♦ The Fuchsia City Guru ♦
Sig Image: having trouble relocating sauce, think it was on pixiv
Working on getting things started. Could i get everyone to PM me their SUs or repost them on the next page of this thread?
Also this thread will be repurpoused after the RP starts. Itll be where you can search for and accept to take on certain jobs/missions in the RP. Ill post the details shortly.
♦ The Fuchsia City Guru ♦
Sig Image: having trouble relocating sauce, think it was on pixiv
Spoiler Alert!Name: James Nolen
Alias: Jim or Axe
Most consider him a bandit
He sees himself as a guy trying to survive
Appearance: He is a white male. He has gray and white hair and brown eyes. He wears an old and tattered hide jacket with a black shirt underneath, a loose and faded pair of blue jeans (darkened at the bottom), brown boots, and a hunter’s belt complete with a machete sheath, small loops for shotgun rounds, and a small pouch. He also carries a canteen, which is attached to a long leather band around his shoulder.
Weapon of choice: Jim is infamous for using a fire axe. He will use guns when the risk becomes too great and also carries a revolver in one of his various inside jacket pockets. He also carries a machete but uses it only in situations in which he can't use his axe.
Personality: Jim is cold as the situation and as calculating as he is cold. Because of reputation, bandits keep their distance. He will do almost anything to survive. He will not kill innocent women nor children. He prefers to work alone but he will work with others in order to survive, making him a viable mercenary or hired thief. He knows most of the tricks of his trades. His trades include; tracking, hunting, various hand to hand combat styles, knife fighting, fencing, and thievery. He is not greedy but he is not above taking something he can get even though he does not currently need it. He will not abandon his client unless it is for his survival. Although he is keen on his survival, he is willing to sacrifice his life.
Biography: As a teenager living in a rough part of the city, he was paranoid about being attacked on the street. Because of this he studied hand to hand combat and knife fighting. When he was seventeen, his parents were killed by a robber. He was forced to live with his grandparents in the country. There he learned hunting from his grandfather. He enjoyed it a bit too much and started poaching dangerous animals when he was twenty-four. The sport became too easy for him, so he became a private bodyguard at the age of thirty to learn the ways of how people kill and how to protect himself from killers. He still retained his paranoia throughout his life and so he hired a hacker to delete his identity. He called himself James Nolen from then on and became a mercenary.
At the age of forty-six China attacked. He happened to be in Northern California at the time. The area he was at was surrounded and he was taken to a concentration camp. He never tried to escape because he knew it would be futile. The first ones to try were captured and gunned down in front of the rest. Eventually China withdrew, taking the prisoners to their ships. Jim knew they were going to be held hostage and his background was going to be looked into. If the Chinese government found nothing they were sure to kill him. He waited patiently for a moment to escape. It never came. Instead they were released onto the shores they were taken from. This puzzled him but he soon figured out why.
Many of the "escapees" died to bandits trouble. During his first encounter with bandits, he grabbed the nearest weapon, which was a fire axe. He used that to fend off the bandits. Word spread about him and his axe. Jim realized that they were afraid of it. He used that fear to his advantage and managed to keep his reputation which kept him alive.
Without Turning Back
A cloud of ash came up after each footfall. He looked up and stopped. Before him was a sea of black. He was getting closer. He continued to walk for an hour. Step after step. The smell of burning petroleum permeated his nostrils. He looked up. What stood before him now used to be a gas station. He remembered all the fuss; Soaring gas prices, OPEC. He chuckled. How little it mattered now. He walked through it maintaining his path. After an hour or so he looked up again. In the distance he could see houses towards the east. He stopped and headed towards them. "Now we're getting somewhere" he said under his breath. The sound of crunching ash was replaced by the hollow sounds of concrete. He turned his head to the side. There was a marking on each of the doors. He said them as he walked by, "X X X X X X X X X." The markings where made with red and white spray paint. Some of the markings were just an "X". Others where a circle with an "X" on top of them. He continued, "X X X X X X O." He stopped. He shifted his direction pulling out an old fire axe and moved towards the "O". On approach he check the sides of the house. "Pretty spaced out." he muttered stepping on the porch, "It should be alright." He lightly turned the door handle. The handle turned. He gripped his axe tightly and opened the door. The hinges announced his entry with a loud creaking noise. He paused for a moment. Voices could be heard from upstairs. He could not hear the words very well but he could hear the stress and annoyance in them. They knew he was inside. He bent low and quickly entered. A quick glance around showed him the stairs were behind the kitchen which came down on the living room. He entered the kitchen. He could see the zigzagging pattern of the underside of the stairs. He heard footsteps. They were heading for the stairs. Dust from the ceiling came down on him with each step. It seemed only one was sent to investigate. He quickly calculated the number of steps it would take to climb down the flight, 13. He had about 7 seconds. One, he quickly glanced at the cupboards, all where open. Two, he quietly made his to the kitchen table. Three, he grabbed the vase. Four, quietly made his way back. Five, he made his way to the living room. Six he hurried to a blind spot right next to the stairs. Seven, he threw the vase across the room. Startled, the footsteps unloaded two bursts from a shotgun at the direction of the sound. His presence was confirmed. He quickly jumped out and swung his axe. The axe found its mark on the robbers head. He quickly placed his boot on the robbers face and dislodged his axe, he had no time to lose. He quickly made his way up the stairs. Just before he reached the top he saw the tip of a double barrel shotgun. He bent low, grabbed the barrel with one hand, and pulled using his body weight. The robber was pulled down to the ground. Still holding on to the barrel he rammed the axe's head into the robbers neck. The robber fired one shot before he received a swift kick to the temple. The second robber was unconscious. A third robber rounded the corner. He had two options. He could charge him with his axe or use the shotgun from the second robber. He chose the second one. He quickly snatched the gun from the second robbers hands, turned the shotgun while pumping it, and fired. The third robber fell without a word. He heard a voice, "Did you get him?" He picked up his axe and opened the door. The fourth robber dropped a sac of provisions on the floor making a load crack. The robber glanced at his gun which was laying on the opposite wall and glanced back at the intruder who was shaking his head. The robber said to words, "James Nolen."
