”Paradise” Whoever named this rock had a terrible sense of humor. A dustball world on the edge of the frontier, Paradise is as close to what the Humans call "hell" as I've ever seen. The infernal dust which blankets the world is jagged, sharp and clingy. Paradise was a young world, and her soil was that of a young world, fresh and new, untouched by wind and water and time. The Humans, so hasty to explore, conquer and terraform, didn't bother to plant vegetation, or fix the soil, thinking they could rely on their technology to replace nature. And when it turned out that combining an atmosphere with young soil and almost no plant life to hold it down created a world choked in abrasive dust storms by day, and freezing, sucking mud at night, they left. But the Humans can't stand to lose, not arguments, not wars, and especially not money. So they took their failure, and bent it to a new purpose. Paradise, once intended to be the desert jewel of the Frontier, became a penal colony for dissidents, subversives, and unruly xenos. The dust, the damn dust that once foiled Humanity where none of us could, was now their greatest ally. It destroys machines, slipping into the cracks and grinding the works away to nothing. Vehicles, power armor, weapons, electronics, all but the most simple and the toughest devices rendered useless by mere dust. Paradise needs no guards, no orbital defense platforms, no patrol fleet. The dust will keep anyone from ever building the means to get off this world. There is only one way off Paradise: the maintaince crews who come to service the oxygen and ozone generators. Their ships are built off-world, specially designed to resist the dust. If a clever man could get his hands on one of those ships, why he might just get off Paradise. But it wouldn't be easy. I've been telling this tale for 40 years, and I've never seen the man that could do it. But who knows... maybe YOU could..."
The year is 2778, and Humanity rules the known Galaxy with an iron fist under the not-so-tender auspices of the Unified Systems Protectorate, a meta-corporate entity which controls almost all trade within known space. For more than 500 years, the Protectorate has been an unstoppable juggernaut, crushing all who oppose it, subjugating alien races, dismantling governments, and rooting out dissidence and subversion. But the Protectorate is a victim of its own success. With no external enemies to fight, and economic competition replaced by corporate warfare and assigned monopolies, the Protectorate has been culturally and technologically stagnant for nearly 300 years. Crippled by lack of progress, wracked with infighting between its smaller corporations, and rotted to the core by byzantine politics, nepotism and petty aristocratic rivalries, the mighty Systems Protectorate is a slowly dying behemoth.
Sensing the beast’s impending doom, numerous groups have risen to pick at the corpse. Chief among them in notoriety and numbers is the Galactic Liberation Front. Terrorists, freedom fighters or thugs, depending on who’s telling the tale, the GLF is composed of people from every race and every world in known space. Rag-tag, disorganized, and varying widely in equipment and training, GLF fighters are united by their fanatical devotion to the GLF’s ideology, and their hatred for the Protectorate. Still, they have proven highly successful in their campaign against the Protectorate, with a wide swath of the Galaxy under their black and red banner. While many believe that the GLF is the last, best hope for freedom in the Milky Way, others fear that their brutal tactics and fanaticism are little better than the Protectorate they would replace.
As the GLF and other rebel groups have risen, the Protectorate has entered a state approaching panic. Desperate to crush the subversion, they have cracked down on dissidence and disloyalty, sending millions from across their empire to penal colonies like Paradise. Where once these death worlds were reserved for the worst, now even those guilty of minor crimes and rebellions are eligible for a one-way ticket to the frontier. These newcomers have found themselves at the mercy of the hardened criminal population which has inhabited these worlds for generations, and face increasingly worse conditions as the factions of various warlords battle for control. With the situation on Paradise and other colonies worsening, combined with the increasing likelihood of being caught in the crossfire between GLF and Protectorate forces, the urgency of escape has risen exponentially.
Your characters are prisoners on Paradise. Guilty as sin or wrongfully convicted, born on Paradise or fresh off the boat, rebels, criminals or merely caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, you must band together and fight to survive and escape this hell. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Welcome to Paradise.
