Player SectionSteam Name: scoobybloo2
Age: 14
How long have you been Roleplaying? (can be any game): Around 6 years.
How long have you been playing Serious GMod RP?: About 7 Months.
Character SectionAuthorization(s):Large Orange Backpack. A CD player, A Few Cds and Records and a Portable Record player (Handcranked and electric powered.) like this one :
http://www.google.ca/imgres?q=Portable+Record+Player.&um=1&hl=en&sa=N&rls=com.microsoft:en-us:IE-SearchBox&biw=1360&bih=596&tbm=isch&tbnid=gRMIvRjljY8dxM:&imgrefurl=http://retrowonders.com/crosleycr49portable3speedturntablenowin3colors.aspx&docid=rzBQtY5AQJ0wWM&imgurl=http://retrowonders.com/images/products/detail/cr49ta.jpg&w=400&h=400&ei=DO15T-OXN6ne0QGUv7nfDQ&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=234&sig=116174967642042811923&page=1&tbnh=128&tbnw=128&start=0&ndsp=21&ved=1t:429,r:6,s:0&tx=96&ty=58(This is not really an auth, more what I am using it for.) A radio station in District Six, talking about politics and the Combine and giving inspiration to District Six residents and members. (Also playing music. To play the music I will just give song name, and if they player wishes, they can switch to youtube and put the song on.)
Also, an empty gun (Not the actual gun model, I can just roleplay it.)
Kevlar under shirt. (Just in /charphysdesc.)
Name: Charlie Cloud
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Affiliation: Resistance
Write a detailed in-canon back-story how your character obtained these authorizations.Before The Seven Hour War:
Charlie grew up in a small town called Blue Springs, running along the edge of Nebraska. He had a dog, named Charlie, the dog was 1 year older then Charlie, and died at the age of 14, when Charlie was 13. Charlie's parents were a big role in his life, ever since he was 7 he had always wanted to open up a radio station, his parents had encouraged him, and through his life had bought him a portable record player and continued to buy him many records of all different genres. His favorite was a small black record, with a red clean label that read “Jingle, Jangle, Jingle". He played this record whenever he had a free chance, it always gave him inspiration. After his dog had died, as mentioned earlier, he went in to a phase of denial; he didn’t eat, barely slept and kept nearly everything to himself. The only thing during this time that would make him calm and relaxed was clouds. His real last name was Jackson, but at the age of 19 he had changed it to Cloud, because it was the only thing (Other than his music) that made him feel at peace. When he was 22 he had graduated from high school and college and was on his way to open a small radio station in a larger town in Nebraska, Merna. He opened his radio station just outside the town, across the road from Broken Bow Municipal airport. For the next years he lived in a small building at the back of the station. His record collection had grown to around 200 records, and he bought a CD player and had around 100 CD's. His fan base grew and he had around 400 listeners on average for every hour from 7 AM to 7 PM.
Life was good.
The Seven Hour War:
Charlie was sitting in his radio station, reporting on the sudden "Portal Storms and the ships speeding out of them" when he heard shooting outside. He stood up, rushing to the window, knocking papers off his desk, he saw bullets flying past, and strange creatures (As he knew them) rushing to his shack. Quickly he darted to his desk, unplugging the CD player and tossing it in a large, orange backpack. A slam was heard at the door. He pushed a pile of CD's off his desk in to his bag, followed by a pile of records, and his record player. He folded up the player and shut the box, closing the latches placing it in the bag zipping it up. He threw it on his back, shutting off the microphone and rushing out the back door, he darted for his shack, not looking back, hearing crashing and strange noises. He slammed through the door, quickly opening his fridge and dumping a small pile of food inside. He rushed outside, running down the hill; a bullet flew past him, slamming in to a thick red oil container. He ran, and continued running for an hour or so, before he stopped, wheezing and out of breath, he bent down for a moment. As he started to stand back up, he felt a fast sharp pain slam in to his shoulder; he fell back down, screaming out in pain. Quickly he regained his balance, gritting his teeth and rushing ahead. After another ten minutes or so, he moved his bag off his shoulder; a hole was left through the bag. He opened it, pulling out shards of a broken CD, he tossed it down, taking the case and removing the paper with the CD title and cover on it, tossing it aside, he lifted his shirt off, then used the CD case as a reflective mirror to see his shoulder, it had a thick red mark, already starting to turn purple and bruise over. The bullet had slammed through the bag and in his shoulder, but luckily hadn’t pierced through his skin. Quickly he jumped up, gritting his teeth as the pain in his shoulder swelled. He slid his bag on his back, and slowly started off.
