Spoopy Scary

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

<Snipped quote by Spoopy Scary>

Trying to punch Archie's face is a futile attempt. Reyna would just be hitting water, basically.

@SepticGentleman

Just a quote, no need to argue the feasibility of the action itself.

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

Added some bits to Reyna's dynamics: Arianna and Archie

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

In my defense, Reyrianna is planned.

Speaking of impossible sex, Reyna's power is unfortunate for anybody with nerves or the desire to keep their flesh intact (assuming they even get that close to her).

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

Reyna Baker, Archie Davis, and Arianna

---

The night before, somewhere in Prince Ed-Field.

After the surprisingly smooth drive (considering Ari's general personality), the ragtag threesome had made it to what was presumably a safe distance. And upon that, they ended up in the front lot of a dive bar. Flickering neon lights contrasted the darkness - not even the moon or the stars shone through the dense cloud cover that had blanketed the night sky, and a single street light by the lot lit the area up with an artificial yellow light. Neither did that serve to penetrate the thick gloom.

Archie, still in the back of the van, began typing before exiting the vehicle, going back to using the TTS program. "Surprisingly uneventful drive." He commented, motioning towards Arianna. "My first day in Baybridge and I'm already accomplice to burglary."

Reyna felt half asleep, leaning against the hood of the van with her leather jacket wrapped around her like a blanket. She was busy trying to massage away the pain and soreness she felt in her knuckles and in her elbow. They were purple. Both her hands, and what seemed like the entirety of one of her arms felt like hell, but even between her pain and exhaustion she managed to pick up on the voice that came from Archie's phone. She only looked at him with a scolding glare lacking any sympathy. Archie sought to return the best glare he could, but with that mask of his, it wasn't discernible at all.

"Did you expect any less?" Arianna said in reply to Archie, parking and looking over the seat to her friend. She made a face suddenly, as if she was remembering something, and stuck her hand into her blazer pocket, only to pull out a rolex watch.

"I picked something up for you." she said, tossing it onto his lap. While he wouldn't be able to prove it was a rolex easily without the papers, anyone who appraised professionally it would be able to figure it out pretty easily.

"Figured you'd like it."

"It's better than the last one." Archie replied a moment later, pocketing the watch. He began typing once more - "We gotta go see Goldie later, I'm guessing?"

"Of course. The regular. Everything not made of paper gets put into the vault." Ari said, shrugging. Solid items like watches or rings or gold bars were too easy to track if she sold too many at once, or too often. The last thing she wanted was attention.

"Well first things first." Archie continued, the speech coming with a little delay as he typed, "A safe place to crash would be nice. I don't have anything set up. You?"

"I move from place to place. I'll crash in the Microcosm if need be. I can get a hotel room." Arianna said, seemingly uninterested. She turned to look at Reyna with some concern though. "You have a place? We can drop you off somewhere?"

Reyna looked at Arianna, almost insulted. Her sour expression had at least returned after the couple hours of reeling from what her life was spiraling down to, but needless to say, it bore little improvement on her mood. She slowly stood herself up and made slow, weary paces towards her. "Oh, you know... only the first place I had asked you to bring me, but now that I'm technically on the run, that isn't an option now. Is it?"

"Technically, but the person in that truck isn't you. I altered her looks. She's similar, but as far as RAVEN will be concerned, you only signed in at the front. The bitch who beat the hell out of the agent just happened to dress similarly." Arianna explained, finally getting out of the car. She leaned on the vehicle, resting her arms on the roof of the car.

"Well..." Reyna sighed deeply. She kicked a stone and watched it skid across the lot. "Since hospitals will probably see my face and think, 'oh, that looks like the bitch on the news', and every pharmacy is now fucking closed this way late at night, I guess my only option is to stop standing around out here and drink rubbing alcohol."

As if to show her point, she revealed her hands from behind her jackets, showing the ugly bruises on her hands, and nudged her head toward the bar. One of her arms remained still. It was easy to infer that it hurt to move it.

"I have a suggestion, if you want to hear it." Archie typed out, directed at Reyna.

Arianna pointed to Archie, as if she was a teacher. "Yes! To the man on the front with a letter for a face!"

Reyna sighed in resignation. She mumbled, "It can't be any more useless than all the previous ones..."

Archie nodded, and typed again, "This way." He waved the two over, turned and walked back to the Honda, to retrieve his belongings. Reyna stubbornly stood where she was, in pain and already irritated. He typed along the way, "I am in possession of the perfect non-Euclidean environment in which people in your position may find sanctuary within." He took out his backpack, placing it on the lot below his feet, unzipped it, and began pulling out the opening of the bag inside. Once the bag was laid out on the ground, in such a way that any of them could just jump in, Archie delivered one more comment - "Whackety whack, get in my sack."

Reyna only stared at Archie, and bottom jaw slowly dropping. If she was getting this straight, this weirdo with a bag on his head wanted her to crawl inside of whatever mystery bag he had in store for her.

"Whatever you're thinking, the answer is yes." Arianna said, checking her main phone for any texts from her mother. To her (lack of) surprise, there was nothing. "After everything you've seen tonight, is this really that fucked?"

Reyna shot a look of indigence at Arianna. "You set me up to get harassed by a creep, which turned into a fight he started, I get arrested for it, you kidnap me, and you want me to accept this dumb ass' offer to crawl into his bag?"

"As I said, you threw the punch." Arianna said, turning off her phone and smiling to her new-found acquaintance. "But in short terms, yeah, pretty much. If you want to."

Reyna took a deep breath and nodded. Then she turned on her heels and stomped her way toward the entrance of the bar, shaking her head and muttering to herself all the while. There was only one bright side to be found in all of this, she figured. It was getting her blood boiling enough that her pain was beginning to subside. Still, it wouldn't last long. She personally made it a point to not drink a whole lot - not after what happened to Mia, but there had to be exceptions in some cases.

Ari watched her stalk off and frowned. She had a hard time with people in general. Both her and her mother were fairly unorthodox when it came to socializing with anyone or thing, and that's probably why she and Archie were as close as they were. But Reyna had mentioned that she had a sister. That had struck something very lightly with her. Despite everything she has trained herself to do, she let that small feeling of guilt take hold.

"Hey, Archie, I'm going to go and check on her. I'll be back in a moment, unless you want to come with."

"Go on ahead." Archie replied, as he went to pick up the bag and its container. "I'm going to scout out a better hiding place for the van."

Arianna nodded. "I'll give you a hand." She commented, stepping into two different directions. One copy following Reyna and the other remaining where she was. "Lead on, Arch."

---

Reyna had pushed open the door of the bar with her shoulder, and the bell rang from behind her. Arianna stretched her arm to catch the door before it closed, and as she come closer she checked to see if anyone was paying attention (which was thankfully no one). She took in the atmosphere for a moment. Very dimly lit, minimal lighting, half the tables had their chairs upside down on them, and there were only a couple of people who remained here. The television was nearly muted, and soft music was playing for the night's ambiance. She trudged over to the bar, and climbed onto one of its stools. She set her good arm on the table and leaned her face against it. God, she felt exhausted.

"That looks none too pretty." Reyna heard a voice say. When she looked up, it was the barkeeper. In response, she only shrugged. He asked, "What can I get you?"

Honestly, that was a good question. She just knew she wanted something strong that she could hopefully forget the last couple hours with, but she didn't want to pass out on the floor. No, with the freaks that have taken her away, and those RAVEN idiots probably stalking her, she didn't feel comfortable sleeping.

"Uh..." Reyna hesitated. "Something... strong... and something to keep me awake."

"Kahlua?" He offered.

"Yeah..." Reyna resigned. "That's fine."

