Post by Fromikeable on Dec 22, 2012 23:42:38 GMT -5
Name: Mike
Original Name: Roon Treval
Race: Human
Age: 26
Height: 6’ 3”
Weight: 240 lbs.
Birth place: Nar Shadda
Appearance:
Mike has been described before by his trainers as a hulk; a mass of pure muscle and protein the likes of which should be feared when wielding a melee weapon. Mike is somewhat tall, with his upper body funneling downward to his waist line, from which extend wide, strong legs. Muscles are topped with their own muscles, and they’re visibly bulging throughout Mike’s form.
Mike’s black hair, though naturally curly, is kept buzzed and short. When a disguise calls for it, the hair is allowed to grow to the extent at which it can hang down slightly and even across the assassin’s face and neck, going so far as to cover his eyes. This is a rare occurrence however, and usually Mike’s styling never extends beyond a few millimeters in length. Whenever possible, it is oiled to a sheen and tussled a bit, giving it a natural appearance.
Mike’s face is square, and his folded forehead provides a large separation between his hairline and his long eyebrows. Mike’s eyes, a steely blue color, do little to allow people to gaze into his mind and emotions (if he had any). Mike’s jaw is firm and figured, although a slight, soft chin is present. The assassin’s nose is somewhat large by average standards, but it does well in fitting his ears, both of which are rounded.
Mike’s attire lacks any form of norm. Disguises usually call for mercenary outfits, militant uniforms, or simple mechanic suits. Beyond that, Mike can be seen dressed in anything as simple as a T-shirt and slacks to something as elegant as a pristine, fine cut and tailored tuxedo. When given the liberty of choice in his clothing, Mike tends to simply adopt attire that hinders his movement the least.
Personality: Mike speaks perfectly for an assassin; barely at all. What he does say tends to be the bare workings of a sentence; enough for his grammar to be correct and for the information to be clear, but not much beyond that. Mike, as with all other Green Meadow-raised assassins, feels no emotion; he is a solid form of deadly efficiency, and it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He kills coldly and apathetically; it’s his job, and its impact on him is nonexistent. His post-mission wipes always ensure he isn’t even relatively fazed by death of any kind, regardless of reasons or gruel. Therefore, Mike holds no fear or reservation in killing any way possible.
Were it not for the RELIC chip, Mike would be a rather introverted person, largely staying away from huge social events and practices. Even with the chip, Mike’s inward focus is evident with his specific lack of speech. A small hint of this shines through, as Mike normally stays away from any sort of “recreation” with his brethren in favor of extracurricular studying, research, and additional practice.
Profession: Assassin
Skills: Green Meadows Assassin Training (with specialization on Two-Handed Axes, electronics and machinery, body-building, and improvised repairs/repurposing technology)
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 9
Intelligence: 8
Speed: 7
Leadership: 2
Unarmed: 5
Melee Weapons: 6
Ranged Weapons: 4
Specialized Combat Skill:
Two-Handed Axe: 9
Specialized Non-Combat Skill:
Repair: 8
Ship Name: None
Bio:
What would be called “Normal”: 0 - 4
Roon was born in the least glorious of surroundings; a dank, dark alleyway on Nar Shadda to an abandoned mother. The woman was drunk when she went into labor, screaming curses and flinging around trash in painful rage until finally it stopped, and a baby lay on the pavement before her. The woman cried then, sobbing totally at her life’s apparent evaporation. She gave her baby, who was a boy, a name fit only for what he was; a mistake.
Roon’s mother despised her little mistake. To begin with, Roon already resembled his father with those steely blue eyes. Beyond that, the kid reminded her every moment of that good-for-nothing slimeball, almost like he was mocking her. Days passed, and the little vermin was additionally damn expensive to feed and shelter. So, as soon as the boy was weaned, she sold him, needing both money for her spice addiction and a place to get rid of him.
The auction had Roon changing hands with the seasons until finally landing in a Hutt’s manor to be raised as a servant. Roon cried every night, never understanding his loneliness, servitude, or beatings. Instead, he grew to walk and did as he was told, suffering as a slave. He quickly was forced the finer points of carrying trays once he was walking, talking to superiors (which included nigh everyone), and even Huttese.
One fateful day, however, Roon made the awful mistake of rebelling, as he hit back when one of the “caretakers” beat him for a small accident. Poor Roon had dropped a fragile tray, causing it to crack like an eggshell. The slave, in an attempt to save his own hide, hid the pieces, which made his mistake all the more severe when it was uncovered. The caretaker had the child thrown into a cell in the bottom levels of the manor and beat him with a whip, injuring Roon to the bone. The useless servant was then immediately shackled and sent off to the auction platform along with a tag on his neck, stating his disobedience and place in the auction’s spice-slave category.
Roon sobbed as he was led up onto a block and paraded about, punched, and prodded. The bidding began, and soon the auction came down to two contenders; a nasty-looking Trandoshan and an odd man in a stark black coat and hat. The Trandoshan was dressed to a T, obviously of great wealth ill gotten, and shouted and hollered as if he was a feral animal. The man in the coat, while of equal quality, meanwhile remained calm and cool, never raising his voice in the slightest. The bidding went on and on, until the Trandoshan finally screamed “2,000 credits!” Roon had no idea what it meant, but the man in black calmly countered with a suave “5,000.” The crowd gasped, the Trandoshan shut his mouth, and the auction ended with the banging of a gavel.
Roon was immediately forced into a cage and handed over to the man in black, who payed in the form of an entire crate full to the brim with credits. The man escorted the cage to his ship, keeping careful concentration on its contents. As soon as it was loaded on the small personal craft, the man in black promptly opened the cage, allowing Roon the freedom of the cabin. Roon darted for the door, slamming into to whilst thrashing like a madman. The man in black merely observed as the boy tried to breach the locked door, smiling.
