Name: And any aliases, nicknames or code names, if applicable

Age:

Gender: Take this into account when choosing an Agency/Organization. There isn't exactly a lot of females in the Army Rangers or other such organizations.

Appearance: Height, build, facial structure. Voice and mannerisms, even. A picture may be attached, but oh, so help me if it's anime.

Agency/Organization: Rank, if necessary. We do need a balanced team and it wouldn't make sense for a group comprised entirely of tier-one special missions unit guys to be sleuthing.

Education: Were you a straight-edge, motivated college-boy riding a scholarship through West Point straight into a Lieutenant rank or did you learn everything you know during your time in the military/law enforcement?

Background: This is where you flex how good your writing and research into your character goes. Are they a Green Beret? A DEVGRU or Delta Force Operator? An independent contractor? CIA? DIA? DEA? ICE? US Marshal? What part of JSOC/US Intelligence Community/Federal Law Enforcement do you come from? You are the cowboy, the idealist, the unfettered, or the grizzled veteran with one last op in him. You are motivated and believe in what you're doing, half the reason you were picked.

The other half is that you've brushed shoulders with the unknown in some way but have yet to go mad; come across some weird stuff in the Afghan mountains, seized some weird artifacts on a raid, busted a small-time religious cult while undercover. Cognitive dissonance worked wonders, it seems.

Personality: Try to get detailed with this. You'll want to know how they'll react if they ever come across a drug-fueled sacrificial blood orgy to Nyarlathotep.

Skills:
Gifted(+5): 2 skills
Adept(+3): 3 skills
Average(+2): 3 skills
Novice(+1): 4 skills

Weaknesses: At least one nonphysical and physical weakness.

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment: Because you're not going to be walking around in door-kicking gear all day, every day on a clandestine op.
Clothing:
Weapons:
Tools/Equipment:

Operational Clothing/Equipment: Nothing that would betray that you are part of the US military/are American. NATO weaponry is fine, but not required.
Clothing:
Weapons:
Tools/Equipment:

Combat
Marksmanship, long guns
Marksmanship, handguns
Marksmanship, sniper
Demolitions/EOD – The ability to create makeshift explosives, use high-power explosives, and defuse them.
Hand-to-Hand – Covers the use of one's own body as a weapon, as well as improvised weapons, knives, machetes and the like.
Tactical Driving – Pit maneuvers, etc.

Tradecraft
Stealth – Sneaking, concealment of objects on your person, and the ability to hide.
Awareness – Listening, spotting hidden things.
Interrogation – You are well-versed in being both the good cop and the bad cop. This covers extracting information from sources that are under pressure or otherwise not inclined to answer your questions. You can discern facial expressions and body language, and know how to worm your way past their shells.
Persuade – You are versed in flipping people to see your side, as well as convincing people why they should or should not do something. This covers fast-talking(lying) and badge-flashing.
Disguise – Yourself or an item.
Crafting – The ability to make things.
SERE – Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape

Sciences & Studies
First Aid – Treating light wounds, broken bones
Surgery – Self-explanatory
Criminology
Anthropology
Archaeology
Computer Science
Military Science
History
Forensics
Law
Psychology
Engine Mechanics

Foreign Language – Just list any other languages your character is fluent or knowledgeable in.

Clout
This is stuff like connections. List one or two people in positions that can get you information or do you favors. Anything from getting TSA to hassle someone at the airport to tampering with evidence.

This can be used a maximum of 3 times for various things that make sense for your connection(s) to be able to do for you. A higher-up in the US Marshal Service won't be able to reach down far enough to get you past a police cordon in the suburbs.

