CaptainBritton

Foreign Legion - First Contact is First Contract

Beckett

Name: Casey Beckett
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Ethnicity/Nationality: United States
Service History:
- Rank: Petty Officer 2nd Class (equiv to Sergeant)
- Field Hospital Corpsman with Co. A, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion
- Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsman with the Force Recon Company

Role: Medic (former Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsman)

Physical Description:

Faceshot

Casey Beckett stands at about 5’9” and weighs around 152 lbs, coming in short and lean. He has somewhat tanned skin and a naturally rosy complexion. His hair is chocolate brown and kept in a medium-length parted fashion, and his eyes are green. He has no visible scars, and has a tattoo of a caduceus in dark black ink along his spine on his upper back.

Skillset:

- Served as a SARC and regular Corpsman in the Fleet Marine Force
- FMF Corpsman certified by the Navy Field Medicine School
- Expert qualified with Rifles and Pistols by US Marine Corps standards
- US Army Airborne School
- US Navy Combatant Diver School
- USMC Basic Reconnaissance Course
- US Navy Level C SERE
- US Army Land Navigation
- Languages: Native English, Basic Pashto
- Proficient with inner workings of cars

History:

Casey Beckett was born in Queens, New York City, New York in 1993. His father worked as a car salesman and under-the-table mechanic, and his mother was a trauma nurse at Bellevue Hospital. Beckett’s childhood was average for a kid in the city, attending local public schools. He grew up an avid Yankees fan, and overall grew to love baseball, playing on local kids teams.

Once out of high school, Beckett had made his decision to go into medicine, but had been debating which college to choose. He’d already been accepted to Hunter College’s medical program when he was approached by a Navy recruiter, impressed with his high school ASVAB scoring. Debating his options, he made the decision to enlist, especially with the promise of tuition assistance once his contract was up. He attended basic training at Naval Station Great Lakes, and went on to pursue a career as a Hospital Corpsman.

As part of a volunteer program, he attended the school at the Navy Field Medical Training Battalion, certifying him to deploy with a Marine Corps unit. He was slotted in with the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion in time for its deployment as part of Task Force Leatherneck in Afghanistan. Deployed to Helmand, the unit participated in Operation Khanjar, where the 1st Recon Battalion provided real-time intelligence to Marines participating in the assault phase. Soon after, 1st Recon would be part of the massive Operation Moshtarak, known as the Battle of Marjah, involving some 15,000 ISAF troops. These two operations constituted Beckett’s baptism by fire.

Returning from his deployment, Beckett made his decision that he enjoyed being embedded with the FMF, and attended the Basic Recon Course to continue his embedding with 1st Recon. He instead was approached by his CO to talk about returning to a Navy posting to acquire SARC certifications. With a letter of recommendation in-hand, Beckett was slotted into the Special Operations Corpsman Program. After a rigorous course followed up with qualification schools in all sectors of learning, Beckett became a certified SARC and was returned to the 1st Recon Battalion soon thereafter.

Finishing out his enlistment by 2012, he re-upped with the understanding he would be attached to the Force Reconnaissance Company. With them, he did two of the standard two-year stretches. Most operations under them were peacetime, although he did undergo two deployments with them, one to Iraq and one to Afghanistan. He finished out his second enlistment by 2017, before finally retiring from the Navy.

He no sooner had begun drafting another application to Hunter College before he received an invitation by Centurion to reprise as a medical professional. He’d have been insane to pass over that sort of paycheck, and packed his bags.

Psychological Profile:

Corpsman’s Pledge

I SOLEMNLY PLEDGE MYSELF BEFORE GOD
AND THESE WITNESSES
TO PRACTICE FAITHFULLY
ALL OF MY DUTIES AS A MEMBER OF
THE HOSPITAL CORPS.
I HOLD THE CARE OF THE SICK AND INJURED TO BE A
SACRED TRUST
AND WILL ASSIST THE MEDICAL OFFICER
WITH LOYALTY AND HONESTY.
I WILL NOT KNOWINGLY PERMIT HARM TO COME TO
ANY PATIENT.
I WILL NOT PARTAKE OF NOR ADMINISTER
ANY UNAUTHORIZED MEDICATION.
I WILL HOLD
ALL PERSONAL MATTERS
PERTAINING TO THE PRIVATE LIVES OF
PATIENTS IN STRICT CONFIDENCE.
I DEDICATE MY
HEART, MIND, AND STRENGTH
TO THE WORK BEFORE ME.
I SHALL DO ALL WITHIN MY POWER
TO SHOW IN MYSELF AN
EXAMPLE OF ALL THAT IS
HONORABLE AND GOOD
THROUGHOUT
MY NAVAL CAREER.

Beckett is a hard-headed but jovial man first and foremost. His first and foremost concern as a medical professional in the field is his squadmates and patients. His sheer stubbornness leads him to exhaust every ability he has to keep his teammates and, indeed other patients, even EPOWs, alive. His conduct outside of combat is humorous at best, always trying to get a laugh out of his squadmates, albeit if provoked he will go at length to prove his point, a hard-headedness he doesn’t generally show outside of his practice of medicine.

Equipment:

- HK416 Carbine w/ 14.5” barrel, Trijicon ACOG sight (4x32, illuminated reticle), AN/PEQ-15 laser-light (IR capable). Carried are eight spare polymer 30-round magazines (all Enhanced Performance 5.56 Rounds, with tracers every five rounds). Mounted along a dual-point padded sling.
- M45 MEU(SOC) Pistol w/ 5” barrel, night luminescent iron sights, Streamlight TLR-8 laser-light (non-IR capable). Carried are three spare 7-round magazines (all Jacketed Hollow Points). Mounted in a polymer thigh holster.
- Mk. 2 KABAR Combat Knife mounted in a polymer sheathe on the hip.
- Gerber Multi Tool lashed to his vest.
- Uniform: Beckett often is seen wearing a reproduction of the MCCUU (Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform), of which he possesses a version in both the Woodland and Desert patterns of MARPAT. It consists at the most basic level of a set of slimmed trousers and a combat shirt/UBAC. He wears a pair of Oakley SI-6 boots and a pair of woodland Oakley Pilot gloves. Accessories include a set of knee pads and elbow pads.
- Helmet: Beckett wears a reproduction of the Enhanced Combat Helmet (ECH) in tan, paired with a reversible cover printed in the reproduction MARPAT. Mounted on the helmet is an AN/PVS-14 Monocular NVG on a rhino mount, a SureFire HL1-A Helmet Light, a set of Sun, Wind, Dust (SWD) Goggles with a tan cover, and a set of headset-ear protection combination muffs linked to his squad net radio.
- Vest: Beckett’s vest is a Crye CAGE Plate Carrier fitted with ESAPI Type III Plates in the front and back, with soft inserts along the side pockets. The vest itself is fitted with a multitude of pouches including: magazine pouches, an IFAK, a general purpose pouch (containing a broken down MRE), two grenade pouches (containing one M67 Fragmentation Grenade each), another general purpose pouch (containing a set of sharpie markers, a lensatic compass, a weatherproof pen & notepad set), and two canteen pouches with insulated canteens (one for personal use, one for patients). Fitted on the outside of his vest is an AN-M8 Smoke Grenade, clipped to one of the grenade pouches. Fitted through one of the PALS loops is a bottle of milspec Cleaner, Lubricant, Preservative (CLP). He also has a set of medical shears tucked into a PALS loop, and various implements of medicine, including a couple squares of hemostatic gauze and a packaged Emergency Trauma Bandage.
- Pack: 5.11 Tactical RUSH72 backpack. Carries two MREs, a poncho & liner kit in olive green, 200-foot roll of 550 foot-lbs paracord, heavy duty locking d-ring w/ climbing & rappelling harness, a Gerber folding entrenching tool w/ cover, an extra set of whatever current fatigues he’s wearing, a set of civilian clothing, and plenty of extra padded-sole socks. Might be some misc items forgotten.
- Aid Kit: A comprehensive aid kit put together by Beckett himself. Includes:
- IV Catheter & Line Kit (various gauges)
- 2x 1000 mL (one-unit) Fluid Tubes (saline)
- 4x Combat Action Tourniquets
- Emergency Trauma Bandages
- Gauze Squares
- Hemostatic Gauze Squares
- Hemostatic Powder Packets
- Chest Decompression Kit (decompression catheters, chest seals)
- 2x Nasopharyngeal Airway Tubes
- 2x Oropharyngeal Airway Tubes
- Cricothyrotomy Kit (disposable surgical tools, etc)
- 12x Pairs of Black Nitrile Gloves
- Band-Aids
- 10x Combat Casualty Cards
- Diagnostic Kit (Pulse-Oximeter, Tactical Stethoscope, etc.)
- 4x SAM Splints
- Coban & ACE Bandages
- Morphine, Antibiotics, Narcan, Epinephrine, Adenosine, Atropine, Tylenol, Benadryl,
even things like Pepto-Bismol and stool softeners.
- Probably missed things, will add if I can think of it.

