cat danny 25

I'll give you a shot as 3spc.

Accepted. You're welcome to keep any rank you had in the MI, but your medical standing will still be 3spc.

I'll give you the go-ahead for this, see what happens. Everything you need to know to get started should be either in the club page, or in the actual medical forums themselves.

stop asking me to make one now Alison J. Walcroft Character Summary Chaotic Neutral Renegade<████████ | ████████>Paragon Morale Awful<███████|██████|██████>Not Awful "But how can a man die better, than facing fearful odds; For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods?" Name: Alison Jamie Walcroft Aliases: N/A Age: 29 Birthday: January 07 Ethnicity: Caucasian Birth Planet: Terra Heritage English Hometown: Liverpool, England Gender: Female Specialization: Medical (Formerly) Height: 5.8 Forearms Weight: 8.85 Stone (124 Lbs) Build: Ectomorph Eyes: Green Hair: Blonde Skin Tone: Pale Tarot Card / A Quick Consensus The Knight of Pentacles On the positive side, the Knight of Pentacles is like a bulldog. Once he bites down, you can be sure he won't let go. He's dogged in pursuit of his goals. A hard-worker, he has tremendous stamina and dedication. Every job is always completed down to the last detail. He's careful and prudent, never wasteful. He knows the facts and is immune to false promises. On the negative side, this Knight is a bit stodgy and dull. He's not known for his playful sense of humor. Work always comes first. He tends to be inflexible and obsessive about little details. Stubborn to a fault, he refuses to give in even when wrong, something he'll never admit. He doesn't like change or risk and will always take the gloomiest view. Born free under an open sky, away from the space ports and vast cities, Alice has contained within her a particular nature of character. She bears a strong disdain against roguery, and law that protects such action; though she understands that strength can be measured in a thousand ways. She is blunt, though perhaps quiet and reserved in counsel, speaking most around trusted companions. She is accustomed to a world where written lines do not stay blades. When applicable, she adheres to codes of honor and philosophy over the written dogmas of kings and nobles, moving ever onwards with a somber resolution. To survive in the world as she may, refusing to back down to any force. It is her hope that wherever she may walk, that she may find a tale to be sung, and have her own place in it. If not for the thought of ever-lasting glory, it is some sense of righteousness and goodness that still exists inside a scarred chest. Psychology Grounded * Stoic * Practical * Open-Minded * Facetious * Ambiverted Marital Status: Unmarried Habits: Shifting Weight Between Feet Drinking Rolling Shoulders Overexplanation Hobbies: Cleaning Equipment Reading Chess Working Out Fears: Glossophobia - The fear of public speaking Likes: Things Going According To Plan Her Comrades Sticking To Protocol Practicality Dry Climates Warm Climates Dislikes: Domineering Attitudes People 'Too Good' To Fight POGs Cold Climates Degenerates People Who Shouldn't Be In The Infantry People Who Want To Be 'The Guy' Cards On The Table General Skills: Cardiovascular Conditioning Small Arms Training Long Arms Training CLS Certification Surgical Certification Advanced Medical Certification Criminal Record: N/A Anything Else: Alice's manner of speaking can be attributed to Received Pronunciation. Alice is Ambidextrous Alice has one sibling. Alice's family has a long military history. Alice's father was an executive for a Terran pharmaceutical company. Alice is easily wound up through bad or boorish decision-making.

Both accepted. I'll see to adding you guys to the roster when I can.

I'll accept you on the grounds that you don't live up to your history of trolling missions. Please don't let me down for throwing you a bone.

Accepted.

