HOLOTAPE DATA The Apothecary's Cast of Characters

[Apothecary Bruce]

Name: Romulus

Nicknames/Titles/Alias(es): Caesar Novus, Heir to the Empire, Eastman's Reckoning

Origin: Human; Wastelander

Age: 45

Appearance: A white male with sun-baked and sand-weathered skin. Tall, well-built, covered in scars from blades and bullets alike. He has fierce blue eyes, and age has claimed his hair already.

Faction: Caesar's Legion - the original, true legion. For four years, Romulus - then simply Rohass, his tribal name - fought under the command of the great and mighty Caesar. He was there at the first battle of Hoover Dam, where Legate Joshua Graham, the man who had led the conquest of the Tuskleks, his tribe of birth, had failed.

He watched the legate be burned alive, before he was tossed off the Grand Canyon. In his darkest of days, the tribal Rohass learned the true meaning of strength. Strength was the willingness to do whatever must be done to better oneself and the empire. Weakness, on the other hand, was the lack of will.

Strength was victory. Failure was weakness. Never again would Rohass tolerate weakness.
For the next four years, Rohass painted the yellow-orange sands of the Mojave red with profligate blood. He saw the weakness of the New California Republic, the debauchery of New Vegas, and most significant to himself, Rohass saw the degeneracy of tribals.
The Fiends, the Great Khans, the Jackals, and all the dregs in between - it disgusted him, how they compared to Caesar's Empire, to even the NCR, and he vowed to shed all ties to the Tuskleks. He was reborn, with a proper latin name, becoming fanatical in his worship of the Roman gods and even Caesar himself. He was Romulus.

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Caesar is a name fading from memory. The West won over a decade ago. In the place of the mighty empire now stands the Four States Republic - an extension of New California and Vegas' poisonous desires.
Romulus is a relic from the old days, from the days of Caesar, of glory and strength. Pushed out of Arizona, Romulus rebuilds the strength of the Legion in Oklahoma, gathering ex-legionaries, outlaws, scattered tribals and support from within the Four States Republic. His petty fiefdom lacks the strength of its predecessor, but should all go according to Romulus' plan, strength will return to the Legion, and the spirit of Great Caesar will ride alongside them once more...


Strength: 8
Perception: 7
Endurance: 4
Charisma: 9
Intelligence: 6
Agility: 4
Luck: 4

Caps: 601
Inventory:
-Customized T-41b/51 Power Armor - 'Plate of Mars'
-Praetorian Guard outfit

-Ripper chain-sword
-Spear
-M3 .45 Caliber 'Greaser' Submachine Gun
-Customized M79 Grenade Launcher - 'Die-Caster'

Fighting Style: Once upon a time, Romulus was a young man, dexterous and agile as well as strong. Though he has not grown weak, age has forced him to slow down, a weakness he has remedied with the use of his power armor. Now able to take the hits he would be unable to dodge regardless, Romulus' animalistic rage and strength is now backed by the muscle of steel and fusion power. Though he is quite skilled in ranged and melee combat, more than once has he ripped men's heads off with his hands alone - before he started using power armor.
When pushed, he will default to this ironically barbaric mutilation, and though some might be able to take advantage of a berserker's anger, it is easier said than done...

 

[Apothecary Bruce]

Name: Jackie Strauss

Nicknames/Titles/Alias(es): Veteran Ranger, Judge of the Wasteland, Californian Devil

Origin: Human; Wastelander

Age: 49

Appearance: Brown of skin, equipped with perpetually greasy hair, and a short beard which seems to shift between disheveled and devilish depending on whether he is feeling uncouth or diplomatic.
His face can be reassuring, soft, but behind those brown eyes lies a monster which has yet to be cowed, revealing itself as Jackie smiles so far it tickles his ears...

Faction: New California Republic. Jackie enlisted when he was eighteen, dreaming of his father's stories about fighting the Enclave and the Great Khans, of all the people he'd get to hurt.
Dad didn't have long to tell him those stories. He died by the time Jackie was eight.

Mama always complained about how he hurt all his classmates. He was the school's 'little raider,' and was in turn beaten by his teachers.
He was fourteen when he killed his first human. He told the police he knew nothing of his friend Henry's death, but when he lined up the nine millimeter pistol on the bastard who rejected him, he sure as hell knew who pulled the trigger.

