[CHAR] 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄

[Little Bill]

---

Hanging above the Absolute Magnitude's dinner table and gathering area, there is a primitive corkboard holding photographs of the crew. Each has survived the multiple fires, plasma blasts, and other attacks the ship has been through. It is a tradition no one knows who started, but nonetheless, the corkboard has always been as much a part of the ship as the rivets holding it together. By the sheer fact that their picture has not been thrown out, the crewmembers know they are alive, that they have a family, and that they have not been forgotten.

---

The Pilot

The Pugilist

The Survivor

The Engineer

The Hacker

[Little Bill]

---

^{"Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it,}
_{gnawing and creeping into it, until at last it eats out the very heart and substance of the metal."}

---

Name

Aloysius Patroklos Poole

Age

44

Appearance

There are men who are muscular, and then there are men who are so muscular that they are unsightly or even comical. Of the two, Poole is in the latter category. His intimidating height and physique are typically the first thing people notice about Poole -- as the ship's "Security Manager", this is entirely intentional. He has the square, flattened features of a lowlands gorilla, the pockmarked dun skin of a cane toad, and the beard of a chimp. Under his clothes, Poole has remarkably few scars, though he has three tattoos received in prison that the crew have seen; two red rings on his wrists signifying his status as a felon, and a pair of hands in contrition covering his back. Poole wears a golden crucifix and often keeps his hair up with a headband, though he otherwise has voiced a strong distaste for men who accessorize, wear scents, or put more than water in their hair. He prefers muted, baggy clothing under his body armor, and magnet-lined boots for impromptu chases. Because he cannot own a firearm, Poole wears a collapsible wrist-mounted crossbow for ranged combat.

Traits

Red Felon: For reasons he hasn't divulged, Poole is in the highest, most heinous category of felons. It's not really something you ask a guy about, so he's fielded very few questions about it over the years. When ISSP officers stop the Absolute Magnitude at a checkpoint, it's Poole who sweats bullets, and when the crew has business on Earth, it's Poole who mans the ship. Most suspect that his strangest traits -- his religion, preference for paper books, passion for excercise, and taste for raw Nutri-Flax -- were picked up doing time.

Titanean Martian: It's uncertain as to whether Poole is from Mars or Saturn, as his answer seems to change depending on the time of day. He's directly said that he was born on Mars, though his grasp of the complex Titanean language hasn't left his crewmates assured of Martian heritage. He frequently tells people he's tall because he's Titanean, which is actually false -- Titanean gravity and lack of sunlight have made them a small, pale people.

Saved: You would be hard pressed to find someone in the 23rd century more excited about having a Lord and Savior than Poole. Aside from his penchant for scripture and biblical allegories, there is a calm authenticity to Poole's faith in God that leaves most confused, and others outright jealous. Some of the gospel music he listens to is almost a thousand years old, which most find outrageous.

Strengths

Prize-Fighter: Poole's strength is his literal strength. He handles shouting, threats, and chaotic violence with an inhuman degree of calmness unique to himself, and seems most in his element in a fight. He isn't trained in any fighting style or martial art, though his apparent imperviousness to physical blows and brute strength make him an extremely capable brawler. Aside from plain fist-fights, during one of the Absolute Magnitude's deals gone wrong he crushed a guy to death by squeezing him. Whether or not this was a one-time thing hasn't been brought up.

Warrior Poet: Poole isn't the brains of the ship, but he's not a monosyllabic knuckledragger either. Poole is well read -- The first book he'd recommend being The Bible -- and has an eloquence that separates him from other bounty hunters hired for their muscle. His knowledge of the slang, culture, and social customs of the criminal world make him surprisingly good at gathering information undercover, while his well-spoken manners and humility make him a decent contract negotiator.

Weaknesses

Feet of Lead: Poole is a pretty big guy, and has the problems of flexibility, speed, and mobility typically associated with men of his size. He also smokes like a chimney, eats like a horse, and wears heavy 22nd century body armor. Whoever you are, reading this, you could outrun Poole. If you cannot run, assume your usual method of transportation would save you from Poole for at least thirty feet.

Head of Also Lead: It is tempting, if the only tool you have is a hammer, to treat everything as if it were a nail, and Poole's hammer is punching things into a warm, red pulp. He is not necessarily quick to anger in the traditional sense, but his reliance on being more powerful than his opponents in close quarters make him skip to violence more often than not. Though he generally acts like a kindly uncle, his felon status mixed with his proclivity for extreme violence (And the juxtaposition this presents with his religious nature) make some a little wary of Poole.

Claustrophobic: Though he's at least accustomed to the tight conditions aboard the Absolute Magnitude, Poole has repeatedly shown great difficulty with enclosed spaces in the past, and will often refuse to climb through ducts, pipes, or small caverns. He has explained his fears as an association of cramped spaces with being trapped, and a belief of entrapment as an extreme danger.

[Gowi]

---

^{“Don't talk rot,}
_{You're a hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a target feels?”}

---

Name

Xaara Tryansa Ibbdinton

Age

Twenty-Nine

Appearance

Xaara is unassuming, standing at a height on the lower end of the interstellar average for her ethnicity and gender; a fact that has been often utilized to her benefit in busy crowds when tracking down contracts and escaping from various individuals. When considering her attire, Xaara prefers wearing simplistic synthetic fibers that are the norm among the lower income brackets though one thing that seems to be a recurring preference is a jacket derived of ballistic fibers and design to not only keep her warm but also protected by conventional weapons. Xaara’s hair is drawn roughly and at mid-length with her bangs held by unremarkable clips to keep them uniform and as a form to not obstruct her vision. Her hair, which was once blonde, has for several years of her life been dyed into a pale teal color. Her eyes, cerulean, appear reminiscent of her personality—cold, icy, and unforgiving.

Traits

Background

Xaara was supposedly born in 2421 CE on the colonial principality of Ganymede.

The authenticity of Xaara’s identity is in dubious waters at best, as evidenced by investigations into her legitimacy as a professional bounty hunter from various rivals over the last decade. Whilst there is documentation that appears to shut down any suggestion she is not who she says she is, there is also issues in confirming it. As per her dossier, Xaara has no living relatives, mentors, or childhood friends due to the pacification of their lives on Ganymede twelve-to-fourteen cycles ago. Some people suggest this coincidence is too convenient to be valid. Xaara’s personal preference to talk as little about her past as possible makes the issue quite difficult to prove or disprove.

The events between her past and becoming a founding member of Absolute Magnitude are many—and likely seen as well-respected accomplishments for a woman of her relatively youthful age.

Personality

Analytical
Blunt
Introverted
Sarcastic
Stoic

Strengths

Dexterous: Xaara realizes she needs to be quick to survive in tense situations despite her incessant need to be completely prepared for a scenario. She isn’t tall or strong so she has had to adapt to be quick and clever instead.

