Lord Wyron

Fallout: Into the Storm

@Apocalypse Hmm...Well, I'm totally willing to collab if you want! But John's a few layers undercover, he's gonna play dumb about anything relating to the Institute that isn't basic Wastelander rumor given the location and amount of people in close proximity

Fallout: Into the Storm

@Apocalypse I'm game, don't know what the two would talk about, though lol

Fallout: Into the Storm

December 2nd 2286 - 04:03pm
Mac Kenzie Bar, New York - A Toast to the Fallen

---

"Do you understand your mission, Agent Lambda?"

Silence was the reply. John Delaware, either oblivious to, or outright ignoring the inquiry, simply walked the modest floor space of the bar, every so often dragging his fingertips along the countertop before lifting them up to examine the caked layer of dust left behind.

Perhaps, John wondered, with a bitter half-smirk to himself, there was once a time when the Mac Kenzie was a vibrant venue for men of the Old World, seeking the comforting reprieve of alcohol after a stressful 9-to-5 shift. He could hear it still, glasses clinking together, bawdy laughter reverberating off the walls, all the world's problems put on hold until time to pay the tab.

Still silent, John moved past a few slumped over skeletons, still seated on termite-eaten stools, frozen in time, yet corroded by decay. Stepping behind the bar, he scoured the racks before finding an old bottle of scotch whisky, its contents still colored a bright amber.

With his free hand, John grabbed two drinking glasses, similarly coated with dust and grime, but still quite usable; placing all three items on the bar. Unscrewing the bottle cap, John filled both glasses to the brim, gently pushing one forward.

"Want some?" John finally spoke, his tone fairly neutral, if burdened by heavy weight. Without waiting for an answer, John lifted his own glass, inclining it towards his associate in a mock toast before downing it in one go. It wasn't bad for 200-year-old scotch found in some Pre-War bar, but the alcohol had gone soft, lost its bite. It would've taken a few more glasses to even give John a buzz, let alone get him properly drunk.

"We don't drink." The first voice replied, sternly.

"Right." John returned with a small shrug, helping himself to the second glass without skipping a beat. Pausing briefly to let the taste linger in his mouth, he continued: "Not sure what the point was in making you look human if you can't even act like it."

The Courser seemed unfazed by the statement, hardly moving from his original position. Yet his eyes stayed locked on John the entire time he moved around the bar, like a predator.

Though he had worked with them for years, the Coursers unsettled John immensely: their movement, their way of speaking, the inflection of their words. Everything they did seemed off -- inhuman.

"You don't seem to be taking this seriously, Agent Lambda." the Courser noted aloud. His voice was a deep bass, marked with a slight growl at the end of each sentence that gave hint to the calculated savagery beneath his detached demeanor.

John gave a disgruntled "Hrrm..." before stepping out from the bar, moving til he was face-to-face with the Courser. Despite both men being the same height, give-or-take an inch-or-two, John nevertheless felt small. Powerless. Perhaps it was the unflinching gaze in the Courser's piercing blue-green eyes, or the inhuman strength that hid behind ordinary-looking flesh-and-blood; strength that he had firsthand experience with.

"You'll have to forgive me for not exactly jumping for joy over a suicide mission, X3." John replied bitterly, knowing full-well that no one had thus far returned from the wretched hellhole of the Necropolis.

The Courser's expression did not change, showing no sympathy for John's plight. "You're sufficiently qualified for this mission, Agent Lambda. If the Institute did not have faith in your competency, we would not be having this conversation. The SRB has good reason to assume a number of rogue Synths have hidden in the Necropolis to avoid retrieval and retention. You will not have any direct instructions during your assignment, but are expected to retire any and all Gen. 3 Synths you find within the Necropolis, are we clear, Agent?"

"Yeah." John said, pouring himself another drink. "Clear as crystal."

December 3rd 2286 - 03:05pm
Fleetwood Subway Station, New York - Footfalls Through the Rain

---

The walk from Massachusetts to New York had taken John nearly four days. He wasn't sure what was keeping him going through the 200-mile-long journey except his own stubbornness. As he got closer, he could see the New York skyline looming in the distance, grim and foreboding like a sliver of post-nuclear Hell. The City that Never Sleeps, now dead in the storm. His impromptu meeting with X3-98 at the Mac Kenzie was the last official contact he'd had with the Institute, leaving him for the first time on his own. So he walked.

Steady raindrops beat down on him, falling in indiscriminate patterns down the worn surface of his coat, dripping from the brim of his hat onto his nose, inciting John to wipe the droplets off his face with a swipe of his sleeve.

The subway tunnel they were instructed to meet in opened up from the wall like a cavernous maw, ready to devour another fresh set of wanderers, each unwilling to let go. It reminded John of rumors he'd heard of the Sierra Madre in the Mojave Desert, a supposed haven of Pre-War riches that tempted scavengers and would-be adventurers from all walks of life, all damned never to return.

Inside the tunnel, past wind and rain, the dozens upon dozens of lit candles provided an almost comforting glow, no doubt to put the explorers at ease in their final moments. Scanning the offerings of food and refreshment for a bottle of liquor - and finding none - John huffed quietly to himself, adjusting the raised collar of his coat to let the remaining rain droplets fall off him.

