Post by Karl the Unfettered on Jul 11, 2010 0:20:26 GMT -5
Faction: Republic
Department: Special Forces
Rank: Gunnery Sergeant (ret.)
Name: Konstantin "Shadow Ninja" Faraday
Race: Human (augmented)
Age: 59
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 285 lb
Birthplace: Coronet City, Corellia
Appearance:
((Photo credited to Cain.))
By all accounts the Shadow Ninja should have retired decades ago, and it shows; his hair is solid gunmetal gray, although still thick, and his face is marred by countless wrinkles and scars. Both of his eyes were removed and replaced with highly advanced prosthetics, which look like real eyes except when they're glowing in high activity, or if you look closely at how the pupils contract and dilate. As well, his ears have cochlear implants that enhance his hearing while greatly reducing the effects of sonic weaponry or other disorienting attacks. Overall it is a harsh face, and one instinctively realizes this is not someone that could ever be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. He keeps a neat fuzz of beard on his face, little more than a five o' clock shadow really, and his hair is just a bit shaggy without being a total mess.
His body is likewise scarred, but he still trains diligently in both shooting and martial arts almost every day, and runs at least five miles after a strenuous workout regimen three times a week. He lost his arms years ago in an explosion (his chest is particularly scarred because of that), and both were replaced with sleek prosthetics, which he recently has had replaced with more advanced technology. They are every bit as dexterous as his natural arms, but lack the sheer brute force of less delicate and precise mechanisms; the rest of his body has been reinforced in more subtle ways, so that he can exercise the full strength of his augmentations without destroying himself.
Most of his implants are not immediately obvious, and a cursory glance will not reveal anything but a tired old man. Beneath the facade, his arms are equipped with four retractable durasteel blades (one each from both elbows and wrists), with a moderate phrik weave for lightsaber resistance, as handy for unarmed combat and self-defense as for killing and incapacitating from stealth. In addition his fingers can dislocate, and his wrists are capable of spinning freely in their sockets at the same time; notably, most species' necks cannot spin in such a fashion. The arms also come with automatic recoil dampening elements and aim stabilization nodes, greatly enhancing his prowess with ranged weapons.
His eyes have high-resolution thermal imaging, and sophisticated glare reduction that nullifies sudden lights like flashbang grenades or broken power lines, as well as telescopic zoom and tracking functions. The most impressve augmentation work is also the most subtle; implants in his torso regulate adrenalin and testosterone levels, serving to extend stamina, dampen pain, prevent fatigue and accelerate the healing of injuries; they can also trigger intense hormone storms in his body, effectively sending him into a fury. During such events his strength, speed and reflexes are greatly increased, but they don't last too long and he has to recover for a time after each use; the lack of rational thought and coherent speech is another factor to consider when utilizing this effect, as well.
All the prosthetics and metal in his body was alloyed with zersium, an uncommon mineral which facilitates energy dispersal; this, combined with special grounding elements in his legs, feet and hips, allow him to resist the effects of EMP waves and ion weaponry, although it does not convey full immunity to these effects. In addition he was provided with special outfits and armor that do not interfere with the performance of any of the implants, most notably the retractable blades in his arms; without such clothing he would doubtless end up spending fortunes every year replenishing his wardrobe.
Personality:
Konstantin used to have a conscience, a moral compass that never deviated. He trained relentlessly in less-than-lethal combat and tactics, not trusting himself to pass as jury and executioner no matter how vile his targets or their bodyguards were. All this changed after the accident that cost him so much of his body; now he is cold, uncaring of the blood he spills, though he still seeks to minimize casualties and will not hesitate to employ memory-impairing drugs and tranquilizers if the mission calls for it. He doesn't enjoy killing, of course, and as mentioned tries to avoid or minimize it, but if the situation goes south he won't hesitate about it anymore.
Because of his years of military training, when on missions he is usually cold, direct and professional, with no time for small talk or screwing around. He is not adverse to intimidation or the threat of violence, knowing the value of a well-timed shattering glass in breaking a stalemate, and when needed can be a terrifying torturer and interrogator; his job is to extract intelligence, after all, not make life pleasant. Especially not for the thugs and criminals of the galaxy. Obviously his approach will change when undercover, though he still has little patience for games and joking around.
When not on the job he is unassuming and quiet, unswervingly loyal to the Republic despite knowing so much about the darker side of what keeps it safe. He has never married and does not have any family left since his parents passed away years ago; when the loneliness gets too much he seeks out the nearest brothel or dive bar, or seeks out some planet of the Republic and wanders its streets to remind himself who and what he fights for. He isn't quite as active as he used to be, but they still call him in for sensitive missions with enough regularity to keep retirement out of the question; until his body fails completely, he will always answer the call.
Skills:
-Stealth
-Less-than-Lethal Combat
-Hacking & Bypassing
-Pistol & Handgun Mastery
-Martial Arts & CQC
-Pain Tolerance
Languages:
Fluent
-Galactic Basic
-High Galactic
-Huttese
-Bocce
-Mando'a
Comprehend
-Shyriiwook
-Binary/Droidspeak
-Gamorrean
-Kinetic Communication
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 8
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 6
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 9
Melee Weapons: 1
Ranged Weapons: 9
Alignment: +2
Bio: Konstantin was born in Coronet City; his father Rendle was an officer in the elite Corellian Security anti-terrorism bureau, and his mother was a skilled, compassionate physician. They raised their son to be a good, honorable man, and by all accounts they succeeded. He grew up with a great respect for life, and a desire to protect it to the best of his ability; in school he was intelligent and soft-spoken, excelling in physical endeavors such as boxing and wrestling as well as the standard curriculum.
When he graduated he went into CorSec training, just like his father, and qualified for the clandestine branch, CorSec Intelligence; his upbringing had led him to refuse lethal force in all instances, a trait that led to a number of botched missions but a great deal of live captures and successful interrogations. He was ill suited for mundane police work, and the more gung-ho divisions were anathema to his outlook on life and morality.