"Gonna need to see your I.D." He said. There was a hint of sympathy in his voice.

"Oh, right." Reyna forgot that she still looked pretty young. Uh, now where was... right. Arianna put it in her back pocket. She needed her good arm to lean forward so she could reach it, but couldn't move it if she didn't want to fall forward on her face, as tired as she felt. She went to move her other arm, but a stinging pain jolted up her arm.

"Need some help?"

Reyna turned around and saw Arianna. Ugh, God, she couldn't just leave her alone. "No," she snapped, "I have this."

Needless to say, she didn't have it under control. Another pain up her arm. Instead, trying to lean forward against the counter and balance carefully to use her good arm to reach, but it turned into something of a circus act that wasn't getting her to the place she needed to be as quick as wanted to.

Arianna seemed to take it in stride, and sat down next to Reyna, making no effort to aggravate her even more. She waved the waiter over and ordered a glass of water, which caused a few eyebrows to raise.

Arianna looked at Reyna out of the corner of her eye, stealing glances at the woman as if she was a teenager looking at their crush. She wanted to help this woman. She seemed so... miserable and she couldn't help but feel at least somewhat responsible.

"You, uh..." Arianna said, trying to find a good way to start some form of conversation that wouldn't antagonize Reyna anymore. "You said you had a sister, right?"

Almost immediately, all effort in reaching for her wallet stopped. Reyna quickly sat down and leaned, almost lunged, closely toward Arianna. Her skin appeared to have flushed in that moment's notice. Heat was already starting to radiate from her.

"If you so much as lay a grubby little finger on a single strand of hair on Merry's pretty head," Reyna snarled as her eyes bore deep into Arianna's, "nobody can save you from me."

Arianna looked at her, less threatened as much as she was uncomfortable having someone so close to her. Arianna shook her head and turned away, sighing.

"Not me you'd ever have to worry about. But you know, don't worry about it." Arianna said, seeming to figuratively throw her hands in the air in submission. "Focus on not killing yourself, would you?"

Reyna stared at her a couple moments longer, her chest slightly heaving with each deep breath she took. Frustrated, she went back to her own stool, and now charged as she was, reached for the wallet in her back pocket with no problem, and slammed it onto the counter, then took the jacket off of herself. The red tank-top showed her arms about as red as the rest of her. The bartender watched the heated exchange uncomfortably, and took a brief glance as Reyna's ID before walking off to fix the drink she had asked for. Reyna remained there, head in hand, still taking deep breaths.

"That's right, deep breath in, deep breath out. Feel the burn." Arianna said, sounding just like a yoga instructor.

Reyna slowly moved her glaring glance to the corner of her eye, trained on Arianna. "Nobody ever told you when's the time to stop, have they?"

"I didn't really have anybody tell me what was right and wrong to begin with." Arianna said, shifting in her seat. "Can I ask anything about your sister? I'm trying my best to start a normal conversation here."

There was a moment of hesitation from Reyna. She combed her fingers through and tugged on her red hair, before finally giving a deep sigh. She through her hand down. The image of her sister came to mind. The picture of face helped to calm her, and kept her in enough of a trance that she barely noticed the bartender deliver her drink."Fine... shoot."

Ari shifted a little more, and tapped the counter nervously. She was only now realizing how bad she was at this. "Uh, just... general stuff I guess. How old is she? What is she like?"

"She's..." Reyna began - but as she began to speak, the realization hit her, and she grew quiet and sullen. This silence persisted for several moments before Reyna finished her answer. "...She's twenty."

She took a big sip of her drink, and immediately cringed and shook her head at how strong it was, but her expression returned to the face she had before. It was ridiculous. That is, being so... protective of her sister, who was now actually a grown woman. The sheer stupidity of it was... just...

She took another drink from her glass.

"Wish I had someone who cared about me like that. Damn." Ari commented, eyeing her water as if she was trying to find some secret about it.

"It'd help if you didn't kidnap them." Reyna said idly, not really thinking over what she talking about.

"Last I checked, I took you out of handcuffs." Ari said, shooting her a sideways glance with her typical shit eating grin.

"Your stupid mistake, I'm gonna put you right back in them." Reyna blurted before shooting down the rest of what she had. She waved her hand at the barkeep for a follow up.

Arianna turned to face her, trying to figure out if Reyna was getting tipsy or stupid. She decided it was the former. She decided the look she was giving her was enough, and no words were required.

"Alright, alright, how about this." Reyna started to say between sips. "First impressions. Why in the world did you choose me for your little... burglary?"

Arianna shook her head and gave her chuckle. "Honest answer? You stuck out like a sore thumb. Most people were dressed like me and acting formal. Meanwhile you, in leather, eating like no one's business. You were an easy target."

"Nah, nah, nah," Reyna denied, "you're a liar!"

"I am a liar. It's true. But I haven't lied to you once, not yet."

"That's a lie, too." Reyna insisted. There was a certain unevenness in the tone of her voice that called her sobriety into question. "You know how I know?"

Arianna leaned on her elbow, resting her chin on her hand. "Do tell."

"You could'a done any number of shit to me." Reyna said to her. "I've done stuff like that before, too. Mama knows I ain't a perfect angel."

She took a sip from her glass, and slid it over in front of Arianna.

"You're the one who told the big boy I wanted a ride, right?" Reyna asked. "There was this thing a guy said once... this teacher guy, what was it...?"

"I lied to him, not to you." Arianna said, smiling at her, showing her bright white teeth. She shook her head at Reyna. "First rule is 'Don't get caught', love. Anything I do to you, you wont realize until I'm a safe distance away. Like, your phone for instance-"

Arianna pulled Reyna's phone from her blazer pocket, showing it to the woman. She had taken it from her while patting her down for her wallet. She had accessed it via touch ID.

"You wouldn't realize that I put my phone number into your phone until much, much la--"

At the sight of her own property in the hands of the thief, her adrenaline immediately kicked up, and her arm shot out like a bullet before Arianna even had the chance to pull away. Her hand's grip was tight around her wrist, even though that meant little - even though Arianna's wrist squished beneath her tight hold. She was leaned forward, inches away from Ari, having acted upon reflexes like a spider's.

"That's right, I remember now..." Reyna grumbled. "Projection."

She reached her other arm over and promptly pulled the phone from Arianna's grip. She pocketed it quickly and returned to her drink.

Arianna released her grip on the phone and let Reyna pocket her device. She had enough phones as it was.

"Do me a favor and don't get drunk enough to lose it again."

"Nooo promisess..." Reyna sung, sipping on what was left of her glass. Huh. She went through two tall kahluas already.

"Your turn."

"Hm?" Reyna looked over lazily at Arianna holding the glass close to her chest.

"Your first impression!"

"Huh..." Reyna pondered. The silence went on until her face still stretching wide in silly smile, and shortly after even a giggle. It had to have been the most genuine laugh or smile she had given the last couple of painful hours - but that wasn't saying much, given her inebriation.

"Honestly," Reyna chuckled as she hid her smiling red face behind a single hand, looking at Arianna between her fingers, "I shit you not, my first... my first thought past the 'what the fuck happened to the RAVEN dudes' was...'oh no, she's hot!'"

Reyna lay her head down onto the counter and started laughing as if it were the most hysterical thing she had ever said. "And the next thing I know, you're kidnapping me and I'm a fugitive!"

At this point, Reyna was falling into hysterical giggle fits, her face flushed to a bright red - and this time, it wasn't because she was angry. All natural blush, a wide smile, dimples, and her eyes were squinty as though she were about to pass out - but with two kahluas, that couldn't be further from the truth. It was a face of pure delight. "C-Can... can you believe that?!"