Piloting: For many years, Xaara had to operate independently in her career as a bounty hunter and freelance pilot. She doesn’t boast any victories over pirates, smugglers, or renegade militants but the records that can be unraveled attached to her dossier shows that she has more than credentials to graduate from flight school.

Sniper: Perhaps Xaara’s biggest asset is her ability to strike from a distance—with a high precision energy rifle outfitted with a multi-functional scope. Even beyond her capability as a fighter pilot is her talents as a long-range sharpshooter, a reality that has ended the careers of various criminals throughout the interstellar territories.

Trained Combatant: Xaara appears relatively competent in terms of close quarters combat. A fact that encompasses archaic studies like swordplay but also the martial arts. Whether Xaara’s understanding of either forms come from could be anybody’s guess as she has made it abundantly clear that like her background she has no interest in sharing the facts of their origin.

Weaknesses

Perfectionist: Xaara is finicky, almost to the point of madness—a fact that is abundantly clear in her methodology and belief that if you have to do something that you should do it correctly. This obsession with the details and preparations for things is a double-edged sword that has led her to argue incessantly on multiple occasions. For men and women of action, this trait can seem impossible to work with.

Reclusive: Even amongst those close to her, Xaara remains a constant curiosity. This is, in part, due to her tendency to be reclusive and guarded about her past and experiences. This particular predisposition makes her seen as difficult and puzzling; a reality that has led to an amount of distrust between her partners and contacts. It brings the question—is she just antisocial or is she hiding something?

Short: As aforementioned, Xaara is not particularly tall or imposing. She holds a somewhat athletic build due to her line of work, but this does not mean she can last any amount of time in a brawl without using her size and intelligence to her advantage. As such Xaara can count the volume of scenarios where a situation ended with her being pinned against a wall by her throat or thrown across a room.

Socially Inept: As skilled as Xaara is with a rifle and blade, she is often limited in the profession when working alone due to the fact that she is socially inept; so much so that she cannot comprehend why people are angry when she gives a blunt, matter-of-fact response that seems to have an absence of empathy or relatability. It is this reason that she’s a notoriously bad investigator when she doesn’t have a trail to follow from a potential target or a partner that can handle the social aspect of gathering information.

[Utrax]

Yeva Baumgartner

---

_{"And they say that somewhere, there's a somebody for you, and they say it as if you'll meet them--
as if they're not one in trillions--
and that the possibility of dying alone is but a dream.
Save yourself the suffering of searching and take what you can get."}

---

Name

Yeva Baumgartner

Age

34

Appearance

Yeva is average height with a slightly heavy build and her skin is a warm brown. Her hair is wavy, ear length, and a noticeable shade of dark brown. Usually she keeps it loose with very little care for what "style" it's in though, she tends to pull it up into a small ponytail when working. A set of blue-green eyes stare tiredly from a rather average face that could blend in easily in a crowd. She smiles often, despite her seemingly perpetual weariness, and her voice is soft and sweet.

A dark blue jacket, made of a wind and rain resistant material, is never far from her. It sports white stripes on the sleeves and red tags on each side of the zipper with white embroidered lettering-- the left reads her surname and the right reads A.L.C.. She often wears a long sleeved shirt no matter the weather, often claiming to be cold even while sweating. A pair of non eventful blue jeans and black leather work-boots final out her loose sense of the word "fashion." Yeva clearly prefers functional, practical, and useful clothing.

Traits

Cooking and silence are two of Yeva's favorite things. She is known for her long silences or excited conversation about a new recipe with little to no in between. Yeva's presence is subtle but she isn't usually huddled off alone somewhere. She takes joy in being around people and simply listening and laughing along with conversation. More often than not Yeva smells of desserts, because she has a rather notorious sweet tooth. While Yeva's not difficult to talk to, she tends to end a conversation if she's not in the mood for it, which is easy to tell by her thousand-mile stare mid conversation.

In contrast, Yeva is by no means a cold person, and often speaks from a place of empathy and care for those that choose to confide in her-- which happens to be many people, even strangers. Indeed, Yeva tends to attract attention rather than seek it. She's a very good listener that can keep a secret better than the dead. Yeva's communication skills are by no means terrible-- she has been known to effectively mediate and negotiate with a professional ease-- and she does posses a rather dry, sarcastic, dark sense of humor.

Past

What is known about Yeva's is largely general ideas and half-truths...

Yeva was born on an unnamed ship en-route to Jupiter. Callisto is where Yeva insists her home was, though this is more in a territorial sense, than physical. Her parents have been dead for a very long time and she often speaks of growing up alone and on the streets or in the wilderness. Roaming the hills and searching for food, scavenging piles of discarded tech, and avoiding handcuffs and citations are things Yeva speaks of with a mix of emotions.

She was found rather accidentally by the crew of the Absolute Magnitude-- apparently when a bounty hunt lead them deep into the forest. The bounty target had already been caught by Yeva's well laid trap by the time the crew came upon the scene.

Yeva keeps many details about herself carefully unspoken. Her jacket, branded with the obvious A.L.C. name plate for instance, is a subject she generally deflects questions about. Though a lot of her past has been discussed, this jacket is still something of a lingering mystery, along with how she developed such excellent cooking skills, despite her past.

Strengths

Culinary Arts: Yeva could be described as a culinary prodigy. If someone on the crew wants it, she will go to great lengths to replicate the flavors, based on nothing more than a description, often with a high rate of success. She lives to cook and cooks to live. Yeva enjoys cooking fresh meals with "old school" natural ingredients.

Communication Equipment: Her experience with a multitude of communicaton's devices from satellite to ancient era radio waves makes her something of a go-to for signal help. Yeva is by no means an expert, of course, but she knows a great deal and can often figure things out if given enough time and room to concentrate. That being said, Yeva has been defeated by a few odd pieces of equipment.

Scrappy Fighting Skills: No professional training teaches someone to bite their opponent, throw dirt into their eyes, and run away. Yeva learned to fight somewhere rough and definitely not because she wanted to. Her skills are wild, focused on escape, and able to be countered by someone with expertise in fighting-- if the unpredictability doesn't manage to overwhelm them, that is.

Wilderness Survival: Homelessness and a nomadic life have granted Yeva a good skillset of "old world" survival techniques, using little or nothing in order to scrape by. She seems to open up as a person while placed in the woods or mountains-- even taking something of a more vocal advisor role when necessary. She also knows how to hunt, track, and trap animals with ease-- techniques easily applied to people when necessary.

Hunting Crossbow: Yeva is somewhat skilled at using a crossbow. She obtained one at some point in time and often talks about how the ammunition is "reusable" and how it was good to have while in the wild. She doesn't often bring it with her, but it looks to be very meticulously maintained with a few scratches from use and age.

