Choose three skills to tag that your character is proficient in. You may then spend a further 9+INT Score skill points to distribute amongst your skills.
Personality: Andrew is generally a kind, sweet, generous person who objects to the NCR's heavy-handedness in the past and despises its imperfections, but genuinely believes that there are no viable alternatives to the Wasteland than the NCR or a Government like it. The Courier or Mr. House in the Mojave gathering a bunch of settlements, declaring themselves independent, and 'freeing' the Mojave with an army of Securitons? Fantasy. Is someone on the East Coast rebuilding a bunch of settlements to Pre-War levels all by themselves and creating a new Commonwealth Provisional Government? Nonsensical. Besides, even if those did happen, those had no staying power once their 'superhuman' founders were dead.
So it has to be the NCR that has to be saved, and it's people who have to save it. And so Andrew has been assigned this mission by what remains of the NCR Government: Go to Hawaii and find a way to save the NCR; for as they agreed, there is no other way - No other moral way - for this world to rebuild.
Background: Andrew was born in The Boneyard to an NCR Soldier and a Follower of the Apocalypse back when the NCR was already declining, but had not fallen yet. Andrew was raised on tales of better days by both parents, although their perspectives of what days counted as 'better' differed. Either way, Andrew joined the NCR Army at 16 and lived long enough to see defeat after defeat, including the long retreat from the Mojave, where he was hardened by the fight to survive. Nevertheless, he saw firsthand how the 'alternatives' to the NCR were even worse than it was, and how the NCR needed to be reformed should it be able to outcompete said 'alternatives'.
But when he arrived home, to protests and opprobrium and the political consequences of Kimball being assassinated, it broke Andrew's heart. At least his family, including his mother, did not forsake him. Taking a small period of leave, Andrew began going through his mother's books, hoping against hope to find a way to save the NCR and reform it so that it could stand against its enemies and their separate visions for the post-apocalyptic world.
It turned out it was possible. Just barely. But the means to do so were out of reach; it was like having hope dangled in front of him and then it being pulled away at the last minute. So as things spiraled down further, Andrew began looking for shortcuts; items like the Water Purification Chip and the GECK that had saved people before.
Then, he was called by his superiors, the last loyal officers of the NCR, and told, "There is a ship headed for Hawaii, where ancient Pre-War technology can be found. Get on that ship; find something that can save the Republic. If you can't; we'll forgive you, but if there's a chance that you can... Do what you must."
And so Andrew went on the Green Horizon, ready to meet and mingle with the other passengers on board and see who could be potential allies for his Quest to save the NCR, to save a civilization that saw no one as expendable (in theory). A civilization where people recognized their common bonds and helped each other (within reason).
He brought a book with him; a book of the NCR's constitution, laws, and history; this way, he can keep a memory of the Republic with him.
Equipment
- Service Rifle. - 10mm Pistol. - Hunting Rifle with Scope with the NCR two-headed bear painted on. - Trooper Armor with a Gas Mask and Helmet. - Switchblade. - 2x Stimpak - 1x Rad-X - 1x RadAway - NCR Dogtags. - A Book containing copies of the NCR Constitution and Laws and a summary of its history. - 2000 Caps.
Trait - Hotel California: You are a member of the NCR military with all the training that suits you. You get +1 to your damage rolls whenever you use rifles, SMGs, ARs, grenades, revolvers or any old fashioned gunpowder weaponry. However, whenever you use a energy weapon or attempt to roll any other weapon skill, the skill test is increased by 2.
A brown-eyed young woman, Vigil stands at 162 cm (5’4”) and weighs 54 kg (119 lb) with a lean, yet deceptively strong build for her size and tanned skin stemming from being outside a lot, sporting shoulder-length brown hair usually worn tucked out of the way in a bun. She speaks rather quickly with a crisp and quiet voice, though is capable of achieving a good amount of volume if someone needs yelling at, the Boston accent still apparent in her speech.
You gain a +1 to your Speech, Barter, Repair and Science skills whenever you perform a good deed for others. However, breaking the law comes less naturally to you and thus, you gain a -1 to any skill and attribute checks that will be used to perform immoral deeds.
Personality: Not one to waste effort on what can’t be controlled, she’s got a can-do attitude and expects people to get to it when a clear task is presented. Though not lazy, she is efficient, preferring the easiest effective solution available. Vigil is protective of people who just want to get on with their lives, dedicating hers to making sure they can and willing to commit acts that would make the old Geneva Conventions blush against anyone opposing this goal to do so. She has a distinct lack of any fucks to give, leading to a no-nonsense attitude and generally being blunt when dealing with people.
Vigil is enamored with pre-war cultures, spending her free time looking for written records of how people lived back then and drawing the world around her as it could've looked like before the bombs hit with... varying degrees of accuracy.
Background: Virginia McCall was born into vault 75 in 2265. Like every generation for the past 186 years, she was raised from the start by the Overseer and research staff with rigorous physical and academic training, hoping to one day ascend to the "Uptopland" to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. But fighting came to he life earlier than she expected, in 2280, as the dwellers of Vault 75 realized what was happening and took their lives into their hands. Now free, the survivors continued to live in Vault 75 for a time, but supply shortages eventually forced them to depart in 2283. Following the shoreline, they eventually reached Bunker Hill where they took up residence.
But even though it had always been a lie, some of the Vault 75 survivors looking for a purpose turned to protecting others from the new world's dangers anyway, having been equipped for the task by their captors even if they had been dishonest. Those that did adopted new names to mark this mission and turn over a symbolic new page in their lives, Virginia choosing "Vigil" to symbolize her watchfulness over those who'd seek it, watching over Bunker Hill with her fellow Vault 75 survivors until parting ways in 2285, one of several people who left to offer their talents elsewhere.
She continued to bounce around the Commonwealth, taking odd jobs of guarding caravans and settlements until 2290. Hearing of the Aloha Isles and the pirate menace they endure, Vigil has made the perilous ten-month trek from the Commonwealth to the West Coast, where she boarded a ship bound for the isles to see how she could be of help.
Equipment:
Weapons:
Combat Rifle - A pre-war rifle commonly found across the Commonwealth, chambered in .308. Fitted with a long barrel, full stock and medium scope.
S&W Model 29 - A bog-standard pre-war double-action revolver chambered in .44.
Survival knife.
Ammunition:
100x .308, 5x 20-round magazine
24x .44
Armor & apparel:
Vault 75 jumpsuit (slightly worn).
Armor - A medium combat armor vest and left shoulder pauldron, fairly well-preserved despite some wear and numerous field repairs, worn with greaves and gauntlets improvised out of nylon straps, fabric and pieces of aluminum.
Gas mask.
Slouch hat - Worn with pride. Touch at your own peril.
Consumables:
1x RadAway.
3x Rad-X.
2x Stimpak.
1x Med-X.
2x tourniquet.
4 days of food and purified water.
Misc:
Pip-Boy 3000 Mark IV.
Backpack, sleeping bag, two person tent, whetstone, gun cleaning kit, compass.
A criminal for as long as she can remember, Galina holds the enigmatic code of her brethren close to her heart. She has no qualms about stealing. She takes no issue with hurting others. And she does not trouble herself with contemplating the moral implications of murder. Burned into her mind are the ideas and the understandings of her fellow thieves. Crowned above all else sits the notion that no authority can be truly trusted or relied upon, especially not any that claims to be the sole source of safety. Distrustful of all, Galina is resigned to the state of the things, leaving her concerns centered chiefly on her own needs and survival.
Galina is meticulous and endlessly pragmatic. Her morality is flexible, bending easily rather than breaking. She is unflinching in the face of violence, holding herself to be well-acquainted with the ways of the post-War world and the many ill-deeds performed across the wasteland. Small acts of kindness are a balm to her soul, and she prefers to avoid needless cruelties. However, she knows just as well that often violent deeds, even great acts of violence, are the answer to difficult problems. Never reckless, she is nonetheless confident in her own abilities.
Shrouded in violence, Galina sees herself as more than just another post-nuke punk. She can be friendly, warm even, if not engaged in professional capacity or challenged. She is fond of conversation and stories. She carries a battered harmonica on her person and in peaceful moments is happy to play a song for her companions.