Name: Atter Sombre Aliases: "Mr. Black", "Lennard Swartz", "Dave", "Nassir Muhammed Al-Jesar", "Jorge Negra", "Alexi Cerny", Innumerable Others

Age:48

Gender: Male

Appearance: Looking distinct is for people with the luxury of having identities. Atter on the other hand seems to have been almost born to be anyone anywhere. He stands at a rather average height of five foot ten with an average build. Dark brown hair starting to gray now, he often dyes to maintain a more youthful look when he needs it. He has light brown eyes set into a strangely forgettable face. He used to hate how terribly normal he looked, but, now he can see the real benefit to being forgotten. Despite having a knack for putting on any face he needs Mr. Black maintains a sense of who he is by keeping his loose and laid back stance in just about everything he does. Even the junk addled tweaker he's playing seems to have an odd air of ease even while pining for his next fix. The heartless road-side bomber posses a sense of serenity while screaming death to America. As of now the old agent has a close cropped corporate-sociopath hair cut. Letting the graying of his hair show through. His face is shaved perfectly smooth with the precision of an obsessive compulsive. He has the body of a part-time cross fitter, all the better to blend in with all the mid-life crisis consumed day-traders he was recently embedded in. With that all done though he's looking forward to a real change. Something grungier, with filth, like the bad old days in the first Desert Storm. Maybe a beard?

Agency/Organization: Maintains at least minor membership in numerous organizations both military and civilian including the Department of Agriculture and The NKA

Education: The best way to learn is to do. Atter didn't have much of a formal education in his early life. Learning his craft by imitating those around him and running scams in Marseille until he had enough skill and money to start a college education. A quest he quickly abandoned due to lack of enthusiasm about academic pursuits. After that his education became almost entirely practical.

Background: Born to a poor Parisian woman and a refugee man from Algeria. Atter found his early life in Marseille a testing affair. Both parents working as much as they possibly could just to try and scrape by in the gang infested French-African districts of the port city. Living in that strange blend of European and African; poor and rich; destroyed and rebuilt; gave the young man a quick grasp of how the world wasn't a place of consistency, meaning, or even justice. He learned quickly, and early, that in order to live here you had to take what you needed. He made a big show of joining his local block's gang and played the usual roles a child plays in gang-land operations. However, he knew the rules. He knew that the larger gangs around were going to eventually take their territory and rip up their supporters. Atter betrayed his gang. He fed information to the other gangs pitting them against, not only his own but, any other local gangs he had information to trade on. He did this for years. Helping to keep the slums in a prolonged state of street war and stability. His first taste of what he would later make his stock and trade. The situation was not made to last though. Eventually the Marseillian police grew tired of the criminal element and began a harsh crackdown. Atter, seeing potential for a real sense of order, was all too happy to help the police by providing tips. Soon enough, the criminals didn't rule the streets anymore, and, in the death throws of the gang-land rule his parents were killed in a market shoot out. In his early teens, Atter, found himself in a world alone. He only cried a little though. He cried because he told them not to go to the market. He told them to hide. He cried only a little because you can not control the idiocy of others. In the next years his skills changed to fit his new environment. You didn't need to sell out people for security. You just had to have the resources to buy it. He acquired those resources by becoming a doppelganger. He crafted himself into whatever and whoever he needed to be in order to yank on the soft spots of those with more than they needed. He took. He stole. He thrived. He tried to go to school. Tried to learn, but, found none of it exciting and even less profitable. He left college and ran more scams until he found an opponent too aware for the young thief. He found someone who did what Atter did but not for gain, he did it for something called The West. This man, this agent didn't turn Atter in. No, he found a useful asset. He used Atter. Taught him things. Then, when he was done in Marseille, he took him out of France. Took him into the world.

Atter moved with his mentor. He learned more and most of all he learned to understand that ideology was the only thing that mattered. Governments rose and fell, but, ideas were eternal. His mentor taught him ways to make people tell you what you wanted and how to get it. Introduced him to people, powerful people, who needed people like them. In only a few years Atter had made a transition. He wasn't Atter anymore. Now he was just a moniker. He was a name on page no one could quite place. He was just "Mr. Black". He worked plenty of jobs for plenty of people. Sometimes he worked for both sides. Feeding them little trickles of good information to keep them snapping at phantoms just like in the old days. Sometimes he covered himself in a new identity working with terrible people until the time came to deliver them to whatever piece of shit god they wanted. He killed civilians in the name of freedom and terrorists in the name of tyranny. He was everywhere that The West, as he understood it, needed him to be. He watched speeches from the mouths of world leaders demanding peace, freedom, and enlightenment before he paid warlords to murder their rivals with weapons from that leader's country. It was glorious hypocrisy.

