Name: Desmond Prescott Role: Leader of Squardron Age: 30 Weight: 170 Height: 5'11 Description of appearence: His armor is mostly black with shark mouths on each side of his helmet. There are single red stripes going down the outsides of his arms and legs. Otherwise, his plate carrier, pouches and things of that nature are all black. Former Military: United States Marine Corp. Preferred Callsign: Widow Brief History: Desmond was born on base in Fort Worth to a marine and a nurse. You could say he was meant to be a soldier from birth, but he'd tell you that you're full of shit. He'd say that war and combat were both bullshit, and that literature and education were the key to advancing human intelligence and harmony among them. He's tell you that the military was was merely a pawn for political use and expendable in the eyes of the government. He'd tell you he was destined to become a classic poet or world renowned author and philanthropist, anything but a soldier. After moving from base to base, country to country, Desmond's desire to be a writer dwindled. He saw how insecure the job was, the uncertainty of success. The only thing he knew for sure was base procedure and what ever he father taught him about military life. As he aged, making it ever so closer to being free of a school centered life and being an adult, the military seemed more and more as the most plausible path of life for him. He hadn't completely lost his desire to write, but he saw it simply as a hobby, or maybe something to pick up after a nice bit of service. So, he joined the Marines. He still hated war and combat. He still thought that the government had no regard for his life. He still believed only literature and education and acceptance were the keys to peaceful life. Luckily, nothing he did in the military conflicted with his beliefs, as there hadn't been a war for years by the time he finally enlisted. He followed almost exactly in his father's footsteps of being moved base to base, except he had no wife or kids to look after, only himself. Never having a permanent home really didn't leave room for friends after all. At least, not ones in real life. It wasn't until he was about 28 that Desmond was introduced to any sort of real danger, and little did he know that it would be the end of the world as he knew it. He was one of few soldiers that managed to survived the initial outbreak, and was soon a lone wolf, barely scratching out a living in a destroyed America. In a chance meeting, he encountered the CDC, which seemed to still be doing well post-apocalypse. And by 'encountered', he actually woke up in their facility in the Washington D.C ArtAmos zone, after nearly being killed. By what, he couldn't remember. More and more soldiers mysteriously appeared in the facility, by means that Desmond did not know. All he knew is that he was to be in charge of these former soldiers. Other Info: TBR in the RP.

Name: Dieter Wolf Callsign: Wolf Age: 29 Gender: Male Role: Marksman and Close Combat Weight: 66 kg/146 lbs Height: 176 cm/5'9" Description of Appearence: In short, Dieter looks like an average, albeit somewhat gruff looking man, giving him a slightly intimidating look despite his unimposing stature. He has very well-toned muscles which, while not exactly large in and of themselves, display a fair amount of strength on his form. He has short brown hair and hazel eyes, and while he's not quite lazy enough to let his facial hair grow into a full beard, he does often allow it to grow a little past just being a five o clock shadow. Former Military Enlistment: German Grenzschutzgruppe 9 (GSG9) Brief History and Background: Dieter was born and raised in Munich as an only child, and for the most part he had a normal childhood. He had always wanted to be a part of law enforcement, particularly a detective, or some form of investigator. He pursued a criminal justice degree when he entered college and attained a master's degree in his field, which earned him a spot in any state police forces in Germany. He decided to go to Berlin at that point, and over the course of two months he was trained and observed. His scores in many fields were found to be exemplary, and he found himself being offered positions in the Federal Police, BKA, and GSG9. He was fairly well torn on which path to choose. While the BKA would have suited his passion for investigating a bit more, he felt more drawn to GSG9. After some time of mental debate, he decided to join the latter. His training from then on became extremely vigorous and grueling, but he came out in the top 10% of his unit. Over the next three years, he proved himself time and time again to be a valuable asset to GSG9, earning him a recommendation to the position of squad leader. He hadn't even held this position for a week when the Sickle spread to Moscow. Almost immediately, the German government called for strict border controls to ensure this new disease didn't get within the country. Most Federal and state police forces were allocated to the border to enforce the newly set up checkpoints while the entirety of GSG9 was held on standby lest the infection spread to Germany. The German government was pretty early to put up their defenses against the infection, thus they fared somewhat better during the initial outbreak, but eventually the infection breached their border. Following reports of spontaneous deaths in Dresden, Dieter's unit was ordered to aid the BKA in investigating the reports. There, they saw firsthand what the disease was like. Alongside the BKA and RKI, they worked to contain as much of the disease as they could. During this time, Dieter, along with much of his unit, called and implored their families to move to Berlin, claiming it would be safer there if things got out of hand. Surprisingly, they actually succeeded in containing Dresden, and the infection in that area was stopped after about 100 deaths, but of course, several other border cities soon got infected. After so long, it became too difficult to contain. Germany was using all of it's resources 24/7 in an effort to stop it from spreading, but of course, it was simply overwhelming. After a week and a half of unsuccessfully trying to fend off the infection, the federal government called all of it's forces to Berlin, one of the few urban centers in Germany that was still untouched by the virus. A massive quarantine was set up to keep the infection from getting in, and while it wasn't perfect, it lasted long enough for the ArtAtmos system to be deployed in Berlin. Ever since ArtAtmos went up, most of Dieter's time was spent monitoring and keeping civil dissent to a minimum, though there were times when their unit was deployed to cities in Germany that had fallen and report back what they found. This, of course, wore on Dieter quite a bit, and he began to wonder if humanity would ever recover from such a cataclysmic event. That was when the CDC found him. Other Items of Importance: -Extremely proficient in the use of firearms -Possesses fairly good investigatory skills -Prefers an accurate, swift, or tactful approach to most situations as opposed to simple brute strength

