Skirmisher

[Skirmisher]

Player Info:
Username/Alias on the C-Box: Ranix

Character Info:
Name: Skirmisher or “Mitch” when Holo-avatar is active
Age (or human equivalent): In his mid to late 30s.
Gender (or human equivalent): Male
Species: Cybertronian
Faction: Autobot
Original occupation: Enforcer Caste, Patrol Officer in the City-State of Praxus
Occupation/Specialization:Field Medic
Armor Type: Heavy

Appearance/AltMode: Standing roughly nine meters (29 FT) beginning from the soles of his pedes to the crown of his helm with powerful arms and legs, Skirmisher’s frame embodied the philosophies of the Enforcer Caste. With his height, Skirmisher had been the equivalent of Shockwave while possibly being able to stare in the Decepticon’s cyclopean optic and Carbine’s helm. Whether or not he’d been as intimidating as Shockwave or more had been left up to the individual opinion of others. Thick armored plates covered his broad shoulders slid down to powerful arms designed for the purposes of law enforcement including riot control and for combat in the streets, while armored plating covered his legs designed for endurance. The legs had been designed with several features in mind to prevent Skirmisher from being pushed back, or knocked back or even dislodged in the event of a riot in the form of four alloy reinforced sharpened spikes two meters in length to breach any surface he’d found himself on making him unable to be moved and immobile. The helmet had largely been featureless with the exception of a pair of utility lights mounted in tandem located on the front of the helm, and due to its purpose had been designed with thick armor. Rather than individual optics, Skirmisher had a single solid visor tinted blue while a one-way riot-control alloyed faceplate he’d been allowed to see through slid shut from the brow of the helmet to conceal his face either during a riot situation or during an engagement. A broad chest plate covered his front concealing the servos and framing members beneath, and as with the rest of his frame had been designed from thick armor to resist damage from rioters. He isn't large in the manner of girth, but has a large frame beginning with his broad shoulders down to a more reasonable waist down with his legs built for endurance. (Body Template: Mech: 5 on the chart)

Alt-Mode: Skirmisher had chosen a V-22 Osprey VTOL transport as his alternate mode on Earth, and left it in virtually the same color scheme as the local Air Force.

History:

As his spark was brought online naturally, the Enforcer Caste given the name of Skirmisher had been brought online fully forged. The first signs of sentient thought and recognition etched across the continuous lens of his solid piece visor bringing the attention of those around him to either greet the new mech into the world or to assign him to one of the Castes given the properties of his frame. His Alt-Mode had been tested in front of the Guild Masters, the Heads of the individual Guilds on Cybertron who by authority assigned mechs to whatever Caste their Alt-Mode had been suited for. Given the abilities of Skirmisher’s frame and that of his Alt-Mode, he’d been assigned to the Enforcer Caste and tasked with maintaining both Law and Order among the residents of Praxus. Following this initial assignment, he’d been taken to the Enforcer Halls of Praxus to await his enforcement programming or rather the more extensive parts of his enforcement programming. Having been fully forged when he’d been brought online, Skirmisher had been mostly trained and his programming had largely been submitted intact even before his Caste had been assigned.

His first cycles on the streets had been rough, but he’d learned quickly. Paired with an initial partner being one of the more seasoned members of the Praxus Police Department at least for the first orbital star-cycle, Skirmisher had found he’d had a lot to learn from the older mech including other little tricks of the trade. After the first orbital star-cycle, Skirmisher had taken to the streets keeping in mind which mech had been a regular civilian of the city-state to which mech had been among the more notorious crime-rings. With this knowledge firmly set in his memory core, he’d taken to the streets regardless of the time in the cycle keeping an eye on things to insure the local civilians to the tourists that crime hadn’t gone unnoticed. Roughly what would constitute as five thousand years since coming online, Skirmisher had kept to his duties. The logs recorded in the patrol books matched each cycle spent on patrol to each broken riot and each time he’d received a call on a stray Turbofox or cohort pet. Domestic disturbances had largely made up his log records, but even though domestic disturbances had rated rather common even his superiors hadn’t been able to dismiss the amount of criminals to low-life mechs and even corrupted doctors in raided Relinquishment Clinics had filled cells in at least a few wings of the Praxus detention center before having been transferred elsewhere.

When the Great War had reached the boundaries of Praxus, Skirmisher had lent his abilities to the defense of his home city-state while insuring civilians made it to safety in the shelters or to waiting armed transports. Exchanging blaster salvos alongside his brethren Enforcer bots and with reinforcements from the Autobot faction, Skirmisher had in a sense actually enjoyed the change of pace over the monotony of a never-ending patrol. Somewhere along the line, he’d contemplated what it would have been like to have saved a life rather than taking it. He’d seen many Mechs that had gone offline, rendered offline in the occasional riot or blown to bits in the Great War. Seeing death hadn’t bothered him or had even phased him enough for him to have questioned his purpose, but when the War had erupted lifeless wreckage involving many civilians had sparked that question.

Following the ruin of Praxus, Skirmisher had taken the initiative following his own feelings in the matter to seek out and join the Autobot movement. If the objectives of the Decepticons had involved wreaking as much destruction and carnage across Cybertron, there had been at least one Enforcer Caste mech that had been determined to put an end to it or at least to lend his rifle. After joining the Autobot movement, he’d found his inquiries into learning the medicinal arts hadn’t gone unnoticed and with it had found more than one all-too-willing if not seasoned mentor Medic among the ranks. Learning the medical arts from the techniques of field medicine complete with what tools were proper to the time-consuming yet mandatory techniques for surgery including the all-too often necessity of field triage, Skirmisher had kept his Enforcer training while taking on the intricacies and sometimes horror of medicine. His efforts had largely been limited to the plasma torches, remedies and patches of field medicine.

