Name: Robert J. DeRoo
Height: 6'1 Feet
Weight: 197 LBS
Body: Well-toned, moderate build.
Gender: Male
Born: February 3, 1989
Age: 23
Bio: Robert was graced with a rather normal childhood, aside from an occasionally non-existant father. No beatings, or lack of attention. Nor was he a shining star, in terms of Schooling, or sports. All around average. He grew up well, and did it quick, planning his future at a young age, and commiting to it. Several months after graduating High School, he was off to basic, saying farewell to his childhood, and all friends and family therein.
Several years later, he'd find himself with the rank of Staff Sergeant, serving in the U.S. Army as a UH-60 Crewchief, and mechanic. It was something he'd enjoyed, though it had it's fair share of danger, both at home, and over-seas.
-----End CS------
Within the over-turned wreckage of a MRAP Troop Carrier, lay Staff Sergeant DeRoo, Robert, J. The bulk of his gear sat within a neat pile formed at his side, while he attempted to get to sleep. A futile attempt, at the very best. Within his mind, he could find no peace, no shelter, or sanctuary. The past 72 Hours clouted every synapse of his memory, playing every moment back in vivid detail.
"Well? Do you think it's better off-post, Sarn't?!" SSG DeRoo turned his head towards his Squad, particuarly to the sender of the question, PFC Barrett. DeRoo let out a light scoff, as the question had a rather simple, yet logical answer "The immiediate area? Fuck no. Every civvy within a 50 Mile radius will probably head here." To his left, PVT Rudde spoke up, the Squad's newest arrival. "Why's that Sarn't?" DeRoo didn't have a chance to answer, as he was beaten to it by fellow SSG, Verde, a man he'd worked with most of his military career, even before leaving the U.S. "Because we're the Army, dumbass. They know we've got weapons, ammo, armor, and vehicles. They'll think it's a safe-haven! Then come the mobs, demanding entrance after being turned away. All it takes is one of them to be infected, and all hell breaks loose. At that point, it's only a matter of time."
A bump outside the MRAP tore DeRoo from his memory. In an instant, his entire body responded, acting purely on instinct, and muscle memory. His hand gripped his 45. Calibur M1911 pistol, raising it to eye-level and training it on the damaged, partially-open rear-access doors of his impromptu shelter. His chest tightened, and breath stopped, offering no sound to what might lurk outside. Seconds, maybe minutes passed, witohut another sound. DeRoo finally lowered his weapon, and allowed himself to take a slow, controlled, but desperately-needed breath.
But he couldn't relax though. He'd never be able to do so until he'd at least found Caitlin. She was the sole reason he'd seperated from his men, telling them to prepare their aircraft, while he went off on what could very-well be a suicide mission to rescue his damsel-in-distress Wife. Some time later, a sizzling 'pop' would jar him awake. His initial surprise at simply falling asleep was cast aside in place of his concern over the sound itself. From the crack between the doors beyond his feet, he could see a dull red glow. He'd then sit up-right, leaning foreward just enough to barely peek out from within the overturned beast. A flare. From his current position, he knew it was near his home. "Caitlin?!" He thought to himself.
2 Minutes later, he was on his feet, with his helmet, mask, vest, Assault Pack, and PF-Mod M4A1 all in their proper places. He gave himself, and his gear one last check, ensuring everyhting was secured, and all skin covered, before creeping his way out the doors. With the intersection itself cleared, save for two Walkers in the direction he came, he picked up a steady shuffle, keeping his footfalls controlled, steady, and silent as he closed in on the origin of the flare's smoke trail, roughly 7 Blocks away. As he moved, his grip never slackened on the 9-Inch Kukri within his right hand. He wasn't about to draw himself any undue attention by firing off precious ammo. The near-by roar of a diesal engine wasn't lost on his ears however, amidst the endless sounds of ambient conflict within the Base. His moved from cover to cover, bounding, assesing, and bounding again. He knew better than to leave himself out in the open for too long. Before long, a grassy area came into view, as did the play area within. With a pleased breath, he recognized it as the playground for his neighborhood. He was five minutes out, at the very most, as he cut off of the road, and into the grass, quite happy to do so.
