[CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

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Annasiel
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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.)
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

User avatar
Annasiel
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Posts: 4311
Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 6:40 am
Gender: Female
Location: Somewhere grey and full of ghosts.
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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.
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

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

Post by Annasiel » Fri Mar 16, 2018 10:32 pm

Someguy500 wrote:
Thu Mar 08, 2018 2:55 am
Technically finished, but I'll probably come back to edit it.

Name: Luca Trace
Age: 25
Sex: Male
Personality: Quite an oddity, Luca is genuinely amiable and at times even manages to be optimistic. He even wants to help people! He's a bit cowardly, sure, but it's something he's working on, promise.

In his bid to make life less hostile, Luca is socially conscious, almost painfully so. He inwardly pores over every word choice and errant movement after the fact. Because of this he's quick to adapt to most social circles, and putting on a mask is so second nature it's concerning. He's by no stretch of the imagination cold, but he looks a bit more friendly than he actually is to people outside of a particular few, judging with a bit of the same critical eye he looks at himself with.

While he's alone, Luca is curious about how mechanical objects work; he loves to pick things apart and put them back together, mentally cataloging each part's function and connections. This extends to some electronics, but really only practical ones seen often.

Luca is mostly practical about his employment. Big Bro Jagger are the ones who trained him from the ground up, not to mention they actually help people. Sure, he'll gossip and chatter about them at the local bar, but leaking info is a crime, and he really wants no part in any of that "illegality" bull.

Description: A younger-looking guy, Luca wears a look that just screams "earnest", from his rounded features, straight, nonthreatening posture and vibrant expressions to his simple workaday clothes and thick-rimmed eyeglasses. At 172 cm and 55 kilos on the dot, Luca is on the thin side of average, though Jagercorp regimen ensures that he's definitely no slouch, physically.

Luca pays a lot of attention to how he looks. Typically, his light brown hair is worn messy, but in a way that frames his eyes and face, making it look more natural than unkempt. Speaking of, his brown eyes are usually unassuming, maintaining a passive gaze despite how alert Luca really is, and his soft features are quick to flash any emotion he needs.

Off-duty, he tends to wear either baggy cargo trousers and shirts, or a dress shirt and slacks, depending on where he's going and who he'll meet. Physically, he's built like more a dancer than a soldier; his prescence hardly dominates while in civvies, but he definitely looks scrawnier than he really is.

Equipment: Always by his side is his service pistol: a standard 2-centimeter bore plasma bolter. Between consistent maintenance and infrequent use, it looks as good as new.

During his time in R&D, Luca was able to acquire a discarded prototype for a discontinued ablative armor design, consisting a base vest and pads designed to eject thin layers of plating as they become compromised. Thankfully, it was scrapped more for cost of manufacture than anything else. After a lot of tinkering Luca has sanded the rough edges and made it his own, with a proximity trigger to eject a layer to deflect anything approaching at a dangerous speed. It used to be stashed at home, but the blackouts quickly made Luca reconsider that, carrying it around in a kitbag along with spare layers, plus other odds and ends.

He frequently wears otherwise cosmetic spectacles that act as a link to his work and personal computers. He's saved some money for ONIs for this should either his spectacles or eyes become disabled.

History: Luca was never anyone remarkable. Alright family, fine grades, it was okay, as far as he knew. Pa owned the tiny coffee shop downstairs where he helped out, Ma took care of his little sis Jess. Classic nuclear family, a bit on the well-off side but not really by much.

Of course, someone would cause young Luca to dive into a life of danger. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, after all, and a good friend his age, Maxine Hollister, was going to lay the first tile. Luca had plenty of friends, but Maxine was different. She acted more like a rowdy boy than a girl her age, going on about the corps and how cool they were, Neuros Tavri in particular. He joined in, naturally, taking a shine to Jagercorp instead. Conversations where you only agreed were boring, to Max. Wherever she went, he was never far behind. As they grew into their later teenage years, she took up simple engineering for a while, and of course, he was all over it.

What started as a feigned sharing of interests turned into a genuine pursuit with aptitude to match, for both building things and corps. After making Jess swear to take over the shop when Pa retired, Jagercorp got a new promit that day. Everything went smoothly with Luca getting assigned to R&D, but he got less and less time to his family and friends from out of the job. Even Max, his pillar and constant companion faded with time.