Apparently not the first to arrive, John spotted a good number of adventurers within, each of them bearing the standard and equipment of one faction or another. A medic here or there; a couple mercs, some from the remnants of Talon Company that drew a raised eyebrow from John, another bearing numerous markings and insignias from before the Great War, one more garbed in a heavy cloak and Riot Gear, and another woman in camouflaged combat gear; two Brotherhood Paladins in full suits of T-60 Power Armor; a Ghoul in a hooded green coat; a massive stone wall of a man in savage metal plate armor; and, to John's great surprise, a familiar-looking face.

Alexis Darksong. It's the kind-of name you'd hear about in a mystery book. John had certainly heard the name before from one of X3's contacts, but didn't recall ever meeting her. A man in John's position didn't have the privilege of speaking to any official Institute personnel, let alone stepping into the Institute proper. Why someone would want to leave, head into the Post-War Hell intrigued him.

Putting those thoughts to the side for now, John felt himself loosen up in the warmth of the subway tunnel, his muscles relaxing automatically. Reaching into his coat, John pulled out a small pack of cigarettes, wordlessly putting one to his lips, letting it dangle loosely as he felt about for his lighter. Not feeling its familiar presence, John's movements became slightly more agitated as he realized he forgot his lighter somewhere in the maze-like suburbs. Muttering a single, "Shit" John instead picked up one of the candles and held its modest flame to the cigarette's unlit end, waiting for the flame to catch before putting it back down.

With a long drag, John breathed out a small puff of smoke, leaning himself back against one of the damp walls of the tunnel, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive.

Fallout: Into the Storm

While we're on the topic of edits, since the Character thread will show I'm making changes, any alterations I'm working on are grammatical, either fixing errors, or rephrasing passages to flow a bit better. If I outright add anything new I'll be sure to let the OOC know beforehand

EDIT: Edits post bringing up editing grammatical errors to correct grammatical errors

Fallout: Into the Storm

John Delaware - Private Investigator

John Delaware

_{{ "Buy me a round. Then we'll talk." }}

- General Characteristics -

| {Full Name} |

John Vincent Delaware

| {Nickname/Callsign} |

Field Agent Lambda

| {Age} |

39

| {Gender} |

Male

| {Face Claim} |

Found artwork online

| {Dialogue Color} |

SlateGray - #708090

| {Appearance} |

In many ways, John Delaware represents the classic Old World American man. Standing an adequate six-foot-one, his broad shoulders, strong jaw, clean-cut dark hair, brawler's physique, and rugged voice would have made any sane woman swoon. Unfortunately, the Old World is dead, and John, like many others, bears the mark of the Wasteland on him. Years of alcohol, tobacco, and Med-X abuse; dangerous living; and constant battering of the elements have hardened him. His features are prematurely aged with frown lines, forehead wrinkles, and crow's feet; a coarse dark stubble blankets his chin and upper lip; bags have formed under cold, unkind eyes; and his cheeks have sunken from malnourishment. His body, what little of it can be seen, is battered and broken, bearing old wounds that pain John to this day, only giving him more incentive to drink. The most apparent of these is a stab-wound at his neck that John will occasionally rub his finger against, now out of strange habit.

John's choice of clothing reflects his appearance and character in much the same way. Shying away from armor to avoid looking like a "grunt," John favors Old World button-down shirts and ties, trousers, and the occasional set of suspenders, completing the ensemble with his signature faded trench coat and worn fedora, the former held together by patches, fresh stitches, and a few squares of duct tape.

---

- Psychological Profile -

| {Personality} |

Self-centered, strong, and cynical, perhaps the word best used to define John Delaware is 'tired.' Embittered and disillusioned through past experiences, John tends to avoid lengthy conversations and get straight-to-the-point, even seeming to find small talk uncomfortable. He often comes off as impatient and agitated, not one to suffer fools gladly. His sense of humor, if it can even be called that, is biting and insulting; with John's only justification being that he spares no one, not even himself from his cruel jabs. Stronger, more determined and more focused than most wastelanders - and probably too thoughtful and serious for his own good, John mulls over things in his mind almost constantly, indicated by a discontent expression and words muttered under his breath, by himself, to himself. Too lucid to stay content in a dysfunctional world yet too indifferent to do anything about it, John occupies the odd in-between stage: drinking too much to put whatever distance he can between himself and the rest of the world. Yet, despite these shortcomings, his extraordinary will to survive, determined resourcefulness, and a hefty dose of luck have kept him alive this long, against all odds.

Having long ago lost most, if not all of his moral reservations, John's professional, straightforward demeanor extends even to acts of violence. Not unfamiliar with killing, John's attitude towards violence can come across as unsettlingly unconcerned. Not one to flinch except at the sight of extreme brutality, John kills with a cold, calculating efficiency, aiming to take down an opponent in one, two shots at the most.

Uncannily perceptive, John's years of experience as an investigator and detective-for-hire have given him a sharp eye for detail and discernment. What he lacks in charm or charisma, he makes up for in observation and investigative ability. In spite of appearances, John is keenly aware of his surroundings, which has saved his life in the past more times than he can count. Though this may give John an inherently pessimistic impression of people, given the state of the Wasteland it's difficult to blame him.