September 1st, 2296 Hatton Hill Liverpool, England, Terra IV "People die when they go to war, and that's why I want you to stay. Won't you please stay? For me," she asked you. There were times when Maria made your head spin, but this was the last time you would ever see your little sister again. Granted, you hadn't known that at the time. Maybe if you had, you would have treated her differently, told her how much she meant to you. How much you would miss her, or even how sorry you were for the argument you'd had the night prior. You abstained from telling her and your parents until it was too late for them to stop you. You told them Friday that you would be leaving on Monday. It was a Sunday evening, and you had eleven hours to go until your life would change forever. There you sat, counting down the hours with your baby sister, a bottle stolen from your father's cabinet and the most wonderful sunset you'd ever seen in all of your years. From your book bag you withdrew your favorite, the hard-covered Lays of Ancient Rome you'd paid an arm and a leg for when you were in high school. For once, you'd finally gone through with something that terrified you with preparation alone, never mind forcing yourself to do it when the time actually came. You flipped to the twenty-eighth verse of the lay of Horatius. "I'm going because I feel that there's an obligation to uphold. Not only to our family, but to our Federation," you tried to explain to her. Why in the seven hells were you such a screw-up? You tried to excuse your selfish desire to be some sort of a hero by lying to the person who loved you more than life, by cascading them with a bunch of regurgitated moral philosophical garbage that you yourself didn't quite believe in. You wanted to protect her, you wanted to shelter her because in all your vanity - her appraisal was the only one you'd ever cared for. You now believe that in doing so, you pushed away the only person to whom you were number one. You were a two to everyone but her, and now you're a two to everyone left. "I still don't understand why it needs to be -you-, why not someone else?" Because I don't want it to be someone else, you thought. You were afraid of what she might think if you told her that you wanted to be a war hero, like the men and women in the text books. That in all your pride and vanity, you wanted someone to remember your name. "Because if everyone thought like that, then there would be no-one to stand up," you told her. It pained you almost physically to lie to her face. That was the first step you took down a path that she could no longer follow. A road filled with sins you would carry with you to your grave. You pressed your finger to the verse in question and read to her for the last time. "Then out spoke brave Horatius, the Captain of the gate; "For every man upon this Earth, death cometh soon or late. But how can a man die better, than facing fearful odds? For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods."" And so, it was with those words in your heart that you went to war. The last thing that you remember of your time with Maria was just before you stepped into the shuttle to leave for basic. The final exchange of words with someone who had not yet known you'd let them down, then and always. "What happens if it's you?" she asked. "What will you say then, if you ever see Death?" "Not today," you promised her. Not today.

There's no meaning to what we do when we go into slipspace every other day for the sake of mission diversity. We should pick a system (those groups of like 7 planets at a time from mass effect) and be there for like an ooc month doing things there, and then the admins can all work around that. I've seen it done successfully several times and know that it is definitely a functioning idea so long as the admin team is willing to work together. With five minutes of creativity, you can also tack in more than one enemy. For instance. Drop into X system on the aqz border. One planet is taken over by bugs, it was a mining colony for precious minerals. Do bug missions. Neighbouring colony has an uprising bc they don't feel safe under the govt regime because their sister planet was taken by bugs, so they riot and do some civil unrest bullshit. Now we suddenly have organized seps with a cause and bugs nearby without crossing half the galaxy. Now we can tack in pirates or smugglers taking advantage of this if you want to mix up the bad guys, because criminals and profiteers prosper during civil conflicts. Want to tack in a plot twist? The coup is funded by the guy in charge of the planetary defense corps so he can initiate and establish his own government and turn the planet independent. These are just top of my head ideas, but it just goes to show.how simple the event creation process really is and how there's really no excuse as to why we can't be smaller scale. If we were more focused on something specific, then everyone involved in these events feels like it is more than just filler garbage that means absolutely nothing. Ily btw bospy