Background
"When atomic fire consumed the earth, some of those who survived belonged to the gangs of the old world. Freed from the constraints imposed upon them by society, they flourished in the lawless wastelands."
Born beneath the skeletal high rises of downtown Boston, Galina recalls little of her parents or siblings. Her earliest years were spent scavenging the burned out suburbs of Boston. Long days that drove her to desperation with danger and drudgery. She remembers the cold and hunger best. Looking for a way out, seeking an escape from her hellish life, she found her salvation in the remnants of the Old World.
Adopted by a local crime lord, she was initiated into an old order of thieves. The Russian mafia had survived the Great War. They had thrived in the chaos that followed. More than two centuries had passed and organized crime had changed with every absorbed ray of radiation, but it had endured, and it had grown stronger. Surrounded by scum. Tutored in villainy. Twisted as others had been twisted, Galina was taught to threaten, to steal, and to kill. She learned quickly and violence came easily, nourished by the anger that she had swallowed. She found friendship. She found a family. She found a purpose. And she didn't have to go to sleep hungry.
No longer a child, Galina clawed her way upwards. She rose to the illustrious rank of a mid level enforcer, living free from the threat of careless use and elimination at the hands of her superiors. Nothing is free and nothing is cheaply offered in the wasteland. Galina paid for her privileges with service and caps, always more caps. Sent afar, she traveled beyond Boston, collecting on old debts and solving problems for her fellow thieves. For months now, she has traveled westwards, ordered to sail to the Aloha Isles aboard the Green Horizon. Guiding her is a playing card, a tattered Ace of Spades with a sentence in cyclic scribbled underneath the half-scratched out A.
Equipment
Weapons:
Handmade Rifle - A homage to a Soviet pre-War weapon, Galina’s handmade rifle is patterned after the legendary Avtomat Kalashnikova (AK-47). Sporting a short improved barrel, a collapsible stock, a large magazine, and a reflex sight, the handmade rifle is the tool for the job when Galina decides to start blasting. A bayonet lug allows Galina to use her combat knife aggressively in combination with her automatic rifle.
Makarov pistol (PB) - a pre-War weapon, the PB is a compact handgun with a dedicated detachable suppressor silencer attachment. An old handgun recovered, restored, and re-chambered in a more modern 10mm by a traveling Shi gunsmith, the PM comes from Russia with Love.
Combat knife - Sometimes a good knife is the best solution, be it for prying something open, bloodletting, or slicing up an irradiated apple.
Switchblade - As a last resort, Galina keeps a switch blade hidden on her person.
Ammunition:
150x 7.62mm, 5 x 30 magazines
36x 10mm.
Armor & Apparel:
Baseball Cap - Uninterested in sunburns, Galina has a black baseball cap emblazoned with the Nuka-Cola logo.
Traveling Outfit - Galina wears a faded gray t-shirt, black jeans, and well-fitting hiking boots.
Summer Jacket - Ready for the sun, Galina has acquired a breathable cotton jacket with a number of discreet hidden pockets.
Gas mask - All the cool kids have gas masks these days. Rads are bad and S.T.A.L.K.E.R taught everyone that "irradiated post apocalyptic wastelands" require gas masks.
Consumables:
1x RadAway.
3x Rad-X.
3x Stimpak.
1x Med-X.
2x tourniquet.
Pocket Flask - A battered pocket flask, currently filled with vodka.
3 days of food and purified water.
Misc:
Harmonica - Wrapped lovingly in a red silk bag, Galina's harmonica is one of her most cherished possessions.
Sunglasses - One pair of mint condition, orange tea-shade sunglasses that Galina stole before the Green Horizon left port.
Hiking Backpack - Galina has a large hiking backpack that sits comfortably on her shoulders thanks to the more over designed straps than she can count. Currently her backpack contains a spare barrel for her rifle, a whetstone, flint & steel, a gun cleaning kit, and a book.
1500 Caps.
Your life of crime and brutality in the descendants of the Russian Mafia has lended you a keen sense of the local criminal underworld in the area. Whenever you commit an illegal act of crime that would be considered illegal by the laws of the settlement you inhabit or any other illicit actions that harm an innocent, you gain an extra dice to roll during any skill test. However, the challenge rating of any action which is lawful that you will undertake will increase by a level of one.
Fairly banal as far as personality complexes run for Mr Handy models, John Doe can be considered remarkably independent, intelligent, and by and large curious. Without a doubt he considers himself his own owner, as the previous had voided their contract by stipulations of mismanagement or death and such a contract lacked provisions for a unit not being recovered within the mandatory 60 days. His tenure under Vault-Tec does remain a sore spot for the Mr Handy, one which he is loath to explain to any one could deem incapable of understanding. John Doe does still possess a love of books new and old, fiction and not, desiring their recovery wherever he might find it practicable while absolutely detesting those who mistreat such relics in polite company, killing those who mistreart in impolite company.
Background
Built before the end of the Great War and shipped to Vault 60, Portland city among the Northwestern Commonwealth, the Mr Handy which became John Doe was slated initially to work as a librarian for the Vault. Of course, this never came to fruition as the Vault door completely and utterly failed in its one job - closing. As such, nuclear fallout swept through the upper levels where the newest additions to Vault-Tec were still getting situated, as well as 95% of the staff, security, and maintenance personnel. This went largely unnoticed by the robotic component of Vault-Tec, as they were slated to be brought online some week afterwards once the new employees had finally stopped having heart palpitations.
Instead, they would be awoken by the desperate, wildly concerned engineers of the Vault. Put to work right quick in helping to seal the upper levels and, potentially, even seal the door, the fact that such units had never been radiation-proofed for full nuclear fallout meant that, one by one, they began to fail away and drop even as the engineers themselves began to harrow and age, rot while breathing. The Mr Handy’s began to draw straws for which would go up for what task, which would be next, as their former masters began to ghoulify before their very sensors. After seven losses, the Vault door was finally repaired, just in time for the engineers to have spoke their last word, eat their last meal, act like normal people. No, they were all gone, and what was left was two Mr Handy units and a half-working Protectron. One went to sleep, the other stayed awake, and the third meandered about aimlessly.
He took on a name, because he’d never been given a name, and set to work. John Doe read, did little calculations, did contemplations. He read through his library easily enough, read through anything and everything that the Vault-Tec employees had brought between personal libraries and design documents, handbooks, procedures. He read through it and started to work out how long it would take for the outside to be safe as far as his own operations. He read through and started to work out how long it would take for trees to grow again - fascinating things, even if he had never actually seen one with his own photoreceptors. Eventually, even though the Vault chronometers had drifted and the internal clock had failed spectacularly a few moments, the little Mr Handy worked out how to open the Vault door, too, and see what was outside. He tried to wake the other Mr Handy, but they wouldn’t come back as the BIOS failed to load core operating systems, and he tried to talk to the Protectron, but they wouldn’t talk back. Circles and circles he walked, slow, steady, and that was it. Rejected, annoyed, hurt, the Mr Handy wanted in some small way to erase Vault 60 from the map and yet…and yet some part of him couldn’t. Some part wanted to hope that there’d be a way to wake one, fix another, find someone to rent a book out to.
Emerging out into that great world, out into the Northwestern Commonwealth and the ruined lands that were once Portland, the question emerged where he might go. Surely to the north there was nothing, for Canada was an awful wasteland in the west even before the bombs fell, and yet the receivers picked up something so very faint to that south, to California, He listened to the static of radio broadcasts so distant and faint that John Doe couldn’t make out what was there, but there was surely something there. Someone, somewhere, was still operating a radio after the end of a world and John Doe wanted to meet them, see them, talk to them. Even if all the people were dead, someone had to take care of the radio towers, surely, and that at least meant robots. His path chosen, the Mr Handy flew south, south along the coast, south where so many cities had survived in part. Eventually he came upon the very frontier of a group that named itself the NCR, the Californian Republic, and that group had people and all. Elated, voraciously elated, he wanted to see more, talk more. He wanted to see humanity again, to see civilization, to see a library and maybe rent out a book.