This RP will comprise no more than 6 people, in addition to myself. This is in order to keep things organized, tight, and to maximize post volume. There are several pre-determined roles which we need filled, but how you chose to fill them is up to you.
- The Brains: Taura Lex/Screwface Romeo
- The Muscle: Vahlok Drox Skatha/Aracrexus
- The Techie:
- The Engineer: Leon Andrews/Cream
- The Demo: Reese Carl 'Sunfire' Lichen/Quakernuts
- The Sneak:
Unified Systems Protectorate
Official "Paradise" Colony Census Records
Individual Known as: Taura Lex
Official "Paradise" Colony Census Records
Individual Known as: Taura Lex
Crime(s): [BCOLOR=transparent]Sedition, Incitement to Riot, Fraternizing with Terrorists, Entering Human Seclusion Zones, Violation of Xenosapient Race Protocol, Fraternizing with Unrecognized Trade Organizations, Unauthorized Weapons Distribution, Unauthorized Weapons Distribution to Xenosapients, Possession of Advanced Weaponry, Unauthorized Distribution of Narcotics, Deadly Assault on Protectorate Personnel and/or Contractors[/BCOLOR]
Age: 30 ESY (apparent)
Skin Hue/Racial Morph: Dark Red w/ Irregular Spots (Laiter)
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Purple
[BCOLOR=transparent]Taura Lex is of roughly average height and build for her species and race. Like all Followers, she is smaller and more lightly built than a Human, with longer, slender limbs and neck, blood-red skin, large eyes, delicate, mobile ears, and a prehensile tail. As a Laiter, or spotted Follower, her skin is spotted and mottled with darker red, she has a thicker tail, broader hips, and more lower body strength overall. Taura is tough and scrawny, built for speed and endurance. Two years of living on Paradise have left her lean and wiry, with a slim, defined face. Her thick, wire-like hair is pulled back in a tight topknot, and typically covered by a hood. Her nose, like that of all Followers, is slim and slightly upturned, with small slit nostrils on either side, unlike a human's hooded ones. Her chin is noticeable, but not conspicuous. Her brows are sharp, arched and suggest a sly intelligence, even without a human's hairy eyebrows. Taura still bears the shadows of tattoos, long since burned off under a detention officer's laser, that marked her as one of the infamous Daughters of Darkness, and she carries herself with the gait and confidence of an experienced warrior.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Taura's costume is cobbled together from various sources, acquired throughout her years of roaming Paradise's deserts. She wears the simple, tough work boots from her original penal uniform, with ragged, patched cargo pants and a fitted hide jacket held together with handmade buckles, stitches, and more than a few prayers. Strapped to her right hip is the sheath/charging cradle for her freq blade, a short, broad machete-like affair. Below it, in a drop leg holster, is her particle beam pistol: a simple, bulky, single-accumulator model with the battery pack placed in front of the trigger guard, sold under the brand name "Shouzer T696". Her metal storm carbine (originally a triple-barreled shotgun with the barrels cut down and the stock sawn off) rests in a sheath on the small of her back, just below the power pack that provides charge for her freq blade and spare particle pistol batteries (which inhabit charging pouches on her left hip). The carbine's ammo sticks are stored in a quiver slung across her back. Over this ensemble is a tattered, dusty cloak, a pair of sand goggles, and a rebreather that allows her oxygen-greedy Follower lungs to survive in the thin atmosphere.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Taura Lex is highly intelligent, and she knows it. Confident, even arrogant, she walks and talks with the snarky swagger of one who believes she holds all the cards. Most Followers are smart, in one way or another, and Taura is no exception, though her abilities are those of a strategist and a commander, rather then a programmer or engineer. Scheming, plotting, and more than a little paranoid, to Taura, every conversation, every interaction is a battle of wits. While not particularly cultured or knowledgeable beyond matters of military combat and strategy, she is very streetsmart, and possesses a low cunning that makes her excellent at reading and manipulating people. Charismatic and inspiring when she wants to be, she generally affects an attitude of boredom or sarcastic cynicism, deviating only when it suits her ends. If it is true that he who fights with monsters is destined to become a monster, then Taura's attitude has been shaped by the humans she has found herself pitted against, becoming more like her enemy than she would ever care to admit.