[CHAR] The Great Utopia, Most Oppressive of Cities! A rebellion RP. Still open!

[Strange Rodent]

Reserving this for my character. Feel free to reserve your own character spots. WIP sheets here, then edit them. Ping me when they're done.

Simon Corkill

Name: Simon Corkill
Age: 26
Sex: Male
Height: 6'
Build: Tall and lanky. Deceptively strong, but mainly due to him looking weak than him being strong.
Style: Whatever is least restrictive. Usually this means loose fitting clothes. He has a thing for baggy tracksuit pants, and you don't often see him without a beanie.
Hair, face, markings: He has black hair, and grey-blue eyes. No noticeable scars, but he has cuts and bruises all over his shins (if you ever see them).

Concept: One of three leaders of the resistance. He lives to keep having fun, and keep the Resistance going.
Disposition: He's usually friendly, but is prone to bouts of annoyance.
Fears: Redundancy, Routine, and Betrayal
Morals: "Anything is allowed if it's for the cause". Of course, the cause is whatever he believes.
History:

History!!

Simon was born to an Irish family in Utopia well before the laws came through. He always had an affinity for dangerous activities. The one that stuck with him was the one that he had the most difficulty in learning: Parkour. He had to learn from his limited internet, stuntmen in movies, and trying things out for himself. It paid off, however. He's currently one of the best Traceurs in England.

He went on to earn a living by teaching it professionally, and did quite well for himself. He was hit hard by the new laws, though. It was deemed to be endangering the populace by teaching them to disobey authority and engage in acts that could kill them. Of course, Simon took issue with this. Enough to ignore the laws and just move his teaching 'underground'. He taught in small classes of 2 at a time. He formed a bond with one class in particular based on their shared distaste for the new levels of security. When he felt they were ready, he went exploring the 'locked' parts of the city with them.

They found an abandoned underground train station, which lay on an abandoned train line. Judging from the state of it, it was built a considerable time ago and just forgotten about. They met up there on the regular, making it their hideout. This was the catalysing event for the formation of the Resistance, and ever since it has just grown.

Sample Post:

Simon's Sample

The old canal had been dammed up, and served as a foot highway from the north to the west of Utopia. Well, for him at least. Not many others liked to use it. He had a package to deliver, which wasn't new but it was a bit strange. He'd been running for half an hour, but he wasn't tired quite yet. Cardio is a beautiful thing to train. That and legs. He never skipped leg day, because leg day was every day. He was letting his thoughts wander when he felt his old, indestructible Nokia buzzing. He'd left his dummy on a ledge near a cafe, making it appear that he's eating there.

When he answered the phone he heard Rose's voice come over the line. "Simon? You're in the field now, yeah?", She asked.

"Yeah, man. What do you want?"

"I had a runner leave a cash drop near Canterbury Avenue. He had to ditch the money quickly. It's under the bin outside of number... 20. In an old drink bottle.

"You want me to grab it, yeah?"

"I thought that was fairly obvious"

"I'm on my way. Gotta make good time though, see ya round." Simon said, his tone indicating the end of the conversation. He hung up, and continued to run.

It almost took too fucking long, but he made it there. The package was small, jar shaped. Why a jar was so important beat him, and he couldn't deny how curious he was. It was wrapped in paper though, so any attempt to spy the contents would lose him business in the future. The person who took it just reached through the ajar door and took it. No words or anything. Fine. He began to make my way to the money drop.

He was four blocks away from the drop when he almost ran into a police patrol. They knew him by sight, and while they wouldn't have grounds to arrest him, they would surely perform every check they could legally perform, of which were a lot. He ducked down an alley, and up a wall. He followed the wall around to the roof above the drop, and went down onto his belly, commando crawling up the slanted tile roof. Thank fuck it wasn't raining.

The patrol's dog must've smelled the cash or something, because it went mad as it passed the bin. Obviously, this caused the officers to check under it, and find the goddamn money. It looked like they found something else, but Simon was too far away to see what it was.

He slid his hand into his pocket for his phone to consult Rose on their next move...

Skills:

• Parkour: 3 (Speed)
• Teaching: 1 (Will)
• City Layout Knowledge: 2 (Perception)

Stats:

• Reflexes: 1
• Speed: 2
• Strength: 0
• Endurance: 1
• Perception: 0
• Will: 0

Resources:No current formal job, but still 'earns' money through the Resistance. He has two phones, one old Nokia which he actually uses, and then the smartphone he only uses for a dummy. He lives at the abandoned train station HQ, and needs no transport other than his legs
Connections:

• Rosalin Pasos. Another founder of the Rebellion, and typically does the 'financial' work. Meaning she steals the money.
• Alexander Wun. Another founder of the Rebellion. He typically does the brunt of the organisational work
• Fiona Corkill. Simon's sister. She works at a record label.