Name: Dmitrii Tolstoi Gender: Male Age: 29 Role: Pilot & Logistics Officer Callsign: Wasp Weight: 220 lbs. Height: 6’1” Description of Appearence: Former Military Enlistment: Russian Air Force Brief History and Background: Dmitrii grew up in Moscow, Russia, the only child of a middle-aged couple. It was clear from an early age that he loved to fly – it was impossible for his parents to pull him away from his expensive flight setup connected to his computer, which had been fleshed out over many Christmases. Another passion of his was flying quadcopters, mini drones. On the rare occasion that Dmitrii was found away from his virtual helicopter, he was practically invisible – he did as he was told without question, he wasn’t amazing nor terrible in school, and was overall just kind of shy; as a result of all of this, people tended to forget he was there. But of course, such was the life of a pilot in the military. “Chair Force” when performing everyday duties, hero when he saves everyone’s lives with a hot extraction. It was to nobody’s surprise when Dmitrii enlisted in the Armed Forces the day of his eighteenth birthday, determined to become a pilot in the Russian Air Force like no other. And he was on track to be just that, until the fateful night of March 17, 2042. He was flying two squads from a forward operations base in Ukraine (the site of a renewed “undercover” invasion) back home to a base near Moscow, when things went awry. Unbeknownst to them, a Ukrainian fighter jet had been following them from a distance, and when they struck, they struck hard. Out of nowhere, their helicopter was bombarded by several missiles. Dmitrii shot flares which deflected two missiles, and he narrowly evaded a third. The fourth, however, struck the main rotor cleanly, leaving it inoperable, as well as causing moderate hull damage. He attempted to perform an autorotation (completely idle the motor to put them in a freefall, then push it back to full as they are closing in on the ground, using the preserved motion in the rotor to slow their descent), and did so to the best of his ability. But unfortunately, his best efforts were no match for the stubborn, useless motor, and the landing was little more than a glorified crash. Thought to be dead, the Ukrainian jet returned to base, where it’s pilot earned a hefty promotion for his success. The Ukrainian pilot’s assumption wasn’t far off. Hours later, Dmitrii woke up as he was pulled out of the wreckage by two Russian soldiers. He began to look around wildly, searching for any sign of his transport. “Where are my men?” he demanded of his rescuers. The only reply he got was a grave frown. After being rushed to the nearest military base, he learned that nobody had survived. Nobody, of course, except him. “You did your best,” they said. “You’re lucky that you survived at all,” they said. But all Tolstoi cared about was that the men he had been tasked with were dead – that there was literally nothing more that he could’ve done didn’t matter in the slightest. Since that day, he has worked harder and harder than ever before. He pushed himself so hard that his higher ups “recommended” that he go to Officer Training School to become a Logistics Officer. That is to say, they signed him up without asking him and gave him a slip of paper telling him where to be and when, so he’d take a rest from flying to get some sleep, before he died from exhaustion. Although sent to Officer Training for his health moreso than for himself, he thrived nevertheless. He proved to have a great sense of strategy and coordination, which both lend themselves to his career in logistics greatly. When the Sickle struck, Dmitrii was fortunate. With his acquired skill in logistics, he quickly found a place in the ArtAmos society in Moscow. Over time, he found himself moving from society to society, being persuaded to leave each one by a better offer, one after another. Eventually he found himself in New York City, which was truly a logistical nightmare. 99% cement and steel, 0% agricultural prowess. 100% impending disaster. Not long after moving to the Big Apple (which was now more like the Big Hellhole, with the region that supported the city, Upstate New York, devoid of all life beyond the reanimated corpses), Dmitrii woke up to find himself restrained to a chair, surrounded by other soldiers who were in the same situation as him. With no other choice in front of him, he shrugged and began to fill out the form sitting on his lap. Other Items of Importance:

• Pilot - Tolstoi’s role in the Armed Forces was as a helicopter pilot. He takes great pride in what he does, and has been seen flying in military-grade simulators for hours and hours. To him, the slightest mistake meant an entire squad of soldiers died in a fiery wreckage, thus nothing short of perfection was acceptable. Although he isn’t perfect, not by any means, he is without a doubt one of the best pilots in all of Russia.
• Logistics - Dmitrii, in addition to his adept piloting, was also a skilled logistics officer. For the military he managed food rations, equipment distribution, and even determined where soldiers were most needed. Later, he found great benefit in helping to keep the ArtAmos societies afloat, with an absolute minimal supply. Without his aid, numerous societies may have struggled to keep everyone fed (although they didn’t do too great even with help).
• Self-Blame - Everyone knew that Tolstoi was lucky to be alive, and that there was nothing he could have possibly done to save his men. Unfortunately, he refuses to believe it. Every day he blames himself for not doing more, for not being able to dodge four missiles at once. He blames himself for living.