Eventually The West didn't matter anymore. It turned into proxy wars of minor groups supported by countries operating on behalf of whoever was paying their bills. It was wars for oil, diamonds, or drugs. It was about having tyrants in far off places that will bow to your will when you need them to. It finally hit Mr. Black. That's what it had always been. The West never really existed. Mr. Black lost something when he realized this. He grew bitter, cold, hateful. He'd been lied to. Betrayed by the one person who taught him everything he could do. He had been used and turned into a tool just like those warlords he was, all too often, eating dinner with. He hadn't seen that man in years. Heard he retired. Got some weird cushy job working lobbies for De Beers. Mr. Black went back to the United States for the first time in ten years, and, found the old man easily. He had gotten lazy, sloppy, weak. He stood over his sleeping body in the four-poster bed covered in silk sheets in his Miami high rise. He wanted to wake him up. Yell, scream, threaten, and get him to admit he had used him. That would not happen though. It was too late for that. It was remarkably easy to slip a powerful sedative into the old man's cocaine. The old man had done plenty and now would not rise until late the next day with a terrible headache. Instead Mr. Black just sighed. All things come to an end and all traitors had to be eliminated. He spun the suppressor onto his Sig, loaded with sub-sonic rounds, and, gave his old teacher the hollow point blessing. Painting his silken pillows with blood, skull, and brain matter.

Mr. Black moved to a new target. A new philosophy. Fight for what feels right. Go where the fires are the hottest and find out if they need retardant or gasoline.

Being in the darkest corners of the world a society make you come face to face with plenty of disturbing things. Most, maybe all, are just the desires of man run wild. However, sometimes you see something beyond just simple human darkness. there is something out there. Not God, Yahweh, Allah, Ganesha, or any other named thing you could guess. It's deeper, darker, whispered in incomprehensible non-sense that hold all too many meanings. The first time Mr. Black came face to face with this idea was in the mid nineties working with Kurdish seperatists in Turkey. At first he just assumed the whole village he was working with had some splinter ideas about the Great Allah, strange enough already, but, soon found things were not as they seemed. They spoke a language he had never heard and could not place it's origins in anything in the region. They smiled all too often. Everything was yellow. Hell, even the houses. The stone was your normal brown desert sand stone but they had gone out of their way to turn it a sickly yellow. They loved the color. Mr. Black, at the time under a different name of course, tried to convince them to abandon the color in favor of camouflage but they just laughed him off. The raids were finally what drove him to search farther. They slaughtered. they didn't care who or why. They reveled in the bloodshed and never once praised the ever-present Allah. So he looked. He searched the homes he wasn't allowed into. He found things he couldn't understand. Words scrawled on walls that made his head swim. Books that were bound in something too smooth, too... wet. He smelled sulfur and blood where there was none. He started to love yellow himself. He knew these people were not right. It was wrong here. It took him ten hours to make the devices he needed. That next night he turned the blasting cap and turned the village into a crater. 108 "people" died. Good riddance.

Personality: Mr. Black is not a person easily nailed down. He can turn aspect of his persona up and down like a dimmer switch and never makes himself too attached to a particular aspect of a persona to not be able to abandon it. The real trick of being someone else is to let other project what they expect onto you after all. Be who others expect and they will never expect when you give them two in the back of the head. However, inside Mr. Black in like a calculate. Not immensely smarter but always doing an internal calculus about what everyone around him is doing. Keeping his eyes and mind working to take in his surroundings and stealing the little secrets that people keep. Always working to compile lists of what makes people twitch, what they want, what they love, and how they sound. Either filing them away for later impersonation, blackmail, or elimination. Black values truth more than nearly anything else and jealously guards his own motives, thoughts, and past. Often he finds it easier to make up things to tell others about himself to satisfy their curiosity letting them think what they will and using that false-truth like a leash to make sure the dogs around him don't snap too close to his face or at the wrong targets. Mr. Black finds humor however in pretty much every situation. He's far from a machine. Often when he is with those whom he is not trying to dupe in some ways he can sometimes seem manic and possessing a shockingly dark sense of humor. Whenever he is confronted by something beyond his understanding his first reaction is always skepticism. After all, most things in this world are perfectly explained. Usually, when you see something odd it's an intentional fabrication designed to confuse and once the curtain is pulled back it's just some man who wants others to stare at him in wonder. Mr. Black endeavors to create a full picture. Understand the situation then make a call. if it does turn out to be something on the wrong side of logic and rationality then it has to be destroyed. There isn't room in this world for things that do not make sense. While Mr. Black's morals are on the blacker side of gray he does have lines that he will not cross. Any oath given by Mr. Black, and not given as part of a manipulation, he refuses to break. These promises are very few and very far between, after all, honesty is for soldiers and idiots. Additionally no information will be held back from his team if its absence might compromise the mission, assuming compromising the mission isn't his mission.

