Petrified, stuck with our hands in hot water, the world watched as Britain was eaten alive, from the inside out. Cries for isolationism and security spread like wildfire, which burned just as hot as the cries for intervention and assistance. Each and every citizen’s paranoia and anger was clear as day, as it was shouted from rooftops and paraded at every street corner, everyone carrying picket signs and megaphones ablaze with demands and attacks, aimed at both their government and opponents. What wasn’t clear, however, was the best way to address the collapse of Humanity in the U.K.. With unrest and security issues at home, and a virus spreading faster than any other they’d seen before overseas, the United States government was cemented in a tough spot, frantically yanking at it’s ankles in an attempt to react.

Great Britain was destroyed entirely by the Rage Virus, with her population being decimated and any semblance of society falling apart, with scattered pockets of humans left to fend for themselves. That is, until, a U.S-led NATO force entered Great Britain in an attempt to rebuild her. As they began to find out, the majority of the infected had actually died out, having starved to death, leaving Britain a broken, empty husk. District One was established, but the Rage Virus found its way even into the military guarded settlement, once again spreading the Rage Virus, and repopulating the streets of London with the horrifying infected.

At home, the news of the U.S withdraw from Great Britain and her reinfection was a massive blow to American morale, which was already astoundingly low. With soldiers present in the streets of almost every major city, roadblocks and checkpoints littered around every major road vessel, American life had slowed to a crawl. As the loss of entire nation rocked the world economy, unemployment was at an all time high, but liberty was at all time low. Many people spent their days forced into their homes, glued to television sets, watching as the other side of the world either burned or prepared itself to be caught in the flames. Or, they stuck their heads out the windows to see the protests right outside, as different political factions demanded the government answer their calls for action. Civil unrest over the oppression of the American public and media had spilled into the streets prompting harsh, and sometimes even deadly backlash from the American military. Riots and strikes were regular occurrences, as were the crushing retaliation and resulting tighter grip on the populace by government authority.

Entire political parties sprouted up dedicated to how citizens believed “The Rage In The East” should’ve been handled. Many of the aforementioned riots usually resulted in a violent spat between two differing groups. At one point, the government finally stopped allowing civilians into the various buildings of government, security strengthening around the nation’s capital and many state capitals, especially as fear of a serious terrorist attack began to mount.

Thirty-two weeks after the initial outbreak, the French, Germans and Spanish amongst others were fighting infections of their own, along with others. Ireland had almost been wiped out, another large blow to the international community, which had begun to focus on fortifying the surrounding nations in an attempt to reduce future outbreak. Over time, though, it was becoming increasingly apparent that perhaps nothing could stop the Rage Virus. The Spanish had been able to keep their infection at bay, but had failed in completely eradicating it, as it proved to spread faster than what was exactly manageable. France and Germany, however, were having a much harder time and higher death tolls, with many fleeing farther east, meeting intense opposition as uninfected countries all over Eurasia began to lock down their borders and refusing any travel from the outside.

With the Rage Spreading, and citizens of many fortified nations under extreme totalitarian conditions, some world governments began to suggest the nuclear option. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and risking the lives of a comparatively small number of people to save the rest of the world seemed like a worthy price to pay.

Petrified, stuck with our hands in hot water, the world watched as Britain was eaten alive, from the inside out. Cries for isolationism and security spread like wildfire, which burned just as hot as the cries for intervention and assistance. Each and every citizen’s paranoia and anger was as clear as day, as it was shouted from rooftops and paraded at every street corner, everyone carrying picket signs and megaphones ablaze with demands and attacks, aimed at both their government and opponents. What wasn’t clear, however, was the best way to address the collapse of Humanity in the U.K.. With unrest and security issues at home, and a virus spreading faster than any other they’d seen before overseas, the United States government was cemented in a tough spot, frantically yanking at it’s ankles in an attempt to react.

Great Britain was destroyed entirely by the Rage Virus, with her population being decimated and any semblance of society falling apart, with scattered pockets of humans left to fend for themselves. That is, until, a U.S-led NATO force entered Great Britain in an attempt to rebuild her. As they began to find out, the majority of the infected had actually died out, having starved to death, leaving Britain a broken, empty husk. District One was established, but the Rage Virus found its way even into the military guarded settlement, once again spreading the Rage Virus, and repopulating the streets of London with the horrifying infected.

At home, the news of the U.S withdraw from Great Britain and her reinfection was a massive blow to American morale, which was already astoundingly low. With soldiers present in the streets of almost every major city, roadblocks and checkpoints littered around every major road vessel, American life had slowed to a crawl. As the loss of entire nation rocked the world economy, unemployment was at an all time high, but liberty was at all time low. Many people spent their days forced into their homes, glued to television sets, watching as the other side of the world either burned or prepared itself to be caught in the flames. Or, they stuck their heads out the windows to see the protests right outside, as different political factions demanded the government answer their calls for action. Civil unrest over the oppression of the American public and media had spilled into the streets prompting harsh, and sometimes even deadly backlash from the American military. Riots and strikes were regular occurrences, as were the crushing retaliation and resulting tighter grip on the populace by government authority.

Entire political parties sprouted up dedicated to how citizens believed “The Rage In The East” should’ve been handled. Many of the aforementioned riots usually resulted in a violent spat between two differing groups. At one point, the government finally stopped allowing civilians into the various buildings of government, security strengthening around the nation’s capital and many state capitals, especially as fear of a serious terrorist attack began to mount.

Thirty-two weeks after the initial outbreak, the French, Germans and Spanish amongst others were fighting infections of their own, along with others. Ireland had almost been wiped out, another large blow to the international community, which had begun to focus on fortifying the surrounding nations in an attempt to reduce future outbreak. Over time, though, it was becoming increasingly apparent that perhaps nothing could stop the Rage Virus. The Spanish had been able to keep their infection at bay, but had failed in completely eradicating it, as it proved to spread faster than what was exactly manageable. France and Germany, however, were having a much harder time and higher death tolls, with many fleeing farther east, meeting intense opposition as uninfected countries all over Eurasia began to lock down their borders and refusing any travel from the outside.

With the Rage Spreading, and citizens of many fortified nations under extreme totalitarian conditions, some world governments began to suggest the nuclear option. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and risking the lives of a comparatively small number of people to save the rest of the world seemed like a worthy price to pay.

During the attempted repatriation of Great Britain, the US-led NATO forces operating District One based many of their operational leadership and logistical centers in the fleet of ships that delivered then there, a coalition of warships dubbed “The Patriot’s Fleet” after the British Patriots it was delivering. The Fleet was based in the large mouth of the River Thames, and served many purposes, such as providing safe entry into the river for humanitarian aid, or the more militarized detachments were used to patrol various important points like the Irish Sea or the English Channel.

When the operation failed and the Rage was once again spread to Britain, many of the troops and assets and even some of the former British citizens fled back to the Fleet for return to safe lands. Partially into it’s trek back across the Atlantic, the Fleet fell silent on radio comms, and it was not raised until 5 days later, despite the fleet’s consistent movement across the Atlantic. Once comms were established again, it became apparent that the fleet had been battling with their own various infections. Many of the ships were completely engulfed, and either were left stranded in the ocean, or veering off in random directions at various speeds. According to the various new media of the world, most of the Red Fleet has been immobilized or forced to suspend travel, with a large section of the Fleet stationed about a thousand miles off of the coast of North Carolina.

There are doubts as to how many of these reports are true though. In the scramble to evacuate the waters around the United Kingdom, many ships went missing or were crashed after having been taken over by the Rage. Of those who successfully made it into the Atlantic, it is not known how many were completely lost to the Rage, and many of the ships stuck floating in the Atlantic are reported to be fighting off their own Infections, to varying degrees of success. With the current instability of the fleet, combined with the possible forming of a tropical storm around Bermuda, the containment of the Red Fleet is beginning to draw beads of sweat from various coastal communities of Cuba and the U.S.

Because of the volatile nature of the The Rage, and how easily any mistake or mishandling of a situation can lead to complete and utter devastation, there have been a myriad of variously fervent responses from the American Public. Most people, obviously, have a vested interest in saving their own live and protecting those they care about, so almost every American has their own various opinions of how the government should handle the The Rage in the East.

There are three fairly popular political schools of thought amongst the American public encompassing a majority of the public.

The first are the Isolationists. Hearkening back to pre-WW2 sentiments, a good chunk of Americans believe that the only way to truly keep America safe from The Rage is to retract into their shell, fortifying and sealing the borders to the country, and worrying only about issues right here at home. This group claims that sending assets overseas is a waste of resources that could instead be invested at home, and simply opens too many doors for the infection to find its way back to the States. This party is probably the most popular of the major three, with some more extreme branches even suggesting abandoning overseas territories/states like Hawaii or Puerto Rico.

The primary opposition to the Isolationist party is the Rage Actionist Party. This party is a little more varied in their exact beliefs, but almost all of them revolve around American involvement in the situation overseas. Most people of this belief believe in stern military action to eradicate the virus, some suggesting that the U.S annex smaller eastern countries to help create a stiffer barrier against the Rage spreading further into Eurasia. Others believe that intervening with a combination of military action and humanitarian aid will be the quickest and most effective way to bring an end to the Rage, while minimizing the lasting effects this disaster will have on the world. Some more of the extreme branches of this belief argue that the infected can be saved, and that instead of killing them, the U.S should intervene to save the lives of both the infected and uninfected, containing and quarantining the former while working to develop a vaccine for the Rage.

The last major movement is less popular than the two before it, but it takes ideals mostly from the Rage Actionist Party, though, to the extreme. This party is referred to as the “Nuclear Action Party” and their name should be fairly self explanatory. This group of people believes that the best option against the Rage is to attack infected areas wil nuclear weapons, eliminating the threat once and for all, while wasting as few human resources as possible. This party is obviously the most controversial, and just as many people actively protest this party as much as they do against it.

Petrified, stuck with our hands in hot water, the world watched as Britain was eaten alive, from the inside out. Cries for isolationism and security spread like wildfire, which burned just as hot as the cries for intervention and assistance. Each and every citizen’s paranoia and anger was as clear as day, as it was shouted from rooftops and paraded at every street corner, everyone carrying picket signs and megaphones ablaze with demands and attacks, aimed at both their government and opponents. What wasn’t clear, however, was the best way to address the collapse of Humanity in the U.K.. With unrest and security issues at home, and a virus spreading faster than any other they’d seen before overseas, the United States government was cemented in a tough spot, frantically yanking at it’s ankles in an attempt to react.