"Yup, that's me." he said raising his axe. He brought the axe down with great momentum. The fourth robber fell to the ground. Jim searched the robbers body taking a cigarette box and a lighter. He then wiped the axe head on the robbers shirt, took the bag of provisions, and walked towards the stairs. Jim glanced down at the third robber and stooped down taking a can of beer from the robber's jacket pocket and placing it in the bag. He made his way to the second robber and took his shotgun and his rounds placing the rounds in his bag. He made his way down stairs. Jim unstrapped the two shotgun ammo belts from around the second robbers waist and shoulder placing it around his own shoulder. When he made it down stairs he opened the bag withdrew a magazine rolling it up. Jim put his axe on his belt, pulled out his lighter, and lit the top making his way to the broken back window. He held the magazine up to the curtains. They lit up in flames. He walked to the front window and lit the curtains on fire and discarded the magazine on the living room rug. Jim grabed the bag, flung it over his shoulder, walked outside, and started down the street saying, "X X X X.........." without turning back.
Come Back Soon
The hands were dealt and each of the players searched their packs. The men placed their bets. A half full cigarette box, a spool of fisherman's line, three small unopened packs of sanitation wipes, and a kitchen knife where placed on the table. Each of the bandits looked at each other and nodded. The game began. The first player peeked at his two cards and placed down a silver butter knife. The other men laughed. "What the hell do you call that?" chuckled the player across from him. "Business has been slow lately" replied the first player laughing. The other men burst into a harder laugh slapping the table. The smile of the player across from him slowly fell into a grimace. The other men turned. All their expressions darkened. James Nolen was approaching. The bandits began arguing with each other and pushing one another around. Finally one stepped up. "Hey!" he managed to say. "Admission fee?" he said holding out his hand. Jim stopped and looked up dropping the bag he had over his shoulders. The bag came down with a load crash. Jim walked up to the men, his axe bobbing at his side with each step. The men held up their guns a little more gripping them tightly. James still approached unperturbed. He reached into his jacket. The bandits pointed their guns at him. Jim stopped and slowly pulled out two cans of food. He slammed them on the table making eye contact with each of them. For a while no one said a word still maintaining eye contact. Jim straightened himself and went back to his bag, picked it up, and continued walking. The men's heads turned following Jim. Just when the bandits were about to continue their game, Jim spoke without turning. "Hey, keep the change." With that he threw something behind him. It landed on the table bouncing and making a rattling sound. The bandits looked at it. They became infuriated. A silver butter knife rested on the table and nothing else. Even their cards were taken. The bandits looked at Jim who was still walking towards the entrance. None of them made a move to reclaim their items.
Jim kept walking and looked up. There was a sign above him. Most of the letters were riddled with bullets, however underneath the sign in black letters was crudely written, "Welcome to Tartarus." Jim entered the building. He looked towards his right. The Black Cross was here early and so were the Venoms. He looked to his left. The Skulls aren't here but that was expected. He looked towards the corner of the building. A table was set up and behind it was his stash. No other person would leave their stash unguarded in a bandit town. Jim was the exception. Never the less he rifled through his stash making sure everything was there. Not even a cigarette was missing. They were beginning to learn. He unfolded a chair and sat down with his boots on the table. After about an hour or so 70% of the bandits have returned from their ventures. Jim put his feet down and pulled out four boxes of cigarettes and placed them on the table. People already started to swarm his table. He spoke loudly so his voice carried over the crowd. "I have a limited supply of cigarettes. The best offers will get them." He traded the first box for three bars of soap. The second one got him three meters of rope. He traded both the third and the fourth one for a can opener. After the last ones were traded he pulled out a stack of knives laying them out on the table.
This continued for 30 minutes. The crowd was starting to fade away. Jim slammed two cans of beer on the table. His table was once again rushed. He eventually traded them for a flare gun, anti-bacterial soap, a pair of rubber gloves, a half-full can of black spray paint, and a bottle of Tylenol. He bartered with a few more items and closed shop. Afterwards he haggled a water canteen for the deck of cards he had stolen previously.
After a day of negotiations he laid himself back in his chair with his feet on the table and closed his eyes. He soon opened them to see someone headed straight for him.
"Where are my men?!?" shouted the bandit.
