[singularity application]
Player Information ;
Your Nickname: Wicke
OOC Journal: munchacha
Under 18? Nope.
Email/IM: hanyuurei (at) yahoo *dot* com , discof1refly @ aim
Characters Played at Singularity: N/A
Character Information ;
Name: Trishka Novak
Name of Canon: Bulletstorm
Canon/AU/Other Game CR: Canon
Reference: Aqui and aqui. (some of the information may be inaccurate, so if there are any discrepancies, contact me!)
Canon Point: Post-surviving the fall.
Setting: ((WARNING. Strange logic ahead in the sense that rationally a fourteen year-old should not be able to join an elite military brigade. Canon, but strange.
I'm also unsure if this is the kind of Setting you guys need for a character without a reliable source to fall back on, so I expounded on plot events in addition to world setting.))
[present-tense explanation] Take Mass Effect and subtract the abundance of intelligent alien life and superb world-building. It's the future of the galaxy and humanity reigns supreme. The 'civilized' area of space is governed by the Confederation and anything outside their jurisdiction is part of the Side Systems, chock full of outlaws, Confederate exiles, projects, and various undesirables.
Technology is as advanced as you'd expect from a universe with toys like skyscraper-scaling gravity boots and galactic pimped-out freighters. Illegal weaponry such as instinct-moderated energy leashes are available to anyone with access to the black market-- or to those who work in the employ of the frequently-corrupt Confederation. Military groups are both enforcer of Confederate laws and above them. The politics are as convoluted as they are everywhere else, the people just as underhanded and resourceful, downtrodden and unlucky. Activism is liable to get you killed by sanctioned assassins, so for the most part, people go with the flow.
Case in point the colonial programs funded by the Confederation. So-called paradises and the 'resort planets' powered by convict slave labor-- things go wrong, and things go wrong often.[/present tense explanation.]
Several years prior to the beginning of Bulletstorm, Trishka and her Lawful Good reporter father Bryce Novak made a living in Warsaw, Poland. Very much a daddy's girl, understandably the bloody murder of her father by a mercenary group would turn her world upside down. She nursed a festering hatred for the faceless men responsible. Finding them was the motivation she needed to enlist in a very specific part of the military two years later.
For Final Echo, the replacement assassins for their predecessors in Dead Echo - the Confederation's then-rogue organization -- it didn't matter how young the applicant was. You either survived prep training or you didn't. For all that Trishka wasn't a day over fourteen, her tenacious, hyper-focused pursuit of her goal (to track down the men who killed daddy dearest) and adaptability carried her through the process. General Serrano - the man overseeing all Echo units - preferred the Darwinian solution to having so many warm bodies; 'dropkits' rewarded those who fought skillfully with extra ammunition and modifications, leaving the others to rot.
This brutality was complemented by the Echo 'do or die' creed: follow orders, minimize collateral damage, and the always-relevant think-before-you-shoot. They honestly believed they were doing good, if violent, works for the galactic community. She respected her comrades, would do just about anything to prolong their lives; leftover issues from being weak and useless when death came knocking for Bryce Novak.
Trishka refused to let the fact that she was in a male-dominated area of service hinder her progress. She learned when and where to push to advance, to bury signs of what was seen as 'female weakness' and at the same time never let the others forget she was both a woman and capable of defending herself. Cleverness, ferocity and mounting experience brought her higher and higher in the ranks when her age dictated she shouldn't even be holding a gun yet-- though she was far from the only upstart youngster to become a member of Final Echo.
Amongst tours that brought Final Echo to planets like the failed vacation-spot Stygia, evaluation of their limitations as a stealth unit led to Trishka designing and proposing a supplementary outfit of heavy troopers: the uncreative but succinctly named Heavy Echo. Her pride and joy.
When the events of Bulletstorm came around, Trishka had become Commodore and figurative shop steward of her own squad. As she, General Serrano and the Ulysses Confederation warbird orbited Stygia in a last-ditch mission to nuke all sentient life from its surface, Dead Echo fugitives bull-charged them in a tiny starship. By a ridiculous stroke of luck, it was enough to take down the Ulysses (nuke still aboard) and the rogue mercs and send them crashing onto the world.
