[CS] Redemption

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Poetic Ghost
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[CS] Redemption

Post by Poetic Ghost » Fri Sep 08, 2017 7:11 am

- Character Sheet -
(Character image, if added, may go here.)

Name: Not too hard.

Gender: It's the 32nd century, there are a few options.

Age: The Human aging process has been slowed slightly, adding on a few decades.

Race: Are you a good old Human? Or maybe something stranger...

Homeworld: Where were you born, kiddo? Earth is dead. (or is it)

Skills: What can you do? Also, at least skim your fellow RPers character sheet before writing yours. It helps to avoid characters being too similar, and spreads diversity.

Equipment: What are you packing? Guns, tools, swords, explosives, armour. That sorta thing...

Personality: This is Advanced, I expect a bit more than a list of conflicting personality traits. At least a good chunky paragraph here.

Appearance: What do you look like? Feel free to use an image, but be prepared to have something along with it, it helps to build the character.

Biography: Where were they born? What was high school like? This stuff helps build great characters. This isn't a measuring contest, but I would like a good bit of writing in here.

Origins: Here is where you give us a taste of your character and what they are like. Write whatever you want, but your character is the main point of this section.

Theme: What music plays when your character does something cool, or has a super emotional scene?
Last edited by Poetic Ghost on Thu Mar 29, 2018 7:50 am, edited 6 times in total.
~~ You are but a grain of sand, in the sands of time. ~~

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Poetic Ghost
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Re: [CS] Retaliation: Character Sheets (Read Only)

Post by Poetic Ghost » Fri Sep 08, 2017 7:26 am

Myrn wrote:
Mon Sep 11, 2017 7:12 am
WIP FOR NOW JUST SO I HAVE IT UP HERE AND ALL THAT JAZZ

- Character Sheet -
Image

Name: Lilith Treble

Gender: Female

Age: 28

Race: Variant Human - She was never sure what the variant was other than the fact she had natural rose colored eyes and hair. It was never really explained what it was that she had variants with.

Homeworld: Melbourne S9 - A barren wasteland of a planet only the stubbornest and hardiest of fools that could make it hospitable enough to battle the harsh environment. The polar extreme weather made it difficult to settle when the surface would become a blinding night free scorching desert for months on end with no real let up from the sun’s heat save for dust storms, except those are just as bad if not worse. The rest of the year is entirely comprised of a constant overcast in a tundra iceland as the temperature drops beyond below freezing. The planet was once rich in Tungsten however it has for the most part been picked clean. The planet held no other source of income with any real value and economically failed.

Skills: Lilith is quite skilled in mechanical engineering and well versed in metalwork and repairs. She is very capable of taking things apart to understand it and putting it all together again with her own improvements.

Equipment: She typically carries an assortment of tools with her

Personality: Lilith comes across as rude with little to no manners whatsoever. Her language, though colorful is still vulgar. Coarser than a diamond in the rough, she’s off putting enough to be a troublesome team mate. However, she’ll play nice if asked as long as no one tries to get all cozy next to her.

Appearance: Rose colored hair and eyes contrasts well against the steel grey mechanical limbs of Lilith. Her figure may be full but it’s evident how toned she is with what her work required of her. She is about average in height at about 5’7” although her height may have been stunted with added weight. She sometimes claims to be shrinking and had shrunk by 2 inches already. And if she had to guess, her weight would be somewhere over 200 lbs possibly 300? Kind of hard to measure with no working scale around.

Biography: For as long as she could remember, Lilith had been surrounded by adults in uniform. She was never allowed outside of a certain perimeter, and had no one near her age to play with. Her knowledge of the outside world was limited to knowing of its danger, knowing she was on a dangerous planet, filled with dangerous people unfit to live in society. So why did her parents go outside? Although she no longer recalled their faces, she remembered they were always covered in snowy down or dusty sand. Their work required them to be out in the fields for days, weeks, even months on end. She didn’t remember why, just that they were always gone, until that one day they never came back.

Her uncle did his best to raise her. It helped that she expressed an interest in his work; Lilith had a knack for fiddling with machinery, and her small hands as a child were precious for the delicate and finer work. For years, she helped her uncle make what looked like suits of armor, built in varying sizes. The really big ones where the most time consuming, and usually had other people (like her uncle) working on them as well. She soon learned to call them ACVs, or Armored Combat Vehicles.

As Lilith grew older, she came to understand she was living on a private government testing ground. However, she wouldn’t comprehend the full situation until much later. Fifteen years of blissful ignorance shattered on that day, the day Lilith managed to slip outside unnoticed. Most of the base was hidden underground, but the part that was above was built into solid stone. The first thing she noticed about the surface was the unbearable heat. Why did she want to go outside if it was this hot? She looked around, and noticed armored people hopping into armored vehicles, setting off somewhere. The curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she decided to hide herself inside one of the supply cruisers. As the convoy moved, she looked inside the nearby tarp-covered crates, full of munitions of all sizes and strange weapons. She had hitched a ride to a field test. When the vehicle slowed to a stop, she peeked outside. They were at the edge of a massive canyon. A ruined sandstone city sat at the top, and cave entrances littered the walls below.

Fascinated, she hopped out of the cruiser, crouching between a pair of rocks. Shaded from the sun and from any prying eyes, she waited, heart pounding in anticipation of what she thought would be a stunning show. One minute. Five minutes. Ten. The quick rapport of gunfire made her jump, almost scuffing a knee on the side of her alcove. She had been expecting some kind of warning. A shout over an intercom, or maybe a horn. Instead, crack after crack as unseen projectiles split the air, followed by the steady whine as they made their harrowing descent. They came into view within seconds, thin trails of light arcing down the canyon’s sides. Where they hit, rock erupted outwards, turned molten-red by the force. And in their deluge, a noise she hadn’t expected, not the awaited shouts or horns.

She heard the sound of screams.

Straining, she leaned over the edge, lacking conviction in her own senses. Maybe it was a leftover ring from the weapon fire, or the sound of a dying koyott. She had never seen a koyott, but her uncle had told her stories about the wild canids and their terrifying cries. She was going to see her first koyott, recognize it, tell the soldier men to stop their fire. They would see her as a hero! She’d turn the tide away from an innocent creature, and save the men from bloodying their hands with undue harm. Closer she crept, closer, until the tips of her toes pushed pebbles into the abyss. It wasn’t a koyott. Beyond the dust and debris, beyond the fire and smoke, familiar silhouettes emerged from one of the many caves.

Her throat turned dry, her fingers numb. Surely the soldiers saw this. In the echoing silence, the screams and cries were crisp, magnified by the canyon’s curve. A crowd, not a lone being. People, not animals. Another barrage of blasts scarred her to the soul, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the blazing tendrils that tore downward. They struck in the midst of the group, flinging forms apart like dolls, flinging limbs apart like…

God, she felt sick. What was this?! People didn’t… couldn’t… it wasn’t like they didn’t know! Another noise broke through the mania, a noise that curdled her blood more than the screams could ever hope. One of the soldiers was laughing.

“They do it every day.” Lilith jumped for the third time, spinning around to face a boy about her age. He had hair the same color as the sand beneath their feet, and eyes that seemed etched with more worry than she’d ever seen. She quickly put two and two together, and threw her hands in a shooing gesture.

“Get away or they’ll hit you with that stuff too!”

He shook his head. “Even if they knew I was here, they’d just use a gun. Less expensive, less collateral.” The boy coughed, and turned his eyes to the canyon edge. “Important collateral, at least.”

Lilith frowned. His lack of perturbation was incredibly disconcerting, and the distinction of ‘important’ made her skin crawl, if only by the implication. “But…”

He turned back to her, and her words snagged in her throat. Swallowing, she tried to say more, tried to say that this was obviously wrong and that those men were nothing short of monsters, that they had to be turned in to the base for what was basically mass murder. But for all her confusion, for all her thoughts, she could only find one word to complete her sentence.

“Why?”

“What’s your name, kid?” the boy asked. Immediately, Lilith went on the defensive.

“I’m not a kid! I- you’re a kid!” It was a stupid retort, and she knew it, but it was all her reeling mind could conjure.

“Very mature,” he replied, and she fell silent. She knew when she had been bettered, and like it or not, he was right.

“Lilith,” she finally said, resigned, and went on to mutter “but I’m not a kid…” in tones she hoped he both could and couldn’t hear.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lilith. I’m Liam.” The boy shifted, settling cross-legged beside her, and began to tell her many things. As he spoke, his fingers worked, picking rocks out of the sand and rubbing them over and over, but his face retained the same complacent sadness throughout. He told a story she had never heard before. A story about the place she thought she knew, thought she understood, but far from the words she’d heard repeated throughout her life.

Melbourne was a prison planet of the New Human Empire. A wasteland where the dregs of society were sent, the worst of the worst, cursing them and their progeny to an eternity of desert heat. It was, after all, the easiest way for the government to get living subjects for their tests.

Living subjects.

“But… that’s illegal! That’s wrong!” she protested, and he held a finger to her lips.

“I know. They know. That doesn’t stop them from doing it.”

Some of the soldiers, shouted, and Liam looked over his shoulder nonchalantly.

“Listen, you should go. They’re leaving soon. Just be happy you’re on the safe side, alright?” He gave her a pat on the shoulder, peeked in the direction of the men, and disappeared.

The entire ride back, Lilith sat in stony silence, staring blankly at the wall of the cruiser. The acrid stench of chemicals seeped the inside, now. If she hadn’t been so lost in thought, she would have retched. But her mind lay far away from the foul-smelling air, far away from the hum of motors and the gentle sway as the caravan was caressed by winds. She left a part of herself behind in that canyon. She was uninjured, true, but still was not whole, and the missing piece was dead as the motionless shapes the soldiers had left behind.