He excelled in stealth, in hacking and bypassing, martial arts and small arms; he disliked heavier weapons, but trained in them anyway so at least he could strip and disassemble them in the field. He focused on hand-to-hand combat, and on handguns and precision rifles, weapons that could be used for non-lethal rounds like tranquilizer darts or rubber slugs. He took chemistry classes so he could develop his own paralytics and sedatives, knowing he would be undercover for long periods of time and without support from the outside.
He completed academy training in three years, and his first mission was an easy one, a "blue-milk run" as the veterans called it. A ranking gangster in a pan-galactic crime ring was in the city, and would be staying at a prominent hotel; he had friends in the Core, and could not be apprehended directly. Konstantin was to move in and take him alive, without raising alarms.
As they said it was an easy job, a good test for an agent fresh out of the academy. Faraday infiltrated the hotel, checking into a room under an alias; the room was close to the gangster's suite, just two floors below. He waited until nightfall, then slipped out and went for the stairs; as anticipated the gangster had guards posted at the landing on his floor, hulking tough guys with repeating blaster rifles. It was simple to short the lights out and sneak up on them in the dark, taking them out at close range with his bare fists.
Stepping out into the hall, he saw more guards posted at intervals, with two outside the relevant room; Konstantin moved quickly, shooting each guard twice in the neck and head with his silenced tranquilizer gun. He made it to the door, reloaded, and listened carefully for activity inside; hearing none, he slipped inside and went for the bed. Stupidly, the gangster was fast asleep right there, and it was a simple matter to jab him full of sedatives and carry him out of there down the emergency stairwell to the outside, where a vehicle and driver waited to take him back.
A few more missions like this, and it was clear he was a cut above the rest; his superiors felt his talent was wasted on Corellia alone, so they recommended a transfer to Republic Intelligence. Faraday felt the same way, and the move was swiftly carried out. Life in the Special Forces was very different from CorSec, more stressful in some ways; failure carried a heavier price, and he was never in the same place longer than a month at the most. Not really enough time to properly cultivate contacts and networks. It was definitely more exciting, though; there was always an opportunity to hone his skills, and he got very good at hacking into computers and transferring illicit funds for his own use.
In time he found that pistols and smaller handguns were better suited for the missions he was sent on than larger guns, blasters, or even tranquilizer rifles; with enough experience and a steady hand, a properly calibrated pistol could have just as much range and accuracy as any rifle, were more easily modified and tweaked, and most importantly were much easier to hide or conceal on one's person. And thanks to his tall frame, with the right clothes Konstantin could hide a lot on himself. But with firearms there was always the risk of not hitting the right vein or artery, or of the dosage not being strong enough (or too strong, which was even worse); and too, no gun could be truly silenced no matter how advanced the suppression technology. With this in mind he specialized further in martial arts and non-lethal CQC takedowns, as well.
He wasn't always successful, however. One mission when he was in his thirties had him on Mrlsst, a swampland planet in the Colonies region controlled by the Republic; a small group of ruthless mercenaries had taken cover on the planet, and the Republic needed them taken out quietly, alive or otherwise, so that the research stations and mining efforts in the asteroids orbiting the planet would not be disrupted. Two agents had already died at their hands, and they could not mount a regular siege on their own planet or risk announcing their own weaknesses to the galaxy at large. Faraday, with his impressive record and unshakable morals and loyalty, was sent in.
He landed some distance away from the mercs' hidey-hole, and made his way in with a speeder; contrary to his usual kit he had armed himself with lethal weapons and ordnance this time, being more concerned with the local wildlife than subduing another bunch of thugs. He had no qualms killing stupid beasts, after all.
He made it within range of the mercs, put the blaster rifle away and drew his tranq pistol; if all went well, though, he wouldn't need to fire a shot. His plan was to sneak in and take them out at close range, using his greater strength and considerable hand-to-hand prowess. Unfortunately his unfamiliarity with jungle terrain was his downfall; he tripped over a concealed wire, setting off an alarm and twisting his ankle in the process. Thus alerted the mercs, all five of them, rushed out and converged on his position, heavy repeaters at the ready.
Cursing, Konstantin pulled himself behind a large tree, his pistol clutched in hand. He was now faced with a choice; there was no way he could take them alive now, they had the upper hand in terms of firepower, and this tree was thick but it wouldn't last forever. To get out, he would have to kill these men, or be killed himself.
Kill, or be killed.
In the back of his mind he always knew this moment would come, when his morals would be put to this ultimate test. Did he value his own life over the lives of others? Would he be able to kill, after a lifetime of preserving lives, even those of criminals and terrorists? Paralyzed with indecision, he huddled behind the tree while the mercs blasted away at it, debating his own death. In the end the decision was made for him; one of the mercs had gone around, knife in hand, tired of waiting for Konstantin to show himself and eager to get this over with. Sneering, he leaned in to slit Faraday's throat, ready to feel the man's blood flowing over his hands.
He never got the chance. At the last moment something snapped within Konstantin, something primal; he wanted to live, damn it, and he didn't care who knew about it. Snarling madly he ripped the knife from the thug's hand and turned it on him; dimly recalled knife-fighting rose up from some dim corner, and he slashed at the merc until his blood ran freely. The man had incendiary grenades on him; Konstantin ripped one free and threw it blindly, then another and another, then he took up the merc's repeater and lunged out of cover, firing wildly.
The mercs, caught off guard by their own weapons being turned against them, flailed wildly to put the flames out; the barrage of blaster fire mowed them down like fish in a barrel, and all but one of them died. Whatever had taken Konstantin's instincts over retreated abruptly; now sick with guilt he quickly radioed his support and ran to the surviving merc, rolling him in the water and mud to put him out. The merc survived, but Konstantin himself lost his left arm and eye, and a fair amount of flesh, when the flames spread to his own body.
