[hider=Oleksandr Tataryn]
[center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1c/f0/30/1cf03087144aeee632bc74559e487b62.jpg[/img]
[color=Gold][b][O L E K S A N D R  T A T A R Y N]
[35] | [Male] | [6’2’’] | [AB+][/b][/color][/center]

[hr]

[center]
[color=Orange][h3][i]⟹ General Information[/i][/h3][/color]
[center][i][color=darkorange]“Why the name Asahi? ‘Cause I’m always [b]super dry[/b]!”[/color][/i][/center]

[color=Orange][b]⬈name⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered] Oleksandr Tataryn[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈aliases  // titles⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered] Asahi, Olex[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈sex⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered] Male[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈age⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered] 33[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈appearance⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered] Standing at an impressive height, with the imposing augmented limbs to match, Oleksandr is always a pronounced presence wherever he goes, which works out well for him since he’s always willing to be the center of attention. Oleksandr’s hair and beard of light brown are usually in a state of disarray and overgrowth, as he doesn’t really care enough to get them trimmed on a usual basis. Like many in the Reclaim, Olex has a deep scar gash over his right eyebrow, a product of his time fighting for the Tinmen. After his eyes, the scar usually draws the most attention of people who look at him.

There isn’t really a way to describe Oleksandr’s style, as he wears whatever he finds comfortable and at least a bit functional. He never finds himself in anything as carefree as shorts or the likes, but he doesn’t exactly ever dress correctly for anything. The only consistent part of his outfit would be the pistol holster he keeps under his left arm on a constant basis. He gives the impression of someone that is aware of what kind of clothing the world he lives in demands, but isn’t scared to skirt the line when it comes to being either underdressed or underprepared.

Past his clothing, his well-maintained and fierce looking cybernetic arms and legs are always apparent, adorned lightly with ornate engravings in small areas around his joints, more so on his arms than his legs. Here and there, around his forearms and shins, there are various faint insignias, badly scratched and poorly kept, seemingly purposely so, compared to the clean, spotless look of the surrounding metal. When taking a closer look, the insignias that have lost their luster are made up of snarling robotic canines, one on either side of a flourish of swords, mimicking a peacock's tail. In the middle is a simple fist, with roman numerals representing the year of establishment for the Pioneer Dogs. All of this is sitting atop a solitary skull, missing it’s lower jaw and showing cracks around the eye sockets. The same insignia is tattooed on his left pectoral, with other random tattoos dotting his body, some bearing Tinmen insignias and slogans, or some simply works of impressive art or weapons. One notable tattoo is across the front base of his neck, reading “Man is of Flesh, God is of Metal” in small lettering. That tattoo is the most easily visible when he’s fully clothed. Some older, more well-traveled citizens would recognize them as markers of Tinmen mercs, but the insignias don’t hold much meaning to almost anyone besides Olex anymore.

Besides the scars around his augments from the surgeries that put them there, Oleksandr does have a healthy few scars around his body, resulting from his life of combative jobs and work with mercenary groups. [/color] 

[color=Orange][b]⬈occupation⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]Before moving to Angel City to look for his next job, Oleksandr had shuffled between many different occupations in many of the different megaregions. His longest job was his first one, joining the Tinmen Company in the New York Seaboard Megaregion, fighting with the now disgraced [i]”Pioneer Dogs”[/i] Unit. They were used mostly as a tool for the large corporations to handle jobs in the still untamed badlands surrounding the region, between New York and the Derelict City. Some jobs saw the unit defending the coastlines of the region from rouge pirate ships that tried to attack the city from time to time, and many other various operations of importance to the corporations.

Since his discharge from the Tinmen, Oleksandr found himself gradually moving from region to region, picking up any jobs he could, ranging from joining a mercenary outfit taking various jobs around the Derelict City, to delivering noodles for a small restaurant on the outskirts of Greater DC. When it comes to moving from job to job, Oleksandr has probably had more than most people, since for the longest he didn’t have to worry about money, but when he got cut off from his family’s fortune, he had to be more selective of the jobs he took and how much money he was making. That’s how he found himself in the employ of a High Security Courier Service operating in Angel City. When sensitive information or important shipments need to be sent across the region, his service is the one they call on.[/color] [/center]


[color=Orange][h3][i]⇒ Psychological Profile[/i][/h3][/color]
[center][i][color=darkorange]“I don’t tend to like people who ask too many questions, ya know?”[/color][/i][/center]
[center][b][color=orangered]Affable | Hubristic | Benevolent | Impulsive | Resilient | Reckless[/color][/b][/center]

[center] [color=Orange][b]⬈personal goal⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]Oleksandr is currently on the road to finding his own purpose and passion, and is determined to live his life free of the influence of any of his rich family’s own wishes or the will of the corporate overlords that rule over the city. He’s not a young man anymore, though, and he’s beginning to grow tired of the cycle of getting to a new city, working a few jobs, and moving on to the next one on the search for more opportunities. As the corporate grip on Angel City tightens, and opportunities are fading away, he’s beginning to wonder if it’s time for him to leave once again, or perhaps time for him to change.[/color] 


[color=Orange][b]⬈campaign goal⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]The current political races have presented an influx of work for his courier job, and while he hasn’t joined a campaign directly, the Courier Service has been contracted by most, if not all of the political campaigns for various jobs around the city. Olex has worked, indirectly, for all of them, but has yet to lend his services directly to any candidate, although, the thought has begun to cross his mind, faintly here or there. The allure of peeking into various packages or pieces of information is strong, and he’s devilishly curious as to how important the information he moves really is.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈personal philosophy⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]Having been raised by a rich and influential family that tried to make every decision for him, Oleksandr has grown to have a distaste for the rich and powerful members of society that exploit whoever they can, and by extension destests of the corporations that have found themselves at home in the many megaregions of the country. Seeing how his own family and the company his parents worked for tried to control his life, awoke him to the struggles of the people that he hadn’t met for most of his life up until he joined the Tinmen. 