"Dead probably," Jim replied coldly.
The bandit pulled out a pistol. A voice in the crowd carried over all the commotion.
Everyone stopped. Grant Owen made his way in front of the crowd that gathered.
"Are you forgetting the rules of this town?" he said in a southern accent to the pistol wielding bandit. "We settle disputes the old fashioned way."
The rest of the bandits circled around Jim and his challenger. Owen stepped into the middle.
"Your pistol please." he asked the bandit holding out his hand. "And yours too Nolen."
Nolen knew the rules well. He placed his axe, machete, flare gun, and revolver on his table.
Owen started again, "Too make things a little more interesting, this will be a knife fight. Anybody have a couple of knives they are willing to lend?"
A long dagger was thrown at the ground by the challenger's feet.
"Anybody willing to let Axe borrow a blade?"
A blade was thrown at Jim's feet. He stooped down and picked it up. The bandits laughed. "A butter knife" stated Owen, "Looks like someone is generous." The spectators roared with even more laughter.
"Remember," Owen said to the audience, "I receive 10% of all winnings."
"And I receive 5% of the pot," interrupted Jim.
"You haven't won yet," growled his opponent.
Owen coughed loudly and spoke. "All bets will be placed through Edgey." Pointing to a table right outside the circle of bandits. "And without further ado let's begin."
He stepped out of the middle and raised a revolver in the air.
The opponent quickly jutted his blade out. Jim was quicker and stepped back out of range. He then stepped inward towards his opponent. Caught off guard by the old man's agileness the opponent swung his hand back. Jim parried his opponents swing with his unarmed hand and moved behind his opponent. In response the challenger tried spinning around. Jim was already bending his knees low and struck his opponent in the back of the knee. Jim then withdrew to a safe distance. His adversary's sounds of pain were drowned out by the crowd's hollering. The opponent got back up and tried to overcome the pain. Now it was Jim's turn to strike. He jumped to his opponent's weak side. The challenger tried turning but his knee folded under his own weight. Jim struck his opponent's knife arm leaving his butter knife embedded. In a feeble attempt to retaliate the opponent swung his knife. Jim jumped behind his arm and broke it at the elbow. The challenger dropped his dagger. Jim picked it up and slowly walked behind his opponent. The battle was won. Nolen held his challengers head up leaving the jugular exposed. A quick slash and the job was done.
Some of the crowd cheered. Others held their heads in dismay. Jim discarded the knife and went over to Edgey's table. He picked up a few bars of soap, a can of beans, and a full roll of duct tape and went back to his corner. He grabbed his effects and headed for the exit. Grant Owen was leaning against the wall. A huge grin was spred across his face. He opened his mouth and said, "Thank you for shopping at Costco."
"Please, come back soon."
Name: Alexander Zimmermann
Appearance: White male with blonde hair and very blue eyes behind his mirrored aviators. He wears a brown leather jacket and brown boots. He is shorter than the average person and talks in a Scottish accent.
Weapon of choice: His Pulse Raptor (currently out of commission due to the EMPs) which he christened Überkanonen and two Colt Diamondback revolvers. He has very good reflexes and eyes making him accurate and fast. He also pilots the one of the EMP resistant helicopters.
Personality: Strong willed and determined. Brilliant in the air. Reckless on the ground. And he hates piloting helicopters. He is also a glory hog.
Biography: He lived in Scotland with his mother and his German father. Growing up he loved to hear the stories of the Red Baron. His interest in these stories came from his great-grandfather who flew beside the Red Baron. From there on he wanted to be an Ace fighter pilot. As a teenager he studied the tactics of aerial combat, mostly Boelcke's Dicta. He then took flying lessons when he was old enough. His first time flying in a cockpit was the greatest moment in his life. To be soaring through the sky with the world at your below you was a stunning feeling. There he made up his mind to spend the rest of his life in aviation. He moved to the US for collage. There he learned about aviation and communications. He became a US citizen and joined the Air Force. All the positions for being a fighter pilot were taken so he went into communications. On his first training flight the pilot had a heart attack. Luckily Zimmermann got to the cockpit and landed the plane better and faster than the pilot ever could. The pilot was saved and Zimmermann was given the chance to be a bomber. Fortunately, his commanding officer thought his skills should be tested as a fighter pilot. Zimmermann quickly took the offer. As a fighter pilot he was able to outperform all of the fighter pilots of the entire Air Force. He was instantly put into the special forces. This job took him out of the front lines and put him behind it, for gathering intelligences. He hated that job. There was no action, no fighting, and certainly no glory. All his missions were top secret and classified. In 2009 he was approached by Pulse. They claimed to be a classified branch of both the National Guard and the Coast Guard. Just when Zimmermann was about to turn down the offer, Pulse sweetened the deal. Pulse was test running some of their own specially modified and improved versions of aircraft. Zimmermann was still hesitant. Pulse offered him seven days with full pay. If he was not satisfied he could go back to reconnaissance. Zimmermann thought it over and agreed. The first plane they showed him was the Pulse Raptor. Zimmermann sighed. He already piloted a raptor before. Pulse assured him this was not any old Raptor. As his first job they made him test the capabilities of the Pulse Raptor. As he was being briefed about the planes supposed limits, his eyes widened. When it was time for him to fly it he was very enthusiastic. Take off was the same. It was not until he traveled 123,000 feet above the ground was he amazed. It was the same amazement he had when he was young. The whole planet below him. Zimmermann stayed with Pulse.