“You’ll do just fine.”
The end of Normalcy (or perhaps the beginning): 4
After careful coaxing, Roon settled down enough for the shuttle to get under way, and soon he was sitting on a comfortable chair with a droid addressing the wounds on his back. With every swab, the wounds seared and stung with pain, until Roon angrily and frightfully swatted the droid away, cutting himself on one its tools. The human boy scattered to a corner and hide, literally licking his wounds, and there he spent the rest of the trip. When the man in black came to check on him with food, the boy stayed huddled where he was, only nibbling once both the man and droid were gone.
The trip ended as the shuttle settled softly on Ralltiir. Roon, again after much coaxing on the man’s part, stepped out of the ship into a world unlike anything he had ever experienced. There were plants and fresh air! He could see the sun without any smog in the air! Where in the galaxy was he? His wonder went unaddressed, as the man swiftly brought him to an odd building. There, Roon was led by a new man in a green outfit to a room with a comfy bed, food that didn’t taste like dust, and even a window! Roon was left alone the rest of the day, and he spent it eating, sleeping, and staring out the window in wonder.
As soon as the sun set and rose, Roon was collected by a group of people and placed onto a medical bed. Roon thrashed as his comfortable surroundings were replaced by odd, strange, surgical ones. Warm lights became fluorescent bulbs shining white. Carpets became cold tiles. Even the air stopped smelling warm, instead adopting a stark, lifeless odor. Roon hated it. He feared it. He had liked his room more. He was curious about the man in the black coat. He was happy to be away from the Hutt manor. He was angry at these men and women in green outfits and face masks. He screamed. He cried. He smiled. He frowned.
Then, he went to sleep.
When Roon woke up, he was in yet another room, where the tiles and fluorescent lights and lifeless air were still present. He looked around, feeling… new. Feeling… different. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t sad. He was… nothing. Just a little boy sitting in a medical room. Parts of his body felt strangely different, but Roon didn’t think anything of it. Come to think of it, Roon couldn’t think of much. What was happening?
A nurse came in then, and asked Roon how he felt. Roon responded that he didn’t know, which made the nurse smile. The green-clad nurse then asked if he could remember something. Roon replied that he couldn’t remember anything. The nurse’s smile widened and she jotted a few notes on datapad.
Roon asked one question that day.
“What is my name?”
“Mike. Your name is Mike.”
The New Normalcy: 4 – 15
Mike was bed-ridden for a week while his wounds and health recovered from his previous slavery. The doctors, meanwhile, took the opportunity to record every biological statistic they could find, including those only useful in theory. After the week was up, Mike was removed from his medical surroundings and put through initial physical training along with a handful of other children his age; transforming a group of young boys and girls into fit figures of physical finesse. The training brought upon new pains daily in dazzling amounts, and anyone of emotion surely would have been defeated.
Mike passed his final medical exam in three weeks, demonstrating enormous improvement in physique.
This first contact with his peers revealed an attribute Mike held that would last through his entire life; his lack of speaking. Throughout the testing and breaks between, the other children, while not becoming “friends”, per se, bonded slightly and became familiar with one another. Mike failed to experience this, as any sort of non-essential communication seemed illogical to him. As such, he kept his voice silent, speaking only out of necessity.
Following this burst of exercise was a routine of studies, physical toning, and even a few periods of free time. Mike took up his studies well, showed prime fitness, and ended up dabbling in numerous activities in his free time, the majority of which he performed alone. Mike also took up certain studies more aptly than others, picking up mathematics and the sciences far better than other subjects such as culture, literature, and language.
Classes slowly transitioned, beginning with basics and rolling into more practical lessons such as combat. In one lesson, the group was instructed in the arts of close-range weaponry.
Mike learned everything with surprising accuracy in small quirks and great control. One weapon, upon Mike’s performance, was asked to be used again; a two-handed axe. Mike retrieved the weapon and again demonstrated what he had been taught. The monitors noted a few things on their datapads, and promptly informed Mike that his curriculum was set to be changed in the near future.
Mike began to grow like a weed as his teachings became more and more combat oriented. The assassin-in-training quickly grew taller, and with his height came more and more muscle mass, which in turn aided his performance with the axe. Eventually Mike was using full-sized axes in stunning flurries and counters, chopping dummies and droids into both mangled corpses and cleanly-cut pieces.
The monitors also began to include lessons about machinery and electronics as Mike’s aptitude for science became more and more apparent. Mike’s mind grasped the machines easily; he could understand the flow of power and the functions of components as if they were the workings of his own body. Soon, days consisted of chopping droids, fixing machines, crunching numbers, and building muscle.
Then Mike, along with his peers, reached the age of 15, and his days changed enormously. Training and exercises were replaced with extended stays on medical beds as the teenagers were vivisected and altered. Mike, being emotionless, never feared the procedures he was put under, and noted immediately the advances to his abilities, making him far stronger, faster, flexible, and enduring. But even a man devoid of emotion felt slightly disturbed when he became aware that he had undergone brain surgery for an increased reaction time, and Mike was no different.
A Month Not To Be Forgotten: 16 - 17
After Mike and his peers had recovered from their procedures, each and every one was whisked aboard a ship headed for Dxun. Each teen was given two basic tools; a knife, and a spool of rope. Mike had never been especially adept with knives, but he hypothesized that he could construct additional weapons and tools once on world. Some of his peers decided to collaborate in the idea that their chances for survival would increase once in groups. Mike refrained from making any such plan; the others wouldn’t be hindrances, but actions were always easier without having to consult with another beforehand.