Arianna snorted, and rolled her eyes, looking away from her drunk friend. "I wouldn't believe it unless I was there." she said, motioning with her hand. Unlike most people she wasn't flattered by the appearance compliment. Arianna had lived her life changing appearance like she changed clothes. Compliments came and went, but she never paid that much attention to them. It would be like if someone complimented your hat. It's nice, but it's likely not going to be something you remember the next day.

But, it also meant she was pretty nonjudgmental. It put her high on the list for the Spider Society. She was still hesitant about that. But Auri never stopped trying.

"Then again..." Reyna mumbled thoughtfully, "you apparently change shapes. Weird. Weird power. Do you have a favorite? What's your... uh... your normal... shape?"

Arianna looked down at herself, ignoring the comment on having a weird power, and motioned to her body to Reyna. "This is, for the most part, what I look like all the time. I was born with my powers, and my mother was a shape shifter as well. I don't know if I have any real form. I've just used this one as I've gotten older."

"Oooooh." Reyna cooed, looking over Arianna's face. Honestly, this was the first time she decided to get a real close look at her - slightly drunk, that might not help much, but she wasn't totally obtuse. You wouldn't think a shapeshifter to tolerate any flaws they were self-conscious of for long. True to form, there weren't any immediate flaws she could find. Striving for perfection.

"That's boring!" She blurted out. Reyna stuck out her index toward her eyebrow. "Put a lil' scar here..." Then to her cheek. "A little freckle here..." She landed her finger on Arianna's lips. "My face..."

Reyna was barely able to finish her clever quip before she withdrew her hand and covered her face with it as she started cracking up into laughter again with blush across her face. "Heehe! I'm... I'm sorry!"

Arianna's expression softened for a moment, before hardening again. She shook her head and turned away. She had a rule. Make sure no one got hurt. This? This could hurt Reyna. At least, right now it could. Something in her code of ethics prevented her acting upon any emotions.

"It's fine. You're drunk."

"A little." Reyna admitted, her laughter calming down. She made a relaxed sigh and held her arms close to herself. "I'm a little drunk... but I'm not a liar. I'm also not that dumb, you know. I know what I'm doing. Not... thinking everything through, probably, but... it's not like I suddenly turned into somebody else. Lil' ol' Reyrey still here..."

She threw her head back and stared at the ceiling.

"Man... if I could change how I looked, I'd probably... uh... yeah, send the freckles home."

Arianna gave her a sideways glance and shook her head.

"They're fine just the way you are, love."

"Naw, naw, look at this one," Reyna said, turning to look at Arianna and pointed to what was a freckle that was just barely larger than the rest that was set between her right eye and the bridge of her nose, "that's big Bertha, bitch be the first to go."

Arianna sighed and took a dainty sip of her water. "You don't need powers to do that. Just a dermatologist."

"Doll, you been chatterin' my ear off all day." Reyna objected. "What sand climbed up your vag?"

"I think it's because you're drunk and I'm not. Makes me seem lame." Arianna said, her lips curving slightly upward as she drank the last of her water.

"Hmm..." Reyna pondered as she tapped her chin with your finger. "Yeah... you're right. Hey, bar guy! Bar guy!"

The bartender pointed to a sign near the center of the bar, telling patrons that he was unable to serve them alcohol if they were already visibly intoxicated.

"Not me, this girl!" Reyna yelled, pointing down on Arianna's head. "Give her some of the stuff you gave me!"

"Don't." Arianna said, waving the man off. "Waste of time."

Arianna looked over her shoulder to Reyna and half-frowned. "Cant. My body doesn't have a brain or nervous system."

"Ugh..." Reyna groaned as she threw two hands onto Arianna's shoulders. "Then don't worry about feeling lame if you can't help it!"

She paused for a second.

"That came out wrong."

Arianna laughed, a lady like but hearty laugh. "Yeah, it did."

"But still..." Reyna insisted with a flirty smile. "You can still drink it if you wanna feel included. And quit sounding so depressed, that's supposed to be my job tonight."

Arianna gave Reyna a humored glance and laughed. "Love, I don't think I'm capable of being depressed."

Arianna checked her watch, and raised her eyebrows at the time.

"Do you have a ride, or a place to crash?"

Reyna threw her hands down. "My motorcycle got left back at the party. It's probably being held! Along with all my stuff!"

"That doesn't answer my question, Reyna."

"I'm from Maine and this nightmare was my first day in town." Reyna sighed. "What do you think?"

"A simple 'no' would have sufficed."

"Let's hit up Agent Styles," Reyna muttered sarcastically, "maybe he's still horny enough to give me a room."

"I mean, just throw yourself in front of a car if you want a hospital room. Pretty sure there's something morally wrong about trying to fuck the person you beat half to death after the fact." Arianna said, throwing her head back and laughing at her own joke.

"Hey," Reyna started off defensively, her voice off-key from the drinks, "you're the one who can't catch any cues."

Arianna shook her head, but smiled. "Not while you're drunk."

She looked down at her watch again and sighed.

"I have to go soon. I promised my friend out there I'd go with him to see a fight. Unless you want to come with..." Arianna said, grasping the air as if it would allow her to find the right words. "I can give you some money, and you can call me... tomorrow?"

"What does it take for a girl to hate-fuck the shit out of..." Reyna drunkenly mumbled, nigh out of anyone's ear shot. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to stick with the person she felt she nearly killed twice - between the punch and the wringing, and perhaps this was all the alcohol in her that was talking, but Christ. She wasn't going to bed tonight. She was too wired between the stress and, well, the caffeine. A boring night alone, wide awake through the hours... versus watching some assholes beat the snot out of each other, next to somebody she wasn't sure if she wanted to kill or whisk her away beneath the sheets.

"Who's fighting?" Reyna finally asked thoughtfully.

"We have a guy from out of town. Friend of Archie's." Arianna said, waving her hand.

"And who is that?" Reyna pressed.

Arianna seemed to think for a moment.

"One fighter is a wolf-dog meta. The other... I think he's been staying with a friend recently. They call him Doc. But I think his full name is Henry Olin."

"I'll fight the winner!" Reyna immediately declared. She hopped from the bar stool, meeting the ground with a sloppy landing. Arianna turned, reaching her arm out and catching Reyna by her torso as Reyna scrambled to grab her jacket. Ari slid off her chair to help her friend outside to meet Archie.

"Just... let me help you walk for a bit, until you sober up some, love."

"Call me that again, pleeeaase." Reyna chimed whimsically, finally giving in and letting Ari guide her.

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

Gotta ask, who's the confirmed lesbian?

lol

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

Sorry guys, will post again as soon as@JunkMail finishes his God damn orgy.

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

Whoop his ass, Daisy.

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

The hall of justice was removed.

Baybridge: Old Ghosts [COMPLETED]

I edited in the revised timeskip post for the RAVEN meeting.

<Snipped quote>

This is the only plot I've managed to recover from my notes. Up until I come up with another one for later, this should do.

Now, before I proceed with anything, I have to ask who wants to participate in either of the plots I just posted.

@Mr Allen J

wow this doesn't look a fucking thing like

3.1 Rain Approaching:
The erratic rain patterns continue to devastate the city. The city is just beginning to take notice of it. Strange attacks are becoming more frequent as the city becomes even more frightened. Who (Or what) are behind these attacks?

FUCKING VERTHAVEN

The Spoopiest Skeletons

@He Who Walks Behind's Dreadnaught universe

Baron Moreau

Basic Information

Name:

Baron Moreau

Nickname/Alias/Etc:

Barry, Zombie, Skinwalker, Devil, Lucifer (Lucy).

