[b]Name:[/b] Clinton Bronson

[b]Alias/Callsign:[/b] “Strider”
[i]Cú[/i], but he hasn’t been called such in a good many years.

[b]Gender:[/b] Male, he/him

[b]Race/Species:[/b] Human

[b]Age:[/b] 34

[b]Concept:[/b] The Human Monster

[hider=Appearance] Clinton is a firmly built man of notable height and formidable build. Standing at a solid six-foot-two and weighing in at 205 pounds of steely sinew, he is something of an imposing figure. Fair, moderately tattooed skin, touched by the sun, is stretched over imposing ridges of muscled physique. He cuts the hard silhouette one would expect from an apex predator. Clint sports masculine jaw and firm, handsome, even wolfish features – a strong nose and jaw with stern brow; all stony planes and angles. Settled into their sockets are eyes like chips of blue-grey ice; cold and severe in their gaze. Atop his head is a tightly cropped mane of dirty brown-blond hair, cut close to the scalp at the back and sides, leaving enough at the top to style should the occasion. Often, Clint will have a short beard upon his jaw. Borne not out of a fashion standpoint as much a neglect to regularly shave.

Division Medics have estimated that roughly twenty-five to thirty percent of Clint’s body is covered in scar tissue; old wounds inflicted by beast, blade, ballistics, and burns. It is a collection of badges of courage from his years among the Valkyries. Where scars do not tread, tattoos are often scrawled, nordic, Egyptian, and celtic-druidic in origin and design - wards against possession and blessings of battle etched into his very flesh. To those with an inhuman sense of smell, or simply in an intimate proximity to the man, his is a heady scent of a man well-traveled; Clinton has a constant aroma of coffee, leather, tobacco smoke, gun oil, and Old Spice around him.


In his day to day, Clint dresses as if constantly expecting to do some kind of taxing outdoor activity. Always in his steel toed boots, he often wears boot cut jeans or cargo pants with a light long sleeve shirt or a button-down shirt. When required to dress up for an occasion, he can clean up nicely. Connor’s full-tilt operational gear is what one would expect from a modern military operative - full tactical gear, including Crye BDUs and customized ballistic armor.[/hider]

[hider=Personality] Clint is a man of firm temperament. Emotionally detached, but tenuously stable despite the horrors experienced in the day-to-day. He finds camaraderie with his fellow Sentinels but remains withdrawn and brusque even among the tightly knit brotherhood. Clint is always one to internalize and desensitize in order to maintain control and to keep a sound head. He is not one to trust easily, and whether a genuine display of apathy or a coping mechanism for the job, he takes a casual and cavalier attitude towards violence and the grotesque. Despite his resilience, he is only a mortal man, and turns to the crutch of stiff drink when the burdens grow too heavy to bear.

Division psychoanalysts have diagnosed Clint with an Automatic Nervous System Disorder, putting him in a constant, but fluctuating, state of fight-or-flight and hypervigilance. In their diagnosis, he is still “fully operational”, but may be prone to psychological degradation over time. “A ticking time bomb” if there ever was one.

His are a killer’s eyes. Far-seeing, piercing, and cold. They’ve held and beheld miracle and madness, and like the rest of him, never seem to be capable of rest. Clinton is always expecting the other shoe to drop, perpetually scanning and surveying his situation and surroundings for threats. Over the years, he’s developed a nervous tick that has manifested as a faint twitch in his gun-hand. One might not expect nor endorse a man such as him to be a guardian for the Oracle-Child, but since Operation: Cassandra, he’s been devoutly protective of the asset, even expressing the rare moments of tenderness and vulnerability to them. Footage exists of Clinton having a tea party with their ward, a dyed-in-the-wool killer hunched over a tiny playskool set, sipping imaginary tea from little plastic cups.[/hider]

[b]Powers, Traits, and Abilities:[/b] 
[i]Focus, Commitment, Sheer Will[/i] - Just as the body can be trained to endure, and excel in, combat situations, the mind and emotions can be trained to shake off the harrowing impacts of violence and existential dread. The mind, body, and spirit of Clinton is an ironclad fortress.

[i]Field Expertise[/i] - There is no substitute for time spent in the field. Soldiers with enough experience in battle develop an almost supernatural sense of the ebb and flow of dangerous situations, predicting opponents’ moves on a subconscious level.
Ever since his upbringing in the Montauk Project, he has always had a gun either in hand or within reach. At his current level of skill, Clinton exists within the upper echelons of military operator accuracy.

[i]Close & Personal[/i] - Lethal up close as he is from afar, Clint is skilled in close-quarters combat with a mixture of martial arts, armed and unarmed. His choice weapons at the intimate range are knives and daggers. While he would prefer to not get in a position where he is left with just his fists, he is considerably lethal with them, as a proficient practitioner of multiple martial arts. These include Aikido, CQC, Krav Maga, Systema, Silat, Glima, Muay Thai, Kickboxing, and Judo.

[b]Fears, Flaws, and Vices:[/b] Though it may be only subjective as a flaw, depending on ones surroundings, Clint is incapable of harnessing any magical power on his own. He is a fine specimen, but he is completely and utterly mortal. The only way we can access arcane power of any sort is to use imbued trinkets or charms, or to take on a Pact-Mark. 