Weaknesses

Interpersonal Difficulties: Yeva often becomes frustrated with people to the point she can lapse into a day's worth of silence. Some things are learned only by interacting with others through life and Yeva simply hasn't had a lot of interaction with anyone. This can lead to a lot of misunderstandings and social difficulties for Yeva. She never vocalizes her frustrations and tends to bear them silently leading to a lot of grudge holding.

Weak Willed: Yeva can be frustratingly quick to back down from a fight, argument, or disagreement. Instead of trying to work things out or compromise, she will often agree for the sake of agreement, and can be easily pushed over when it comes to her opinions. Yeva chooses to not voice her perspective often as a result, even when it would probably be beneficial to do so.

Physically Weak: Yeva has muscle enough to mountain climb, walk long distances, and carry weight on her back-- it's more practical muscle than combat focused muscle. She has endurance rather than strength and can struggle with a heavy box. Running is not something she does willingly at all. Yeva is of the opinion that if she has to run, everything has probably gone to shit, and she may as well die at a leisurely pace.

High Fear of Animals: Severe trauma was apparently suffered at the claws or jaws of an animal at some point in her past. As a result, if an animal shows any signs of aggressiveness, Yeva can become nearly paralyzed with fear or the extreme opposite-- highly aggressive and likely to harm the animal without thinking.

Terrible Immune System: She has purchased a wide variety of cloth masks to keep over her face for when she is ill-- which is often-- and has to cook a meal for everyone. Yeva is usually either ill or recovering from an illness, some of which leave her with fevers and chills afterward. A lot of the time she can become ill with none of the rest of the crew catching the illness at all. When Yeva's "not sick" she tends to have a sniffle anyway.

[Goldeagle1221]

Jeremiah Strong

This is not mine!

Name
Jeremiah Strong

Age
Twenty-Six

Appearance

Tall, pale and handsome. Jeremiah is cut from a generic cloth when it comes to looks, from his sandy curls to his light green eyes and aquiline nose. Dark rings often dig around his eyes, and some days his curly hair is more disheveled than others. He usually wears a button down shirt with an engineer’s vest over it, and tough trousers over shoes. He always seems to either be in a great mood, or a really shitty one, a twitch and studder following the latter and a characteristically beaming smile following the first.

Twelve pages of Jeremiah Strong -- warning long, like actually twelve pages if you click this

Of Uppers and Downers

The alley was grey, just like the rest of this district. The sky couldn’t be seen past the tall buildings and even then the dark smog of industry squandered what hope there was left to see the clear sky or afternoon sun. Men and women of wealth and status never stopped here, they just drove or walked on by, hurrying to get to their next meeting, or to punch in their card, if they even had one. CEO’s and tycoonists sped by this district in shiny cars and hover vehicles, detesting the fact that they even needed to take this route.

Women and even a few strange machines covered in biogeneric flesh hollered at those walking, but most most of the blue bloods simply pulled their business hats over their noses and quickened their pace. One dusty man among the quickened paces of silk and cotton suits slipped into the grey alley.

His curly sandy hair was disheveled and dark rings were around his light green eyes. Stiff blonde stubble was starting to form on his cheeks and he wore bland clothes of almost generic make, as if he was an extra in the back of a movie scene. He wore old shoes and walked with a small nervous twitch, his body aching and his mind in withdrawal.

He quickly approached two men. One wore nice clothes although only better versions of the ragged man's relaxed jeans and shirt, and his brother next to him showed physical signs of substance abuse, and his clothes definitely were put on by him, with one pant leg scrunched and the other not, and his shirt on backwards, a large spaghetti stain dominated most of the front.

“Slut!” the sandy haired man, Jeremiah, said, his voice cracking. The man who stood taller than the others and wore the better clothes screwed his face as he retaliated, “hey man, why you gotta be calling me that? Don’t do that shit.”

“I he-heard what you did with Jimmy’s girl, man,” Jeremiah stuttered, a small twitch taking his face in a spasm for a moment. Joe folded his arms, not willing to admit anything, “jus’ don’t do that shit. Whatchu want?”

“He wants his mediciiiine,” Joe’s poorly dressed brother nearly squealed, rocking back and forth in place. Joe looked disgustingly over at his brother Eddy, “he wants some joy is what he wants, I can smell it on this piss ant.”

“Why do you gotta be insulting me like you’re s-s-s-some kind of blue blooded prick?” Jeremiah exploded with a flustered expression. His eyes darted around wide and anxiously as he brought a hand up suddenly to scratch his arm rapidly, “ju-just give me the shit, m-man.”

“I don’t know man, this is some military grade shit, you’ll feel invincible, and you just might as well be,” Joe said flashing a small bag of blue pills. Jeremiah’s eyes widened and he reached for the bag. Joe pulled it back and grunted, “but it looks like to me you’ve had enough.”

“Just give me the joy!” Jeremiah shouted desperately, his voice deepening in frustration. Eddy shivered uneasily, “just let him have it, Joe.”

“Shut the fuck up you retarded shit,” Joe snapped, “this prick still owes me, and above that, I’m not sure our pal here can take anymore.”

“I owe you noth-nothing!” Jeremiah started to pace, waving his hands around, “I fu-fucking paid you, I’m hu-hurting, just give me the damn pills!”

“Joe, please,” Eddy started to beg. Joe slapped Eddy across the face with a loud smack, “I’m the boss, shut the fuck up.” Eddy stumbled backwards and whined.

“Hey!” Jeremiah raised a shaking finger as his red face twitched, “be fucking nice to your damn brother!”

Joe put his weight on the back of his feet and laughed, “you’re washed up Jeremiah, this shit has you by the balls. I’d be damned if I let some junkie prick tell me how to run my business.”

“Ju-just be nice to your brother,” Jeremiah growled weakly.

“Well what the fuck are you going to do about it?” Joe said with a huff. He spread his arms as if showcasing himself, folding the baggie in one hand, “you’re just some druggie with a dishonorable discharge, and I’m the man with everything you hold dear in a dirty fucking bag.”

“F-fuck you.” Jeremiah spat, sulking and sinking back at the words.

“Please stop fighting,” Eddy pleaded.

“Ed shut the fuck up!” Joe yelled, pushing his brother to the ground. Eddy fell like a sack of bricks, unable to catch himself, landing flat on his back with a loud exhale of pained breath.

Jeremiah fumed in the shadows and with a shaking fist he snatched a solid rock and rushed Joe. With a loud grunt Jeremiah slammed the rock into Joe’s temple, sending the drug dealer to the ground with a loud crack. Jeremiah puffed his chest in and out as he breathed heavily standing over Joe. Eddy yelled loudly, tears stinging his eyes, “you killed him!”

