Smokescreen
Jul 24, 2012 18:29:54 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jul 24, 2012 18:29:54 GMT -5
Player Info
Name/Alias: Lex
IM/Email: retroflier@gmail.com
Character Info
Name: Smokescreen
Age: Human equivalent would be early thirties
Gender: Male
Species: Cybertronian
Faction: Autobot
Occupation/Specialization: Diversionary Tactician
Appearance/Altmode: A bot of average height and build, roughly the same size as Bumblebee. His armour is mostly blue and grey, with red and yellow accents; the paint is scuffed and dusty, as if he has been living on the road until recently. He transforms into a blue 2003 Subaru Impreza.
greenshales.files.wordpress.com/2012/07/2003subaruimpreza.jpg
History: There's not a lot to tell, according to Smokescreen. He comes from a small community that was nearly destroyed when the Decepticons attacked it with an experimental weapon, an event he remembers with some exasperation. Much of his career has been spent with the Autobots in Iacon, serving first in military administration and then in intelligence. His aptitude for guileful tactics eventually saw him recruited as an internal agent for Autobot Intelligence.
During and after the war he mostly served as a covert officer. His cool head and pleasant demeanour saw him promoted to the Diplomatic Corps, where he was frequently assigned as a liaison between the Autobots and supportive Neutral units. His name is occasionally linked to the Tyrest Accord, and to the officers in charge of rooting out its violators. Currently he is on Earth, having arrived on the east coast several months ago. If asked, he will state that his official purpose in Nevada is to observe the Autobots under Optimus Prime's command and assess their morale.
Personality: Smokescreen is an easy-going and intelligent bot who thrives on conversation. He genuinely enjoys the company of his fellow Autobots and is a good listener, always happy to keep his door open to those in need of a friendly ear.
However, his calm and affable manner often covers an ulterior motive. As a diversionary tactician his job is to conceal Autobot plans and disrupt those of the enemy. Deception and misdirection are a part of that job, and Smokescreen performs it with professional verve. He will not hesitate to flat-out lie, cheat, or swindle to achieve his goals. If he can't out-think or outrun an opponent, his disruptor rifle provides just the circuit-scrambling distraction he needs to even the odds. Smokescreen has heard of fighting fair, and wants nothing to do with it.
It is worth noting that his tactics are not restricted to the battlefield either. Smokescreen will use his charm and sociable nature to mingle with his comrades, giving him an insight into team morale. In the past he has been employed as a spy among his own ranks by Autobot command.
Likes: Talking. Time off. Listening to the radio. The satisfaction of a well-sprung trap. Rally racing, oddly. Las Vegas. Gambling, a little too much.
Dislikes: Decepticons. Braggarts. Bad drivers. Bad luck. A fair fight.
Strengths: Intelligent. Calm-headed and cunning. Very adaptable, able to operate out of everything from front-line military encampments to the seediest of spaceports. Fast, in his alternate mode. Sympathetic. A good listener. A skilled liar. Epic pokerface.
Weaknesses: His weapons serve purely disruptive purposes, and will not seriously damage an opponent. He is neither strong nor heavily armoured, and his combat training is limited to basic marksmanship. Definitely not built to be a fighter. What he is is a liar, a cheat, and a compulsive gambler. Smokescreen himself will be the first to admit that they aren't the greatest traits for an Autobot to have, and that they have gotten him into a lot of trouble in the past.
Special skills: Every now and then he finds himself falling into the role of a field psychiatrist of sorts. He doesn't mind. His weapons include his electro-disruptor rifle, which can temporarily short-circuit unshielded opponents, and magnetic smoke bombs, which produce an obscuring vapour cloud that will magnetically cling to metal surfaces.
Extra Info: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
Sample RP:
The campsite was littered with trash and blackened, burnt-out firepits, but it was empty. The blue Subaru turned into the parking lot with a quiet sigh, its tires crunching on gravel the moment they pulled off the freeway.
Empty. Not a camper in sight. Nothing but picnic tables and chained-up barbeques. Thank Primus. Alone at last.
Grasshoppers whirred in the silence as he shut down his engine and sank wearily over his tires. All four windows rolled down, while a click of the radio put an end to Wayne Newton's scratchy crooning. A red sunset glowed against his windshield as the sun crept below the ridge of a distant range, throwing long shadows over the Mojave. Dust hung in the warm, drowsy air.
Twenty-five hundred miles. Twenty-five hundred miles. That was how much road he had put behind him since arriving on Earth. Was there any tread left on his tires at all? It didn't feel like it. His paint was a roadmap of dust and scratches, tracing his journey across the American midwest. Las Vegas had been hot, dazzling, and full of crazies. He wished he had been there for the casinos. His orders, however, had steered him into the city for other reasons. Official reasons. Encrypted reasons.
The coast was clear. He had to stand up. He craved the opportunity to stretch his legs. It had been days since he had left his alternate mode. Again. Reasons.
With a grinding of road-weary gears, he transformed. There was a quiet pop, and a trickle of broken glass. Something wet dribbled down the inside of his leg.
The robot sighed. Oh. So that's where that bottle had ended up. He had wondered about that, every since the tipsy young lady he had given a ride to outside of the Strip had staggered out of his cab carrying her glittery purse and nothing else. Never a good sign.
Now the scent of stale alcohol lingered in the evening air as well.
Primus. He stared mournfully into the sunset. What an assignment. At this rate he could imagine what his first conversation with Optimus Prime would be like. "Hello, Smokescreen. It's good to see you. Is that a puddle of Wild Turkey on my floor?" "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I swear it belonged to that prostitute."
