Fandom 𝙁𝘼𝙇𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙏 : 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙮 𝘾𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝘽𝙡𝙪𝙚𝙨 (CS) (CLOSED)

[idalie]

Welcome to the CS thread! The form will be relatively simple to fill out, but we are looking for quality over quantity; though, that being said we do want to see a rich two paragraphs for biography, at least, and a rich single paragraph for personality, at least. We will be looking at the content of the character made, not their stats so long as they simply fall in line with the role reserved! A reminder these are NOT first come first serve! But if there are multiple applicants for a role, and only a few applicants in general, we will pick who we feel is best. Chances are, however, that we will allow folks to either pick up second roles if the need arises OR to flex themselves to fit an empty role needed.

Regardless, we will communicate what is needed, but try to communicate yourselves within the discord OOC. As a second reminder, real life faceclaims only, though realistic art is more than okay, and in the case of ghouls more than acceptable! No anime. No AI generated faces. Apps will be due in one week, September 28, Midnight PST. If all are finished and no stragglers come in before them, we can of course shorten the deadline. If you need an extension or help, please ask myself or BELIAL. Feel free to use your own code, or just simply post the skeleton below. Add as much as you want but the minimum is required.

[U]BASICS[/U]
[b]Name:
Alias/Titles:[/b] (if applicable)
[b]Age:[/b] (18+)
[b]Gender:
Role:
Occupation:[/b] (if applicable)
[b]P.O.B:[/b] (Place of Birth)

[U]VISAGE[/U]
[b]Appearance:[/b] (written out please)
[b]Faceclaim:[/b] (optional)

[U]PSYCHE[/U]
[b]S[/b]: # here
[b]P[/b]: # here
[b]E[/b]: # here
[b]C[/b]: # here
[b]I[/b]: # here
[b]A[/b]: # here
[b]L[/b]: # here (21 total points. Do NOT tie your highest.)

[b]Personality:[/b] (a paragraph or more)
[b]Virtues:
Vices:
Skills:[/b] (Two generic skills, regardless of your stat. Make it make sense)
[b]Talents:[/b] (Two TRAIT related skills, based on your highest. See wiki for ideas. Make it make sense.)

[U]BACKGROUND[/U] (Please include at least two paragraphs, and include how they were captured as well! Feel free to go into as much detail or as little, keeping in mind the length requirement. )
[b]Other:[/b] (Other known facts!)
[b]Song of choice:[/b] (What song represents your character? 1940s-60s era please!)

ACCEPTED CHARACTERS
S: Taken - plague rats
P: Taken - Marzopup
E: Taken - Worthlessplebian
C: Taken - JustSomeDood
I: Taken - Ozron
A: Taken - BELIAL.
L: Taken - idalie

 

[idalie]

starlet swindler.

lady luck strikes again!

dixie dawes.

“A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up.”​

the basics.

name

Dixie Dawes; formerly Baby Jane due to her gambling out in New Reno and short-lived stage career.

nickname

Lady Luck

age

Twenty-Six

gender

Female

Role

The Fortunate Son

Occupation

Magician's Assistant, Gambler, Dancer & Ex-Cannibal

P.O.B

Corpse Coast, Texas

the visage.

height

165 cm (5'5″)

weight

60 kg / 134 lbs

hair

A short blonde bob, curled with leave-in rollers and set under a grimy cowboy hat. There's a pre-war method to keeping her post-war appearances.

eyes

Washy blue eyes and lashes curled by a touch of vaseline.

features

Missing her pinky and ring finger down to the first knuckle on her right hand, yet the smiley little lady has a grin and painted lips that'd set even the Nuka Girl to rights.

body type

Mesomorph-Ectomorph; though surprisingly well-fed in her youth, radiation and hardship take softness out of the curve.

face claim

Lana Turner

fortune disfavours the meek.

the personality.

[S: 2] [P: 1] [E: 2] [C: 6] [I: 2] [A: 5] [L: 10]

Dixie Dawes sticks in your mind like the fizzled beginnings of a brain haemorrhage⁠—the epitome of a good-time girl, she speaks faster than she thinks, crashing into subtleties with a forgivable look of an empty-headed ditz. Shame to any man or woman who falls for the clueless facade, where Dixie fails in academic pursuits, she doubles in pure streetwise charm and lucky disposition⁠—the sort which can carry a pleasant-natured limelight addict halfway across irradiated America and back again. A uniquely expensive showgirl with a taste for human flesh, you could say it’s the Rothchild’s legacy in pre-war nylons, for whilst reformed to suit the new civilised classes, there’s a good reminder that you can always miss the first bite of nostalgia. She makes one hell of a cook.

Wiley in business, Dawes was once a child performer on the travelling circuit with merchants and her wry father⁠—haggling is second nature, alongside an obstinate, hard-headed attitude ending in arguments more akin to a radio drama with her volatile accusations and lobbed objects. However there’s a method to the madness; a heart of gold to the gold digger, and a downright forgivable attitude for an ex-cannibal. Faithful to those she loves, exceptionally charitable with her things to trusted friends, and always willing to lend money⁠—blondes don’t have financial hardship, as she likes to quote off the surviving reels of a Jean Harlow film. She’ll get it done, in a roundabout way, no job goes unfinished.

Dixie Dawes is just a name, and Baby Jane is long gone⁠—who can say for truth what the wasteland gives or takes. Greed might just get the best of her this time, after all, for all her luck nobody sticks around too long. The touch of King Midas himself.

the virtues.

Tolerant

Raised eating all sorts of flesh from all walks of life, before reforming enough to become a city-girl in Reno and then Vegas, you could say she's ahead of herself when it comes to accepting just about everyone. Cooked or not.

Headstrong

Brazen, bullheaded, obstinate and a lifetimes worth of iron-willed marching into the wrong situations. Chasing down what she wants, make no mistake, its a virtue for all purposes.

Faithful

People to trust are few and far inbetween, though those rare individuals are to her what family is to others. Kick a dog and it'll come back whining. Kick it twice and it'll learn to bite.

Curious

A drive exists to know why. Of pre-war life and entertainments, the secrets left in the bowels of irradiated America, the gossip on mob bosses and how they teach molerats tricks. Everything and anything.

the vices

Self-Serving

She's been betrayed plenty, though it hasn't dampened her spirit. Dixie Dawes serves herself first above anyone. First out the door, first pick of the rooms, first of everything. Even if the best is saved for last, she'll desire the first option. Greed'll poison her more than any well-put word.

Overindulged

Is it the natural affinity for Luck? A childhood on the road with spoiled performers? Dixie is an indulged Reno-girl with a penchant for caps and costume jewellery. Her pursuits of luxury and wealth can put others at risk.

Acquired Appetites

A reformed cannibal, Dixie struggles occasionally to contain old habits. A little relapse here and there is a natural occurrence on the road to recovery; still, the temptation for taboo is a strong one.

Impatient

The resulting effect with always getting what she wants, impatience makes Dixie writhe in her own skin at the idea of having to stand still. She wasn't made for acting anything in the realms of benevolent hostess.

skills.

Sleight of Hand, Haggling

talents.

Bend the Rules, Lucky Coincidence

baby jane's travelling show.

Dixie Dawes was born some few thousand miles in the opposite direction of the bright lights in Vegas and Reno. As Texan in blood as any good Oil Baron, she found her wayward beginnings on the Corpse Coast. Although back then, that mop of blonde hair and unblinking eyes belonged to a girl named Jane. Baby Jane. Her mother and father were unknowns, raiders perhaps with the best of the wild mob, who exchanged the precocious little girl for a bag of jet and Dandy Boy Apples, into the care and relative slavery of Big John’s Travelling Show. Big John was as best a father one could hope for, turning a tidy profit on keeping folks entertained with tales across the expanse of the irradiated South.

She had plenty of mothers, all the showgirls and mercenary types hired to keep the caravans safe, for which formed the right conditions that a girl ought to grow somewhat well-rounded in the ruins of post-war society. Baby Jane had her talents, a child actor in the productions of John’s plays; a magicians aide; a stagehand small enough to fit under the makeshift stage for trapdoors and tricks.

Big John kept them all well-fed on the long hauls from Texas to Legion Territory, tag-along drifters that got up and vanished; crowd members who hung around pretty faces too late into the night, but it’d always be stew and salted pork the next day. Jane rarely felt hungry⁠—a blessing given by a curse. Aged sixteen she was introduced to the method, expected to pull her weight in providing those victims to the dinner table and deboning scrappy vagrants. However, you grow up around enough slaughtered cattle, you find yourself not minding an awful lot.

They entered into California around 2270 at long last, Jane a girl of seventeen already in awe of the difference from Legion’s violent peace and Texas’ near-glowing rubblescape, here they took vice and sin in a new direction. Like the card games played in camp, with pre-war glamour you’d only find in brittle magazines. Their travelling show had a few pointed performances in the shanty-town suburbs, though they’d venture into the filth of Reno to seek out a glimpse of how the other half lived.

Call Jane a traitor, for all they’d taught her in swindling and speech kickstarted a bout of good luck in the casinos. At eighteen she was scouted as a dancer for the Shark Club by the Bishops, escaping indentured servitude for another sort. But there’s something such as too much luck for a blonde.

starlet of new reno.

Nineteen, already a year into working for the Bishops, Jane began a relationship with one of the mobs enforcers, indulging her love of attention and gifts⁠—the life of a gangsters moll wasn’t so bad. She won every game of Blackjack she touched, survived a couple rounds of Russian Roulette to boot with an adrenaline fuelled gunfight, and wore dresses with all their sequined glitz that'd make a silver screen actress swoon. Nearly everybody in Reno heard of Baby Jane, especially when she begged for a couple of shifts to replace their current lounge singer.

Framed for supposedly trying to foil the Bishops, by no other than those she’d stepped over to reach success, Baby Jane was nearly executed⁠—though in protecting her face, the gun blew off her fingers instead. Twenty-three, though she’d stopped counting years ago, Jane relocated to Vegas with only the clothes on her back and the pity of strangers. Working for enough caps to get onto the Strip, Jane got handy with a gun and friendly with NCR troopers. The desert was good to her in those days, skin nearly-copper with a head of bleached hair and a splattering of gecko viscera.