A part of Oleksandr is thankful that he came from such privilege so that he didn’t have to face the trials that the rest of society faces in everyday life, but it almost makes him feel dirty in a way. While he does hope that the people of the Reclaim, and further, the country could have a better shot at a fair and easy life, most of his passion is manifested in the form of hatred for the corporate overlords and their desire to control everything, from money to people.[/color]



[color=Orange][b]⬈political philosophy⬉[/b][/color] 
[color=orangered]Oleksandr has always been weary in believing that any one party has what's best for the people in mind, but he agrees with a few ideas from almost every party. He appreciates the community work and education of the HyperHuman Party and their monks, but doesn’t exactly agree with their complete devotion to their beliefs, and finds them a little too “culty” for his tastes. He also aligns himself a bit with the NTP, as he fully endorses human augmentation as one of the best ways to enhance human abilities and save lives, but their hand in hand work with corporate shills and lobbyists disgusts him and almost turns him off the party altogether. The ideals of the Pirate Party resound the most with Oleksandr, and he could easily see himself voting for Petrukov, but the secrecy behind the campaign and it’s leader’s lack of experience in the political sphere make him just as unsure in the Pirate Party as any other.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈secrets⬉[/b][/color] 
[color=orangered]While Oleksandr doesn’t have many secrets that could cause real trouble, his Family name, his previous work with the Tinmen, and his support for the Pirate Party could all potentially get him in hot water with different groups of people. Tinmen aren’t well liked in most regions, as they’re viewed as violent war criminals or renegade mercs in the pockets of the corporations, so he doesn’t usually openly speak about his first job. The only way someone would know is if they recognized some of the markings or tattoos on his body, but not many people do recognize them, as they’re old and represent a unit that hasn’t been functional in the Tinmen for around a decade.

The Tataryn family is well-known and infamous, considered ruthless and cunning by most in the New York Seaboard, and well hated by many there. Since their connections run deeply in New York, his family name does bear much meaning to people outside of the three major eastern regions. Here and there, someone will recognize his name from their travels, and it usually doesn’t mean good things will happen, so he usually just goes by his nickname to keep that under wraps.[/color] 

[color=Orange][b]⬈fears⬉[/b][/color] 
[color=orangered]Of the many thoughts that flow in and out of Oleksandr’s mind on a daily basis, the most recurrently haunting one is that he will live a life that amounts to nothing. A life lacking in grand purpose or passionate devotion to something worthwhile. He’s determined to prove to his family that he doesn’t need the money and power that come with affluence to make a difference, and especially wants to prove that the difference he makes can benefit everyone around him, not just a select few dragons sitting upon their piles of ill-gotten gains.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈reputation⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]Oleksandr is known quite differently in the various regions around the country, but the one he has the least notoriety in is the Reclaim Zone of Angel City. He hasn’t spent much time in the Reclaim, and most of his work is fairly lowkey and not well broadcasted, so he mostly flies under the radar. He has met a few people of relative power, and has made a name for himself amongst his employers and their contractors as someone that does reliable work, but past that, he’s a relatively unknown quantity in the Reclaim.

The story is fairly the same for most of the regions he’s visited and worked in. He’s become known by his peers for his healthy work ethic and good attitude, but never stayed in one spot for long. His stays were always ephemeral, at first because of his desire to travel and constantly search for new opportunities, but more recently, it’s been to avoid the ghosts of Tinmen that have picked up his trail.

Where it does differ, however, is his home region of the New York Seaboard. The Tataryn name carries much weight in New York, as they are a family of fabulous wealth and oppressive rule over part of the Region. His parents were already well hated, but following the fallout of his expulsion from the Tinmen and the subsequent revelations of the atrocities he participated in, he was effectively shamed out of the Region, and his reputation in the eyes of the public was damaged beyond repair.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈likes⬉[/b][/color] 
[color=orangered]-Various luxury liquors
-Taking a well deserved nap
-Expensive gourmet Food
-Going to target practice or practicing his martial skills
-Learning New Skills or Working a new job
-Documentaries from the Old World[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈dislikes⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]-Poor Quality Food
-Public Restrooms
-Communal Barracks
-Neo-Luddites
-Corporate Agents[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈quirks⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]-Oleksandr, even after having done a healthy amount of drinking in his life, is quite a lightweight, and gets heavily intoxicated very quickly.
-Oleksandr is very particular about his hygiene and cleanliness, and gets quickly irritated when his clothes or augments get dirty. If his augments get dirty or scratched, he has to clean them or polish them near immediately.
-Oleksandr tends to fall asleep quickly if he sits in one spot for too long.[/color]
[/center]

[color=Orange][h3][i]⟹ Background Information[/i][/h3][/color]
[center][i][color=darkorange]“Maybe it’s time that this damn country changed. It’s the same thing no matter where I go.”[/color][/i][/center]

[color=orangered]To the people of the New York Seaboard that didn’t have the luxury of being born into a rich and powerful family, the birth of Oleksandr Joshua Tataryn was worth little more than a grimace or an eyeroll. His father, a chairman of the Seaboard’s political council, and his mother, a Boardmember of New York’s Amalgamation Company, had come together in a marriage that made the collective public of the Seaboard shutter and gag at the same time. The hand-in-hand work between Amalgamation and the Seaboard’s Council had long become the standard in the region, and the literal marrying of the two groups even closer couldn’t mean anything good for anyone. All of this resulted in Oleksandr’s birth meeting little fanfare past his own parents’ delight.

Despite all of that, Olex knew from a young age that he was destined for something great, something grand, even beyond his family’s more than ample means. Whether it was the world-class education he received from his private tutors, or the strict discipline he received from his parents, it felt like every minute thing that he did from day to day was getting him ready for a life of grandeur. The wide and beautiful view granted to him from the window of his luxury apartment gave him a jaw-dropping visage of a city he could envision owning one day. From the sparkling blue coast, all the way to the gargantuan, steel walls that separated the people from the savages, it could all be his.  It was only when he realized that his path in life had a lot more heavy-handed guidance than he expected, that he stopped being the good obedient son his parents had come to know.

Of course, he’d been complacent with the near-authoritarian control of childhood and early teenage years, but he was led to believe it was all meant to be a sort of launching pad for his entry into the world at large. But when words like “Lawyer” or “Chair Member” began to get thrown around, it turned things upside down for him. Of course, even in the face of overwhelmingly strict rules and the ever rising expectations of him, Olex was a young man of strong will and even stronger character, and despite his parents’ iron-fisted grip on the boy, even they knew when to let a caged bird go and sing it’s own song.

At the tender age of 17 years old, Olex made his controversial choice to join the New York branch of the Tinmen, a decision he could only make with the influence of his parents, as he was still too young. Very quickly, he became enamoured with the gunmetal and cybernetic limbs, the men and women of impressive prestige, the commanding officers with limbs adorned in gold inlaid engravings, it all was very intoxicating to the young man that had known only the cleanest and most uptight of comforts for most of his life. In an instant, Olex was thrust into the most challenging physical test of his life in the Tinmen’s training camp, crushing his boyish daydreams of simple commandeering his own Exo-Suit and marching to glorious victory. Brass shell casings and mud were much different than his upbringing in fine linen and classic literature. And he loved it.