To the escape pods she, her squad, the General, and anyone else quick on their feet went. Each and every one of them had a specific kind of welcoming party waiting when they popped open the hatch, thinking themselves safely landed on Stygia. The locals (meaning the prisoners forced to work to sustain the planet's colony and tourism, as well as those who hadn't been so lucky as to flee when sunlight radiation wreaked havoc) had either become skulls, a human gang, or mutated and become the creeps, a... mutated human gang.
Alone, Trishka slaughtered dozens of them on her way out of her pod, trying to contact her squadmates to no avail. As she zeroed in on the position of the General, without whom there would be no rescue for her, she sent transmission after transmission. Nobody answered. For icing on the cake, one of the creeps managed to steal the energy leash serving as transmitter and weapon off her arm. She was left with no choice but to go on the retreat from an onslaught of creeps, all of whom had not seen anyone recognizable as female for a good long time.
Dumb luck had the sole survivors of Dead Echo finding her in the middle of a messy kill, frazzled but healthy. Her rage and disgust for the two men notwithstanding, they successfully coerced her into leading them toward the General as their only hope for evac. It sure didn't stop her from trying and failing to flee, but after that she did accept they would have to work together to move on.
Grayson Hunt and Ishi Sato were their names. Gray, or “monkey” as she not so lovingly referred to him, had the juvenile humor and wit of a man-child as far as she was concerned. Ishi pissed her off with his high-handed methods of forcing her to cooperate (i.e. grabbing her by the hair, the back of the neck, choking, etc). Her fury slowly ebbed over the course of carving a path through Stygia. Doubts regarding the truth of the propaganda detailing how Dead Echo went rogue took root. She began to see Gray and Ishi as dysfunctional but radically different characters to what she had been told from the very beginning.
So when Gray told her up-front that General Serrano had been the one to give the kill order for Bryce Novak, she didn't immediately chuck him out a two-story window. Trishka saved her bewilderment and indecision on who to believe for the belated confrontation with Serrano himself, after getting rid of his attackers. He talked her down and calm-as-you-please shoved her off the edge of the building they stood on.
She grabbed a power line and survived but, oh boy, she mad.
Personality: Gone is the shrinking violet who cowered when her father bit the bullet. That day was the pivotal moment that initiated Trishka's transformation from a scared little girl into a mean, bitter soldier. She's never forgotten the feeling of complete uselessness, the inability to protect her father from harm. That she was twelve years of age couldn't stop the tide of loathing or thirst to change every little thing about herself. The downside is an everlasting propensity for losing her mind to rage when certain triggers (e.g. daddy issues) are pressed.
Trishka cannot stand for cowardice. To her, fear is not an excuse to surrender or betray the people who hold you in trust or high regard. Fear should be a motivator to rise to the occasion and succeed where others would rather one fail. During Final Echo's screening process, she took her fright and warped it into blood-lust. She stepped on the bodies of her enemies to move ahead without regretting a second.
From this she learned her best defense was an excellent offense. Overall, Trishka knows she's less liable to get shit from peers for perceived weakness if she makes a point of figuratively baring her fangs-- and following up on threats if challenged. Being as good as her word is integral for gaining respect, which she is aware of. And respect is something Trishka likes to have, when it's truly deserved.
Likewise, it pushes her buttons to see a fool get ahead where better (wo)men have fallen short. Trishka hates the idea of 'dumb luck', of success someone hasn't sweat and bled for. Neither is she impressed by people who think brawn will carry them through life and beyond. It's all or nothing, you use every resource available, or your brain rots and you might as well be a primate. She's snooty in that regard and condescending to the max toward anyone who struggles to keep up with her pace. Combined with the gutter-filth that spews from her mouth daily, her smarts make her tongue a lethal weapon in its own right.
Trishka's as prone to hypocrisy as the next schmuck but that doesn't translate to her views on education. She made time during her Final Echo instruction to read up on every little thing and stay up-to-date on world events, as her father would have. Bryce was as learned as he was honorable. She's never opened up to anyone since his death, but if she did, Trishka might say she tries to be half the person she remembers him as.
Abilities, Weaknesses, and Power Limitation Suggestions: Trishka's a Badass Normal even without her fancy space gadgets to assist in mayhem and death. She relies on being resourceful more than she does muscle, but that isn't to say she can't brawl with the best of them. Knowing her limits and how to work around them serves her well.