In the waning years of the Great War, he’d found his unit had been assigned to reinforce the existing Autobot Garrison on Earth which had originally been deployed to escort and protect the few scientists that had been tasked with seeding Earth with Energon. Having boarded one of six Autobot shuttles destined for Earth, the Enforcer mech had stowed his belongings in his assigned quarters before having taken his station in the shuttle’s medical bay. Even if there hadn’t been a need for the medical bay’s instruments or his abilities at the moment, Skirmisher hadn’t wanted to have been caught off guard or away from the medical bay when his services had been required. He’d been in rather nice company aboard the shuttle with at least two other medical Autobots, noted and reputed in their fields even before the War.

The shuttle squadron had launched successfully from their field safely behind Autobot lines from Cybertron, and once the squadron had reached a pre-planned distance from the metallic planet, the squadron had assumed a loose formation. The formation had been chosen for its flexibility in both allowing each shuttle to come under the protective fire of the other shuttles while allowing the shuttles to evade or dodge asteroids or other obstacles and much to Skrimisher’s surprise had managed to reach Earth without being intercepted by Decepticon patrols or other parties. With the arrival of the reinforcements for the Garrison, the shuttles had undergone security screenings before having been allowed to make final approach corrections. Once on the surface, the crews of the shuttles with their passengers and cargo had undergone even further screenings by Garrison security before having been allowed to unload their cargo and to settle in. During the flight, there had been a few arguments aboard the shuttle he’d been assigned to between a few anxious mechs wanting to take the fight to the Decepticons by using the weaponry aboard the shuttle with its ready-complement to strafe some of the Decepticon positions, but the more seasoned mechs including those with ranking positions within the Autobot movement voiced otherwise.

Nearly a mega-cycle later, Skirmisher had been able to settle in along with proving to the Garrison his abilities including his medical skills. He hadn’t been designed for pure combat as those in the Military Caste had, but through his experiences during the Great War he’d come to gain the trust and respect of many that had been in the Military Caste before the Caste system had been abolished. He’d found his skills as a field medic meant he’d been reassigned to assisting in setting up field medical units, auxiliary medical units to dispersing the medical supplies to those areas while insuring the typically assumed soft targets had been hardened by security systems designed to protect it with the additional firepower provided by mechs inside.

Purple, and orange blossoms from Autobot flak batteries littered the sky having either forced Decepticon seekers to evade missing their target or if the flaming twisted mechs had been indicative had sent many a seeker or flight capable Decepticon plunging to their death. Twisted charred remains of the first lines of Decepticons lay where they had fallen having broken on the Autobot defenses, but while the arrays of defense blaster batteries to miles of razor thin wire capable of slicing through a mech’s mesh and ligaments below had only benefited the Autobot defenders for a short time until the ground-based Decepticons had grown wise to it. Instead of charging in distinct marked lines by unit in robot form, the Decepticons had plowed through those defenses in their alt-modes. The first Autobots manning the first outer perimeter trenches came under intense fire before the call for Autobot reinforcements from floating units raced into the fray joining their brethren in holding the line, but as with any engagement against the Decepticons the other side had more cards up their casings. Long range artillery from behind the Decepticon lines had opened fire raking the Autobot lines causing more casualties for the defenders, but hadn’t softened their resolve or determination.

Nearly two mega-cycles earlier, the Enforcer Caste turned field medic known as Skirmisher had found himself alone on a field littered with the lifeless metallic hulks and wreckage of the fellow mechs in the Autobot garrison and a near equal amount of Decepticon frames among the wreckage. The Energon supplies his garrison had been tasked with seeding this planet with had grown dangerously low, and in the last cycle of the engagement the Energon supplies on both sides had run out. The fighting had been fierce, as he’d recalled, starting with the ranged energy weapons and missile weaponry being used before being exhausted. After the long ranged arsenals had been exhausted, mid-ranged weaponry had been used with the fighting growing even more intense. Entire lines had been intermingled, with Autobots and Decepticons rushing each other to the point communication had been entirely lost between the various units. He’d recalled when the mid-ranged arsenals had been exhausted, the fighting had devolved to short-ranged and finally to fists against metal and claws raking seeping wounds that leaked lubricants. The ground had become slick with the fluids from damaged mechs to those that attempted to make a valiant stand on both sides only to be rendered into lifeless scrap, which had left Skirmisher to patch together any mech that came to him before sending them back out to the front. For every mech he’d struggled to patch together, he’d found their lifeless hulk later either dismembered or barely recognizable.

He’d tended to a damaged mech in the safety of one of the trenches when the sixth sense he’d developed from his time as a Police Officer in Praxus had been triggered, and his hunch hadn’t been far off. Having gripped the Ion Magnum, he’d turned in time to see two damaged Decepticons clutching rifles that had been drained of their energy staring down at him from the lip of the trench and hearing the soft hum of the blaster rifle of the mech behind him lock on both of the Decepticons lunged at them. Squeezing back the trigger without really aiming, Skirmisher managed to destroy one of the Decepticons mid-leap while the other had pounced on the other mech. Having heard the screams of the other mech, he’d turned the Ion Magnum on the offending Decepticon before being tackled from behind by a third one he hadn‘t even been aware of. With one hand firmly on the pistol grip of the Magnum, he’d managed to quickly turn over to find a rather nasty looking and more than likely angered Gladiator mech attempted to strangle him with both hands.