In his tour as a trooper, then a ranger, Jackie Strauss has left a very, very red path in his wake. He was a monster, fighting in the name of law and order. So what if a few tribal girls went missing overnight? So what if a few of the confiscated chems from their latest drug bust disappeared?

No sir, they shot first. No sir, I did not touch that man.

Yes sir, I saw nothing. Yes sir, whatever you say.

His favorite time in the world was the Mojave campaign, and the decade after. So many peoples to pacify. So many people to kill. And so, so far away from prying eyes...

It's an NCR world, and Jackie Strauss lives on the top.


Character Audit:
Imagine you're a girl, about fourteen to sixteen, who lives in a town, about twenty to thirty people large, on the border between NCR and the Four States Republic. It's the dead of night, but you couldn't fall asleep. You see a figure emerge from the shadowy main road, illuminated by the three odd street lights lying about. You recognize it's one of the Republic people - a ranger, they're called. They're the good ones, you remember. They killed the bad guys over the river.

The ranger seems to have somebody behind him, in chains. He looks unwell, like how your brother did after he ate glowing root from one of the nearby caves. Before he died. Except this one doesn't seem as weak, half-dead. Maybe they're starving. A prisoner, probably. They deserve it.
They have a jail. Old Man Higgins runs it, he used to be a caravan guard. You look at the ranger and his prisoner, expecting them to keep going straight towards the jail, but instead they take a right, into the saloon.

Maybe he's getting the prisoner a meal before he hands them over. I guess that'd be nice of them.

It's been about fifteen minutes, and they haven't come out. Momma's still sleeping in the other room. She says she's still tired from burying your brother, even though it's been two months. You can hear her snoring. It almost lulls you to sleep, before...
BANG!
You scurry underneath your bed. Raiders? No, there's been too many soldier patrols she's seen for something like that to happen. Maybe...the prisoner got free? Oh no! The poor ranger. Hopefully he's okay - rangers don't die easy. They're like superheroes!

More gunshots echo through the night. Wood splinters, glass breaks, screaming fills your ears, before they're abruptly halted. You shiver, not just from the cold, but what your imagination is conjuring. You imagine the scrawny prisoner like a monster, this barely human thing with chains still dangling from its wrists and neck.
You hear Old Man Higgins yell a warning. 'Stop!' he yelled, and you dare to smile, reassured by the kindly but stern man's forceful demand. Again, the night thunders - and overcome with hope you slide from your cover and look out the cracked window glass. The prisoner is gone, and there lies Higgins, a hole blown in the aged gunslinger's chest, his hunting rifle strewn beside his corpse, blood pooling underneath him, colored black by a dimmed moon.

With a dampened gasp, you duck back down, gripping the back of your bed, doing your best to contain your whimpers and pleas. 'Momma,' escapes your lips, and in turn, a quiet, familiar, shhh. Momma. There was the click of a gun being primed. Her .357 revolver. Hope returned, belief in your mother. She's never failed you before-

The thunder was so much louder now, so much closer. Momma screamed, in pain and rage. There was tussling, the rippling of heavy cloth, a loud thud. Another gunshot, but the fighting continued. She screamed again, a mighty roar of defiance, in protection of you.
Then another gunshot. A sickly wet dripping told you the fight was over, before the silence did. You could hear the slumping of a body, and someone struggling to their feet. It sounded masculine.

A gloved hand shot under the bed, and grabbed you by the wrist. With all your childish might you fought to stay within your shelter, but against the strength of the monster it was no use. Your mind prepares you to see the face of the prisoner, a demonic man with sharp teeth and stretched skin, fangs and horns like the pictures of large beasts your mother had shown you.
But there was no horns, no fangs, no skin. It was the face of the ranger, his eyes glowing a fearsome red. So very, very red...

Strength: 5
Perception: 5
Endurance: 6
Charisma: 7
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 7
Luck: 4

Caps: 850
Inventory:
NCR Ranger Combat Armor

Smith & Wesson Model 29 8/38" Magnum Revolver
Remington 870 Pump Shotgun
Combat Knife
3 Frag Grenades

Fighting Style: Gunslinger with a brutal streak. Quick-draws, long-shots, all the tricks and techniques...but that's only to show off. He's perfectly happy slitting your throat, or making a hole in your chest with a shotgun blast.

"I don't like automatics. They can kill and you miss it. I like the guns that have a little participation in them. Revolvers, pump shotguns, bolt and lever actions - you get to really participate in the act. I don't not care about killing. Only a sociopath doesn't care about killing."