Post Testing

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My Heart Holds the Truth: Uncool444
Here I'm Called: Wesley "Wes" Cooley.
Only Time Will Tell: Twenty-four.
Since Birth: Male.
On the Inside: Wesley is a good guy. He keeps his head down. He works hard. He pays his taxes. He believes in the justice system. Yet, life always seems to insist on handing him lemons. Wesley is getting just about sick of lemonade, and when this shy, hopeful, optimistic young man finally decided to catapult those lemons back, they'll be made of lead.
My Flag Is Risen: Germany.
I'm One With: Painted Turtle.
A Rocky Road: Wesley was born poor to a dirty family with many brothers and sisters. He went to trade school and fought his way up to the middle class, converting diesel engines to run off of natural gas. Always a family man, he met a lovely young woman through a friend from school, and they began to date. Five months later, the shy, romantic man and his haughty, confident girlfriend were engaged. Wesley had booked the honeymoon tickets. They were going to a tropical island. He picked a more obscure one, to save on money. A mere month before the wedding, though, his lady disappeared. It wasn't kidnapping - the empty bank account proved that. Depressed and unable to sell his tickets, Wesley decided to take his tropical vacation alone. Maybe some colorful island girl would catch his eye. Instead, a dark island man caught his soul.
Mine and Mine Alone: None yet.
On the Outside: Wesley Cooley.

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My Heart Holds the Truth: Uncool444
Here I'm Called: Lucielle "Lucy" Keiton
Only Time Will Tell: Twenty-two.
Since Birth: Female.
On the Inside: Lucy is a bright young rebel who hangs out with people who are younger than her, loves Bohemian fashion, and wants to visit California. She acts with carefully maintained poise and haughtiness of an aristocrat, with the temper of a werewolf and striking good looks that let her get away with all of that attitude without seeming like a b***h, usually. Outgoing when it suits her and reserved when she feels like it, Lucy doesn't judge and will accept any sect of people, as long as they know how to party.
My Flag Is Risen: Britain.
A Rocky Road: Originally from Britain, Lucy's semi-wealthy family paid for her education and her summer travels across Europe. She met and fell in love with a sexy German who was fiercely loyal to her and kept her entertianed for several months. With their marriage approchaing, though, Lucy's inner demoness grew bored and claustrophobic. She moved on to Italy. That was her only serious relationship, and in the years following, when she was enver contacted by her German but always wondered what happened to him, she began to think about settling down some. She considered getting an education, working for herself, and meeting a decent man, rather than just a sexy sleaze-ball. To clear her mind, she decided to take a vacation - not a vacation to another part of Europe; a real vacation - to a secluded tropical island on the other side of the world. A week or so away from the party scene, to be alone and think about her life, would be the healthiest thing for her.
Mine and Mine Alone: None yet.
On the Outside: Lucy.

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My Heart Holds the Truth: Uncool444
Here I'm Called: Lucielle "Lucy" Keiton
Only Time Will Tell: Twenty-two.
Since Birth: Female.
On the Inside: Lucy is a bright young rebel who hangs out with people who are younger than her, loves Bohemian fashion, and wants to visit California. She acts with carefully maintained poise and haughtiness of an aristocrat, with the temper of a werewolf and striking good looks that let her get away with all of that attitude without seeming like a b***h, usually. Outgoing when it suits her and reserved when she feels like it, Lucy doesn't judge and will accept any sect of people, as long as they know how to party.
My Flag Is Risen: Britain.
A Rocky Road: Originally from Britain, Lucy's semi-wealthy family paid for her education and her summer travels across Europe. She met and fell in love with a sexy German who was fiercely loyal to her and kept her entertianed for several months. With their marriage approchaing, though, Lucy's inner demoness grew bored and claustrophobic. She moved on to Italy. That was her only serious relationship, and in the years following, when she was enver contacted by her German but always wondered what happened to him, she began to think about settling down some. She considered getting an education, working for herself, and meeting a decent man, rather than just a sexy sleaze-ball. To clear her mind, she decided to take a vacation - not a vacation to another part of Europe; a real vacation - to a secluded tropical island on the other side of the world. A week or so away from the party scene, to be alone and think about her life, would be the healthiest thing for her.
Mine and Mine Alone: None yet.
On the Outside: Lucy.

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Wesley Cooley

The Painted Turtle

Wesley awoke in a hospital bed, sore and groggy. He leaned up on his elbows with a muffled groan, and looked around the small, sunlit room uncomfortably. He wasn't sure where he was or how he had arrived there, but it didn't have the pure white sterility of a hospital. Maybe he was in an island hospital, since he remembered the plane and boat rides. He managed to stay very calm, since he was clearly not too badly injured, and sat up sluggishly, his muscles limp and unresponsive.