Foreign Legion - First Contact is First Contract

Beckett

Name: Casey Beckett
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Ethnicity/Nationality: United States
Service History:
- Rank: Petty Officer 2nd Class (equiv to Sergeant)
- Field Hospital Corpsman with Co. A, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion
- Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsman with the Force Recon Company

Role: Medic (former Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsman)

Physical Description:

Faceshot

Casey Beckett stands at about 5’9” and weighs around 152 lbs, coming in short and lean. He has somewhat tanned skin and a naturally rosy complexion. His hair is chocolate brown and kept in a medium-length parted fashion, and his eyes are green. He has no visible scars, and has a tattoo of a caduceus in dark black ink along his spine on his upper back.

Skillset:

- Served as a SARC and regular Corpsman in the Fleet Marine Force
- FMF Corpsman certified by the Navy Field Medicine School
- Expert qualified with Rifles and Pistols by US Marine Corps standards
- US Army Airborne School
- US Navy Combatant Diver School
- USMC Basic Reconnaissance Course
- US Navy Level C SERE
- US Army Land Navigation
- Languages: Native English, Basic Pashto
- Proficient with inner workings of cars

History:

Casey Beckett was born in Queens, New York City, New York in 1993. His father worked as a car salesman and under-the-table mechanic, and his mother was a trauma nurse at Bellevue Hospital. Beckett’s childhood was average for a kid in the city, attending local public schools. He grew up an avid Yankees fan, and overall grew to love baseball, playing on local kids teams.

Once out of high school, Beckett had made his decision to go into medicine, but had been debating which college to choose. He’d already been accepted to Hunter College’s medical program when he was approached by a Navy recruiter, impressed with his high school ASVAB scoring. Debating his options, he made the decision to enlist, especially with the promise of tuition assistance once his contract was up. He attended basic training at Naval Station Great Lakes, and went on to pursue a career as a Hospital Corpsman.

As part of a volunteer program, he attended the school at the Navy Field Medical Training Battalion, certifying him to deploy with a Marine Corps unit. He was slotted in with the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion in time for its deployment as part of Task Force Leatherneck in Afghanistan. Deployed to Helmand, the unit participated in Operation Khanjar, where the 1st Recon Battalion provided real-time intelligence to Marines participating in the assault phase. Soon after, 1st Recon would be part of the massive Operation Moshtarak, known as the Battle of Marjah, involving some 15,000 ISAF troops. These two operations constituted Beckett’s baptism by fire.

Returning from his deployment, Beckett made his decision that he enjoyed being embedded with the FMF, and attended the Basic Recon Course to continue his embedding with 1st Recon. He instead was approached by his CO to talk about returning to a Navy posting to acquire SARC certifications. With a letter of recommendation in-hand, Beckett was slotted into the Special Operations Corpsman Program. After a rigorous course followed up with qualification schools in all sectors of learning, Beckett became a certified SARC and was returned to the 1st Recon Battalion soon thereafter.

Finishing out his enlistment by 2012, he re-upped with the understanding he would be attached to the Force Reconnaissance Company. With them, he did two of the standard two-year stretches. Most operations under them were peacetime, although he did undergo two deployments with them, one to Iraq and one to Afghanistan. He finished out his second enlistment by 2017, before finally retiring from the Navy.

He no sooner had begun drafting another application to Hunter College before he received an invitation by Centurion to reprise as a medical professional. He’d have been insane to pass over that sort of paycheck, and packed his bags.

Psychological Profile:

Corpsman’s Pledge

I SOLEMNLY PLEDGE MYSELF BEFORE GOD
AND THESE WITNESSES
TO PRACTICE FAITHFULLY
ALL OF MY DUTIES AS A MEMBER OF
THE HOSPITAL CORPS.
I HOLD THE CARE OF THE SICK AND INJURED TO BE A
SACRED TRUST
AND WILL ASSIST THE MEDICAL OFFICER
WITH LOYALTY AND HONESTY.
I WILL NOT KNOWINGLY PERMIT HARM TO COME TO
ANY PATIENT.
I WILL NOT PARTAKE OF NOR ADMINISTER
ANY UNAUTHORIZED MEDICATION.
I WILL HOLD
ALL PERSONAL MATTERS
PERTAINING TO THE PRIVATE LIVES OF
PATIENTS IN STRICT CONFIDENCE.
I DEDICATE MY
HEART, MIND, AND STRENGTH
TO THE WORK BEFORE ME.
I SHALL DO ALL WITHIN MY POWER
TO SHOW IN MYSELF AN
EXAMPLE OF ALL THAT IS
HONORABLE AND GOOD
THROUGHOUT
MY NAVAL CAREER.

Beckett is a hard-headed but jovial man first and foremost. His first and foremost concern as a medical professional in the field is his squadmates and patients. His sheer stubbornness leads him to exhaust every ability he has to keep his teammates and, indeed other patients, even EPOWs, alive. His conduct outside of combat is humorous at best, always trying to get a laugh out of his squadmates, albeit if provoked he will go at length to prove his point, a hard-headedness he doesn’t generally show outside of his practice of medicine.

Equipment:

- HK416 Carbine w/ 14.5” barrel, Trijicon ACOG sight (4x32, illuminated reticle), AN/PEQ-15 laser-light (IR capable). Carried are eight spare polymer 30-round magazines (all Enhanced Performance 5.56 Rounds, with tracers every five rounds). Mounted along a dual-point padded sling.
- M45 MEU(SOC) Pistol w/ 5” barrel, night luminescent iron sights, Streamlight TLR-8 laser-light (non-IR capable). Carried are three spare 7-round magazines (all Jacketed Hollow Points). Mounted in a polymer thigh holster.
- Mk. 2 KABAR Combat Knife mounted in a polymer sheathe on the hip.
- Gerber Multi Tool lashed to his vest.
- Uniform: Beckett often is seen wearing a reproduction of the MCCUU (Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform), of which he possesses a version in both the Woodland and Desert patterns of MARPAT. It consists at the most basic level of a set of slimmed trousers and a combat shirt/UBAC. He wears a pair of Oakley SI-6 boots and a pair of woodland Oakley Pilot gloves. Accessories include a set of knee pads and elbow pads.
- Helmet: Beckett wears a reproduction of the Enhanced Combat Helmet (ECH) in tan, paired with a reversible cover printed in the reproduction MARPAT. Mounted on the helmet is an AN/PVS-14 Monocular NVG on a rhino mount, a SureFire HL1-A Helmet Light, a set of Sun, Wind, Dust (SWD) Goggles with a tan cover, and a set of headset-ear protection combination muffs linked to his squad net radio.
- Vest: Beckett’s vest is a Crye CAGE Plate Carrier fitted with ESAPI Type III Plates in the front and back, with soft inserts along the side pockets. The vest itself is fitted with a multitude of pouches including: magazine pouches, an IFAK, a general purpose pouch (containing a broken down MRE), two grenade pouches (containing one M67 Fragmentation Grenade each), another general purpose pouch (containing a set of sharpie markers, a lensatic compass, a weatherproof pen & notepad set), and two canteen pouches with insulated canteens (one for personal use, one for patients). Fitted on the outside of his vest is an AN-M8 Smoke Grenade, clipped to one of the grenade pouches. Fitted through one of the PALS loops is a bottle of milspec Cleaner, Lubricant, Preservative (CLP). He also has a set of medical shears tucked into a PALS loop, and various implements of medicine, including a couple squares of hemostatic gauze and a packaged Emergency Trauma Bandage.
- Pack: 5.11 Tactical RUSH72 backpack. Carries two MREs, a poncho & liner kit in olive green, 200-foot roll of 550 foot-lbs paracord, heavy duty locking d-ring w/ climbing & rappelling harness, a Gerber folding entrenching tool w/ cover, an extra set of whatever current fatigues he’s wearing, a set of civilian clothing, and plenty of extra padded-sole socks. Might be some misc items forgotten.
- Aid Kit: A comprehensive aid kit put together by Beckett himself. Includes:
- IV Catheter & Line Kit (various gauges)
- 2x 1000 mL (one-unit) Fluid Tubes (saline)
- 4x Combat Action Tourniquets
- Emergency Trauma Bandages
- Gauze Squares
- Hemostatic Gauze Squares
- Hemostatic Powder Packets
- Chest Decompression Kit (decompression catheters, chest seals)
- 2x Nasopharyngeal Airway Tubes
- 2x Oropharyngeal Airway Tubes
- Cricothyrotomy Kit (disposable surgical tools, etc)
- 12x Pairs of Black Nitrile Gloves
- Band-Aids
- 10x Combat Casualty Cards
- Diagnostic Kit (Pulse-Oximeter, Tactical Stethoscope, etc.)
- 4x SAM Splints
- Coban & ACE Bandages
- Morphine, Antibiotics, Narcan, Epinephrine, Adenosine, Atropine, Tylenol, Benadryl,
even things like Pepto-Bismol and stool softeners.
- Probably missed things, will add if I can think of it.

Viva la Vida: The Price of Freedom (Closed)

Trail of Blood

By: @Dusty & @CaptainBritton

Ambiance

---

---

Morning light hadn't even breached breached the horizon when Prince Aaron’s party set off. Unlike the hasty arousal of knights that had been intended to give pursuit, this revamped force of thirty-three men contained only single knight, Sir Arvel, and were prepared to the desires of the prince, looking for all intents and purposes like a hunting team out to snare a boar. These were tough sergeants at arms, lancers and outriders, men who were used to hard living, and most importantly men Aaron trusted. No longer were they garbed in gleaming heavy armor, at most they wore mail hauberks covered by green and mottled brown wool surcoats with leather half helms strapped to their skulls. In their hands they hefted not long war lances but short jousting spears with blunted ends like long quarterstaffs. At their hips hung not swords but banded maces and their quivers were filled with blunt arrows. Aaron had ordered all his men to carry non lethal weaponry, only Sir Arvel, the houndmaster Broc, and Aaron himself carried proper swords. His exact orders were to take the rogue knight and his sister alive, along with any men or women who accompanied them. While he had been gathering information about the escape Aaron had been informed of the skill archers slaying Vanguard left and right with feathered shaft. The product of their labors were strewn about the castle for all to see so Aaron had no reason to doubt such a claim. The concerning question was whether these cloaked and dangerous individuals were merely skilled unimportant mercenaries, or something else. Besides himself there were only a few people in the kingdom he knew of who could shoot a bow and arrow with such lethality, and they vastly surpassed Aaron’s own skills. The Woodsmen. And if they were who he pursued, well the thought left a foul taste in his mouth.

Thus equipped and mentally prepared for the undertaking they set off, making haste through the near deserted streets until they reached the gates. Barred against entry and exit as they were it took a moment for the night shift to confirm the Prince’s identity and relay his orders up to the gatehouse where the slow process of twisting the locking wheel began. Content to wait and take his time Aaron sat back in the saddle of his chestnut gelding, the beast was short and wooly and old. And yet as sure footed as a horse could ever be, and although slow on the sprint could maintain a steady pace for hours. Releasing a sigh Aaron scratched at his stubble beard, a sign he hadn’t been caring for himself properly lately. Raising his left arm Aaron stretched and flexed his fingers, twisting his limb this way and that. It seemed well enough, though still sore. He had removed the bandages earlier against the advice of the healers, trusting himself to be gentle on it for at least a few more days.

Aaron’s bored, wandering gaze soon fell on Sir Arvel, riding astride him. Once again the question of Eleanor flickered in his mind and Aaron broached the subject, wondering if he would get straighter answers from this man than all the others he had asked. “Sir Arvel, perhaps you could enlighten me. Every other man seems conveniently uncertain, or to have forgotten the events just prior to Allaway’s untimely escape as to give me a straight answer. You see, there seems to be a consensus from the higher ups in the Vanguard that Eleanor was not in fact snatched from her chambers, but fled with Sir Fenros from the barracks hall. That is indeed where most of the corpses can be found from the fighting. A strange coincidence considering no one can recall just why she was there, alone and unguarded, when I am certain I heard my lord father assign Sir Connall no less to her security. And, should she have been released from her chambers by traitors, it makes no sense to me why they would immediately take my sister to the Vanguard’s barracks, the jaws of the beast if you will. It's all rather confusing to be quite honest, and I have high hopes that you are better informed upon that particular situation than I?”

Arvel gripped his reins loosely, panning his gaze to Aaron. Biting his lip slightly, he spoke softly but surely. “Lord, I fear it may be more complicated and- Controversial, than your expectation. That being said, do you still desire the truth?”

“I would expect nothing less from you.” Aaron intoned, eyeing the knight with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “I specifically requested you at my side because I saw a man I could trust, not a man like those my father promotes. Yes-men, who tell him what he wants to hear. Whether complicated or difficult you will find me worthy, and all the better for having the certitude of it. Try me sir knight, and test my resolve in handling the truth.”

Exhaling sharply, Arvel formulated his thoughts. “I’m sure you’re aware of the accusations against the Princess Royal, yes?” Arvel nodded. “Given that, His Majesty the King found it a fitting punishment to- Excuse the bluntness or any perceived vulgarity, throw her to the dogs, perse. Gave the Vanguards free reign in the middle of the barracks hall. I-” Arvel paused, clearing his throat, obviously uncomfortable at the topic.

“I left, needed some air, didn’t see what happened beyond that.”

Aaron hissed, long and low his hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword as he fumed over this answer. At long last he released the sword casting a furious glance over his shoulder back towards the castle. “My father has much to answer for…” He murmured every word containing a level of venom rarely heard from him. “Are you certain of this? These accusations, though not beyond my father admittedly, would be unforgivable should they be proven false? They cast into doubt this very venture, I am of half a mind to let them escape, Eleanor would be safer in Fenros’ care...”

“I am certain. Yet, none of these riders we venture with would say anything the same, I’m sure.” Arvel sighed, glancing around, before leaning in towards Aaron, speaking lowly. “And, if this is the way you feel, Lord, it should be noted I have to agree. The truth is, I saw Fenros that night. He challenged me to step aside or die. Neither could I betray the King nor win against Sir Allaway, those are true.” Arvel paused again.

“So I stepped aside.”