====

It was a dozy morning, like the city was drunkenly reaching for a snooze button. It was time for work. Cutting through one of the less fortunate districts, Trace heard it before he saw it. Shouting, grunting, wood breaking and splintering. A shakedown. Before he knew what he was doing, Lu sprinted to the sound. He quickly rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a pair of Selmalite goons, confronting a couple in a crummy run-down apartment. His sense of justice urged him to slam one in the gut. His training told him to back off and aim for the head. His fear silenced both and froze him on the spot.

What was he doing?! This was what he was trained for! By the time he mustered enough resolve and decided to draw his gun, one of the thugs had closed the distance between them. The older man towered over him, his voice was direct, deep but slightly strained. Desperation? Malnutrition? "The fuck do you want, Jag?" He spat the last word, jabbing a finger at the logo on his gear for emphasis. The couple cowered a bit farther into the tiny living room, staring, judging. In that moment, Luca breathed in, and said the worst thing he could have.

"Nothing, I'm just R&D."

He took off before it could get any worse. Running, he felt sick, was disgusted at himself. Worse, he caught himself hoping nobody had seen him instead of regretting his decision. The day dragged on and on, each minute turned into an hour, every second torturous. That night, he drafted a request for transfer, and went to sleep in tears.
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

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

Post by Annasiel » Fri Mar 16, 2018 10:32 pm

Snowskeeper wrote:
Thu Mar 15, 2018 7:23 am
Name: Jack “Virtue” Adams.

Age: 32.

Sex: No remaining sexual characteristics, but still considers himself male.

Personality: Nothing about Mr Adams is graceful or elegant. He’s boxy, efficient, crude and brutal. He delights in spreading dread, having lost the ability to achieve much else at a young age, and in absurdism. He isn’t stupid, exactly, but he has a tendency to underthink things--being bullet-resistant does that to you.

Virtue is absolutely not a good man; not even a little bit. He has his own code of morals, though. He enjoys intimidating people, but he rarely hurts people who haven’t earned it in some way, and although he finds pleasure in finding creative ways to hurt people, he never hurts them for fun. Although his loyalty to Selmalite is largely practical, it is fairly absolute; he won’t be the one to betray them first. Although he has no problem with liars, he finds most forms of treachery distasteful.

Adams doesn’t mind being called a monster, but is contemptuous of anyone who insists that his monstrousness comes from his cybernetics. He is a transhumanist, through and through.

Description: Smiling-man style; his breathing apparatus, now mostly obsolete, is moulded to look like a sharp-tooth grin. He likes little touches like that--adding human inhumanity to his otherwise-industrial suite of augmentations. A Selmie jumpsuit obscures, for the most part, sheer metal. The eyes are gone; a blank, black bar’s been welded over the sockets where they should have been. Even the skin on his face and back doesn’t really belong there; it’s graftwork, for the most part, and it’s sitting on top of more metal.

Virtue’s as tall and broad as you’d expect a walking weapons platform to be, though he has the good grace to keep most of the really dangerous stuff out of sight, for the most part. The best thing you could say about his agility is that he’s capable of fitting through doors, though with all that wired muscle, there aren’t many who can outrun or outclimb him, given the time to work up to his top speed.

Equipment: Various weapons built into his cybernetics, ranging from a plasma knife in his right hand to a gun in his left arm. A power-supply built into his back, near his reinforced spine. A crap-tonne of armour. Artificial musculature, as well as several artificial organs. His entire respiratory system has been completely replaced, several times over. His brain is still mostly intact, but it’s been heavily remodelled, and his skull has been reinforced, along with most of his bones.
He is very much a walking tank dressed up in a thug’s overalls.

History: Virtue was born into a family of miners, and spent most of his early life either learning to operate heavy machinery or actually doing that thing. During a cave-in, the rebreathing equipment that miners typically wear to protect their lungs from the toxic dust was disturbed, and he inhaled a big ole mouthful of the stuff, thoroughly destroying his lungs. For most people, that would probably mean death, but most people spent their paychecks on family or booze or whatever whenever they got off; the people who saved their cash up in significant chunks, and who didn’t take loans from scary men with scary lengths of pipe, were a comparatively small minority. Mr Adam’s comparatively stable savings account and excellent credit-rating were enough to get him through the door of a clinic, and onto an iron lung.

