Plank Sinatra

Game of Thrones RP

Yeah, 1.5 sounds best to me.

Game of Thrones RP

Nobody even survives trips through the Sunset Sea anyway. It's not limited to Arya. It's just...humans in general fare like shit when you send them west of the Iron Islands.

Game of Thrones RP

It's a fantastic setting, so I'd be interested in seeing whatever you come up with.

REBOOT COMING SOON. INVITE ONLY.

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Location | Las Vegas, Nevada
Las Vegas Time | 11:32 AM / London Time | 7:32 PM / Moscow Time | 9:32 PM
Interacting with | AJ @TootsiePop / Val (mentioned) @Dirty Pretty Lies / Nate @spooner
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If they had been in Reno, or Salt Lake City, or even the weed-infested hive of Denver, Aleks would have snapped by now.

It was uncharacteristic for the roughneck nights of the oligarch's heir to appear on his face, but a combination of unfortunate events had conspired this morning to put actual circles underneath Aleks' eyes and a jittery, impatient energy into his fingers. Monica's departure the previous night had been something he had been forewarned of; her parents, forever pushy about her choice of undergrad degrees, had summoned her home for another one of the strict talks they loved to subject her to. AJ hadn't been warned, but that wasn't particularly shocking, either. In any event, it wasn't the end of the world - we'll meet up after Thailand, they had promised each other with a hug and kiss, and Monica had ridden off west again in the dead of night to confront the hydra of a demanding family unit.

Yessi had proven a more unpleasant surprise. This morning he had returned from his run (four miles in the desert, a rare treat that was up on the 'dumb fucking maneuvers' list between pissing onto an electric fence and dragging Beyonce online) to wake up his best friend with his typical candor in the face of her tequila-fueled benders and found her violently ill, curled up in the cabin she'd staked out and dependent on a bottle of pills to even stay conscious. He had wanted to stay with her once it became apparent that she was in no fit state to travel, but when she had finally managed to get a message out between the waves of side-wracking vomiting, he could make one coherent sentence out between the foreign curses and the groans of discomfort - you love Vegas, dumbass, go to Vegas. Only that directive, plus the thought of AJ alone on the road during this mess, managed to get him away from Yessi.

She promised she would catch up, and he believed her - maybe she would even bring a fucking car that could function in the heartland - but that didn't change the fact that the lonely Nevada drive without Yessi made him feel as though he'd lost something vital. Like he'd tried to hit the gas pedal only to realize he'd lost his fucking legs to a shark, or something. Only occasional speakerphone calls with AJ and his playlist filled the funeral-like silence inside Aleks' Lotus - and even the music lost its succor without fighting over music choices with Yessi. Listening to 7 Rings a million times was less endearing when it was him looping it instead of her.

Even AJ, Aleks' last and strongest bastion of brotherhood, had been a wreck. Aleks had taken up his normal role as AJ Tyler's shadow; even here in the lounge, Aleks was rooted firmly beside the Gearheads' ringleader, kicked back on the couch beside AJ with one hand around his shoulder and the fingers of the other holding his cigarette to his mouth. But it hadn't been an altogether pleasant experience.

AJ brooding over the end of his relationship was something he could deal with, but AJ brooding over the beginning of Val's was another animal entirely - and truthfully, the new power couple was starting to make a vein throb even in Aleks' temple. When his autopiloted brain had heard the cries the night before, it brought a wry smile to his face while he performed his card tricks, and he supposed he had even fallen into a sort of half-sleepy reverie to them. While AJ had been volatile, one wrong word away from an explosion until they were in the cars, Aleks had actually found Valeria's afterglow kind of adorable. When AJ had stopped to fix an angry glare on her, sweltering and furious in the California heat, the beleaguered Aleks - in the middle of trying to salvage Yessi's health and travel status - had been looming over his shoulder to fix his pint-sized friend with an exhausted smile and a mouthed Good for you.

But that had been in California. They were in Vegas now, and they were still fucking going on about it. He'd had great sex before, too, but sex was like a phone call with your parents. Too much of it too often would only make it a fucking chore - and none of your friends wanted to see it or hear a fucking word about it. Hearing coy dialogue about Nate's dick size like they were still fucking fifteen was almost enough to make him dig one of his cigarettes into each ear.

He had gone through a lot of cigarettes since leaving Yessi. He had even caught himself about to light up in his car - a survival instinct that overruled any of his normal rational thought - around the state line. He had switched to candy for a while after that, but by now he needed the smokes again. It wasn't the healthiest of breakfasts, especially not in regular intervals for four hours, but the fucking hobo they had somehow picked up for the ride seemed to live off the same diet and keep some measure of his roguish good looks. Aleks didn't even want to get started on that acquisition. Losing Yessi and gaining the hobo who had given her his stale-ass weed in the first place was like cutting off his arms and replacing them with fucking pool noodles.

At least they had AJ's cousins to look forward to. AJ seemed exhausted by the very idea of them, which was fair, but Aleks didn't mind. The small handful of occasions he'd met the Kables, they had always taken to him fairly easily. But even he was in no mood to deal with them on an empty stomach. The burrito boy was right. Aleks tilted his head up slightly, chin resting on the small hint of his lean chest that lay revealed by the two shirt buttons the Russian had undone.

"I want," Aleks took a long, deliberate drag off of his cigarette, which did nothing to help the cavernous feeling in his stomach and chest, "more burgers. Greatest American food. First round is on me."

REBOOT COMING SOON. INVITE ONLY.

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Location | Red Rock
Los Angeles Time | 9:11 PM / London Time | 5:11 AM / Moscow Time | 7:11 AM
Interacting with | Ellie @Bee (Mentions: AJ @TootsiePop, Yessi @Hoekage / ｙ ｅ ｔ　ａ ｎ ｏ ｔ ｈ ｅ ｒ　ｐｉｎｋ　ｓ ｔ ａ ｒ ｂ ｕ ｒ ｓ ｔ
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The Gearheads liked to say that Aleks never slept. Obviously the idea was ludicrous at face value; after all, Yessi alone had seen him fall asleep a hundred times, and he was sure once or twice he'd dozed off on the couch at Monica's place watching movies with her. Once he'd fallen asleep behind the wheel while driving AJ away from a drunken, tearful argument - another death throe in the forever war that was his comrade's relationship with that forgettable gossipy twink. Luckily AJ's vision had been bleary from salt and whiskey, and he hadn't caught on to Aleks' brief recharging period. It was for the best. Even Aleks' corpse would have made for a better driver than AJ operating under...ideal conditions. But from an outside perspective it certainly seemed true. Aleks was on call like a doctor, a doctor who made a habit of appearing in parking lots or at bars with more scrapes and bruises than his patients when summoned. You ain't never had a friend like him.