“I am grateful you did so.” Aaron said with sincerity. “The world would be all the lesser without you. And by doing so you may have saved Eleanor from a fate worse than death.” Frowning the young prince stared into nothing for a while, contemplating his options, and the many unanswered questions that remained. “Unfortunately, there rides with the knight Allaway and the princess, men and women of extreme importance, including the would-be-assassin Tyler. All people whom I would very much like to question personally.” Lowering his voice he leaned in as well, mimicking Sir Arvel. “Should the opportunity arise to allow my sister and Fenros to flee, well, see to it they are not brought back home in chains. As of now I must ask you of something a prince should never ask of his knights. I ask you to lie, to keep our exploits secret from the king and anyone who might be loyal to him. Of these.” Aaron cast a hand back at the men assembled behind them. “I trust only Broc absolutely. You have seen first hand how my father treats those he presumes betrayed him. Loose lips could cost us much. Even I could be at risk, and I would not lose you. Can I entrust you with the delicacy of this situation Sir Arvel?”

“You can, Lord. It will be done, should the Goddess strike me down.” Arvel affirmed, offering a gloved hand to Aaron in solidarity.

“I will hold you to that Sir Knight.” Aaron accepted Arvel’s proffered hand shaking it with a warrior’s grip. “Ah, and behold our journey awaits.”

The massive gates creaked at last into place, and a thin line of guardsmen intermixed with watch officers had assembled as something of a Royal escort to send off the prince and his men. They stood in rank and file at attention, their gear having been hastily shined and their weapons sharpened. Lanterns cast small circles of light in the predawn shade of the walls. Crisp air persperated as they breathed vanishing in short order. Without hesitation Aaron flicked his hand and the thirty-three, in unison whipped their reins and spurred their horses forward passing through the honor guard and out onto the main road leading west out of the city.

By the time they reached the escape point of Fenros and his cohorts the sun was rising, casting brilliant beams of light across the rugged land. Several sweaty and tired looking men were waiting for them, those few who had attempted to climb the wall and pursue on foot. Aaron waved them away, before slipping from his saddle and dropping to the ground, summoning Broc the houndmaster and his four dogs. The hounds were all older beasts with graying muzzles, but they had noses sharper than a sword and a record of success that Aaron knew firsthand. Earlier Aaron had been able to locate some of the personal effects secured from Annabelle Tyler during her brief imprisonment and kept in the dungeons. Briefly Aaron held the item under each of the hounds’ muzzles. They cast about, twisting and turning their heads, first smelling the ground and then the air but at long last they all sat down whining.

“Bad trail?” Broc grunted, eyeing the dogs disapprovingly.

“Maybe, but we can try another.” Aaron muttered, not liking his secondary solution. Throwing aside the crossbow, claimed to have belonged to Tyler, Aaron stalked over to his horse pulling open his saddle bag. From there he produced a slipper, a small thing but well worn. This he held to each of the hounds in turn and this time they found the scent.

Straining on the leashes the hounds slobbered and howled eager to give chase. “Mount up!” Aaron shouted, ignoring the fact that he was the only one on his feet.

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

Enoch

Music

---

Boardwalk
Charity Beach, Florida
15XX hrs
Saturday, June 11th

Brooks sat under the fading blue, the rolling sky which in mere hours would give to a blood-red sunset, and finally dusk, a black night that, on this date in particular, would be so flooded with festivity and light that its pollution would blot out the stars, even the moon. An interesting thought, that such a thing as simple light reflecting back could entirely obscure the stars themselves. It made no difference to him.

He clutched a bottle in his hand, green and wrapped in a silver label. The bottle, ice-cold as it was, frothed from its neck as Brooks took swig after swig of its contents. He people-watched as he drank, crowds swirling around him, a balloon in every hand and a smile on most every face. But he wasn't here for the people. He was, as his word, here for the food and booze. But that wasn't really the truth, was it? It'd been months, even years since he'd had such an opportunity to appear publicly, without blatant fear or an entire personal armory. It was nice to get out sometimes.

As he brought up the bottle to his lips, he traced over an LEO - a law enforcement officer - standing nearby. FAMA, and were those- lightning bolts stenciled on? Shaking his head, he pursued the gulp of swill he was after, returning to his post of simply watching, basking in actually being in the public and not simply hiding among them. The FAMA officer walked away, accompanied by a woman. Trailing them with his eyes, something caught his attention. Namely the big fuck-off lizard leaning against a poor tree that seemed to be straining under his weight. Henry.

Brooks knocked back the remainder of the bottle, pushing his seat back from the table at which he sat - alone. On his way over, he tossed the bottle into a bin, before approaching the reptilian monstrosity.

@JunkMail

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

Enoch

---

Industrial Row
Charity Beach, Florida
1230 hrs
Saturday, June 11th

The motor of the Dodge growled with particular ferocity as Brooks took the turns and roads with little caution. Not speeding, particularly, but with all the care one would expect of someone of his particular position. One hand gripped the ripped up steering wheel cover loosely along the top, the other clutching a cigarette to Brooks's mouth, turning him into a fog machine of cigarette smoke. He was confident he knew where this one was. Boardwalk District, intersect of 26th Street and Boardwalk Row itself, big fuck off docks, couldn't miss it.

An idle hand turned to the beat-up stereo system. "-.3 FM, for all your classic rock needs." Intoned a smooth and calm voice. The ringing of the words in silence was followed by a relaxing drum beat, a moving bass line, strumming, and a sweet sound of harmonica. Returning his hand to his cigarette, he nodded. Neil Young, classic. One pop. Two pops. Not his stereo, it wasn't that beat up. A thundering pop assaulted his eardrums as he began to pump the brake, followed by three quieter. He pulled to the side of the street, brushing against the lip of the sidewalk as he promptly, and calmly shut the engine off.

His right hand went down to his waistband, revealing his trusty sidearm and in-line conceal carry holster. A check revealed the chamber occupied by a cartridge, and a full magazine loaded. This kind of thing wasn't usually his business, but these were close. Less than a block down, westwards. And what harm was it to see, anyways? What would the cops do, arrest him for rubbernecking? He popped his door, tugging his keyring along with him, closing and locking the door behind and starting towards the nearest alley as the streets around him seemed empty, with not even ghosts seemingly calling this place home.

He crept down the alleyway, past rat and mouse alike as he encroached on the position of the last shot. But it'd been minutes since then. Whoever it was could've been long gone. No, he had to see for himself. Whatever this was, it wasn't some driveby or gang shootout, five shots at least, accompanied by something big, something powerful. Immersed in thought, he crept past a dumpster, taking care to avoid any muck or small furry creatures, alive or deceased. But suddenly, something thrust over him at speed, a blur of orange and white which threw him off balance, pressing him against a brick wall and crouching behind a dumpster, a hand now on his sidearm's grip. "Huh-" He managed to rasp out, before collecting himself and peeking from behind the dumpster.

Nothing. His imagination? A bird? Possibly. But something told him that meant he was in the right place. And from the warehouse which the figure had emerged was his destination. Drawing a pocket knife, he pressed its blade into the gap in the latch on the emergency door, peeking into his small viewpoint into the warehouse floor.

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

Enoch

Music

---

Harvest Hills Apartments
Charity Beach, Florida
1200 hrs
Saturday, June 11th

He twirled the keyring on his index finger as he struggled the distance from the elevator to the room door, glancing at the white walls of the hallway. They had scratch marks, cracks in the drywall, and even some outlines of where graffiti had been painted over. Nice place, he thought to himself as he traced the brass numbers nailed to each door whilst limping himself down the hallway. It was a long enough walk, compounded by his gait which he had newly acquired, albeit temporarily.