Trishka is extremely well-educated for someone who's spent what should have been her high school years honing her skills as a stealth-killer. Multitasking is one of her strengths. Being better informed than the enemy can turn the tide of most battles.
She has no outstanding weaknesses that aren't commonplace. Blindside her, snipe her from afar, wear her down, all the fury in the universe won't shield her from injury. The best she can do to protect her meatbag self is go into a hostile situation prepared. Failing that, improvise.
Inventory: Super Future Walkie-Talkie Collar, a generic serrated combat knife, and a PMC.
The collar is never defined further than its function, to facilitate communications or make a fabulous nightlight. A small black device, presumably it can hijack any known frequencies in a mile's radius at the minimum. It fits snug and comfortably around her neck. Due to its concealable size, she relies on it when her leash is unavailable... like during most of the game.
The Peacemaker Carbine is a beauty. More accurate than your average assault rifle but behaving in much the same capacity, it also has the ability to meld together 100 bullets in a lance of energy. A direct hit from a 'charged' shot will fry the majority of organics or obliterate a crowd if they're stupid enough to attack in a straight line. Someone in heavy armor can stop the lance in its tracks, but not without taking significant damage. However! Like any gun, it's only as effective as the person guiding its aim.
Appearance: Trishka is built sturdily, her biceps the envy of many a prepubescent teenaged boy. If she hadn't gone soldier, she might have been thinner, but the solid muscle distributed in spades around her body blows the possibility out of the water. She's not 100% “masculine” what with her womanly assets and penchant for eyeliner, but neither is she worried about what society has to say regarding how feminine her appearance is.
She dresses and cuts her hair for comfort. Trishka is 5'5”, a lightly tanned brunette with chin-length chopped-up hair, and freckled for life. Her eyes are an alert grayish hazel, set below neatly trimmed eyebrows. The lady takes care of herself, keeping clean when she has the faculties available. At eighteen years old, she is incredibly fresh-faced for someone so hardened.
Age: 18
Samples ;
Log Sample: If Trishka wasn't plummeting from the rooftop, falling backward with her PMC clutched to her chest like a favorite blanket, she'd have a hell of a time believing Serrano would turn on his most promising Commodore. After she'd saved his pasty hide, no less.
Musing on what a backstabbing asswipe her commanding officer had turned out to be would have to wait. If Trishka didn't cut her impromptu swan dive short there'd be no more Trishka but for a gory mess of flesh and bone on the pavement below.
Her scream choked off to a pained grunt when her free arm flung out, catching one of the fraying power lines scattered across Stygia's broken cityscape. The thick material of her gloves helped mute the friction burn but did absolutely nothing to stem the near-dislocation of her shoulder. Trishka was still dropping at a terrifying speed, her body protested the abuse she'd been putting it through and she couldn't help but think that this all could be avoided if she just had her fucking leash, but she dug into the line with the stubborn attitude of a bull facing down his matador.
The marginal swing in addition to the fraction of velocity she lost during the drop ensured it would not, thankfully, be lethal... but Trishka snarled a stream of unkind adjectives in reference to the General and his lineage when she tumbled head over ass into the street. Her bruises took issue with the landing and its lack of gentility. For two seconds she lay there in the dust cloud, agony rolling over her in pulsing waves.
Then she sucked it up, got to her feet, regained her balance and hit the ground running. Wrath and vengeance sang their sweet, sweet song in her ears, pushing out every other instinct. Rage-- the best anesthetic a twice-bitten girl could ask for.
Network Sample:
[Zzzzt.] --Outdated piece of mutated feces. Am I coming in loud and clear? Yeah? Fucking great.
Hope you're listening, General. Hope you know your half-cocked ploy has gone and gotten itself fucked over a rail. I'm being considerate and giving you a heads-up that your spineless ass is mine. I am coming for you. I will not let you off the hook. I will not be sweet.
You always said you wanted my soft touch. Here it fucking comes. Commodore out.
[Poor, oblivious Trishka. She cuts off the feed and stares Hypatia down. Her eyes, narrowed to a squint, have all the friendly warmth of a frazzled, blood-starved tiger.]