Yet, there are clear hints and ripples that imply John used to be a far more pleasant, affable man with ideals and strong morals. Indeed, in his younger years he was a simple man whose only ambition was to emulate the Pre-War pulp detective stories and radio serials, leaving his mark of good deeds on the Wasteland. Now, while not totally heartless, and capable of genuine kindness, John's troubled past and embittered nature hamper his ability to connect with others on a personal level. Still, those familiar with, or at least perceptive of his character would find him more sad and perhaps pitiable than truly unpleasant. He shows a fondness for the simpler things in life, like music and old mystery stories, things that people seem to forget in the grand scheme of things. He loves animals, dogs especially, drawn to their unwavering loyalty and the childlike simplicity in their eyes. But more than all, he wants to return to the good old days. Not the Old World, not that, something simpler; a time in his youth when everything seemed in control.

| {Fears/Limitations} |

Despite John's apparent professionalism and no-nonsense demeanor, he falls victim to vice as much as any person would. His options for dealing with pain, be it physical or emotional all come from the open lid of a bottle, with pills and alcohol serving as his primary form of self-medication. A sufferer of chronic physical discomfort from injuries sustained over a dangerous career, John tries to keep himself as numbed as possible, resorting to a dose or two of Med-X on days when the whiskey and cigarettes just aren't enough. Similarly, like all men, John has other needs as well, and will frequent whatever brothel or sporting house he can find nearby for carnal pleasure, despite the empty, hollow feeling that plagues him afterwards.

Finding it difficult, if not impossible to "switch off" from his work, John shows general mistrust towards anyone he meets, internally filing them based on a suspect/non-suspect system in his head. Due to the overly-clandestine nature of his work and necessary skepticism, John keeps to himself to avoid attachment, and gives out as little personal information as possible; he's just a private detective from the Commonwealth. True, yet hiding the ever-important details.

Fear-wise, not much seems to shake John: he's been around awhile, and seen some of the worst the Wasteland has had to offer. Still, there are certain things a man can never find himself reconciling with. Cold-blooded torture and excessive violence seem to shake him more than anything else, despite his professional indifference towards killing, himself. Secondly, while more mundane, John despises insects, especially those enlarged by radiation. Bloatflies, Radroaches, Cazadores, Giant Ants, and any other creepy-crawly of the Wastes put him on-edge, to say the least.

| {Place of Origin} |

This is where the true depth of John's character gets underway, the secrets he keeps from others, and the lies he tells himself. Though coming from humble beginnings in a small, nondescript settlement in the Massachusetts Commonwealth, for the last ten, fifteen years (John's long-forgotten), he's been a surface field agent for the shadowy Institute. A glorified bounty hunter, John tracks down rogue Gen. 3 Synths (often aided by the equally-shadowy Railroad) and lethally 'retires' them; not considered an important enough asset to be given access to Institute recall codes. Involuntarily coerced into the position at the barrel of an Institute laser following an unsuccessful Synth rescue during his tenure as a private investigator, John was forced to face the ethical qualms of killing the almost-human Synths head-on. The retirements soon started to rack up in his brain, each one seeming to take more and more of his humanity out of him, leaving the bitter husk seen today. The first time he retired a Synth felt like murder. Not self-defense or Wasteland justice, but first-degree, premeditated. It took him two days to finish the job. Started getting easier after that. Easier, or John was feeling less. Now, putting down Synths feels as natural to him as knocking back a glass of lukewarm scotch. Each time he'd tell himself they were machines, like shutting down a Protectron or Mr. Handy. But machines didn't scream like that, didn't ask for mercy, to be left alone. Doesn't matter now. Even if he didn't do it, some other poor bastard would: might as well get paid.

| {Background} |

John Delaware started out like most Wastelanders did. He wasn't born wealthy or into a powerful faction like the Brotherhood or Enclave, his first cries were heard in a small trading settlement somewhere in the middle of the Commonwealth Wasteland, too insignificant to catch the attention of anyone terribly important. But there was one thing the settlement did have in its favor: close proximity to one of the few functioning radio towers still operating in the Commonwealth. Practically speaking, this made sending and receiving messages between caravans a simple task. Recreationally speaking, however, it made incoming radio signals crisp and clear. Music stations, radio serials, and other programs all became commonplace entertainment for the inhabiting families - a last vestige of the Old World. Which meant that John, in his youth, grew up with an active imagination, reinforced by stories of fictional detectives, roguish anti-heroes who saved the day every week with a side of bourbon and a beautiful bombshell on the arm. Feeling as if the Wasteland was the perfect place to play detective, John spent his formative years honing his observational skills, often playing mystery games with the other kids, mimicking bank shootouts, murder investigations, and classic damsel-in-distress situations that only cemented John's dream of one day donning a coat and hat of his own. For work, when he got old enough, he learned how to operate and repair the old radio tower terminal, which would soon lead to an interest in computer hacking to unlock hidden files and functions. Now playing the waiting game until he was old enough to go out on his own, his time was soon to come, when a nineteen-year-old John, scavenging the nearby ruins for items of value, found an abandoned clothing store, inhabited only by a few skeletons. It was inside he found exactly what he wanted: a double-breasted coat and fedora. Regardless of the outfit's worn state of disrepair, it may as well have been fine silk to John, who decided to pursue his dream once and for all.