She made it back inside the base free from notice. Though she’d known this place her entire life, it felt different. The long neat halls were depressingly sterile, the fluorescent lights a soulless glare, the faces that smiled at her masks that covered monster’s maws. Shivering, she let her feet take her along the familiar-yet-unfamiliar path, the hollow thuds of her boot soles staggering to the hum of the ventilation. She had to talk with her uncle. Now that she understood, she needed…

Confirmation? Apologies? Ignorance? She didn’t know. None of that would erase the horrors she had seen. An aimless search to fill the void of being, the missing piece of innocence.

When she entered the shop, her uncle was working. At the sound of the door, he looked up from the metal sheet he had been etching, and frowned.

“Where have you been? You’ve been missing all morning. I was worried,” He said, setting his tool aside. Lilith watched, silent, unsure what to say or how to begin. “Well, don’t just stand there. Hand me that torch, will you?”

Lilith’s cold eyes turned to the table by the door. Unthinkingly, she wrapped her hands around the cannister, and walked down the stairs to her uncle.

“Thank you kindly,” he mumbled, struggling to screw the base of the nozzle to a cannister of gas. After a few tries, it clicked, and he looked back up at his niece. His brow furrowed in concern. “What’s gotten into you, girl? First you run off, now you act like a block of ice? Is everything alright?”

“No.”

Her uncle took a step back at the sharp, almost aggressive tone. He set the simmering torch on the table and folded his arms.

“What’s that voice for, now? Someone hurt you?” Concern still tinged his eyes, but there was also an inkling of apprehension. To him, this was unexpected, unprecedented. The cheerful, puckish Lilith may sometimes pout or sour, but had never before turned to this jagged knife.

“No one hurt me.” Lilith took a step closer, finally gathering her thoughts. “Do you know what you’re doing? What we did? What we make?”

“Aye, ACVs. Risers. What’s that-”

“NO!” Lilith’s throat stung with the force of inflection. “That’s not what I mean! Do you… do you know how many people… innocent people they hurt?!”

“Some, I’ll bet.” His words were quiet, his voice sliding between comfort and guilt. “But they’re weapons. To protect. They kill the bad soldiers, and keep us safe.”

“Those. Weren’t. Soldiers.” She was shaking now. All the ice she had built, all the tension, was melting in the fires of outrage. Her eyes were wet and her face hot, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. “Soldiers have guns. Soldiers have tanks. SOLDIERS FIGHT BACK.”

She pushed at the table. The light aluminum flipped easily, sending the tools on top skidding across the floor.

“Soldiers don’t die screaming in a canyon! Soldiers don’t beg! How were those people dangerous?! How could they be soldiers, if you brought them here?!”

“I… I didn’t bring them... “ dazed, her uncle took another step back, his hands held up defensively. “They’re criminals, Lilith. They’re not the soldiers. They… they help us learn, help us know how to fight back proper. I don’t like it either, but it’s for a good cause. Their sacrifice keeps us safe.”

“DON’T you dare talk about sacrifice!” she screamed, throwing a fist against his chest. It hurt. He only swayed, making no effort to defend himself. “Don’t’ you DARE say they’re helping! If it helps so much, why don’t you and your friends go down there? Why don’t YOU die for your good cause?!”

Fist after fist, blow after blow, and he only watched. Didn’t speak, didn’t move. It infuriated her. How could he just stand there? How could he just take it?

“If you think it’s okay, then you should die too!!!”

A hiss. Lilith paid it no mind, but her uncle tensed, turning to glance over his shoulder..

“Look at me!” She pounded against his chest. “Look at me and tell me you shouldn’t!”

“Lilith-”

120 liters of oxy acetylene, leaking from a mis-clamped seal and sparked by the flare of the wayward torch, ignited. Arms enveloped her, a great weight shielding from the brunt of the blast, but agony still tore its claws through her exposed limbs. She hit the floor. It didn’t hurt, surprisingly. All her pain seemed focused on where the blue flames licked, all her slipping focus, all her failing sense.

The door opened. There were voices she couldn’t hear from ears that felt thick and sluggish. She was bleeding. Her ears… she tried to wipe it away, but her arm wouldn’t move. Neither could. The pain in the legs turned to coldness, the pain in her arms to prickling needles. As the liquid world dripped out of sight, she relaxed, happy at least that the hurt was gone.

The time between her slipping into unconsciousness and waking up on a rusted operating table was void. A large expanse of nothing, no thought, no feeling, no memory. She only knew what happened by the recanting of others.

After the explosion, soldiers ran as quickly as they could to the shop. They found the lifeless husk of her uncle embracing a battered, still breathing body. Her legs were shredded, her arms all but missing, caked in blood from countless cuts and lesions. She was dying. Whether out of disregard for the instigator or out of pure neglect, they didn’t try to save her. Instead, she ended up being dumped into the desert with the rest of the compound’s refuse. It was the scavengers that found her there, poking for treasures among the trash, and they who brought her back to the prisoner’s camp. They patched her up as best they could; blood loss, internal damage, and the early onset of sepsis made it a struggle. And for better or worse… she survived.

Origins:

Theme: Epic Battle Theme https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJ-l27TK5I0
Emotional Theme https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMM7tIIUkeY

-- Vehicle Sheet --

Name: Armored Combat Vehicle ADENIUM or lovingly nicknamed as Piece of Shit

Role in Combat: typically used on the front lines for a variety of combat roles

Weapons: Gatling gun, plasma cannon, bomb launcher, and anything that can be held in its left hand can easily become a useable weapon

Mech Origins: made from scrapped parts by yours truly for the efforts in the war

Appearance: Image

Other Features: it was built for higher maneuverability and made to handle single handed weapons such as large blades or other guns outfitted for its size. There is a minor energy shield however it was designed to handle close quarter combat over heavy fire at long ranges.
Last edited by Poetic Ghost on Mon Mar 26, 2018 7:45 pm, edited 2 times in total.
~~ You are but a grain of sand, in the sands of time. ~~

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Re: [CS] Retaliation: Character Sheets (Post Once Accepted)

Post by Annasiel » Wed Sep 13, 2017 4:10 pm

- Character Sheet - (WIP)

Image

Name: Chellis, if it pleases.

Gender: She prefers female.

Age: 31

Race: Of the empathic and diminutive Silwin.

Homeworld: Born to Alphagor D7, but relocated to Frei for medical work.

Skills: Chellis is able to sense the emotional states of those around her, as with the rest of her race, and can strengthen this ability through contact with the target. In addition, she is a combat medic with five years of field experience under her belt, holding doctor-level skills in xenophysiology. Though her greatest strengths lie in treating humanoid physiologies, she has workable practical knowledge for a good number of other common races, and is quick to learn necessary procedures for those she has not seen before. She's also a decent pilot, though far from being considered an ace, and falls terribly short when it comes to the technical side.

Equipment:

On-Hand
She carries the following in a purse-sized bag at her hip.
  • A standard first-aid kit, containing
    • 1 absorbent compress (45 sq.in),
    • 10 tubes of antibiotic creme (1/32 oz),
    • 10 ethanol-based antiseptic towlettes (5 x 7"),
    • 6 tubes of burn creme (1/32 oz),
    • 5 fabric fingertip bandages,
    • 5 fabric knuckle bandages,
    • 1 roll of first-aid tape (1/2" x 5 yd),
    • 1 pair of forceps (4"),
    • 4 gauze pads (3 x 3"),
    • 1 gauze roll (2" x 6 yd),
    • 3 instant ice packs (5 x 7"),
    • 2 pairs of nitrile gloves (small, hexedigit),
    • 16 plastic adhesive bandages (1 x 3"),
    • 1 pair of scissors (4"),
    • 1 sting neutralizing wipe (1 x 2"),
    • 1 triangular bandage (40 x 40 x 56").
  • An electric lighter.
  • A small sewing kit.
  • A pocket flashlight.
  • A rechargeable low-energy pulse gun (wireless taser).
  • A notebook and pen.
Off-Hand
The following are stored in a duffel inside Engel.
  • Refills equivalent to five additional first-aid kits.
  • An incomplete set of operating tools, containing
    • 1 titanium scalpel (3"),
    • 1 titanium scalpel (1"),
    • 1 titanium scalpel (1/2"),
    • 10 vessel clamps,
    • 1 pair of surgical scissors (3"),
    • 1 bone chisel (4"),
    • 1 pair of bone cutters,
    • 1 pair of dissecting forceps (4"),
    • 1 pair of surgical forceps (4"),
    • 1 needle clasper (5"),
    • 10 tissue retrators.
  • 1 tarp (10 ft x 5 ft).
  • A rechargeable cautery.
  • A rechargeable bone drill (with anchors and clamps).
  • 10 adjustable aluminum splints.
  • Various antibiotics.
  • Various painkillers.
  • 1 box of 200 nitrile gloves (small, hexedigit).
Personality:

Myers-Briggs - ISFJ
Enneagram - 2w1

By her expressions, Chellis isn't the type of person you'd expect to be compassionate. She favors a flat, watchful stare that sometimes almost seems curious, but more often than not is devoid of any indicators. However, as soon as she opens her mouth, her warm, congenial tone betrays the cold exterior. She is a friendly individual, brimming with "how are you"s and "tell me more"s, though she will quickly shy away from conversation if the chance is given. Socializing, for her, is an uncomfortable spotlight. She prefers to work behind the scenes, helping others in ways that don't bring embarrassing praise. She handles stress relatively well, and is able to think quickly under pressure, though she will easily take mistakes to heart. Too much failure, preventable or otherwise, will begin to drain her.

Appearance:

4'11, with the grey skin and hair typical to her species. Her eyes are fully black, deep enough to dull most reflections, and lined with thick lashes. She has full lips that rest in a contemplative pout, which only adds to the impression that she's constantly studying you. She has a very slight build, weighing in at a minuscule 91 lbs, though has a slight tone in her arms due to her work. Her face and expressions seldom mix, contrasted sharply by her animated, often cheerful way of speaking.