Part of being a well-mannered, hyper-engineered, sexually fluid post-Soviet Terminator with a lack of personal drama and a head full of bedroom secrets and ideas that were as debauched as they were highly classified meant that part of Aleks was always mentally prepared for whatever the remaining parts of their fucked up Voltron-esque auto-clique was throwing at him. In lieu of sleep, generally that meant falling into a sort of sleep mode - a series of patterns, simple activities that required no higher function. Shuffling cards was near the top of this list of the T-800 'Aleks' Model's approved autopilot features - sitting directly below handjobs and above chin ups.

Jesus, no wonder Yessi thinks I'm a head case.

But hey, which one of them was the lunatic who thought it was okay to barter off their dearly beloved's fucking stuff for a sport they didn't even like? If he started selling off Yessi's jewelry in order to go watch water aerobics, Aleks guessed the first words out of her mouth in Spanish wouldn't exactly be fucking 'te amo.'

Ellie is talking to you.

The arrival of a friend was enough to snap Aleks out of his reverie; the abrupt break in his concentration was almost enough to send the deck flying, turning what was a simple overhand shuffle into an impromptu game of fifty-two pickup. Instead, he corrected; the cards all landed in his hand, a half a dozen at a time sliding along into a uniform deck, with no rounded corners of askew cards to detract from the set's perfection. He looked up at his fellow Gearhead and pursed his lips in a faint smile, colder and more rehearsed than the warmth of a chocolate brown eye winking closed and open at her.

"Hey," he greeted her simply, "yeah."

He started shuffling again, although this time he directed his attention up to Ellie instead of towards the cards. There was someone to focus on now; the autopilot was no longer an option.

"I learned at Piccadilly," he explained. "These days it's nothing but a tourist trap, but it's also a quick and dirty choice for a field trip. We went when I was in Yearrrrrrr...6 or 7. 7. One of the attractions there was this douchebag from Italy, skimming fifty quid at a time off of foreigners who didn't know better. So I gave him fifty quid at a time, let him think I was son of a shepherd Russian boy, and eventually I knew every trick in his book. Last time Yessi and I were in Vegas I made the money back, so it was a solid investment. And it's a fun way to distract your drunk friends."

Aleks turned his head slightly towards Yessi, taking a long drag off of the Manson Family peace pipe. He heard his best friend make a playful joke about them all being murdered while high. More like I'll be murdered and she'll wind up one of his wives. If the bearded newcomer was actually a cult leader, he pitied him. Yessi wouldn't even believe that he was at home exercising instead of eating another girl out. Good luck making her believe in Heaven's Gate.

And AJ...

He took a long, shallow breath and shrugged his eyebrows in the direction of their wayward, fearless leader before looking back to Ellie. Instead of the weed or booze that many of the Gearheads liked to indulge, he unfolded another strawberry Starburst and popped the candy into his mouth, letting it settle into his right cheek.

"This turned into a shitshow fast, huh?"

Mass Effect: Renegade

Firuzeh looked at the group, weighing her options for a moment. She knew they all viewed her as an immature fool likely to die as soon as the bullets flew - or at least, that was her own impression. She looked ahead into the tunnel, closing one eye as her vision shifted into infrared. There was little she could make out in the tunnel immediately to their front, indistinct temperatures and shapes, but nothing that signified a life form lurking in wait.

“I’ll take point.” She piped up after a moment’s silence, tapping her temple, “Cybernetic lets me see in infrared, if there’s anything hiding in the darkness I’ll pick out their body heat before it’d ever be possible to see them with the naked eye.”

“I’ll head up front too,” piped up the crew’s most amiable (and charming, and handsome, and for sure the most humble!) component, easy-going grin already firmly painted across his face. He had been looking at the body expressionlessly, watching the poor fucker marinate in the darkness and sewage they were now intent on navigating, but the thought of leading the charge through such enticing dangers had breathed life back into his upbeat demeanor.

“I ain’t no fucking good to anyone stuck back here. Might be that I’d be more good up there. And if anything jumps out or bumps into us, seems I’m the most expendable too. Fuck yeah.”

Firuzeh looked back at the man volunteering himself for point alongside her, and grinned. "You saying you feel like playing booby trap detection? That's the vibe I'm getting. More power to you, but I'll let this do the finding for me." With a mechanical finger she tapped the ring of her eye socket. "Nevertheless, good to be on the front with you. I'll try to save some for you if we run into anyone."

Jackson sidled up from his original haunt, near the back of the unit, to stand near Firuzeh; the cowboy seemed unperturbed by his surroundings or by the tiptoeing and wriggling he had to do to skirt around the body. The Turian had the right of it, as far as movement was concerned; they were a large crew, and it’d be a real son of a bitch for a third of the crew to be shaved right off the top, even if it meant more room for the survivors to stretch their legs back on the ship. The hardass turian and the batarian were a good fit for holding up the rear, and he had no concerns about their ability to do so. But he felt like a weak link back there, and if it came to combat in these cramped spaces, nobody was going to be doing much fighting at the ranges they would need to fire at. If it came to hand and hand, Jace alone would be able to kill four times his number, and the techno-sadist beside him seemed to value her own capabilities in a fight.

He gave the Persian woman a look for the first time since dinner the previous evening. He’d seen a few like her during his years in the galaxy’s seedier combat circuits - men and women who had been so thoroughly damaged putting their bodies on the line for petty cash that they spent on third-class hatchet jobs and prosthetics. Occasionally, the idea proved successful, if sacrilegious to the body; in theory any cyborg was a pain in the ass to defend against, and the slap of a titanium arm or leg against flesh would render an average human’s leg insensate with pain. In Jackson’s experience, the jobs were shoddily done, and the visible buildup of scar tissue and poor grafting work done where sinew met steel were as obvious as tattooed bullseyes.

The work done on this broad was similar to those back-alley surgeries at first glance. To him, it looked as though whoever had done Firuzeh’s work had a decidedly more utilitarian purpose in mind when welding her cybernetics on. The same tell-tale signs of grafting had been visible the night before, in more casual attire, but there was nothing so shoddy as the body modification that Jackson had seen done to poor, desperate fighters in his time. Firuzeh seemed far more capable of wreaking havoc with that arm, too. The limb seemed to be the extent of the work done on her, but there may just as easily have been shit done to her on the inside that had required a more subtle touch than the arm. After all, she’d said she had infrared, right? Not his problem.