Great Britain was destroyed entirely by the Rage Virus, with her population being decimated and any semblance of society falling apart, with scattered pockets of humans left to fend for themselves. That is, until, a U.S-led NATO force entered Great Britain in an attempt to rebuild her. As they began to find out, the majority of the infected had actually died out, having starved to death, leaving Britain a broken, empty husk. District One was established, but the Rage Virus found its way even into the military guarded settlement, once again spreading the Rage Virus, and repopulating the streets of London with the horrifying infected.

At home, the news of the U.S withdraw from Great Britain and her reinfection was a massive blow to American morale, which was already astoundingly low. With soldiers present in the streets of almost every major city, roadblocks and checkpoints littered around every major road vessel, American life had slowed to a crawl. As the loss of entire nation rocked the world economy, unemployment was at an all time high, but liberty was at all time low. Many people spent their days forced into their homes, glued to television sets, watching as the other side of the world either burned or prepared itself to be caught in the flames. Or, they stuck their heads out the windows to see the protests right outside, as different political factions demanded the government answer their calls for action. Civil unrest over the oppression of the American public and media had spilled into the streets prompting harsh, and sometimes even deadly backlash from the American military. Riots and strikes were regular occurrences, as were the crushing retaliation and resulting tighter grip on the populace by government authority.

Entire political parties sprouted up dedicated to how citizens believed “The Rage In The East” should’ve been handled. Many of the aforementioned riots usually resulted in a violent spat between two differing groups. At one point, the government finally stopped allowing civilians into the various buildings of government, security strengthening around the nation’s capital and many state capitals, especially as fear of a serious terrorist attack began to mount.

Thirty-two weeks after the initial outbreak, the French, Germans and Spanish amongst others were fighting infections of their own, along with others. Ireland had almost been wiped out, another large blow to the international community, which had begun to focus on fortifying the surrounding nations in an attempt to reduce future outbreak. Over time, though, it was becoming increasingly apparent that perhaps nothing could stop the Rage Virus. The Spanish had been able to keep their infection at bay, but had failed in completely eradicating it, as it proved to spread faster than what was exactly manageable. France and Germany, however, were having a much harder time and higher death tolls, with many fleeing farther east, meeting intense opposition as uninfected countries all over Eurasia began to lock down their borders and refusing any travel from the outside.

With the Rage Spreading, and citizens of many fortified nations under extreme totalitarian conditions, some world governments began to suggest the nuclear option. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and risking the lives of a comparatively small number of people to save the rest of the world seemed like a worthy price to pay.

During the attempted repatriation of Great Britain, the US-led NATO forces operating District One based many of their operational leadership and logistical centers in the fleet of ships that delivered then there, a coalition of warships dubbed “The Patriot’s Fleet” after the British Patriots it was delivering. The Fleet was based in the large mouth of the River Thames, and served many purposes, such as providing safe entry into the river for humanitarian aid, or the more militarized detachments were used to patrol various important points like the Irish Sea or the English Channel.

When the operation failed and the Rage was once again spread to Britain, many of the troops and assets and even some of the former British citizens fled back to the Fleet for return to safe lands. Partially into it’s trek back across the Atlantic, the Fleet fell silent on radio comms, and it was not raised until 5 days later, despite the fleet’s consistent movement across the Atlantic. Once comms were established again, it became apparent that the fleet had been battling with their own various infections. Many of the ships were completely engulfed, and either were left stranded in the ocean, or veering off in random directions at various speeds. According to the various new media of the world, most of the Red Fleet has been immobilized or forced to suspend travel, with a large section of the Fleet stationed about a thousand miles off of the coast of North Carolina.

There are doubts as to how many of these reports are true though. In the scramble to evacuate the waters around the United Kingdom, many ships went missing or were crashed after having been taken over by the Rage. Of those who successfully made it into the Atlantic, it is not known how many were completely lost to the Rage, and many of the ships stuck floating in the Atlantic are reported to be fighting off their own Infections, to varying degrees of success. With the current instability of the fleet, combined with the possible forming of a tropical storm around Bermuda, the containment of the Red Fleet is beginning to draw beads of sweat from various coastal communities of Cuba and the U.S.

Because of the volatile nature of the The Rage, and how easily any mistake or mishandling of a situation can lead to complete and utter devastation, there have been a myriad of variously fervent responses from the American Public. Most people, obviously, have a vested interest in saving their own live and protecting those they care about, so almost every American has their own various opinions of how the government should handle the The Rage in the East.

There are three fairly popular political schools of thought amongst the American public encompassing a majority of the public.

The first are the Isolationists. Hearkening back to pre-WW2 sentiments, a good chunk of Americans believe that the only way to truly keep America safe from The Rage is to retract into their shell, fortifying and sealing the borders to the country, and worrying only about issues right here at home. This group claims that sending assets overseas is a waste of resources that could instead be invested at home, and simply opens too many doors for the infection to find its way back to the States. This party is probably the most popular of the major three, with some more extreme branches even suggesting abandoning overseas territories/states like Hawaii or Puerto Rico.

The primary opposition to the Isolationist party is the Rage Actionist Party. This party is a little more varied in their exact beliefs, but almost all of them revolve around American involvement in the situation overseas. Most people of this belief believe in stern military action to eradicate the virus, some suggesting that the U.S annex smaller eastern countries to help create a stiffer barrier against the Rage spreading further into Eurasia. Others believe that intervening with a combination of military action and humanitarian aid will be the quickest and most effective way to bring an end to the Rage, while minimizing the lasting effects this disaster will have on the world. Some more of the extreme branches of this belief argue that the infected can be saved, and that instead of killing them, the U.S should intervene to save the lives of both the infected and uninfected, containing and quarantining the former while working to develop a vaccine for the Rage.

The last major movement is less popular than the two before it, but it takes ideals mostly from the Rage Actionist Party, though, to the extreme. This party is referred to as the “Nuclear Action Party” and their name should be fairly self explanatory. This group of people believes that the best option against the Rage is to attack infected areas wil nuclear weapons, eliminating the threat once and for all, while wasting as few human resources as possible. This party is obviously the most controversial, and just as many people actively protest this party as much as they do against it.

Petrified, stuck with our hands in hot water, the world watched as Britain was eaten alive, from the inside out. Cries for isolationism and security spread like wildfire, which burned just as hot as the cries for intervention and assistance. Each and every citizen’s paranoia and anger was as clear as day, as it was shouted from rooftops and paraded at every street corner, everyone carrying picket signs and megaphones ablaze with demands and attacks, aimed at both their government and opponents. What wasn’t clear, however, was the best way to address the collapse of Humanity in the U.K.. With unrest and security issues at home, and a virus spreading faster than any other they’d seen before overseas, the United States government was cemented in a tough spot, frantically yanking at it’s ankles in an attempt to react.

Great Britain was destroyed entirely by the Rage Virus, with her population being decimated and any semblance of society falling apart, with scattered pockets of humans left to fend for themselves. That is, until, a U.S-led NATO force entered Great Britain in an attempt to rebuild her. As they began to find out, the majority of the infected had actually died out, having starved to death, leaving Britain a broken, empty husk. District One was established, but the Rage Virus found its way even into the military guarded settlement, once again spreading the Rage Virus, and repopulating the streets of London with the horrifying infected.

At home, the news of the U.S withdraw from Great Britain and her reinfection was a massive blow to American morale, which was already astoundingly low. With soldiers present in the streets of almost every major city, roadblocks and checkpoints littered around every major road vessel, American life had slowed to a crawl. As the loss of entire nation rocked the world economy, unemployment was at an all time high, but liberty was at all time low. Many people spent their days forced into their homes, glued to television sets, watching as the other side of the world either burned or prepared itself to be caught in the flames. Or, they stuck their heads out the windows to see the protests right outside, as different political factions demanded the government answer their calls for action. Civil unrest over the oppression of the American public and media had spilled into the streets prompting harsh, and sometimes even deadly backlash from the American military. Riots and strikes were regular occurrences, as were the crushing retaliation and resulting tighter grip on the populace by government authority.

Entire political parties sprouted up dedicated to how citizens believed “The Rage In The East” should’ve been handled. Many of the aforementioned riots usually resulted in a violent spat between two differing groups. At one point, the government finally stopped allowing civilians into the various buildings of government, security strengthening around the nation’s capital and many state capitals, especially as fear of a serious terrorist attack began to mount.

Thirty-two weeks after the initial outbreak, the French, Germans and Spanish amongst others were fighting infections of their own, along with others. Ireland had almost been wiped out, another large blow to the international community, which had begun to focus on fortifying the surrounding nations in an attempt to reduce future outbreak. Over time, though, it was becoming increasingly apparent that perhaps nothing could stop the Rage Virus. The Spanish had been able to keep their infection at bay, but had failed in completely eradicating it, as it proved to spread faster than what was exactly manageable. France and Germany, however, were having a much harder time and higher death tolls, with many fleeing farther east, meeting intense opposition as uninfected countries all over Eurasia began to lock down their borders and refusing any travel from the outside.

With the Rage Spreading, and citizens of many fortified nations under extreme totalitarian conditions, some world governments began to suggest the nuclear option. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and risking the lives of a comparatively small number of people to save the rest of the world seemed like a worthy price to pay.

During the attempted repatriation of Great Britain, the US-led NATO forces operating District One based many of their operational leadership and logistical centers in the fleet of ships that delivered then there, a coalition of warships dubbed “The Patriot’s Fleet” after the British Patriots it was delivering. The Fleet was based in the large mouth of the River Thames, and served many purposes, such as providing safe entry into the river for humanitarian aid, or the more militarized detachments were used to patrol various important points like the Irish Sea or the English Channel.

When the operation failed and the Rage was once again spread to Britain, many of the troops and assets and even some of the former British citizens fled back to the Fleet for return to safe lands. Partially into it’s trek back across the Atlantic, the Fleet fell silent on radio comms, and it was not raised until 5 days later, despite the fleet’s consistent movement across the Atlantic. Once comms were established again, it became apparent that the fleet had been battling with their own various infections. Many of the ships were completely engulfed, and either were left stranded in the ocean, or veering off in random directions at various speeds. According to the various new media of the world, most of the Red Fleet has been immobilized or forced to suspend travel, with a large section of the Fleet stationed about a thousand miles off of the coast of North Carolina.