Biography:

If anyone working at the Life in Breath clinic was asked to describe it in three words, they’d almost always say the same thing: Overworked, overlooked, and underpaid. It was a bit of a motto among them, made barbed by the bitter euphemism it really was. Overworked? Try 16 hour shifts with only coffee and low-def satellite television to keep company. Overlooked? In the five years they’d operated on Lei, they’d received more opposition than thanks. And underpaid? They were rewarded only in “the satisfaction of helping your fellow beings” and the odd, warm goo that came out of the cafeteria. Chellis didn’t envy her coworkers who actually needed to consume that biowaste, and on the few times she got kitchen duty, she made well sure to double up on gloves. Still, it was a good place to be, as far as the Silwin medic saw it. She was doing what she loved. Nothing else beat the euphoric rush when a wounded soldier felt hope, or the love-tinged relief of a separated family reuniting. There was a good deal of pain in this terrible place, but she was doing her best to relieve it. Besides, it was exciting. Every day was unique, and no matter how long she stayed, she was always surprised by what could walk through her office door.

Case in point when a imposingly tall, Lupine male with fur as white as snow came in without any warning whatsoever. As he entered, she immediately went on edge, wound with the effort of… something. He was almost imperceptible, and though his face showed no signs of any stress or strain, she could tell there was a faint feeling of tension. She stared blankly at him for an uncomfortably long period of time before he finally moved.

Under what appeared to be minor duress, the Lupine held out his hand, and Chell wrapped her own cold fingers around it. They shook for almost as long as the silence had lasted, and once again, the levels of unease rose dramatically.

"Amarok, Hale Captain... that's me..." The captain, if he was as he said, released her hand and seemed to regain some composure. "So, just, start at the beginning. Ms... uh, Mr? Um... Chellis. I'm looking for people with certain... skills, and so far from what I've heard, you're pretty good at patching people up. You Silwin are known empaths, too. Point is, I really want your help. You'd be able to kick some ass, see the galaxy, and show the Empire who was here first... what do you say?"

What he was asking was nothing short of lunacy. Kicking ass? What did he think she was, a Gollek in row? If she wasn’t so surprised, she might have been driven to indignance. Here she was, wasting the prime years of her life giving aid to Imperials and insurgents alike, and he had the gall to ask if she was willing to throw half of that toil away?

Thomas. Eliza. Solyer.

The names poked at the back of her mind like a needle, and for a moment, her blank face wrinkled in weary vexation.

“I’m going to have to turn down your offer, Captain Hale,” she replied, a tad more dryly than she wanted to. She felt the inklings of a headache coming on, and most certainly did not need this kind of stress weighing her down.

"No? What do you mean no?" Hale chuckled. He was overpoweringly nervous now. "B-but, you're one of the best medics in this sector! I thought you-" Hale turned back to Chellis and took a deep breath. "Fine, I get it, you've got it good here. Just remember, you can hide back behind this blockade, and just pretend it won't touch you... Look, no hard feelings, I just..." Hale's words trailed off. After a moment, he grabbed his hat from the table and turned to walk out the door.

"If you change your mind, I'm in Dock 8... better make up your mind fast, they'll figure out my ID number is false by tomorrow… If I'm lucky."

And with that, the Lupine left, leaving behind only the dwindling apprehension and Chell’s pacing heart. She didn’t even realize she was so nervous until now. Why should she be? Though terrifying at first glance, he didn’t seem too threatening, and the conversation was over too quick for anyone to think she was collaborating with a rebel.

Not if they learned about the alleyway. Not if they knew what you did. Thomas. Eliza. Solyer. You didn’t even know his name, but you know theirs. You know theirs because of the choices you made.

A thick lump of frigid lead formed in Chell’s throat, and she massaged at it worryingly. There was no way anyone knew unless the three told, and they didn’t know her name, only her face. Though on a planet with only three Silwin, that was damning enough. She rose from her chair, surprised by how unsteady her legs were, and left from her office.

You’re already on the path, you know. It isn’t like you’d be changing that by turning this offer down. You’re going down this road, whether you want to or not.

She had already cast her lots in with this Hale, even if she didn’t know Hale when she had. She froze in her steps. Hale had known her. That had implications, implications she hadn’t even considered. If Hale knew her by name, who else on the rebels’ side did? If her name was connected with them in any way, how would the Empire see that? What would the Empire do to a known contact, someone an insurgent leader knew where to find, what to call?

Whether it was the lack of sleep or residue from the tension, the jumps her logic made were breathtaking. With her name and location already in rebel hands, with reason for the Empire to gun her down as a revolutionary, her only course of action was to go after this Hale.

You can hide back behind this blockade, and just pretend it won't touch you, he had said.

Without a second to lose, she grabbed her field kit and ran off to the side bay, where a fully supplied Engel was sure to be waiting. It was always stocked in case they needed to go on an emergency run.

Thomas. Eliza. Solyer.

If they gave her up… she would forgive them. She didn’t have the heart to hate them, not after what she had seen. Still, she would miss this place. In the place she was, though, she did it more harm than good. That’s what she told herself as she checked the dropship’s diagnostics, as she routinely leafed through the duffel in side storage, as she clambered up into the cockpit. That’s what she told herself to keep her conscience clean.

-

The ship whirred through the air, flying low over the launch docks. Ion thrusters hummed with the low purr of a pleasured feline as it descended, moving closer and closer, its pilot straining to make out the dock numbers through the smoke of burning engines. Was that...

“Eight!” she unintentionally shouted, almost missing a crane loading cargo on a nearby freighter. Pulling hard left on the joystick, the ship spiralled, and the giant vessel sitting in dock eight loomed closer and closer through her front shield. Joints locked, she narrowly missed the top of the behemoth’s open bay, a trail of sparks lighting the air behind her as she slowed to a stop. Hands shaking, she unlatched the cockpit door, and slid out onto the floor.

"Nice ship, cowgirl." The Lupine was watching her from a safe distance away. "Kinda dinged up my hanger, though..."

Before she could stop herself, a deep laugh broke from Chell’s mouth, refusing to stop until it left her gasping for air. She was a criminal now. A rebel against one of the most imposing military forces in the galaxy. And for some odd reason, she didn’t mind.

Origins:

"You realize this is a terrible idea, right?" The man crossed his arms, face stern. "This isn't like what you learned back at the academy. You're going to be dealing with a literal warzone, with injuries you can't help, not to mention the stress..."

"I know." Chell sat rigidly in a metal chair across from him, her hands folded plainly on his desk.

"You're one of our brightest students. If you continued with your studies here, you'd certainly be able to serve at a higher profile hospital. Maybe United Ascendancy? It has a study program that lets you attend classes while interning."

"I know," Chell repeated. "You've told me before. I understand you want to talk me out of this. It won't happen."

The man sighed, clearly disappointed, but nodded in weary resignation. "You just have to get your way, don't you?"

It wasn't a matter of getting her way. It wasn't a product of selfish intent, or of short-sighted stubborness. There was a hidden hierarchy among the graduate students of Alphegor Medical Academy. The administration would deny it, but it showed in the opportunities offered, in the careers suggested. The students who excelled were sent to big, cushy hospitals and specialized clinics, lofty places where patients seldom suffered. It was the reward for hard work, in a way, if one could consider long hours sucking fat out of rich off-worlders rewarding.

"You have to sign here," the man continued, sliding a sheet of paper across the desk.

Breath in Life, the title read. An altruistic effort built on the failures of the less fortunate. Surviving solely on the charity of others, surviving only because people thought it was something noble.

Instead of a dumping ground for the dregs, Chell thought bitterly. Without hesitation, she scrawled her name at the bottom, and pushed the document back.

"I hope you know what you're doing," the man said as he slid the paper into a folder.

"I do," Chell replied. "I'm making a difference."

Theme: Nightwish - "My Walden"

-- Vehicle Sheet --

Image

Name: LGuardian 3, Peacekeeper Class - Produced "Brazen," renamed "Engel."

Role in Combat: Engel is a medically-repurposed crowd suppression vehicle intended largely for civilian use. As such, it doesn't fair particularly well on the battlefront, but shines in a supportive role.

Weapons: Two high-volume air cannons, typical to the LGuardian Peacekeeper models, capable of unbalancing man and machine alike with gale force winds. They require ten seconds to build full pressure before each fire, but they can be shot prior for a less impactful blast. They can operate in full independence from each other, and are able to draw from water sources through a retractable tube in the rear of the vehicle, if desired. In addition, Engel has a disruptive field that can lessen the impact of energy-based attacks, added to counteract illicit laser and plasma technology discharged during riots. The field is electrified, and will discharge into anything conductive that touches them when operative, rendering the field temporarily shorted (and any would-be thieves cooked throughly).

Mech Origins: The LGuardian Peacekeeper used to be a relatively common sight in contested human planets, useful for breaking apart riots and patrolling entrenched streets. However, as some rebel efforts grew in intensity, the local Peacekeeper series tanks were decommissioned in favor of more lethal deterrents. While many of these relics found their way into collector's halls and scrap heaps, this one was donated to Life in Breath, the local neutral-relief organization. They refurbished the casing and updated the interior, but left the crowd control implements intact, to provide protection from both insurgents and Human Empire forces alike.

Appearance: Originally battered from wear, Engel is now fully refurbished and repainted, shining with a white coat devoid of any scratches. Despite being in a war zone, most are adverse to attacking an ambulance, and the few brazen fools that do have their troubles undone by some hammering and buffing. It has two pairs of rotary "arms," one that houses the air cannons and acts as stabilizers, the other directing the force of two conservative ion thrusters. The ship is powered by a capacitor battery core capable of holding a charge for months. Though it is capable of space travel, deep-space is unadvised; the electromagnetic shield, while useful against blaster bullets, merely dampens the effects of celestial radiation, and the ship's ion thrusters don't have near enough force to get you anywhere consequential in time. Still, it readily adapts for orbital entry and re-entry, so can function as a space-to-surface shuttle in a pinch.