Gender:

Male

Age:

35

Height:

6'3”

Weight:

144 lbs

Home District:

From out of town.

Appearance

Hair Color:

Black

Eye Color:

Green

Ethnicity:

Canadian; has English, Welsh, and French blood.

Physical Appearance/Attire:

Barry looks rather unorthodox among his crowd, appearing somewhat of an aristocrat. He is tall and slender, specifically standing at 6'3", and weighs in at 144 lbs. This said, he isn't a strong fighter and his body is fairly skinny and not as muscular as much of his other... “associates”, although he does abide by the standard requirement of fitness in his organization that is befitting of him, though this is usually in the form of physical therapy (he has a strong, mechanical brace reinforcing his left leg). His skin is fairly pail and unblemished by anything other than the scars littered over his body. On his back, torso, legs, and so on - the damage on his left leg in particular being rather severe and is bestrewn with scar tissue. His pale skin is in dramatic contrast with his black hair, which comes down at a widow's peak, and is neatly swept backwards with a comb and then kept in place a small dab of hair gel. He appears on missions almost as though he were going out on a date, but forgot the proper attire. He has piercing green eyes that are, at just the right angle, appearing somewhat hollow, if words were to do any justice. It is as if he stared into hell and hell stared back, but even then, they appear no less brilliant, cunning, deceptive, or even deadly. Thick lashes and sharp eyebrows simply sharpen his piercing gaze. His true expressions always seem somewhat hidden, as though his face were hidden by a million and one masks, each with their own different story. Even his walk, it seems, where his apparent full-of-himself strut appears to be well-disguised pacing. This brings along with him an air of mystery. Given his pampered features and esoteric air, along with a charming and clever disposition, he's quite the heart-breaker. His hands are covered in calluses and his fingers usually look a little cut up, but is generally well taken care of.

If he had a choice in his uniform, he'd be dressed nicely and perhaps come in a nice suit with a boutonnière. However, glamor and sophistication has no place in his line of work or among suburbs (unless the objective specifically calls for good appearances). He often visits areas in South America, so the humidity doesn't help much to bolster his preferred fashion. Baron does not often appear anywhere close to the front lines, so heavy equipment is never really necessary - which is a plus, given how it would add unnecessary stress on his brace and left leg. So he usually does his job in waist-high black dress pants that rides up to his naval and are tucked into thick black boots, causing some bagginess around the lower calves. His pants are accessorized with button suspenders crossing over each other on his back and then meeting parallel down his front. These suspenders are usually strapped over a greatly faded light grey t-shirt. The collar has three buttons going down the center, making it able to change from a round neck to a v-neck. He usually leaves them unbuttoned give the hot air or humidity of the environment he often enters, which in turn tends to reveal just a little bit of his chest and collarbone. The subtle fact that there are very faint hints of blood stains on his shirt that looks as though someone had tried to bleach the stains off the shirt - this in conjunction with the lack of any holes - might appear disturbing to anyone who just happens to notice it. Otherwise, his wardobe is dynamic, so describing his outfits during casual or formal ventures would do little to express his appearance, and would do no more justice than stating simply: he dresses very nicely as if he looks to impress. Underneath Barry's right arm is a tattoo in Arabic, a memento from a particular expedition that required him to infiltrate an organization of radicals. It reads "وعاء الله", which means "Allah's vessel", or "God's pot".

Personality

Outward & Innate Personality:

Barry appears as a cheerful fellow, but somehow balancing his grating optimism with stern realism. He wears a smile on his face most of the time, one that appears almost naive, but also inquisitive. His eyes always appear to be trailing somebody, or analyzing something, and very few details escape him. In fact, were it not for his charming demeanor, he might even be marked as the group's creep who watches everybody simultaneously. He assures this as nothing more than simple curiosity of studying human behavior and overseeing group cohesiveness. As such, he is quite adept when it comes to deductive reasoning and breaking down a person's behaviorisms that might tie in to other areas of that person's life as well. In fact, he is quite possibly more aware and knowledgeable of his comrades than they are aware of (but he is also rather fond at looking through personnel files). Otherwise, he may just be an incredibly elaborate liar. But there's little doubt in any one of his seasoned associates' mind that the man is brilliant. It is even said by his comrades: mad, but brilliant. But mad, per se, was of course the perspectives of another individual who was ignorant of Barry's reasoning and his intents. 

He is a mixed bag in terms of morality. He is sympathetic to the wounded and the soldiers that do the fighting, and while he would much rather prefer a calm and relaxing time working with his "clients" to get what he needs, he doesn't flinch at the prospect of turning an interrogation session on its heels to either scare or torture the information out of a target. Jobs such as that, and jobs such as infiltration, allow him to disconnect himself from others to a degree that is almost inhuman. He also is not above manipulating or lying to either foes or allies, provided that the outcome is decisive in his favor. However, he remains an egalitarian at heart and is uncharacteristically loyal to his primary employer. He doesn't quite let on at to his purpose in being there - whether its money or excitement or so on, but he definitely does enjoy the perks out of being in his line of work. He doesn't think about religion and gods a whole lot, but he has forsaken God when he was treated in kind when imprisoned in South America.

Hobbies/Interests:

Cigarettes, chess, prose, cold coffee, cheeses, wines, olives, corned beef, psychology and sociology, vintage, music (classical, jazz, swing, blues), musicals, linguistics, foreign culture, etc. Baron is a man of many interests and enjoys simple indulgences, and prefers the rich taste of life's fruits. He pursues not the things that makes life work but the things that makes life worth living. That's a Robin Williams quote, everybody.

Skills/Talents:

Despite the oddities that he may be accused of, he isn't as emotionally distant as some people who "know" him may think. He can break up a fight between soldiers and other personnel, or at least ease the tension between the two or few. Even though whoever has heard of him among the ranks is well aware of his occupation, not many actually grasp how much Barry is truly a psychological genius. If he so wished it, he could play games with a person's head at a whim. He has knowledge of the correlation between body movements/functions, and between that and undercover experience, a degree of body control that allows him to expertly craft lies, or even see right through the lies of others. Through his years of training, he can work enough of the right charm to work the truth out of a person. Or alternatively, he can work his otherwise charming charisma into more devious matters such as intimidation or interrogation.

True, while his physical form isn't too intimidating, he is cunning and intelligent enough to pick just the right words to get under your skin and play off your worst fears. That is his job in his business – he works with a mercenary group – but he isn't just some simple hired gun. There are plenty of those. When it comes to gathering information on somebody, he can hand you all you need to know just by spending some time with them alone. Having experience inserting himself into different places, he's somewhat of an amateur linguist. He learns enough of a bunch of different languages, but usually forgets how to speak them afterward when they're no longer relevant. He also enjoys chess and poetry in the form of prose. Nobody lets him play card games anymore. He has some cooking ability.

Prized Possession:

He isn't very sentimental with a lot of things. Naturally, he's attached to the tools of his trade. He has a brand of handgun (that he is allowed to carry due to a gun permit) called a Caracal CP. He also possesses an early 1900s French-made Apache revolver, and is his favorite of the two. He has a modern black vehicle that's been outfitted so that the body resembles a 1940s Bentley. He also has a dog back at home. He's a Great Dane named Pavlov.

Quote(s):

“I'm always looking for a theory good and complex enough to stamp my name onto it. The Moreau Theory – that has a nice ring to it, am I right? I've no intention on wasting that!”

"We're victims of circumstance, it is an unfortunate part of life. You and I are limited by the situations provided to us. All great people throughout time earned themselves a place in the history books, and that is because they pushed. They struggled and they suffered through all of their circumstances - and through it all, have gone out and looked, and provided themselves with the situations they needed. Are you ready to do that? Are you ready to make history?"

