NAME
Joseph 'Joe' Sawyer
AGE
38
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
The Big Easy, Great Orleans
FACTION
N/A
Joe is a behemoth, standing at around six and half feet and weighing in the high 200s range. His face is craggy and covered in scars, each one telling a different story; like the time he pissed off a Brotherhood Knight and got grazed by a hot laser or the time he got into a bar brawl and took a broken bottle to the neck and nearly died. Then there's his flattened nose, which has been broken far too many times to count but at least they all make for a hell of a story. His torso is likewise covered in scars and his chest and shoulders are broad and blocky, indicative of his inhuman strength.
His eyes are big and brown, more fitting for a puppy than a large bruiser, and dart around often in search or danger, something Joe does almost absent-mindedly now. His light brown hair is in a flat top cut, for the purpose of practicality. The man has a penchant for trenchcoats, often commenting on other people's coats if they're wearing one. One might compare his style under the trenchcoat to that of a greaser from days long past: leather jacket, jeans, wife beater. Say what you will about the guy's looks, but he's got good style.
TYPE ISFJ (Defender)
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
Most people would think Joe is crazy. Really, I think he just had the rotten luck of being born in the wrong century; he would've been right at home on some ancient battlefield swinging an axe into some poor sumbitch's face. When you talk to him he doesn't seem like too bad of a guy, and he treats even the most serious of discussions like they were casual chats over a brew, tossing a joke or three out every other minute. One thing that sticks out about him is that he has a soft spot for women, and I've seen him throw caution to the wind to help out a dame in trouble every so often. He seems like the kind of guy that'd buy you a beer if he saw you were looking down, and after that if he ever saw you in trouble he'd rush in to help you out.
TRAITBloody Mess - You have no idea what “chill” is. Everything that you destroy ends up being far bloodier and nastier than intended. You need a good Endurance for that.
SKILLSCombat SkillUnarmed - A combination of martial arts, boxing and other hand-to-hand martial arts. Combat with your hands and feet.
Active SkillSurvival - You’ve lived in enough hostile environments to know when you might die or when you might make use of your situation.
PERKUgly but Strong: Once a day, Joe can forget about pain, problems, and consequences, and have a boost of a Strength of 10. That being said, the next day he'll feel all the wounds two-fold and his SPECIAL is halfed.
STRENGTHS- Powerhouse: Joe is strong enough to nearly put a super mutant to shame; he can lift anywhere up to 250 pounds without breaking a sweat, and go even higher if he pushes himself. His punches are like having fifty pounds of bricks smash you in the face.
- Practically Bulletproof: To compliment his strength, Joe is tough as nails. It's as though his skin is naturally hardened, and he can take a bunch of hits or even bullets before going down.
- Sharp Eyes: Though not as perceptive as some people, Joe has keen eyesight, allowing him to spot any threats. After all, spend any amount of time outside (or, sometimes, even inside) of a settlement and you make sure to look out for danger.
WEAKNESSES- Face Only A Mother Could Love: I'm not going to pussyfoot around this; Joe is an ugly bastard. With a flattened nose from having it broken so many times, to a naturally craggy face, and all the scars that adorn it, Joe isn't going to be able to sweet talk anybody. His personality is the only thing that keeps him from being a completely charmless bastard.
- Unlucky: Joe's luck ran out the day he was born. He's prone to getting into a lot of trouble, having his gun jam on him at the worst moments, or somehow managing to hit an ally despite the fact that the ally was nowhere near his target.
- Dimwitted: Joe isn't exactly an idiot when it comes to how to survive, but when it comes to booksmarts he's not the brightest laser on the battlefield. While not illiterate, he does have some problem reading, and comprehending big words, and gets confused by any technobabble.
- Graceless: Due to his large and bulky frame, Joe isn't the most agile or dexterous of sorts. Sneaking around is not an option for him, and most guns are too small for his large hands, making it hard to use them efficiently.
WEAPONSSpiked Knuckles: Knuckles dusters with a cold, metallic tone to them and spikes on the end that allow the user to cut or slash their opponent.
9MM Pistol: A pre-war pistol that looks downright tiny in Joe's massive hands. But if he's in a bind and can't punch his way out, he uses it.
ARMORLeather Armor: A leather jacket and blue jeans armored with bits of scrap metal. Won't stop an energy weapon, hell, it'll barely stop a bullet, but it's good enough for Joe. Over it, Joe wears a brown duster.
CHEMICALSMISCELLANEOUSBroken Pip-Boy: It belonged to a friend. Joe's hoping to get it fixed up.
The night was hot and humid as hell in Shreve's Port, people seeking shelter from the intense heat and wearing as few layers as possible. But one crazy bastard, a big lug who had been coming in and out of town every so often over the course of the last twelve years, was still wearing a longcoat and a leather jacket and wife beater under it. He must've been sweating like crazy, so many people must've thought, but really he was wondering why it wasn't any hotter. He liked the heat, made him tougher he thought.
