(→Bike) |
No edit summary |
||
| (One intermediate revision by the same user not shown) | |||
| Line 9: | Line 9: | ||
|figure=Thin | |figure=Thin | ||
|pob=Pluto Research Colony | |pob=Pluto Research Colony | ||
|setting=Blazing Umbra | |||
|status=Approved | |||
|player=Cyclops | |||
|race=Human | |||
}} | }} | ||
While he was born in the 86th century he spends little or no time there. The world he comes from is a world overrun by the worst in dystopian government structures. Secret police not only police actions but thoughts and intents. He has a scar just behind his right ear where the neural-link device used to be, he had it removed in the mid 23rd century. | While he was born in the 86th century he spends little or no time there. The world he comes from is a world overrun by the worst in dystopian government structures. Secret police not only police actions but thoughts and intents. He has a scar just behind his right ear where the neural-link device used to be, he had it removed in the mid 23rd century. | ||
| Line 44: | Line 48: | ||
''Special Thanks to Jen for this intro / history.'' | ''Special Thanks to Jen for this intro / history.'' | ||
Blake huddled in the dank crawlspace under the section of the compound his family had been reduced to. Heavy boots shook loose large chunks of lichen from the cold stone above, but reaction was not an option any more than reaction was an option as Blake heard his mother's muffled screams as the black bag was placed over her head. In 8600 AD, one did not necessarily have to do anything wrong to find such fate, but in the brutal cold of current climate - political and otherwise, his parents had been fortunate enough to save him such a fate..., if you could call such self sacrifice fortunate. A tear rolled down Blake's cheek as he heard his father hit the floor with a thud to his mother's screams. He was too young to know that his father should not have tried to fight for his mother's safety, yet that was the first thing that came to mind. Patience. The sound of dragging bodies, heaving grunts and thudding feet. Silence. Blake did not know how long he huddled in the cold before he emerged into a gray and hostile world. He pulled the collar of his school jacket up to cover his neck and tried to blend into the hoards. No, he had not just lost his family. Nope. Not an orphan with nowhere to go but an empty compound full of danger. Just a day-to-day routine of a boy in desperate need of dinner in a quiet café. Chicken. Cordon Bleu topped with feta. Only one place to get it, and he made a bee line there, ordered dinner as he had a dozen nights before - and started to plan the rest of what would be a new life if he had anything to say about it. | Blake huddled in the dank crawlspace under the section of the compound his family had been reduced to. Heavy boots shook loose large chunks of lichen from the cold stone above, but reaction was not an option any more than reaction was an option as Blake heard his mother's muffled screams as the black bag was placed over her head. In 8600 AD, one did not necessarily have to do anything wrong to find such fate, but in the brutal cold of current climate - political and otherwise, his parents had been fortunate enough to save him such a fate..., if you could call such self sacrifice fortunate. A tear rolled down Blake's cheek as he heard his father hit the floor with a thud to his mother's screams. He was too young to know that his father should not have tried to fight for his mother's safety, yet that was the first thing that came to mind. Patience. The sound of dragging bodies, heaving grunts and thudding feet. Silence. Blake did not know how long he huddled in the cold before he emerged into a gray and hostile world. He pulled the collar of his school jacket up to cover his neck and tried to blend into the hoards. No, he had not just lost his family. Nope. Not an orphan with nowhere to go but an empty compound full of danger. Just a day-to-day routine of a boy in desperate need of dinner in a quiet café. Chicken. Cordon Bleu topped with feta. Only one place to get it, and he made a bee line there, ordered dinner as he had a dozen nights before - and started to plan the rest of what would be a new life if he had anything to say about it. | ||
Latest revision as of 06:11, 25 December 2018
| Blake Stone | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Blake Stone | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
While he was born in the 86th century he spends little or no time there. The world he comes from is a world overrun by the worst in dystopian government structures. Secret police not only police actions but thoughts and intents. He has a scar just behind his right ear where the neural-link device used to be, he had it removed in the mid 23rd century.
Gear
He carries with him a backpack with an eclectic assortment of gear from various time periods.
Backpack
- Small Crossbow /w Bolts
- Small case of Poison Vials (8) - Instant Death
- Small case of Poison Vials (10) - 48 Hours of Severe Illness
- Medical Tricorder (circa 24th Century)
- First Aid Kit (circa 24th Century)
- Communicator (circa 23nd Century)
- Black Powder
- Rope & Grappling Hook
- Tablet Computer (circa 21st Century)
- ATM Hacking Kit
- Repair Kit (circa 22nd Century)
Person
- Glock 17 in Shoulder Holster
- Fake Passport / Fake State ID
- Collapsable Tactical Baton
- Pocket Knife
- Aevus Naviganti
Bike
- Power Pack (circa 25th Century)
- Driver, Socket, Wrench Toolkit
His vehicle of choice is a Harley Road King Classic (2009) converted with electric & gas hybrid capabilities as well as a turbo unit providing 30 seconds of additional speed.
History
Special Thanks to Jen for this intro / history.
Blake huddled in the dank crawlspace under the section of the compound his family had been reduced to. Heavy boots shook loose large chunks of lichen from the cold stone above, but reaction was not an option any more than reaction was an option as Blake heard his mother's muffled screams as the black bag was placed over her head. In 8600 AD, one did not necessarily have to do anything wrong to find such fate, but in the brutal cold of current climate - political and otherwise, his parents had been fortunate enough to save him such a fate..., if you could call such self sacrifice fortunate. A tear rolled down Blake's cheek as he heard his father hit the floor with a thud to his mother's screams. He was too young to know that his father should not have tried to fight for his mother's safety, yet that was the first thing that came to mind. Patience. The sound of dragging bodies, heaving grunts and thudding feet. Silence. Blake did not know how long he huddled in the cold before he emerged into a gray and hostile world. He pulled the collar of his school jacket up to cover his neck and tried to blend into the hoards. No, he had not just lost his family. Nope. Not an orphan with nowhere to go but an empty compound full of danger. Just a day-to-day routine of a boy in desperate need of dinner in a quiet café. Chicken. Cordon Bleu topped with feta. Only one place to get it, and he made a bee line there, ordered dinner as he had a dozen nights before - and started to plan the rest of what would be a new life if he had anything to say about it.