[CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

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[CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

Post by Annasiel » Tue Jan 24, 2017 8:14 am

Name: (Whatever you wish. Self-explanatory.)

Age: (Typical human lifespan, unless explained otherwise. Discuss exceptions in Request.)

Sex: (Male, female, intersex. Exceptions can be discussed in the Request thread.)

Personality: (The traits, quirks, and idiosyncrasies that define how your character acts.)

Description: (What they look like. Height, weight, face, body type, the birthmark on their left buttcheek that looks like a skull... can also be used to describe general attire.)

Equipment: (The typical tools, supplies, cases, etc. that your character carries around.)

History: (The years leading up to the event in the roleplay, or even a snapshot of your character's life. Anything descriptive to better outline who your character is. Be creative! The world is ours to shape, not mine alone.)
Curtains fall where Psyche roams. You cry my name, but no one's home.

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Re: [CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

Post by Annasiel » Tue Jan 31, 2017 10:31 pm

Nyx wrote:
Tue Jan 24, 2017 1:59 pm
Name: Ethan Truman
Age: 29
Sex: Male
Personality: Ethan is a man used to looking beneath the surface of things. With having lived in one of the seedier parts of the city as an orphan, and working his way into better circumstances, he has a lot of empathy for the everyday people, just trying to get along with their lives. During his time as a Jagercop he’s grown to dislike the run of things within the organization, and has grown confrontational with his superiors over questionable calls. Ethan is not a quiet man by any means, but you generally won’t find him running his mouth without reason. He’s quick to read a situation and react without hesitation if it’s called for.

He’s not truly selfless, but he’s quick to boil over in anger if an innocent person is killed, or when a Jagercop is needlessly abusive. Ethan is not cruel, but he’s a hard man, and will kill without hesitation or remorse. Quite often you can find him with a stoic expression, or with eyebrows slightly drawn in consternation. He’s a man that finds very little humor in the world he lives in, but will smile at a good joke regardless. Ethan takes his job very seriously, and he’s relentless about closing the cases he takes. While he may appear emotionless at times, he feels emotions as deeply as anyone would, though he’s unable to consciously express himself sometimes, for example in extreme distress, sadness, or anger, he’s known to be eerily quiet. Before and even after his promotion to Special Operations Detective(SpecOpsDT) Ethan maintains a strict training regimen of body and mind, and keeps up to date with the latest technologies and trends, and weapons on the range. Over the years, experience and accumulated knowledge has sharpened his mind, while physical and martial training keeps his body in peak condition.

Description:
Image
Standing at 6’4”, even as a child Ethan was taller than many of the youths his age in the orphanage he grew up in. If you were close enough, you could note the steel blue hue in his eyes, edged with tiny crow’s feet wrinkles, the only real indication of age on his rather rough, but youthful face. He wears a time-piece on his left wrist, from an old antique store he stumbled upon in a seedier part of the city, on one of his rare days off. The straps were made of black leather, slightly worn with age, while the centerpiece sat in beautiful silver, with elegant engravings denoting the hour and minute, and thin black hands to mark the time.

Very little effort goes into his general appearance, but the worst of it is mostly covered by his vest and overcoat. Underneath his wrinkled white dress shirt he dons a lightweight Kevlar style body armor wrapped in a layer of exothermic insulation, providing a measure of protection from conventional ballistics and small arms plasma fire to his torso, while being strike and slash resistant. He has a sliver of a scar on his left eyebrow from a close call with a knife-wielding Selmie during his more formidable years as a rookie SpecOpsDT.

Underneath the layers of clothing and body armor you’ll find a lithe frame, hard and compact with muscles built over years of strenuous physical activities and martial training. As a young man he was broken down to his base elements and fit back together, harder, tougher, and better than before. He has long arms and legs, giving him a slight advantage of reach, and a grip like a steel clamp. He wears his messy black hair slicked back away from his eyes, with only the faintest touch of curling visible at the ends.

Equipment: Within the confines of his overcoat, he keeps two .45 caliber ballistic handguns tucked away in shoulder holsters out of sight. He’s usually not without his nicotine mod, using it to smoke freely when he needs his fix. He also usually has a communication device on his person.