There are doubts as to how many of these reports are true though. In the scramble to evacuate the waters around the United Kingdom, many ships went missing or were crashed after having been taken over by the Rage. Of those who successfully made it into the Atlantic, it is not known how many were completely lost to the Rage, and many of the ships stuck floating in the Atlantic are reported to be fighting off their own Infections, to varying degrees of success. With the current instability of the fleet, combined with the possible forming of a tropical storm around Bermuda, the containment of the Red Fleet is beginning to draw beads of sweat from various coastal communities of Cuba and the U.S.

Because of the volatile nature of the The Rage, and how easily any mistake or mishandling of a situation can lead to complete and utter devastation, there have been a myriad of variously fervent responses from the American Public. Most people, obviously, have a vested interest in saving their own live and protecting those they care about, so almost every American has their own various opinions of how the government should handle the The Rage in the East.

There are three fairly popular political schools of thought amongst the American public encompassing a majority of the public.

The first are the Isolationists. Hearkening back to pre-WW2 sentiments, a good chunk of Americans believe that the only way to truly keep America safe from The Rage is to retract into their shell, fortifying and sealing the borders to the country, and worrying only about issues right here at home. This group claims that sending assets overseas is a waste of resources that could instead be invested at home, and simply opens too many doors for the infection to find its way back to the States. This party is probably the most popular of the major three, with some more extreme branches even suggesting abandoning overseas territories/states like Hawaii or Puerto Rico.

The primary opposition to the Isolationist party is the Rage Actionist Party. This party is a little more varied in their exact beliefs, but almost all of them revolve around American involvement in the situation overseas. Most people of this belief believe in stern military action to eradicate the virus, some suggesting that the U.S annex smaller eastern countries to help create a stiffer barrier against the Rage spreading further into Eurasia. Others believe that intervening with a combination of military action and humanitarian aid will be the quickest and most effective way to bring an end to the Rage, while minimizing the lasting effects this disaster will have on the world. Some more of the extreme branches of this belief argue that the infected can be saved, and that instead of killing them, the U.S should intervene to save the lives of both the infected and uninfected, containing and quarantining the former while working to develop a vaccine for the Rage.

The last major movement is less popular than the two before it, but it takes ideals mostly from the Rage Actionist Party, though, to the extreme. This party is referred to as the “Nuclear Action Party” and their name should be fairly self explanatory. This group of people believes that the best option against the Rage is to attack infected areas wil nuclear weapons, eliminating the threat once and for all, while wasting as few human resources as possible. This party is obviously the most controversial, and just as many people actively protest this party as much as they do against it.

Appearance: (No Anime.)
Name: (Full name)
Nicknames/Alias: (If any)
Age:
Gender: (Self explanatory)
Sexual Orientation: (Self explanatory)
Ethnicity: (Self explanatory
Appearance Details: (Explain your character's body type, style, other features)
Tattoos, Piercings, Scars, Other: (Self explanatory)
Personality: (Describe the positive and negative aspects, and general attributes of your character’s personality.
Likes and Dislikes: (Self explanatory)
Hobbies and Interests: (Self explanatory)
Brief Biography:
Family Members: (Self explanatory)
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General Information

NAME: Proctor Ryke

ALIASES // TITLES: Richter Gamble
Jack-Jack
Big R

SEX:Male

AGE:58

APPEARANCE:

OCCUPATION: ”Streetjack, Pavement Pusher, whatever you want to call it. I make money.”

CAMPAIGN TEAM POSITION: Fundraising Manager

Psychological Profile

PERSONAL GOAL: Proctor’s only aim is to keep himself alive. Whatever it takes to make sure he can get what he needs to stay afloat, Proctor will do it.The ever looming fear of his demise help’s keep the haze in his mind at bay, but with every day that passes, Proctor can feel the noose around his neck tightening, the blade press closer into his neck, and the energy powering his limbs slowly seeping out of him. Even though he hasn’t much to live for, Proctor desperately wants to live. He doesn’t want to be another nameless corpse left to rot in the streets amongst the vermin and trash.

CAMPAIGN GOAL: From the line of work and life that Proctor came from, money can be rung from any rag you can find in the streets. There are opportunities lying around everywhere for someone who’s a little loose on their morals or quick on their trigger, so why he decided to start working with Campbell, even Proctor isn’t quite sure of yet. Sure, maybe cleaning up the streets a little and being able to sew the downfall of all his former adversaries was part of it, but something about Campbell just felt profitable. More so than pushing drugs or ransoming prominent civilians.

At the end of the day, Proctor is really in it for the money, and after being thrown in the gutter and dethroned in his his prime, the most stable looking choice was to link up with the man that could potentially make him rich, and breakdown everyone who’s ever spited him. Even if Campbell were to fail and lose the raise, Proctor isn’t so stupid that he’d admit defeat without a fresh wad of cash in his hands. One way or another, Proctor will find some way to get rich, and maybe even powerful.

PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY: Ever since Proctor began to learn about all humans’ tendency, no matter how self sacrificing or generous, to value themselves over everyone else, he’s lived and survived by that school of thought. He’s not a heartless animal willing to fuck over or kill anyone at any turn, he believes in treating people with at least a modicum of respect and decency, but, no one is above him in importance. If it means his life or death, sink or float, Proctor works for himself and only himself. The Reclaim Zone has taken more than enough lives, right before Proctor’s eyes, and now, survival is the greatest high Proctor can feel.

It’s been a very long time since Proctor made any major moves, subsisting on odd jobs and petty pushing for decades. Seeing what semblance of a foundation he had ripped away from him taught him that worrying about others or trying to carry some sort of following is a pipe dream for him.

POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY: Proctor has spent so much time wallowing with the denizens of the Reclaim zone that he never felt the need to dabble or pay attention to politics, at least not past knowing who swung around the most power, or which street gangs controlled the most territory. Due to his augments, he’s had a few run ins and discussions with some Neo-Transhumanists and HyperHuman monks, developing a bit of connection with them. After dealing with plenty of abuse and discrimination for his augmentations, it was a pleasant change of pace to speak with people that embraced his choices and encouraged him to continue strengthening himself. He was never one for the more spiritual side of movements, but the people are nice, so he’s decided he likes them for the time being.

The obvious is not lost on Proctor, that the mega-corporations rule many aspects of life, the government is mostly corrupt with a few good souls trying to do good, but most of it flew under his radar. What matters to him the most is what happens on the street level, his level. The difference between people is negligible, everyone is equal to Proctor in that he doesn’t care much for anyone. The effort it takes to rally for a purpose, or to carry prejudice against others, or to try and uplift entire demographics, is all an effort in futility for Proctor.

SECRETS: Well, really, his identity is a secret in and of itself. He’s got a lot of enemies, and powerful ones at that, but Proctor hasn’t tried to make any moves for decades now. The heat has been off for a while now, but if his name were to appear in any big lights or signs, Proctor is sure he’d have a bullet in his skull in no time at all.

FEARS: (What keeps you up at night? What makes you freeze up in the moment? What do you avoid at all costs?)
Number One at the top of that list is easily Death. The concept of it, the act of dying, all of it shakes Proctor to the bone. Life has caught up very quickly with Proctor, and all of a sudden, dealing with his very real mortality, despite all the measures he took to try and avoid it when he was young.

Nothing much else scares Proctor much, other than the thought of the forgotten bounties on his head that are still floating around. As much as he likes to put on a tough guy front, he does often peer over his shoulders, wondering if one of his old rivals is going to send a shooter after him. Most things that pull some fear and anxiety from Proctor, like heights, often just have to do with his overwhelming fear of death.

REPUTATION: Proctor is a sort of ghost story in the streets of the Reclaim Zone at this point. He’s not a household name or anything like that, but there are still stories that float around about the the guy that tried to rival The Knights back in the day. Most people think he’s dead, and aging and further augments have made Proctor’s looks a far cry from what they used to be, helping conceal his continued presence in the Reclaim.

The men which used to work with Proctor know the truth, though, and most still hold Proctor in high esteem, as their former leader, charismatic and kind, but never destined to be powerful. Those who need to work with or know Proctor respect him, but his name doesn’t really garner fear anymore, just simple interest. He was never in it for the fame, just the money, but he doesn’t have much of anything anymore.

Even though not many people talk about him anymore, there are still a select few that want him dead, namely Jackson Rott, and men of his ilk. Some men still remember Proctor as the man who wanted the Reclaim Zone for himself, and would like to kill him just to tie up another loose end from the old days.

LIKES: Taking walks through bustling city streets.
A bout of recreational drugs when he can spare the cash.
The rush of making money.

DISLIKES: Losing money.
The fog of SPECS.
Contemplating his mortality.
People who are rude to people who work in customer service.

QUIRKS: When sitting in chairs, Proctor will mindlessly rock back and forth in his seat. Not hard but just slightly enough for someone to notice.

No matter where he is or what he is doing, Proctor will sometimes stop, stand in one place, and just stretch everything out. His arms, legs, back, jaw, everything, just to try and loosen up and relax.

Background Information

”I tried to never let this place define me, I just made the best of what I was given. I did what I wanted to, fucked and fucked over whoever I felt like, and the same got done to me, but I never let it stop my work, my hustle. I never really needed a ‘meaning’ or a ‘purpose’ past just surviving, because that’s enough by itself.”

Operative Information

AUGMENTATIONS: (What sort of Cyberware are you equipped with?)

EQUIPMENT: (What are you carrying on the job?)

SKILLS: (Feel free to list a few and elaborate a bit.)

FLAWS: (Aim for three or so. Equal or greater to your number of skills.)

NOTES:

General Information

NAME: Proctor Ryke

ALIASES // TITLES: Richter Gamble
Jack-Jack
Big R

SEX:Male

AGE:60

APPEARANCE:

OCCUPATION: ”Streetjack, Pavement Pusher, whatever you want to call it. I make money.”

CAMPAIGN TEAM POSITION: Fundraising Manager

Psychological Profile

PERSONAL GOAL: Proctor’s only aim is to keep himself alive. Whatever it takes to make sure he can get what he needs to stay afloat, Proctor will do it.The ever looming fear of his demise help’s keep the haze in his mind at bay, but with every day that passes, Proctor can feel the noose around his neck tightening, the blade press closer into his neck, and the energy powering his limbs slowly seeping out of him. Even though he hasn’t much to live for, Proctor desperately wants to live. He doesn’t want to be another nameless corpse left to rot in the streets amongst the vermin and trash.

