[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diminished, not greatly, but noticeably, and his torso looks unusually gaunt compared to the still imposing heft of his outdated and poorly maintained augments.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]