I think the main issue that needs to be addressed out of all of this is the inconsistencies that arise from the "event runner is king" rule. There needs to be some kind of universal standard - and I think that some of our older administrators need to take extra steps to mentor some of the others a little more directly. I notice a lot of bickering happens behind closed doors but then we have the same recurring issues because these problema never tend to come up in conversation. For the first time in a long time, I think I can successfully say "I think I really like the admins on sst.net", I just think that they need help. While I'm willing to acknowledge that my post may have been worded a little harshly, I don't think for a second it wasn't a necessary stir of the pot. Fixing this is actually very simple. The admins who push out solid, quality roleplay and events should be put in a position that allows them some form of authority over new admins because of their seniority. Maybe not for server wide decisions, but they should be able to look over the shoulders of new admins and be capable of directing them without question in order to maximize the efficiency of the newer party's learning period. To name a few, I think the following administrators deserve recognition for their efforts, and should be listened to by all newer staff members; @Mr Marijuana; I used to think Durango suffered from "too big" syndrome when it came to his events. In the months I've been away, his ability to push forward both excellent rp as well as events has increased almost three fold. He knows what he's doing and I couldn't ask for a better xa. @Tony; Tony probably puts forth my favorite missions on the server. They're usually meticulous and very interesting. He displays very good judgement and improvises when necessary while keeping a believable atmosphere. I think that anyone who struggles to portray a certain element should be coached by him, be-it horror, suspense or an overwhelming sense of "we are probably all going to die", Tony is able to accurately do all of these things. @Cronk; No one can tell me bigger=better so long as Cronk exists, even if he's upside down. While very simple and often mundane in goal, that is precisely what makes his events so enjoyable. We aren't out saving the galaxy or doing any fancy shit, he treats us like a rifle platoon who do rifle platoon things and I love that. There are also underlying nuances to his missions that tend to give everyone a small role to play so that they all feel incorporated and engaged into whatever we might be doing. Everyone please appreciate the simple things. @F r a n c o; Like Tony, your style is more grimdark than the usual suspects in my original post and I love you for that. When you and Tony team up for events, I go so far as to stop what I'm doing just so I can come experience it. I think that you tend to have very good ideas and would act as a very good filter with the rest of these names when it comes to idea management. You have a good sense of what too much, or too little is and I appreciate that. I feel like speaking to one of these people before you run an event, or asking them for their input during the brainstorming phase (If I'm not getting ahead of myself and we actually brainstorm) would go a long way for this community as a whole. No one is going to get better if someone with a good track record isn't telling them what they need to hear. Player feedback is always good, but no matter how many times I tell people about their recurring mistakes, they keep on happening every other drop. Help me, good admins. You're my only hope.

@Xalphox @Mr Marijuana @Tonic

Hi, all. I just wanted to express some thoughts of mine regarding how we run human enemy events on the server. I feel like the administration team - namely the 'B and C event teams' need to start going the extra length in actually writing down some of their ideas and reading them out loud to someone else before they run their event, because h'oh boy, do I feel like an sst vet when I can say "Boy, I've sure seen some shit." There are a lot of major inconsistencies when it comes to execution compared to the setup. The people hosting events for us seem very intent on telling us how bleak and depressing the environment is, though do absolutely nothing to try and portray this in a way that's either compelling or at least partially realistic. We always have these shitty ragtag groups of guys who are described as low in number and disorganized, yet tend to do things that no militia or informal fighting group ever would. We just sit and fend off wave after wave of npcs with rifles, and look out for turrets and mines. Now let me tell you why that's bullshit. i. Ragtag militia groups do not have tanks, helicopters, tac fighters and missile launchers. This shit is neither just laying around, nor is it available to just 'buy'. Even if it was all bought, who the fuck is funding the 9000 different groups? Make one big one and actually work together as admins and coordinate how these guys work. You have admin forums. Use them. ii. The admins tend to oversaturate numbers when it comes to these kinds of events. If you're fighting a galactic superpower like the federation, you need to look at it from a perspective similar to star wars. A resistance cell should be maybe 300 guys at most in the entire cell. Especially since we mostly see them on colonies and other random planets nobody gives a shit about. When you don't have numbers on your side, you need to be working with tactics to compensate for the fact that you can't fight conventionally against someone with better everything than you. I also wanted to point out that admins running at you with sawn off shotguns is total bullshit. Play your event chars with the proper mentality and people will stop calling you the B and C admin team. You know who you are. If you don't, then just look at who I give shit to in TS after a Tommy Wiseau event happens. iii. Make the atmosphere realistic to what you want to portray. There's currently no distinction between any rebel groups. Bandits, pirates, they all act the same in your events. Bad guys with guns. We should be seeing distictions here depending on what they are and what the purpose of their group is. Pirates should be stealing and raiding things. Deploy us to a hijacked ship, a freight yard, an asteroid base. Make muggers mug civs only to be caught red handed by the infantry, instead of a bunch of "bandits" who just show up with better "ragtag" equipment than us, who wage a ground war against the MI because they're just really hungry, angry civs. Have us race against the clock while they're drilling or trying to steal something of value. Actual pirate things. If they're deserters, they should act like soldiers or militiamen from a planetary defense force. Give your bad guys a goal and the server might start taking them seriously. At present, I feel like I can speak for the majority when I say "we don't give a shit about what's going on in your event because it doesn't matter at the end of the day." It's all SSDD stuff that every one has seen before. Work together and make something meaningful. This sums up my feelings for the moment. P.s You have admins and players stating that several (2 specifically) non admins run better events than your 'usual suspects admins'. This is a problem. Recognize talent and apprehend garbage. Put it in the dumpster. You wouldn't leave spoiled food on the countertop. So why would you continue to deliver a shitty service when you have better alternatives? Or at the very least, better people who are already admins. P.P.s. The admins who I speak with about this regularly need to step the fuck up and actually coach their colleagues. You agree that shit is bad but will not take steps to fix it. The XAs should also have quality control.