Jeremiah dropped the rock and shook his head, a deep pang of grief shot his gut and worry peeled across his face, “no man- no, I-I was just trying to help is all.”

“He’s dead,” Eddy weeped, “you killed my brother!”

“Nah I was just foolin’ he is fine, I’m sure,” Jeremiah winced, his own eyes starting to water as guilt sunk into his stomach. A red stream started to flow from Joe’s forehead and puddle on the asphalt of the alley.

“Go away! Go away!,” Eddy said between loud sobs as he cradled Joe’s limp body. Jeremiah started scratching his arm furiously, bringing it to rash, and twitched his head to the side. He quickly snatched the bag of blue pills and defensively pressed them against his chest, looking frightened at Eddy,a freezing chill creeping down his already frozen body.

“Take your medicine and go,” Eddy persisted. Jeremiah kept scratching his arm, only moving to steal a small gun that had fallen from Joe’s back pocket during the scuffle. He twitched again and wiped a tear, “s-s-sorry.”

Jeremiah bolted from the scene, shoving the gun in his pants seat. As he ran towards the slightly more lit street side, his clumsy swollen fingers fought to open the small baggie, shaking the pills all about. As he reached the exit to the streets his fingers finally slipped between the folds of the bag, but with a loud rip and the small clattering of pills falling everywhere, the bag exploded.

“F-FUCK!”

He dove to the ground, despite the traffic walking by and started to desperately pick the tiny blue pills from in between the rough gravel in the asphalt. His fingers scraped and plucked the small drugs from the ground, popping the first few directly into his mouth with an intense gusto, whimpering to himself.

The dry pills stuck to his even drier throat, and he painfully forced them down with rough gulps. He sighed a relieved breath through a cotton ball mouth after swallowing three of the pills. A disgusted snort from a passerby caused him to shoot to his feet, shoving the reclaimed pills into his pocket, “hey! you got something to say, blue blood!”

The suited man had already walked by and Jeremiah exhaled a hot breath, the nervous rock in his stomach causing him to feel nauseous. He felt like the world was spinning faster and faster. His head went light and he bent over, holding his knees. He opened his mouth and started dry heaving. A few people walking by quickly juked around him with insults and comments. He wanted to yell at them, but his eyes went blurry with stinging tears as he continued to heave, gasping intensely for breath in between. His face turned scarlet and he felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his skull from the exertion. His lungs started to burn from the lack of air and after a few more heaves, he felt like he was about to suffocate to death.

Light headed and in pain, he twitched and spasmed. He fell to the pavement with a thud and started jerking every which way, convulsing and heaving. People stepped over him, and a few even threw things down on him. One woman dumped her ice coffee on his face as if it would help him, but then quickly hurried off in designer heels.

Finally the spasm stopped, and he the pain was gone. It was not only the pain that was gone, but the deep welled anger, and even the guilt. He felt numb, he felt nothing. All he felt was “joy”. His muscles felt invigorated, like he could lift a tractor trailer and bend it in half. A beaming smile shot on his face as he jumped to his feet a new man.

“Fuck them all who cares,” He said outloud, flipping off a passing CEO. His twitch was gone, and the rings around his eyes disappeared, revealing the face of a once ambitious young man. He started his walk shoving the coveted pills deeper into his pockets.

He stopped and spun around, pointing at a surprised business man, “you,” Jeremiah began, his voice strong and baritone, “and all your rich devil friends can go fuck themselves, this is MY town.”

“What’s your problem creep?” The man said taken aback before continuing his walk. Jeremiah waved a middle finger the man’s way, his buzz a little hurt. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked. His fingertips lightly played with the pills as he walked by window signs and posters talking about the ICCP, and how great they are. Jeremiah scoffed to himself, feeling human once more now that his system was satisfied, blue bloods, ICCP, they are all the same, high and mighty, shitting on the real people.

As he walked by a beggar he dropped what he thought was a coin into the man’s cup, but it may have very well just been one of the bolts that jingled in his pockets. He sighed happily and continued his walk. He felt great, like there was nothing in the world that could take him down.

Eventually he found himself by the tower, the mask of an engineer over his once withdrawn face, and a box of tools in his hand. With a hidden smirk he secretly popped one of the blue pills underneath his mask and shook with delight as it slid down his throat. Time to get to work.

-------

The seat was rather uncomfortable under Jeremiah's butt. Latched safely to a barely cushioned seat, he was also dressed in a microfiber and metal suit built to protect engineers from the vastness of space as well as supply oxygen and mild protection from any object that might accidentally lacerate or puncture the working man.

Despite the claustrophobia of the confined space with only dark plain walls to comfort him as he sat alone in a transport vessel, the effects of the joy he had slipped minutes before suiting up had rendered him numb to the usual anxieties that accompanied space travel.

Behind a thick engineer’s mask he was smiling eagerly as exciting energy crawled across his skin in an almost pleasurable tingle. The ship was vibrating violently as it whirred and clunked preparing to be thrown through some worm-hole. The pilot had explained it to Jeremiah but as an engineer he was already familiar with how these things worked, luckily as well, since Jeremiah was too excited and eager from the pill to pay much attention.

If the thick suit had not covered his entire body, the vascularity of his drugged form or dilated eyes might’ve tipped the pilot off to his intoxication, but thankfully he was simply shrugged off as ambitious.

The force of gravity pushed on his face as the entire vessel suddenly shot forward without much warning, and in seconds it halted abruptly and as silently as it had shot forward. If it was not for the safety latch of his seat, Jeremiah was sure he would have been launched right into the wall.

The ship had jumped, he was sure of it, and now he was in the docks, and even the hands of a new employer. He wasn’t too sure why he was transferred; his record was clean and above average, if the nasty rumors about him weren’t taken into affect. Despite his addiction, he figured he has done a decent job at keeping it out of view from his superiors, and yet here he was, thrown to a new employer, like a common tool that had out done it’s use.

He would have normally felt like a hand-me-down, and possibly might’ve even been offended. However, the sheer amount of light and fluffy joy that clouded and kissed his mind was too thick and intoxicating to see past.

Even as he stood waiting for the doors to open, he felt his skin move pleasingly against the clothes he wore under his suit. Every small scrape or bump, even the whispers of the light fibers touching him felt like kisses from angels, and his head swam in a pool of wine, drunk on ecstasy.

The door opened and a man started to ask him to come with him. He couldn’t quite hear the man from all the way in heaven and instead the words fell on his ears like he was underwater. The sea of intoxication had taken him in it’s warm embrace. His mind knew what to do despite his numb state, and with some very energized and animated steps forward, he followed the man.