"I honestly don't understand everyone's obsession with Sigmund Freud. His theories, while laid the groundwork, are mostly wrong and he wasn't even that good of a doctor. Emma Eckstein, anybody?"

History/Bio:

Baron was born into a middle class family in Canada and went to a wonderfully reviewed school. His last name came from his father's line - he was, in fact, only about 10% French. But that was the family line that gave him a French last name. Since his youth, psychology and the inner workings of the brain fascinated him, so he took the electives and courses as they were available to him. It was a bit challenging trying to choose between neuroscience, psychiatry, and psychology, but the idea of understanding people appealed to him more. So he pursued the psychological path. He started at the age of 18, straight out of high-school and enjoyed his classes and found great interest in them. In fact, while he initially wanted to get his Psy.D. in psychology, he continued school for another year or two just so he could say he has a Ph.D. He got out of school in a very busy six years of nearly non-stop study, earning himself an Associate's degree in neuroscience, a Master's in psychiatry, and a Doctorate's degree in psychology, and at 24, was in the workforce as a neuropsychologist after receiving additional specialized training. At first, he worked in counseling, whether it be with children, adults, or even marriages. That sort of thing. It was nice of course - helping people - it was heartwarming, but also a little depressing. He also found it less of understanding people and more of letting his clients talk everything out, and while he asked questions about what he thought that meant, he let them come to their own conclusions. It was primarily about asking them simple questions and, occasionally, a lot of lying.

So he left that job and tried his hand in criminal psychology, which he turned out to be very good at and later opened up other pathways in which he would try his hand in. He worked as a part-time detective, however, still in the psychological field where he helped figure out where the person may go given their circumstances and he was also interrogating during that time via verbal means. He attempted actual detective-work, which was mostly paperwork, and then private investigating when he learned he liked working by his own rules instead. He had many different jobs throughout the psychological and investigative fields, and some of his favorite jobs was in criminal psychology, undercover work, and investigative psychology where he was pitted against the suspect in an interrogation room.

Later, a business called the Dreadnaughts, a mercenary group, found him at the age of 27 and he found the thrill he was looking for. As it turns out, Baron was the only psychologist they found good enough or honest enough to work with them. Good enough where he even survived long enough to last three years, taking part in their hilarious antics (such as the time where he infiltrated a terrorist group holed up in Saudi Arabia, and was payed by the Arabian government itself). He went missing for nearly a year after a mission with them, where was kidnapped by some guerrilla group in South America. 

He was interrogated and tortured, where he tried his hardest to hold himself out through the agony. He was a pretty valuable prisoner to them, as he was held in their custody for ten months. Baron told them next to nothing about the Dreadnaughts during that time, but he did feel his willpower giving out and his constitution would not allow him much more punishment. Fortunately, during a feeding hour, they forgot to secure his manacles. He worked himself out of the cage, and before slipping away, he silently killed almost half of their men with a sharp piece of scrap metal, all the while with a cartilage-worn and broken left leg. He was spared the wrath of the jungle and eventually found a civilization of a small town and secured a trip with the locals to the nearest hospital. At the hospital, he rested for a couple of days and got back in contact with the Dreadnaughts. He was back in the game with some physical rehabilitation, and that experience in South America taught him plenty. While he knew the tricks of keeping yourself from being manipulated, never was that knowledge tested as much as it was during that time. The other thing he learned? No mercy on the battlefield. It was starting then he stopped allowing other members to visit him while he's interrogating. Things may get messy if his "client" is stubborn enough. It's safe to say that his methods has gotten slightly more unorthodox since his escape two years ago.

Altogether, Baron has four years of service under his belt, although he considers himself to be a Dreadnaught for a total five years (counting even his time whilst imprisoned - a lot of time there were questions about them). To avoid another event like that, he has a number of code names which he alternates through depending on the sort of mission he's on and he's built up a reputation with each of them, fooling his enemies into thinking there are three different dangerous people without letting on he could be any of them. "Skinwalker" for infiltration missions, "Devil" for interrogation and diplomacy missions (which was interchangeable with Lucifer and Lucy, which only adds to the complexity), and "Zombie", which was a nickname he earned from the rest of the crew because of how he "came back from the dead" (plus his limp). This came to be another code name that he takes on in every other operation.

Relationships

Family:

Sylvester Moreau, Father (deceased)
Bernadette Moreau, Mother (alive)

Dynamics:

| Isaiah Washe | Colleague | Rivalry | “Calling it a rivalry would be flattering him, but the both of us are both brains in a fraternity of brawns, and that makes our friend here awfully competitive. I entertain him, but I also respect him. He's a very smart man – and a good man, though you wouldn't think so to look at him.” |

| Daniel G.W. | Colleague | Strictly professional | “Grit is an entertaining young man to say the least. Our paths do not coincide very often, but when they do, I, ah, try to maintain some distance, lest he becomes... well, friendlier than usual. Simply not the type of man I care to invite into my home, honestly, but he's a good kid. I know a fair bit more about his situation than anyone, being a counselor. The dramatic irony is intense.” |

Other:

Often suspected he isn't as crippled as he wants you to think.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0uCm08fahw

Isaiah Washe

Basic Information

Name:

Isaiah Washe

Nickname/Alias/Etc:

Caesar

Gender:

Male

Age:

54

Height:

5'10”

Weight:

175

Home District:

From out of town.

Appearance

Hair color:

Dyed black

Eye color:

Steel gray

Ethnicity:

What do you mean “Texas” isn't an ethnicity?

Physical Appearance:

A rough and tumble man that was seemingly born out of the brush in a Texas desert, Isaiah is a stocky and intimidating man. He may not be two-hundred pounds of bulging swole or made up of scar tissue, he's 5'10 and weighs nearly 180 lbs, but has the build of a wrestler, which means he packs muscle, but lacks the toning due to the healthy-sized meals he packs on. That said, he's a mean-looking bastard. His face is twisted into what looks to be a permanent scowl and a flushed skin color as though Grit had been talking for an hour straight. He's got a squared face, a cleft chin, pronounced jawline, nose and brow ridge, a pronounced Adam's apple, and the posture of a seasoned military soldier – along with the power to knock you off your feet with his deep, booming voice alone. As his age and stature may suggest, he isn't spectacularly graceful, fast, or agile as he may have been years ago, but his gray eyes suggest that the years has done little to dull his sharpness or clever wit. His experience has left him seasoned and grizzled, and you can see it in him when he looks down at your miserable pit of an existence that is your combat career.

He has short, thick black hair in a comb-over on his head and to pair, a thick but well-trimmed set of mutton-chops on his face, which meets together with a mustache on his upper lip and works in neat symmetry. A soul patch sits on his chin to fill in the empty space. He lacks any sort of piercings and the only tattoo he has is the phrase “Semper Fi” from his youth, where half of the phrase being labeled over each pec (“Semper” “Fi”, to clarify). He's got pearly whites, though you'd never know it, for whenever he opens his mouth, you can only focus on how to best escape his raging wrath and projected voice that follows you around every back-alley nook. His bulky hands and feet are the perfect size for throttling you or shoving up your ass, respectively.

Attire:

He sports a wardrobe that seems to only reassure you that he might be the Boogeyman in disguise, lurking about the modern world. He often wears a black denim jacket over a white muscle shirt, over which is a pair of dog tags. His sleeveless shirt is also often tucked into a pair of fatigues with a belt donning a large buckle. These fatigues are equipped with two holsters and are tucked into black combat boots, which are buckled tightly an has a hidden knife sheath inside. He also wears a pair of black Ray-Ban sunglasses, model RB4115 and a cowboy-looking hat on his head. Usually the first warning sign of your ass being put in risk of being ripped in twain is when Isaiah raises his glasses and stares at your from the side with widened eyes.