The next few years had John making money as a private detective, a "finder" who would locate missing objects for nearby settlers. It started out small, some duct tape here, an old alarm clock there. Whatever it was, John would hike out into the city, scouring old ruins aided only by a pipe revolver until he found what he was looking for.

From then on, he began to build a small reputation for himself as a competent investigator, and the jobs started getting more and more sensitive, finally culminating it what would be John's last job as an investigator.

A few miles down from his hometown was a farm, modest, not terribly wealthy, but it grew decent crops and was kept in overall well-condition, tended to by an older man named Barnum. The farmer revealed to John that, five years prior, he had found a woman scouring through his crop-field: scared, alone, not sure where she was going. But not just any woman, this woman was a Generation 3 Synth, mind-wiped and reprogrammed by the Railroad to start a fresh life anew. Overcome by genuine sympathy, Barnum had taken her in and kept her as his own 'daughter,' a life the Synth had taken to with ease. Two days ago, a band of Raiders harassed Barnum for caps he didn't have, and food he couldn't spare. Upon spying the young Synth and realizing that a young, scared-looking girl was exactly their type, the Raiders took her and fled, leaving Barnum an emotional wreck.

Having never seen a Synth before (that he could tell, at least) John's curiosity was bested only by his concern, and he took the case free of charge. Following the farmer's directions to a small factory about five miles from the farm, John began his one-man crusade against the Raiders. Using stealth, misdirection, and guerrilla tactics, John cautiously made his way through the factory tunnels, popping out to take out a Raider or two before hiding back in the shadows, using their own abandoned weapons as distractions if need be. Finally, he found the girl, locked in a tool crib and seemingly unharmed. Whoever had locked her in there had the jittery hands of a chem addict, which made unlocking the cage child's play.

Keeping her quiet, John led the girl out back the way they had came. Though the rest of the Raiders were on high alert, their drug-induced paranoia combined with the aim and situational awareness of a spastic mole rat made leaving a piece of cake. It was here where disaster struck.

Halfway back to Barnum's farm, everything seemed as if it was going according to plan. John was doing a good deed for another, finally fulfilling the childhood fantasy that had racked at his brain for as long as he could remember. Then, from some unseen assailant in the distance, a shot rang out, a flash of blue light. John threw his arm in front of his face to shield his eyes. By the time he looked over at Barnum's daughter, there was a a burned, smoking hole in her chest. She stopped for a moment, a small gasp of breath heard as she stiffened up, and began to fall backwards.

Catching her in a single arm, John drew his revolver and fired in the direction of the shot, hearing nothing but the echoing sound of his shot in the air.

Then, appearing no less than a foot in front of him was something truly dangerous: an Institute Courser, garbed from head-to-toe in a heavy black coat, eyes obscured with a pair of sunglasses, holding a white plastic laser rifle that John had never seen before. Oblivious as to what Coursers were or the threat they posed to humans and Synths, John, without word, moved to fire another shot... it took two seconds for the Courser to disarm him and send him sprawling to the ground with a single punch, cracking a few ribs for his trouble.

Having lost his hold on her, the Synth girl's lifeless body crashed to the ground, John didn't even hear the impact. His head was swimming, breath ragged as the Courser loomed over him, rifle pointed directly at John's head. Then, the Courser spoke, a flat, eerily monotone voice that John would never forget:

"I have a proposition for you."

From there, John learned that the Institute had a true, active presence in the Commonwealth, tracking down rogue Synths for retrieval - and Barnum's daughter was no exception. While not short on informants and field agents, the Institute needed someone relatively unknown: someone who wasn't a ruthless mercenary like Kellogg, or who would draw attention to themselves like the intimidating Coursers did. Working as a private investigator was only icing on top of the cake. So John was offered a job as a surface agent at the barrel of a gun, and had no choice but to accept.

John was sent home, but not without receiving cryptic news that his first mission would arrive the next morning. Worse still, he bore the brunt of having to give Barnum the news that his daughter was dead - a moment that would be the first of many still to haunt him.

True to the Courser's word, he woke up the next morning with a file folder on his dining table, yet no sign that anyone had physically entered or left. Still unsettled by what had transpired the day before, John's first mission was to track down a girl in Goodneighbor who had been hiding out there beneath the den of vice. John, unable to reconcile how something that looked, acted, and seemed so human - wasn't, was overcome with emotion. He refuses to bring up his first mission to this day.

As the years went on, John would be given contracts every so often, all as vague as the ones before. And every time he found himself feeling less remorse. Pain was an old friend, and the emotional wound of his career merely festered within him instead of aching as it had done for so long.

Still using his job as a private investigator as a front, John, now 39, was contacted by an enigmatic agent known as "The Pariah." John's Courser contact, the sole intermediary between him and the Institute, merely gave him permission to pursue the job on his first assignment as a free-roam agent, tracking and retiring Synths within the Necropolis without official Institute instruction.

John, with nothing worthwhile left to live for, accepted.

---

- Survival Characteristics -

| {Non-Combat Skills} |

Lockpicking: John's career both as a private investigator and Synth hunter sometimes force him to look around places he's not supposed to. As a result, over years of practice, John's become a rather skilled picklock, capable of jimmying open most any door, cage, or storage lock using a bobby pin and screwdriver.

