[hider=] [center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/b2/5e/52/b25e5237b9f45c229a7b9bbeb39068de.jpg[/img] [color=008000][b][Proctor Ryke] [47] | [Male] | [5’11] | [A-][/b][/color][/center] [color=008000][h3][i]General Information[/i][/h3][/color] [b]NAME: Proctor Ryke[/b] [b]ALIASES // TITLES: Richter Gamble Jack-Jack Big R[/b] [b]SEX:Male[/b] [b]AGE:60[/b] [b]APPEARANCE:[/b] [b]OCCUPATION:[/b] [i]”Streetjack, Pavement Pusher, whatever you want to call it. I make money.”[/i] [b]CAMPAIGN TEAM POSITION:[/b] Fundraising Manager [color=008000][h3][i]Psychological Profile[/i][/h3][/color] [center][b][color=008000] Confident | Anxious | Cunning | Self-Involved | Pessimistic | Distrustful[/color][/b][/center] [b]PERSONAL GOAL:[/b] Proctor’s only aim is to keep himself alive. Whatever it takes to make sure he can get what he needs to stay afloat, Proctor will do it.The ever looming fear of his demise help’s keep the haze in his mind at bay, but with every day that passes, Proctor can feel the noose around his neck tightening, the blade press closer into his neck, and the energy powering his limbs slowly seeping out of him. Even though he hasn’t much to live for, Proctor desperately wants to live. He doesn’t want to be another nameless corpse left to rot in the streets amongst the vermin and trash. [b]CAMPAIGN GOAL:[/b] From the line of work and life that Proctor came from, money can be rung from any rag you can find in the streets. There are opportunities lying around everywhere for someone who’s a little loose on their morals or quick on their trigger, so why he decided to start working with Campbell, even Proctor isn’t quite sure of yet. Sure, maybe cleaning up the streets a little and being able to sew the downfall of all his former adversaries was part of it, but something about Campbell just felt [i]profitable[/i]. More so than pushing drugs or ransoming prominent civilians. At the end of the day, Proctor is really in it for the money, and after being thrown in the gutter and dethroned in his his prime, the most stable looking choice was to link up with the man that could potentially make him rich, and breakdown everyone who’s ever spited him. Even if Campbell were to fail and lose the raise, Proctor isn’t so stupid that he’d admit defeat without a fresh wad of cash in his hands. One way or another, Proctor will find some way to get rich, and maybe even powerful. [b]PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY:[/b] Ever since Proctor began to learn about all humans’ tendency, no matter how self sacrificing or generous, to value themselves over everyone else, he’s lived and survived by that school of thought. He’s not a heartless animal willing to fuck over or kill anyone at any turn, he believes in treating people with at least a modicum of respect and decency, but, no one is above him in importance. If it means his life or death, sink or float, Proctor works for himself and only himself. The Reclaim Zone has taken more than enough lives, right before Proctor’s eyes, and now, survival is the greatest high Proctor can feel. It’s been a very long time since Proctor made any major moves, subsisting on odd jobs and petty pushing for decades. Seeing what semblance of a foundation he had ripped away from him taught him that worrying about others or trying to carry some sort of following is a pipe dream for him. [b]POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY:[/b] Proctor has spent so much time wallowing with the denizens of the Reclaim zone that he never felt the need to dabble or pay attention to politics, at least not past knowing who swung around the most power, or which street gangs controlled the most territory. Due to his augments, he’s had a few run ins and discussions with some Neo-Transhumanists and HyperHuman monks, developing a bit of connection with them. After dealing with plenty of abuse and discrimination for his augmentations, it was a pleasant change of pace to speak with people that embraced his choices and encouraged him to continue strengthening himself. He was never one for the more spiritual side of movements, but the people are nice, so he’s decided he likes them for the time being. The obvious is not lost on Proctor, that the mega-corporations rule many aspects of life, the government is mostly corrupt with a few good souls trying to do good, but most of it flew under his radar. What matters to him the most is what happens on the street level, his level. The difference between people is negligible, everyone is equal to Proctor in that he doesn’t care much for anyone. The effort it takes to rally for a purpose, or to carry prejudice against others, or to try and uplift entire demographics, is all an effort in futility for Proctor. [b]SECRETS:[/b] Well, really, his identity is a secret in and of itself. He’s got a lot of enemies, and powerful ones at that, but Proctor hasn’t tried to make any moves for decades now. The heat has been off for a while now, but if his name were to appear in any big lights or signs, Proctor is sure he’d have a bullet in