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Taura's brash arrogance is unusual for a Follower, a species generally marked by relative docility and a humble desire to put the needs of the community before their own, but not at all unusual for a Daughter of Darkness. Followers have had dark places in their history, just as humans have, and the Daughters draw from a tradition of social elitism and perceived genetic superiority that had reached its peak prior to first contact with Humanity. While there is most decidedly a basic spark of decency in her, she is an unfortunate product of her circumstances, and just one of the many billions of casualties of 28th-century society. Still, two years on Paradise have had something of a humbling effect on her, tempering her hotheaded rashness with caution and perhaps even the very beginnings of wisdom. Taura Lex is at a crossroads in her life, a touchstone moment where she will either learn to find true intelligence and wisdom, or sink back into the sea of intolerance and endless conflict that created her.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Growing up as a Follower in the Inner Ring of the galaxy is not an easy task. Especially when you're born in the outer ghettos of Shakhorta, one of the largest cities on Shin-Teltrin. Taura Lex was no stranger to this, and her early life was difficult to say the least. The world where she was born was one settled during the second wave of Human expansion, and by the 28th century it was heavily urbanized, overpopulated, and home to some of the most virulent criminal activity in the galaxy. Her colony (the closely knit relative/friend community that forms the basic unit of Follower society) was relatively small, and quite poor. While not subjected to the same intense rivalry shared between Serev and Kess Followers, Laiters were always relative outsiders even among their own species, and the young females among them had little opportunity. That the young Taura became involved with gangs was no surprise to anyone, indeed, it was a virtual inevitability.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Followers generally have a high degree of attitude with technology, an attribute which makes them invaluable to 28th-century society. While Taura could hardly be considered incompetent, her skills lay in planning and executing strategy, talents which were of little use to Xenos who wished to remain on the Protectorate's good side. For a criminal however, they were highly useful. The Scarlet Ravens had been a fixture of Shin-Teltrin's underworld for centuries, and for an individual who could not hope to compete with her brothers and sisters for the coveted technology and maintenance jobs in the city's Human quarter, they provided a welcome home. Taura started as a street-level member, running drugs and guns between the various alien gangs that dominated Shakhorta's poorer districts. She quickly gained a reputation for caution, efficiency, and ability to think outside the box, which saw her rapidly promoted to the upper ranks of her district's chapter.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]But while her position in the Ravens offered her relative comfort compared to those around her, it gave her little purpose. Taura wanted a cause, a challenge to her intellect and ability, something which organizing "unrecognized commerce" did not offer. That chance would come with the rise of the GLF. The Liberation Front had its roots in uniting and absorbing gangs in the cold city of the Protectorate forge world from which they had risen, a tactic which they did not abandon even after rising to interstellar prominence. When GLF forces arrived on Shin-Teltrin, they offered positions of power to the upper echelons of the local gangs. Taura accepted this offer without a second thought, and served the Front well as a recruiter and organizer in the slums of her home. When the world fell to the GLF, her role did not go unnoticed, and her proficiency in combat as well as leadership made her very attractive to the Daughters of Darkness.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Infamous across the galaxy for their viciousness and brutal tactics, as well as a fanaticism that made even the average GLF footsoldier look like a moderate, the Daughters of Darkness appealed to the most basic roots of a young female Follower. Taura's ancestors had been hunters, predators who had stalked the long nights of their arid homeworld with swift feet and sharp fangs. They offered a young woman an opportunity to truly be a part of something bigger, the most basic desire of every Follower. And Taura welcomed it with open arms. Flying with the black ships of the Daughters, she saw combat across the front lines of the war with the Protectorate, against every facet of Humanity's elite. She made a name for herself leading strike teams against heavily fortified targets, taking on even the most secure facilities of SIPE and SEPE. But she had one fatal flaw that would eventually be her undoing. Taura had grown overconfident, and more than a touch arrogant, and it was only a matter of time before her eyes became bigger than her stomach.