DruSM157

#StillNotBitten [Invite Only]

I DONE IT

"All my life I've wondered what it would be like to be a character in one of my stories. I’m starting to regret that little desire."

_{[ ❇ ] S Y N O P S I S}

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_Name

Daniel Marlowe

_Gender

Male

_Age

31

_Birthplace

Grey’s Falls, IN

_{Former Life}

Novelist

_{[ ❇ ] C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N}

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_{Appearance Description}

Daniel wears thin, wire frame glasses. To go without them would be dangerous, as he is painfully near-sighted. Daniel’s normal clothing consists of a smart button down collared shirt, khaki or slate-gray pants, and usually a thick coat, either tweed or leather. To say that he embraces the look of a nebbish man who tends to spend his hours typing away at a computer would be no lie.

_Personality

•Timid
•Quiet
•Perceptive
•Selfless
•Insecure

_Biography

Daniel Marlowe is not a household name, but to cult followers in horror novellas and terrifying published magazine tales, he has found his place in the world of the written word. Daniel’s entire life has always revolved around the written realm, which lead him to many sacrifices throughout his life: the comfort of steady pay, the free time to pursue relationships with others and the stability of a normal schedule. Daniel moved to Rushford three years ago after selling his parent’s house in Indiana. His agent, Franklin Picolla, said that the local publishing company in town, Deadwood Press, would love to have him work part time while he worked on his next project. That led to more hours taking phone calls and proof-reading other works than working on his own.

Daniel has no immediate family, having lost his mother to cancer four years ago. Since then, his only normal contacts were those at the Deadwood Press publisher and Franklin. Daniel has never been so isolated with such wondrous company.
It was during a meeting with Franklin over possibly selling his most well-known story, The Stranger at the Window, as a film treatment that he saw the true horror on what exactly was going on. The diner they met at had a man who was sick suddenly start attacking the staff. In trying to leave, Franklin was overwhelmed by the sick man and bitten. With his agent wounded, people freaking out and emergency services unavailable, Daniel ran.

He’s been running ever since.

_{[ ❇ ] M I S C E L L A N E O U S}

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_Gear

•Messenger Bag: Daniel’s lucky messenger bag which contains his writing journal, several pens, and other items he needs throughout the day. Right now the contents alongside the journal and pen are bags of jerky and several water bottles, scrounged from gas stations. The bag remains in good condition and has been a source of luck and survival for him. At the very least, he can carry things.
•Cell Phone: Nearly dead, but works better as a flash light than anything else.
•Wristwatch: Great for telling the time in the undead apocalypse.
•Metal Pipe: A broken piece of pipe taken from the backroom of a store. Solid steel which has powerful bludgeoning power, but slow and unwieldy when used by such a weak man like Daniel.

_Skills

•Puzzle Master: Daniel can easily work through puzzles and brainteasers, whether dealing with number problems, codes or literary hints. Useful if you’re traversing a dangerous mansion or nightmare realm; less useful when you’re running from the undead.
•Firearms Expertise (Specialized): Growing up in Grey’s Falls, Daniel had his hand in hunting ducks with his father. He’d comfortable with nearly all forms of shotguns and can easily fire one with little difficulty accounting for the recoil. His father also taught him a bit of shooting with a handgun, specifically a Smith & Wesson Model 37, which was the old man’s service pistol. Due to this specialized training in firearms, Daniel has no skill with magazine-fed firearms like a semi-automatic pistol (Glock, M1911, Sig) or magazine fed rifle.
•Creative Writing: Daniel is capable of crafting intricate stories, though most have a macabre bent to them.
•Eidetic Memory: Daniel possesses a photographic memory, and can remember things in vivid detail after seeing them for a short time. This includes maps, information, codes and other clues.
•Former Boy Scout: Though years out of practice, Daniel has skills in simple survival; from making a fire, fishing with a line, tying knots and practical first aid.

_Other

Daniel gets embarrassed if people recognize him from his work. He’s only done a handful of conventions and recognizes he has very few fans. .