He went further, moving through NCR territory with only the slightest of issues easily corrected by ad-hoc laser eye surgery on various bandits, raiders, and such rabble. One would think the first blind raider would send a message but news traveled slower than the Mr Handy and the dynamic soon enough got tiring. In time such issues became less common and issues of proactive salvagers, tech-savants, and a general malaise of idiots began to plague John Doe. Such was less an issue among populated settlements, more common on the road or in the dim-lit halfway-to-wreckage NCR holdings. He grew to blind far too many folks in the road while avoiding the latter issue, such places lacking value for the robot. In time, John Doe arrived in San Francisco among the Shi and Hubologists that maintained a tenuous peace with the NCR, and soon enough the Mr Handy started to at least somewhat work alongside the Shi. They lacked most of all of the characteristics which marred their ancestors, after all, and were in fact not Communists. As far as John Doe could be concerned if ever pressed, the Shi were merely a new group to the United States. They at least somewhat appreciated his technical acumen. From then on, which some minor tinkerings to his chassis and tools to better help, the Mr Handy quite consistently worked alongside the Shi in developing new plant strains that could survive the wasteland.
The Green Horizon's restoration, though, would pique John Doe’s curiosity and indeed the curiosity of the Shi at least in part. Long since subsumed in authority and strength by the NCR and protected by mutual treaties with that organization to share technology and information, the Shi were more than eager to find a new source of information, new ruins that could be in part picked through, or at least new records of information on the technology. In some way they wanted a new leg up on their erstwhile ally and quite carefully they asked John Doe to travel to Hawaii. If anything, the radiological data would be interesting they said.
Equipment
Hand-laser, Automatic, Low power Hand-laser musket, Six crank, Beam splitter Hand-claw 2 x Robot Repair Kit 5 x Stimpack 2 x Purified Water (Integrated filtration system) 1000 caps
You are a Mr Handy produced by the finest at General Atomics. You require no food, water and are immune to poison and radiation. However, you take +1 damage from all EMP attacks. Additionally, you have three arms which can be customized to either have a claw, a buzzsaw or any small weapon which could be conceivably fitted on a robotic limb.
♫ "Listen, gentlemen, I'm sure we can come to an agreement."
25 《》 6'2
P R E S E N C E There comes a time when you find yourself in a high-pressure, high-stakes, and deadly situation. When you find yourself in a rut, you'll need a silver tongue.
Despite his ruggedly good appearance, Ralph was one for words a silver tongue, and even more as a businessman. Cool, calm, collected and charismatic. One hell of a devil, Ralph oozed an air of authority and perhaps a degree of mystery that shrouded him and his family. He was always ones to chat up the ladies and give the side-eye to any freakazoid that came his way. The mutant problem was something his brother usually dealt with.
Ralph keeps it real and lets people know that he always seems to be the guy to share his cards upfront. At least, no one can see through his poker face yet. C H R O N I C L E Hail, be well.
Being born under the boot of the legion, the Kroger family was a result of an amalgamated tribe east of Hoover Dam. They weren't always slaves but in this cruel nuclear wasteland sometimes the roll of the dice. Not all the Krogers would serve a life of servitude, opting to break off and escape the life of a born soldier. Ralph was lucky to be born into the free side of the Kroger family, though the life he was put into was anything but ordinary. One of the Kroger Family's natural merits was having the iron will to survive and push through, which was passed onto our young apprentice.
Spread out like jacks through the west coast and away from the Legion, the Krogers found their purchase in this life and the next from slaving. Maybe Caesar (read: kai-tzar) was partially right about the enslavement of man. If you weren't strong enough, you would be enslaved and the Kroger slaves arguably had it better than those of the Legion or worse. Alongside the slavery business, was the Mercenary company that was offered by the family, fighting squabbles and for the highest bidder always worked out in the end for the Krogers.
Lastly leading a small casino and caravan business always kept the family on a legitimate front, albeit a bit seedy. Ralph's role was that of a manager and businessman, brokering deals, solving issues, and making sure the money continued to roll in like it always would. The more meatier and bruiser type of business was left to Ralph's brother. Despite cutting out business and a small hermit empire in the lesser parts of this remaining known world, there was one problem. Where would they spend the caps?
Part business, but mostly pleasure it was time to open doors for the Krogers. Ralph took a bet on a cruise out to the isles of 'Hawaii'. What could be set up there, a slaver's guild, a supply line? Ralph was eager to see, but until then he enjoyed the ride like any Kroger would.
S P E C I A L Strength - 5 Perception - 5 Endurance - 5 Charisma - 6 Intelligence - 9 Agility - 5 Luck - 6
E Q U I P M E N TMK2 Combat Armor - Built for warriors, it was meant for warriors like Krogers. Stripped down to include Kroger's family crest and colors it still bears some resemblance to its pre-war state. America forever.
You have an extraordinary silver tongue in the realm of bartering and trade. You get an extra die to roll during any dialogue with a merchant or tradesperson of some kind. However, any complications you generate during bartering will generate a scenario where an enemy NPC will attempt to rob you blind of all your caps.
At his core, Clive is someone who seeks entertainment. His favourite form of entertainment, however, is solving complex problems with his intellect, preferably via science. Perhaps such is the natural result of a person with tremendous intellect who grew up in a sheltered place in which problem-solving is an integral part of society. Clive might be insistent on ‘doing things the right way’ and to those who do not know, it might make him appear to be morally upright, however, his actual motivation has less to do with morality and more with the fact that ‘doing things the right way’ usually is the harder war, and thus, provide more challenges that he may entertain himself with. Oppressing the weak, and stealing from helpless people is something that he is not interested in because it’s easy, and therefore ‘mind-numbingly boring’ but he might consider robbing a saint if it provides him with a good challenge. On the flip side, he’s also not interested in doing anything about small-time raiders but might be compelled to take action against large raider groups because of the challenge.
Clive Lim was born on the 24th of January 2262 in Vault 52. Vault 52 was originally a vault where the inhabitants were the brightest academics America had to offer by 2077. They were intended to be a think tank to solve American society’s issues post the nuke. Interconnected with Vault 53 to 62 containing common citizens, Vault 52 to 62 was supposed to restart society after their reclamation day arrived. Or so was the official designation of Vault 52 to 62 located in Virginia. The truth, is, of course, they were vaults intended for experiments.
The experiment in Vault 52 to 62 is that of a think tank cultivation. The part that Vault 52 was intended to be a think tank was true, however rather than to restart society, the purpose of Vault 53 to 62 is to be experiment subjects to cultivate the think tank of 52. The society of Vault 52 is designed with problem-solving and academic pursuits in mind, with case studies and hypothetical Vignette cases for debate making an integral part of their curriculum. Every so often an ‘accident’ would occur in Vault 53 to 62 that caused problems. Perhaps the water chip broke, or an epidemic, or an unrest. Whatever the case, a problem in their society would arise and Vault 52 would assign people to solve their issues. The truth, was, of course, these were problems engineered by the overseers as part of the experiment to create the best think tank by using the issues in 53 to 62 as ‘field exercises’. The population of Vault 52, being intellectually gifted people, realised it at one point or another and this fact became a public secret in Vault 52, not allowed to be part of the public discourse, but is tolerated within private conversations and debated often in the debating club as ‘hypothetical scenario’. Those who attempt to bring it up into public discourse are ‘taken care of’ by being treated mentally ill patients suffering from Paranoid Schizophrenia. There are, of course, people who felt the experiment was immoral and debated on the opposition side in the ‘hypothetical debate’, Clive, seeing the issues in 53 to 62 as a good source of intellectual simulation debated on the utilitarian side, that these experiments honed the problem-solving skills of people in 52 and is for the greater good.
When Clive was 23, the experiment ended as the Reclamation Day began for Vaults 52 to 62. The vault doors open and the inhabitants step into the wasteland. Vault 52 and those who survived the experiments from the other vaults established a technocratic society in Virginia, led by Vault 52. Some left, however, looking to make their own fortune elsewhere. Some were those from Vaults 53 to 62 who had grown distrustful of 52, some were inhabitants of Vault 52 who had philosophical and ideological differences with the rest. Clive heard some of the inhabitants of 52 who left joined the NCR, some created their own testing facility in the wasteland, and he even heard some who had been recruited by some institute in Massachusetts. Clive himself remained for a while, opening a clinic while buying robots scavenged from the wasteland and refurbishing them in his spare time.