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Taura and her strike team had been tasked with infiltrating high-level facilities on Tossavo, the site of a massive GLF push into the inner ring, and destroying the leadership of the various private military contractors employed by the Protectorate to defend their worlds. They knew that a Protectorate Adjutant, an operator of the highest level, beholden only to the Board of Directors themselves, was leading the forces on this world. Adjutants were the stuff of nightmares, ancient, experienced humans with the knowledge and wisdom of centuries of war, and the authority to annihilate entire planets by unleashing the dreaded Charon Protocol. But Taura had come to underestimate humans, to laugh at the idea of a flat-tooth who could outsmart her. And when the Adjutant prepared a trap for her and her sisters, she walked right into it with the swagger of one who has never met her match. SEPE operators under the Adjutant's command had taken the places of several high-level PMC commanders, and their supposed location had been leaked to GLF intelligence. When Taura and her strike team cut through the facility's security with little resistance, they found not defenseless officers, but hardened, heavily augmented SEPE commandos in Tyrant power armor and a highly amused Adjutant waiting for them. [/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]The mission was an unmitigated disaster. Taura's sisters were slaughtered, and despite putting up a ferocious fight, even she was no match for a cyborg who had been fighting Followers since the conquest of her people more than 500 years ago. But her defiance impressed the old human, and rather than put a bullet in her, he spared her, although whether a one-way ticket to Paradise counts as being spared is up for debate. Taura was stripped of her uniform, her freq sword and her rifle. Her hair, once held high in the elaborate braid of a Follower huntress, was shaved, and her DoD and Scarlet Raven tattoos lazered off, replaced with the indelible barcode and orange fatigues of a Protectorate detainee. Kicked off the ramp of a prison shuttle into the infernal dust of the hell-world she would call home for the next two years, Taura was left to ponder the results of her arrogance, and plot her escape and revenge against those who had had the gall to force this indignity upon her. The young Follower bided her time, training and gathering her strength, learning to survive and thrive in the harsh environment and vicious social anarchy of Paradise. One mantra kept her alive: one day, she would get off this rock, rejoin her sisters, sink her freq blade into the guts of the grinning Adjutant, and every world in Protectorate Space would burn. All she needed was the right crew, and the right opportunity.[/BCOLOR]
- [BCOLOR=transparent]"Galactic Liberation Front" - Class A Terrorist Organization - Active combat role (see "Daughters of Darkness" below)[/BCOLOR]
- [BCOLOR=transparent]"Daughters of Darkness" - GLF Spinoff Cell, female Follower exclusive, combat/special operations-oriented cell[/BCOLOR]
- [BCOLOR=transparent]"Shin-Teltrin Scarlet Ravens" - Class D Unrecognized Trade Organization, weapons and narcotics distribution local to the Shin-Teltrin System[/BCOLOR]
Unified Systems Protectorate
Official "Paradise" Colony Census Records
Individual Known as: Vahlok Drox Skatha
Official "Paradise" Colony Census Records
Individual Known as: Vahlok Drox Skatha
Crime: N/A (Native)
Skin Hue/Racial Morph: Medium taupe w/ white markings
Hair Color: Dark russet
Eye Color: Red-Orange
Tall and sturdy, Vahlok is a fairly standard member of his species; perhaps a little leaner than those enforcers on other worlds, a build maintained by nearly three decades on Paradise. His figure is all sharp angles and hard lines, imposing features abetted by his customarily dour expression and myriad of old wounds. Bold markings zigzag across his entire body, heavily outlining his vermilion eyes in stark ivory and forming rings around his limbs and long, powerful tail; his hair is long, prolific, and untameable, a rich red-brown that has been gradually bleached out and that has a vexing propensity for trapping dust. Heavy scarring around the region of his upper jaw renders him more or less constantly snarling, an attribute that tends to give off the impression that he is constantly pissed.