his skull in no time at all. [b]FEARS:[/b] (What keeps you up at night? What makes you freeze up in the moment? What do you avoid at all costs?) Number One at the top of that list is easily Death. The concept of it, the act of dying, all of it shakes Proctor to the bone. Life has caught up very quickly with Proctor, and all of a sudden, dealing with his very real mortality, despite all the measures he took to try and avoid it when he was young. Nothing much else scares Proctor much, other than the thought of the forgotten bounties on his head that are still floating around. As much as he likes to put on a tough guy front, he does often peer over his shoulders, wondering if one of his old rivals is going to send a shooter after him. Most things that pull some fear and anxiety from Proctor, like heights, often just have to do with his overwhelming fear of death. [b]REPUTATION:[/b] Proctor is a sort of ghost story in the streets of the Reclaim Zone at this point. He’s not a household name or anything like that, but there are still stories that float around about the the guy that tried to rival The Knights back in the day. Most people think he’s dead, and aging and further augments have made Proctor’s looks a far cry from what they used to be, helping conceal his continued presence in the Reclaim. The men which used to work with Proctor know the truth, though, and most still hold Proctor in high esteem, as their former leader, charismatic and kind, but never destined to be powerful. Those who need to work with or know Proctor respect him, but his name doesn’t really garner fear anymore, just simple interest. He was never in it for the fame, just the money, but he doesn’t have much of anything anymore. Even though not many people talk about him anymore, there are still a select few that want him dead, namely Jackson Rott, and men of his ilk. Some men still remember Proctor as the man who wanted the Reclaim Zone for himself, and would like to kill him just to tie up another loose end from the old days. [b]LIKES:[/b] Taking walks through bustling city streets. A bout of recreational drugs when he can spare the cash. The rush of making money. [b]DISLIKES:[/b] Losing money. The fog of SPECS. Contemplating his mortality. People who are rude to people who work in customer service. [b]QUIRKS:[/b] When sitting in chairs, Proctor will mindlessly rock back and forth in his seat. Not [i]hard[/i] but just slightly enough for someone to notice. No matter where he is or what he is doing, Proctor will sometimes stop, stand in one place, and just stretch everything out. His arms, legs, back, jaw, everything, just to try and loosen up and relax. Even though, you know, most of his limbs are… metal. [color=008000][h3][i]Background Information[/i][/h3][/color] [i]”I tried to never let this place define me, I just made the best of what I was given. I did what I wanted to, fucked and fucked over whoever I felt like, and the same got done to me, but I never let it stop my work, my hustle. I never really needed a ‘meaning’ or a ‘purpose’ past just surviving, because that’s enough by itself.”[/i] Proctor was born in some nondescript alley off some nondescript road in some nondescript part of the Reclaim Zone. Most of his memories of his parents are fading away from him, whether it be the early stages of SPECS, his age, all the blows he’s taken to the head, or perhaps a combination of both. He remembers his parents being rather plain people, neigh very abrasive or soft. They were just another pair of people driven by their primitive human need to keep breathing and walking, led not by passion or desire, but rather, blind autonomous survival. Early on in his life, the importance of protecting oneself was imprinted heavily on him by his parents, whether it be by the lectures and speeches he can’t quite remember anymore, or the many times he saw what failure to survive looked like. He wasn’t coddled or made to believe maybe he could leave the Reclaim Zone someday in the future, he was shown exactly what life does to anyone who loses their way. Solidifying all his learnings in the Art of Survival, the day his parents were killed did well to shape up the then young Proctor. Though he’d never dare admit it, the day is still a sort of sensitive topic for him, so after doing a good job of compartmentalizing the whole ordeal, the details are fuzzy, but the important details are still there. A standard home burglary gone wrong, except as soon as the fatal danger presented itself, his parents fled, leaving the then 9 year-old Proctor alone cowering in his room. Of course, they were never allowed to get very far before each were shot to death. Whether the shooter hadn’t the resolve to murder a child, or saw it as a waste of time or ammunition, Proctor was left alone in the house after it was been stripped of all it’s valuables. The Reclaim Zone seemed unbothered as another orphaned child turned into a street urchin, as Proctor took to the streets in search of ways to keep himself alive. Whether it was digging in the trash cans behind