Eventually, two years later, after determining he had enough robots and supplies, he set off to the untamed wasteland and set up a clinic, defended by robots and whatever defences he could scavenge. He did not do it because he wanted to help people, rather, it was a stimulating challenge. The lack of supplies and raider threat provide additional variables as challenges. At one point, a patient of his turned out to be the runaway son of a prominent politician in the NCR. Convinced by his near-death injury that the wasteland life is not for him, Clive helped him to get in contact with his father—relishing solving the problem of how to establish a connection to NCR territory out west from Virginia—they eventually managed to contact the father, Senator Anthony Pittman. Grateful for saving his son, the senator gives Clive a ticket to the luxury liner Green Horizon that he cannot make use of due to scheduling issues. Intrigued by the novelty of a luxury liner, Clive accepted and got on board the Green Horizon, taking only a protectron as a pack mule and bodyguard.
• Vault 52 Jumpsuit, modified with insulated lining • Doctor’s coat • Basic Medical Equipment and Supplies • Modified Pip-Boy 3000 to have medical utilities added on such as X-ray and ECG. • 10 mm pistol, modified with reflex sight • Laser Pistol, modified with short scope and beta wave turner • Stimpaks x10 • Rad Away x5 • Antibiotics x5 • Robot Repair Kit x5 • Rad-X x5 • A Protectron named Automated Personal General Assistant (APGA)* • 2500 Bottle Caps
*As with all of the robots he interacted with, Clive mostly regards APGA as an advanced piece of technology and nothing more. He is fond of APGA but the feeling is more akin to that of a goldfish owner. He would be disappointed if he lost APGA, but in the end it's more of a piece of equipment rather than a companion.
You gain an extra die on all rolls concerning interacting or interfacing with robots. Additionally, you now have the ability to hack any robots and recruit them as permanent companions. However, hacking requires a CR of 5.
Praise the Unity: You are a Gen 1 Super Mutant made in the pits of Mariposa. You get an additional +2 to your Strength and Endurance and are immune to the effects of radiation. Unfortunately, you gain a +1 in DC in all interactions that involve humans and human NPCs are more likely to act negatively towards you. Seriously, dude, look at your skin, look at your lips!
A cursory assessment of Hog would not place him that far away from your average Super Mutant. With his bark-like voice and inhuman looks, one would perhaps not be blamed for thinking him not privy to the intricacies of civilized behavior at first glance. However, appearances can be deceiving, as Hog himself is all too aware and cautious about – as a result, he is deliberately and visibly gentle and kind, a behavior nurtured to find acceptance in the communities of the Wastes. Should he consider you an agreeable party, first contact with him is usually hospitable and improvised in ways that would prove him useful and harmless. The back and shoulders are hunched, the movement slowed. Words are chosen to imply softness of soul. Token amounts of necessities are offered. A look is offered into faulty machinery. All the evidence is presented for the onlooker to believe that hostility is not necessary.
However, beneath the facade of gentleness and simplicity, Hog is an educated, opinionated and jaded creature, although this quality seems to have manifested itself as distance rather than resentment or cruelty in his behavior. More than a hundred and fifty years roaming the lands has weathered the mutant in flesh and soul alike and as such, he has come to view humans as too hedonistic and short-sighted to produce anything but misery for themselves, not unlike animals – pets, in his words. Nonetheless, not being able to content himself with solitude has led him to seek communities in which he can belong and perhaps provide some degree of reason and stability, while keeping enough distance to shield him emotionally from what he thinks will be their inevitable and sad demise.
Should one somehow form a closer bond with him, Hog tends to drop pretensions of the gentle giant, save for the token offerings, and provide instead a steadfast if occasionally witty companion who is willing to fight and hurt for his convictions. Despite an appearance that would imply very much otherwise, Hog can be surprisingly sensitive on an emotional level when with those he feels an affinity towards. When hurt, the monstrous part of his Super Mutant nature shows itself the strongest as he tends to react violently and vindictively in such situations. More than one community has met its end at the hands of Hog for having wronged the wrong pet.
Background
Mariposa. That is the first thing Hog remembers. In the dim corridors of the military base was where he was first shaped and given purpose. To fight in the name of Master, of Unity. Armed with weaponry scavenged from the stocks of the compound, he like countless others was set out into the world to find souls worthy of ascending their humanity. He remembers his training with the gun, his yet virgin skin being first touched by the scorching sun, his forays against weak and strong men. He remembers when an armor-piercing round from his gun first pierced the softer abdomen plating of a Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel and spilled the man’s blood and guts and hydraulic fluid all over the desert, the red-black concoction sizzling and smoking as it heated up on the hot sands. He is not proud of those days, but they too were his days nonetheless.
He was not there for the death of the Lieutenant or the Master, he and his cohort having journeyed too far in their quest to provide specimens for their growing army. He remembers the news hitting them hard, too hard. A couple of them sitting dumb and unable to process the possibility, their squad leader weeping and sounding like a dozen animals being butchered – the first time he heard one of his kin cry. He remembers realizing there that not all they had been taught was true. Contention brewing in their hearts from then on. Suspicion. Selfishness. His squad dissolves bit by bit. A deserter there, one executed there. He decides to take the former route, suspecting that otherwise he will end up in the latter. He remembers taking the gun. It has stayed with him since.
He wandered the Wastes from then on, deciding to avoid most company after getting shot at during approach the third time. Making little sense of the world around him, he sought knowledge, seeking insight into the ways of man. He scoured markets, libraries, teaching himself how things worked. Machines, the men that made the machines, the men that made the men. After some years, with new understanding, he sought more nuanced ways of contact, such as rigging up a large picket sign on which he painted “I COME IN PEACE”. It was a slight improvement. Cautious contact with wandering parties eventually led to trade, and gradually, some semblance of acceptance. When he saved a trading caravan from a bighorner stampede via a generous administering of canister shot, their relationship even turned into one of gratitude.
Not long afterwards he was employed. It was with this caravan that he learned firsthand how men behaved. Their likes, dislikes. Their humor. Although a strange and barely tolerated sight in many communities, proper application of his expanding knowledge of human society slowly built a niche for him. As a force multiplier of his own, he provided a means for his caravan master to expend less on security, a fact which he quickly realized and used to increase his pay. As his financial position improved, he even went after certain luxuries to elevate his status. A hat. A pistol. A holster. An overcoat. It reached a point where whores in more destitute communities began hitting on him, which once caused such outrage that the town militia nearly run them out of town. Slowly and surely he made a name for himself in the Klamath-Oregon circuit.
Good times, he learned, were not everlasting. His first employer was killed in an ambush by the Jackals. While they paid dearly for it, a despondent Hog was still left aimless and took to drifting between towns until he was befriended by an innkeeper, though in a few years he too was killed in an altercation. Hog decided to stay around the inn nonetheless, for the sake of his late friend’s daughter and her wellbeing, though she would be consumed by her own vices. Outlasting his companions became a pattern and after some decades Hog grew tired of it, retreating to the wilderness of Idaho. Years spent in quietude taught him many valuable lessons, the most important being that despite his best attempts, he was still a social creature. Having grown tired of dog keeping, he wandered south once more, to a changed landscape. A world reconnecting, regrowing. Pretensions of statehood, civilization.
This time around, Hog decided to bond with communities, not singular people, reckoning them less likely to meet a sudden end. His skills made him useful to whichever community that would accept him, and he found that while his considerations regarding communities seemed to be correct, they were far more likely to fall victim to change. Sometimes for the better, often for the worse. Hysteria. Vice. Greed. More than once did he find a people worthy of cooperation to be worthy of reprimand, or worse. He came to tolerate this fact, gradually, but never did find his peace with it, becoming a drifter between communities, relying on the faults of memory to wash away the unsavory details of a place when in another. This went on for a while, although at some point, he found himself tired even with the land itself. The plains. The vastness of it all. Perhaps it was this that drove him to Hawaii. Perhaps it was a desire to begin again. Whatever the reason may be, he is on his way. Woe betide any who’d dare to stop him.