On duty, his attire changes with the importance of the mission. On lighter, more insignificant missions, all he'll change is to wear a black kevlar vest over his shirt and under his jacket with a black beret on his head. On big, highly-important and high-priority missions, his gear will change into something resembling that of a marine in the Dreadnaught colors – blacks, greys, whites, et cetera. A very greyscale uniform. Considering how he still doesn't see the front line as much as the infantry, he doesn't necessarily have to wear a helmet. Besides... if Isaiah's on the front line, he's saving the asses of the team that managed to fuck everything up. By that point, he's pissed as hell and is ready to carry the mission by himself.

Personality

Innate & Outward Personality:

He has the personality of nuclear fission: a relatively stable guy, but will fuck up your shit if you mess with him. He's straight-forward, honest, and on the outside, pretty simple. He has an easy-to-understand code of conduct and work ethic. If you play along, do your job right, have a good head on shoulders and aren't an outright dumbass, you'll get along with him pretty well. He has a head where nobody else is and is aware that he often times thinks outside the box – in addition to this, he also prefer to own control, so he would like to have it that nobody argues with his decisions and plans and that nobody tries to cut him off while he is talking, because usually nobody is really aware what his plans are until the final steps come to fruition. As long as you listen to him and his wise words, don't question him, you should never enter a yelling match with him.

If you do, God help you.

Isaiah has a hair-trigger temper and is prone to loud, boisterous bouts of shit-inducing rage. He is a notable, nearly famous icon among the Dreadnaughts for this trait. He will sling to you every slur, insult, and derogatory language ever uttered in American history as drops of spittle comes flying out his mouth, landing on your clothes, as his red face and bulging veins seethes with scorching fire that can only be found in Hell or in Isaiah. Surely, if you get on his bad side, the words he made you swallow will come back as a shat-out diamond of unadulterated fear. He isn't massive like Mr. Olympia, but what Isaiah has over him is that his flesh is made up of pure, condensed hatred for your pitiful existence, you miserable waste of carbon. There is something infinitely more terrifying about someone (who eerily reminds you of your dad) who is eternally angry and hates every fiber of your being than any soldier.

Despite his almost comical temper, he is universally respected among even his peers and those who dislike him. He is a remarkably intelligent man with a love for trivia. His experience in the field as a marine has taught him a lot about warfare, and on top of his previous intellectual pursuits, is a superb tactician and strategist. He takes practical experience and meshes it with his knowledge of history and his problem-solving mind to create complex strategies and commands the tactics to be made to complete that strategy. However, those who are not familiar with him may call into question his decisions. He has outside-the-box methods and often does not reveal the full strategy to those outside the strategist circle (often, he doesn't even let the circle in on his full plan, and when he does, usually informs only Belroth most of his strategy). This has to do with not wanting to waste his time with the infantry, a way to keep himself clean of their stupid suggestions, and of course, allows him to contemplate the plan in full in peace. To work the ins and outs, so that he can perfect it. Perhaps there is a bit of cocky pride in there too, so that he can have an “A-ha!” moment when it works.

Hobbies/Interests:

Coffee, moonshine, dominance, meat n' potatoes, chess, the smell of gunpowder, success, et cetera.

Skills/Talents:

Isaiah is a seasoned veteran and has extensive training in ground combat from the marines, as well as possessing tactical expertise. His years has allowed him to train his marksmanship to prodigal levels, he possessed Olympian athletic abilities after extensive exercise, and one time dragged two downed soldiers to safety under heavy fire. Nowadays, he's a little more out of shape. He has comparatively average strength and constitution, and that little crick in his back keeps him from sprinting across fields. He's a little slower, so it's not like he can take his gun and aim it at your face in a hair of a second anymore. What he makes up for in an aging body, though, is the experience and wisdom from all his years. He can shoot a target in its center simply because he knows how to work his guns, and how to aim. His wisdom in the flesh allows him to extend his experience into what would normally be physical feats and perform them anyway. He has a lot of experience driving and operating vehicles, from his years of positioning units in key locations and leading them from there. It is also lent to him so that he may remain level-headed in even high stress situations.

Most notably, however, is his ability to construct complex strategies and to apply the tactics necessary to meet those ends. These strategies are often worked over and over again in his head before he works it out on paper. The strategies are meticulous and difficult to follow unless you're being led along the way step by step. For his plots, he takes from his experiences and from history itself. He is very well versed in military history and takes the best ideas from it and works to remove their flaws. Easily, one of his most dangerous traits is that he learns from his mistakes. He is adaptive. If you foil him, you just made him stronger. Clearly, this ability extends also to chess, of which he is the undisputed champion.

Prized Possession:

A seasoned old marine soldier from Texas knows his guns, and he knows what he likes. While he is experienced with automatics and handguns, his favorite guns are shotguns and revolvers, and that is what he carries – he doesn't have to be the one at the front lines after all. In fact, he has a custom made shotgun: it is a 12 gauge sawed-off triple-barrel shotgun. It was based off the Chiappa Triple Threat and was modified to become a short-barreled shotgun. There is a strap on the side of his thigh that allows him to sheathe it there for easy access.

In addition, a .45 Colt revolver is holstered on the side of his hip. As you can tell, Isaiah isn't one for subtlety when it comes to his gun use. In fact, deriving from his experience and pessimistic outlook, many people would assume that he hides a lot of knives on his body for those “just in case” scenarios.

He also loves his son very much.

Quote(s):

“I've got two hands, and that's enough to shove you back down whatever filthy pit the devil evicted your dumb ass from.”

“How’s about I wire C4 to your dick and blow it off even harder than your boyfriend does?”

“Why the fuck would I go out there and put a bunch of fucking face paint on like some thousand year old pissant tribal? You tell those fuckers I’m coming, and they will know right where I am when I get there.”

“How does that fuckin’ curb taste?”

“Instead of saying pretty please how about I take these revolvers and teach your dick how to count to twelve, huh?”

History/Bio:

He was born out of Texas to a fairly conservative family, over by Houston. He came from a strict and military-supporting family, with a rather long line of veterans, and, of course, this carried on to Isaiah since it was expected of him. He was disciplined at a young age and was encouraged to engage in sports while he maintained a high grade average in school. By the time he entered college, he enlisted in the Marine Corps and received training at a boot camp, as well as education benefits that'd help carry him through his college education. Given how his education was an investment in his military career, they allowed him to finish his education before he was shipped off overseas. His education turned out remarkably successful. He got out of Virginia Tech with a Master's in History along with an Associate's in Philosophy, an Associate's in Government and International Affairs, and another in Sociology, along with an Army ROTC. His dedication to his studies and his life at boot camp earned him the rank of warrant officer, and after deployment with some practical experience, quickly became the infantry officer of his platoon.

As an infantry officer, he trained his Marines for every variety of ground combat mission, as well as gathering and evaluating intelligence on enemy forces, developing battle plans and commanding his units use of weapons and equipment. He himself often drove the trucks and transport vehicles to get his unit into position, as he was a quick and adaptable thinker, it made him adept at operating transport. Over the years, he made out to be an exceptional soldier. He was fast, strong, clever, and adaptive, and despite his temper, he knew what he was doing. He sought to receive training as a MAGTF officer, and he managed to get it. Halfway through his training, he already had the experience to warrant him a position as a Ground Intelligence Officer where he commanded operating forces and analyzed intelligence and planning, deployment and tactical employment of ground surveillance and reconnaissance units. He was honored for his tactical prowess and his ability to guide missions to completion efficiently.