CAMPAIGN GOAL: From the line of work and life that Proctor came from, money can be rung from any rag you can find in the streets. There are opportunities lying around everywhere for someone who’s a little loose on their morals or quick on their trigger, so why he decided to start working with Campbell, even Proctor isn’t quite sure of yet. Sure, maybe cleaning up the streets a little and being able to sew the downfall of all his former adversaries was part of it, but something about Campbell just felt profitable. More so than pushing drugs or ransoming prominent civilians.

At the end of the day, Proctor is really in it for the money, and after being thrown in the gutter and dethroned in his his prime, the most stable looking choice was to link up with the man that could potentially make him rich, and breakdown everyone who’s ever spited him. Even if Campbell were to fail and lose the raise, Proctor isn’t so stupid that he’d admit defeat without a fresh wad of cash in his hands. One way or another, Proctor will find some way to get rich, and maybe even powerful.

PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY: Ever since Proctor began to learn about all humans’ tendency, no matter how self sacrificing or generous, to value themselves over everyone else, he’s lived and survived by that school of thought. He’s not a heartless animal willing to fuck over or kill anyone at any turn, he believes in treating people with at least a modicum of respect and decency, but, no one is above him in importance. If it means his life or death, sink or float, Proctor works for himself and only himself. The Reclaim Zone has taken more than enough lives, right before Proctor’s eyes, and now, survival is the greatest high Proctor can feel.

It’s been a very long time since Proctor made any major moves, subsisting on odd jobs and petty pushing for decades. Seeing what semblance of a foundation he had ripped away from him taught him that worrying about others or trying to carry some sort of following is a pipe dream for him.

POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY: Proctor has spent so much time wallowing with the denizens of the Reclaim zone that he never felt the need to dabble or pay attention to politics, at least not past knowing who swung around the most power, or which street gangs controlled the most territory. Due to his augments, he’s had a few run ins and discussions with some Neo-Transhumanists and HyperHuman monks, developing a bit of connection with them. After dealing with plenty of abuse and discrimination for his augmentations, it was a pleasant change of pace to speak with people that embraced his choices and encouraged him to continue strengthening himself. He was never one for the more spiritual side of movements, but the people are nice, so he’s decided he likes them for the time being.

The obvious is not lost on Proctor, that the mega-corporations rule many aspects of life, the government is mostly corrupt with a few good souls trying to do good, but most of it flew under his radar. What matters to him the most is what happens on the street level, his level. The difference between people is negligible, everyone is equal to Proctor in that he doesn’t care much for anyone. The effort it takes to rally for a purpose, or to carry prejudice against others, or to try and uplift entire demographics, is all an effort in futility for Proctor.

SECRETS: Well, really, his identity is a secret in and of itself. He’s got a lot of enemies, and powerful ones at that, but Proctor hasn’t tried to make any moves for decades now. The heat has been off for a while now, but if his name were to appear in any big lights or signs, Proctor is sure he’d have a bullet in his skull in no time at all.

FEARS: (What keeps you up at night? What makes you freeze up in the moment? What do you avoid at all costs?)
Number One at the top of that list is easily Death. The concept of it, the act of dying, all of it shakes Proctor to the bone. Life has caught up very quickly with Proctor, and all of a sudden, dealing with his very real mortality, despite all the measures he took to try and avoid it when he was young.

Nothing much else scares Proctor much, other than the thought of the forgotten bounties on his head that are still floating around. As much as he likes to put on a tough guy front, he does often peer over his shoulders, wondering if one of his old rivals is going to send a shooter after him. Most things that pull some fear and anxiety from Proctor, like heights, often just have to do with his overwhelming fear of death.

REPUTATION: Proctor is a sort of ghost story in the streets of the Reclaim Zone at this point. He’s not a household name or anything like that, but there are still stories that float around about the the guy that tried to rival The Knights back in the day. Most people think he’s dead, and aging and further augments have made Proctor’s looks a far cry from what they used to be, helping conceal his continued presence in the Reclaim.

The men which used to work with Proctor know the truth, though, and most still hold Proctor in high esteem, as their former leader, charismatic and kind, but never destined to be powerful. Those who need to work with or know Proctor respect him, but his name doesn’t really garner fear anymore, just simple interest. He was never in it for the fame, just the money, but he doesn’t have much of anything anymore.

Even though not many people talk about him anymore, there are still a select few that want him dead, namely Jackson Rott, and men of his ilk. Some men still remember Proctor as the man who wanted the Reclaim Zone for himself, and would like to kill him just to tie up another loose end from the old days.

LIKES: Taking walks through bustling city streets.
A bout of recreational drugs when he can spare the cash.
The rush of making money.

DISLIKES: Losing money.
The fog of SPECS.
Contemplating his mortality.
People who are rude to people who work in customer service.

QUIRKS: When sitting in chairs, Proctor will mindlessly rock back and forth in his seat. Not hard but just slightly enough for someone to notice.

No matter where he is or what he is doing, Proctor will sometimes stop, stand in one place, and just stretch everything out. His arms, legs, back, jaw, everything, just to try and loosen up and relax. Even though, you know, most of his limbs are… metal.

Background Information

”I tried to never let this place define me, I just made the best of what I was given. I did what I wanted to, fucked and fucked over whoever I felt like, and the same got done to me, but I never let it stop my work, my hustle. I never really needed a ‘meaning’ or a ‘purpose’ past just surviving, because that’s enough by itself.”

Proctor was born in some nondescript alley off some nondescript road in some nondescript part of the Reclaim Zone. Most of his memories of his parents are fading away from him, whether it be the early stages of SPECS, his age, all the blows he’s taken to the head, or perhaps a combination of both. He remembers his parents being rather plain people, neigh very abrasive or soft. They were just another pair of people driven by their primitive human need to keep breathing and walking, led not by passion or desire, but rather, blind autonomous survival.

Early on in his life, the importance of protecting oneself was imprinted heavily on him by his parents, whether it be by the lectures and speeches he can’t quite remember anymore, or the many times he saw what failure to survive looked like. He wasn’t coddled or made to believe maybe he could leave the Reclaim Zone someday in the future, he was shown exactly what life does to anyone who loses their way.

Solidifying all his learnings in the Art of Survival, the day his parents were killed did well to shape up the then young Proctor. Though he’d never dare admit it, the day is still a sort of sensitive topic for him, so after doing a good job of compartmentalizing the whole ordeal, the details are fuzzy, but the important details are still there. A standard home burglary gone wrong, except as soon as the fatal danger presented itself, his parents fled, leaving the then 9 year-old Proctor alone cowering in his room. Of course, they were never allowed to get very far before each were shot to death. Whether the shooter hadn’t the resolve to murder a child, or saw it as a waste of time or ammunition, Proctor was left alone in the house after it was been stripped of all it’s valuables.

The Reclaim Zone seemed unbothered as another orphaned child turned into a street urchin, as Proctor took to the streets in search of ways to keep himself alive. Whether it was digging in the trash cans behind restaurants, stealing and selling pieces of technology, Proctor found a way to survive. He learned the value of a credit, how to stretch a credit for all it was worth, and all the tragic normalities that come with living on the street. He became insignificant member of the festering biomass that surged in and out of the streets everyday, learning to be one with the ever moving tides of life and death, always managing to keep mostly dry, even if Death’s putrid scent always lingered around him.

Nothing that Proctor built ever came easy or quickly. Between knife fights with junkies in alleyways, or “repurposing” stashes of drugs he in no way stole from anyone, Proctor managed to keep his chin above water, making a bit of a name for himself amongst the local clan of urchins. Even though it was out of character, it seemed like the eyes on the wall finally concentrated on someone, that maybe, just maybe, someone was peeling themselves off the pavement, not a common sight in the Reclaim Zone. As much as Proctor knew about survival, the city that had remained standing around Proctor, after millenia of mistreatment and abuse, knew more than him, and it was time to prove himself.

For once, the kid knew ambition, and it began to manifest itself in interesting ways. Instead of trying to consume, the streets embraced him, and his fellow urchins knew power when they saw it. Even if it could’ve ended up in his back, Proctor knew that two knives were always stronger than just one, and soon enough, he had his own gang of people who were trying to make it through the shifting tides, just like him.

The Gamblers were the Zone’s newest collection of like-minded miscreants, and the Zone was quick to take notice. What used to be petty robbery and knife fights turned into small scale heists and drug dealing. Credits weren’t a new language to Proctor, but he was suddenly becoming much more fluent than he used to be. Surviving was finally feeling easier than it had before. The walls around the Zone had finally loosed up, and the waves were splashing lower down on Proctor’s legs, the stench of Death that followed him was beginning to disperse.

With this newfound money, Proctor began to take even more drastic measures to ensure that his chin stayed above sea level, and took to replacing his weak, imperfect organs & limbs with ones made of black metal. Flesh and blood gave way to steel and copper, lungs and heart extracted and replaced with machines that could do their jobs more reliably and for a much longer time. Slowly, Proctor was becoming more machine than man, but those fears that made him human were still woven deeply in him, whether they were woven with flesh or fiber optic.

The paranoia that crept deep within him made him wonder, were there other standouts from the Zone that would try to get rid of him? He and his gang had made their space in the Zone, but he was doubtless that there were others who wanted to push them out. There were plenty of other gangs that had their eyes on the space he occupied, but none of them posed as big as a threat as the Knights, the most aggressive, assertive gang in the Zone.

Despite their penchant for violence and subjugation, the Knights still wanted to maintain stability and freedom, and the Gambler’s and their disregard for most of the residents presented an issue for Jackson Rott and his Knights. For the most part, issues remained simple disagreements or scuffles in alleyways, but as each gang grew larger and more vicious, these small squabbles slowly became more serious dust-ups and fight.

Soon, it was full-on turf war, and, to spare the details, The Gamblers came out the losers. Most of the men and women Proctor had just begun to call his friends now stained the streets with their blood. Suddenly, the waters began to rise up around Proctor, and now, they were stained red and carried a stench on them that Proctor couldn’t even escape in his weak slumber. Many of Proctor’s memories have become muddled and fuzzy over time, but he remembers the day his Gamblers failed to survive very clearly.