Hacking: Likewise, John's had experience with computer terminals: their function, inner components, and encrypted security. Like any good Wasteland detective, John can crack just about any terminal password in one-or-two tries. Military-grade security, however, is a bit above his skill-level, though not outside the realm of possibility.

Investigation: Perhaps John's greatest asset, aside from his almost-unnatural luck, is his observational talent. He has a close eye for patterns and details, which allow him to easily spot traps, hidden caches, secret passages, and the like. Not reserved just for locations, John is a talented reader of people, a skill he honed as a Synth hunter. He observes behavior and personality patterns well, which, coupled with his own natural suspicion and experience, have allowed him to successfully track down dozens of rogue Synths over his career. Still, John is not infallible in this regard, and at least one failed case resulted in a Synth escaping and the unintended murder of an innocent settler.

Resourcefulness: To complement his investigative ability, much of John's survival over the years can be attributed to his resourcefulness and ingenuity. Fast on his feet and clearheaded in most cases, John can quickly adapt to most any situation at hand, using a combination of his own skills as well as anything around him that could prove useful.

Musicianship: Though not a professional by any means, John is a fairly decent, if rather rusty self-taught pianist. Though he's generally shied away from the instrument in recent years due to his own crippling self-pity, he might play a tune or two if he's had enough to drink.

| {Possessions} |

• Over-the-shoulder satchel-bag
• A pack of (20) cigarettes
• A box of (15) bobby-pins
• Leather-bound notepad with 2 pencils
• Rusted silver flask
• A paper map of New York; Old World, but still useful for general navigation

| {Combat Skills} |

Marksmanship: Though lacking the military training and equipment that a Brotherhood Paladin might boast, John nevertheless demonstrates considerable skill in the use of handguns and revolvers, favoring the powerful 5.56mm pistol. A crack-shot, John can not only lead accurate shots on moving targets, but is also unhindered by environmental handicaps such as darkness and low lighting; condensed crowds; or clouded, foggy weather. His skill with pistols has also increased his natural reflexes and reaction time, granting him an almost signature right-handed hip draw.

Hand-to-Hand Combat: While not a formally trained martial artist, John is an effective brawler, using a street fighting style that revolves around grapples, a strong right hook, and dirtier tactics such as eye gouging, ear pulling, finger breaking, and the use of objects around him as makeshift weaponry.

Durability: While one may question the inclusion of durability as a combat skill, it's nevertheless an important aspect of John's physical skill-set. A combination of high pain tolerance, raw determination, and sheer endurance let John withstand an incredible amount of physical punishment and stay standing. This extends to his physical stamina, where he's capable of walking for miles on end without complaint.

Stealth: Plainly aware of his own physical vulnerabilities exacerbated by refusing to wear armor, John employs stealth and guerrilla tactics when dealing with more, better equipped enemies. He can sneak up on others with ease and navigate the interior of buildings almost totally undetected, hacking any nearby terminals to disable automated security, or better yet, turn them against their original inhabitants

| {Gear} |

• A single 5.56mm pistol, referred to only as the Blaster. Carries 100 rounds of 5.56mm ammo
• Faded Trench Coat & Worn Fedora (non-armored)
• One breathing mask respirator
• Six Stimpaks
• Five doses of Rad-X
• Three syringes of Med-X
• Two doses of RadAway

Fallout: Into the Storm

Oh I love spontaneous character connections!

Fallout: Into the Storm

@Apocalypse I was thinking the same thing!!!

Fallout: Into the Storm

John Delaware - Private Investigator

John Delaware

_{{ "Buy me a round. Then we'll talk." }}

- General Characteristics -

| {Full Name} |

John Vincent Delaware

| {Nickname/Callsign} |

Field Agent Lambda

| {Age} |

39

| {Gender} |

Male

| {Face Claim} |

Found artwork online

| {Dialogue Color} |

SlateGray - #708090

| {Appearance} |

In many ways, John Delaware represents the classic Old World American man. Standing an adequate six-foot-one, his broad shoulders, strong jaw, clean-cut dark hair, brawler's physique, and rugged voice would have made any sane woman swoon. Unfortunately, the Old World is dead, and John, like many others, bears the mark of the Wasteland on him. Years of alcohol, tobacco, and Med-X abuse; dangerous living; and constant battering of the elements have hardened him. His features are prematurely aged with frown lines, forehead wrinkles, and crow's feet; a coarse dark stubble blankets his chin and upper lip; bags have formed under cold, unkind eyes; and his cheeks have sunken from malnourishment. His body, what little of it can be seen, is battered and broken, bearing old wounds that pain John to this day, only giving him more incentive to drink. The most apparent of these is a stab-wound at his neck that John will occasionally rub his finger against, now out of strange habit.

John's choice of clothing reflects his appearance and character in much the same way. Shying away from armor to avoid looking like a "grunt," John favors Old World button-down shirts and ties, trousers, and the occasional set of suspenders, completing the ensemble with his signature faded trench coat and worn fedora, the former held together by patches, fresh stitches, and a few squares of duct tape.

