Dante Harris's Authorization Application

[Kevin]

Player Section

Steam Name: bowser93
Age: 16
How long have you been Roleplaying? (can be any game): 4 Years.
How long have you been playing Serious GMod RP?: 4 Years.

Character Section

Authorization(s):
 Roger

- Makarov PM pistol with a a single 8 round magazine, and some spare bullets.

- Blue prison jumpsuit with matching black shoes.

- Slightly increased strength due to regular exercise.

 Dante

- Glock 17 pistol with a single magazine, 15 rounds total. (After using much of his ammunition.)

- M1918 Trench Knife

- Blue prison jumpsuit with matching black shoes

- Basic knowledge on the operation of common pistols. (Glocks, Colts, Berettas, etc.)

- Basic hand to hand tactics

Name: Dante Harris
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Affiliation: None

Write a detailed in-canon back-story how your character obtained these authorizations.
Spoiler for Hiden: Dante laid on his bed, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were laying in a coffin. The bed hurt his back, laying in the same spot for eight hours at a time might do that to you. The plain white ceiling bored him more than anything could as he stared up at it. Think. All there is to do is think. So he did.

Dante reached over his shoulder, pulling the hood of the black sweatshirt over his head. He stared through the windshield at the project housing block, the only source of light along the street were the street lights, most of which were burned out, and those that weren’t flickered weakly. Dante scratched his head, breathing heavily, deep in thought. He threw his arms out, punching the center of the steering wheel whilst screaming in a mixture of anger and confusion. He retracted his arms, using both hands to slap the sides of his head for several moments, still yelling.

After his fit, he lifted his hands to his face, covering his face as if someone could see and was judging him silently. His breath shook as he reached slowly for the handle of the glove box, as if it would snap out and bite him. He curled his fingers around the handle, pulling it down. A balled up cloth tumbled from the inside of the glove box, clunking onto the passenger side of the floor of the car. A sleek black snub nose .38 stuck from the cloth.

Dante’s heart stopped, he reached out and took it by the grip, curling his finger around the trigger carefully, weighing it around in his hands. He kept his head pointed down, but raised his eyes, a screen door creaked open some distance down the street, a rather small male stepped out, his white hood pulled over his head. Dante held his breath, pushing the door of the aged Buick Regal open. His hand snuck its way into his sweatshirt pocket, sweat from his hands coating the grip of the weapon, he looked at his feet, his heart beating against his chest heavily.

“Brownie, you need somethin’?” The voice was monotone and rather deep for a man of his small size.

Dante looked up from his feet, the male was approaching him, his whole body swaying to the side as he dragged his feet forward against the cracked pavement, his sleeves were rolled up, the infamous SS thunderbolts were tattooed on his forearms. Dante parted his dry lips, licking them, “Uhm…”

The male stopped a few feet from Dante, letting his head roll back, “Why the fuck are you even here, ni-..”

Dante slid his hand from his pocket, jabbing the revolver against his chest. Thoughts were racing, what’s it like to kill a man? If God exists, am I going to hell? What if I am really sorry? Is this the only option? What happens if I don’t kill him? What if someone sees? What if I get caught?

All of these thoughts occurred almost as once, pulling the trigger scared Dante like no earthly person could ever explain, but it came easily, like riding a bicycle or taking a piss. The sickening sound of the body slamming against the pavement was the worst part. It was confirmation that there was no turning back, that if he didn’t lie about every accusation that he’d rot in jail for a good portion of his adult life, if not all of it.

The shot still bounced off the walls in the neighborhood, fading into the darkness. Dante looked down at the body, his hood fell back, revealing his face. Several other popular neo-nazi tattoos stained his face and forehead. He felt as if someone was tearing apart his stomach from the inside out. Dante hunched over, heaving dryly. Lights in several of the windows in the neighborhood lit up, shining light underneath curtains and beyond the iron bars protecting the windows.

Dante turned and tripped off the curb, sliding along the pavement before staggering up and sprinting for his car. He yanked at the handle of the car door several times before it opened, tossing the revolver under his seat. With his shaky grip, he could barely even fit the keys into the ignition. All in all, the activity took about twenty-nine seconds, from the point at which the victim opened his mouth to the point Dante reached his car- twenty-nine seconds.