Not posting it in the character sheet until someone says it's good enough to go. I sorta threw this together with shoe string

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

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Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station
January 16th, 2677

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I suppose it’s not very different from places like Blackstone Harbor or Dead Springs. A place that has survived on the skin of its teeth and only one or two NC pilots for the last few decades.

Graham’s voice seemed to echo around in his head in his mind, and he realized why the man had used both those specific examples. The girl who’d spoken up, Ryn, was someone he knew all too well. He’d already been worried of her walking over and punching him in the face on the tram; but he’d survived unscathed so far. But Blackstone; that was where Ryn was from. She’d talked about it from time to time during missions. Never really opening up, but simple information like that was simply candidly handed off when he’d talked about his own home.

Dead Springs was an example of a town’s plans gone awry. He’d only been 15 when he’d tested for neural compatibility, and they’d thrown together a group of NCs ready to work for the town by protecting it and doing jobs for it not too long afterwards. It’s how he’d gotten the Wolf; which at the time was barely scraped together with scrap and maintenance parts. It’d taken missions, a lot of learning and his own grit to make his NC an actual fighting machine, but they’d become reliable in no time.

Reliable enough that Dead Springs wanted to go indie. And that was enough to get the attention of raiders. Thing was, Alan had fought his fair share of raiders, and raiders didn’t pilot shiny new corporate mechs, nor did they fight with military-led precision, backed by some bastard in a shiny gold machine.

”Let’s hope we’re not trying to be like those places. With the pilots you’ve gathered up here, I'd expect you want us to go bigger, stronger. No chance of getting wiped off the map.”

Lαdчρυg'ѕ Iитεяεѕт Cнεcк

Well aren't you interesting

Warhammer 40k: First into the field and the last out of it! - An Imperial Guard RP [CLOSED]

Oooh, nothing more badass than the Imperial Guard. Average men and women wielding las-weaponry against everything evil in the galaxy and sometimes pulling through.

What's the year this would take place? Just trying to think of the fall of Cadia, rise of ol Robby G being alive again and all that crazy lore stuff I skim over every so often.

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

_{♫ Mood Music ♫}

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Smith's Rest | Transit Station
January 16th, 2677

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You want to get yourself killed quick, walk into a job without any information. Those words stuck with Alan when the tram slowed to a crawl at the station. He stuck to the middle of the pack, letting the excited young pilots hop out and kiss all the ass they wanted. He had a reputation for being pleasant but he was not a saluting, ass-kissing, step in line kind of person. He was used to those kinds of pilots trying to work their way up to some kind of corporate position. Going from indies to corporate wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t exactly common either. It had been somewhere in his fifth year piloting that he got a letter of recommendation from one of the job contacts in Denver, offering him an interview with the brass at one of the Northern Bases.

Alan had declined.

Now here he was in the middle of the frozen north, having already signed the preliminary documents, to do what exactly? Play soldier for, who? This man? He’d seen a picture of Graham-not a great quality one-but enough that he knew exactly who the man was, standing in his stoic pose as he greeted the new pilots. Alan was busy eyeing up the others coming in and where they fell in with him; there were the foreigner pilots: twins and the woman with the thick accent.

He eyed some of those walking with the other man, Alvarez. Desk jockeys and people probably at a higher pay-grade than his; but one particular character piqued Alan’s interest. He’d seen the man’s face before; somewhere in some news article on the net. He turned to see another figure to join the pilots, and that gave him the biggest shock of all: an older woman, grandmotherly in her stature. The fact that he could eye her neural connector on her neck scared him. Was she some old codger who got tested? Or was she a vet? He didn’t know which idea messed with him more.

---

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"It’s a job down south, near Lonestar. Just a simple caravan job. But it’s in a town called Serath. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it before.”

"It’s the retirement community for pilots, right?”

That’s what he’d thought. A place for old vets to settle down and relax in their twilight years. Folks had murmured about it before, but he’d never thought to travel there himself. Maybe he’d see what a possible future for him would be.