Making her way up market, she applied for work in the Tops. Though her name was Dixie by then, just another drifter looking to get paid.

Unfortunately, as some stories are destined to go, Dixie was wooed by a magician that reminded her of Big John’s Shows. They were supposed to head North together, settle down and get hitched by frontier law. Real romantic, until he fleeced her for every penny and her fortunes soured something awful. With all great karma, it got met with its devastating equivalent. Things went real wrong.

straight outta luck.

Dixie headed into the belly of America searching for God knows what. Even as morality waned whenever the slick blood of old raiders made her stomach growl. For a short while, she was joined by another Vegas girl, brunette and all Dawes believed she wanted to be with an attitude that made it seem like water off a duck’s back. Hell, until she up and left in the middle of the night too. Eastward bound, in the footsteps of other merchants Dawes caught rides with, the closer she got to Chicago, the more she felt it’d be a passing stop to a fresh start.

All it took was one chance out of ten, and she got into the wagon; throttled by a slaver and outfitted for a cell—not the gilded variety.

Song — Mister and Mississippi, Patti Page

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[BELIAL.]

BASICS
Name: Rebecca "Becks" Wetherby
Alias/Titles: Bullseye Becks
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Role: The Pistol packin' Mama
Occupation: Hunter, Gunsmith
P.O.B: Freeside, New Vegas

VISAGE
Appearance: Soft face and high cheeks, Becks' complexion is on the fairer side, though she is known to turn quite the shade of pink with the presence of sun, alcohol, or flustered emotions. Blue eyes are often hidden behind dark lashes, and a darker brow. Becks' most common expression is a grimace, or a frown, and it's quite rare to see her genuinely smile. She has dark brown hair, curls that are wrangled back into a low-pony tail and coiffed at the hairline, having now just permanently rested in such a position after years of wearing a wrap over her head.

Due to a neglectful childhood, she is on the shorter side and quite lean, finding it hard to keep too much meat on her bones. Even still, she is lithe and somewhat coordinate, quiet and unnoticeable person. Naturally walking faster than most, Becks is often caught in the 'stop-and-wait' mindset of walking ahead of others. Her arms, however, are wrapped tightly in muscle, and her calves are quite pronounced. A runner through and through, durable with a gun against her hip, it is where she feels more comfortable.
Faceclaim: Gene Tierney

PSYCHE
S: 3 P: 5 E: 3 C: 2 I: 3 A: 9 L: 3
Personality: Uncouth with just a shade of empathy, Becks does at least try to hear someone out before giving her own, often coarse, opinion on the matter. Delicacies are not on her radar, nor does she bat around the bush on a matter. Succinct and straight to the point, Becks is a social battering ram, left only to deal with the ramifications of her own outbursts. Never one for sentiments either, close relationships tend to make her nervous and jittery, usually resulting in some way or another of avoiding the inevitable. All she knows how to do is move, and refuses to be rooted in one spot for too long. It can be interpreted as endearing, often to those who enjoy a heavy dose of self-suffering, or who can objectively laugh at a woman who hates intimacy. Becks is always on the alert, and try as she may she will figure out someone before they figure her out. Rejection is hardest, and she'd much rather be on the rejecting-end of the situation than the one being rejected. Caring indefinitely is a dream to be had one day, with some stability to account for it, and it leaves her at least scrambling to mend ties in the face of disruption (usually when she is confronted on such a manner, doing her best to avoid taking the brunt of the blame).

Otherwise, she finds delight in the little things. Fine armour, guns and mods captivate her, but she mostly enjoys wandering the land. Walks satiate the ceaseless need to roam, and she likes to try and be able to label all manner of fauna and flora in the Wasteland. A scrappy young thing once in her life, she doesn't enjoy being lectured on things like this, or anything in general really. Abrasive to learning, being told she's wrong is also a recipe for disaster.

Still, you're more likely to get a grumbling complainer than anyone who would start a fight. Confrontation is one thing behind a gun, but face to face?
Virtues: Perseverance, Confident, Genuine, Diligent
Vices: Cowardly, Aloof, Alcoholic, Skittish
Skills: Survival, Gunsmith
Talents: Gunslinger and Quick Hands

BACKGROUND
Born in Freeside to a father she never knew and a mother who lasted a whole six years before passing away, bottle still in her hand on her dilapidated cot in their little 'home', Rebecca's been on the move ever since. When her mother died and there was no one else to care for her, she floated between the other residents of Freeside, begging off of them where she was able. Chased out on most occasions, often for lingering on storefronts for passerbys who could spare a few caps, it wasn't long before she started to dream of roaming outside of New Vegas. It was a risk everytime, seeing the wide expanse of desert and whatever horrors could lay out there, but she knew that she wanted to go. There was nothing here for her anymore, save a couple of other orphaned kids that she had become friends with. The 'Rat Pack', they'd called themselves, based off of some scribblings and old posters melted onto the boards that kept Freeside from the Strip. Despite it all, and everyone having each other's back, it wasn't long before one of them fucked up and sent the whole pack scattering. She watched two of her friends, Rocket and Jean, get gunned down by a drunk after they'd tried to frisk him in his inebriated state. No one would give a damn about the two kids, and even Rebecca knew that at such a young age.

She caught the attention of a trader-- Scotty Wetherby-- passing through who said he had a family with a farm on the outskirts that had an empty bed and was in need of a new family member. It didn't take much convincing for Rebecca to find herself whisked into a new life. The trader's intentions were well and good, but once Rebecca arrived, she was made full aware the type of life she would be living. There were several kids there, all just as scrappy and dirty-faced as her, all crammed into a small backroom. They were workers, tending to the land out back, receiving minimum pay and the shoddiest of residences. None of them had vocal complaints, making it quite clear that despite the rough conditions, it was still a home. They were fed every night, they had a roof over their heads, and they had warm beds to sleep in. And, well, ten-year old Rebecca soon found herself quite comfortable in the life as well. Morning to noon they spent tilling the farmland, planting whatever manner of desert appropriate fruits, roots and vegetables could grow. The family had a Brahmin enclosure as well, with a handful of kids picked every few weeks to exclusively tend to the livestock.

When Rebecca was picked for this job, that was when she was first taught how to shoot. 'Need to know how to defend the pack,' Scotty told her, putting a trail carbine in the twelve year old's hands. To his surprise, Becks was a quick learner. There was much to learn at first, much to her chagrin, as each lesson was harder than the last. Her knuckles were bleeding at the end of a day, having been rapped with a board everytime her hand placement was wrong or if she shook when shooting. It took only three days for her to really get the hang of it, and soon Becks really found a love for the gun. 'Bullseye', Scotty called her. While most kids were filtered out of their guarding post and sent back to the field, Rebecca soon found her station to be somewhat permanent. Punishments were often sending her back to tend to the crops with the other kids, but for the most part, that gun was glued to her hands.

Scotty had an affection for Rebecca, that much was clear, treating her not unlike a real daughter. They bonded over guns, pulling apart whatever machinery he had so he could show her the insides of pistols, rifles and shotguns. He showed her how to properly clean a gun, and even a few favourite mods of his that he strapped onto his guns. He opened up more than once, often by firelight, talking about the daughter he'd once shared with his wife. The girl had been gunned down by Raiders a long time ago now, before he and his wife had found the little farm they staked dominion over. It was strange to see such a moment of vulnerability.

So, naturally, Rebecca took off two mornings later. She'd rounded up what supplies she needed, taking that trail carbine she'd known so well and a .44 pistol that Scotty himself revered. Only one of the kids saw her go, and when the two locked eyes, Becks was sure that she'd have to shoot the boy. They'd known each other since she got there, and while there was no real relationship there on Becks part, she knew that he did have some feelings for her as well. Still, he said nothing-- not even an alarm, or a warning, merely staring her down.

'Stay alive out there, Bullseye,' was all he'd said. Sixteen now, Becks took her leave of the family she'd come to know.

The next ten years would be spent here and there, weaving her way wherever the wind blew. She honed her talents, becoming quite the sharpshooter in her time. Guns became her craft as well, camping out at whatever settlement to gather supplies and do a little of service for the folks there. None of it was meaningful, try as they may to either shake her out or make her stay. Listless relationships trailed Becks, all the more a reminder that nothing lasts. At some point she joined the company of a bubbly little Southern blonde, someone somewhat endearing-- though Becks would make it quite clear the girl annoyed her incessantly. They traveled for some time, Eastward, before Becks felt the familiar tightness in her chest and disappeared in the night.

There was one thing that Beck always was, and that was alert. Whenever she traveled alone she only slept in three hour intervals, preferring the feeling of sleeplessness than the safety of a full night of sleep. One particular travel left her utterly winded, however, and she settled at an inn somewhere south of Chicago. It was the one time, in over twenty years, that she'd been too tired to be fully alert. She knew that she should have checked the innkeeper out, or the way that those that sat by the bar stared, because when she'd gone to sleep, she woke up stripped of her goods and hogtied in the back of a caravan.

Other: Used to play a bunch of little games, about as much that kids could gamble, while living on the farm outside of New Vegas. Beck got very familiar with Caravan, and loves to play it.
Song of choice: How Does That Grab You, Darlin' by Nancy Sinatra

 

[Marzopup]

BASICS
Name: Bronson Maverick
Alias/Titles: Centurion Spartacus
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Role: The Lone Star
Occupation: Bounty Hunter/Gun for Hire
P.O.B: Mojave Wasteland

VISAGE
Appearance: Malnourishment in his youth has made Bronson shorter than the average man, standing at 5’6. Lean and muscular, he makes up for his lack of height with an intimidating stature, far more intimidating at a distance than he is up close. He rarely smiles and his dark onyx eyes are perpetually narrowed. Though he's 40 years old and has all his hair, the streaks of gray among the dark-brown and wrinkles give him the feeling that he should be much older than he looks.
Faceclaim: Nikolaj-Coster Waldau
PSYCHE
S: 3
P: 10
E: 2
C: 1
I: 9
A: 2
L: 1

Personality:
Having left the Legion due to a disagreement over strategy and not ideology, it’s not surprising that Bronson shares many of the Legion’s most disgusting views. Misogynistic, fascistic, he is of the sincere belief that life under Legion rule is better than the typical, ‘uncivilized’ way most wastelanders live. However, he’s not that interested in getting into any political discussions about it; he is simply too tired. Most people just see a crotchety old man and would never guess that he would support the Legion. His childhood of transience, poverty, and hardship have given Bronson a hefty inferiority complex; combine it with his time in the Legion and you have a man with a very fragile yet iron clad grip on his masculinity.

