Name: John Dean

Nickname:The Butcher

Age:24

Appearance: Average height, average build. Pale skin with red hair. Blue eyes and covered in scars all over. Wears steel toed boots and knee pads, white under shirt with a grey long sleeve shirt and a black jacket. Has gloves with brass knuckles built into them. Wears a leather face mask over his mouth and nose, and nearly always wears a butchers apron that's covered in gore

Personality: Agressive, cunning, friendly and polite while not in combat, ruthless and a bit reckless while in combat

Biography: Not much is know about The Butchers background, even by him. In the few weeks since the disaster happened, he took to taking drugs and liquor in vast quantities. Because of that, most of his long term memory is gone. The only thing he does know is how he got his name, and it isn't because of how he dresses. He basically worked up the name by killing lots of creatures, mutants and raiders, either for money, drugs, sex or even just because. He always tore them to pieces, and always used a meat cleaver when in close enough. However, while he does like a good fight, he always knows when to run when the odds aren't in his favour. If is told to run for it, he will, and he can run for as long as it takes. He joined on with the mercenary group soon after he earned the name "The Butcher", partly because they paid well, mainly because they seemed like fun. And while he has cut back on his drug habit a lot since joining the group, whenever he gets into a fight it gives him a feeling of euphoria that can only be matched with being high as kite. Or sex. Or both at the same time.

Unique Trait:
Battle crazy - while in combat he doesn't feel pain from wounds, which can also hinder him if he has a bad wound and continuing on would make the wound worse

Equipment:
Mr Face - Gas mask with red splattered on it.

Betty - A large meat cleaver which is made from the finest steel.

Boomer - A .357 caliber pistol which is modified to have as little recoil as possible.

Boxer - Brass knuckles gloves which he uses when he needs to.

Motto:
"I'm gonna use your skull as a piss bucket."

never mind

Name: Maximilian "Max" Magnus
Nickname: His name is Max Magnus. He doesn't need one.
Age: 30
Appearance:

Max is a monster. A 7 and a half feet tall, 600 pound walking slab of augmented muscle, he looks as though he was forged out of pure steel rather than born of flesh and blood. Complimenting his physique, he always dresses in metalhead type clothes with a militaristic bend and he wears his dark shades at all times, further contributing to the "badass" look he works to cultivate.

His body is also a patchwork mess. He is covered in scars, both surgical and combat-earned, sports hideously prominent veins that pop up all over his body and his eyes are pitch black, giving him an unsettling thousand-yard stare. When engaged in combat, his nanomachine augments transform his skin into an dull, metallic grey armor-like construct, further contributing to his appearance as a monster.

Personality:
Despite his fearsome look, Max is actually fairly calm, friendly and giving outside of battle. His "condition", which gives him a decade to live, has given him a newfound appreciation for life and he's determined to both make the most out of his and help others live theirs whenever he can. When in an assignment he transforms into a much colder, serious man, all about getting the job done and done right. Unfortunately for whatever gets in his way, and much as he hates to admit it, he also derives great joy from his abilities and just how powerful they make him feel, making him merciless, relentless and prone to occasionally going overboard when he engages in battle.

Biography:
Max hails from the planet Quent, universally regarded as one of the most inhospitable worlds discovered by mankind. While settlers originally found the conditions nigh-impossible to manage, ages of adaptation and survival of the fittest meant that Quentians became some of the hardiest humans out there, famed for their qualities as soldiers and athletes. Max and his family arrived to Enoh following his father, a hired bodyguard to a wealthy industrialist with stakes on one of the moons’ shipyards.

A large child and son of a veritable giant, from a young age Max was trained to become a true Quentian as per the planet's customs. He didn't get to experience life much, instructed as he was in the ways of physical and mental toughness few outside of the already naturally gifted could bear. While his family had the right to live in the upper levels, he was never meant to socialize with the rich and pampered. He spent most of his days down below, feeling more at home in the harsher conditions that approximated those of his home planet.