October 26th, 2291 Halekulani Hotel Honolulu, Hawaii, Terra III The scent of the burning incense candle in the hotel room, the wiry feeling that made you melt into the bed like a melted sack of something. It was the second-last day of autumn break for your university. You somehow found yourself dragged along with a handful of your friends to Hawaii for the entirety of that break - your parents could all afford it, after-all. The party was over and everyone had gone back to their rooms. There were six of you and three rooms, which meant that you were staying with someone, one Nolan Rexford. He was your best friend through Uni' and you don't think you would have traded him for anyone else. You were a thing, back then. Granted, your father would never approve given that he was not a citizen, nor did he plan to be. Redundant. Your father wasn't in Hawaii, and you weren't about to tell him. Your friends were an awful influence on you, you thought - but you didn't care. A twenty-something studying to be a councilor for children, how noble. For that night you wanted to be something different than a goody-two-shoes, something more. That night you were 'Just Alice'. You didn't think that a few glasses of wine, or a cigarette would do that, though. You wanted to try something bold, something new. Mushrooms were new to you, and oh my goodness did you ever feel that after you ate one or three. The room was hazy and you felt dizzy whenever you moved your head to look around - goodness you, you couldn't stop giggling. Oh, the irony. You wanted to be bold and daring, and instead - you wound up looking like more of a schoolgirl than you usually did. You were neither alcohol tolerant nor particularly resilient to the effects of the bland-tasting fungus. Fade out, open your eyes a few minutes later to Nolan looking down at you. "Dance with me, Allie," he called to you. You weren't sure which one of you had the stupidest look on your face. He had this goofy grin that made you want to kiss him, and your cheeks were starting to hurt from the fact that you'd been smiling for almost an hour now. With difficulty standing and your skin tingling in anticipation when he wrapped you in a hug to help you up, you put your arms around him as he reached to turn up the stereo. Nolan's chest was warm against your cheek, through the t-shirt that he was wearing. He reminded you somewhat of an old flame, with the fact that he liked to dance. That old flame had gone off to war and you'd never heard from him again. You missed him sometimes, and now that you were vulnerable and those intrusive thoughts returned, you let out a pathetic little sniffle as your eyes began to water. "What's wrong, Alice?" Nolan asked. He didn't use pet names around you when you were upset. Your third-wheel had silently exited at some point during the kerfuffle, so-to not draw any attention away from your moment of intimacy with your partner. "Why're you crying?" "I don't know," you replied. You weren't sure if you were a liar, or not. You still aren't. He reached down to kiss your head before scooping you up into his arms. You always did like that, the smothering feeling of a partner taking advantage of you like that. He set you down and moved to loom over you, looking down with those big blue eyes. If you died right then and there, you would have been satisfied. You'd never looked into an ocean before, after-all. When we have a drink or three, seems it always ends in a hazy shower scene.

