Vilhelm

Halo ODST: First Contact

Woo~

Halo ODST: First Contact

Belman, Jason

Appearance:



Standing at six feet and four inches in height, and built with a surprising amount of muscle for his otherwise narrow frame, Jason looks like a kid that outgrew his face, in most opinions. However young he might look, though, it isn't hard to see he's had some combat experience- The odd, commonplace scar on his chest, arms, and face are easy to spot, of course. But far more striking is his left leg. From the middle of his thigh on, there -is- no leg, replaced with a military prosthetic. Extensive burn and laceration scars run up along what's left of the leg and over his left hip and side- More mild ones along the inner thigh on both legs, and his groin.

Name:

Belman, Jason

Gender:

Male

Age:

Twenty-one

Rank:

PFC

Specialization:

Close-quarters combat and reconnaissance

Callsign:

"Stick"

Psychological Analysis:

Psychological Report: PFC Belman, Jason; Post-Injury

Post-Injury evaluations have found PFC Belman to be surprisingly resilient to the expected long-term psychological damage of combat and injury. In fact, during the first weeks of recovery, Belman appeared entirely unbothered by his loss of limb, or the fact that he was to be redeployed after recovery- Which is, in itself, concerning. At first, it was expected that he subconsciously blocked out the memories of the events to minimalize trauma. But, when questioned about his injury, he was able to describe in detail the events leading up to and following his injury, without visible signs of emotional or physical discomfort.

When this was brought into question directly to Belman, he replied only "If I let this stop me from being me, than how can I keep it from happening to other people?". While an understandable sentiment, I fear that Belman is repressing necessary coping mechanisms and merely putting up a face in order to avoid medical discharge. However, as he currently displays no hard evidence of PTSD or other dangerous markers, he is cleared for active service, until otherwise proven unfit for duty.

Matters of injury aside, Belman displays little change in personality or temperment from his initial psych-evals upon enlistment. He still displays a high degree of optimism in situations of generally grim nature, and maintains his 'hero complex', determined to put the safety of others before himself. His distrust of authority, however, directly related to the previous issue, has been dampened by time spent under his previous C.O. He is more willing to -trust- the orders and word of superiors, rather than attempt to find his own workaround.

Military Background:

Jason's history before the military is mainly an unknown- An Earthborn kid of average qualities, there was nothing remarkable to his past.... Outside of a long line of suspensions and expulsions from schools. He arrived in military school at sixteen, and the record of expulsions for fighting led to the initial belief that he was a problem child- One that needed the discipline military school could provide to whip him into shape.

However, the reality proved different. Jason was a fantastic student and all around good kid- He cared about his work, did his best, and did as he was told- Despite a blatant distrust, if not total resentment of, authority figures. The truth became clear half-way into his first semester, however: When he was caught beating another student in the yard, standing between them and another student that suffered from a black eye and split lip. When the three were later questioned, it became apparent that Jason had jumped in to stop his victim from beating up the smaller boy, intent on making sure the bully 'learned some fucking manners', as he put it.

Jason's distrust of authority also became far easier to understand after this event, as he fully expected to be punished or expelled for 'playing the hero' and defending the other boy. He showed surprise when that proved to not be the case- In this event, or several others that followed. Instead, he was scolded for going too far, and sent to the psychiatrist to learn to control himself and put that 'hero complex' to much better use. Over the two years he spent in the school, the urge to jump between bully and victim proved impossible to quash down- But, Jason did show massive improvement in controlling himself, and his excellent classwork and behavior otherwise earned him a recommendation from the school when he registered for basic at the end of his schooling.

From there, his military career went forward with few hitches. His distrust of authority figures proved troublesome at first- For while he followed orders, he rarely did so without question. But, after basic and combat training, he was assigned to one Sergeant Rapsin's squad as a close quarters combat-and-reconnaissance specialist. He and Rapsin got along spectacularly, and their logic lined up exceedingly well- Leading to a gradual lessening in his distrust, as experience under a good commanding officer taught Jason the patience he couldn't learn in training.

It was a year into his service under Rapsin that Jason and his squadmates had the misfortune of coming under a rebel ambush on one of the colony worlds. Jason had been through firefights before- but this was different. It was terrifying. In less than a few seconds, three of his friends and comrades fell under the surprise fire. Those that made it to cover were pinned down- There was nowhere to go, and popping out to return fire cost another two injuries... And another one his life. Jason was crouched behind their overturned truck, caught by himself, when he heard a shout: "Sticky out!" He barely had time to register it before he saw something black and dripping fly out from the trees. They had been aiming for the truck, to make a bigger blast... But he got in the way. He felt it hit him- A grenade covered in sticky black goop, sticking fast to the armored plate on his thigh. The grenade blew a second after that, costing him his left leg, and six months in the hospital recovering. He managed, just in time, to jump away from the truck, keep the blast angled away to prevent the larger explosion from triggering- An act of heroism, he was told.

He still isn't so sure.

