Sam gave his radio a grunt of acknowledgement as Eliza came over with a map. ”Hmm,” He let out another grunt as his eyes fixed on the insignia of her uniform. ”And here I thought you were just some merc doin’ their dirty work…if I’d ‘ve realized you were one of ‘em…I’d ‘ve done the world a favour and shot you.” The very lack of heat in his voice amplified the utter sincerity of his words.
Another woman, this one in Brotherhood gear approached, and he was turning to at least give her a minimal greeting when a Marshal came trotting up, throwing Sam a rough salute while ignoring the others. ”Marshal Smith. Last of the raiders are down, though a few may have slipped back out of town.”
Sam replied with his own salute and a nod. ”Fine. Ring the bell to let the civvies know it’s clear, then gather up as many as you can for a graves detail; I want our losses put to rest as soon as possible.” The Marshal saluted again and was about to move off when Sam raised his hand to stop him. ”Oh, and Danforth, get that idiot brother of yours to find out where the fuck our reinforcements are.” Danforth simply nodded before heading off.
He let out a long sigh, and almost reached for the inhaler of Ultra Jet in his coat pocket for a ‘pick-me-up’…but he knew that was false energy and he’d crash even harder once it wore off. Turning his attention to the new woman, he nodded. ”Marshal Smith…can’t say I’m overjoyed to see more of you lot…but hey…” He shrugged, before looking back to Finn. ”I know you’ve got some important shit to lay out, and your folks have been a help,” The thought of thanking Brotherhood or Enclave troops left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but they were words that needed saying. ”But if you really want to do some good, I need the dead raiders buried before they start to rot and stink up the place any more, and scouts to find where this lot came from. Whoever is in charge of this ‘crew’ wasn’t here, and if they’re ballsy or mad enough to assault the town, odds are they’ll be back.”
Raising a hand he waved it towards the northwest. ”Just dump the bodies in the swamp north of here…” Sam closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, swaying as he did so. ”I’d send some of my own to scout…hell, the crazy bastards would volunteer to go…but we’ve been running on chems and adrenaline for four days now…”
@Eviledd1984 There are wastelanders. My character is a pre-War ghoul clerk turned lawman. He's not a big fan of the BoS or Enclave...but they're the (slightly) lesser evils at the moment, compared to a super mutant army.
Sam fixed Finn with a glare that would break most people. “Don’t apologize to me,” He snarled. “Apologize to the families of the men and women your selfish action killed, apologize to Frank Turbot for having to watch his sister get eaten alive by a fucking Deathclaw!” When Finn tried to put a placating hand on his shoulder, Sam slapped it away.
He let Finn speak his piece, whatever his other failings were, Sam knew Finn wasn’t one to blow smoke. At the mention of ‘Enclave’, coupled with his own realization that a chunk of the forces Finn’d arrived with were also Enclave, his own pulse spiked and he nearly drew anyways. His men were tired, low on ammo and out-gunned…but he nearly committed them to combat with this new force anyways; his mood as soured even further when Finn called out the Enclave Captain and it was her.
He kept himself in check, instead fixing Finn with another withering glare. ”I’ll say this once Phineas. If any of your little tin cans or your new fascist ‘friends’ act out against the folks here, I will shoot them myself, clear?” He let out a long, and slightly aggravated sigh, swaying slightly as he did. Ghouls could go longer without rest that normal humans, but the only things keeping him on his feet at this point were adrenalin, spite and a few hits of ultra jet sometime yesterday. He was about to continue his venting against Finn, when a rapidly approaching commotion distracted him.
Two raiders were rushing towards them, though their attitude seemed much more fearful than hostile. Sam’s fatigue fogged brain was still trying to sort out what was happening, when it all came to a moot point. The strange robot/cyborg/whatever who’d been chasing the raiders caught up with them, and made rather short work of the pair in quick succession. He grunted an acknowledgement to Finn, but kept his eyes on the ‘girl’ as she requested new orders.
”Well done,” He said, ‘her’ actions had saved him expending any more ammo on those two. ”I’m still sorting shit out here, and I think these tin cans can handle the mop up, so take five.”