---

- Psychological Profile -

| {Personality} |

Self-centered, strong, and cynical, perhaps the word best used to define John Delaware is 'tired.' Embittered and disillusioned through past experiences, John tends to avoid lengthy conversations and get straight-to-the-point, even seeming to find small talk uncomfortable. He often comes off as impatient and agitated, not one to suffer fools gladly. His sense of humor, if it can even be called that, is biting and insulting; with John's only justification being that he spares no one, not even himself from his cruel jabs. Stronger, more determined and more focused than most wastelanders - and probably too thoughtful and serious for his own good, John mulls over things in his mind almost constantly, indicated by a discontent expression and words muttered under his breath, by himself, to himself. Too lucid to stay content in a dysfunctional world yet too indifferent to do anything about it, John occupies the odd in-between stage: drinking too much to put whatever distance he can between himself and the rest of the world. Yet, despite these shortcomings, his extraordinary will to survive, determined resourcefulness, and a hefty dose of luck have kept him alive this long, against all odds.

Having long ago lost most, if not all of his moral reservations, John's professional, straightforward demeanor extends even to acts of violence. Not unfamiliar with killing, John's attitude towards violence can come across as unsettlingly unconcerned. Not one to flinch except at the sight of extreme brutality, John kills with a cold, calculating efficiency, aiming to take down an opponent in one, two shots at the most.

Uncannily perceptive, John's years of experience as an investigator and detective-for-hire have given him a sharp eye for detail and discernment. What he lacks in charm or charisma, he makes up for in observation and investigative ability. In spite of appearances, John is keenly aware of his surroundings, which has saved his life in the past more times than he can count. Though this may give John an inherently pessimistic impression of people, given the state of the Wasteland it's difficult to blame him.

Yet, there are clear hints and ripples that imply John used to be a far more pleasant, affable man with ideals and strong morals. Indeed, in his younger years he was a simple man who's only ambition was to emulate the Pre-War pulp detective stories and radio serials, leaving his mark of good deeds on the Wasteland. Now, while not totally heartless, and capable of genuine kindness, John's troubled past and embittered nature hamper his ability to connect with others on a personal level. Still, those familiar with, or at least perceptive of his character would find him more sad and perhaps pitiable than truly unpleasant. He shows a fondness for the simpler things in life, like music and old mystery stories, things that people seem to forget in the grand scheme of things. He loves animals, dogs especially, drawn to their unwavering loyalty and the childlike simplicity in their eyes. But more than all, he wants to return to the good old days. Not the Old World, not that, something simpler; a time in his youth when everything seemed in control.

| {Fears/Limitations} |

Despite John's apparent professionalism and no-nonsense demeanor, he falls victim to vice as much as any person would. His options for dealing with pain, be it physical or emotional all come from the open lid of a bottle, with pills and alcohol serving as his primary form of self-medication. A sufferer of chronic physical discomfort from injuries sustained over a dangerous career, John tries to keep himself as numbed as possible, resorting to a dose or two of Med-X on days when the whiskey and cigarettes just aren't enough. Similarly, like all men, John has other needs as well, and will frequent whatever brothel or sporting house he can find nearby for carnal pleasure, despite the empty, hollow feeling that plagues him afterwards.

Finding it difficult, if not impossible to "switch off" from his work, John shows general mistrust towards anyone he meets, internally filing them based on a suspect/non-suspect system in his head. Due to the overly-clandestine nature of his work and necessary skepticism, John keeps to himself to avoid attachment, and gives out as little personal information as possible; he's just a private detective from the Commonwealth. True, yet hiding the ever-important details.

Fear-wise, not much seems to shake John: he's been around awhile, and seen some of the worst the Wasteland has had to offer. Still, there are certain things a man can never find himself reconciling with. Cold-blooded torture and excessive violence seem to shake him more than anything else, despite his professional indifference towards killing, himself. Secondly, while more mundane, John despises insects, especially those enlarged by radiation. Bloatflies, Radroaches, Cazadores, Giant Ants, and any other creepy-crawly of the Wastes put him on-edge, to say the least.

| {Place of Origin} |

This is where the true depth of John's character gets underway, the secrets he keeps from others, and the lies he tells himself. Though coming from humble beginnings in a small, nondescript settlement in the Massachusetts Commonwealth, for the last ten, fifteen years (John's long-forgotten), he's been a surface field agent for the shadowy Institute. A glorified bounty hunter, John tracks down rogue Gen. 3 Synths (often aided by the equally-shadowy Railroad) and lethally 'retires' them; not considered an important enough asset to be given access to Institute recall codes. Involuntarily coerced into the position at the barrel of an Institute laser following an unsuccessful Synth rescue during his tenure as a private investigator, John was forced to face the ethical qualms of killing the almost-human Synths head-on. The retirements soon started to rack up in his brain, each one seeming to take more and more of his humanity out of him, leaving the bitter husk seen today. The first time he retired a Synth felt like murder. Not self-defense or Wasteland justice, but first-degree, premeditated. It took him two days to finish the job. Started getting easier after that. Easier, or John was feeling less. Now, putting down Synths feels as natural to him as knocking back a glass of lukewarm scotch. Each time he'd tell himself they were machines, like shutting down a Protectron or Mr. Handy. But machines didn't scream like that, didn't ask for mercy, to be left alone. Doesn't matter now. Even if he didn't do it, some other poor bastard would: might as well get paid.