And finally he found it, the numbers on the white door listing '531' in faded brass number stencils. Shifting the duffel bag on his back, he jammed the key into the door, turning it with a distinct click, before trying the knob. He spilled inside quickly, closing the door behind him, making note of the three different locking mechanisms he had to play with. How foreboding. Gazing upon his new residence, he took in the whole single room and a half he had to work with. A single bed on a simple flat frame, a couch with a coffee table, and a bar-counter with a microwave and minifridge haphazardly balanced atop it, both plugged into a nearby outlet. But what's not to forget about the bathroom. Well, one could say 'room', but it was a toilet located about a foot and a half in front of a sink, leaving a narrow passage to a comparatively tiny standing shower, the shower head seemingly having a constant drip of water.

How quaint. He smirked, internally reasoning that it was better than some bunkhouse shared with thirty other Marines. Shrugging the duffel bag off his shoulder, he let it fall to the mattress on the bed, before giving way to the couch and sinking into the horrifically patterned cushions. Reaching into his waistband, he dislodged his pistol from its inline holster, sitting it on the coffee table and leaning back once again. Did this place have rules against smoking? He couldn't remember, he'd signed the lease in such a hurry, not wanting to spend another night in a roach-infested motel on the outskirts of the city. Now at least he had a roach-infested place to call his own.

Sidetracked once more, he returned to the matter at hand, reaching into the shirt of pocket of his blue patterned button-up and producing a packet of Camel filterless reds. Placing one of the carcinogen tubes between his lips, he struck up with a Bic lighter jammed into the carton along with the cigarettes. Billowing out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, he pondered his next move. He already had a job lined up, and after that Charleston business, he hoped this was it. There was no way they knew he was alive after that, and he had the scars and limp to prove it. His plan wasn't sound in entirety, but it sounded good in his microscopic skull raisin of a brain. Work at the docks, live your life, and kill anyone who might know or report you.

He glanced down at the pistol sitting on the coffee table. He really needed to clean that thing. Did he even have a gun-cleaning kit after last time? Dish soap would work in a hurry to soak it, but he wasn't even sure this place stocked that. Reaching forward, he grasped the firearm in his hand, thumbing the magazine release and glancing down at the ten cartridges tucked within, before inserting it back into the weapon and pulling the slide back halfway, confirming the round in the chamber. He double-checked the thumb safety before holstering the pistol, bringing himself back to a standing position with a pained grunt. They really didn't have to fuck up his leg like that, did they?

He popped his neck, before glancing down at his second-hand cheap digital watch. 1:15. He didn't start work until bright and early tomorrow, but as for scoping the place out, there was no time like the present. Spinning his keyring on his index finger, he limped over to his duffel bag, throwing open the zipper. Reaching in, he found his intended target at the very top, producing a grey curved bill baseball cap with netted back. He fit it over his unkempt mop of hair, adjusting the velcro strap on the back, before nodding silently, making for the door, on course for the beach and boardwalk district.

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

Enoch

Enoch

---

---

⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"You know, they said Enoch never saw death, in the Bible n' all. Well that was a crock of horse shit."

▼ | BIRTH NAME : |

James Riley Brooks

▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |

Jacob Riley - Alias
Enoch - Former callsign

▼ | GENDER : |

Male

▼ | AGE : |

29

⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷

"Afghanistan was a simple place once I realized ‘hearts and minds’ was bullshit."

▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |

▸ HEIGHT : | 5’10”
▸ WEIGHT : | 166 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Caucasian (Germanic)
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Brown
▸ EYE COLOR : | Green

▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |

Brooks is a somewhat average, if a slight bit athletic Caucasian male. He’s about 5’10” and of a decent weight, bearing some somewhat broad shoulders. His build is fairly muscular, but not so much that it would be considered abnormal or otherwise raise attention, simply a decent enough build maintained by a regimen made to maintain the muscle he has. His hair is a chocolate brown, swept to the sides messily and slightly parted in the middle. He recently has been keeping a decent patch of stubble on his face, seeming intent on growing some sort of beard. His two eyes are a very vibrant olive green, seemingly having the texture of glass and often not focusing directly on the object they’re looking at, simply looking through said object most of the time. He bears a few scars. Namely, the most obvious is a shrapnel scar below his lip. Elsewhere, laceration and burn scars on his forearms denote powder burns and cuts from brush and foliage. Lastly, a decently sized set of scars on his abdomen and thighs denote gunshot wounds, although he tries his best to keep these hidden.

▼ | ATTIRE : |

Brooks prefers to dress inconspicuously without attention to trends or fashion. His favorite items are a pair of worn out Wrangler jeans and a comfortable button-up shirt. Often he’ll pair it with old, stained sneakers or faded leather boots. He enjoys wearing baseball caps as well, often unmarked and of neutral colors such as black or olive.

⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷

"Ain’t a trap if you see it coming, y’know."

▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |

Distant | Aggressive | Crude | Methodical | Courageous | Stubborn | Cynical | Paranoid

▼ | SKILLS : |

Firearms Expert - Extensive qualifications and use of firearms has given Brooks an extremely broad understanding of how to utilize firearms in most environments and conditions. His specific qualifications was an Expert badge in the Marine Corps Weapons Qualification Course.

MCMAP Certified - Whilst in the Corps, Brooks, like all other Marines, underwent the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program, a homegrown program which teaches Marines a plethora of hand-to-hand, knife, and rifle fighting techniques to instill discipline and ready them for service. While all frontline combatant Marines were only required to obtain an intermediate certification marked by a green belt, Brooks pursued the program’s curriculum and obtained an expert certification in the form of a black belt first degree.

MOUT Trained - Another product of his service, Brooks underwent the Military Operations in Urban Terrain (MOUT) course, which teaches its students effective techniques when fighting in urban or other condensed environments against unseen enemies, including how to identify traps and likely ambush points. Brooks took well to the training and continues to employ what he learned.

Combat Lifesaver - Brooks underwent Combat Lifesaver (CLS) training during his service with the Marine Corps. This course is on-par with a Red Cross Advanced Life Support program, and teaches the student how to render field aid to a patient with more skill than someone trained in simple first aid but not with the extensive training required of a dedicated medic or EMT. This meaning that critical patients in the care of a CLS-trained individual will still need professional medical attention, or they will likely die, albeit their chances of survival are heightened.

▼ | BACK STORY : |

James Brooks was born on November 16, 1989 in Nashville, Tennessee. His father was a member of the United States Army stationed at nearby Fort Campbell, and his mother worked as a nurse in the city. His first few years of life were spent in Nashville itself, and he enjoyed a somewhat normal infancy living in an apartment with his mother and a father who came home twice a week. However, soon after Brooks’s birth, the conflict in the Persian Gulf region ramped up, and his father, a member of the 101st Airborne Division, was deployed with his unit as part of Operation Desert Shield, and soon after Desert Storm itself.

His father was overseas for the better part of a year, and while Brooks does not remember anything about this time, he remembers that his father came back changed. His father sought retirement soon after with full military benefits, and the family relocated to Knoxville in East Tennessee when Brooks was five years old. From there Brooks was raised by both of his parents, who were aging, having had their son later in their lives. His relationship with his parents was strained as he grew up. His mother worked constantly and rarely had time to keep house, and his father was always distanced due to his experiences, and could barely hold a job most of the time.

So Brooks was left to his own devices. While not necessarily a criminal, he was no model son nor an exemplary student. He got by with average grades, and his favorite pastimes included joyriding and chasing women, along with drinking any booze he could get his hands on. He would often get into disputes and brawls outside of a school setting, although he kept himself reserved within school due to threat of legal repercussions. Upon reaching 17, and with no apparent prospects other than working in a factory, he petitioned his parents to sign a waiver letting him enlist. His parents were apprehensive and combative to the idea at first, but agreed with hopes that it would instill discipline and refine Brooks into a better man.

