DeletedUser
Name: Wesley Macintosh
Age: 21 years
Nationality: Non-affiliated
Occupation: Occasional bounty hunter
Weapons: A .44 Magnum Ruger Redhawk in a holster on his right thigh, a Beretta 92FS with 3 magazines in a backwards holster on his left hip, a 6 inch combat knife placed conveniently upside down in his coat and with a simple tug of his hand can unsheath it, and an .308 FNAR rifle with two 20 round magazines slung over his shoulder.
Bio: Wesley Macintosh is a man who lives as he sees fit. There are no moral standards for him, there are no steep rules against him, the only thing that seperates him from a feral is the fact that when he sees a benefit, he will take it, regardless of how cruel or good it may be. He is the perfect opportunist, which he has to be to make up for his delima. Wesley is an emotionally scarred man. Life in the concrete shelter was harsh, and the people living with him gradually lost their sanity. By the time he was 15, people had began to fight for mates, and out of the 22 people from the begining, the number had dwindled to just 14 from infighting, he himself was almost attacked and victimized by a crazed and deprived man, whom his father gave his last breaths in killing. Insanity began to take a thresh hold on the remaining members, and as soon as he had a chance, at the age of 18, he fled from the shelter, leaving the door open for the others to follow if they wished.
For the next three years, he learned the lay of the land, picked up firearms he could find in decrept buildings and shelters, and practice his ability to speak to other individuals inside of towns. For a long time, he had avoided the altered wildlife, soon however, he was going to leave the shelter of the cement city and find a sustainable settlement, and so he searched, New America, he found.
Description: Wesley is a young looking boy, his eyes are a deep blue, feminine and innocent, but his chin and nose masculine as his personality suggests. His body was an average build, but he was stronger than he looked, able to fight off slavers mistaking him for an easy product in hand to hand combat. His slightly bending brown hair is long from a lack of trimming, and he has a moustache and trimmed beard, the only thing he bothers to keep trimmed with his knife. He is knowledgable about some things, blank on others. Vehicles are an enigma to him, however he can fire a weapon or combat a human like no mans business. He seems like he is bred to survive, socialize, and kill, but that is it. He can easilly intimadate individuals, but groups require him to show his true strength before they will stand down to him. His view of females are as mates to protect, something hard driven into his mind during his time in the shelter. He is brutish, loving, and talkative. Perfect for the world he grew up in, but will it prove worthy in the areas of New America?
Wesley glanced at his compass as he stood beside an evergreen tree of an unknown type, possibly a style altered by the radiation. He looked around, the dense forest filled with the sounds of the wind, silence, and some forms of mutated life. He gently slid the compass into the front pouch of his military coat, something he had picked up from a young woman he had come across on the path. She was ill with a lead sickness, having two large wounds in her legs where her past slavers had clutched her with chain. She had apparantly been abandoned, but not before they had their way with her. He had spoken to her for hours before she gave him the coat. He tried to comfort her, promise to take her to a doctor of some sort, but she only refused and begged him to track down the slavers. despite his dislike of tracking down someone when he has an objective as is, he agreed to fufill her request and grant her dying wish of an equalized death to the slavers that tortured her. It had been a group of five, but they had seperated, three off to a town of some sort, while two stayed behind to 'dispose' of her, as she had put it. And so now, he was tracking the two slavers that were heading towards the town, but their tracks lead off the path and into the woodlands. He looked around, the tall, ragged trees hovered over him as he smelled the air, a faint stink caught his attention, and he snapped his head around to see two men and a cart, one smoking a cigarette, and the other urinating on a tree. "Hey." Wesley hollered, sternly.
One of the men spun to face him, an upset glare in his eye as he quickly zipped his pants. "Hey hoss, look at this guy?" He muttered.
"Bad man, look strong." Hoss laughed, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and tossing it to the ground. They both took fighting stances as Wesley simply stared at them, both ever so slowly approaching him, the one called Hoss pulling a small club of some sort from the back of his belt.
"You got pretty eyes, boy, I betcha you'll want a nice woman if we sell ya, we can do it if you come peacefully, people pay for good genes." The slaver said, "We ain't lookin to harm noone."