Name: Gregory Osmer
Alias: He is called Shade on the field (whether he is on it or not). Only a handful knows his name (If that is his name).
Alliance: Lance, B.C.C.O. and BioCorp (However he does not trust BioCorp at all).
Appearance: He is a black haired white male. He is about average height and has very dark brown (looks black) eyes. He always wears his trade mark long, heavy and black coat. When conducting business, he wears a suit and tie with his black coat. On the field he wears a tactical vest and boots with his black coat.
Weapon of choice: His intellect is his main weapon however he always carries with him a custom made and modified pistol with gyrojet ammunition. He is very accurate with his pistol. He also carries a modified dart revolver.
Personality: He is a patient and intelligent person. He has a reputation for being an exceptional military strategist and inventor. To top that off he is very paranoid but he is able to control his paranoia with his intellect. Because he is paranoid he has contingency and back up plans for everything. Osmer does not get frustrated easily nor does he get easily exited. Most people think he is devoid of emotions. Others think he is mad. Some think he possesses strange powers. Rumors spread but all of them agree he is a very serious and secretive person. He is the only "Ghost" who does not use the formula (Osmer is considered a half Ghost). Osmer also talks in a monotone voice.
Biography: He did a good job of hiding his past. Information on his history is only known by him. The only thing that is known about him is that he co-started the Lance Mercenary Organization with four others at the age of twenty-three. Lance eventually was contracted by BioCorp as the main bulk of the B.C.C.O. Because of this he is the leader of the B.C.C.O. and acts as liaison between the B.C.C.O. and BioCorp. Because of this, he holds a chair on the BioCorp board. He is rarely seen on the field. But when he is, something important is going on.
The door open. A man in a long black coat stepped into the dimly lit room. He sat in the only available chair. "Excuse my tardiness" said the man in a monotone voice. "There was an urgent matter that needed my attention." A man at the far end of the table spoke. "Now that Osmer is here, we can begin."
A man in a white lab coat straightened his papers on the table, stood up, and spoke. The others in the room looked at him with serious faces. Each of them wearing all black. "Progress on Zeta is going slowly. We haven't found a way to bypass the natural defenses."
A woman near the far corner of the room stood up slamming the table with her hands. "How many times do we have to listen to your failures?" she said sternly. "We have given you every available resource in the world and you still are making no progress? How is this possible?"
The most of the black figures in the room nodded their heads in approval. The rest sustained their mind piercing stares.
The woman continued her scathing speech. "Time is running out. It has been months and we still don't have Zeta complete? Every time you come into this room we hear about your inability to perform the task that was appointed to you. Before project Zeta, you assured us of your abilities. Osmer was right from the beginning. You cannot do anything!"
A bead of sweat rolled down the scientist's forehead. He thought carefully. One wrong move and that move would be his last.
"Something like this takes time." responded the scientist. " A slow and steady process. If we rush it at this stage, we could lose everything. All of our research would be worthless." He made sure to emphasize the words "we" and "our" making it seem the loss of his work would be a loss for them all.
Before the woman could retort. Osmer spoke. "Five days. You have five days to get results. At the end of five days you will be the test subject." His monotone voice echoed off the walls.
The scientist was speechless. He looked Osmer in the eyes. They were black. Black as evil incarnate. It was a stare you could feel. And the feeling was not pleasant, not one bit. He thought of his options. No he couldn't do that.
"Do what you must." Stated Osmer as if he could read the scientist's mind. "On the fifth day, my scientists will conduct the experiments. Depending on how good your results are will determine how painless your death will be. If you succeed in what we asked there should be nothing to fear."
The scientist dropped his papers. They lay strewn about on the table. He would face a woman's scorn any day if the alternative was Osmer's stare. He fell into his chair much like his papers; a mess.
"Now to a more pressing issue." Osmer said. "I have reason to believe there is an imposter among us."
The other looked around, trying to guess who it was. Finally one spoke up, "Who is it Osmer?"
"You." replied Osmer. His voice lacked emotion but had an unmistakable coldness to it.
"That's absurd." declared the man.
"Is it now? Firstly, you were the first to ask who it was. Secondly, a proud businessman like Anderson would never use contractions such as 'that's.' Thirdly, as a former smoker, Anderson was constantly moving his hands."
The Anderson fraud glanced quickly at his left side of his chest. He was about to reach for his gun when Osmer fired a dart from a modified revolver. The dart pierced the phony's neck and he was instantly knocked out. The other members of the board jumped out of their seats unsure what to do.
Still sitting Osmer spoke. "The effects are not permanent. With the consent of the board, I would like to perform the interrogation personally."
No one in the room spoke for they were still in shock.
"Good," said Osmer still looking towards the fake Anderson. "This is personal business."
Name: Isaac Wolfe
Alliance: B.C.C.O. and BioCorp although his loyalty is not completely to them
Appearance: He has dark skin and black hair because of his Cherokee ancestry (his mother is full Cherokee while his father is Caucasian). He looks like the standard B.C.C.O. soldier. He about average height at 5'10''.