Other Features: Two comfortable mesh seats in the cockpit (though theoretically, five could squeeze themselves in) and a stretcher build snugly into the back storage compartment that can hold two more. It also has a side compartment, where Chell stores her duffel.
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Re: [CS] Retaliation: Character Sheets (Post Once Accepted)

Post by Quirbles » Sat Sep 16, 2017 1:25 am

Quirbles wrote:
Fri Sep 15, 2017 6:33 pm
Image

Name: Skriviks, the Dignified

Gender: Skriviks is what many call "male".

Age: Through salvaged, modified or otherwise stolen technology, high-ranking members of the Kavarian society were able to prolong their lifespan for an additional century—in certain cases. Despite the original expectancy of the Kavarian race being just over 200, infighting and warring among tribes following the collapse of their Golden Age resulted in the actual expectancy falling drastically. Those that were lucky, and those who had possessed the right technology would have been able to prolong the aging process past an upwards of 3 centuries.

Skriviks, through his various trials through the unforgiving galaxy, had reaped the rewards of his successful conquest and utilized this technology to extend his life far past his current age, which is 120 years old. Old in the eyes of various races; however, he'd have been a youngling in the view of Kavarian ancients.

Race: Kavarian.

Homeworld: Skriviks hails from the now-uninhabitable, long destroyed planet of Kaavri.

Skills:
Agility
Skriviks' body allows for a faster and wider range of movement, with the ability to mantle and climb most things with ease.

Strength
The Kavarian physique is imposing. Intimidating. Lean, but powerful; Skriviks uses this to his advantage. His four arms allows for double the power of most species, and his physiology allows for high endurance.

Scavenging
An eye for what's useful aids any thief--or scavenger. Skriviks' ability to scavenge that which is useful to him has been honed for nearly a century. In addition, the need of constant upkeep for his supplies and equipment has made him a valuable tinkerer for his own things.

Pride
In keeping with Kavarian tradition, Skriviks' title is "Dignified" as his integrity refuses to be broken. What he does, he does in honor of his once-prosperous race. He rarely backs down from physical challenges, and his demeanor commands respect. Earn his respect, and you would gain a loyal and valuable ally.

Equipment:
Image
The primary weapon that Skriviks utilizes is a traditional Kavarian heavy weapon. Given his stature, the weapon itself is much heavier and larger than most races could successfully maneuver with and use. The weapon fires in a continuous firing pattern, and has been grafted together using salvage over the many years of use.

For a melee weapon, Skriviks uses a long metal staff with electricity modules on either end. The sole purpose is to deliver a painful electric shock to anyone he hits with it.

A satchel slung around at Skriviks' side contains various trinkets and items within it.

Image
The Nevuli

A rough translation. The Nevuli is an apparatus representing the pinnacle of Kavarian technology. The sphere fits snugly in Skriviks' palm, and the bottom portion of the marble-like device pulses and swirls with murky clouds resembling the structure of a nebulous cloud. The sphere feels cool to the touch and has the texture of smoothed glass, with a glowing, smaller sphere within its center. Unbeknownst to those around him, this small device contains the detailed history of his people. Before the pending destruction of their home planet, small spheres identical to Skriviks' had been loaded with all the information they could about Kaavri. This small sphere is one--if not the only--of its kind in existence. Because of its dire important to him and his people's survival, Skriviks has constructed a metal cover for the sphere for further protection.

Various items of salvage are also contained within the satchel, but the sphere is the only item of note. Skriviks' weapon is frequently slung across his back.

Personality: The Kavarian migrant is a shell of a being, and the mass self-genocide of his peoples has made the load no less harsh upon his mind. Though he had been quite young during the time of the Collapse, the events are still as raw within his conscious since the day he had managed to escape the cursed planet with his kin. And the fire that had consumed his home had only managed to ignite an inferno within him, an inextinguishable sense of hatred and vengeance for his people's destruction. Though he realized that his own race had became their own undoing, he vowed to preserve the legacy of his kind through his own life. He vowed to gain honor through combat, and to return the sense of pride and honor he had so horribly lost.

Despite his hardships, Skriviks is as proud as one could be in his circumstances. He bows to no leader and accepts no defeat. Stubbornness is a prevalent quality among the Kaavri natives, and Skriviks finds no trouble embodying that trait. However, he is especially quiet for such a proud being; whether it be the language barrier [as he understands and speaks English, but not expertly] or his own willingness to hold his tongue. He is complacent, but sharp of wit. Proud, but humble in the presence of those he respects. And there are few who have earned his respect.

Appearance: Skriviks stands at 7'7, an average height for a Kavarian male. His stature is imposing upon those around him, though not intentionally; his outfit and tall stance do the work for him. His skin is a dark silver color, a pigment uncommon among most of his species. He has four arms, both of which possess toned muscle from his years of drifting and the demands that came with it. His eyes, though covered by his helmet, are a deep purple color. A brown jumpsuit covers his body, with gloves and gauntlets covering his lower arms. Lengthened shoulder pads provide protection to his biceps as well as his shoulders. An armored chest-plate covers his midsection, with the plating terminating just under his neck. A furred neck collar travels along the back ridge of the plate to provide comfort. His knees and shins are protected by joint plating, the top of the pads jutting just above the kneecap. Boots cover his feet and end halfway up the shin, their color a deep grey like his skin. The treads offer remote magnetic plating, allowing him to have added grip on surfaces that are compatible.

Skriviks' mask is a mix of Golden Age Kavarian technology and salvage. Though the mask itself is mostly repaired from welded metal and other materials, a majority of the filtration systems and tubes within the helmet are still untouched. The mask acts as a filtering agent to prevent harmful chemicals from inhalation and is able to isolate carbon dioxide from the atmosphere for inhalation. The helmet, in short, makes breathing much easier for Kavarians outside of their native planet, which had carvon dioxide as their abundant gas in the atmosphere.

Biography/Origins:

"The destruction of my people will happen tonight... on the day known among Kavarians as the Eclipse. It is the day the sky itself, falls to Kaavri."
—Taniks the Sharp, shortly before Kaavri's impact with its moon.


Skriviks stood on the cooled magma river, arms crossed as he stared into the muted crimson horizon. His ship sat close behind him, the creaking metal echoing through the land before him. Mountains on either side stood as giants, their stone bodies shielding outside light from shining into the wide gulch. Their attempts were futile, for the sun itself had snuck between the mountains and set itself within the center of the valley. The creaking of metal ceased, and for a moment the world was still.

He tried to picture in his mind what the cities would have looked like. Magnificent marvels of modern technology, towering over the horizon as merchant ships flew to and from the bustling hubs. The glint of the sun as it reflected off the skyscrapers' many windows, with the towers of blue and grey able to be seen for miles and miles around. Kavarians, hundreds of them, walking from marketplace to marketplace and piloting their ships through the metal obstacles jutting forth into the sky. It was beautiful. It was home.

And it was all lost.

The impact of Kaavri's moon, Elikni, had leveled all of the planet's beloved cities. If the shockwave hadn't destroyed most structures, the hellfire, quakes and waves as tall as the towers themselves had erased their existence. Nothing remained but charred earth and deadened sky. And yet he returned. Why? To see for himself, he supposed. His people's undoing was tragic. He had to see it with his own eyes, the result of their hubris and folly.

For trusting humans.

They had come in droves, the parasitic race with their colony ships centuries ago. And with them, they brought the Kavarians' undoing: technology. Precious technology that granted leaps in the race's society, but came at the fatal cost of their resources. For the Kavarians had never known weapons of destruction like those wielded by humans. And as the Trojan Horse was gifted to the people of Troy, the schematics for weapons and terrible instruments of death were given to the Kavarians for their cooperation.

Though evidence of their meddling was suspiciously absent from Kavarian codices, the humans' arrival on Kaavri had been the catalyst for the destruction of Skriviks' people. The Kavarian people had not known the dangers of war, and had never desired to seek it; yet when they found out war's potential, they craved it. The humans had left as quickly as they had arrived, leaving a path of bloodshed and genocide in their wake.

"And so the Kells had turned to fire
Fueled by vengeance and by ire."


Skriviks would never forgive the human race for their hand in his people's undoing. Decades passed, and his heartfelt anger became mollified by experience and age; yet a small inkling of disgust and hatred remained in the back of his mind. Indeed, time heals all wounds, but the scars of the event plague his mind. For years, the event consumed him completely, the rage and desire for revenge clouding his logic and actions; many humans had died at his hand, and yet, no amount of bloodshed would satisfy the pain within his body.

So he forgave.

No amount of innocent deaths would bring his people's legacy back. These people had no part in the Collapse. He felt disgraced. Skriviks had done what the humans had done to his own race; to continue would simply lower him to their moral level. He grew distant from the companions he traveled with, his surviving kin. Eventually, he abandoned them altogether, took the Nevuli and fled to the cold regions of space. Fled amongst the stars, eventually finding himself within Kaavri's orbit. Home. At least, it had been.

Skriviks sighed, turning away from the valley and entering his ship. He'd remain on-planet for a while longer. After all, this was his last visit.

Theme:

Calm:
"Excerpt 1 From the Rose"

Action:
"Untold Legends"


Image
"I call it 'Kirijna'. Or, in your people's tongue... loyal."

