|Full Name:||Jon "Jon" Doe|
Jon is...Jon. He tends toward the demeanor of an overenthusiastic retriever when excited. Or bored. Or angry. Or sad. Though...he does have his moments of lucidity. That is, if anyone were patient enough to delve for it. He is otherwise fairly pleasant to be around, having the easy charisma of the blender-in. He's never particularly had to worry about fitting in, given his odd ability to sidle into social situations seamlessly. This has likely saved him on several occasions from ending up in a ditch somewhere as an actual John Doe. He is, thankfully, not a particularly forceful person. Would he actually press anyone he'd probably induce a seizure. Or diabetes.
Friends and AcquaintancesEdit
Friends and familyEdit
- Mr. Doe- His father. Apparently.
- Mrs. Doe- His mother. He had to have come from somewhere. Right?
- Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 2, Stamina 2
- Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 4
- Mental: Perception 2, Intelligence 2, Wits 3
- Talents: Streetwise 2, Subterfuge 2, Empathy 2
- Skills: Stealth 4, Drive 1, Security 3, Survival 2, Firearms 1
- Knowledges: Law 1, Medicine 1, Politics 1, Culture 2, Investigation 1, Computer 1
- Willpower: 4
- Rage: 1
- Gnosis: 2
- Backgrounds: Equipment 1, Contacts 2, Totems 2
- Rank 1: Persuasion, Open Seal, Shroud
- Black Market Ties (1 pt)
A few years of surviving on the Mexico/U.S. border gives an inquisitive young mind of the right persuasion and skill a lot of chances to make the sort of friends that will supply things that would possibly land said mind in jail a few years. This skill will doubtless serve him in his new environs as well, unless he manages to get himself killed first.
- Airhead (1 pt)
Either it was karma calling up the debt for being unfortunately pretty or it was the several years of dying his hair violently unnatural colors that eventually seeped into his brain. Either way, it gave Jon a tendency to say things like "...wait, what?"
- Glory: 0/0
- Honor: 0/0
- Wisdom: 0/0
Jon has Standard Americanized Englishification, courtesy of the U.S. public school system. He's also picked up enough Spanish to get through a drug deal without getting shot at overmuch.
Jon can make...anything look good. He's got a healthy set of genes that have been sun-baked in the desert for a few millenia, combined with a smattering of European lines, then carefully molded over a few years of healthy outdoors running-away-from-things to produce someone who, if not welcome on the cover of a fashion magazine, would certainly be modeling jackets and tasteful pants had he had the correct set of circumstances. It's as if some kind god had said "Sorry kid, you're going to have the attention span of a concussed gerbil, but the good news is it's not going to matter."
Jon has honed his ability to avoid his father to an art form. Given a reason he can apply this skill nearly anywhere. The many open firing ranges and Interestingly Unmarked Facilities in Fort Huachuca make for excellent sneakster training for any young person brash enough to hop the fence, poke around and get shot at a few times. He's been into and out of the small shops lining downtown Sierra Vista at night several hundred times, though his unfortunate tendency to come back during actual business hours with certain merchandise still on him is beside the point.
There are some places where it's appropriate to raise children. Cities full of life, quiet little burgs, beaches with puppies and...whatever else you find on beaches. Shells and things.
Sierra Vista was the boil on the ass end of Arizona, clinging to the little military installation that birthed it like some sort of awful siamese twin that refuses to let go or just die already. Sierra Vista was where people went to die. Literally. Snow Birds from up north came down in their twilight years to spend their last breathing sterilized, hypoallergenic desert air and parking huge RVs in parking slots designed for VW bugs.
Next to said ass-boil were the Huachuca mountains, the southern edge of which bordered one of the few remaining Yuman Indian Reservations. Sierra Vista was a haven of metropolitan complexity compared to the Rez. Though frankly, a lot of reservations were like this. It's just that sometimes when the gods play dice, they roll all ones.
Jon occurred right around the time his father and mother hadn't quite grasped personal responsibility or accountability. Though you could hardly blame them, teen pregnancies were the local past-time, next to drinking and shooting old refrigerators out in the desert. Jon's mother left for presumably greener pastures, saddling Jon's father with...Jon.
Being a tweenager father with the financial pool of a high-school dropout, not that the graduates on the Rez were really any better off, Jon's father "owned" what could be called a house. If you were generous and included things like "bathtub in the yard" in your definition. Jon's father worked at, inevitably, a liquor store.
We'll skip the drunken beatings and yelling, because it's boring and really, it doesn't matter. The only things Jon's father ever gave Jon was a set of genes and a trick elbow.
Jon, naturally, spent a lot of his formative years not at home. The constant traffic of coyotes bringing in illegals to work for the Man provided a fun distraction for young Jon. He learned many fun outdoor activities, like how to be a coke mule and how to hide weapons from the police. Jon naturally gleaned more education from the coyotes than in what passed for public education on the Rez.
Eventually his wanderings spread out to include the small Army Intelligence outpost, Fort Huachuca. His natural disregard for things like rules and common sense allowed him to wander in and out of the admittedly patchy security around the base. The few soldiers that did notice him, after a few cases of yelling and chasing around..ing and being shot at once or twice, fell victim to Jon's easy charm. There was, after all, nothing at Fort Huachuca for a virile young soldier to actually do beyond get drunk and get lost on PT.
Both his contacts inside and out of the base let Jon amass a small fortune in drugs and hardware. This is what Jon's father found one day. There really aren't that many places to hide things in a one story fixer-upper after all. Jon was just learning guile at that point, anyway. After a brief, thoughtful discussion using the medium of fists and swearing Jon and Jon's father agreed to disagree, both coming to the conclusion that sixteen was a ripe age for one to go out on his own and find his own destiny. Naturally Jon's father would take the stash in repayment for the years of providing a partial roof over Jon's head.
Jon bought a ticket out on the nearest free ride going north. Anywhere north.