When he got there, he saw what it really was. Men too feeble-minded to walk. The smell of piss permeating the rooms. It wasn’t a retirement home, it was more of a hospital for the insane. Not everyone’s like this, he remembered someone, an aide or a nurse telling him, but the effects of Polaris Shift still aren’t too understood. The fact that any of them live into their 40s is a miracle. The oldest guy there looked like he was an elder. But how old was he? 50? Being a pilot did not promise an easy life. No, being a pilot meant you threw your future away.

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How would this old woman fare next to the others? How did she look so healthy? These were all questions haunting Alan as he did his best to keep his composure from the cold. Alan looked around the group of pilots, surprised at the number that had gathered. “Gee-zus,” he muttered to himself, visible air escaping his mouth, “are we startin’ a goddamn army?”

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

_{♫ Mood Music ♫}

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Smith's Rest | Tram
January 16th, 2677

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The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

Alan chuckled to himself reading the heady and verbose language on his datapad. He’d struggled to read Kerouac for years now, but at least he was finally making some headway. He remembered finding this particular holo-novel somewhere odd in the Southwest. Not all cities and settlements shared the same data, and some holo-novels (and even rarer, actual books) had been lost over the hundreds of years and the new corporate wars that were going on.

How many actual novels had he compiled now? Three hundred? Four hundred? His datapad’s memory was vast, and when he had the credits he tended to purchase as many novels as he could. He’d been teased for a long time about it; wasting money on a holo-novel when he could spend a few more credits on a vid. He’d spent many nights on the road with caravans trying to drown out the sound of adult holo-vids while he devoured chapter after chapter of Tennyson or Hemmingway. There was just something about the words and the image he could create in his own head that made holo-novels so enticing. He went back to the next passage and-

The eruption of music caused him to jolt up in his seat on the tram, and suddenly his senses kicked back into overdrive. The smell of dank piss, other bodies pushing against him, and now the jolt of music caused him to quickly shut off the holo-novel and take in his environment. And then came another racket: a female voice; with an accent, he just couldn’t place. She’s a foreigner, with an accent like that. And that kind of slang. Which means she’s got to be a pilot. But why the hell is someone from out of the states here? His attention switched to the murmuring twins, with their accents. Foreign pilots. What the hell kind of outfit was this Commander Graham putting together up here?

As the tobacco began to permeate throughout the tram, he grimaced but did not cough or lobby a complaint; he’d spent so many years in smokey and dingy places the smell of tobacco was a calming sensation in a way. He couldn’t stand the damn smell, but he’d been forced to get used to it, much like many things in his life. He tried to think about his situation in Alaska now, and what he could make of it. First off was the place: Smith’s Rest was independent. None of the big corporations had made a play for the area, and the main issue seemed raiders and the standard animal problems. Usually, that would call for your local NC pilots; settlement pilots driving scraped together NCs, helping protect the place. But here were pilots from all over, and the smoking woman had some years on her.

A veteran. Vets cost money. But beyond the pilots here was the commander himself: a DV vet who had made a name for himself in the past. Alan had talked to a few contacts in the Vegas area and had been a corporate boy until 3 years ago. It surprised Alan that he’d never crossed paths with the man, but the divide was a large area and he was personally happy he’d never met anyone that had climbed the corporate military ladder. But here he was, about to have to meet him.

It was the idea that a military commander leading a settlement’s barracks that unsettled Alan. He was used to the communal nature of so many settlements; everyone pitches in for the greater good. Military meant hierarchy, orders, training and never disobeying orders, regardless of how sick they made you. That last part worried him; he wasn’t a raider or a slaver. He wasn’t afraid of killing raiders for cash, but he wasn’t prepared to get involved in some kind of war.

And who else on the tram could be a pilot? He scanned the tram, squinting his eyes at some of the passengers. Too old. Too frail. No neural connector-oh no. The bright red shock of red pouring from a cap and the petite frame was indistinguishable; hell, he could probably pick her silhouette out in a crowd if it came to it. How long had it been since he'd walked out on her after that last mission outside Denver? He bit his lip and anguished over it all. She wasn't looking his way, but he had no idea if she hadn't noticed him or if she was giving him the cold shoulder. After all, she had the worst damn attitude of anyone he'd ever met.