Alone in the room, he watched the blanket fall down away from his bare chest, and that's when the panic began. He thought it was fake, at first. Surely it was a joke. But as his hands groped and clawed at the impenetrable surface, he decided that, no, this was no joke, and it certainly wasn't funny. His muscular, working man's chest and stomach were covered by a thick, colorful shell that came to a ridge on either side, following the contours of his skinny body. It edged around his collar bone and went over his shoulders. He twisted his neck and looked down his back, where the shell bulged some and became dark green. It tapered down his spine and ended in a point at the top of his tail bone.

Around front, it didn't taper, but followed the bones of his hips down over his navel, almost to his crotch. He noticed for the first time orange, yellow, and black stripes running up the insides of his arms and legs. It was like some kind of nightmare. He dug at the edges of his shell and found that his fingers would go under it for an inch or so in the front, but the insensitive skin there was definitely his own.

He repressed tears as he began to feel light-headed, and knew he had to get out of there. Shaking violently, he tore the needles from his arms and the electrodes from his skin and shell, making the quietly humming machines beep in protest. He stumbled out of the hospital bed and, leaning heavily on the wall, stepped in front of a mirror hanging on the back of the door. He stopped to stare at himself, aghast at the colorful plates that restricted his bending and twisting abilities. Wesley's luggage sat under a desk nearby, and he quickly dressed himself in jeans and a green tee shirt. He pulled a black leather bomber jacket over his shirt, to conceal his mutations more thoroughly, and approached the window.

Having lost his shoes, Wesley walked barefoot, moving quickly as he crossed the room. The window was predictably locked, and he noticed, nailed shut from the outside. This turtle shell that was stuck to him was no accident. He picked up a small wheeled cart, empty of supplies, and used it to bash open the window as quickly as possible. Moving quickly now, in case some one in the silent hospital had heard him, Wesley dropped out into the humid green jungle, the soft dirt giving under his feet. The sun on his face calmed his panic and felt so good that he had to pause to turn towards it, basking in the warmth and light for a moment before remembering the gravity of his situation and moving on.

Wesley had no way of knowing how long he had been there. Over night? A few days? Maybe even months! He staggered through the jungle, picking his way over the foliage and noticing with hesitant pleasure that even his soft human skin was easily resisting the thorns, rocks, and broken sticks that he brushed past and stepped on, even if he was scratching his favorite jacket and tearing up his jeans.

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Lucy Keiton

"ATTITUDE CHANGES EVERYTHING"

Lucy was accustomed to traveling. It didn't bother her much. She just plugged in her mp3 player and read a book. This was the longest plane ride she had ever taken, though, and it left her giddy and exhausted. She couldn't sit still for the boat ride, but fidgeted and paced the deck for its duration. They passed two small islands, Lucy praying that these were not their destination and rejoicing when they floated past. Rocky and patchy, those were ugly islands. Lucy wanted beauty and seclusion.

She hoped to escape her fellow tourists once they arrived at the island, and enjoy the beaches and sunbathing by herself. Her friend Jasmine had hoped to join her, but tickets to the island were quite exclusive, and Lucy felt like being alone anyway. She paced to the bow again and tapped a heeled shoe on the deck as she watched the big, green island growing larger. It looked to be mostly wilderness, and certainly it would offer seclusion. It was beautiful. Lucy could only imagine the cool breezes and fresh smells. Her first act as queen of the beech would be to build a sand castle, followed by sun bathing.

With a weary sigh, she returned to a seat near the starboard and pruned her dark red nails impatiently. They would be chipped and broken by the end of the week, but she could always repaint them before she made it back to civilization. The dock was in sight, now. So were the beautiful white beeches. It looked like the perfect place for a romantic getaway, which depressed her some. Lucy had always been immune to heartbreak. She went through men like tissues. So many of her friends were settling down, though. She'd been to four weddings in the past year, all over Europe. And her mind inevitably drifted back to Wes. She hoped he had recovered. He could be such an emotional guy.

Wes was an outdoorsy type. He would have loved the island, probably more than Lucy would. As long as they had showers! While she respected the great outdoors, she didn't want to get too caveman. A little camping would be okay, maybe end the night with some fresh spit-roasted island pork. Maybe she would see some wildlife.

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Prince Dulani Polo
"Lani"
"It is better to be feared than loved." - Machiavelli's The Prince

There was something terribly wrong with that island. Lani had been certain of it before he left home, and he was even more convinced now that he was there. Perhaps he could have figured it out if he spoke to the other tourists, but he didn't know who to trust, and if they were as oblivious as they seemed, perhaps it would be best to keep them in the dark. If they came into competition, like in "The Most Dangerous Game," Lani wanted to have the advantage.