Those twenty nine seconds would have costed Dante his life. Emphasis on would have. Dante snapped back to reality, he was laying on his bed, staring up at the bland ceiling. A knock at his door took his attention, a slot opened, and a tray poked in. Dante swung his legs off his bed, he stood slowly, his body numb from sitting in the same spot the whole time. He took hold of the tray, sitting back on his bed. A mouth lowered down to the slot, “Knock on the door and put the tray through the slot when you’re done.”

Dante stared down at his foot, “A’ight..”

The gabble slammed down, breaking the silence in the courtroom. “By the power invested in me by the state of Texas, Dante Reginald Harris, I hereby find you guilty of the murder of Nelson Whitmore, assault with a deadly weapon, possession of a deadly weapon, and resisting arrest. You are sentenced to imprisonment until your execution date is arranged.”

The jury and spectators of the trial stirred in the backround. He turned slowly to look over his shoulder, an elderly Caucasian couple walked together, the elderly man turned in Dante’s direction, shaking his head and shouting with his tired and raspy voice, “Serves you right, you damn knuckle-dragger!”

A black male unknown to Dante ran up to one of the younger white men, throwing a fist into his jaw. The whole court went into a frenzy, punches being thrown, kicks being received, chairs and books peaking over the crowd. Dante’s arm was grabbed tightly by an officer, yanking him along to the secondary exit.

He looked back down at his food. Cold and chunky mashed potatoes, a room temperature carton of milk, and some watery vegetable soup. A pair of antacid tablets in a cellophane wrapping were taped to the milk.

He carefully pulled apart the top of the milk carton, not taking his eyes from the potatoes as he raised it to his lips, downing the small amount of milk in one chug. His gaze followed the cracks in the plain white wall up to his calendar. His calendar markings were either on the exact day or maybe even as far as a week or two off, but he’d formulated that his execution date was about a week from then. The plastic fork from the meal clattered onto the cold, glazed concrete floor. The light fixture hanging above the center of the tight and secluded cell swung around slightly. Dante lowered himself back onto the bed, shoveling a scoop of the potato into his mouth. The soup swirled around unnaturally, catching Dante’s eye. The tray of food slid off the bed onto the ground, the soup and potato mixing on the concrete. The light fixture popped, innumerable small shards of glass, mixing in with the slop.

Dante lowered himself to the slot in the door, pushing it open. His looked as far down the hallway as he could from his current angle. Guards stomped down the hallways, herding the prisoners towards the cafeteria. One of the guards stopped at Dante’s cell, fumbling with the keys as he spoke. “You will get the fuck out of the cell when I open it and will not touch me, this is a real emergen-“

And with the door lurching open, Dante stepped out. The door down the hall that leads to the main cellblocks opened. A large black and turquoise colored creature appeared, a grenade launcher of sorts hanging beneath its body. Dante, not seeing the creature, stepped from his cells, a rapid succession of grenades detonated at the end of the hall, and before Dante could retreat back to his cell, a grenade detonated against the wall just next to his door. Dante forgot what happened next. The door took the shock from the grenade on the wall and swung the heavy door into Dante’s head, rendering him unconscious amongst all the dead bodies, blood, and dismembered body parts.

-

The snow fell slowly, piling atop the already thick layer of snow over Denver. Police sirens wailed in the distance, accompanied by the occasional bark of a neighborhood dog. Ronald, bearing a striking resemblance to his cousin Dante with his somewhat lighter tone of skin and the same beady dark brown eyes paired with the similar thick and curly hair, stepped from the small unit’s bathroom. “Momma, I’m goin’ out with Trey, a’right?”

His mother laid on the tattered green couch in the living room, the television screen emitted a maddening static that lit up the room. A thin brown blanket was pulled up to her chin, his mother’s fingers clenched around the stitching at the top. She let her head fall listlessly to the side, staring at Ronald silently and blankly. Ronald walked for the front door, pushing it open and walking into the brisk cold, shooting an upward nod to Trey, “Sup man.”

The two began walking down the sidewalk, the snow crunching beneath their feet. Trey wrapped his arms around his own abdomen as he spoke, “Your mom’s still ignorin’ everything?”

Ronald rolled his head around, clearing his throat promptly, “Yeah, she’ll get over it soon I guess…”

Trey licked his lips, nodding quickly, “Jus’ give it time.