They managed to save him, but the cost was severe; most of his left side was burnt almost beyond repair, his body had been weakened in general, and they had been forced to amputate his arm. His eye had plainly been lost, but more importantly Konstantin had lost his own will; he had broken the morals that had guided him through life for so long. He was no better than anyone else now, he was just another murderer. He wanted to just give up and let go, and would have done it too were it not for efforts of the military psychologists the Republic assigned to his case. Slowly he realized it wasn't over, that he could still serve, but he would never be the same again.
They implanted prosthetics on his body: sleek cybernetic arms and eyes to replace the missing parts, a hormone regulation system, and ear implants to reduce the risk of sonic damage; the eyes could filter out excessive glare and process thermal data into sophisticated imaging, as well as a zoom function for distant shots. The arms were equipped with stabilizers and shock absorbers, which would make shooting even easier. The regulators had all sorts of benefits; pain and fatigue suppression, greater stamina and endurance, even a minor healing factor for small cuts and wounds. More impressively, a small pad had been implanted beneath his armpit; pressing this pad and saying the right words would trigger an adrenaline storm, resulting in greatly increased strength and reflexes.
It took a few months, but in the end he was restored to greater health than before. With the enhancements and implants, Konstantin could be back on the job after a minimum of physical rehab, although actually adjusting to the new abilities granted him by all the new tech took a while longer; he was stronger than ever when he did adjust, however, and spent much of his time off integrating the arm-blades and built-in shooting aids to his overall combat preferences, going so far as to spar with the odd Jedi here and there on the off chance he ever found himself against a Sith. He was formally declared dead due to complications from his injuries on Mrlsst and the subsequent surgeries, of course, but in reality he was just as active as ever; nearly dying was no excuse to lie down on the job, after all, and he was more physically capable than before in all manner of things.
With a new body and a renewed sense of purpose, Konstantin was more dedicated to his missions than ever. The fact that he didn't legally exist anymore didn't bother him; he had lived under covers and aliases all his adult life, one more wasn't anything much. All that changed was the agency he reported to; in the wake of some whistle-blowing expose or other the black ops echelons had been shifted, many agents being declared dead while still serving under new names and aliases. Konstantin became known as the "Shadow Ninja," a moniker which had hovered over him since CorSec and now became official.
This period of deeper clandestine work marked a new beginning for Konstantin, and not just a new callsign. He had abandoned his morals and started killing on missions, either out of necessity or because the victim needed to die; he hated himself for it at first, hated how easy it was, but it got sickeningly easier over time and the Republic's psychologists were there to keep the depression from overcoming him entirely, as it almost had before. Outside of very small, almost non-existent military and political circles he was virtually unknown; the rest of the galaxy saw him as just another nameless old half-man who traveled a lot due to some company responsibilities, and indeed he found himself independently wealthy after a few more years due to the fact that his new position was so buried and removed from the surface that he had to largely finance himself.
After all the years, Konstantin still serves the Republic as a deep cover agent. Despite being well over fifty he is just as deadly and capable as he ever was, and refuses to settle into anonymity as long as he can still shoot a gun and fight with his hands. He loves his life, such as it is, and he loves his job; so far as he is concerned, happiness is his.
Password: Bylgia
RP Sample:
He had done this thousands of times before, yet every shot was something new. Would he hit the right artery, would the drugs circulate fast enough for instant knock-out, would the guard manage to get a sound out before he lost consciousness? Many variables, too many for someone inexperienced to work with, but Konstantin had plenty of experience. Still, he hesitated before each shot, running these variables through his head.
In the end he shook his head and lowered the specially crafted pistol, silently holstering it; if it had been one guard he would have tried the shot, but there were two men and the risk was too great. Straightening his balaclava he scuttled soundlessly forward, his armor making no noise; his left hand came up with a syringe full of sedatives, and with his right arm he grabbed the man by the neck, blocking his mouth while he injected the drugs into his neck. The man struggled, but quickly went limp, and the spy carefully lowered him to the ground.
Unfortunately the second guard had seen something out the corner of his eye; bringing his blaster up he got ready to shout an alarm, but Konstantin was too fast. He rushed up, knocking the weapon away and jabbing the guard in his face and neck, striking at the vulnerable points in these areas; nerves overloaded with pain, the man's brain temporarily shut down and he slumped to the ground. Konstantin caught the body and carefully lowered it, then searched both men for anything useful. Guns were disassembled and left, knives and batons broken and discarded; money was taken, ID pocketed.
One security checkpoint out; two more to go, then his target would be in range.
The Shadow Ninja did not stop; he moved efficiently forward, not quite running but not walking either, his gait a balance between speed and stealth. Occasionally he took out a small device, an electromagnetic transmitter of some sort, and aimed it at a camera or other surveillance device; this disabled them for a few seconds, and he could move on without incident.
The second checkpoint in the mansion was better staffed. Three guards were scattered about in short patrol routes, and the lights were on; a fourth guard reclined in a booth, the glowing of screens lighting his dozing face. All four men were redolent, assured of their anonymity and the security of the mansion; they put too much faith in the outer perimeter, obviously, and while said perimeter had been a bit tough, it was nothing Konstantin hadn't dealt with hundreds of times before.
Nevertheless, they were armed and armored, and could be brought to alertness in an instant; the Shadow Ninja stayed back in the shadows just outside their view, watching the patterns and noting areas of darkness the lights did not pierce. Once he was satisfied, he made his move, pulling out another device; this was a sound generator, which created innocuous noises to distract others. He aimed it at the ground about ten feet before him, activated it and pressed himself against the wall, into the shadows.
Accordingly the guards stirred, roused from their dull routine by the strange noise. "What was that?" one of them asked, eying the dark area curiously. "Sounded like... like..."
"It was nothing," another guard replied lazily. "The janitor skipped that hallway and left some paper or something in there."