Skills:
Gifted(+5): Persuade, Disguise
Adept(+3): Awareness, Interrogation, Stealth
Average(+2): EoD, Criminology, SERE
Novice(+1): Hand-to-Hand, Crafting, Marksmanship: Handguns, Psychology

Languages: French(Marseille and Algerian dialect) English (Numerous American and English accent) Egyptian Arabic, Spanish(Mexican dialect), Ukrainian, Russian(Ukrainian accent), German(Low accent)

Contacts:
Anton "Zed" Guara: Cartel Sicario Operates out of Mexico City

Kyrsten Sinema: House of Representatives, AZ D (Casual affair maintained for connections)

Weaknesses:

Physical: Age: Mr. Black is old for an operator. Too old really. His strength, endurance, and agility aren't what they used to be and never will be again. he has to rely on others to do the heavy lifting.

Mental: Ruthless: Mr. Black is comfortable working outside of government intervention and on his own oversight. because of this he often is at odds when working with direct government operators. He is willing and un-phased by the deaths of civilians, peace officers, and other Geneva protected activities.. Success if his primary focus.

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: Whatever passes for local normal clothing or a nice suit to look respectable when that needs to be done.
Weapons:Sig Sauer P320(9mm) compact, folding knife, garrote wire set into the wrist band of a watch.
Tools/Equipment:
Phones (normal and dedicated comms) pen, pen LED light, high power laser pointer, fake credentials or ID, pocket pepper spray, lock gun.

Operational Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: Same as normal day clothing though modified with military boots(if not already normal), balaclava, with overcoat, pancho, over-robe, or some kind of extra top layer to conceal carried equipment.
Weapons: Sig sauer P320 Compact(Sig .357 sub-sonic hollow points), USMC KABAR Fighting knife, Local group's favorite machine pistol or SMG with folding/retractable stock, hand held home-made explosives if time and supply allows and if needed.
Tools/Equipment: Same as normal loadout+, suppressor for Sig and SMG/machine pistol if available, light police issue kevlar vest, Sig rail flashlight laser sight combo, IR flashlight, folding light-duty gas mask, air-tight goggles, light molie mesh, X2 additional mags for both firearms, IR scope.

Name: Daniel ‘Dan’ Allen

Age: 32

Gender: Male

Appearance: Earning himself a ticket to intrigued aside stares with his pale complexion, amber colored eyes and close cut, thick reddish brown hair, but not having the attractiveness to go to the next level with his fairly standard, perhaps even bland looking face, Daniel’s one of those many people stuck between the blurry area between ‘attractive’ and ‘normal’. Standing at around 5’9’’, and weighing 170 pounds, he’s got a fairly regular build, with defined arms and a stiff neck. There are four stitched-up bullet holes around his chest area, with four exit wounds on his back.

His face is square-shaped, with prominent cheekbones that make his cheeks look somewhat sunken. While his nose may have been once straight, leading down to a rounded tip, it now crooks slightly to the right. Eyes are of a hooded shape, with a mole on the lower eyelid of his left eye kind of ruining their symmetry. Daniel has a mouth with thin lips, with a small surgery mark on the left side of his upper lip, thanks to having been born with a harelip, although this is concealed by his mustache.