Even though he impressed his seniors with his performance in training, the clamor and the criticism that the young man had simply bought his way into the company was loud and clear. It was decided that Oleksandr would start his career with the Tinmen in the then-famous Pioneer Dogs Regiment, a regiment of Tinmen that specialized in warfare with the “uncivilized savages” that ruled the lands outside the walls of the many megaregions of America. Besides that, the Pioneer Dogs were considered one of the toughest and most violent regiments in the Tinmen, and Oleksandr doing a tour with them was considered by some to be a “baptism in flames”, and by most others to be a “death warrant.”

On the eve of his 18th birthday, Oleksandr and his fellow Dogs were summoned to service once again, and this was Oleksandr’s first true taste of what the Tinmen were all about. Long ago, part of the original walls that surrounded the city had been breached, and for decades now, a clan of Badlanders had been living out of a medical lab they’d conquered, and now it was time for the Tinmen to reclaim the building for the corporation it rightfully belonged to.

The fight was brutally violent, but thankfully short. The village had sent their most seasoned fighters to defend them, and fight they did, but even for mercs tested and hardened by the Badlands, the power of the Tinmen was overwhelming. Oleksandr tasted his first bit of true violence in this battle. Not the stabbings or shootings he’s occasionally see on television, three levels removed. This wasn’t a mugging or assault, this was a war, with all the carnage and shocking brutality that came with it. Oleksandr had been engulfed by the blood and mud, and for the first time in his still brief life, he felt [b]free[/b].

Of course, when he returned home for the first time, the new image he’d earned for himself didn’t do much to garner much favor from the masses. His family was one that plenty of people were already weary of, and now that he’d been branded with the ink of the Tinmen, it cast an even darker shadow on the young man. Contract killers on the bankroll of corporate fat cats didn’t exactly garner the trust of the people, and the dirty work of the Tinmen was always subject of rumors and gossip, but the public never had a clear idea of what truly went on behind the sealed files and red tape. 

With every battle, and every donning of his own personal combat exo-armor, Olex became more and more interested in more than just wearing robotic weapons of war, he wanted them to be a part of his own body. Augmentations were mostly frowned upon by his parents, and the idea was usually hushed when it was brought up at home, but he was now a man of twenty-one years of age, and he had the money and freedom to do whatever he wanted.

First to go was his right arm, so that he’d have better aim and stability, and then a few months down the line was his left arm to further reinforce his skill with a weapon. Over the next two years, it was both of his legs, and then, finally, shortly before his expulsion from the Tinmen, his own heart, lungs and liver were all replaced with superior robotic replacements. Quickly, the man had become almost more metal than flesh, and it made him feel stronger than he ever had before.

All the while, though, as his body was changing, so was his mind. The campaign against feral outlanders outside the city walls became less and less gallant and brave, as more and more missions involved wiping entire villages off the map. “They pose a significant threat to the city” the corporations said, “We need to take them out at the source.” At first, only the combatants were harmed and the rest of the clans driven off, but now even the old and infirm were caught up in the slaughter. Most of the Regiment kept a “business only” attitude about the increasingly inhumane nature of the campaign, but there were a few like Olex that had grown uncomfortable. Dissent was usually handled civilly within the ranks of the Tinmen, but as it grew more and more constant, the leadership began to deal out more stringent punishment for speaking out against orders. Morale began to worsen as tensions rose between Command and the few dissenters that still spoke their mind.

Oleksandr, after having seen many of his comrades rebuked and silenced, finally did the unthinkable; he defied orders. 

The Outlanders had a forward scout that had been observing the positions of the Tinmen as they advanced across the wastes, and when he was discovered, Oleksandr was ordered to shoot him before he could make his escape. Olex outright refused, as the scout was merely a child. Why the Outlanders had chosen to send a child to do their spying, he didn’t know, the idea repulsed him, but shooting him was finally a step too far. The Pioneer Dogs had shot children in the past, but Oleksandr had been able to avoid confronting reality by simply ignoring it and acting as if it didn’t happen, but he could no longer run away anymore.

The child escaped, and Olex was arrested for blatant disregard of orders. His stint in the brig wouldn’t last long, though, as it was upgraded to execution for costing the lives of his fellow Tinmen.

With the information he’d gathered, the child returned to his village, and before the Dogs were able to mount their attack, the Outlanders beat them to the punch, and exploited the weaknesses in the front, and in a stunning upset, had driven the metal-clad mercenaries back, resulting in many casualties, including the death of the very officer that had ordered the child shot.

For costing the lives of multiple soldiers, including a commanding officer, Oleksandr was sentenced to instant court marshall and a subsequent execution by firing squad, consisting of a team of his former fellow Dogs. The execution, though, obviously never happened, as his parents stepped in and saved him from his demise. Amalgamation was a frequent contractor of the Tinmen, and killing the son of a current board member would be bad for business. The promise of being blacklisted from doing business in the Seaboard was enough to dissuade the leadership from executing Olex, but there was no way to avoid him being kicked out of the Regiment for life, and he was definitely ready to leave himself.

Soon after his court marshall, a few more old members of the Pioneer Dogs deserted, running back to Seaboard, ready to talk of the atrocities they’d witnessed before they were surely hunted down. The stories of the massacres perpetrated by the Tinmen went crazy in the media, with the Company coming under much fire and scrutiny, even gathering criticism from members of the Seaboard’s Political Council and many corporations. Bad publicity for the Tinmen was never a good thing, and they were quick to prosecute the many members of the Pioneer Dogs, and attempted to sweep the whole ordeal under the rug in order to save face. Even Oleksandr’s name was outed as being a member, as many had suspected when the story first broke. His court marshall was framed more as him clashing with leadership over personal issues, and less over his moral disagreement with the slaughter of the Outlanders, and his name was cast in the flames of overwhelming criticism just like the rest of his regiment.

Rather than stay in the region and deal with the overwhelming amount of criticism from the public, he quietly snuck away from the Seaboard, deciding to lay low in the Miami Platforms until the controversy died down. That would be the last time he’d see the Seaboard, as he decided never to return, preferring to start fresh in the Platforms, staying there for a short time before moving again, this time back to the mainland, to the Greater DC Region. He caught a few errant glances here and there, but he managed to stay mostly on the downlow as he picked up small jobs. This set the trend, as he would spend the next few years moving from region to region, picking up a wide variety of jobs, never staying in any one place for very long before moving either to a different part of a region or a different region all together.

