Name: Bernard Felix "B.F.F" Emmerich
Age: 67
Gender: Male
Disposition: Reliable, Thorough, Protective, Evenhanded
The mercenary community knows him as a gruff man of few words, no wasted movements, and a penchant for cigarettes-- Bernard Felix Emmerich has been in the soldiering business for a long time. They say that if you have cash, he'll pull the trigger, if you have credit, he'll double-tap, make sure you have no room to complain about his service. It's a running gag that the man's been on battlefields for the almighty dollar since dollars were still legal tender. The other joke is his nickname, "B.F.F", best friend forever. It's certainly true that for the right price, Bernard has been the best friend of megacorps, PMC's, and rebel groups alike, never once breaking a deal. He's been around forever too; if anybody from the old days were still alive, they'd call him the perfect mercenary. But war has changed. In this age of FRAMEs and countries he doesn't bother to remember the names of, the best he can do is adjust.
Among comrades, he radiates safety and occasional dad jokes, among enemies, professionalism and headshots. He'll sometimes complain about how hard on his joints life in the cockpit is, but he barely actually leaves it. He chain smokes furiously and leaves trails of gunsmoke everywhere, he constantly extolls the virtues of extreme mobility, nonstandard movement patterns, patience, coordination. Essentially, the battlefield is his den, his mecha is his comfy chair, and his squad is his family. He's lost a lot of family over the years, but he'll be around forever.
Background:
His story starts on the battlefields of the early 2100's, in the heady days when territory squabbles between what is now known as the Emarran Council and its neighbors were commonplace. Bullet by bullet, he worked his way up a corporate ladder of corpses and chump change without knowing nor caring much about the political machine that drove him to the trench and the no man's land. Insulated was the word, obedient, satisfied. Sure, his daily meals were mixed with gunpowder, but he did get them daily. He grew up among corpses, and was often mistaken for one himself, before he climbed up out of the craters. He watched FRAMEs grow up from an infantryman's perspective, dismantled some violently on one or two occasions. Problem was, he'd often watch as these real war machines cut down the soldiers around him, mowing flesh like so much grass, leaving nausea in the air like Satan's parody of fresh rain. As he grew older, he became less insulated, less content, and as he grew old, he became ferocious in his determination to live, and to see others do the same. Luckily, a change in fortunes pulled him out of the dirt. Which is to say, he made a fortune.
It was a huge gamble to take that job across the border, a contract to fight against the military machine that was the Emarran State in the prime of its tyranny. Did it ever pay off though. He bounced between battlefields in his homeland, with war dogs from the UKE and the ISS. With their victories came the spoils of war, and with democracy came a chance for profit. His contacts and raw experience in the border wars gave him a lot of leverage when it came to picking and choosing how he, and eventually his men, were deployed in foreign conflicts where the former trio of enemies had an enemy in common. He established the Bernard and Felix Foundation, a paramilitary company that was easily the only choice for overseas during the postwar reconstruction of the Emarran Council. Eventually, Bernard's homeland stabilized, and the wave of funding slowed to a halt. The B.F.F was disbanded amicably enough for a group of hardened irregulars, and the "B.F.F." himself found himself puttering around with less work on the docket than he'd like. Eventually he ended up with a cool 600,000 CE in personal funds, and a tip that an up and coming company in his old neighborhood had some open positions.
Appearance:
An aging man with a stolid build, metal plates in and around his forehead, and a host of other prosthetics and hardware to boot. He is nothing else than solid, his knotted muscles like sleeping anacondas, and his mind still as sharp as their fangs. Behind the shine of his helmetlike apparatus, one can sense him watching, hungrily taking in everything surrounding him. When he walks, attention slips off of him, and he's had decades to get used to staying very, very still.
Inventory:
Antique M1911A1, .45 caliber pistol, roughly two centuries old. The feeding ramp has been polished to a mirror sheen, the front strap of the frame has been checkered to make it dig into the hand. The slide's been reinforced and etched with cocking serrations near the front, the interlock with the frame has been tightened for added precision. Original three dot sight system, extended thumb safety, long type trigger guard with non-slip grooves. It boasts a ring hammer, and a filed down trigger guard for a higher grip. What's more, the trigger pull is about a pound and a half lighter than normal, the magazine well has been widened to make magazines easier to feed under stressful conditions, and the magazine catch has been cut low to prevent pressing it by accident. Flat type mainspring housing to increase grip, with stepping to prevent too much jump from the recoil. Every part of this gun has been expertly crafted and customized.
Kabar knife
Cigarettes, smokes two packs a day
Codec System
Other:
Age: 67
Gender: Male
Disposition: Reliable, Thorough, Protective, Evenhanded
The mercenary community knows him as a gruff man of few words, no wasted movements, and a penchant for cigarettes-- Bernard Felix Emmerich has been in the soldiering business for a long time. They say that if you have cash, he'll pull the trigger, if you have credit, he'll double-tap, make sure you have no room to complain about his service. It's a running gag that the man's been on battlefields for the almighty dollar since dollars were still legal tender. The other joke is his nickname, "B.F.F", best friend forever. It's certainly true that for the right price, Bernard has been the best friend of megacorps, PMC's, and rebel groups alike, never once breaking a deal. He's been around forever too; if anybody from the old days were still alive, they'd call him the perfect mercenary. But war has changed. In this age of FRAMEs and countries he doesn't bother to remember the names of, the best he can do is adjust.
