Kennel: P55
Section: Common Creatures
Name: Burkhard (Bullet) Overbeck.
{Was named after a German uncle on his mother's side, hence the foreign name.}
{Was nicknamed by a friend in the war for his good aim as a sniper. Said friend died in the shrapnel that cost Bullet his leg, but the name either stuck or was purposely kept in memory of the man -perhaps both.}
Breed:Mutt of unknown breeds, with both anthro and quad forms.
Age:
31 human years.
Why do you want this animal?&What will you do for this animal?:
I want this character because I have had in my mind for quite a long while the idea of this post-apocalyptic world and its gasmask-clad assassin, but not until I saw this character have I been able to imagine a distinct character design, personality, motive, or details for said world.
Now that I have seen this character, I simply cannot let myself sit back and not at least try. My life has been very busy lately, and though I have wrote down notes and put some begginings of a form, I doubted I would have the time. Bullet has sucessfully been on my mind, however, and I am making the time to try for his inspiring design and the character behind it.
His design is simple, yes, but to me meaningful - the emotion behind the character that I can't help but want to portray in writing.
As for the more important note of what I will do for him; I am a writer. As such -in addition to being a headmate-, he will be written about. In short stories I write up in notebooks when my thoughts won't let me sleep, in larger novellas, and, with luck, someday, a full-fledged novel. I am no artist, and don't have the trading skills to get many pets, but he will be another of those that will be the focus of my practice in drawings, and he will have ordered art. While most of my characters aren't RPed beyond a few one on ones, I can easily see Bullet fitting right into a RP on the forums.
There is a large writing project coming up this January, and if I win him, he and his family will be the main characters -with him as the Narrator.
I would continue to adore him as I do now.
Personality:
Bullet is an inspector, and over-analyser, a protector.
He has no set of clearly written morals to be painstakingly lived by but more of a ‘sense’ of right and wrong, impulsively making decisions as they are needed based on this ‘sense’. If it ‘feels’ right, he makes the proper plans and goes for it. If it ‘feels’ wrong, it would take a lot of convincing to get him to do it. A few phrases define his believes, however; ‘truth is better than tact’, ‘silence is golden’, and ‘don’t believe everything you hear’.
His biggest strength and biggest weakness are tied together in one thing; his devotion to his duty. Punctual, responsible, honest to his family and close friends. Said people close to him are the ones he devotes himself to, the only ones whose simplest thoughts and feelings would concern him, and the most vulnerable area in his life. His attempts to get his family to a more permanent haven are slowed down by his constant contact with them to make sure they are not found and linked to him.
If they were to be caught as bait for the ‘criminal’, he would have no choice but to take it.
Demonstrative expressions of emotional warmth and endearment are things that Bullet struggle with. Due to his putting aside irrelevant thoughts from others, difficulties sympathizing with strangers, and trouble expressing his own emotions, he often looks aloof; sometimes to the point of being cold and expressionless.
Despite many obstacles in expression emotions, expressing thoughts would be a different thing entirely. Blunt when speaking, always wanting all of his connections to share every scrap of information they have, no matter how useless it may seem.
He’s most comfortable and efficient when working with just the bare facts and a step-by-step approach to whatever problem he faces. He will not trust an idea unless he tries it with his own two hands. His inability to trust other people with plans is yet another mixed blessing.
His own determination at honesty leads him to be easily flustered by other’s inconsistencies and lack of commitment. Usually, though, he keeps these feelings to himself, though his wife can tell it well.
Patient, painstakingly careful at his tasks; would have been a good defender of the law if fate hadn’t turned him such a twist. Speaking of fate, he’s pretty superstitious; he doesn’t put too much on it, but he still has the habit of refusing to watch someone leaving until they’re out of view and the life.
Despite his missing leg, he’s a climber at heart. It’s his passion, and he’s come up with an…interesting…way to both get around his disability and use climbing in his job.
Loves children arguably more than adults. He has two little girls; one about seven years old, the other only two. Them and his wife are, quite simply, what he lives for; without them, he would still be recklessly fighting for the higher powers in some useless war.