Theme Song: Doused by DIIV
Misc. Info: (favourite book? What kind of food do they like? How is their pet doing?)

[DrTwit]

Sandra Claire

Name:

---

Sandra Claire

Age:

---

25

Sex:

---

Female last time she checked.

Height:

---

5'1

Build:

---

A slim, but brutish looking woman with clear growing muscles in her torso region.

Style:

---

As a person, she takes great pride in looking young and hip; that's what people call it right? A bright blue sweatband nestled over a short mop of red hair, because sweatbands are cool, especially when coupled with a stuffy fading-green jacket pulled over a black sleeveless top (The bar didn't have much of a dress code) and a bow tie; and of course, the most stylish of all, some weird mishmash of a blue skirt and shorts. She was truly the coolest gal in town. THough sometimes, she would be told to get into traditional bartender garb for the more special days.

Hair, face, markings:

---

Nobody really noticed her green eyes, no matter how much she tried to make them stand out, they were usually more interested in the three deep claw marks that streaked across her nose, which she owed to a tale of the great beast she wrestled with in the wild. She always left out that the great beast was a cat.

Concept:

---

A cleanly, hot-headed bar lady from Brooklyn who would be very tempted to out the resistance to the government or shoot off a few rounds with a gun if someone dares disrespect her workplace. She fights to keep it clean, damn it!

Disposition:

---

Sandra is a person who's accepted the fact that her days are numbered, lucky to even make it to fifty. So, she intends to treat her days like one last glorious mile in a race (To make up for sucking at foot races back in the day), putting her skills to what she deems as good use and to their limit. She remains outgoing and curious, spending her time expanding her knowledge on the whirl of machines and dreaming of how many better ways her life could have turned out better. Race car driver? Mad scientist? Evil Lawyer? Those made money with style. Though with this also comes her nastier side, holding a short temper and a need for attention, desperate to make sure she doesn't look or feel old. As well as being fully prepared to get up and fight anyone who dares disrespect her work or track mud onto the floor she just half-assed cleaning!

Fears:

---

Let's just say she's not a swimmer and that she's not fond of short people, squirrels or fish.

Morals:

---

In a way, she has both a strong backbone, but a lack of moral restraint. She has your usual set of right and wrongs, but at times, if scared of bodily harm, she might be fully willing to throw some stranger under the bus depnding on how close she is to them.

History:

---

Yuh know how life goes, pushed out kickin' and screamin' wit' nuttin' mawh than tears protectin' yuh from de cold. See, I grew up in what many people like tuh refuh tuh as a shit hole, not a coin tuh my name, just de bruises fawh how many people I've had tuh bend ovuh backwards fawh. De old man was a mechanic wit' his head always in de smoke of a newly lit cigarette, momma was a predatawh in de less than savawhy business who hardly kept herself cooped up indoawhs; she brought in de food, he sharped huh claws, I accidentally lit de rug on fire... Twice. Life was hard. Ya' dig? De old lady was sick of it and left wit' every coin she could fit in huh pocket, I din't mind though, she nevuh got me dat bunny fawh my birthday. De old man, howevuh... It hit him pretty hard. In shawht: life got harduh and I saw an oppawhtunity. Yuh got me so fahr? A necklace, a beautiful necklace, doomed tuh rot away in a sealed tomb. Ya' dig? Now, I ain't sayin' dat what I did was all dat nice fawh de family of de dead guy, but I coun't let somethin' so valuable stay unner de dirt.

As yuh can imagine, people doan take too kindly tuh dirty little grave robbers, seemed like karma had de same idea. From den on, caught wit' my hand in de dusty cookie jar, my life went down de drain. Oppawhtunities lost, family disappointed, a few nights in jail every week, all endin' in me flat on my ass outside of de last job dat rejected me in some foreign country. Homeless, jobless and too ashamed tuh go face de only shred of family I had left. I had left cocksure wit' a promise tuh pay off debts fawh him, but now? I coun't face him. Somewhere down de line, I found myself wit' de best deal I'd evuh get in dis shit hole, a place tuh stay wit' enough room tuh stretch my legs and food on de table; all fawh de price of playin' bartenduh fawh some Scottish bastard and lookin' de othuh way tuh any shady goings on.

So, bottoms up, assholes.