History:
A good man died today. In this shit-filled gutter of a city, crawling with low life scum that prey on the weak and the disabled, like fucking vultures.
Ethan Truman stood from a low crouch, pulling two fore-digits away from the carotid artery of his partner for six years. Six long years gone, and for what? Eyes as cold as steel took in the details, an aging senior detective dead on his back in the rain, leaking life and piss and shit into an alleyway that reached twenty paces in either direction. He was in a tucked away, private piece of Hell where light wasn’t reliable, the Demons didn't visit, and everywhere you turned was a Selmie thug, or whore, or addict, or half starved child. The man that killed his partner, his mentor, his best friend, had hidden behind a dumpster overflowing with trash, and who knows what else, that spilled into the alley making its contribution to the smell that filled the air and almost physically assaulted your senses. Like a cockroach the man had slipped away from the trash, firing a single shot from his old slug thrower, his final shot, Ethan kept count, and fled without seeing if the shot connected.

Isaiah was a man wanted for many things, killing his partner was only the most recent in a long list of crimes and the Chief wanted very much to get his hands on him. But Isaiah was ultimately small-fry in the big scheme of things, and he was running scared now after taking the blind shot that killed Ethan’s partner, Yanszy. On top of it all, Isaiah was wounded from a ballistic round that tore through his leg, so he was losing blood fast, and he was tired, running from Ethan and Yanszy while they hunted him down like a dog for two days straight on a murder case. Ethan was a small black hole of emotion as he made his way down the length of the debris-littered alley and made the call, officer down, penetrating trauma from a gunshot wound, no pulse, sending coordinates for ambulatory units, be advised, still in pursuit of wanted criminal Isaiah Trezky.

Following the smearing trail of blood quickly running away in the rain, Ethan found his way inside a rundown robotics warehouse full of dust and stale air, stripped bare of anything that wasn’t welded down. Isaiah’s handgun lay discarded atop a metal work table, leaving a trail where his bloody fingers drew across the cold metal-top. Not twenty feet away sat Isaiah, his thin, stimulant-addled body convulsing slightly in pain against the wall he sat back into.

Alright! You got me! Alright?! I give up, bring me in! I’ll see the Chief now, take me in, take me in,” his voice came out in a manic, pain induced screech, and ended in a barely discernible whisper while his hands clutched at his mangled leg, his eyes unfocused. Ethan walked up slowly, his steps measured but not drawn out, until he stood over the little man. He was reaching within himself, groping for that inner good-guy monologue that lingered under the surface, grasping for the words,yes, justice will be done, you’re gonna pay for the crimes you’ve committed, I hope it was worth it. But the words never came. Instead, Ethan lifted his arm, while rain pattered softly outside, and pulled the trigger, blowing Isaiah Trezky’s brains all over the wall, and watched until the twitches stopped.

---------<<---------------------

When Ethan was only four years old his parents died in a fire. Some nights Ethan could imagine the soft features of his mother’s loving face, while his father’s always remained a blank canvas, out of reach, and both were empty of any real, tangible memory. He grew up in an orphanage, having no other family to speak for him, and was raised alongside about sixteen other hellions in a dated, but otherwise homely building in one of the more run-down parts of the city. For most of his young life he learned the art of touch and lifting, stealing extra snacks from the kitchens and small change from visitors, and how to put on a face and act a play.

During the formative years of his teens, he met a Jagercop, and was instantly impressed with his sense of honor and justice, protecting the innocents, the whole works. Ethan was an impressionable youth. He was so stricken with a sense of duty and honor, and with the determination to take care the regular people like himself, that he joined up with the Corps the moment he was old enough. He went through the physical training with a kind of efficiency only people made for physical punishment could achieve. His cerebral training brought out the more studious aspects of his personality, and he thrived under the constant strain and pressure.

After the Corps took in his youth, broke him down, and spit him out a man, he was offered a position in a fast-tracked SpecOps training course. But he ultimately declined the offer and began his career as a Jagercop, where he worked his way through the ranks in three years on his own merit and made Detective, landing his first partner, Yanszy Mormont, who was eight years his senior. Throughout their six years of blood, sweat, and hard work, the two grew close and the mentor bond they shared developed into friendship. The first blackout came three months after the death of Yanszy.
Curtains fall where Psyche roams. You cry my name, but no one's home.

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Re: [CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

Post by Annasiel » Tue Jan 31, 2017 10:31 pm

UmbraSight wrote:
Tue Jan 24, 2017 5:08 pm
Name:
Lind Keeper

Age:
24

Sex:
Female

Personality:
Lind always seems like the last person to react in any situation. It isn't that she is particularly slow or dull witted, rather that Lind often focuses on strange things or is looking in a direction opposite the crowd. Her reaction time however is average, or perhaps a little slower than average. Like flinching a second after the vase crunched against the ground, but she has a good sense for danger, and is mindful enough to keep herself out of danger. When she can. Life isn't to nice as to always keep trouble away.