"Order not understood. Requesting clarification.” The blank stare that accompanied elicited another sigh. When she’d arrived with the caravan, she’d latched onto him for some reason, but only seemed to respond to formal pre-War style directions. He shook his head and let out a small ‘huff’ before trying again. ”The reinforcements will handle further location security; stand easy until further orders.”
A half-forgotten short range radio on Sam’s vest crackled to life. Goddamn civvies! He brought it to his lips. ”Hold your position for now. We’ve got support sweeping the town for raiders. Will ring town bell when it’s safe, for now keep this channel clear. Marshal Smith out.” Stuffing the radio into a pocket, he returned his attention to his one-time protege. ”So, super mutant army? Just what the fuck is going on Bob?”
Marshal Smith always had a reputation as a acerbic personality, and the last few days hadn’t done much for his mood. He’d arrived to help to defend the town, much of which involved stopping the damned civvies from running about like headless chickens in a blind panic; add to that a small caravan arriving with a ‘girl’ who seemed totally bewildered by the world as a whole, and who had latched onto Sam, just minutes before the raiders arrived left him with one more thing to worry about.
Now three days later, he was sore, sleep deprived and running on a mixture of chems and coffee. Perched on the town’s water tower with his rifle, a pre-war megaphone and a whistle that’d once been Constable Wyatt’s, he blew a shrill blast into the megaphone. ”SOUTH GATE! SOUTH GATE!” He bellowed as the latest wave of Raiders pushed the gate. Fire from the defenders crackled and raiders fell in droves.
From his perch, Sam fired into the back ranks of the attackers, targeting anyone how look like they where either in some sort of leadership role, or carried a weapon more effective than an old piece of pipe. His M72 ‘cracked’ and a raider’s head exploded like an over ripe mutfruit, causing the raider to drop their lit firebomb. It shattered and set two more raiders alight; but Sam wasn’t watching, keeping his focus on other targets, engaging them at will.
Movement beyond the assault tugged at the corner of his vision, but he assumed it was hostile reinforcement…at least until an unfortunately familiar voice cut in over the town’s PA system.
"This Knight Captain Cassidy of the Brotherhood of Steel. We are sending reinforcements to clear hostiles assaulting the town, do not fire. I repeat do not fire on the incoming vehicles they are friendly."
” ‘Friendly’ my leathery ass…” He muttered.
Whatever their over all intentions were, the tin cans did open fire on the rear ranks of the raiders with high-ex and canister, churning the force assaulting the town into so many pounds of meat, some of which was still screaming. A cheer from, most, of the beleaguered defenders went up as the raiders died, though from his vantage point, he caught a glimpse of bodies scrambling over the West wall. ”Shit!” He blew another whistle blast into the megaphone. ”Breach! Breach! Breach! They’re heading for the hotel!”
His rifle came up once more, but he swore violently as he realized he had no shots. Below him, a group of Tarheels, Marshals, and town militia were already heading towards the hotel, and he could hear gunfire bark from the folks who’d been left to defend the non-combatants. He wanted to go rush in and join the group, but he knew they had it under control..and that he was in command now, so the new arrivals were something he needed to deal with. ”Fan-fucking-tastic…”
He scrambled down the tower in short order, and made his way to the gate, swapping in a high-cap magazine to his rifle as he did. All too soon he was standing in front of a man he’d really hoped to never see again. ”The fuck are you doin’ here Bob?” He growled, glaring at the Knight-Captain. A few of the BoS troopers seemed to take umbrage with his tone, but when one made a half-step towards Sam, the reaction from the Tarheels still on the wall made them stop. ”Thanks for the shooting, but you’ve done your bit, so feel free to fuck off.”
He moved closer to Finn, pitching his voice so only the two of them could hear it. ”You got a lot of nerve showing up ‘round here after the shit you pulled… ‘specially when you’re pallin’ ‘round with a bunch of jumped up raiders like this. Swore I’d put a bullet in you the next time I saw you Bob, so you’d best talk fast.”