Due to that act, however, and his strong record beforehand, Jason was offered a promotion while in the hospital- To enter ODST training upon his recovery. Despite urging from family and friends otherwise, he accepted eagerly- And as soon as he healed and adjusted to the prosthetic attached to him, he dove into training. Months later, after excelling during training and earning the rank of PFC, he was assigned to the 42nd Tactical, and has served there since as "Stick"- So named due to the circumstances of his 'amputation'. It's been almost a year and a half now, for Jason- And he's still convinced that becoming an ODST was the best choice of his life.

Loadout:

M7 SMG- Suppressed, ironsights

M6C Magnum (x2)- Suppressed, ironsights

Combat Knife (x2)

Smoke Grenade (x4)

Medical kit

Surviving: The End.

OKAY. SOME SHIT GOT SORTED. So I'm back. Only took me three fucking weeks. *Grumble grumble* I'll have a post up this weekend for certain- Have two days off, and their moving me to day shift, so I'll actually have time to be on on the daily now.

Surviving: The End.

Az has his girls this week, he usually goes dark for that to spend time with them. He'll be back in a few days.

Surviving: The End.

Oibish, I'm a working man. *Shakes fist* Hard to make the time for this on the daily. But, posting now. <3

Surviving: The End.

OH JEEBUS.

I should post.

I will do that.

Hopefully by tomorrow morning.

*Has been working 4 PM to 1 AM shifts for the past four days.*

If not tonight, I'm off again on Wednesday. So it'll be done by then.

Surviving: The End.

SHAVE EVERY INCH OF THEM AND THEN DOUSE THEM IN AFTERSHAVE!

Surviving: The End.

"The Farwood"- Ninth Moon (Missouri, Month Nine)

Two days- Two days, Will had spent in the shadows just out of sight, out of reach. Watching, waiting, observing these strangers. It had been nearly twelve suns- No, days. Twelve days, since he'd decided to settle down in this forest for the winter. He'd marked his territory- Smears of rotten one blood on the trees, an arrow proudly mounted in the center of the clearing. Any good hunter should have known this spot was taken- Another had bedded here to bear out the cold months.

But then they came. He didn't believe they were violent ones- They didn't argue over stolen things, or treat their woman so brashly, so horribly. But they had arrived in his clearing and settled down while he hunted, and caution held him back from shooing them personally, at least until tonight. Now he was sure of who led this group of men and women- Who to talk to to get his place back. So long as they could be reasoned with.... If not, he was confident they would scatter like all the rest, when arrows fell unseen from the trees.

The 'Jon' one, they looked to him- The majority. Perhaps grudgingly, but he was a strong leader. They listened. Perhaps he would listen too. So, when this 'Jon' awoke, some time before the sky was to be painted by the sun, Will followed him from a distance. He walked as a ghost of the wood, tracks hidden in the barest, shallow snow closest to the welcoming trees- Far enough away to be unheard in his light step and unseen in the dark, following his nose. He'd tried to explain how he did it, once- To others that had not tried to kill him immediately.

It wasn't so easy to put into words as it was to do.

He followed Jon for a ways, until softened voices pierced the muted air of early winter.

"Morning, Jon. Need something?..... Walk and talk."

Will cocked his head, straining his ears and his nose. It was just the two- Jon, and one of those that walked the area every night, with his 'guns' and heavy footsteps. How did he ever expect to notice attackers when he crashed through brush like a bear?... Perhaps not a bear. He was smarter than most, at least. But, soon enough, Will turned and shifted away, coming to a halt in the center of the path that this other one- Boggs, he'd heard him called- followed, every hour. He held his bow loosely in one hand, an arrow nocked but not drawn, passively pinned to the center of his bow by a finger. He didn't need to hold it at draw- It only took a heartbeat to get it there. Once the men, the Jon and the Boggs, were within earshot, he spoke up.

"'Jon'. 'Boggs'."

The names were spoken more like titles than birthnames, as if Will weren't quite certain how to address other human beings.

"You're in my clearing."

Surviving: The End.

William Renault

Name:
William Renault

Group:
Walkers

Age:
19

Occupation:
None

Family:
Unknown

Eye/Hair Color:
Pale Gray/Dark Brown

Height/Weight:
5'5"/137 lbs

Blood Type:
B- (Immune to the virus)

Gear:
Will travels light- Really light. The only things he's seen to carry are the clothes on his back and his weapons, as well as a large pouch of things at his belt- Yeah, it's a fanny pack. But it's a god damn manly one, and he keeps it stocked with an impressive array of medicinal herbs, bandages, painkillers, and some small survival things- Flint and steel, a fletching kit, compass... Things of that nature. He also keeps a small journal and a few pens in an inside pocket of his jacket.

Speaking of jacket, his clothes are fairly simple- A pair of jeans, some excellently made boots, a T-shirt that was probably white once, and a tough, worn leather jacket- With a just-as-tough leather belt. All of it has seen inevitable wear and tear, but in general, for clothing worn during the apocalypse, is in pretty good shape.