The ship entered the planet’s atmosphere, and the assassins were dropped in phonetic order; Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and so on. By the time Mike was instructed to depart the craft, only about half of his peers remained onboard. Mike was placed in a small flat near a mountain range of some kind. His immediate first actions were the typical survival acts; secure water, food, and shelter. After locating a cave, edible fruits and herbs, and locating a spring, Mike set about working to fashion new tools. Within the first day, he had expanded his pool of weapons to include a spear and a rough sling.
The next few days consisted of solidifying Mike’s survival. He hunted a few items of wildlife, continued gathering herbs and fruits, and established a supply of fire wood. Soon, Mike resembled a mountain man; he slept on the furs of some of his larger prey, ate what he could gather, and was covered in dirt. This part of Dxun demanded a select set of habits and practices, and thanks to his eye for detail, Mike picked them up before he could be bested by them.
One day, Mike awoke to a faint roaring in the sky. Emerging from his cave, the assassin followed with squinted eyes as a burning ship screeched downward, eventually disappearing behind a few trees with a thud. Gathering his rudimentary spear and knife, Mike took the earlier part of the day to search for the wreckage, coming across it somewhere around mid-day, down the mountain a bit in the wooded sections. The ship lacked inhabitants of any kind, and seemed totaled. Mike searched the wreckage, seeing if there was anything worth scavenging. Whilst exploring the interior, Mike leaned against a damaged wall while he searched one of the higher compartments. Suddenly, a small shock made him jerk his head back, nearly falling over in surprise. For a split second, Mike’s mind was blank. His thoughts returned quickly, however, and he noted a small scorch on the back of his neck. Mike thought nothing of it, however, and completed his scavenging. He returned to his cave with a collection of scrap metal, scattered provisions, and a magnet.
Picking up one of the sharper metal pieces, Mike spent the night and following morning grinding its edge to a sharp edge. He then placed it in a roaring fire as he went out and found the sturdiest staff he could, shaping it with his knife. Finally, Mike worked the ingot with a few other pieces of scrap metal as prodders, slowly molding the piece into the head of an axe. This process continued into the next day, and finally the piece was cooled around the staff. With the final assistance of some rope, Mike brandished a crude, large axe.
And not a moment too soon. Mike was awoken a few nights later by roars outside the cave, this time far closer. Grabbing his axe, Mike discovered the source of the noise; a large Zakkeg, who clawed the ground and sniffed the air, aware of the trespasser on its territory. Mike took a moment to develop a strategy; the Zakkeg would never abandon its quest, and obviously Mike couldn’t survive with the monster sniffing around his cave for the rest of the month.
It needed to be dealt with.
What ensued was a mountain brawl that lasted for a good seven minutes, as Mike attempted to strike at weak-points and openings in the Zakkeg’s armor whilst trying not to be struck himself. The battle soured, however, and soon Mike was sporting a few choice gashes and bleeding rather severely. With the last of his strength, and a few solid hits to the roaring monstrosity, Mike managed to clamber onto and remain on the creature’s back, eventually severing the creature’s spine. As the Zakkeg fell crippled, Mike, emotionless as could be, placed one more swing to the creature’s throat, ending the fight.
Mike lay rather injured next to his kill, taking a moment to recover. That was, of course, until another threat appeared, and this one was far more…
Human.
Bravo, one of the medical assassins, appeared. Mike, in a sorry state of physical affairs and noting his peer’s firearm, supposed that his he was facing down his death (even in his steely apathy, this was alarming). Instead of killing him, however, Bravo did something unexpected; he offered his services to mend the broken axe-wielder. Reluctance and suspicion ran high, but Mike accepted the offer, seeing no better alternative than medical expertise.
So, Bravo patched up Mike using as few supplies as he could, holding off on even disinfectants in favor of preserving what little medication he had gathered. Mike led his new companion to his cave, and the night was spent in silence as both young men rested. After that night came another, and another still, and after consideration, Mike agreed to make his cooperation with Bravo permanent. Bravo, it seemed, considered a fellow assassin by his side not as a threat and additional resource-user, but rather a boosted chance of survival and second set of eyes, ears, hands, and brains.
Mike didn’t argue. Sociable or not, he liked better odds.
Following that scuffle, Mike, now with an ample supply of flesh to eat for a few days, returned to the ship wreckage, and fashioned a few basic devices with his knowledge of machines and electronics. Days passed, and by the time the ship located and arrived at Mike’s cave, they found an encampment resembling a tribal; there were Zakkeg armor plates being used as cookware and a barrier for the cave opening, numerous small devices including a compass, a clock, and even the beginnings of a transmitter, and of course there was Mike, still dirty and slightly covered in Zakkeg blood, holding his crude axe while eating a portion of one of the creature’s thighs.
Mike Kills Ike, and Many, Many Others: 15 – 25
Mike returned to Green Meadows as a full-fledged assassin. After a short period to ensure he was totally healthy, he was given his first assignment; infiltrate a crime syndicate and assassinate Ike Langstrom; a human con from Kuat heading up a smuggling ring on Molovar, in one of the spaceports. Mike fitted himself in basic mechanic attire, a tool belt both for his appearance and any possible plans, and a collapsible axe he could hide on his person. Given a shuttle, Mike made the journey to Molovar.
