pugbutter — Roleplayer Guild

（ バンディット・トロイ Ｂａｎｄｉｔｔｏ Ｔｏｒｏｉ ） 
Troy Bandit Ｎａｍｅ：
His cockpit callsign is "Rooster." Ａｌｉａｓｅｓ：
24 Ａｇｅ：
July 31 Ｂｉｒｔｈｄａｙ：
Male Ｇｅｎｄｅｒ：

Ｈｅｉｇｈｔ： 178cm
Ｗｅｉｇｈｔ： 78kg
Ｂｕｉｌｄ： Lean and toned
Ｅｙｅｓ： Br
Ｈａｉｒ： Br
ＳｋｉｎＴｏｎｅ： White with a slight tan
Ｔａｔｔｏｏｓ／Ｓｃａｒｓ／Ｐｉｅｒｃｉｎｇｓ： Tribal tattoos on forearms; piercings in both ear lobes.
ＰｅｒｓｏｎａｌＳｔｙｌｅ： Brown leather bomber jackets with shearling collars. Distressed, sometimes acid-washed jeans. Cowboy boots or white sneakers. Obnoxiously large sunglasses. Baseball caps turned the wrong way.
Heterosexual Ｓｅｘｕａｌｉｔｙ：
Single Ｒｅｌａｔｉｏｎｓｈｉｐ Ｓｔａｔｕｓ：
Hotheaded, Loyal, Vain, Dutiful Ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌｉｔｙ：
Unable to decide whether he wants his hair tucked behind his ears; lacing his shoes only halfway up; drinking on duty; swearing like a sailor. Singing in the shower and talking to his mech while he works on it. Ｈａｂｉｔｓ：
Lifting, cars, machinery in general Ｈｏｂｂｉｅｓ：
Selling out Ｆｅａｒｓ：

ＧｅｎｅｒａｌＳｋｉｌｌｓ： Proficiency with small arms (pistols) and blade weapons; mechanical know-how; athletics, especially sprinting and pole-vaulting; an excellent pilot, but one who is hindered by obsolete technology. Demolitions expert, with a special talent in mech-on-mech operations.





He's been with the Ghosts for 7 years and going on missions for 2. (Hey; training ain't free.) Ｙｅａｒｓ ｏｆ Ｃｏｍｂａｔ Ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ：
Ｂａｃｋｇｒｏｕｎｄ：
Troy is a Venetian, whose love for the mechanical and the technological was instilled in him at a very young age, as the garage was filled with old, expensive landcars which the males of the family loved to work on. Unfortunately, in his attempts to keep Troy motivated to do well in school, the boy's father found only resistance, rebellion, and the wrath of raging teenage hormones. The boy dropped out of school at 16 and lied about his age in an attempt join the space fleet as an engineer; after being rejected, he tried mercenary work with the Chimera Corps, the elites of the Venetian ring-sector, but they weren't interested in a lad who couldn't even fight yet. (Psh. He didn't really want to join anyway, he'd tell you; they'd have made him cut his hair.) He was getting desperate then; too unskilled to be a soldier but too proud to return to his disappointed father, finally, as he was spending the last of his credits on ginger beer and noodles, a derelict in the rainy streets of Ganymede, the Ghosts took him in, probably out of pity, as a repairman.

He's been training ever since. He excels at hand-to-hand and at small arms marksmanship. However, his synch ratings are very poor in standard Frames, due to his rash and foolhardy disposition; so for his first real mission (having become a competent mechanic on the mothership in that time), he was trained with a more old-fashioned, outdated model, which they had found for cheap, equipped in its large and clunky cockpit with a multitude of manual buttons, levers, and joysticks. Troy is in love with his steel woman; he's spent much of his adult life cleaning it up and outfitting it to his precise specs, and proving that he can be just as useful on the battlefield as the poseurs taking baths in their liquid oxygen tanks with their fancy neural links and synch ratios.

Of course, the number of missions he can go on is limited by his rig's terrestrial design, but that won't stop him. He needs time between missions to perform maintenance on the company's machines anyway.

