No Luck Chuck
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{ "Everybody wants to be a hero when it matters most, I know that. But if you had to choose between your life and someone else's, well, we both know who you'd choose." }- General Characteristics -
Chuck Lee Smith .
| {Nickname/Callsign} |'No Luck Chuck'
| {Age} |53
| {Gender} |Male
| {Face Claim} |N/A
| {Dialogue Color} |Blue
| {Appearance} |Tall and muscular, around 6'11", weighing in at a hefty 253 lbs. His dirty brown hair has many flecks of gray, his face covered in a semi tattered beard maybe a centimeter long in length, also turning color with age, though much more noticeably. His forehead, eyes and about his mouth are covered in deep stress lines or wrinkles to further show his worn down and old look. His body, face included is also visibly scarred. Minor burns line his forehead down to the bridge of his nose, and several slashes are slapped across his chin. His eyes are a brilliantly faded shade of blue. Looking directly at his face you may get the idea he's mad, or deeply saddened. Despite his figure, he is rarely ever stood straight up, often hunched unless he is actively doing something that requires his full size.
To wear he has very little in the way of style, wearing the cleanest clothes he can find, only keeping a couple things over the years. That being a now tattered sweatshirt, an incredibly worn Bee patch sewn onto it, though it is clearly trying to come off. Alongside that, he wears a pristine monocle over his left eye he spent a fair share of caps having produced in order to help with building poor eyesight.
- Psychological Profile -
Though once bright and full of joy, the effects of the wasteland have worn down on him, and his past especially has eaten at him something fierce. As such, he is often gruff, blunt, to the point. He is also very quiet in situations where his input is unnecessary. While he has been compassionate and caring in the past, all that he has had the time to love has met with a bitter end, and those he has befriended, though few and far between, rarely stick around. Sooner or later something bad is going to happen, and he sincerely hopes that anybody who talks themselves up as the heroic type finds a swift end before they can ruin their outlook, as anything else might lead them down Chuck's own path. He has a strong love for simple people, and will at all times maintain that he is an average person, despite any past he has, knowing full well anybody in the wastelands could lose a loved one, and that he's no different from any other. Overall, Chuck is simple, often likes the simple things in life, and the simple people, but strongly, though silently dislikes people who boast or brag about themselves.
| {Fears/Limitations} |Above all else he is afraid of dying, despite his long life by wasteland standards. His ability to put other people's lives over his own is basically nothing. If he deems something as a death mission then he's completely off, and has absolutely no interest in it any longer, detaching himself from those he knows will die by going through with it. He also finds it incredibly hard to focus when people around him are moving around, believing that there's a time for frantically jumping around and a time for calm, meditation of sorts. He also sincerely believes that alcohol and a majority of drugs are vices that are simply unacceptable, as he still lightly holds on to the belief in the ideal American. As such, he will not consume alcohol or addictive drugs under any circumstances.
| {Place of Origin} |Born originally off the coast of San Francisco on a somewhat familiar Oil Rig, becoming just another piece in the Enclave's machine.
| {Background} |He was only 6 when he and his family left the infamous oil rig to New California, in order join more of the Enclave. Three years later his old home was destroyed by some 'backwards tribe' as his mother described, though he never learned more than that. Mere weeks after the destruction of the Oil Rig, under leadership of Senior Autumns, Chuck would be transported far east, growing up in the Capital Wasteland, learning about the glories of America, becoming a soldier for the Enclave, having it drilled into his very being that dying for his country was truly the highest honor, and for much of his life he believed it. He also believed fully in himself, working hard to become a bastion of athleticism, his size only growing to match his strength, and for a time he believed himself to be the poster child for good hard working American. But, as there tends to be when considering the Enclave and any plans it or it's people have ever lain, things took a turn for the worse.
At the age of thirty-four his streak of narrowly avoiding certain doom in his younger days was cut short, when he and a small squad of other Enclave soldiers were sent on patrols from Raven Rock. Despite their superior technology, an unreasonably large force of raiders caught them off guard and panic quickly washed over the group. Knowing full well that dying in the line of duty would serve his family well, that being his mother and father as he was unmarried at the time, he was one of the first to take up arms against the massive threat, but upon watching a member of his squad push Chuck aside only to be hit squarely by a rocket, killing him and disorienting Chuck alongside the rest of the squad, his will was shattered. It took him no time at all to call a retreat, push past the line of raiders, and for several hours he and the dwindling group of Enclave soldiers fled from an ever encroaching force of D.C.'s most vile. When he and his group came upon an empty Super Duper Mart, he lead the remaining two survivors inside, and then to the building's back exit. Telling them to stand guard and watch the entrance he quickly relieved himself of his suit of power armor, dropped several plasma grenades and the majority of his weaponry and anything that might slow him down beyond a knife, and fled, the ensuing explosion either killed or injured the remainder of his squad, but he escaped with his life.
His life was, to a degree, over from that point on, at least his old one. His mental conditioning for all his life had ultimately failed when it counted most. Not only that, but he could no longer return to the Enclave, as he was no good at lying, and there was no doubt they'd find out what had happened eventually. At that point all he had was his gear, which he quickly went about changing as soon as he picked up clothes, even tattered remains of what could have been clothes to avoid attracting any unwanted attention, his dogtags, and a tri-fold american flag his parents gave him for good luck every time he left on a patrol. Though mentally he was no longer the Enclave soldier he once was, he was still trained, and went about traveling North-East ever slowly, every now and then settling down for a few years, picking up mercenary work, primarily as a bodyguard because of his frame, experience, and prior training.