Mike managed to obtain a job as the sole maintainer of Ike’s motorcade after the former mechanics died of an axe to their necks (covered up as a seeming hit and run with some sort of vibroblade). It wasn’t long before Ike was needed somewhere for a meeting with his subordinates, and so Mike was alerted to ready the speeders. Tampering with the repulsors, Mike set them to suffer an unfortunate malfunction, causing the vehicle to be controlled by remote before suddenly propelling itself upward and suffering a few rogue explosions. The plan went off without a hitch, with Mike maneuvering the speeder toward a less-observed part of the space port. In a change of clothing, Mike followed as the speeder malfunctioned and landed on a road with a thud. Neutralizing a few surviving mercenaries with his axe, Mike quickly confirmed his kill before disappearing. By the time any sort of law enforcement arrived, he was calmly leaving the planet.
Returning again to Green Meadows, Mike underwent his first memory-wipe since his childhood; a process he immediately found uncomfortable. In its aftermath, however, it allowed the young man to rest easy.
Following the memory-wipe, Mike was given further training in the workings of machines and electronics. His efficiency with his axe was likewise given attention (less so), and soon he was a master at chopping, blocking, countering, and attacking. His adeptness with machines increased to the point at which there were few devices he couldn’t identify, access, and alter freely. He could turn speeders into ships, make an electric chair throw people out of windows, and even make a coffee-maker lethal. If it had gears or wires, it had the potential to be an instrument of doom.
Mike’s service with Green Meadows continued on for the next few years in relative normalcy. “Normalcy” constituted assassinations ranging from simple, nocturnal break-and-enter chops to calculated, measured, and timed-to-a-T operations where Mike was usually allowing technology to do his job for him. His missions rarely had him crawling through tight spaces or jumping about on cat ropes, thanks to both his training and his physical make-up suiting him for far more direct, seen-and-yet-unseen approaches. Mike would wield his axe, of course, but only when it was impossible for anyone to witness the gore that would ensue (and live).
The Freedman incident had no real impact on Mike from his perspective; the assassins who had escaped were potential targets and nothing more. His chip was in fine order as far as Green Meadows could tell, so his service was relatively unchanged as he continued taking out assignments. Between the slight shock from Dxun and the programmed degradation, however, the hulk began to develop a minuscule degree of emotion, so incredibly small that even his handlers didn’t notice it.
But slowly, as Green Meadows prepared to apply him to tracking down the escaped Freedmen, the weakening of the chip began to grow…
RP Sample: In the depths of the building, way down in the basement where all of the brooms and mops sat baking next to the heating and plumbing, a large man sat atop a crate fiddling with a handful of wires. The giant hands worked quickly, fluidly along with a pair of pliers, disconnecting this wire and reconnecting another, dividing these two wires with a bit of metal, and bringing all three of those to touch something grounded.
As he fiddled, the man wiped his brow to remove both sweat and blood. The sweat was his, thanks to enduring the heater a few meters away, but the blood was foreign. The blood had once been inside the guards posted down in the basement, placed there in an attempt to deter just such a thing as this to occur.
The attempt, needless to say, had failed.
Mike finished his rewiring and finally synchronized a small transmitter he had installed with an equally small remote he carried in his pocket. He then proceeded to dispose of the bodies before the stench of death set in. He could hide them in a broom closet, of course, but the stench would still permeate throughout the floor. Therefore, the man grabbed each body by the back of the clothes it wore and 1! 2! 3! chucked each into the heater, noting a small rise in the flames with each. With that, the plan was prepared.
Mike made his way out of the room as he pulled from his back the components of his axe. First, the handle extended from the length of a baton to the length of a staff. Second, two teeth popped out of the staff, ready to accept the third piece. Mike proceeded to remove the axe head from its pack, and click them into place via the teeth. With a few test swings, the assassin found the weapon ready and slung it back behind him as one solid piece.
Mike called for the lift. After a few moments of only the sound of the heater humming, a small ding came from the console, followed by the opening of the lift door. Mike looked up to see two guards, armed with rifles and pistols, coming down to relieve their friend. Needless to say, their surprise was noticeable.
”Hey yo-“
Mike swung his axe horizontally, swinging its length around the elevator with only millimeters of clearance as both guards fell to the floor. The axe lodged itself in the throat of the first one, and as the swing had continued, the second was knocked over with the body his comrade. Mike brought the axe up as his swing ended, forcing it out of the first guard’s esophagus. The second stared up in a panic, and opened his mouth to scream.
Instead of sound coming out, the head of the axe went in, and the guard found the calm of death.
Mike removed his axe gently this time, wiping it clean on the clothing of his newest kills. He then slung one on each shoulder, using one of their rifles to jam the lift-door so that his transportation wouldn’t leave. He chucked both carcasses into the heater with their former-comrades, and then wiped his brow again.
He unjammed the door, stepped into the lift, slung his axe across his back, and pushed a button.
The basement was once again silent. The lift rose, and so too did he. Finally, the door dinged, and he stepped out, pushing one of the two buttons on his transmitter. The receptionist stared at him oddly. He walked forward, staring back.
”Um, do you have an appointment si-?” She stopped when she noticed the large axe on his back.
Mike noticed too.
Gripping the axe, Mike brought it down in a harsh chop, splitting the receptionist’s head nearly in half. She dropped to the floor like a stone, and he stepped over her body to the door. He pushed it open with a heave, and what normally would have been the blare of alarms and fluorescent lights was simple darkness and silence.
He’d killed the power to the floor, after all.
In the room, a shallow breathing was audible. ”Stay back!” a quivering voice demanded, obviously frightened. ”I’ve got a gun!” To prove his point, he shot once; a blaster bolt illuminated the room partially for a millisecond, revealing Mike’s figure. The man, somewhat confident now that he had sensed the assassin, brought his arms up, aiming.
His arms quickly fell off, and his began to scream.
And then there was the sound of parting flesh.