He was happy he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of her - at least for a while. At least he’d gotten a look at her that hadn’t prioritized what her ass looked like.

Jace stuck a hand up in a wave and winked at her, carefree and seemingly ignorant of his surroundings, in response. A callow gesture on its surface? Sure. But notably, he had taken care to steer away from the krogan who was pillaging the poor dead fucker’s omni-tool for information, and he was careful not to talk over the crew members discussing the state of the corpse or the meaning behind it.

Firuzeh nodded, returning the gesture with her free hand. She did not care to examine the body in detail like the rest of the team did - everything relevant to her had been plainly evident after a scant thirty seconds of investigation. Her focus now was on whoever had inflicted the killing, as as the party pulled what information they could from the body, she periodically scanned the darkness of the looming tunnel, though she did not expect to see anything. Whoever it was, whatever it was, it would have long ago moved on from the scene of the crime.

She looked the man over, noting his build and stature. Clearly, he was accustomed to fighting, and from the look she could feel him giving her, he too was sizing up her own competency should things get hairy. “How do you want to handle this?” She murmured, gesturing to the tunnel ahead, “I reckon I take the lead and let you lot know if I see anything. Don’t want to give away our presence with a bunch of flashlight beams.”

“And I’ll shoot over your shoulder,” Jackson agreed genially, his grin leaving her and falling onto the body and those gathered around it. By now their crew had dissolved into squabbles over what would be done if the third party that had left this poor bastard had already reached their target - or worse, taken her off the chessboard entirely. Jace inhaled through his teeth and let out the breath imperceptibly, grin fading into a pair of pursed lips.

"Only if it was that easy. What if our target's dead or captured? What do we do then?" one of the scruffier humans in the party asked. Fucked if Jackson could remember his name right now.

Ho-ly hell, this is gonna head sideways.

“Well, way we’re goin’ so far I think any first-rate crew could beat us to the punch,” the cage fighter jested. “If somethin’ more polished has already gotten to her and cleaned her clock, might be that we don’t need to be fuckin’ with ‘em.”

Mass Effect: Renegade

Jackson Pulliam

JACKSON

_{Credit: Valentina Remenar}

_{JACKSON "JACE" PULLIAM
⟁ 28 ⟁ Male ⟁ Human (North America) ⟁ Sentinel}

⟁ _{track 1} ⟁ _{track 2} ⟁ _{track 3} ⟁ _{bonus track: hum this at batarians}

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

Jackson stands at 190.5 centimeters and 93 kilograms, a muscular, broad-shouldered frame that belies his quickness but leaves his strength fully on display. A weight lifting regimen that alternates between high-reps, low-weight and high-weights, low-reps has given him a body that does not fit comfortably under the descriptors of 'lean' or 'burly.' He's bulky, but no bodybuilder; he fits in everyday clothes (specifically the human-casual wear he bums around in day-to-day, black t-shirts and grey sweatpants or compression pants) but a bit snugly. All in all, he cuts a handsome figure - with a notably comely face, all smoldering dark eyes and strong cheeks underneath thick brown brows and a mop of brown hair - which is slightly darker than his browns but notably less sandy-colored than the permanent, close-cropped stubble around his jaw. It is shaved short, but not completely, in a deliberate effort to look slightly unkempt and bedraggled. A fighter's hair and nails must always be cut irritatingly short, and Jackson has always believed that the scruffier he looked the better, so as he moves from one career to the other he is attempting to reclaim some of his image.

But every Southern boy should look a little rugged, and every cage fighter - no matter the species or background - is going to have some dings on them; pretty boys need not apply to such a lifestyle. Part of the reason his hair is grown longer is to hide the old, faded cuts at his hairline - three of them, two on the left side and one on the right, that resemble ugly lobotomy scars. Two are from his days as a stuntman and a fighter; the third is from the procedure he made to upgrade his implant two years ago. His hair has been forced to grow around them. His nose has been broken three times. Both of Jackson's ears are afflicted with cauliflower ear, where the features of the cartilage are worn away and swollen due to repeated trauma and blood pockets. Four years ago, the apparatus he wore - designed to defend a fighter's mouth from strikes - was knocked out by a head kick from a drell, and Jackson chose to continue the fight without it; his front tooth on his right side, as well as the incisor, were both heavily chipped by the encounter. Occasionally phantom pains - an old fractured shoulder here, pain in the calves from years of endured leg kicks - will require the use of an ice bath for soothing purposes.

He makes few concessions to ornament on his appearance; he has never gotten any tattoos, out of fear for how stupid they would look if he ever grew old, and going back to the studded ear piercings he wore growing up is not an option with the sustained damage to his ears. He does occasionally wear the twin wedding bands of his parents (white gold, no precious stones) on his right ring finger, but only in private moments where his solitude can be assured.

_{B A C K G R O U N D}

_{"Alright, genius. Show me how the hell you would kickbox an elcor. Since you're such a fucking champ and all."}

Norfolk, Virginia began assembling ships in the United States before there was a United States, going back to the middle of the 18th century when North America was still a colonial holding of the British. In the centuries since, it became one of the American Navy's most vital ports and shipyards, assembling and repairing tens of thousands of vessels through the American Civil War, two world wars, and the Second American Revolution. As the future of naval warfare shifted from intercontinental to interstellar, the old shipyard underwent yet another one of its centennial overhauls, as a go-between for ship parts and materials (including the barely-understood element zero) from Earth to Arcturus, where vessels were ultimately constructed. It was also here that Curt Pulliam, an agent in the Washington-based Secret Service for the United North American States, met with civilian starship engineer Katherine Callahan. The two struck up a whirlwind, if infrequent, romance that resulted in Jackson Curtis Pulliam's birth in 2151.

He lived an active childhood, enjoying the beginnings of martial arts training under his dad's guidance and growing up an ardent fan of baseball while decidedly not enjoying his early education. Prhaps he would have chosen to pursue a career on the diamond - or at least as far as high school - if his biotic potential hadn't manifested at a young age. At the time it was unknown why, but it seemed likely that Kat Pulliam's supervisory role in handling eezo shipments around the shipyard played a large role in Jace's development. Instead of a normal life as a prom king in the wings, Jackson Pulliam found himself shipped off to Biotic Acclimation and Temperence Training.