Unfortunately, when next he woke up, he was informed that if he wanted to keep breathing for longere than a few months, he was going to need to buy himself some proper lungs. If he couldn’t dig up the money for it, he’d be taken off the lung and dumped out in the street with the rest of the garbage. The doctor put it in cleaner terms, but that was what she was saying.

Helpfully, she had a recommendation for him: a mid-ranking Selmalite employee named Charity with an eye for finances and an obsession with all kinds of currency. As Virtue was to find out later, Charity’s favourite form of currency was the favour. The hospital had recommended Virtue to Charity because Charity, through Selmalite, was the main reason the hospital was still in operation. Virtue’s loans, processed through a bank Selmalite controlled, would start out with very reasonable interest rates, and those interest rates would grow the moment Virtue began doing things that Selmalite didn’t like. And when they reached the point where Virtue couldn’t keep up with his monthly payments, the screws would come out on his shiny new industrial-strength lungs. What Charity wanted him to do was come work for Selmalite, as their newest street-level thug. Charity was a loyal soul, of course, but he felt that having as many soldiers in his pocket as possible could only ensure that everyone else would stay loyal to the higher-ups, too. And if it kept the higher-ups loyal to the little guys, too, well...

Virtue got over his irritation with this arrangement fairly quickly. The lungs weren’t top-of-the-line by any stretch of the imagination--they were, by the standards of the day, pretty clunky and grumpy, and until he got used to them, breathing was something of a chore--but they were also extraordinarily robust and reliable. And he found that he enjoyed the disgusted, fearful reactions of the people he passed in the street, both to his new flesh-synced mask, and to his new Selmie jumpsuit. There was no particular need to pay off the loan, so long as he could keep up, so instead, he began saving up for parts that would make him better at his new job. Make it so that he’d never have to worry about, for instance, getting blown back into the hall by some asshole’s pet explosive booby-trap.

The first time that happened, he fell behind on his payments. Charity had come in to talk to him about it personally. Said he understood; that he’d been through that whole rigmarole, before, too, and so, just this once, they were going to forgive the late payment. That had hurt more than the fucking nailbomb.

So he’d teched up. None of that flimsy synthflesh shit, either. Full flesh-sync steel; industrial-grade arms and legs. Tank armour, basically. Every bit of himself he could have taken out, he did. And it made him a better thug. People feared him. His bosses loved him, whenever he wasn’t in the room with them. He had no friends, but he didn’t feel like he needed any, either. He was very, very happy.

And then shit began to roll downhill.
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

User avatar
Annasiel
Administrator
Posts: 4311
Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 6:40 am
Gender: Female
Location: Somewhere grey and full of ghosts.
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Re: [CS] BLACKOUT: Character Sheets (Read Only)

Post by Annasiel » Fri Mar 16, 2018 10:33 pm

Quirbles wrote:
Thu Mar 15, 2018 4:55 pm
Name: Jacob Strevian

Age: DOB recorded as 213 PL, making him 35 years old.

Sex: Male

Description:
Image
"The fuck are you looking at?"

Jacob's rigid stature is a testament to his strict upbringing. Standing at 6'4, the Jagercorp operative is rarely seen slouching or meandering about unless it suits his assignment in some way. He's tightly wound, and his line of work offers little downtime from his assignments; pair this with the fact that he constantly takes extra work, and it leaves a man who's all work and no play. Simply put, he doesn't fuck around. It's not in his nature to, and Jacob owes this temperament to his father.

Despite his strict constitution, the look in Jacob's eyes suggests one of languid complacency and calm. His relaxed expression suggests a sense of laid-back alertness, and his method of operations supports this. When faced with a crisis situation, he adapts. Survivability is the name of the game, and being an ideologue doesn't help his odds in Jagercorp. He shaves only when his beard becomes a nuisance, which in Jacob's case is when it reaches just above his collarbones; the same can be said of his hair as well, which is usually cut once it starts grazing his shoulders. It's commonly slicked or tied back, regardless of length.