And silence.
((Ridicule is welcome!))
Original Name: Roon Treval
Race: Human
Age: 26
Height: 6’ 3”
Weight: 240 lbs.
Birth place: Nar Shadda
Appearance:
Mike has been described before by his trainers as a hulk; a mass of pure muscle and protein the likes of which should be feared when wielding a melee weapon. Mike is somewhat tall, with his upper body funneling downward to his waist line, from which extend wide, strong legs. Muscles are topped with their own muscles, and they’re visibly bulging throughout Mike’s form.
Mike’s black hair, though naturally curly, is kept buzzed and short. When a disguise calls for it, the hair is allowed to grow to the extent at which it can hang down slightly and even across the assassin’s face and neck, going so far as to cover his eyes. This is a rare occurrence however, and usually Mike’s styling never extends beyond a few millimeters in length. Whenever possible, it is oiled to a sheen and tussled a bit, giving it a natural appearance.
Mike’s face is square, and his folded forehead provides a large separation between his hairline and his long eyebrows. Mike’s eyes, a steely blue color, do little to allow people to gaze into his mind and emotions (if he had any). Mike’s jaw is firm and figured, although a slight, soft chin is present. The assassin’s nose is somewhat large by average standards, but it does well in fitting his ears, both of which are rounded.
Mike’s attire lacks any form of norm. Disguises usually call for mercenary outfits, militant uniforms, or simple mechanic suits. Beyond that, Mike can be seen dressed in anything as simple as a T-shirt and slacks to something as elegant as a pristine, fine cut and tailored tuxedo. When given the liberty of choice in his clothing, Mike tends to simply adopt attire that hinders his movement the least.
Personality: Mike speaks perfectly for an assassin; barely at all. What he does say tends to be the bare workings of a sentence; enough for his grammar to be correct and for the information to be clear, but not much beyond that. Mike, as with all other Green Meadow-raised assassins, feels no emotion; he is a solid form of deadly efficiency, and it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He kills coldly and apathetically; it’s his job, and its impact on him is nonexistent. His post-mission wipes always ensure he isn’t even relatively fazed by death of any kind, regardless of reasons or gruel. Therefore, Mike holds no fear or reservation in killing any way possible.
Were it not for the RELIC chip, Mike would be a rather introverted person, largely staying away from huge social events and practices. Even with the chip, Mike’s inward focus is evident with his specific lack of speech. A small hint of this shines through, as Mike normally stays away from any sort of “recreation” with his brethren in favor of extracurricular studying, research, and additional practice.
Profession: Assassin
Skills: Green Meadows Assassin Training (with specialization on Two-Handed Axes, electronics and machinery, body-building, and improvised repairs/repurposing technology)
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 9
Intelligence: 8
Speed: 7
Leadership: 2
Unarmed: 5
Melee Weapons: 6
Ranged Weapons: 4
Specialized Combat Skill:
Two-Handed Axe: 9
Specialized Non-Combat Skill:
Repair: 8
Ship Name: None
Bio:
What would be called “Normal”: 0 - 4
Roon was born in the least glorious of surroundings; a dank, dark alleyway on Nar Shadda to an abandoned mother. The woman was drunk when she went into labor, screaming curses and flinging around trash in painful rage until finally it stopped, and a baby lay on the pavement before her. The woman cried then, sobbing totally at her life’s apparent evaporation. She gave her baby, who was a boy, a name fit only for what he was; a mistake.
Roon’s mother despised her little mistake. To begin with, Roon already resembled his father with those steely blue eyes. Beyond that, the kid reminded her every moment of that good-for-nothing slimeball, almost like he was mocking her. Days passed, and the little vermin was additionally damn expensive to feed and shelter. So, as soon as the boy was weaned, she sold him, needing both money for her spice addiction and a place to get rid of him.
The auction had Roon changing hands with the seasons until finally landing in a Hutt’s manor to be raised as a servant. Roon cried every night, never understanding his loneliness, servitude, or beatings. Instead, he grew to walk and did as he was told, suffering as a slave. He quickly was forced the finer points of carrying trays once he was walking, talking to superiors (which included nigh everyone), and even Huttese.
One fateful day, however, Roon made the awful mistake of rebelling, as he hit back when one of the “caretakers” beat him for a small accident. Poor Roon had dropped a fragile tray, causing it to crack like an eggshell. The slave, in an attempt to save his own hide, hid the pieces, which made his mistake all the more severe when it was uncovered. The caretaker had the child thrown into a cell in the bottom levels of the manor and beat him with a whip, injuring Roon to the bone. The useless servant was then immediately shackled and sent off to the auction platform along with a tag on his neck, stating his disobedience and place in the auction’s spice-slave category.
Roon sobbed as he was led up onto a block and paraded about, punched, and prodded. The bidding began, and soon the auction came down to two contenders; a nasty-looking Trandoshan and an odd man in a stark black coat and hat. The Trandoshan was dressed to a T, obviously of great wealth ill gotten, and shouted and hollered as if he was a feral animal. The man in the coat, while of equal quality, meanwhile remained calm and cool, never raising his voice in the slightest. The bidding went on and on, until the Trandoshan finally screamed “2,000 credits!” Roon had no idea what it meant, but the man in black calmly countered with a suave “5,000.” The crowd gasped, the Trandoshan shut his mouth, and the auction ended with the banging of a gavel.
Roon was immediately forced into a cage and handed over to the man in black, who payed in the form of an entire crate full to the brim with credits. The man escorted the cage to his ship, keeping careful concentration on its contents. As soon as it was loaded on the small personal craft, the man in black promptly opened the cage, allowing Roon the freedom of the cabin. Roon darted for the door, slamming into to whilst thrashing like a madman. The man in black merely observed as the boy tried to breach the locked door, smiling.