December 16th, 2297 Operation: Red Harvest Somewhere In The Nomad Province, Port MacArthur Outskirts, New Salem II The final thing you remembered was wrapping the last of Claire's injuries. He'll be fine, you told yourself, it was everyone else that you had to worry about now. You were concerned for the marauder who lay adjacent to you on the litter. You liked her, in a friendly sort of way. There were only two marauders that you actually had some semblance of care for, and she was one of them. You were also just as concerned for the platoon. So many thoughts ran through your head, that you could have sworn that were you able to, you would have drowned in them. Suddenly as you stood up, you experienced tunnel vision and the world around you seemed to slow. At first you were petrified for the briefest of moments, and then you felt your knees buckle. You took hold of the wall for assistance and looked off towards the remnants of the scattered platoon you'd managed to recover. A few familiar faces, a few not-so. Your vision began to swim, your stomach turned and twisted itself akin to a sponge being ruthlessly wrung out into a bucket. You took a quick ACE, though only managed to discern that your heart was racing and you were covered in blood. Your whole body ached and writhed. You were exhausted, you hurt, and you wanted to go home. You were accustomed to being covered in it, and it usually wasn't yours. That adrenaline-fueled kick that was the afterglow of combat left you wiry and doped up enough to have missed that stinging sensation that would have plagued your arm, had only you been hit minutes earlier. All that time; through all that running, that carrying; you had been bleeding to death, and you were too concerned with everyone else to realize it. You stupid, stupid girl. Like a photograph to a flame, everything turned to a smoky haze and the last thing you felt was your body hit the ground in an unceremonious 'thud'. You'd made your last mistake, you thought. You heard voices, shouting - though you weren't so sure who they were, or what they were screaming about. Your consciousness wavered and everything faded to black. It was an uncomfortable sentiment that you'd only experienced a couple of times, yet it made that sense of dread return every time it happened. It wasn't a quick thing, the fading. You watched as first your peripherals darkened - and then like a tunnel slowly closing, the rest of your vision began to gradually lose pigment until nothing but a black haze remained. You weren't sure if you were hallucinating or dreaming. Both, perhaps. Dying is a funny thing, you thought; Is that what we were calling it, now? You were in your room with Maria. She was two years your younger sibling, and you don't think that there could have been anything else in the world you loved more than that girl, vain as she was - and even sometimes inconsiderate. "What do you mean, you're enlisting?" Maria demanded to you. She looked flabbergasted, despite the fact that she was a twenty-something and not particularly stupid either. "I mean exactly what I just said," you replied. It wasn't the last time the two of you spoke, but the last you'd argued. Your father was a Citizen and would not leave anything for either of his daughters were they not to enlist and acquire a citizenship. Maria refused, you obliged. For the first time in your life, you outdid the favorite of the family and managed to make your parents prouder than she ever could have.Vanity was your sister's vice, and you had always considered yourself humble. Which - frankly, you found ironic; because humble people don't tend to look for the good things, or they downplay them. Redundant. You figured you were pretty terrible at dying, if you had the time to consciously correct that little voice in your head, your ever-present conscience when it didn't say things the way it should have. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps things simply passed much slower when you were trapped within your own mental prison. Your own cage. You couldn't move your arms, you couldn't move your legs. It was a smothering sensation, that darkness. As your mind swam, you clung to a small shard of hope. Something you'd read in a poem, once. Deep into that darkness peering, long I sat there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. You'd nearly drowned as a child, and this was the closest thing you'd ever felt. Your lungs burned with smoke and ash, you could feel your slowing heartbeat drum in your ears. Your fingers moved. You wanted to scream. Your eyes finally opened, and you saw someone lingering above you. You weren't so sure who that someone was, but oh, the desire to call out to them. Help me. Say it. Nothing, but you wanted to scream. You wanted someone, anyone; you didn't care whom. Please. Death had its fingers wrapped tightly around your throat. You couldn't speak, you couldn't cry out no matter how hard you tried. Your pleas for help - or perhaps even for mercy were silenced, snuffed out by the creeping entity that came for every man. Your duty as someone who saves lives for a living came to mind. How many times you had given the finger to the maiden in black, how many times you've loomed over a fellow soldier and shouted in the face of death; pulling them from her grasp. "Not today."