Weapon of choice: He is familiar with all B.C.C.O. weaponry.
Personality: He is the soldier who keeps his mouth shut and objects only in his mind. He is not reckless and follows orders. He disagrees with much of what he is being ordered to do however he waits for the right time to leave or rebel. He is also wise for his age and proud of his heritage.
Biography: He was born and raised in Oklahoma. His mother taught him about his heritage while his father taught him how to hunt. He joined law enforcement when we was 21. As a police officer he was reckless and hasty but he got the job done. One day his recklessness got a fellow officer killed. His actions were scrutinized and he was kicked off the force. These advents made him more solemn. The next day he had a knock on his door. The person on the other side claimed to be part of an mercenary organization named Lance. The mystery man told Wolfe that they were currently hiring and that if he joined, his record will be wiped clean and he would begin a new life as a hired gun. Wolfe thought it over for the next week. He felt like there was no other choice and joined Lance. Lance was eventually contracted by BioCorp and was integrated into the B.C.C.O.
He was in the oil refinery facility raid with Geist.
Colonel Byron Thaddeus MortonSpoiler Alert!Name: Colonel Byron Thaddeus Morton.
Alliance: *Pulse and the United States of America.
Appearance: Byron Thaddeus Morton is a mountain of a man. His nickname, The Goliath, does Morton an exorbitant amount of justice when describing him. He stands at a height of 6'8", weighing in at over 375 pounds of pure, unrivaled brute strength. His body is covered in bandoliers and weapons. He has taken the utmost precautions to ensure his longevity and protection. His right eye bears burnt skin around the socket, and where his right eye should be, there is instead an artificial eye with infrared technology built into it that sends collected data directly to the brain. This eye can use its infrared sensors to detect heat and triangulate a position through walls and certain structures. His left arm, from just below the elbow down, is severed completely off. It has since been replaced with a mechanically enhanced prosthetic Robo-Arm that was developed by Pulse only a few years back. This arm is completely metal and wires, sporting a Tungsten base armor; which is a metal surpassed in strength only by diamond. It is gold played to give it a more accommodating appearance. The wrinkles in his face are from years of tough living, giving him character but at the same time, a very cold and heartless stare and disposition.
Personality: Colonel Morton has a very ruthless persona about him. He understands conflict and suffering, and also believes that everyone should have suffering in their lives to build character. He is very old fashioned when faced with various euphemisms and ideologies. His sympathy is very little, but his reforms are great. That is to say, of he sees people in trouble and suffering, he will never show them any real apathy or emotion. He will, however, utilize all the power at his command to help those in need. He is brave and stouthearted, while also being haunted by his own demons from the past. He fills nearly every void of what is known as the "strong silent type." Although technically the United States no longer exists, Byron still fights for it. He fights for it because he needs something to fight for, otherwise he has no reason for living. Perfectly fits the definition of a "die hard patriot."
Biography: Byron was born to James and Matilda Morton in Springfield, Illinois on August the 11th of 1945. He was never much one for sports early on in school, from grades 1 to 7 he spent most of his days at recess inside, focusing on his studies rather than physical activities. This boggled his parents because of the boys obvious size and natural strength. His parents, however, would not have much time to instruct their son and make plans for his future. At the age of 13, the worst event of his life occurred. Byron's parents were both killed in a car crash, the result of a drunken driver.
Byron collapsed into depression, not knowing how to handle nor grieve for his parents passing. He was passed from foster home to foster home for his unruly personality and aggressive behavior until his 18th birthday.
It was 1973, and the call of the Army was strong for many young men. Byron, however, did not want such a life. After too many misdemeanors and being in and out of juvenile hall, the courts decided a fair punishment would be either prison for 8 years, or 4 years in the army. Morton chose the army.
His first year in basic training an arms maintenance was easy for him. His following two years in Vietnam however, proved far more difficult. Weeks in the hot sun followed by weeks in unending rain took their toll on the young mans life. At the age of 21, he experienced his second life changing tragedy. While crawling on all fours towards a POW containment camp, his left arm tripped a land mine. The mission was thought to be a failure, but Byron pulled through anyways. The mines explosion caught the attention of the guards, giving away Byron's Company's position. Byron, however, was blasted into a waterway, a waterway that conveniently led underneath the POW camp. Byron made It out with all 5 captured POW's. The rest of his company, however, with the exception of his commander, were slaughtered.
Byron was transported back to the US and awarded the Purple Heart for his bravery in the face of peril, a feat that nearly cost him his life. His left arm had to be amputated from the mine, while the blood lost from saving his fellow men caused him to slip into a 3 month coma. When he awoke, he found the latest in science where his left arm once was. A prosthetic piece of machinery was now to serve him for the rest of his life. He humbled himself, and turned to god. After two years in physical therapy, he went back into the military. Instead of utilizing his strength, he enable the use of his mind. Creating weapons and different scientific applications for the military, Byron quickly became the leader of the Military Robotics Division. Being a co-designer of nearly every advancement in the use of robotics by the military, Byron was simultaneously climbing the ranks as a Tactical Field Expert. When it came to battle tactics, he was the best.*
By the early 90's, Byron Thaddeus Morton had attained the rank of Colonel in the United States Military. In 1998, after serving for 35 years in the military, Byron retired. The army had given him everything he could ever ask for and more, which is why he is such a faithful patriot. he began to slow down and relax and finally enjoy his retirement. Then... It happened.