Attaining decent marks on the ASVAB and having any pick of branch, he chose the United States Marine Corps, and shipped for Parris Island in 2007. Completing his basic training later in the year, he opted as a rifleman and, after advanced training was placed in his active duty posting with the 1st Bn, 6th Marines at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. The battalion was rotated to Afghanistan soon after, Brooks included.

The 1/6 took part in operations as part of the Helmand Province Campaign, with their involvement culminating in the Battle of Garmsir. The operation that was intended to last a few days to a week ended up lasting nearly five months. The 1/6 was rotated back stateside after the operation’s end and the personnel, including Brooks, placed on post-deployment leave.

Brooks, initially visiting his family, chose to spend most of his thirty days leave with his friends, raising hell and chasing girls, having changed little from his boisterous and fun-loving self from before his enlistment. He rotated back in with plenty of empty beer cans and broken hearts at his back. In early 2009, when assigned his new duty station, he requested to be re-tested on his ASVAB and placed into the selection program for the Marine Corps Special Operations Command (MARSOC), known as ‘Marine Raiders’, the highest level special operations force in the Marine Corps.

Achieving the necessary scoring on his ASVAB re-test, he was placed in the three-week selection program, which he passed, being invited to the second phase which makes candidates re-evaluate their desire to be Raiders. Passing yet another gauntlet, he was placed in the nine-month Individual Training Course. Extremely challenging, the course pushed Brooks to his absolute limit, but he remained as one of the few in his class to receive the Marine Raider insignia.

Placed into the elite Marine Raider Regiment, he was soon after deployed to Iraq for an eight-month deployment, participating in operations caked heavily in black ink. He returned, engaging in his leave as a somewhat changed and less fun-oriented man. He was eager to return to the field, and petitioned to be placed on the deployment billet again, much to the dismay of his parents, who now were nearing the end of their lives.

On his third deployment of his service in 2012, this time once more in Afghanistan, it is known he participated in an operation geared towards eliminating Taliban leadership in preparation for the drawdown of ISAF and US troops in the following year. Only this operation did not simply have the Taliban involved. The team which Brooks was part of arrived by helicopter in the dead of night to find that the site was not occupied only by their target, but also by a team of men in jet black armor, in some sort of dealing.

Brooks and his team were immediately engaged by both the Taliban and the unknown element, sparking a three-way firefight. Brooks, fighting his way with his element into the compound, stumbled upon a case of crystals glowing a vibrant yellow. Brooks, collecting photographic evidence upon realizing the significance of this development. Brooks and his team prepared to fight their way out soon after, but then the unknown element reappeared. The Taliban had been slaughtered already, and it was apparent that the enemy was back to finish the job with them.

Brooks, grabbing a handful of the crystals and pocketing them, prepared for another firefight. The enemy moved with fearsome speed and precision, cornering the Marines like rats and one-by-one picking them off. Brooks, the last not dead or incapacitated, made to try and call for support, only to find communications entirely jammed. He opted to try and take as many as he could with him, mounting a counterattack in which no bullet he had was left unspent, before getting overwhelmed by the black-clad enemy. They shot him five times. Thrice in the legs, and twice in the vest, with one round managing to punch through to his abdomen. As he laid bleeding, he came to a conclusion as the men spoke in modulated voices, recalling where this very scene had played out before. They were REAPER. And they were here, selling crystals to the Taliban, and now they were planting evidence to paint the picture of a team of Marine Raiders surrounded and slaughtered by Taliban. He resolved that he would not die in a mud hut on an Afghan hill, that he would somehow avenge this. He drifted into unconsciousness as the black-clad men stood over him.

He woke up much later to pure darkness and a cold sensation. Fighting, writhing, and yelling through a bone-dry mouth, he was flooded with light. He’d been declared dead after they found him, placed into a body bag like all the other Marines that had been there. But there was one problem, Brooks was still alive, and now was being stared at by a young medic with bewilderment.

Despite his protestations and his attempts to explain, he was shipped back to the US and placed into extended medical care there, before being honorably discharged. He returned home to find that his father had passed away while he was overseas, and his mother was not far behind. Saying his final goodbyes to his mother, he attempted to go straight to FAMA with the photographic evidence he’d collected. But by then REAPER had closed in on him. An assassin on his doorstep, he was forced to conceal the photographs and flee.

After fleeing down the East Coast with REAPER on his heels, he now seemingly shook their scent, and has acquired an apartment in Charity Beach, resolving to no longer flee, adopting a formal alias and trying to live his life.

⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"Those REAPER guys, they won’t quit. I’ll get ‘em, though, one way or another."

▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |

Type-Yellow

▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |
Catatonic Stasis

Laying in that mud hut on an Afghan hill, the delta-crystals which he was exposed to changed him. He didn’t want to die there, not then. And the crystals granted his wish, albeit in a literal and roundabout sense. Brooks’s power is surviving what most others can’t, whether he likes it or not. When grievously injured, his body renders him in a catatonic state, using all remaining energy to preserve his body and heal what it can while shutting off what it can’t. The power is characterized by him falling unconscious, losing any detectable pulse, and having no visible brain activity, rendering him legally dead. Only he isn’t. His little guardian angel of a power is keeping him alive until it can stabilize him, until it can allow him to crawl away for help. It kept him alive in that Afghan hut, and even a few times after that. Guess he got his wish.

▼ | LIMITS : |

The limitations of this power lie in that some damage is too much. A body can only take so much battering before recovery without care is impossible, even for a man whose body will go at any length to ensure he doesn’t die. Eventually, his power will only work to some extent, and his heart will quit and never restart, the catatonic state he’s rendered into will never end, and he’ll be dead.

▼ | WEAKNESSES : |

Weaknesses lie in its limitations. One could easily end up causing enough damage that his power could no longer artificially support him. Say, chopping off multiple limbs, organ removal, complete organ destruction, and the grand slam of it: the brain. Of course, when shot through the brain, there’s only so much any medicine or life support can do. And in the case of the power, that is nothing. Destruction of any part of the brain will result in total death of Brooks, but first you’d have to know he was still kicking in there.

⫸ O T H E R ⫷

• Brooks drives a 1973 Dodge Charger that belonged to his father. It’s navy blue in color and has a black cab-top.
• Brooks often carries a SIG P228 pistol in a conceal carry rig on his person.
• Brooks also has a Kimber Warrior SOC which he often keeps in his glovebox or, in combat scenarios, he carries it on his hip.

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

Enoch

Enoch

---

---

⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"You know, they said Enoch never saw death, in the Bible n' all. Well that was a crock of horse shit."

▼ | BIRTH NAME : |

James Riley Brooks

▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |

Jacob Riley - Alias
Enoch - Former callsign

▼ | GENDER : |

Male

▼ | AGE : |

29

⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷

"Afghanistan was a simple place once I realized ‘hearts and minds’ was bullshit."

▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |

▸ HEIGHT : | 5’10”
▸ WEIGHT : | 166 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Caucasian (Germanic)
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Brown
▸ EYE COLOR : | Green

▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |

Brooks is a somewhat average, if a slight bit athletic Caucasian male. He’s about 5’10” and of a decent weight, bearing some somewhat broad shoulders. His build is fairly muscular, but not so much that it would be considered abnormal or otherwise raise attention, simply a decent enough build maintained by a regimen made to maintain the muscle he has. His hair is a chocolate brown, swept to the sides messily and slightly parted in the middle. He recently has been keeping a decent patch of stubble on his face, seeming intent on growing some sort of beard. His two eyes are a very vibrant olive green, seemingly having the texture of glass and often not focusing directly on the object they’re looking at, simply looking through said object most of the time. He bears a few scars. Namely, the most obvious is a shrapnel scar below his lip. Elsewhere, laceration and burn scars on his forearms denote powder burns and cuts from brush and foliage. Lastly, a decently sized set of scars on his abdomen and thighs denote gunshot wounds, although he tries his best to keep these hidden.

