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[b]Name:[/b] Konstantin Stojanović

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Age:[/b] 26

[b]Appearance:[/b] [url=https://i.pinimg.com/564x/89/29/b3/8929b32ae746776cd02517e59b792c28.jpg]A man of resilient, lean build, sharp jaw, and steel-clad expression.[/url] Carries himself with a pilot's surety and confidence, bolstered by the slightest air of recessed nobility— perhaps suggesting that he was not always so immersed within this harsh, spartan military life. His hair is a sandy blonde, and normally cropped quite close in a classical crew cut, but has been grown out during the lax span of the [i]Pandora[/i]'s interstellar voyage. 

[b]Personality:[/b] Keeps a rather cool-headed and reserved exterior, but close beneath lies a warm, friendly, even affable man. Long released from the trials that plagued his youth, Konstantin walks with the weight of wondering when his next meal will be completely removed from his shoulders, leaving only the well-earned faith in his skill that he honed over years of active duty. Happiest behind the cockpit, he nonetheless has been making concerted efforts to continue rehabilitating himself to life beyond it, having cultivated a few hobbies as well as a dark, dry sense of humor that would make Ganymede’s soil proud. Seems to go alight at the prospect of a scrap, as any red-blooded soldier should. His skills are his very life. Putting them to the test, in his eyes, is a thrill none other could match.

[b]Backstory:[/b] A son of a well-to-do family hailing from Belgrade, Konstantin's early life was one that enjoyed the Earth's comfort and stability. Educated well, with little want for simple luxuries or privileges borne of money, it was the picturesque standard of the homeworld's upper class upbringing. Club sports, chess lessons, regular vacations to scenic vistas, all were simple facts of life to the Stojanovic children. A charmed childhood.

A routine stop at a spaceport tossed it all out the window. Not one moment of this lax upbringing could prepare young Konstantin, scarcely eleven at the time, for his abduction by a rather notorious band of interplanetary corsairs after being separated from his family. The pirates' leader, at the time still posing as the overseer of a backwater colony upon Ganymede, saw only a young man, the name "Stojanovic" scarcely pronounceable, let alone noteworthy— If he hadn't heard of it, then surely no ransom would be worth the attention. Konstantin, despite his protests, was thrown to the mines as a result. An able body was an able body, and this was one of many he needed not pay anything resembling a wage to. For four years, this would be Stojanovic’s life— endless toiling in the thick, hot, dusty air, unable to desert or even rest for fear of starvation, torture, or worse. He had worn to nothing beyond his name, bereft of his status, of his hope, of all semblance of his former life and self. Had he not so covetously clung to this final facet of his identity, he likely would have broken forever.
 
To compound his trials, at 15 he was transferred out of the mine and onto the battlefield, for reasons still unknown to him. To combat an incursion by rival pirates, the Overseer had need of manned atmospheric craft— in so many words, Konstantin was shoved into the cockpit of a centuries-old Sukhoi, guns at his back and a suicidal task ahead. He had graduated from "laborer" to "prisoner"; now spending his time on the ground in a cell rather than absolute squalor. It was a hell of a tradeoff— get more food for the small price of nigh-impossible missions. The more damage you did, the more your plate was covered. A full meal was reserved for those who excelled, the right of only the day's ace.

Knowing that this bastardization of valor was now his only path to survival, he quickly learned to dive into the fireworks. There was no room for cowardice, for timidity, for ineptitude. His wings would never soar the way they needed to with such weights upon him. No odds were too long, no order worth starving for.

5 years passed, the skirmishes growing into a war that could no longer escape the notice of the United Nations. Peacekeeping forces initially descended planetside to assist in dealing with the more brazen piracy opposite Konstantin's guns, but one fateful transmission captured their full attention. A simple act of switching radio frequencies by one of the only pilots who had lived behind the controls long enough to intimately understand their plane, and the words, "Investigate the mines. All of them. The colony's numbers aren't as clean as you think."

It took one tumultuous month for the inescapable hammer of justice to fall upon the entire operation. Two to evacuate and begin to rehabilitate every gaunt figure that crawled out of the shadows, lungs heavy with dust. Three for the United Nations Armed Forces to receive a new pilot candidate. He had dodged death for five years in the thin skies of a Jovian moon— their training could never hope to break him.

It would only make him better.

He acclimated quite readily to proper logistics, training, and chains of command, graduating from aircraft to Orbitals at the night-insistent urging of his instructors. Within months, he was back on the battlefield, now carving piracy out of the stars for a just cause, as opposed to a simple means of survival. His performance wasn’t always flawless, as the crimson arm on the Bedwyr would attest, but his ability was nonetheless undeniable. He was definitely where he belonged.

[b]Skills and Flaws:[/b] Experienced pilot, comfortable in the cockpit of both aircraft and orbitals. Naturally, this includes good reaction times, sense of three-dimensional space, and a learned tolerance for G-Forces. Owing to his rather unique experience with the former, his aim with dumbfire weapons such as vulcans is, plainly put, remarkable. Ruthless yet obedient, he keeps enough of a leash on his innate bloodlust to follow all but the most anathematic orders (to date, none in his proper military career). That said, if there is leeway to get into a fight, chances are high that he will happily pursue engagement, ready to prove his ability. It is notable that he seems to more than simply pride himself on his combative skill— it is a cornerstone of his identity, "the wings that set him free" in his own words. He doesn't take well psychologically to being grounded for an extended period. One might theorize this as the primary reason he has not reunited with his erstwhile family beyond letter correspondence. Beyond the cockpit, he is a self-proclaimed connoisseur of plum brandy, keeps an obsessively clean space, and treats life with a dry, blackened humor.

[b]Equipment:[/b] Standard-issue, pressurized flight suit, albeit with a modified helmet system to accompany experimental vision tracking program. 9mm sidearm. Dress uniform.

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