[hider=Dmitrii Tolstoi]
[b]Name:[/b] Dmitrii Tolstoi

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Age:[/b] 29

[b]Role:[/b] Pilot & Logistics Officer

[b]Callsign:[/b] Wasp

[b]Weight:[/b] 220 lbs.

[b]Height:[/b] 6’1”

[b]Description of Appearence:[/b] [img]https://ppcdn.500px.org/54978926/0605bcd1af1f2af2c3234234beaff10bd141b922/5.jpg[/img]

[b]Former Military Enlistment:[/b] Russian Air Force

[b]Brief History and Background:[/b]
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 [url=http://www.quadhangar.com/images/blog/drifting_quadcopter_main.jpg]quadcopters[/url], 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 [i]hard.[/i]

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 [i]literally[/i] 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.

[b]Other Items of Importance:[/b]
[list]
[*][b][i]Pilot[/i][/b] - 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.
[*][b][i]Logistics[/i][/b] - 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).
[*][b][i]Self-Blame[/i][/b] - 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. [i]He blames himself for living.[/i]
[/list]
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