His outfit is a patchwork of materials obtained from various sources, a custom-tailored monstrosity heavily MacGyvered to suit his proportions: heavy combat boots, moderately mutilated to better suit his digitigrade gait; his pants are varying shades and patterns cannibalized from other apparel, precariously sewn and dotted with pockets; he wears a sleeveless shirt that could, at one time, have been black (but is now dust-encrusted grey-brown) below his vest. The vest itself is probably the most eye-catching thing about the ensemble, covered in a panoply of different patches and insignias, most of them ripped posthumously from the garments of former opponents.
Slung across his back are a messenger bag — stuffed with spare clothes, some food and water, and assorted scavenged trinkets — and the holster for his particle beam rifle, a relatively old and power-hungry Ravager model taken some years back off a war tourist’s corpse. Its power charges are stored in a pouch at the hip for easy access; on the other side, tucked securely into a similar pocket, are the cartridges for his backup weapon, a metal-storm shotgun sheathed at the small of his back. In melee engagements, Vahlok is largely reliant on his natural defenses — something that has worked pretty well for him so far.
Vahlok is very candid, very assertive, and very testy — no different from most enforcers, really. He has little time for jokes, mind games, stupid questions, and other assorted bullshit; those who are familiar with him would probably describe him as having a very large stick up his ass. He puts up no false fronts about who he is, what he wants, how he’s feeling, and how much he likely hates his present company. He is not chatty: his dialogue is mostly monosyllabic, or otherwise very short and to the point; he has a tendency to either ignore the pesterings of people he sees as not worth his time, or to just tells them very flatly to shut up. Vahlok is not looking for friends; he sees social relationships as impermanent, worth maintaining only for as long as that person is of use.
Vahlok craves control: not just over himself, but often over the people around him. He is stubborn and domineering, and does not much appreciate being given orders, particularly by people who he could easily overpower in a physical altercation. As a result, he frequently butts heads with other strong personalities, and is not so easily talked down. ‘Compromise’ is not in Vahlok’s vocabulary. He sees most quandaries as black and white, figures that most people are either with him or against him, and in a group setting is either in charge or he isn’t. Fortunately, he has grown no less manipulable with the passage of time, and is easily appeased with appeals to his ego and assurances that, yes, he still has his agency.
This is not to suggest that Vahlok is stupid; socially, maybe — but years of living on Paradise have left him with a thorough understanding of survivalism and strategy in battle that ensures his preparedness in most every situation. Vahlok does not get nervous, or try to weasel his way out of an unfavorable scenario, or panic if things suddenly go wrong — he has become a surprisingly good improviser. He approaches every challenge with the focus of a predator; success, to him, is a binary: either he wins, or he dies. He seems almost to deliberately seek out conflict, longing for the adrenaline rush, the sense of fulfillment derived from crushing an opponent. Each encounter is a learning experience, and Vahlok wants to be the best at what he does.
Though he’s certainly less impulsive compared to many enforcers, and is a little more calculating when it comes to how he picks his battles, Vahlok is nevertheless hasty by the standards of most species. He lives squarely in the moment, his priorities fixated on what benefits him now, and has little in the way of a political affiliation or moral code... and no real desire to concern himself with either. He lives fast, thinks fast, and has no time to entertain anyone or anything that gets in his way.
Vahlok is indigenous to Paradise, immersed in its merciless clime and cutthroat politics from the moment of his spawning. Devoid of a pack and an identity, his formative years were a perpetual struggle for survival against a savage, lawless populace. To grow up in a place so inimical to life made its mark on him early — impressing a dangerous acerbity into a psyche that was already destructive by birth; igniting a furious depravity that kept him afloat in Paradise’s dark and turbulent waters. Vahlok quickly learned how to fight well, to kill out of necessity, and to eschew altruism and mercy in order to keep living.
In the endless and capricious sea of cabals and allegiances, Vahlok eventually found a niche with a small and fairly innocuous tribe that had established a modest span of land in an unfortunately tenuous location. Encircled by a multitude of more hostile gangs, the group was subject to occasional raids on its fragile borders, despite its leader’s deliberate abstention from Paradise politics. Its defenses were meager at best, and its populace neither prolific nor armed enough to deter the incursions, yet it managed to linger regardless, a bastion of unity perched upon a delicate foundation.