restaurants, stealing and selling pieces of technology, Proctor found a way to survive. He learned the value of a credit, how to stretch a credit for all it was worth, and all the tragic normalities that come with living on the street. He became insignificant member of the festering biomass that surged in and out of the streets everyday, learning to be one with the ever moving tides of life and death, always managing to keep mostly dry, even if Death’s putrid scent always lingered around him. Nothing that Proctor built ever came easy or quickly. Between knife fights with junkies in alleyways, or “repurposing” stashes of drugs he in no way stole from anyone, Proctor managed to keep his chin above water, making a bit of a name for himself amongst the local clan of urchins. Even though it was out of character, it seemed like the eyes on the wall finally concentrated on someone, that maybe, just maybe, someone was peeling themselves off the pavement, not a common sight in the Reclaim Zone. As much as Proctor knew about survival, the city that had remained standing around Proctor, after millenia of mistreatment and abuse, knew more than him, and it was time to prove himself. For once, the kid knew ambition, and it began to manifest itself in interesting ways. Instead of trying to consume, the streets embraced him, and his fellow urchins knew power when they saw it. Even if it could’ve ended up in his back, Proctor knew that two knives were always stronger than just one, and soon enough, he had his own gang of people who were trying to make it through the shifting tides, just like him. The Gamblers were the Zone’s newest collection of like-minded miscreants, and the Zone was quick to take notice. What used to be petty robbery and knife fights turned into small scale heists and drug dealing. Credits weren’t a new language to Proctor, but he was suddenly becoming much more fluent than he used to be. Surviving was finally feeling easier than it had before. The walls around the Zone had finally loosed up, and the waves were splashing lower down on Proctor’s legs, the stench of Death that followed him was beginning to disperse. With this newfound money, Proctor began to take even more drastic measures to ensure that his chin stayed above sea level, and took to replacing his weak, imperfect organs & limbs with ones made of black metal. Flesh and blood gave way to steel and copper, lungs and heart extracted and replaced with machines that could do their jobs more reliably and for a much longer time. Slowly, Proctor was becoming more machine than man, but those fears that made him human were still woven deeply in him, whether they were woven with flesh or fiber optic. The paranoia that crept deep within him made him wonder, were there other standouts from the Zone that would try to get rid of him? He and his gang had made their space in the Zone, but he was doubtless that there were others who wanted to push them out. There were plenty of other gangs that had their eyes on the space he occupied, but none of them posed as big as a threat as the Knights, the most aggressive, assertive gang in the Zone. Despite their penchant for violence and subjugation, the Knights still wanted to maintain stability and freedom, and the Gambler’s and their disregard for most of the residents presented an issue for Jackson Rott and his Knights. For the most part, issues remained simple disagreements or scuffles in alleyways, but as each gang grew larger and more vicious, these small squabbles slowly became more serious dust-ups and fight. Soon, it was full-on turf war, and, to spare the details, The Gamblers came out the losers. Most of the men and women Proctor had just begun to call his friends now stained the streets with their blood. Suddenly, the waters began to rise up around Proctor, and now, they were stained red and carried a stench on them that Proctor couldn’t even escape in his weak slumber. Many of Proctor’s memories have become muddled and fuzzy over time, but he remembers the day his Gamblers failed to survive very clearly. Removed from his spot amongst the Zone’s special survivors and presumed dead, Proctor went into hiding, taking what little he had left and, like he had done so many years before, melded back into the writhing masses of the Zone, shrouded in the anonymity of street survival. He was driven by neither passion nor joy, but instead, his primitive, human drive to breathe and walk. [color=008000][h3][i]Operative Information[/i][/h3][/color] [b]AUGMENTATIONS:[/b] Two Apex Legs, Two Apex Arms, a cybernetic heart and lungs made by Extropy, head augmentations made by Engi-Tech, which helped improve mental functions and vision. [b]EQUIPMENT:[/b] F. HeavyTech .45CAL Caseless Machine Pistol: to be expanded F. HeavyTech Low Profile Body Armor [b]SKILLS:[/b] Street Intuition Silver Coated RoboTongue Network of Lucrative Connections [b]FLAWS:[/b] (Aim for three or so. Equal or greater to your number of skills.) SPECS Extreme Fear of Death Loss of Dexterity and Finesse in Age Memory loss and mad memory [b]NOTES:[/b] [/hider]