Every step was too slow, he felt. He needed to run, he needed to strip his suit and just run. The world was closing in, and his legs were full of power and energy. He needed to stretch and just burst from the confinement and run, run like a wild gazelle. His heart pounded with adrenaline as his thoughts pumped his mind and body into a heated excitement. Washes of warmth blanketed him in soft and gentle flashes. He needed to move.

They had stopped in a room with a bunch of others, and Jeremiah started to pace, eager to keep moving. He knew better though, he knew what was going on. While he paced he took out his small touch screen device used by high ranking engineers to link and connect with various computer systems, As he paced he made sure to stop by each visible console or wiring and scan it with his engineers key, the device. He nodded slowly, trying not to let the burst of energy get to him.

----------------------------

The walk to Jeremiah’s room was quick and mostly silent. A few times during the spanse the walk nearly turned into a jog, but Jeremiah managed to reign his explosive energy back in and into other means of movement, such as wild gestures to passerby and quick, nearly alien salutations to those who made eye contact through his mask.

His room was rather usual. The walls were unpainted grey metal, and the floors of equal make. There was a fluffy looking bed and numerous consoles for him to tinker with as well as a sliding door that assumingly lead to a small corner of a closet for his things.

The door slide closed behind him with a whoosh and the silent, smiling man stood there alone, duffel bag in hand. He tossed the bag gently onto the mattress, the sound of a few things clinking together cutting the stale silence of the room.

He lifted a wrist and played with a few buttons on his suit, and with a soft whir the engineer mask folded down into the chest of the suit and he took in a long deep breath. His cheeks were now clean shaven, and his curly hair was trimmed.

A white smile rode on his lips beneath clear green eyes with massive dilated pupils. He shivered as a shot of enjoyment randomly crawled down his spine and within a few moments and a couple more button presses he was out of the heavy suit all together and sitting on his bed in an engineer's blue jumpsuit, rifling through his bag.

His muscles flexed under the expanding fibers of the suit that pressed tightly against his biceps, engorged by the drug. His fingers were nimble and quick as it sorted through his things, folding clothes and placing them in the closet. He the gun he took from Jose under the stack of pants and assorted all his tools and equipment on the shelves of the small space before getting to the last item: the joy.

He juggled the bag in one hand as he looked around the room, placing himself back on the bed. He was still good, his high was going to fade in an hour or so, but he was still safe from withdrawals for at least three or four more hours. Jeremiah knew not to double up, and so he decided it was best to count and hide the precious pills.

With an unending intoxicated smile he pondered the best hiding places, standing up and searching everywhere in his room. It took him a while as he checked and double checked each area he thought of. He even put himself in the shoes of a detective tasked with finding his drugs just to make sure they were in the best possible spot, and after nearly an hour of thinking, with the powerful ecstasy of the drug beginning to fade, he opted to hide it in the shell of one of the computers that were lined on the single bar like desk of his room.

After safely hiding the drugs and taking note of the amount, he figured in his head that with twenty six pills he could survive for about eight days without having to find a new supplier, although he wasn’t quite willing to hold off until time was running out to do so. His smile started to tame into the common expression of a thinking man, and what moist sweat that had silked his skin due to the intoxication dried up, and left him in the odd stage in between the extreme high and the withdrawal.

It was in this rare spare moment he would think about quitting, maybe even confessing to his addiction, but he simply waved it off as crazy talk, he knew the danger of Joy, but he knew how much more dangerous it was to quit. Besides, he liked Joy, it made him feel good, it made him feel invincible, and what man doesn’t want to feel that?

Behind his closed doors he managed to hear the muffled moan of a person in distress. He figured he had time to kill before fixing his high, so he grabbed a small bag of tools and his engineer’s key and walked out of his room.

He quickly spotted the problem. A woman a little older than him was elbow deep into the wall, a cold white panel of metal cast aside as she fooled around with loose wires and a large circuit.

“Problems?” Jeremiah said as he dropped his bag to the floor beside her, slowly slipping on working gloves. The light haired woman turned to him with a frustrated look about her face, she was pretty, but something about her face told Jeremiah that there was more to the story than that. He knew that look from somewhere.

The woman yanked her hands from the hole in the wall, a gold band glistening off her left hand. Jeremiah nodded to himself, as if patting himself on the back for his clever instinct. She huffed a hot sigh and nodded, forcing her lips into a red line, “my door won’t open, it just fizzes, and I tried to… ugh.. I don’t know… my shift is over and I just.”

Jeremiah put his palms up, giving the woman a confident look, “no further explanation needed, how about I take a whack at it?”

The woman shrugged and gestured to the panel, “all yours.”

Jeremiah squinted as he reached into the hole while the woman watched with folded arms. He immediately saw the problem, and noticed her tinkering caused more harm than good, but he kept it to himself as he started to strip a wire for splicing. The silence was a little awkward and so he looked over to her, confident in his ability to work without looking. He gave her a friendly smile as his green eyes flickered back to the panel for a moment, “I’m Jeremiah by the way, engineer.”

“Hannah, basic,” the woman said almost in a dull fashion. Jeremiah laughed and started to strip another wire, “don’t sound too excited.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just, I mean it’s called basic, how exciting can that really be,” Hannah gave a cynical grin that hid some frustration. Jeremiah shrugged as he continued, “make it as exciting as you want. The way I see it is basics and engineers are replaceable, Hannah's and Jeremiah’s on the other hand… well the world can only take so much, am I right?”

Hannah gave a tiny laugh and unfolded her arms, “I suppose you are right.”

Jeremiah nodded while biting his lip, working carefully not to zap himself with the live wire he was handling. After a flash of electricity there was a small whir in the walls. He smiled at his work and started to pack the wire’s back to avoid future complications. He looked back at Hannah, the frustration had left her brown eyes and a look of contentment seemed to wash over her at the sound of the whirr. Jeremiah smiled, “I’m sure your husband would agree. There is only one of you, so why not make the best niche for that one of you possible, no matter what your given title is. I say make your own.”

Hannah smiled, “my husband would agree, he is an ambitious man. Are you married?”

Jeremiah gave a nervous chuckle, “no… no I’m not.” He slammed the panel shut and started to replace the loose plate of white metal back on the wall. He wiped his gloves and turned to Hannah, “all fixed.”

Hannah pressed on her door and it whizzed open. She looked at Jeremiah and gave him an approving nod, “hero of the day.”

-----------

“Go fish? Are you sure? I swear you said something about a queen earlier”, Jeremiah teased as he drew a playing card from the deck that sat center in the middle of Hannah’s table. She was lucky enough to have a family housing room, and her husband, Phil and little girl Kendra were joining the “hero of the day” and Hannah in a playful game of Go Fish.

Kendra giggled as she jutted a finger into Jeremiah’s side, “do you have any quuuuueeeens?”

Jeremiah jumped, his voice light and playful “aha! So you do have queens!”