Agency/Organization: FBI, Special Agent

Education: Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology from Pennsylvania State University, 5 years of experience as Police Officer in Pittsburgh Police Department, 4 years of experience as FBI Special Agent

Background: Dan’s never had much of a background aside from education, admittedly. Born in Pittsburgh to a mother of Irish descent, and a father of English descent, he had somewhat of an introverted childhood – Thanks to the mythology books in his mother’s library, relics from her youth, he mostly spent his time mixing mythologies together and then pouring them onto paper with a ballpoint pen. Despite this childhood hobby taking up a lot of his time, he never really excelled in drawing. His mother, believing her son to be a genius thanks to his interests in reading and writing, tried to emphasize on this during his education and peppered him with material, although this did not amount to much, aside from an interest in detective novels.

The lad opened up a bit more in high school. Having garnered an incredibly dry sense of humor, and a penchant for sarcasm, Daniel managed to learn how to make his presence known with his wit. During his adolescence, in an unexpected moment of clarity and maturity, it occurred to him that he really had no idea what he was doing with life, and what was to come – faced with this teenager existential crisis, Daniel took up sports, running in his spare time. The physical exhaustion somehow brought satisfaction to him. It was also during this time that he made his choice for the future – he would be a detective. Although one could say this choice was made for him years before when he had first met Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle.

Enrolling in Pennsylvania State University in the sophisticated-sounding Department of Sociology and Criminology, Daniel continued his life as usual. Deciding to prepare himself for his bright future as detective, he took up boxing and kickboxing, and became a quite well-trained practitioner of the sports, although he took a break after getting his nose broken in a rather intensive spar. Applying for the force quickly after graduation from the university, Daniel suddenly found himself in the Pittsburgh Police Training Academy, and before he knew it, he had achieved his ‘dream’. He was in for a rough awakening.

Daniel realized that, in retrospect, he never really had any idealism to keep him in the job. In fact, he had nothing to be passionate about. He figured he had simply clung to the idea when young to give himself something to go on with. But it was too late to complain, and plus, nothing fundamental had changed in his life. He figured he could keep on. So far, he had done so, without fault. And so he did, without much difficulty - Pittsburgh wasn’t anywhere like Detroit or Oakland. He saw bad things nonetheless. Sometimes he saw scary things. Daniel felt that he should feel surprised by mankind’s penchant for cruelty and pettiness, but he never was easy to faze.

He got bored, eventually. He had a good track record in the PPD, a college degree, a desire to go further, and there was nothing much that he felt attached to in Pittsburgh, aside from the boilermaker. His father had died in Daniel’s third year of the job. Prostate cancer. His mother had moved in with her sister, so she didn’t exactly need caretaking. He decided to go with it, and applied for the FBI. He didn’t know what to expect – at least that uncertainty brought some tension and elation into his life.

While the job did not end up much different (things only got more tense and longwinded), Daniel’s personal life was somewhat kindled thanks to his partner, Special Agent Julia Tasso. He found out that it was nice to have a friend that you could feel relaxed around, or maybe just that it was nice to have a friend. He had plenty of associates and colleagues in Pittsburgh, but nobody he could exactly call a true companion. Daniel enjoyed the presence of this woman. She was lively, and could cheer up even the ever-somber Pennsylvanian. The dynamic duo, empowered by each other, proved quite effective.

However, things changed while on the tails of a child-trafficking ring in New Hampshire. Caught up in a shootout inside a convenience store (Daniel’s third shootout in his entire life, and the first one he ended up in without any SWAT teams around), Julia got shot. Thanks to her Kevlar vest, the bullet wasn’t even dangerous, let alone fatal, but the sight of his partner choking on the ground kind of sent Daniel over the edge. He chased after the man, into the store basement, where he stumbled upon a grotto converted into a pool, the man having vanished.

Then he got shot. Then he got shot again, and then he got shot two more times. By his adrenaline-fueled estimates, the exit wounds were probably about the size of a toddler’s fist. He tried to choke, but ended up falling into the pool. As he sank, he heard more gunshots, one from the gun that had shot him, and the other sounded like a Glock. It was likely Julia had come down and shot the man down. He couldn’t tell. He was sinking, and there was a ringing in his ears. Not of the gunshot sort - it was more like an instrument. He couldn’t make much sense of it. He still cannot.

Daniel woke up two days later in a hospital. Julia came to visit the day after, heavily shaken up. According to reports, his survival was a miracle – apparently, the perpetrator had used a .30-30. A cartridge used to hunt big game. Of course, his Kevlar had absorbed some of the impact, but not enough. The bullets had gone clean through him, stopping only at his vest’s back plate. His recovery was almost as miraculous as his survival. A week later, he was able to walk without any issues. They told him that the doctors had done a great job.

