Post by Dire Wolf on Dec 13, 2009 22:50:37 GMT -5
Faction: Republic Military
Department: Navy [Marine Corps]
Rank: Staff Sergeant
Name: Cole Antiva
Callsign: Ghost
Race: Human
Age: 26
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 203lbs
Two stone grey pebbles are set into the eyes of Cole, denoting his inner intelligence. His brown hair is nearly always kept terribly short in a "high and tight" style, denoting his discipline as a warrior. There is one definite scar that marrs his face, it starts just above the left eyebrow and follows a perfectly straight path down towards the middle of his cheek, cutting across the eyelid.
When in battle, the man generally wears a battle dress uniform that bears the proper camouflage scheme. He generally has a breast plate of medium battle armor to protect his vital organs from both blasters and slugthrowers, and more often than not he has a vast multitude of other equipment that is as variable as his missions. A balaclava, again, colored in the proper camouflage scheme to fit the environment is always wrapped around his face during a mission, as is a pair of fully polarized tactical sunglasses. Not only are these stylish and protect those eyes from shrapnel, but they also have the ability to see the world in Night Vision and IR mode.
Courtesy of you, the Galactic Republic tax payer.
Out of battle the man generally wears a sports coat with a courier's bag at his side. Black cargo pants cling to the man's legs, the waist band of which holds a DieS industries slug thrower pistol. Perfect for concealed carry. He still wears those sunglasses of his during the daytime, and when he feels like seeing better at night. Ironically enough.
When not in the sport coat he is almost always wearing a simple T-shirt. A majestic eagle perched atop a star with three arrows in its beak sits emblazoned on just about every single one of these shirts, no matter what color or hue.
His H&K M2 Shotgun is an odd one, simply because he outfitted the barrel to be more of a slug shooter and added a telescopic scope to the weapon. He is deadly accurate at up to one hundred twenty yards.
Birth place: Dantooine / Kylah plains
Skills:
Counter-terrorism
Lockpicking
Wing Shooting
Stealth
Equipment:
HK M2 Shotgun
KnK Interception
M625
K4-B4R Combat Knife
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 8
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 5
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 5
Melee Weapons: 5
Ranged Weapons: 9
Attunement: +4
Cole was born to a pair of farmers on the kylah plains, not far away from the Sampson estate. The boy was far from the oldest, in fact he was the youngest of seven children... each of which were expected to earn their keep on the farm. Having another child meant little more than an extra pair of hands. Though, that wasn't to say that his parents considered him as such... but their life had no room for love by spoiling.
The little headstrong boy grew up fairly quickly on the farm, as he was out picking rocks out of the field almost as soon as he could walk and talk. It, of course, didn't help the little boy that his father was a twenty year veteran of the Republic Marine Corps, and often recounted the simply hilarious stories to him. Just before bed, of course. Slowly, but surely, the dream of becoming a member of the RNMC (Republic Navy Marine Corps) was being hardwired into the boy. Eventually, it was the only outcome that he could think of after his schooling. His eldest brother certainly didn't help the situation, as he joined the Republic Navy when Cole was the meager age of four.
Those funny, and often retold, stories quickly came to an end. No doubt due to his mother's insistence of "not encouraging all of their kids to hop away." Alas, it was too late for little Cole to lose his dream of joining the military... and so he prepared. The little boy grew up rather fast, working hard in the fields and tending to the animals did that to you. Before he knew it, he was eight, and getting his first weapon for his birthday: a junior hunting blaster.
It was the joy of his little life.
Of course, his father wouldn't allow the boy to shoot it... or even touch it... without his express permission and presence. Whenever the opportunity arose, the boy would grab his dad and run out to the field... shooting at whatever targets he could find. Cans. Rocks. Small vermin. Anything that wasn't sentient or of value to others was a target.
Soon enough, the years flew again. At age twelve he fired his first blaster pistol... and soon found that it was his favorite type of weapon to shoot. Granted, he wasn't very good, but something about the art over science of pistol shooting just appealed to the tweenage boy. He'd often run out with his dad, or second eldest brother, and shoot at whatever he could with that old blaster pistol. And, eventually, it was given to him.
Schooling went by easy enough for the "Coal Train," he was labeled as such by his friends after they saw his natural height and muscle chassis. Naturally, the boy signed up for shock ball as soon as the school allowed him to. This is mostly where his nickname was coined... seeing as an opposing lineman could rarely stop his advance.
Cole was the coach's favorite.
Password: Kylah
((yeah, the few opening sentences are a quote from Fallout 3. It kind of fits with the RP sample, though.))