If the expectation was that the young man would finally grow into a model student when surrounded by other biotics, perhaps grow into a leader of his peers through his great personal charm, then Jackson was a complete disappointment. Judged on the merits of any trainee, however, he was decidedly average. BAaT's training regimen was harsh and violent, and many students found themselves on the brink of physical and mental collapse, but Jace's athletic background and discipline had prepared him for something as simple as punishment and the rigors of training. If anything, the stresses were the things he enjoyed; it was the very nature of his biotic abilities that he seemed to lack interest in developing. He only displayed real prowess with defensive measures and some mild offensive techniques, with not enough result to give him the fights he really craved. As for the aforementioned personal charms, they worked - long enough for Jace to start sleeping his way through camp and sparking up fight clubs with some of the rowdier students.

By the time the program was shut down, Jace had decided he needed something a bit more thrilling than your average military man, and he lingered at home for a few boring months watching movies, doing recreational drugs, and sleeping with a different girl or two every weekend. Finally, during a showing of an old Terminator movie on a classic movie channel and laughing at the special effects, the (admittedly very stoned) Pulliam realized that the idea of stuntwork appealed to him. It meant rubbing shoulders with glamorous people; it meant connections in an industry that was positively rolling in money; it meant explosions, punches, and all general manners of fucking shit up.

At the age of 21, he borrowed enough money from his parents to go to the Citadel for the first time, where he began working for an asari film production company - although admittedly, it took some time on the casting couch for a young human with no film studies background to be trusted to do so much as walk near a camera. He proved himself more than capable of taking a punch, though, or of standing in for an actor as a body double during strenuous fight scenes. His loud, brash personality meant that generally by the end of production, everyone on the crew wanted to take a swing at him, too - creating a perpetual motion cycle of schlocky action movies, one after the other, that took no time to produce and put money in his pocket until the next one. It was easy work, fun work, but not something to do for the rest of one's life.

By happenstance, one of the movies he was working on early in 2173 - Second Contact: The Many Saints of Shanxi, a sequel to a First Contact War movie with more than a couple unfortunate racial overtones - happened to star a turian martial artist who went by the mononym Cipher. Cipher had carved out a solid niche as a top ten contender in the Galactic Combat Sports League and during production, he struck up several conversations with young human stunt double whose neck he was supposed to snap with his bare hands. Impressed by Jackson's lifelong grasp of martial arts and his respect for the game, Cipher began leveraging his connections to get Pulliam a few amateur fights. His showings in each of the three were more impressive than the last, and by 2174 he was fighting professionally full-time.

This new career path was one of two things that helped patch up his relationship with his father, which had grown frosty after Jackson's departure for the Citadel; the other was his mother's sudden cancer diagnosis, which had blindsided his parents back on Earth while Jace was making his bones in the GCSL. At first, his visits to see her were as frequent as he could make them. But by now, he was devoting more and more of his time to fighting and training, with more vigor than he had ever pursued anything. He had met a girl, too - Charlotte Hunt, an interviewer for the GCSL who went from an occasional drink date to a truly serious relationship. As his life blossomed, he began sacrificing more and more time with his ailing mother to build a life as a fighter, traveling the galaxy and making a name for himself. In 2174, he spent five months out of the year on Earth; that time was halved in 2175, and by the time she died in 2176 he hadn't been to see her since her previous birthday the year before. He set his anguish aside and kept working. It was all he could do to stay sane, and he hoped it would be of some comfort to his old man.

Then his father died too.

Much was made of the assassination of President Enrique Aguilar and CPF Premier Ying Xiong in 2176; the assassin received weeks of free media on his backstory, his manifesto, and the lethal potential of the military-grade Locust he had used to carry out the murders. Effusive posthumous praise was also heaped on Premier Ying, for giving his life in a heroic but failed attempt to shield Aguilar from the bullets. But that was not Ying's job to perform - it was Curt Pulliam's, and he was one of two Secret Service agents who died apprehending the gunman. In months, Jace had lost both of his parents, and on top of that, Charlotte had come to him between the deaths of his mother and his father to announce she was pregnant with their first child. Robbed of his own parents and faced with the daunting prospect of becoming one, there was only one outlet remaining to Jackson to exorcise his fear, anxiety, and grief. So he used that outlet.

His first opponent after the death of both his parents was a salarian grappler who had no business being anywhere in the cage with Jackson that night, and Jackson had proved it. He beat the salarian until the poor alien could hardly stand, until one giant black eye had swollen shut with blood and swelling, and then finished the fight with an anguished scream and a head kick that could well have broken the other fighter's neck. He felt no guilt, no fear of reprisal, nothing. He just wanted to keep fighting.

He would, but not for the GCSL. The sheer optics of pummeling an opponent within an inch of his helpless life, live on the omni-tools of millions, necessitated Jace's release from the organization, and doors started to close on Jace faster than he could knock on them. The only alternative he had remaining to him was Omega, where the line between combat sports and sentient cockfighting was blurred underneath the neon of the casinos and the muck and blood that masticated the bars. He knew it wouldn't go over with his pregnant girlfriend, and it didn't. She pleaded with him to find another profession, to let her help him work something out, not to risk raising a son or daughter in the grime of Omega.

So he left without them.

Three years have passed since he lost one half of his family and abandoned the other, and the gains he's made in Omega were not worth the cost. In Omega, the fights have no meaning; nothing he does goes on a pro record, there are no championships, and there are no beautiful women to interview a man while he basks in his glory. There is only one fight, then the next, then the next, and using whatever money you're wise enough to bet on yourself (or your opponent, for the weaker but wilier fighters) to survive in the meantime. Jace has scraped this meager, violent existence together for three years. He has finally had enough of it.

But not enough of fighting. He never could get enough of fighting.

_{S K I L L S}

_{"The ground is an ocean, I am a shark, and most people don't even know how to swim."}

Space is rife with people who are accomplished with a gun in hand. Jackson is no exception to this; he is gifted with both a pistol and a submachine gun, especially the latter - where he has honed his skill time and again with one particular weapon, the M-12 Locust. At longer ranges his skill starts to diminish, and his aim with a shotgun is spotty at best, but mid-range firefights are where he is most comfortable - and it is at close-range, when the weapons gap is closed, where Jackson truly shines.