Sample Post:

---

Hider

Some people enjoy life more as a simple thing. You're born, you grow up, you fuck up, you live a little and then you get swept up in Death's great poker game so that those poker playing dogs can piss on your grave. But, Sandra had come to learn that a lot of people liked life like they liked their alcohol. Maybe some like themselves a Hangman's Blood, refreshing and easy to manage, but quick on way down. Others had the knack for a Tom and Jerry, hitting them hard and slow with a scolding taste. And some just wanted that bitter taste from a Salty Dog.

That was one thing Sandra could always admit she enjoyed as part of her desperate labor, the experience, and the people. Watching them stumble through the door lost, looking down at the mess they've made of their life and asking for it back, giving her the responsibility of their soul as that angry Brooklyn born witch worked her magic and mixe all the memories, passion, anger, regret and spit into one cup. And in that cup, there's release, a temporary safe haven from the shitty weather, a warm hand to caress your cheek and remind you of the good times. A demon, an Angel and a lost child all in one stained glass.

Sandra was never much of a drinker, never could find the cup that hit the spot just right and gave her something back. At this point in time, she was a dry, bland milk drinker. Little texture, foggy waters and nothing to see yet, not until she added something; but what? She didn't know. But it would be a hell of a time finding out. "Alright, which one of you shit heads ordered a Suck, Bang and Blow?"

Skills:

---

Mechanic - 3
Culinary Arts - 1
Driving - 2

Stats:

---

Reflexes - 0
Speed - 1
Strength - 0
Endurance - 1
Perception - 1
Will - 1

Resources:

---

She would see herself cruising around in a badass Harley, but she's now just stuck borrowing whatever transport her new boss has or getting the bus. She tends the bar in exchange for renting out the upstairs room, meaning the only real pay she gets is through tips as she's too prideful to try and broach the subject of a raise with her boss.

Connections:

---

Works under Tavish Baird at "Baird's", which by extension connects her to any resistance members as the bar is a common meeting spot when the main resistance base isn't being used.

Theme Song:

---

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHrFEnL9CfM

Misc. Info:

---

Sandra inherited her father's love of smoke, finding plenty of stress relief in the comfort of tar wrapped up in white. Tying into this, she found that her favoraite food was smokes barbecue ribs, enjoying such meals beside a broken down car engine she could fix up as a hobby. And of course, whne it comes to drinks, she's a heavy and endurant one. With a liver of steel, she only goes for the real shit, the strong stuff. Cold, hard, milk!

[Sorry Excuse]

Tavish

Name: Tavish “Tav” Baird

Age: 26

Sex: Male

Height: 5’ 11”

Build: Tall-ish, lithe, and wiry.

Style: Ratty, unbuttoned, flannels and hole-ridden jeans.

Hair, face, other body things: Constant dark stubble, suitably cringy tattoo of the anarchic “circle-a” on his chest, scar on his lip (from when his ill-advised lip ring was torn out during a concert).

---

Concept: Tavish is a “retired” punk rocker who’s youth was colored by poor choices, good music, and a distinct anti-authoritarian streak. A few rude awakenings led to him getting clean, but he never did regain a trust in authority. He inherited a bar from his retired parents and now leads a semi-legitimate life, harboring a great deal of resentment toward the powers-that-be.

Disposition: Caustic, adventurous, and impulsive, Tavish has started trying to be more easy-going and keep his short temper in check.

Fears: Handcuffs, helplessness, relapsing

Morals: Tavish sees the world as "us against them," and find his moral code a great deal more flexible when the victims are the powerful. Stealing from your neighbor is wrong, but shoplifting from a superstore is a-okay. It's shitty to bring your friends to a fight with the asshole down the street, unless that asshole is a cop. Tavish also prizes voluntary cooperation, even if he's not the easiest guy to work with.

History: Tavish was born to a Scottish father and an Irish mother in Glasgow, but his family moved to Utopia when he was thirteen. His father used all of his savings to purchase an old building that he converted to an almost-respectable pub. He aced every test he ever took in school, but displayed a pervasive apathy toward his studies. After several years of barely passing classes that were well within his ability, disciplinary action due to his proclivity for fighting, and a visit or two from the truancy officer, Tavish dropped out of school to start a band with two of his friends.

Their music career never really took off, but that didn't keep them from trying. None of them were virtuosos with their instruments, and Tavish's singing voice was only barely tolerable. There was little to set them apart from every other shitty three-chord punk band, but still they plugged away. Naturally, with the music came the drugs. Within two years, every member of the band was more or less dependent on some substance or another. Of course, drugs, punk rock, and a distrust of authority led to legal issues. Tavish served short jail stints for public intoxication, curfew and route violations, vandalism, and petty theft. During one of those jail stints, he was savagely beaten an officer after he made a joke about the officer's wife. The officer was reprimanded, but the incident was otherwise covered up. Tavish suffered a head injury that led to cortical blindness in his left eye.