War. War never changes. Since the dawn of human kind, when our ancestors first discovered the killing power of rock and bone, blood has been spilled in the name of everything from God, to justice, to simple psychotic rage. This day blood would be spilled in the name of killing the Tangos who weren't burdened with an overabundance of intelligence. They were little more than a bunch of underprivileged rabble clamoring for the 'free planet wassitcalled.' Few people truly cared about their plight, which was one of the likely causes for them taking such a bold step.
Those idiots actually believed that kidnapping the Supreme Chancellor's son would help their cause. They honestly thought that Chancellor Baoont would be far more sympathetic to their cause if they threatened his blood. Idiots. Cole only shook his head in complete disgust at the situation and the terrorist's idiocy. One rarely wins friends by bullying. Not friends worth having, anyways. The man bit the inside of his cheek absentmindedly as he sat on the orbital drop pod... simply waiting for the clamps to disengage, beginning his freefall to the wonderful, lush... what planet were they over again?
Stone grey eyes rolled about in their sockets before they glanced down at the information panel just infront of him. Right. They were over planet wassitcalled... Wayland... meh... same difference. They kidnapped the poor, but idiotic, privileged son of a leader from his own little pleasure sojourn on Zeltros. Where was the next logical place to take them? Not to a fast, but different ship in almost constant hyperspace transit. Oh no. They took him back to their own little armpit of the galaxy. "Tango's," he sighed at the thought, "couldda at least tried to make it hard for us to track'em down."
A single, green light winked on not a few moments after his thought. In a single blur of matte black sleeves clothes, the man latched himself up to the seat. Dropping in a durasteel casket from a few miles above the surface without any measure of safety harness engaged was not exactly his idea of fun. Static washed over her headset, followed by Took's somewhat digitized voice. "Eh, why can't terrorists ever take over some space brothel. Or at least a carnival... something..."
The slightest of smirks pursed the side of Cole's lips as he shook his head, but it Hog's reply was quicker than his. "What? Brothel? Hmmm," this caused the man's shoulder's to buckle lightly as he leaned his head back against the thick bulkhead, "You would say that, Hog. Too bad most brothel's don't cater to the pigaphiliacs."
"Oh by the Force, Ghost, you're still harpin' on me about that?" The young man's voice got somewhat whiny, it had that problem when he was frustrated. Of course, Took had to chime in just before the drop initiated, "hog, its your call sig-."
Took barely had the word out of his mouth and into the comm unit when the arresting clamps released the orbital drop pod. The combined effort of gravity and a few RAM jet engines mounted on the back threw the ton-and-a-half of durasteel down to the planet at five times the speed of sound. Soon enough Ghost was experiencing the odd sensation of his bowels churning about midflight, and what was left of his gut was in his throat.
Fun stuff.
It took all of thirty seconds for the four man team to collect themselves and head to a relatively secluded bunker in the Forest. After the 'landing', of course. Intelligence believed the VIP was being held within that hardened structure... so breaching charges were necessary. Very necessary.
They had met little resistance along the way, save for a single tribesman that was in the terrorists coinpurse... he met a rather unforunate end. Pretending to be the friend of a team of elite Special Forces operators, then trying to stab them in the back is not exactly the wisest of things to try. Soon enough they reached the bunker, and nearly sprinted the last hundred meters to the target. The team was barely breathing heavy, but you'd think that Cole walked by the look on his face and rapidity of his breath.
Cole looked up at Wash, the fourth member of their team, and then his wrist datapad as his shoulder hit the side of the hardened duracrete bunker. Those fingers danced gracefully along the screen, entering mission information into his gauntlet. Stoney grey eyes flickered up at the black clad man just as he finished priming the det-cord, his gaze speaking volumes to Wash. After a few moments of briefly gazing at him with a solemn look strewn about his covered face, the man laced his right hand's fingers around the grip of his xm12, and moved the other up to eye level, five fingers extended. Then one closed into his fist. Then another. Three fingers later, the man clenched both his fist and bicep, signaling the detonation.
A soul shattering boom! rocked the bunker as Wash pressed the detonator hardened fortress. One of the amateurs was, unwisely, propping his head up against one of the doors at the time of the explosion. Half a pound of shaped plastic explosive had quite the kick when it came to blasting power, as one could imagine. The bloody gore of mushy but scorched grey matter, shattered bits of skull and bone, and deep crimson blood was splotched out on the floor... stemming from the half-at-the-gut-down corpse splayed out on the floor.