Role in Combat: The role of Skriviks' armored walker is that of intimidation and protection. Its slow-firing cannon is able to rotate a full 360°, and the forward-mounted laser repeater on the front is more than capable of dealing its share of damage. Both cannons are powered by Kavarian batteries, and as a result do not require actual ammunition to fire; rather, it stores charge from solar energy and electricity. Though slow-moving, its rear is heavily armored to protect from flank shots. The supporting legs of the walker also possess abundant protection. This leaves the front visor and sides vulnerable to more damage, however the armor on those areas is still quite a bit.

Weapons: Kirijna possesses a large electric flak cannon on its roof which has 360° horizontal movement and a 45° vertical movement. On the front of the walker is a laser-repeater. Both are powered by a rear-mounted Kavarian battery core, which draws heat, solar energy, and electricity from the outside of the walker in order to sustain power. Each leg of the walker is equipped with a seismic piston, making each of the walker's steps deadly within a radius when activated. These steps can be charged and slammed into the earth, sending out shockwaves.

Mech Origins: Skriviks has used the ancient Kavarian walker for as long as he could remember. It had seen him through many fights, and the Kavarian trusts his life with the machine. Although certain parts of the inner workings of Kirijna had begun to fall into disrepair, Skriviks has kept it in near-peak performance with salvage addons and repairs.

Appearance: The walker, although appearing large, was originally designed to have 1 soldier within it at a time. As such, the cockpit seats one person; two if they are not a Kavarian. The walker itself is around the size of a large truck, with each of its 6 legs adding about 4 feet in height. The exterior is a gunmetal grey, with Kavarian insignias painted on either side of the cabin. The front of the walker contains an opaque visor which allows the pilot to see out of the walker, yet restricts the view from the outside.

Other Features: The bottom of each foot of the walker contains a powerful thruster. This allows the walker to achieve short-distance flight for a limited time.
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Re: [CS] Redemption

Post by Poetic Ghost » Mon Mar 26, 2018 7:43 pm

”Howdy...”

Image

Name: Morgan Blackwell

Gender: Cowboy

Age: 30

Race: Vanilla Human

Homeworld: Born on Arizona, a Human colony located on the “Frontier Belt”. A sparsely populated world, as large portions are desert badland or home to hostile wildlife. The planet mostly consists of farmers and miners, mainly humans, but the promise of freedom on the frontier brings , people from all walks of life to this dusty corner of the galaxy.

Skills:

A space-age cowboy, Morgan is quite adapt in the use of firearms and hand-to-hand combat. His fighting style is unique to him, utilizing his environment and anomalous objects around him. He is also something of an engineer, as well as a pilot, having some experience fixing machinery on his home world, and flying snub fighters. It isn’t all just violence and grease-monkeying that Morgan is good for. He is also quite an inspiring leader, being able to bring courage back to the hearts of his allies with inspiring words and his own acts of bravery. Though, his greatest strength comes from his knowledge and experience travelling the stars.

And yes, he can ride a horse.

Equipment:

Morgan prefers to pack light, carrying only his weapons; a pair of double-action high-caliber revolvers custom-made by a friend on Arizona. However, offhand he holds a number of tools and weaponry. When it comes to body armor, Morgan prefers to go without, but in the case he needs to protect his vital organs, he will don a Duraweave breastplate, designed to absorb kinetic energy and deflect light projectiles. He wears a pair of gloves that have been designed to steady his hand while holding a firearm, using micro-adjusting magnets and reactive polymers in the gloves' fibers. Beyond that, Morgan prefers to rely on wit, luck, and his allies to get him out of situations that a fancy gadget or big gun would solve.

Personality:

The term ‘nostalgic’ describes Morgan perfectly. He holds himself to a personal code of honour akin to that of a frontier gunslinger, valuing justice and respect. Morgan's trust is easy to earn, but even easier to break. Show him that you lack good character, or that your goals are only your own, and he will quickly distance himself from you. On first impressions, Morgan can come off as a bit brutish, preferring action over talk, but with some mutual trust, Morgan will reveal himself as a sensitive soul who truly cares for those around him. His gunslinger personality can be seen as something of a façade, making him appear larger than life, although in truth his 'space cowboy' style gives him a connection to his homeworld.

Appearance:

6'1 while wearing his boots, with tanned skin and dark wavy hair. Morgan's eyes are a deep brown and sharp like a hawk's, ever-vigilant and intelligent. His jaw is angled and chiseled, with a scar running vertical next to his chin, made more noticeable with the light stubble. His physical build is maintained, but nothing to marvel at. Of course, what really individualizes Morgan is his fashion, preferring to wear cowboy boots and a duster hat over more modern styles of clothing.

Theme: Hang Em' High - My Chemical Romance

Biography:

Backwater

Image

"Draw!"

A single shot rang out through the small settlement of Anchorhead. Those settlers that were not gathered in the middle of the town might have confused it with the clock tower's hour chime. But for those who had watched the two men walk their paces and turn, it was easy to see who the winner had been. Between the two dualists, an older man with a large bag marked by a cross approached the man who laid in the dirt and pressed his fingers to his neck. "Yep, he's dead. Blackwell is the winner," he announced, and a slow clap began to resonate through the streets.

Morgan took a deep breath and spun the cylinder of his revolver, emptying the weapon of it's single spent cartridge. In a quick motion, he flipped the weapon around his finger and pushed it back into the holster strapped to his thigh. It was time to get paid. He'd cash in the outlaw, fuel up his ship, and find himself another bounty on the next tiny fuel depot rock that would come up on his radar. He made his way to the Marshal's Station, and quickly entered stepped into Marshal Hawkins' office.

"Howdy, Sheriff. I'm here to cash in Lenshire."

"It's Marshal, cowboy," Hawkins looked up from the monitor on his desk. "That sure was one way to do it. You call him out in the street like some old gunslinger and shoot when the clock struck twelve? Most trigger men around here would just gun him down when his back was turned. I'd heard you were old-fashioned, but I thought it was more of a gimmick to be honest." The Marshal said, printing his name at the bottom of the papers for Morgan's bounty. "There you go, fifty thousand carbons, as promised." He handed over the paper, newly sealed with the Hub Authority crest. The money was nothing to marvel at, as inflated as the common currency of Aurelius had become. It was all about being on the right side of the law in these times. These tense times. "Still, I don't get the whole moral high ground. These guys are criminals, you know.

"Thank you kindly, sir," Morgan took the paper from the Marshal's hand and slipped it into his coat, setting it next to the knife that laid against his chest. "But they are still people, they still deserve respect," he added, tipping his hat to the lawman before he turned to the doorway behind him.

"So that's it then? You'll just ride off into the sunset? You do know what year this is, right?" The Marshal said, kicking a boot unto his desk as the cowboy stepped through the doors.

"That sounds about right, Sheriff."

---

The Vanguard

Image

"We've combed the Frontier for you, Blackwell, and just as suspected, you're in the last place we'd think to look."

The woman leaned forwards on her desk, pivoting on her elbows. She smiled, but not a welcoming 'I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me' smile. When she smiled, Morgan understood that she had him in her sights, and that their meeting was anything but chance. "Apologizes, ma'am. I'm not sure I understand where I am," Morgan spoke, breaking the silence he had held since his ship had been pulled in, seized, and he was sent to speak with 'Her'. "Can you tell me who you are, at the very least?"

The woman leaned back in her chair, and looked over Morgan before she spoke, "I am Commander Andromeda Chernova, and you are on myship, Mr. Blackwell." She rose from her chair, and preceded to open the top drawer of her desk. "I am the leader of all military operations for the Hub... President McConnelly might be the face of the Alliance, but he wouldn't even have made it to elections if my military wasn't as powerful as it is," Chernova retrieved a folder, and pushed the drawer closed behind her hand. "Now, we've been keeping tabs on certain individuals in Aurelius, some like you... and others..." Chernova passed slid the folder across her desk, letting photographs spill out across her mahogany surface. The photos showed armed men moving large containers of materials, weapons, and finally a bomb. Morgan was by no means an explosives expert, but he could tell that whatever that device was, it was a threat.

"Who are these men?" Morgan asked, pushing the photographs back towards the Commander. "...and do you need them dead?"

"Terrorists. Anarchists. Murderers." Chernova gathered her photos and added, "I need them to be removed from the equation entirely. They have no place in Aurelius, they only wish to destroy what we have worked so hard to build." The Commander pulled another file from her desk, bound in a red folder.

"When do you need me to start?" Morgan followed.

"Cool your jets, cowboy." Chernova chuckled and passed him the red folder, before she moved over to a small table that held a decanter of liquor. "You're just my Ace, Blackwell. I've got an entire deck in that folder, check it out." She poured two glasses and continued to speak, "some were harder to track down than others... take the Silwin for example, we found her in a warzone, patching up refugees. One hell of a medic, and those empathic abilities? Her codename is the Queen of Hearts, how cool is that?" Chernova laughed, and took a drink from her glass. "Do you drink bourbon, cowboy?"

Morgan took his eyes off the files and looked over at the Commander, now offering him a glass of bourbon. His mouth began to water, the last alcohol he had drank was some half-watered whiskey in some bounty bar on Tejas. "Y-yes, thank you," he said, taking the glass from her hand and bringing it to his lips. "Quite a colorful cast you've got here, Commander Chernova." Morgan said, downing half his glass in a single gulp, letting the alcohol sting his throat.

"All they need is someone to rally behind, a leader." Chernova said, looking across the room at the cowboy, like a treasure from the past. "What do you say, Mr. Blackwell, do you think you could bring these misfits together?"

"Well, I'd need a ship-"

Chernova cut him off, "I can cover it."

Morgan started again, "and supplies, we'd need ammo and weapons and-"

"Mr. Blackwell, I'm not cheap. You need it, I'll get it." Chernova confided, setting her glass back down on the table. "So, will you take the job, or do i need to find some other gunslinger in a funny hat?"

"I... I'll do it." Morgan said, standing from his seat.