-

Nelson spun the steering wheel of the El Camino towards the sidewalk, the vehicle lurched as the two right tires climbed atop the curb. His hands felt around the dark and still running car, eventually wrapped around the top of the brand new oak baseball bat he’d bought earlier that week. He grabbed his wool cap and pulled it over his head.

The door of the El Camino whined when it was pushed open. Nelson’s combat booted feet clomped on the ground just outside of the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him. He spun the bat around casually as he kicked his legs into motion down the sidewalk and finally decided to rest it on his shoulder as he reached the intersection.

Through the darkness, Nelson could make out two figures sauntering down the street towards him across the intersection. Their voices grew louder as they approached, “So wha’chu tell Louis, then?”

Trey bobbed his head, laughing, “I tol’ him that he didn’t deserve his girl anymore if he wasn’t givin’ her what she wanted, knamsayin’? Straight up said that she was mine.”

Nelson leaned against the concrete pillar of a wall behind him, concealing the bat behind his leg as the two neared. The few cars waiting at the intersection for Ronald and Trey to cross sped off as they reached Nelson’s side of the street. He lowered his head, raising a palm to his face as they passed, subsequently covering his tattooed face.

As he heard the steps pass, he wrapped his sweaty fingers around the bat, tiling his head in their direction. He pushed himself from the wall, following them at a brisk pace. His heavy boots clomped on the wet pavement, echoing down the street. The walk felt as if it took ages, Nelson had some similar tasks before and gotten it over rather quickly, but a pang of sudden sickness struck him like rock.

Ahead, Ronald lowered his head, whispering to Trey. “When we turn the corner, run…”

Trey kept his eyes on the pavement, nodding. “Man, I can’t…”

“Why?”

“M-my legs feel like spaghetti, man…”

Ronald briefly looked to Trey, looking towards the lightpost at the corner of the street. “Just do it.”

Before they even reached the corner, Trey broke into a sprint. As he turned the corner, he slipped on the wet ground, falling on his side with a thud. Ronald looked over his shoulder at Nelson, who began sprinting as well. Ronald reached Trey, pulling his arm as Trey whimpered, “Hurry the fuck u-“

Nelson reached the corner, raising the bat over his head and slamming it down upon the back of Ronald’s head. He crumpled over, laying limp on the sidewalk whilst his head hung over the curb in the dirty slushy snow. Trey clawed at the pavement, trying to push himself up before so violently interrupted by a boot to the gut. Nelson’s breath shook as he began speaking, “This is a white man’s town… and this is a message.”

Trey rolled onto his back, sobbing by now, “H-help!”

Nelson raised the bat over his head and slugged it for Trey’s chest. Nelson was scared shitless by now, but it wasn’t unusual. Only after each attack would he feel the satisfaction of making the streets a little bit more white. Trey let his head fall back, he wailed like a newborn child as he brought his palms to his chest, “Aaaaagh!”
Nelson looked around helplessly, fear was obviously present in his voice as he spoke down at Trey, “Be quiet!”

Trey rubbed his chest with his palms, choking for air, “Heeeeeelp! H-help!”

Without another thought, Nelson raised the bat over his head once more, swinging it in all his blind rage and fear with full power towards Trey’s face. Without getting into anything to technical- there was a loud crack, and Trey fell silent. Nelson had broken Trey’s nose from the rest of his skull, forcing it into his brain, subsequently killing him rather quickly. Nelson lifted the bat slowly from its place against Trey’s face. “Oh… oh God…”

He turned quickly, he’d never actually killed anyone. He didn’t MEAN to kill anyone, he just wanted to fit in with his cousins and brothers, hence the massive amounts of tattoos. He didn’t know why he hated anyone who wasn’t a white supremacist, it just worked that way. It was just meant to be, he was the surgeon and they were the tumors. He’d grown up being taught that anyone black, red, brown, Jewish, anyone south of the border, Asians or any fellow whites that fell to the wills of the previously stated groups were people not to be friends with.

He didn’t MEAN to kill anyone, but he did, and that was that. He looked down to the limp Ronald, biting his bottom lip. He spoke softly, “Uh… h-hello?..”

Ronald was still. Nelson released the bat, sprinting away from the scene and back to his El Camino. Over the next few months, it never actually escaped Nelson’s mind that he’d killed anyone. Every night it was the same dream, the same terrifyingly sickening crack, that immense fear. But he was praised by his peers for what he’d done when he returned to Texas, and that’s what kept him going.