The brain crushing flas-bang! from the flashbang thrown in at both entry points crippled the terrorists within, leaving them all but helpless to the already superior assaulting forces. Within moments of the flash-bang's loud report, Cole threw his body into the doorway with a psuedo reckless abandon. There was about six enemies within the room, all flailing about in an attempt to recover from the bright lights and piercing ring that crawled within their skull.
Yet.. the Coal Train didn't lay waste to them were they stood. Only two of the six were in his designated 'zone' of the room. Task Force One-four-one relied on trust to operate, both on the field and off. Each of the operators was assigned a part of the room to cover, and only eliminated hostiles within that zone. If they strayed, they ran a serious risk of shooting their friend, or a brilliant hostage who did something unpredictable at the breaching.
Tap tap tap! A single three round burst of slugs threw itself out of the barrel and into the space between Cole and his enemy. The first two led/tungsten mixture bullets slammed themselves into the terrorist, causing the flesh to ripple and expand like a stagnant pool after one tossed a rock into it. This shredded the flesh apart like a tissue at a snot party, the hypersonic bullets paying no heed to bone or the soft flesh of his wind pipe. Under normal circumstances, this would prove for a short but agonizing death... had the final bullet not slammed into and through both sides of the man's skull plate.
He went limp and fell over like a strip of thawed bacon, and curiously enough made the same noise as one slopping against the floor. His sub-machine gun then turned to the second man and unleashed a burst of five rounds in its passing. Each slug perforating the man's flesh in a semi-straight line along his torso, right to left. Cole took care to ensure that three of those five rounds hit his heart and both lungs, respectively.
The terrorist was dead within the space of thirty seconds.
After a brief visual scan of the room, Cole relaxed his stance and let his SMG fall into its sling. He sighed before half whispering into his comm, despite the fact that his teammates were a few meters away. "Clear. Took, secure the VIP. Wash, try and find an ID on these bastards. Hog and I are gonna hold the perimeter, make sure that anybody stupid enough to happen across us gets a four point seven mike-mike surprise."
Cole shifted his eyes about the dead bodies in the room, finally allowing them to rest on the half-corpse that was detonated with the charge. Each of the "enemy combatants" looked to be barely older than twenty. With a hefty exhale, the man half mumbled to himself with the shake of his head, "never changes."
Department: Navy [Marine Corps]
Rank: Staff Sergeant
Name: Cole Antiva
Callsign: Ghost
Race: Human
Age: 26
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 203lbs
Two stone grey pebbles are set into the eyes of Cole, denoting his inner intelligence. His brown hair is nearly always kept terribly short in a "high and tight" style, denoting his discipline as a warrior. There is one definite scar that marrs his face, it starts just above the left eyebrow and follows a perfectly straight path down towards the middle of his cheek, cutting across the eyelid.
When in battle, the man generally wears a battle dress uniform that bears the proper camouflage scheme. He generally has a breast plate of medium battle armor to protect his vital organs from both blasters and slugthrowers, and more often than not he has a vast multitude of other equipment that is as variable as his missions. A balaclava, again, colored in the proper camouflage scheme to fit the environment is always wrapped around his face during a mission, as is a pair of fully polarized tactical sunglasses. Not only are these stylish and protect those eyes from shrapnel, but they also have the ability to see the world in Night Vision and IR mode.
Courtesy of you, the Galactic Republic tax payer.
Out of battle the man generally wears a sports coat with a courier's bag at his side. Black cargo pants cling to the man's legs, the waist band of which holds a DieS industries slug thrower pistol. Perfect for concealed carry. He still wears those sunglasses of his during the daytime, and when he feels like seeing better at night. Ironically enough.
When not in the sport coat he is almost always wearing a simple T-shirt. A majestic eagle perched atop a star with three arrows in its beak sits emblazoned on just about every single one of these shirts, no matter what color or hue.
His H&K M2 Shotgun is an odd one, simply because he outfitted the barrel to be more of a slug shooter and added a telescopic scope to the weapon. He is deadly accurate at up to one hundred twenty yards.
Birth place: Dantooine / Kylah plains
Skills:
Counter-terrorism
Lockpicking
Wing Shooting
Stealth
Equipment:
HK M2 Shotgun
KnK Interception
M625
K4-B4R Combat Knife
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 8
Intelligence: 7
Speed: 5
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 5
Melee Weapons: 5
Ranged Weapons: 9
Attunement: +4
[Devil Pup]
Cole was born to a pair of farmers on the kylah plains, not far away from the Sampson estate. The boy was far from the oldest, in fact he was the youngest of seven children... each of which were expected to earn their keep on the farm. Having another child meant little more than an extra pair of hands. Though, that wasn't to say that his parents considered him as such... but their life had no room for love by spoiling.