Having used the Ion Magnum with a few well placed shots to a weakened spot in the Decepticon’s armor to dispatch his attacker, Skirmisher had blacked out from the damage sustained and after a time his programming had come back online. Finding himself pinned by the dead mech, Skirmisher had managed to push the mech off to the side before having discovered the extent of his wounds involving a rather deep crack in his chest plate. Patching this crack with a plasma torch, Skirmisher had gathered the few supplies he’d been able to with the weaponry of the fallen mechs. Having cleared the mouth of the trench, he’d found he’d the blasted and cratered landscape a result of the fiercely contested engagement only a planetary-cycle earlier or so his built-in chronometer had indicated. At first he hadn’t believed an entire planetary-cycle had passed when the Decepticons had stormed their lines, but he’d gathered it had stood to reason why his system had taken so long to have come back online after he’d passed out.

Having set out for an space-strip every Autobot in the Garrison had known held a few shuttles that he’d hoped had gone unnoticed in the battle, Skirmisher had assumed his alt-mode of a Cybertronian armored car. A Joor later, Skirmisher had arrived at the air-strip in the southwestern region of the Pangean continent to find a handful of surviving Autobots. Arguments ensued between he and Stein, a mech of the former Military Caste, about seeing if Stein could take him or if Skirmisher could have taken a spot aboard the other mech’s ship until it resulted in Stein having marooned the field medic alone on the planet. Having vented his disappointment at Stein, Skirmisher had found two out of six Autobot shuttles remaining in the hangers of the space-strip a sign the rest had been taken by even more survivors that had rallied at the space-strip that Skirmisher hadn’t even known about.

Seeking shelter in one of the shuttles with the callsign Delta-Six, Skirmisher had managed to scavenge supplies of fuel to ammunition to energon rations to spare parts from the other shuttles and from the rest of the space-strip. He hadn’t found another mech, Autobot or Decepticon anywhere in the space-strip or anywhere near the space-strip with the exception of lifeless wreckage leaving him alone on the planet. After Skirmisher had secured the additional cargo with the supplies and energon rations in both the cargo bay next to the existing cargo and in several of the crew quarters minus the one he’d decided to take for himself, he’d seen to the task of programming the shuttle’s primary core to powering the shuttle’s systems rather than the retractable thrusters. Having found himself aboard a shuttle programmed for a typically larger crew including the bridge and engineering crew, he’d found he’d been unable to even prepare the shuttle for launch and had resigned his survival to being stranded. Resigned to his fate, Skirmisher had settled in for the long-term seeing to programming a triple-encrypted Autobot rally call set to repeat once every few planetary cycles given the available power shunted to the shuttle’s communications’ system and even when that failed the emergency distress beacon’s separate energy supply had been programmed to kick in.

After nearly two mega-cycles since the rally-call had been programmed, Skirmisher had discovered the lack of a rescue team and while he’d harbored disappointment he’d mused he’d partially understood the reasoning. The open hostilities of the Great War against the Autobots and Decepticons had been ongoing and not simply drawn to a close during the fierce engagement he’d been witness to and had most likely been the reason or at least he’d hoped had been the reason why no Autobots had dispatched a team to find him. He’d actually managed to gather more than enough energon rations than he’d needed having scavenged from the remaining shuttles in addition to the supply aboard his own, and had stored the rest safely. Less than a breem ago, he’d personally checked the primary reactor only to find a malfunction spreading through its programming before he’d decided to start up the shuttle’s auxiliary reactor and with it he’d come to realize his chances of being rescued or even in the slimmest remotest possibility of taking flight in the shuttle had dwindled. The auxiliary reactor, he’d known, had only been programmed to provide power to shuttle’s systems in the event of a reactor failure or in the event of the shuttle having been grounded and not the flight capable systems.

He’d nearly finished with one of a small series of video logs he’d made to take his mind off of his being marooned, but had started to find them depressing in their own right. The logs had started to remind him of his plight, and of the notion no one else would have been listening to them. A series of alarms blared across the shuttle’s PA system alerting him to the primary reactor’s failure before the shuttle’s systems switched over to the auxiliary reactor and the few banks of available batteries. With the knowledge the shuttle’s systems would have drained the batteries along with the auxiliary reactor, the former Enforcer Caste mech came to a final decision to shut down the unessential systems and realized not long after the on-board supplies of energon rations wouldn’t have held out long enough for him to have found if he’d been found. With those thoughts in mind, he’d decided to go into voluntary-stasis knowing it would make the supplies of energon rations last far longer and it would mean the reactors with the batteries wouldn’t have had that much of a drain on them. Having slid the Ion Magnum back into the concealed holster compartment located under his left arm, he’d made sure the compartment had sealed flush with the surrounding alloy before having risen from the pilot’s seat in the bridge or cockpit. He’d made his way back to the engineering section in the aft compartment of the shuttle, and took the time to pour more fuel into the auxiliary reactor before programming it for an extended time of operation. He’d made sure to program the auxiliary reactor to only power the batteries, the heaters and the communications’ system with the distress beacon. He’d shut down the primary reactor entirely, isolating it from the rest of the systems and auxiliary reactor by disassembling it before he’d returned back to the bridge to retake his seat. Taking the time to get comfortable, Skirmisher had gone through the process programming his internal systems for a voluntary stasis-lock and sat back before experiencing it.