Technical Data

Model Number: MB-P08-A/Sc ("Missile Boat" model derived from Prototype #8; custom designations in the areas of auxiliary and support roles) 
Code Name: "Odin"
Manufacturer: LaCroix Industries
Dimensions: 6.0 meters outstretched
Weight: 22.14 metric tons dryArmaments

Fixed Armaments:(x2) LRM-6 missile pods; 21 missiles per pod, one pod per shoulder.
(x2) (x1,350rnds ea.) 14.5mm Surtur blowback-powered machine guns, located on either side of the nose/cockpit region. With alternating fire between the two barrels, together these guns shoot at a modest 760 rounds per minute.
Hand Armaments:Right arm22mm grenade launcher
16mm grenade launcher
Left arm22mm grenade launcher
16mm grenade launcher
Miscellaneous

Technical & Historical Notes: It comes as no surprise that the Odin's commission was so short-lived. Besides the obvious disadvantages of bipedal Frames with little or no slope-climbing capabilities, this particular model suffers from many more: quite simply, the designers didn't know what they wanted it to be. It sports an enormous number of long-range missiles, but its armor is impractically heavy for rear duty, instead implying more personal and close-range deployment against other mechs. The number of heat sinks it sports is similarly ludicrous; although these helps with long-range bombardment, they drastically affect the machine's fuel efficiency, and of course serve to slow it down by adding more mass to the design. It already demands an enormously powerful engine, but then even more power allows it to move extremely quickly for its size, burning a simply exorbitant amount of fuel. On top of all this the thing (in its original specs) sports not two, not four, but six antipersonnel machine guns, three on either side of the cockpit, for blowing away literal legions of ground troops. The overall result is that in the designers' attempt to create a jack-of-all-trades machine, they created a master of nothing; in their desire to create an end-all-be-all super-mech, they created an inefficient, pricey vehicle with an identity crisis.

In the secondary market these outdated, clunky mechs are pieces of junk, and their price tags reflect this fact.

That of course is before Troy got his hands on one, at which point it gradually was modified to become a dedicated long-range artillery unit. His specialty is demolitions: things which go "boom" at medium and long ranges, often behind a hilltop or outside of a city where a conflict has broken out. Slab by slab he has lightened the enormous armor loadout, replacing heavy alloys with lighter, thinner ferro-fibers. He has also cut his antipersonnel weaponry by two thirds, sporting only two automatic guns. This has allowed him then to equip a smaller engine, which spends less fuel, which allows him in turn to stay in the field longer. Only the heat sinks have received minimal streamlining, as Troy's payload is intended as a single, enormous blitzkrieg strike; cracking the enemy's shell before the girls have moved in to initiate full contact with the enemy.
Color Scheme: Standard is unpainted gun-metal grey with black-tinted windows. Troy's is olive drab with a sneering fanged mouth painted at the "beak."
Anything Else: He calls it the Iron Chicken.

"Sir, is something wrong?"

Jules had attempted to pretend that he did not just flinch; the applicant could not hear the feedback screeching from the earpiece, but his reaction betrayed the possibility that she was being eavesdropped upon after all. "Nothing that concerns you, Ms. Boulanger," he said, hoping in retrospect that that didn't sound too pretentious. "One of my chips needs a calibration. I've been getting headaches all month. Anyway, you'll receive a call soon!" They shook hands, and Jules saved his sigh for when she had left the room.

Of course she wished, through the shrinking crack of the door, that he'd get better soon. He feared that Ona was there to hear it, the final nail in a casket stuffed with insult. Jules returned to the control room timidly as a dormouse, but seeing that she was not there, unwound substantially in the shoulders.

"Maybe the next one will be a handsome guy. Then she won't be so uptight," he grumbled. The handler nodded awkwardly, but hesitated to slander anyone, not when they could walk back into the room any second now. She'd wait til the patchers' backs were turned to start smearing their gossip across the offices. The nod was one of acknowledgement, then, not agreement.

He saw that the coffee was gone. He didn't think to look in the wastebasket, so he assumed the tornado of stress female hormones was carrying it away to another work station; she was shuffling another pile of paperwork like a deck of cards, or at the very least, grabbing another applicant. She had ten minutes, he decided to himself, before he'd do it himself. The assistant needed some practice anyway. It wasn't protocol, but the arteries of protocol were already so fatty and clogged, who would notice?

Jules glanced sidelong. The girl paid too much attention to him, shifting little glances his way when she thought he wasn't paying attention. Then there were the cameras. He couldn't sneak a drink in the blind spot yet, so he twiddled his thumbs, pretending to be bored instead of claustrophobic and anxious, that any sufficient amount of bulletproof glass and chromasteel paneling existed in this building to protect him from the wrath of woman scorned. Frankly he hoped she'd just unload it all on him quickly. Get it over with. But more realistically she'd resent him for weeks now; subtle sabotage following his every step.

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