Equipment
The single most distinctive piece of equipment that Hog carries with him is what he simply calls the gun, a single shot, sliding breech anti-materiel rifle repurposed from an M61 Vulcan barrel. He does not know whether it was a pre-war invention or something come up with by the smiths of the Master’s army, but it has proved its worth by having served reliably over the course of Hog’s long and storied life. The years have taken its toll on the gun – its rifling is all but gone thanks to a lack of suitable ammunition driving Hog to build or commission reloaded, handmade cartridges, and more than a hundred years against the elements has nicked it in many a spot. Even though it no longer boasts its former range, the gun still functions as smoothly as the day when Hog first laid hands on it and is certainly his most prized possession.
Besides that, he carries a Ruger .44 Magnum revolver in a cross-draw holster, although this is mostly a status symbol, as he usually resorts to his “power fist” when unable to wield his 20mm – a massive brass knuckle on whose business end is written the word “POWER” in large, faded letters. Besides those, a suspended tool belt, and the clothes on his back –specifically chosen to both be comfortable, durable, and respectable– he carries a large rucksack filled with supplies, tools for his repair work, a heavy-duty multitool, and some miscellaneous trinkets.
Name: Akane (Current assumed name)/"Monkey-of-Red" (White Leg birth name)
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Age: Due to bad record keeping by the White Legs, not helped by the fact that they are now destroyed nearly to the (wo)man, Akane is not entirely sure how old she specifically is. She knows she's somewhere in her mid to late twenties, and that's as specific as she can be.
Strength: 10
Perception: 5
Endurance: 7
Charisma: 3
Intelligence: 4
Agility: 6
Luck: 5
Unarmed - 3
Melee - 3
Throwing - 0
Guts - 2
Athletics - 3
Guns - 3
Energy Weapons - 0
Explosives - 0
Medicine - 0
Piloting - 0
Sneak - 2
Lockpick - 0
Science - 0
Repair - 0
Speech - 0
Barter - 0
Survival - 3
Personality: Akane is a turbulent, choleric woman who feels far more at home in the wilderness that she once called home, in the halcyon days in Utah. Back when problems were real, and solvable. Stuff like finding enough food for the day, or clean water, or protecting your land from the crazy Mormons who insisted your way of life was inherently sinful and the tribes that decided to butter up to them. You dealt with those problems as they came up, and they were finished after a day's worth of hard effort, and you didn't need to constantly stress over it. Life was simpler, and things just made more sense. And no one had to pretend to be anything that they weren't. You didn't like someone? You told them that to their face and punched them. Didn't need to worry about social standing or keeping the so-called peace. It was violent, it was often savage, but Akane argues it brought out the best in people.
But those days are long behind her now. Zion no longer welcomed her people, not after the Mormons and their accursed courier showed up and drove them away. And when they tried to return back to their ancestral homeland, the 80s also made sure they weren't welcomed there either. And as the Bear slowly made its way eastwards, and the Mojave turned on its glitzy lights and paraded itself as a den of sin, it became increasingly clear that tribals in general were not long for this world. So as much as Akane wishes she could have finished the job of Salt-Upon-Wounds, and burn down all the accursed relics and symbols of the evil Old World, to return everything to salt and ashes... she was just one woman. So now she's forced to wear their clothes, speak their language, and to respect these meaningless social constructs like "property" and "money".
And she hates it. Akane feels so fake, so artificial. The creeping encroachment of civilization might have put the trappings of modern society on her, but the savage raider still lives on in her heart, desperately wishing it could tear itself out in freedom. But she's not strong enough to do so, and it only drives her to hate everyone she met in New California... least of all herself. God she hates herself for how weak she's become. To let herself get so domesticated by her peoples' traditional enemies.
The worst thing is that she knows she wasn't always this angry. Not when she was in Zion. She was at peace with herself, next to the calm, serene flow of the Virgin River. She used to be happy, carefree almost. Conversely to what the civilized wastelanders would claim, not everyday needed to be a violent struggle for survival. Hell, besides the occasional raiding and pillaging (not like the civilized folk don't steal other people's shit; they just make legal fictions to justify it!), tribal life was actually pretty calm, from what she remembered. Akane wishes she could find that peace again, that feeling of belonging in a community, particularly one that viewed itself a part of, rather than above, the wasteland. But for now, Akane isn't sure she'll ever find that peace. And there's something about that which, rather than burning a fire in her stomach... just made her melancholic. Perhaps she had her own version of Old World Blues, just her old world being within living memory...
Background: The woman presently known as Akane, was born as Monkey-of-Red (a name, in the White Leg pidgin language, roughly is meant to invoke "Angry Monkey"), as a freewoman of the White Legs. Originally raiders from the Great Salt Lake region, their ferocious temperament, complete cultural isolation due to their unique language they spoke, and access to superior weaponry due to strategic looting of Pre-War armories led them to become one of the most reviled and feared raider tribes in the region. Many communities in Utah and Nevada found their ruin at the barrel of their feared "storm drums", which paved way for domination of the region.
However, the White Legs did not see themselves as especially heinous or devil-like in the way they operated. The world was often a brutal and violent place, and they simply were just the best at dishing it out. They didn't particularly hate the people they raided, they just knew it was either them or the people they attacked, and they'd rather it be themselves. That was the mentality, at the very least, that Monkey-of-Red was raised in. Her people may be violent, sure, but they were honest and virtuous. They didn't pretend to be above the coyotes and yao guai, but viewed themselves as part of the very same wasteland that all other life came from. The predator eats the prey, but that doesn't mean that the predator hated the prey. It was all part of the circle of life, and Monkey-of-Red was eager to take her place in said circle. Indeed, to Monkey-of-Red, it was everyone else who was weird, for worshiping the crude, disgusting effigies of the old world that scarred and polluted the earth! Those monuments to man's sin needed to be destroyed, not revered!
Beyond the communities that they raided, however, the real enemy of the White Legs were the Mormons-- New Canaan, the largest settled society within Utah. Their settlers encroached on their traditional hunting grounds, and they branded Monkey-of-Red's peoples as unredeemable sinners for worshipping their gods and daring to defend their lands. So it should be no shock that New Canaan and its outlying communities were the most popular targets for White Legs raids. One of Monkey-of-Red's proudest days was when Salt-Upon-Wounds, the esteemed and respected war leader for the White Legs, noticed Monkey-of-Red's potential as a warrior, and personally bestowed her one of the tribes' storm drums. Soon enough, the tribal woman set off on raids, keeping her people well fed and free from the clutches of the evil Canaanites.
The constant raiding against the Mormons seemingly attracted the attention of a man named Caesar, a fact unbeknownst to Monkey-of-Red, ultimately sealed the fate of her tribe. He sent one of his emissaries up north to attempt to negotiate an alliance with the White Legs, one that Salt-Upon-Wounds was more than eager to make. Ulysses, his name was, was nearly revered as a god by Salt-Upon-Wounds, as the Legion represented the one known raider group that utterly dwarfed the White Legs; a sort of might-recognizes-might fanboying going on. Salt's love for the man rubbed off on many tribals, Monkey-of-Red included, who started to ceremoniously braid their hair in dreadlocks to honor who they considered to be the strongest warrior. Monkey-of-Red barely had a chance to talk to the Legionnaire, as he was more involved with the leaders of the tribe, but there was one night where she managed to corner him alone. She wish she never had. There was something in his eyes that terrified her. A look of disgust and regret. The former when he noticed her newly braided hair, and the latter when she mentioned fighting for Caesar. It was like he looked down on her, for reasons Monkey-of-Red never fully understood, but knew enough to realize she, nor the other White Legs, would be seen as equals by Ulysses, let alone Caesar.
It wasn't too long afterwards that the White Legs marched onto war. Their price of admission to potentially join the Legion was to utterly destroy New Canaan. And no amount of self-doubt inflicted by meeting representatives of the Legion was going to dissuade Monkey-of-Red from fighting the stuck up, hypocritical Mormons. And that day was glorious. Monkey-of-Red, to this day, would consider the sacking of New Canaan the greatest moment of her life. In one swift movement, they destroyed the capital of sin and decadence within Utah, burning their churches and other pre-war monuments, putting their peddlers-of-lies to the sword (or, more accurately, the .45 auto), and in an symbolic act of defiance, literally salting the earth to make sure that the accursed land could never be settled again, and would instead be returned back to the earth. Monkey-of-Red proudly bared a storm drum in the fighting, along with a power fist, and made sure to slaughter as much of her peoples' traditional oppressors as she could. But, unfortunately, they didn't get everyone. Survivors scattered to the four corners of the earth. And one that Caesar wanted dead in particular went southwards, towards Zion. So that's where the White Legs marched to.