-

Roger stepped through the hallway carefully, his Remington 870 in hand. The pile of dead bodies shifted beneath his feet. “Cat’s in the cradle with th-...”

He stopped atop the pile of bodies, just short of Dante. He tilted his head, staring down at Dante. His short yet puffy grayish white beard moved with his bottom jaw as he spoke, “Excuse me?”

He jabbed the barrel of the shotgun into Dante’s shoulder. Nothing. Roger tossed the shotgun atop the bodies, bending down to Dante and putting and ear to his back. Slow and wheezy breath was present. Roger hooked his hand around the back of Dante’s waistband, and his other hand around the back of Dante’s collar, lifting him up carelessly from the heap of bodies and slinging him over his shoulder with a grunt.

-

A cold ring pressed against Dante’s cheek. He scowled, opening his eyes slowly. He recoiled quickly back at the sight of Roger, cursing under his breath, “Man, the get the fuck away from me, motherfucker…”

Roger stroked his beard thoughtfully. From Dante’s point of view, he could make out the several tear drop tattoos below his left eye, and a swastika between his eyebrows. Roger dropped his hand and tossed the shotgun to his right, over the shiny, varnished desk. The nameplate sitting atop the desk read ‘Warden Theodore J. Walton’ A framed purple heart hung on the front of the desk next to his college degree.

Roger was far too large for the warden’s chair, measuring 6’5 from head to toe, and weighing just under 300 pounds. He pushed himself from the chair, cracking a crooked smile. He began to laugh from deep within his throat, his body quaking as he did so, “You are one lucky boy, I’ll tell yeh that much right now!”

Dante’s eyes crossed as he focused on the swastika between Roger’s eyebrows. Roger followed his gaze, quickly slapping his face and covering his tattoo with his unusually long and thick fingers. “Forget about that. The Lord made a beacon upon you, and told me to bring you back here to the others!”

Dante let his head fall over the back of the chair. He rolled his head over the backrest of the chair, getting an awkward and headache-inducing view of a group of about 20 other prisoners congregating around a grouping of bookshelves at the far end of the office. Dante’s stomach dropped as he lower jaw was grabbed tightly and yanked back down in Roger’s direction. He looked down at Roger’s heavy hands, whimpering, “Let me go!”

Roger quickly yanked his hand back, grabbing the shotgun from atop the desk, “We’re movin’ out soon, let’s hit the armory.”

-

All of the gun racks were empty. Roger strutted to the far end of the armory, ripping open the doors of a gun safe- the lock bent and distorted from a constant beating. “Not much more of a selection. Some nightsticks and some bean bag shotgun shells… Take this.”

Dante staggered towards the gun cabinet, and before reaching it, Roger quickly spun on his shoes, tossing a Glock 17 at him. It thumped against his chest and clattered to the floor. He looked up to Roger, widening his eyes in fear. “Uh-…”

Roger sauntered towards Dante, before prostrating himself at his feet and grabbing the Glock. He pushed himself up, shoving the Glock towards Dante and stopping just short of his gut. “It’s loaded. Don’t fuck with it.”

-

The sunlight burned Dante’s eyes. The twenty or so men filed out of the heavy prison doors, into the prison yard. Bodies littered the entire prison. 22 survivors of 14,857 prisoners and employees- about 675 prisoners dead for each 1 survivor.

Dante idly scanned the small crowd of living prisoners, trying not to focus on the immense pain from the heavy iron door slamming into his head. As one prisoner moved aside, Dante noticed a rather small and short elderly man, hunched over a cane. There was no hair whatsoever on his head, reflecting light into the eyes of any onlookers. The man slowly turned, digging his cane into the gravel of the prison yard, he stopped when he noticed Dante’s unmoving stare. “Hello there.”

Dante stood silently before noticing the elderly man’s hand hanging shakily before him. Dante slowly took his hand, shaking it carefully. Dante was afraid to grip his hand any tighter than you would hold a newborn child, for fear that he might hurt the old man. “Dante Harris, correct?”

Dante’s bottom lip quivered, he nodded quickly, “Ye’ sir.”