"Why didn't it move before, then?" the first guard demanded. "I'm checking it out." Irritated by his partner's apathy the guard moved into the shadowy area, carbine raised; as he passed by Konstantin's position, the old spy's metal hand shot out, smashing into his trachea and throat, interrupting blood flow to his head. That hand clapped over the guard's mouth before his gagging could alert the others, and he guided him carefully to the ground and out of sight.
"Sleep tight, and you'll live to see the morning," Konstantin murmured quietly, injecting the guard with a dose of sedatives. He would sleep for some hours, and not remember anything when he woke up. There was a supply closet nearby; he put the guard in there, then returned to his post to wait for the next guard.
"Dammit, what's taking him so long?" one man groused, staring at the hall. "Probably fell asleep in the broom closet again..." Grumbling to himself he went to wake the other man up, striding right past Konstantine and straight to the closet. "Hey! Hey you lazy piece of-!" The rest of his shouting was interrupted by a steel grip pinching his throat and a hand smashing the back of his neck. He too went into the broom closet, and now the spy had to deal with the last two guards, who were more alert thanks to the second guard's aborted shout.
"What the hell?" one of them growled, blaster up. "Damn, someone's there!" He ran forward, intent on ferreting out the intruder; yanking the closet open brought the previous two guards toppling down on him, and he struggled to free himself. "Sound the alarm!" he shouted when he finally got free, scrambling to his feet. "Sound the damn alarm!" When the last guard didn't reply he ran back to the booth, finding it empty; Konstantin had snuck around and drugged the guard in the booth while he was investigating. Before he could hit the alarm he was attacked from behind, strangled in merciless steel arms, and his weapon fell to the ground from numb fingers.
Inside he took the seat, scrutinizing the consoles before hacking into one of them. "Idiots," he muttered to himself; the mansion's full array of electronic surveillance was open to him from here. It was a simple matter to shut it all down, save for select systems farther inside; wouldn't do to alert the final checkpoint, after all. He also located local accounts where some of the guards had deposited their paychecks; Konstantin drained these accounts and transferred the funds through an untraceable series of escrows and holding companies, ending in one of his own private funds. This was necessary to keep his operations funded; his handlers were paranoid about plausible deniability, and he rarely received direct support from Coruscant.
With one more checkpoint left he made his way forward, moving a little faster now that surveillance had been deactivated in these areas of the mansion. He knew the last checkpoint had droids and automated turrets, and few entrances or exits; there would be a single living guard, maybe two. He had to sneak past the machines to take the guard or guards out, then he could deactivate the rest of the surveillance from their consoles.
Arriving at the checkpoint, he stopped outside its range and observed. The turrets and droids were on standby mode, their sensors active but weapons and shields powered down; Konstantin knew they could come alive in an instant, though, unless he snuck past them. "I hate droids," he muttered, reaching for his pistol; no sense wasting time sneaking, be just as well to shoot the guard and short the alarm panel until he could run up to the checkpoint. He took careful aim at the guard, stupidly half asleep, and took the shot; a muffled crump was all the noise it made, not nearly enough to rile the machines, and the unfortunate man was knocked backward, senseless for a crucial few seconds.
With the man put off his game, passing the electronic surveillance was much easier, and he was at the terminal in seconds. Swiftly he crushed the man's windpipe, one hand over his eyes so he wouldn't see anything and took his spot, hacking into the consoles and deactivating the rest of the droids and surveillance between him and his target; he also checked the maps and rosters, and found something strange. The target had hired a bodyguard recently, a retired Sith soldier. He had been discharged for disorderly conduct, refusing to obey orders, and war crimes; upon leaving service he took to a life of crime, of serial murder and sexual deviancy, but either he had friends or knew who to blackmail, because they could never pin anything on him. The man's rapsheet made Konstantin ill; here was an evil person, indeed. "Tarsheros," he muttered, marking the man's name and mugshot.
Finished with his research Konstantin stood and went onward, his target clear; Harrison Kolbez, a Republic arms merchant suspected of gun-running and drug trafficking. Konstantin's handlers had acquired proof of the man's illicit activities, but direct legal action was impossible. They had to stage a kidnapping and frame it on rival criminal factions, and Kolbez would disappear while they interrogated him and dismantled his organizations. So they sent in Konstantin, to bring him out alive.
He arrived at the master bedroom, listening carefully; Kolbez was in there, along with Tarsheros and his elite guards. He would have to move fast and strike hard, or all would be for nothing. He heard voices, smelled smoke, felt the thud of footsteps beneath his feet. Kolbez was a single man, but he had contacts in sex trafficking rings as well; even now, he heard the moans and creaks of intimate activity, and suspected Tarsheros was indulging his own twisted perversions as well.
He reached into his supplies, pulling out what he would need; a flashbang grenade, and a high-output shock prod. "Three, two, one..." he counted, before kicking the door down and throwing his munitions; he closed his eyes while the grenade did its work, then rushed in, heading straight for Kolbez. The man was on the bed, tangled up with his current "mistress"; he jammed the prod into his neck, and the man screamed, shaking violently before collapsing to the bed beneath him. Konstantin looked around, spying Tarsheros shaking his head to clear his eyes and ears; he moved in on the merc, blades extending from his wrists, and slashed the man's neck and chest open before he could recover.
The other guards were picking themselves up now, and the old spy hurried to pick up Kolbez and dart out through a private exit, lobbing a stun grenade over his shoulder as he did so.
"Well, that wasn't so bad," he told his driver, dropping the unconscious merchant in the back and strapping himself in. "Got him out, left a mess behind."
"Did you kill anyone?" the driver asked rhetorically.
Konstantin answered anyway: "Ex-Sith mercenary, hired as a bodyguard. No one important."
The driver shrugged. "At least we got our man alive," he replied.
The Shadow Ninja chuckled wearily. "So we did. Now step on it, I need to clean up."
The younger man blinked, then shook his head. "As you say, sir," he said levelly, driving them away. "Shuttle leaves in an hour, you were ahead of schedule."