There is a definite pragmatic thought process to how Lind acts, and she tends to accept things as they are, rather than wish for differing conditions. Likewise, she often doesn't complain even as life hands her the proverbial yellow fruit, and starts to grind the salt into the wounds. Complaining doesn't change what is happening, so better to waste energy on figuring out a solution rather than complain about the unjust situation. She may not look the part, but Lind is someone who is used to struggling for every scrap that she owns. Because of this, unless she feels that her life is in danger, Lind works hard and is hard to shoo away from something which caught her attention.

Lind is the sort of person who wakes up on the floor next to her bed, and can't remember the moment she had fallen off, and she often looks lonely, in that simple way that people represent the word when they sit alone amongst a thousand chattering voices.

Description:

Tired would be an apt way to describe her, she has that faintly droopy-eyed gaze to her amber eyes. Her facial features are smooth and feminine, a rounded jawbone with a thin chin, and her eyebrows neatly curved above a pair of downturned eyes. Lind has smooth cheekbones, noticeable but not prominent, and a shorter pointed nose with soft pink lips. Lind often keeps her golden-brown hair tied behind her head in a loose ponytail which reach to just about her shoulder blades, which windswept bangs that touch her eyebrows.

Lind is not exceptionally tall or large, she stands at 5’6” (1.67 meters) and weighs 115 pounds (52.16kg). Her hips are rounded and her thighs smooth, her shoulders are sharp, with smooth arms and hand with long and thin fingers. Her bust is slightly larger than the average and her waist dips inward, faintly thinner than her bust and hips. In the space between her left collarbone and breast, there is a long thin line of silver flesh. A scar. She has a birthmark on her left hip, a patch of purple skin about the size of a half dollar and looks like a bruise.

Her clothing is clearly on the cheap side. The fabrics thin and well worn, washed to an inch of its life, yet still refusing to finally give in to abuse.


Equipment:

At all times Lind carries with her a pack of gum and a black ink pen, as well as her issued ID card and a handful of bits.

History:

The front door leading into their modest apartment was not by any means impressive. It was a simple thing, a piece of cheap synthetic material meant to simulate the look of a different cheap material. So, it came as a surprise to all in their little room when the door did not immediately give. Oh, it shook, and rattled, and groaned, and cracked, but the hinges held and lock remained firm. In those strange still seconds follow the first round of hammering blows, Lind’s mother and father shared a glance. An unspoken conversation followed, betrayed only by the faint movements of their heads.

“Don't move.” Her father said, his voice a low rumble, like the purr of distant thunder. He smiled, ran his hand across Lind’s head before standing. Her father was a large man, pushing six foot with a body of hard, compact muscle, yet he rose from his seat almost soundlessly, with equally silent footsteps crossed the space to the door. The electronic lock whirred as his hand closed around the doorknob, and her father pulled the door open. One the other side stood two men in blue coveralls.

Even as young as she was then, Lind knew what they were. Blue coveralls only ever meant one thing. Selmies. Not waiting for an invitation to enter which would never come, the two men barged through the now open doorway and into the little space. The large man first, and the smaller one second. The big man didn’t have the same easy grace which her father moved with, each of his steps were heavy and messy, like he was not quite comfortable with the bulk which was had been granted to him by his birth and station. The interplay of genetics, and never having to worry about where his next meal would come from. The second man moved like a skittering alley rodent, and both men eyed the little room like they had just looked upon something unsightly.

The smaller man spoke first.

“You’re overdue again.” Three simple words, but in the corner of her eye, Lind could see her mother tense, and her father’s eyes tighten.

“Work is slow with the blackouts, you will get your money soon.” Her father said, his voice still the level sound of a distant storm.

“Hey, hey! You trying to blame us for your joblessness?” The larger of the two barked. Lind’s father said nothing, only squared his shoulders, and looked the man in the eyes. The smaller of the two sniffed.

“I don’t care why, we gave you payment dates, and you missed him.” The smaller man stepped over to the table, a simple thin thing which had a prefabricated design to make it look like wood, and stopped next to Lind. She felt her nose prickle, the man didn’t smell good. Stale sweat, soured liquor, grime. She wanted to gag, but instead she remained still. “This here’s a pretty one, how old is she?” A strained moment of silence followed.