“You’ll do just fine.”
The end of Normalcy (or perhaps the beginning): 4
After careful coaxing, Roon settled down enough for the shuttle to get under way, and soon he was sitting on a comfortable chair with a droid addressing the wounds on his back. With every swab, the wounds seared and stung with pain, until Roon angrily and frightfully swatted the droid away, cutting himself on one its tools. The human boy scattered to a corner and hide, literally licking his wounds, and there he spent the rest of the trip. When the man in black came to check on him with food, the boy stayed huddled where he was, only nibbling once both the man and droid were gone.
The trip ended as the shuttle settled softly on Ralltiir. Roon, again after much coaxing on the man’s part, stepped out of the ship into a world unlike anything he had ever experienced. There were plants and fresh air! He could see the sun without any smog in the air! Where in the galaxy was he? His wonder went unaddressed, as the man swiftly brought him to an odd building. There, Roon was led by a new man in a green outfit to a room with a comfy bed, food that didn’t taste like dust, and even a window! Roon was left alone the rest of the day, and he spent it eating, sleeping, and staring out the window in wonder.
As soon as the sun set and rose, Roon was collected by a group of people and placed onto a medical bed. Roon thrashed as his comfortable surroundings were replaced by odd, strange, surgical ones. Warm lights became fluorescent bulbs shining white. Carpets became cold tiles. Even the air stopped smelling warm, instead adopting a stark, lifeless odor. Roon hated it. He feared it. He had liked his room more. He was curious about the man in the black coat. He was happy to be away from the Hutt manor. He was angry at these men and women in green outfits and face masks. He screamed. He cried. He smiled. He frowned.
Then, he went to sleep.
When Roon woke up, he was in yet another room, where the tiles and fluorescent lights and lifeless air were still present. He looked around, feeling… new. Feeling… different. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t sad. He was… nothing. Just a little boy sitting in a medical room. Parts of his body felt strangely different, but Roon didn’t think anything of it. Come to think of it, Roon couldn’t think of much. What was happening?
A nurse came in then, and asked Roon how he felt. Roon responded that he didn’t know, which made the nurse smile. The green-clad nurse then asked if he could remember something. Roon replied that he couldn’t remember anything. The nurse’s smile widened and she jotted a few notes on datapad.
Roon asked one question that day.
“What is my name?”
“Mike. Your name is Mike.”
The New Normalcy: 4 – 15
Mike was bed-ridden for a week while his wounds and health recovered from his previous slavery. The doctors, meanwhile, took the opportunity to record every biological statistic they could find, including those only useful in theory. After the week was up, Mike was removed from his medical surroundings and put through initial physical training along with a handful of other children his age; transforming a group of young boys and girls into fit figures of physical finesse. The training brought upon new pains daily in dazzling amounts, and anyone of emotion surely would have been defeated.
Mike passed his final medical exam in three weeks, demonstrating enormous improvement in physique.
This first contact with his peers revealed an attribute Mike held that would last through his entire life; his lack of speaking. Throughout the testing and breaks between, the other children, while not becoming “friends”, per se, bonded slightly and became familiar with one another. Mike failed to experience this, as any sort of non-essential communication seemed illogical to him. As such, he kept his voice silent, speaking only out of necessity.
Following this burst of exercise was a routine of studies, physical toning, and even a few periods of free time. Mike took up his studies well, showed prime fitness, and ended up dabbling in numerous activities in his free time, the majority of which he performed alone. Mike also took up certain studies more aptly than others, picking up mathematics and the sciences far better than other subjects such as culture, literature, and language.
Classes slowly transitioned, beginning with basics and rolling into more practical lessons such as combat. In one lesson, the group was instructed in the arts of close-range weaponry.
Mike learned everything with surprising accuracy in small quirks and great control. One weapon, upon Mike’s performance, was asked to be used again; a two-handed axe. Mike retrieved the weapon and again demonstrated what he had been taught. The monitors noted a few things on their datapads, and promptly informed Mike that his curriculum was set to be changed in the near future.
Mike began to grow like a weed as his teachings became more and more combat oriented. The assassin-in-training quickly grew taller, and with his height came more and more muscle mass, which in turn aided his performance with the axe. Eventually Mike was using full-sized axes in stunning flurries and counters, chopping dummies and droids into both mangled corpses and cleanly-cut pieces.
The monitors also began to include lessons about machinery and electronics as Mike’s aptitude for science became more and more apparent. Mike’s mind grasped the machines easily; he could understand the flow of power and the functions of components as if they were the workings of his own body. Soon, days consisted of chopping droids, fixing machines, crunching numbers, and building muscle.
Then Mike, along with his peers, reached the age of 15, and his days changed enormously. Training and exercises were replaced with extended stays on medical beds as the teenagers were vivisected and altered. Mike, being emotionless, never feared the procedures he was put under, and noted immediately the advances to his abilities, making him far stronger, faster, flexible, and enduring. But even a man devoid of emotion felt slightly disturbed when he became aware that he had undergone brain surgery for an increased reaction time, and Mike was no different.
A Month Not To Be Forgotten: 16 - 17
After Mike and his peers had recovered from their procedures, each and every one was whisked aboard a ship headed for Dxun. Each teen was given two basic tools; a knife, and a spool of rope. Mike had never been especially adept with knives, but he hypothesized that he could construct additional weapons and tools once on world. Some of his peers decided to collaborate in the idea that their chances for survival would increase once in groups. Mike refrained from making any such plan; the others wouldn’t be hindrances, but actions were always easier without having to consult with another beforehand.