Removed from his spot amongst the Zone’s special survivors and presumed dead, Proctor went into hiding, taking what little he had left and, like he had done so many years before, melded back into the writhing masses of the Zone, shrouded in the anonymity of street survival. He was driven by neither passion nor joy, but instead, his primitive, human drive to breathe and walk.

Operative Information

AUGMENTATIONS: Two Apex Legs, Two Apex Arms, a cybernetic heart and lungs made by Extropy, head augmentations made by Engi-Tech, which helped improve mental functions and vision.

EQUIPMENT:
F. HeavyTech .45CAL Caseless Machine Pistol: to be expanded
F. HeavyTech Low Profile Body Armor

SKILLS: Street Intuition
Silver Coated RoboTongue
Network of Lucrative Connections

FLAWS: (Aim for three or so. Equal or greater to your number of skills.)
SPECS
Extreme Fear of Death
Loss of Dexterity and Finesse in Age
Memory loss and mad memory

NOTES:

General Information

NAME: Proctor Ryke

ALIASES // TITLES: Richter Gamble
Jonesy
Cyborg

SEX:Male

AGE:60

APPEARANCE: Usually dressed utilitarian clothing, combined with his favorite collared jacket, Proctor keeps a low profile. His body is on the more toned side, or, really, his torso is. His arms and legs are all cybernetic, so they keep their toned shape no matter what, keeping overall slim and tall. His augments, however, are visibly aged, both by being covered by nicks, scratches and dents from years of fighting and abuse, and also from being generally older models. His limbs, while still being in the classic sleek, attractive APEX style, are still distinctly outdated, but still well operating, despite their wear, still command the same respect that augments usually do.

His hair is a bright white, indicative of his age, but his eyes glow an augmented bright blue, having changed from his natural-born brown eyes. He has a large augmentation encompassing much of the back and sides of his head, covered in glowing lights and different colored steel, also covered in it’s fair share of scratches and scuffs. The skin around his augment is scarred and warped, but the rest of his face is surprisingly free of defects, other than the obvious wrinkles setting in, and a few moles and other signs of old age. Most of his face, though, is covered by a large white beard, which is growing increasingly unkempt as time goes by. You’d probably describe him as a “Robo-Grandpa” if you saw him.

OCCUPATION: ”Streetjack, Pavement Pusher, whatever you want to call it. I make money.”

CAMPAIGN TEAM POSITION: Fundraising Manager

Psychological Profile

PERSONAL GOAL: Proctor’s only aim is to keep himself alive. Whatever it takes to make sure he can get what he needs to stay afloat, Proctor will do it.The ever looming fear of his demise helps keep the haze in his mind at bay, but with every day that passes, Proctor can feel the noose around his neck tightening, the blade press closer into his neck, and the energy powering his limbs slowly seeping out of him. Even though he hasn’t much to live for, Proctor desperately wants to live. He doesn’t want to be another nameless corpse left to rot in the streets amongst the vermin and trash. Proctor would rather die trying to get rich than to go out on his ass, broke, and without any say in the matter.

CAMPAIGN GOAL: When you live the life and come from the kind of work that Proctor has, you know that money can be rung from any rag you can find in the streets. The Reclaim Zone is laden with opportunities for anyone a little loose on their morals or quick on their trigger, so why he decided to start working with Campbell, even Proctor isn’t quite sure of yet. Mostly, he supposes, it’s the money that could potentially be earned on the winning side of a mayoral run. Money, and access to the drugs he needs to keep his SPECS at bay. At the same time, however, if Campbell’s promise holds true, and he does his best to clean the streets up, Proctor sees a good opportunity to wipe a lot of former competition off the map. A double win for the aging cyborg.

If anything, perhaps this campaign could give him some sort of purpose other than just to keep breathing. If he must finally face his own mortality, at least he could do something before he dies, right? Proctor’s never been one to worry about leaving a mark on the world, but you’re never too old to actually ambitions, are you?

PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY: Ever since Proctor began to learn about all humans’ tendency, no matter how self sacrificing or generous they are, to value themselves over everyone else, he’s lived and survived by that school of thought. He’s not a heartless animal willing to get one over on or kill anyone at any turn, he believes in treating people with at least a modicum of respect and decency, but, no one is above him in importance. If it means his life or death, sink or float, Proctor works for himself and only himself. The Reclaim Zone has taken more than enough lives, right before Proctor’s eyes, and now, survival is the greatest high Proctor can feel.

It’s been a very long time since Proctor made any major moves, subsisting on odd jobs and petty pushing for decades. Seeing what semblance of a foundation he had ripped away from him taught him that worrying about others or trying to carry some sort of following is a pipe dream for him. Collaborative efforts, while sweet for a while, do eventually crumble. He just hopes that maybe he can get away from this one with more than he did the last one.

POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY: Proctor has spent so much time wallowing with the denizens of the Reclaim zone that he never felt the need to dabble or pay attention to politics, at least not past knowing who swung around the most power, or which street gangs controlled the most territory. Due to his augments, he’s had a few run ins and discussions with some Neo-Transhumanists and HyperHuman monks, developing a bit of connection with both groups. After putting up with his fair share of unwarranted hatred for being “an abomination of man and machine”, it was a pleasant change of pace to speak with people that embraced his choices and encouraged him to continue his work on perfecting his form and replacing his human weakness with mechanical dominance. While the spiritual side of the various movements never interested him much, their unconditional support of augmenting the human body is good enough reason for Proctor to give them his support.

The obvious is not lost on Proctor, that the mega-corporations rule many aspects of life, the government is mostly corrupt with a few good souls trying to do good, but most of it flies under his radar. What matters to him the most is what happens on the street level, his level. The difference between people is negligible, everyone is equal to Proctor in that he doesn’t care much for anyone. The effort it takes to rally for a purpose, or to carry prejudice against others, or to try and uplift entire demographics, is all an effort in futility for Proctor.

SECRETS: Well, really, his identity is a secret in and of itself. He’s got a lot of enemies, and powerful ones at that, but Proctor hasn’t tried to make any major moves for decades. The heat has been off for a while now, but if his name were to reappear in the spotlight, Proctor is sure he’d have a bullet in his skull in no time at all. Even those who don’t want to kill him might not exactly enjoy or appreciate his presence, as his criminal past has made him somewhat of an infamous character in the local lore. Better to just give a fake name and hope his aging face hides who he used to be.

FEARS:
Number One at the top of that list is easily Death. The concept of it, the act of dying, all of it shakes Proctor to the bone. Life has caught up very quickly with Proctor, and all of a sudden, he’s dealing with his very real mortality, despite all the measures he took to try and avoid it when he was young.

Nothing much else scares Proctor much, other than the thought of the forgotten bounties on his head that are still floating around. As much as he likes to put on a tough guy front, he does often peer over his shoulders, wondering if one of his old rivals is going to send a shooter after him. Most things that pull some fear and anxiety from Proctor, like heights, often just have to do with his overwhelming fear of death.

REPUTATION: Proctor is a sort of ghost story in the streets of the Reclaim Zone at this point. He’s not a household name or anything like that, but there are still stories that float around about the the guy that tried to rival The Knights back in the day. Most people think he’s dead, and aging and further augments have made Proctor’s looks a far cry from what they used to be, helping conceal his continued presence in the Reclaim.

The men which used to work with Proctor know the truth, though, and most still hold Proctor in high esteem, as their former leader, charismatic and kind, but never destined to be powerful. Those who need to work with or know Proctor respect him, but his name doesn’t really garner fear anymore, just simple interest. He was never in it for the fame, just the money, but he doesn’t have much of anything anymore.

Even though not many people talk about him anymore, there are still a select few that want him dead, namely Jackson Rott, and men of his ilk. Some men still remember Proctor as the man who wanted the Reclaim Zone for himself, and would like to kill him just to tie up another loose end from the old days.

LIKES: Taking walks through bustling city streets.
A bout of recreational drugs when he can spare the cash.
The rush of making money.

DISLIKES: Losing money.
The fog of SPECS.
Contemplating his mortality.
People who are rude to people who work in customer service.

QUIRKS: When sitting in chairs, Proctor will mindlessly rock back and forth in his seat. Not hard but just slightly enough for someone to notice.

No matter where he is or what he is doing, Proctor will sometimes stop, stand in one place, and just stretch everything out. His arms, legs, back, jaw, everything, just to try and loosen up and relax. Even though, you know, most of his limbs are… metal.

⌑Background Information

”I tried to never let this place define me, I just made the best of what I was given. I did what I wanted to, fucked and fucked over whoever I felt like, and the same got done to me, but I never let it stop my work, my hustle. I never really needed a ‘meaning’ or a ‘purpose’ past just surviving, because that’s enough by itself.”

Somewhere unimportant in the Reclaim Zone, Proctor was brought into an uninterested and uncaring Angel City. Most of his memories of his early life and his parents are fading away from him, whether it be the early stages of SPECS, his age, all the blows he’s taken to the head, or perhaps a combination of both. He remembers his parents being rather plain people, neither very abrasive nor soft. They were just another pair of people driven by their primitive human need to keep breathing and walking, led not by passion or desire, but rather, blind autonomous survival.

Early on in his life, the importance of protecting himself was imprinted heavily on him by his parents, whether it be by the lectures and speeches he can’t quite remember anymore, or the many times he saw what failure to survive looked like. He wasn’t coddled or made to believe maybe he could leave the Reclaim Zone someday in the future, he was shown exactly what life does to anyone who loses their way. People die, people suffer, and the only one who could change that is the individual.

Goodness and Evilness weren’t real, they were just words people made to describe the positive and negative they had to work with. The world was disinterested in its inhabitants, with the Zone providing nothing but shade to those that dwelled within its walls. Life, day in and day out, writhed it’s way in and out of the streets, in and around their homes, all in their autonomous need to stay above ground. They didn’t stay alive because of their passion for life or joy in living, they stayed alive because that’s all they knew how to do. Even then, some of them failed, and Proctor was vigilant to learn from others’ failure.