"Well, shine your spurs, cowboy..." Chernova extended a hand.

"Welcome to Nine-Tailed Fox."

-- Vehicle Sheet --

Image

Name: Achilles Prototype Suit

Role in Combat: Anti-AMP (Armored Multi-Purpose Vehicle)

Components:

- Dynamic Local Dissipative Shield Technology
- T261 Lucifer Arm-Mounted Gatling Gun with 20mm high explosive rounds, alternate-hand grip stabilizer
- Type 18 Magnetic/Bayonet-style Claymore which can be primed, attached, or otherwise impaled into nonmagnetic surfaces
- Motion Sensor with 1400m+ range (with map mode) across flat surfaces with minimal destruction
- 2x ventral VTOL stabilizers
- 2x dorsal VTOL stabilizer
- 4x afterburner thrusters
- LAU-1810/SGM-151 - Shoulder-mounted, self-guided high explosive missiles
- M149 Magellan RCL - Armor mounted recoilless rifle with 105mm high explosive ordnance
- 300 megaton lead-tampered nuclear fission self-destruct sequence component ,which would reuse the fusion components of the suit's power system and begins a staggered countdown which could only be activated with a voice command

Mech Origins:

Appearance: More of an exoskeleton than an actual mech suit. Achilles stands at twelve feet tall. The armor is made from materials designed to absorb kinetic impact. Achilles is equipped with a self-activating dome energy shield. The dynamic nature of the shield makes it automatically engage when the suit comes under heavy fire.

Other Features: The suit is an early prototype, and is extremely dangerous to operate. The pilot will often exit the suit broken, from the extreme conditions placed on their bodies while operating this heavy machinery.
Last edited by Poetic Ghost on Thu Apr 05, 2018 4:52 am, edited 5 times in total.
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Re: [CS] Redemption

Post by Quirbles » Sat Mar 31, 2018 1:06 am

Quirbles wrote:
Tue Mar 27, 2018 3:41 am
Species:
The Conscious / The Awoken / Husks
Provaetus, Guardians of an Ancient Age

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Average Height:
Around 6 and a half feet, though there are some that are around 7 exact.

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Cap Age:
Essentially limitless, provided that proper maintenance and care is conducted. Given the ancient status of these beings, one could assume that they possess an incredible longevity, if not immortality.

RU9OUyBPRiBTRVJWSVRVREUNCkVPTlMgT0YgU0xBVkVSWQ==

Appearance:
Image
"Conscious", photo taken by Franz Kepeler.
The above image earned Kepeler a Nobel Prize by the human society upon EX-3003 "New Europa". The context of the image was described in an interview nearly a year later.

"We'd discovered them in a subterranean bunker of sorts, just sitting within these enclosed capsules. Someone must have triggered a sensor, or something, because, uh, moments later they had all, uh, seemingly awoken at once. It was a sight to see.

"I'd brought my camera with me—for purposes of photography and log-keeping—and, once we had taken them all out they all seemed, uh, well, unresponsive. Not in the way that they were catatonic. They were alive, but... they just didn't speak. They looked at us, silently observing us as we talked, um, and about a day later of this silence one of them began to speak. And we pulled this one aside, said, 'who are you', and he, uh, responded with one word: 'Conscious'. And so I asked if I could take a picture of him, and he didn't even know what they meant, obviously, so I lined him next to the wall of our tent and took a photo. And, uh, that was the first time any of them spoke. 'Conscious'. And that's what we called them, from then on."


The general makeup of a Conscious is a rigid and metallic exoskeleton with a presumably sensitive and internal network of electrical systems. They are incredibly complex in their design; subtle eye movements and faceplate shifts often make expressions lifelike and distinctively "human", and their patterns of speech have evolved to mimic that of humans'. They are explicitly humanoid in appearance, and many range in monochromatic colors of grey, black and white white various color accents to highlight individuality. While white seems to signify a more servant-centric role, greys and pitch-hued exoskeletons signify that of defense and assault suited roles. These models often sport integrated weaponry.

They are entirely sentient, and as such possess free will and emotion. Given their fairly recent awakening, however, the entirety of galactic society is a culture shock to them. All fled New Europea after reawakening.

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The entirety of the Conscious race is an enigma. Only a handful have ever been confirmed to be in existence, and even then the majority of these robotic beings prefer solitude from society. Rumors circulate that some have been captured and held for experimentation and testing on New Europa.

Digestion: They require no food or sustenance to maintain operation; a marvel of design and a violator of thermodynamics, at first glance. Speculation leads to the assumption of some sort of power source within the interior of these robotic beings.

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Reproduction: They require no means of propagation, having been designed for singular purposes and without the intent of sentience.

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Psychology:
You cannot describe what you do not understand. While psychoanalysis of the Conscious has been attempted, their behaviors and emotions mimic that of a typical human's. This can be seen as an imitation of human psychology, as the robotic beings predate much of human civilization, most definitely existing before the modern man had arrived at Aurelius.

The nature of their machinery completely negates the affects of telepathy and conventional forms of empathy, leading many to believe that these metal husks do not possess emotion at all and are simply adapting traits of those around them in order to assimilate into modern culture.

Rest assured, they do feel emotion. They do not know how to process what it means to feel.

QSBMSUZFIE9GIE5VTUJORVNTDQpTVURERU5MWSwgRU1PVElPTg0KQU4gRU1QVElORVNTDQpQQUlODQpXSFk=

Adaptability: Being near-ancient beings, one could assume that their outer exoskeletons have incredible resistance to wear and tear. While this might be true for protecting against erosion of their "skin", the Awoken anatomy is far more resilient than a human's but still has its limitations. They are waterproof and can resist higher temperatures than the normal human benchmark but are still highly susceptible to kinetic damage, especially at the weak points upon their exoskeleton.

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Language:
No recorded language, other than the commonly-used forms of binary coding. The Conscious appear to have a translator module within their body, as they are able to understand most languages presented to them despite no clear knowledge of where they pull this compendium from. Such a catalogue of languages, however, is outdated, as many fail to understand modern slang and certain terms presented to them. Further testing must be done to explore this language barrier.

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Home Planet:
NEW EUROPA
AURELIUS
THE BEGINNING

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Cells interlinked within cells interlinked
Within one stem. And, dreadfully distinct
Against the dark, a tall white fountain played.

Quirbles wrote:
Fri Mar 30, 2018 5:45 pm
Name:
J4X, or "Jax". His serial number is engraved upon the back of his neck plate. Originally, the Conscious called themselves by their designated numbers; however, whether through suggestion or due to their new-found sentience, many chose names for themselves. Jax calls himself such a name due to its similarity to his serial number.

Gender:
Male, by societal standards. All Conscious seem to have male-defining facial structure and body types, and their voices are typically lower in nature.

Age:
Millennia, supposedly. The Conscious have remained inactive for thousands of years, seemingly protecting the structures that they were found in. While most fell to wear-and tear from erosion and rust, there were a select few found in preservation capsules. Each unit retained no memories before their activation.

Race:
Conscious / Awoken / "Husk", the latter being a derogatory term. Despite New Europa's relatively insignificant status in the politics of Aurelius, the planet received a spike in attention due to the reawakening of the Conscious in the pyramids beneath the planet's surface. Seeing as they were placed their by an intelligent entity [now long dead], a controversy erupted involving the considered sentience of the newly-discovered robots. The ethics problem was largely ignored in galactic politics in an effort to quell the argument and let it fade into obscurity, though this tactic ultimately backfired as many accused the Hub of ignoring the issue.

While still largely forgotten in the public's mind today, the debacle was dubbed the "Conscious Crisis" and ended up putting the Hub Authority in a negative light for that year. The "Husks", as many call them, are simply robots without purpose and were treated as such. As such, the remaining Conscious are subject to racism involving their perceived sentience. This has led to a general distrust of society in Aurelius.

Homeworld:
So far, the only planet to contain the ancient structures in which the Conscious were found was New Europa, located just before the Frontier of Aurelius. It was largely a manufacturing planet for metallurgy and chemicals concerning the interactions with metals, as the crust of the planet contained a wide array of minerals for processing. Following the Reawakening and the Conscious Crisis, however, a negligible portion of New Europa's economy is dedicated to tourism of the pyramids the mechanical beings were found in. Research has also begun on scrapped Conscious in order to understand their biology and makings in an attempt to replicate them. Results have been inconclusive.

Skills:
ESP-Blocker
Completely immune to extra-sensory perceptions due to his mechanical nature, including but not limited to telepathy, suggestibility and shared empathy. The process of how J4X—or the Conscious, for that matter—are able to achieve this is still unknown, though the composition of their bodies and "robotic" makeup might contribute to this. Some say they don't have souls, which is why many see an expansive void when attempting to interact telepathically.

Linguist
Jax is able to communicate in a vast array of languages and dialects due to his exposure to the galaxy since his awakening. He also shows an ability to learn languages in drastically shorter timespans. As such, he has seen employment as an armed mercenary on the Frontier planets and in areas where languages are less established.

Environmental Defense
J4X's body was crafted with resilience and adaptability in mind, and as such is designed to withstand biting cold as well as sweltering hot conditions. High pressure and low-pressure environments have little effect on him, and he requires no atmosphere to breathe in.

Data Vault
J4X's ESP resistance can be paired with his nearly unlimited memory, allowing for the storing of confidential information and crucial data. His mind is essentially an uncrackable safe.

Robotic Advantages
Being designed as a defense unit [as evidenced by his darker grey coloring], J4X has increased durability and power than that of the passive models that were recovered. His makeup offers relatively infinite stamina, as the Conscious body does not require outside sustenance or "fuel" to keep itself operational. His body also supplies increased force to unarmed attacks, capable of breaking bone with enough windup. Along with heightened athletics and strength, J4X's exoskeleton is made of high-grade armored material. Explosive resistance is minimal, but he can take multiple high-speed projectiles and numerous hits from melee weapons before the armor's integrity gives.