Stout and well-proportioned, he was prepared for the tropics in his light, comfortable clothing and hiking boots. At his left hip hung a "pocket knife" that would only fit in a Sierra Leone pocket, hidden beneath his shirt under his right arm was a small handgun, and within his light luggage, a few more thorough weapons were stored. He wondered if the others had paid for their vacation on the island. Lani certainly hadn't. He had been invited, for free. Healthy mistrust had sustained his father's reign for many relatively stable years, and he had sent his son prepared.

He sulked to hide his discomfort with the plane and boat rides, since he didn't travel often and rarely left his small country. The sun, heat, and humidity fell quite naturally on him, for he hailed from tropical region, himself. Silently, he scoffed at the excitement of the other tourists as the tropical island came into view. What a joke. They were so excited to fall right into the gaping jaws of that bear trap. Free private vacations? Nothing in that world was free; Lani had learned this from birth. If they were giving away tickets, why was it so exclusive that they had to attend alone? The hosts were trying to isolate them. Lani was meant to be the victim of something awful, he was certain, but while the others lounged on poisoned beaches with their thumbs up their asses, he was going to find out what the islanders wanted. They had challenged the wrong man.

Swallowing his rolling nausea, he climbed out of the boat to stand at the back of the small crowd, back straight, chest out, arms crossed, and deceptively young face stern. "Prince Dulani Polo," he said as their guide requested names. "Lani," he added for short. Gio looked tough. He looked like a worthy opponent. Lani didn't trust the pretty boy, and he wouldn't let that man come between him and the information he wanted. He acted sulky and uninterested, but his eyes and ears were running overtime, absorbing each detail he could, from information he could gather about the other guests, to details about the island. He walked at the back of the crowd, suspiciously eying the lively forests, and entered the mansion with the other guests. He let his moody mask slip for a moment in awe of the wealthy structure, before returning to his critical examination.

As their only currently present host disappeared into a large ballroom with the rest of the guests, Lani turned around and picked a random likely door leading out of the main hall. It wasn't too big and flashy, nor too small and inconsequential. It opened easily into a hall, and he began to explore, one hand resting on the hilt of his hunting knife as he swept swiftly and silently down the hall. He found many empty rooms, some storage, and a few locked doors. The locking mechanisms were rather advanced. They had fingerprint censors. When Lani saw that, he began to search the ceilings with nervous eyes. Did their security system include motion sensors, too? Security cameras? What were they hiding on that island that required more than a deadbolt lock, and why did they need innocent tourists?

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Ashley "Kris" Maroni

"Merc Captain"

Kris had barely escaped the cockpit of the small transport rocket before it was crushed like a beer can. She had attempted to pull the Dutchess up out of the spin to orbit the backwater planet while devising a plan and making repairs, but she just couldn't master the angle, and they broached the heavy atmosphere, going down hard. The moment she determined that she couldn't save the ship, Kris cut out. She scrambled into the small, square hall between the cockpit and the crew quarters, lined with storage and smelling of raw metal and old shoes. Having escaped the vice of the cockpit, Kris next had to survive being tossed like a child's sock in a washing machine around that hard steel closet. Battered and sore all over, Kris lay in the dark among crumpled boxes and shards of broken plastic for several minutes, breathing heavily and contemplating death, before she realized that the Dutchess had settled and she had survived the crash, if only by luck and cowardice.

When she finally labored to her feet, Kris had to pause once more to let her churning stomach settle in the black, claustrophobic closet, which was not quite as hot as it had been during the crash, but still caused sweat to soak her short black hair. She tried the cockpit door, but of course it was jammed. In the pitch black, she fumbled in her pockets for a key ring, and finally located her savior. What if she was the only one left alive? If her key ring had been left out in the cockpit, she would die in that tiny oven. This wasn't Kris's first encounter with imminent death - not even her first one that day - and she knew to take full advantage of each blessing bestowed upon her, without pause. The lock stuck for a moment, accompanied by a seizing of Kris's throat, then finally clicked, allowing the door to swing open freely and slap her in the face with a rush of cool, oily air.

The crew quarters were still and dark, though she could see the shapes of jarred luggage and unconscious or dead corpses. She didn't linger in the eerie room, but staggered straight to the escape hatch to her right and plunged out into the bright, humid day. The Dutchess lay at an angle, and she had to slide down the side to reach the soft dirt, tilled up by the massive ship. The hull was still smoking in the hot, wet air, and running her arm down it as she slid to the ground and collapsed with a grunt caused a red, burnt streak to appear, though it was the least of her worries. It was impossible to tell if she had broken anything. Her dark, baggy, casual clothing was torn and rumpled. Nicks and bruises covered her aching body.

She rolled over onto her back in the rich soil and stared up at the sky for a minute before recognizing voices around the other side of the Dutchess. Kris took her time. She adjusted her outfit, straightening the crooked bits and smoothing out the fabric. Jacket sleeves were left rolled up above her elbows, hood hanging down her back. Kris liked her jacket, but it would have to go soon, with the heat. Her pilot's mask still hung about her neck. She was all too aware of the nature of her cargo, and hoped that being a pilot would keep her safe from their retribution, at least for a while.