Shortly after he got out of jail, his band played a small show in a bar on the outskirts of town. After the show, the bands drummer, Conn McCarthy, overdosed on heroin and was pronounced dead at the scene by paramedics. This shook Tavish to his core. He left the band and checked himself into rehab. He went back to his parents and was given a job in the bar. After a series of raids shut down other, less-reputable bars, his parents decided to sell the bar and leave town. Tavish, having some strange attachment to the city, convinced his parents to give him the bar and retire in Ireland.

Tavish was all set up to lead a normal, legitimate life, and it didn't suit him. He hired Sandra Claire, a down-on-her-luck Brooklynite, as his only other employee. Then, he fell in with the Resistance. He was risking everything his parents had built, and he loved it.

---

Sample Post

It was a slow night, and he was working alone. There were only a few people in the bar. Two grumbling old men sitting near his dad’s beat-up old jukebox, complaining about Tav’s choice in music. There was a middle-aged lady sitting at the bar, as far from the door as she could be, guzzling glasses of brandy as fast as he could pour them. Tavish was the only one working, and the relative quiet prompted a rare introspective mood. He idly looked over his liquor shelf, and moved to pick up a bottle. As he did so, he noticed a series of small, faded scars across his right knuckles. He frowned, remembering how he got them.

---

It had been two days after his twenty-first birthday. He’d just gotten out of jail, and his head still throbbed. He’d gotten the shit kicked out of him after he’d made a joke about one of the officer’s wives. He’d taken a kick to the head, and his skull had bounced against the concrete floor of the cell. Damage to the occipital lobe. Loss of vision in his left eye. Bad, bad headaches.

He was pissed.

He’d have liked to get the cop who beat him, an Officer Beckem, but honestly, any cop would do. He, Conn, and Obi got blitzed in Conn’s apartment and headed out onto the streets.

Tavish couldn’t remember the officer’s name, but he remembered his face. Young-ish, with a brown buzzcut and narrow blue eyes. He’d made the mistake of patrolling alone in a darker area of town. They jumped him and dragged him into an alley. Obi and Conn pinned him to the wall. Tavish hesitated, just for a moment.

“Come on, mate, we don’t have all fucking night.” Obi said, urging him on. Tavish steeled himself, then punched the cop as hard as he could in the face. The officer looked him in the eyes, and even though all three of them wore masks, it felt like he was studying him. Tavish punched him again. And again. He paused for a second, and his head throbbed again, and then he found the anger. He kept punching. Eventually, the man’s muffled protests through the crude gag Conn had put in his mouth devolved into groans of pain. Blood stained his fist, but he hardly felt it. He remembered the friends he’d had that were stuck in prison, the classes he’d been forced to take for dissenting speech, his fucking head.

“Tav. Tav, stop!” Conn said, and Tavish was snapped out of his trance. He noticed that his hand was hurting. He looked down at it. A few of the guy’s teeth were stuck in his skin, and there was some bruising on his fingers, but his hand looked better than the officer’s face. “You’re gonna kill him!” Tavish took a few deep breaths, but he was so pissed that he though he’d choke. He started to wind up for another punch, this time with his uninjured hand, but Conn let go of the cop and grabbed him. “Tav, please.” Obi got the idea and also let go, and the cop slumped over, still breathing but out like a light. Tavish grunted and tried to get to the officer, and his friends grabbed his arms and started pulling him away.

---

Tavish shivered, frightened by the memory of his anger. He’d lost his temper since then, lost that level of control, but he’d been lucky. He ruined friendships, even a relationship or two, but he’d never gotten that destructive.

He did one of the breathing exercises he’d learned in rehab. Inhale, count to four, exhale, count to four. Conn was dead, now, he’d OD’d about two weeks after that night. Tavish hadn’t seen Obi in months, and the bassist was probably strung out on some stranger’s bathroom floor right about now.

There were times he missed his old life. The band, the drugs, the endless nights.

This was not one of those times.

He heard one of the old men start messing with the jukebox, and his head snapped toward him.

“Touch that fuckin’ jukebox and I jam those fuckin’ IPA’s so far up your arse, you’ll be shitein’ out hops for a week.”

The men sat back down.

---

Skills:
Improvisation: (1) Anything can be a weapon if you've got a little imagination, and Tavish has plenty. (Perception)
Bullshittery: (2) Though he's not proud of it, Tavish is a talented liar.(Perception)
Scrapper: (2) Tavish used to be quite the brawler. He's no martial artist, but he knows how to throw a punch. (Strength)
Musicianship: (1) Though he hasn't picked up his guitar in a while, Tavish is a perfectly passable musician. (Perception)

Stats:
Reflexes: -1
Speed: 1
Endurance: 0
Strength: 2
Will: 0
Perception: 2

Resources:
-Baird's Pub: A smoky little hole in the wall in a poorer part of Utopia, with a two bedroom apartment above it. Makes enough money to sustain itself, and gives Tavish a little bit less than a full time minimum wage worker's salary in profit.