| {Background} |

John Delaware started out like most Wastelanders did. He wasn't born wealthy or into a powerful faction like the Brotherhood or Enclave, his first cries were heard in a small trading settlement somewhere in the middle of the Commonwealth Wasteland, too insignificant to catch the attention of anyone terribly important. But there was one thing the settlement did have in its favor: close proximity to one of the few functioning radio towers still operating in the Commonwealth. Practically speaking, this made sending and receiving messages between caravans a simple task. Recreationally speaking, however, it made incoming radio signals crisp and clear. Music stations, radio serials, and other programs all became commonplace entertainment for the inhabiting families - a last vestige of the Old World. Which meant that John, in his youth, grew up with an active imagination, reinforced by stories of fictional detectives, roguish anti-heroes who saved the day every week with a side of bourbon and a beautiful bombshell on the arm. Feeling as if the Wasteland was the perfect place to play detective, John spent his formative years honing his observational skills, often playing mystery games with the other kids, mimicking bank shootouts, murder investigations, and classic damsel-in-distress situations that only cemented John's dream of one day donning a coat and hat of his own. For work, when he got old enough, he learned how to operate and repair the old radio tower terminal, which would soon lead to an interest in computer hacking to unlock hidden files and functions. Now playing the waiting game until he was old enough to go out on his own, his time was soon to come, when a nineteen-year-old John, scavenging the nearby ruins for items of value, found an abandoned clothing store, inhabited only by a few skeletons. It was inside he found exactly what he wanted: a double-breasted coat and fedora. Regardless of the outfit's worn state of disrepair, it may as well have been fine silk to John, who decided to pursue his dream once and for all.

The next few years had John making money as a private detective, a "finder" who would locate missing objects for nearby settlers. It started out small, some duct tape here, an old alarm clock there. Whatever it was, John would hike out into the city, scouring old ruins aided only by a pipe revolver until he found what he was looking for.

From then on, he began to build a small reputation for himself as a competent investigator, and the jobs started getting more and more sensitive, finally culminating it what would be John's last job as an investigator.

A few miles down from his hometown was a farm, modest, not terribly wealthy, but it grew decent crops and was kept in overall well-condition, tended to by an older man named Barnum. The farmer revealed to John that, five years prior, he had found a woman scouring through his crop-field: scared, alone, not sure where she was going. But not just any woman, this woman was a Generation 3 Synth, mind-wiped and reprogrammed by the Railroad to start a fresh life anew. Overcome by genuine sympathy, Barnum had taken her in and kept her as his own 'daughter,' a life the Synth had taken to with ease. Two days ago, a band of Raiders harassed Barnum for caps he didn't have, and food he couldn't spare. Upon spying the young Synth and realizing that a young, scared-looking girl was exactly their type, the Raiders took her and fled, leaving Barnum an emotional wreck.

Having never seen a Synth before (that he could tell, at least) John's curiosity was bested only by his concern, and he took the case free of charge. Following the farmer's directions to a small factory about five miles from the farm, John began his one-man crusade against the Raiders. Using stealth, misdirection, and guerrilla tactics, John cautiously made his way through the factory tunnels, popping out to take out a Raider or two before hiding back in the shadows, using their own abandoned weapons as distractions if need be. Finally, he found the girl, locked in a tool crib and seemingly unharmed. Whoever had locked her in there had the jittery hands of a chem addict, which made unlocking the cage child's play.

Keeping her quiet, John led the girl out back the way they had came. Though the rest of the Raiders were on high alert, their drug-induced paranoia combined with the aim and situational awareness of a spastic mole rat made leaving a piece of cake. It was here where disaster struck.

Halfway back to Barnum's farm, everything seemed as if it was going according to plan. John was doing a good deed for another, finally fulfilling the childhood fantasy that had racked at his brain for as long as he could remember. Then, from some unseen assailant in the distance, a shot rang out, a flash of blue light. John threw his arm in front of his face to shield his eyes. By the time he looked over at Barnum's daughter, there was a a burned, smoking hole in her chest. She stopped for a moment, a small gasp of breath heard as she stiffened up, and began to fall backwards.

Catching her in a single arm, John drew his revolver and fired in the direction of the shot, hearing nothing but the echoing sound of his shot in the air.

Then, appearing no less than a foot in front of him was something truly dangerous: an Institute Courser, garbed from head-to-toe in a heavy black coat, eyes obscured with a pair of sunglasses, holding a white plastic laser rifle that John had never seen before. Oblivious as to what Coursers were or the threat they posed to humans and Synths, John, without word, moved to fire another shot... it took two seconds for the Courser to disarm him and send him sprawling to the ground with a single punch, cracking a few ribs for his trouble.

Having lost his hold on her, the Synth girl's lifeless body crashed to the ground, John didn't even hear the impact. His head was swimming, breath ragged as the Courser loomed over him, rifle pointed directly at John's head. Then, the Courser spoke, a flat, eerily monotone voice that John would never forget:

"I have a proposition for you."

From there, John learned that the Institute had a true, active presence in the Commonwealth, tracking down rogue Synths for retrieval - and Barnum's daughter was no exception. While not short on informants and field agents, the Institute needed someone relatively unknown: someone who wasn't a ruthless mercenary like Kellogg, or who would draw attention to themselves like the intimidating Coursers did. Working as a private investigator was only icing on top of the cake. So John was offered a job as a surface agent at the barrel of a gun, and had no choice but to accept.