Finally, Kris climbed slowly and carefully to her feet, catching her breath and her balance as she dug steel-toed boots into the dirt. No, nothing was broken. A small side-arm hung at her lower back, beneath her jacket, but if he had escaped, it would do her no good. Many of her cargo were dangerous, but Riddick was the worst of the worst. She walked as confidently as she could towards the stern of the fallen rocket ship, the voices growing louder and clearer, until some small, rat-like reptiles ran to meet her. Kris growled quietly and put a hand to the butt of her gun, suspicious of the chirping indigenous life. She found that stomping her feet and swinging an unsteady arm spooked them to a more comfortable distance, but still, they haunted her, and Kris glanced nervously over her shoulder at them every few seconds as they escorted her around the stern and over to the starboard side.

As she cleared the stern, limping slightly, Kris saw two people merely feet away from her. One, she recognized as a member of the prisoner transport, a young woman who Kris considered only a moderate threat. The other was not a member of her crew, nor her cargo. He was well-armed and must have been native to the planet. While the stranger could be an asset, he could be the biggest threat facing her in the next few hours. She continued to walk slowly and stiffly towards them, noticing that their reptilian plague matched her own. "Is anyone else alive?" she asked in a tone as commanding as she dared, her voice low, husky, and quiet.

She was plenty willing to ignore prior conflicts and unite with the criminals, who were just as human as she, in order to survive and escape to civilization. As much as the payoff appealed to her, it wasn't worth her life. Criminals were not known for their forgiveness towards mercs, though, and Kris was well aware that her escaped cargo could be more dangerous than the wreck. Especially if he had survived.

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Ashley "Kris" Maroni
independent, analytical, brave
Kris, once known as Ashley, is motivated by a selfish desire for gold and glory. If it wasn't for her tendancy to cautiously formulate plans before acating irrationally, Kris's courage could be mistaken for recklessness. She respects others on a professional level, but keeps them at a distance and rarely grows attached enough to a person that she wouldn't sacrifice them for the right amount of cash.
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Appearance:
Name: Ashley "Kris" Maroni
Age: 25
Sex: Female. Don't tell anyone!
Group: Merc Captain.
Occupation: Hunting heads and sealing deals. Hell yes.
Talents Kris is a well-rounded pilot.
Personality: Kris is independent and distant when it comes to relationships with those around her. Her lifestyle requires the ability to cut throats when necessary, although she is no saddist. Friendly in a professional sense, Kris is a prideful adventurer who enjoys recognition and respect on a personal level while desiring to avoid popular renown. She conceals her emotions to the best of her abilities. Kris is unafraid to call out the weaknesses of others who she doesn't respect, though she understands when it's in her interest to keep her silence.
Biography: On a small planet beyond the distant stars, a soldier died, and a toddler was left without a father. The struggling, tough, militant planet supplied soldiers' wives with considerable life insurance payoffs, and Ashley's newly wealthy mother remarried another soldier easily on a neighboring trading planet. Ashley was never the son her step father expected her to be, but she tried her damnedest. Although her accent faded into the background quickly, Ashley was an outsider who easily adapted to her role and strove to impress or intimidate all who challenged her dignity. This included her lonesome and needy mother, who Ashly abandoned early in her teenage years. With the known galaxy expanding by planets each day, she simply couldn't accept the sheltered life of a military wife, which her mother expected for her. Friends had long ago introduced her into the realm of interplanetary trade, and Ashley found disappearing into the maelstrom of galactic transportation as easy as taking the bus to school. Abandoning her mother took little effort; riddled with dreams of glory and infected by teenage rebellion, Ashley wanted only to prove her worth to herself and her "peers." The dream proved a nightmare after only a few harsh months of being the only woman on the ship. The pirates were more barbarous than Ashley had forseen. The first crew used her and sold her to another, who sold her to another, from which she escaped. Ashley understood as well as she understood basic space piloting that men would see her physical uses before they saw her uses as a crew member. She began anew under the psudonym Kris, expanding upon her piloting skills and aggressively persuing her dream career as a successful mercenary, ruling a constantly shifting but usually loyal crew of bounty-hunting nomads. Kris enforces a selective screening process and militant lifestyle for her moderately successful crew, striving to create a professional gathering of mutually selfish mercs. Kris performs acts of brutality as readily as she performs acts of disinterest. Hijacking the prisoner transport took a solid crew of experienced mercs, but with all of the important heads aboard, the bounty payoff would be worth the expense.
Extra: Kris has adapted to the role of male merc captain well, but her biologiy is a constant reminder of her own weakness, and she never forgets that it is a mask she wears constantly. Her gender is her biggest secret.
Gaia Name: chopchopchop


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