Several hundred light-cycles later or the equivalent of millions of years later, the triple-encrypted Autobot rally call and distress beacon had been detected. An Autobot Cell, an unlikely presence, had detected the beacon from Shuttle Delta-Six forgotten by time as the world around it returned from the scarred and blasted Pangean continent to the mixed ecosystems spread across seven continents. Bipedal beings and quadrupeds based more on carbon than sillicone or gears had populated the planet spreading their genes across the four winds dominating the skyline with cities of concrete and steel much akin to the ancient neighbors from a metallic planet that had once borne life of its own, and throughout the existence of the human species the shuttle Delta-Six had been buried under hundreds of feet of snow and ice on an isolated island known by its inhabitants as Bouyetova Island of the Antarctic. For millennia the shuttle with its dormant passenger had gone unnoticed by both flora and fauna through tectonic movements and cyclonic hurricanes as the planet had largely forgotten its participation in a fierce contest between a single species of cybernetic creatures even the ancient humans would have considered titans of legend. Those legends wouldn’t have been far off, but in their presence the humans would have found either benign from the Autobots or malicious from the Decepticons and so Skirmisher had laid dormant unaware of the changes beyond the alloyed hull of his shuttle and unaware Earth had become the host of a new series of contests between the single species from Cybertron split into two warring factions.

When lights appeared in the darkened confines of the shuttle, some of the consoles had briefly come to life as if on cue from a pre-programmed notion set by its dormant resident. Had the resident known when he’d be rescued if at all or had been some odd sense of humor left in the old technology? Hatches that had laid sealed for millennia slowly ground open for those walking its corridors and traipsing its deck again to reveal the crew that had normally been counted had been absent. Crates and pallets of cargo filled the cargo hold and some of the quarters while the familiar cubes of energy had remained undisturbed safe behind a false bulkhead made to have appeared to be genuine to fool or to have hopefully fooled any Decepticons that had found the shuttle. The shuttle’s bulkheads had kept the pressure from the mounting snow and ice at bay while the shuttle’s auxiliary star drive core with the banks of batteries had hummed onward calmly powering the shuttle’s heaters and the other mechanisms the new occupants had triggered from the lights to the consoles and even the hatches with the exception of the internal and external hatches of the airlocks. On one of the consoles, the small series of video logs played following Skirmisher’s first few planetary-cycles to his last mega-cycle after the Battle of Earth and being stranded on the planet. Resting motionless in the chair reserved for the shuttle’s pilot, the still limbs of an armored mech had laid undisturbed.

Personality: Cool, Reserved, Stubborn, Collected, Determined, and otherwise described as an old Detective or Beat Cop. Skirmisher can come across as stubborn, or even reserved to those that hadn’t known him including those Autobots on Earth and to humans. He views everyone with open skepticism, and suspicion until they can prove to him they can be trusted which is probably why he joined the Autobot cause. To those that know him, he can be talkative and start up a conversation. He’s friendly, at least to those that know him. For those that cross him or harbor a criminal background, or that he’s caught before would describe him as someone to fear. Once he’s caught onto their trail, he won’t let go unless it’s to tactically pull back to fight another day. There is very little that can cause him to be upset or frustrated, or even worried resulting in his appearing to be cool and calm-headed. He understands that panicking doesn’t benefit anyone, and that it actually leads to foul-ups and missed evidence. As an Enforcer, Skirmisher can be seen as stubborn in that he refuses to let up a collar or give up a trail. He’s seen too much and experienced too much to even consider it.

He will be polite, even respectful to the chain of command, but if an order is either illegal in either Cybertronian law or human law he’ll voice his concerns. He’s not old in terms of physical age to his frame, but old in terms of what he’s seen and had to do. He’s seen Cybertron in its hey-day, or rather in the closing years of the Golden Age followed by the arteries of Energon become the next prize fought over in the Great War. When it comes to his patients though, he’ll attempt to have a good bedside manner although he’s still learning the finer side of the medicinal arts.

As a survivor from the Battle of Earth that left Earth seeded with energon, Skirmisher will actually remain quiet about the memories that haunt him. He’ll remain quiet, keeping those inner demons to himself in hopes he’d be able to at least deal with them in his own fashion. Prior to the War, he’d actually been a helpful sort. He hadn’t been afraid to ask for help, or to provide an open audio receptor for a fellow Enforcer. His experiences in the Battle of Earth, including the two mega-cycles spent alone in that shuttle buried under the ice and snow had changed him.

Due to his experiences in the Battle of Earth, he suffered from PTSD in one form or another mostly caused by his traumatic experiences. As a member of the Enforcer Caste, he’d been witness to many things over his long career that could have crossed into traumatic to heartbreaking, but it had taken seeing the terrors of war against an aggressive enemy to have forced him to see that war hadn’t been about glory not that he’d thought of it as such before the outbreak of the War. The memories and visions still haunt him, especially on nights when he’s attempting to recharge. He’ll find he can’t escape it, and will go wandering either through the Omega Base or will go outside to sit near the base to look at the stars. If he’s forced to remain in the base, he’ll attempt to occupy himself by watching local TV stations on some of the monitors albeit with the volume turned down located throughout the base. He won’t scream out in agony, or terror. Instead, he’ll remain silent about it and if bothered or interrupted he’ll come up with some random though believable excuse.

When it came to the decision to pursue the medicinal arts, at least at first in the form of field medicine, his decision had come from having wanted to have saved lives. He’d wanted to have witnessed the other side of having actually taken lives, and with that thought in mind he’d turned to branching out into the medicinal arts. Albeit, learning medicine in the fields of War under constant enemy fire hadn’t been the most ideal of a classroom. He’ll do what he can to save a life, regardless of what others might say or even what the data-screen of a computer might hold. If a patient or patients of his are threatened, in particular by Decepticons, he’ll personally render the Decepticon offline.