A few hours later: He stopped, leaning against a building in a small town, no idea where he was, cut and bruised, scraped and bloody, he sat. A few men ran past holding guns, he quickly stood up, following them around the corner. After a short conversation they told him to piss off, giving him a pistol and three shots, turning and running off. He flicks off the safety, running for the sewer, as directed by the other men. Jumping down, he was greeted by a woman, blood pouring out of her forehead and down her face, sliding around her eyes and falling to her shirt, where it dried. She begged him to find her help, he knew she had lost to much blood, it was only a matter of time, and excruciating pain, until she died. He nodded his voice dry and cracked “I will.” Then, he lifted up his pistol aiming it at the woman, and pulled the trigger. This was his first kill.
A few minutes later:
After gaining strength again, and checking the woman’s frail, lifeless body, he stood, and wandered down the dark alleyway. It was not pitch black, however. He had taken a lighter from the woman’s purse, and now used this to light his way. The sewers were silent, except for the odd "Drip" off a loose pipe or the rustling of a rat.
A few hours later: He came out of the tunnels, light spreading around him, blinding him momentarily. He looked about, flicking off the lighter and sliding it in his pocket, the juices nearly out. He wandered down the blood paved road of the forests, pulling a bottle of water from his bag and taking a sip. It was night, and frigid out. He ripped some sticks off a tree, following what he had seen on Television as a kid. He placed some dried grass down, placing smaller twigs on it, pulling out his lighter and setting it on fire. He then blew lightly on it, the flame flickered then grew, nearly catching his nose. He pulled back, slowly placing a few larger sticks on top. There he sat for half the night, the other half lying on the cold pavement.
Day 2; The Seven Hour War; Aftermath: He slowly woke, raising his body and rubbing his eyes, he had used his orange backpack as a pillow; slowly he dug through it, pulling out a half finished bottle of water and some fresh bread, the fire was nothing but a small smoldering pile of ashes and a few hot coals. He ate his loaf and drank his water, sitting there for a few hours. Slowly he rose, looking about; the thick green bushels of forest surrounding him on either side, a tunnel lay on the other end of the road, blocked by rubble from the roof of the tunnel. He saw a destroyed tank, probably what blew the tunnel down. He moved towards it, setting his bag down and climbing on top of it, heaving on the lid, realizing his stupidity, he turned the handle then lifted the lid with some difficulties, looking down in the destroyed pilot’s seat. He reached down, feeling around. He felt something cold touch his hand, he reached for his lighter, flicking it alive. His hand was resting against the cheek of a soldier, his breath heavy, and blood pouring from his arm, pinned in the tank.
"He....help me...” The voice choked out.
"What can I do?" Charlie quickly responded, looking down, examining the wounds.
"Take...My...Pistol...” He paused for a moment, choking out blood.
"Shoo...oot...." The voice stopped, his eyes slowly moved around.
"No, you can make it ou-" He was quickly cut off.
"Do it!" The voice barked at him, a hint of what the man was truly like showed through in the harsh, quick command.
Charlie leaned in the tight space, gripping the pistol on the man's belt, lifting it up, pulling the clip out, dumping out the bullets, he quickly counted them.