Workout done, and freshly showered, he flicked on the TV across from his ‘bed’ while he got dressed for the day. To his surprise, instead of the usual banal ‘Happy New Year’ stuff he’d been expecting, all the local stations were going on about an attempted bank robbery and the flying meta that stopped it. The nattering on the talking heads on the news drove Arty to mute them, but he kept watching as the pink-haired woman did her thing. ”Super cheerleader…great…” He said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. The footage stopped and a frame of her face was enlarged while the station applied some video wizardry to try and expose the back lit face.
The whole bit only lasted a few minutes, but Arty found himself staring at the screen. Why the hell does she seem familiar? The ‘cleaned up’ image was barely passable as an iffy CCTV still, but there was obliviously enough to trigger something in his memory. Firing up his laptop, he brought up the same still the newsies were using and looked at it some more; he was certain the face was familiar, but for the life of himself, he couldn’t pin down why. ”Oh this is going to bug me for a while…”
Fortunately for his own sake, the local news shifted to another story. Seeing downtown KC behind the reporter, he hit the sound. “…undreds are gathering outside in support of metahuman rights. While there are some counter-protesters and the police are on hand, the mood here is upbeat and very positive. Bac-” He shut the TV off; not having any work at the moment, he’d been wondering what he was going to do, and now he knew. -- He parked his truck in a parkade a few blocks from the gathering and walked in. As he got closer, he saw more and more folks obviously heading in the same direction. The closer he got to the rally the more the area took on a ‘festival feel; parents with their kids, people of all walks of life, some with obvious differences, while much of the crowd looked much like Arty…just people. Moving towards the front of the crowd however, the mood got subtly more tense and folks kept giving Arty side-long glances as he weaved his way forwards.
Getting to the front, he understood the looks, and that was exactly why he’d made his way forward. Across from the pro-Meta rally was a smaller, but much more vocal, counter full of the usual religious nuts, far-right assholes and other such oxygen thieves. Much to his non-surprise he found he looked like he’d have blended in with that pack of idiots rather well unfortunately. Ignoring them, he found himself standing beside an older middle aged woman holding a sign. He lent forward a bit to read it before bursting out laughing as he read ‘You’re just jealous because my grandson can fly’. She smiled up at him as he laughed. ”To be fair,” He chuckled. ”I’m jealous of your grandson now…flying would save so much hassle getting around downtown.”
The woman laughed. ”My daughter isn’t so happy about it…you can imagine how much trouble a flying four year old can get into.” Arty laughed and feigned a shudder. ”Arthur.” He said, offering a hand. The woman smiled and shook his offered hand, though she did raise an eyebrow. ”Gloria…really? Arthur? You’re already white, no need to bleach yourself. He tried to maintain composure, but that last all of two seconds before he let out an explosive bark of laughter; it took him another two minutes to regain control. Still chuckling, he smiled at Gloria. ”Gotta admit, never heard that one before…and generally I go by ‘Arty’.”
Gloria smiled again. ”Well it’s nice to meet you Arty…and…well I gotta ask. Are you a ‘meta’?”
”Yeah, though what I can do is a bit hard to demonstrate without getting the cops all nervous.” He waved a hand towards the counter-rally. ”On the other hand it’ll be hand if one of those idiots decided to push things.”
”Hey now Arty, this is a peaceful rally…”
”Don’t worry ma’am, I have no intention of starting anything.”
Pre-War, he was a decidedly average looking man. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, and while not fat he was certainly a bit soft around the middle. Now while his hair is mostly gone and eyes have turned black, he has lost that ‘spare tire’ around his mid-section. Like any other ghoul his skin is a pale yellow-ish green and looks like he’s a full body burn victim, with really bad dry skin. Along with the loss of most of his nose and ears, in places the skin has completely fallen way and exposed the muscle and bone underneath; yet despite the rather gruesome look it causes him no pain.
Thanks to his new physiology, what wounds he does get rarely leave scars unless they are fairly traumatic injuries like a gunshot or serious stabbing. He does have a few of those, but they tend to get lost in the general mess that his body is in now.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
He plays the part of the gruff and sometimes acerbic lawman, who most folks assume has just seen and done too much; and while that is somewhat true, it hides a much simpler truth…he’s just not very good with people mostly. Even before the war ‘inter-personal’ interactions were something he avoided if he could, and now he uses his gruff persona to stop anyone from getting too close. The truth is though, he’s a deeply lonely man.
| {Fears/Limitations} |
Like any ghoul, and especially one as old as he is, Sam’s greatest and least talked about fear is that of going feral; of loosing his sense of ‘self’ and ending up as just another mad beast suitable only to be put down before he causes harm.
