Character TemplateName & Rank:
Matthew "Racetrack" Lee -Lt. of the Colonial Fleet Age:
APOD-33 dropship pilot.Equipment:
Flight suit, a single action revolver with some modifications (Mostly ornamental), a pair of aviator glasses and a small personal, officer issue datapad for pilot administrative and technical work.Physical Description:
6'2, slightly muscular. Vehicle / Armour Description: Note: The above picture only gives a general description of the form of the dropship, not the color and such.
Racetrack's dropship, callsign S6-22 "Vera", looked very similar to an unmodified APOD-33, but it had some major differences. For example, to decrease the possibility of radar detection or visual detection, the ship has been been painted in a matte very dark blue color, with only the white letters and numerals of the callsign, which are painted on the starboard side of the dropship, and some additional markings around the bay door and some other important areas of the ship. On the bow of the ship there was a special IR strobe, along with a laser marker. The ship has also flares, countermeasures and ECM protection. Some of the areas of the ship that are prone to reflecting radar signals have been covered by a nano-carbon alloy that absorbs it as much as he can (Makes a significant difference, but doesn't make it invisible, just hard to see to other Terran
ships and planes).
If entering the dropship by the bay doors, one would immediately notice the multiple rows of seats. About 16 people could be seated in the seats alone, with about up to 20 if the some space austerity measures were used. Unlike small craft made for assault or recon, his ship did not have a ECMO seat. His main control panel had several high-tech panels above it, as well his pitch, yaw and thrust controls. If he isn't wearing it, a pilot's helmet was frequently left on a small hanger just right of the yoke. There were some first aid supplies among the ship, as well as extra standard Terran ammunition, just in case, along with some additional survival supplies. Close to the main pilot seat lay a small locker that held his civilian and dress clothes, along with some creature comforts. Deep inside the locker, though, was a foldable carbine rifle, just in case the S has really HTF.Personality:
Lots of bravado and confidence, as is of expected of a hot-shot pilot. Though, that is only a protective shell he keeps around him. Emotional issues quite quickly make him a serious and easily anger able man. Obeys military protocol, but his a very strict sense of right and wrong along with a moral code, which may interfere with what his superiors sometimes think a proper officer should have, but his talents have always proven to be an excellent card to play when faced with disciplinary action (Of course, he's gotten publically whipped in front of his squadron two times now, but that's another story altogether. ) and he always has done his job in the end regardless of the strength of his protests.Bio:
He was was born in Tarsonis to a professor of linguistics and a government bureaucrat, none of them having any history of military service due to their well-off upbringing, Matthew was an unlikely candidate for Officer Candidate School. Most of the candidates came from one of the Tarsonian Old Families who have an obligation
to serve as an officer, family military history or some sense of patriotic duty to the Confederacy, Racetrack only really, really
liked flying spacecraft. Not the big lumbering cruisers and battleships (He would much rather do pencil pushing on ground than be a deck officer), he liked the smaller ones. Fighters, bombers, EW ships, dropships, recon ships.. much more beautiful and agile than the lumbering beasts his comrades in engineering would mentally pleasure themselves thinking about. Ever since he saw a flight show aboard a spaceship in some sort of ceremony he does not remember he does not remember, he has wanted to be a pilot
While he studying in an undergraduate program, he had already applied for candidate school and committed himself to being an officer in the Navy. When he got his degree and applied as an officer in the Navy, he was accepted. He went through flight school. He was in very good physical shape and a gifted learner, but it became obvious in his sim and real flight training that he just didn't have the feel for flying a fighter. Disappointed, he tried to get to another spot as a combat pilot in CAS craft, but was denied that pleasure, as well. The fact wasn't that he was a bad pilot overall. He was an excellent one, but he simpily did not have a feel for combat. His technical know-how, speed-docking and atmospheric entry/landing tests were simpily excellent. His wish to be a combat pilot was not furfilled, but he did become a dropship pilot.
He soon developed a reputation for being a fucking crazy when under attack, but in the end, he always got the chalk assigned to him on the ground. He was even assigned to special squadron for special operations for a few months, which has put him in some rather extreme situations.
