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  • Old Guild Username: Igraine
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    1. Igraine 11 yrs ago

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The New Yorker said
Igraine, I stand corrected. The only thing that could make someone like I described leave an RP like I described is exactly what you just described.

I won't be satisfied unless a minimum of two people are horrible destroyed.

JK... kinda


You're so sweet Serge - does this mean you're volunteering your poor character to get wrecked, all for the greater good and satisfaction and such?

*grins*
Preacher's kinda android... Ish... Semi-bionic... Sorta? So he has a slim chance of survival!

Actually Heroes doesn't strike me as the crazy-heavy-handed-God-modding-GM; I half-suspect the only people who wind up horribly mutilated, eviscerated, disemboweled and/or impregnated with an Alien chestburster might be those who disappear form the RP - though I suppose we shall see, no? *grins*
Preacher's gaze follows the departing Doctor Laster with interest, one eyebrow cocked in amusement and a shit-eating grin spread all over his face. He swings his booted feet from the table to the floor, arms (real and not-so-much) stretching overhead with a satisfied groan as he feels that *pop* in his spine. He rises to his feet, glancing back down to Captain Pretorius with a helpless shrug before he turns to follow the doctor to yet another appointment - no matter he's not entirely sure the point of it.

"See ma'am? Chicks dig guys with scars... "

eta: All around, looking like a good time so far! *grins*
"Oh Souma, you're just too good to me... " Galina's winsome smile was simply luminous in the confines of the halted carriage. Her fingertips danced lightly over the array of deadly toys that Souma offered, and she hummed softly in the back of her throat as she thoughtfully considered her options. Leaving the rifle was... Well it was a little disappointing actually, being a weapon she could just as easily hike over her shoulder and use only in extremis. But this was Souma's world, and she was merely a willing participant and co-conspirator in 'liberating' mislaid supplies - Galina trusted him without question.

She hadn't the least idea who these people were to Souma or the Takahiro clan, and would not have cared even if she did. More yakuza, she knew as much, and not a clan allied with the Takahiro clan, or even one that enjoyed the similar patronage of the nobility.

Galina shrugged to herself, almost imperceptibly. She was simply here for the adventure, for the chance to forget – if only for a short while – the weight of the grief they carried, and to know the feeling of doing something, anything at all, to get them one step closer to the Americans who’d eviscerated their families and homes. Heaven be merciful, but Galina couldn’t imagine having to sit on her hands for the next four days, waiting idly before the start of a trans-Pacific trip where they would - in all likelihood - have little else to do but wait some more (even if the scenery was vastly improved. Hawaii would, undoubtedly, be a spectacular layover).

And so in the spirit of devil-may-care that had seized her at the moment, Galina’s fingers traipsed lightly over a set of three kunai, and grinned. “And you flatter me too, and my small, near insignificant skill with throwing… “ She batted her eyes to Souma “innocently,” and then laughed.

Galina took a sip of the tea Souma suggested be brought with them against the cool night, and was instantly grateful for the warmth. “Hmm… “ Her thoughts hummed silently in the back of her throat as she considered the choice Souma had originally offered, the levity fading from her face as she eyed the spikes and the eggs. “Well I’ll be honest Souma, and say I’ve never used your ‘spice to blind,’ so it would be wiser for me to simply stick with what I do know… “ Galina took the spikes, tucking then into the bindings of her belt wrap.

“Injury I can certainly do, and… Oh!” The young woman took up the roll of the razor-thin wire, and then two of the smaller stakes, her eyes wide with a sudden excitement. Cutting off about a foot and a half of the thin wire was easy enough doubled over her kindjal blade, setting it aside as she quickly notched the smaller wooden stakes with that same knife’s edge. Nimble fingers swiftly and easily knotted one end of the wire over and around each notch. Galina sheathed her kindjal once more, and then took up one of the small stake dowels in each hand. She held up her newly made “toy” proudly before Souma, a tiny shaft of light glinting wickedly off the garrote’s wire. The delight and almost childlike pride in Galina’s smile was absolutely unmistakable. She was truly enjoying herself, this moment, and this incomparable company sitting across from her now.