He finally found himself not far from Philadelphia, living in a somewhat average town in a shack he bought with what savings he could make up over the years, now forty-two. After some time he married, continued to work as a hired guard and frequently left town with a detail of people escorting somebody who figured he needed escorting. It took some time, but he married at forty-four to a woman only a tad older than he. When he was home he'd go out with his wife and play cards around local bars, eventually earning the nickname 'Good Luck Chuck' from his wife. Tragedy did strike however, and as his wife didn't stop playing cards when he was away, he came home after a month long trip to find that his wife had been brutally stabbed by a man who had just finished losing five caps over a game of go-fish just days after he had left. He soon became a sunken version of himself, still working to survive, and in his off time retracting into his shack, conditioning himself physically. Over time his nickname shifted to Bad Luck Chuck, and then eventually to No Luck Chuck as it seemed absolutely nothing went his way, when he was the sole survivor of another incident, this time as a guard traveling only to the town over, in which again, when all things went wrong he fled, leaving his temporary colleagues and boss to die. This, obviously, killed any chance he had at finding work, and only furthered his reasons for leaving town and moving further North-East, drawn by the allure of the Necropolis but was cut short in 2278 when news finally reached him about the destruction of Raven Rock, and as such, what he knew of as a family. For nine years then he roamed, scavenging what he could among the rubble of what was once a thriving city, the dreams of apple pie and baseball still lingering in his mind as he recounted his days in the Enclave.
Of course however, the Pariah's call eventually made it's way to him, no doubt the man needing more muscle for his meat grinder, and he was sure to take it, though, it would be a long while for him to arrive, it gave him time to brush up on abilities he'd learned during his times both as a soldier, mercenary, and scavenger.
[.hr]
- Survival Characteristics -
Metalworking - During his time in the enclave he went through several jobs, though one he always enjoyed was repairing armor and putting together defenses, barricades, or even just beds for the barracks. He renewed his love for the craft during his time as a scavenger, making all manner of sculpture and random objects of steel, though his greatest work came in the form of a large two handed hammer he uses as his primary form of defense.
Map Making - During his time as a scavenger he tended to stick to one area for long periods of time, mapping out large areas over the course of his stay on blocks of wood, sheets of metal, or in very rare cases, paper. He then often sold his maps to anybody without a pip-boy, netting him a few caps every now and then when he was short.
Cooking - Having been so adapted to life with the Enclave, and as such, a much nicer, tastier diet than that of the average wastelander, during his time far away from the Enclave he stopped to make sure he got the little things right, such as properly cooking a good squirrel stew, taking care to season that Iguana-on-a-stick before mindlessly stuffing it down his throat, though despite this has become somewhat picky when it comes to eating.
| {Possessions} |Sack, using two ropes as straps
Small jars of common spices
-Salt
-Pepper
-Oregano
-Thyme
-Cumin
- Each only a third of the way full, and relatively small.
Tri-fold American flag
Dogtags
A sealed tin of beef broth
Matches
Dried Meat 8x
Carrot 1x
Small Pot 1x
Half-Pound Raw Brahmin Meat
Rad-X 1x
Stimpak 1x
Gauze Wrap
Box 20 of Regular Size Band-Aids
Old Pre-War Vault-Tec Brand Band-Aid 1x
| {Combat Skills} |Master of Close-Quarters fighting - Having grown up learning to fight until he was eighteen, and then actively fighting with creatures of the wastes until his mid forties, his grasp on fighting anything, whether with his fists or a weapon, is beyond what most would call normal. Though his skills are no doubt beginning to fade due to the limitations of his body, his grasp on fighting somebody at close range might be better than his grasp on the English language.
General Knowledge of Energy Weapons - Having served in the Enclave most his life, he has a firm grasp on energy weapons, though, a lack of exposure since his departure has heavily rusted his skills with them.
Extreme Athleticism - Having been an incredibly athletic person during his time in the enclave, and out, even as old age knocks on his door he makes certain he has the strength to knock back twice as hard.
Power Armor Training - Being apart of the Enclave he was given formal training and plenty of time with power armor, though he's not used the armor in quite some time.
| {Gear} |Reinforced Combat Armor
Gas Mask
Flat Cap
Dirty Black Sweater
Left Eye Monocle
Weather Resistant Boots
Jeans and Flannel Shirt.
10mm Pistol
10mm Pistol Magazine 1x
Unlucky - Having spent plenty of time messing around with metals, when the opportunity presented itself to make something Chuck could truly keep forever, he took it. Using what he had he set about crafting a long hammer, as to play the role of a smaller Super Mutant Behemoth. After some months of work he finally created a hammer, whose pole was as tall as he, and head even larger than his own, squared off on both ends. Despite loving his creation at first, he did realize that a metal staff did a number on his arms anytime he swung it at something, so with some work and a large amount of searching, he lined the long pole with several patched together clothes and padding. Finally, he dubbed it 'Unlucky' inscribing it on either side of the head, after his unfortunate nickname, and to remind himself of all that he has been through
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