As he gets older, the rads seem to revitalize him a bit less with every passing decade. His joints hurt more, he finds himself stiffening up and his eyesight is not what it once was, especially at night.
His, at best mediocre, inter-personal skill can make him difficult to deal with, leaving the High Marshal to usually send pretty much any other Marshal on missions that require things like tact or diplomacy, if at all possible.
| {Place of Origin} |
Richmond, Virginia in 2042. It’s been a long road from the pleasant little suburban home he knew as a child, involving more hardship, death and radiation than he cares to think about. Sam has never been back since the day the world burned; nothing likely survived, and even if it did…it’s best to let old ghosts rest.
| {Background} |
To call Sam’s early life ‘average’ would be an understatement. The only child of only children, he cruised through life with barely a ripple, the sort of person you could sort of forget about while you were talking to him; the only stand out thing being a deep seated love of a largely ignored genre of music called ‘hard rock’. It seemed like he’d risen to the height of his mediocrity working as a mail clerk in the Pentagon, pushing carts of featureless manila envelopes sent from one side of the building to cubicles on the other.
Day in, day out, eight hours a day, five days a week for five years, that was his life; the closest he ever got to a ‘relationship’ was a couple of awkward double dates with a co-worker friend of his that never went anywhere. All that said though, he was content with his lot in life. In July 2077 his life was completely upended when his parents were killed in an auto accident; an eighteen wheeler lost control and ran a red light, T-boning the brand new Chryslus Cherry Bomb they were in and killing them instantly.
With his whole world now upended, his boss told him to (for once) use his banked vacation and sick time to go and get his head together. Taking the advice, Sam headed into the Appalachians to a secluded cabin his dad’s family had owned since the 1780s. Stocking up his Highwayman, he headed out and lost himself in the wilderness while he grieved. The cabin had always been one of his favorite places, spending time with his dad while he was taught to hunt and fish and to live off the land. He was still there on October 23rd when the bombs fell and the world he knew died.
He’d been out for a morning hike when he was the flashes behind the trees, and by the time he got to a good vantage point, mushroom clouds dotted the horizon everywhere he looked. Returning to the cabin, he thought about ending himself with his dad’s old rifle, to spare the slow death by radiation, but he couldn’t, so he waited. Days turned into weeks, into months and he kept going. A few heated altercations with survivors fleeing the urban areas convinced him to hide the gravel track that led to the cabin and so he shut himself off from the world, and largely it passed him by. -- For the next one hundred and ten years he never left, though thinking back now he’s amazed he never went feral. He noticed the radiation changing him, but since there was nothing he could do, he simply went on with his life as best he could. He sustained himself by trapping, fishing or foraging, saving what little ammunition he had for threats both animal and human.
He probably would have stayed there in his new little rut if not for random chance. During a storm on of the, now dead, big trees came down and smashed into the cabin. Fortunately he’d been out checking trap lines, but when he saw the damage he realized all he could do was salvage what he could and move on. His Highwayman had been off when the bombs fell and over the decades he’d kept up maintenance as best he could, more as something to do than anything else, so when he had to abandon the cabin, it actually ran.
Over the next few years he roamed the remains of North Carolina, frequently coming and going from what used to be Charlotte Motor Speedway, now simply known as ‘Speedway’, trading salvage or skill in exchange for maintenance and modification of his car. About five years after nature evicted him, he found himself in South of the Border, somebody ’d paid good caps for him to courier some personal effects to a Tarheel stationed there, when it came under attack. Pitching in with marksman fire from a high point, he also started to direct ground level defenders to several incursions through the defences after he saw the commanding Marshal go down.
After the attack had been repulsed he was brought to see the Marshal, who’d only been minorly wounded, but knocked out cold for the rest of the battle. Marshal Walker thanked Sam, not only for his shooting, but for his quick thinking in taking over directing the defence and asked that Sam return to Speedway and sign on as a Marshal.