The ship entered the planet’s atmosphere, and the assassins were dropped in phonetic order; Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and so on. By the time Mike was instructed to depart the craft, only about half of his peers remained onboard. Mike was placed in a small flat near a mountain range of some kind. His immediate first actions were the typical survival acts; secure water, food, and shelter. After locating a cave, edible fruits and herbs, and locating a spring, Mike set about working to fashion new tools. Within the first day, he had expanded his pool of weapons to include a spear and a rough sling.
The next few days consisted of solidifying Mike’s survival. He hunted a few items of wildlife, continued gathering herbs and fruits, and established a supply of fire wood. Soon, Mike resembled a mountain man; he slept on the furs of some of his larger prey, ate what he could gather, and was covered in dirt. This part of Dxun demanded a select set of habits and practices, and thanks to his eye for detail, Mike picked them up before he could be bested by them.
One day, Mike awoke to a faint roaring in the sky. Emerging from his cave, the assassin followed with squinted eyes as a burning ship screeched downward, eventually disappearing behind a few trees with a thud. Gathering his rudimentary spear and knife, Mike took the earlier part of the day to search for the wreckage, coming across it somewhere around mid-day, down the mountain a bit in the wooded sections. The ship lacked inhabitants of any kind, and seemed totaled. Mike searched the wreckage, seeing if there was anything worth scavenging. Whilst exploring the interior, Mike leaned against a damaged wall while he searched one of the higher compartments. Suddenly, a small shock made him jerk his head back, nearly falling over in surprise. For a split second, Mike’s mind was blank. His thoughts returned quickly, however, and he noted a small scorch on the back of his neck. Mike thought nothing of it, however, and completed his scavenging. He returned to his cave with a collection of scrap metal, scattered provisions, and a magnet.
Picking up one of the sharper metal pieces, Mike spent the night and following morning grinding its edge to a sharp edge. He then placed it in a roaring fire as he went out and found the sturdiest staff he could, shaping it with his knife. Finally, Mike worked the ingot with a few other pieces of scrap metal as prodders, slowly molding the piece into the head of an axe. This process continued into the next day, and finally the piece was cooled around the staff. With the final assistance of some rope, Mike brandished a crude, large axe.
And not a moment too soon. Mike was awoken a few nights later by roars outside the cave, this time far closer. Grabbing his axe, Mike discovered the source of the noise; a large Zakkeg, who clawed the ground and sniffed the air, aware of the trespasser on its territory. Mike took a moment to develop a strategy; the Zakkeg would never abandon its quest, and obviously Mike couldn’t survive with the monster sniffing around his cave for the rest of the month.
It needed to be dealt with.
What ensued was a mountain brawl that lasted for a good seven minutes, as Mike attempted to strike at weak-points and openings in the Zakkeg’s armor whilst trying not to be struck himself. The battle soured, however, and soon Mike was sporting a few choice gashes and bleeding rather severely. With the last of his strength, and a few solid hits to the roaring monstrosity, Mike managed to clamber onto and remain on the creature’s back, eventually severing the creature’s spine. As the Zakkeg fell crippled, Mike, emotionless as could be, placed one more swing to the creature’s throat, ending the fight.
Mike lay rather injured next to his kill, taking a moment to recover. That was, of course, until another threat appeared, and this one was far more…
Human.
Bravo, one of the medical assassins, appeared. Mike, in a sorry state of physical affairs and noting his peer’s firearm, supposed that his he was facing down his death (even in his steely apathy, this was alarming). Instead of killing him, however, Bravo did something unexpected; he offered his services to mend the broken axe-wielder. Reluctance and suspicion ran high, but Mike accepted the offer, seeing no better alternative than medical expertise.
So, Bravo patched up Mike using as few supplies as he could, holding off on even disinfectants in favor of preserving what little medication he had gathered. Mike led his new companion to his cave, and the night was spent in silence as both young men rested. After that night came another, and another still, and after consideration, Mike agreed to make his cooperation with Bravo permanent. Bravo, it seemed, considered a fellow assassin by his side not as a threat and additional resource-user, but rather a boosted chance of survival and second set of eyes, ears, hands, and brains.
Mike didn’t argue. Sociable or not, he liked better odds.
Following that scuffle, Mike, now with an ample supply of flesh to eat for a few days, returned to the ship wreckage, and fashioned a few basic devices with his knowledge of machines and electronics. Days passed, and by the time the ship located and arrived at Mike’s cave, they found an encampment resembling a tribal; there were Zakkeg armor plates being used as cookware and a barrier for the cave opening, numerous small devices including a compass, a clock, and even the beginnings of a transmitter, and of course there was Mike, still dirty and slightly covered in Zakkeg blood, holding his crude axe while eating a portion of one of the creature’s thighs.
Mike Kills Ike, and Many, Many Others: 15 – 25
Mike returned to Green Meadows as a full-fledged assassin. After a short period to ensure he was totally healthy, he was given his first assignment; infiltrate a crime syndicate and assassinate Ike Langstrom; a human con from Kuat heading up a smuggling ring on Molovar, in one of the spaceports. Mike fitted himself in basic mechanic attire, a tool belt both for his appearance and any possible plans, and a collapsible axe he could hide on his person. Given a shuttle, Mike made the journey to Molovar.