The man smiled, his eyes lighting up with a sort of weird excitement. “Your execution date was this very month, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

The man kept his smile, nodding a single time, “Well I am Warden Theodore Joseph Walton, and I tried saving you! A crime of…” He held up a fist, shaking it about, “A crime of… a crime of reason and sheer hot bloodedness is not one to be put on death row for! But the committee simply insisted on it, and I couldn’t sway them otherwise, I only facilitate you men, I can hardly make decisions revolving around your lives here in prison, and on this earth.”

Dante heard the words, but didn’t absorb them, focusing only on the man’s small stature and hauntingly old and raspy voice. “Boys!”

The entire clan of men faced the voice. The voice belonged to the prison’s only surviving guard who stood atop a bench alongside the derelict basketball court. “We are moving out towards Louisiana! There is supposed to be a sort of post on the Gulf of Mexico!”

-

With help of one of the operational prison buses, the group made it to Louisiana before the day was out. They arrived at their final destination on the Gulf of Mexico some time in after midnight. The outpost was a small, untouched town. Cars from the local junkyard served as a barricade around the town hall and surrounding shops. There the group planned to stay until something would expel them from the town, which would happen only after two nights of staying there.

-

The charging handle snapped forward after the clip was pushing down into the M1 Garand. Daniel cleared his throat, speaking softly, “You loaded?”

Through the darkness, Oswald nodded, obviously unbeknownst to Daniel. “Let’s hit it.” He quickly pumped the shotgun, someone hearing it didn’t cross his mind whatsoever.

Daniel slung his rifle, tightening the strap. He felt down his side, unclipping the  top of the sheath. He dragged the 8 Inch Ka-bar from the sheath, reaching his free hand up to window. He pushed on it, sliding it open. He wrapped his hand around the window frame from the inside with his free hand, pulling himself inside. Oswald climbed in just after him, wielding a plain steak knife.

Daniel hunched down, dragging his feet quietly to a door at the other side of the room. He pulled on the door, peeking inside. Dante, Roger and another prisoner, as well as the guard slept inside of the room. Daniel nodded at the stairs leading upstairs, then whispering to Oswald, “Go check upstairs.”

Oswald scurried for the stairs whilst Daniel opened the door bit by bit every few moments to the point where he could fit himself through. He neared the first bed of the first row of beds, carefully pulling the sheets down so he could make out the guard. He moved the knife just over the guard’s neck, holding his breath in fear. He closed his eyes and pushed the knife against the guard’s neck, swiftly yanking the knife towards himself. He kept his eyes closed, he heard the sickening gags of a quick death coming from the prisoners throat followed by silence.

Oswald pushed the door open quickly, raising the steak knife to chest level. He reached the single bed in the room, yanking the sheets down. He clenched his eyes shut, driving the knife towards the bed. He opened his eyes, looking down at the impaled pillow he’d thought was a person. He leaned towards the bed cautiously, planting his left hand against the pillow and wrapping his right around the handle of the knife and yanking it out of the pillow.

The floorboard just behind him creaked, he spun around instantly. The blade of Theodore’s M1918 Trench Knife was driven directly into his throat. Oswald’s steak knife clattered to the hardwood floor. Theodore pushed with all of his energy, forcing Oswald onto the bed, he yanked the knife from Oswald’s neck. Oswald’s eyes progressively widened, he weakly slapped and punched Theodore’s torso. The Warden twisted the trench knife around in his hand, pointing the skull-crusher on the bottom towards Oswald’s forehead. With the energy that remained from the struggle, Theodore slammed the pointed butt of the knife into Oswald’s forward, silencing him.

The elderly male rolled from atop Oswald, falling beside him and staring up at the ceiling. Blood gathered around him, staining the side of his white wife beater. The barrel of the M1 Garand poked into the room, followed quickly by Daniel’s head. “Ozzy?”

Daniel stepped fully into the room and stared- Oswald’s knife on the floor, Oswald laying idly in a pool of what appeared to be his own blood next to an elderly man tugging the shotgun from beneath his body.

Without hesitation Daniel lifted the rifle, pulling the trigger as it reached his hip. The shot tore into his ears, booming from the room and down the stairwell to the rest of the group’s room and throughout the house. Theodore’s already blood stained wife beater bore a hole in the side, a bit of blood sprayed immediately from the side in which he was shot, he leaned his entire body towards the wound, falling off of the bed. He entered a spasm, clutching his side and rolling around- stopping as Daniel’s boot connected with his temple.