Your Nickname: Wicke
OOC Journal: munchacha
Under 18? Nope.
Email/IM: hanyuurei (at) yahoo *dot* com , discof1refly @ aim
Characters Played at Singularity: N/A
Character Information ;
Name: Trishka Novak
Name of Canon: Bulletstorm
Canon/AU/Other Game CR: Canon
Reference: Aqui and aqui. (some of the information may be inaccurate, so if there are any discrepancies, contact me!)
Canon Point: Post-surviving the fall.
Setting: ((WARNING. Strange logic ahead in the sense that rationally a fourteen year-old should not be able to join an elite military brigade. Canon, but strange.
I'm also unsure if this is the kind of Setting you guys need for a character without a reliable source to fall back on, so I expounded on plot events in addition to world setting.))
[present-tense explanation] Take Mass Effect and subtract the abundance of intelligent alien life and superb world-building. It's the future of the galaxy and humanity reigns supreme. The 'civilized' area of space is governed by the Confederation and anything outside their jurisdiction is part of the Side Systems, chock full of outlaws, Confederate exiles, projects, and various undesirables.
Technology is as advanced as you'd expect from a universe with toys like skyscraper-scaling gravity boots and galactic pimped-out freighters. Illegal weaponry such as instinct-moderated energy leashes are available to anyone with access to the black market-- or to those who work in the employ of the frequently-corrupt Confederation. Military groups are both enforcer of Confederate laws and above them. The politics are as convoluted as they are everywhere else, the people just as underhanded and resourceful, downtrodden and unlucky. Activism is liable to get you killed by sanctioned assassins, so for the most part, people go with the flow.
Case in point the colonial programs funded by the Confederation. So-called paradises and the 'resort planets' powered by convict slave labor-- things go wrong, and things go wrong often.[/present tense explanation.]
Several years prior to the beginning of Bulletstorm, Trishka and her Lawful Good reporter father Bryce Novak made a living in Warsaw, Poland. Very much a daddy's girl, understandably the bloody murder of her father by a mercenary group would turn her world upside down. She nursed a festering hatred for the faceless men responsible. Finding them was the motivation she needed to enlist in a very specific part of the military two years later.
For Final Echo, the replacement assassins for their predecessors in Dead Echo - the Confederation's then-rogue organization -- it didn't matter how young the applicant was. You either survived prep training or you didn't. For all that Trishka wasn't a day over fourteen, her tenacious, hyper-focused pursuit of her goal (to track down the men who killed daddy dearest) and adaptability carried her through the process. General Serrano - the man overseeing all Echo units - preferred the Darwinian solution to having so many warm bodies; 'dropkits' rewarded those who fought skillfully with extra ammunition and modifications, leaving the others to rot.
This brutality was complemented by the Echo 'do or die' creed: follow orders, minimize collateral damage, and the always-relevant think-before-you-shoot. They honestly believed they were doing good, if violent, works for the galactic community. She respected her comrades, would do just about anything to prolong their lives; leftover issues from being weak and useless when death came knocking for Bryce Novak.
Trishka refused to let the fact that she was in a male-dominated area of service hinder her progress. She learned when and where to push to advance, to bury signs of what was seen as 'female weakness' and at the same time never let the others forget she was both a woman and capable of defending herself. Cleverness, ferocity and mounting experience brought her higher and higher in the ranks when her age dictated she shouldn't even be holding a gun yet-- though she was far from the only upstart youngster to become a member of Final Echo.
Amongst tours that brought Final Echo to planets like the failed vacation-spot Stygia, evaluation of their limitations as a stealth unit led to Trishka designing and proposing a supplementary outfit of heavy troopers: the uncreative but succinctly named Heavy Echo. Her pride and joy.
When the events of Bulletstorm came around, Trishka had become Commodore and figurative shop steward of her own squad. As she, General Serrano and the Ulysses Confederation warbird orbited Stygia in a last-ditch mission to nuke all sentient life from its surface, Dead Echo fugitives bull-charged them in a tiny starship. By a ridiculous stroke of luck, it was enough to take down the Ulysses (nuke still aboard) and the rogue mercs and send them crashing onto the world.
