A science fiction roleplay centering around a mercenary captain, a ship engineer, and the various trouble they get into. Elements and races from multiple science fiction universes will be used. Players: @Spectre of the Fade @King The icon image source is here. Name: Angel Cove "Yeah, I know my name sounds like a fuckin' holiday resort." Age: 32 Gender: Male Sexuality: Bisexual Marital Status: Single Species: Human Occupation: Chief Engineer Height: 6ft Hair Colour: [/B]Black Eye Colour: [/B]Deep Brown Description: Angel is a tall, slim male. He is short of lanky, with broad shoulders. His hair is usually a gel-like mess, which he doesn't really care about. Most of the time, he's covered in oil or soot, whatever part of the ship he's been working in. He has a pair of glasses, which he always wears, and is usually in tank tops, flannels and jeans. "Do you think I have time to care about what I look like? Hint - The answer is no." Personality: || Hard-Working || Sarcastic || Calm || Stoic || Humorless || Likes: Engineering Hot Drinks Deep conversation Peace Dislikes: Being told what to do Not getting his way The cold Motion History: Angel was born on deck to the captain and his wife. Ever since he was born, he had been pretty privileged, his parents always got the good stuff, so he did too. It wasn't until he was a young teen, when his father died of a heart attack he was introduced to the ground. He made friends and began education, this is where his privilege wore off. Most of his friends were signing up for the military, Angel protested. As a compromise, Angel agreed to become a junior engineer for a prison ship for criminals. He wasn't exactly excited to work with criminals, but he soon accepted it. He floated around different prison ships, but settled on his original one and began working his way up the career chain. Now, he works as the chief engineer, his job working on keeping the ship afloat in space. ♠ "No, I don't eat food like an ordinary human. I am obviously a parasitic organism that survives on spite and the blood on my enemies. Do you have another stupid fucking question?" Name: Malcolm Cillian Hayes DoB: December 25th Eye color: gray-blue Hair color: red Height: six feet, two inches Alignment: True Neutral Sexuality: Gay Basic Description: Malcolm cuts an intimidating figure, between his default scowl and glare combination expression, his height, the muscle he maintains, and the cool confidence he wears like a jacket. He walks, moves, sits with excellent posture, chin tilted just a little bit up as if to look down his nose at other people. A genuine smile or laugh from him is a rare thing, and he always lifts a hand to cover his mouth when around other people. Tattoos: none Scars: Quite a few dot the parts of his body that are still covered in skin, the majority from various fights over the years Modifications: His right arm from the elbow down was voluntarily replaced by an engineering attachment; the majority of his left leg was replaced by an artificial limb; his right eye is entirely robotic and features and alternate mode of sight that allows him to perceive magnetic or electric fields, but it's moderately painful and quite expensive power-wise Basic Personality: Stubborn, Loyal, Dedicated, Thoughtful, Self-possessed, Spiritual, Suspicious, Blunt, Argumentative, Complicated, Opportunistic, Difficult Weaknesses/fears: Loyal to a fault, “reasonably afraid” of everything from heights to snakes, has an extreme love for sweets and soft sweaters Backstory: Malcolm was born in the slums of one the great city-worlds. He was the middle child, in between two sisters, but the younger one was far more attached to their parent than he was and the older one (whom he was actually close to) died of a drug overdose when he was twelve. John, a friend he'd made when he was very young and was somewhat in love with, coerced Malcolm into joining the military with him, both of them signing up for the Engineering Corps. They were split up after training, Malcolm ended up in a sole survivor situation and losing one of his legs. He bounced around a few criminal groups for a number of years before starting his own enterprise and has been working on building his reputation, influence, and wealth since. He is still considered officially dead in the system he left. Click. Click. Click. The sound of a metal joint catching against itself was the loudest sound in the cell, the only other ones being the soft hum of the barrier set up around the only occupied bed in the room and a buzzing coming from an important-looking panel on the back wall. The inmate that was occupying the bed was currently sitting on it, behind the electrically charged barrier, making no other noise but the clicking of a faulty joint in his robotic hand. The hand was a piece of shit, of course. It was a mass-produced model that some factory popped out a decade ago, at the very least. It was rusty. It had no less than three faulty joints. It had a one point three second command delay, for fuck's sake. His leg was of the same shoddy make and had similar problems, with a smaller but no less irritating delay. And the most frustrating part about the damn situation was that Malcolm knew how to fix both the joints and the delays, but he lacked his tools. His arm, his actual arm, the custom engineering attachment he'd spent a wince-worthy amount upgrading, and his leg, also expensive and custom and upgraded but not to the same extent, were somewhere in the lockup for prisoner belongings. The only reason he'd been allowed to keep his eye was because removing it would damage him permanently, therefore lessening his value. Prison was inconvenient. Why oh why had he insisted on doing this job himself? Oh, yes. A wealthy contact, a foothold in a new system, and a tidy sum of credits. Malcolm scowled darkly at the thin, silver fingers of his right hand as he considered his situation, intentionally bending his middle finger to make the joint click once again. It was far, far too late to back out now. He had a window of two more weeks to kill the target and get out, or his second in command was to assume him lost and take the ship and leave. Being abandoned in a tiny, orderly version of the hell he'd grown up in was not the way he was going to go out. Lifting his eyes from his robotic hand, Malcolm looked over the field he'd been effectively trapped in. It'd been set up maybe an hour before, likely relating to the repair of whatever was fucking up in that panel in the wall of his cell. Wouldn't want him doing some manner of violence upon whatever unlucky engineer was made to fix it, after all. A scandal like that would be bad for business. The fact he had an important electrical panel in his cell was a good thing to know, however. Hearing a couple sets of footsteps coming down the hall outside his cell, he stood up and paced in the small area between his bed and the barrier, chewing on the thumbnail of his left and wholly human hand, face directed at the ground. Playing crazy was a simple enough disguise, after all. What guard was going to consider the crazy redhead mumbling about evidence a real threat?