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[fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/pbuNJJk.png/g/245/245"]THEME
FULL NAME: Vexen Aurelio Concorde
AGE: 46
SPECIES: Human
HEIGHT: 1.8 m (5' 10")
WEIGHT: 80 kg (176 lb)
EYE COLOR: Blue
HAIR COLOR: Brown
SKIN COLOR: Fair
MARKINGS: Mole on right cheek
FACTION: The Accord
RANK: Member
He has an ad on the HoloNet. Of course, it doesn't list his real job. It uses a common code word in the underground: cleaner. The advertisement, adorned with a bearded, bandanna-toting man equipped with a mop soaked in a crimson that looks dubious at best, promises reasonable rates, speedy service, and various options for different kinds of... "mess."
On the next page, there's another ad, rather similar to the first. However, it's an ad not for "Vex Conco's Cleaning and More," but for "Xen Corde, Bounty Hunter." It has a miniature man strikingly alike the first, this time with a tiny blaster rifle and stun-cuffs in place of mop and rag. As one might imagine, the second was set up to receive more legally justifiable contracts, from local police and such. The first ad, for "Conco's Cleaning," is kept in case any of his old contacts need a job done, under the noses of the law.
But if you need either man, the number's the same. Send it a message, and he's yours by the hour.[/fancybox4]
[fancybox2]
We spent our days on the streets. My younger sister, she held a can, begging with the same eyes as my mother: big and brown and beautiful, my dad liked to say. I had my father's eyes: blue and hard, like sapphires. My father held a paintbrush. He'd paint in front of the few passersby, but they were there for the spectacle, not the purchase. My sister always pointed out the art's beauty, and I think that whenever he did close a sale, it was because they felt pity for her. She tried to look as cute and hopeful as she could. If a painting sold, that meant we ate. I was none too interested in honest work for my food, though. If the crowd's eyes were on my sister and my father's painting, all the better, because it meant their eyes weren't on me.
My sister had her can, my father his brush, and I had my knife. Father said I was as skilled with a blade as he was with a brush, and my sister agreed enthusiastically, but they were both wrong. My knife made us more money than his brush ever did, and I was a far better artist than him as well. I painted in scarlet hues and crimson. I had more than wrist and finger-work: my entire body was a part of my art. It was a dance, really. A dance of death.
I made my first kill in an alley. My father was working outside on the street, and he had sent me to rummage for whatever unspoiled food I could find. Apparently I looked wealthy beside the heaps of trash, unwashed and robed in rags as I was. But perhaps the man with the knife simply had poor eyesight. Regardless, he demanded all the credits I had (none, as it happened). I informed him of my penniless state. So, in his infinite wisdom, he came at me. Before I knew what was happening, I was on him, scratching and gouging, and then his knife was in my hand, and his blood was on my hands, and there was blood everywhere, and it felt... good. It felt right. It felt like I had been blindfolded in all the days and months of my small, short life, and finally I could see.
I realized that my family was a liability. I stayed with them for a short while, until I had stolen enough credits to live on my own. If I was to continue in the path I knew was meant for me, they could not be a part of it, not for long. I do not think they missed me.
I actually earned money for my second kill, this time for a contract. An angry wife, words of spite and hatred, and five thousand credits were its source. It was easy. With the half payment I was given in advance, I bought a rifle. I had heard from people in the crowd I had recently begun hanging around, the murderous crowd that lounged in dim cantinas and spoke in either hushed tones or drunken yells, that you were supposed to start with a rifle. The more of a novice you were, the further you were from your target. The closer you get to being a pro, the closer you could get to the target. To me, it meant that the sooner I became a professional, the sooner I could feel their blood and pain.
It was just my luck that the angry wife, soon-to-be widow, heard the details of her widower's death. Otherwise I would likely not have gotten the bonus that I did. The widower was spending his evening with a harlot from the streets. Like I said before, easy. I lined up my rifle's sights on his head, and squeezed the trigger. The woman he was with screamed, but whether in ecstasy or agony I couldn't tell. The rest of the money came, and soon I earned a reputation. Clean, efficient, professional. That was what they called me. They were right.