"You harmed a girl on the road a few miles back." Wesley said, sternly. "I'm takin it to my duty to fix her dying wish."
"She was a witch." Hoss said, clutching the club in both of his hands as he prepared his feet in a rushing stance.
Wesley simply cracked his fingers back and fourth as they swayed at his sides, his eyes dead set on Hoss, preparing for the inevitable stupid move. It came quick, as Hoss yelled in a furious roar, rushing towards Wesley with the club swinging through the air like a bone clutched by an ape. Wesley simply caught Hoss by the wrist as he snapped the club backwards into Hoss's eye, the club fell to the ground with him, and Wesley whipped around and caught the other slaver by the upper jaw with is long fingers. He clinched his left fist tight as he submerged it into the slavers nose, thrusting his fist deeply into his skull several times before he realized that the front of the mans face was now nothing more than a deformation of skull fragments, teeth, and blood. He loosened his grip and the mans face tugged away from him, leaving him holding three of the mans teeth in his hand as he fell limply to the ground. Wesley tossed the teeth away and wiped his hand on his pants, and he quickly glanced back over to Hoss, the other slaver. Hoss was trying to load his revolver as quickly as possible, fumbling with small bullets as he wimpered to load the gun. Within a second, Wesley had reached into his jacket he wore under the coat and pulled out his six inch combat knife, he held it by the blade and threw it quickly at Hoss, the knife sunk into his chest as he yelped in despair. Wesley then charged at him, leaping a foot off the ground and diving down with a kick aimed slightly high, thus it shattered the mans neck. Wesley laid on the floor of the forest as he stared into the cloudy sunlit sky, listening to the cruel mans last breath escape from his mouth as he went limp underneath him, Wesley's boot stuffed neatly beneath his chin, and he felt at peace having done the good deed. He gently raised himself up, and took the mans revolver as he crouched. It was a simple .28 caliber revolver, slightly rusted around the trigger guard, while the cylinder had a tug necessary to spin it. He shrugged, tossing it back to the ground. He would be better off leaving it to decay. He pulled his compass once more, and began to head directly south.
Age: 21 years
Nationality: Non-affiliated
Occupation: Occasional bounty hunter
Weapons: A .44 Magnum Ruger Redhawk in a holster on his right thigh, a Beretta 92FS with 3 magazines in a backwards holster on his left hip, a 6 inch combat knife placed conveniently upside down in his coat and with a simple tug of his hand can unsheath it, and an .308 FNAR rifle with two 20 round magazines slung over his shoulder.
Bio: Wesley Macintosh is a man who lives as he sees fit. There are no moral standards for him, there are no steep rules against him, the only thing that seperates him from a feral is the fact that when he sees a benefit, he will take it, regardless of how cruel or good it may be. He is the perfect opportunist, which he has to be to make up for his delima. Wesley is an emotionally scarred man. Life in the concrete shelter was harsh, and the people living with him gradually lost their sanity. By the time he was 15, people had began to fight for mates, and out of the 22 people from the begining, the number had dwindled to just 14 from infighting, he himself was almost attacked and victimized by a crazed and deprived man, whom his father gave his last breaths in killing. Insanity began to take a thresh hold on the remaining members, and as soon as he had a chance, at the age of 18, he fled from the shelter, leaving the door open for the others to follow if they wished.
For the next three years, he learned the lay of the land, picked up firearms he could find in decrept buildings and shelters, and practice his ability to speak to other individuals inside of towns. For a long time, he had avoided the altered wildlife, soon however, he was going to leave the shelter of the cement city and find a sustainable settlement, and so he searched, New America, he found.
Description: Wesley is a young looking boy, his eyes are a deep blue, feminine and innocent, but his chin and nose masculine as his personality suggests. His body was an average build, but he was stronger than he looked, able to fight off slavers mistaking him for an easy product in hand to hand combat. His slightly bending brown hair is long from a lack of trimming, and he has a moustache and trimmed beard, the only thing he bothers to keep trimmed with his knife. He is knowledgable about some things, blank on others. Vehicles are an enigma to him, however he can fire a weapon or combat a human like no mans business. He seems like he is bred to survive, socialize, and kill, but that is it. He can easilly intimadate individuals, but groups require him to show his true strength before they will stand down to him. His view of females are as mates to protect, something hard driven into his mind during his time in the shelter. He is brutish, loving, and talkative. Perfect for the world he grew up in, but will it prove worthy in the areas of New America?
