[CHAR] False Motives [OPEN]

[TrippyNightmare]

Ra zofered

[krismer22]

J-VW

_{Julia Vorkowes}

_{◄ 25 ▎ Female ▎ 5'8 ►}

_{P R O F I L E}

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This woman stands at five foot eight, she wears a cool ass bomber jacket accompanied by a pair of cargo pants. Her face screams tomboy and so does her fucking apperance too. She has medium length blonde hair and a beat up face, obviously from a recent altercation. She is half-Antrean & half-Vlhakian a deadly combination in today's streets. Julia was a bit cold, yea kinda of a fucking bitch but she was a hell of a detective. In reality she was a loner and was known to abandon her poor partners in the past, but her down to earth total fuck you stance to the world was comical but also sad - she was so fucking sad. She also had brass knuckles, cool right?

_{D A Y S - G O N E}

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Being a bad ass was never this easy, imagine growing up in a shitty home in poverty near the border of the country. Yep, that was Julia's child hook in old Hobroke a town that was so broke it's name was "broke" in a sense it was ironic but at the same time it was fucking scary. They had immigrated from Vlhakia, well their family a generation ago when the war broke out. Yea, shitty place to live and worse to grow up, getting beat and failing school. Check check ding ding all what Julia did, it just sucked alright?

It took alot of soul searching, not really just running with a drug gang and almost getting caught by the local enforcers simply sorted out poor Julia's fucked up life. She was simply fucked! However, due to some police corruption and the fact that they were undermanned Julia applied to be a police officer with the 43rd Precient. Working as a PO sucked, when some detectives mysteriously died she temporarily filled the void - yet it became permament despite being on temporary assignment. Now she drags her feet through each case, wondering when the end will come - will it?


_{M E M O R I E S}

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_{T H O U G H T S}

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[RumikoOhara]

Angel

[Felix Carter]

Max Mercer

Max Mercer

Max's Facial Photo

Max's Outfit of Choice

◄ 24 ▎ MALE ▎ 6'2"

P R O F I L E
Max Mercer is a youthful man, a former patrol cop who recently was promoted to be in the Detective force of the 43rd. He stands at six feet and two inches tall, brown hair at the shortest length on the sides and the back with the top slicked back. He has amber mixed hazel eyes. His expression usually holds a neutral look, never showing much emotions on the outside. He gives a patient and analyzing personality, always understanding. He could even somehow properly tell the above-average social person could be lying or telling the truth Anything that gets to him? Of course, that something being illogical in his head. The lack of experience usually being the downfall of him unable to think sometimes like the suspect, and usually the disadvantage of always asking the question 'why' and thinking out of the box a lot.

D A Y S - G O N E
Having only his mother being around him whilst in the Antrean Society, his father was documented of being within the Antrean military soon after his mother was pregnant with him. Being an only child within his small family, he usually was helping around the house, being outside, or focusing on school and studying. Growing up was usually harsh as he had little to no interaction with others, and those that he did could never understand of how Max truly had little to no friends as he wore the traits of a true friend. In reality, Max always stayed quiet and observed those around him. His eyes were always scanning people's reactions and attitudes to others. His ears listening to every single detail as those around him were relaxed with him listening. Later on down the road, he always focused on himself physically and mentally preparing himself for rash people. He always wanted to be a Law Enforcement officer, and he even began to study properly for the entrance exams for the 43th Precinct.

Max proceeded within the entrance exam, and having graduated the class he managed to get at least one of the top five within. Why was he so determined to get in? Because he felt he could change the streets, on how things were just bothered him so much to the point he got tired of sitting around. He wanted to do something, and having the authority to do it was what edged him on. His issue was usually of how he was initially alone, and having to work with a partner was something very new. He had to learn to adjust to whoever was assigned as his partner fast. He's no one special, he's no fancy Cowboy gunslinger. He kept as a basic law-officer for the next two years, and just last week he was assigned a promotion. And right now, he's stepping through the double doors of the 43th Precinct, a Detective badge on his belt and his well-dressed outfit. His first day on the job was a start of one hell of a night.

M E M O R I E S
N/A - 1/20/20

T H O U G H T S
N/A - 1/20/20

[Bazmund]

CS

_{Sammy Sharpe
◄ 42 ▎ MALE ▎ 6"0 ►}

_{P R O F I L E}

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The former EOD Staff Sergeant Samuel Sharpe is a pale shadow of his former self, half consumed by paranoia and fear, the remaining half kept from decay and destruction by nothing more than the breadth of a hair and the abuse of copious chemical stimulants; now known primarily as Sharp for the quickness of his mind and the nature of afflicted existence, stripped down to a ragged edge from the person he used to be. Even his bed is practically wrapped in tripwires - a holdover from the days where a smartly placed claymore was all that came between his life and a knife at night. In spite of all this, however, Samuel is still a genuinely bright and intelligent man, educated too. He thinks quickly and sees more than he lets on, drawing conclusions and working with them like a flash of lightning, sifting lies from truth and connecting the dots of the plot behind the plot. Apart from that, there is only the rare turn of compassion or generosity to show you that Samuel Sharpe still exists as anything other than a legal name. Sharp alone is who he is now.