To sum it up:
Responsible; private; caught in the moment; loner; painstaking; thorough; intolerant tendencies; perfectionist; organized; realistic; focused; dutiful; punctual; conventional; hard working; does not forgive easily; does not betray quickly.
Dislikes&Likes:
Likes-
Climbing. Loved it as a child -often jokingly called a mountain goat due to it-, missed it during the war, and enjoyed the challenge of getting back to it after his injury.
Structure. His responsibility leads him to like it when everyone knows their duties and follows them smoothly. He’s easily bothered by anything short of perfection in his plans.
Honesty.
Children. He has no trouble taking care of children and laughs more often around them than anyone grown. His own two children are most of the reason for this, however.
Spending time with his family.
Suburbs.
Being directly involved with tasks that need to be done.
Challenges.
Dislikes-
Beating around the bush. He hates the fine-print of society's promises, constant subletly, and refusal to get to the point.
Theories. Even more so if they're vague. He prefers a tried-and-true method to solve probelm
Running. This also applies to walking, though to a lesser degree - he never much liked it before his injury, but now that he needs a cane to walk, walking is a labor. Climbing and vehicle-based transportation are much more convenient for him.
His country’s government. This probably also applied to every form of goverment. He tries not to be judgmental...and fails. He has a deep automatic dislike for any politician or lawyer, despite him having been one previously.
Warfare. After his time on the battlefield -having been drafted into the army, ending his wilder teenage years-, he now hates war more than anything.
Water. Terrible swimmer before his accident, always hated it.
Fireworks. Ties in with aforementioned hate of warfare; fireworks were originally meant to resemble war sounds, and it works a bit too well for him.
Exaggeration. No flourish, no fanfare; Bullet dislikes over-exaggerating what he does, and so far it’s done him good –he’s remained, for the most part, out of the government’s focus.
History/Backround:
Forwarning:
Due to the inability to make the character a human, this entire setting takes place in an alternate universe. By that I mean that all things in this universe –from countries, specific events, even entire galaxies- are exactly the same as this universe, save for one difference; in this universe, there are no humans. There are the feral animals treated as animals are in our world today, as well as the anthros with the behaviour and mindset of the humans.
-
The men move through the streets now without the plastered-on grins and arrogant strides they held before, stepping around the remains of things undistinguishable, gas masks strapped to their faces to hide against the waste that tainted the air and the sweet smell of death about them.
Those were the rulers of this country, the tyrants that had claimed their office what seemed at once to be only yesterday and a hundred years ago. No one could vote now; no democracy could flourish.
Here was where the American dream had, in his eyes, ceased being more than just that.
{Once upon a time, I was one of them.}The year was 1217, and was approaching its end. Three years had passed since the ending of the war. Since the drop of the bomb that caused all this.
America had quite successfully brought themselves to ruins. The dead and dying had all but replaced the extravagant signs and the politician’s empty promises for reform.
All this information and more lay sprawled upon the pages that the man shifted through, all of it information he already knew, displayed bluntly, a defamiliarization of the reality he lived.
What it didn’t mention thought, was that those of suitable health – and with enough money lining their pockets, naturally- were abandoning this ruined land. Africa was desolate by now, without any life to speak of, South America withering away, and most of Asia blown to ashes by the bomb. Some countries still thrived; most of the European Union remained intact, Norway now pressured into their ranks, as well as the flourishing Australia.
All of these countries had long since turned a cold shoulder to the Americans. Not a single American was permitted within their borders, and finally the country was starting to pay for its lazy habits of commercialism and warmongering over the years.
They had run back to the countries they had declared independence against for the last time. This time, they were truly left to their ‘liberty’, to get themselves out of yet another mess of theirs.
The governments’ solution was a simple one; leave this polluted world behind.
Gliese 581’s orbiting planets was where the ambitious eyes had set their sights – the ‘super earth’. Twenty light years away, give or take a bit, was the distance to the planets, and if any living thing could ever make the hundred trillion mile journey, it would be hundreds of years and generations to get there.
Five different stations that he knew of he had discovered the information about were to be set off in the direction of the system. It would be cramped beyond belief; terrible living conditions, most likely with little or no ability to walk… but hey, survival was survival. Always had this species been able to lie and craft their way into staying alive, always it had gone unchallenged.