On September 11th, 2001, America was attacked. His beloved country was threatened, and so he saw fit to call himself back to arms. The war in Iraq was incredibly difficult, but it was not unlike the Vietnam war he had previously fought in. Being a high leader in robotics, he was able to upgrade his prosthetic arm into an all around utility that no other human could accomplish. It could extend, it could latch onto things, it gave him unheard of strength, he was in the most literal form, a super soldier. He was not, however, invincible.
During one of his raids on an Iraqi outpost in 2008, Byron's arm was hit by an EMP weapon. The arm shut down, and Byron was quickly overrun and captured. They tortured him for information. They tortured him for a long, long time.*
A true patriot to the end, he refused to relinquish any information. The Al-Qa'ida, unable to retrieve information through conventional means, decided to take a more traditional touch to the torture. This traditional touch came in the form of molten steel being poured on various parts of the body. They started with his right eye.
Noone knows if he would have died there or if he would have escaped on his own, all that is known is that he thanked America once more when the Marine Strike team raided the Al-Qa'ida camp and freed him. Seeing those beautiful, spacious skies and amber waves of grain brought tears to his remaining eye. He was hospitalized immediately when he returned to the united states. His eye was burnt beyond repair. It was instead removed, and replaced with an infrared mechanical eye that could relay information and dissect an environment at the speed of a computer.
When he returned to work in 2009, he was approached by his superior ranking officer and offered a position in a bran new division that had just opened, called Pulse. Byron gladly accepted the new post and took to his new job with little trouble. In 2012, the news of the United States no longer being a nation brought a sadness upon Byron like none other. He currently resides in Texas, at the remnants of what was once Dallas, taking it upon himself to defend the country he loved no matter what the costs.
Prologue: "A Ten-hut!"*
500 Hazard Suited Pulse Soldiers snapped to attention at the sound of their Colonel's voice.
Another booming command, and every soldier simultaneously pivoted on their right toe, turning to face their leader at home plate of the stadium. They were at the stadium of the Dallas Cowboys, what was once a place of happiness and giddy dreams.
That was... Before the Apocalypse.
The Colonel barked, and his order was followed. Every soldier folded their hands behind their backs,
And separated their feet in a resting position. Sweat dripped from Colonel Byron Thaddeus Morton's brow as he gazed upon his company. These were men he had trained, dined with, fought with, bled with, and all but died with. Now, he was prepared to make that last statement change, as was every soldier in that stadium. They all knew what was expected, and they all knew that they probably would not live through the following confrontation. But what really mattered was that they didn't care. They were happy to die.
As long as they died together, while fighting for their fallen country, they were ready to greet the next world with open arms.
Morton's gaze traveled to the stands of the stadium. They were filled with survivors, people on the run from the apocalypse and just barely holding on to life. He had created a safe haven for them here, in Dallas. He had told them they would make it through this. He gave them food, water, shelter, he gave them hope, and told them of a brighter future. There was, however, one thing he hadn't told them.*
That they were alone in this city, and the only thing standing between these survivors and the cretinous apocalypse going on outside these walls... Was him.
He returned his gaze to his troops, and spoke aloud for all to hear.
"Men," he said loudly, "we have spent our lives training for this day. Every event prior to this moment, right here, right now, is meaningless. Every material possession, every suffering, every love, every sacrifice have all been leading to this moment. This is going to be the pinnacle of our existence. The reanimated have been multiplying in number just outside this cities walls. Soon, they will gather a force strong enough to break through."
He paused, just for a moment to let the message sink in.
"And when they do break through," he continued, "what will they find? A broken people? A species unable to continue on through this hardship? No! They will find strong, capable men and women, ready to fight for what they believe in!"
His voice began to rise and gain more and more confidence with each word he spoke.
"We will not fall! These reanimated these... Mutants, they will not win! They can think, just like we do. They are not simply mindless beasts, but neither are we!"
The survivors cheered as he spoke.
"We will show them who the superior species are! We will show them real fear and true strength! Not by the strength of our muscles nor by the power of our weapons, but by the ferocity of our hearts!"
The crowd roared.
"We fight for every life taken by these bastards! We fight for every family torn apart! We fight, not for freedom, but for life! We fight for the United States, and for what we represent!"
The crowd ate this up and kept cheering.
Byron's voice suddenly became very monotone. "And what is it that we represent?"
The crowd grew quiet very quickly, all on the edge of their seats to hear what the Colonel was about to say. He continued to pause for a moment until silence swept the stadium unopposed.*
"What we represent... Is the spirit of the human race."
Applause slowly built up as he spoke, "And that, my friends, is something these monsters can never take from us!!!"
The crowd roared, the soldiers cheered. Byron turned and walked into his office in the stadium announcers booth. What he hadn't told them is that he had not gotten contact from his commanding officers in weeks. What he had not told them is that supplies were getting lower.
What he had not told them was that they were alone, and that time was running short.