Melee Proficiency
When in combat, J4X favors hand-to-hand combat over all else. It provides a sort of rush for him while fighting, and it was what he was designed for thousands of years ago. Despite his completely wiped memory, the programming is still there.

Self-Repairs
One of the arguments for the Conscious being considered "alive" is due to the fact that they are able to naturally regenerate from wounds, much like a human or animal. J4X is knowledgeable of the finer aspects of his body and is able to aid in the repair process, allowing him to recover from wounds quicker. He has also implemented modifications upon his body, such as advanced plating and implemented weapons.

Equipment:
[] Upon J4X's fingertips are sharpened metal points, acting as weapons when in combat situations. The index finger on either hand is equipped with a micro-laser, capable of making small incisions [or cauterizing] for self-repair. They're relatively low-power, and as such must be used within a few centimeters or so from the target.

[] J4X's palms are equipped with 2 pieces of equipment that are able to produce a current and subsequent arcs of electricity. He is able to produce up to 300 Volts, enough to cause significant pain and incapacitation.

[] The soles of J4X's feet as well as the palms of his hands are magnetic upon activation, allowing him to attract and stay oriented upon surfaces that carry a magnetic field.

Personality:
J4X's awakening into a unwelcoming galaxy has led to his disillusionment with Aurelius and subsequent bitterness. His escape to the Frontier was really an escape from New Europa and anything to do with his past, as he'd sooner forget it than have to confront whoever, or whatever, created him thousands of years ago. As a result, passivity became the name of the game for him. It wouldn't matter if the galaxy didn't accept him. Whatever others thought of him— whether he was living, an object, or something in the middle — he knew who he was. And there was no sense in changing it.

The apathy of J4X has led to a bit of a drifter lifestyle, picking up jobs as a mercenary or private military contractor over the various planets on the Frontier. He made no friends, but many enemies.

"Fuckin' Husk," they'd say to me.

"Go back to whatever hole you came out of."

No problem. I'd outlive them, anyway.


Apathy turned to anger. The people that hated him, who made him feel unwelcome—they didn't know what the hell they were talking about. It was starting to piss him off, how people always spoke up for him. Like he needed others' help. As if he was some sort of frail thing that needed protection. He became withdrawn from conversations, opting to carry on his life in solitude. When he was hired, it was a solo job. The only contact he had was when he got paid. Simpler that way. Nobody to see him, to judge him for what he was. What was he? An abomination? Why was he here?

I kept it all to myself. Picturing what I'd do to these people if I had the chance. What I'd do to the people who made me like this. I'd get my revenge. One day.

Apathy turned to resentment. He'd never done anything to the people who hate him, why did they act the way they did? Because they didn't understand him? Who the hell were they to think that they were better than him? Was it jealousy? Spite? Or was it something worse? Paranoia set in. Everyone he made eye contact with was a suspect of hatred. They judged him. Loathed him. He was different, and they were scared of him. Always judging, always looking, looking, looking, looking—

Eventually, I snapped.

Biography / Origins: It was a small tavern on the outskirts of Backwater. He'd retired for the night, opting to sit at a corner table near the back of the room. Low-profile, with a hood over his head to hide his face. Not well-hidden enough, apparently, seeing as one of the bar's patrons had ordered a drink for him. The man sauntered over to J4X motioned to the bartender jokingly, a smirk plastered onto his lightly-shaved face.

"Get a cup of motor oil for that thing over there. That's what you drink, right?"

It was automatic, the way he stood up from the table and thrown his chair at the man. Almost as if he had no control over his movements. He kept punching, and punching, and punching as the man's lineaments devolved into nothing more than a misshapen, red mass. Blood coated the shined metal of his fists and arms, pooling around the man's body and flicking over to nearby stools until he was forcefully pulled off by multiple patrons.

"WE GOT A ROGUE FUCKIN' BOT OVER HERE!"

Just like that, the fire within him was rekindled. He was scared, but he couldn't stop it. His actions were uncontrollable, his conscience forced to be a bystander to the horrifying spectacle. He'd worked his way through the entirety of the tavern's guests before he finally calmed down, turning and surveying the damages he'd caused.

When the haze of hatred finally cleared from his mind, the bodies of innocents slowly came into focus. The once-tan walls had been stained mahogany in places, his clothes and arms splattered with patches of glistening crimson.

Worst of all, it gave him relief.

Years of internalized anger had built up within him and was released within minutes of slaughter. The path to pleasure, to a feeling of contentment—it was that easy. Every punch thrown, every injury caused by him eased a minute amount of pain within himself, and it felt worth the cost. Jax glanced down at his bloodied hands, extending his fingers and flipping to his palms.

Was this what is was like? To feel? To hate?

Collapsing to his knees, he closed his eyes and covered his face with the innocent blood that he'd shed. A feeling of pain, a twisting of his insides occurred within his gut. It kept rising, increasing in intensity until it made him nauseous, and for a moment he thought that he might die. For a moment, he wanted to.

Then, it became clear. It was guilt.

He fled the tavern that night, too scared to reconcile with what he had caused. Help had been contacted, but Jax was long gone before they'd arrived.

The feelings he was experiencing, they weren't right. They were foreign, and wrong, and he hated them. He hated suffering at his own conscience and wanted to rid himself of it, become emotionless and lessen his pain and, and...

...and become exactly what others thought he already was.

He washed himself of the blood and left the system, opting to flee to a remote corner of Aurelius and live out the rest of his days in complete solitude. A barren planet, icy in nature and devoid of life. No-one to dare follow his tracks. He'd be safe there. From himself.

Kaavri.

Once a prosperous planet, according to the records of their history. Now, nothing more than a deadened rock orbiting a dying sun. Yes, he'd stay there. The old natives of the planet were long since dead, having abandoned Kaavri for a more suitable atmosphere.

He'd been tracked in his endeavor, and once he reached planet-side he was greeted with various gunships waiting for him. A deal, they said to him. They knew what he had done on Backwater. A misunderstanding, they said. As if they understood him. Were he willing to help them, he'd be pardoned, free to live out the rest of his days once he was finished. Were he to disagree, they'd have him dissected and studied.

Jax agreed, reluctantly. Perhaps it would have been better if he was dismantled.

Appearance:
Image
J4X's burly stature is explained by the dark sheen of his metal, a reflection of his status as a defense unit for his ancient creators. He stands at just below 7 feet, the taller side of the spectrum for the Conscious' height. All of his body, save for joints or moving parts, is covered in metal that possesses incredible durability despite being relatively lightweight. His body is still quite heavy, however.

His eyes are a bright orange color, and the brightness of his irises can be controlled for dimming [or deactivation] in dark environments. He sometimes blinks with "eyelids" of sorts via the covering of a shutter over each eye. There is no real need to do this, but his adaptation to human nature resulted in this mimicry. His mouth contains no teeth or tongue, but it still able to form syllables and noises ordinarily impossible without either body part. His feet contain no toes and instead look like slim boots.

His desire to blend into regular society and not be noticed is reflected by his choice in clothing. A fur-lined blueish-black jacket with yellow, white and red accents is Jax's primary choice, and this is usually paired with sunglasses and any sort of hat to help cover his face. Under the jacket is a regular black shirt. Gloves cover his hands, and grey-black pants complete his outfit. He wears tan boots to cover the bottom of his feet, though these are commonly taken off for missions as they obstruct his magnetic ability.

Theme:
Memory
Sea Wall

Vehicle Sheet
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Name: J4X calls it the Uplink, as it's commonly used as a hub for him to access data and perform maintenance on himself.

Role in Combat: The role of the Uplink is relatively flexible, as it can be used for reconnaissance or an agile stealth-fighter. Its lack of dense armor plating makes it a weak spearhead in an assault, and as such is suited for more passive or covert operations. At least, in its flying form.

Weapons: Standard missiles, though the propulsion system is a tesla-rail system that allows for high velocities. It also sports laser targeting systems on its front and rear, primarily for guarding blind spots and flanks.

Mech Origins:
New Europa
Origin site for the Provaetus, heretofore known as the "Conscious Memorial"

The office of Hans Elmener was notably messy, though its quaint size provided a sense of homey-ness for the overseer. It was home, in a way, given how much of his waking hours he spent in it. The Conscious Crisis was just beginning, and protestors had gathered outside the temporary perimeter set around the sites for the recently-discovered pyramids. Somebody had leaked that there were beings—living, breathing beings—within them, and the public was interested. That, or scared of whatever they had found deep within the crust of this small planet.

Elmener was broken out of his thoughts when a young researcher burst into the room, the updraft from the door's opening sending sensitive documents fluttering and swirling upwards. The overseer cursed and quickly sat up from his chair to face the now embarrassed researcher, a look of disapproval cast upon him.

"What are you doing bursting in here?"

"I'm sorry sir, it's just—"

"You do know who you're talking to, right?"

"Sir, one of those... robots... is trying to escape."

Elmener blinked once, processing what the young man had just said. A second later, he furrowed his brow.

"What?" He asked again, a hint of a chuckle in his voice. He suspected it was some sort of joke.

"One — one of the things that woke up, it, it knew the layout of the pyramid. Despite clear signs of memory loss. It locked us off from the rest of the facility. I don't know what it's planning, but--"

A harsh rumbling began throughout the facility, stretching out so far that even the protestors outside felt the tremors. Even more papers began to fall from the overseer's desk, and the old man rushed over to pick them up off the ground.

"What the hell is happening down there? Where's your supervisor... are you listening to me?"

The young researcher stared out the transparent wall of the overseer's office that acted primarily as a window for viewing the entirety of the Conscious site. Elmener's greying eyebrows knotted together and he stood up, striding over to the slack-jawed man before finding what he was ogling at. Once he saw it, his mouth opened in surprise. Fear.