Solidifying all his learnings in the Art of Survival, the day his parents were killed did well to shape up the then young Proctor. Though he’d never dare admit it, the day is still a sort of sensitive topic for him, so after doing a good job of compartmentalizing the whole ordeal, the details are fuzzy, but the important details are still there. A standard home burglary gone wrong, except as soon as the fatal danger presented itself, his parents fled, leaving the then 9 year-old Proctor alone cowering in his room. Of course, they were never allowed to get very far before each were shot to death. Whether the shooter hadn’t the resolve to murder a child, or saw it as a waste of time or ammunition, Proctor was left alone in the house after it had been stripped of all it’s valuables.

The Reclaim Zone seemed unbothered as another orphaned child turned into a street urchin, as Proctor took to the streets in search of ways to keep himself alive. Whether it was digging in the trash cans behind restaurants, stealing and selling pieces of technology, Proctor found a way to survive. He learned the value of a credit, how to stretch a credit for all it was worth, and all the tragic normalities that come with living on the street. He became insignificant member of the festering biomass that surged in and out of the streets everyday, learning to be one with the ever moving tides of life and death, always managing to keep mostly dry, even if Death’s putrid scent always lingered around him.

Nothing that Proctor built ever came easy or quickly. Between knife fights with junkies in alleyways, or “repurposing” stashes of drugs he in no way stole from anyone, Proctor managed to keep his chin above water, making a bit of a name for himself amongst the local clan of urchins. Even though it was out of character, it seemed like the eyes on the walls finally concentrated on someone, that maybe, just maybe, someone was peeling themselves off the pavement, not a common sight in the Reclaim Zone. As much as Proctor knew about survival, the city that had remained standing around Proctor, after millenia of mistreatment and abuse, knew more than him, and it was time to prove himself.

For once, the kid knew ambition, and it began to manifest itself in interesting ways. Instead of trying to consume him, the streets embraced him, and his fellow urchins knew power when they saw it. Even if it could’ve ended up in his back, Proctor knew that a second knife was always stronger than just one, and soon enough, he had his own gang of people who were trying to make it through the shifting tides, just like him.

The Gamblers were the Zone’s newest collection of like-minded miscreants, and the Zone was quick to take notice. What used to be petty robbery and knife fights turned into small scale heists and drug dealing. Credits weren’t a new language to Proctor, but he was suddenly becoming much more fluent than he used to be. Surviving was finally feeling easier than it had before. The walls around the Zone had finally loosed up, and the waves were splashing lower down on Proctor’s legs, the stench of Death that followed him was beginning to disperse.

With this newfound money and power, Proctor began to take even more drastic measures to ensure that his chin stayed above sea level, and took to replacing his weak, imperfect organs & limbs with ones made of black metal. Flesh and blood gave way to steel and copper, lungs and heart extracted and replaced with machines that could do their jobs more reliably and for a much longer time. Slowly, Proctor was becoming more machine than man, but those fears that made him human were still woven deeply in him, whether they were woven with flesh or fiber optic.

The paranoia that crept deep within him made him wonder, were there other standouts from the Zone that would try to get rid of him? He and his gang had made their space in the Zone, but he was doubtless that there were others who wanted to push them out. There were plenty of other gangs that had their eyes on the space he occupied, but none of them posed as big as a threat as the Knights, the most aggressive, assertive gang in the Zone.

Despite their penchant for violence and subjugation, the Knights still wanted to maintain stability and freedom, and the Gambler’s and their disregard for most of the residents presented an issue for Jackson Rott and his Knights. For the most part, issues remained simple disagreements or scuffles in alleyways, but as each gang grew larger and more vicious, these small squabbles slowly became more serious dust-ups and fights.

Soon, it was full-on turf war, and, to spare the details, The Gamblers came out the losers. Most of the men and women Proctor had just begun to call his friends now stained the streets with their blood. Suddenly, the waters began to rise up around Proctor, and now, they were stained red and carried a stench on them that Proctor couldn’t even escape in his weak slumber. Many of Proctor’s memories have become muddled and fuzzy over time, but he remembers the day his Gamblers failed to survive very clearly.

Removed from his spot amongst the Zone’s special survivors and presumed dead, Proctor went into hiding, taking what little he had left and, like he had done so many years before, melded back into the writhing masses of the Zone, shrouded in the anonymity of street survival. He was driven by neither passion nor joy, but instead, his primitive, human drive to breathe and walk.

After years in obscurity, living from job to job, surviving one way or anything, a new job presented itself to Proctor. The rising campaign of Dexter Campbell, and the multiple open positions to help him dethrone Mayor Gatch felt like a stroke of incredible luck. Campbell needed someone to raise funds, and if Proctor knew how to do anything, it was to make money. He gave them a fake name, Richter Gamble, and joined the campaign as Dexter’s Fundraising Manager. Coming up with money for a campaign was difficult, but Proctor was sure he’d be able to use the skills he’d spent his whole life building to find his way into more money and power than he’d ever had before.

Operative Information

▩AUGMENTATIONS▩

Both are Proctor’s arms are outdated, APEX-made pieces of machinery. Together, they give the operator the strength to lift about half a ton, but since Proctor is still stuck with a normal human spine, he doesn’t really have the ability to support that weight. That doesn’t nullify all the strength granted by his arms, as he can still punch a hole through most brick walls, and has some serious throwing capability to add too.

Both of his arms, as stated above, are, at this point, approximately thirty years old, and while they don’t carry and suite of tools or make him quite a superhuman, they are still strong and reliable pieces of technology, top-of-the-line back in their heyday. Even decades old APEX are something to behold, but he won’t be stopping traffic anytime soon with these aging arms.


Capable of outrunning a bullet train, deliver kicks that could kill an elephant, or supporting, at most, a full ton of weight, Proctor’s Strider Legs were intended to be the only cybernetic legs you’d ever need for the rest of your life, available at a price for which wouldn’t take you that time to pay back, too. Of course, now being about twenty-five years old, they aren’t quite the glamourous, impressive legs there were advertised to be back in their heyday, but they work.

Age and use haven’t been good to them, and when not wearing pants, these legs look drastically different than most cybernetic limbs today, as they don’t really try to imitate human limbs in their looks. Black metal, adorned with scratches and dents, are all that greets the eyes when they see Proctor’s legs. Open joints, robotic imposters of toes, audible mechanical whirring sometimes, they are very obviously some worn legs. Maybe a little bit of exposed wiring here and there, but nothing too big.

While the legs were certainly capable of delivering on their claims when they were first released, time has not been good to their performance. Not to say they haven’t held up well enough, but Proctor, while he can propel himself much faster than the ordinary man, hasn’t been able to outrun a bullet train in a long time. He can still kick the head almost completely off a man, but he’d probably just sooner shoot them than do that.


While not exactly bulletproof, the FuryTech Cardiac Organ Replacing Enhancement is still a very hardy and reliable piece of machinery. While, technically, pumping blood harder than an organic heart can isn’t exactly beneficial, being able to do that job much longer and with less problems is FuryTech’s strength. The unit is much, much less likely to deal with irregular heartbeats, is 99% likely to never be stricken by arrest, and can negate many of the effects of arteries afflicted with cholesterol build up, which isn’t exactly ideal, but still means a much better life than otherwise. When the unit was made, blood purification systems weren’t quite off the ground yet, so the most this heart can do is help alleviate the effects of blood-borne illnesses or poisons, but nothing much past that.

You may be wondering if the unit is vulnerable to EMP blasts, which would be critical flaw, but thankfully, it’s not. Even twenty or so years ago when Proctor acquired his limbs, the ability to shield them from outside blasts was already pretty commonplace, so his heart, and other augments for that matter, are all fairly well protected against any sort of anti-electronic measures. At least, they were when they were produced. As for how the shielding has held up over time, that remains yet to be seen.


To accompany and take advantage of having an enhanced heart, Proctor also has an enhanced set of lungs, also from FuryTech. They’re meant to allow much longer stamina when it comes to vigorous activity, as the blood in one’s body can be oxygenated and pumped much faster than with a standard set of organs. Combine that with a set of Cybernetic Arms and Legs, and it makes for someone who can keep moving, quicky, for a long time.

Being made of metal and fiber optic and materials of tha sort, many of the common worries that come with regular lungs don’t apply to these Respiratory Organ Replacing Enhancements. Lung Cancer is almost a non-issue, being punctured or crushed presents much less of an issue, as the lungs can support life with just one side, or can expand and contract with much greater force when under great pressure. This might mean pushing a little bit against a few other organs, or breaking a few ribs, but that’s only in the most extreme situations.




F. HeavyTech .45CAL Caseless Machine Pistol: to be expanded
F. HeavyTech Low Profile Body Armor

SKILLS: Street Intuition
Silver Coated RoboTongue
Network of Lucrative Connections

FLAWS: (Aim for three or so. Equal or greater to your number of skills.)
SPECS
Extreme Fear of Death
Loss of Dexterity and Finesse in Age
Memory loss and mad memory

NOTES:

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General Information

Usually dressed utilitarian clothing, combined with his favorite collared jacket, Proctor keeps a low profile. His body is on the more toned side, or, really, his torso is. His arms and legs are all cybernetic, so they keep their toned shape no matter what, keeping overall slim and tall. His augments, however, are visibly aged, both by being covered by nicks, scratches and dents from years of fighting and abuse, and also from being generally older models. His limbs, while still being in the classic sleek, attractive APEX style, are still distinctly outdated, but still well operating, despite their wear, still command the same respect that augments usually do.

His hair is a bright white, indicative of his age, but his eyes glow an augmented bright blue, having changed from his natural-born brown eyes. He has a large augmentation encompassing much of the back and sides of his head, covered in glowing lights and different colored steel, also covered in it’s fair share of scratches and scuffs. The skin around his augment is scarred and warped, but the rest of his face is surprisingly free of defects, other than the obvious wrinkles setting in, and a few moles and other signs of old age. Most of his face, though, is covered by a large white beard, which is growing increasingly unkempt as time goes by. You’d probably describe him as a “Robo-Grandpa” if you saw him.

Psychological Profile

Proctor’s only aim is to keep himself alive. Whatever it takes to make sure he can get what he needs to stay afloat, Proctor will do it.The ever looming fear of his demise helps keep the haze in his mind at bay, but with every day that passes, Proctor can feel the noose around his neck tightening, the blade press closer into his neck, and the energy powering his limbs slowly seeping out of him. Even though he hasn’t much to live for, Proctor desperately wants to live. He doesn’t want to be another nameless corpse left to rot in the streets amongst the vermin and trash. Proctor would rather die trying to get rich than to go out on his ass, broke, and without any say in the matter.