In the Legion, he was known as ‘The Most Merciful Spartacus', an insult used by his detractors. Rumor had it that his ‘softness’ was what caused him to be passed over for an even higher position and in normal company ‘merciful’ would not be the first word used to describe him. In practice, Bronson shows a healthy respect for his enemies, valuing cleverness as much as physical strength and appreciating anyone that gives him a good fight. He’d shoot someone in the face after congratulating them on giving him a run for his money, and is known to give people the chance to face him like a man rather than using more underhanded tactics if he feels they've earned the right to die with dignity. Having once been weak and sick himself, he knows not to underestimate anyone. While his principles may not always be good, there’s no doubt that he has them and has the iron will to follow them.

A deserter, he has deep disgust for himself over choosing to leave the Legion. He has no idea where his parents are, if they’re alive, but if they are he has made no attempt to find them. He is sure they would be ashamed of the things their son has done. No family, no flag to stake allegiance to, all he cares about now is surviving without really understanding why he wants to.

With time away from the Legion’s influence, Bronson could realize the fault of the ideology he’s spent decades following--his growing weariness has already slowly begun to erode his dedication to it, making him susceptible to having his mind changed. He’d first need to finally find somewhere where he can feel at peace--but more importantly, he needs people who are willing to call him out on his bullshit.

Virtues: Honorable, Intelligent, Hardworking, Patient
Vices: Stubborn, Officious (takes himself too seriously), Misogynistic,
Skills: Tracking, singing/guitar
Talents: Guns, survival

BACKGROUND
If asked where Bron is from, he would merely say he’s from the Legion (assuming he is comfortable enough with you to answer honestly)--not only because of his former allegiance, but also due to his unstable upbringing. His parents, prospectors, were by all accounts loving caretakers but struggled to earn enough caps to put food on the table. Bronson spent his childhood bouncing between pre-war ruins and towns to sell whatever items hadn’t yet been picked clean by other prospectors. Bronson was also exposed constantly to radiation, due to having to follow his parents into radiation soaked pre-war ruins to help scavenge for supplies. Growing up he was sickly and malnourished.

At the age of 15, Bron was left behind to recover from a bout of rad sickness while his parents went out to scavenge. It was then that the Legion sacked the settlement, taking all of the young men in the city to be either enslaved or culled. Fearing that his weak constitution would mean execution, he decided the only hope he had was to attempt an escape before they were taken to Cottonwood Cove. The plan Bronson crafted, which he successfully convinced a group of other captives to follow, was only stopped because another cohort happened to be close enough to provide reinforcements.

All of the captives who helped in the rebellion were crucified, save Bronson. When Caesar heard of the 15 year old who almost led a successful uprising, the officers in charge of the group were sentenced to death and he demanded Bronson be brought to him personally. While no one knows what was said in their conversation, it ended with Bronson swearing allegiance to Caesar and beginning his training as a Legionnaire.

With the new name Spartacus--hand picked by Caesar, after the famous Grecian slave who led an uprising against Rome--Bronson took to being a Legionnaire immediately. His physical condition improved over time thanks to medical care provided by the Legion, and his natural gift for tactical fighting caused him to quickly rise up through the ranks of the Legion. By the time of the first Battle of Hoover Dam, he had been promoted to Centurion.

However, Bronson had been growing increasingly concerned over the state of the Legion. Rumors of Caesar's health along with the questionable decision of trying to stretch their empire so quickly made him fear an inevitable collapse. His pleas to reconsider fell on deaf ears or else were met with threats of punishment for dissent. After the death of Joshua Graham, Bronson couldn't take it anymore. Convinced that the empire was doomed to failure, and terrified Caesar's wrath would turn on him due to his known allegiance to the former Legate, Bronson decided to cut his losses and run rather than go down with the ship.

Two years later, Bronson has returned to his old name and works any job that provides adequate caps, preferring mercenary or bounty hunting work. To the Legion he is a traitor: some even suspect, due to the timing of his disappearance, that he had a hand in intentionally sabotaging the battle of Hoover Dam in the NCR’s favor. He does not hold ill will toward his former countrymen for this, equally disgusted with himself for what he perceives as cowardice. He wishes them the best even if he fully expects the worst.

With their emphasis on westward expansion, Bronson felt that it might be best to go out east to get away from expanding Legion territory--he didn't count on getting captured and becoming one of the very slaves he himself used to own.

Other: Shortly after escaping from the Legion, Bronson got into a fight for his life against a Legion explorer and injured the Legionnaire's dog in the process. His fondness for animals made Bronson take pity and stay with the injured dog until it passed, only for the dog to pull through instead. Bronson chose to nurse him back the health and the dog--a massive black wolf-dog hybrid--was renamed Celer and has become Bronson's constant companion since. After being captured Bronson had commanded Celer to run, and the two are currently separated.

Spoiler: Celer

Bronson has a sister fifteen years younger than him, born shortly after he had disappeared. Neither are aware of the other's existence.

Song of choice: Mr. Shorty by Marty Robbins

 

[King Krokodil]

Subject to change, as I will most likely add more when I fill out the history and personality.
BASICS
Name: Joseph T. Walker
Alias/Titles: The Jackal, Veteran Ranger Jackal, Walks-With-Beasts
Age: 34
Gender: Male
Role: The Atom Bomb Baby
Occupation: Veteran Desert Ranger, Wanderer
P.O.B: Fallon, Nevada

VISAGE
Appearance: Standing at Around 5'11, and with pretty normal build. He isn't quite naturally intimidating, Most of his intimidation factor coming from the decked out ranger armor he wears at nearly all times; With a hooded duster, Countless straps, and Special Armor formerly used by the US Marines, It's quite effective at what it does. Under the armor? He likely wouldn't show you. He's got Brown, Messy hair that falls down to the end of his neck, and multiple scars along his face (from multiple sources, some abuse as a child and torture during his time as a ranger)
Faceclaim:

Spoiler: Under the mask

View attachment 1024802Not his hairstyle, But i can't get one with it.

PSYCHE
S: 3
P: 6
E: 10
C: 3
I: 5
A: 7
L: 3

Personality: coming soon
Virtues: Quite Altruistic, Having been part of a Vigilante Group; Smart, able to Recall events and facts in an almost auditory memory fashion, Whilst not quite extroverted, he’s quite good with people.
Vices: Chainsmoker, Violent/Aggressive, Unstable, But also quite collected, Think of it like a Patrick Bateman-like usually calm/collected but could go bat shit insane at the drop of a hat.
Skills: Experience (Due to his time in the rangers, He’s quite good with weapons, along with understanding raider tribes due to being a former Jackal), Skilled with mechanics (He was mainly in charge of refurbishing cars for his Ranger squad, along with getting a train working at one point)
Talents: Survival, Guerrilla Warfare/Guerrilla Stealth (Improv camo, Tactics, think of it like some ghost recon shit)

BACKGROUND
hmmm coming soon

Other:
Song of choice:

 

[Ozron]

BASICS
Name: Andrew L. Rogers
Alias/Titles: Dr. Rogers, Rob, Anny
Age: 277 years old
Gender: Cismale
Role: THE LIL' EINSTEIN
Occupation: Doctor, Scientist, Engineer
P.O.B: Ottawa, Canada

VISAGE
Appearance: For starters, he is and looks like a ghoul, standing at 6'1. His skin is burned, decayed, and flaky. He doesn't have a nose and lacks hair except for the central part of his head, which is mainly grey, but still has some of his natural hair color, black. His eye sockets are sunken, as well as his cheeks, although his eyes look normal. Them being a crystal clear blue, was one of the only things left that remained. His general body frame is thin, not muscular. In most areas, it's only a thin layer of skin left, some so thin you can make out the bones that press against said skin. He has a metal prosthetic leg where his right leg should be, although his left leg is intact and works well.

Faceclaim: Fallout OC - Chet by Psuede on DeviantArt

PSYCHE
S: 2
P: 1
E: 5
C: 1
I: 10
A: 5
L: 4

Personality: He's a very closed-off person, trying to avoid social contact as best as he can. And due to this, his social skills have eroded, leaving him feeling awkward in most conversations. So, he's essentially an introvert. One of the reasons why he's closed himself off from others is due to his appearance and the negative experiences he's had as a ghoul. It's not uncommon for him to be threatened with a gun pointed at him when trading with traders or scavenging abandoned Old World sites that have people around still. Many people no longer see him as a human, which has affected his views and personal motivations. He has extremely low self-esteem due to this, and it doesn't help he partly blames himself for the Great War.

When it comes to violence, he's the type of person to scan his environment and figure out a way if there's a non-violent or an easy way to leave a fight without a scratch. Which, he's quite good at, with his high intelligence he constantly outsmarts his opponents. Even if his opponents are 3x the size of him, he's always been able to get away, disable or even kill his opponents if he sees an opportunity. He isn't afraid to pull the trigger though, especially if he's been personally attacked or insulted. He's grown a hatred for people who insult him or judge him negatively just because he's a ghoul. He's grown a bit spiteful to humans in general, only demonstrating things like kindness until others have demonstrated it to him. Sometimes, he even stands up for other ghouls, in the local ghoul community, he's seen as a friendly and helpful person for ghouls under attack or in need, but also mysterious as no one knows him on a personal level. Whenever he sees a human, he tries to avoid them, but when he sees a ghoul, he's more open. Willing to have a conversation.

When it comes to personal choices and decisions, he tends to only think for himself or for others he cares about. He doesn't judge most situations based on "right and wrong", he judges them by which outcome is more beneficial to him. If saving someone has a high risk of his own life, 99% of the time, will not help that person.

