[Hider=CS][b]Name: Vincent Dalwhinnie [/b]

[b]Age: 46 [/b]

[b]Gender: Male [/b]

[b]Appearance:[/b] [Center][img=http://static2.fjcdn.com/comments/Undercover+Cop+_270f2d56985a4baac41ad000f1887449.jpg][/Center]

Vincent is an older leathery man whose worn face and wracked body hint at a once powerful youth now gone to waste. He has long blonde hair, near white, often unkempt and feebly restrained by a bandanna, the hair on his head matching the long viking like beard the hangs from his face, his faded blue eyes often hidden behind cheap sunglasses. The skin on his face and hands is wind worn, sun weathered and creased with age and stress. His body is that of a brawler... large, muscular, but undefined and cumbersome. It is apparent that the years have taken their toll on Vincent, his steps grow heavy, his stomach swells, and the life that once filled him seems sustained only by a grim determination of will. When given the choice he dresses like the outlaw biker that his later years saw him become, leathers, black Dickies, boots, and patched jean vests are the the only wardrobe items that fit his desired look. 
 
[b]Personality: [/b] Vincent is a grizzled survivor, nothing more and nothing less. A short time before current events threw the world into chaos Vincent had a crisis of the soul that shattered his moral compasses and now he has little to no direction. He goes with the current wave, whatever it may be as long as it suits his ends, if it does not he remains an implacable barrier unwilling and perhaps unable to give up his tortuous life. A jaded cynic in the truest sense he is no leader of men but often has insightful if not dark wisdom to lend to a situation. 

[b]Skills:[/b] 

+ Able auto mechanic. Vincent grew up among gear heads, garages, and motor junkies, if it has wheels and an engine he can keep it going longer than most. 

+ Moderately proficient with firearms. Vincent passed the annual police qualification every year but was never good enough to get on any police competition team.

+ Brawler. Vincent is naturally big and was a competitor in local power lifting meets, before slipping into alcoholism. He is an intimidating, powerful, and forceful fighter, if not skilled in any particular discipline. 

+ Powers of Persuasion: While not a cult of personality Vincent can often place the right words at exactly the right time, in his own gruff manner. As a police officer and a Gang/Vice Undercover he refined the art of telling people what they need to hear to get what he wants.

+ Will to survive. Vincent will to anything to survive, he will go to any length, push any boundary, carry any burden, or commit any sin so long as he gets to endure another day.

[b]Weakness:[/b]

- Alcoholic/addictive personality. The last two years of Vincent's career were the crowning example of what not to do as an undercover cop. He got in too deep with no exit strategy, became a violent alcoholic and is still one to this day.

- Dying slowly of Cirrhosis. His first weakness is the cause of the second, Vincent is in the first stages of liver Cirrhosis. His body if poorly equipped to process the toxins he constantly ingests. 

- Disgraced Cop. Vincent's career with the Asheville PD ended two weeks before the microchip conversion began. Vincent was riding undercover with the Pagan's and was involved in a weapons shipment gone wrong. By chance the police caught the gang and Vincent, half drunk and trying to "keep his cover intact", got involved in a gun fight with police. It was later determined at the trial that Vincent's gun was responsible for wounding one officer and was one of three guns that killed another.

- PTSD/Haunted by memories. Vincent has repressed the emotional turmoil involved with killing another cop by resorting to alcohol and rage.

- Between two worlds. The trial for the arms deal shootout blew Vincent's cover, he is now hated by law enforcement and outlaws alike. 

- Broken moral compass. Tied to his will to survive, years undercover and his status between two world's means that Vincent has very little, if any, moral qualms about doing what he must to look out for himself. 