As he aged and became less reactionary, his superior officers found him new positions where they can capitalize on his abilities. He became Logistics Officer and coordinated every major unit in the operating forces, and planning strategies for them. His position also allowed him to develop long-range projects and managing supply chains and analyzing data and performance. He also coordinated from supply, to transportation, maintenance, general engineering, and to health services. He was a Logistics officer for five years, right up to when he was 40.

However, between deployments in his early years, he did find a woman whom he married and started a family with. He also visited his family between deployments, occasionally not being able to return for as long as two or three years, but he always did. So one day, he came to realize that he was missing out on his son's life. He received training to be a Human Source Intelligence Officer, putting him in counterintelligence billets and duties such as platoon commanding. It only lasted two years. After his first tour, he was primarily given recruiting and instructing duty. It allowed him to spend more time with his family during his son's adolescent years. However, instructing became too much of a burden to Isaiah, and after one bundle of particularly rowdy and stupid recruits, he decided that it was too much and said “fuck it”. He retired from duty and returned home.

He tried to help out his son, who was already a teenager, about 15 or so. He gave him hand-me-downs, old guns and stuff, but also encouraged him to pursue his education and pushed him very hard. Unfortunately, for that year, he wasn't adapting to civilian life very well. The Marine Corp was putting him in a place where he got all of the annoying or boring jobs. He was pretty pissed about how quickly he seems to have aged, and whether it was in a fit of angst or mid-life crisis, he applied to the Dreadnaughts, hearing they weren't pushovers. They found his credentials suitable and immediately put him in a role where he'd be acting as operations officer working on logistics and ground intelligence, and as the acting tactician and strategist.

Needless to say, it was the perfect position for him.

There wasn't any Marine Corp-style bureaucracy for him, he strictly made plans for units and squads and platoons, and occasionally was out in the field if the situation was dire enough to call for it. He has been a part of the Dreadnaughts for a whopping eleven years and has led the charge on multitudes of missions. He's a rather well known face – and not just for his outside of the box strategies and forecasts, he's probably even more known for his temper and loud, angry voice.

Relationships

Family:

“And just what exactly the fuck do you plan on doing with that information, son?”

Dynamics:

| Baron Moreau | Colleague | Rival | “If I can tell you one thing about my company, is that we've got too much cannon fodder and not enough heads screwed on the right way. And when we do get one of them, we get the fucking likes of this guy. Reliable, a completely different discipline of education from mine, but the man's fucking clever in all the wrong ways and I just can't get myself to trust a guy like that. Ah've been here years longer and already has he gotten closer to boss-man than anyone else. God damn creep.” |

| Daniel G.W. | Colleague | Bothersome kid | “God DAMN the earth if I can't get one single peaceful night of sleep without wondering if that dumbass broke or fucked something up AGAIN! His old man might'a shown him how to shoot good, but none of that is gonna matter if the kid doesn't use his fucking brain to stop pestering me!” |

Other:

Practically the loudest and angriest person in the world. If tribes threw virgins into volcanoes to appease them, they'd throw Isaiah angels.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQa6Z1xFq4E

Daniel G.W.

Basic Information

Name:

Daniel G.W.

Nickname/Alias/Etc:

Danny or Grit would do nicely. Danny Grit would do superbly. Danny Wonder is just ridiculous though. Don't do that.

Gender:

Male

Age:

23

Height:

5'11”

Weight:

155

Home District:

From out of town.

Appearance

Hair Color:

Brown

Eye Color:

Blue

Ethnicity:

“I'm an American! Proud and tall!”

Physical Appearance:

Grit is a pretty tall young man, though standing and weighing in at 5'11” and 155 lbs respectively, so he doesn't stand heads and shoulders above the rest of his comrades, and his physique is somewhat built. Grit doesn't tote the impressive strength some of the other Dreadnaught men may possess, but he does boast an athletic and cardio-focused build that gives him his willowy stature. Much of this build is focused in the shoulders and legs; as his shoulders must bear the recoil of his guns, and trekking through the wilderness allows him to run and escape from danger quickly. A stringy boy, to say the least. There are few actual scars adorning his body, often being out of the way of immediate danger, and instead has a number of scratches that comes from crawling through the rough brush of the outdoors, or camping out in a dingy little building for a number of hours. He's got a gangly posture, often slouching, which can be quickly whipped into a head-held-high form with the proper “motivation”.

He's got a smile that can light up a room with white, taken-care of teeth. Grit's face is fairly angular and is accentuating by many sharp features. Between a pointed chin, gaunt cheeks, high cheekbones, a bird-like nose, and high-sloping forehead, his face is a long, diamond shape. His sharply curved eyebrows border along his curious blue eyes, blending against his fair skin. His brown hair goes down just an inch or two below his shoulders and is always tied up in a tight ponytail, often slicked back with the assistance of a light dab of hair gel to keep it nice and smooth and out of Grit's face.

Attire:

Grit is the kind of boy that'd put together a wardrobe conjoining both fashionableness and functionality. On account of the Dreadnaught's HQ being based out of Finland, he now tends to wear a gray sweat shirt that has been rolled to his elbows. However, if, say, the heating breaks, he'll roll them back down and don a brown leather jacket that looks to have been worn over a course of years judging from the frayed seams and worn-out elbows. A black leather belt with a steel buckle holders up grey-blue designer jeans. He wears brown punk-esque boots; it lacks any spikes of course, the laces just go from the top of the foot and up the ankles, which is crossed over with two straps and buckles. He also has a hemp, multi-shark tooth necklace that he got on a vacation to Ft. Lauderdale one time.

On the job, he has a pretty light-weight setup. A kevlar vest is layered over a variable textured long-sleeve shirt with hoods, the color and design of which is dependent on the environment he is in. If it is in a very cold area, he would wear a color-matching coat instead, which would also allow him the means of wearing the vest beneath his attire. All these outfits have in common, though, is a ski mask, which is similar in the idea of matching the colors of the environment, and earpieces that attach to the radio on his belt. He packs a backpack full of extra ammunition, but primarily things that allow him to survive, such as MRE's and survival equipment and guides. He also packs IFAKs, because crawling around in backwater areas might lead to cuts and infections and stuff. The bag sports other items, such as spare scopes or other replacement parts for his guns.

Personality

Innate & Outward Personality:

Grit talks too much. He's annoying. He's over-confident. He's one hell of a shot.

That's what it boils down to. Otherwise known as “the crosshair with a mouth”, the world is a platform to Grit, and is an eccentric personality in the Dreadnaughts. Unlike one would expect from a sniper, he is an incredibly talkative guy, is egocentric, and overwhelmingly optimistic. His seemingly limitless energy is appalling, and he always has some clever or snarky quip to say in retaliation. He has a joke or story for everything. He's the sort of guy that doesn't quite know when to stop, and why should he? What right has he to take the greatness that is Danny Grit away from the world? That said, he is very confident in his own abilities, and rightfully so. If he were to take a moment's break from the talking, flirting, joking, and story-telling that might have been tailored and tweaked a bit to satisfy his vision, you can see how he can go from zero to top gear and concentrate all of his focus on that one, perfect shot.

Granted, as soon as the job is done – and it always is (and done fast, he often only needs one bullet) – that appeasing moment of silence is broken, and prepare your ears for the run-on gloating and bragging about how amazing that shot was. His ego is built off acknowledgment of his own ability with a gun, but more so on where he is in life. He sees himself as being part of the best, most dangerous mercenary teams in the world – and he is correct in that judgment. As a result, he does take pride in himself, and also the team, even as little as his pride in the latter is expressed; because even though Grit is very prideful and sees himself as a top-notch shot, he does seek to impress all the members of his team. After all, he is still a young man and seeks the approval of his comrades.