-The "Shite-Mobile": A beat-up old 1994 Oldsmobile Cutlass, which requires a lot of TLC to run on the best of days and is practically useless in the winter.

-Saturday Night Special: Tavish purchased this cheap, unregistered, .38 revolver when he was nineteen. He gets little enough chance to use it, anymore. He keeps it hidden under the bar, jut for peace of mind.

-Guitar: Tavish sold the electric guitar that he played in his band a long time ago, but he held on to his father's dusty old acoustic, just in case.

Connections:
-Thomas McClellan: Tavish's maternal uncle, a primary school teacher that moonlights as a drug dealer, a fact known to no one in the family except Tavish.

-James and Moira Baird: Tavish's parents, retirees living in Galway.

-Oscar "Obi" Bowler: Tavish's childhood friend and the bassist in his band. Currently a drug-addled gas station clerk with, for better or worse, ties to what little organized crime remains in the city.

Theme Song: youtube.com/watch?v=-ej2YISuJ60

Misc. Info: Though he's in a bit of grey-area, ideologically, Tavish still enjoys reading Kropotkin.

[BrokenWashing]

Almost Done

Bob Sandvagene

Name: Bob Sandvagene

Age: 45

Sex: Male

Height: 5'4, 162cm, 32.4 onion bhajis

Build: Bob is short and fat.

Style: Bob is most often seen wearing a pale green polo shirt. His trousers vary but are never fashionable.

Hair, face, markings: Bob's hair is jet black, once it would've looked stunning on him but alas now it reclines as much as his stomach extends.

---

Concept: Bob is an Indian shop owner in Utopia. He holds no love for the government but joins the resistance somewhat reluctantly. He started this shop with his bare hands and will not see it go to waste.

Disposition: Protective, Short tempered, Reluctant, Out of his depth

Fears: Seeing his shop destroyed, Black people (more of a racism thing than an actual fear)

---

Morals: Bob Sandvagene is a devout Hindu and follows their set of morals whenever possible.
"They include asteya (nonstealing), satya (truthfulness), arjhava (honesty) and daya (compassion). The first yama, however, is ahimsa (nonviolence), and it is this core Hindu moral of nonviolence that serves as the foundation on which all other Hindu yamas are built."
He takes the nonstealing aspect very much to heart.

---

History: Bob's parents moved to England when he was just a boy of nine. Utopia was intended to be a city of untold riches and opportunities, the perfect place for a lower class Delhi family to make a new start. Bob's father, Rashad Sandvagene, spent what little savings they had left from their immigration on a small market stall selling fruit and vegetables.

As the years went by Rashad's health begun to dwindle until finally the mantle had to be passed over onto young Bob. With his experience and new-found connections what had once been a failing business evolved into a highly popular high-street grocery shop. Times were good for Bob Sandvagene, that is until the city had it's security crackdown.

At first it was no problem, business had stopped during the curfews but greatly increased during the day. Heavy surveillance meant that shoplifters were caught before he even noticed stock was missing and the tracking cards were no issue if you had nothing to hide.

Sadly with the increase in government control more recently his business had been taking even more hits. Citizens were now forced to take different routes which meant they did not walk past the shop anymore and there were rumours that Branding was soon to be illegal, his pride and joy would just become another Utopia-mart.

---

Sample Post: (To make sure you're committed. I'd really prefer it if people didn't drop out halfway through.)

---

Skills:
Indian Cooking - 2
Accounting/Maths - 2
Bargaining/Negotiating - 2

Stats:
Reflexes - -1
Speed - -1
Endurance - 1
Strength - 1
Will - 2
Intelligence - 2

---

Resources: Bob owns a grocery shop with an apartment above. It once was a large income source but now seems to only serve resistance members.
He also has a delivery truck. biotifuldairy.com/wp-content/uploads/…

Connections: (Name, occupation, and relationship to a few NPCs. They will be brought in later.)

---

Theme Song: youtube.com/watch?v=vTIIMJ9tUc8&ab

Misc. Info: (favourite book? What kind of food do they like? How is their pet doing?)

[HowlsOfWinter]

(Reserved. Will work on it as soon as I can.)