Weapon of choice: Colonel Byron utilizes the latest in advanced military technology, including the patented Pulse Pistol that was a staple weapon of the Pulse Soldiers. It is the size of a 9mm pistol, firing armor piercing rounds. Along each of his legs at the calves lie a holster, each of the two holsters housing a sawn off shotgun. Around the thighs of his legs are bandoliers with shotgun shells. at his waist, Byron's belt holds four holsters, two in the front near the belt buckle, two in the back. In the front holsters sit twin golden 9mm pistols, while in the back holsters sit twin mini-Uzi guns, also gold plated. Bandoliers are strapped across his chest, full of ammo, with two large holsters in the back. All he has to do to access these weapons is reach over one of his shoulders. Two weapons are housed here, the first being a real time Flamethrower, the second being a prototype 308 automatic rifle with a grenade launcher attachment. At his sides on his belt sit a pair of knives, used either for throwing or close range combat.
Byron is a mountain of a man, and his physical strength surpassed only by his firepower. He has given his mechanical arm numerous upgrades to now resist EMP along with being bulletproof.
Eruc Suriv (aka Aerian)Spoiler Alert!Name: Eruc Suriv
Alliance: Veteran mercenary for Vial Industries and threat to both the undead and the living, his only alliance now is to himself and whomever he chooses to show mercy to.
Appearance: Unlike his brethren reanimated, Aerian does not appear to be undead. He looks normal, like he did in the pinnacle of his mercenary days. He wears a suit of bullet proof armor, lightweight, yet durable metal alloy based. The armor is black and red colored, giving him a colorful yet threatening disposition. His armor bears the scars of blades that have met it and many blemishes from bullets that have failed to pierce it. His face is one of pure angst and determination. The pupil in his right eye has no color from a previous battle wound, along with a scar going through his eye and the brow above it appears to have been burnt off with a lot of scar tissue around it. His skin has lost most of his color, resembling more of a sickly white as opposed to his previous tanned skin. The hair on his head which was once a long mane of dark gold has turned to a bright white as the hair has died and become tainted from Necroenza. His look is fierce and gives most a very uneasy feeling when being gazed upon by his gaunt features and threatening presence.
Personality: Aerian has a very violent temper. Being a former mercenary, he already has a ruthless sense of violence and has no real care or good will towards the preservation of life. Willful and headstrong, he is not afraid to voice his opinions, nor to meet confrontation with conflict at the slightest whim. Being a reanimated as well, he has a lust for flesh, whether it is from a corpse or a living being. At times if he goes too long without eating such things, he can enter a sort of feeding frenzy, where he gives in to his base lusts and traits given by the Necroenza, more or less becoming a mindless feeding machine until his hunger is satisfied. Being a warrior, he has a hunger for battle, and will never quit on the battlefield until the enemy is defeated.
Weapon of Choice: Hands, feet, mouth, toxic Necroenza spit. He also carries a silenced pistol that remains in a special leg holster on his armor, along with a compound bow of the highest grade that he uses to hunt down his targets. He prefers to hear the whooshing sound of an arrow and the sickly noise of it penetrating it's target as opposed to bullets.
Biography: The first and original test experiment of Vial Inc., The mercenary who was the first and original test subject of BioCorp who helped steal the Necroenza virus and was tested upon, being the original source and first reanimated, the strongest of them all.
Prologue: "Ugh... My head... Feels like its been ripped in half..."*
The cot creaked as Eruc Suriv woke from his sleep. He rose and put his hands on his face to rub the dust out of his eyes. As he looked around in his dimly lit room, he stretched, an found himself in pain. The source of his pain was stemming from his left arm. He tensed his muscles and noticed the small hold at the point where his elbow bent, a small hole that had been created only weeks before. A hole that would change his life forever.
He had been injected with BioCorp's super soldier formula. His strength, endurance, vitality and speed had all increased. He felt stronger, but weaker at the same time. He was the very first human subject that was tested on by BioCorps new formula, but he certainly was not the last. He was chosen first because of his accolades, his accomplishments, and most of all, because of his impeccable service record. And yet... None of that mattered to him. He stood, dressed himself in his normal attire, grabbed his weapons and left his room. On the nightstand near his cot lay a document stating his involvement and payment by working for BioCorps competition, Vial Industries, along with outlining his duties for the day to steal the super soldier formula and deliver it to Vial Ind. For all his accomplishments, there was one thing he prides above all else. He is a mercenary first, loyalist second.
Money is the only thing true mercenaries respect, and Vial paid well to ensure it.
Eruc had heard of BioCorp hiring more people to test their new formula on. They were not allowed to even be in the same room together, however. Because of this, neither Eruc nor any members of the B.B.C.O new the other existed. He was a lone wolf, always had been. When he was in the military in previous years, he had alone led battalions to complete victory. When the third world war had begun, Eruc was already tired of fighting for causes that never seemed to be fixed. He gave up his military life, and his rank, and became a mercenary for hire, one of the finest ever known. Now, not only had BioCorp hired him for the super soldier project, but Vial Industries has also hired him to deliver the formula to them. He would become the ultimate soldier, and the most well paid. It was a win for him in every way, and he intended to see it through.