Likes: Reliability, Honesty, Respect, Fellow Cops/Enforcers, Law, Snow, Autobots, Medicine, Surgery, Triage, Dark/Darkness, Optimus Prime, Cybertron, Film (War films, Crime Films, Medical Comedies), Literature (Crime Novels, War Novels, Medical Novels), Rain, The Innocent (Mechs and Humans alike)

Dislikes: Unreliability, Dishonesty, Disrespect, Decepticons, Rap Music, Patients that Talk Back to Him, Uppity Patients, Teenagers or the Cybertronian Equivalent, Bathing Suits, Those who talk during the movie, Those that spoil a movie or give away the plot, Methane Expulsion (Especially from Humans), Liars, Forests/Jungles, Criminals, Narcotics Dealers, Cop/Enforcer Killers

Strengths/Weapons:

Improvisation: When something doesn’t go as planned or if he’s somehow managed to wind up without a proper tool or other device, he’ll resort to improvising from cobbling together random pieces of junk to coming up with a quick story or reason on the fly.

Determined Field Medic/Surgeon: Whether on or off the field of engagement, Skirmisher has proven he’s as determined a field medic and surgeon in saving the lives of those around him either fellow Autobot, Enforcer or human although he doesn’t quite know human anatomy. He’ll do his best to call ahead to the nearest hospital or military installation to arrange medical treatment for any human in his care requiring treatment. He can’t sterilize an environment if it’s a dirty hangar for instance or a garage, but will do his best. If the Spark is too far gone or too weak, there isn’t anything he can do to save the mech in question. He won’t treat a Decepticon, given his history with them, and will instead allow them to go offline unless the Decepticon in question can be of use or holds information valued by his faction. As for Dark Energon or the theoretical existence of it, any bot tainted by it to the extent they have been reduced to a blind fury is beyond the extent of his knowledge and abilities.

Ion Magnum: The Ion Magnum takes the form of a handheld sidearm, one to replace the standard-issued Police Blaster Revolver he’d had since his joining the Praxus PD. The Ion Magnum isn’t a light weapon either, and while it’s not a streamlined sidearm it is capable of at least being carried by smaller mechs without much assistance. It’s capable of being concealed on his person, capable of being fired either from the left hand or the right hand. The bolts from the Ion Magnum can fry circuitry, reducing a Decepticon to an incapacitated and damaged or destroyed hulk depending on the severity of the shot.

Riot Shield: An alloyed reinforced riot shield designed to push back rioting mechs originally, and repurposed to defend and deflect shots fired at him from Decepticons. The riot shield had been designed with two settings in mind, with one setting where it only extended to his knee-joints and shoulders. The other setting, the second setting, extending the shield to resemble a tower shield stopping at his pedes and above his head. In both cases, the shield is rather wide to deflect blasts and even the occasional missile. The Riot shield had been programmed to be conveyed, deployed and held from his right hand.

Riot Baton: The alloy-reinforced, thick Riot Baton when decided or rather armed consciously had been stored within his left arm allowing him to replace his left hand with it. This baton can be programmed to in comparison to the thickness of the expected mech‘s alloy and chassis to being capable of delivering either a stunning blow or incapacitating blow given the opposing mech‘s actions and the severity of the situation. Following the start of the Great War, the Riot Baton had found a new purpose in disabling, and incapacitating Decepticons. Given the aggressive and often close quarter combat found in the War against the Decepticons, the Riot Baton isn’t one of his first weapons of choice though it does provide a rather shocking surprise to both Decepticons and criminals alike. In the event he’s attempting to save the life of a fellow Autobot or Enforcer and he finds he lacks the proper tool needed, he’ll improvise using the baton to jumpstart the mech at least temporarily until a more permanent solution could be found.

Retractable Spikes: Designed to be incapable of being dislodged except by choice or by great force and to be retracted afterwards, Skirmisher’s legs had been designed to propel four two meter long alloy-reinforced spikes with two spikes per pede into whatever surface he’d found himself standing on. The spikes would project deep into the surface, and the material beneath to provide a stable footing while preventing rioters or even Decepticons from dislodging him. These spikes have a tapered end, sharp enough to punch through most surfaces and in the event he’s either short of weaponry or has a Decepticon grabbing him by the leg he can use the spikes as an improvised weapon.

Weaknesses:

Vulnerability: During his engagement on Earth in the bloody conflagration that resulted, his chest plate had been cracked. Regardless of the fact his chest plate is thick and armored designed to withstand blasts from an angle or the fists of an angered mech in close quarters, the crack has compromised the integrity of the chest plate itself. He had managed to weld it shut, sealing it with a plasma torch after the battle, but hadn’t been able to tend to the rent metal beneath. If this vulnerability has been exploited in a fight, it will be enough to take him out of the fight though it won’t be enough to render him offline. A Decepticon during the Battle of Earth had head butted him in the chest plate resulting in a jagged crack which had been at least tended to that ran about a foot or so down from the upper right corner of the chest plate near his collarbone brace. It’s still there, even though it’s been welded and the chest plate looks unmarred. He had the Chest Plate welded, and later checked out by Ratchet. It is no longer a Vulnerability. NOTE: The Cracked Breastplate had been repaired, and sealed in game. This isn't much of a Vulnerability anymore.