For the most part, his jobs were small time, as he was worried more about finding a job he liked over a job that paid him well. His parents continued to support him, although over time they became more and more vocal about their wishes for him to return home and pursue a different path in life. Their pleas fell on deaf ears, though, as Olex was more interested in finding interesting obscure jobs, over the stiff corporate ones his parents offered him. He wouldn’t be able to keep this lifestyle up for long, though, as after a year of one sided contact, being ignored by their son, they finally cut him off from the family’s fortune, and asserting that he would never hear from them again unless he chose to return home and respect his parents’ wishes. That would never happen.

Soon after his family’s support was cut off, a new problem presented itself: Tinmen Agents pursuing him wherever he went. The Tinmen had been able to execute most of the former Dogs that ran and leaked company secrets to the media, but Oleksandr has since been untouchable because of his parents. Now that they had effectively disowned him, though, they had picked back up on his trail, sending a trained killer every now and again, in a vain attempt to tie up the loose end that is Oleksandr Tataryn.

They would find him now at his most recent job and home, working for a High Security Courier Service deep in the Reclaim. Currently, Oleksandr has been facing an influx of work due to the Twin City Council elections.[/color] 

[color=Orange][h3][i]⟹Operative Information[/i][/h3][/color]
[center][i][color=darkorange]“These are timeless APEX beauties. Never going to go out of style or become obsolete. Technical masterpieces.”[/color][/i]

[color=Orange][b]⬈augmentations⬉[/b][/color] 
[color=gold]Two APEX Aegis Cybernetic Arms, Left & Right:[/color] [color=orangered]Created for pure combat utility in mind, the APEX Aegis Arms are created with as few weak points as possible, to protect their functionality during combat. What they lack in specialized utilities, such as surgical kits in the hand, or built in weaponry, they make up for in pure durability and power. No exposed joints, fairly thick superalloy metal platings encompassing most of the augments, overwhelmingly powerful motors and servos, and a durable yet sophisticated internet communicator in the left arm, these are the pinnacle of pure strength and utility, as some of the most technically renowned cybernetics that APEX has created yet.[/color]

[color=gold]Two APEX Aegis Cybernetic Legs, Left & Right:[/color] [color=orangered]These models share virtually every characteristic of their Arm counterparts, except they’re, you know, legs. Extreme power and durability, these legs are fit for anyone interested in becoming as close to a metal god as they can.[/color]

[color=gold]Fury Biotech Heart and Lungs:[/color] [color=orangered]A cybernetic heart and lungs both work in conjunction to give Olex a great deal of stamina and endurance to further allow him to use his augmented limbs to even greater levels. Running at impressive speeds, for even more impressive lengths of time, or having even more stamina when it comes to carrying heavy loads over long distances. Increased lung capacity and efficiency means that Oleksandr can hold his breath for upwards of 15 minutes, on a good, deep breath, at least.

The organs themselves are graded to run on the power generated by the body for at least 50 years with no issues whatsoever, and are designed to be much more durable. They’re able to perform well even when damaged, able to sustain life even longer than natural organs could.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈equipment⬉[/b][/color] 
[url=http://conceptartworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Weapon_Concept_Art_Brian_Yam_02.jpg]FuryTech .45 Caliber “Matsumoto” Handgun:[/url] [color=orangered]One of FuryTech’s most popular models, the Matsumoto is reliable, fairly cheap, and can compete with even some rifles, given the right ammunition. Oleksandr doesn’t carry a surplus of weapons around on a regular basis, but he does carry his Matsumoto every single day he leaves the house. All bite and no bark, the pistol gets the job done with no issues, requiring little upkeep, with the added bonus of not having to rely on any sort of fancy batteries or experimental projections. Just classic jacketed tungsten and gunpowder. An all-around classic handgun that has totally proliferated in usage by average citizens. [/color]

[url=http://conceptartworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Weapon_Concept_Art_Andreas_von_Cotta.jpg]FuryTech/Kriss .308 DMR:[/url] [color=orangered] When FuryTech got ahold of the classic patents from the Kriss gun company, they did what they’re best known for, and updated a tried and true design and gave it the power the new world demands. Same as the Matsumoto he carries, the Kriss .308 isn’t the most high-tech weapon, but it doesn’t need to be. Delivering an exceptionally hard punch with it’s .308 rounds, it can punch through some of the best armor on the market, before we start talking about metal power armors. Thirty round capacity, Semi and Fully Automatic, and a suite of rails to mount whatever attachments he may need, this rifle provides the power and customizability that a seasoned soldier like Oleksandr likes have in a fight. He usually leaves this one at home, unless his work demands it, as it’s a fairly large and heavy rifle to lug around everywhere.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈skills⬉[/b][/color] 
[color=gold]Exo-Suit Training:[/color] [color=orangered]While Military Grade Exo-Suits are difficult to come across outside of a handful of specific situations, Olex still has the handy knowledge of how to operate one, and to do it well, at that.[/color]

[color=gold]Seasoned Veteran:[/color] [color=orangered]Like many other in the Reclaim, Oleksandr has had a career in combat and warfare, so he comes with all the skills that one would expect. Familiarity and skill with guns, hand-to-hand combat training, comfort in a warzone, the works. There is little in terms of battle that can rattle Oleksandr, and he’s got a good eye for making sure all his flanks are covered.[/color]

[color=gold]Jack of All, Master of None:[/color] [color=orangered] Having moved from Region to Region, and done a multitude of jobs, Oleksandr has a shallow knowledge of many different trades and skills. He can be fairly useful when someone needs a man who knows a little about a lot. Of course, when specialists are needed, Oleksandr isn’t of much help, but he can at least try. [/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈flaws⬉[/b][/color] 
[color=gold]Reluctant Killer:[/color] [color=orangered] Oleksandr has managed to not have taken a life ever since his desertion of the Tinmen, and it’s certainly from lack of trying. Even if he keeps his combat skills sharp, when it comes to actual fighting, he’s done his best to avoid it as much as possible. He tries to give off an air of someone that’s made peace with his past, but in truth, he’s still very afraid of harming anyone else, and would rather just rough someone up and leave them alive, but unconscious on the sidewalk than to simply shoot and run.[/color]

[color=gold]Impulsiveness:[/color] [color=orangered]Given his fear of killing, that’s not to say that Oleksandr is afraid of violence, and having been well versed in the art of both, is good at knowing how to hurt someone without putting their lives in danger. Combine that with his hubristic lack of impulse control, then you have someone that will likely end up starting huge melees over his shoes getting stepped on. He’s quick to anger or annoy, and quick to punch someone in the face, and with fists that are at least a bit [i]harder[/i] than usual, he tends to knock more teeth out than most. Not to mention the litany of rash decisions he makes, endangering his own life, and even sometimes the lives of others.