One of the things he values is intelligence. He's a sapiosexual, and he tends to prefer to hang around and interact with individuals he deems to be intelligent. He values preserving Old War technology and information, that could improve the quality of life for people.

Virtues: Intelligent, (brutality) honest, self-controlled, compassionate, and determined
Vices: Has a temper for humans, arrogant, smokes, and boastful
Skills: Science, Robotics
Talents: Four Eyes, Good Natured

BACKGROUND Andrew was born in the year 2020, on October 3rd, in Ottawa, Canada. His family was wealthy, and he had a decent childhood. Although, he doesn't remember much of it now. He also had a German Shepard named Lucy, which died when he was 12. His parents were often busy with their work, so Andrew grew up trying to constantly get his parent's approval and attention. His family, being rich, had tons of robots working around the house and he grew a fascination with them. In private school, his parents (after several weeks of begging from Andrew) put him in a robotics class, where he excelled above everyone. He had designed a drone capable of carrying 15 lbs for half an hour, at the age of 9. Later on, he made a small robot that was entirely run on solar power, and whose purpose is to do lawn work.

With many of his teachers seeing his potential, he skipped the entirety of middle school and went straight to High School. Which he only did 2 years before graduating. As he grew up, he wanted to learn more and his interest in robotics only grew bigger. After graduating, he applied to every single Ivy League school and was accepted into all of them. He quickly chose to go to MIT and for the first time, move out of his parent's house, now living in New England. It wasn't long before he got his doctorate in both engineering and robotics. He was a rising star in the world of academics and not one to be underestimated.

After leaving college, he applied for a job in RobCo Industries. RobCo, at the time, was a rapidly rising company in the robotics and technology market. Due to Andrew's educational background, he was interviewed by Robert House himself. After which, Andrew was rejected for the position and House reportedly laughed at Andrew. Andrew later slapped House in the face and had to be carried out of the building by security. Afterward, Andrew decided to make his own company out of spite due to House.

Andrew applied for several loans and started the process of creating his own company He envisioned an international-spanning company that would create products and robots to help those in need or poor countries, a company that would DESTROY ROBCO. He founded and named his company "Roger's Robots" in the early 2050s and set out to find investors. At first, he had secured backers and investors that were mainly from Europe, but mainly of these people pulled out once 2052 rolled around, the beginning of the Resource Wars. With Europe and the Middle East going to war, it was a huge punch to the global economy and Andrew's company. He was forced to file for bankruptcy, and his dream collapsed before his eyes. After he filed for bankruptcy, House called him and asked in a sarcastic tone if he wanted a job. He proceeded to slam the phone and hang up, not accepting the offer.

With the beginning of the Resource Wars, tensions across the globe rose and many fear more conflicts would occur. Oil, rare metals, and food were just some of the few things that the world was beginning to run out of. Despite his failed company, Andrew still aspired to try to help the world but he lacked the funding to do any projects of his own. Andrew fell into a deep period of depression, he had spent nearly every dime he had on his company. If he passed you on the streets, you would've never guessed his family was rich or that he grew up rich. He remained in New England, although he did go back to MIT to teach there.

After a few years of teaching at MIT, Andrew was unexpectedly contacted by a group of individuals. This group was made up of scientists, professors, and environmentalists, to create an alternative fuel source that can replace oil. The group was called the International Scientific Society for Energy and Robotics (ISSER). At this point, the Chinese and Americans have already begun fighting, with the Chinese taking parts of Alaska. Canada, Andrew's home, was occupied by the Americans and no longer existed as an independent nation. These events influenced Andrew to join the ISSER, to help find a fuel source for the world. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, he could help bring the world into balance. He didn't know that they were destined to fail.

After spending nearly a decade on making an alternative fuel source, Andrew and the ISSER had done it. They've figured out a way to use hydrogen as an energy source and had passed all of the tests. Now, they were ready to show it off to the world. Every member of the ISSER was sent off to major cities in Asia and North America. Europe and the Middle East had already collapsed to anarchy and were not deemed important. Andrew was sent off to Chicago to help promote the new energy source. He was going to stay there for a week, with plans to talk with the local and state government. As well as the energy plants in the state. After most of these meetings were finished, his mental state was improving. Nearly everyone wanted the hydrogen energy, he remembered walking out of the city hall with a grin on his face. To him, this was it. He believed he was finally making a difference in the world, and that he'll be remembered when he dies, as one of the men who brought on a new age for humanity.

2077, October 23. Andrew woke up and was shocked at the blaring alarms. He looked out of his apartment window and saw hundreds of people in a panic. He turned on his TV and saw the news. New York was hit by a nuclear bomb, and so was Boston. He saw as the news broadcast went offline and he ran out of his room, trying to go downstairs. He took the stairs as the elevator was too occupied, and he ran outside in a panic. He knew he would die if he didn't do something. He forced his body to stop trembling and looked around. He saw a bank and had an idea. He rushed into the bank, heading straight for the metal vault. He stole a key in the administration room and opened the bank's vault, rushing inside and closing it. He relaxed but that's when the first nukes struck.

When the nukes struck Boston, Andrew figured the bank vault would protect him. After the nukes dropped, the bank's vault did not hold well, eventually breaking and exposing the radiation from the outside, into the vault. Now, the vault was enough to protect Andrew from the initial blasts, so he wasn't immediately vaporized, but even he knew he couldn't escape from the heat blasts and deadly levels of radiation. He figured he bought himself a few more minutes, as he believed he would die once the radiation got in. He was wrong. The heat and radiation melted his skin and body. It was the most intense pain in his life. He didn't realize it at first, but he transformed into a ghoul that day.

After he was ghoulified, he spiraled into depression for 40 years. Starving himself, even cutting himself. He blamed himself for what happened, and he still does to this day. He had lost everything and his dreams were once again destroyed. Eventually, he did pick himself up and tried to make himself a life again. It took a while for humans to start popping up, but once they started to show themselves on the radiated surface, Andrew saw he might still have a purpose in his life. He did also notice his unusual life span and he realized what he could do for what was left of the world.

Andrew went on and established a home in what was formerly known as the Bezazian Branch, Chicago Public Library. He made himself a living, eventually repairing the building. Or at least the parts he could repair. For the next hundred years and a half, he had power, a stockpile of food and water, along with other supplies. Not forgetting his locked gun and ammo safes. And he started to collect information and whatever texts were still left for the actual library, among those texts are his own as he's also written most of the things he knew or had learned back when schools and colleges still were around. He even had his terminal, where he types out any discoveries and theories he's come up with since the Great War. And finally, he converted one of the rooms into a laboratory, where he tries to build or test new things he's come up with. The base has a multitude of traps, locked doors, and security systems he had installed once he noticed raider gangs were forming.

His goal in life is to help rebuild society, and for ghouls to be seen more positively. He wants to help educate humans and ghouls alike and help ghouls from going feral. He dreams of one day building a center for education, the beginning of what could be a new era for humanity.

Other:

~ Ever since he's turned into a ghoul, he occasionally felt an urge, a feeling that wanted to take control. The feeling was chaotic and crazy, it made him crave flesh. It's only gotten stronger and stronger over time and after stumbling upon feral ghouls, he knew he had to do something about it. So, he created a drug. The purpose of the drug is to help him combat going feral and to help him keep his mind intact. He has to take it weekly, or it becomes difficult for him to think and operate properly. If he goes without it for too long, the last piece of his humanity will shatter and will go feral.

~ He has a dog named Lucifer or Lucy for short. He found Lucifer dying in the middle of a destroyed road, bleeding out. It looked like another dog attacked her. Andrew remembered when he had a dog of his own back when he was a kid in the 2030s. He felt sympathy for the dog and brought it home. After taking an extensive look at her injuries, he knew the dog wouldn't be able to heal properly on her own. He could relate to Lucifer, having a body that was destroyed but could never heal. He took care of the dog, eventually naming her Lucifer, although he calls her Lucy most of the time due to memories of his childhood friend. After spending some time studying the injuries and having a doctorate in robotics, he started to perform surgery on Lucy. Replacing her injuries with robotic parts. This not only saved Lucifer's life but extended her life expectancy by several decades. Ever since then, Lucifer and Andrew have been close, going on trips together and even fighting off raiders.

~ Lost his leg after getting shot by a human while scavenging for supplies, later made a metal prosthetic for himself.

Song of choice:

Spoiler: Uranium Fever: Elton Britt, 1955

Spoiler: Lucifer

 

[JustSomeDood]

CS placeholder. The Devil in Disguse.

 

[plague rats]

BASICS
Name: Julian 'Jules' Devlin
Alias/Titles: n/a
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Role: Ten Ton Feller
'Occupation': Raider
P.O.B: Chicago

VISAGE
Appearance: Jules is built like a brick shithouse. At 6'2" he's tall even by pre-war standards and balances the height with broad shoulders and lean muscle. Scars, burns, and shitty tattoos decorate his skin with little order or meaning. His face is oddly soft, despite a nose that's been broken a few too many times, with tired blue eyes perpetually ringed by dark circles. His hair is dark, usually hacked short, and under whatever scavenged armor he's thrown on he's typically wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit.
Faceclaim: Marlon Brando

PSYCHE
S: 10
P: 1
E: 6
C: 2
I: 1
A: 5
L: 3

Personality: Jules has all the charm and tact of a rabid dog. Every feeling for him is nigh-overwhelming, rolling between blind rage and manic joy at the whims of his overworked nervous system. A surprisingly terrible liar, he wears his heart on his sleeve and is driven seemingly entirely by base, immediate impulse. He is a blunt instrument, crashing blindly forward in search of whatever pleasure he can squeeze out of life. That has mostly presented itself as chems. He's an addict who bounces between strung out and high functioning. When he's properly dosed he can be downright pleasant. But without them, paranoia, anger, and fear build to dangerous ends. Call it greed or desperation but he's not one to shy away from violence if he gets something out of it.