Wesley glanced at his compass as he stood beside an evergreen tree of an unknown type, possibly a style altered by the radiation. He looked around, the dense forest filled with the sounds of the wind, silence, and some forms of mutated life. He gently slid the compass into the front pouch of his military coat, something he had picked up from a young woman he had come across on the path. She was ill with a lead sickness, having two large wounds in her legs where her past slavers had clutched her with chain. She had apparantly been abandoned, but not before they had their way with her. He had spoken to her for hours before she gave him the coat. He tried to comfort her, promise to take her to a doctor of some sort, but she only refused and begged him to track down the slavers. despite his dislike of tracking down someone when he has an objective as is, he agreed to fufill her request and grant her dying wish of an equalized death to the slavers that tortured her. It had been a group of five, but they had seperated, three off to a town of some sort, while two stayed behind to 'dispose' of her, as she had put it. And so now, he was tracking the two slavers that were heading towards the town, but their tracks lead off the path and into the woodlands. He looked around, the tall, ragged trees hovered over him as he smelled the air, a faint stink caught his attention, and he snapped his head around to see two men and a cart, one smoking a cigarette, and the other urinating on a tree. "Hey." Wesley hollered, sternly.
One of the men spun to face him, an upset glare in his eye as he quickly zipped his pants. "Hey hoss, look at this guy?" He muttered.
"Bad man, look strong." Hoss laughed, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and tossing it to the ground. They both took fighting stances as Wesley simply stared at them, both ever so slowly approaching him, the one called Hoss pulling a small club of some sort from the back of his belt.
"You got pretty eyes, boy, I betcha you'll want a nice woman if we sell ya, we can do it if you come peacefully, people pay for good genes." The slaver said, "We ain't lookin to harm noone."
"You harmed a girl on the road a few miles back." Wesley said, sternly. "I'm takin it to my duty to fix her dying wish."
"She was a witch." Hoss said, clutching the club in both of his hands as he prepared his feet in a rushing stance.
Wesley simply cracked his fingers back and fourth as they swayed at his sides, his eyes dead set on Hoss, preparing for the inevitable stupid move. It came quick, as Hoss yelled in a furious roar, rushing towards Wesley with the club swinging through the air like a bone clutched by an ape. Wesley simply caught Hoss by the wrist as he snapped the club backwards into Hoss's eye, the club fell to the ground with him, and Wesley whipped around and caught the other slaver by the upper jaw with is long fingers. He clinched his left fist tight as he submerged it into the slavers nose, thrusting his fist deeply into his skull several times before he realized that the front of the mans face was now nothing more than a deformation of skull fragments, teeth, and blood. He loosened his grip and the mans face tugged away from him, leaving him holding three of the mans teeth in his hand as he fell limply to the ground. Wesley tossed the teeth away and wiped his hand on his pants, and he quickly glanced back over to Hoss, the other slaver. Hoss was trying to load his revolver as quickly as possible, fumbling with small bullets as he wimpered to load the gun. Within a second, Wesley had reached into his jacket he wore under the coat and pulled out his six inch combat knife, he held it by the blade and threw it quickly at Hoss, the knife sunk into his chest as he yelped in despair. Wesley then charged at him, leaping a foot off the ground and diving down with a kick aimed slightly high, thus it shattered the mans neck. Wesley laid on the floor of the forest as he stared into the cloudy sunlit sky, listening to the cruel mans last breath escape from his mouth as he went limp underneath him, Wesley's boot stuffed neatly beneath his chin, and he felt at peace having done the good deed. He gently raised himself up, and took the mans revolver as he crouched. It was a simple .28 caliber revolver, slightly rusted around the trigger guard, while the cylinder had a tug necessary to spin it. He shrugged, tossing it back to the ground. He would be better off leaving it to decay. He pulled his compass once more, and began to head directly south.
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