In a galaxy full of biotics and gunslingers, the majority of mercenaries have neglected the original weapons they were all born with - their bodies. Beyond the understanding it takes to throw a basic punch or kick, most combatants in the galaxy haven't put in the years of education, practice, and sparring with martial artists or boxers. Jackson has been learning to fight since he was seven years old, with knowledge in judo, jiu-jitsu, and kickboxing. In his time as a professional fighter he picked up a workable knowledge of amon'fa, a deadly form of drell striking performed with open hands and knife-like, chopping motions. His abilities in a fight stem from his knowledge and technique as much as the blind, raw strength favored by angry mercenaries in street fights, leaving him capable of incapacitating or even killing two or three untrained opponents at a time.

Though he was never more than an average, unmotivated student at BAaT, Jackson found life in a fighting cage more conducive to his education. Professional blood sports, especially on Omega, allowed for cybernetics and biotics within the cage, meaning that the human couldn't just rest on his laurels when it came to his fighting prowess; he had to get inventive in guarding against both, and he did, utilizing a mix of protective barriers to guard from dangerous blows and throws to keep opponents at range for his strikes. The years, and a risky upgrade to an L3 implant, have only increased his prowess as a biotic in ways that may have brought a wry smirk out of old, dead Vyrrnus.

_{E Q U I P M E N T}

<sub>Kassa Fabrications M-12 Locust - The weapon that killed his father. Jackson has refined his skill with this weapon to the point where he knows it almost as well as he knows his body. Though it may strike some more hardened mercenaries as a strange choice for a go-to weapon, it works well with the cage fighter's style of combat - and, if the letters 'p o p' carved into the grip have any significance, it also serves to reflect the simple, sentimental nature of the Earth-born cowboy who once was.

Hahne-Kedar Shadow Works Cobra - A small, but highly efficient pistol designed by the eggheads at H-K as a next-generation sidearm for private security and military. It doesn't pack quite the same amount of punch as an equivalent weapon of turian make, but its recoil and ability to squeeze off enough rounds for the kill before overheating doesn't leave much to be desired.

Ariake Technologies Light Mercenary Armor - Ariake's top-of-the-line Ronin armor models stack well against any human-made product on the market. This is not Ronin armor. This lightweight armor, the color of burnished copper with a score of scratches, scuffs, and hastily-buffed plasma singes, is what mercenaries across the galaxy like to call company armor. It was bought second-hand off a member of Eclipse and repainted before being bought by Jackson - who, it could be said, acquired it third-hand. It makes little difference to him, since the human is accustomed to taking most of his fights head on and with no armor at all. Anything would be an improvement.

L3 Implant - Like most of the first real wave of affected humans, Jace was fitted with an L2 biotic implant through much of his adolescence. While some biotic preferred the raw edge that the precursor implants gave them, they also came with a set of debilitating side effects ranging from intense migraines to potential outright psychosis. In Jackson's case, the L2 was a double edged sword; keeping it in his brain was obviously killing it, if the roiling pains in his temples that were plaguing him by age 24 were anything to go by, but the procedure to switch to a safer L3 was invasive and high-risk. In the end, Jackson underwent the procedure; the side effects of his L2 were beginning to interfere with his fights and preparations, and any brain damage risk he accepted from the surgery was about equal to the odds he took on being beaten insensate twice by an angry turian three times a year. His L3 has given him no problems since, and he was never enough of a biotic god savant to notice the difference in his powers, anyway.

Logic Arrest Tool - An omni-tool brand preferred by the Alliance rank and file and lower-grade officers, this omni-tool was acquired by Jackson during one of his stays on the Citadel. Many professional fighters utilized cybernetics or implants in their bodies and incorporated these enhancements into their fight plans, and he was interested in the potential of using tech to neutralize these advantages. In the end, this idea never went anywhere - it was just as likely that an omni-tool wearer would gut an opponent as it was that he would hack him - but Jace still has the tool, blade and all. So maybe there was some merit to the commission's complaints.</sub>

_{A B I L I T I E S}

• Overload
• Barrier
• Throw
• Stasis

<sub>PSYCH PROFILE

T R A I T S</sub>

P O S I T I V E

• Fearless
• Competitive
• Charismatic

N E G A T I V E

• Chauvinistic
• Thin-skinned
• Irresponsible

_{V I C E S}

S E X

God's gift to his chosen species. Jackson first lost his virginity at BAaT to one of the trainees (by now he's forgotten her name) and showed no signs of slowing after the program dissolved. His job as a movie stuntman was a good icebreaker on dates (and, better yet, an excuse to rub shoulders with the cute assistants of the galaxy's thespians), and to this day he can still entertain a girl for hours with tales of his time on the silver screen. After his failure to settle down with his nascent family, his womanizing ways have returned, and he is happy to cultivate short-term flings and connections that wither in weeks, if not days.
_{"Do I know Blasto? He threw me through half the camera crew on the set of Blasto II: Blast Again Tomorrow. Still calls me on my birthday."}

S P O R T S

Jackson's fighting days are done for now, but his love of the game will go with him to his grave. He will still illegally stream events from all four major galactic fighting commissions from his omni-tool, and at times the sounds of his own fight analysis will ring out through the gym - and, depending on the brutality or genius of the combat display before him, possibly the entire deck. He also streams biotic-ball, but his knowledge of that sport is far more casual; poker tournaments are an occasional feature, as well.

C I G A R S

An appreciation for fine cigars is one thing Jackson started to pick up when he was on the fighting circuit. He grew up in a household teeming with hand rolled cigars, which his father enjoyed; high quality cigars were made on Earth, of course, but the agriculture colonies at Edem Prime were also a household favorite. When he started earning the money to truly afford them, they were Jace's favorites as well - for a time. His tastes are a little bit fancier now, and though they may not be the wisest financial move, he likes to savor the good shit, straight from Bekenstein. The perks of making money, indeed.

_{H A U N T}

G Y M
Jace has set up shop in the gym of Achilles and is slowly molding it to resemble one of the specialized fight camps standard to professional fighters across the galaxy. The gym is more than just weights to mindlessly lift to heavy music or machines for cardio - though it features both in spades. A circular section of the center of the room has been cordoned off as an impromptu ring for wrestling or sparring, and punching bags and kicking stands stand vigil in a larger circle. A small entertainment center has been set up for music or movies while working out, flanked by a horseshoe bar that is not as impressive as the ones in the crew lounge or rec rooms, but still serviceable. Blunted knives, clubs, and even a pair of nunchaku hang from the walls in the event that someone wants to shake things up a bit. Jace sleeps in the gym more often than not, sleeping on a comfortable-looking mat behind the bar raised up on a slight platform.