There are bright spots among the wreckage. He's easily amused, even if his own sense of humor is exceedingly crude and more than occasionally mean spirited, and has a dogged persistence towards whatever pointless task he sets his aim on. While far from the smartest person in the room, he has a surprising knack for building, mostly directed towards impractical improvised weapons and particularly gruesome homemade traps. He can get along with most people who can tolerate him and don't have something he wants- though he's quick to violence, he holds few genuine prejudices. The ones he does hold run deep though and any form of authority is the highest evil in his mind.

Despite his lack of social graces, he's a pack animal at heart. Some of it is just common sense- it's a dangerous world and there's safety in numbers. But he also doesn't trust himself on his own. He's fully aware of his limitations and whatever sense of shame he still has nags at him for each failure. His affections are fickle and carelessly given for the most part but he'll put up with a lot to keep from being alone.

Virtues: resourceful, bold, tenacious, protective, resilient
Vices: easily manipulated, amoral, callous, rash, selfish
Skills: metalworking, trap making
Talents: Slayer, Unstoppable Force

BACKGROUND
Jules was raised in the shadow of Chicago's skyscrapers. Like so many others, his mother traded freedom for the meager safety their lord afford them. His father was dead or gone before Jules could remember more than a tired face smudged by soot and age. But it wasn't awful. His mother loved him and he loved her and even if she spent most of her days away and working, she always made sure he was provided for. There was a fierceness to her love, desperate and sad. She told him he was the best thing in her life and she meant it, meant every inch of herself she gave away so he would be well kept.

(If Jules had been a smarter man, or inclined to poetics, he might have thought about how that overwhelming love poisoned him. It spoiled sugarsweet in his chest, rotted at the core so he'd be left hollow the rest of his life. Because life was hard and life was a struggle and wanting stupid, pointless things like love only opened the wound further. But he wasn't so he didn't, just took it all in and never thought about what would happen if it left.)

And then his mother died. It was hardly a unique or tragic story. Now the details are blurry even to him. Exhaustion or sickness or radiation, he isn't sure. But he watched her waste away, grow thin and pale. He was a boy and she loved him until the end, lying through bleeding teeth as she marched inch by inch towards her grave. And then she was gone. He was ten or so by then. The shack they'd called home his entire life was given to a new family and Jules was sent to live with the other unmarried, childless men. Without anyone to earn his keep, he was put to work on his own. At first it was the work all children did, fetching and weeding and climbing about in hard to reach places, tiny hands for delicate work. But Jules had always been big and he was the size of most men by the time his voice broke. So he worked alongside the men, repairing walls and fences, plowing fields and harvesting. The softness afforded by his mother's love was carved out of him, replaced by work-rough hands and corded muscle. But the hollow left behind festered day by day.

The hours were long and the work was hard. It was hardly a surprise when people needed something to keep them going. Jules was eleven the first time he took Buffout, long limbs aching from his latest growth spurt and dead on his feet from another week of endless work. One of the others took pity on him and slipped a chalky little pill into his palm. Buffout to give you the stength to keep going, mentats to keep you awake, med-x to ease the pain. It was what everyone did, chems trading hands behind the foreman's back, covering for your bunkmate who spent the night trembling from withdrawls. It wasn't family, wasn't love. But it stuffed the hole with a chemical lightness that became close enough.

He got older and bigger and stronger and would've been the ideal worker if not for the hatred that grew with every new slight. When an argument over stolen rations between him and another worker escalated to a physical fight, Jules found himself in the infirmary with a broken nose. That's where he met Isaac.

Isaac was a child of relative privilege, the eldest son of a foreman and smart enough to be granted a position studying under their medic. But his status only earned him scorn from the other boys and Jules recognized the same lonely anger in him. A crooked bond formed between them- Isaac would sneak Jules extra chems from their locked cabinets and in return Jules was his faithful guard dog, every free moment spent in his shadow.

It was always Isaac who had ideas first. He was smart enough to see beyond the ugly edges of his world. He was the first person to tell Jules he could be more than another piece of some vast machine. But it was Jules who first said they could leave it behind with any conviction. It was all the bluster of a child high on exhaustion and stolen drugs. But it worked. They left the safety of their Lord's grip late one night shortly after Jules' sixteenth birthday after weeks of secreting away supplies.

They tried their hands at mercenary work. Jules' size and Isaac's charm allowed them to scrape by for a while but people were hesitant to hire two strung out kids. And eventually they crossed a line. After a grueling run with a trading caravan, the man who'd hired them refused to pay. He said they'd lost too much to raiders and he couldn't afford it. Jules can't remember when things turned violent. What he can remember is staring down at the man's broken body and blood on his hands and Isaac panicking and grabbing everything they could carry before they ran until they couldn't anymore.

For a while they laid low, terrified someone would come looking for them. But no one ever did. They murdered a man and his body stayed in that street until something hungrier than them came along. Then he was forgotten and they lived like kings off the profits of their ill gotten gains. Sick fear changed into a kind of giddiness. They felt invincible, in no small part thanks to the fact that they could afford all manner of chems.

Of course the caps ran out and they burned through their chems. When the hunger and aches returned tenfold, it was Isaac who broached the subject. What if they did it again?
They didn't even have to kill them most of the time. Isaac was still capable of tricking people into believing he was just a wayward kid so doors and hearts opened easier. It was only when people caught them emptying their pockets that Jules stepped forward.

Slowly but surely their petty, adolescent anger hardened into a vicious disregard for anyone who wasn't them. The highs became less powerful and the noose tightened. Life narrowed to an endless present, bursts of violence in between weeks that blurred together into jittery, mindless nothing. At a certain point, joining up with the gang just felt like going home. The South Works was a brutal, efficient machine. Acres of factories and steel churning out vital goods at a steep price. Jules was familiar with the work and found his place easily. No one needed him to be smart, just useful. He could work metal and break bone and not think beyond that and his dose and Isaac. The world was hard and cruel and no one really cared if they lived or died but they lived, night after night. Jules was invincible, the ache in his chest was numbed by the unending urgency of existing.

(There were quiet, secret nights Jules didn't share with anyone. Not even Isaac. There where nights when he managed just the right amount of chems and skunked beer to climb up to the roofs and watch the stars blink between the skyscrapers. Only then, only alone, would he let himself imagine he could build something that would exist long after he was forgotten. The stars burned into his eyes like sparks from the forge and the endless hunger in his chest sharpened.)

And it worked for some years. But Isaac was ambitious, had always been destined for greatness. Jules told him as much during their meandering talks, sprawled out on filthy couches in some corner of the Works as they imagined far off futures that turned more and more real with each word. Talk turned to plans turned to organizing other malcontents. After all, they were the ones who went out on raids, worked the foundries, and scavenged the steel. They knew the city and felt they owned the piece they'd carved away. At the end of the day, was the Boss any better than the Lord they'd labored under before?

Someone must have thought so because the Boss caught wind of their schemes. Jules supposes it was kind in the end to slip a little something into his pills and let him wake up collared and caged rather than just killing him outright. But it's not easy to be charitable when you've got nothing left to give.

Other:
-functionally illiterate. can fake it with basics, but not much beyond that
-loves radio dramas, both pre and post war.
-more than proficient with melee weapons, but not a great shot. he can manage close range with shotguns, but anything that requires precision isn't his game.

Song of choice: Trouble & Me

 

[Galactatech]

Name: Patrick Anderson
Alias/Titles:
Age: 34
Gender: Male
Role: He's Da Heavy!!
Occupation: Brotherhood of steel Sentinel
P.O.B: the pit

VISAGE
Appearance:

The guy on the right





Face claim:

S.P.E.C.I.A.L points
S: 10
P: 4
E: 5
C: 5
I: 2
A: 1
L: 1

Personality: Patrick is a cheerful guy who doesn't particularly like violence, but understands there are times where violence is the only solution. He is a generous person, the kind who ensures other's needs are met before his own. Patrick is a champion for the rights of other's, even if he's just defending their right's to be asswholes. However he draws the line at hurting others for pure cruelty. He's been alive for a long time, experienced both the best and worst in humanity, and yet still has hope for the future.
Virtues: a surprisingly good source of wisdom, patient, can be philosophical at times.
Vices: prone to grotesquely amounts of violence, LOVES to tell war stories
Skills: big gun master, demolitions expert, heavy armor fighter
Talents:

Background: Patrick Anderson was born in the pit. He grew up alone and fast, dodging slavers and trogs.
He was one of the unstated children rescued by Owen Lyons and the east coast brotherhood.


Patrick decided to join up with the brotherhood of steel. He fought in many battles and earned distinction in the institute war. He and his squad were sent on a mission to track and liberate a slaves, but they were ambushed and Overwhelmed. Patrick fought as his squad was slaughtered and he was taken prisoner.

Other: Patrick wears the holo tags of his squad, reminding himself of his greatest personal failure.
Song of choice: praise the lord and pass the ammunition!

 

[ThAtGuY101]

Name: Poll Ponds
Nickname(s):
- Packing Pipe Poll
- Polo
- That stupid pipe dude
- Disappointment Child (only by his dad)
Age: 25
Role: atom bomb baby
Job: Mechanic assistant.

Backstory: He doesn't work on anything involving mechanics. He runs around grabbing tools for the actual mechanic and travels outside town for scrap parts like a mad man. Years of getting shot at and dealing with radiation and somehow surviving it all despite his low IQ has toughened him. His mom always said he was hard headed.

His father was a scientist who worked on water systems, and possibly a reason why Poll likes pipes. His mother was a teacher in Diamond City. She struggled to teach her son, but very little stuck. When he was seventeen he began working with a mechanic named Robert. Robert was an impatient man with back pain, knee issues, and a headache just about every time Poll opened that big mouth of his. Robert was a paranoid man believing most folk to be untrustworthy. He kept a loaded .44 magnum on him at all times and traps in his garage. He trusts Poll cause he believes Poll is too stupid to know how to steal.

Poll has been accidentally shot at by Robert more than a few times, set off traps, but has always been patched up or was able to sleep it off.