If New Canaan represented everything Monkey-of-Red hated, Zion represented the good in the world. The former national park was beautiful, practically untouched even before the bombs dropped! The local tribes of the area, the Dead Horses and the Sorrows, weren't unlike the White Legs either, except that their relative isolation meant neither had the same proclivity to violence that the White Legs did. Perhaps, in another life, the three tribes could have been friends, maybe shared Zion together, kept the virgin pristine land safe from the encroaching settlers. But they were here to do a job. To kill the Burned Man. And the Dead Horses in particular took him in, and made him their war leader. What a sick joke. When they refused to hand him over... it was war. The White Legs, Monkey-of-Red included, did what they knew best: stormed the valley and took as much land as they could by force. Then they besieged the other tribes, taking what they needed to survive, before ultimately hoping to force the Burned Man to come out from his caves so they may take his head to Caesar.
Unfortunately, that day never came. Another wastelander entered the valley, a courier of some sort, and eventually helped prepare the two tribes to make war to the White Legs. Monkey-of-Red fought as valiantly as she could, but even despite their superior training and weaponry, there simply was not enough White Legs to hold off the Burned Man, the Courier, and the combined strength of two tribes. The war ended almost as quickly as it began, with most of the White Legs dead. A few survivors, Monkey-of-Red among them, managed to escape the reprisal killings. Salt-Upon-Wounds was another survivor; he claimed he was able to hold off the Burned Man long enough to escape, but there was something in his voice that Monkey-of-Red could tell that he was broken by whatever event transpired between the two. Others accused him of outright lying, that he actually begged for his life like a little bitch. To the Mormons! Monkey-of-Red knew that couldn't be true. Salt-Upon-Wounds wasn't a coward. It couldn't be true. It couldn't.
The survivors of the Zion expedition came back as failures, and with it, the infamous reputation of brutal invincibility died with it. Another tribe, the 80s, took advantage of the weakness of the White Legs and the deflated leadership of Salt-Upon-Wounds. It didn't take long before their main camp was being razed, Salt-Upon-Wounds meeting a brutal end as his throat was cut upon by a tomahawk. Monkey-of-Red saw her idol being cut down, and knew it was that moment the White Legs were dead. She wanted to stay, to avenge him, to avenge the White Legs... but she couldn't. She felt too scared. She ran. Ran as far as her feet would take her, away from Utah, away from this accursed place. Her first thought was to go south, towards the Legion. Sure, they didn't kill the Burned Man, but maybe Caesar would have appreciated the attempt? But then she remembered the face Ulysses made, and remembered to go south would mean to go to Zion again. No, she couldn't. There was nothing for her there. So she just kept running in the direction she already was running. Which just so happened to be westward.
Wandering the wasteland as a tribal woman who didn't speak English was... hard. No one could understand what she was trying to say (if they didn't immediately run away in fear if they recognized her appearance as a White Leg), so many encounters just ended up in bloodshed since it was either her or them, and she didn't live this long by accepting the answer as them. She wasn't exactly proud of this era of her life, but she was willing to do what it took to keep food in her stomach and .45 auto in her storm drum. Eventually, though, she ended up finding the largest settlement she ever encountered in her life. A settlement that she would eventually get well acquainted with: New Reno.
Perhaps in any other settlement, Monkey-of-Red would have been casted away as the brutal tribal she was, shunned or even outright killed. In New Reno, however? A brutal ex-raider was exactly what the gangs wanted in particular, an enforcer that was powerful yet disposable. And the Yakuza in particular, they claimed they saw some kind of kinship with Monkey-of-Red. After some extremely extraneous translating that was awkward for all parties involved, they claimed her facial features and skin tone marked her as a daughter of a mythical faraway land called "Asia", where their ancestors ultimately came from. They were willing to take her in, make her one of their own, and teach her the language of the civilized people, in return for her bringing her tribal savagery to their gang wars. Monkey-of-Red, not having much else to live for, accepted.
So the next few years of her life was spent in this den of debauchery and gambling, as she slowly become acclimated to civilized life. Her tribal clothes were discarded for uncomfortable, stiff suits. Her war paint was eventually washed off. Finding her name ridiculous, the Yakuza even bestowed her a "proper" Japanese name, using Akane to roughly match the "red" part of her name. The one area she refused to compromise on was the dreads: she nearly killed the man that approached her hair with scissors. Even if she didn't revere Ulysses, she revered Salt-Upon-Wounds, and Salt loved the dreadlocks. Its why the rest of the tribe followed him in suit with adopting them. If this was the one way she could appropriately honor her White Leg heritage, then so be it. The dreadlocks stayed.
Life in New Reno, however, never felt the same to Akane. She hated how fake everyone felt, the Yakuza especially. They cared so much about honor and "bushido", yet acted no different from the other gangs that ran the city. And why does everyone care so much about bottlecaps? You can't eat them, you can't hunt with them, they're bloody useless! But everyone acted like they were more important than life itself! What the actual fuck? And whilst she didn't mind the killing, in a vacuum, a lot of the fighting felt pointless. A coyote doesn't kill for the sake of killing! It kills to eat!
Eventually, enough was enough. Akane took whatever caps she saved up, and in the middle of the night, left New Reno. She needed to get out of there. Away from that place. Away from the sin. Anywhere would have been better than Reno. So she continued to wander westward, towards California. Now being able to speak English, moving around didn't necessarily need to be so violent. But there was a part of her that wishes she didn't understand what the Californians had to say. They were some of the most vapid, pretentious people she ever met on those trails. Part of her wish she could have just raided them conscience-free. But life simply didn't work that way anymore, unfortunately. Instead, the woman simply moved from community to community, doing odd jobs (mostly of the violent persuasion) before moving on to the next community, refusing to settle down in one area for too long.
Through her wandering, Akane learned of a new frontier, over in the ocean. A place known as Hawaii, which was untouched by the ravages of so-called civilization, a pristine, virgin land for the taking. Compared to everything she experienced since leaving Utah, this Hawaii sounded like paradise. A second chance for Zion, even. Using all the caps she could scrounge up, the woman made her way to the coastline, and bought herself a ticket to this new land. Whatever was in store for her, it had to be better than California.
Equipment:
Brahmin-skin suit: A compromise between the tribal clothes she actually feels comfortable with, and the expectations civilized society has on people to dress modestly. These overalls-and-shirt combo is dirty and perhaps not the most well maintained, but it is uniquely hers, and a statement of trying to live closer to nature rather than pre-war society.
.45 Auto Submachine Gun: Known by the White Legs as a "Storm Drum", these were the signature weapons of the White Legs tribe. While Akane prefers, in a vacuum, the thrilling rush of personal combat, keeping her storm drum around gives her a comforting continuity with her heritage. This is their weapon, and she was going to honor them by maintaining it as long as she could.
Makeshift Tomahawk: Akane is somewhat embarrassed by the fact she wasn't exactly the best at throwing tomahawks like others were in her tribe, but that doesn't mean that she can't just walk up and slash someone with it up and personal. Not an actual relic of Utah, but instead improvised in the style of tomahawks from that region.
Her fists: Akane was a brawler. While going around and punching people in a war scenario isn't exactly the smartest idea, even Salt-Upon-Wounds had to concede Akane was far better with her hands than any particular weapon. She was perhaps the strongest warrior in personal hand-to-hand combat in the entire tribe.
Humanity was not meant to survive the apocalypse. The apocalypse was a wake-up to return back to our anarcho-primitivism routes. In combat against individuals wielding any technologically advanced piece of equipment equivalent to that of a laser rifle, you add 3 points to any skill check you make related to combat. Additionally, you add a +4 to your INT checks during any conversation with an NPC from a tribal faction. Your tribistic tendencies make civilised wastelanders more wary of you during conversation and thus, your chance of critical fails during conversations with them is doubled.
A natural intellectual, her way of thinking offers a lot of insight into the world around her, but for the most part, Dr. Kinsley is private and withdrawn, and so very little is known of her, just that she is good at what she does and does it without much of a fuss.
