D O S S I E R : I D #458423691
Name: Kilmer, Roy
Callsign: Vomit Comet (Often shortened to "Commie").
Rank: O-2 LTJG. Ought to be higher.
Kills: 44
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Height: 5'11
Weight: 168lb
S E R V I C E R E C O R D
Psychological Analysis: Of noble, upright bent, and infallibly earnest in his every waking moment. Well-respected as a soldier for his dedication to the craft and consideration of his colleagues in largely equal measure, Roy is often thought to in many senses be a man out of time in the 2700s— a summation he graciously counters by positing the archetype of a gentleman warrior never really went away at any point in history before. Proud of his skill, he makes no attempts to hold back the notion that he delights in the thrill of putting his life on the line against a properly challenging foe living for the livewire feeling of pushing man and machine to their limits
in concerto. As one might expect, there is a reckless flame within that this produces, but one that thankfully takes a back seat to being a team player. He is affable, charming, and his unshakable integrity and intensity are humorously counterweighed by a whimsical tendency towards superstition and spiritualism on the ground— but in the air, it all falls to second place behind a single facet. He pilots the way a fish swims: like he'll stop breathing if he doesn't. Being an Earthling, he has taken a number of years to completely reconcile the idea that his "normal, middle-class American childhood" puts him in a completely different economic stratosphere to a fair few of his peers— thankfully, that same disconnect engenders an egalitarian view towards them, rather than any sense of Earthborn superiority. They are all pilots, they are all the 101st, and they are all just as here to push him past his limits as he is them. Nowhere in all the universe he'd rather be.
Well, maybe if he could get home for a Vikings game one of these days, there might be a
little competition. But who are we kidding? He can’t even remember the last time they brought home a ring.
Earned the moniker “Vomit Comet” years back, after attempting (and in fairness, succeeding) to perform a high-amplitude stunt in BFM after too much of the barracks moonshine the night before— the story has warped over time and nobody can really agree whether he went for a Kulbit, a Cobra, or just some overly tight Immelmann, but the common throughline is assured: He could not get the oxygen mask off quick enough. He weathers the immortality of the event with admirable humor and is a little pleased that it’s been shortened to the snappier “Commie”, but has nonetheless very pointedly sworn off anything more than a glass with a week of ground time in his future.
Personal Record:Born to a large family in Rochester, Minnesota, Roy held the dubious distinction of both being the baby brother and eldest son of the generation— A trio of accomplished and quick-witted elder sisters preparing him for the worst torment the military world could throw at him, by his account. They in turn would counter that he was more than rambunctious enough to bring it onto himself. Having no nose for the books save history and no love in his heart for real academic study regardless of subject, his childhood was characterized by turning the familial brainpower and stubbornness alike towards thrill-seeking and working with his hands.
At sixteen, he picked up a job apprenticing beneath the local auto mechanic. At seventeen, his boyhood love of thrill rides was firmly in his own hands in the dead of night, racing other hotblooded gearheads down the freeway in his Toyota when he damn well ought to have been preparing for his future, given Earth’s cost of living. At eighteen, his time in school had come to an end— and while he wasn’t failing, he hadn’t quite the grades nor the interest to follow his third sister down to Florida to enroll in Embry-Riddle, no matter their shared interest in the aerospace field. Instead he decided, as he so often does, on a more hands-on path.
The Navy Recruiter seemed chuffed that he’d actually bagged a kid from the homeworld that day. Despite the Kilmer clan’s disappointment that their generational run of college graduates would be ending at three, Roy logging the first few years of dignified service under the family name in over a century was still a damn sight more to take pride in than the alternatives that were left. None of them could deny it, either— the dress blues suited him.
With the seemingly eternal war with the Coalition well underway once more, Kilmer was tapped for flight school practically the same second his physical and psychological evaluations hit the Naval Academy’s desk. They had an adrenaline junkie on their hands— but so was every pilot that was thrown into the simulator and asked for seconds once the altimeter crested four digits. More importantly, he showed quick reactions and a distinct comfort with the alienating sensation of one’s body being pulled across the cockpit by more momentum than you were ever supposed to survive. It likely also helped concerns about his ability to follow orders that he was more or less classically “Minnesota nice”, agreeable enough that they felt they could iron out the kinks by the time they handed him anything they were worried he’d crash. With the threat of Coalition MASes still very much looming over UEE forces, his promising talent was hard to overlook.