[color=gold]Closed Off:[/color] As a result of his nomadic lifestyle, and in spite of his affable and friendly exterior, it has been quite a long time since Olex has made a deep, genuine connection with another person. He’s had drinking buddies, work buddies, a few one night flings here and there, but none of them have ever been lasting connections that come with him as he moves around. He doesn’t even remember most of their names, and only barely their faces. While he comes off as friendly and polite almost immediately to most people, they are also quick to figure out that he is a guarded person who doesn’t quite enjoy opening up to anyone. [/color]

[color=Orange][b]⬈notes⬉[/b][/color]
[color=orangered]None at the moment.[/color]
[/center]
[/hider]

[hider=Relationship Table Template]
[table=bordered][row][cell][color=darkorange][b]Character name[/b][/color][/cell] [cell][i][color=darkorange][b]Relationship[/b][/color][/i][/cell][/row]

[row][cell][color=008000][i]Stella Solomon[/i][/color][/cell][cell][i][color=darkorange]"Ah, Stella. I've talked to her so much already I feel like I've known her forever, but that's only because she's just like me; Talks all day and doesn't say a damn thing."[/color][/i]
Oleksandr would probably be mistrustful of Stella, had he not met her when he did. It wasn't too long after he arrived in the Reclaim that the ghosts of his past had come back to life, but she'd been prying from day one. Thankfully, he's very deft at handling charmers of her ilk, otherwise the mixture or her well made drinks and silver tongue would've gotten the best of him long ago.[/cell][/row]
[row][cell][color=lightgray][i]Lott Ramana[/i][/color][/cell][cell][i][color=darkorange]”My, my, my.... Why? Why here? Why [b]her[/b]? I think I’d rather see my parents again then Lott. Literally almost anyone, than her.[/color][/i]
Of the many things that Oleksandr thought would come back to bite him in the ass, Lott Ramana was the last one he’d expected or hoped for. She’d been an old girlfriend of his, a relationship that’d ended bitterly, and one of the last steady partners he’s had in a long time. Their paths have only crossed once since the ill-fated relationship they had so long ago, and it was quite a shock, to say the least. Lott, thoroughly and overwhelmingly intoxicated, was standing atop a table in the Duat, singing a pitchy and nigh-sobbing rendition of some obscure 2010’s song that Olex had never heard, and that was about as far as he watched. Olex fled the bar before it could advance any further, taking a whole month before he had the courage to return to the Duat.[/cell][/row] 


[/table][/hider]

[hider=Proctor Ryke]
[center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/b2/5e/52/b25e5237b9f45c229a7b9bbeb39068de.jpg[/img]
[color=lightslategray][b][Proctor Ryke]
[60] | [Male] | [5’11] | [A-][/b][/color][/center]

[center][u][b]---[/b][/u][/center]


[color=darkslategray][h3][i]General Information[/i][/h3][/color]

[center][i]Proctor doesn’t speak much anymore. His empty stares do the talking.[/i][/center]

[center][color=steelblue][b]NAME:[/b][/color]
[color=slategray]Proctor Ryke[/color]

[color=steelblue][b]ALIASES // TITLES:[/b][/color]
[color=slategray]None.[/color]

[color=steelblue][b]SEX:[/b][/color]
[color=slategray]Male[/color]

[color=steelblue][b]AGE:[/b][/color]
[color=slategray]60[/color]

[color=steelblue][b]APPEARANCE:[/b][/color]
[color=slategray]Torn and tattered, the once meticulously well-kept and sturdy jacket Proctor wears has clearly seen better days. Holes and tears marr the surface of the faux-leather, deep black pigment beginning to fade after many days wandering around in the sweltering heat of the Reclaim. His pants follow suit, with his boots being the only part of his one outfit that haven’t deteriorated to the point of nigh uselessness. Yet, that is.

Worn clothes don’t do a good job hiding Proctor’s diminishing frame. Muscle mass and tone have diminished, not greatly, but noticeably, and his torso looks unusually gaunt compared to the still imposing heft of his outdated and poorly maintained augments. Originally machines that were top of the line, what was only a few nicks and scratches on what were otherwise properly maintained cybernetics has turned into a more intricate canvas of battle scars. Small scratches and nicks tell of the many multitude of tumbles and falls the man has taken when his legs decided to freeze up mid-stride. Larger gouges and dents tell a more violent story, of back alley ambushes and the ever familiar gunfight. Like an aging lion, these powerhouse limbs have seen better days, days where they were the apex of the food chain. Now, though, they sit and wait, being nipped and clawed at until their eventual downfall.

Stark white hair has begun to fall out of his scalp, either in small bits when he brushes, or in tufts when he finds himself yanking at it himself. Not wanting others to see the sorry state of his head, he usually wears a ballcap, discovering small amounts of hair in it whenever it is that he finds himself taking the hat off. The glowing blue of his eyes has dimmed and more of his natural brown eye color can be seen. The scratched and lackluster EngiTech Neural Assistant that encompasses most of the back and sides of his head has become increasingly worn and damaged. Small lights have burnt out, with the back of the head plate in particular covered in a large amount of dents and gouges. The edges of the plate on any side now sport sets of long, shallow scratches, apparently from Proctor digging his own fingers into the augment from time to time.[/color]

[color=steelblue][b]OCCUPATION:[/b][/color] [color=slategray]Former Financier of the Campbell Campaign, Current Vagabond[/color]

[u][b]---[/b][/u]

[/center]


[color=darkslategray][h3][i]Psychological Profile[/i][/h3][/color]
[center][i][color=slategray]“Please, just leave me alone.”[/color][/i][/center]
[center][b][color=steelblue]Despondent | Anxiety-Ridden | Distrustful | Pessimistic | Cunning (sometimes) |  Careful[/color][/b][/center]

[center][color=steelblue]▢[b]PERSONAL GOAL:[/b]▢[/color]
[color=slategray]Nothing in particular matters to this Ghost of the Reclaim. The ever familiar drive to survive has still been able to make itself apparent through the fugue that now clouds his mind, and his dogged quest to simply stay alive has taken him all around the Twin City Sprawl. Initially, when Campbell’s campaign first fell apart, Proctor couldn’t think of anything other than revenge. His time was spent entirely on trying to find Campbell’s killers, but the degradation of his mind quickly accelerated and took its toll. What remains today is the ever familiar fear of death, with a dull, nagging pain in his head that he has a hard time diagnosing. Small splashes of the past, of his mission, will come to him from time to time, but they are quickly washed out by the waves of droning static.[/color] 