_{D R I V E}

Jackson has no burning need to prove himself...per se. His nature is that of a warrior and competitor, and he has beaten and been beaten; conquered and been conquered; how could anyone who has weathered and enjoyed the fights that he has need to prove himself? The voice in the back of his head does not scream that he needs to prove himself; it challenges him to challenge himself. He was a student at BAaT, protected by his youth; then he was a stuntman, merely replicating dangerous activities for the rich and famous; fighting was the greatest joy he's ever known, but even that was still in a cage with rules and referees, judges analyzing his performance and fans to cheer or jeer. Security work is lawless, the possibilities limitless. He wants to see how he thrives in such an environment.

As far as his family goes, he has not gotten over the near-simultaneous loss of his parents, and it in turn led to him fleeing from his own growing family. He feels some regret over this, but not as much as he would feel if he settled down too soon; through mercenary work, he hopes to move past the deaths of those who mattered most to him, and decide for himself the kind of future he wants - and hopefully find a point where he's ready to be a father.

Mass Effect: Renegade

Jackson

JACKSON

_{Credit: Valentina Remenar}

_{JACKSON "JACE" PULLIAM
⟁ 28 ⟁ Male ⟁ Human (North America) ⟁ Sentinel}

⟁ _{track 1} ⟁ _{track 2} ⟁ _{track 3} ⟁ _{bonus track: hum this at batarians}

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

Jackson stands at 190.5 centimeters and 93 kilograms, a muscular, broad-shouldered frame that belies his quickness but leaves his strength fully on display. A weight lifting regimen that alternates between high-reps, low-weight and high-weights, low-reps has given him a body that does not fit comfortably under the descriptors of 'lean' or 'burly.' He's bulky, but no bodybuilder; he fits in everyday clothes (specifically the human-casual wear he bums around in day-to-day, black t-shirts and grey sweatpants or compression pants) but a bit snugly. All in all, he cuts a handsome figure - with a notably comely face, all smoldering dark eyes and strong cheeks underneath thick brown brows and a mop of brown hair - which is slightly darker than his browns but notably less sandy-colored than the permanent, close-cropped stubble around his jaw. It is shaved short, but not completely, in a deliberate effort to look slightly unkempt and bedraggled. A fighter's hair and nails must always be cut irritatingly short, and Jackson has always believed that the scruffier he looked the better, so as he moves from one career to the other he is attempting to reclaim some of his image.

But every Southern boy should look a little rugged, and every cage fighter - no matter the species or background - is going to have some dings on them; pretty boys need not apply to such a lifestyle. Part of the reason his hair is grown longer is to hide the old, faded cuts at his hairline - three of them, two on the left side and one on the right, that resemble ugly lobotomy scars. Two are from his days as a stuntman and a fighter; the third is from the procedure he made to upgrade his implant two years ago. His hair has been forced to grow around them. His nose has been broken three times. Both of Jackson's ears are afflicted with cauliflower ear, where the features of the cartilage are worn away and swollen due to repeated trauma and blood pockets. Four years ago, the apparatus he wore - designed to defend a fighter's mouth from strikes - was knocked out by a head kick from a drell, and Jackson chose to continue the fight without it; his front tooth on his right side, as well as the incisor, were both heavily chipped by the encounter. Occasionally phantom pains - an old fractured shoulder here, pain in the calves from years of endured leg kicks - will require the use of an ice bath for soothing purposes.

He makes few concessions to ornament on his appearance; he has never gotten any tattoos, out of fear for how stupid they would look if he ever grew old, and going back to the studded ear piercings he wore growing up is not an option with the sustained damage to his ears. He does occasionally wear the twin wedding bands of his parents (white gold, no precious stones) on his right ring finger, but only in private moments where his solitude can be assured.

_{B A C K G R O U N D}

_{"Alright, genius. Show me how the hell you would kickbox an elcor. Since you're such a fucking champ and all."}

Norfolk, Virginia began assembling ships in the United States before there was a United States, going back to the middle of the 18th century when North America was still a colonial holding of the British. In the centuries since, it became one of the American Navy's most vital ports and shipyards, assembling and repairing tens of thousands of vessels through the American Civil War, two world wars, and the Second American Revolution. As the future of naval warfare shifted from intercontinental to interstellar, the old shipyard underwent yet another one of its centennial overhauls, as a go-between for ship parts and materials (including the barely-understood element zero) from Earth to Arcturus, where vessels were ultimately constructed. It was also here that Curt Pulliam, an agent in the Washington-based Secret Service for the United North American States, met with civilian starship engineer Katherine Callahan. The two struck up a whirlwind, if infrequent, romance that resulted in Jackson Curtis Pulliam's birth in 2151.

He lived an active childhood, enjoying the beginnings of martial arts training under his dad's guidance and growing up an ardent fan of baseball while decidedly not enjoying his early education. Prhaps he would have chosen to pursue a career on the diamond - or at least as far as high school - if his biotic potential hadn't manifested at a young age. At the time it was unknown why, but it seemed likely that Kat Pulliam's supervisory role in handling eezo shipments around the shipyard played a large role in Jace's development. Instead of a normal life as a prom king in the wings, Jackson Pulliam found himself shipped off to Biotic Acclimation and Temperence Training.

If the expectation was that the young man would finally grow into a model student when surrounded by other biotics, perhaps grow into a leader of his peers through his great personal charm, then Jackson was a complete disappointment. Judged on the merits of any trainee, however, he was decidedly average. BAaT's training regimen was harsh and violent, and many students found themselves on the brink of physical and mental collapse, but Jace's athletic background and discipline had prepared him for something as simple as punishment and the rigors of training. If anything, the stresses were the things he enjoyed; it was the very nature of his biotic abilities that he seemed to lack interest in developing. He only displayed real prowess with defensive measures and some mild offensive techniques, with not enough result to give him the fights he really craved. As for the aforementioned personal charms, they worked - long enough for Jace to start sleeping his way through camp and sparking up fight clubs with some of the rowdier students.

By the time the program was shut down, Jace had decided he needed something a bit more thrilling than your average military man, and he lingered at home for a few boring months watching movies, doing recreational drugs, and sleeping with a different girl or two every weekend. Finally, during a showing of an old Terminator movie on a classic movie channel and laughing at the special effects, the (admittedly very stoned) Pulliam realized that the idea of stuntwork appealed to him. It meant rubbing shoulders with glamorous people; it meant connections in an industry that was positively rolling in money; it meant explosions, punches, and all general manners of fucking shit up.

