Phoenix Project - The Next Generation
recon, "walking point", frontline fighter, demolitions
|Strength +2||Constitution +2||Dexterity +4|
|Intelligence +0||Willpower +2||Charisma +1|
- Athletics +4
- Dodge +7
- First Aid +4
- Initiative +4
- Leadership +3
- Melee & Thrown Weapons +8
- Perception +5
- Quick Draw +6
- Ranged – Small Arms +8
- Tactics +4
- Unarmed Combat +7
- Climbing +6
- Demolitions +5
- Know: Geography +3
- Know: Military +4
- Know: Nature & Weather +3
- Stealth +6
- Survival +5
- Tracking +4
- Tactics +7
- Ambidexterity & Two-Weapon Fighting
- High-Pain Threshold
- Martial Arts
- Point-Blank Shot
- Code: Military Valor
- Mild Addiction: alcohol
- Mild Addiction: sex
- Sense of Duty: Phoenix Project
- somewhat impulsive
- pitiless toward villainous opponents
- proud and somewhat arrogant
- sometimes sarcastic or mocking
- assault rifle (5.56mm)
- heavy pistol (.44 magnum)
- assault sword
- medium (class: assault) ballistic body armor
Ever since I was an ankle biter, I’ve always been ace at killing. I didn’t start off killing blokes, mind you; that came later. I started off with hunting small game and worked my way up to the good stuff.
My family – me, my brothers and my dad – were always on the move, always trying to stay one step ahead. My dad was a traveling trader and me and my brothers were his “suppliers”. We would “acquire” merchandise from settlements we came across, and once the locals would catch wind of our operation, it would be time to move on, and quickly at that.
One thing my dad would not trade away was books. They were too rare and he always thought he’d make a big score by selling them someday. We had quite the collection; 15 or so. He taught me to read, and my favourite books were the ones about great warriors. The best was the book about Erik the Red. Because I loved that book so much and I had the same name, my brothers started calling me “Viking”, and the name stuck.
When me and my brothers reached fighting age, which is to say 12 years or thereabouts, Dad got the idea we should become bounty hunters. We had a fair stash of weapons from our trading, and even if they were a bit shonky, they could kill things handily nonetheless. From that point on we started bringing in marks and taking out small raider bands. We began to make quite a name for ourselves, which brought the wrong types gunning for our heads.
On our final job we were lured into an ambush. Twelve men to our four in the dead of night waiting to gun us down. Dad had a lame leg, so he always stayed back a ways ready to hightail us out in the buggy, covering us with a hunting rifle. He managed to kill four of the fucks before one of ‘em took him and the buggy out with a bazooka. I returned the favor by shooting his jaw off with my shotgun. My brothers bagged 6 more before they carked it. The last two I killed myself, though I took my time and had a bit of fun before sending them to their final resting place.
I ended up wandering the wastes for what must have been 6 days. All I had left was what I could scavenge from the raiders’ camp site. By the time Phoenix found me, I was already 2 days out of water and 3 days out of food. I was barely crawling.
The rest is history. They saved me, brought me back from the brink of death, trained me and then armed me. By the time I was 16 I was a properly trained soldier in a proper modern army, and now I’m paid to kill. As far as I’m concerned, every extra dead raider is one more bit of happiness in this world, and I’m here to spread as much joy as I can.