Some run down saloon, peeling sign reading Eddie's. This was his favorite watering hole in town, sure there were better places, cleaner places, places where you didn't have to question whether the beer was watered down or not, but they weren't as seedy as this. Seedy was just how Joe liked his bars. He wouldn't feel bad if some lowlife started shit with him there, because he knew they didn't have anything to live for anyway.
Eddie knew his order by now. Every time he came in he ordered the same thing, but still Eddie asked, "What'll it be, Joe?"
"Shot and a brew, Ed," the bruiser grunted, easing his large frame onto a bar stool. Not a minute later Ed served him his drinks, and Joe tossed him fifteen caps. Another benefit of the bar: drinks were cheap and service was good. But then came the downside.
A bunch of no good bums, harassing one of the bar maids. It always got Joe's goat when guys roughed up girls, and this time was no exception. He stood up to intervene, Eddie grabbing his shoulder in a vain attempt to stop him. "Joe, don't be dumb about this."
"Let go of my coat, Ed," Joe replied, shaking off the man's hand and heading up to the bastards.
One of them was wearing a longcoat, not unlike Joe's own. He groped at the bar maid. "C'mon, sugarpie, y'know you wanna know what a real man is like..." he tried to say seductively, but in his intoxicated state it sounded more like he was constipated.
"In your dreams, creep," the bar maid spat.
"Oh don't sass me, sweetie. I've had a rough day, I'm a little on edge right no-"
The bar maid cut him off, "More like over the edge. You don't need a woman, you need a good night's sleep. You couldn't handle a woman."
His buddies laughed, before one of them said, "Hear that, Jackie Boy? She's saying you ain't got what it takes. You gonna let the little bitch talk down to you like that?"
In response, the longcoat-wearing thug, Jackie Boy it seemed, got up and slapped the girl something fierce. She fell to the ground, clutching her bleeding mouth.
Enter Joe.
"What do you want, dickhead?" Jackie Boy asked, sneering at Joe. Joe just looked him up and down.
"Y'know, that's a damn fine coat you're wearing." His own was tattered. He'd need a new one.
He took Jackie Boy's head and slammed it hard into the table, breaking the flimsy wooden thing. Jackie Boy's friends jumped up, each pulling out a weapon; one with a broken piece of pipe, another with a switchblade, but the other one had a .38. Joe would have to take out that last one first.
He slid on his knuckle dusters. Cracked his neck.
"C'mon, you pansies," Joe said, "I ain't got all night."
The goons with the melee weapons went first, the pistol wielding one holding back in case they got taken down. And taken down they did, as Joe punched one right in the kisser, damn near ripping off his upper lip with the spikes. He fell down. The one with the pipe swung at him, hitting Joe right in the back of the head, but he just shrugged it off and yanked the pipe out of his hands.
"That the best you can do, boy?" The pipe hit the young tough right in the face, blood flying out of his nose as it broke horribly. Joe began to wail one him with the pipe, kicking the one with the knife in the back of the head when he tried to get up.
A bullet hit him right in the shoulder. Stupid, stupid, he forgot all about the other bastard because he was having so much fun.
He stood up, and turned around slowly. The guy with the pistol was shaking, damn near pissing his pants. Joe wordlessly threw the pipe right into his face, knocking him out. He turned to the bar maid, offering her a hand up. "You alright, miss?"
She took his hand and he helped her back up, her laughing slightly, "I've been roughed up worse."
The rest of the night was a blur, all Joe knew was that he ended up having another drink and then it was now in some back alley, his head pounding, his cap pouch empty, and a group of guys dead at his feet. Four of them were the bums he took out at the bar. Jackie Boy was there, his skull caved in, but his coat, his damn fine coat, was still intact. He was just a bit smaller than Joe, but that coat was a size too big. It'd fit him fine.
And it did. He took off his old coat and slid Jackie Boy's on, wondering how he got here. He vaguely remembered Jackie Boy stumbling out with his pals after they got their asses handed to them, and jumping him when he left with a couple of other guys. He killed them all with his bare hands, but one got him good and knocked him out. Looks like that's where his caps went. Why the hell didn't the guy just kill him? That, he didn't know.
He stumbled out of the alley. He was approached by some guy in a nice suit.
"I see you've had yourself a fun night, Mr. Sawyer," the dandy said, looking the blood-soaked man up and down.
"How the hell do you know my name?" Joe asked, gripping his aching head.
"That doesn't matter. I take it you're out of caps?"
"... Yeah."
"And I take it you'd want more?"
"... What are you getting at here?"
"I'm here to offer you a job. Would you be interested?"
The big brawler paused for a moment, then grinned. "Hell yeah I would."
"Good. I'll give you the details on the way. Come," the suit gestured for Joe to follow, and he did.
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