The jolt of the tram brought him back from his thoughts, and he knew what was about to happen: It was about time to meet the new employer.

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Gray Horizon

Much better sheet now! Thanks Savo! You rock!

Peter

"Look, I don’t think getting involved is a good idea. We could end up hurt or worse...arrested"

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Name: Peter Ciervo

Alias: Pete

Namesake: Peter Buck, from R.E.M.

Age: 17

Gender: Male

Birthday: July 7, 2001

Zodiac: Cancer

Chinese Zodiac: Snake

Appearance: Peter is tall and wide; making him an easy target for many bullies growing up. His hair is naturally messy, and he has worn thick glasses since he was in the third grade. Peter usually dresses in larger shirts to hide the shape of his body. His favorite season is fall, due to his ability to wear hoodies and large jackets. His size is a point of contention and shame for Peter, whose older siblings are all excellent athletes.

Personality: Peter has a reputation as the quiet kid. If he weren't so easy to pick on, he'd probably disappear into the crowd at school. That doesn't mean the bullying has led him to become a jerk. As far as attitudes go, Peter is one of the most gentle and kind students around. He's willing to help someone up who has fallen, he'll help others pick up their books, he'll bring homework to a sick classmate. He had a penchant for feeding stray animals in his neighborhood as well and seems to have no problem interacting with most cats and dogs.

Short Biography: Peter grew up in a Puerto Rican household in East Harlem to a single mother who worked several jobs. The youngest of four siblings, Peter was always babied by his mother, his abuela and his tio, who worked as a newspaper typesetter. Due to his shyness and his size, Peter quickly found himself the target of bullies in school and on the streets, forcing him to grow a more insular personality. Things took a turn for the worse when he turned 13: his tio, Harold, was killed in a bus crash, leaving him without his major father figure in his life.

Peter spent most of high school stuck in books, and away from the majority of other kids. Even though he was intelligent, he found himself at a distance from many of the other students in his accelerated program; due to growing up poor, brown and fat. Still, Peter preserved not to let himself grow into a bitter young man full of hatred out of the desire to become something like his uncle, who to this day is the man who he aspires to be.

Quirk:
Crying: Beyond his nerves, when he’s pushed further, Peter can break down crying. But not your simple, tear-filled cry; no he breaks down into the truly ugly crying when push comes to shove.
Stress-Eating: Peter doesn’t maintain his figure by simple genetics. When things get stressful, Peter will attempt to eat any and all snacks he has on hand, usually to comedic effect.

Other:
-Tactical: Peter’s biggest skill is his intelligence and quick ability to read a situation. If he can suck up his tears and find a reason to fight, Peter can become a strong addition to any party of stand users.
-Multilingual: Beyond possessing fluency in both English and Spanish, Peter is capable of speaking, reading and writing in French, Latin, Italian and Chinese.

-Driver’s license: Peter has actually passed his driver’s ed course with flying colors. That doesn’t mean he drives like a badass. More like an old grandma.

A Very Bizarre Interest Check! | Jojo's Bizarre Adventure

I do love me a good JoJo and I'm always excited about a bizarre adventure or two. I'd have to do a little research on public school in New York and the city for a character though.

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

_{♫ Mood Music ♫}

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Smith's Rest | Public House
January 16th, 2677

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“Coffee please. Black’s fine.” The young man shifted in his thick jacket; even in the temperature controlled areas of Smith’s Rest, he still couldn’t find any real warmth. He was used to heat after all; spending years working in the southeast and southwest. He’d braved dust storms, hurricanes, beasts and raiders, but he worried that it would be the cold that would eventually do him in.

“Not used to the cold?” The proprietor of the public house inquired, handing him a steaming metal mug.

“Can’t say I am,” the man muttered, sipping at the mug before recoiling from the heat. “Damn that’s hot! Good though,” he added, attempting another sip.

“You’re not one of those new pilots that have been hired, are you?” The man suddenly seemed a little worried at the young man’s demeanor and attitude.

“Well I’m here for orientation and interview,” he added after another sip. “But it’s not uncommon for pilots to get cut from a job due to lack of information and knowledge. Sometimes you have to build a reputation in an ar-”

“We know about mercs.” The proprietor snapped. “We don’t need mercs. We need pilots.”