For every kill, however, every contract fulfilled, I also earned a reputation with the law. Dead bodies sprung up, with no clear explanation. They questioned their contacts in the underground, and every little trail of breadcrumbs led back to me. And so, I did what any self-respecting citizen of the galaxy would do: I lied to the police. I was a bounty hunter, and it just so happened that all of my bounties were kill-on-sight contracts. They bought into my little white lie, but insisted that I register with the law. It didn't much matter to me. I would kill, and continue killing, on whichever side of the law that suited me. So, the first thing I did was submit to a psych eval.
We have an Accord.
I'd spent my years bounty hunting. Smuggling. Killing, hurting, and getting hurt. I thought it was time for a change of pace, so I decided to search for a more steady paycheck. I went through the listings, and found a job with a rather well-organized band of reformed criminals and wannabe soldiers. They seemed like a fairly sane lot, so I applied, got the job, and started my first mission: acquiring a shield generator for the Accord's asteroid headquarters. I was to be the muscle of the operation, and let the others do the technical work.
[/fancybox2]
[fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/uR5pi3W.jpg"]"I don't like talking about myself," came his throaty rumble. Concorde stared directly into the eyes of the man sat across the table.
"I understand, sir, but before we issue you any contracts, we have to create a psychological profile," the interviewer replied. The man's voice, Concorde's, irked him. He would rather finish this interview and get back to profiling actual criminals. "Just a formality, I assure you."
Concorde grunted in reply. "Fine. Name's Xen Corde." The lie came easily. Nothing changed in his voice, but it wasn't forced--it simply did not seem to him that lying to this lawman was wrong. "My father was a painter." This was actually the truth. "I didn't like his job." Also true. "Knew it wouldn't fit me. He died. I took up bounty hunting." He went silent, letting his deep voice echo sink into the walls.
"Go on," the psychologist said. He wanted the man to do anything but. Corde's background check came up clean.
"Completed a few contracts. Easy stuff. Bought some new kit." He waited a few seconds before continuing, letting the man glance up from his frantic scribbling to actually look at him. "Bought a ship."
"And the name of your ship?"
"Mercy."
"Why that," the interviewer coughed, "particular name?"
"I like to show mercy to my targets."
"May we inspect your ship?"
"She's out back." He got up and left the chair out. The interviewer went around the table, making a point to push Corde's chair in, but Xen was already out the door and walking briskly towards his ship. It was painted a matte black, with navy blue stripes. The interviewer gestured to a few guards to come with him, then followed the bounty hunter. They jogged to keep in step with him, and Corde sized them both up with a quick glance. The interviewer jotted down a few notes on his datapad.
"And this is your ship, the, ah, Mercy?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Impressive weaponry," the interviewer commented. He meant it: it frightened him.
He got only a grunt in reply. [/fancybox4]
[fancybox2]
My vibroblades: Lamb and Wolf. Both are made of a phrik-durasteel alloy, which lets me block a Force-user's lightsaber. Lamb is the vibroknife, and its sheath rests on my left thigh. Wolf's the longer of the two, and sits in its sheath on my back, next to my rifle. It certainly strikes like a wolf, but together is when they really shine. I was trained in a modified version of Jar'Kai that was designed to allow a non-Force-user to use two weapons at the same time in combat, even against a lightsaber-wielding foe.
My left glove has a Vigilance Gauntlet installed, and it's been a very useful means for disabling targets without hurting them overmuch, if a target's been deemed wanted (mostly) alive.
My left glove has a Vigilance Gauntlet installed, and it's been a very useful means for disabling targets without hurting them overmuch, if a target's been deemed wanted (mostly) alive.