Kendra screwed her face up, “nu uh! I just got it.” She whined. Jeremiah cocked his head, “are you sure you just got it?”

“Kendra baby, are you trying to fool Mr. Strong?” Hannah asked with maternal precedence. Kendra folded her arms, “but he was winning!”

“No I wasn’t,” Jeremiah said slyly, and Kendra looked up at her with wide hopeful eyes. Jeremiah laughed, “sure I may have been ahead in the game of Go Fish, but I’d say you are beating me in the game of…”

He flicked his wrist and pulls the queen of hearts from behind her ear, “queen of the table.” Kendra beamed at the idea of being the royalty of the table, “you mean princess!”

“But of course! I apologize profusely your majesty!” Jeremiah bowed his head. Phil, a balding man of reasonable build laughed deeply, “please Mr. Strong, don’t encourage her.”

Jeremiah straightened his back and smiled at Phil, his eyes wide and happy, “I’m sorry sir, she seemed to have just gotten the best of me.” He ruffled Kendra’s hair, forcing a playful scowl from the small girl.

Hannah laughed, nearly snorting, “you are a character Jeremiah Strong. Do you have any children?”

Jeremiah stuttered at the question, “no, no I don’t.”

Phil squinted, “Jeremiah, are you alright, you have rings around your eyes.”

A stone fell in Jeremiah’s stomach and he squirmed uneasily, “l-long day I suppose, I should go get some rest.” He stood up out of his chair a little faster than he should have, and his head was hit with a sudden dizziness.

“So suddenly?” Hannah asked, a sense of disappointment in her voice. Kendra pouted and tugged on Jeremiah’s pants, “you can’t go, we aren’t done playing yet.”

Jeremiah frowned and his voice sounded sad, “I’m sorry, next time.” Kendra’s pout got bigger and Jeremiah felt the stone in his stomach fester. He started to make his way to the door. Phil perked a brow at the sluggish way he was moving, “Do you need any coffee or anything?”

“N-no,” Jeremiah stuttered as a wash of cold enveloped him, causing his voice to shiver, “just rest, big day tomorrow you know. Take it easy guys!”

Before anyone could respond he slipped out the door and quickly jogged into his own room. His heart was pounding but his mind felt asleep and cold. He dove quickly for the computer shell.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he chanted to himself as he tried to peel the panel off with his fingertips, turning white from strain. After a heaven sent pop Jeremiah wrestled the bag of pills from the shell and ripped it open. He shoved a shaking hand into the pile and procured a small blue pill and popped it in his mouth, sighing a sigh of relief immediately after.

He felt it hit his stomach and almost instantly he fell to the ground, gasping for air. His throat felt swollen and before long his mouth was bone dry as he gasped. The gasped turned into violent dry heaves and he slammed his fist onto the floor with a crack, trying to swallow the pain of the violent outburst. His eyes rolled in the back of his head and he collapsed like a rag doll, shaking aggressively and convulsing.

Then the attack stopped, and all he felt was a warm wash flow over his body like a tropical ocean. His mind laughed and his heart jumped back into action. His muscles burned and flexed, and a large white smile came over his face.

---

WHACK

Jeremiah’s hand slapped his metal door and it opened with a whoosh. He closed his eyes and took a step forward, waiting for his feet to give way, so he could float down to his heavenly pillows. Before he could even get his second foot through the door however, a tiny voice squeaked from the hall.

“Mr. Strong?” Kendra asked behind the man. Jeremiah arched his neck and looked over at the little girl, dressed in a child's pink nightgown of thick cotton, and stitched with cartoon characters.

With one eye open, Jeremiah looked over at her and leaned against the door frame, he yawned, “little early for bed don’t you think, princess?”

Kendra seemed to shuffle in her space and whined, “mommy made me, she always does when Daddy is drinking.”

Jeremiah’s other eye opened, a faint dark ring of fatigue carved below it. He stood up straight, “is everything okay?”

He knelt down and Kendra all but flopped on his knees. She looked up at him, and taking in his serious expression, she jutted out her bottom lip, wobbling it. She looked just as confused as the Engineer, choosing to bury her face into his lap rather than answer.

The man threaded a finger through her brown hair, and furrowed his brow. Any questions about getting involved were quickly crumpled and dismissed in the back of his mind. A single memory seemed to scream at him, and on an impulse, his heart jumped. He patted her head and lifted her chin up, “is everything okay?”

“Mommy…” Kendra whimpered, “mommy cries.”

Jeremiah lifted Kendra onto his hip and walked into his room, placing her down on a spare chair. He pointed a finger at her, “stay right here, okay?”

He looked over to his closet door, and swore he saw his gun glisten underneath a folded shirt. he shook his head and urgently walked out of his room. He practically leapt in front of Hannah’s door and tapped it open.

The door slide with a whoosh and he squinted to see in the dim light, his head kicking him from the start of his withdrawals. There was a gulp and he looked over to where they played cards. A dark figure sat on the chair alone, swallowing tears and choking on sobs.

“Hannah?” Jeremiah asked, taking a few steps forward. He quickly looked away once his eyes adjusted. Her shirt was torn, and she was exposed. A dark angry pit plopped into Jeremiah’s acidic stomach and he spoke again, “Hannah…”

“Jeremiah p-please go.” Hannah gurgled.

“And who the fuck is bothering me now!” A baritone roar boomed from the other room, forcing Hannah to wince and shrink into her chair. She brought her knees up to her chest. Jeremiah took a few steps forward. A sudden clunk! caused the man to reel back as glass shattered across his forehead.

He blinked his blurry eyes and realized a bottle had been thrown at him. His eyes shone bloodshot, and a rage swelled as a stumbling figure backgrounded by a dim light came into view, arms waving angrily,

Without much thought, Jeremiah burst by the table, flipping a chair on the way. He wasn’t sure if he was helping at this point, but a thick cloud of anger and addiction choked his reason. He ducked under a thrown fist and slammed his forehead down across Phil’s face.

Blood popped from both men, but only Jeremiah remained standing. The engineer pulled back and thrusted a foot forward, cleaving a heavy boot into the man’s rib with a faint crack. Phil turned over and started coughing hoarsely.

Jeremiah shook his head and turned to leave. He suddenly turned back and kicked the man once more but in the back, equally as hard. The man yelped and coughed roughly and Jeremiah kicked him again.

The Engineer turned to Hannah and saw that her tear stained face was wide in surprise, and hate. Jeremiah knew she was looking at him more as a monster than a hero, he knew this, and he felt terrible for it, but with all his will, he didn’t regret beating Phil down.

“Do-” Jeremiah started abruptly, “do you want me to walk you and Kendra down to the infirmary for the night?”

Hannah nodded silently shaking in her seat.