Though he’d thought he’d been content with his day to day life, Sam found himself invigorated by the idea. Returning to Speedway, he did as Marshal Walker asked and joined up. Nearly ninety years later, there is now only a very small number of Marshals who haven’t been mentored at least partially by Sam.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
Expert Survivalist - His dad had taught him from a young age how to live with off the lands, mostly as a way to try and improve Sam’s confidence. Now with a little over two hundred years of experience and practice, he can make a go of it pretty mush anywhere.
Expert Driver - He knows the roads and track-ways of NC better than most of the caravanners.
Scavenger - Travelling fairly light, he’s become rather adept at finding what he needs from the ruins around him.
Mechanic - Out of necessity he’s found himself learning how to best keep his Highwayman rolling for when Speedway is too far off.
| {Possessions} |
Anything not directly related to combat, work on their person regularly or considered essential gear.
Garage/Suite is Speedway - Given to him in recognition of his long service as a Marshal, he mostly uses it as a place to store spare car parts, supplies and music. He does have a small cot to sleep on, but he’s rarely there.
- Raised suspension - Heavier duty front and rear axles - Solid rubber front tires, and rear wheels replaced by Robobrain tracks. At the cost of speed, it's greatly improved the cars rough ground ability. - Reinforced bumpers - Rear seat and trunk lid removed, cabin opened into trunk - Roof and sides extended to end of rear panels - Rear doors welded shut - Armoured against small arms fire. - Roof mounted defensive Laser Turret.
Contents of Highwayman
Weapon cleaning and maintenance tools
Charging ports for M72 magazines x2
High capacity M72 magazines x 3
Bedroll
Spare 2mm EC ammunition
Spare 10mm ammunition
Spare RFID security badges x3
Spare MFCs and SECs for ‘fuel’
Several hard rock and/or heavy metal holotapes
| {Combat Skills} |
Sharpshooter - He was taught to always make his first shot count, and after a little more than two centuries of practice, he knows exactly where his shot should land.
Gunfighter - When the enemy is too close for rifle, you best be good with a pistol. Taught how to use one by surviving members of Army special forces, after he became a Marshal, he’s put those lessons to good use over the years.
The Ghoul, The Myth, The Legend - He’s been a Marshal for almost ninety years, and in those years stories about him have been told, and re-told, growing a little more with each telling. Now, simply the rumor of ‘The Marshal’ coming is enough for some lawless types to take flight, while others sit down and wait rather than tempting fate.
Saboteur- Travelling solo for much of the time means he’s had to fight against the odds more often than not, and sniping isn’t always an option; as a result he become a very deft hand at booby traps and sabotage.
| {Gear} |
M72 Gauss Rife ‘Long Arm’ - Shielded barrel, canted reflex sight, 6x Scope, custom recoil compensating stock, additional capacitors to increase shot power and an adjustable bi-pod.
@Silverwind Blade Don't be too hard on yourself. I've been chipping away at mine for days...and I know others who do intend to take part haven't even started theirs. You've got time.
Pre-War, he was a decidedly average looking man. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, and while not fat he was certainly a bit soft around the middle. Now while his hair is mostly gone and eyes have turned black, he has lost that ‘spare tire’ around his mid-section. Like any other ghoul his skin is a pale yellow-ish green and looks like he’s a full body burn victim, with really bad dry skin. Along with the loss of most of his nose and ears, in places the skin has completely fallen way and exposed the muscle and bone underneath; yet despite the rather gruesome look it causes him no pain.
Thanks to his new physiology, what wounds he does get rarely leave scars unless they are fairly traumatic injuries like a gunshot or serious stabbing. He does have a few of those, but they tend to get lost in the general mess that his body is in now.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
He plays the part of the gruff and sometimes acerbic lawman, who most folks assume has just seen and done too much; and while that is somewhat true, it hides a much simpler truth…he’s just not very good with people mostly. Even before the war ‘inter-personal’ interactions were something he avoided if he could, and now he uses his gruff persona to stop anyone from getting too close. The truth is though, he’s a deeply lonely man.
| {Fears/Limitations} |
Like any ghoul, and especially one as old as he is, Sam’s greatest and least talked about fear is that of going feral; of loosing his sense of ‘self’ and ending up as just another mad beast suitable only to be put down before he causes harm.