In his time working for Robert, a vault dweller would visit them to buy spare parts, and would occasionally invite Poll to travel with him! Poll forgot the man's name, he thinks its Jamie or Oscar. Possibly Chris, he can't remember, but he considered him a good friend for letting him tag along. His vault dweller friend gave him his first pipe pistol. Poll got his pipe for melee at Roberts store. It was a pipe welded to a wrench. Robert thought it looked stupid, but Poll liked it.

Appearance: Poll is a 5'9" ft man. He's fairly tan and has shoulder length pale blonde hair messily combed back. His face is covered in freckles and his eyes are bright green. He's covered in scratches, burns and scars along his body. Sone from bullets. His face has a few scars. He's a relatively thin boy with some added muscle from years of hard work.

He wears overalls, thick work boots, an old worn out diamond city guard armor(minus the helmet). He wears a metal lined black leather jacket on top of that with a few exposed metal wires poking out. He wears a dark brown cowboy hat, a gas mask and thick welders gloves.

Personality: He's loud and cheerful, and has the constant need to move and groove. Rarely ever sits still. He even sleep walks from time to time. He's friendly and very optimistic and tries too hard to make friends and doesn't know when to shutup sometimes. Given a subject that interests him, he may ask way too many questions and probably forget all the answers at some point. Despite this, he tries his best to do good and have everyone's interests. Though he fumbles around and might overstep his boundaries when attempting to help others.

S: 5
P: 3
E: 10
C: 2
I:1
A: 2
L: 5

Personality:
Virtues: His willingness to help others, bravery, and friendly
Vices: stupid, talks too much, and doesn't know his drinking limit
Skills: survival and athletic/energetic.
Talents: life giver, ghoulish

Song choice:

 

[Worthlessplebian]

BASICS
Name: Felix Sion Knox
Alias/Titles: Baghead Brawler, White-eyes, Ishmael;
Age: 43;
Gender: Male;
Role: The Atom Bomb Baby;
Occupation: Bounty Hunter, Ex-Slaver, Rat Catcher, Bodyguard, Experimentation Subject;
P.O.B: Clarion, Iowa;

VISAGE
Appearance: His skin is pale as ash, an unfortunate consequence of his childhood being spent in a cave so his skin burns easily under intense sunlight. His physique is lean enough that he appears average when covered by clothes, but sturdier than a brick when you touch him. Sadly, this constitution is marred by the lines of scars upon his skin; they're too surgical to be born from fiery battle or bitter survival. He wears a bag over his head, it is leather but from whom Felis does not say. His right eye is stitched with an odd optic, stitched through the leathery shade that covers his head. As for Felix's face, it is best said that not even his own mother would recognize that gaunt countenance. Eerily, it is more skeletal than ghoulish. However, the most streaking feature is his unnatural, white irises. They weren't like that before the operation, they were blue.

Faceclaim: Artistic Rendition by PointLineArea on DA;

PSYCHE
S: 4
P: 2
E: 10
C: 2
I: 4
A: 3
L: 3

Personality: In spite of Felix's ruthless, savage, raider-esque appearance, the man is urbane. He does not lie unless needed, he does not go out of his way to insult people, nor does he value the scathing expletives hurled at him by people of questionable origin. He used to heavily travel after the death of his parents, but not averse to laying down roots in settlements. There is a joy in sentimentality for him, chiefly items coveted by people as this manifested in taking mementos from people he enslaved. Promising that if they free themselves then they have the right to take their items back, this he deemed fairer than life would've actually given them. He does not have time for fools, quickly brushing off their vapid, inane protests when working. Although does not treat inexperienced folk too harsh. His mind is quick to resort to violent tendencies, but understands that there are easier ways to solve disputes.

Is incr-hen-dibly arrogant when it comes to spotting or shooting, reckoning no equal to his precision. During the reprieves in his prowling, he offered services such as weapon cleaning, hunting for food (vigilantism is also on the table), or guarding property/possessions. Not too many folks take kindly to the knowledge of him being a slaver, current or former doesn't matter, so he shutters away that nugget of knowledge. He likes the little compliments people send his way, an earnest, simple "good jobs" brighten his day.

He loathes one person above all others: Dr. Heinrich Vaulkner, decorated biologist (by the Doc's self-admission) and amateur technologist. The mutilation of his body at the hands of that fetid headcase disturbed Felix so acutely that at times, particularly in the comfort of his bed, Felix's skin "slithers" in place. At night, he wakes up in a cold sweat and hand clutching the wood panel grip of his pistol. He has trouble with that. Sleeping. He has never let a scalpel in his presence, let alone be anesthetized to be under one. This fear of unconsciousness grips him so tightly that he forgoes chems, alcoholic drink, or hallucinogens of natural variety. A teetotaller through and through. Yet at the end of all this, Felix refuses to surrender. To lay down like a beaten dog and die. He will continue to survive and damn those who stand in his way.


Virtues: Committed to the job harder than bighorners with a brahmin pack and not moving; possesses keen sense for situations that require tact, quiet as a church mouse because of it; penchant for brevity, minces words; surprisingly well-read;
Vices: Braggadocious attitude about his skills; general absence for empathy in regards to living beings; horrendously xenophobic to wasteland mutation; Tomophobia; Terribly blunt to sensitive souls;
Skills: Weapon Maintenance, Hunting;
Talents: Unarmed Unharmed, Shotgun Showdowner;


BACKGROUND
Born in the guardianship of a traditionalist, albeit caring parents, Felix Sion Knox lived his early childhood in the cave system located nearby the derelict, industry city of Clarion, Iowa. His parents were iron-handed regarding their rules so much so that Knox only barely experienced enough sun so that he does not develop poor eyesight. Speaking of eyesight, his had been so keen that he could spot the movement of an unmutated ant in the dark crevice or the tiny head of a bandit secluded amid the forestry. Either case ended with his father, Chester Knox, killing it. This quality of rapid dispatchment had been worthy of young Felix's admiration. As a result, his father tutored him in the operation of a firearm since an early age. Then taught him how to fix it when he broke against the cliff side, followed by swift reprimands with his voice. Combined with his dotting mother, it could be said that Felix lived an all-rounded life, better than the vast majority of post-apocalypse children could receive.

However, there came a day that would be crystalised in Felix's psyche forever. That day, his parents left the cave, rudimentary hunting or scavenging. They've done this hundreds of times throughout the years, the only difference is that they trusted him, the fourteen year old with a single shot rifle and eagle peepers, to defend their home. Felix felt such pride in that accomplishment, giddy with serotonin-induced excitement. Till the minutes then hours then days, gradually eroding his happiness. The worry grew by the tick of that old grandfather's clock. He still had food, he thought. He is trained to ration it, he thought. Waiting for their arrival would be the best choice.

So he waited for four days. Nothing. Distraught, the child decided that he needed to look for them now. Even if he still had food, even if he waited then nothing would be done. That is the greatest crime, inaction, in the child's eyes. He gathered ammo for his rifle, cloth for protection from the sun's smoulder, food for a day's travel, and a compass for directions. Unlike his parents, who were experienced in the navigation of Iowan prairies, Felix ran amok figuratively speaking; he hid well, but knew absolutely nothing of the surrounding sites.

Still even an aimless wanderer may find gold. Or in Felix's case, the consumed corpses of his parents. How did he recognize these husks as his parents? The woman's dead body had an unblemished tattoo hid on the back of her neck which Felix immediately identified belonging to his mother, while the man's corpse carried a cross, wooden but broken in his palm. Devastated as any child losing their parents would be, Felix did not have any notion of revenge or righteous justice but simply fled the scene with his tail in between his legs. Survival being of utmost priority.

For years, he drifted from settlement to settlement, area to area gathering the skills necessary to live. He had gotten quite good at shooting, owing to the fact of his, now suppressed, memories of paternal tutelage.

He strayed down darker paths, such as taking up the barbaric service of enslavement. He robbed others of their naturally-gifted freedom at gunpoint then sold them off to others callously for years. Until the tables had been turned on him for the first time. A knock to his head, staining the sooty locks of hair with the sanguine droplets, his consciousness drifted way of the Sandman.

His eyes flare open, body moves reflexively but finds it is immobilsed by paralytic agent, the details are hazy upon recall. Strapped to this rusted gurney with creaky wheels by thick, leather bands. A man in a white, cotton coat with freakish facial features. The doctor, who introduced himself immediately as Heinrich Vaulkner, noticed then nodded with eyes of terrible delight at Felix's awakening. He began to rattle off the procedure that Felix will undergo. The words went in one ear then immediately out the other, he just wanted to fight, fight his way out. But found himself helpless in the face of it all.

The gurney stopped with a knock as the wheels hit the stopping block next to the operating table in the abandoned theatre. Heinrich slinked away in the dark to retrieve a syringe filled with an even more potent paralytic, Felix recalled the words: "Oh, terribly sorry, my boy. But I think someone of your stature deserves a second dosing, wouldn't want to get hurt now, do we?" Before intravenously injecting the concoction. The deadening of his nerves had been an excruciating process, it hurt as it coursed through his veins. The hunter's endurance lapsed after long resistance.

Blurred and disjointed as his sight had become, he could still see the glint of a scalpel's razor edge. Cold steel meet warm flesh, slicing down then up then sideways. Felix hollered in silent agony. The pain wanted him to cry, hell, he wanted to cry as well. But he could not for all the mercy in the world, he could not cry. His slack jawed mouth had been intubated so that his lungs could savor fresh air, the benumbed state brought upon by chemical agents coursing in his arteries and veins made it all but impossible to twitch, let alone move. His ears could only hear the mad ramblings of the doctor, recounting the magnificence of his eyes purity of capability. But lamenting that he had to... Adjust that imperfect face. Then he rectified that debility by sewing a layer of leathery blanket over his head, it felt strangely familiar to Felix. Then the heated frame with the pristine lens were the final addition. With screws and stitches alike.

Proud of his work, the good Doctor made one crucial mistake; brought about by his reckless celebration. He had loosened the strap on Felix's right wrist. With the chemical cocktail finally wearing off, Felix pulled his wrist out then freed himself. Heinrich struck with fear stopped in his tracks, quivering like a little, scared boy. The next moments are equally confusing for Felix, he remembered escaping from the confines of the laboratory, witnessing circus horrors in reinforced glass cages in electrified gates. But what he did to Heinrich is unanswerable, because he can't recall!