“Seven.” her mother answered, with a voice which rang like an ancient bell. The smaller man sniffed again.

“Up.” he said, but Lind didn’t move, her amber eyes instead turned to her father. “Up!” The man squawked a second time, grasping her upper arm and wrenching her out of the chair. Lind felt herself draw in a sudden sharp breath as a jolt of pain skittered down from her upper arm to the nerves at the very tips of her fingers. Her feet took desperate messy steps as she attempted to keep from falling as the man pulled her away from the table.

“Release her!” Distant storms drew near as her father spoke.

“Shuddup.” The larger man said, slamming a fist into her father’s gut. There was an explosion of air and spittle as he doubled over, one hand clutching his stomach. The smaller man hooked a finger under Lind’s small chin and forced her head up. He sneered, his teeth stained and spotted.

“A pretty thing. I bet they wouldn’t mind to take her as payment. There’s always a market for pretty things.” He said, his thumb crawling up her cheek next to her lip. There was no thought behind her action, Lind simply felt her head snap forward, and her teeth clamp down into the space between the man’s index finger and his thumb. She could feel the bone of his knuckle. The smaller Selmie screeched in pain and he tore his hand away. The larger man turned quickly towards them, as the smaller man held up his hand, red pearls of blood were already starting to form on the broken skin. “She bit me.” The smaller man growled, and the larger one shifted back towards her father.

“Your daughter had an attitude prob-” was as far as he got. In one flowing movement, her father straightened up, all his momentum behind his right arm as he drove it up into the space below the larger man’s chin. The man’s head snapped backwards with a sickening cracking sound, his feet momentarily parted from the ground as he was lifted up and sent sprawling backwards. There was a heavy thump, and the thin floor shivered as his bulk slammed into the ground.

The larger man did not move, and Lind’s father took a step towards her and the smaller man.
The smaller man squawked in surprise, and Lind felt something sharp being pressed into her bare flesh below her left collarbone.

“Back the hell off!” the man screeched, and Lind’s father froze midstep. She felt the man pulling her sideways as he tried to edge towards the door. “I’ll tell you how this is going to-”

There was a heavy crack, and the sound of wood splintering and the smaller man jerked then staggered to his left. The man made a weird sputtering sound as Lind quickly backed away. There was a splotch of red on the side of the man’s head, and her mother stood over him, her eyes wide and wild with what remained of her chair in her hands. The smaller man wheezed and gurgled, and Lind’s father crossed the room in several large steps, pausing only next to the smaller man long enough to bring the heel of his boot down on his neck. There was another muffled crack.

“Lind, sweetie, are you ok?” Her mother asked, her broken chair dropped as she knelt down.

“She’s bleeding.” Her father said, kneeling down next to the man, and picking up his knife. Her parents shared another silent conversation.

“I’ll get the bags and bandages.” Her mother said, carefully taking Lind’s hand and leading her out of the room. Her father only nodded, and walked over to the door.

The next few minutes were a flurry of motion. Her mother applied an adhesive strip over the cut as well as a stinging antibiotic ointment, and had sent Lind off to get her shirt while she got the three bags that her parents kept under their bed. Two large duffels, and one backpack, always loaded and ready. By the time she had returned from her room and back to the small living room, her parents were moving items from one duffle to the other. By the time four minutes had passed, Lind and her mother both had bags strapped to them and the three of them were standing next to the door.

“You shouldn’t” Her mother breathed, “you should come with us.” Her father shook his head.

“Someone has to lead them away.” He said simply. Her mother cringed. “If it comes to it, what do you want me to tell them?” His voice was so level, so smooth.


“Tell them we are going to the east side. There was a manager there who was sweet on me once. Selmies would be dumb enough to believe it.” She said lightly. Overhead the lights flickered.

Her parents shared a glance. They didn't look concerned, like adults always looked when the lights went out, but almost hopeful.

“I love you.” Her mother breathed, and the two shared a kiss. Her father repeated the sentence with a longing glance, before stepping over to Lind and kneeling down.

“You did good.” He said softly, pulling her into an embrace, “I love you so much sweetie, be a good girl and listen to your mother.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head and held her close for a long moment before finally releasing her. Her mother took hold of her hand and her parents shared a nod. With an electric hiss, the lights above flicked off, and everything was dark.