“Four more shots..." He paused, and then dropped the gun on the ground, pulling his off the belt, dropping out the clip and loading in the ammunition.
“Good bye..." He said, lifting the pistol to the man's head, pulling the trigger. That was his Second Kill.
After a while of feeling guilty, he bent in, pulling off the dead man's combat knife, moving it to his pinned arm, he looked away, nearly vomiting, he cut through the man’s skin, and continue to cut in a sawing motion, until he felt the man come lose. He continued to look away, lifting the man’s other arm up, unclipping then unzipping the soldiers Kevlar vest, pulling the arms out of it and lifting it from the tank. He spit on the Kevlar, then lifted up his shirt, wiping away as much blood as he can. Then he lifted the Kevlar around his arms, fastening it on.
Day 2; 3 pm; The Seven Hour War; The Aftermath:
He moved deeper in to the forest, in case any of the monsters came by. He sat down against a rock, pulling out his record player out, attaching the hand crank in the side. He reached in his bag, pulling out his favorite song, and placing it down on the player, turning the hand crank and watching the sky. “Oh I got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle *Jingle Jangle, As I go ridin' merrily along *Jingle Jangle." The record played, the clouds slowly moving over head. Suddenly interrupted by the booming sounds of gunfire, he gripped the record, sliding it in its case tossing it in the bag sliding it on his shoulder and folding up the record player, placing it in the bag zipping it up. Another crashing sound then an explosion sounded, just nearby. He started running, quickly checking back then looking forward again, the ground shaking with another explosion. He hops over a log landing on a rock, twisting his ankle in the slightest; but kept running with a slight limp in his right leg.
"Run!" A man’s voice yelled, it came from his side. He turned to see a man waving to him from a jeep, zooming past, then slowing down slightly in front of him, but still moving.
"Get On!" He yelled, Charlie quickly diving for the jeep, missing the grip he slammed in to the ground, blanking out.
Day 4; The Seven Hour War; The Recovery:
He slowly sat up; his bag sitting on the bed beside him the two men lay across from him in beds. He slowly stood sliding his bag on, He checked his pistol, the clip had three shots in it, and someone used it. He wandered out of the room, to be greeted by an older man.
"Oh, you are up? I don't think you should be moving yet. Quickly, get back to bed!" The man ordered, pointing to the door. Charlie shook his head slowly, attempting to push past the man, walking for the door.
"I said, BACK TO YOUR ROOM!" The man yelled in a sudden rage, charging at Charlie, swinging his fist to meet the side of his face. Charlie jolted back, the fist sliding in front of his nose, he gripped the pistol on his belt lifting it, planning to threaten the man, his finger slipped on the trigger, whoever used it had left the safety off. Bang. That was his Third kill.
The other men quickly ran out, stopping in front of the blood stained floor, the old man lying dead on the ground, his white coat stained red in multiple spots.
"What happened?" The one man asked, spotting the pistol in Charlie’s hand.
"You killed him!" The man on the left said. Quickly he ran at Charlie, attempting to grab the pistol.
"Wait!" He screamed pulling the pistol back; his pupils were dilated, nearly covering his eyes in a wall of blackness. He sat there, shaking, two bullets lying on the ground on either side of him.
The men looked at him, then at each other, slowly backing off.
"What happened?" The one man repeated. Slowly, Charlie explained how the man attacked him.
"Oh, it was self defense then! Don't feel responsible!" The one man said, bending down trying to re-assure him.
"It was my fault...” He paused, wiping the old man’s blood from his forehead.
“He attacked you what were you suppos-" The man's voice cuts off as gun shots sound behind him, he quickly looks up, the one man lay dead on the ground, his hand over the old man, the other man has a hole in his cheek, he stares at Charlie for a moment, before dropping to the ground face first in the blood. Charlie jolted around to be met with the hilt of a pistol.
Once again, he blacked out.