The operation, much to Felix's horror, had not been as successful as the Good Doctor had hoped. His vision had been ruined, or nearly so. But an olive branch was still given, his sight for his body; he found he could run longer, swim farther, fisticuffs from normal lads barely dented him, and the rads that he took would scare a clinician to death!

He lived for years alone after that incident, earning such nicknames as the Baghead Brawler or... Or that codename given to him by the scientist, Ishmael... He grew quite fond of that name, frequently giving it out to strangers. Like a shield for his ego.

How asinine then, that he gets captured while claiming the ticket to his next meal. Nothing is ever simple in the bounty hunting business. One minute, you're hauling this rowdy target with rope then you're shot full of tranquilizer. A lot of tranquilisers. Now in a collar and a cage full of similarly fated idiots.

Other:
-Had a pet radscorpion with a clipped tail before it was lost in the caves;
-Tried Slasher, this was before the operation, thought it was pleasing, but too addicting;
-Interested in arachnology;
-Fascinated by religious doctrine, soteriology mostly;
Song of choice:

Spoiler

 

[Fluffy-Kat]

Marilyn Booker
~"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"~​

BASICS
Alias/Titles: Lyn, Mrs. Carmine (formerly), Little Song Bird of the South
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Role: The Lone Star
Occupation: None
P.O.B: Charleston, West Virginia (might change)

VISAGE
Appearance:

• Eyes: Sparkling blue eyes that lost their luster when she lost her hope for this world. Surrounded by long, plentiful lashes that soften her cold stare.
• Hair: Voluminous, fiery auburn hair hangs down to her shoulders in loose natural waves. Sometimes seen tied up in a high ponytail. A pair of tinted goggles usualy sit atop her head, good for aiming down her sights in the bright sun
• Physique: Marilyn has a slender, feminine physique with a tiny waist and round hips, modestly covered by a suede duster that reaches just above her knees
• Notable Features: Theres a small scar at the top, outer corner of her right eyebrow and a circular scar on her left shoulder, adjacent to her clavicle, with a matching one behind her shoulder from a bullet wound that pierced clean through.

Faceclaim: Rita Hayworth

​

PSYCHE
S: 2
P: 10
E: 3
C: 1
I: 4
A: 5
L: 3

~"The devil is in the details..."~​

Personality: A straight shooter with a stone heart, Marilyn transformed from being a sweet, pre-war southern belle, to an unforgiving survivor of the new world with only her best interest in mind. She'll do or say only what is necessary, and hates to waste time on politeness or other social standard niceties. Lyn will help others if they offer a proper incentive, or if they're deemed worthy of her judgement, but the moment they become a liability she cuts all ties with out looking back. She finds it hard to trust in others and insists on doing things herself; after all if you want something done right -- or if you don't want the risk of being betrayed -- you do it yourself. Relying on others will always result in disappointment, she believes, and will stubbornly disagree with anyone who says otherwise. Observant and cautious with an astounding memory, Lyn is not a woman to be taken lightly and will search for any disadvantages a situation or person may have for the sake of having the upper hand should she need it.

Like most pre-war women, Lyn was once a dainty, lady-like, home maker. A god-fearing woman, she conformed to society's expectations of how a woman should think, act, or what to say, and never questioned it. Keen on that white-picket-fence American dream, all she aspired to be was the ideal housewife, and had no other goals beyond starting a family. The dream and dreamer in her died, however, when the truth of her lover's double life came out just shortly after walking through the threshold of marriage, and turned her soft, earnest heart into a frozen lake of spite. Vowing to never open her heart to anyone again. Thus, a callous woman was born, and with the forced toughening up from the events taking place post-war, she bloomed into a fierce survivor, relentless and resourceful. Unwilling to let anyone stand in the way of what she wants out of this hell of a life.

Virtues:

• Definite: She is careful and sure in her decisions and does so with confidence in her abilities or character. She will not play her cards until she's sure its a winning hand.
• Just: Lyn firmly believes in the principle of justice, and although her interpretation of what is "deserving" can be a little extreme, she will always stand behind what is right. The bill always comes due.
• Patience: Though she may be eager to pull a trigger, Marilyn is surprisingly patient. She takes the time to scope, learn, and weigh out her options before acting or speaking, even when she's furiously fuming deep down, she'll keep her facade until the time is right. No one likes to shoot blind.
• Transparent: With Lyn, you'll always know what she's thinking, mostly because she's not shy to speak for herself. Although shes not quick to reveal her motives upfront, she is honest and truthful. However, she is no stranger to playing mind games with difficult people, but in the end her objective is always made clear.

Vices:

• Prideful: Pride is a defense mechanism Lyn often uses toward others. She may want advice or help but wont admit it face-to-face, and would often rather experience things the hard way, even if it means potentially resulting in her demise.
• Stubborn: Marilyn has a mind of her own and wont let others talk her out of what she feels is right. She wont change currents with a plea of a few words, it'll take a lot of convincing or factual evidence to change her mind, and it is no easy feat, one definitely deserves a medal of commemoration if one achieves it.
• Spiteful: Theres a possibility that Marilyn can be seen struggling to withhold herself from acting out in spite. Depending on how bad the reasoning is behind her pettiness, she's known to go out of her way to..."make it right" in the name of self-satisfaction. As mentioned, she is very patient, and has no problem waiting for the right moment to pounce.
• Indignant: Lyn finds herself easily provoked by what she perceives as unfair treatment. Her collected demeanor flies out the window almost instantly, replaced by resentment. You could call it a trigger...just don't call her hysterical when she loses her temper....that'll really make her fly off the handle.

Skills: Hunting + Sharpshooter
Talents: Lock-picking, Longshot

BACKGROUND
Life was sweet, pre-irradiated America. Somewhere in the south, leisurely living in a large home in the countryside of West Virginia, was a beautiful young woman and her daddy. See, daddy had very deep pockets, and even deeper connections. A family man with a large income, who loved his darling girl deeply, and would do anything for her. Daddy made a well-to-do living from inheriting multiple car factories across the US, and business boomed even more thanks to the rising tensions with China. In a country-wide need for resources and armaments, daddy got paid big money to turn his car production facilities into an assembly line for guns, trucks, planes, and tanks. All in the name of patriotism and "doing your part" for Uncle Sam.

Marilyn, a lovely red-headed flower of the south, had a full life ahead of her. The world was her oyster. Daddy was ill, and pleaded with his daughter to get married and start a family so that his success could continue through legacy. Being the obeying, people-pleasing woman that she was, Lyn agreed and agreed it was time to settle down and marry. At age 20, she redirected all her ambitions into becoming the perfect wife and finding the perfect man. Wealthy men from all over the southern states were eager to court her and attempt to win the heart of the rich man's daughter. However, Marilyn didn't have to search far and not for very long. Her heart was putty in the hands of a young soldier from her home town. His name was Richard Carmine. A tall, handsome, and charming man man who won over daddy by being an honorable military man. The start of their life was bliss, and the two love birds were eager to be wed. What with word of the war growing closer and all, the two rushed into an intimate marriage with only immediate family in attendance. Anyone who knew the happy couple knew they were meant to be together.

Unfortunately, tragedy struck no more than a year into their perfect union. Marilyn had lost her child from a premature birth, sending her into a never ending spiral of heart break. Hopeful, the loving couple tried again, and yet the result ended the same. Lyn accepted that she would never be able to produce a child for her father's legacy, let alone for herself and the abundance of love she had to give. To make matters worse, Richard was called to action not long after their endeavor for a family. The Great War was peaking, and everyone in the armed forces was being called to the front. As a symbol of love, Marilyn wanted to throw a going away party for the love of her life, the departing soldier. The day before the planned party, Marilyn returned home early from her errands to start on an intimate surprise dinner before the family festivities planned for the following day, but to her disbelief, Lyn caught her husband red handed with another woman in their bed.

Lyn was livid. Torn to bits. Betrayed and devastated, the scorned woman unlocked a rage and fury she never knew she had. The once angelic, devoted woman turned into a creature of wrath and malice. Richard left for duty with out the love of his once loyal and faithful wife. The following morning would be not be only a shock to her but to the world. Alarms blared on every street corner, every regular program on every channel of the television was overruled by the eerie tone of the emergency broadcast. Military troops flooded the streets. When she heard a knock on her door she expected to see the face of her husband, there to protect and guide her amidst the fear and chaos. She held her breath as she opened the door, ready to release a sigh of relief, but when she opened the door to a stranger, the panic set in. The soldier at her door tried to quickly instruct her next steps as he walked her down her drive way and into a truck. He explained that being the wife of a decorated soldier, with the help of daddy's connections, she had a spot reserved in a nearby bunker. A vault, he called it. Scared and confused, Lyn was forced her onto the vehicle that would take her to her safe haven with just nothing but the clothes on her back.

Fast forward to the year 2279, two hundred and two years after the world ended in a blaze of fire and radiation. Seven years after Marilyn emerged from her suspended animation state and entered into a completely different world. Much of the world had grown back, trees covered the Appalachian mountains as if they never burnt to crisps, foliage over grew on homes and cars that rusted in the streets. But the creatures that roamed the earth were...transformed...to put it nicely. Seven years and Marilyn went from confused outlander of the new world, to a bonafide survivor of the post-war life. Worse than the demented monsters that inhabited freely, were the few people she would come across her wandering travels. Most stole what ever rations she managed to score, her ammo and weapons, and in one scenario almost left her for dead. For seven years she traveled alone, toughened up, and did some things she was not proud of in order to survive. Going from dainty debutante to stone sold survivor was a story she never thought would be written for her. Even now when she looks back, she cant believe the experiences shes had leading up to present day.

However, not long ago Marilyn had the idea to pack her little things and leave to venture other lands. She remained in the same state of old America for 7 years, and it never occurred to her that life could be different elsewhere. Away from a lonely countryside or small town. She decided to travel west, with only a map, compass, and hunting rifle as her companions. Searching for what? She wasn't sure. Perhaps it was loneliness beginning to settle in after years of wandering alone. Or maybe it was a need for a change of scenery. Or, it could've been that with in the (relatively) small perimeters of her territory, resources began to feel limited, especially with nomadic Raiders coming in and out of the vicinity she scavenged.