The man brought the mug upwards, swallowing the boiling liquid with one gulp, before convulsing slightly due to the heat. He placed the mug on the counter and handed his credit chit over. “That’s good news then, because I am a pilot.”

He stood up, smirking at the man, before stepping outside. It was oddly silent until the sudden howl of the man’s voice sounded through the metal door. “FUCK THAT WAS HOT!”

Alan Fouren stood looking out a thick glass window into what seemed like endless roving snowfields. His mouth still burned, but he felt he’d made his intent clear; at least until he failed to stick the landing with that last attempt to appear tough. He wasn’t here to be a flashy merc, but he wasn't here to be a sniveling yes man either. He’d cut his teeth over the years and had come highly recommended, even though he’d asked his contacts to downplay his achievements. It wasn’t humility he was after, it was insurance.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath, feeling another chill set him on. Was this psychosomatic? Just the sight of ice making him colder than he actually was? He pulled the neck of his jacket tight, and turned from the window, continuing down the hallway. It was almost time to head to the base for this mysterious orientation. It was going to be a short tram ride to the operations base, and he was supposed to meet some suit there. It was all too formal for what he was used to; back in the day it was simple.

---

Alan walked into the smoky office in Cutter’s Split, somewhere a few hundred klicks north of Vegas. It was a dry climate, rocky with some vegetation here and there. There was a large expanse of nature north of Cutter’s Split, a giant deciduous forest full of all sorts of violent flora and fauna ready for travelers to get too comfortable surrounded by what little greenery was left. He’d done some work there before, but he knew this was different.

“Got some news for ya, kid,” Old Deek, the main contact for any job north of Vegas, had called Alan in as soon as he’d arrived. If Deek called you, you checked in quick: especially if it dealt with a lucrative contract.

“What kind of news? More work out towards the rainy coast?”

“Nah, nothin about fuckin with Red Star or Volkov shit. This is about that little issue you asked me to look into.”

Alan’s face hardened and he placed both palms flat on Deek’s messy desk, pushing credit chits and papers aside. “Did you find it?”

“Just a rumor. Out in Alaska. I got you an in, too. Old Denver soldier, some folks in my network knew him: he’s apparently calling for pilots up there.”

“Scrapper job?”

“Nope. They want full-time pilots.”

“What the hell do they have up there to call for that kind of call?”

“No idea. But the guy’s the real deal. No idea why he went all the way out to Alaska from Denver, but don’t try and fuck with him. He’s a trained killer. Company boy for DV.”

“I ever kill any of his friends?”

“Naw.”

“Alright. Get my info out there then. Keep it subdued; don’t put any fancy bullshit about me in there either. I’m just a pilot, that’s all.” It was time to head north.

---

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Alan’s datapad brought him back to reality, and he looked at the time.

He started down the hallway, and towards the tram. He’d arrive just on time, and find a place towards the back of the group, keep his head down and get through it. Graham worried him though. Alan was a scrapper, a waster and a dependable worker. But he wasn’t a soldier. But then again, this wasn’t a City either. He’d have to see exactly what was coming up. He’d improvise if he needed to. He was a survivor, after all.

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

Alan Fouren | Wild Wolf | M | 22 | Dead Springs

Personal Dossier

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Physical Description

Life as a mercenary has turned a once thin, lanky young Alan into the gnarled man that now pilots the Wild Wolf. His face still denotes some tinge of handsomeness under the usual gleam of oil and dirt, but time and stress have caused early wrinkled to appear on Alan’s forehead. He also has tinges of gray appearing in his dark brown hair now. He stands at an average height of 5’10, and his arms and legs are quite muscular due to the labor that comes with self-maintenance on a NC.

Alan’s usual facial demeanor among strangers is a lackadaisical and goofy attitude. A half-cocked smile, a wry grin, and a gentle chuckle are commonplace for Alan in a canteen or in a meeting room. It’s when he gets to know someone or when things get serious that his demeanor changes into a cold stare; revealing his dark green eyes. He usually has bags under his eyes, both in part to a lack of good rest and due to the mental strain, the Polaris shift has done to his brain. His dark, spotty beard is usually unkempt but thin, and his hair is kept in a messy cut, never long, but always disheveled.