I wear their armor, but I do not follow their rules. Their Resol'nare. Their tenets that define their lives, that keep them caged and blind. Those who know the armor, it gives them faith, makes them think I'm one of them, that they can trust me. Those who do not know it, fear it. Either work. My armor's got a miniature flamethrower on the left gauntlet and a micro-missile launcher on the right. It's painted a matte black, and bears a black cloak.
I carry an SA-21 "Sunspear" heavy blaster pistol on either hip, and it's proven a sturdy, useful weapon.
In the small of my back rests a GN-808 "Gutripper" blaster carbine. It's been a lifesaver in many situations when I've faced more opponents than I care to.
Under each shoulder in a quick-draw holster is a DX-38 holdout blaster. It's also saved my skin a few times, and packs quite a punch for its size.
Ah, my first rifle. She takes an honored spot on my back. The R-8R battle rifle. A real beauty. She'll never let you down. Trust me.
In the small of my back rests a GN-808 "Gutripper" blaster carbine. It's been a lifesaver in many situations when I've faced more opponents than I care to.
Under each shoulder in a quick-draw holster is a DX-38 holdout blaster. It's also saved my skin a few times, and packs quite a punch for its size.
Ah, my first rifle. She takes an honored spot on my back. The R-8R battle rifle. A real beauty. She'll never let you down. Trust me.
A weapon that I only take out on special occasions is my M83 HEPM, a cheap, disposable, one-shot anti-armor weapon that's come in handy when a target thinks they can run.
Another weapon I only take out for special occasions is my Utility Launcher. It's a good little thing for clearing rooms, but I've found it really shines when you replace the drum with a spool of fibercord and the projectile with a sharp, barbed broadhead. Or a grapnel, if you want to use it to scale buildings (something it also excels at). The barbed broadhead, however, is truly useful for catching targets on foot. It lodges its sharp little self into their flesh, and generally hangs on quite well.
Another weapon I only take out for special occasions is my Utility Launcher. It's a good little thing for clearing rooms, but I've found it really shines when you replace the drum with a spool of fibercord and the projectile with a sharp, barbed broadhead. Or a grapnel, if you want to use it to scale buildings (something it also excels at). The barbed broadhead, however, is truly useful for catching targets on foot. It lodges its sharp little self into their flesh, and generally hangs on quite well.
I fly a YG-300 light freighter. I've named her Mercy, and she's outfitted with a few after-market additions that--if detected by any law-abiding individual--might result in a few rather hefty fines. I've sacrificed a few metric tons of its cargo bay and converted some space into a fully-functional cell block, or "brig," if you want to get swarthy. I've added an armory, too, at the price of a few more tons of space. She's also got a hyperdrive rating of 3, courtesy of some rather illegal after-market modifications to her hyperdrive and hypermatter reactor. Downside to this is that sometimes it takes a bit longer to charge. Not a big deal. She's got enough weapons to hold off most enemy ships. I've had my underground contacts install an advanced sensor array, a military-grade navigation module, and military-grade shield generators. I've also added two missile bays (seeking concussion missiles), a front-facing ion cannon, and a turreted heavy laser cannon to its underbelly.
In her cargo bay I've also got stored my Sabotage speeder bike, something that's been pretty damn useful for chasing down targets. Like my ship Mercy, she has a few mods that make her shine. Her repulsorlift engine's been retrofitted to handle even faster speeds, and she can get up to 375 kph before the engine experiences any stress. She's also got a grappling hook launcher, for snagging enemy vehicles, and a concussion missile launcher for anti-vehicle destruction.
In her cargo bay I've also got stored my Sabotage speeder bike, something that's been pretty damn useful for chasing down targets. Like my ship Mercy, she has a few mods that make her shine. Her repulsorlift engine's been retrofitted to handle even faster speeds, and she can get up to 375 kph before the engine experiences any stress. She's also got a grappling hook launcher, for snagging enemy vehicles, and a concussion missile launcher for anti-vehicle destruction.
[/fancybox2]
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