“Yours if you like, a little something from me to you Souma,” she laughed softly with a mischievous lift of her eyebrows. “And yes, you can consider this a small bribe so I may at least bring my shashka? It’s a quiet blade… Mostly… And will certainly help the crushing disappointment, with Daisuke holding my rifle for me.“ Galina sighed loudly, deeply, and with absolutely no true conviction whatsoever.
Well we'll see what the morning tells you, Heroes *grins* But yes, CS up (or first attempt at least?)
Name: John Paul D'Angelo (aka "JP" to friends, "Preacher" to the Colonial Marines who remember him)

Appearance:

John Paul is 6'1" with a still-muscular build and the dark hair (still worn USCMC regulation style) and dark eyes of his father before him. His voice remains heavily-tinged with a distinctive Alabama drawl, and he is rarely ever seen without that genuinely good-natured smile . Life's been good to him, because hell, he's still alive, isn't he? Preacher's left hand is a prosthetic to the wrist, and he has another prosthetic affixed to his shoulder on the Burn scars cover most of his natural right shoulder, traveling up the right side of his neck to his jaw line and right ear. That ear is also a prosthetic, but since there was only damage to the external portion, there are no "moving parts" to this natural flesh-colored replacement.

John Paul has several tattoos, which include angel wings spread over both his shoulder blades (though the feather tips on the right are a touch singed, of course). Scripture verses tattooed from his left shoulder to his wrist include Isaiah 9:5, Psalm 144:1-2, Romans 13:4, Revelation 2:26 and John 5:30. A Crusader cross on a shield held upright in the paw of a crowned and crouching lion is inked over his heart, and beneath that down his ribs are the names, birth and death dates of four men and women.

Crew Position/Rank: Executive Officer/First Officer

Age: 34

Relevant History/Background: John Paul D'Angelo grew up in a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama, with a large, loving and deeply religious family. A natural bent for mathematics and physics and an unending fascination with space made a degree in aerospace engineering an inevitability. He attended the Georgia Institute of Technology, obtained his degree in aerospace engineering, and then walked into a commission in the USCMC.

1stLt D'Angelo was assigned to the Colonial Marine Aerospace Wing of the 1st CM Division, a UD-4L Cheyenne pilot in the Division's Tactical Group. John Paul earned the nickname "Preacher," first as a [usually] good-natured joke, and then with some grudging respect, when the troops realized the man never flew without the Bible his Mom gave him in the cockpit, and he'd take a moment to pray over - or even with if asked - the Marines before every mission.

Grudging respect, because apparently somebody somewhere gave 1stLt D'Angelo a straight up touch for the miraculous. With his weapons officer WO2 Virga Sann, the man would fly the Evangeline where even angels would not dare, time and time again getting troops in and out of the toughest spots in the known universe, lighting up targets and riding out unscathed. And even when it looked like his God had finally forsaken him, when a LIM-417 Phalanx missile struck the Evangeline as they entered the stratosphere of LV-167, John Paul still managed against galaxy sized odds to take her down for a crash landing on the planet's surface. Four Colonial Marines died that day, including WO2 Sann. The Preacher lost his left hand, his right arm and his right ear when a fire detonated in the cockpit and he refused to relinquish the controls before they hit dirt - but the fact that any of them survived at all was a miracle of biblical proportions.

And even if the USCMC could not find a use for the Preacher anymore (no matter how well decorated and vetted a pilot he had been), the Wey-Yu Corporation surely could. Miracles? Heh... Please, step out of the 20th century already. John Paul D'Angelo had that unspeakably rare combination of uncanny skill, right instincts, and unswerving loyalty and conviction that made flying - and then directing flight crews - for the Wey-Yu Corporation a profitable venture for both.

The prosthetics are, of course, entirely a side project of the Wey-Yu Corp, and John Paul has been proving the investment entirely worth every last credit as, for the past five years, he's been steadily working his way up the civilian command structure by sheer talent and natural leadership ability alone. This probably means, of course, that the position of a ship's Executive Officer is likely as far as he'll ever get in the politicized [and corrupt] hierarchy of the Wey-Yu Corp - and John Paul's not stupid enough to think otherwise. Far, far from it.

Personality: John Paul is, on the whole, a pretty contented guy. He's not rocked by angst or given to brooding about what he's lost: his hand, his arm or his commission in the USCMC. The man is still quick with a grin, a laugh, a good word; he's a natural leader who - for all his quirks - still manages to bring people close with the genuine and unfeigned warmth and decency, and garner respect for his sound abilities. Still, he's no one's fool; few people have a better grasp of human nature - for good or ill - than John Paul D'Angelo. And as ever, he's more than ready to put a boot up someone's ass on an as-needed basis, to be applied regularly until the acute symptoms of stupid have abated.
Wasn't it though? Poor Sung Pak ><
Abby laughed as she shook her head, rolling her eyes at the thought of Gavin's impending senility, and then took a large bite of her mostly Swiss cheese sandwich, flavored with a little turkey and butter lettuce and mustard. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as Gavin continued, determined not to choke on her food as the implications of Gavin's words slowly dawned on her, and she could have kicked herself for not seeing this before.