Among comrades, he radiates safety and occasional dad jokes, among enemies, professionalism and headshots. He'll sometimes complain about how hard on his joints life in the cockpit is, but he barely actually leaves it. He chain smokes furiously and leaves trails of gunsmoke everywhere, he constantly extolls the virtues of extreme mobility, nonstandard movement patterns, patience, coordination. Essentially, the battlefield is his den, his mecha is his comfy chair, and his squad is his family. He's lost a lot of family over the years, but he'll be around forever.
Background:
His story starts on the battlefields of the early 2100's, in the heady days when territory squabbles between what is now known as the Emarran Council and its neighbors were commonplace. Bullet by bullet, he worked his way up a corporate ladder of corpses and chump change without knowing nor caring much about the political machine that drove him to the trench and the no man's land. Insulated was the word, obedient, satisfied. Sure, his daily meals were mixed with gunpowder, but he did get them daily. He grew up among corpses, and was often mistaken for one himself, before he climbed up out of the craters. He watched FRAMEs grow up from an infantryman's perspective, dismantled some violently on one or two occasions. Problem was, he'd often watch as these real war machines cut down the soldiers around him, mowing flesh like so much grass, leaving nausea in the air like Satan's parody of fresh rain. As he grew older, he became less insulated, less content, and as he grew old, he became ferocious in his determination to live, and to see others do the same. Luckily, a change in fortunes pulled him out of the dirt. Which is to say, he made a fortune.
It was a huge gamble to take that job across the border, a contract to fight against the military machine that was the Emarran State in the prime of its tyranny. Did it ever pay off though. He bounced between battlefields in his homeland, with war dogs from the UKE and the ISS. With their victories came the spoils of war, and with democracy came a chance for profit. His contacts and raw experience in the border wars gave him a lot of leverage when it came to picking and choosing how he, and eventually his men, were deployed in foreign conflicts where the former trio of enemies had an enemy in common. He established the Bernard and Felix Foundation, a paramilitary company that was easily the only choice for overseas during the postwar reconstruction of the Emarran Council. Eventually, Bernard's homeland stabilized, and the wave of funding slowed to a halt. The B.F.F was disbanded amicably enough for a group of hardened irregulars, and the "B.F.F." himself found himself puttering around with less work on the docket than he'd like. Eventually he ended up with a cool 600,000 CE in personal funds, and a tip that an up and coming company in his old neighborhood had some open positions.
Appearance:
An aging man with a stolid build, metal plates in and around his forehead, and a host of other prosthetics and hardware to boot. He is nothing else than solid, his knotted muscles like sleeping anacondas, and his mind still as sharp as their fangs. Behind the shine of his helmetlike apparatus, one can sense him watching, hungrily taking in everything surrounding him. When he walks, attention slips off of him, and he's had decades to get used to staying very, very still.
Inventory:
Antique M1911A1, .45 caliber pistol, roughly two centuries old. The feeding ramp has been polished to a mirror sheen, the front strap of the frame has been checkered to make it dig into the hand. The slide's been reinforced and etched with cocking serrations near the front, the interlock with the frame has been tightened for added precision. Original three dot sight system, extended thumb safety, long type trigger guard with non-slip grooves. It boasts a ring hammer, and a filed down trigger guard for a higher grip. What's more, the trigger pull is about a pound and a half lighter than normal, the magazine well has been widened to make magazines easier to feed under stressful conditions, and the magazine catch has been cut low to prevent pressing it by accident. Flat type mainspring housing to increase grip, with stepping to prevent too much jump from the recoil. Every part of this gun has been expertly crafted and customized.
Kabar knife
Cigarettes, smokes two packs a day
Codec System
Other:
Manufacturer: Kelhei Manufacturing
Height: 4.3 meters
Weight: 6627 kg
Armor: 45 mm durasteel alloy
Speed (Walk): 42 kph
Speed (Skate): 72 kph
Sensor range: 2 km
Communication range: 10 km
Operating range: 500 km
Power: 140
Weight: 106
Armament:
1x EVF “Chameleon” Active Camouflage (5)
1x LP-90 Light Rocket Launcher (24)
1x LBU-3 Heavy Machinegun (3)
1x GPR-21 Autocannon (10)
1x AFC-40/L Autocannon (8)
Inventory:
1x MGR-27 AP Machinegun (2)
Funds: 694,860 CE
Height: 4.3 meters
Weight: 6627 kg
Armor: 45 mm durasteel alloy
Speed (Walk): 42 kph
Speed (Skate): 72 kph
Sensor range: 2 km
Communication range: 10 km
Operating range: 500 km
Power: 140
Weight: 106
Armament:
1x EVF “Chameleon” Active Camouflage (5)
1x LP-90 Light Rocket Launcher (24)
1x LBU-3 Heavy Machinegun (3)
1x GPR-21 Autocannon (10)
1x AFC-40/L Autocannon (8)
Inventory:
1x MGR-27 AP Machinegun (2)
Funds: 694,860 CE