▼ | ATTIRE : |

Brooks prefers to dress inconspicuously without attention to trends or fashion. His favorite items are a pair of worn out Wrangler jeans and a comfortable button-up shirt. Often he’ll pair it with old, stained sneakers or faded leather boots. He enjoys wearing baseball caps as well, often unmarked and of neutral colors such as black or olive.

⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷

"Ain’t a trap if you see it coming, y’know."

▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |

Distant | Aggressive | Crude | Methodical | Courageous | Stubborn | Cynical | Paranoid

▼ | SKILLS : |

Firearms Expert - Extensive qualifications and use of firearms has given Brooks an extremely broad understanding of how to utilize firearms in most environments and conditions. His specific qualifications was an Expert badge in the Marine Corps Weapons Qualification Course.

MCMAP Certified - Whilst in the Corps, Brooks, like all other Marines, underwent the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program, a homegrown program which teaches Marines a plethora of hand-to-hand, knife, and rifle fighting techniques to instill discipline and ready them for service. While all frontline combatant Marines were only required to obtain an intermediate certification marked by a green belt, Brooks pursued the program’s curriculum and obtained an expert certification in the form of a black belt first degree.

MOUT Trained - Another product of his service, Brooks underwent the Military Operations in Urban Terrain (MOUT) course, which teaches its students effective techniques when fighting in urban or other condensed environments against unseen enemies, including how to identify traps and likely ambush points. Brooks took well to the training and continues to employ what he learned.

Combat Lifesaver - Brooks underwent Combat Lifesaver (CLS) training during his service with the Marine Corps. This course is on-par with a Red Cross Advanced Life Support program, and teaches the student how to render field aid to a patient with more skill than someone trained in simple first aid but not with the extensive training required of a dedicated medic or EMT. This meaning that critical patients in the care of a CLS-trained individual will still need professional medical attention, or they will likely die, albeit their chances of survival are heightened.

▼ | BACK STORY : |

James Brooks was born on November 16, 1989 in Nashville, Tennessee. His father was a member of the United States Army stationed at nearby Fort Campbell, and his mother worked as a nurse in the city. His first few years of life were spent in Nashville itself, and he enjoyed a somewhat normal infancy living in an apartment with his mother and a father who came home twice a week. However, soon after Brooks’s birth, the conflict in the Persian Gulf region ramped up, and his father, a member of the 101st Airborne Division, was deployed with his unit as part of Operation Desert Shield, and soon after Desert Storm itself.

His father was overseas for the better part of a year, and while Brooks does not remember anything about this time, he remembers that his father came back changed. His father sought retirement soon after with full military benefits, and the family relocated to Knoxville in East Tennessee when Brooks was five years old. From there Brooks was raised by both of his parents, who were aging, having had their son later in their lives. His relationship with his parents was strained as he grew up. His mother worked constantly and rarely had time to keep house, and his father was always distanced due to his experiences, and could barely hold a job most of the time.

So Brooks was left to his own devices. While not necessarily a criminal, he was no model son nor an exemplary student. He got by with average grades, and his favorite pastimes included joyriding and chasing women, along with drinking any booze he could get his hands on. He would often get into disputes and brawls outside of a school setting, although he kept himself reserved within school due to threat of legal repercussions. Upon reaching 17, and with no apparent prospects other than working in a factory, he petitioned his parents to sign a waiver letting him enlist. His parents were apprehensive and combative to the idea at first, but agreed with hopes that it would instill discipline and refine Brooks into a better man.

Attaining decent marks on the ASVAB and having any pick of branch, he chose the United States Marine Corps, and shipped for Parris Island in 2007. Completing his basic training later in the year, he opted as a rifleman and, after advanced training was placed in his active duty posting with the 1st Bn, 6th Marines at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. The battalion was rotated to Afghanistan soon after, Brooks included.

The 1/6 took part in operations as part of the Helmand Province Campaign, with their involvement culminating in the Battle of Garmsir. The operation that was intended to last a few days to a week ended up lasting nearly five months. The 1/6 was rotated back stateside after the operation’s end and the personnel, including Brooks, placed on post-deployment leave.

Brooks, initially visiting his family, chose to spend most of his thirty days leave with his friends, raising hell and chasing girls, having changed little from his boisterous and fun-loving self from before his enlistment. He rotated back in with plenty of empty beer cans and broken hearts at his back. In early 2009, when assigned his new duty station, he requested to be re-tested on his ASVAB and placed into the selection program for the Marine Corps Special Operations Command (MARSOC), known as ‘Marine Raiders’, the highest level special operations force in the Marine Corps.

Achieving the necessary scoring on his ASVAB re-test, he was placed in the three-week selection program, which he passed, being invited to the second phase which makes candidates re-evaluate their desire to be Raiders. Passing yet another gauntlet, he was placed in the nine-month Individual Training Course. Extremely challenging, the course pushed Brooks to his absolute limit, but he remained as one of the few in his class to receive the Marine Raider insignia.

Placed into the elite Marine Raider Regiment, he was soon after deployed to Iraq for an eight-month deployment, participating in operations caked heavily in black ink. He returned, engaging in his leave as a somewhat changed and less fun-oriented man. He was eager to return to the field, and petitioned to be placed on the deployment billet again, much to the dismay of his parents, who now were nearing the end of their lives.

On his third deployment of his service in 2012, this time once more in Afghanistan, it is known he participated in an operation geared towards eliminating Taliban leadership in preparation for the drawdown of ISAF and US troops in the following year. Only this operation did not simply have the Taliban involved. The team which Brooks was part of arrived by helicopter in the dead of night to find that the site was not occupied only by their target, but also by a team of men in jet black armor, in some sort of dealing.

Brooks and his team were immediately engaged by both the Taliban and the unknown element, sparking a three-way firefight. Brooks, fighting his way with his element into the compound, stumbled upon a case of crystals glowing a vibrant yellow. Brooks, collecting photographic evidence upon realizing the significance of this development. Brooks and his team prepared to fight their way out soon after, but then the unknown element reappeared. The Taliban had been slaughtered already, and it was apparent that the enemy was back to finish the job with them.

Brooks, grabbing a handful of the crystals and pocketing them, prepared for another firefight. The enemy moved with fearsome speed and precision, cornering the Marines like rats and one-by-one picking them off. Brooks, the last not dead or incapacitated, made to try and call for support, only to find communications entirely jammed. He opted to try and take as many as he could with him, mounting a counterattack in which no bullet he had was left unspent, before getting overwhelmed by the black-clad enemy. They shot him five times. Thrice in the legs, and twice in the vest, with one round managing to punch through to his abdomen. As he laid bleeding, he came to a conclusion as the men spoke in modulated voices, recalling where this very scene had played out before. They were REAPER. And they were here, selling crystals to the Taliban, and now they were planting evidence to paint the picture of a team of Marine Raiders surrounded and slaughtered by Taliban. He resolved that he would not die in a mud hut on an Afghan hill, that he would somehow avenge this. He drifted into unconsciousness as the black-clad men stood over him.

He woke up much later to pure darkness and a cold sensation. Fighting, writhing, and yelling through a bone-dry mouth, he was flooded with light. He’d been declared dead after they found him, placed into a body bag like all the other Marines that had been there. But there was one problem, Brooks was still alive, and now was being stared at by a young medic with bewilderment.

Despite his protestations and his attempts to explain, he was shipped back to the US and placed into extended medical care there, before being honorably discharged. He returned home to find that his father had passed away while he was overseas, and his mother was not far behind. Saying his final goodbyes to his mother, he attempted to go straight to FAMA with the photographic evidence he’d collected. But by then REAPER had closed in on him. An assassin on his doorstep, he was forced to conceal the photographs and flee.