Traits

Earthling: Lucky isn’t the word when describing the form of Earthling Jeremiah was born to be. His parents were very poor and his father didn’t survive long enough to see Jeremiah off to high school, an institution he was forced to drop out of not due to grades, but money.

Ex-Military: Jeremiah is a veteran, though he doesn’t talk about it too much. It is where he honed his innate mechanical ability into a functioning skill as an engineer.

hobbyist: Growing up Jeremiah always had a fascination with technology and how things worked, often taking things apart and putting them back together, either electrical or mechanical he found a way. He also enjoys board games or riddles that challenge his intellect or causes him to think, even if he loses.

The unspeakable Unsurprisingly, he finished a rubix cube before.

Strengths

The Engineer: Through formal training as well as a natural born ability, Jeremiah is an amazing Engineer and mechanical whizz. This also makes him a quick thinker and even quicker with his fingers. There is nothing he can’t fix, and if he really can’t, he will eventually find an answer.

Military training: while never his strong suit and definitely not his most defined trait, Jeremiah can use fire arms effectively as well as larger military vehicles. He is your average pilot, useful when there is no one else.

A smile and a nod: Jeremiah is a fun guy, always eager to please those around him and a lover of conversation so far as it steers in the right direction. He is a social butterfly and always eager to make the best impressions. He is often liked for his honesty as well as his light way of speaking, both useful for when the shit hits the fan.

Weaknesses

Addict: By some untold past, Jeremiah has gotten himself secretly addicted to a very powerful synthetic drug known as “Joy”, this drug was once a military experiment to help create super soldiers, but failed horribly and all damages were covered up by a private company, and scientists who worked on the project were either paid off or disappeared. The drug found its way to the streets, and now is a rare, and dangerous street drug with an intense high. The addiction is almost always fatal, and upon withdrawing most subjects die in a few days as the drug leaves their body. The withdrawal symptoms before death are none too pretty either. Among his drug addiction, he also suffers from Alcoholism and a night terrors.

Hidden depression: he as with most people has his mask and his face. He is trying to keep up the facade of who he was before everything happened, forcing himself to be the witty young man who had the whole world to look forward to. He is nice, he is kind, he wants to be that hero everyone loves, (although he can never be the right kind of hero and usually causes more harm than good), he lives in a delusion that he can pretend to be who he was until he dies, constantly asking himself how many more years of this he has to do before he can just sleep forever, and be forgotten. He is scared. He doesn't want his name spoken too much, he doesn't want to be remembered or recognized, but he still has that old flame of hope from his youth itching in his chest under the veil of his actions that killed any hopes of what he once wanted.It was his fault. He lives in the past to ignore the hole he is in, even going as far as to listen to songs he used to listen to to pretend he is far far away and nothing happened and everything is fine.

Unlikely Hero: Sometimes he tries too hard to be the hero, making things much worse than before or not giving a proper solution to the problem.

Self-inflicted: He almost never goes out of his way to ask for help.

Sensitive topics He is very clear about topics he does not want to discuss.

[Howler]

---

<sub>"And I love the Fourth of July
When bombs start flashing!
And I wish I had a shiny red top
And a bugel with a big brass bell to cheer me up
Or maybe something bigger that would really go pop!
So I could make the gardening stop."
- Atomic Garden, Bad Religon</sub>

---

<!Open_6R4Y_H44T.pers//Decrypting::
<<--Username//6R4Y_H44T
<<--Age//--4_44--
<<--Appearance//D45H11N6-R06ISH-T4LD4RKH4ND50ME

There are people who are tall and people like Gray. Standing just over seven feet tall, Gray's bulky frame stands him slightly taller than your average door, let alone your average tough. In spite of this his thick and billowing coats, smooth, faceless helmets, and extensive exo-skeleton shield almost the entirety of his body from sight at any given time. There's a running question as to whether or not he's even a person under all that gear or some kind of AI run amok--it would certainly explain a lot.

<<--Traits//..Listing::

!<<5UUP3R_G3NN1US//Decrypting::

Gray is smart. Gray is really smart. Gray is so smart that it is almost certainly illegal, entirely likely gained by some form of genetic engineering, chemical stimulation, or cybernetic enhancement. When it comes to knowing things about things, Gray does. Though of course nobody is sure that he's not just pulling up its Omnipedia page on the inside of his helmet and pretending.

!<<D44T_4$$H0LE//Decrypting::

It's a good thing that Gray is so goddamn smart, because he makes up for it by being so goddamn annoying. 'Childish' is a good word to describe Gray, as he's almost constantly cracking wise, making some kind of idiotic pop-culture reference, or otherwise trolling some poor soul. It's almost compulsive, really, his inability to provide a straight answer or not make a smart ass comment, and it's gotten him in trouble on more than one occasion. Some things just aren't funny, but like a true extranet troll Gray has a really hard time telling where that line is and has an unfortunate habit of sulking when people get butthurt. The irony is lost on him.

!<<B3H0LD_D4_W1Z44D//Decrypting::

Speaking of idiocy, Gray is superstitious to the point of being just plain weird about it. For a technofreak he sure doesn't seem to put a lot of faith in logic, or at least not entirely in logic. It's hard to tell whether or not Gray actually believes in all the little things that he does or if they're some manifestation of on-the-spectrum stress release--there had to be at least some quirks to let him pull the kind of shit he pulls. A believer in everything from Martian Tengen-jutsu to Venutian Spiral Readings, Grays fascination with the occult borders on actual mysticism. He's a particular believer in numerology, and at any given time numbers and patterns are being corrolated for not only the most efficient but the most auspicious course of actions. Most people are willing to just give it to him, but it doesn't make it any less...well. Let's just say the ship used to have a cat.

!<<H1ST0RY_R3PE4TSR3PE4TSR3PE4TS_H1ST0RY_R3PE4TSR3PE4TSR3PE4TS_H1S//Error{Cyclical//Decrypting::

Gray likes history. A lot. Enough that he's willingly chosen ancient pieces of art over people's lives and safety, including his own, on numerous occasions. While the arts--sculptures in particular--are by far his favorite he has a fondness for all sorts of relics, including cultural and especially religious ones. One of the few ways to get him to talk about something serious, Gray views the past (and even the distant past) as all part of a grand equation that ultimately allows the prediction of the future, and will continue at length on the subject with increasing incoherence until it eventually devolves into memes like everything else he does.