[Bazmund]

Felix Sands

Felix Sands

Name: Felix Sands

Age: 29

Sex: Male

Height: 1.87m

Build: Tall, relatively handsome - though not to the point of standing out in an average crowd - Felix is an athletic looking man with sharp features and a smooth, cleanly shaven face. His shoulders are broad enough that he looks like he could take a punch, and he's skinny enough that he looks like he can run too.

Style: Felix keeps himself versatile in terms of fashion, ready to blend in wherever he is. He owns leather, boardroom cotton, jeans and t-shirts - whatever he might need. In general however, he wears relatively plain clothing for comfort - just jeans or chinos, with a soft flannel shirt or a t-shirt. He doesn't usually dress to impress.

Hair, face, markings: At the part of his left ear where the lobe joins his head, there is an unusually thick scar - he twitched whilst shaving with a straight razor once. It was unfortunate. And bloody. Other than that, nothing in particular.

Concept: A 'private investigator' who had hoped Utopia would be a way out for him, his sister, and his lover. It wasn't.

Disposition: Generally cautious, he doesn't seem to trust easily and - while he's usually willing to hear people out - his primary concern is security, for himself and his party. Get to know him better though, and he's a fun, broadly smiling guy, who likes to know people well and takes care of his own.

Fears: Being screwed over by employers. Being betrayed by friends and family. Having his sister, or significant other, harmed.

Morals: Generally upstanding, but surprisingly flexible - this is a man who tries to be the best he can be, is compassionate when he can be, and cares about others... but remembers that he is a mercenary, remembers that revolution is usually violent, and understands the need for wet work in both - and who is willing to do it, too.

History:

Felix Sands has served - in more ways than one.
An undecorated and undistinguished combat veteran, he once served readily and to the fullest of his capacity in someone's army, somewhere else, a long time ago now.
A deserter from an unworthy cause, he once served time in prison unwillingly and to the least of his pleasure, not as long ago now.
A lonely man in a harsh world, he now looks to serve a cause greater than himself valiantly and to the last beat of his bleeding heart, here and now.

Felix was born in another country, and he grew up there too. His childhood was fairly boring, with no great romance or adventure, but it was fulfilling enough and it was safe. He left high school with enough qualifications to get a place in college studying medicine and - when the government announced its peacekeeping mission in the poorer, less civilised nation that bordered his homeland on the south - he immediately signed up for the Medical Corps, a division that would accept him in the role of a combat medical technician when he graduated, and fund his specialisation when he returned from service. The rest of his degree went without issue, and he excelled in training after joining the army proper - nobody else was quite as fast, as bright, or as eager. He graduated training with the respect of his comrades and his instructors, and was deployed faster than most people would think wise. Sooner than he had thought possible, he saw the war.

And the war - as war is - was horrific, hellish, and a source of much grief and injustice.

It was quickly apparent to him that the peacekeeping mission was a poorly disguised invasion, played up by his home media to quicken the pulse of any patriot. They were not there to quell terrorism as much as they were to annex the damn place, police the populace, and steal for the motherland. People did fight them, yes - the sovereign nation's army for one was a source of much resistance, and when they eventually capitulated there remained pockets of organised resistance, and even worse, spontaneous agitators with no plan whatsoever - the kind of men whose actions and resources you simply cannot predict. The men he treated, the men he saved, the men he couldn't, were all - at least immediately - the victims of one of the above.

But Felix, quick and bright and perceptive, saw beyond this.

Their invasion was not simply illegal, it was immoral. They had been sent to oppress the locals at the behest of a government looking for nothing more than another place to hold power over, and even pumping the chest of a fallen brother in arms, he couldn't blame their enemy for resisting. No, it was abundantly clear who was to blame.

One day, he deserted. He was captured and imprisoned shortly thereafter - as good at hiding as he was, he wasn't as good as the military police were at following.

Three years after his dishonorable discharge and imprisonment, he was free again - only to find that much of his family had either turned on him as a traitor to their country, or been turned on as well for being related to him. Of all the people who he had known, only his little sister and his girlfriend stayed with him when he decided to simply leave the country, and go to a better place - a place like Utopia was.

Supposedly.

After the myths behind the place were presented as false, he forwent his idealism for a while and started looking for work. Honest work was harder to come by for a man like him than he wanted - after all, he was a foreigner, dishonorably discharged from the same foreign military, an incomplete student, and none too sociable. He did briefly have a job cooking in a fairly ass end of the spectrum fast food restaurant, but he turned out to be a pretty crappy cook as well. What he did have going for him was an analytical mind, a broad enough set of general skills from his time in the medical corps, and some skill with a firearm - and, if needs be, his fists. He started out as a private investigator for real, more often than not looking into unfaithful spouses, delinquent children, dishonest employees, and other such small fry - though there was the occasional real case, which he would admit he enjoyed - but eventually the term 'private investigator' came to mean 'generally whatever you need done that you don't want people to know you needed done, guy'. He's done a bit of corporate espionage, he's beaten a fair few rabblerousers and blackmailers, and he's probably killed people. After all, he has people he needs to look after.