For streetwear [which he commonly finds himself wearing due to his status as an undercover infiltrator], Jacob wears a variety of outfits in order to change profile and appearance. His go-to for when he is off-duty [which isn't often] a designer leather jacket with Faraday meshes in between fabric layers, allowing for basic protection against Plasma but not enough for numerous hits around the same area. Beneath the jacket is a black long-sleeve shirt underneath, and under that is a form-hugging thermal shirt to help with the colder areas of the city. Simple black pants and boots make up the lower portion of his outfit. He often wears thermal gloves.

He smokes to ease himself when stressed. It's a habit he's been trying to kick.

Equipment:
The Jagercorp badge is kept on the inside of whatever jacket he wears, along with other forms of I.D. His gun and holster is also commonly kept on his person, concealed under his outfit through the use of a shoulder holster rather than a hip variant. Two extra magazines for his firearm are also kept in small pouches on the holster: one with plasma, and one with the regular kinetic design. The pistol is Jagercorp-issued, and sports the ability of switching between Plasma and Kinetic configuration. The configuration takes several seconds to prime after transition.


History / Personality:
The family name of Strevian had come from a long line of Jagercorp participants, dating even before Selmarus' divide into two entities. While there were some members of the lineage who deviated to Selmalite, those who did were ostracized; the Strevian name remained largely loyal to Jagercorp, as they represented the enforcement of law and justice in a broken world that surely needed it.

Jacob's father was very similar in personality to his son, and it shows in the latter's interactions with other people. Given that Gregory Strevian was a well-respected bureaucratic officer in Jagercorp, he didn't want to see his legacy tarnished; his son, rather than his daughter was seen as the most fit member of the family to carry the torch. Gregory became abusive with Jacob, pushing him emotionally and physically. It gave him discipline, but at the cost of a childhood. In Terminal, however, that much didn't matter. Jacob was lucky to have been dealt the hand he had, and his father wasn't going to let him squander it.

"You have big shoes to fill. And you'd best fuckin' fill them."

Being in the position he was in, Greg had enemies. Hell, even people within the workplace didn't like him. And when Jacob saw his own father incinerated in a car bomb, that moment was when he went off the deep-end. In an odd and twisted way, his abusive father was one of the only person he felt compassion towards him. The ends justified the means, he thought to himself. And when the time came to make a name for himself, he did not disappoint. With his father gone, he felt no attachment towards any person besides his immediate family. Even then, interactions that lasted longer than a few sentences were scant.

Hard worker, well-disciplined and demonstrates strict respect for authority. From interactions with fellow applicants, does not seem to display empathy in a traditional sense. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was a fuckin' robot.

After passing the examinations for Jagercorp, Jacob was eligible for an position within the ranks of their operatives. Drug-busts were his strong suit, and his stony exterior led to him being a very convincing undercover agent. His work ethic during his time as a grunt also helped him earn this position.
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

User avatar
Annasiel
Administrator
Posts: 4311
Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 6:40 am
Gender: Female
Location: Somewhere grey and full of ghosts.
Contact:

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

Post by Annasiel » Fri Mar 16, 2018 10:34 pm

PieHostage3_14 wrote:
Fri Mar 16, 2018 4:49 am
Name: Jonathan Kirby

Age: 25

Sex: Male

Personality: Before joining Neuros, Jonathan was a quiet kid, with a desire to learn more about everything around him, trying to figure out what made people tick and what their secrets were. Now that he is part of Neuros, Jonathan has the same desires, but now he can enact them. Whenever he is in a place with other people, close onlookers may be shocked to see that his eyes often go in two different directions, trying to absorb as much information as possible for later categorization and addition to Neuros Fi. He loves learning new things, and will sometimes make deals with people for information. If there is one thing that really rings Jonathon's bell, it's control. The feeling of having power over others and holding all the cards, as it were, fills Jonathon with delight.

The only thing that can rival his desire for knowledge is his desire for his own skewed brand of justice. Jonathan believes that Neuros Tavri can save Terminal and stop the blackouts. In fact, he believes that Selmalite is behind them, and that's why they have been attacking Neuros agents who got sloppy. So Jonathan has taken the term "Neuros Knight" to another level, by crusading in both the physical and the virtual world against Selmalite, specifically, their technical branch that is working on removing Neuros's tie on the power grid. However, Jonathan isn't afraid to go against gangs or anyone else who has done wrong to Neuros. When you meet Jonathan, he may seem funny and charming, but underneath is a man with a mission.