I would like to try and write these at least semi-regularly. March 11th, 2286 Belair House London, England, Terra I "Say something, you stupid girl," you told yourself. You wanted to. Oh, how badly you wanted to say something to avoid looking like a bumbling idiot. "Hi," you blurted out with no semblance of poise. You spent an hour practicing introductions. "Hi James. How are you?" or "James! You look very nice tonight, it's such a pleasure to see you again." You didn't do any of them. 'Hi'? Who says hi when you're at a ball with someone? Idiot, or so you thought. He smiled at you, and you found that genuinely surprising. The gentle incense of spring, the lingering smell of wine and cigars; You never would have imagined it would be this colorful for your first ball. With James Royce, nevertheless. Your father was good friends with his father, which meant it was only proper that you accompany one-another to the Winter Ball. He was two years older than you, and oh my goodness you could have sworn that he was the most beautiful boy you'd ever laid eyes on. He was your friend, you'd gone for coffee once or twice and he'd never done anything that would have dissuaded you from being so crass as to ask him to dance. So why didn't you? You didn't because that effervescent feeling in your chest, the one that you got when you looked at him? -- That was because you were completely, and utterly petrified. Terrified. You were a mousy little thing, when you were younger. Thank the maker it never stuck. You're not sure when that went away, boot camp maybe? "Well, hello to you too, miz' Walcroft. Looking marvelous, per usual." Why did his compliments make you rosy? You weren't dizzy now too, were you? This boy drove you crazy, in your angsty adolescent state and you had absolutely no idea why other than the fact that his teeth looked so damn kissable when he smiled, or that his jaw was firm and gorgeous. Do something, stop standing there and looking at him! Anything? No. You opted for a second "Hi." Just a hi. Screw-up. Luckily for you, your date wasn't a dim-witted coward. He asked you to dance, and you had to do a double take just to make sure he was speaking to you. Of course he was! Could you not tell that, that young man was head over heels for you? Of course not. You were seventeen and frankly, the dumbest intelligent person you have ever known. You accepted his proposal and got close with one-another. He had an overwhelming scent to him, though you couldn't tell the nuances between cologne and aftershave. Why did things have to be so complicated, sometimes? Granted - you had three different forks at the dinner table. Your friends from school looked like neanderthals when they tried to discern the three, which must have meant that this wasn't so bad. Just new water for you, right? At least, that's what you would have liked to tell yourself. It was the first time you felt someone touch you around the waist in a way that wasn't some sort of friendly hug. You were taught to dance at a young age, but that all went out the window when you felt how warm his hands where. Like an ape, you threw your arms around him for a big hug and just sort of wobbled back and forth to the sound of the music. You probably caught more than a few eyes. What a time to be alive, the eldest daughter of Everett Walcroft couldn't dance when it came time to actually do so with the son of Marcus Royce. You felt dizzy. Perhaps it was from the champagne, perhaps it was from the fact that you were embarrassed - or maybe that you finally got to hold the young man you've admired since childhood. It was probably a mix of all three, admittedly. The room spun, he spun you and then before you knew it - James bent you back and pressed his lips against yours. You weren't sure how long it lasted, but it was long enough to make the adolescent you swoon. What a time to be alive thought the younger Alice.

I raise you

Why would we ever need space marines when we have Sly Marbo??????????

OOC SECTION STEAM NAME / ALIASES: nazz / cat danny 25 STEAM ID: STEAM_0:0:18393584 SERVER TIME: On and off for roughly a year. ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE: 10 yrs. MEDICAL ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE: Halo RP, Starship Troopers RP, HL2RP, etc. AVAILABILITY: Varies IC SECTION NAME: Walcroft, J. Alison AGE: 28 RACE: Caucasian SEX: Female HEIGHT: 5'8'' WEIGHT: 123 Lbs BLOOD TYPE: AB- LEVEL OF EDUCATION: College CRIMINAL RECORD: No crimes to report. MEDICAL RECORD: No injuries to report. DATE OF ENLISTMENT: October 11th, 2295