His weapons are few, but well cared for- Most importantly, his bow. A longbow with a ninety pound draw of excellent craftsmanship, the wood polished lovingly, every curve and groove made with the greatest of care, painted a deep black, this bow is his main weapon for both offense and defense. He can't hit the broad side of a barn with a gun- But put him anywhere within reach of that longbow and he'll cut the tail off a rat without killing the little shit. No really. He's done it before. He keeps a full-length quiver at his hip, two dozen arrows stocked into it at all times

Other than the bow, he has a survival knife strapped to his thigh- Single edged eight inch blade, saw-tooth spine, and an edge hard and sharp enough to cut flesh like butter and bone like wood. He also has his brain and his body. Both are very useful tools, wouldn't you say?

Appearance:

Despite being short, and thus rather light, Will is surprisingly strong- He won't be winning any muscle man competitions of course, or arm-wrestling the hulk. But he draws his bow- At ninety pounds in draw weight- like it's nothing, and can out-run, out-climb, and out-punch the best of them. Most of the time.

His hair is dark brown in color, and hangs ragged and messy to about his shoulders. Though he doesn't seem to bother cutting it, as it continues to grow out. His eyes- Wild, full of instinct and a survival-driven willpower, are a light gray color, and in those few moments where he is around people -not- trying to kill him, a dry kind of humor born of waking up in what he considers to basically be hell.

He's covered in scars from the recent years- And some array of scars from before the rising. Most are small and inconsequential, but two in particular are of note. One, an obvious bite scar on his left tricep, clearly from a being of... Undead nature. The second, a ragged, blotchy scar along the back of his head, hidden by his hair. Must have been one hell of a blow- And is likely from the hit that gave him his... Problem.

History and Personality:
Will's history is.... Well, a complete and total mystery! At least before eight months ago. It was around then that, somehow, he took a bar stool to the back of the head, and woke up with no idea who he was or where he was. He found an ID in his wallet that placed him as "William Renault", but beyond that and his age, he couldn't make heads or tails of the other things listed on the card- The mysteries of Amnesia, in this case apparently also including the names of the states. Or what states were. Or governments, for that matter. Thankfully, his understanding of English remained in tact.

Along with English, he also discovered he could bring to mind a long list of things that would be useless... If he weren't surrounded by walking dead people and bandits. Botany, biology, zoology, and a lot of smartass remarks. He also found, after a chance encounter with some unfortunate bandits, that he had in muscle memory a -very- good understanding of how to use the bow he woke up with.

So, for the past year and a half, he's roamed around aimlessly, just looking for -anybody- who wasn't trying to kill him.... And maybe some key to his past.

Terry Burnard

Name: Terry M Burnard

Age: 43
Occupation: Fireman.
Family life: Married. Wife, three kids all deceased.
Hair: black.
Eyes: brown.
Weight: 205 lbs.
Group: Walkers (currently with Fuad)
Appearance:


Blood type: A+
Immune: yes

Gear:
T-burn keeps a good supply of lighters flammable, rather explosive items with him. After all, fight fire long enough and you learn how to start one, to. Other then that, he has a crowbar and his hands.

Bio: Terry, or T-Burn was living the good life. His childhood was modest, but they had more than a lot of people, and he was taught to see that and appreciate it from his parents. Terry’s father was a chief at a fire station in Texas and his mother was a social worker, so they instilled in him, an only child, that a job that didn’t help anyone wasn’t worth working. At the end of the day, you find substance and worth in the people you help. Terry’s grandfather was also a fireman for the same station, though long retired.

While his mother worked a low key job that got very little recognition (albeit good pay), his father was more known through the city. He saw that and wanted it. People respected his father because he was a good man, he respected others. So as soon as he graduated high school, he asked his father to help him through fire fighter training. After talking with both his parents, they decided to go ahead and do it.

He wasn’t the largest man, not the fastest, and not the smartest, but they called him the “Bulldog” at training because no matter what Terry wouldn’t quit. He was bullheaded and he had heart.

And the tradition of a Burnard being in the local fire department carried on for a third generation. Eventually he settled down and married and had kids of his own. Two of his own children expressed interest in fire fighting (the third more interested in banging drums and wearing black clothing) so that would have made for a potential 4th generation if it hadn’t been for the awakening. His father had retired for some time, and Terry made it to Assistant Chief and after 21 years was about to retire himself.

Then the calls started flooding in. People sick. Dying. Then attacking. Violence in the streets. But not near his home.

Not immediately anyway. Then one day, there was a call to his own house and he panicked as he and the emergency response units scrambled and headed out. They arrived at the scene and before anyone could explain what happened, shots were fired. Then more shorts. He went to make his way into the house, but was blindsided to a form who bit deeply into his forearm. He struggled with the thing and they fell on his steps, Terry landing on top. He picked up and bashed the woman’s head into the stairs, repeatedly until it stopped.

It was then that he realized it was his oldest son’s girl friend. A cop grabbed him and told Terry not to go in, they were all dead.

As the chaos around him picked up, Terry sat the numb. Then, anger over took him, anger at not being there, at failing to protect his family, anger at…the whole world. He swung his axe clean into the face of the next undead that shambled by.

Since then, he’s been killing his way east, hearing of a hold out location in South Carolina.

Surviving: The End.

You got this, mate. Meanwhile, Ima type up my post for Will. *Cackles madly*