When you live the life and come from the kind of work that Proctor has, you know that money can be rung from any rag you can find in the streets. The Reclaim Zone is laden with opportunities for anyone a little loose on their morals or quick on their trigger, so why he decided to start working with Campbell, even Proctor isn’t quite sure of yet. Mostly, he supposes, it’s the money that could potentially be earned on the winning side of a mayoral run. Money, and access to the drugs he needs to keep his SPECS at bay. At the same time, however, if Campbell’s promise holds true, and he does his best to clean the streets up, Proctor sees a good opportunity to wipe a lot of former competition off the map. A double win for the aging cyborg.

If anything, perhaps this campaign could give him some sort of purpose other than just to keep breathing. If he must finally face his own mortality, at least he could do something before he dies, right? Proctor’s never been one to worry about leaving a mark on the world, but you’re never too old to actually ambitions, are you?


Ever since Proctor began to learn about all humans’ tendency, no matter how self sacrificing or generous they are, to value themselves over everyone else, he’s lived and survived by that school of thought. He’s not a heartless animal willing to get one over on or kill anyone at any turn, he believes in treating people with at least a modicum of respect and decency, but, no one is above him in importance. If it means his life or death, sink or float, Proctor works for himself and only himself. The Reclaim Zone has taken more than enough lives, right before Proctor’s eyes, and now, survival is the greatest high Proctor can feel.

It’s been a very long time since Proctor made any major moves, subsisting on odd jobs and petty pushing for decades. Seeing what semblance of a foundation he had ripped away from him taught him that worrying about others or trying to carry some sort of following is a pipe dream for him. Collaborative efforts, while sweet for a while, do eventually crumble. He just hopes that maybe he can get away from this one with more than he did the last one.


Proctor has spent so much time wallowing with the denizens of the Reclaim zone that he never felt the need to dabble or pay attention to politics, at least not past knowing who swung around the most power, or which street gangs controlled the most territory. Due to his augments, he’s had a few run ins and discussions with some Neo-Transhumanists and HyperHuman monks, developing a bit of connection with both groups. After putting up with his fair share of unwarranted hatred for being “an abomination of man and machine”, it was a pleasant change of pace to speak with people that embraced his choices and encouraged him to continue his work on perfecting his form and replacing his human weakness with mechanical dominance. While the spiritual side of the various movements never interested him much, their unconditional support of augmenting the human body is good enough reason for Proctor to give them his support.

The obvious is not lost on Proctor, that the mega-corporations rule many aspects of life, the government is mostly corrupt with a few good souls trying to do good, but most of it flies under his radar. What matters to him the most is what happens on the street level, his level. The difference between people is negligible, everyone is equal to Proctor in that he doesn’t care much for anyone. The effort it takes to rally for a purpose, or to carry prejudice against others, or to try and uplift entire demographics, is all an effort in futility for Proctor.


Well, really, his identity is a secret in and of itself. He’s got a lot of enemies, and powerful ones at that, but Proctor hasn’t tried to make any major moves for decades. The heat has been off for a while now, but if his name were to reappear in the spotlight, Proctor is sure he’d have a bullet in his skull in no time at all. Even those who don’t want to kill him might not exactly enjoy or appreciate his presence, as his criminal past has made him somewhat of an infamous character in the local lore. Better to just give a fake name and hope his aging face hides who he used to be.


Number One at the top of that list is easily Death. The concept of it, the act of dying, all of it shakes Proctor to the bone. Life has caught up very quickly with Proctor, and all of a sudden, he’s dealing with his very real mortality, despite all the measures he took to try and avoid it when he was young.

Nothing much else scares Proctor much, other than the thought of the forgotten bounties on his head that are still floating around. As much as he likes to put on a tough guy front, he does often peer over his shoulders, wondering if one of his old rivals is going to send a shooter after him. Most things that pull some fear and anxiety from Proctor, like heights, often just have to do with his overwhelming fear of death.


Proctor is a sort of ghost story in the streets of the Reclaim Zone at this point. He’s not a household name or anything like that, but there are still stories that float around about the the guy that tried to rival The Knights back in the day. Most people think he’s dead, and aging and further augments have made Proctor’s looks a far cry from what they used to be, helping conceal his continued presence in the Reclaim.

The men which used to work with Proctor know the truth, though, and most still hold Proctor in high esteem, as their former leader, charismatic and kind, but never destined to be powerful. Those who need to work with or know Proctor respect him, but his name doesn’t really garner fear anymore, just simple interest. He was never in it for the fame, just the money, but he doesn’t have much of anything anymore.

Even though not many people talk about him anymore, there are still a select few that want him dead, namely Jackson Rott, and men of his ilk. Some men still remember Proctor as the man who wanted the Reclaim Zone for himself, and would like to kill him just to tie up another loose end from the old days.


◦Taking walks through bustling city streets.
◦A bout of recreational drugs when he can spare the cash.
◦The rush of making money.


◦Losing money.
◦The fog of SPECS.
◦Contemplating his mortality.
◦People who are rude to people who work in customer service.


When sitting in chairs, Proctor will mindlessly rock back and forth in his seat. Not hard but just slightly enough for someone to notice.

No matter where he is or what he is doing, Proctor will sometimes stop, stand in one place, and just stretch everything out. His arms, legs, back, jaw, everything, just to try and loosen up and relax. Even though, you know, most of his limbs are… metal.

Background Information

”I tried to never let this place define me, I just made the best of what I was given. I did what I wanted to, fucked and fucked over whoever I felt like, and the same got done to me, but I never let it stop my work, my hustle. I never really needed a ‘meaning’ or a ‘purpose’ past just surviving, because that’s enough by itself.”

Somewhere unimportant in the Reclaim Zone, Proctor was brought into an uninterested and uncaring Angel City. Most of his memories of his early life and his parents are fading away from him, whether it be the early stages of SPECS, his age, all the blows he’s taken to the head, or perhaps a combination of both. He remembers his parents being rather plain people, neither very abrasive nor soft. They were just another pair of people driven by their primitive human need to keep breathing and walking, led not by passion or desire, but rather, blind autonomous survival.

Early on in his life, the importance of protecting himself was imprinted heavily on him by his parents, whether it be by the lectures and speeches he can’t quite remember anymore, or the many times he saw what failure to survive looked like. He wasn’t coddled or made to believe maybe he could leave the Reclaim Zone someday in the future, he was shown exactly what life does to anyone who loses their way. People die, people suffer, and the only one who could change that is the individual.

Goodness and Evilness weren’t real, they were just words people made to describe the positive and negative they had to work with. The world was disinterested in its inhabitants, with the Zone providing nothing but shade to those that dwelled within its walls. Life, day in and day out, writhed it’s way in and out of the streets, in and around their homes, all in their autonomous need to stay above ground. They didn’t stay alive because of their passion for life or joy in living, they stayed alive because that’s all they knew how to do. Even then, some of them failed, and Proctor was vigilant to learn from others’ failure.

Solidifying all his learnings in the Art of Survival, the day his parents were killed did well to shape up the then young Proctor. Though he’d never dare admit it, the day is still a sort of sensitive topic for him, so after doing a good job of compartmentalizing the whole ordeal, the details are fuzzy, but the important details are still there. A standard home burglary gone wrong, except as soon as the fatal danger presented itself, his parents fled, leaving the then 9 year-old Proctor alone cowering in his room. Of course, they were never allowed to get very far before each were shot to death. Whether the shooter hadn’t the resolve to murder a child, or saw it as a waste of time or ammunition, Proctor was left alone in the house after it had been stripped of all it’s valuables.

The Reclaim Zone seemed unbothered as another orphaned child turned into a street urchin, as Proctor took to the streets in search of ways to keep himself alive. Whether it was digging in the trash cans behind restaurants, stealing and selling pieces of technology, Proctor found a way to survive. He learned the value of a credit, how to stretch a credit for all it was worth, and all the tragic normalities that come with living on the street. He became insignificant member of the festering biomass that surged in and out of the streets everyday, learning to be one with the ever moving tides of life and death, always managing to keep mostly dry, even if Death’s putrid scent always lingered around him.

Nothing that Proctor built ever came easy or quickly. Between knife fights with junkies in alleyways, or “repurposing” stashes of drugs he in no way stole from anyone, Proctor managed to keep his chin above water, making a bit of a name for himself amongst the local clan of urchins. Even though it was out of character, it seemed like the eyes on the walls finally concentrated on someone, that maybe, just maybe, someone was peeling themselves off the pavement, not a common sight in the Reclaim Zone. As much as Proctor knew about survival, the city that had remained standing around Proctor, after millenia of mistreatment and abuse, knew more than him, and it was time to prove himself.

For once, the kid knew ambition, and it began to manifest itself in interesting ways. Instead of trying to consume him, the streets embraced him, and his fellow urchins knew power when they saw it. Even if it could’ve ended up in his back, Proctor knew that a second knife was always stronger than just one, and soon enough, he had his own gang of people who were trying to make it through the shifting tides, just like him.

The Gamblers were the Zone’s newest collection of like-minded miscreants, and the Zone was quick to take notice. What used to be petty robbery and knife fights turned into small scale heists and drug dealing. Credits weren’t a new language to Proctor, but he was suddenly becoming much more fluent than he used to be. Surviving was finally feeling easier than it had before. The walls around the Zone had finally loosed up, and the waves were splashing lower down on Proctor’s legs, the stench of Death that followed him was beginning to disperse.

With this newfound money and power, Proctor began to take even more drastic measures to ensure that his chin stayed above sea level, and took to replacing his weak, imperfect organs & limbs with ones made of black metal. Flesh and blood gave way to steel and copper, lungs and heart extracted and replaced with machines that could do their jobs more reliably and for a much longer time. Slowly, Proctor was becoming more machine than man, but those fears that made him human were still woven deeply in him, whether they were woven with flesh or fiber optic.

The paranoia that crept deep within him made him wonder, were there other standouts from the Zone that would try to get rid of him? He and his gang had made their space in the Zone, but he was doubtless that there were others who wanted to push them out. There were plenty of other gangs that had their eyes on the space he occupied, but none of them posed as big as a threat as the Knights, the most aggressive, assertive gang in the Zone.