“Stay safe.” Lind heard her father say, then her mother lead her away into the quivering black of the hallway.
Curtains fall where Psyche roams. You cry my name, but no one's home.

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Re: [CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

Post by Annasiel » Tue Jan 31, 2017 10:32 pm

Moriarty wrote:
Wed Jan 25, 2017 1:46 am
Name: Sin Veruckt
Age: 23
Sex: Male
Personality: Imagine, if you will, that a man possessed only id. Lacking super-ego entirely, he would be driven by desire, anger, lust and ultimately violence. That is as close as one would come to describing Sin. Though he is not completely without the ability to stifle his urges as the inability to do so would land him in jail for murder, rape or worse.
His euphoria with violence and pleasure matched only by his lack of academic knowledge. Though not unintelligent, he lacks the drive to learn or do what is uninteresting and as such, frankly, he comes off as a dolt if quizzed about anything close to mathematics, science of any kind and most literature. Sin is no slouch when it comes to games though, any competition is quite welcome and he strives to surpass others in any field that interests him be it intellectual or physical. During the few times he is actually bored, his actions change drastically. He will lose focus immediately and any intrest in the situation will dissipate. He is very easy to please and making him bored is difficult but if it happens he becomes useless until he finds something worth his attention.

Simply put, he is a short tempered self proclaimed ladies man that will avoid any forms of boredom or mental pain and seek only pleasure.

Description: Sin is a thin man, weighing only 156lbs while standing at an imposing 6'2ft. He has a muscular body that could be described best as pale, almost pasty however it is marred by scores of scars varying in size from about an inch to five or six inches. A large burn mark encompassing the majority of his right arm, ending at the center of the bicep is the only other distinguishing mark on his body.
His face is in direct contrast to the poor state of his body, a grin stretching from ear to ear revealing fairly white teeth and a noticeable chip on his right upper canine. His hair is long, straight and pitch black, ending around his shoulders. He has dark yellowish eyes that are usually gleefully sadistic but sometimes become calmly quizzical, like a cat observing the odd actions of a terrified mouse.
His clothes are usually whatever he sees and likes, often a size too big for him or in contrasting colors. He has been known to slouch as well, this coupled with the baggy clothing make him look much less imposing.
(I intend to add a picture)
Equipment: He carries an expensive looking satchel/suitcase that he usually has slung over his back with one arm. It's contents consist of whatever novel he is reading at the time and any spare clothing or items he owns that he isn't wearing. He also carries a sharpened piece of sheet metal with cloth wrapped around it's base in his left pocket. He has dubbed the mock weapon Ol' reliable as it has served him well in many fights.
History:
"Stop please..." A weak groan is heard from the nameless women. The Selmies wouldn't stop, they never did. Vicious bastards didn't know the meaning of the word and they were to stupid to have spelled it if asked. Nine months later was what Sin believed to be the best day in history, he was born. Downside was his mother died doing the damn thing. Thankfully he did not die as well, rescued by his aunt and uncle. They did their best to raise the boy but a prostitute only makes so much money and his aunt was working in a small restaurant too far from the hovel they called a home to raise him properly. His uncle took him to 'work' often and Sin was exposed to enough sex, drugs and violence to sate any man before he was even a teenager.
He started working when turned 11, thankfully he hadn't taken after his uncle and instead joined a construction crew which worked on anything Axus requested. He built up some muscle doing those jobs in the years until he was 16, he was exposed to the vulgar adult attitude of the workers and by then he had learned a lot of what he assumed was street smarts. He had taught himself how to read since he couldn't be bothered with school. He borrowed his aunt's adult novels and bought fiction when he had an extra dollar.
During a particular job when he was 16 his crew had been building a furnace for a buildings heating system, the mechanism had malfunctioned and an explosion had caused a large part of the structure to collapse. Most of the men he had known as his friends died and while he survived he was terribly burnt on his arm. He remembered feeling oddly peaceful as he wrapped his seared flesh in a cloth bandage and wiped the dust from his eyes. That was the first time he had chuckled at death.
7 years later- "Well howdy doody Felix. What brings you 'round these here parts?" (He had recently picked up a book where the characters talked with this absurd accent and he enjoyed mimicking them). The ratty looking man on the street corner flinched at Sin's smooth tone. Smooth was calm, calm was bad. "It-...I'd j.....I'm just pushing a little product on the side chief. Not hurtin' n-n-nobody..." The pitiful creature stuttered. "It ain't that yer' hurtin' anyone chief."
He despised that word. He wasn't a chief, why call him that. What do you call the chief then? "It's actually quite simple. I told you that you would lose a finger for every time I saw you after the last incident." Sin dropped the accent. Felix's eyes widened as he realized how serious Sin had been, "Wha-....You were jokin' chie-...AHHHH!" He raised his hands in mock defense and before he could finish the sentence, Sin had snapped one of his fingers. He was holding his makeshift knife now and his iron grip refused to let the prey escape. "What did we discuss Feli? I don't make jokes, I'm the kind of guy who cuts to the chase."
Sin chuckled at what happened next. "Good times." He put out his cigarrette on his hand and smiled up at the sky.
Curtains fall where Psyche roams. You cry my name, but no one's home.