Size: More in part to his tall frame, Skirmisher isn’t ideal for scouting missions in his robot form and can’t hide that easily without time for preparation or provided distractions. In his Alt-Mode form, however; he’s fully able to conceal himself at least from prying eyes in appearing to be a normal V-22 Osprey VTOL transport. He can even retract the wings holding the nacelles to make his profile appear smaller, and thinner.

Special Skills (that are not weapon related):

Medicine/Surgery: After joining the Autobot movement following the abolishing of the Caste System, he’d followed his piqued interest in medicine and had managed to learn from other medically inclined mechs the knowledge needed. He’d had a chance to pick up numerous field medicine techniques which had come useful during the various skirmishes on Cybertron before his assignment to the Earth Garrison. His medical skills had been hard pressed, and at some point had pushed his abilities into surgery or rather triage. He’d managed to be billeted as an auxiliary surgeon in case the primary and secondary surgeons in the Garrison had been incapacitated or had otherwise been preoccupied.

Nightvision: Due more in part to his design as an Enforcer than a developed ability, Skirmisher had been programmed with nightvision. His single solid visor rather than individual optics had allowed him, through its programming, to have nightvision and to see into that spectrum. He’d been able to ascertain the movements of fellow Mechs, of Autobot or Decepticon and even local fauna. Unlike the nightvision goggles used by the US Military and other militaries of Earth, Skirmisher’s Nightvision isn’t hampered by artificial lights at night. During the day, it’s another story. He’s able to switch off the Nightvision, keeping it on stand-by only when he’d need it.

Holo-Projector: This device had been issued only in his case to his frame, and had allowed him to project through an armored projector lodged in the cheeks of his helmet and his right arm. These projectors allowed him to project several different holograms which were limited to only soft-light projections of which lacked the heavy details upon close scrutiny although from afar the projections might appear as the real thing. Keeping these projectors on even longer than an hour or two leaves a considerable drain on his systems resulting in a preferred operation within that window of fifteen minutes to twenty-five minutes if he‘d had some back-up or if he’d taken the risk of shutting down unnecessary systems. The limitations on the additional holoprojectors had no detrimental affect on his own personal holographic human avatar.

These projectors are housed in armored sections of his helmet, and his right arm, which also houses and is programmed to deploy the alloy-reinforced Riot shield. In his Alt-Mode form of the V-22 Osprey, these holoprojectors remain in armored casements arrayed in different positions throughout the Alt-Mode in order to keep them from sustaining damage. When he’s in his Alt-Mode, he’s able to use one armored holo-projector while the others remain on standby when they’re needed and with that sole projector he can project a single hardlight hologram complete with an aviator’s helmet, oxygen mask and uniform. This projection, named ‘Mitch’ or Major Mitch Howser with the call sign 'Miami' appears as being in his early to mid thirties, complete with the vestments listed above, and can pick things up as well as move around both inside the Osprey and outside. Beneath the helmet and oxygen mask, the avatar has blond hair with green eyes.

Extra Info:

Retractable Spikes: The alloy-reinforced retractable spikes, four of them in total, were designed and are stored in the external compartments of his legs. These spikes are capable of being fully concealed, and incapable of being seen by others when they aren’t in use.

Under-the-Left-Arm Compartment: This compartment was originally designed to conceal, and house the standard Police-Issued Blaster Revolver, but when Skirmisher had lost that at some point the compartment had been repurposed to conceal the Ion Magnum.

Holo-Projector Housings: These Holo-projector housings number two housed in the “cheeks” of his helmet, and one in his right arm. When not in use, these housings remain concealed and are otherwise not visible.

Ear for Languages: Over the course of his existence and in his profession in the Enforcer Caste, Skirmisher developed an ability where he’d been able hone the sensitivity of his audio receptors to pick up on other languages. He’d been able to ascertain the region, at least on Cybertron or its surrounding areas, of where a person or persons might have been and could within reason be able to understand in only a few lines a language that otherwise would have been unfamiliar to his audio receptors. Though, speaking the language had been another matter entirely as he’d have to consciously interpret and translate the information received by his audio receptors to his vocal processors. If he’s presented with a language he normally wouldn’t have been exposed to previously, the translation may take a little bit of time for his audio receptors to decipher the new language with its syntax and other variables through to his memory core where its sample vocabulary and sounds would be compared to existing Cybertronian vocabulary. Following the deciphering and comparisons, the final product would be transferred to his vocal processors and while at first his attempts would be fairly crude to some extent he’ll catch on eventually.

Sixth Sense: Due to his experiences as an Enforcer, Skirmisher had developed a sixth sense. This Sixth Sense, or gut feeling as humans would say, developed over time at first as what he’d initially passed off as a glitch in his neural-circuitry. After a time, he’d come to realize this glitch had saved his life more than a few times and as a result granted more trust to that particular glitch which later he’d come to dub as a Sixth Sense. This Sixth Sense has in the past alerted him, and in the process saved him from hidden explosives to would-be-assassins or even with the habitual liar. During the Great War, this Sixth Sense had been able to give him a tactical edge in engagements by forcing him to be skeptical and on edge. It isn’t infallible, but it has saved his life and by association those around him on several occasions.