Despite their penchant for violence and subjugation, the Knights still wanted to maintain stability and freedom, and the Gambler’s and their disregard for most of the residents presented an issue for Jackson Rott and his Knights. For the most part, issues remained simple disagreements or scuffles in alleyways, but as each gang grew larger and more vicious, these small squabbles slowly became more serious dust-ups and fights.

Soon, it was full-on turf war, and, to spare the details, The Gamblers came out the losers. Most of the men and women Proctor had just begun to call his friends now stained the streets with their blood. Suddenly, the waters began to rise up around Proctor, and now, they were stained red and carried a stench on them that Proctor couldn’t even escape in his weak slumber. Many of Proctor’s memories have become muddled and fuzzy over time, but he remembers the day his Gamblers failed to survive very clearly.

Removed from his spot amongst the Zone’s special survivors and presumed dead, Proctor went into hiding, taking what little he had left and, like he had done so many years before, melded back into the writhing masses of the Zone, shrouded in the anonymity of street survival. He was driven by neither passion nor joy, but instead, his primitive, human drive to breathe and walk.

After years in obscurity, living from job to job, surviving one way or anything, a new job presented itself to Proctor. The rising campaign of Dexter Campbell, and the multiple open positions to help him dethrone Mayor Gatch felt like a stroke of incredible luck. Campbell needed someone to raise funds, and if Proctor knew how to do anything, it was to make money. He gave them a fake name, Richter Gamble, and joined the campaign as Dexter’s Fundraising Manager. Coming up with money for a campaign was difficult, but Proctor was sure he’d be able to use the skills he’d spent his whole life building to find his way into more money and power than he’d ever had before.

Operative Information

▩AUGMENTATIONS▩

Two (2) APEX Model 35-S Cybernetic Arms, One Left and One Right

Both are Proctor’s arms are outdated, APEX-made pieces of machinery. Together, they give the operator the strength to lift about half a ton, but since Proctor is still stuck with a normal human spine, he doesn’t really have the ability to support that weight. That doesn’t nullify all the strength granted by his arms, as he can still punch a hole through most brick walls, and has some serious throwing capability to add too.

Both of his arms, as stated above, are, at this point, approximately thirty years old, and while they don’t carry and suite of tools or make him quite a superhuman, they are still strong and reliable pieces of technology, top-of-the-line back in their heyday. Even decades old APEX are something to behold, but he won’t be stopping traffic anytime soon with these aging arms.


Capable of outrunning a bullet train, deliver kicks that could kill an elephant, or supporting, at most, a full ton of weight, Proctor’s Strider Legs were intended to be the only cybernetic legs you’d ever need for the rest of your life, available at a price for which wouldn’t take you that time to pay back, too. Of course, now being about twenty-five years old, they aren’t quite the glamourous, impressive legs there were advertised to be back in their heyday, but they work.

Age and use haven’t been good to them, and when not wearing pants, these legs look drastically different than most cybernetic limbs today, as they don’t really try to imitate human limbs in their looks. Black metal, adorned with scratches and dents, are all that greets the eyes when they see Proctor’s legs. Open joints, robotic imposters of toes, audible mechanical whirring sometimes, they are very obviously some worn legs. Maybe a little bit of exposed wiring here and there, but nothing too big.

While the legs were certainly capable of delivering on their claims when they were first released, time has not been good to their performance. Not to say they haven’t held up well enough, but Proctor, while he can propel himself much faster than the ordinary man, hasn’t been able to outrun a bullet train in a long time. He can still kick the head almost completely off a man, but he’d probably just sooner shoot them than do that.


While not exactly bulletproof, the FuryTech Cardiac Organ Replacing Enhancement is still a very hardy and reliable piece of machinery. While, technically, pumping blood harder than an organic heart can isn’t exactly beneficial, being able to do that job much longer and with less problems is FuryTech’s strength. The unit is much, much less likely to deal with irregular heartbeats, is 99% likely to never be stricken by arrest, and can negate many of the effects of arteries afflicted with cholesterol build up, which isn’t exactly ideal, but still means a much better life than otherwise. When the unit was made, blood purification systems weren’t quite off the ground yet, so the most this heart can do is help alleviate the effects of blood-borne illnesses or poisons, but nothing much past that.

You may be wondering if the unit is vulnerable to EMP blasts, which would be critical flaw, but thankfully, it’s not. Even twenty or so years ago when Proctor acquired his limbs, the ability to shield them from outside blasts was already pretty commonplace, so his heart, and other augments for that matter, are all fairly well protected against any sort of anti-electronic measures. At least, they were when they were produced. As for how the shielding has held up over time, that remains yet to be seen.


To accompany and take advantage of having an enhanced heart, Proctor also has an enhanced set of lungs, also from FuryTech. They’re meant to allow much longer stamina when it comes to vigorous activity, as the blood in one’s body can be oxygenated and pumped much faster than with a standard set of organs. Combine that with a set of Cybernetic Arms and Legs, and it makes for someone who can keep moving, quicky, for a long time.

Being made of metal and fiber optic and materials of tha sort, many of the common worries that come with regular lungs don’t apply to these Respiratory Organ Replacing Enhancements. Lung Cancer is almost a non-issue, being punctured or crushed presents much less of an issue, as the lungs can support life with just one side, or can expand and contract with much greater force when under great pressure. This might mean pushing a little bit against a few other organs, or breaking a few ribs, but that’s only in the most extreme situations.


Built to connect into brain, specifically in the synapses that have to do with processing visual information and those that have to do with decision making, the Maximus Neural Assistant was meant to help accelerate the user’s ability to make quick, on the spot decisions, help them retain more a photographic memory, and interpret and respond to visual stimuli more quickly. It wasn’t meant to make you an artificial genius, or really, to make you any smarter, for that matter. It was basically just meant to help with improve reaction time and vision.

The unit presents itself as a large, well lit plate that encompasses most of the back and sides of the user’s head. Proctor’s model, or course, is well-worn, covered in scratches and dents from years of blows to the head. While the unit may not be able to much in the way of memory enhancement anymore, it has still given Proctor a good reaction time despite his age and his plague.



This Fury-HeavyTech weapon blurs the line between a machine pistol and a full blown submachine gun. With a fire rate that can tuned and changed, caseless ammunition, and it’s compact size, the Lex-01 is quite the effortless killer. The weapon can accept a wide range different size magazines, anywhere from ten-round magazines, to some large, rather unwieldy one hundred round mags. Highly modular and customizable, the Lex-01, while not exactly a workhorse weapon, can still be changed to fit a variety of different situations the user could face. There are spots to mount optics, flashlights, suppressors or muzzle breaks, and even easily changeable grips to make sure that the user can get the most comfort and reliability from their weapon.

Proctor’s particular model sports an integrated flashlight, and a small holographic optic, with a threaded barrel and suppressor on hand for when the situation calls for it. He likes to keep his weapon set to roughly 900-1000 rounds per minute, and carries around mostly thirty round magazines, with maybe one or two fifty-round magazines for where the need arises. The main body of the pistol is scratched, marred chrome, with onyx black accents. The weapon is usually kept in an underarm holster that Proctor Conceals with his overcoat.


Offering strong, reliable protection, while maximizing mobility and discreteness, is the main goal off the Fury/HeavyTech Low Profile Body Armor. The Persecutor set was meant to be worn under clothing, making the armor discreet and almost completely unnoticeable. The armor itself is a extremely strong, durable combination of kevlar woven with an alloy of steel and aluminum, giving the user top of the line protection against most calibers of standard bullet. When it comes to more experimental and advanced types of projectiles, the armor’s protection may not hold up, but considering the rarity of those types of weapons, this shouldn’t present much of an issue. The Persecutor is a full body set of armor, protecting the most vital parts of the body, with sacrifices around places like joints for the sake of maneuverability.

While the Persecutor isn’t the end all be all of body armor, it can still sustain a few fatal blows, buying the wearer vital seconds in pivotal moments of a gun fight. If it’s a knife fight we’re talking about, the Persecutor actually makes up for the weakness of the armor of yesteryear and can manage resisting most mid level conventional blades. When it comes to high end conventional blades, or perhaps some more unconventional blades, well, the Prosecutor may not quite hold up.



Proctor’s entire life has been spent in and around the hard streets of the Reclaim. He knows the kind of people you’re destined to meet around here very well, and the dangers streets themselves pose. From back alley crooks, to sidewalk junk vendors, Proctor understands how all the cogs spin in place to keep the streets moving perpetually. If you’re trying to navigate the Reclaim and keep out of as much travel as possible, Proctor’s your guy.


Knowing your way around the Reclaim isn’t completely useful if you don’t know how to talk to people either. Either Proctor is just good at knowing what to say, or he has some ethereal charm that even he himself isn’t aware of, but when Proctor speaks to people, he knows how to get them on his side. Business discussions, bartering on various goods, whatever it is that Proctor needs to do, he can usually talk his way into an advantage. Even if someone’s trying to harm poor old Proctor, he has a good way of weaseling out of a beating or stabbing, but, he’s still gotta defend himself every now and again.



The worst has come to pass, and the man who was once touted as a near immortal cyborg has been dealt the worst hand possible. The beginning stages of S.P.E.C.S have begin to set in on Proctor’s mind, and it’s worsened his already aging and bad memory. Proctor is slowly dying, and it will be the Cyber Plague that will finally bring him to his knees if he doesn’t begin to find himself a steady supply of Neutrosynth. Addiction to Neurosynth, however, is a bridge he will have to cross when he gets there, assuming he gets there in the first place.


Call it a phobia or just healthy paranoia, as age and disease begin to set in on Proctor, the thought of his impending death shakes him to the core. When faced with situations that could result in his possible death, or when having to confront his worsening plague, he will begin to lose his lucidity, giving in to panic attacks that can range from timid to crippling. Extreme fight or flee instincts will kick in during dangerous situations, and Proctor will either fight much harder than he has to, resulting in sometimes injury or further damage to his parts, or will abandon anything besides the clothes on his back to get away.


Even though robotic parts are meant to last longer than Human ones, after the lifetime of abuse and overuse that his have faced, Proctor’s various parts are beginning to show their age, and are paying for it. Very seldomly, his limbs will flat-out stall out on him, either getting stuck in the middle of use, or going limps. Servos have been replaced, motors fixed, but with the age of his limbs and the onset of S.P.E.C.S, his limbs just aren’t performing as well as they used to. One of these days, they might just stall out when he really needs them.


None.