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Name: Gary Magnusson
Age: Forty-nine years of age.
Gender: Male.
Origin: Dundee, Indiana.

Appearance: Standing at 5'8", the fellow may not seem intimidating at first glance. Quite thin and long-limbed, with a somewhat cat-like stature, wide shoulders. He lacks several fingers on his left hand, instead replaced by a scratched, metallic augmentation containing built-in pens and razor-sharp wires. His face is angular, a work of a cubist; with jutting cheekbones, full, dry lips, a smile so big it makes lines look like a cat's whiskers. His eyes are tired, vocal cords so damaged by chemical fumes that he had to implant a cheap voice-module that crackles and drones. He's usually wearing an aged, grey military jacket tailored in Kashmir for the UN military police; a gift from an old friend.

Nickname/Handle: Croaker.

Psychological Analysis: Magnusson tends to associate himself with an ancient school of thought - stoicism. He's a slacker, a complete fatalist, jaded to the bone, so much that it may seem absurd. Cash is a resource that makes the world go 'round, but the only thing driving him is the need for a change of scene. The thrill of finding yourself in an alien environment, unknown and unwanted, only to make use of each little sprinkle of salt and half-chewed fishbones to create creme brulee and make everyone choke to death on it - that is the sole thing he respects and desires. At least, that's one of the tales he's been pushing to disinterested strangers ever since his retirement; slumped over the bar counter, sucking on cigarettes, suffering. He's an enterprising freelancer at best, and a deadbeat trickster vagrant at worst. Magnusson doesn't believe in honor among thieves, nor does he wait for the foe to throw the first punch, resorting to dirty fighting and getting the jump on the bastards.
 
Personal Record: Born to a family of Ingrian addicts pushing howler dust out of a nuclear-fueled trailer park, he was taken away by child protection services and put into foster care alongside his younger siblings Mango and Butts. 

He was transferred to a cadet facility after setting his pillow on fire, and then placed under a specialized training program put in place by the Department of Homeland Security with the help of a few private investors. 

Lacking in skill with arithmetics and other sciences, the only place he showed promise in was dirty business in the slums. Just barely passing the academy, in an ironic twist of fate, he was assigned to the narcotics unit in the local police precinct. Day one, on the streets, he began to get on his superiors' nerves. 

Work as a patrolling officer is bad as it is, but when you're sent to progressively worser places, you tend to develop a certain method to dealing with scumbags and screwheads who want to gut and leave you bleeding like a dog in an alley. 

After seven years of gruelling, but efficient work, Gary transferred to Alaska, the habitation of which made much more bearable by global warming, now assigned a case involving weapons smuggling across from Kamchatka. The routine of life in the north slowly began to catch up to him. He married his girlfriend from Dundee, and became too bogged down in the paperwork to properly track the culprits transporting guns stolen from Russia's Kalashnikov Concern. When he found his wife sucking off Ted from finances, things took a dive. He willingly went deep undercover, posing as a potential buyer in Vladivostok. Having made friends with some of the associates of the smuggling ring, he was figured out in the process of making the fateful transaction. 

Beaten and tortured for hours, his crew finally managed to pinpoint his location and storm the compound. Unfortunately, he lost a good chunk of his left hand in the process, and chemical burns damaged his lungs and vocal cords. To avoid death, his team found a local drop-out from the medical institute, who filled Magnusson to the brim with vodka, and improvized on the spot. Gary's management later paid for a better augment in his hands, but he refused to change the half-assed voice-module, having grown to like the eery sound and its' effect on people; an eccentricity of his. 

He could not, however, return to office work after this, even though promotion and a more than average pension was on the table.

He went on to serve as a UN peacekeeper in the Pakistani-Indian border for a while, before quitting once more and leaving to find new prospects elsewhere. He seems to have gotten used to the lifestyle of a wanderer getting by with the use of his skills and mindset.

Equipment: Three metallic fingers on his left hand with a built-in pen that can shift into a detractable and detachable blade, as well as a roll of wire that could be used as a garrote. Hard leather plating over vital organs hidden under his jacket. A dagger placed in his boot with a special spring mechanism that serves to make a kick much more bloody and scary than one would expect. And of course, a trusty eight-chamber revolver.