Description: At one point, Jonathan was completely human. At one point. By his own request, he has been altered, becoming an agent of Neuros to the best of his ability. Standing at around 5' 10", Jonathan appears to be just a normal person at a glance. Fair skin, if not a little pale, framed by a mop of messy brown hair that he frequently has to brush out of his eyes and behind his ears. An overall lean build hides power lying underneath, waiting to be released. Two bright blue ONIs peer out of his head, almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

Along his left arm is a series of tattoos that appear to have no meaning, including one of a black strip encircling his arm from his wrist all the way up to his back, disappearing under his shirt. While it may just appear like a tattoo, it's actually a fiber optic that connects to the microprocessor attached to his spinal cord. Connected to the optic is a tap tattoo that is connected to his ONIs, as well as Neuros Fi, allowing him to access all the information Neuros Tavri have at their disposal.


Equipment: Jonathan is equipped as he believes a Neuros Knight should be. His technical upgrades include his two ONIs, one for each eye, a tap tattoo connected by a fiber optic to a microprocessor in his spinal cord, and a cybernetic right arm, due to his being lost in an unfortunate encounter with some especially sadistic Selmies. It looks exactly like his old right one did, including some faux tattoos that appear real to most observers. The arm itself performs at peak physical condition, and can go slightly beyond, at the cost of tiring Jonathan out and causing his other upgrades to function less efficiently.

Jonathan also carries weaponry to aid him in his conquest, although not much is needed for his job. He carries a plasma pistol, the latest design from Jagercorp, in a concealed holster in his pants. The weapon isn't hidden, but it isn't easily noticeable either. He also carries with him several unassuming looking beads. Also an innovation from Jagercorp that Neuros just so happened to find, these beads are actually micro-EMPs, which can release a localized electromagnetic pulse, specifically one that affects a small enough area as to only affect a single person. They were developed to be used against people with cybernetics, so for Jonathan, they can be used as an offensive weapon, or even similar to an ancient "suicide pill" mentioned in texts from long ago.


History: To Jonathan, life didn't begin until he found the file on his computer. It had been running a scheduled virus scan, when suddenly it came up with a warning, saying there was a file on his computer that had flagged the scan. The program didn't say if it was a virus, only that it had been flagged. Curious, Jonathan decided to investigate it. The name of the file was garbled text, and the contents were the same. He was just going to delete it, but something stopped him. It was a little itch in his brain, a little itch saying not to. Call it a hunch, fate, premonition, whatever you like, but something told Jonathan not to delete the file. So he didn't.

2 days.

It took him 2 days to crack that code. Wait, that's not right. It was approximately 42 hours, 36 minutes, and 27 seconds until everything suddenly clicked and he managed to crack the code. During that time, he had tried every damn thing he could short of randomly hitting the keyboard. Ultimately, he figured out what the key was and managed to break it, only for it to reveal a string of numbers. After slamming his head against a wall, he realized that the numbers themselves could potentially be a location, perhaps for one of the Neuros headquarters. Excitedly, Jonathan entered the numbers as coordinates, and found a place, however, it couldn't be right. There were too many digits. However, the numbers at the end were all 0s and 1s. Converting them from binary returned a single word: back. Running the numbers, sans binary, returned a location in the heart of Terminal. Grabbing his things, Jonathan immediately set out.

That was Jonathan's first encounter with Neuros Tavri. It wouldn't be the last. They welcomed him with open arms, and Jonathan willingly embraced them. Over the next few years, Jonathan learned everything there was about Neuros. He learned about Neuros Fi, and even helped expand it somewhat. He learned about the stranglehold they, we, have on the power grid, and how the Selmies have been trying to hack through. It's almost become a game to watch them try to break through and let them through, only to undo their progress. However, Jonathan began learning that being a Knight wasn't without its risks. Selmies has managed to kill several Knights, although it was purely by coincidence that they were from Neuros. "Coincidence." Jonathan didn't believe in that. Suddenly an idea struck him. He went to the Regents, and specifically Lotus Anwat, asking for funding to allow him to hunt down the enemies of Neuros and eliminate them, as well as gather as much information as possible. Surprisingly, they agreed, and Jonathan began his job. He's been doing it successfully for the past 3 years, and is still doing it to this day.
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

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