During her western migration, Marilyn came across a group of uninvited individuals when setting up camp after an especially tiring day. She had traveled longer than her usual limit, and though usually very selective on where she settles, decided to set up in an empty, rundown Red Rocket with out careful judgement. Nodding off to sleep, rifle in hand, next to the soft glow of a dying fire, Lyn was startled by the sound of a creaking floorboard. Physically tired and exceptionally hungry, the woman was bested by three strangers who bound her hands and bagged her head. She was carried off into the night, not knowing where she was going or who she was with, only to later find herself being sold into enslavement.

Other:

• She still wears her wedding ring to remind herself that others can not be trusted, especially those closest to you
• In her younger years, pre-war, she was an amateur singer and enjoyed singing in lounges and performing for clubs, earning her the nick name "The Song Bird of the South"
• Loves to smoke

Song of choice:

Spoiler: Song 1

(This song is just ironic to her, given the present state of the world)

Spoiler: Song 2

(According to Lyn, love is indeed a tender trap)

 

[JustSomeDood]

BASICS
Name: Derrick Hernandez
Alias/Titles: CPL. Hernadez
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Role: The Devil in Disguise
Occupation: Scam Artist/ Entertainer
P.O.B: Shady Sands

VISAGE
Appearance: Derrick was lucky enough to be born in a home that didn't have to deal with the issue of going hungry every night. So his body was able to develop properly in his youth causing him to be a tad bit taller than most of the folks in the wasteland, standing at a healthy 6'2. On top of his slightly above-average height, Derrick must of hit the genetic lottery as he grew up to be quite the handsome man. Having a strong jawline paired with his dark brown hair and lightly tanned skin. He was especially a head turner if you compared him to most of his wastelander counterparts. Who to put quite simply most just looked worst for wear. He also made sure to keep up his physique over the years. After all, it wasn't like anyone else was going to take care of his body besides him. So only an idiot wouldn't do it. And let me tell ya he ain't no idiot.
Faceclaim: https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https://worthlesssix.tumblr.com/post/183687769582/oc-fallout-companion-meme-thanks-for-tagging-me&psig=AOvVaw2AS9VxuU7k50LDZWIqXtBQ&ust=1663992269699000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAwQjRxqFwoTCMDy_bOEqvoCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD
PSYCHE
S: 4
P: 3
E: 2
C: 10
I: 3
A: 5
L: 4

Personality:
Derrick in the simplest terms is a man who always has some sort of scheme going on in his mind. Even from a young age, he was always looking for ways to make a quick buck. From hosting small card gambling rings to scamming anyone gullible enough to trust him, to even pickpocketing he would do it all. After all, in his mind, he thinks there are only two types of people in the world. That you're either a winner or a loser and let me tell you Derrick ain't no loser. I mean what sort of loser has the sliver tongue of the devil and the face of a movie star? Hell, he could have even been a cult leader if he wanted to! Like one of them children of atom folks who think that rads are the next coming of christ. So you see Derrick maybe thinks quite highly of himself. To the point that he even sometimes believes the bullshit that he spits out. But hey that's Derrick for you! And it isn't like his narcissism is leaving any time soon.

Virtues:
Charming: Derrick can charm the pants off of damn near everyone he comes across. From the toughest of raiders to the coldest of cold legionaries, he can spit so much game that they'll believe almost every single word that comes out of his mouth. And on top of being paired with his damn good looks and killer smile, it'll be hard for many not to fall for this devil in disguise. After all, who better to trust than the sly quick talking Californian man who just appeared in front of their door?

Deceitful: Though Derrick has his fair share of true stories of his adventures out and about in the wasteland, Derrick more often than not makes up these stories to make him appear more... well just say more courageous and adventurous than he actually is. From near-death encounters with deathclaws to meeting President Aaron Kimball himself to hell even fighting a wild Yao Guai head-on with nothing but his bare fists. And these are just a few of the tales Derrick had told to countless numbers of people during his time in the wasteland. He even has one where he apparently meets Ceaser himself! But the problem with these "tales" of his, is that more often than not people actually believe them. Making him quite competent when it comes to making a good lie or two when it's needed. After all, who doesn't like a savue wastelander who has every single word that you'd like to hear at the ready?

Cunning: Derrick is the type of guy to have some sort of scheme going on in his mind. Constantly turning out ways to make himself some easy caps.
Skills: Persuasion, Deceit
Talents: Confirmed Bachelor, Lady Killer

BACKGROUND
If someone were to come up and ask Derrick where he was from, he would have vastly different varying answers depending on who the person was. If it was someone from the legion, he spent most of his life in Arizona praising the almighty Ceaser and all of his goons. If it was someone from the NCR, he was a California baby through and through. If it was some guy who was trying to sell him something? Well, he came from the who gives a Shitsvile. If it was a pretty lady that caught his eye? Well, he came from New Vegas and left because he was a traveling entertainer who was meant to melt each and every heart in the world. Yes, indeed it seems as though Derrick is just full of places he "was" and "wasn't" from. But let's speak honestly here, where the hell did Derrick actually come from? Well to answer that question, he was born in the oh-so-lovely city of Shady Sands. The one and only capital of the most prestigious NCR.

He was born to a moderately well-off family as an only child. His parents were a group of caravaners who worked for the company Crimson Caravan. One of the biggest caravans in all of the NCR. Having spent most of his childhood bouncing from one city to another. From New Reno to New Vegas he got to see all of the best and brightest cities that the wasteland had to offer. Hell, he even got to see a real-life vault! Well, sort of at least, since all he did was see the entrance of Vault City. But hey it still has "Vault" in the name so it counts! Yes, Derrick had gotten to see it all thanks to his parents' line of work. But the problem with Derrick is that he often lets his tongue get the better of him while at these places. Speaking when he shouldn't, saying things that could be found sort of "insulting", and maybe just maybe a few slight cases of scamming the wrong person.

And let me tell ya he may have just picked the most "wrong" person out of the bunch to scam. During his time at New Reno Derrick was at the age of 18. Young, dumb, and full of confidence he figured that New Reno would be like all of the previous places he had been at. Just filled to the brim with losers to be taken advantage of. Course this was quite the naive view that he had of the place because there was a damn good reason it was nicknamed the City of Sinners. Since it was just filled with all of the nastiest people that the wasteland had to offer. From murderers to thieves to even drug lords it had it all. And out of all those nasty people in New Reno, Derrick might have accidentally picked the nastiest out of the entire bunch. A powerful and more importantly vengeful man named Mr.Bishop.

Mr. Bishop was the head of the Bishop family which was the most powerful family in all of Reno. Practically running the damn place through brute force and fear alone. On top of being a ruthless gangster, he also happened to be one of the wealthiest men in New Reno. Heck, he might even be one of the wealthiest men in all of the wasteland. Running several casinos and having dozens of people under his belt that were loyal to him and him alone. And he was known to torture anyone that betrayed his trust for hours and hours on end. Until he got bored of it and he would then just throw you out like a piece of garbage in the middle of the wasteland. Leaving you as prey to whatever was out and about at the time. And this was the man our oh-so-intelligent Derrick picked to be his next scam victim. Yes, a genius I know.

His plan was simple, he was going to act as the son of a wealthy brahmin baron who was hoping to expand his income by investing in some of Mr. Bishop's casinos. But before he could invest in the business he wanted to have a close look at the place. After all, who wants to invest before knowing what they are investing in? But he wasn't just going to waltz in there and loudly proclaim that he was hoping to invest in his casino. Because A, that was stupid and B he doesn't even look the part yet. I mean what sort of son of some wealthy brahim baron wears dirty wasteland attire that looks like it's falling apart? So he grabbed a dirty old tuxedo from his parents' caravan and put it on. I mean it wasn't like they were going to notice a single piece of clothing missing.

Once Derrick looked the part, he needed to properly act the part as well. And with his limited knowledge of brahim barons, he had a vague idea of how they usually act. They were loud confident assholes who felt like they could do anything they wanted. As if the entire world surrounded around them. Which was just perfect for Derrick as he knew a thing or two of being a loud confident asshole. So once he felt as though he was ready to play his part, he figured it was finally time to go on in and begin the scam of the century. So he waltzed on into the Shark Club as if he owned the damn place. Walking past the numerous nameless wastelanders and the posters of the various entertainers of the place. A man named Bruce Issac and a Chick named Dixie were just some of the few names he saw plastered all over the walls.

THESE ARE RUSHED TO BE WORKED ON LATER:

Derrick convinced Mr.Bishop through his charm alone that he would be a great investment to his business. He was so charismatic in fact that he allowed him to take a look in his vault. Once inside he was able to convince the guards that were escorting him to take a small break. After which it left him alone with thousands upon thousands of caps just ripe for the taking. So he began to fill his bag with as many caps as he could before booking it out of the vault. Rushing past the guards and running out of the entrance of New Reno. And just as he thought that he was a fair distance away, he looked back to see that they were still hot on his trail. So Derrick not wanting to get caught quickly buried away the bag of caps somewhere on the outskirts of the city before continuing his getaway. Eventually making his way back to California. Never knowing the fate of his parents.

After a few years of drifting, Derrick at 22 eventually joined the NCRA. Becoming a trooper and being sent out east to deal with any Legion raiding parties that threatened the region. Having a few run-ins with the centurion known as Spartacus. Eventually facing his troops head-on during an encounter in the Colorado. During which he suffered a head injury from a piece of shrapnel from an artillery shell that shot near his position. Putting him out of commission and was sent back to Shady Sands so that he could recover from his wounds. But while there he went back to his old ways of scamming after realizing that risking his life each and every day for a government that doesn't really care for him wasn't really worth it. Which eventually ended up with him being sent to the NCR correctional facility once his superiors caught on to what he was doing. But he eventually ended up escaping after a few years and has been on the run ever since.

Other: This is Derrick's song btw.