Konstantin didn't respond; he was fast asleep.
Department: Special Forces
Rank: Gunnery Sergeant (ret.)
Name: Konstantin "Shadow Ninja" Faraday
Race: Human (augmented)
Age: 59
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 285 lb
Birthplace: Coronet City, Corellia
Appearance:
((Photo credited to Cain.))
By all accounts the Shadow Ninja should have retired decades ago, and it shows; his hair is solid gunmetal gray, although still thick, and his face is marred by countless wrinkles and scars. Both of his eyes were removed and replaced with highly advanced prosthetics, which look like real eyes except when they're glowing in high activity, or if you look closely at how the pupils contract and dilate. As well, his ears have cochlear implants that enhance his hearing while greatly reducing the effects of sonic weaponry or other disorienting attacks. Overall it is a harsh face, and one instinctively realizes this is not someone that could ever be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. He keeps a neat fuzz of beard on his face, little more than a five o' clock shadow really, and his hair is just a bit shaggy without being a total mess.
His body is likewise scarred, but he still trains diligently in both shooting and martial arts almost every day, and runs at least five miles after a strenuous workout regimen three times a week. He lost his arms years ago in an explosion (his chest is particularly scarred because of that), and both were replaced with sleek prosthetics, which he recently has had replaced with more advanced technology. They are every bit as dexterous as his natural arms, but lack the sheer brute force of less delicate and precise mechanisms; the rest of his body has been reinforced in more subtle ways, so that he can exercise the full strength of his augmentations without destroying himself.
Most of his implants are not immediately obvious, and a cursory glance will not reveal anything but a tired old man. Beneath the facade, his arms are equipped with four retractable durasteel blades (one each from both elbows and wrists), with a moderate phrik weave for lightsaber resistance, as handy for unarmed combat and self-defense as for killing and incapacitating from stealth. In addition his fingers can dislocate, and his wrists are capable of spinning freely in their sockets at the same time; notably, most species' necks cannot spin in such a fashion. The arms also come with automatic recoil dampening elements and aim stabilization nodes, greatly enhancing his prowess with ranged weapons.
His eyes have high-resolution thermal imaging, and sophisticated glare reduction that nullifies sudden lights like flashbang grenades or broken power lines, as well as telescopic zoom and tracking functions. The most impressve augmentation work is also the most subtle; implants in his torso regulate adrenalin and testosterone levels, serving to extend stamina, dampen pain, prevent fatigue and accelerate the healing of injuries; they can also trigger intense hormone storms in his body, effectively sending him into a fury. During such events his strength, speed and reflexes are greatly increased, but they don't last too long and he has to recover for a time after each use; the lack of rational thought and coherent speech is another factor to consider when utilizing this effect, as well.
All the prosthetics and metal in his body was alloyed with zersium, an uncommon mineral which facilitates energy dispersal; this, combined with special grounding elements in his legs, feet and hips, allow him to resist the effects of EMP waves and ion weaponry, although it does not convey full immunity to these effects. In addition he was provided with special outfits and armor that do not interfere with the performance of any of the implants, most notably the retractable blades in his arms; without such clothing he would doubtless end up spending fortunes every year replenishing his wardrobe.
Personality:
Konstantin used to have a conscience, a moral compass that never deviated. He trained relentlessly in less-than-lethal combat and tactics, not trusting himself to pass as jury and executioner no matter how vile his targets or their bodyguards were. All this changed after the accident that cost him so much of his body; now he is cold, uncaring of the blood he spills, though he still seeks to minimize casualties and will not hesitate to employ memory-impairing drugs and tranquilizers if the mission calls for it. He doesn't enjoy killing, of course, and as mentioned tries to avoid or minimize it, but if the situation goes south he won't hesitate about it anymore.
Because of his years of military training, when on missions he is usually cold, direct and professional, with no time for small talk or screwing around. He is not adverse to intimidation or the threat of violence, knowing the value of a well-timed shattering glass in breaking a stalemate, and when needed can be a terrifying torturer and interrogator; his job is to extract intelligence, after all, not make life pleasant. Especially not for the thugs and criminals of the galaxy. Obviously his approach will change when undercover, though he still has little patience for games and joking around.
When not on the job he is unassuming and quiet, unswervingly loyal to the Republic despite knowing so much about the darker side of what keeps it safe. He has never married and does not have any family left since his parents passed away years ago; when the loneliness gets too much he seeks out the nearest brothel or dive bar, or seeks out some planet of the Republic and wanders its streets to remind himself who and what he fights for. He isn't quite as active as he used to be, but they still call him in for sensitive missions with enough regularity to keep retirement out of the question; until his body fails completely, he will always answer the call.
Skills:
-Stealth
-Less-than-Lethal Combat
-Hacking & Bypassing
-Pistol & Handgun Mastery
-Martial Arts & CQC
-Pain Tolerance
Languages:
Fluent
-Galactic Basic
-High Galactic
-Huttese
-Bocce
-Mando'a
Comprehend
-Shyriiwook
-Binary/Droidspeak
-Gamorrean
-Kinetic Communication
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 8
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 6
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 9
Melee Weapons: 1
Ranged Weapons: 9
Alignment: +2
Bio: Konstantin was born in Coronet City; his father Rendle was an officer in the elite Corellian Security anti-terrorism bureau, and his mother was a skilled, compassionate physician. They raised their son to be a good, honorable man, and by all accounts they succeeded. He grew up with a great respect for life, and a desire to protect it to the best of his ability; in school he was intelligent and soft-spoken, excelling in physical endeavors such as boxing and wrestling as well as the standard curriculum.
When he graduated he went into CorSec training, just like his father, and qualified for the clandestine branch, CorSec Intelligence; his upbringing had led him to refuse lethal force in all instances, a trait that led to a number of botched missions but a great deal of live captures and successful interrogations. He was ill suited for mundane police work, and the more gung-ho divisions were anathema to his outlook on life and morality.
