Anthony was born in Stonewood, West Virginia to a crackhead mother and a father who vanished the first chance he got. For the first six years of his life, alcohol, crack, and the back of his mother's hand were all very common sights to him. He quickly grew to resent her. A poor, dirty, trailer park lifestyle meant that Child Protective Services didn't take notice until after she died. When his mother finally overdosed, dying choking on he own vomit, he just watched. His grandparents had disowned her a long time ago, and none of the neighbors cared for either of them too much, and as a result Anthony was quickly filed away into foster care.
His first set of foster parents were an improvement. They genuinely loved him, but Anthony's erratic, concerning behavior proved too much to handle after a while. By age ten, he had already gotten into numerous fights at school, one time even stabbing another student's hand with a pencil. The final straw came when the family dog dissappeared one day, and the foster father found the collar and tags in Anthony's shirt drawer. When asked about it, the boy only replied with "He ran away".
The second pair of foster parents picked up from where the others left off, and they managed to last into the first half of middle school. Anthony's behavior was still rather volatile, but he had started to tone things down a bit.
Until the bullying started.
Being the new kid in a new school made him a natural choice, and he quickly became the go-to bullying target. That is until he nearly beat one of his bullies into a coma, slamming their head into a locker over and over until the teachers pried him off. It was only while he was serving a one-year sentence in juvenile hall that Anthony found out that he had been put back into the system, which made him bitter once more.
Once his time was done, he was moved out and on to the third set of parents. They were more "discipline-oriented", and Anthony soon found himself on the receiving end of beatings yet again. This lasted for a couple years, until the end of eigth grade, when the mother wound up in the hospital after accidently electrocuting herself in the bathroom. The father, so in grief was he, didn't take the necessary precautions, and was rushed to join her a week later after the jack holding up the car he was repairing gave out, breaking both his legs. Too wrapped up in their own pain to properly take care of him, Anthony was moved.
By the time high school and his fourth set of foster parents rolled around, Anthony had figured out how to hide his violent tendencies better. He realized that tackling situations the way he had just landed him in trouble, so he put up a front of being a kind, friendly individual. He was able to do his own thing, no longer having to worry about bullies or his parents. His grades were poor, his work ethic poorer, but a smile, wink, and a bit of flirting with the smartest girl in his class, Amber, made sure he pulled through. Eventually, it turned into a relationship between the two, though a very unhealthy one. One that Amber quickly tried to find her way out of.
When she vanished mysteriously during the senior year of the class, everyone was worried. When her body was found weeks later, violated and stabbed forty-seven times, everyone was alarmed. The police found no leads for her murderer.
Anthony kept the knife.
The feeling of control he had was something he had never known. And he wanted more.
As the years ticked by, as he settled into a steady job and moved into his own home, Anthony killed again, and again, and again. Hitchhikers, prostitutes, students, it didn't matter. The power he had, the rush, the venting of his anger, the gratification, it all mixed together to create something undescribable. By the time the police caught him, he was only able to be convicted of thirteen of the murders, though everyone knew that there were many, many more out there.
Thirteen was enough, though. Enough to sentence him to life behind bars, throwing away the key and letting him rot.
Or so it seemed.
His last two victims he had taken at once. Sixteen year-old twins that were foreign exchange students from some rinky-dink country called Chernarus. Foreign exhange students who happend to be the nieces of a very powerful politician in the Chernarussian government, who loved them very much. He was furious to find out that they had been violated by some lowlife.
So an exchange was made. Chernarus was holding an informant that the C.I.A. desired to extract from the country, the politician wanted his nieces' murderer. It was as clean of a deal as any could be.
Anthony was content with the fact that he was going to spend the rest of his life in prison. Imagine his surprise a couple of years in when he was loaded into a truck, driven to an airport, and flown to some post-Soviet country, only to be locked up once more on some prison offshore.
Chernarussian prisons were much less sophisticated than American prisons. The guards were more liberal with their beatings, the cells were cold and dirty, and "fatal accidents" were fairly common among prisoners. He tried being careful around the other prisoners, but that only lasted so long. When some poor bastard tried shiving him one day, Anthony turned the blade around on him. The man was dead well before the guards stunned him, and he was face-to-face with the warden. The warden was a ditzy-looking blond a foot shorter than him, but she made up for that height difference with a mean streak a mile long. When she personally oversaw him being beaten senseless, strapped to a chair, having his prisoner number tattooed on his arm, and being thrown in solitary confinement, he decided he didn't like her very much.
Months passed by while the transfer paperwork was completed between countries, and all Anthony could do was sit there, and wait. He wasn't allowed to socialize with the other inmates anymore, but he didn't mind. A mandatory one hour period in the courtyard was the only time he ever got to see the sun.
It was during one of these free times that things went wrong. He'd heard bits and pieces in passing about some sort of sickness spreading around the country, but he didn't particularly care.
When an alarm sounded through the complex, when the two accompanying guards cuffed him back up and started leading him hastily back to the solitary confinement wing, he didn't particularly care.
When an inmate, frothing at the mouth and red in the eyes, rushed from one of the corridors, tackled one of the guards to the ground, and tore out his throat, that was when Anthony cared.
The other guard took out his baton and tried beating the inmate into submission, but instead was pinned against the wall, the two wrestling back and forth. Anthony took the opportunity to grab the keys and pocketknife from the dead guard's belt and make a break for it, undoing his handcuffs in time to burst from solitary confinement into the hallways of hell. Gunfire, blood, spotlights, inmates and guards, both living and dead, everywhere. A siren, every siren on the island, blaring at full blast. He slashed anything that got in his way, eventually stumbling into an office room and slamming the door shut.
Turning around, Anthony found himself looking at the warden. She was unarmed, and clearly scared out of her mind, hiding behind a desk and staring bug-eyed at him.
Anthony smiled, and locked the door.
She stayed alive until the very end. Anthony wasn't sure how long he was in that room. By the time he finished with her, by the time he was satisfied, the knife was completely broken, bent and blood-stained.
It was dead silent as he left the bloody room, as he left the halls, as he left the prison. Walking calmly through a courtyard smothered in corpses, Anthony made the climb to the top of the highest tower in the prison. Looking out across the water, Anthony saw freedom. Things were different now, that much was certain. But he was fine with that.
He knew how to use a knife, after all.