Doesn't mean he likes it very much.

Sample Post: Peering around the doorframe, Felix took in the sight of his mark's study - a warm, well decorated room with a desk, a quietly whirring computer, and a digital picture frame cycling lazily through an album of the man and his family. His overt family, at least. As was common in a city as dark and sinful as Utopia, his wife suspected that he was having an affair - a suspicion she had correctly hired him to confirm. Felix had spent the last two weeks or so generally staking out the office her husband worked at, a well to do legal firm where he was a named partner and only infrequent worker. He turned up at work on only 4 days of the week, and always the same four - Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday. According to his wife he was meant to be there all week including a half day on saturday, so it was needless to say that something didn't add up.

Now, it was sunday. The office was abandoned for the weekend while its unfortunate denizens went to get fat and drunk at the expensive bars their professions afforded them, their one true day of respite from the apparent stresses of the legal profession - and that, naturally, meant Felix would be the only one at work today.

Using his smartphone's forward facing camera like a periscope, he peered into the room to check for CCTV. Finding none, he entered and went to the desk, taking care not to disturb the assorted documents, papers, and stationery scattered over the work surface. He'd been provided with the password his mark tended to use - a careless combination of his and his wife's birth dates, an ironic and fading symbol of the attraction he must once have felt. The computer chimed merrily as it accepted the code, welcoming him as "Mr Sanders". Flexing his hands impatiently as the desktop loaded, Felix drywashed them through the latex of his disposable gloves, nerves growing. He had been betrayed before on jobs like this - set up as an elaborate insurance scam. Last time that happened, he'd barely made it out without handcuffs - what was even more annoying was that he'd still have done it if they'd just been up front with him.

His mark's email correspondence was both unlocked for him to access, and entirely innocent. No flirtatious mailings from clandestine lovers, no bills of payment from women of the night, nothing of the sort. Just legal matters, inquiries from clients - that sort of thing. Hard drive was clean too, although there was a curious frequency of the name 'Léon Markant' in his client database, which was still hardly damning. Pictures library, totally empty. Recycling bin-

Oh, the recycling bin.

It was full of recoverable data, though some of it had been corrupted. Too much to look through now though, so Felix slid a USB stick into the PC, copied it over, and set the status of the bin back to how he'd found it afterwards. The documents' titles didn't reveal anything in particular, but they had all been deleted at once and they all related to the same client.

Léon Markant.

"Curious." Felix mumbled.

It was a lead, if nothing else - and indeed, there was nothing else. Some further inspection revealed that a few of the mark's meetings with Mr Markant had been scheduled for dates he hadn't turned up for work, but there was scarce all else to be found on the computer or in his desk. Felix left carefully but quickly, wiping the desk clean of any dead skin, hair, or anything else he might have left behind. No point giving anyone a lead on finding him - especially not in a world where people like him found work doing what they did. It wouldn't do for him to be 'privately investigated' himself.

On his way home via state approved routes, a fake ID card broadcasting his position throughout, he sent a quick text to his employer relating his findings and explaining the next stage of his investigation - a hunt for Léon Markant, and any link between him and Phillip Sanders. In a world as obtuse about information gathering and retention as the one he lived in, a paper trail shouldn't be too hard to find for anyone with any skill at computers.

As he approached a lonely enough stretch of approved route, he made a sharp turn off the main road and down a side alley, approaching one of the dead drops he used for fake IDs and resources - it was literally a tiny space behind a loose-ish brick in a wall at the end of an appropriately dark alleyway. Checking again for unwelcome observers, he pulled the brick out and lodged his ID in the hollow behind it - if he'd managed it just right, it should look like the person his ID was registered to was now at home in the building in front of him. After that, it was just a matter of getting home while avoiding police detection - something he'd done before and would do again easily enough.

An hour later, and he was typing up the next fragment of his case report with a steaming cup of tea at his left, and the voices of his small, bizarre remaining family from the living room, with nobody in the world but them and his employer the wiser for his actions.

