DeadDrop — Roleplayer Guild

Sammy Sharpe
◄  42   ▎   MALE  ▎  6"0  ►

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

The ex-trooper sports a tall and wiry athletic build, standing at about 6"0, bound with deceptively dense muscle and sinew. His hair is dense, thick, and untidy, dotted with streaks of grey and white. His eyes seem to dart constantly between any company he keeps, the door of the room they're in, and his own gun. The left side of his face and head is peppered with streaks and dots of scar tissue from a fragmentation grenade explosion at medium range some years ago. His left arm bears a Vlhakian Armed Forces division tattoo, complete with regiment name, rank and serial number, and medical identifier - to be specific, the original insignia is a kite shield of green and white, bearing a black sword crossed with a black hammer in front of it, all upon a field of cross-hatching. It used to glow thanks to implanted NanoLEDs, but no longer, as the entire design has been crossed out with a pair of scars inflicted with a kitchen knife. The term 'EOD' is still identifiable, however. His right arm is also tattooed with a full sleeve of cultural design, utterly covered with the intricate interlocking branches of an oak tree in an old Antrean ethnic design. In minute text between some of the branches text in a dead, celtic-esque language can be seen. Even Sharp doesn't know what it says. The area around his ID tag has been mutilated during several tampering attempts, and is now a mangled mess of purplish scar tissue that he is barely able to hide with makeup during his brief trips into the city.
 
D A Y S - G O N E
	To sum it up, nice and concise like, Sammy was born in the heart of Vlhakia, a pure, hot blooded Vlhakian boy. His early life was comfortable, if not wealthy or extravagant, and while he did not quite want for nothing it was certainly true that his needs were met - at least until the beginning of the Antrean war of secession from the empire, and the subsequent crash of the economy. When he was 20, his older brother joined the army, and when he was 21 he followed. They were put in separate regiments, but often occupied the same bases - his brother was going through the officer selection process for a mechanised battle group, and he had delved instead into combat engineering, which meant their specialisms complemented each other. They were reasonably well paid, and their food and lodging was taken care of by the general service corps, which put them at an advantage over their gradually more and more poverty-stricken countrymen - so ultimately, life was actually pretty good.

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn't do it any more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

M E M O R I E S
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T H O U G H T S

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@Bazmund

Hey sorry for the silence, been really busy. Accepted boi move him over if you're still intrested :P

'Fake ID'

Fake ID looked over to Kevin as he was about to say something "Wait-" before he was suddenly and ultimately cut the fuck off. Who knew what the fuck he was going to say now? Oh well. Klaus finally arrived at the party walking in from the rear entrances, he was carrying two suit cases and was decked out in some kind of heavy armor. His face was obscured by a mask of 'tragedy'  which everyone has known to love or hate. He was a man of few words and more so a man who spoke with his actions, his silence and all-quiet persona may have some members on edge but others may not care about the road-samurai.

He walked over and put the two suit-cases down beside Deckard as he stood in front of the group, he was about six foot five and a hulking beast - one could put it at that. Despite that, he just stood and waited to be briefed or be told what the fuck was going on, with the minor bickering of the group he was the information sponge amongst them all. The heist seemed to be pretty straight forward, Klaus & Adrian cause a distraction in the front of the lobby while the rest went to the loading bays and underground to subdue the security team - the whole team would meet up at the vault, empty it into a truck waiting for them at the bottom of the bay and escape out of New Wealth.

What could go wrong?

Closing Time . . .

At the credit union, it was closing time he knew what was about to happen the following morning but what he would notice the most was the technical team that showed up just as the manager - Gwen Ross let everyone out before she locked up. "Bye everyone, thanks for today and see you tomorrow!" She said as she closed the door to lock up, not before letting this team of technical contractors walk in. Red jumpsuits and rebreathers and goggles covering their faces - they carried bags of tools and equipment in with them. Was someone else about to rob the Credit Union?

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