He excelled in stealth, in hacking and bypassing, martial arts and small arms; he disliked heavier weapons, but trained in them anyway so at least he could strip and disassemble them in the field. He focused on hand-to-hand combat, and on handguns and precision rifles, weapons that could be used for non-lethal rounds like tranquilizer darts or rubber slugs. He took chemistry classes so he could develop his own paralytics and sedatives, knowing he would be undercover for long periods of time and without support from the outside.
He completed academy training in three years, and his first mission was an easy one, a "blue-milk run" as the veterans called it. A ranking gangster in a pan-galactic crime ring was in the city, and would be staying at a prominent hotel; he had friends in the Core, and could not be apprehended directly. Konstantin was to move in and take him alive, without raising alarms.
As they said it was an easy job, a good test for an agent fresh out of the academy. Faraday infiltrated the hotel, checking into a room under an alias; the room was close to the gangster's suite, just two floors below. He waited until nightfall, then slipped out and went for the stairs; as anticipated the gangster had guards posted at the landing on his floor, hulking tough guys with repeating blaster rifles. It was simple to short the lights out and sneak up on them in the dark, taking them out at close range with his bare fists.
Stepping out into the hall, he saw more guards posted at intervals, with two outside the relevant room; Konstantin moved quickly, shooting each guard twice in the neck and head with his silenced tranquilizer gun. He made it to the door, reloaded, and listened carefully for activity inside; hearing none, he slipped inside and went for the bed. Stupidly, the gangster was fast asleep right there, and it was a simple matter to jab him full of sedatives and carry him out of there down the emergency stairwell to the outside, where a vehicle and driver waited to take him back.
A few more missions like this, and it was clear he was a cut above the rest; his superiors felt his talent was wasted on Corellia alone, so they recommended a transfer to Republic Intelligence. Faraday felt the same way, and the move was swiftly carried out. Life in the Special Forces was very different from CorSec, more stressful in some ways; failure carried a heavier price, and he was never in the same place longer than a month at the most. Not really enough time to properly cultivate contacts and networks. It was definitely more exciting, though; there was always an opportunity to hone his skills, and he got very good at hacking into computers and transferring illicit funds for his own use.
In time he found that pistols and smaller handguns were better suited for the missions he was sent on than larger guns, blasters, or even tranquilizer rifles; with enough experience and a steady hand, a properly calibrated pistol could have just as much range and accuracy as any rifle, were more easily modified and tweaked, and most importantly were much easier to hide or conceal on one's person. And thanks to his tall frame, with the right clothes Konstantin could hide a lot on himself. But with firearms there was always the risk of not hitting the right vein or artery, or of the dosage not being strong enough (or too strong, which was even worse); and too, no gun could be truly silenced no matter how advanced the suppression technology. With this in mind he specialized further in martial arts and non-lethal CQC takedowns, as well.
He wasn't always successful, however. One mission when he was in his thirties had him on Mrlsst, a swampland planet in the Colonies region controlled by the Republic; a small group of ruthless mercenaries had taken cover on the planet, and the Republic needed them taken out quietly, alive or otherwise, so that the research stations and mining efforts in the asteroids orbiting the planet would not be disrupted. Two agents had already died at their hands, and they could not mount a regular siege on their own planet or risk announcing their own weaknesses to the galaxy at large. Faraday, with his impressive record and unshakable morals and loyalty, was sent in.
He landed some distance away from the mercs' hidey-hole, and made his way in with a speeder; contrary to his usual kit he had armed himself with lethal weapons and ordnance this time, being more concerned with the local wildlife than subduing another bunch of thugs. He had no qualms killing stupid beasts, after all.
He made it within range of the mercs, put the blaster rifle away and drew his tranq pistol; if all went well, though, he wouldn't need to fire a shot. His plan was to sneak in and take them out at close range, using his greater strength and considerable hand-to-hand prowess. Unfortunately his unfamiliarity with jungle terrain was his downfall; he tripped over a concealed wire, setting off an alarm and twisting his ankle in the process. Thus alerted the mercs, all five of them, rushed out and converged on his position, heavy repeaters at the ready.
Cursing, Konstantin pulled himself behind a large tree, his pistol clutched in hand. He was now faced with a choice; there was no way he could take them alive now, they had the upper hand in terms of firepower, and this tree was thick but it wouldn't last forever. To get out, he would have to kill these men, or be killed himself.
Kill, or be killed.
In the back of his mind he always knew this moment would come, when his morals would be put to this ultimate test. Did he value his own life over the lives of others? Would he be able to kill, after a lifetime of preserving lives, even those of criminals and terrorists? Paralyzed with indecision, he huddled behind the tree while the mercs blasted away at it, debating his own death. In the end the decision was made for him; one of the mercs had gone around, knife in hand, tired of waiting for Konstantin to show himself and eager to get this over with. Sneering, he leaned in to slit Faraday's throat, ready to feel the man's blood flowing over his hands.
He never got the chance. At the last moment something snapped within Konstantin, something primal; he wanted to live, damn it, and he didn't care who knew about it. Snarling madly he ripped the knife from the thug's hand and turned it on him; dimly recalled knife-fighting rose up from some dim corner, and he slashed at the merc until his blood ran freely. The man had incendiary grenades on him; Konstantin ripped one free and threw it blindly, then another and another, then he took up the merc's repeater and lunged out of cover, firing wildly.
The mercs, caught off guard by their own weapons being turned against them, flailed wildly to put the flames out; the barrage of blaster fire mowed them down like fish in a barrel, and all but one of them died. Whatever had taken Konstantin's instincts over retreated abruptly; now sick with guilt he quickly radioed his support and ran to the surviving merc, rolling him in the water and mud to put him out. The merc survived, but Konstantin himself lost his left arm and eye, and a fair amount of flesh, when the flames spread to his own body.