Skills:
Firearms - 2 - (Perception)
Melee combat - 2 - (Speed)
Medicine - 1 (Perception)
Breaking and Entering - 1 (Perception)

Stats:
Reflexes - 1
Speed - 1
Strength - 0
Endurance - 0
Perception - 2
Will - 0

Resources: Felix maintains a discreet series of go-bags and dead drops throughout the city, usually in locations as seen in the sample post. They typically contain fake ID, money, occasionally stores of incriminating data for safe keeping, as an insurance policy. At least one contains a spare handgun - the USP9 compact, an identical copy of his primary weapon and former service pistol - as well as a moderate stash of ammunition, though he has only one suppressor between them. He keeps at least one disposable pre-paid phone for work purposes in addition to his personal phone. Plus, knives. On account of the unregulated sale of blades in the United Kingdom, he tries to keep a handy supply of spares - within legal limits. In particular, he still owns the straight razor he got a scar from. His regular job is as a 'private investigator', officially - in reality, this is not too far removed from a criminal or pseudo-legal handyman, or maybe a step above a lone mercenary. Income can be sporadic, but due to the nature of the work it is usually well paid.

Connections:
Laura 'Sunrise' Sands - Felix's girlfriend, a qualified and fully trained doctor in her own right, far more so than Felix at the very least. When they immigrated to the UK, it was simpler to adopt their new shared surname, so they're not technically married - but the law no longer cares. She is 29 as well, having studied in the same year as Felix.

Mira Sands - Felix's little sister, a radical and outspoken person with a terrible case of a bleeding heart - she studied Journalism and Media back in their homeland before their emigration, and graduated only a month before Felix's release from prison. She now runs a moderately successful set of online blogs regarding several topics, and manages to generate a modicum of income through advertisements to help cover rent.

Theme Song: Miami Showdown - Digitalism

https://youtu.be/jfMdV-SE2bs

Misc. Info:

[JELDare]

Reserving this space

WIP Grant Black

Name: Grant Black
Age: 24
Sex: Male
Height: 6'3''
Build: Toned and athletic. When he's wearing clothes he looks quite thin, but he's got a decently toned upper body and immense strength in his legs.
Style: Tight clothing, usually preferring slim fit jeans and a tight sports top, he can switch out for more formal attire. He usually keeps a hoddie on at all times, a very dark purple; like an eggplant colour
Hair, Face, Markings: Dark Brown hair. He has emerald green eyes. He has a scar under his right eye, a horizontal one.

Concept:

[LordZell]

Name: Zachary T. Worth
Age: 38
Sex: Male
Height: 5 foot, 7 inches
Build: A man of average height, while some might say he’s thin, he finds himself to be in perfect health.
Style: Whenever possible he prefers to be wearing a suit and being seen as fashionable as well as to look like a professional. In other events he may wear a nice polo and some khaki. But whenever he needs to a job he’s not afraid to get his hands or clothes dirty.
Hair, face, markings: His short black hair is cut short along the sides with enough left on top to gel up. He always has a five o’clock shadow. He also has several cuts along his arms. He claims they are scars from war but doesn’t like talking about them.

Concept: Zachary is a man of a intense knowledge and military experience. While he’s never liked the government he saw it as a means to an end using it to get what he wants.
Disposition: Zachary has one goal in his mind and he reminds himself of it forever.
Fears: Ever since his first taste of combat, he enjoyed it. He could never get enough and was thought of as a perfect soldier without fear. But perhaps that’s his fear showing his true nature and giving into the light.
Morals: If you asked him yourself, he’d say your average stuff. Equality,fairness etc. But in combat as a “perfect” soldier he did what he needed to do for his job. No matter if it was “right” or “wrong” so long as he got it done.
History: Born in london, Zachary grew up to a working family. One that didn’t have much money and as such he had to work his way through life. He excelled in school but was often picked on for his intelligence. That’s when he began to take an interest in his body as well as his mind. Eventually he realized he couldn’t make it into college as he nor his family had the money so he enlisted in the military with hopes of finishing school later on.

In the military he saw many combat missions and was considered the perfect soldier, as he did what he was told in the most effective manor. Why some saw him as cruel without any morals, he didn’t care he had ambitions and the military would provide it. He served until he was 31, at which point he retired and found himself working for a financial firm. After troubles started happening within the city he left his line of work and found a secretarial positions within the local government where he currently works.
Sample Post: (To make sure you're committed. I'd really prefer it if people didn't drop out halfway through.)
Skills:
Combat abilities both with guns and hand-to-hand 3
Charisma 2
Stealth - 1
Stats:
Reflexes - 0
Speed - -1
Endurance 0
Strength - 2
Will - 1
Perception - 2
Resources: He makes a sizeable income from his pension as well as his current cushy job at city hall, enough to allow him to live in a penthouse suit and drive a very modern car as well as not having work for his basic necessities.
Connections:
Brenden O’Campo is his boss at the city hall.
Theme Song: youtube.com/watch?v=x0WQOGVLLGw But it should be about the government
Misc. Info: Not a huge drinker it dulls the senses.

[Audouin]

[Reserved]