<--Strengths//Listing::

!<I_4M_HE4VY_W34P0NS_6UY!!1//Decrypting::

Gray doesn't really like to fight--it's certainly not his strong suit. He much prefers to screw with his enemies in all manner of awkward life-hack nonsense, but there are occasions when you've just got to get stuck in with it. On those occasions, Gray goes with the time honored tradition of taking the biggest goddamn gun he can find and making as much noise and explosions with it as possible. While rarely useful in a one-on-one fight, Gray's exoskeleton and AI aim-assists helps him load up the caliber of weapon commonly seen mounted on military vehicles. He's not above--and in fact greatly enjoys--demolitions, and while this can do wonders against a Venutian mercenary group it isn't always the best answer for some of the more casual fighting that occurs in the course of a bounty hunter's work. This has not seemed to 'click' with Gray, whose typical response is something along the lines of 'M0RE_D44K4!!1'.

!<Open::Salinger.J.D.--<"I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes.">//Decrypting::

When it comes to flat network hacking, to say that Gray is legendary is to give him too little credit--after all, 'legendary' would mean that people know about him. Responsible for four out of six most carefully covered up corporate hacks of the last decade, most people assume that Username:6R4Y_H44T is actually a collective of extranet cybertrolls. The intelligence community know better, and commonly believe him to be the computer equivalent of the Tooth Fairy. When your computer turns itself inside out and starts vomiting your details to anyone in broadcast range, Gray Hat did it. While it takes concentration, Gray can crack, hack, and put back together just about anything that broadcasts before most people can realize that their helmet's videofeed is missing the seven foot exoskeletal giant in the corner.

!<3L3M3NT4RY,MY_D34R_W4TS0N...//Decrypting::

Surprisingly to most, Gray is actually impressively intuitive when it comes to people. Something of a voyeur, he spends a disproportionate amount of his time watching them through security feeds, Trojan vid-viruses, and social media hacks, and while many would say he does it so that he can get a better grasp of these odd, fleshy things called 'Homo Sapiens' he seems to spend so much time around the truth is that Gray just likes people. He tends to understand them much better than they tend to understand themselves, and it is this as much as anything that helps him act as something of a sleuth on more occasions than not. If you're looking for someone to run the head game on your local bounty, you might as well ask Gray. That's kinda his turf.

<!N0TUR4V3R4GE-LYF3--H4CK//Decrypting:

Perhaps even more surprising to most, Gray is actually quite an accomplished physician. Though almost all of his knowledge is hacked from extranet articles, med-school holographies, recorded surgeries, and trauma videos, when it comes time to get that bullet out you can count on Gray to do it without taking off the arm. By no means a doctor in any sense of the word, he takes the phrase 'life-hack' more literally than most and treats the body as yet another system to troll. It isn't recommended to bring him anything but trauma and needlessly complicated medical issues, however--anything else is 'boring' and likely to result in aggressive and incessant teasing.

!Bedroom_Skills::Open_xxxFistula.img/:Open_Cht.Cam.milfaholic334/:Exec_"Spank Me Daddy"/Run_MayFlowersNeedsGolden--//REDACT:ser_History&Recycling&Folder/Downloads

<--Weaknesses//Listing::

<!Open_6R4Y.doc.med//Decrypting:://ERROR{File Not Found//

Gray is not well, and not in the 'haha, he's crazy' kind of way. Well, also in that kind of way, but not only. Whatever it is that Gray or someone else has done to his body, it had some significant side-effects; at the very least he's dependent upon a cocktail of something that includes a restricted pain medication. The reason Gray is quite so up on his medical knowledge is so that he can figure out how to fix himself, though he carefully guards quite what it is he's attempting to fix about himself. Asking without having earned enough 'Approval', as he refers to it, is just begging to be deflected and abused.

<!ERROR{Maintenance_Required::LServo2A//ERROR{Maintenance_Required::LServo2B//Decrypting::

All that hardware Gray packs around with doesn't come cheap, and it doesn't exactly hold up under the rigors of mercenary life as well as it ought to. Everything from his exoskeleton to his face masks to his extranet broadcaster is either something he picked up along the way and rigged to work or a dying piece of cutting-edge equipment that he ripped off from somewhere else. Gray is always looking for odd bits and ends to help shore up his collection, but parts can be scarce and a long time between jobs can make for a very unhappy Gray.

<!Open_25thCentury-Digital-Boy//Decrypting::

Worse, Gray is largely dependent on his hardware. Not all of it, of course, but on the rare occasions Gray is without his exoskeleton he is demonstrably crippled, physically extremely weak and mentally struggling. While the suit itself is hardened against EMP attacks and environmental failures as best it can be--it has backup systems, redundant operational structures, and really isn't about to just go out on its own--that doesn't mean that without it he's essentially helpless. It also doesn't mean that a good number of fine systems can be damaged both by electromagnetic interference or a sufficiently advanced technological attack, which is only theoretically possible thanks to some hilariously overdeveloped firewalls and security protocols but still something Gray is understandably paranoid about. If the power goes out, Gray's in trouble.

<!Exec_Cry.Some.More.kll//Decrypting::

Say what you want about Gray, there's a solid case to be made that he's still quite young somewhere beneath all that equipment. It's hard to say for sure, but just looking at the way he acts sometimes definitely places him on an immature spectrum, juxtaposed by occasional moments of true brilliance or wisdom. He hates losing, he holds a grudge, he often responds with overkill, and in spite of his constant dickery he takes most things very personally. A cool cucumber or smooth operator Gray is not.

<<--Past//Open_PRec.GrayHat//Decrypting:ERROR{Exec_3y3Prov2.5.1//Decrptying:ERROR{Receiving::

I can see you there.
Don't think that I can't.
You're reading up on me. You've done a good job, or paid for it. Strengths, weaknesses. Personality files. Someone's been squealing, but I'll see to that soon enough. What's important is that there's nothing here for you. I could let you pull it up and see, but all it would tell you is what they want you to know. Or what I want you to know. Which wouldn't make it any more true, would it?

We all have a past. We all have a history, and it repeats itself. Do yourself a favor and erase it. Input new starting parameters, recalculate. If equal changes are made to both sides of an equation it remains the same: Don't be equal. I'm not. But you got this far on me, so before I frag every drive on your network I'll give you this little tidbit for posterity:

Rosebud.

<--Exec_H4H4H4.exe//ERROR{File Not Found--ERROR{File Not Found--ERROR{File Not Found--
<--ERROR{Sys_Settings.sys cannot be opened. Unknown Error.
<--ERROR{Sys_Mem.sys cannot be opened. Unknown Error.
<--A problem has been detected and your interface has been shut down to prevent damage to your terminal.
The problem seems to be have been caused by the following file: 4NGR4_M41NYU.Sys
If this is the first time you have experienced this problem, please restart your terminal.
If the problem continues, follow these steps:
ERROR{H4H4H4

[pugbutter]

@DeadBeatWalking Since this is dead anyway, can I use this space to ask you how you achieved that old/tattered photograph effect in the character roster? I'd like to use it for an upcoming RP.

Cool thread; it had potential. :/

[Goldeagle1221]

It's not deeeaaaad. It's on break.