Vahlok integrated himself with the rag-tag collective as best a socially maladjusted enforcer among strangers could, and was largely tasked with aiding in the colony’s defenses. It was, more or less, the perfect duty, playing into the overwhelming territorial instinct and serving as a sufficient outlet for his aggression, and Vahlok approached it with the single-minded dedication of a focused predator. Those peers who served alongside him noted his natural aptitude for commanding and adaptability in combat, traits that drew attention from quite a few figures within the group.
One such individual had been a former crime lord before her arrival on Paradise, a diminutive human female named Rika whose humble appearance masked vicious cunning and a lofty ambition. While the prevailing authority claimed the colony’s lack of growth as necessary to escape the full ire of the other locals; Rika said the opposite: that the stagnation was what would eventually kill them, and that imperialism was the only viable way forward. Rika saw Vahlok as her ideal second, someone to lead the advance and execute her strategies; Vahlok, being young, manipulable and bloodthirsty, naturally agreed to her proposition. With its former leader forcibly deposed, Rika directed the group to encroach on claimed lands, assimilating more forces into its populace — some through diplomacy, and some through coercion. Raiding ventures on war tourists and extortion rackets on other groups provided a sufficient supply of weaponry to take on bigger and bigger targets, and the colony began to gradually spread, choking out the surrounding organizations like a plague.
Now known colloquially as the Razors, Rika’s people had amassed enough land and influence over the past several years to be considered a sizable power in the political landscape, and Vahlok found himself in control of what was veritably a small army. He had earned a reputation among his opponents as a monster on the battlefield, a despoiler without equal; to those under his authority, he was generally regarded as a callous, but effective, leader. To Rika, he had become less of an asset and more of a partner. Their relationship had gradually evened to a state of mutual respect and understanding: Rika was the coordinator, Vahlok the executor, and their talents had come to mesh in such a way that they found themselves utterly dependent on each other. In Vahlok’s mind, Rika had very much become a part of his pack, and, by extension, a part of him: inexorably intertwined, linked by bonds stronger even than blood.
The Razors’ rise to supremacy had not gone without the acquisition of several enemies. Remnants of past rivals, clans thought to have been wiped out, still existed in small pockets throughout the region, quietly stewing in their enmity. Certain major warlords in close proximity viewed the Razors as a threat, intimidated by their rapid and relentless expansion. The fear of being attacked and subjugated, just like so many other tribes in the past, was one that propagated rapidly among the other gangs — the Razors had cultivated notoriety for their aggressive strategies, and their habit of attacking with little warning, making the threat near-constant. Among the opposition, it was widely agreed that Vahlok and Rika were powerful menaces — and that something had to be done about it. Temporary alliances were made; deals were worked out; warlords with extended histories of reciprocal hatred chose instead to affix their aim on a common target.
The resultant fighting drew on for much longer than either side expected; Rika had become overly arrogant, confident that the empire she’d built was impenetrable and her enemies too focused on hating each other to attack her; said enemies had severely underestimated just how tenacious Vahlok really was. The result was a prolonged stalemate that neither side, it seemed, was ever going to win — until Rika’s death sent that balance shifting dramatically askew. Some of Vahlok’s people had been bought out by the enemy, and these infiltrators had been given the singular task of destabilizing the Razors’ leadership. Rika had been chosen as the target for a fairly straightforward reason: her opponents knew that she was the one making most of the top-level decisions, and rationalized that without her guidance, her second would be more prone to error. Their orders were carried out swiftly and efficiently; Rika, in all her fondness for lightning warfare, found herself beaten at her own game.
Vahlok did indeed find himself suffering in Rika’s absence, on both a strategic and emotional level. The woman’s death had significantly demoralized the Razors, some of whom began to defect in anticipation of an eventual collapse; their adversaries took advantage of this, mounting concentrated pushes that decimated the remaining ranks. The tide had abruptly been turned, and Vahlok was now staring into the face of an embarrassing and catastrophic defeat.
