Post by William Breene on Aug 26, 2013 22:54:47 GMT -5
WILLIAM BREENE
AGE: 27
GENDER: Male
NICKNAMES: Willy, Or Will for short.
MEMBER GROUP: Spacer
BRIEF HISTORY:
William Connor Breene was born to two lifelong spacers, Betty and Connor Breene. The two hooked up on their home planet of Beylix. Their hometown was a mix of aspiring city, and half functioning backwater. The inhabitants were mostly distant descendants of the Irish of Earth that was. Both Betty and Connor held onto a hint of an accent even decades after their escape from the planet. Connor was a well trained and highly experienced pilot, managing just barely to scrape enough credit together to buy a ship on a pretty unforgiving loan. His new bride ditched her job at a manufacturing plant and took to the sky with the man of her dreams. Work was hard to come by honestly, but they tried. They welcomed a child to their little crew on their somewhat "minimalist" ship.
Born in the cargo-hold of "The Dublin", young William had the rare distinction of being a born spacer in the most literal sense. His mother was always handy around the ship, keeping her running as best she could, and dad stayed behind the wheel for the most part, but they all had to learn to cover each other's ass. Equal time was given to traditional home-schooling alongside taking advantage of his size and crawling inside the works of the engine to help pull engine coils that had jammed, and steering from his father's lap. But things were never easy, and earlier than they'd have liked, they had to put a gun in his hand, lest somebody tried to take advantage of them. Reality came at them, and hard as William entered his teens. War came, and so did their debt holders. Interest had accumulated, and the best paying jobs demanded they pick a side and start running supplies.
Their small, and hard to spot ship became incredibly useful smuggling and running blockades for the independents. Dropping supplies, William took his first life at the tender age of 17, when a Alliance patrol ambushed them as they made a supply drop, barely escaping with their lives and payday. The next year, their luck ran out, and while running their toughest Alliance blockade thus far, they took heavy damage, and crash landed in the ocean. William was pulled to shore, luckily by Browncoats, unluckily, he was alone. Orphaned, the last survivor of his clan, he took to the hills and joined a group of Browncoat partisans, never formally joining the Army, never giving his real name.
The end came, but Breene had taken up with a rather stubborn group of fighters. He managed to stay on the loose, operating partly as a pilot/wheelman, but as things got worse, more and more he ended up becoming the trigger man. Finally, at the age of 25, he was detained with faulty papers and a cargo hold full of disassembled firearms during a random search & screen operation. But with no digital paper trail to follow, and his refusal to divulge anything other than his name and date of birth, he was sentenced to ten years for the smuggling charge. But just a few weeks ago, a human rights group picked him out of a group of people they were lobbying for as "political prisoners". Recently released, William is looking for work, and just about any will do. He considers himself retired from his life as a rebel. For now.
FACE CLAIM: James McAvoy
EYE COLOR: Blue
HAIR COLOR: Brown
OTHER FEATURES: A tattoo accompanied with Gelic script of his family's ship "Dublin".
GENERAL: Will is quick with a joke, or a remark. He's always got something to add. Even when it is obnoxious, or ill timed. He's been through a lot and has come to the conclusion that to stay sane through it all is to laugh or be driven to homicidal madness. While a bit of a smartass, he has an endearing way of disarming people. He knows when to smile and let the hint of an accent inherited from his parents creep in. He is fiercely loyal to those who prove themselves to him, and he yearns to find a place to call home again in the black. He has an deep distrust of anyone associated past or present with the Alliance for obvious reasons.
But of course, his grinning, jester like demeanor hides an inordinate amount of pain and anger that he's bottled up for years. When pressed, he is shockingly violent, in an "all or nothing" kind of way. He doesn't look it, but he's killed more men than he'll admit, and he has no compunction about doing it again.
WEAKNESSES:
-Impatient: Whether on the job, or in transit to another planet, or even in combat, the man can't sit still. After 2 years in the clink, and for long stretches in isolation, he can't stand the sound of his own inner monologue and will banter with anyone within earshot, or fidget. In a fight he's prone to reckless acts of self-endangerment, even when unnecessary.
-Technophobe: While he's lived his whole life on a ship, around guns, engines and all manner of folk that come and go, he can scarcely work a cortex interface. If a heist requires any manner of computer interaction, you'd best have him be "lookout". As he puts it "computers make me violent".
-Mild PTSD: From an amalgam of experiences in the war, his parents' death, and his time in Alliance prison, he carries many psychological scars from the things he'd seen and done. Talk of the war makes him profoundly uncomfortable and his dreams often bring flashbacks. It's not uncommon for him to stalk the halls of a ship rather than attempt to sleep, and just pop a fistfull of synthetic caffeine come the morning.
STRENGTHS:
Born Spacer: Will's been turning wrenches, and steering ships since he could crawl. Experience from his time on the Dublin and his time as a Partisan guerrilla, he's had many an opportunity to build on his practical experience. Neither a licensed mechanic or pilot, he's handy when you need help with either, but not quite good enough to take over either job full time.
Combat: At first only in defense of his family, and then as an underground fighter out to even scores with the Alliance, Breene has been on the giving and receiving end of a lot of violence. He's had to learn first hand how to operate all manner of weapons, but is particularly skilled with a pair of pistols. Get too close, and he's surprisingly scrappy.
Charm: It's no secret that he's a fairly handsome man, and coupled with his natural wit and hint of an accent, he's very good at talking his way out of trouble.
OTHER CHARACTERS: n/a
RP SAMPLE
"Sooo... we playin' cards or what guys?"
He chuckled lightly to himself as he tapped his cards on the table. The ruffians staring him down at the round card table weren't keen on his impatience. Acting as if he hadn't noticed, Breene continued on.
"You know what my dad always said?"
He paused only for a half beat, not waiting for the response he knew wasn't coming. The other players continued going through their decks.
"He said that you know within the first 10 seconds of looking at your hand, you know what you're going to do with it. Everything after that, you're trying to convince somebody else, or yourself."
One of them looked up to Breene with a quizzical look as he re-ordered his cards.
Holding on tight to his cards, with a look of confidence on his face, he explained.
"What he meant, is that you already know what you were going to do with that hand."
"Oh?"
The skeptical man replied.
"That's right, and so do I."
Sighing as he finished sorting his hand:
"Do you you know what I'm going to do with it?"
Smiling even more broadly, he tapped his cards lightly on the table.
"Yes... I do. You're going to go all in. You think I'm bluffing."
He eyed his cards, then Breene. He pushed his chips forward. He addressed the man by the fake name he'd given to the club's staff.
"Well, Mr. McClaine... are you bluffing?"
His face suddenly shifting to a more serious one:
"Well..."
In a slow dramatic fashion, he began to move towards his chips, but suddenly stopped, then dropped his cards on the table.
"Yep. Well, actually not really. I wasn't bluffing about my cards. I was bluffing to get you to bet big. I fold."
"What?!"
The next player at the table chimed in.
"I raise."
Breene smiled. He was so annoying his opponent forgot about the other players still in the game, and the statistical likelihood one of them wasn't bluffing, and had the cards to back it up. He stood up suddenly from his table, his hand moving towards the holsters on his hip. But looking down he saw the pistol William had already pulled from one of the two quick-draw holsters on his thighs.
"So, are you playing or not?"