At the age of 21, he borrowed enough money from his parents to go to the Citadel for the first time, where he began working for an asari film production company - although admittedly, it took some time on the casting couch for a young human with no film studies background to be trusted to do so much as walk near a camera. He proved himself more than capable of taking a punch, though, or of standing in for an actor as a body double during strenuous fight scenes. His loud, brash personality meant that generally by the end of production, everyone on the crew wanted to take a swing at him, too - creating a perpetual motion cycle of schlocky action movies, one after the other, that took no time to produce and put money in his pocket until the next one. It was easy work, fun work, but not something to do for the rest of one's life.

By happenstance, one of the movies he was working on early in 2173 - Second Contact: The Many Saints of Shanxi, a sequel to a First Contact War movie with more than a couple unfortunate racial overtones - happened to star a turian martial artist who went by the mononym Cipher. Cipher had carved out a solid niche as a top ten contender in the Galactic Combat Sports League and during production, he struck up several conversations with young human stunt double whose neck he was supposed to snap with his bare hands. Impressed by Jackson's lifelong grasp of martial arts and his respect for the game, Cipher began leveraging his connections to get Pulliam a few amateur fights. His showings in each of the three were more impressive than the last, and by 2174 he was fighting professionally full-time.

This new career path was one of two things that helped patch up his relationship with his father, which had grown frosty after Jackson's departure for the Citadel; the other was his mother's sudden cancer diagnosis, which had blindsided his parents back on Earth while Jace was making his bones in the GCSL. At first, his visits to see her were as frequent as he could make them. But by now, he was devoting more and more of his time to fighting and training, with more vigor than he had ever pursued anything. He had met a girl, too - Charlotte Hunt, an interviewer for the GCSL who went from an occasional drink date to a truly serious relationship. As his life blossomed, he began sacrificing more and more time with his ailing mother to build a life as a fighter, traveling the galaxy and making a name for himself. In 2174, he spent five months out of the year on Earth; that time was halved in 2175, and by the time she died in 2176 he hadn't been to see her since her previous birthday the year before. He set his anguish aside and kept working. It was all he could do to stay sane, and he hoped it would be of some comfort to his old man.

Then his father died too.

Much was made of the assassination of President Enrique Aguilar and CPF Premier Ying Xiong in 2176; the assassin received weeks of free media on his backstory, his manifesto, and the lethal potential of the military-grade Locust he had used to carry out the murders. Effusive posthumous praise was also heaped on Premier Ying, for giving his life in a heroic but failed attempt to shield Aguilar from the bullets. But that was not Ying's job to perform - it was Curt Pulliam's, and he was one of two Secret Service agents who died apprehending the gunman. In months, Jace had lost both of his parents, and on top of that, Charlotte had come to him between the deaths of his mother and his father to announce she was pregnant with their first child. Robbed of his own parents and faced with the daunting prospect of becoming one, there was only one outlet remaining to Jackson to exorcise his fear, anxiety, and grief. So he used that outlet.

His first opponent after the death of both his parents was a salarian grappler who had no business being anywhere in the cage with Jackson that night, and Jackson had proved it. He beat the salarian until the poor alien could hardly stand, until one giant black eye had swollen shut with blood and swelling, and then finished the fight with an anguished scream and a head kick that could well have broken the other fighter's neck. He felt no guilt, no fear of reprisal, nothing. He just wanted to keep fighting.

He would, but not for the GCSL. The sheer optics of pummeling an opponent within an inch of his helpless life, live on the omni-tools of millions, necessitated Jace's release from the organization, and doors started to close on Jace faster than he could knock on them. The only alternative he had remaining to him was Omega, where the line between combat sports and sentient cockfighting was blurred underneath the neon of the casinos and the muck and blood that masticated the bars. He knew it wouldn't go over with his pregnant girlfriend, and it didn't. She pleaded with him to find another profession, to let her help him work something out, not to risk raising a son or daughter in the grime of Omega.

So he left without them.

Three years have passed since he lost one half of his family and abandoned the other, and the gains he's made in Omega were not worth the cost. In Omega, the fights have no meaning; nothing he does goes on a pro record, there are no championships, and there are no beautiful women to interview a man while he basks in his glory. There is only one fight, then the next, then the next, and using whatever money you're wise enough to bet on yourself (or your opponent, for the weaker but wilier fighters) to survive in the meantime. Jace has scraped this meager, violent existence together for three years. He has finally had enough of it.

But not enough of fighting. He never could get enough of fighting.

_{S K I L L S}

_{"The ground is an ocean, I am a shark, and most people don't even know how to swim."}

Space is rife with people who are accomplished with a gun in hand. Jackson is no exception to this; he is gifted with both a pistol and a submachine gun, especially the latter - where he has honed his skill time and again with one particular weapon, the M-12 Locust. At longer ranges his skill starts to diminish, and his aim with a shotgun is spotty at best, but mid-range firefights are where he is most comfortable - and it is at close-range, when the weapons gap is closed, where Jackson truly shines.

In a galaxy full of biotics and gunslingers, the majority of mercenaries have neglected the original weapons they were all born with - their bodies. Beyond the understanding it takes to throw a basic punch or kick, most combatants in the galaxy haven't put in the years of education, practice, and sparring with martial artists or boxers. Jackson has been learning to fight since he was seven years old, with knowledge in judo, jiu-jitsu, and kickboxing. In his time as a professional fighter he picked up a workable knowledge of amon'fa, a deadly form of drell striking performed with open hands and knife-like, chopping motions. His abilities in a fight stem from his knowledge and technique as much as the blind, raw strength favored by angry mercenaries in street fights, leaving him capable of incapacitating or even killing two or three untrained opponents at a time.

Though he was never more than an average, unmotivated student at BAaT, Jackson found life in a fighting cage more conducive to his education. Professional blood sports, especially on Omega, allowed for cybernetics and biotics within the cage, meaning that the human couldn't just rest on his laurels when it came to his fighting prowess; he had to get inventive in guarding against both, and he did, utilizing a mix of protective barriers to guard from dangerous blows and throws to keep opponents at range for his strikes. The years, and a risky upgrade to an L3 implant, have only increased his prowess as a biotic in ways that may have brought a wry smirk out of old, dead Vyrrnus.

_{E Q U I P M E N T}

<sub>Kassa Fabrications M-12 Locust - The weapon that killed his father. Jackson has refined his skill with this weapon to the point where he knows it almost as well as he knows his body. Though it may strike some more hardened mercenaries as a strange choice for a go-to weapon, it works well with the cage fighter's style of combat - and, if the letters 'p o p' carved into the grip have any significance, it also serves to reflect the simple, sentimental nature of the Earth-born cowboy who once was.

