| Classes/Levels |
Toughness: 5 (1 Armor on all but Head), Parry 5 |
About Adam Jenkins
Adam Jenkins (Sergeant, Retired)
Age: 38
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 160 lbs.
Agility: d8
Smarts: d8
Strength: d6
Spirit: d6
Vigor: d6
Charisma: 0
Parry: 5
Toughness: 5 (Armor 1 to arms, torso, legs)
Pace: 6
Power Points: 10
XP: 20
Wounds: 0
Fatigue: 0
Hindrances:
Night Terrors
Loyal
Vow (Unity)
Habit: Alcohol (Major)
Edges:
Arcane Background: Syker
Fortitude
Veteran
New Power
Skills:
Shootin: d8
Psionics: d8
Stealth: d6
Survival: d8
Notice: d8
Tracking: d4
Fighting: d6
Knowledge, Occult: d4
Repair: d4
Powers: Speed, Healing, Boost/Lower Trait, Invisibility
Gear: Hunting Rifle, 15 30.06, Boiled Leather Shirt, Boiled Leather Pants, Bowie Knife, 5 Milrats, 50' Rope, Dog Tags, Legion patch, Bottle of Antibiotics, Small Battery
Well, one of them is bald this time, at least. Jenkins sighed silently, staring down the iron sights at the two wasters below him. The bald one wasn’t really, he was balding quite badly, but the fringe of hair at the nape of his neck suggested that it was a result of radiation exposure, not the ability to twist reality with his thoughts.
Another dead end. Jenkins considered as he watched them enjoy their meal. He had never been reduced to cannibalism, but some dark part of himself acknowledged he’d probably eat a person before he’d let himself starve. Big one’s got a pistol. Looks like an old police .357. Ugly, heavy, inaccurate at range. Perfect for a waster. Looks scary, sounds scary, and damn near impossible to break. Bet I could sell that for a couple of bottles of hootch back in town. Jenkins’s dry mouth twists wryly at his priorities: If it’s got more than a couple of bullets in it, I might get some food out of the deal too.
But it wasn’t worth two of the last rounds from his rifle to get that pistol. Jenkins silently sighed again as he eased himself out of his perch above the two, concentrating for a moment to force the light to bend around his body, rendering himself invisible. Over the sounds of their last meal, neither heard the scrape of good American steel on leather as Jenkins’s knife cleared the belt sheath.