Nonetheless, Daniel feels a bit different after the whole thing. It’s only normal that a person would feel strange after a two day coma induced by an aggressive kind of lead poisoning, but he feels even duller. Almost as if he’s lost his joy of life. And the wounds still look fresh, as if they were only recently stitched up. He doesn’t know whether he should be concerned or not.

Personality: Daniel’s like an engine – he feels cold and slow at first glance, but shows his spark after a period of warming up and getting to work. Somber, and incredibly hard to faze, rarely has he been seen reacting to something with more than a slight facial movement – while in a constant low mood, it’s practically impossible to take him even below. He is mostly work oriented, and inwardly distrustful of many people he meets, and doesn’t open up easily. While these, aside from his workaholic behavior, aren’t exactly admirable traits (and even being a workaholic is of questionable admiration), they’ve proven themselves useful time and time over in his line of work. While questioning and constantly skeptical, Daniel lives these feelings inwardly, and often does not let his true colors show. For people he’s taken a liking to, though, Daniel’s immensely protective, even though he does not let this show either. Outwardly a stoic, but a romantic at heart, rarely does Daniel live his emotions – and when he does, it’s a rollercoaster without brakes.

Skills:

Gifted(+5): Criminology, Forensics
Adept(+3): Marksmanship (Handguns), Hand-to-Hand, Awareness
Average(+2): Marksmanship (Long guns), Interrogation, Stealth
Novice(+1): Tactical Driving, Anthropology, Psychology, History

Weaknesses:

-Stubborn: Rarely does Dan get picky about something, mostly thanks to his nonchalant personality, but when he does, it’s practically impossible to steer him clear of his course of action. If he’s made his mind up, he can forsake anything for the sake of what he’s chasing. Of course, this has happened once in his life, and it got him killed. But turns out not even death could make him change his ways.

-Misanthrope: While he can be quite enjoyable if you manage to bond with him, Daniel is cold, almost hostile, to people he meets, and has fickle standards. His first impressions are quite hard to erase, and you’re in for a ride if your first impression upon him isn’t a good one. He isn’t above letting misfortunes grow for colleagues he doesn’t like.

-Dead: Dan’s dead, baby. Dan’s dead. While that should make him somewhat harder to keep down, being not living and all, it’s unlikely he’ll be recovering from anything at all. No scar tissue for this fellow.

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment:

Clothing: Casual clothing with an affinity for Polo shirts, sneakers, jackets, steel-toed boots, cheap suits
Weapons: Glock 21, Taser, Collapsible Baton
Tools/Equipment: Phone, police radio, CSI First Responding Officer Kit, pen, journal, credentials

Operational Clothing/Equipment:

Clothing: Casual clothing with an affinity to polo shirts, steel-toed boots, jackets, gloves
Weapons: Remington 11-87, Glock 21, Glock 30, Taser, Combat Knife
Tools/Equipment: Police radio, Kevlar vest, Helmet, NBC mask, chest carrier

Foreign Language – Spanish, slight French, slight Latin

Clout

-Special Agent Julia Tasso, FBI

Name: Victor Freud (no relation), or "Siggy/Sicky."

Age: 37

Gender: apache attack helicopter male

Appearance: 6'1, he has slick brown hair and green eyes, he has somewhat but a relatively strong chin to "compensate." He weighs 185 pounds and has a muscular build but not enough to make him stand out as any sort of "body-builder" when clothed; however he will often make a show of great biceps so that people would think that the stuff under his civilian clothing is muscle rather than armour. He has a cross scarred on his right shoulder blade from his teen years and lots of various bullet and blade scars all over himself.



Agency/Organization: Blackwater Inc./Academi

Education/Experience: homeschooled/tutored, but very well until 18. 4 years training on Blackwater's grounds, 2 years of protection services and guarding services, assorted Blackwater contracts from then to the present day.

