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 Posted: Sat Jun 01, 2013 6:55 pm |  |
Ever really proud of an old background of yours you written? Me too! Post them here.
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Posted: Sat Jun 01, 2013 6:56 pm | |
"Without you, the ground thaws, the rain falls, the grass grows..."
It's her birthday. We're standing in one of the habitats. Artificial rain beats down on us, and I'm watching her face as I kneel down before her. I was accepted into Task Force: Gungnir. The mission statement is that I've been selected for advanced military training, so that I can help put down the Neo-Christian Revolutionaries that have been spouting their propoganda about Hearst. The training will be along, six month process, but my pay has risen twice over. That's how I afford the chrion ring with the old Earth diamon imbedded in it, princess cut. That's how I have the resolve to ask her if she'll marry me.
"Without you, the seeds root, the flowers bloom, the children play."
Six months have passed since our wedding. She's pregnant with our child. Genetic impurities have already been scanned for, none found. Just yesterday we selected which features of mine our child would have, and which features of hers. I've never seen her so radiant. I'm watching her pour water on her plants, plumped by the baby growing in her. A folder's in my lap, detailing my next assignment. Genetic impurity. A woman's child has came out with eleven toes instead of ten. I'm supposed to purify her. I can't help but feel grateful our child will be perfect. I can't help but feel guilty about what I have to do, what Gungnir has to do to keep Luna perfect.
"The stars gleam, the poets dream, the eagles fly, without you."
A year has passed since our wedding. She's feeding the child through a bottle. The formula will ensure that his bone density will be stronger then our generation. I can't help but look at him and feel proud. He's the future. I love him more and more every day. But she's not radiant anymore. She's staring at the trid screen as it sits between us, playing a feed of the Neo-Christian riots. Even I'm afraid. What if they find out who I am? What if she finds out I'm not really working for the First Lunar Bank?
"The earth turns, the sun burns, but I die, without you."
Eighteen months have passed since our wedding. He's taken his first step already, and he can form entire sentences using the Kreiger method. She's sick. I'm not sure what's wrong with her. Every night, I'm holding her in my arms as she babbles incoherently. She's warm to the touch. The medicine I've been giving her, the Hearst cure, it's not helping at all. She's coughing blood. I can't help but worry.
"Without you, the breeze warms, the girl smiles, the cloud moves."
It's been a week since she's fell ill. Others across the city are as well. An Operation that I'm not classfied to reveal the name of has been started. A failsafe in case the problem goes entirely global. I'm so terrified. My son's sick now, too. The Hearst cure has broken his fever, though. All I can do is hope that they both get better. Today, a Neo Christian asked me to pray with her. To pray for our families. I didn't know what to say, this time. Something's happening. The world's changing.
"Without you, the tides change, the boys run, the oceans crash."
It's day ten of her illness. She's so thin now. She lost over thirty pounds. The Hearst cure isn't working, and I even see over the trids people calling his name out. They want him dead. They want blood. I just want my wife to live. My son's better now. He says he feels much better. I'm too distracted to notice any changes. Maybe it's for the better. School's cancelled, but I long since purchased educational trids. The Commandant called. He claims that the Operation is a go. That I should prepare my family.
"The crowds roar, the days soar, the babies cry, without you."
Day twelve of her illness. She's infected with something the doctors are calling the Hearst strain. I get confused. That's the medicine that she was prescribed to get -rid- of her ilness, I tell them over and over again. They tell me that all she had was influenza. It's the cure that's killing her. I don't know how to react. I don't know how to react. I don't know what to do or what to say. They claim that once the family is aboard the Atlas, there'll be labs where she can be treated better. I sign the papers. I sign her over to them.
"The moon glows, the river flows..."
Day thirteen of her illness. She dies in bed. We don't have time to mourn her. I have her cremated and spread her ashes to the wind before we go. The city's a mess. Many people want to escape the Plague, the Hearst strain. I have clearance due to my involvement with Gungnir. I take my son through. We enter a long hallway. Scanners are everywhere. People are in line, getting through. My boy is scanned. The light goes red. The soldiers pull their weapons on me. And then they shoot us. Both of us. Everything goes black.