Sample RP:

[System: Sol: Planet: Earth: Location: Bouvetoya Island: Time: Millions of Years ago: Status: Operational aboard a grounded Autobot Shuttle]

The howling of the wind had been clearly heard even through the reinforced alloyed hull of the grounded Autobot shuttle he’d stumbled onto still in a hanger belonging to one of the Earth garrison’s auxiliary space-strips on the far southwestern region of the massive Pangean continent that claimed most of the dry-land on a planet otherwise covered by sixty-percent water. He’d been certain, from the exterior cameras mounted on the hull and even what he’d been able to see through the forward facing viewports positioned on the far bulkhead in the bridge or rather the cockpit of the shuttle that the white powdery frozen substance known as snow had been accumulating outside. A blizzard had started nearly a Joor ago, and hadn’t let up an ounce while blanketing the region in snow and ice. The heaters throughout the shuttle had kept him warm enough to stave off the cold, and to stave off the cold damage to his systems.

Nearly two mega-cycles earlier, the Enforcer Caste turned field medic known as Skirmisher had found himself alone on a field littered with the lifeless metallic hulks and wreckage of the fellow Mechs in the Autobot garrison and a near equal amount of Decepticon frames among the wreckage. The energon supplies his garrison had been tasked with seeding this planet with had grown dangerously low, and in the last cycle of the engagement the Energon supplies on both sides had run out. The fighting had been fierce, as he’d recalled, starting with the ranged energy weapons and missile weaponry being used before being exhausted. After the long ranged arsenals had been exhausted, mid-ranged weaponry had been used with the fighting growing even more intense. Entire lines had been intermingled, with Autobots and Decepticons rushing each other to the point communication had been entirely lost between the various units. He’d recalled when the mid-ranged arsenals had been exhausted, the fighting had devolved to short-ranged and finally to fists against metal and claws raking seeping wounds that leaked lubricants. The ground had become slick with the fluids from damaged mechs to those that attempted to make a valiant stand on both sides only to be rendered into lifeless scrap, which had left Skirmisher to patch together any mech that came to him before sending them back out to the front. For every mech he’d struggled to patch together, he’d found their lifeless hulk later either dismembered or barely recognizable.

He’d been tending to a damaged mech in the safety of one of the trenches when the sixth sense he’d developed from his time as a Police Officer in Praxus had been triggered, and his hunch hadn’t been far off. Gripping the blaster rifle, he’d turned in time to see two damaged Decepticons clutching rifles that had been drained of their energy staring down at him from the lip of the trench and hearing the soft hum of the blaster rifle of the mech behind him lock on both of the Decepticons lunged at them. Squeezing back the trigger without really aiming, Skirmisher managed to destroy one of the Decepticons mid-leap while the other had pounced on the other mech. Hearing the screams of the other mech, he’d turned the Ion Magnum on the offending Decepticon before being tackled from behind by a third one he hadn‘t even been aware of. With one hand firmly on the rifle grip of the magnum, he’d managed to quickly turn over to find a rather nasty looking and more than likely angered Gladiator mech attempting to strangle him with both hands.

“No…no…Skirmisher!” the shouts from the other mech filled the trench before being quickly silenced followed by the tearing of metal. Anger had gripped him at the loss of not only a patient, but a friend and having slipped his right hand down to his waist he’d managed to draw the Ion magnum. With the Decepticon’s attention drawn towards his face, the field medic slid the Ion magnum below its abdomen and fired. Squeezing back the trigger, the Ion magnum delivered a lethal load of ion shells straight into the already weakened armored abdomen of the former Gladiator Mech. He must have squeezed the trigger three times before the Decepticon reared back in pain allowing him to roll over onto his feet.

* * * * * *

[Sometime later]

Slowly coming to with his visor detecting the first rays of the rising sun, Skirmisher had felt a heavy weight on his legs and looked down to find the lifeless hulk of the former Gladiator mech that had attacked him pinning his legs under its weight. Carefully pushing the metallic hulk to the side, he’d attempted to stand only for rivulets of lubricant and energon to have caught his attention. Running a self-diagnostic, he’d found a deep crack down to the frame beneath marred the alloyed surface of his chest plate having left a roughly foot or two long trail of gouged alloy from his upper right collar bone strut. The memory recordings came back to him in a flood of information, where he’d been able to remember his struggle with the pincer armed Gladiator mech resulting in the Decepticon slamming him against the wall of the trench. The pain receptors in that side of his body rang out in a chorus as the memories played on uninterrupted before Skirmisher had blacked out, and had forced him to remember how the former Gladiator mech had been able to slam his thickly armored helmet in a last ditch effort before going offline to take the Enforcer turned Medic offline down onto Skirmisher’s chest plate cracking it under the pressure.

Finding his medical kit, he’d self-welded the crack sealing his chest plate with a plasma welding torch he’d packed in that kit. If an untrained mech had handled the welding torch that close to his chest plate and other vital members beneath, he would have had more concern than simply bracing himself. Packing the tools back into the medical kit, he’d grabbed his weapons with those of the nearby fallen mechs before hauling himself over the lip of the trench. The land beyond the trench had been blasted and scarred with craters here or there with lifeless mechs often still in the clutches of equally lifeless opponents. With the sun rising over head, he’d taken to searching for survivors only to find lifeless hulks for miles and upon more than one occasion had found the remains of old friends. Seeing to the ancient rites he’d learned, he’d given his friends the final rights granted by Primus before having moved on. Assuming his alt-mode of a Cybertronian armored car, he’d decided to head south towards a lone signal and towards one of the few auxiliary space-strips they’d set aside.

* * * * * *

[Pangean Continent: Southwestern Region: Time: 3 Joor Later]

“Wait. You can’t leave! You have to take me with you,” he’d said. He’d found only a handful of surviving Autobots at the auxiliary space-strip, and had found each of them had either had ships of their own or had the innate ability to leave the planet on their own accord. Skirmisher had never been one to beg, or even one to make odd requests from those that had been able to provide help. He’d simply been designed without the ability to fly, and without thrusters in his feet to provide lift. For all intents and purposes, he’d been designed as a ground-pounder.