Despite his grating disposition, Grit is genuinely a well-meaning young man. He's an entertainer at heart and is very social. He doesn't discriminate between friends, which may be hard to see since he doesn't refrain from making jokes about stereotypes, and he's a little naïve about the kind of harm it can bring. Although a relentless flirt, it is done for the smile that comes after. He actually has little desire for romantic or sexual relationships, but he finds the smiles that he can bring out in people is heartwarming. His aptitude in marksmanship is unquestionable, but he's still a little green on the battlefield and face-up confrontation can greatly off-set his battle prowess. Even though he is a sniper, he prefers to eliminate his targets either through the heart or the back or sides of their heads. Seeing the enemy's face close-up through the scope can bring on some hesitation and would require him to steel himself for the shot.

Hobbies/Interests:

Girls, Cuban food, music, himself, guns, his image, humor, conversation, rollerblades, cars, races, sports, et cetera. He's a young American man, use your imagination.

Skills/Talents:

Grit is, without argument, an excellent shot. There's a reason why Belroth keeps a young man like him around even with all the incessant talking. He like the prodigal son of William Tell – more likely though, he's just one hell of a shot with one hell of a lucky streak. He's got a reputation for things just going his way, even when things are just looking down for him. He good at making conversation and he'll never struggle to find a topic to have a conversation over, but that doesn't make him adept at diplomacy, since he's pretty arrogant and just likes to hear himself talk. He is decent enough at camouflaging himself, even if it's only minor. He doesn't paint, so that does hamper his ability somewhat. He has decent enough outdoor survival experience, and he can climb a tree as though he were a monkey. He's pretty good at video games, and if the 'Naughts ever decided to hold a contest, Grit would likely come up on top, given how most of the others are a bit older and hasn't quite grown up with video games as much. His ma also taught him how to make country fried chickens and steaks, but that is about the extent of his cooking ability: bread it up and throw that sucker in a pan o' butter.

Prized Possession:

The CheyTac Intervention M200, firing $7 dollar rounds of .408 Chey Tac ammunition. Aside from having one of the longest-ranges of all modern-day sniper rifles? It's totally badass. This anti-personnel war machine is equipped with adjustable scopes and a silencer to mitigate the noise it makes, so that Grit does not give away his position when he turns the heads of his enemies into scarlet confetti bombs.

Howe'er, he does have backup weapons should he ever find himself in the position of being closed in on by the enemy, he has a special gun that was given to him by his father as a gift: the Magnum Research BFR, the Big Frame Revolver, otherwise known as the “Big, Fine Revolver” or the “Big Fucking Revolver”. This beast of a handgun has a 5-round cylinder that has been customized to fire .500 S&W Magnum rounds, ensuring that Grit blows a hole in whatever he's pointing the gun at. The grip is black, and the chamber and barrel have a fine chrome finish. Sure, while it is heavy, he probably only needs to fire it once and send the assailant running – if their head hasn't exploded, that is.

Quote(s):

“Oh yeah! That's awesome! You know what? That reminds me of another story...”

History/Bio:

Let's make this one quick: Grit is the only son of a family in Alabama whose father was often deployed overseas, and therefore was unable to see him very often. So he spent a lot of time at home with his mother, playing with airsoft guns, BB guns, and even paintball guns, playing war in the back yard. Whether this was a projection of his admiration or longing to be with his father is still all up in the air, but being in a veteran's family surely made a large impact on his life. However, without any father figures in the house to help raise the boy, a young man can wear a woman's patience thin. This allowed less time for discipline, which meant that he spent his time in school as a social activity, and didn't pay the education much heed unless he was on the verge of failing – at which event, he'd bust his ass getting himself back up to speed and passing tests, and then the cycle would repeat itself.

When he was 18, he got the BFR as a gift from his father. Which in itself was an odd coincidence when you consider his disappointment in his son, as he wished the boy wouldn't waste his education and go to college. Instead, Grit, who didn't seem to hear or understand his words was eager to impress his father and enlisted in the National Guard. There he received much training and became one of the top shots in the group of recruits they had. He hasn't been deployed once for a year since he was recruited, but during that year, he managed to stuff a lot of practice into shooting and did participate in local rescue operations and disaster relief. He particularly loved doing disaster relief missions, even though they were fairly severe situations, because he got to help out people in their dire times of need.

It wasn't enough hustle though, and Grit never thought it would be. The National Guard was just his training grounds. His true aspirations were the Dreadnaughts. They were the biggest, baddest mercenaries in the world and they were the best of the best. Grit loved the idea of becoming one of them, one of the legends. He had to have sent seven applications or so, and the first six were turned down under the belief he was just some riled child without enough discipline or skill. This was half true. The last time he sent an application, he attached a video recording, a compilation of his marksmanship skills. There had to have been a dozen different instances where the shots he made had the odds akin to that of striking the ball end of a pin needle. They finally accepted him and scheduled him a ride to Finland, where he would then receive further training.

For the four years he's been there, he built up a reputation not with just his marksmanship, but mostly because of his incredible, uncanny luck. While his ability to aim and fire a rifle is nothing to laugh at – he's one of the best – it has just been overshadowed by how many lucky breaks he managed to get away with. In fact, in a ratio of time since he's joined to how many scars he has, his has to be the absolute lowest of anybody's. He also holds the Dreadnaught's record of “most near-death situations survived”. One of his best shots on one of these missions is when he had to assassinate a general in Latin America. It was during El Niño, Grit was soaking wet and on top of a Cuban pine tree, which was swaying back and forth in the wind. Among all that, he had to account for the wind affecting his bullet projectory. Somehow, for some reason (people often suspect that God is rooting for the wrong guy), and against all odds, he made that shot. After which, the army the general led was alerted to his location and sprayed the tree with turret fire. Damn near pissing his pants, Grit [strike]fell[/strike] climbed down as fast as he could, hearing and feeling elephant-killing bullets whizzing past his head.

Grit never did stop telling that story. Sometimes he even adds parts to it that didn't actually happen. People still call him out on account of him being lucky, and that he should have died. Their denial feeds his ego.

Relationships

Family:

“The Dreadnaughts!”

Dynamics:

| Baron Moreau | Colleague | What's up, doc? | "Ol' Barry is my counselor! Well, not MY counselor, he has other clients too. But I'm one of 'em, and let me tell ya: he's kind of a weird man at first, but you'll see he's one of the most interesting guys in the world! Second to me, of course! Ha! He's the only one who seems to listen to my awesome stories. I can't BELIEVE he's one of those meta-people! He says he's isn't, but that isn't what the doctor guy said! I think." |

| Isaiah Washe | Colleague | Obstacle | “Ha! Who doesn't love ol' Caesar? The man's a riot. Ha, yeah. The old man sure is... uh, impressive. I just wish he would listen to me once in a while... but I ain't gonna let that get me down! I'm gonna show him how good I am, and one of these days, I'm finally gonna earn his respect.” |

Other:

Grit must have an angel or something watching over him – and there are a lot of jokes about how God must have him confused for somebody else. His luck is uncanny and unpredictably unpredictable. That is to say that he somehow is placed in absurd situations that nobody should expect him – or any other person – to succeed. This is to say that Belroth may place him in an important position to do an important job, and fate just makes it so that it appears next to impossible to complete, such as the incident where he had to carry out an assassination, and El Niño swooped in at the last second. And yet, at the same time, it is also his luck that allows him to succeed in these missions. Grit's life is always exciting, and you can always expect some sort of fascinating tale from him – though you can never tell if his tales are true or not.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAzp8FXA-FQ