The pyramid was... opening.

A light erupted from the darkness within the geometric shape, easily recognizable by the kindling of fire. Within moments a stark-white ship shot out from the darkness of the building's interior, heading straight for the office window before quickly pulling up above the building into the sky. Fearing for their lives, both the researcher and overseer dove to the ground. After realizing that they weren't being slammed into by a starship, both stood up.

Cheering was audible from outside. The protestors reached to the skies, towards the quickly escaping starship. Elmener breathed out, coughing as a result of the stress put upon his aging body.

"Those things have God-damn hangars?"

Appearance:
Compact in size, but still to have around 4 people board before becoming cramped. The room it has for passengers offsets its offensive capabilities, as its weapons are relatively basic in nature and not combat-oriented. J4X wasn't exactly picky when searching for something to get the hell out of dodge with.

Other Features: Monitors line the inside of the passenger and pilot compartments, and Jax had the liberty of installing various game systems into the ship interface for his leisure. Seeing as he has no need for hygiene or a change of clothes, the ship is relatively spotless save for some alcohol bottles. In the passenger compartment is a repair station for J4X's needs, complete with power tools and various other pieces of tech that the owners before him had built. The ship also contains an AI, dubbed "Valentina".

Another thing that Jax had installed was a high-end stereo set. He loves music and has various tastes, though prefers ancient 1900s-2000s era Earth compositions.

Not to mention its deployment capabilities.

Image

At the rear of the ship lies a black button. When pressed, a black-leather chair rolls out from the wall and stops once it orients itself until it faces the middle of the passenger compartments; two joysticks also extend from the wall. When sat in and a combination of buttons are pressed, the a portion of the ship converts itself into a mech form and deploys directly beneath the Uplink. J4X discovered this on accident.

The mech comes standard with a laser gatling on its right arm along with a air-pressure cannon on its left, allowing it to send other targets and debris flying from the force. On its back is a short-range jetpack, allowing it to hover a few feet of the ground for around 15 seconds before requiring a recharge.
The D is silent, hillbilly.

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Azra
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Re: [CS] Redemption

Post by Azra » Tue Apr 03, 2018 8:35 am

Image

Name: Vivoriana Lionfang

Gender: F

Age: 27

Race: Genetically altered human

Homeworld: Dublurk (originally called dumb blue rock but had a name change within its 125th cycle of colonization)

Skills: Piloting mechanics and marksmanship. More specifically her slightly glowing electric blue eyes are a result of tampering with the nervous system of the body and visual perception. Intended to make for an ace pilot her eyes seem able to adjust to whatever speeds needed to process information and from there elevate reaction times. It struggles to meet the demands in person only giving a slight edge at times. When behind a machine however everything falls into place. With such eyes comes also an ability to understand the workings of machines and how to optimize performance. Mix that with a school that tried to drill int her head every facet of known vehicles they could find data on and she's shown adept at mastering a vehicle. A smaller buff being just improved accuracy and night vision.

Equipment: Stilletos or more specifically Surface Traversal Intended Lunar Land Exterior Transports Ocean Shoes. In summarization designed to help her move within whatever condition she might need in almost all likely environments. Able to adhere to most surfaces as well as briefly boost jumps with a small jet propulsion.

Dress or Damage Resilient Environment Survival Suit. Designed to take small arms fire in case of emergency it doesn't provide the best protection in the world but can help withstand some attacks. It's main purpose is for mechanics and exploration. Resistance to weather conditions and heat, shielding from radiation pressures and G forces. An invisible helmet comes with it with three hours of air supply the suit laced with small lights if needed. The inventor wanted something that would allow a mechanic to climb into a busted turbine spitting out fuel into space and make repairs before a ship blew up. Vic would like to not test this theory herself.

Kinc or Kinetic Interlocking Neuro Cord is a pistol in appearance mechanics tool. The device will store and release kinetic energy through what often looks like a cord or wire. Used at times not unlike a whip to pull two pieces of machinery closer or to travel along the otherwise large surfaces of space ships. By trying to take in kinetic energy on impact it will adhere to a surface, or it can release energy for a small explosive repellent. The cord is able to also release plasma electricity or fire to help with repairs. While usually used in a much smaller amount of cord it can reach up to thirty feet. It can also be used as a weapon.

Generic or General Electronic-tools Needed Everyday Recording Included Crap. The excitingly named but boring otherwise backpack, housing things like money other tools, cord cases for Kinc, communication devices, portable speakers, flash drives and snacks.

Personality: Viv is often seen as either eccentric but polite or tired and irritable with almost no known in between of the two extremes. While usually trying to show gratitude or respect of rank (with an exception) she can't seem but to help herself quick to the trigger, flight seat repairs or whatever the activity is. Lively by nature on a military world didn't help her upbringing however resulting in a lack of much social grace with law and military personnel. The other most common personality seen is one that will dose off mid someone's sentence and might look to start a fight for waking her. Best to just let the blonde have her brief naps.

Appearance: Standing at a rather small five foot three feet tall she weighs around a hundred and eighteen pounds. Her hair is blonde and is often in a ponytail that hangs down to the middle of her back. Her eyes are blue and seem to be a glowing electric color. Physically she is mostly seen as just a skinny thing though there's a hint of existing muscle tone of a mildly athletic build.

Biography: Born on Dublurk a military based world with a focus on piloting. Work was being done on newborns to try and make for the ideal vision of theirs. They dumped countless hours and money into making sure the students were optimized and knew as many spacecraft and mechs as possible. Viv had a partner who was flunking the courses but good at building machines, this wasn't what the military wanted however and so they were planning to get rid of her partner. They didn't know what this meant so the pair rebelled. That rebellious behavior wasn't enough though leading to incarceration and being handed over to be someone else's problem.

Origins:
-The Dublurk installations had a process of a journal per cycle. Used as a means to stay somewhat up to date on the progress of the pilots. The following segments of a small handful of journals is what we find the core moments leading up to where the last of those projects has ultimately gotten to. We understand that a lot of information is being withheld we apologize for the inconvenience.-
"Journal log thirteenth cycle. They went through finishing the implants today, most augments are a natural part of biology at this point. Bred into our genetic make up it's all rather natural almost to complete the visual stimuli though it takes some additional work. Wish they'd let us in on the process behind it all, I get why they'd withold such information though. Oh also Marvius seems to have taken a liking to me so there's that. And that's about all that's interesting of note, glad its just a journal per cycle. Still feels like a waste of time though if you ask me."

"Journal entry fifteenth cycle we finally get to actually work on ships thank the gods. Probably my favorite today was the thrusters of a Mark 6 Zwing quad engine. The frigate had one of it's thrusters likely to blow had three minutes to make repairs or else I'd likely be melted into the frame work. Obviously I didn't fuse with the ship to so great day I would say. Oh uh and Marvius asked me out so suppose there's that news to. Great guy he really needs to pick up on the schematic lessons however."

"Journal Entry Eighteenth Cycle so uh we did it, was getting off from a repair job. Another Zwing, swear that model is so damn outdated. Anyway I finished that up and was heading to that work shop of his, he started asking about measurements for the suit idea of his and well one thing led to another. Right that's uh not what these are for soooo I heard the process for genetic alterations is changing. We might be the last of a particular model, not sure what the plans are but they don't sound good. And I know this is protocol more then anything of value to whoever' listening, I'd really like to know what's going on however."

"Journal Entry Twenty First Cycle. Well guess we both know what's happening now right? Marv has a plan to try and get as many of us out as possible. He was never good at most of what we do, with the Lioness suits though he thinks we've a chance. If you ask me, we've no other choice either way. I just hope we get a night worth our time after this, just one would make it worth while."

-The remainder of the journal entries are locked away under a variety of legality and organizations. It's a well known fact Viv was an insurectionist and considered responsible for the destruction of the bases on Dublurk. While conspiracy and questions may be raised we would like to request the reviewer of these files not question the decisions. We assure you it's best for everyone that we just keep her cycled through ships and installations as opposed to death or incarceration.-

~~Mech/Vehicle~~

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Lioness Armor

Name: Lioness or Lone Interior Opperational Naval Engagment Support System

Role in Combat: Small by comparison to most vehicles it functions like an exosuit or combat armor. Equipped with durable plating and a lot of micro thrusters while not the strongest piece of equipment it can fly around the area providing an assortment of fire support. Assisted by its smaller size and speed. Reaching roughly Mach 6 levels of speed when given enough space and time. Naturally the armor given its size takes a while to reach such a velocity and loses mobility the faster it goes, maximum speed not being ideal for combat. Acceleration to such a degree demands the Lioness to largely go through an armor lock to adjust for the force stressed against it and the pilot.

Weapons:

Arm Cannon or All Rounds Managing Cannon adapts to the weapon resources of the environment the mechanical workings within the machine designed to retrieve the ammunition source of any particular fallen weapon and incorporate it into the current firing selection. On it's own however it's primary function is a two round solar temperatured plasma burst, moving at lightning like speeds. Or a kinetic laser that strikes a small area with enough force to often puncture a hole in most space craft out side of the most durable or military reinforced.

Appearance: Orange colored armor suit standing at eight feet tall the Lioness is a rather compact mobile system. Weighing in at one ton the armor is armored well for what it is though easily outclassed by actual vehicles. Able to function in oceans and space just as well as standard orbit. Powered by a small reactor fortified on the back. It's primary weapon is the right arm cannon. Capable of being operational two days without charging and carrying a second battery if need be for longer operations.

Other Features: Obviously housing a small compartment of snacks, communication systems, two back ups for Viv's various usual on person belongings. The small exosuit can also fold up into a ball, it's a tight fit for the pilot granted. Moving in this form is a bit dizzying.

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