Hahne-Kedar Shadow Works Cobra - A small, but highly efficient pistol designed by the eggheads at H-K as a next-generation sidearm for private security and military. It doesn't pack quite the same amount of punch as an equivalent weapon of turian make, but its recoil and ability to squeeze off enough rounds for the kill before overheating doesn't leave much to be desired.

Ariake Technologies Light Mercenary Armor - Ariake's top-of-the-line Ronin armor models stack well against any human-made product on the market. This is not Ronin armor. This lightweight armor, the color of burnished copper with a score of scratches, scuffs, and hastily-buffed plasma singes, is what mercenaries across the galaxy like to call company armor. It was bought second-hand off a member of Eclipse and repainted before being bought by Jackson - who, it could be said, acquired it third-hand. It makes little difference to him, since the human is accustomed to taking most of his fights head on and with no armor at all. Anything would be an improvement.

L3 Implant - Like most of the first real wave of affected humans, Jace was fitted with an L2 biotic implant through much of his adolescence. While some biotic preferred the raw edge that the precursor implants gave them, they also came with a set of debilitating side effects ranging from intense migraines to potential outright psychosis. In Jackson's case, the L2 was a double edged sword; keeping it in his brain was obviously killing it, if the roiling pains in his temples that were plaguing him by age 24 were anything to go by, but the procedure to switch to a safer L3 was invasive and high-risk. In the end, Jackson underwent the procedure; the side effects of his L2 were beginning to interfere with his fights and preparations, and any brain damage risk he accepted from the surgery was about equal to the odds he took on being beaten insensate twice by an angry turian three times a year. His L3 has given him no problems since, and he was never enough of a biotic god savant to notice the difference in his powers, anyway.

Logic Arrest Tool - An omni-tool brand preferred by the Alliance rank and file and lower-grade officers, this omni-tool was acquired by Jackson during one of his stays on the Citadel. Many professional fighters utilized cybernetics or implants in their bodies and incorporated these enhancements into their fight plans, and he was interested in the potential of using tech to neutralize these advantages. In the end, this idea never went anywhere - it was just as likely that an omni-tool wearer would gut an opponent as it was that he would hack him - but Jace still has the tool, blade and all. So maybe there was some merit to the commission's complaints.</sub>

_{A B I L I T I E S}

• Overload
• Barrier
• Throw
• Stasis

<sub>PSYCH PROFILE

T R A I T S</sub>

P O S I T I V E

• Fearless
• Competitive
• Charismatic

N E G A T I V E

• Chauvinistic
• Thin-skinned
• Irresponsible

_{V I C E S}

S E X

God's gift to his chosen species. Jackson first lost his virginity at BAaT to one of the trainees (by now he's forgotten her name) and showed no signs of slowing after the program dissolved. His job as a movie stuntman was a good icebreaker on dates (and, better yet, an excuse to rub shoulders with the cute assistants of the galaxy's thespians), and to this day he can still entertain a girl for hours with tales of his time on the silver screen. After his failure to settle down with his nascent family, his womanizing ways have returned, and he is happy to cultivate short-term flings and connections that wither in weeks, if not days.
_{"Do I know Blasto? He threw me through half the camera crew on the set of Blasto II: Blast Again Tomorrow. Still calls me on my birthday."}

S P O R T S

Jackson's fighting days are done for now, but his love of the game will go with him to his grave. He will still illegally stream events from all four major galactic fighting commissions from his omni-tool, and at times the sounds of his own fight analysis will ring out through the gym - and, depending on the brutality or genius of the combat display before him, possibly the entire deck. He also streams biotic-ball, but his knowledge of that sport is far more casual; poker tournaments are an occasional feature, as well.

C I G A R S

An appreciation for fine cigars is one thing Jackson started to pick up when he was on the fighting circuit. He grew up in a household teeming with hand rolled cigars, which his father enjoyed; high quality cigars were made on Earth, of course, but the agriculture colonies at Edem Prime were also a household favorite. When he started earning the money to truly afford them, they were Jace's favorites as well - for a time. His tastes are a little bit fancier now, and though they may not be the wisest financial move, he likes to savor the good shit, straight from Bekenstein. The perks of making money, indeed.

_{H A U N T}

G Y M
Jace has set up shop in the gym of Achilles and is slowly molding it to resemble one of the specialized fight camps standard to professional fighters across the galaxy. The gym is more than just weights to mindlessly lift to heavy music or machines for cardio - though it features both in spades. A circular section of the center of the room has been cordoned off as an impromptu ring for wrestling or sparring, and punching bags and kicking stands stand vigil in a larger circle. A small entertainment center has been set up for music or movies while working out, flanked by a horseshoe bar that is not as impressive as the ones in the crew lounge or rec rooms, but still serviceable. Blunted knives, clubs, and even a pair of nunchaku hang from the walls in the event that someone wants to shake things up a bit. Jace sleeps in the gym more often than not, sleeping on a comfortable-looking mat behind the bar raised up on a slight platform.

_{D R I V E}

Jackson has no burning need to prove himself...per se. His nature is that of a warrior and competitor, and he has beaten and been beaten; conquered and been conquered; how could anyone who has weathered and enjoyed the fights that he has need to prove himself? The voice in the back of his head does not scream that he needs to prove himself; it challenges him to challenge himself. He was a student at BAaT, protected by his youth; then he was a stuntman, merely replicating dangerous activities for the rich and famous; fighting was the greatest joy he's ever known, but even that was still in a cage with rules and referees, judges analyzing his performance and fans to cheer or jeer. Security work is lawless, the possibilities limitless. He wants to see how he thrives in such an environment.

As far as his family goes, he has not gotten over the near-simultaneous loss of his parents, and it in turn led to him fleeing from his own growing family. He feels some regret over this, but not as much as he would feel if he settled down too soon; through mercenary work, he hopes to move past the deaths of those who mattered most to him, and decide for himself the kind of future he wants - and hopefully find a point where he's ready to be a father.

The conquering hero (both myself and my character) are finally done! True to my word, I got it up before I slept.

Which I will now do. Congrats to everyone who got their sheets in; like I said, they all look great, and I hope we all have a great time playing together.

Mass Effect: Renegade

I'll still have this up before I sleep. Just parts of the bio section left to do, as well as equipment and haunt.

Mass Effect: Renegade

Yikes, I fucking hate campaign finance law. Yesterday took a lot out of me but my sheet will be up today. Everyone looks great!