After fleeing down the East Coast with REAPER on his heels, he now seemingly shook their scent, and has acquired an apartment in Charity Beach, resolving to no longer flee, adopting a formal alias and trying to live his life.

⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"Those REAPER guys, they won’t quit. I’ll get ‘em, though, one way or another."

▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |

Type-Yellow

▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |
Catatonic Stasis

Laying in that mud hut on an Afghan hill, the delta-crystals which he was exposed to changed him. He didn’t want to die there, not then. And the crystals granted his wish, albeit in a literal and roundabout sense. Brooks’s power is surviving what most others can’t, whether he likes it or not. When grievously injured, his body renders him in a catatonic state, using all remaining energy to preserve his body and heal what it can while shutting off what it can’t. The power is characterized by him falling unconscious, losing any detectable pulse, and having no visible brain activity, rendering him legally dead. Only he isn’t. His little guardian angel of a power is keeping him alive until it can stabilize him, until it can allow him to crawl away for help. It kept him alive in that Afghan hut, and even a few times after that. Guess he got his wish.

▼ | LIMITS : |

The limitations of this power lie in that some damage is too much. A body can only take so much battering before recovery without care is impossible, even for a man whose body will go at any length to ensure he doesn’t die. Eventually, his power will only work to some extent, and his heart will quit and never restart, the catatonic state he’s rendered into will never end, and he’ll be dead.

▼ | WEAKNESSES : |

Weaknesses lie in its limitations. One could easily end up causing enough damage that his power could no longer artificially support him. Say, chopping off multiple limbs, organ removal, complete organ destruction, and the grand slam of it: the brain. Of course, when shot through the brain, there’s only so much any medicine or life support can do. And in the case of the power, that is nothing. Destruction of any part of the brain will result in total death of Brooks, but first you’d have to know he was still kicking in there.

⫸ O T H E R ⫷

• Brooks drives a 1973 Dodge Charger that belonged to his father. It’s navy blue in color and has a black cab-top.
• Brooks often carries a SIG P228 pistol in a conceal carry rig on his person.
• Brooks also has a Kimber Desert Warrior M45 which he often keeps in his glovebox or, in combat scenarios, he carries it on his hip.

Viva la Vida: The Price of Freedom (Closed)

A Chance Meeting

A collaboration between @Aerandir and @CaptainBritton

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"Well I think she deserves to pay you men back for your service!”

Cheers erupted in the hall as the words reverberated out of the King's mouth. Officers, some still in plate having been pulled off patrol, but most in their everyday clothes of fabric and leathers, laughed and toasted mugs of ale and other spirits at another successful operation, and even moreso at the reward to look forward to. Arvel, however, was tucked quietly into a corner of the hall, disconnected from any one group of men, simply using a load-bearing post to support himself.

He'd gotten a few good hours of sleep, but had been stirred by a visit from the King himself. A rare enough sight, something he was sure not to miss. But with the content, somehow he wished he'd stayed in his bed. He grimaced internally, glancing about the boisterous crowd of soldiers and men-at-arms which now carried on with glee as the King made his departure. Was this the reality of it? The Princess hungry for power, willing to go at length to order the death of her own father?

It wasn't his place to reason why, he rationalized, but yet he had something gnawing away at him internally. Was this punishment really befitting? Was it the place of a disgraced Royal to be used and abused by this, a rabble? His rabble, fair enough, but a rabble nonetheless, men which had no care or regard for the young Princess. He whiffed the mug of ale clutched in his hand, sickened at its odor, or maybe something else. Perhaps he was not drunk enough.. No, he needed air. Downing the remainder of the mug's contents, he placed the empty vessel on a nearby table, turning for the door which led to the city streets.

As he reached the exit, he was stopped. A young squire looked up at him with a youthful and bright face. “Cap’n, sir, there’s a man n’ his retinue claiming to be the Duke of Yhore’s at the south gate. Sarn’t Humphreys wishes advice.” The squire talked in a thick rural accent, but by some miracle Arvel made out the words.

”Mrh. Tell Humphreys to deny entry until first light, I want them escorted through the city by the Household Mounted, a squadron of them.”

The squire nodded in acknowledgement, scurrying off and out of the path of the Captain.

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Arvel walked the castle grounds solemnly, deep in thought as he gazed at the faint lamplight illuminating the courtyards. He avoided each sentry whenever possible, regarding each sharp salute with a tired and half-hearted response, attempting to conceal the bags grouped under his eyes. Soon enough he cleared the thick groupings of sentries.

Arvel continued to walk, feeling at the clothing he wore. It was his normal garb, albeit some slight changes to reflect the season. He wore at base a pair of cotton trousers blackish-brown in color, and a crimson tunic-shirt embroidered with detailings of linen. Thrown over was a cloak of black-dyed silk and satin, albeit without a hood. Strapped upon his hip was his longsword, freshly cleaned of the peasant’s blood, a paired dagger of similar make lashed to his belt on the opposing hip. He stopped suddenly, taking a deep breath.

Fenros kept to the shadows, slowing down as much as he dared when he came close to some guards. He was weak from the torture still, and despite his desire to kill anyone who stood in his way to protect El and he knew stealth was probably better at this point.

So far he had come a crossed one guard he had to knock out. Taking his shield and strapping it tightly to his right forearm. While his hand couldn’t grip it, it was still lashed on there pretty good.

A little more confident now he knew he had to cut a crossed some open ground to make it to where the princess was being held. However when he rounded the corner he came face to face with Arvel. He knew of him In passing and mission plannings. But he wasn’t particularly friends with him.

For some reason he tried to talk his way out of this. “Sir Arvel, let me pass, the Princess is in grave danger I need to protect her.” He said with a voice filled with determination. He gripped his sword tightly and raised it slightly.

Arvel’s eyes narrowed as a figure’s silhouette cut the darkness, and a voice broke through. Fenros the Undaunted. “You-” His gloved hand snapped in an instant to his dagger’s grip, tightening around it audibly. He did not draw, not yet.

“Explain yourself, traitor.” He spoke quietly, albeit not sparing the venom in his voice. For one reason or another, he wasn’t giving up Fenros instantly. Good will, perhaps, or something else entirely.

Fenros sighed, what he was going to fight him with a dagger? He shook his head, it didn’t matter. “I am not a traitor, the king is mad and now the princess honor and life is in peril. There’s no time to explain more let me through and you won’t be harmed.“ he said quickly taking a step towards him.

Arvel paused for a second, eyeing Fenros up and down in the moonlight. He opened his mouth to speak, no words being produced at first, before grunting, defeated. “The King intends to let every man in the barracks have his way with her. Get her, take her far away.” He thrust a pointer finger past his person, ushering Fenros on. “Do not stay in this city, else I will hunt you mercilessly. Go!” He whisper-yelled his final reply, stepping aside as he gripped his dagger all the more tightly.

He hesitated, while grateful he would let him pass, he didn’t like how he ended with him hunting them. “Arvel, you let me pass and that proves you know what the king is doing is wrong. After all the princess has done for our men, you will not join me and fight?” He started to move past him, turning as he did as he waited a reply.

Arvel grimaced, releasing the grip of his dagger finally. “I have my own duties.” He trailed solemnly. “Now fulfill yours, Sir Fenros. Go, before the sentries come upon us!” He quietly urged. It was now his life and career on the line as well. In Arvel’s eyes was unmistakable, pure fear, and perhaps some hope.

His eyes narrowed at his answer. A lady, his princess’s honor was at stake, he knew it was wrong and here he stood too afraid for his own life. He remembered why he never liked the man. Despite being a knight, he acted like a mere coward. He growled “You may have other duties, but a knight's honor is above that, to protect the innocent…” he stopped himself with an irritated growl. He took his advice and turned and left him there.

He had no time to try and convince him to do the right thing.