The little headstrong boy grew up fairly quickly on the farm, as he was out picking rocks out of the field almost as soon as he could walk and talk. It, of course, didn't help the little boy that his father was a twenty year veteran of the Republic Marine Corps, and often recounted the simply hilarious stories to him. Just before bed, of course. Slowly, but surely, the dream of becoming a member of the RNMC (Republic Navy Marine Corps) was being hardwired into the boy. Eventually, it was the only outcome that he could think of after his schooling. His eldest brother certainly didn't help the situation, as he joined the Republic Navy when Cole was the meager age of four.
Those funny, and often retold, stories quickly came to an end. No doubt due to his mother's insistence of "not encouraging all of their kids to hop away." Alas, it was too late for little Cole to lose his dream of joining the military... and so he prepared. The little boy grew up rather fast, working hard in the fields and tending to the animals did that to you. Before he knew it, he was eight, and getting his first weapon for his birthday: a junior hunting blaster.
It was the joy of his little life.
Of course, his father wouldn't allow the boy to shoot it... or even touch it... without his express permission and presence. Whenever the opportunity arose, the boy would grab his dad and run out to the field... shooting at whatever targets he could find. Cans. Rocks. Small vermin. Anything that wasn't sentient or of value to others was a target.
Soon enough, the years flew again. At age twelve he fired his first blaster pistol... and soon found that it was his favorite type of weapon to shoot. Granted, he wasn't very good, but something about the art over science of pistol shooting just appealed to the tweenage boy. He'd often run out with his dad, or second eldest brother, and shoot at whatever he could with that old blaster pistol. And, eventually, it was given to him.
Schooling went by easy enough for the "Coal Train," he was labeled as such by his friends after they saw his natural height and muscle chassis. Naturally, the boy signed up for shock ball as soon as the school allowed him to. This is mostly where his nickname was coined... seeing as an opposing lineman could rarely stop his advance.
Cole was the coach's favorite.
Password: Kylah
[RP Sample]
Four years ago
((yeah, the few opening sentences are a quote from Fallout 3. It kind of fits with the RP sample, though.))
War. War never changes. Since the dawn of human kind, when our ancestors first discovered the killing power of rock and bone, blood has been spilled in the name of everything from God, to justice, to simple psychotic rage. This day blood would be spilled in the name of killing the Tangos who weren't burdened with an overabundance of intelligence. They were little more than a bunch of underprivileged rabble clamoring for the 'free planet wassitcalled.' Few people truly cared about their plight, which was one of the likely causes for them taking such a bold step.
Those idiots actually believed that kidnapping the Supreme Chancellor's son would help their cause. They honestly thought that Chancellor Baoont would be far more sympathetic to their cause if they threatened his blood. Idiots. Cole only shook his head in complete disgust at the situation and the terrorist's idiocy. One rarely wins friends by bullying. Not friends worth having, anyways. The man bit the inside of his cheek absentmindedly as he sat on the orbital drop pod... simply waiting for the clamps to disengage, beginning his freefall to the wonderful, lush... what planet were they over again?
Stone grey eyes rolled about in their sockets before they glanced down at the information panel just infront of him. Right. They were over planet wassitcalled... Wayland... meh... same difference. They kidnapped the poor, but idiotic, privileged son of a leader from his own little pleasure sojourn on Zeltros. Where was the next logical place to take them? Not to a fast, but different ship in almost constant hyperspace transit. Oh no. They took him back to their own little armpit of the galaxy. "Tango's," he sighed at the thought, "couldda at least tried to make it hard for us to track'em down."
A single, green light winked on not a few moments after his thought. In a single blur of matte black sleeves clothes, the man latched himself up to the seat. Dropping in a durasteel casket from a few miles above the surface without any measure of safety harness engaged was not exactly his idea of fun. Static washed over her headset, followed by Took's somewhat digitized voice. "Eh, why can't terrorists ever take over some space brothel. Or at least a carnival... something..."
The slightest of smirks pursed the side of Cole's lips as he shook his head, but it Hog's reply was quicker than his. "What? Brothel? Hmmm," this caused the man's shoulder's to buckle lightly as he leaned his head back against the thick bulkhead, "You would say that, Hog. Too bad most brothel's don't cater to the pigaphiliacs."