As he gets older, the rads seem to revitalize him a bit less with every passing decade. His joints hurt more, he finds himself stiffening up and his eyesight is not what it once was, especially at night.
His, at best mediocre, inter-personal skill can make him difficult to deal with, leaving the High Marshal to usually send pretty much any other Marshal on missions that require things like tact or diplomacy, if at all possible.
| {Place of Origin} |
Richmond, Virginia in 2042. It’s been a long road from the pleasant little suburban home he knew as a child, involving more hardship, death and radiation than he cares to think about. Sam has never been back since the day the world burned; nothing likely survived, and even if it did…it’s best to let old ghosts rest.
| {Background} |
To call Sam’s early life ‘average’ would be an understatement. The only child of only children, he cruised through life with barely a ripple, the sort of person you could sort of forget about while you were talking to him; the only stand out thing being a deep seated love of a largely ignored genre of music called ‘hard rock’. It seemed like he’d risen to the height of his mediocrity working as a mail clerk in the Pentagon, pushing carts of featureless manila envelopes sent from one side of the building to cubicles on the other.
Day in, day out, eight hours a day, five days a week for five years, that was his life; the closest he ever got to a ‘relationship’ was a couple of awkward double dates with a co-worker friend of his that never went anywhere. All that said though, he was content with his lot in life. In July 2077 his life was completely upended when his parents were killed in an auto accident; an eighteen wheeler lost control and ran a red light, T-boning the brand new Chryslus Cherry Bomb they were in and killing them instantly.
With his whole world now upended, his boss told him to (for once) use his banked vacation and sick time to go and get his head together. Taking the advice, Sam headed into the Appalachians to a secluded cabin his dad’s family had owned since the 1780s. Stocking up his Highwayman, he headed out and lost himself in the wilderness while he grieved. The cabin had always been one of his favorite places, spending time with his dad while he was taught to hunt and fish and to live off the land. He was still there on October 23rd when the bombs fell and the world he knew died.
He’d been out for a morning hike when he was the flashes behind the trees, and by the time he got to a good vantage point, mushroom clouds dotted the horizon everywhere he looked. Returning to the cabin, he thought about ending himself with his dad’s old rifle, to spare the slow death by radiation, but he couldn’t, so he waited. Days turned into weeks, into months and he kept going. A few heated altercations with survivors fleeing the urban areas convinced him to hide the gravel track that led to the cabin and so he shut himself off from the world, and largely it passed him by. -- For the next one hundred and ten years he never left, though thinking back now he’s amazed he never went feral. He noticed the radiation changing him, but since there was nothing he could do, he simply went on with his life as best he could. He sustained himself by trapping, fishing or foraging, saving what little ammunition he had for threats both animal and human.
He probably would have stayed there in his new little rut if not for random chance. During a storm on of the, now dead, big trees came down and smashed into the cabin. Fortunately he’d been out checking trap lines, but when he saw the damage he realized all he could do was salvage what he could and move on. His Highwayman had been off when the bombs fell and over the decades he’d kept up maintenance as best he could, more as something to do than anything else, so when he had to abandon the cabin, it actually ran.
Over the next few years he roamed the remains of North Carolina, frequently coming and going from what used to be Charlotte Motor Speedway, now simply known as ‘Speedway’, trading salvage or skill in exchange for maintenance and modification of his car. About five years after nature evicted him, he found himself in South of the Border, somebody ’d paid good caps for him to courier some personal effects to a Tarheel stationed there, when it came under attack. Pitching in with marksman fire from a high point, he also started to direct ground level defenders to several incursions through the defences after he saw the commanding Marshal go down.
After the attack had been repulsed he was brought to see the Marshal, who’d only been minorly wounded, but knocked out cold for the rest of the battle. Marshal Walker thanked Sam, not only for his shooting, but for his quick thinking in taking over directing the defence and asked that Sam return to Speedway and sign on as a Marshal.
