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"Go home. Live to raise your family. Leave the fighting to us soldiers."
Colonel Jack Fulbright
The Fighter
Colonel Jack Fulbright
The Fighter
Act I Special Forces The adrenaline rushes through his veins like liquid fire. His eyes wide with anticipation, dillated. His heart thumping as his body rushes towards the ground, face first, arms spread out like a bird. Soaring through the sky, his back weighed down by equipment and a single sheet of silk, supposedly enough to prevent him from falling towards his death. He feels alive. More alive than he's ever felt before. Even in the heat of battle, he's never experienced anything like this. And then, just like that, he's hanging, slowly drifting towards the ground under an enormous umbrella. He looks down. Sees what is waiting for him. Explosions. Gunfire. Dead bodies. Tanks. Imperials. The battlefield. But this time, not as an infantry soldier. This time, as a Special Forces operator. He has to be alert now. It will all be over in seconds if he is not. As soon as he feels his feet touch the ground, he unhooks the parachute, and falls into a heavy roll that brings him into cover. Blaster bolts rip the parachute to pieces before it can settle. He brings out his blaster, and returns fire. All around him, his fellow operators land almost on top of the enemy forces. And then, they attack. They start taking ground. They surprise the enemy - so much that the Imperials do not even realize they are facing a squad of eight, against an entire platoon. But they are Special Forces Operators. The Galactic Senate cried havoc. And the Galactic Army unleashed its dogs of war. Sergeant Jack Fulbright. Team Medic. | |
Act II Rising He's excited. But his face does not show a single hint of it. Stoic as always. He's famous for it. Throughout his career, he's always retained an emotionless exterior even in the face of lethal danger for him or his men. But they know him. They know he cares about them. They know he's the best leader there is. They know he's Jack Fulbright. They have faith in him, and they will gladly follow him into the gates of the Sith Palace should he ask them to. They also know he never will. He knows he never has to. As the general makes his speak, he resists the urge to yawn. His soldiers know it. Some of them have trouble hiding their smirks. They all know he does not care much for ceremonies. He rather spends an afternoon at the gym or the shooting range than he does participating in ceremonies, even ones dedicated to him or his promotion. And then, before he knows it, the speech is over, and he finds himself face to face with the general, who offers him the textile pads holding his new rank. Colonel. Colonel Jack Fulbright. A legend if there ever was one. | |
Act III Champion His breath is ragged. His body rises and sinks as his lungs try to grasp for more air. His skin is glistering with sweat, and there is blood in his face. But his eyes, his sharp, blue eyes, are still focused, as focused as always. His opponent knows that look. It's the same look he's given every challenger for the last three weeks since his arrival to Tattooine. In those two eyes, as piercing as arrows of ice shot towards one's heart, his opponent spells his own demise. This challenger, a few minutes ago cocky and confident, now knows he cannot defeat this man. But he has to try. The crowd demands it. And the crowd will not be sated with anything less than his full demise. Such is the life of a streetfighter. The challenger attacks. A simple, panicked haymaker. He blocks it easily with his left arm, bent outwards and upwards. His face and body retracted to keep the incoming meat projectile away from both. Then, he moves in closer. Punch. Punch. Elbow to the face. Hands move behind the head of his opponent and lock in a firm grip. Knee to the groin. Knee to the groin. He plants both palms of his hands in his opponent's chest in a firm push. So powerful it throws his opponent to the ground. He's unconscious. The victor leaves the ring without a word. A stack of money tucked into his hand. He doesn't even bother counting them. Nobody would try to cheat the champion. He enters the locker rooms to take a shower. When he opens his locker, he stares at himself in the mirror. Soldier. Colonel. He's been called a lot of things. Even legend. Colonel Jack Fulbright, professional streetfighter. That's who he is now. Because the Galactic Alliance is gone. When the cause and the country is gone, fighting is all that he has left. | |
About Jack A giant of 195 cm's, Jack Fulbright is extremely muscular. He has blonde hair, and sharp, icy blue eyes. On each of his deltoids, he has the flag of the Galactic Alliance tattooed. He usually wears, when not in his old uniform, his camouflage fatigues, combat boots, and a green muscle shirt. Sometimes he also wears a leather jacket on top of that. He also carries dogtags around his neck, four of them, and only two of them belong to him. He's exceptionally muscular. A former member of the Galactic Alliance Special Forces, Fulbright was the reigning heavy weight boxing champion for several years in a row before retiring, in his unit. He's a recipient of the Heroes Wing, the Galactic Alliance Cross, and two Gold Stars. | |
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