He dove feet first into the program, buoyed by the holovids of old films and what current war footage had made its way into the curriculum alike. Given that UEE MAS Production was still neck-deep in the pipeline by this point, he did everything he could to absorb the small smattering of recorded kills made on Fenrirs by Naginata pilots completely—hogging whatever extra sim hours he could pull together to try and match and dissect the winning plays the men and women ahead of him had made. He found himself obsessed before long— an obsession that would seem an act of fate, seeing him graduate flight school with top marks and ship off to the Coalition front in short order. He was assigned to the 212th Flight Wing during the year directly prior to the UEE’s first Sentries hitting the front, and would become a mainstay in his squadron— enough to be thoroughly humbled by the meatgrinder, watching superior officers and fellow rookies alike come and go. Many of them he had made fast friends with— many of them leaving the front shattered or silenced. Through it all, his passion for defeating the Coalition forces remained, and his endless hours of study did indeed bear fruit— by the end of his first tour, he had logged an impressive five MAS kills in the Naginata.
He and other standouts had proven that the UEE’s updated training was starting to pay dividends, but such praise rang hollow for both speaker and recipient— for him, he hadn’t nearly done enough to avenge the friends he’d lost on the way, and for the Imperial Navy, the paradigm shift was clearly not going to allow for such gradual progress at such a cost. It wasn’t long before his subsequent tours began, deployments dotting the FEZ and Border Space. His consistent survival record and steadily climbing kill tally saw him and the 212th as some of the earliest adopters of the Sparrow, and MAS frame he seemed
suspiciously quick to master, even provided his now-clear talent. Notably, a few of his more observant peers had sighted him being approached by Union higher-ups near the end of his second tour… Though they’d at the time simply believed a promotion to Lieutenant was on its way thanks to battlefield merit, now different gears started turning as to why he’d gone uncharacteristically dark in the interim period.
For his part, he simply offered the same easy smile as always, and mentioned he’d turned down an opportunity for them to stack more on his plate than he wanted— that not every pilot wanted to worry about being in charge of people. Now behind the controls of an MAS of his own, he was right where he belonged in the chain. Deployed to the 3rd fleet as a rapid response wing and interceptor, he made the most of the moment of opportunity that came with a new breed of MAS screaming into the engagement at well north of 1000mph, and made Ace in short order. Things progressed from there, and roughly 4 years ago his longevity and skillset saw him transferred to the 101st SOG— and in some interesting quirk of fate, beneath the watchful eye of one of those first few men whose maneuver patterns he’d pored over in flight school.
Personal Skills:Aerobatics: An accomplished Mobile Suit jockey and Aerospace Fighter Pilot before that, LTJG Kilmer treats flight maneuvering as second nature, weaponizing both a natural aptitude and psychotically honed tolerance for High Gs. He is an especially quick and agile dogfighter, hard to keep up with even on his worst day— and on his best, he can barely keep up with himself. On more than one occasion he’s pushed his airframe and body past their recommended operational limits— The callsign of “Vomit Comet” infamously more than a simple reference to old aircraft trivia.
Close Combat: As the MAS was forged in the human image, Roy found it natural and sensible to familiarize himself with fighting techniques developed for that body plan over countless millennia to contribute as much efficacy as he could to his role as a hypermobile melee skirmisher— the practical logistics of this are a bleeding edge field of Imperial Navy doctrine, of course. If nothing else, he’s found a hobby and will never need to be too worried about personnel combatives standards suddenly eclipsing him, but he’s of the belief that it helps him maintain his cool under fire and spot openings at knife-fighting range another pilot might miss.
Mechanical Aptitude: While the bulk of his expertise is still very much rooted in the automotive repair field, Roy is as handy with a torque wrench as ever, and has retained that infectious tuner’s mindset when assisting the hangar crews with keeping his expensive rides up and running. It’s suspected that his willingness to eat the grease with the rest of the monkeys and foist any beer offered to him onto their craftily-concealed minifridge is a large portion of how he’s stayed on their good sides, despite how much work his piloting puts in their laps after sortie.
Motivation: None of this guy’s deal is done “for the bit”. He’s completely sincerely a psycho.
