Bolt's Character Sheet

[Bolt]

Name: (No record)

Alias: Bolt, Pops

Homeworld: Assumed Coruscant

 

Species: Human

Age: 46

Height: 6' 2" (1.88m)

Weight: 220 lbs. (99.8 kg)

Hair: Black, Short

Eyes: Dark Green

Sex: Male

 

Equipment

 

[*]Modified Slugthrower Pistol (x2) - 8 cylinder revolver, Depleted Uranium standard rounds, Phosphorus available

[*]Charric Rifle

[*]Wrist Mounted Plasma Projector

[*]Telescopic Baton - Electric Discharge

 

[*]Basic Mandalorian Neo Crusader Model Armor (Painted Black) (Will be updated as materials are collected IC)

 

[*]Comm, Datapad, Basic Med Kit, 5,000 credits, seemingly endless cigarettes, laser lighter.

 

Faction Information

 

Non-Force User

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Faction Affiliation: Black Sun - Deathwatch

 

History

 

Known Skills: Marksmanship (Pistols, Rifles), Combat Armor Use, Explosives, Mechanical Engineering (Weapon & Armor crafting/repair, Ship design/repair, Cybernetics)

 

Background: A Mandalorian long ago, years of war and struggle had taken their toll on him. He wasn't just good on the battlefield, he was good at war, raising to heights few of his kin ever saw. But eventually the world had had enough of his conquest. Peacetime was a ruinous time for him and the warrior quickly discovered he was good at nothing but war. He felt empty inside, devoid of anyone or anything in his life to give him a reason to keep up the effort. He fell to drink, lost for who knows how many years. His time was nearly up, readyand willing to throw in the towel, when a street urchin tried to do the job for him with a thin, tiny little excuse of a knife. The kid was sickly thin, and apparently had no one to show her even the simplest things like how to stand when looking down a rifle or how to track an enemy across a dozen clicks without loosing ground. All the things his father and brothers taught him when hewas just as small.

 

For whatever reason the prospect of raising this girl made his miserable life seem a little less miserable. It at least let him focus on something else for a little while beyond his own poor excuse for existence. But a little while turned into much longer than either of themcould have guessed as months turned to years and this little girl turned into a young woman.

 

A particularly bad 'mental health' day brought him deeper into the bottle than usual one evening. He wanted to be alone and stew in guilty memories, but she wantedto do what she always did when he got like this, and make him train with her at least until he either sobered up or collapsed for exhaustion. That day, however, he seemed to lose all the precious self restraint he held for his small little warrior, and one fateful blow to the back during their spar snapped her spine in twain.

 

The rest felt like a blur. The hospital, her face as the doctors told her she'd never walk without procedures and equipment that would cost a thousand times more than they had ever seen at one time, and the weeks of her own misery, so poignantly exact to his own. He couldn't let her mire in the same oppressive hell he spent so long in. Not after he had spent so long telling her she was capable, worthy to stand against any other warrior if she just had the will to see it through. Now, motionless in her cot, wordless but to fall to silent sobs when she thought he wasn't there to notice. He went to work in the hours she slept, tearing a warpath through the bowls of Coruscant to find what he needed. Piece by piece he rigged together the bottom half of a suit of armor that could return her mobility. It took a lot of trial and error, a procedure or two to get the neural implant right, but with each progressive step forward he could see life and purpose return to his little pupil.

 

Over the years since then he has been going wherever her warrior spirit leads her, always there to update his work as she grows in size and offer whatever training and advice she needs along the way. And just as he promised her, he hasn't had a drop to drink since.