[b]Equipment:[/b]

Well road worn Xelement leather predator engineer boots

Leather motorcycle gloves, fingerless

Nixon Baja watch

Plain black Dickies pocket T, with a denim vest over it. The vest is arrayed with a large Pagan's patch on the back surrounded by a number of "ARGO", "1 per center", "NUNYA", and various other related patches

A pack of lucky strikes and a Zippo lighter in the pocket T

Black Dickies work pants, riggers belt, Leatherman multi-tool, Bench Made pocket knife, paddle over the belt holster, and chain wallet

Two bandanas, one in his back pocket the other around his head

An Icon tank bag thrown over his shoulder since he lost his bike 

In the tank bag he has 2 and a half bottles of water, a can of raviolis, a little less than half a box of .38 special Smith and Wesson +P hollow points (21 rounds), and a road map of North Carolina. 

Smith and Wesson Model 586 Comp revolver with 7 rounds chambered (total round count 28)

[b]History: [/b] Vincent grew up as the white trash paragon. An abusive father, drunken mother, and predatory sibling ensured that his childhood was anything but idealistic. To escape this family life he retreated to his Uncle's garage where he learned two skills that were the favorite pastimes of his Uncle, working on engines, cars, and motorcycles, and power lifting. The former became a viable skill for Vincent as he grew older, the later made him strong enough to stand up to his abusive family. As time passed Vincent sought out more noble employment by taking civil service tests and applying to the Asheville PD. He was accepted and proved a "standard" officer while working his beat and patrol days. Partway through his career he was seconded to a Vice and Gang squad and put undercover with a local chapter of the Pagan outlaw biker gang, It was here Vincent found his true calling. He frequently went off grid, not contacting handlers for weeks, he only gave out the lowest level info so that he could remain under cover with the motorcycle club. Before long he was more Pagan than Cop and more of an alcoholic than anything else. Six months before the world went down the crapper Vincent was involved in an arms deal gone wrong and a violent shoot out with his own fellow officers. His gun was linked to the wounding of one officer and the killing of another. His cover blown Vincent was put on trial, now an enemy to both sides, and convicted. At the time of the outbreak he was awaiting a sentencing hearing where he was likely to be committed to life in prison. 

[b]Post Sample:[/b]The corrections officer's face was pulled so hard against the chain link divider that the skin was beginning to split on his ample cheeks. Vincent's hand had shot neatly through the small hole that permitted the exchange of paperwork and wrapped tightly around the loose fitting shirt that the overweight officer wore, pulling the man's considerable and fleshly bulk forward against the chain link to the point of some serious discomfort. "Open the door." Vincent rumbled in a smooth southern drawl tainted by years of cigarette smoke and whiskey. With a harsh buzz the door unlocked and Vincent let himself into the property locker for B unit, Craggy Correctional Center, Asheville NC. 

As Vincent found his things, neatly marked and packed away on a shelf, the Craggy Correctional Center was going to Hell around him. Something had happened, Vincent was no doctor but it seemed like some kind of sickness was passing through all of the corrections officers and inmates alike. People were loosing it, really full out losing their damn minds... going feral like rabid coons. Orders for emergency lock-down were ignored as panicked people both staff and inmate fought to escape the rampaging afflicted. Just outside the property locker door Vincent could hear the stampeding footfalls of those running away and those that gave chase. Shouts, screams, feral snarls, gunshots, and terrified cries for help echoed within the concrete corridors of Ol` Craggy as Vincent slipped out of his orange jumpsuit and back into his leathers and Dickies. As he finished throwing his vest over his shoulders Vincent heard the crash of the property locker's door and under the almost inhuman and predatory growls he could hear the muffled cries of the officer he had just assaulted as the afflicted fell upon him.

With supreme effort Vincent pushed over a wall locker, letting it crash across the closed doorway that separated the property office from the actual locker room that Vincent was in. Afterwards a pain deep in his gut sliced through his body and a coughing fit wracked him to the point of doubling over producing a sickly pile of bloody phlegm on the tiled floor as he coughed. A quick quaff of some Kentucky bourbon he had found in another inmates property solved his coughing fit for the moment. Looking around he saw an unbarred window that would be his escape from the correctional facility a point of light in a institutionally green tiled locker room. After all no prisoner should have been in the property locker room why would they bar the windows? It would take an act of God or the end of the world for a prisoner to make it all the way to the property locker... looks like this was Vincent's lucky day.[/hider]