Mike managed to obtain a job as the sole maintainer of Ike’s motorcade after the former mechanics died of an axe to their necks (covered up as a seeming hit and run with some sort of vibroblade). It wasn’t long before Ike was needed somewhere for a meeting with his subordinates, and so Mike was alerted to ready the speeders. Tampering with the repulsors, Mike set them to suffer an unfortunate malfunction, causing the vehicle to be controlled by remote before suddenly propelling itself upward and suffering a few rogue explosions. The plan went off without a hitch, with Mike maneuvering the speeder toward a less-observed part of the space port. In a change of clothing, Mike followed as the speeder malfunctioned and landed on a road with a thud. Neutralizing a few surviving mercenaries with his axe, Mike quickly confirmed his kill before disappearing. By the time any sort of law enforcement arrived, he was calmly leaving the planet.
Returning again to Green Meadows, Mike underwent his first memory-wipe since his childhood; a process he immediately found uncomfortable. In its aftermath, however, it allowed the young man to rest easy.
Following the memory-wipe, Mike was given further training in the workings of machines and electronics. His efficiency with his axe was likewise given attention (less so), and soon he was a master at chopping, blocking, countering, and attacking. His adeptness with machines increased to the point at which there were few devices he couldn’t identify, access, and alter freely. He could turn speeders into ships, make an electric chair throw people out of windows, and even make a coffee-maker lethal. If it had gears or wires, it had the potential to be an instrument of doom.
Mike’s service with Green Meadows continued on for the next few years in relative normalcy. “Normalcy” constituted assassinations ranging from simple, nocturnal break-and-enter chops to calculated, measured, and timed-to-a-T operations where Mike was usually allowing technology to do his job for him. His missions rarely had him crawling through tight spaces or jumping about on cat ropes, thanks to both his training and his physical make-up suiting him for far more direct, seen-and-yet-unseen approaches. Mike would wield his axe, of course, but only when it was impossible for anyone to witness the gore that would ensue (and live).
The Freedman incident had no real impact on Mike from his perspective; the assassins who had escaped were potential targets and nothing more. His chip was in fine order as far as Green Meadows could tell, so his service was relatively unchanged as he continued taking out assignments. Between the slight shock from Dxun and the programmed degradation, however, the hulk began to develop a minuscule degree of emotion, so incredibly small that even his handlers didn’t notice it.
But slowly, as Green Meadows prepared to apply him to tracking down the escaped Freedmen, the weakening of the chip began to grow…
RP Sample: In the depths of the building, way down in the basement where all of the brooms and mops sat baking next to the heating and plumbing, a large man sat atop a crate fiddling with a handful of wires. The giant hands worked quickly, fluidly along with a pair of pliers, disconnecting this wire and reconnecting another, dividing these two wires with a bit of metal, and bringing all three of those to touch something grounded.
As he fiddled, the man wiped his brow to remove both sweat and blood. The sweat was his, thanks to enduring the heater a few meters away, but the blood was foreign. The blood had once been inside the guards posted down in the basement, placed there in an attempt to deter just such a thing as this to occur.
The attempt, needless to say, had failed.
Mike finished his rewiring and finally synchronized a small transmitter he had installed with an equally small remote he carried in his pocket. He then proceeded to dispose of the bodies before the stench of death set in. He could hide them in a broom closet, of course, but the stench would still permeate throughout the floor. Therefore, the man grabbed each body by the back of the clothes it wore and 1! 2! 3! chucked each into the heater, noting a small rise in the flames with each. With that, the plan was prepared.
Mike made his way out of the room as he pulled from his back the components of his axe. First, the handle extended from the length of a baton to the length of a staff. Second, two teeth popped out of the staff, ready to accept the third piece. Mike proceeded to remove the axe head from its pack, and click them into place via the teeth. With a few test swings, the assassin found the weapon ready and slung it back behind him as one solid piece.
Mike called for the lift. After a few moments of only the sound of the heater humming, a small ding came from the console, followed by the opening of the lift door. Mike looked up to see two guards, armed with rifles and pistols, coming down to relieve their friend. Needless to say, their surprise was noticeable.
”Hey yo-“
Mike swung his axe horizontally, swinging its length around the elevator with only millimeters of clearance as both guards fell to the floor. The axe lodged itself in the throat of the first one, and as the swing had continued, the second was knocked over with the body his comrade. Mike brought the axe up as his swing ended, forcing it out of the first guard’s esophagus. The second stared up in a panic, and opened his mouth to scream.
Instead of sound coming out, the head of the axe went in, and the guard found the calm of death.
Mike removed his axe gently this time, wiping it clean on the clothing of his newest kills. He then slung one on each shoulder, using one of their rifles to jam the lift-door so that his transportation wouldn’t leave. He chucked both carcasses into the heater with their former-comrades, and then wiped his brow again.
He unjammed the door, stepped into the lift, slung his axe across his back, and pushed a button.
The basement was once again silent. The lift rose, and so too did he. Finally, the door dinged, and he stepped out, pushing one of the two buttons on his transmitter. The receptionist stared at him oddly. He walked forward, staring back.
”Um, do you have an appointment si-?” She stopped when she noticed the large axe on his back.
Mike noticed too.
Gripping the axe, Mike brought it down in a harsh chop, splitting the receptionist’s head nearly in half. She dropped to the floor like a stone, and he stepped over her body to the door. He pushed it open with a heave, and what normally would have been the blare of alarms and fluorescent lights was simple darkness and silence.
He’d killed the power to the floor, after all.
In the room, a shallow breathing was audible. ”Stay back!” a quivering voice demanded, obviously frightened. ”I’ve got a gun!” To prove his point, he shot once; a blaster bolt illuminated the room partially for a millisecond, revealing Mike’s figure. The man, somewhat confident now that he had sensed the assassin, brought his arms up, aiming.
His arms quickly fell off, and his began to scream.
And then there was the sound of parting flesh.
And silence.
((Ridicule is welcome!))