Day ? ? ?; The Seven Hour War; Punishment:
Slowly he opened his eyes, his arms restrained, his pistol still on his belt, his bag on the floor beside him, he was back in his bed. He tried to scream out as the pain in his cheeks awoke. He struggled against the binds, slamming up, ripping off the bandages from his mouth, rushing to mirror on the edge of the yellow room. Someone had cut his cheeks. (He had a Glasgow smile, Google it (Not for the weak of heart)) He screamed out in pain, the cuts on his cheeks had been stitched up, but would never heal over. He dropped to the ground for a moment, sobbing. A loud bang came from the other room, sounded like someone bumping in to something. Quickly he grabbed his bag and pulled the pistol from his belt, whoever cut him had loaded it with the two bullets. He looked around slowly, it may be a trap, either that or whoever cut him is playing with his brain. The intercoms boomed on. "Are you up? I hope you are! My pets have come to play; you have two shots, good luck." The voice sounded female, and painfully quirky. He lifted the pistol, the door shaking; he aimed, flicking off the safety. The door slammed open as a small tan crab-like creature sprinted through the room, diving up at Charlie; quickly he aimed taking a shot, the head crab jolting out of the air, yellow blood splattering across the walls. He lowered the gun, breathing out slightly, letting down his guard. He heard screeching again, he looked down, noticing a single bullet strapped to the creature with a piece of tape. He bent down, pulling it off, loading the bullet in the gun.
"That's one down, one to go, this one is feisty!" The speakers boomed again. He lifted the gun, walking slowly to the door, turning and looking out to the small dark room, the head crab rushing across the wood panels, slightly larger looking then the last one. He aimed, taking a shot before the head crab jumped, missing, the bullet hit the plank beside the head crab; it jolted to its left, and then continued at Charlie. He lifted the gun again, taking a small breath and crouching down, placing his arm under the gun like he saw in the movies. The head crab jumped, he shot, it hit the side of the head crab, the bullet taped to it fell to the ground, and the head crab fell off balance and flew past Charlie. He rushed over grabbing the bullet off the ground, pushing the clip down, dropping the bullet in and reloading, taking aim at the crab. It turned, staying still for a second, Charlie shot, killing the crab.
He dropped to the ground, the gun landing beside him, empty. He wiped his forehead taking a deep breath.
"Well, you are free to go! The door is behind you." The voice sounded upset, and slightly angered. He stood, grabbing the empty gun, sliding it on his belt and moved his shoulder, lifting the bag higher up, heading for the door. He walked outside, slowly looking down the streets of the city area, he asked a man jolting past where he was. The man simply responded. "District Six."
What will these authorizations give your character in regards to perks or defects?PerksThe ability to host a radio station, and play music on it (RP music, they can youtube it if they want to listen.)
Kevlar vest, which will provide protection.
Empty gun, can be used to intimidate anyone trying to attack or steal from him. (Roleplay weapon, I don't need the model/weapon.)
CD's/Records provide music to play.
CD player/Record player provide the ability to play the CD's/Records.
Orange Backpack can provide a certain unique essence to my character, and is large enough to carry the records and CD's and the Players.
DefectsSlower movement when carrying the equipment around.
The weapon may make him seen as a threat.
The glasgow smile will make some people avoid him, thinking he is ugly or thinking of him as a threat.
Must take good care of the records and CD's.
Cannot go in to D1 unless he leaves his items behind, which is highly risky.
People may try and rob him for his Kevlar.
If the Combine find his frequency they may detain/amputate him.
Due to the past events that happened during the Seven Hour War, it has left him Semi-Psycotic and he sometimes spaces off, feeling guilty for the people he killed.
What do you plan to do with these perks/defects?Open a radio station for the enjoyment of others to listen to, and speak my opinion to the open public.
Will anyone else need these auths? (If so, list OOC and IC name(s))No.
Which server does this apply for?City
Extra Notes (optional):
Garry's Mod
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