Aside from his initial thoughts, Bullet had a sinking feeling and a growing suspicion as he read; the same he felt every time he heard of these plans.
If the governments were so desperate for the most influential people to leave earth, something more was wrong with the planet than they were willing to say. The entire thing was a secret; preparing for the healthiest five couples to be the ones to start the chain and journey, without a single hesitation about leaving the rest of humanity to die.
From what he could tell, there were only two of the crafts in America that were not yet claimed, being prepared, or gone.
He was determined that, when the last one departed, he and his family would not be left behind.
Story excerpt wrote:Things moved at a rather odd pace in the middle of the battlefield. I felt no fear quite yet, felt nothing, thought nothing aside from four simple concepts; aim, fire, recoil, reload.
Rinse and repeat.
They were moving on us quicker, someone, somewhere, gave the command to fall back, and retreat we did. Nothing important registered during that time -seconds, minutes...I don't know; it all moved too slowly for me-. I noticed the greens and reds of the area around us and the flattened trail of dead grass the war machines had made.
A heard the high, banshee scream of the artillery sounded out behind me, felt a force slamming me into the ground. I felt a searing pain in my left leg, saw a shower of mud, flying bullets, and a shredded limb I only numbly realized was my own.
Nothing more.
Story excerpt wrote:"Don't ... don't let 'em take my leg."
The low slur was almost incomprehensible, the words at times running together, other times he paused, flickering closer to unconsciousness, before continuing. All of it was threatened to be drowned out by the steady, loud cracks of gunfire -a few hundred yards to the North, the other knew, though it seemed as if it was all around their fragile haven.
A third ducked around the area, breathing heavily with ears folded back, but relief showing on his face.
"Things are going well," he started between pants. "If this keeps up we'll-"
And then he saw the man's leg; mutilated from the knee down in a bloody mess of fur and blood, despite it being covered as best as possible with ripped clothing from his sleeve. He gave a low wistle, wincing -the corpsman crouched there, pressure on the main artery, ignoring the third completely.
"Do...not...let...them...take...my...leg," he was growling now, voice stronger, though shock was setting in; he was starting to shake, his blank eyes glazing over.
The words were ignored, the second and oldest of the three working with a desperate speed.
"Torniquet! Now!" He shouted to the third man over his shoulder.
The man drops down, places the thing above the wounded fellow's knee.
"Promise me!"
He was yelling again, shouting above the noises that surrounded them, close to passing out from the blood loss but insistent on staying awake until he was assured that they would not remove his leg. The two exchanged a glance -it was likely that the thing that could save his life would also kill the tissue of everything beneath it.
There was no chance to lie, however, before the man slumped backwards and was unconscious.
Story Excerpt wrote:When I woke up, I almost did not notice the missing leg.
Notes for myself to be incorporated into story itself;
Lost leg in injury fighting; ripped by shrapnel. Soldier in the war that caused the apocalypse, it was where he lost his leg. It was amputated without his consent on the battlefield. He’s still bitter about it.
The bracelets/bracers/cuffs around his forearms have been modelled to contain claw like pieces of metal that will slide out at the press of a button. They curve downwards beneath his fingers from a wide piece of black metal about the shape of his hand, similar to the way a cat’s claws work. His single boot is also modelled to work the same way, the claws allowing him to dig into some places on the wall of a building and climb up them, even with his missing leg. The majority of civilization is dead or hospitalised, so he escapes notice.
The waste left from the bombs makes it increasingly difficult to breath, and any who breaths the air most likely dies of it. This is the reason he wears a gas mask constantly –as do his family-, and inhalation of the air from people too poor result in a lot of the sickness and death.
He got his tattoo and ear piercings when he was a teenager, and is embarrassed if anyone brings it up, even though he continues to wear the earrings.
His family currently lives in a sealed-in underground area, kept safe from the polluted air. Several others -wartime friends of Bullet, friends of his wife, and strangers who weren't too far off to be saved- live with them. Bullet hates that they have to be kept down there, but there is not enough money for gasmasks and filters for all of them. He visits the area often.
He cracks his knuckles a lot.
Art: None yet.
Other: The entire thing is a big WIP.