They managed to save him, but the cost was severe; most of his left side was burnt almost beyond repair, his body had been weakened in general, and they had been forced to amputate his arm. His eye had plainly been lost, but more importantly Konstantin had lost his own will; he had broken the morals that had guided him through life for so long. He was no better than anyone else now, he was just another murderer. He wanted to just give up and let go, and would have done it too were it not for efforts of the military psychologists the Republic assigned to his case. Slowly he realized it wasn't over, that he could still serve, but he would never be the same again.
They implanted prosthetics on his body: sleek cybernetic arms and eyes to replace the missing parts, a hormone regulation system, and ear implants to reduce the risk of sonic damage; the eyes could filter out excessive glare and process thermal data into sophisticated imaging, as well as a zoom function for distant shots. The arms were equipped with stabilizers and shock absorbers, which would make shooting even easier. The regulators had all sorts of benefits; pain and fatigue suppression, greater stamina and endurance, even a minor healing factor for small cuts and wounds. More impressively, a small pad had been implanted beneath his armpit; pressing this pad and saying the right words would trigger an adrenaline storm, resulting in greatly increased strength and reflexes.
It took a few months, but in the end he was restored to greater health than before. With the enhancements and implants, Konstantin could be back on the job after a minimum of physical rehab, although actually adjusting to the new abilities granted him by all the new tech took a while longer; he was stronger than ever when he did adjust, however, and spent much of his time off integrating the arm-blades and built-in shooting aids to his overall combat preferences, going so far as to spar with the odd Jedi here and there on the off chance he ever found himself against a Sith. He was formally declared dead due to complications from his injuries on Mrlsst and the subsequent surgeries, of course, but in reality he was just as active as ever; nearly dying was no excuse to lie down on the job, after all, and he was more physically capable than before in all manner of things.
With a new body and a renewed sense of purpose, Konstantin was more dedicated to his missions than ever. The fact that he didn't legally exist anymore didn't bother him; he had lived under covers and aliases all his adult life, one more wasn't anything much. All that changed was the agency he reported to; in the wake of some whistle-blowing expose or other the black ops echelons had been shifted, many agents being declared dead while still serving under new names and aliases. Konstantin became known as the "Shadow Ninja," a moniker which had hovered over him since CorSec and now became official.
This period of deeper clandestine work marked a new beginning for Konstantin, and not just a new callsign. He had abandoned his morals and started killing on missions, either out of necessity or because the victim needed to die; he hated himself for it at first, hated how easy it was, but it got sickeningly easier over time and the Republic's psychologists were there to keep the depression from overcoming him entirely, as it almost had before. Outside of very small, almost non-existent military and political circles he was virtually unknown; the rest of the galaxy saw him as just another nameless old half-man who traveled a lot due to some company responsibilities, and indeed he found himself independently wealthy after a few more years due to the fact that his new position was so buried and removed from the surface that he had to largely finance himself.
After all the years, Konstantin still serves the Republic as a deep cover agent. Despite being well over fifty he is just as deadly and capable as he ever was, and refuses to settle into anonymity as long as he can still shoot a gun and fight with his hands. He loves his life, such as it is, and he loves his job; so far as he is concerned, happiness is his.
Password: Bylgia
RP Sample:
He had done this thousands of times before, yet every shot was something new. Would he hit the right artery, would the drugs circulate fast enough for instant knock-out, would the guard manage to get a sound out before he lost consciousness? Many variables, too many for someone inexperienced to work with, but Konstantin had plenty of experience. Still, he hesitated before each shot, running these variables through his head.
In the end he shook his head and lowered the specially crafted pistol, silently holstering it; if it had been one guard he would have tried the shot, but there were two men and the risk was too great. Straightening his balaclava he scuttled soundlessly forward, his armor making no noise; his left hand came up with a syringe full of sedatives, and with his right arm he grabbed the man by the neck, blocking his mouth while he injected the drugs into his neck. The man struggled, but quickly went limp, and the spy carefully lowered him to the ground.
Unfortunately the second guard had seen something out the corner of his eye; bringing his blaster up he got ready to shout an alarm, but Konstantin was too fast. He rushed up, knocking the weapon away and jabbing the guard in his face and neck, striking at the vulnerable points in these areas; nerves overloaded with pain, the man's brain temporarily shut down and he slumped to the ground. Konstantin caught the body and carefully lowered it, then searched both men for anything useful. Guns were disassembled and left, knives and batons broken and discarded; money was taken, ID pocketed.
One security checkpoint out; two more to go, then his target would be in range.
The Shadow Ninja did not stop; he moved efficiently forward, not quite running but not walking either, his gait a balance between speed and stealth. Occasionally he took out a small device, an electromagnetic transmitter of some sort, and aimed it at a camera or other surveillance device; this disabled them for a few seconds, and he could move on without incident.
The second checkpoint in the mansion was better staffed. Three guards were scattered about in short patrol routes, and the lights were on; a fourth guard reclined in a booth, the glowing of screens lighting his dozing face. All four men were redolent, assured of their anonymity and the security of the mansion; they put too much faith in the outer perimeter, obviously, and while said perimeter had been a bit tough, it was nothing Konstantin hadn't dealt with hundreds of times before.
Nevertheless, they were armed and armored, and could be brought to alertness in an instant; the Shadow Ninja stayed back in the shadows just outside their view, watching the patterns and noting areas of darkness the lights did not pierce. Once he was satisfied, he made his move, pulling out another device; this was a sound generator, which created innocuous noises to distract others. He aimed it at the ground about ten feet before him, activated it and pressed himself against the wall, into the shadows.
Accordingly the guards stirred, roused from their dull routine by the strange noise. "What was that?" one of them asked, eying the dark area curiously. "Sounded like... like..."
"It was nothing," another guard replied lazily. "The janitor skipped that hallway and left some paper or something in there."