What is known, however, is that she is direct in her communication, and does not mince her words. It is not too much of a secret that Dr. Kinsley glass is entirely empty. Her eyes are often glazed over with a gloom that transcends her social interactions. Her brutal honesty can be refreshing, and between the lines of melancholy, there is often genuinely helpful nuggets of wisdom that most certainly come from the little warmth that she does have left. Particularly for those who make an effort to get to know her beyond her outward quirks.
Life isn’t all a spiral of darkness, and there are brief moments where Dr. Kinsley will light up with joy, and smile from her heart. In those moments, colour seems to momentarily return and she possesses a maternal grace that hasn’t completely left her. But yes, those moments are fleeting and rare — but the longer she spends with people, being useful, the more such moments beat back the darkness.
Dr Kinsley can usually be found pacing back and forth, muttering her thoughts to herself, or perhaps to Chowder. She doesn’t really seem to care that she sleeps in short bursts. Her pacing and chuntering late at night might well bother others, however.
She has an incredibly logical mind, and is a fantastic problem solver. She enjoys intellectual puzzles, particularly linguistic or mathematical ones. Solving puzzles is one of the few things she presently takes joy in, and her skills translate beyond being able to figure out the answer to a riddle - but in the real world too. She can make logical decisions with ease, without being too tangled up in emotional aspects. She excels in analysing connections, linking together seemingly unrelated factors in a way that might confuse someone else.
Born Harper Howard in 2147 in the New California Republic, Harper had an affluent upbringing. Both of her parents were notable doctors, and she was destined for the same path - and maybe more. In 2164 she was formally learning the art of medicine and surgery from books, until she came of age enough to start practicing in clinics.
Her friendly demeanour and intense passion for her chosen science made her popular in the NCR, and her career grew very quickly. It was at some point that she met Alex Kinglsey, a fellow Doctor who travelled with the Followers of the Apocalypse. They begin a flirtatious friendship, wherein Alex would design and create various puzzles for Harper to solve. This went on for some time, until they confessed their feelings to one another, eventually getting married, and leaving the NCR for a nomadic life with her husband.
At the same time, Harper’s medical skills flourished - her expertise in the nervous system, and specifically, tumours, gave her a prodigious reputation. Her record exceptional, until she came across a patient with an impossible tumour. Dr Kinsley’s hubris got the better of her, and the patient died on the table. Her first, but not her last. A lesson, and yet a motivator to be better still.
It wasn’t long until Alex and Harper welcomed their daughter, Victoria to the world, and Harper took to motherhood well - doting on the child. She’d never known such love before, and that love drove her yet again to continue her work, to continue saving lives and preserving life. Their family grew when Victoria was a little older, and a blue heeler puppy was brought home, with their daughter naming him Chowder.
The dog terrorised Harper. He would only chew and piss on her things, and yet was such the perfect best friend to Victoria, practically shoving out the child’s mother. “I’m just not a dog person,” Harper would say, despite the challenges of the animal, she accepted that Victoria had chosen him as her best friend, and in that she was glad that they had each other.
Eight years into parenthood, Alex and Victoria got sick, after an expedition out. They appeared malaised, coughing and wheezing. Their blood instantly coagulating. Harper diagnosed pneumonia. But the bleeding and rashes… It was more than pneumonia. The two were constantly confused, slurring.
<Snipped quote>
It took only days for the sickness to take them. First Alex. Victoria held on for another 36 hours before passing in her sleep. Harper buried her next to Alex, where Chowder sat for days on end, crying occasionally. Harper had to drag the dog away, for both of their sake - taking off from the Followers.
For a long while, Harper wandered aimlessly as she could from place to place. Staying here and there, treating people where she could for caps in some walking, waking dream. She eventually stumbled upon a wounded youth in the wild, alone and hurt. Chowder seemed to take to him, and when Harper helped him back to his feet, she realised that he was a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. This awoke something in her that had long been asleep, a stirring to the reality that still existed even amongst her grief. Factions remained, and war never changed.
She’d travelled so far from anything that was her home, hell, she’d buried her home miles and miles gone, years ago. With something of a purpose, fate brought her to the strange shores of Hawaii.
A standard outfit consists of denim fatigues and a battered burgundy fedora. In a sterile environment, and when not out on the road, Dr. Kinsely can be found in a surgical jacket and scrub cap. Pocket Knife .44 Pistol Roll of Surgical Tools First Aid Kit
An 11 year old Blue Heeler. Dr. Kinsley's companion. Chowder makes himself useful in the field by sniffing out items that may be of use. Sometimes, anyway. He's 11 years old, that nose isn't as powerful as it used to be - or the ears for that matter. Still, he's a Good Boy and friend to all - if nothing else, he's a fantastic morale boost. Just don't leave your shoes unattended.
You have a dog, one of the many enterprising furry companions for any wasteland wanderer. Your dog is an NPC and can earn XP and attack enemies, albeit at a diminished rate compared to you. Once per scene, your dog can reduce the DC of any skill check you are doing by providing moral and emotional support in the form of cuddles.
Malcolm can be described as a quiet and solitary person ever since leaving his raider life behind and while he does not seem like it. He can be a kind and friendly person. It just depends on how you act and treat people around him. Though he is no longer a raider, a part of him still feels guilty about what he did with the Red Scorpions, and he is determined to redeem himself. Along with being loyal to those treat him well and he calls friends. Especially if they know of his raider past, and while Malcolm does not talk about his days as a raider. He is hesitant to bring it up with new people. Still, you can find a fighting spirit in him and is keen on doing right by the world and the people he cares about.
Background
Malcolm has had an interesting life, born in a small settlement somewhere in Utah. He had a decent life growing up in his home settlement. His parents were the leaders of it and despite barely scraping by. The settlement survived, but one day, it was attacked by raiders and burned to the ground when Malcolm was ten. Though it was not a random attack, apparently how the raiders put it, Malcolm's father had a deal with the raiders, extortion really, and one day, his father finally said no to them, and the raiders wanted the settlement to be a message to the other settlements that they extorted from.
But why leave Malcolm alive and take him in? As a twisted sense of revenge, what could be better than raising the son of a resisting settlement to be the very thing his father hated? So Malcolm was brought in to the raiders and raised as one of their own.
The raiders were called the Red Scorpions, and growing up with them was a hard life. The insults, the beatings, and other cruelty they did to him. But, as time passed, he slowly started to become one of them. However, there were some things that they could not beat out of him. Despite being apart of the group and going out on raids, a piece of his old self remained, and as the years went by. That old self started to resurface until, one day, it was fully unleashed.
That day was when Malcolm saved a group of captured survivors from the Red Scorpions. It nearly killed him, but the survivors managed to escape with him in tow back to their home settlement. There, he recovered at their settlement would welcome him as of their own. Though Malcolm would appreciate it, he would still feel guilty about what he had down under the Red Scorpions. The survivors, as Malcolm would learn, were former New Canaanites and introduced him to their religion. While Malcolm did not take it right away, the idea of redemption did help them to make feel better and decide on his next course of action. Though he would stay with the New Canaanites for some time before sending off.
But as one last token of gratitude to the New Canaanites, he agreed to do one last task for them. For they had a package that needed to be delivered to the far away Aloha Isles. Despite the distance, Malcolm agreed to it to without thinking about it. Though he was not told what the package was but he trusted the New Canaanites and so he did not asked.
Now, after learning about a ship heading to the Aloha Isles, he booked passage and is keen on delivering his package, no matter what it is.
Equipment Weapons Bowie knife .45 Auto pistol Service rifle Sawed-off shotgun
Ammo .45 Auto ammo x5 5.56mm ammo x6 12 gauge x24
Armor and apparel Traveling clothes Satchel with a package in it Leather armor Robe with hood
Consumables 2x RadAway. 3x Rad-X. 5x Stimpak. 2x Med-X. 3 days of food and purified water.
Misc 3 Weapon repair kits Gun cleaning kit Binoculars 4,000 Bottle Caps Lighter Basic survival gear and supplies Holy Cross necklace Set of Goggles Bible
You are a bearer of the traditions and beliefs of New Canaan. Once per combat, you can invoke your faith in the Bible to act as an extra luck point. After usage, you must charge back your Bible by writing a scene where your character affirms his faith to God and the parables of New Canaan.
