Good Ol' Scoundrel
Social Information
[SIZE=9pt]Name: Wes Rykker[/SIZE]
[SIZE=9pt]Nickname: N/A[/SIZE]
[SIZE=9pt]Faction: Freelance, recent contract with The Collective[/SIZE]
[SIZE=9pt]Occupation: Mercenary[/SIZE]
[SIZE=18pt]Physical Information[/SIZE]
[SIZE=9pt]Age: 28[/SIZE]
[SIZE=9pt]Gender: Male[/SIZE]
[SIZE=9pt]Species: Human[/SIZE]
Force Sensitive: N
[SIZE=18pt]Traits[/SIZE]
- Tank - Years of physical strain have made him quite the durable man.
- Direct - Cuts to the chase in words and in actions.
- Avaricious - Credits make the galaxy...expand endlessly?
- Reckless - Prone to irrational behavior at times.
- Fixer - A practical man with a knack for fixing all sorts of tech.
[SIZE=18pt]History[/SIZE]
Axxila.
Street youth. Just one of the many on the lower levels of the busy ecumenopolis. Running around rampant doing all sorts of troubles for people who'd give you a credit chit so you can buy yourself something to silence the growling in your stomach. By the time you are ten you'd have been beaten more times than there are days in a year.
But here's the thing - the bigger you get the more credits you need to silence your stomach's howls. Thus, you start doing tougher errands for the right people. Higher the risk, higher the chit. Many don't make it at this stage. Either you meet your end with a round in your back while trying to escape or a fist or two get on the wrong side of your head way too many times. The more scars you got, the closer you rubbed shoulders with death, the more your pockets got full.
That's around the time when most realize there's only one game that matters out there.
Survival.
The sooner you got that in your head, the higher the chance you lived to see another day.
You hit the legal age and bail off world to your nearest military recruiting station.
Spend there a few years or less, get recognized for your killing shots and your short temper. Shots get better, temper gets shorter every day till the day you dig your fists in your drunk officer face so deep you get dishonorably discharged.
Your stomach starts growling again soon after and you find your next 'career choice' as a bouncer in a drug infested club in the Mid Rim. Credits ain't enough so you start looking for a thicker pay. Gang wars ain't your thing, reminds you of poodoostained Axxila too much so you decide to hook up with something new, something cleaner. A bunch of whackos need a muscle on an exploratory mission, you sign up and spend the next year and a half shooting weird things in uncharted space, fixing stuff and falling in love with a smart intern 'round your age that represents the complete antipode of you.
Before you could finally find some joy in the whole crazy adventure, ship ends up in a crash accident on some forsaken planet in the middle of nowhere. Once again, there is one game that matters out there and you know it well. Eventually, some ship picks up your distress signal and gets you back into civilization. You spend a few days in their brig as a 'guest' before being dropped off in the first planet with a space port.
You end up straight in the middle of some insane shoot out and you end up signing up in a merc company. Pretty tough and crazy fellas. Ex-OS special forces among other insane folks in the brigade. You match their crazy and you fit in perfectly. Spend more time than you know with the brigade doing the worse things possible around the biggest poodooholes in the galaxy. Experience with the brigade makes you conclude you can make it out there on your own.
You part ways and here you are, free as a bird doing what you've always done best.
Survive.