Dante fell out of his cot onto the floor, the shot upstairs shocking him in his sleeping state. He got on all fours, looking to Roger. “Wha’s that?”

Roger threw his sheets off of himself, hopping out of the bed. He stopped short at the sight of the dead and bloody prison guard laying on the cot. “Shit…”

Before Dante could fully push himself up, Roger was rushing through the dark house towards the stairs, grabbing an old cast iron kettle from the stove. Just as Daniel finished off Theodore, Roger appeared in the doorway. Daniel turned at the sound of the heavy footsteps, he brought the barrel end of the rifle into his hand, beginning to turn around towards Roger. As he turned completely and lifted the rifle, the kettle was thrown square into his face. More gunfire erupted outside of the house.

Dante burst in the doorway as Roger jumped atop Daniel, pushing the rifle across the floor and under the bed. Roger held Daniel under his legs on the floor, landing a barrage of punches into his face. Dante crept towards Roger, looking over his shoulder at the male being attacked through the moon lit darkness. His face was already unrecognizable as a man by the time Dante had reached the two. His nose was completely caved into his skull, and his jaw was flapping around loosely- obviously disjointed from the rest of his skull. Dante pulled Roger away with all of his force- only because Roger was so tired was he pulled off of the now disfigured Daniel.

Daniel gurgled, whimpering in the pool of his own blood. Roger curled into a ball and brought his bloody and cut hands to his face, crying desperately. “I’m s-sorry…”

Daniel breathed slowly, looking at The Warden and Oswald. “Sh-shi’, man…”

Dante stepped over Daniel, pulling the M1 Garand from beneath the bed. He pulled the charging handle back halfway as he turned, letting it snap forward at sight of the bullets within. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aiming down at Daniel’s forehead. He pulled the trigger twice in a quick succession, completely ignoring the shellshock from firing the rifle within the confines of the small room. Dante dragged his feet to the bed, rolling Oswald onto the floor and grabbing the M1918 Trench knife from the bed.

-

More than half of the town was slaughtered during the night attack two days previously. Those who could get out did. The group of 22 was whittled down to Roger, Dante and about 5 other prisoners who went back towards Texas after the assault- Roger and Dante kept heading east, towards what was formerly known as the Atlantic.

It took about a week with a combination of walking roads and catching convoys and caravans headed in different directions, but the duo eventually made it to seaboard along Georgia. Another month and a half of the same type of travel was ahead of them.

-

Roger squeezed through the two bushes, trying to make more room with the barrel of his Remington 870. The sun was gradually sinking out of view, the sky was stained orange and pink. There were several tall structures in the distance. “Where we at?”

Roger stepped through the trees onto the road. “Nearly there.”

Dante walked past Roger to the edge of the steep hill, swinging his legs over the fence and dropping on the low wooden fence. “Man, if this city is all fucked up an’ shi’… how you expect there to be a crew here?”

Roger sat down next to Dante, staring at Boston’s skyline. “Because, survivors wouldn’t just up and leave an entire city like this- not one with a harbor like this. Besides, it isn’t even that bad looking.”

Many of the buildings appeared rather untouched, minus a few missing upper floors. “Won’t know ‘till we’re there.”

Following signs, the two gradually made their way into post-war Boston as the sun disappeared from sight. Over the course of seven hours, they made it the center of city, seeking refuge within an office.

-

Sure enough, a convoy arrived the next morning in the center of the city. Those who had been cowering in the cities structures emerged – thousands of them from Boston and surrounding areas seeking refuge following the war. Roger and Dante followed the convoy to the harbor, walking many miles on what used to be the Atlantic to where the shoreline now was.

Many people boarded the ship, the writing on the side appeared to be in Japanese, and sure enough, all of those on board the ship in uniform were all of Japanese or Asian persuasion. The ship was rumored to be bound for Ireland, others said it was bound for France, and a few dared to say Australia or South Africa.

After many weeks of sea travel, they arrived in Northern Germany. While most headed to Berlin and Amsterdam in the Netherlands, Roger and Dante trekked, mainly by foot, to Romania. Along the way, Roger had lost his Remington, only being left with a Makarov PM pistol which he’d scrounged from a suicide site. Roger had also scraped the Swastika from his forehead with a knife, willing to do so because of the vast population of Romanian Jews unwilling to speak with Roger due to his tattoo. What small settlements and camps the duo had found, only one had an English speaking man, claiming to be called ‘Beans’.

