't care. During waking hours, Ben was the sunniest guy in Wing B, drawing funny cartoons for the child patients, ready with a smile and a wink for anyone who nodded at him.
Ben hit on the same mysterious pattern a few more times, giving him a bit more of himself: He was an American. He had played in Julliard. He had a quintet at some point, but they disbanded. He liked barbecue ribs, but not roast beef. But every time he played the notes he forgot them as though they had never been played. Ben borrowed a recorder to try and save it so he could listen to it whenever, but something always got in the way--a bird chirping, a plane going over, a friend bursting into the room. It was ridiculous. Finally he gave up. Some divine will wanted him to go on a quest? Fine. He'd go on a quest.
So when it came to be his last day in the hospital, Ben sat in the only building he could ever remember and fished for the rhythm for the millionth time. He played...something and it hit him.
Cafe Le Paris. He was going to meet there with someone. Someone lithe and charming. But...wrong road. Bad detour. Got out on foot, lugging Canone--his old bass! Burly men. Tried the old grin and nod. A knife! Get cut, stumble back, trip on Canone, on the ground! Bearded man grabs Canone--don't, you'll break it!--swings down. Leg. Pain. Last thought was of Her, the lithe charming woman. Shame. Kind of liked her. Then a bass to the skull and--
Ben jerked out of his new memory and vomited in a bush.
Now he had someplace to go.
Now he had a goal.
Ben walked out of his only stable place, bass in a gig bag, and went west. Somebody was waiting for him.
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