Background:
Victor was the fifth child and fourth son to a wealthy oil baron in Texas, Ben Freud. He grew up with a classic rich-kid life, playing golf and listening to classic or jazz music when family was around, snorting coke and spending nights with working girls when it wasn't. He had a very good private education which he came to value knowing that as a fifth child he would need his wits unable to rely on the inheritance he would get. At least not if he wanted to keep up his life of debauchery.

When he was twenty his education was more than a year from having stopped, and he had to start working. By this time his father was much older and crankier, and started to speak of the "good old days," nuclear families, fighting the foreigners and "cock-sucking commies," so on and so forth. His father gave all of his male children an ultimatum; become a man by fighting or be disinherited. One of his brothers was too frightened, packing all the cash he could and running off. One joined the Marines, and another the air-force. Victor, in his opinion, made a slightly better choice and joined a PMC; the newly founded Blackwater incorporated thanks to an under-the-table investment in the company by his father. At first it was just like a bootcamp, where he trained for months and eventually years until the US invasion of Afganistan came, and Blackwater received a contract. Feeling himself ready, Victor agreed to go and fight for his inheritance. There he did all kinds of work, while initially it was merely guarding generals and Central Intelligence Agency compounds. It was near the end of the war that things got "interesting" for him. It was one fateful night when they were escorting a CIA operative, or some other brown-noser when they hit a series of improvised land mines. While the armoured vehicles could take them, they were not able to withstand a barrage of rocket-propelled grenades that followed.

When Victor awoke it was with a dead mercenary on his face and remains of his vehicle upon him. It was by sheer luck that he wasn't noticed when moments later one of the enemy commandos picked up the body upon him, and dragged it into a circle. With a crane of the head Freud could see that the bodies were put into a sort of pentagram, split open be it with blades or teeth. There was some shouting by the terrorist into the sky, then he poured diesel dyed green all over himself and the bodies and set them on fire, cackling until the last moment. It seemed Victor's ordeal wasn't over, when a flash and an explosion of sound much like a stun grenade happened. Probably coming from another surviving gun for hire, it was a while before the ringing stopped, the sounds of shooting overhead while it was still there. However when it did, Victor saw nothing about. Eventually, reckoning himself to be safe he clambered out and looked around. Where the man had burned himself there was now little more than a pile of slowly burning bones.

At this point he heard shouting, shooting and turned just in time to see the man who knocked him down. When he looked back he saw that they were uniformed, shouting a foreign language. It was strange because it wasn't German or a Romance language. It sounded more like one of the Eastern coalition languages, some sort of Slavic perhaps? Their uniforms weren't NATO issued but they were uniforms nonetheless. For now he assumed them to be the Afghan allies, and turned to see what they were running from. It was clear that the ten or so men now running towards him firing old weapons were the ones behind it. Some were still aimed at the men running and one was shot down. Victor promptly reacted getting his M4 and fired upon them all, the men not expecting resistance quickly succumbing to a better trained soldier; three fell while the rest retreated. He walked over at first to the fallen enemies, and noted that while one had the typical Kalashnikov, two others had old bolt-action rifles, perhaps from even before the first world war. Then he went to inspect one of the fallen retreating soldiers, and was very surprised indeed. He had a Soviet patch on his shoulder, and a cold-war era Kalashnikov carbine. He was also wearing no armour, a practice much more common at the precise time that the Soviets had troops deployed in Afghanistan. However, that was thirty years ago, a Russian wouldn't still be there! He reasoned that the Afghani government would re-purpose gear left behind by them. But... that didn't explain how the man had blond hair and blue eyes, a trait oh so common in the peoples of the middle east. He was dumbfounded, and then another ring came, this time from one of the fallen enemies firing and hitting flashbang whilst in his death throes.

He collapsed to the ground, having recently had three flash-grenades explode near him made a pain unbearable and he screeched into the sky and put his head to the ground with his eyes shut. When he finally returned to a state where he could deal with the world around him, it was to see another one of the company's trucks drive up, the door open and a contractor urging him to get in. In too much pain to speak or take his hands off his ears to hear, he ran in and the truck drove off. When they arrived at an ISAF base he was given first aid and then asked for a report. He omitted the parts that would sound insane, like the thought that he traveled back in time to see a fight between Mujahideen and Communists. They were somewhat suspicious that he was seemingly the only survivor, but eventually let him go.