“Safety? Shit, you boys are a bit late. Don’t you know a war happened?” Beans ran his hand through his hair briefly, sucking on his teeth.

“The Ineu mountains is where everyone speakin’ the English went. They’re all a bunch of assholes though. Head, uh… South-east.”

And so the two did. After several hundred miles more and passing forests and destroyed towns, Dante and Roger arrived in the Ineu mountains, tired from the multiple years of travel.



What will these authorizations give your character in regards to perks or defects?
Perks
 Roger

 The Makarov PM

- A weapon to use for multiple purposes.

- An effective tool in disarming assailants, sometimes without having to pull the trigger.

 The jumpsuit

-Shows where he came from, and indicating his violent nature.

 Strength

-Useful in multiple situations, such as to move things.

 Dante

 The Glock 17

- Useful in multiple situations as a tool, and as stated before, an effective disarming device.

 The M1918 Trench Knife

- Multiple purposes, useful in helping with every day tasks as well as warding off attackers.

 The jumpsuit

- Shows where he came from, and perhaps his violent nature.

 Pistol operation

- Can understand (At a basic level) how common pistols work.

 Basic hand to hand tactics

- Useful in fights.

Defects
 Roger

For the pistol, he could be seen as more dangerous than others, perhaps drawing people's attention. As for his prison jumpsuit, that could also earn him an automatic bad reputation with some. The strength may also hinder him, as people may see him as a threat, and go for him first in many situations.

 Dante

The pistol may draw attention, and as with Roger, make him more noticeable and seemingly dangerous to others, as with the prison jumpsuit. Both may make him a presumably bad person, and therefore a bigger target. The pistol operation is only basic, and limited to a handful of specific firearms. He may not know how to handle many other firearms, including things such as rifles or less common pistols. If found out by others, his basic fighting tactics may also render him an automatic bigger target.

What do you plan to do with these perks/defects?
I plan, obviously, to roleplay with them. I also plan to create roleplay with these authorizations and make things more fun for my friends and I, and of course those who we encounter.

Will anyone else need these auths? (If so, list OOC and IC name(s))
eGF_Adam will be playing as Roger.

Which server does this apply for?
Outlands

Extra Notes (optional):
If the backstory seems choppy and disjointed, just say so. I copypasta'd the entire thing from word and I think I may have fucked up some bits.

[[LP]GMK-MRL]

Finally, you completed it.

Great work of art here and I like how you used multiple characters within your auth app. Didn't find any problems with it really. I hope to see you soon with these characters soon +Support!

[Dixon]

I loved the backstory, great work!

Didn't see anything wrong with it, i'd love to see the duo in the Outlands

I'll throw in my +Support! if that means anything.

[jonco]

Great read. You have my support. I'll wait until a few more admins voice their opinion before accepting or denying.

[Dallas]

After reading this story, I don't see many flaws at all. If anything, it was enjoyable. +sUpp0RT

[Kevin]

For the record, I would appreciate the actual 9mm pistol items to represent the guns.

[Frolie [Jellykid]]

It's almost obligatory, but Tray's getting support from me- for more than just his inventive, and creative RP. Tray's been out of the loop for a good while know, I think that I'm not the only one who's missed his presence in the Outlands.

This character is interesting and innovative, and I think the character (not to mention the... 'man' portraying him) should make a good addition to the new environment the Outlands is beginning to cultivate for itself.

Also, noice story bru

[Kevin]

It's almost obligatory, but Tray's getting support from me- for more than just his inventive, and creative RP. Tray's been out of the loop for a good while know, I think that I'm not the only one who's missed his presence in the Outlands.

This character is interesting and innovative, and I think the character (not to mention the... 'man' portraying him) should make a good addition to the new environment the Outlands is beginning to cultivate for itself.

Also, noice story bru

thxbb

Hope to be back in action soon.

[Lone Wanderer <??"?]

Like others have said, I give my full support with this application. I think you're a good roleplayer that can definetely be trusted with these authorizations, and I'd like to see you back on Outlands once again.

[Kevin]

Hate to sound pushy, but I'm eager to get back into the outlands and I would appreciate a final decision soon.

[Khub]

Accepted.