“Are you asking me to take you with me, medic?” Stein asked, occupied with stowing some last minute supplies aboard his ship. The mech known as Stein had originally been of the Military Caste when the Caste system had existed, and even after the system had been abolished the older mech had maintained his profession as a trooper in their cause. Although Skirmisher had been forced to be in the Earth Garrison with him, he’d found Stein’s attitude to be intolerable.

“The name is Skirmisher. You know me, Stein. We fought together. You owe me. I don’t have the capability to fly on my own, and I don’t have a ship,” Skirmisher remembered saying.

“You don’t have a ship and you can’t fly? It sounds like those are your problems. I can’t take you anyways. My ship has only enough room for me, and some supplies,” Stein replied.

“You’re the only one here with space enough for more than one, Stein. Everyone else that has a ship has already loaded them down with other survivors and are getting off of this rock,” Skirmisher had said. Out of the handful of survivors, only three of them had actually had space-worthy ships while four of the others had been able to fly on their own. While he’d been attempting to negotiate a ride from Stein, the two other ships had taken off along with the four surviving seekers. “You can’t leave me on this rock alone, and you know it,”

“Listen, Skirmisher. I can’t take you. With these supplies, I’ll be stretching the weight limit of my own ship. I’ll be lucky to reach orbit,” Stein had said. “I’m sorry, Skirmisher. I can’t take you,” The moment Skirmisher had started to protest, the older mech Stein had pushed him off the ramp onto the frozen ground leaving the Enforcer Caste turned field medic to look up in horror and disappointment that one of his own colleagues had felt their life had been more important regardless of their exploits including the fact Skirmisher had saved Stein’s life a few times.

“Stein, you son of a glitch! I hope you rust,” Skirmisher had shouted, his own voice drowned out by the thrusters of Stein’s ship igniting. The ramp had retracted back into the ship with the hatch sealing shut flush with the hull while Stein had moved inside to the cockpit, and away from Skirmisher’s view.

* * * * * *

[Aboard the Autobot Shuttle ‘Delta-Six’: Location: Cockpit]
[Time: Two Mega-Cycles Later]

With wind howling beyond the confines of the shuttle combined with the accumulating snow, Skirmisher had kept the shuttle’s heaters on in order to stave off the cold and system damage. The view from the porthole had grown less with each new layer of snow before the snow had crested the shuttle’s dorsal plating leading Skirmisher without a view to the outside world, and without a means to actually open the exterior hatch to scrounge around the air-strip’s remaining shuttles for energon rations. Prior to the storm, Skirmisher had managed to scavenge additional energon rations and other supplies from the other remaining shuttles securing them aboard the shuttle he’d sought refuge in and still hadn’t managed to start using the additional energon rations. He’d run out of the shuttle’s original ration supply only a few planetary- cycles earlier, and while he’d managed to stretch the finite supply as long as possible his inner-systems had started to demand the life-sustaining energy. Having remained online for several planetary cycles after the last of the initial rationed supply had run out, Skirmisher had felt his own energy levels dropping and when the shuttle’s star drive core had shut-down only a few breems ago he’d known his chances had been reduced from slim to none.

“Skirmisher, reporting in. I can’t say things have improved. Where should I start? After two mega-cycles of a triple-encrypted programmed call transmitted for any Autobot survivors to rally at this shuttle, none have arrived. No one has answered my call. I finished off the last of the initial energon rations a few planetary-cycles ago. The rest will be stored safely for anyone that finds me, or if I come back out of stasis-lock on my own. With the drain from the shuttle’s systems on the core, I’ve decided to shut down the unnecessary systems including many of the recharging stations. I’m going to set the communications’ system, with the distress beacon to remain online as long as possible. For those that may find these logs, I do apologize. I haven’t been able to make a daily-log in the last mega-cycle. I don’t want to drain the batteries any more than I have to, and these logs are starting to become depressing. *A series of beeps off-screen grabbed his attention, forcing him to have looked over to the side to check something* “That’s it. The primary star drive core is gone. The auxiliary reactor, with the bank of existing batteries are the only source of power remaining. I’m going to shut down even more of the shuttle’s systems to stretch the existing power supply as long as possible. I’ve decided to enter voluntary stasis-lock to stretch the remaining supplies, and to insure the reactor remains operational. This will be the last video log. Skirmisher, out;”

Submitting a few commands into the console, the lights switched off alongside the shuttle’s other remaining systems with the exception of communications and the emergency beacon. Looking around the darkened shuttle, the field medic realized there hadn’t been any hope of rescue or if there had been an Autobot team would have found him a mega-cycle ago. With the shuttle’s heaters still online providing heat enough to stave off the plunging temperatures held only at bay by the shuttle’s reinforced alloyed hull, he’d decided on a single option. As he’d explained in the last video log, he’d enter voluntary stasis-lock to stave off the cold and to keep his system running at the lowest possible setting. Reaching forward against the console, he’d grabbed the Ion Magnum before having slid the magnum into its holster worn in a compartment beneath his left arm. Reclining back in the seat, he’d prepared his internal systems for the stasis-lock and set his internal timer. Slowly leaning his head back against the headrest he’d experienced his optics shutting down first before the rest of his body became rigid. The stasis-lock had gone into full effect leaving his body running at the lowest possible level while protecting his system at the same time.