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Re: [CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

Post by Annasiel » Tue Jan 31, 2017 10:34 pm

SixxSage wrote:
Wed Jan 25, 2017 4:48 pm
Name: Matthew Greyscale

Age: 35

Sex: Male

Personality:
Matthew is a hardworking man, never stopping any of his tasks until they reach completion according to his standards. Thoughtful, articulate, and a self-proclaimed societal genius anything that he wants done can and will be done. In his work anything that doesn't fit within the plan must be snuffed out whether it be an event, mechanical part, or a person who does not fit his purview. Regardless, Matthew isn't without his charm. He thoroughly subscribes to the concept of chivalry and gentlemanliness and gives respect and praise where respect and praise are due. This can, at times, make people forget his sometimes extremist mannerisms and actions.

Although outgoing in personality Matthew does harbor dark intentions that, for him, are a necessary evil. Like most, this man loves the light and beckons for its full-time return. However, he also sees the dark as a catalyst for the light to come back, and he will be that darkness. His grand goal: destroy the corrupt corporations that rule Terminal and bring his beloved city back to its original glory. It is clear the Technocrats, should they still live, do not love the city anymore as he does. They are not worthy nor fit to rule it, but perhaps he is.

Description:
Image

Most people see before them a sharply dressed man with fine, silk clothes covered in notes of purple, red, and black. Underneath his clothes he is extremely muscular and is 6’3’’, towering over most people he meets face to face. His face isn't shown, and it won't be for those he does not know. Instead of a face they see a white, almost beige, porcelain mask with black slits where there should be eyes. He is a terrifying figure but his voice is so soothing and calm you forget the danger you are in, and the pistol pointed at your heart.

His face, if he chooses to show it to you, is a frightful sight. Half of his face is a mass of burn scar tissue, though his eyes still shine through with the light of someone who is very much alive. Despite this he has neatly pulled back black hair and green eyes that contrast against his white skin. He has gaunt features and skin that pulls back against his face showing off his bones prominently.

Equipment:
Plasma pistol
Plasma rifle w/ 12x scope
Plasma saber
Jagercorp issue body armor
Plastic explosives, remote detonated
EMP device (adjustable intensity, able to knock out the power of a building at max power)
Auto-hacking tool (able to bypass minimal security requirements)
Metal collapsible bo staff

History:
Matthew doesn't remember much after the first blackout. He remembers he used to work for Jagercorp as a special operative, specifically to target Selmie grunts. He had a partner, whose name he does not remember, but they were close, brothers almost. Perhaps it was Richard? Possibly, but the dead are not as important as the living, so their names are not as important. He remembers that the two were in a firefight with Selmie grunts, an ambush as he recalled, and Richard died to a plasma wound to the head. Thankfully, he died instantly. Matthew wasn't as lucky as his partner and received blast burns to his face. He lived. He fought. He won. Ten corpses were all around him and he huddled in excruciating pain. At the time he felt sorrowful, but it was a lesson to the once lawful cop: he couldn't bring the light back in a uniform. He had to play by his own rules, his own agenda. Jagercorp wasn’t the answer, perhaps he was.

Within a few minutes the first blackout occurred prompting Matthew’s escape from Jagercorp. It took two months for him to recover and obtain much of his equipment. He still does not hold many memories from before that day, possibly due to the head trauma, but sees them as non-important. He managed to get his records expunged from the Jagercorp database making him as invisible as a fly, at least through criminal and police identification. The next step was to take down the corporations and erase their hold on Terminal. His first target: Selmalite, the ones who terrorize the people of this city each and every day. He will succeed, and they will fall.
Curtains fall where Psyche roams. You cry my name, but no one's home.

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