Personality Traits

Jocular
Intelligent
Creative
Insular
Deceptive
Manic
Well-Read

Effects of Polaris Shift

Alan was tested at the age of fifteen in his community of Dead Springs, and while he held a solid synchronization level during his first years as a community pilot in the Atlanta area, it wasn’t until his entire squad and home were destroyed that he experienced his first perfect synchronization, which is partially in line with the fact that he survived such an experience. In the six years since he has undergone perfect synchronization a handful of times, but in recent years he has been suffering from “memory bleeding.” In a sense, he is undergoing extreme mental dementia, where he experiences the memories of someone else. Memories include a pre-war forest in the morning, a sunrise, and snowfall. If left untreated, Alan can become lost in the memories, and become confused and upset when he is brought back to “reality.” He takes a low-dose prescription for now, but it only helps treat the symptoms, as his steady mental degradation is irreversible.

Personal History

Alan grew up in Dead Springs, near the Atlanta Megacity in Fairbanks. Small ruins and tons of junk, it became a frontier trading post between the larger megacities in lower Fairbanks. Still, living in the frontier comes with danger: raiders especially. The test came to Alan’s town later in his life, when he was fifteen. Thinking of a chance to provide for his family and give them a better life than living in a junkyard town, he took his chance with the surgery. Still, a town needs money to pay its pilots. And Dead Springs was no megacity. But when you’re in a junkyard, you can find many wondrous things: including the frame of the Wild Wolf. Found nestled away in a collapsed compound in the ruins, the frame had been stripped of armor and a core, leaving only the skeleton remaining: a remnant of what it could be. But a frame would work: with money raised for a core, and what armor and armaments the money could afford; the WW was rebuilt piecemeal. But it worked.

Alan took up sorties with local combatants, as well as defense jobs in the area; providing for both his home and his family; allowing them more luxuries than a Junker’s life can provide. But more than that, he fought to bring them some semblance of peace. However, a roughshod mech is only as good as its parts and pilot allow; and it was on these sorties that Alan met real terror. A team of outdated and hand-built mechs doesn’t usually fare well against well trained and well-equipped soldiers; especially deserters from Atlanta. Outmatched and outgunned, Alan’s compatriots were slaughtered, and he was left broken and left for dead; a heavy grinder blade digging into his cockpit and tearing the metal apart, giving him his facial scar as a reminder. Alan's final memory of that day was a large custom NC with golden plating, inspecting Alan's damaged frame and simply walking away.

The deserters didn’t simply wipe out the defense party; they came to Dead Springs. The town and its people burned. By the time Alan had made his way to his hometown, he was too late. The sight of his family and friends slaughtered awoke something inside of him: a beast; a wild, rabid dog that fed on all of Alan’s negativity towards his weakness came to life. It consumed him and drove him to fight. He survived, and he kept the Wild Wolf alive using the parts he could salvage from his fallen comrades. Metal scavenged from the destroyed ruins of his town strengthened his armor-and he went hunting.

Surprise attacks. Traps. Decoys and delays. Alan learned to fight his new enemies with his mind to make up for his glaring technological weaknesses and his own lack of combat skills. And when it came to combat, the harder he fought, the higher his synchronization grew with the Wild Wolf. Between perfect synchronization in battle and the tactical advantages Alan created in combat, he’d gotten his revenge at the cost of serious damage to his NC. But the leader, the Golden NC, was nowhere to be found during this time. When Alan returned to the Atlanta burrow with news of the attack and these deserters, he was blacklisted from the job board, removed from the local registry and told that it was simply a raider attack and nothing more. A week later, towns near Dead Springs claimed allegiance to the Atlanta Burrow and most residents were relocated.