Quinn E. Caffrey Character Summary Chaotic Neutral Renegade<████████ | ████████>Paragon Morale Awful<███████|██████|██████>Not Awful Name: Quinn Elizabeth Caffrey Aliases: Caff Age: 25 Birthday: May 04 Ethnicity: Caucasian Birth Planet: Terra Heritage English Hometown: Whitechapel, England Gender: Female Specialization: Psi-Ops Specialist Height: 5.9 Forearms Weight: 9.6 Stone (135 Lbs) Build: Ectomorph Eyes: Steel Blue Hair: Brown Skin Tone: Pale Tarot Card / A Quick Consensus The Seven of Cups A psychic and lady - at least to some degree - with an attitude that could only be described as 'in your face'. With a degenerative and narcissistic take on life, Quinn finds herself out of touch with many people as a result of her crude nature. A drinker, a smoker and a mix of humor bordering brooding with a hint of dark sarcasm. A woman with a care greater for her men than her own well-being mixed with an all-business attitude in the field. Despite this, she has little care for the well-being of those she does not know, and one may find her praise hard to acquire, given that she's the personification of critical. Rapscallion, vagabond, bitch; these were but a few words to describe Quinn. Standing at roughly five foot nine, the young lady was of average height for her gender. Her body was composed of smooth skin marred over with the occasional scar. Her body could have been described by a physician as having an ectomorphic body type - one typically ascribed to dancers, gymnasts, athletes or troubadours. Framing a pale complexion was a tuft of dark hair that came down to roughly jaw length. Her shoulders sat broadly; also bearing long limbs, and even wider hips. Her jaw was sharp, her cheekbones high that contrasted a pointed chin, and swooping hawk-like nose. Sat in their sockets were two grey-blue eyes that have watched in admiration the exploits and glories of bold deeds, both within her family and without. She was left with straight and distinctive eyelashes, as well as thick eyebrows. Quinn was not very hygienic, with her front teeth stained yellow and crooked, poorly-groomed hair, and with minimal discoloration under the eyes or about the cheeks. Her voice carries a low, hoarse contralto, which compliments well her joyous expressions of merriment, or accompanies hoarse shouting that might follow the drawing of a weapon. Psychology Lax * Degenerative * Foul-Mannered * Open-Minded * Facetious * Extrovert Marital Status: Unmarried Habits: Smoking Drinking Rolling Shoulders Slang Vocabulary Hobbies: Cleaning Equipment Reading Eating Psychic Workouts Learning New Things Fears: Glossophobia - The fear of public speaking Likes: Openness Psychics Liberal Thinking Emotionally Stable People Breaking Protocol Damp or Cold Climate Realistic Perception / Ideology Spicy Food Alcohol & Tobacco Moto People Dislikes: Protocol Sticklers Heavy Emotional Baggage Overly Friendly People Overly Macho People Domineering Attitudes People Who Shouldn't Be In The Infantry Overachievers People Who Want To Be 'The Guy' History & Misc General Skills: Cardiovascular Conditioning Small Arms Training Heavy Weapons Training Basic Psychic Ability Proficiency Intermediate Psychic Ability Proficiency Advanced Psychic Ability Proficiency CLS Certification Face Claim: Kaya Scodelario Criminal Record: Public Intoxication (x4), Drug Possession (x3), DUI (x4 - License Revoked), Solicitation (x1) Anything Else: Quinn's accent depicts her being of cockney origin. Quinn is Ambidextrous Quinn is an only child. Quinn has a long family history of psychics. Quinn has a minor case of resting bitch face. Quinn has a tattoo sleeve. Awards & Commendations: Purple Heart Meritorious Unit Medal Meritorious Service Medal Distinguished Service Medal General Specialization Ribbon Mobile Infantry Service Ribbon Mobile Infantry Veterancy Ribbon Mobile Infantry Specialization Ribbon Theatre Ribbons: Operation HELIOS Operation λambda Operation Dawn Operation Restoring Hope Operation Breadbasket Operation Holland Road Relations Stole from McMann - Friend - Liked - Approval - Acquaintance - Neutral - Mixed - Disliked - Hated - █████ (#'d Left-to-Right) 1. Thoughts of you professionally 2. Thoughts of you in general 3. Relationship Status 4. Interest in you (Attraction, Amiable/Friendly, None, Curiosity, Professional, Secretive) 5. Do you have a personal use to Quinn? (Yes, No) / † = Deceased / ® = Retired/Transferred Notes; █████ W. Saint-Claire: █████ ® D. Elswood: █████ † K. Layland: █████ † P. Stevenson: █████ A. Vickers: █████ P. Westervelt: █████ H. Eley: █████ † E. Bellic: █████ A. Tyberos: █████ J. Knoxx: █████ C. Asahi: █████ S. Bently: █████ J. Cutter: █████ † L. Dunn: █████ N. Hawthorne: █████ A. Clark: To be done. I will only be adding people Quinn has actually interacted with.