[color=steelblue]▣[b]CAMPAIGN GOAL:[/b]▣[/color] 
[color=slategray]Most going-ons and events in the Reclaim mean nothing to Proctor, and that includes the current mayoral race. Proctor sometimes struggles to even remember the name of the last candidate that ever mattered to him, the man whose death he’s trying to avenge, let alone the names of any of the current candidates. Were he still of sound mind, the candidate offering him the most money would obviously have his vote, but those days are long past.[/color]

[color=steelblue]◈[b]PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY:[/b]◈[/color] 
[color=slategray]The Proctor Ryke that ruled the underground of the Reclaim was a man driven by his love for money and fear of death. The squalor and destitution of an upbringing in this part of South City made for generations of people that strived for nothing more than to continue living. Notions of “hope” and “goals” meant nothing to teeming masses of drones who simply breathed because they feared the consequence for not. Proctor was one in the same, yet, a completely different beast. He knew the Futility of simply fighting to stay alive, never knowing basic comforts or individual fulfillment, and it drove him in a different direction. Anyone with unmatched ambitions was simply a step to be used to elevate himself. Crime,  violence, nothing was off the table. Proctor desired something more than basic subsistence, he desired power, some levels above meek survival.

He met those goals, if only ephemerally. Though not a natural born leader, his Charisma was enough for him to form a gathering, and they ruled the Underground of the Reclaim. Only, it was short-lived, as Jackson Rott and his gang of Knights quickly deposed him. Since then, he’s been driven by the same basic instincts as everyone else. An overwhelming thantophobia dictates his every decision on a day to day basis. Everything serves the endgame of staying alive just another day. As cruel and hopeless the Reclaim can be, it’s an existence that Proctor understands, and one he’d rather keep dealing with than having to confront the uncertainty of lies beyond.[/color]

[color=steelblue]◇[b]POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY:[/b]◇[/color] 
[color=slategray]Politics and the movements that drive it have always flown under Proctor’s radar, even before his current sorry state. Being a man that’s always been interested in cyberware, he’s heard plenty of the rhetoric around the Neo-Transhumanist movement, and it’s probably the one movement that he ever knew anything about. Earlier in life, they were always the first to embrace him as a fellow “Brother” and, as he’s aged and succumbed even further to SPECS, have never been afraid to lend him a hand in the upkeep of his cybernetics or freely giving him small doses of Neurosynth.

As his cognitive ability has slowed and become more labored, strangely enough Proctor has seemingly become more understanding of the spiritual teachings of the HyperHuman Monastics. While still not a complete fanatic of the HyperHuman mindset and collectivism, something about it still speaks to him. The Monks that mechanize large majorities of their bodies and turn away what some think make us “truly human”, seem to treat everyone with more Humanity than anyone else.[/color]

[color=steelblue]⊠[b]SECRETS:[/b]⊠[/color] 
[color=slategray]Even when he began his run with the Campbell campaign, the secret of Proctor’s former life as kingpin in the Reclaim’s underground was a slowly fading glory. Now, with the last race a thing of the past, and renewed supremacy of corporate interests, the Ghost of the Reclaim has become an even further and less relevant story. Even if Proctor could still recall many of his past escapades, he wouldn’t be keen to tell anyone. Proctor’s involvement in the Campbell campaign isn’t exactly the most readily available information either, but it doesn’t really mean much anymore.[/color]

[color=steelblue]⊡[b]FEARS:[/b]⊡[/color] 
[color=slategray] Of course, to be expected, Death is probably at the top of the list of things that rattle Proctor to the core. More than that, though, there is something else that is beginning to frighten Proctor even more, something worse than death itself. The complete loss of self.

His early life was hard enough to remember in the first place, and now his mind is the cloudiest it’s ever been. With each day that comes and goes without a dose of Neurosynth, more and more of his mind becomes fogged, making the ephemeral moments of clarity after being medicated even more harrowing. As time marches on, more and more of who Proctor was begins to fade, both from the Reclaim’s collective memory, and his own. Physical death was daunting enough for him, the prospect of him dying before his heart ceases to beat is even more unnerving.[/color]

[color=steelblue]☲[b]REPUTATION:[/b]☲[/color]
[color=slategray]Proctor Ryke was a name that only ever meant anything in the Reclaim. At the peak of his notoriety, he was known as the man that decided that he wouldn’t roll over and allow Jackson Rott absolute dominion over the underground. An underdog always meant to lose, the tale of Proctor Ryke was one of stubborn resilience, from a time when the Reclaim was more of a “wild west”, criminal gangs running the streets and governing trade in the mayhem after the Riots. 

Since his days as the leader of the Gamblers, Proctor’s name has only been uttered in whispers or short barrel-fireside stories. Just as he quickly rose to prominence, he plummeted with even greater haste. The only people he mattered to were those who still wanted him dead, and those who knew he still wasn’t. 

More recently, his name means less and less to fewer and fewer. Even those few that still respected and worked with him haven’t seen him in the months since the campaign collapsed, and the only ones that know he isn’t dead are those that don’t even know who he is.[/color]

[color=steelblue]◉[b]LIKES:[/b]◉[/color]
[color=slategray]◦Walking the streets when they’re empty
◦The Clarity Neurosynth Provides
◦The feeling of a full stomach[/color]

[color=steelblue]⊛[b]DISLIKES:[/b]⊛[/color]
[color=slategray]◦The Constant Mental Fog
◦The Pain of when his Limbs begin to Fail
◦ His imminent mortality[/color]

[color=steelblue]◘[b]QUIRKS:[/b]◘[/color] 
[color=slategray]If not actively doing anything, Proctor has a tendency to simply sit and stare into space, sometimes even for hours on end. Unsettling and not particularly healthy, he tries to avoid doing so when he realizes that he’s off in another trance, but they’re unavoidable at this point.

What used to be random full body stretches has translated more into a need to mindlessly massage his limbs when he gets nervous or anxious. Of course, considering they’re made out of metal, massaging doesn’t do much to ease the random phantom pains or nerve malfunction. Even despite that, they can sometimes be a comforting placebo, if nothing else.[/color][/center]

[center][u][b]---[/b][/u][/center]

[color=darkslategray][h3]⍒[i]Background Information[/i]⍒[/h3][/color]
[center][color=slategray][i]“My name? Uh...Proctor. Yeah, that’s right, it’s Proctor.”[/i][/color][/center]

[color=slategray][center]Somewhere unimportant in the Reclaim Zone, Proctor was brought into an uninterested and uncaring South City. Most of his memories of his early life and his parents have faded away from him, whether it be because 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, neither very abrasive nor 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 continuance.