The ex-trooper sports a tall and wiry athletic build, standing at about 6"0, bound with deceptively dense muscle and sinew. His hair is dense, thick, and untidy, dotted with streaks of grey and white. His eyes seem to dart constantly between any company he keeps, the door of the room they're in, and his own gun. The left side of his face and head is peppered with streaks and dots of scar tissue from a fragmentation grenade explosion at medium range some years ago. His left arm bears a Vlhakian Armed Forces division tattoo, complete with regiment name, rank and serial number, and medical identifier - to be specific, the original insignia is a kite shield of green and white, bearing a black sword crossed with a black hammer in front of it, all upon a field of cross-hatching. It used to glow thanks to implanted NanoLEDs, but no longer, as the entire design has been crossed out with a pair of scars inflicted with a kitchen knife. The term 'EOD' is still identifiable, however. His right arm is also tattooed with a full sleeve of cultural design, utterly covered with the intricate interlocking branches of an oak tree in an old Antrean ethnic design. In minute text between some of the branches text in a dead, celtic-esque language can be seen. Even Sharp doesn't know what it says. The area around his ID tag has been mutilated during several tampering attempts, and is now a mangled mess of purplish scar tissue that he is barely able to hide with makeup during his brief trips into the city.


_{D A Y S - G O N E}

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To sum it up, nice and concise like, Sammy was born in the heart of Vlhakia, a pure, hot blooded Vlhakian boy. His early life was comfortable, if not wealthy or extravagant, and while he did not quite want for nothing it was certainly true that his needs were met - at least until the beginning of the Antrean war of secession from the empire, and the subsequent crash of the economy. When he was 20, his older brother joined the army, and when he was 21 he followed. They were put in separate regiments, but often occupied the same bases - his brother was going through the officer selection process for a mechanised battle group, and he had delved instead into combat engineering, which meant their specialisms complemented each other. They were reasonably well paid, and their food and lodging was taken care of by the general service corps, which put them at an advantage over their gradually more and more poverty-stricken countrymen - so ultimately, life was actually pretty good.

Life stayed pretty good for a while, as they gradually got educated in the art of warfare, and their nationalistic indoctrination reached its final stages.

Then they went to war. It was their job to suppress the growing Antrean rebellion before they were forced to acknowledge their independence, and in this endeavour they were doomed to fail. Antrea is a resource rich region, and the locals knew the landscape better than them. There were ambushes left and right, sneak attacks in the dead of night by Antrean commando units, throats being cut and bombs being set along the roads for their convoys. Sharp came a few centimetres from death more than a few times during the doomed campaign, and every time he did it stripped a little more of the man he'd used to be away from him. It got worse and worse, his mind becoming more and more twisted and convoluted by the stress of war, until eventually his brothers in arms began firing on civilians too.

To be perfectly fair, the Antreans were committing perfidy by using plainclothes commandos. That was a war crime.

But they weren't just killing suspects, they were killing everyone. Eventually Sharp would find out - long after the war was over - that his and his brother's detachment had been literally the most criminal element of the Vlhakian military during that conflict. Mass graves. Lynchings. Firing squads. Eventually it didn't matter who they were killing, they just needed a way to hurt Antrea, to get revenge on them for the hell they were going through.

Sharp found himself staring at an entire family, hanged from lamp posts in a shitty little backwater town, at two in the morning.

He couldn't do it any more.

He went around the battalion's vehicles and he rigged their fuel lines to dump uncontrollably into the engine when the engines were revved, and then he unhooked the safeties on the weapons caches. The moment they were turned on, the moment they tried to run another civilian down, the trucks, the APCs, the tanks - they would set their own fuel tanks alight, burn, and then light off their own magazines and explode.

Nobody asked him a single question while he did it. Nobody bothered. He was Vlhakian, he was a ranking NCO, he was the little brother of the most popular Captain in the company.

The one mistake he made was in trying to warn his brother, to get him out of there before it happened.

When he did, his brother initially didn't believe him - but then when he did, he flew into a rage and tried to kill him, driven mad by the grief of war, by the sheer bereavement of learning that his own brother was a traitor. If Sharp hadn't fought back, he'd have been hanged the very next day, with the next group of innocents. Instead, he did, and slew his own brother.

The struggle was loud enough that an alarm was raised, and as his brother lay clutching at the knife wound in his chest, staring incredulously at Sharp and mouthing the words 'fucking traitor' over and over and over and over and over again, the first explosions went off.

The detachment was later registered as destroyed. Many of the men were listed as KIA - and Sharp was listed as MIA.

On his way out of their camp, he got caught by a piece of shrapnel, and was set to bleed to death before he made it anywhere - but instead, he found himself in the arms of an Antrean guerilla who had already been planning to attack the camp. Rather than killing him outright, the guerilla took him in and nursed him back to health - initially so that he could be interrogated properly, but when he found out what Sharp had done, so that he could genuinely recover. The compassion the guerilla showed him, the traditions he was taught, the justice he saw in the Antrean system...

Years later, as an unofficial resident of Antrea, and an employee of the 43rd Precinct, he would disfigure his regimental tattoo and get it redone in Old Antrean in the man's honour.

_{M E M O R I E S}

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_{T H O U G H T S}

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