He kept on with his duties and did them well when returning to Academi, but when speaking or spoken to he seemed almost constantly in a state of shell-shock. He knew it was probably just a soldier with old Soviet gear, and it was an outlier that the terrorists had such old weapons but the thought that perhaps the self-immolation was some stupid ritual, or something else inexplicable haunted him. Finally he took a year's paid vacation for "stress" reasons, and returned for the last year of the Afghanistan war to take revenge on those who killed his friends on that day. The men with him were not good people - perhaps even bad ones - but they were his friends. He slaughtered civilians and Soldiers alike but got little reprimand being by now quite high in the Corporate ladder of the killing company. The war was over, and he took more private contracts like guarding rich kids and oil fields, or breaking up the odd protest or so. Once again, he was still too shocked by what he had seen and only recently had he finally come out of his shell of insanity. It was only days after he became "normal" again, his boss told him that there was a big government gig coming, and he was chosen for it. He took it as a rebound job, finally out of his traumatized stupor.

Personality: like most PMC troopers, he is motivated mostly by caring only for that which is dear or important to him, money being close to the top of the list of such things. He remembers horribly some of the times he was forced to kill the innocent, moulding his cynical mind.. He will put others in the way of harm if it can save his hide somehow in pretty much all cases but those involving his comrades, dear friends or relatives. However, even then desperation can do lots of things. He is hardened by a heavy cynicism and has generally a hardy mentality and a stubborn head even if it will prove detrimental. However, more recently he has began to develop some changes. He is starting to feel remorse that his younger self-didn't, however at the same time he is becoming more politically minded seeing what he does as a necessary evil for order, stability and for civilization as it is known rather than his playboyish disregard for life around him. While not very evident, this change of heart may grow over time and rip him apart eventually. Additionally, now that he is higher in Blackwater's hierarchy he has read up on past operations and now knows details about what he was doing in the past which he rather would not. At this great crossroads in how to lead one's life, he has yet to make a choice. The fact that he hasn't made it, and what he is making it about leads him to a near suicidal depression.

Skills:
Gifted(+5): Marksmanship - long guns, Marksmanship - handguns
Adept(+3): Marksmanship - sniper, Hand-to-Hand, Awareness
Average(+2): Stealth, SERE, Demolitions/EOD
Novice(+1): Law (gotta know how to legally defend yourself after shooting them civvies), Military Science, Tactical Driving, First Aid

Weaknesses: on the spectrum of autism, type 1 diabetic (can't wait to die because I didn't have apple juice or insulin in the desert). He is also vice filled, being somewhat addicted to alcohol, tobacco and recreational drugs. While he can more or less keep off of the latter he can badly suffer from withdrawal of the first two.

Non-fighty stuff: expensive and usually tailored two-piece or occasionally three-piece suits. When truly "relaxing" he'll wear jeans along with a polo-shirt and shoes, along with a sweater and sunglasses if needed. Still, he will often wear disguised protection along with it all. He will carry a glock-18 machine pistol with a silencer, some new phone, a pocket and trench knife, a pocket watch, a compass, a flask of aged scotch, a gold ring, tasers (one as a gun and one requiring contact) and deodarant.

Fighty stuff: full private purchase armour that is marginally better than the standard-issue alternative. A fire retardant anti-stab balaclava, ballistic helmet, face mask, and military goggles. Soft kevlar torso armour with a hard (steel or ceramic) insert protects the organs. He is armed with a 45-70 government Magnum Research BFR, an imported AK-107 with a variety of things to attach to the rail and a woof finish to mask it as an AKM. He has a bandolier with a tear gas, smoke, flash, incendiary, stingball and frag grenade. For CQC he will carry a bowie knife and a telescopic baton, and for improved door-kicking his boots have over-sized steel caps.

Foreign Language(s): Fluent German, Latin and Spanish.

Clout: Blackwater/Academi friends will willingly give nearly any pertinent intel with minimal red-tape, namely (Ex-Marine Colonel) Program Manager (rank below Country Manager in most PMCs as I am told, not sure about Blackwater specifically) Lee Stafford and (. His father is also useful since he is an oligarch and can call in favours with oligarch friends.