Name/Alias: Lex
IM/Email: retroflier@gmail.com
Character Info
Name: Smokescreen
Age: Human equivalent would be early thirties
Gender: Male
Species: Cybertronian
Faction: Autobot
Occupation/Specialization: Diversionary Tactician
Appearance/Altmode: A bot of average height and build, roughly the same size as Bumblebee. His armour is mostly blue and grey, with red and yellow accents; the paint is scuffed and dusty, as if he has been living on the road until recently. He transforms into a blue 2003 Subaru Impreza.
greenshales.files.wordpress.com/2012/07/2003subaruimpreza.jpg
History: There's not a lot to tell, according to Smokescreen. He comes from a small community that was nearly destroyed when the Decepticons attacked it with an experimental weapon, an event he remembers with some exasperation. Much of his career has been spent with the Autobots in Iacon, serving first in military administration and then in intelligence. His aptitude for guileful tactics eventually saw him recruited as an internal agent for Autobot Intelligence.
During and after the war he mostly served as a covert officer. His cool head and pleasant demeanour saw him promoted to the Diplomatic Corps, where he was frequently assigned as a liaison between the Autobots and supportive Neutral units. His name is occasionally linked to the Tyrest Accord, and to the officers in charge of rooting out its violators. Currently he is on Earth, having arrived on the east coast several months ago. If asked, he will state that his official purpose in Nevada is to observe the Autobots under Optimus Prime's command and assess their morale.
Personality: Smokescreen is an easy-going and intelligent bot who thrives on conversation. He genuinely enjoys the company of his fellow Autobots and is a good listener, always happy to keep his door open to those in need of a friendly ear.
However, his calm and affable manner often covers an ulterior motive. As a diversionary tactician his job is to conceal Autobot plans and disrupt those of the enemy. Deception and misdirection are a part of that job, and Smokescreen performs it with professional verve. He will not hesitate to flat-out lie, cheat, or swindle to achieve his goals. If he can't out-think or outrun an opponent, his disruptor rifle provides just the circuit-scrambling distraction he needs to even the odds. Smokescreen has heard of fighting fair, and wants nothing to do with it.
It is worth noting that his tactics are not restricted to the battlefield either. Smokescreen will use his charm and sociable nature to mingle with his comrades, giving him an insight into team morale. In the past he has been employed as a spy among his own ranks by Autobot command.
Likes: Talking. Time off. Listening to the radio. The satisfaction of a well-sprung trap. Rally racing, oddly. Las Vegas. Gambling, a little too much.
Dislikes: Decepticons. Braggarts. Bad drivers. Bad luck. A fair fight.
Strengths: Intelligent. Calm-headed and cunning. Very adaptable, able to operate out of everything from front-line military encampments to the seediest of spaceports. Fast, in his alternate mode. Sympathetic. A good listener. A skilled liar. Epic pokerface.
Weaknesses: His weapons serve purely disruptive purposes, and will not seriously damage an opponent. He is neither strong nor heavily armoured, and his combat training is limited to basic marksmanship. Definitely not built to be a fighter. What he is is a liar, a cheat, and a compulsive gambler. Smokescreen himself will be the first to admit that they aren't the greatest traits for an Autobot to have, and that they have gotten him into a lot of trouble in the past.
Special skills: Every now and then he finds himself falling into the role of a field psychiatrist of sorts. He doesn't mind. His weapons include his electro-disruptor rifle, which can temporarily short-circuit unshielded opponents, and magnetic smoke bombs, which produce an obscuring vapour cloud that will magnetically cling to metal surfaces.
Extra Info: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
Sample RP:
The campsite was littered with trash and blackened, burnt-out firepits, but it was empty. The blue Subaru turned into the parking lot with a quiet sigh, its tires crunching on gravel the moment they pulled off the freeway.
Empty. Not a camper in sight. Nothing but picnic tables and chained-up barbeques. Thank Primus. Alone at last.
Grasshoppers whirred in the silence as he shut down his engine and sank wearily over his tires. All four windows rolled down, while a click of the radio put an end to Wayne Newton's scratchy crooning. A red sunset glowed against his windshield as the sun crept below the ridge of a distant range, throwing long shadows over the Mojave. Dust hung in the warm, drowsy air.
Twenty-five hundred miles. Twenty-five hundred miles. That was how much road he had put behind him since arriving on Earth. Was there any tread left on his tires at all? It didn't feel like it. His paint was a roadmap of dust and scratches, tracing his journey across the American midwest. Las Vegas had been hot, dazzling, and full of crazies. He wished he had been there for the casinos. His orders, however, had steered him into the city for other reasons. Official reasons. Encrypted reasons.
The coast was clear. He had to stand up. He craved the opportunity to stretch his legs. It had been days since he had left his alternate mode. Again. Reasons.
With a grinding of road-weary gears, he transformed. There was a quiet pop, and a trickle of broken glass. Something wet dribbled down the inside of his leg.
The robot sighed. Oh. So that's where that bottle had ended up. He had wondered about that, every since the tipsy young lady he had given a ride to outside of the Strip had staggered out of his cab carrying her glittery purse and nothing else. Never a good sign.
Now the scent of stale alcohol lingered in the evening air as well.
Primus. He stared mournfully into the sunset. What an assignment. At this rate he could imagine what his first conversation with Optimus Prime would be like. "Hello, Smokescreen. It's good to see you. Is that a puddle of Wild Turkey on my floor?" "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I swear it belonged to that prostitute."