Captured at last by his opponents and divested of his dignity, Vahlok was dragged before the enemy ringleader — who turned out to be, much to his surprise, another enforcer. That reality might well have been what saved Vahlok’s life: spurred by rage and steadfastly determined to at least regain some shred of his honor before death, he demanded to duel the orchestrator one on one, a challenge that the foe in question eagerly accepted. Without weapons or reinforcements, the two went at each other for nearly half an hour in a savage bout that left both damaged and panting, each waiting for the opposite to make that critical mistake — until Vahlok made a misstep and found himself pinned, unable to do anything but helplessly await the killing blow.
But it never came. Instead, Vahlok was given an ultimatum: either he could quietly submit to the will of the rival leader, serving as a veritable trophy, or he could die on the spot. Vahlok gave the premise a second’s deliberation, and then decided that he chose neither. In that moment, his enemy had been distracted; too absorbed in his self-congratulatory gloating to counter what came next. Fuelled by the last vestiges of his strength, Vahlok flipped the other enforcer over, bore his full weight down on top of him, and clamped his jaws firmly around his throat, savaging his jugular.
Vahlok had achieved his vindication, but Paradise was still Paradise, and he was once again alone. The fall of Rika and her Razors had stripped him of purpose; adrift, he turned nomadic, seeking impermanent refuge among fellow vagrants. Like scores of others before him, Vahlok, too, began to fantasize of an existence free of the dust and disillusionment that came with life on the prison planet, but he had long since learned the consequence of ambition. He was stuck here, likely for the rest of his short life, and so he'd just keep doing the only thing he really knew — roaming wild, mowing down his opposition, and staying alive.
Figuring out which pronoun to use for a genderless species is kinda difficult. I use ‘he’ — ‘they’ is awkward in some instances and ‘it’ is, uh… dehumanizing (ba-dum tss). YMMV, though; use whatever you want.
Unified Systems Protectorate
Official "Paradise" Colony Census Records
Individual Known as: LEON ANDREWS
Official "Paradise" Colony Census Records
Individual Known as: LEON ANDREWS
Crime(s): Aiding Terrorists; Aiding Xenos; Providing terrorists with stolen goods; Transporting narcotics illegally; Unauthorised weapons trade; Resisting arrest; Possession of Narcotics; Possession of stolen goods; Assaulting a Protectorate Contractor; Lying under Oath in the court room; Destruction of Protectorate property;
Skin Hue/Racial Morph: Tanned from Sun Exposure
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Leon Andrews is a what would be considered a typical normal male for his species. At 28, he has fully grown into his height and body, built out and slightly muscular. He isn't overly built up, and is narrower at his waist. His dark hair sits as a shaggy mop on top of his head and his nose is slightly crooked from where it was broken when resisting arrest. He has the beginnings of a stubble over the lower part of his face from where he hasn't shaved the last couple of days. Typical human male, he has one head, two arms, two legs and ten fingers and toes.
For attire, Leon is always found wearing oil stained jeans and an oil stained white shirt. He has no time to really worry about his looks and doesn't care that 90% of the time he's covered in sweat and/or oil. The grooves in his fingerprints seem to be ever stained with oil. The only possessions he has on him all the time is his toolbox and tool belt that is attached to his jeans with all the tools he could need to fix up most kinds of vehicle most of which he's managed to find somehow on Paradise, whether it be abandoned or stolen from some other inhabitant. He also wears an old baseball cap.
Leon has a cocky side to him, but for the most part he tends to keep to himself and stays pretty much silent. He works alone and tries not to become part of a team. Being part of a team means relying on other people and when those other people are strangers, you never know what they are hiding. And Leon knows that from person experience and leaning the hard way, which brought him to Paradise in the first place. Once naive and innocent, he is now a man that believes in nothing of others. All they do is lie and deceive others. Because of this, he is often sarcastic when he does interact with others and is condescending and patronising.