Early on in his life, the importance of protecting himself 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 do so 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. Some die, others suffer, and the only one who could change that was the individual.

Good and Evil weren’t real, they were just words people applied to the abstract and cruel way that existence could deal it’s hand. Breathing and living were two different things, and the people of the Reclaim weren’t living. Day in and out, they simply fought to ensure mere survival. Even then, some of them failed, and Proctor was vigilant to learn from others’ failure.

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 was 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 had been stripped of all it’s valuables.

The Reclaim Zone seemed indifferent as another orphaned child turned into a street urchin, as Proctor took to the streets in search of ways to keep himself alive. Eating out of dumpsters, stealing and reselling valuables, the child did exactly what it took to keep from suffering the same fate as his parents. 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 an 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 “redistributing” stashes of drugs that he in [i]no[/i] way stole from anyone, Proctor managed to keep his chin above water. Brazen and confident, he began 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 walls 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 young man knew ambition, and it began to manifest itself in interesting ways. Instead of trying to consume him, 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 a second knife was 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 ever 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 and power, 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 thick gunmetal and motors. Flesh and bone 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. The Gamblers and their disregard for most of the residents and their safety 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 fights.

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, even 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. 

After years in obscurity, living from job to job, surviving one way or another, a new job presented itself to Proctor. The rising campaign of Dexter Campbell, and the multiple open positions to help him dethrone Mayor Gatch felt like a stroke of incredible luck. Campbell needed someone to raise funds, and if Proctor knew how to do anything, it was to make money. He gave them a fake name, Richter Gamble, and joined the campaign as Dexter’s Fundraising Manager. Coming up with money for a campaign was difficult, but Proctor was sure he’d be able to use the skills he’d spent his whole life building to find his way into more money and power than he’d ever had before.

Confidence in the campaign was high, but very suddenly, Proctor’s new found hope was torn away from him. Campbell was assassinated, and the campaign members separated. From the start, Proctor suspected that Rott was responsible. His thirst for revenge was even more severe than before. Now twice, Rott had robbed Proctor of his best chance of survival and now it was time for some payback.

Only, as the months passed, and Proctor spent the majority of his time trying to hunt down clues, his mind was deteriorating. No matter the progress he would make, his memories would be more and more fogged with every day that passed. Ambition made way for confusion, and soon enough, Procor had lost sight. Nothing made sense anymore. Small moments of clarity did nothing to clear the clouds.

The man who stood on the precipice of once ruling the Reclaim now spends most of his days wandering it, trying to recall the days when it was his.[/center][/color]

[color=darkslategray][h3][i]Operative Information[/i][/h3][/color]
[center][i][color=slategray]”For as much as I paid, this shit hardly works anymore.”[/color][/i][/center]

[center][color=steelblue]▩[b]AUGMENTATIONS:[/b]▩[/color][/center]

[center][color=steelblue][u]Two (2) APEX Model 35-S Cybernetic Arms, One Left and One Right[/u][/color]
[color=slategray]Both of Proctor’s arms are outdated, APEX-made pieces of machinery. Together, they give the operator the strength to lift about half a ton, but since Proctor is still stuck with a normal human spine, he doesn’t really have the ability to support that weight. That doesn’t nullify all the strength granted by his arms, as he can still punch a hole through most brick walls, and has some serious throwing capability to add too.

Both of his arms, as stated above, are, at this point, approximately thirty years old, and while they don’t carry and suite of tools or make him quite a superhuman, they are still strong and reliable pieces of technology, top-of-the-line back in their heyday. Even decades old APEX are something to behold, but he won’t be stopping traffic anytime soon with these aging arms.[/color]

[color=steelblue][u]Two (2) FuryTech Strider-Class E.R.L Legs[/u][/color]
[color=slategray]Capable of outrunning a bullet train, deliver kicks that could kill an elephant, or supporting, at most, a full ton of weight, Proctor’s Strider Legs were intended to be the only cybernetic legs you’d ever need for the rest of your life, available at a price for which wouldn’t take you that time to pay back, too. Of course, now being about twenty-five years old, they aren’t quite the glamourous, impressive legs there were advertised to be back in their heyday, but they work.

Age and use haven’t been good to them, and when not wearing pants, these legs look drastically different than most cybernetic limbs today, as they don’t really try to imitate human limbs in their looks. Black metal, adorned with scratches and dents, are all that greets the eyes when they see Proctor’s legs. Open joints, robotic imposters of toes, audible mechanical whirring sometimes, they are very obviously some worn legs. Maybe a little bit of exposed wiring here and there, but nothing too big. 

While the legs were certainly capable of delivering on their claims when they were first released, time has not been good to their performance. Not to say they haven’t held up well enough, but Proctor, while he can propel himself much faster than the ordinary man, hasn’t been able to outrun a bullet train in a long time. He can still kick the head [i]almost[/i] completely off a man, but he’d probably just sooner shoot them than do that.[/color]

[color=steelblue][u]One (1) FuryTech C.O.R.E Heart[/u][/color]
[color=slategray]While not exactly bulletproof, the FuryTech Cardiac Organ Replacing Enhancement is still a very hardy and reliable piece of machinery. While, technically, pumping blood [i]harder[/i] than an organic heart can isn’t exactly beneficial, being able to do that job much longer and with less problems is FuryTech’s strength. The unit is much, much less likely to deal with irregular heartbeats, is 99% likely to never be stricken by arrest, and can negate many of the effects of arteries afflicted with cholesterol build up, which isn’t exactly ideal, but still means a much better life than otherwise. When the unit was made, blood purification systems weren’t quite off the ground yet, so the most this heart can do is help alleviate the effects of blood-borne illnesses or poisons, but nothing much past that.

You may be wondering if the unit is vulnerable to EMP blasts, which would be critical flaw, but thankfully, it’s not. Even twenty or so years ago when Proctor acquired his limbs, the ability to shield them from outside blasts was already pretty commonplace, so his heart, and other augments for that matter, are all fairly well protected against any sort of anti-electronic measures. At least, they were when they were produced. As for how the shielding has held up over time, that remains yet to be seen.[/color]

[color=steelblue][u]One (1) FuryTech R.O.R.E Set of Lungs[/u][/color]
[color=slategray]To accompany and take advantage of having an enhanced heart, Proctor also has an enhanced set of lungs, also from FuryTech. They’re meant to allow much longer stamina when it comes to vigorous activity, as the blood in one’s body can be oxygenated and pumped much faster than with a standard set of organs. Combine that with a set of Cybernetic Arms and Legs, and it makes for someone who can keep moving, quicky, for a long time.