And as Park continued , all the other pieces Gavin hinted at fell into place, and a stomach-churning puzzle of the absolutely worst case scenario started coming together. No, it was not horrific enough a thought that the murderer would have had an accomplice - an accomplice who, for whatever reasons counted as "good" in the mind of a killer, Adams would not give up. But that this accomplice should still be flying under everyone's radar, completely above suspicion it seemed - and still roaming the Copernicus' halls?

Abby took another bite of her sandwich, having learned years ago that no matter the shitstorm hurtling all around, you'd best eat while you could, because God alone knew when the next opportunity would come. But the levity on her face had long since faded, and Abby sighed through her nose with frustration. Always best to assume the worst, she'd learned - a lesson that didn't really mesh with her naturally optimistic nature, though it sure did square right with most of human nature. Always assume the worst, and you're never disappointed - and sometimes, you even get to be pleasantly surprised.

Not likely, the latter, but that's why they call them "surprises."

"We planned to go see the helpful cryotech after lunch," she said to Park, a nod of her head and a small smile for Gavin to let the psychiatrist-pastor know just exactly who she meant by "we."

"The French gentleman, if you noticed him - well, the only cryotech with the guts to stand up and give his name at the briefing this morning, at least? Antoine Eadore. We were already hoping for a little insight into the mechanics of cryosleep, to see if Adams really did lack the capacity or wherewithal to commit those murders. And while we're hitting him up for his technical expertise, I suppose it can't hurt to see if he knew Adams too, or who - if anyone - Adams might have associated with too."

She wasn't going to start a panic on the ship that a murderer-rapist might still be walking among them - not yet, not until their conjectures had a little more substance behind them. Abby leaned over the counter and grabbed another pickle out of the jar by Park now, laying it on her plate for later. She let out a slow breath, and then realized she was scowling as the grim thoughts rolled through her thoughts. Quickly she shook her head, looked to Gavin and gave him a wan smile and a wink. 'You know, he's not a half-bad detective for an egghead scientist,' she thought, and the smile instantly brightened to a grin worth the name.

**********


Pauline was pretty sure that whoever she saw at her next OB appointment was going to be really proud of her. In absolutely no way was she shirking exercise in her pregnancy regimen, and particularly not today! Whether it was playing tag through the Copernicus' halls with Mowzer, or sprinting back to the office she'd just cleaned before she lost the job she'd worked so hard to get in the first place, Pauline just knew she was going to be sore later.

At least it would be that good, muscle-achy sore that said she'd been getting a pretty decent workout, and the young woman laughed as she snatched at the edge of the enormous hangar doors as she catapulted herself in a multi-colored knit rainbow back into Hangar Six. Almost... Almost Pauline rushed headlong to the office, but when she saw the azure flag of Connor's hair on the way to the office, she slowed to a job. shouting something about... Something about 'Loretta?' Starting on her own, and he had to talk to Owen?

Well that would probably keep her out of the office for a while yet - honestly, she wasn't having much luck today, getting back inside. Ah well, maybe at the very least, Owen hadn't really noticed her absence? Yet?

Pauline stopped jogging right outside "DELI'S PLACE!", bending forward with her hands on her knees before she turned toward the female plea and all its sugary promise. Panting softly, she turned to peer up to the pretty young wman with the lovely wild dark hair, her face a tender pink beneath the light smattering of freckles, only just starting to shine with sweat. "I'll... I'll take Connor's share... " she panted with a grin, "Silly guy doesn't... Doesn't get the amazing-ness of gummy bears... Does he?"
I will look at pulling something together later tomorrow for a CS, torn at the moment between XO, Medical Officer and Security Officer. I've experience with writing a security officer (and hey, Colonial Marines - there'd be no down side!), and writing a medical officer too, but it'd be nice to try something different in an XO. At the very least, I'll put together something with my mind all made up, and see what our esteemed GM has to say on the matter ;)
Oh well thank you Heroes. And I think we've established by now that "obnoxious" may, on occasion, be my default mode, but I'm mostly grown up when I need to be.

Mostly.

Seriously though, I'm glad you've found the time in your schedule to start this - I really thought it'd be in 2015 or so! Very much looking forward to seeing this start though.
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