"I die. Without You."
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Posted: Sat Jun 01, 2013 7:21 pm | |
If I could find Esau's, I liked it.
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Holmes
Dictator in Absentia
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Posted: Sat Jun 01, 2013 7:24 pm | |
Jef:
Bang. That's what li'l Joseph Eliah Falkner's father did a lot of. Just about all he did, really. He did the women with his pants down, and the men with his gun out. So, little Jef, as he was called for much of his childhood, was born to a Grunge girl of questionable taste. It was a quick and clean birth, his mother's parents being loyal family (Vultures, not that it matters!) serfs, the good family Doctor even took a glance at him before pronouncing him healthy- if ugly, and dumping him in a nursery. He didn't know his father for awhile. Eliah Falkner left a wild impression on his mother, but besides that and some free (and grade-A) genetics, he didn't leave much. There was the occasional cash, when he was flush from a job- a job as a freelance bang-man in a town where independents could barely scrape together a living. He was good at what he did. Too good, really. That sort of success catches up with a man- and by the time little Jef was old enough to ask about his dad, the poor sap was dead. Whatever. People go food.
Jef didn't care much, anyway. He had his mother. Her occasional boyfriend. Her occasional side-boyfriend. Really, he had a lot of male role-models. They were all pretty shit, but he never let it bother him none. He ended up a corner boy at seven- lording it over all his little friends, and waving around a half-chip gun like it was a solid gold brick. And, really, to him it was. He'd heard stories about his dad by then. Not how he died, not yet (strung upside down, gut-shot, and then left to bleed). But he knew his dad was a gunman. One of the best. And hey, genetics, right? Not that he knows the word. Not well, at least. Except that it has to do with good lettuce. Or something. Unimportant. Little Jef was going to grow up to be as big a badass as his dad. With just as many little bastards (at least a dozen). It gets less likely with every passing year, of course. He's never fired his gun in anger. He shot a rat once. It ran. But that was for his own amusement.
Fifteen. Not-so-little Jef gets a caravan job- cushy little thing, easiest route in the Outland. Grungetown to Shittersville. Then something goes wrong. Wait, nope, wrong story. It's boring as fuck. They scare off a lagato with some gold every once in awhile, but the large-ass caravans don't get no trouble. Not when Jef's there. Still hasn't shot his gun in anger, though he's moved up to a twenty chip sawn-off peashooter. It fires as straight as a vulture stripper loves. He's a half-decent shot when the stars align. Wouldn't bet his life on it saving him, though, and fortunately- it never has to. He's running caravans for years. Twenty. Twenty-five. All routes, all directions. He sees more action in town bars, then in the Wastes. Gut-shot a Mutie in Carthage. Felt terrible. Fella died. Felt even worse. Still took his chips. All twelve. Still hasn't shot a man on purpose.
Thirty. Present day. He's seen every town that ain't guarded by hovercopters. Been in a brawl in every bar that's ever had a brawl, and even managed a few firsts. Shot a few men- almost always felt bad. Finally realized he isn't going to be like his father. Figures it's probably for the best. He's seen a bit of everything, figures it's time to settle down back home. Make a name for himself. Admits to himself it's probably going to be for "dumbest fuck to have ever fucked". Doesn't care. It's a start.
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Posted: Sat Jun 01, 2013 11:20 pm | |
Heh, all my backgrounds were generic as hell and only about two, three short paragraphs tops.
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Roadhawk
Registered
We lurk inside your brain, we hide inside your mind.
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Posted: Sat Jun 01, 2013 11:37 pm | |
Same as Ned.
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Hastur
Registered
#1 Skel
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Posted: Sun Jun 02, 2013 2:48 am | |
I have no backgrounds I'd be comfortable submitting, what with all the rape and cannibalism across the board.