The official story was very sanitized, censored and lacked anything about Alan. Alan's own interpretations have been classified or simply ignored by Fairbanks staff at the Atlanta Burrow. With that, Alan left the Atlanta area and made his way across the continent, working for various settlements and cities. Alan began to make a name for himself over six years as an honest mercenary who got jobs done in a professional manner. He grew his own network of other mercenary pilots in the Fairbanks, DV and other areas.

During his tenure working as a mercenary, Alan upgraded the Wild Wolf’s systems and learned how to survive in the harsh wastelands by himself or with a squad. Still, Alan’s travels were always influenced by his one true goal: to find the Golden NC and finish what was started so many years ago. It’s this reason above all for Alan’s journey to New Anchorage.

Tactical Preferences and Skills

Junkyard Mechanic: Unlike his counterparts who had access to proper materials during their combat stays, Alan grew up in the frontier where clean, shiny new supplies were few and far between. This meant that he had to scrounge and repurpose outdated, damaged or scavenged parts to keep his unit in workable condition. While he has to leave it to the professionals for proper upkeep of the WW, Alan can perform emergency repairs in the field if push comes to shove, and that ingenuity comes in handy when things go to shit.

Unshakable Will: In serious situations, the average pilot would lose their cool and give in to negative emotions, shaking them and breaking their morale. Alan, due to both his insane drive for destruction when fully “in the zone” as well as his own nature of do-or-die, is not easily shaken in combat. It would take extreme duress to make him break his usual façade; though a break would be disastrous.

Adaptive: Alan’s past has forced him to make do with supplies and weapons he could scrounge either in the junkyard, the frontier or after the battle. Alan lacks any sheer expertise with weapons, but he makes up for that in his ability to pick up and use a weapon with gradual skill. If he can find a half-working FMR or a Powered Spike, Alan can find a way to perform maximum damage with it.

Well-Read: If Alan has one indulgence it's literature. At a young age, collecting bits of archaic literature became a past time for Alan, especially exploring the databanks of ruined libraries. Alan's datapad has to date over 800 novels, short stories and poetry ranging from the seventeenth century to the twenty-third century. Alan prefers the classics over the later literature, enjoying chivalric romances, gothic horror, and transcendental poetry. Alan's favorite stories include Le Morte d'Arthur, The Once and Future King, Frankenstein, T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, and The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Tactical Awareness: Alan’s greatest strength is using the environment and information to his advantage against his enemies. He’s used dust storms for cover, set off explosions to avoid thermal detection and isn’t afraid to attack from behind if it increases his chance at victory.

Notes

Alan’s facade may appear to be two-faced, but in actuality, Alan keeps his comrades at an arm’s length as a defense mechanism. His fears of growing close to others have led to issues with other pilots in his past, notably Ryn.

Neural Combatant

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Codename

Wild Wolf

Type

Bipedal, Mid-Range

Squad Role

Assault

NC Description

At first some believe the Wild Wolf to be a raider’s mech due to its patchwork customization and scrap aesthetic. But Alan’s fine-tuning over the years has allowed him to make Wolf’s awkward platform work for him, and he has made the Wild Wolf into a dangerous machine. Areas around important joints are more thickly armored, and other areas have been stripped to the bare necessities, allowing for maximum maneuverability and mech survivability. The colors are a mix of rust-browns and dark greens over the mech, and where a corporation logo would go, Alan has his own custom stencil of Wolf’s head.

Weapons and Armaments

Leg and Lower Back Thrusters
These give strong bursts of speed and sustained air boosts for a limited time for extra mobility

Heavily Used LFR (Light Frame Rifle)
30 round magazine rifle with anti-armor ordinance, short-to-mid range.

Underbarrel HFG Launcher
A 3 round grenade launcher attached to the LFR. Equipped with standard fragmentary grenades.

Scavenged Light Grinder Blade
A heavy blade meant to pierce and then tear pieces of a mech apart.

Electrical Discharge Cannon
Emits high powered electrical bursts at close range. Can temporarily disable an unshielded NC or cause damage to the pilot in the cockpit.

Grapple Tether
Arm mounted grapple launcher with an industrial NC winch system. An odd armament for a combat NC, but it’s varied uses have saved Alan multiple times in the past.