To the escape pods she, her squad, the General, and anyone else quick on their feet went. Each and every one of them had a specific kind of welcoming party waiting when they popped open the hatch, thinking themselves safely landed on Stygia. The locals (meaning the prisoners forced to work to sustain the planet's colony and tourism, as well as those who hadn't been so lucky as to flee when sunlight radiation wreaked havoc) had either become skulls, a human gang, or mutated and become the creeps, a... mutated human gang.
Alone, Trishka slaughtered dozens of them on her way out of her pod, trying to contact her squadmates to no avail. As she zeroed in on the position of the General, without whom there would be no rescue for her, she sent transmission after transmission. Nobody answered. For icing on the cake, one of the creeps managed to steal the energy leash serving as transmitter and weapon off her arm. She was left with no choice but to go on the retreat from an onslaught of creeps, all of whom had not seen anyone recognizable as female for a good long time.
Dumb luck had the sole survivors of Dead Echo finding her in the middle of a messy kill, frazzled but healthy. Her rage and disgust for the two men notwithstanding, they successfully coerced her into leading them toward the General as their only hope for evac. It sure didn't stop her from trying and failing to flee, but after that she did accept they would have to work together to move on.
Grayson Hunt and Ishi Sato were their names. Gray, or “monkey” as she not so lovingly referred to him, had the juvenile humor and wit of a man-child as far as she was concerned. Ishi pissed her off with his high-handed methods of forcing her to cooperate (i.e. grabbing her by the hair, the back of the neck, choking, etc). Her fury slowly ebbed over the course of carving a path through Stygia. Doubts regarding the truth of the propaganda detailing how Dead Echo went rogue took root. She began to see Gray and Ishi as dysfunctional but radically different characters to what she had been told from the very beginning.
So when Gray told her up-front that General Serrano had been the one to give the kill order for Bryce Novak, she didn't immediately chuck him out a two-story window. Trishka saved her bewilderment and indecision on who to believe for the belated confrontation with Serrano himself, after getting rid of his attackers. He talked her down and calm-as-you-please shoved her off the edge of the building they stood on.
She grabbed a power line and survived but, oh boy, she mad.
Personality: Gone is the shrinking violet who cowered when her father bit the bullet. That day was the pivotal moment that initiated Trishka's transformation from a scared little girl into a mean, bitter soldier. She's never forgotten the feeling of complete uselessness, the inability to protect her father from harm. That she was twelve years of age couldn't stop the tide of loathing or thirst to change every little thing about herself. The downside is an everlasting propensity for losing her mind to rage when certain triggers (e.g. daddy issues) are pressed.
Trishka cannot stand for cowardice. To her, fear is not an excuse to surrender or betray the people who hold you in trust or high regard. Fear should be a motivator to rise to the occasion and succeed where others would rather one fail. During Final Echo's screening process, she took her fright and warped it into blood-lust. She stepped on the bodies of her enemies to move ahead without regretting a second.
From this she learned her best defense was an excellent offense. Overall, Trishka knows she's less liable to get shit from peers for perceived weakness if she makes a point of figuratively baring her fangs-- and following up on threats if challenged. Being as good as her word is integral for gaining respect, which she is aware of. And respect is something Trishka likes to have, when it's truly deserved.
Likewise, it pushes her buttons to see a fool get ahead where better (wo)men have fallen short. Trishka hates the idea of 'dumb luck', of success someone hasn't sweat and bled for. Neither is she impressed by people who think brawn will carry them through life and beyond. It's all or nothing, you use every resource available, or your brain rots and you might as well be a primate. She's snooty in that regard and condescending to the max toward anyone who struggles to keep up with her pace. Combined with the gutter-filth that spews from her mouth daily, her smarts make her tongue a lethal weapon in its own right.
Trishka's as prone to hypocrisy as the next schmuck but that doesn't translate to her views on education. She made time during her Final Echo instruction to read up on every little thing and stay up-to-date on world events, as her father would have. Bryce was as learned as he was honorable. She's never opened up to anyone since his death, but if she did, Trishka might say she tries to be half the person she remembers him as.
Abilities, Weaknesses, and Power Limitation Suggestions: Trishka's a Badass Normal even without her fancy space gadgets to assist in mayhem and death. She relies on being resourceful more than she does muscle, but that isn't to say she can't brawl with the best of them. Knowing her limits and how to work around them serves her well.