"Oh by the Force, Ghost, you're still harpin' on me about that?" The young man's voice got somewhat whiny, it had that problem when he was frustrated. Of course, Took had to chime in just before the drop initiated, "hog, its your call sig-."
Took barely had the word out of his mouth and into the comm unit when the arresting clamps released the orbital drop pod. The combined effort of gravity and a few RAM jet engines mounted on the back threw the ton-and-a-half of durasteel down to the planet at five times the speed of sound. Soon enough Ghost was experiencing the odd sensation of his bowels churning about midflight, and what was left of his gut was in his throat.
Fun stuff.
|__{ + }__|
Three Hours later
Three Hours later
It took all of thirty seconds for the four man team to collect themselves and head to a relatively secluded bunker in the Forest. After the 'landing', of course. Intelligence believed the VIP was being held within that hardened structure... so breaching charges were necessary. Very necessary.
They had met little resistance along the way, save for a single tribesman that was in the terrorists coinpurse... he met a rather unforunate end. Pretending to be the friend of a team of elite Special Forces operators, then trying to stab them in the back is not exactly the wisest of things to try. Soon enough they reached the bunker, and nearly sprinted the last hundred meters to the target. The team was barely breathing heavy, but you'd think that Cole walked by the look on his face and rapidity of his breath.
Cole looked up at Wash, the fourth member of their team, and then his wrist datapad as his shoulder hit the side of the hardened duracrete bunker. Those fingers danced gracefully along the screen, entering mission information into his gauntlet. Stoney grey eyes flickered up at the black clad man just as he finished priming the det-cord, his gaze speaking volumes to Wash. After a few moments of briefly gazing at him with a solemn look strewn about his covered face, the man laced his right hand's fingers around the grip of his xm12, and moved the other up to eye level, five fingers extended. Then one closed into his fist. Then another. Three fingers later, the man clenched both his fist and bicep, signaling the detonation.
A soul shattering boom! rocked the bunker as Wash pressed the detonator hardened fortress. One of the amateurs was, unwisely, propping his head up against one of the doors at the time of the explosion. Half a pound of shaped plastic explosive had quite the kick when it came to blasting power, as one could imagine. The bloody gore of mushy but scorched grey matter, shattered bits of skull and bone, and deep crimson blood was splotched out on the floor... stemming from the half-at-the-gut-down corpse splayed out on the floor.
The brain crushing flas-bang! from the flashbang thrown in at both entry points crippled the terrorists within, leaving them all but helpless to the already superior assaulting forces. Within moments of the flash-bang's loud report, Cole threw his body into the doorway with a psuedo reckless abandon. There was about six enemies within the room, all flailing about in an attempt to recover from the bright lights and piercing ring that crawled within their skull.
Yet.. the Coal Train didn't lay waste to them were they stood. Only two of the six were in his designated 'zone' of the room. Task Force One-four-one relied on trust to operate, both on the field and off. Each of the operators was assigned a part of the room to cover, and only eliminated hostiles within that zone. If they strayed, they ran a serious risk of shooting their friend, or a brilliant hostage who did something unpredictable at the breaching.
Tap tap tap! A single three round burst of slugs threw itself out of the barrel and into the space between Cole and his enemy. The first two led/tungsten mixture bullets slammed themselves into the terrorist, causing the flesh to ripple and expand like a stagnant pool after one tossed a rock into it. This shredded the flesh apart like a tissue at a snot party, the hypersonic bullets paying no heed to bone or the soft flesh of his wind pipe. Under normal circumstances, this would prove for a short but agonizing death... had the final bullet not slammed into and through both sides of the man's skull plate.
He went limp and fell over like a strip of thawed bacon, and curiously enough made the same noise as one slopping against the floor. His sub-machine gun then turned to the second man and unleashed a burst of five rounds in its passing. Each slug perforating the man's flesh in a semi-straight line along his torso, right to left. Cole took care to ensure that three of those five rounds hit his heart and both lungs, respectively.
The terrorist was dead within the space of thirty seconds.
After a brief visual scan of the room, Cole relaxed his stance and let his SMG fall into its sling. He sighed before half whispering into his comm, despite the fact that his teammates were a few meters away. "Clear. Took, secure the VIP. Wash, try and find an ID on these bastards. Hog and I are gonna hold the perimeter, make sure that anybody stupid enough to happen across us gets a four point seven mike-mike surprise."
Cole shifted his eyes about the dead bodies in the room, finally allowing them to rest on the half-corpse that was detonated with the charge. Each of the "enemy combatants" looked to be barely older than twenty. With a hefty exhale, the man half mumbled to himself with the shake of his head, "never changes."