He doesn't show off his intelligence, and most people assume that he's not the brightest spark in the pack, but Leon wants it to be that way. He wants to get the one up on people now, not for them to have the one up on him. He often sits and people watches, learning about them and their habits, trying to figure them out from a distance. One thing he knows almost anything about is mechanics. Leon loves everything to do with vehicles. If he doesn't know about a particular vehicle, by the time he's taken it apart and put it together again, he knows about it. In the engineering trade, nothing seems to much.
Before he ruined it, he had a pretty bright future. Now he trusts no-one and is determined to get off Paradise and clear his name.
As an only child to a single father, Leon grew up in his father's garage watching the old man tinker with all kinds of devices that that's where his love for machinery started. At a young age, Leon was helping his father take things apart and fix them. The boy had a keen eye, and his father picked up on that from the start. He taught his son everything he learned and more over the years until he died, leaving Leon to take over the garage and make a success of the small thing, that his father had never managed to do.
So when a wealthy businessman of sorts came knocking, Leon didn't ask questions and didn't bother to check exactly what he was getting into. All he knew was that the guy wanted to do business with him. He had heard that him and his father were the best mechanics in the business and he wanted their business. So Leon got to work on the cars that came in.
Maybe if he knew he was helping 'terrorists and xenos' he would have changed his mind. Maybe not. But they were trying to escape the thumb of the Protectorate. They weren't exactly criminals either – well the ones trying to escape weren't. But the businessmen he was dealing with were associated from narcotics to murder. But Leon hadn't needed to know that when he started business with them.
But that is what put him on the radar. Leon was watched and monitored from that moment on and because of his friendly nature with the people that gave him his business, that paid him well and always connected him with new business, he was arrested when the time was right. Leon had felt like he'd been punched in the gut and refused to believe what was happening. It was for this that he ended up getting the charge of resisting arrest added to the long list of charges that were being read out.
So much evidence was stacked against him, that Leon ended up on trial in complete shock but still believing that he'd be seen as innocent, because he was. So when he was found guilty and sentenced to Paradise, he only got himself into more trouble and more added charges. Before he knew it, he was through onto Paradise to defend himself, by himself.
[NO DATA AVALIBLE]
- I am the God-
EmperorOP, fear my wrath.
- I reserve the right to deny or remove characters for any reason.
- This RP is rated R for Foul Language, Frequent, Bloody Violence, Drug and Alcohol Abuse, Suggestive Themes and Jaywalking. That means swear, drink and shed blood as much as you want, but no explicit sex. Fade to black if you have to, but beyond hugs and kisses, no smut on-screen.
- Standard Rules apply: No god-modding, no taking control of someone’s character, no metagaming, and no Mary-Sues.
- Post Order will be assigned via a hierarchy system based on time zones and availability. Players have 24 hours to post when their turn comes up, after which they will be skipped.
- If a player is skipped 3 times in a row without PMing me to explain, they will be automatically kicked from the RP.
- All combat between PCs must be pre-arranged via OOC thread. We’re here to have a good time, not get into pissing contests.
- If you plan on leaving, let us know ahead of time so we can find a cool way to kill your character off.
- Have Fun!
Character Creation Template
All character profiles must use the following template:
[center][size=6][b]Unified Systems Protectorate[/b][/size] [size=2]Official "Paradise" Colony Census Records[/size] [b]Individual Known as: [your data here][/b][/center] [size=5][b]Core Profile[/b][/size] [size=2][hr][/hr] [b]Crime(s):[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [b]Species:[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [b]Gender:[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [b]Height:[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [b]Age:[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [b]Skin Hue/Racial Morph:[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [b]Hair Color:[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [b]Eye Color:[/b] [i][your data here][/i] [hr][/hr] [/size] [size=5][b]Physical Profile[/b][/size] [hr][/hr] [size=5][b]Psychological Profile[/b][/size] [hr][/hr] [size=5][b]Historical Profile[/b][/size] [hr][/hr] [size=5][b]Misc. Notes[/b][/size] [hr][/hr]
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