Trishka is extremely well-educated for someone who's spent what should have been her high school years honing her skills as a stealth-killer. Multitasking is one of her strengths. Being better informed than the enemy can turn the tide of most battles.
She has no outstanding weaknesses that aren't commonplace. Blindside her, snipe her from afar, wear her down, all the fury in the universe won't shield her from injury. The best she can do to protect her meatbag self is go into a hostile situation prepared. Failing that, improvise.
Inventory: Super Future Walkie-Talkie Collar, a generic serrated combat knife, and a PMC.
The collar is never defined further than its function, to facilitate communications or make a fabulous nightlight. A small black device, presumably it can hijack any known frequencies in a mile's radius at the minimum. It fits snug and comfortably around her neck. Due to its concealable size, she relies on it when her leash is unavailable... like during most of the game.
The Peacemaker Carbine is a beauty. More accurate than your average assault rifle but behaving in much the same capacity, it also has the ability to meld together 100 bullets in a lance of energy. A direct hit from a 'charged' shot will fry the majority of organics or obliterate a crowd if they're stupid enough to attack in a straight line. Someone in heavy armor can stop the lance in its tracks, but not without taking significant damage. However! Like any gun, it's only as effective as the person guiding its aim.
Appearance: Trishka is built sturdily, her biceps the envy of many a prepubescent teenaged boy. If she hadn't gone soldier, she might have been thinner, but the solid muscle distributed in spades around her body blows the possibility out of the water. She's not 100% “masculine” what with her womanly assets and penchant for eyeliner, but neither is she worried about what society has to say regarding how feminine her appearance is.
She dresses and cuts her hair for comfort. Trishka is 5'5”, a lightly tanned brunette with chin-length chopped-up hair, and freckled for life. Her eyes are an alert grayish hazel, set below neatly trimmed eyebrows. The lady takes care of herself, keeping clean when she has the faculties available. At eighteen years old, she is incredibly fresh-faced for someone so hardened.
Age: 18
Samples ;
Log Sample: If Trishka wasn't plummeting from the rooftop, falling backward with her PMC clutched to her chest like a favorite blanket, she'd have a hell of a time believing Serrano would turn on his most promising Commodore. After she'd saved his pasty hide, no less.
Musing on what a backstabbing asswipe her commanding officer had turned out to be would have to wait. If Trishka didn't cut her impromptu swan dive short there'd be no more Trishka but for a gory mess of flesh and bone on the pavement below.
Her scream choked off to a pained grunt when her free arm flung out, catching one of the fraying power lines scattered across Stygia's broken cityscape. The thick material of her gloves helped mute the friction burn but did absolutely nothing to stem the near-dislocation of her shoulder. Trishka was still dropping at a terrifying speed, her body protested the abuse she'd been putting it through and she couldn't help but think that this all could be avoided if she just had her fucking leash, but she dug into the line with the stubborn attitude of a bull facing down his matador.
The marginal swing in addition to the fraction of velocity she lost during the drop ensured it would not, thankfully, be lethal... but Trishka snarled a stream of unkind adjectives in reference to the General and his lineage when she tumbled head over ass into the street. Her bruises took issue with the landing and its lack of gentility. For two seconds she lay there in the dust cloud, agony rolling over her in pulsing waves.
Then she sucked it up, got to her feet, regained her balance and hit the ground running. Wrath and vengeance sang their sweet, sweet song in her ears, pushing out every other instinct. Rage-- the best anesthetic a twice-bitten girl could ask for.
Network Sample:
[Zzzzt.] --Outdated piece of mutated feces. Am I coming in loud and clear? Yeah? Fucking great.
Hope you're listening, General. Hope you know your half-cocked ploy has gone and gotten itself fucked over a rail. I'm being considerate and giving you a heads-up that your spineless ass is mine. I am coming for you. I will not let you off the hook. I will not be sweet.
You always said you wanted my soft touch. Here it fucking comes. Commodore out.
[Poor, oblivious Trishka. She cuts off the feed and stares Hypatia down. Her eyes, narrowed to a squint, have all the friendly warmth of a frazzled, blood-starved tiger.]