But, more to the core of the matter, Clinton has an addictive personality. He’s leaned on the crutch of a stiff drink for a great many years, and when around a vampire of high blood-potency, his palms begin to sweat. He’s tried going sober several times and has struggled every single step of the way. In the end, he’s maintained abstinence from vampiric vices only by leaning into the caress of a stiff glass of whiskey. 

When Clinton gives his word, he’ll go through hell and high water to put himself – and others with him – to keep it. He is stubborn to a fault and cantankerous as a mule. It’s as much a boon as a bane, giving him the foundation of his reputation, both for good and for ill. 

[b]Standard Loadout:[/b]
[i]STI Tactical DS 10mm[/i] – A 5-inch barrel 1911 chambered in 10mm, sporting 18-round capacity magazines. Fitted with a surefire light on the rails and RMR optics. The barrel is threaded for use of suppressors. 

[i]AR-10 Recon Rifle[/i] – Clint’s “do-it-all” primary firearm, chambered in .308 with a 13.7 inch barrel. Mounted with a Nightforce ATACR 1-8x scope, canted C-More red-dot sight, gunfighter foregrip, surefire scout light, and Black Aces PAQ IR illuminator.

[i]Silvered Kerambit[/i] – Sometimes in a Sentinel’s line of work, you must get nasty. Clint’s silver nitrate coated kerambit dagger gives him a nasty claw when he otherwise has none to work with. 

[hider=Background] 
Ever since the incident in █████████, ██, select agencies United States government have been as obsessed with occult warfare. It started with the Division, but with the nearly-cataclysmic events of World War 2’s hidden fronts, like the siege on ██████, the highest echelons of government have invested in morally dubious occult research.


It started with the Philadelphia Experiments in 1943, then incidents in Roswell, culminating in the Montauk Project in 1984. Women from across the United States were experimented on within the fringe fields bio-occult and thaumatechnology. One Ms. █████ was a volunteer from the rural province of ██████, Massachusetts. Given its close proximity to Innsmouth and Salem, areas within several hundred miles were thoroughly screened. ████ was treated with the proper bio-occult solutions and received a donation from a prime male sample, her offspring showed potential.


Subject 013 was born a healthy male, showing no birth defects. 013 exhibited moderate psychic potency in the fields of minor precognition. Attempts were made to enhance these latent abilities through various means. While subjects 001-006 perished in similar means, 007-011 experienced vastly improved psychokinetic aptitude, and 012 and 013 fell into regression, their psychic energies all but disappearing. However, they experienced increased mental activity as a resort. 013 in particular showed acute adrenal hyperactivity, enhanced reaction time, and highly attuned hand-eye coordination. Additional tests were made with stimulants ██-█, █-██-█, and ████, yielding no psychic recovery. Subject 013 was scheduled for termination, labeled as a failure, despite achieving the highest markers in physical aptitude tests than all other subjects in the 001-020 subject rangelacus.


However, before Subject 013 could be successfully terminated, one of the Montauk staff appeared to have smuggled the young male out of the program’s ████ ████, ██ headquarters in the winter of 1995. Subject 013 was 11 years old at the time. Though Montauk Asset Containment Units tracked down every league, Subject 013 technically didn’t exist, which made tracking him complicated. Unable to weed out the night staff that extracted Subject 013 from containment, all night staff were terminated in order to eliminate loose ends.


Subject 013 was fostered by a Raylan and Eleanor Bronson - D.O.G.S. operatives at the “Ranch” facility near Aspen, Colorado, where he experienced an unorthodox rural upbringing. Raylan was a Vietnam veteran and a firm believer in a occult-communist-wrought apocalypse. Just like their other “recruits”, Subject 013 - named Clinton Bronson - was put through the same paramilitary “extracurriculars” as his foster siblings. Intense physical conditioning, firearms and martial arts training, and rudimentary explosive ordnance was drilled into their bodies and minds. This, of course, armed Clint with an immense arsenal as a juvenile delinquent. Clint was a mediocre student, at best, showing aptitude for history, mathematics, and language.

As a result, Clint had the rare happenstance of being raised among the Division’s operatives, trading a normal life for a particular education that has made him something to be feared among the supernatural community. Much of his operational history is heavily redacted, some missions even scrubbed from his own memory by amnestics or a one of the Division's neuromantic assets. Despite the sensitive nature of Operation: Cassandra, that mission's details are left untouched - staying in perfect, polarized clarity.

He remembers the taste of blood and sand in his mouth, the blasphemous chanting of the cultists and the brief, brutal violence that culminated in the climax of the operation. It was the one time Clinton recalls losing himself mid-operation. The parameters were, in his mind, due to is failure in duty. He had been on the protective detail of the Oracle's mother, and despite suffering wounds at the time of her extradition, Clint pushed through. When the team discovered the newborn Oracle alive and unharmed, but her mother perished in labor, Clint succumbed to his baser instincts.

For a year and a day, Clint vanished. Only the Old Man knew where he was and what he did. 
[/hider]

[i]Was the Operative a part of Operation: Cassandra on October 17, 2010?[/i] Yes