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Holmes
Dictator in Absentia
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Posted: Sun Jun 02, 2013 3:07 am | |
Trigger:
The first time Nicholas shot a man, he was six years old and a Wilmington turf corner-boy. The twenty-five caliber compact revolver had been half-loaded with counterfeit bullets, fake gold and shitty alion smelt into a gun-rending combo. The gun didn't survive, but neither did the vulture. Even shitty bullets make a big hole in an unarmored back. Nicholas' shoulder hurt for a week, his hand for a month. The body was never found, the neighborhood covering for the young orphan boy and his barely older sister. Life was never easy on the streets of Grungetown, even if your family had been Wilmington enforcers since the days of Sam. Especially when your parents had been back-alley executed Old Bart, though of course everyone's told you it was a Vulture hit.
Life on the streets hardened Nicholas, the always-hardy boy doing a broad array of unsavory and unpleasant deeds to keep him and his sister fed. He'd shot two more men by the time he was eleven, his dinky little pistol no less lethan when wielded by a kid. Especially a steady-handed kid. A mugger and all-around fellow of ill-repute by the age of fifteen, the teenaged Nicholas' balls grew three sizes when he began to target Vultures on the edge of their turf. Seeing it as revenge for the death of his parents, and the assault on his sister, he started nearly a half dozen riots on the meeting of Wilmington and Vulture turf. In the midst of the chaos he and his band would kick in doors, breaking into shanties belonging solely to vulture thugs. Guns, ammo, and other such tools of the trade were fair game. These petty thefts made him the biggest target on the Vulture's list of "nobodies that needed to catch a bullet". Quick-wits and a quicker draw kept him alive despite a fair few attempts to gun him down. It also gave him one hell of a survival instinct.
By the time he was seveteen he was done with petty theft, and had signed up as a Wilmington enforcer. He ran a few kid-gangs, kept wilmington turf secure, and was more or less an efficient hired gun and manager. As a hobby, he took up handling armor, mainly to keep his kids safe and better-protected than their rivals. He's far from a master, but practices the trade with the same efficiency he applies to every aspect of his life.
At the age of twenty-four, and in the midst of a Vulture-Wilmington turf skirmish, Nicholas' knack for keeping himself alive was put to the test for a third party. He was assigned as Travis Reno's personal shadow, and for two years performed admirably keeping the man in one piece. Thwarting three full-blown assassination attempts over the course of the two years, Nicholas took the same number of bullets for his principle. Nothing kept him off the job for long, and in the next year he was assigned to be Oil Wilmington's guard. Establishing no rapport with the favored heir, and simply working silently in the background, he was almost never parted from the man's side. Though no attempts were made on his life, Nicholas was provided with plenty of ammunition to practice his trade.
After a year of minimal sleep and constant attendance in the background of wearisome meetings, Nicholas was given a job of a rather different nature. He was sent to Tram City to act as the Wilmington's chief security amidst their few holdings there. Instead of gun-thugs his new concern was teh elegant corporate espionage the town is known for. Here, a healthy paranoia kept him safe from far more crafty foes than make their home in Grungetown. It was in Tram City, under their harsh laws, that he forced himself into the self discipline of never drawing his gun unless he was required to shoot it. His work in Tram City came to an end just a lunar day ago, after several years and many clsoe calls. The final straw was his shooting of a corporate spy who had drawn on him, the man happening to be the nephew of an executive.
Before the Family could withdraw him from the City, an assassin succeeded where no other had. He stabbed so many holes into Nicholas' kevlar that the man was literally in a pool of his own blood when his aide burst tinto the room, following the sound of the gunshot that had left his assailant fatally wounded as well. Frenetic work saved his life, and left his innards a mess of artifical wiring, his knee similarly by cybernetics as a lucky blow had severed bone from tendon, completely. The wiring is sturdy stuff, making the man less susceptible to most wounds. He still feels pain, completely, but his body can take a lot more abuse before he drops. Now he's back in Grungetown, back in the guards, and particularly assigned to keep the current Guild leader, Frank, alive.
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Posted: Mon Jun 03, 2013 1:44 am | |
Blake's background was the most detailed one I've ever written, and I went looking for it just now and realized that when my hard drive crashed a couple years ago, that file went with it. Ugh.
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Posted: Mon Jun 03, 2013 10:25 am | |
| Holmes wrote: |
| Now he's back in Grungetown, back in the guards, and particularly assigned to keep the current Guild leader, Frank, alive. |
Fail.
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