Standing at 4’6”, fairly compact for a full cybernetic conversion, Peter looks to be a small humanoid with a mismatch of parts comprising the plating for his head, the recycler system, his optics, his hands. Some components are rusted, others still relatively new, and his hands stiff and crude with but four digits. Blue optics and a protrusion - often interpreted by others as a circular muzzle - are the only details for his head. Peter prefers to simply wear a heavy, rough-cut coat.

Quiet, observant, restrained, a statue in the room whose luminous eyes see everything, Peter’s outwards personality masks a deep-seated, conflicted little soul. Other people are strange to him, their actions strange, their motivations strange, the effects of those three pills still rooted down within Peter, and as such he often instead simply does not engage with others whatsoever. As such, he is uncomfortably, desperately lonely, often developing little stories and ideas and journeys in his head divorced from most of reality save for the barest, slightest details, the rest drawn from books he’d read, ideas he’d picked up. That quiet nature masks a violent, infantile rage, too, a rage at being seen as something other than a person, a rage at being seen as a toy, a rage at being seen as property. Murderous fantasies often plague Peter when confronted with such things, fantasies he does not act out by virtue of, again, leaving such people entirely. Luckily, he does not often develop such rages as he doesn’t often interact with others at all, preferring instead the comfort of his mech, a game of Rout against the computer.

Born beyond the UEC on the far-flung outpost of Thiel-3, long before their entry into the Confederation, from his first breath Peter was living on the company dime. The station was owned by Tarman Manufacturing, the air owned by NeuLife, and the food by Monarch Supplements, and by being born he’d already had that debt. Of course, his birth wasn’t an accident by employees, either; gene-wrought workers was something Tarman paid a good price for, and in a good few legal respects Peter wasn’t exactly human. His name wasn’t Peter either though, but Charlie 18. The UEC needed materials from Thiel-3 in those days and, in many ways, they were willing to turn a blind eye to Tarman’s works as long as the shipments kept coming in.

Early life wasn’t a childhood, but a conveyor belt. From clean rooms to clean classrooms to clean cafeterias, that was the routine. There were three pills every meal, too, to grow up good and strong, and through that all Peter felt some senses dull, other senses enhance, and the classroom became a place where he just soaked up every piece of information given. It wasn’t long before he could perform three-dimensional vector calculations on the fly, retrograde burn assessments at the flick of a wrist, sensor pictures by the glance, and it wasn’t long after that when Peter and the others started to go into simulators. He enjoyed those, easy as it always seemed to be, but all the while there were those clean rooms, those clean classrooms, those three pills.

When he turned twenty, a date that meant so very, very little to Peter, the class was shuffled into the cafeteria and given a glass of water and a singular pill. They all took it without a question. They all went unconscious without a struggle. Those three pills at work, he knew afterwards, those same three pills. When they woke up, it was through electronic eyes and he couldn’t feel the recycled air on his skin. Helpful Charlies, that’s what they were, brains in vats in suits. The teachers said it’d been where they’d been going all along, that it’d been where they belonged from the start. Everything was ordained by the company and the company couldn’t be wrong in its plans. Two in the class resisted it all, spiked their own blood pressures through the roof with the stress and pain and overload, lit-up like fireworks on the spot, and though Peter didn’t question it then and there a feeling grew in the back of his head. He didn’t much like the teachers or the doctors, he supposed.

Piloting surveycraft, that’s where Peter was placed, piloting them through the asteroid fields that scattered about Thiel-3 in massed droves, piloting them through and landing on one or the other or the other for testing. It was a good job he thought, good enough considering his debt seemed to slowly go down bit by bit, line by line. Nutrient liquids were cheap and it wasn’t as though Peter needed all that much of it. Every now and again, though, a part of him started to slow. A finger, hand, joint there or valve here, a system needing recalibration or replacement, a repair that set him back again. He started to track these things, curious why a new body would fail like that. The others in his class had the same problems, some losing function while out piloting in the fields, some not coming back. Forced obsolescence was the term, Peter found, forced failures, bad designs. The feeling in the back of his head grew. Peter decided he didn’t much like the company. He kept piloting, though, trying to figure out a way to get better, to stop with the debt, the payments.

Then Thiel-3 stopped existing. A raiding party of the Hegemony, unknown to Tarman, came a-knocking while Peter was out on a mining mission. They struggled at finding the position of the colony, though, even as they bounced a distress signal from three of the encircling satellite stations, and a wait came as the Hegemony ships started to comb through the fields. Peter went radio silent, powering down most systems while hugging an asteroid, waited all the while for that help. It came in the form of a light ISA patrol that quickly dived into the asteroid field, the Hegemony ships rushing in to follow, and some part of Peter clicked away to join in. He powered up the craft, got to work weaving and dancing through the fields in chase. A Hegemony corvette, caught off-guard, was his target as the little survey craft latched onto the outer hull like a leach before lighting-up the mining torch. Cutting through the hull just forward of the engines, all while the corvette ducked between asteroids after the ISA ships, Peter found that reactor. A release just before, clearing that ship as it lit-up, and he disappeared into the field with the rubble. Other company pilots were trying the same here, there, while the ISA patrol slowly got the upper hand in the chaos. The station radioed out, some middle manager calling them to return to station, and a Hegemony torpedo salvo raced through the field after that signal. Peter watched one survey ship take a missile, trying to stop it all, and the station went to dust soon after. So much for the company.

He took-on with the ISA after that, the little surveyor not taking up that much hangar space. The flight deck officer even gave him a free name to boot, just saying he looked like a Peter. A few mechanic visits with them and Peter even had a few replaced components to try and offset Tarman’s bad practices. A little homeless wayfarer, he stuck around with them until one of the next mining stations out there in the ISA. By then, the Shodane business was in full swing, the ISA working overtime to try and keep their business theirs instead of no-one’s, and one of them mentioned that maybe Peter might do some good with it all. There was recruitment going on to fight out in the ISA and he’d shown some real skill in the asteroids after all. The comment stuck well enough that he followed through with it, joining up with a company chartered to provide escort to one of the Confederation military outposts.

The war came and went for Peter, seeing combat here and there. He didn’t particularly care to remember the whole of it, already numb as he was to the problems, to the losses, to the tragedies. The Shodane War was messy and hard, blasted hard, and the company didn’t come out fully intact. In time it ended, though, and in time after that, Peter contracted on with the Confederation itself as a void specialist of sorts. Since then, he’s found niches here, there, salvage work, boarding work, escort jobs. He’s gotten better, too, all the Tarman junk out of his systems. Peter was even recommended for duty aboard the Spirit of Adventure, something he accepted.

+ Rout (3D ‘board’ game of positional maneuver to trap an opponent piece)
+ Rave Bio-Recordings
+ Fairy Tales
- Corporate Hegemonies
- Social Interaction

10mm Confederate Arms Model 14 Survival Carbine
12.7mm LieutArms Model 7 Sidearm
Survival Knife
Heavy Makeshift Coat

Mass: 7,500 kg
Length: 7 m (22 ft 11 in)
Width: 5.3 m (17 ft 4 in)
Height: 4.6 m (15 ft 1 in)
Powerplant: Leuman-Funchs Mk. 2 Mod. 4 Cold Fusion Reactor
Speed (Ground): 40 kph
Speed (Atmospheric): 600 kph
Speed (Space): Mach 4

Turret HardpointRoof HardpointStarboard Hull Hardpoint

Bredon-Mars Defensive Screens
Tarman Manufacturing Level 2 Navigation Barriers
Tarman Manufacturing Level 1 Survey Sensors