It was this preparation, however, that saved him from the end of the world. That and luck. He was lucky enough to be down below when the apocalypse came, his family perishing during the catastrophe. He was strong enough to survive through the early chaos, when survivors turned on one another out of desperation and hunger and thirst. He was strong enough, in his mind, to remain human. He wouldn't turn into a scavenger, a revenant, dooming others to save himself. He would remain as he was, and help others in kind.

Max eventually gained notoriety, not simply for his size and deadliness but because his willingness to help saw him take in and provide for those who could not fend for themselves. Mostly children, but also the elderly and the invalid. It made him an easy mark for a proposal by the newly burgeoning mob. They would provide and care for his charges, ensure their safety and resources. After all, no one would think to mess with people protected by both Max Magnus and the mob. All he had to do was act like a guinea pig.

Soldier enhancement projects were nothing new in this day and age of interstellar travel, but they were subjected to a strict code of ethics and were, understandably, a rarity in a planet devastated by a cataclysm like Enoh. Fortunately (for them), the mob had managed to preserve a facility and the means to engage in those practices. There were several problems, however, all stemming from the fact that they just didn't have a precise means to do so, they lacked a stable, money-making process for it.

What they had was an experimental procedure with an extremely high mortality rate, requiring an already gifted specimen to even stand a chance at making it through. The process was also highly invasive and, to be blunt, maddening. Those who had survived physically had lacked the mental fortitude to make it through with their wits. Some were simply left blank, others became dangerous psychopaths and had to be put down, at a great cost to the mob. A perfect specimen was required and it'd been decided that Max was it.

All of this information was made readily available to him. The mob needed this to succeed. A world without order was one where organized crime would not thrive, if they could make this work then they could bring order to Enoh. They were impressed with both his physical and mental fortitude and were certain that the process could be perfected working from data acquired from him. Max did not necessarily see eye to eye with the mafia on many things, but this was an opportunity he could not refuse.

Max wouldn't be around forever, and those under his care would need some other means of defense. A world under the mob was better than the pure chaos that currently reigned. Perhaps not much better, but it was something. He was, finally, informed that the process would greatly reduce his lifespan. He'd have, at most, a decade to live. He didn't care. Chances were him and his people wouldn't live to see a decade as they were. He agreed and went through the process, something he'd rather not recall.

Now, Max lives out the remainder of life as a Devil Runner. Every successful job means more resources for those he cares for. Every job means more data, that the mob may finally stabilize their process and then, the world. If he can make himself useful, he can die proud.

Unique Trait:
-Painkiller: Already a naturally gifted athletic specimen, Max underwent an experimental process to turn himself into a bonafide killing machine. A mixture of invasive surgical enhancements, chemical mutations and copious amounts of nanomachines inserted into his system and bonded with his body to stabilize the process and ensure his survival, the procedure has left Max freakishly strong and impossibly tough, capable of competing with wasteland creatures without the use of firearms or heavy mechanized armor. Furthermore, the process has rendered him incredibly resilient to radiation poisoning and other toxicity in general, allowing him to forego much of the safety equipment necessary for survival.

He isn't indestructible by any means, and sending him out to fend off a large group of creatures on his own would obviously end badly for him. Relying on size and overwhelming strength also has its limits. He's unable to handle the vast, vast majority of portable firearms without accidentally crushing them, in fact, he takes great care not to touch anything for fear of breaking something important. He also can't fit inside most vehicles, let alone drive one, and his heavy weight makes transporting him something of a pain. But when the chips are down and you need to make a stand, you'll count your lucky stars that he's on your side and willing to take hits for you.

Equipment:
-Gas mask: More an armored helmet than a simple breather, Max's mask is a show of Quentian heritage. Made to resemble the deadly predators of his home planet, it sports a front somewhat resembling a fanged maw and uses cables to simulate hair-like protrusions to further fuel Max's image as a towering beast. It's not only made for looks, however, as comes with a built-in flashlight and a myriad of visual assistance functions to better help Max track down and squash opposition. Many a raider with a handle on their wits, and many that don't, have fled rather than face the sight of Max in full battle "gear".

Motto: "Strength takes sacrifice"/"I will break you"/"Fear is a powerful ally".