"Why didn't it move before, then?" the first guard demanded. "I'm checking it out." Irritated by his partner's apathy the guard moved into the shadowy area, carbine raised; as he passed by Konstantin's position, the old spy's metal hand shot out, smashing into his trachea and throat, interrupting blood flow to his head. That hand clapped over the guard's mouth before his gagging could alert the others, and he guided him carefully to the ground and out of sight.
"Sleep tight, and you'll live to see the morning," Konstantin murmured quietly, injecting the guard with a dose of sedatives. He would sleep for some hours, and not remember anything when he woke up. There was a supply closet nearby; he put the guard in there, then returned to his post to wait for the next guard.
"Dammit, what's taking him so long?" one man groused, staring at the hall. "Probably fell asleep in the broom closet again..." Grumbling to himself he went to wake the other man up, striding right past Konstantine and straight to the closet. "Hey! Hey you lazy piece of-!" The rest of his shouting was interrupted by a steel grip pinching his throat and a hand smashing the back of his neck. He too went into the broom closet, and now the spy had to deal with the last two guards, who were more alert thanks to the second guard's aborted shout.
"What the hell?" one of them growled, blaster up. "Damn, someone's there!" He ran forward, intent on ferreting out the intruder; yanking the closet open brought the previous two guards toppling down on him, and he struggled to free himself. "Sound the alarm!" he shouted when he finally got free, scrambling to his feet. "Sound the damn alarm!" When the last guard didn't reply he ran back to the booth, finding it empty; Konstantin had snuck around and drugged the guard in the booth while he was investigating. Before he could hit the alarm he was attacked from behind, strangled in merciless steel arms, and his weapon fell to the ground from numb fingers.
Inside he took the seat, scrutinizing the consoles before hacking into one of them. "Idiots," he muttered to himself; the mansion's full array of electronic surveillance was open to him from here. It was a simple matter to shut it all down, save for select systems farther inside; wouldn't do to alert the final checkpoint, after all. He also located local accounts where some of the guards had deposited their paychecks; Konstantin drained these accounts and transferred the funds through an untraceable series of escrows and holding companies, ending in one of his own private funds. This was necessary to keep his operations funded; his handlers were paranoid about plausible deniability, and he rarely received direct support from Coruscant.
With one more checkpoint left he made his way forward, moving a little faster now that surveillance had been deactivated in these areas of the mansion. He knew the last checkpoint had droids and automated turrets, and few entrances or exits; there would be a single living guard, maybe two. He had to sneak past the machines to take the guard or guards out, then he could deactivate the rest of the surveillance from their consoles.
Arriving at the checkpoint, he stopped outside its range and observed. The turrets and droids were on standby mode, their sensors active but weapons and shields powered down; Konstantin knew they could come alive in an instant, though, unless he snuck past them. "I hate droids," he muttered, reaching for his pistol; no sense wasting time sneaking, be just as well to shoot the guard and short the alarm panel until he could run up to the checkpoint. He took careful aim at the guard, stupidly half asleep, and took the shot; a muffled crump was all the noise it made, not nearly enough to rile the machines, and the unfortunate man was knocked backward, senseless for a crucial few seconds.
With the man put off his game, passing the electronic surveillance was much easier, and he was at the terminal in seconds. Swiftly he crushed the man's windpipe, one hand over his eyes so he wouldn't see anything and took his spot, hacking into the consoles and deactivating the rest of the droids and surveillance between him and his target; he also checked the maps and rosters, and found something strange. The target had hired a bodyguard recently, a retired Sith soldier. He had been discharged for disorderly conduct, refusing to obey orders, and war crimes; upon leaving service he took to a life of crime, of serial murder and sexual deviancy, but either he had friends or knew who to blackmail, because they could never pin anything on him. The man's rapsheet made Konstantin ill; here was an evil person, indeed. "Tarsheros," he muttered, marking the man's name and mugshot.
Finished with his research Konstantin stood and went onward, his target clear; Harrison Kolbez, a Republic arms merchant suspected of gun-running and drug trafficking. Konstantin's handlers had acquired proof of the man's illicit activities, but direct legal action was impossible. They had to stage a kidnapping and frame it on rival criminal factions, and Kolbez would disappear while they interrogated him and dismantled his organizations. So they sent in Konstantin, to bring him out alive.
He arrived at the master bedroom, listening carefully; Kolbez was in there, along with Tarsheros and his elite guards. He would have to move fast and strike hard, or all would be for nothing. He heard voices, smelled smoke, felt the thud of footsteps beneath his feet. Kolbez was a single man, but he had contacts in sex trafficking rings as well; even now, he heard the moans and creaks of intimate activity, and suspected Tarsheros was indulging his own twisted perversions as well.
He reached into his supplies, pulling out what he would need; a flashbang grenade, and a high-output shock prod. "Three, two, one..." he counted, before kicking the door down and throwing his munitions; he closed his eyes while the grenade did its work, then rushed in, heading straight for Kolbez. The man was on the bed, tangled up with his current "mistress"; he jammed the prod into his neck, and the man screamed, shaking violently before collapsing to the bed beneath him. Konstantin looked around, spying Tarsheros shaking his head to clear his eyes and ears; he moved in on the merc, blades extending from his wrists, and slashed the man's neck and chest open before he could recover.
The other guards were picking themselves up now, and the old spy hurried to pick up Kolbez and dart out through a private exit, lobbing a stun grenade over his shoulder as he did so.
"Well, that wasn't so bad," he told his driver, dropping the unconscious merchant in the back and strapping himself in. "Got him out, left a mess behind."
"Did you kill anyone?" the driver asked rhetorically.
Konstantin answered anyway: "Ex-Sith mercenary, hired as a bodyguard. No one important."
The driver shrugged. "At least we got our man alive," he replied.
The Shadow Ninja chuckled wearily. "So we did. Now step on it, I need to clean up."
The younger man blinked, then shook his head. "As you say, sir," he said levelly, driving them away. "Shuttle leaves in an hour, you were ahead of schedule."
Konstantin didn't respond; he was fast asleep.