Being made of metal and fiber optic and materials of that sort, many of the common worries that come with regular lungs don’t apply to these Respiratory Organ Replacing Enhancements. Lung Cancer is almost a non-issue, being punctured or crushed presents much less of an issue, as the lungs can support life with just one side, or can expand and contract with much greater force when under great pressure. This might mean pushing a little bit against a few other organs, or breaking a few ribs, but that’s only in the most extreme situations.[/color]

[color=steelblue][u]One (1) EngiTech Maximus Neural Assistant M.V. 7[/u][/color]
[color=slategray]Built to connect into the brain, specifically in the synapses that have to do with processing visual information and those that have to do with decision making, the Maximus Neural Assistant was meant to help accelerate the user’s ability to make quick, on the spot decisions, help them retain more of a photographic memory, and interpret and respond to visual stimuli more quickly. It wasn’t meant to make you an artificial genius, or really, to make you [i]any[/i] smarter, for that matter. It was basically just meant to help with improve reaction time and vision.

The unit presents itself as a large, well lit plate that encompasses most of the back and sides of the user’s head. Proctor’s model, or course, is well-worn, covered in scratches and dents from years of blows to the head. While the unit may not be able to do much in the way of memory enhancement anymore, it has still given Proctor a good reaction time despite his age and his plague.[/color][/center]

[center][color=steelblue]▨[b]EQUIPMENT:[/b]▨[/color]

[color=steelblue][u]F. HeavyTech Lex-01.45CAL Caseless Machine Pistol[/u][/color]
[color=slategray]This Fury-HeavyTech weapon blurs the line between a machine pistol and a full blown submachine gun. With a fire rate that can tuned and changed, caseless ammunition, and it’s compact size, the Lex-01 is quite the effortless killer. The weapon can accept a wide range different size magazines, anywhere from ten-round magazines, to some large, rather unwieldy one hundred round mags. Highly modular and customizable, the Lex-01, while not exactly a workhorse weapon, can still be changed to fit a variety of different situations the user could face. There are spots to mount optics, flashlights, suppressors or muzzle breaks, and even easily changeable grips to make sure that the user can get the most comfort and reliability from their weapon.

Proctor’s particular model sports an integrated flashlight, and a small holographic optic, with a threaded barrel and suppressor on hand for when the situation calls for it. The pistol grip is a custom piece, made to fit his hand perfectly, and is engraved with a large scorpion, with gold inlaid in the engraving. He likes to keep his weapon set to roughly 900-1000 rounds per minute, and carries around mostly thirty round magazines, with maybe one or two fifty-round magazines for where the need arises. The main body of the pistol is scratched, marred chrome, with onyx black accents. The weapon is usually kept in an underarm holster that Proctor conceals with his overcoat.[/color]

[color=steelblue][u]F. HeavyTech  Persecutor L.P.B.A[/u][/color]
[color=slategray]To offer strong, reliable protection, while maximizing mobility and discreteness, is the main goal off the Fury/HeavyTech Low Profile Body Armor. The Persecutor set was meant to be worn under clothing, making the armor discreet and almost completely unnoticeable. The armor itself is a extremely strong, durable combination of kevlar woven with an alloy of steel and aluminum, giving the user top of the line protection against most calibers of standard bullet. When it comes to more experimental and advanced types of projectiles, the armor’s protection may not hold up, but considering the rarity of those types of weapons, this shouldn’t present much of an issue. The Persecutor is a full body set of armor, protecting the most vital parts of the body, with sacrifices around places like joints for the sake of maneuverability.

While the Persecutor isn’t the end all be all of body armor, it can still sustain a few fatal blows, buying the wearer vital seconds in pivotal moments of a gun fight. If it’s a knife fight we’re talking about, the Persecutor actually makes up for the weakness of the armor of yesteryear and can manage resisting most mid level conventional blades. When it comes to high end conventional blades, or perhaps some more [i]unconventional[/i] blades, well, the Prosecutor may not quite hold up.[/color]

[color=steelblue]◩[b]SKILLS:[/b]◩[/color]

[u][color=steelblue]Street Intuition[/color][/u]
[color=slategray]Proctor’s entire life has been spent in and around the hard streets of the Reclaim. He knows the kind of people you’re destined to meet around here very well, and the dangers the streets themselves pose. From back alley crooks, to sidewalk junk vendors, Proctor understands how all the cogs spin in place to keep the streets moving perpetually. If you’re trying to navigate the Reclaim and keep out of as much trouble as possible, Proctor’s your guy.[/color]

[color=steelblue]◪[b]FLAWS:[/b]◪[/color] 

[u][color=steelblue]S.P.E.C.S[/color][/u]
[color=slategray]Proctor is dying, and that’s all there is to it. S.P.E.C.S has very rapidly and deeply set in. His arms and legs, built to last for decades, have started to malfunction, and his mind is damned with a constant fog that only marginally thins when Neurosynth provides it’s momentary clarity. The comedown always hits harder, though, and Proctor’s beginning to question whether the crash is worth the high. Extremities made of metal and motors could probably be repaired to work at peak condition again, but his mind is nearly gone for good/ [/color]

[u][color=steelblue]Extreme Fear of Death[/color][/u]
[color=slategray]Call it a phobia or just healthy paranoia, as age and disease begin to set in on Proctor, the thought of his impending death shakes him to the core. When faced with situations that could result in his possible death, or when having to confront his worsening plague, he will begin to lose his lucidity, giving in to panic attacks that can range from timid to crippling. Extreme fight or flight instincts will kick in during dangerous situations, and Proctor will either fight much harder than he has to, resulting in sometimes injury or further damage to his parts, or will abandon anything besides the clothes on his back to get away.[/color]

[u][color=steelblue]Aging Parts[/color][/u]
[color=slategray] Even though robotic parts are meant to last longer than Human ones, after the lifetime of abuse and overuse that his have faced, Proctor’s various parts are beginning to show their age, and are paying for it. Very seldomly, his limbs will flat-out stall out on him, either getting stuck in the middle of use, or going limp. Servos have been replaced, motors fixed, but with the age of his limbs and the onset of S.P.E.C.S, his limbs just aren’t performing as well as they used to. One of these days, they might just stall out when he really needs them.[/color]

[color=steelblue][b]NOTES:[/b][/color]
[color=slategray]None.[/color][/center]

[center][u][b]---[/b][/u][/center]
[/hider]