He made his way through the halls, making sure to steer clear of the security cameras. Though he was still technically employed by BioCorp, to be discharged or word for conspiracy and theft was not a mark he wanted on his record. He slipped past the first security checkpoint, but when he came to the second is where it got interesting. He had *two guards to deal with. Just two.*
Swiftly, he held Strode up towards the first guard, who smiled and walked up to greet him. His smile was met with the force of an arrow being stabbed up through his throat and out the back, severing his vertebrae for instant death. The second guard behind the counter had no chance to react as a bullet silently and politely buried itself between his eyes. Eruc's arrow made its way back to its case and his gun found it's holster again, and he was on the move.
He strode through security checkpoint after security checkpoint, leaving nothin behind him but death. The formula was progressing at an accelerated rate, and his speed continued to increase, until they hardly had a chance to react as soon as he entered a room. Finally, he entered the laboratory. The lone scientist who was still there had somehow been alerted to someone attacking the facility, and was ready.
Or at least, he thought he was.
A force struck his chest like none he had ever felt. In a flash, he was up against the wall, falling to the floor, his ears bleeding, and his chest heaving from exhaustion.
*Eruc made his way towards the scientist, and said, "Give me the formula... And I may spare your life."
The scientists reply was him taking out a small USB stick.
"The files you are looking for are on this stick. But... You will never have them!"
As he muttered those words, he shoved the USB stick into his mouth, and swallowed.
Or rather, he attempted to swallow.
His attempt was foiled as his throat met the crushing grip of Eruc's hand. Squeezing harder, and harder, eventually his windpipes gave up, and caved in. The look on Eruc's face was one of both disgust, an curiosity. *Shortly afterwords, the security forces arrived at the laboratory. What they found was more than most of them could stomach, and neither the formula or the thief were anywhere to be found.
The next day....
"Yes yes, I know we're already over budget, but I'm telling you, we're on the brink of something huge!"
A knock on the door.
"Yea I get it, I get it. Let me call you back. Come in," said the CEO of Vial Industries as he hung up the phone. His secretary entered and informed him that a man was here who needed to see him urgently.
"Yes of course, send him in, hurry up," he said annoyed as he scribbled some notes down. The door reopened, this time accompanied by the pounding of heavy feet striding into the room. Before the CEO had a chance to talk, the man dropped a bag onto his desk. The bag had an odor about it like the back end of a cow.
"What is the meaning of th-" the CEO started to say until he looked up and saw who stood before him. "Ah, Mr. Suriv, nice to see you again."
"Likewise, sir," Eruc replied dryly. "I have acquired what you have asked of me, now I want my payment."
"You have the formula?? Where is it?"
Eruc smiled and nodded towards the bag. The CEO gave him a curious look, and proceeded to open it. He withdrew in disgust to see that inside the bag was a human head.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted.
"You will find the formula on a USB flash drive lodged in his throat. My apologies, I did not have time to remove it myself."
"Very well, Mr. Suriv. Head down the hall, to the left, and you will receive your payment."
Eruc left the room with a smile on his face, a smile that had not been seen in years.
A few days later....
Eruc awoke with a hunger that he had never felt before. An insatiable taste was in his mouth and he had no idea what could sate his lust. As he stood, he realized he was in a basement of some sort, there were test tubes everywhere, along with many people. He looked down, and saw yet another needle hole in his arm. Then he began to remember what happened. Vial had reproduced the formula, they had paid him an even larger sum of money to be among there test subjects, and something had happened to him. His skin felt like it was deteriorating, and this hunger he had was driving him crazy.
Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself leaping onto what appeared to be a nearby scientist. As he sunk his teeth into her flesh, he felt a rush like nothing he had ever felt. Once he bit her, he noticed that she began I change, her skin paled, and she began to attack others in the room. He continued the attack, an the last thing everyone was hearing before they died was the screaming of the person next to them. All who had been attacked began to come back to life, reanimated. Eruc led the assault, and many of these undead escaped the lab. Some were left and locked back in the room. Eruc escaped as gunshots were heard floors up. He found that he had still been in an underground laboratory of Vial Inc. He ran out into the street, and found he still had his super human abilities from the formula he had been given. He scaled up the side of a building in mere moments as if it was a latter.*
As he stood out in the darkness from the top of a building, he watched the creatures he had bred from blood attacking innocent bystanders. He witnessed the corruption. He saw the fires blaze as people continued to die, completely unaware and unprepared. As he stared, he new that he was to blame.
He knew that this was the beginning of the end.
Looks like i wont be able to start this up today. Its my fault. I put the start date too close to the day I was going on leave to see my family before I deploy to Afghanistan. Ill be on a plane all day today, and tomorrow Ill be busy being social with all the people that missed me and all that mushy mumbo jumbo. This does however leave us with more opportunity to prep ourselves before we kick this thing off. So Im going to say, next Tuesday sounds good. Use this time to think of what youre going to bring to this RP, make another SU if you want, and we can all discuss how we want to start this thing. Also Ill take the following days to explain the mission system for this RP and make sure everyone knows how it works. Well Im about to hop on my first 4 hour flight so cheers everyone.
♦ The Fuchsia City Guru ♦
Sig Image: having trouble relocating sauce, think it was on pixiv