Though he’d thought he’d been content with his day to day life, Sam found himself invigorated by the idea. Returning to Speedway, he did as Marshal Walker asked and joined up. Nearly ninety years later, there is now only a very small number of Marshals who haven’t been mentored at least partially by Sam.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
Expert Survivalist - His dad had taught him from a young age how to live with off the lands, mostly as a way to try and improve Sam’s confidence. Now with a little over two hundred years of experience and practice, he can make a go of it pretty mush anywhere.
Expert Driver - He knows the roads and track-ways of NC better than most of the caravanners.
Scavenger - Travelling fairly light, he’s become rather adept at finding what he needs from the ruins around him.
Mechanic - Out of necessity he’s found himself learning how to best keep his Highwayman rolling for when Speedway is too far off.
| {Possessions} |
Anything not directly related to combat, work on their person regularly or considered essential gear.
Garage/Suite is Speedway - Given to him in recognition of his long service as a Marshal, he mostly uses it as a place to store spare car parts, supplies and music. He does have a small cot to sleep on, but he’s rarely there.
- Raised suspension - Heavier duty front and rear axles - Solid rubber front tires, and rear wheels replaced by Robobrain tracks. At the cost of speed, it's greatly improved the cars rough ground ability. - Reinforced bumpers - Rear seat and trunk lid removed, cabin opened into trunk - Roof and sides extended to end of rear panels - Rear doors welded shut - Armoured against small arms fire. - Roof mounted defensive Laser Turret.
- Contents of Highwayman -
Weapon cleaning and maintenance tools
Charging ports for M72 magazines x2
High capacity M72 magazines x 3
Bedroll
Spare 2mm EC ammunition
Spare 10mm ammunition
Spare RFID security badges x3
Spare MFCs and SECs for ‘fuel’
Several hard rock and/or heavy metal holotapes
| {Combat Skills} |
Sharpshooter - He was taught to always make his first shot count, and after a little more than two centuries of practice, he knows exactly where his shot should land.
Gunfighter - When the enemy is too close for rifle, you best be good with a pistol. Taught how to use one by surviving members of Army special forces, after he became a Marshal, he’s put those lessons to good use over the years.
The Ghoul, The Myth, The Legend - He’s been a Marshal for almost ninety years, and in those years stories about him have been told, and re-told, growing a little more with each telling. Now, simply the rumor of ‘The Marshal’ coming is enough for some lawless types to take flight, while others sit down and wait rather than tempting fate.
Saboteur- Travelling solo for much of the time means he’s had to fight against the odds more often than not, and sniping isn’t always an option; as a result he become a very deft hand at booby traps and sabotage.
| {Gear} |
M72 Gauss Rife ‘Long Arm’ - Shielded barrel, canted reflex sight, 6x Scope, custom recoil compensating stock, additional capacitors to increase shot power and an adjustable bi-pod.
After saying her ‘goodbyes’ to Alanna for the moment, her eyes tracked over the freighter they’d landed beside, while she watched Talik; the way her lekku twitched and the way she carried herself towards the other ship led Ezali to conclude her new boss not only knew whoever was onboard, but was also rather happy to see them.
Not wanting to keep the Sargent waiting any longer, she began to turn towards him, when the ramp of the ship opened and the occupant spoke. She snapped her head back and took in the armoured figure. ”Toryn Dral…” She muttered. ”…fan-kriffing-tastic…” At this point the patiently waiting Sgt Darklighter spoke up. ”Something wrong?” His voice carried the obvious edge of a man expecting trouble, and really hoping to avoid it. ”Y-no…I’m not sure…” She replied after a moment. ”We’ve met briefly, worked a job with my Banner…he just has a…reputation. If Toryn Dral shows up, it generally means your life is about to get much more complicated.” Facing Darklighter, she laughed. ”If I’d known he was going to be here I’d ‘ve changed my rates.”
Darklighter chuckled a bit as he waved for her to follow. ”I wouldn’t get too worried, the Boss an’ Toryn are old friends…” She could tell he was about to say something more, but instead just shook his head and moved off. ”C’mon, if you’re like any other self-respecting merc, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to find some grub.””That’d be fantastic.” There was more going on regarding Toryn and Talik, Ezali could tell…but it very rarely paid to poke into a clients personal life…if it wasn’t a body-guarding job at least. ”An armoury and somewhere to rack out would be appreciated as well.””Sure thing.”
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