*******Aboard the Space Station Baton Rouge, Tarsonis system, Koprulu Sector
There was a brown, wooden door at the left end of a short corridor that cut off from a rather long corridor. Upon it was an icon of a homo sapiens sapeiens male specimen. The background of the icon was matte blank, but the figure of the man was white. Contrast came handy for people with some disabilities, but seeing as this was a military deck of the station (Which greatly reduced the chance of people with some colourblindless to be here in the first place) and there were big red letters which read "FOR OFFICERS ONLY
" (Which further made the contrast useless, seeing as there was no chance someone with a colorblind condition would be an officer. These are just the random daily thoughts that came through the thoughts of Colonel Grant as he came up to the bathroom it was RED
st"Fuck this stupid shit.."
, quickly passed through the neurons in his brain.
it was RED
He banged on the wooden door two times. Harder then he should of (His knuckles were a bit bruised afterwards), but he was already annoyed. Why? Looking for some fucking hotshot pilot all around the station due to some fucking
hardcore commander, with his sly mustache, telling him this needs to be delivered immediately, wasn't exactly what the Colonel had in mind on what exactly he would do today. He opened the door and walked inside, two soldiers by his side. The bathroom was squakey clean. Cheap, white ceramic everywhere, but at least it was clean. Metal sinks, metal-framed mirrors, metal-fucking bathroom stalls. Silence
. "Louuuuteeenahnt Leeee, I no y'ere fuckin' in here and I ain't go not fuckin' time to waste.". He hated these pilots. Sociopaths, all of them! Couldn't get a proper leadership position, because they were too hardcore. Fucking chemically imbalanced fucks..
Shit, not that psychotic asshole again. Hated by his men, angry drunk, outbursts. What's not to like? The XO isn't doing his job if he's not hated, but if the CO is hated by his men, you know he's doing something wrong. After zipping up his pants, and raising one finger to his lips, he steps out of the bathroom stall and comes up to his superior officer. He stands at attention, and salutes the Colonel, a salute which is not returned. The gray-haired, balding, beady-eyed blue blood sure was an arrogant idiot. Racetrack normally wasn't the guy to support mutiny, but this guy is going to get murdered sooner or later unless he isn't put in some cushy staff job by one of his friends in the Good 'Ol Boy network of Old Families, which got him the his prestigious position anyway. You smell the expensive bourbon drunk in excess just by being a few close to him. "I wos ashskeed to give you theees", he said in his exaggerated High Tarsonian accent, while handing Racetrack a folder. "I'va been lookin' all over for 'ya. Some hotshot wants you doing a job for him of somesorts. Fuckin' read it.", he said, as he started walking away. His two escorts shrugged at Matthew. He winked back at them. They were having a bad day escorting the fucking the God-Admiral of the Colonial Fleet there. He opened the folder, and looked inside as the door to the bathroom closed.
He was intrigued by some of the things he read. A mysterious transmission, black-ops mission, specialized team of operatives.. This is going to be one hell of a ride, he could tell. Soon, the doors of the bathroom stall he was in before slightly creaked and he looked back at the very cute brunette that came out. Green, big eyes. A nice smile with perky lips that was covered by a slightly smudged rose lipstick. Unlike Racetrack, who was in his duty uniform, she was in her dressblues. Apparently, she was getting a commendation and she was looking for it, except maybe the fact that the the top buttons of her blouse were opened, showing her black lace brassiere along with some of her décolletage. She looked like she was in her early 30's. She kept on looking at him while holding on to the door, "Wow. That sounds big.", she said, while tilting her head. Racetrack glanced back at her, and said, "Yeah, it is big.", he said, as he closed the folder and walked towards her.
He kept his gaze on her, and she her look was a lustful one as well, "Well, Lieutenant,", she said, as she poked his rank insignia on the uniform, "for the good of the Colonial Fleet, I think you do need a morale booster, seeing as this is a very, very important mission.". She winked at him, and said, "Strictly professional.". Matthew grinned at her, and said "Affirmative, Lieutenant Commander", as he moved his hand towards her lace brassiere and picked the extruding nipple. He was dragged in to the stall, and it closed with a loud bang.