John was sent home, but not without receiving cryptic news that his first mission would arrive the next morning. Worse still, he bore the brunt of having to give Barnum the news that his daughter was dead - a moment that would be the first of many still to haunt him.

True to the Courser's word, he woke up the next morning with a file folder on his dining table, yet no sign that anyone had physically entered or left. Still unsettled by what had transpired the day before, John's first mission was to track down a girl in Goodneighbor who had been hiding out there beneath the den of vice. John, unable to reconcile how something that looked, acted, and seemed so human - wasn't, was overcome with emotion. He refuses to bring up his first mission to this day.

As the years went on, John would be given contracts every so often, all as vague as the ones before. And every time he found himself feeling less remorse. Pain was an old friend, and the emotional wound of his career merely festered within him instead of aching as it had done for so long.

Still using his job as a private investigator as a front, John, now 39, was contacted by an enigmatic agent known as "The Pariah." John's Courser contact, the sole intermediary between him and the Institute, merely gave him permission to pursue the job on his first assignment as a free-roam agent, tracking and retiring Synths within the Necropolis without official Institute instruction.

John, with nothing worthwhile left to live for, accepted.

---

- Survival Characteristics -

| {Non-Combat Skills} |

Lockpicking: John's career both as a private investigator and Synth hunter sometimes force him to look around places he's not supposed to. As a result, over years of practice, John's become a rather skilled picklock, capable of jimmying open most any door, cage, or storage lock using a bobby pin and screwdriver.

Hacking: Likewise, John's had experience with computer terminals: their function, inner components, and encrypted security. Like any good Wasteland detective, John can crack just about any terminal password in one-or-two tries. Military-grade security, however, is a bit above his skill-level, though not outside the realm of possibility.

Investigation: Perhaps John's greatest asset, aside from his almost-unnatural luck, is his observational talent. He has a close eye for patterns and details, which allow him to easily spot traps, hidden caches, secret passages, and the like. Not reserved just for locations, John is a talented reader of people, a skill he honed as a Synth hunter. He observes behavior and personality patterns well, which, coupled with his own natural suspicion and experience, have allowed him to successfully track down dozens of rogue Synths over his career. Still, John is not infallible in this regard, and at least one failed case resulted in a Synth escaping and the unintended murder of an innocent settler.

Resourcefulness: To complement his investigative ability, much of John's survival over the years can be attributed to his resourcefulness and ingenuity. Fast on his feet and clearheaded in most cases, John can quickly adapt to most any situation at hand, using a combination of his own skills as well as anything around him that could prove useful.

Musicianship: Though not a professional by any means, John is a fairly decent, if rather rusty self-taught pianist. Though he's generally shied away from the instrument in recent years due to his own crippling self-pity, he might play a tune or two if he's had enough to drink.

| {Possessions} |

• Over-the-shoulder satchel-bag
• A pack of (20) cigarettes
• A box of (15) bobby-pins
• Leather-bound notepad with 2 pencils
• Rusted silver flask
• A paper map of New York; Old World, but still useful for general navigation

| {Combat Skills} |

Marksmanship: Though lacking the military training and equipment that a Brotherhood Paladin might boast, John nevertheless demonstrates considerable skill in the use of handguns and revolvers, favoring the powerful 5.56mm pistol. A crack-shot, John can not only lead accurate shots on moving targets, but is also unhindered by environmental handicaps such as darkness and low lighting; condensed crowds; or clouded, foggy weather. His skill with pistols has also increased his natural reflexes and reaction time, granting him an almost signature right-handed hip draw.

Hand-to-Hand Combat: While not a formally trained martial artist, John is an effective brawler, using a street fighting style that revolves around grapples, a strong right hook, and dirtier tactics such as eye gouging, ear pulling, finger breaking, and the use of objects around him as makeshift weaponry.

Durability: While one may question the inclusion of durability as a combat skill, it's nevertheless an important aspect of John's physical skill-set. A combination of high pain tolerance, raw determination, and sheer endurance let John withstand an incredible amount of physical punishment and stay standing. This extends to his physical stamina, where he's capable of walking for miles on end without complaint.

Stealth: Plainly aware of his own physical vulnerabilities exacerbated by refusing to wear armor, John employs stealth and guerrilla tactics when dealing with more, better equipped enemies. He can sneak up on others with ease and navigate the interior of buildings almost totally undetected, hacking any nearby terminals to disable automated security, or better yet, turn them against their original denizens.

| {Gear} |

• A single 5.56mm pistol, referred to only as the Blaster. Carries 100 rounds of 5.56mm ammo
• Faded Trench Coat & Worn Fedora (non-armored)
• One breathing mask respirator
• Six Stimpaks
• Five doses of Rad-X
• Three syringes of Med-X
• Two doses of RadAway

Fallout: Into the Storm

Alright, just a quick CS update here! The sheet is about halfway finished now that I finally got minute, stupid details out of the way (like a name :v) the finished product should be up by tomorrow! Very excited to see how we all interact with each other!

Fallout: Into the Storm

Okay, I've got a character concept down and pinned! I'll get up a CS asap