Trait You have a knack for making technological marvels out of the ruins of the past. Once per combat, with your GM’s permission, you may create any item out of the surrounding materials avaliable. However, this item only lasts for the duration of combat and you must roll a seperate INT+Repair check for every usage to determine if it will break down in the middle of combat.
Personality
Inquisitive, spirited and hands-on; Helene is a a woman described by her peers as, either endearingly or with disdain, a nerd.
Helene loves to drown herself in dusty books and to lose herself in impassioned rants about the nature of the world around her. Maybe a few musings about both pre and post-war media, to boot. That's how she spent a lot of her early life, after all. That is, before Hoover Dam. Something sparked in her. A simmering desire to get out there. farther than the volunteer repair work she used to do for Shady Sands. A desire to not just learn from the wonders of people past and present...but a subconscious desire to make her own mark. To make a difference. And the NCR after 2282? It needed people like her, desperately.
Despite her wanderlust and desire to go out to experience the wider world, she still finds herself either frightened or overwhelmed by the horrors of the wastes outside of the heartlands of the NCR. Furthermore, she finds it difficult to connect to people unless they share at least a few of her core passions. Nonetheless, after her departure from the NCR, she found herself picking through ruined complexes for interesting old tech, having warm chats with Followers she meets along the road, and voraciously absorbing newly-uncovered issues of ¡La Fantoma!.
Background
Shady Sands. Home. Helene Liu remembers her childhood in vivid, dreamlike colours. How, despite days of sorrow and pain, she never truly suffered. The delicious fresh food, clean water, and her school with lovely Ms. Delgado. She remembered how, as a kid, she would jump up and down the public trams that passed by the streets that were constantly bustling with trade , or with new buildings being raised or restored. As she grew older, she wowed her peers with her knack for repair-work, and her technical acumen. She beamed with joy whenever her teachers or superiors would compliment her smarts. This was her life. Her life in the New Californian Republic. Who could ask for more?
Helene would turn 16. As she came of age, she began to have her eyes opened. As she read and talked and actually ventured out beyond Shady, she learnt how her comforts were even possible. A periphery of settlements that supported the comfortable lifestyles of the heartland, settlements that struggled with basic needs. That's not to say of the settlements outside the NCR; Hell. It could be Hell on Earth. It was wrong. It was unfair. Helene would continue to read her decaying science books and her dusty, torn superhero comics with increasing sadness. Was she in a bubble? Was her country, that she would still assert in the present day that she still loves, being fair? Not really, no.
Then she turned 18. The dream ended. If her sight was initially opened, now it was shattered. The second battle of Hoover Dam, New Vegas, the Mojave; a quagmire. A disaster. The less said of the details, her peers said, the better. The details don't matter anymore, not after so many young lives were thrown west, and for what? For the Corpse carts limping back over the I15?
Helene signed up to the NCR military sometime afterwards. It was certainly a time to join; morale was at an all-time low. Rumours of desertions and resignations abound, not that she could decipher how true or deep they were. Yet it was better late than never. She was too young to have served in the Mojave anyways. Her technical skill saw her climb up the ranks as a combat engineer, and she found herself dealing with maintenance and field work. Her personal favourite time was the repair work of the remaining NCR suits of salvaged power armour. While she eventually became familiar with their inner workings, she would never wear a suit, nor receive the training. Not that she even cared to; she just admired the wonderous pre-war tech behind them! She would spend a few more years on tour, as the NCR reoriented and reassessed. Life on the frontiers of the NCR was tough, and she gained her first taste of true violence and conflict. It was a taste she would never truly grow comfortable with. Was she even making a difference? In this case, sure. Maybe. Perhaps? It never seemed truly revolutionary to her.
She finished her tour of duty barely three years ago. She proved to be a decent enough soldier, although a far better engineer. Walking across California, she would become a drifter who sold her skills and her service in the NCR as a way to garner cash, caps and shelter. It was these years that proved to be Helene's most formative. It was in the digging, the scavenging, the amateur research, that she became obsessed with the old world.
Helene would have mixed fortunes. Some weeks and months would be nothingburgers. Wastes of time. Very occasionally, she would find something worthwhile; a pre-war book with useful information. Some intact conductors or fission batteries that could be solid for a cup full of caps. Yet one day, while exploring a Robco facility beyond the edges of NCR territory, she would come across a barely functioning Eyebot. It was not anything fancy; seemed to have been a service Eyebot, a humble worker of menial tasks and basic information gathering/dispersal. The plucky wanderer spent nearly a week, maybe longer, that old facility, digging through scraps and other now destroyed robots to nurse the Eyebot back to working condition. She finds it utterly adorable. While it lacks a true personality, Helene would end up talking to it on occasion, sometimes in endearing ways. It only beeps back. On starry nights, she would lay by a campfire and have the Eyebot pipe old, crusty songs from holotapes. Serenades of midnight-bound rangers. She wonders what those old, history-bound cowboys would think of her world. Of her Eyebot. Of everything that has happened since. She would do a lot of thinking in her moments of rest. Reflection.
The NCR, a nation she still felt feelings for, felt like it had become increasingly lost. It needed direction. A purpose. Like her! And as she dug through old Repconn facilities and dived into scrapyards, she wondered if the Old World had the answers to questions that had gripped her. A way to make things fair, safe, colourful, to breath the same life she had in her childhood back into her world. Wanderers like her would accuse her of having Old World Blues. Helene would always spin it as a positive; that she merely wanted to look into the technological marvels of the past to help save the future. The fact that she nonetheless felt increasingly sad did not escape her. She suppressed those blues as hard as she could. Maybe she'll vent to her Eyebot, but never to a real person. Answers were out there. Answers to a colourful, right life for all. Out there in the dusty sands and farms of Californi-
Or maybe beyond. No, not the Mojave. Maybe it lies West. Further. Much, much further. Across that mysterious vast ocean...
Equipment
A jury-rigged AER9 laser rifle. Helene's prized possession, and the only reason she hasn't had her legs gnawed off by a radscorpion during her wandering days. Brought as a broken model she got from a scrapyard, she managed to cobble a surprisingly working model together after months of constant scavenging work. Of course she did; the lens were still intact! It would have been a waste otherwise. Helene spends hours of her free time every week maintaining and caring for it, in a manner that might be viewed by some as disturbingly possessive. She almost wanted to nickname it, but the laughter or raised eyebrows she got when she experimented with that shut that idea down...for now.
An old, worn set of recon armour. Actually a barely-armoured, glorified jumpsuit from the pre-war, meant to be an underclothing for armoured American soldiers. Many people in the current wasteland use it standalone though; some like the basic protection it brings from the elements, while others think its stylish. For Helene? It's both. Even if it makes her look a bit fat. Shame about the rust and the wear-and-tear. Many a night has been spent polishing and cleaning this thing.
A restored service Eyebot. Scavenged from several ruined Eyebots at an old Robco facility near the border of what was once Oregon, this dinky little ball of circuits has been Helene's only friend for the past year. Capable of scouting, menial tasks and playing old music. It communicates only in beeps, boops and binary while lacking the intelligence of the rest of Robco's line. Helene talks endearingly to it anyways. She would rather die than see it get hurt.
A used 9mm Pistol. Helene carries no ammo for this thing. She has not shot it in years. It's kept as memorabilia, a living memory of her time in the NCR military.
Goggles. Used to shield her eyes from storms, or to protect her eyes during welding or soldering work. She also thinks it looks cute on her forehead. Helene is almost never seen without them, unless she's sleeping.
Water Canteen. She would be dead without this.
A Backpack. It's her backpack; there are many like it, but this is hers. Used to partially carry interesting scrap for eventual sale, but mostly to carry her survival gear. And a book. Several. It gets boring out there, ok?
Several old pre-war books. As said above. Dusty, old, crumbling and unsurprising when you consider it's been 200 years. She cherishes every one of them.
A book and pen. Used to record observations. A journal, of sorts. Occasionally insightful, mostly rambly.
A good number of microfusion cells. The bread and butter of her trusty rifle. She swears she has like..100? 120? Maybe less? She needs to start keeping track.
