McCready, J.

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McCready, J.
Posts: 30
Joined: Jun 27, 2011, 10:34 PM
Rank: Private First Class
Status: Healthy
Billet: 1st Section, 2nd Squad
Injuries: No injuries
Weapons: M41A2 Pulse Rifle (5 + 1)
M4A3 Pistol (4+1)
Designation: Rifleman
Location: San Diego, CA

McCready, J.

Post by McCready, J. »

Name: James McCready
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Date of Birth: 7/12/2219
Race: Caucasian
Height: 5’ 10”
Weight: 160
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brown
Medical Record: No allergies, enhancements, or augmentations.

Physical Appearance: The best way to describe McCready’s frame would be “compact”. He’s not overly muscled, but he’s no lightweight, either – think seasoned triathlete instead of bodybuilder. This, in addition to a lifetime of lacrosse, makes him extremely quick and agile.

He likes to keep his hair as long as the regulations will permit – if he really wanted to grow it out, he’d break the regs, but he’s fine with it the way it is right now.

He’s got some armor graffiti, though not much. On his chestplate, there is a crude drawing of movie camera with the words LIGHTS, CAMERA, COMMENCE FIRE underneath. On his helmet cover, he has written his last name on the front brim, and PEACE THROUGH SUPERIOR FIREPOWER on the back.


Personality: How McCready behaves mostly depends on whether he’s in the barracks or in the field. In the former, he adopts a rambunctious “devil-may-care” approach, which really racks up the NJPs. In the field, he adopts a slightly more serious persona – the operative word being “slightly”.

McCready tends to joke around with other Marines, but only in the barracks – even he knows there’s a time and place for everything. With civilians, it depends – it’s very unusual if they get more than a brief glance and a nod.

McCreary isn’t motivated by anything tangible – in fact, the simplest explanation is that he’s in it simply for the thrill of it. To put it another way, he’s an adrenaline junkie who has finally found his place.


Background: Born in Beverley Hills to a prominent plastic surgeon and a world-famous actress, McCready had it all: fame, money, and the means to do pretty much anything he wanted. He quickly earned a reputation for being a smooth talker and wild child, neither of which seemed to do much of anything to deter the ladies or endear him to law enforcement. After a wild 18 years (half of which he jokingly claims to not remember), he graduated high school a salutatorian, then went off to Princeton to pursue a degree in political science.

After he graduated from Princeton, he enlisted in the Colonial Marine Corps on a whim - mostly to see where it took him, but the dress blues played a part, too. Two years in and one combat deployment later, his carefree, happy-go-lucky attitude is more or less intact.


Example Post:

The hallway was quiet.

That was to be expected. They were the only two people there.

What wasn’t to be expected was that it was dark.

A flickering low-watt light illuminated an elevator at the end, and there were the occasional glimmers of life from the bulbs along the length of the hallway, but besides that, there was nothing to light the way.

The taller of the two, a lanky, tight-muscled man clad in Marine fatigues and body armor, with a pulse rifle at his side and McCready written in black ink on his helmet cover, was facing forward, eyes sweeping the hallway before them as his lips toyed with the unlit cigarette stuck between them. The smaller of the two, a stocky, hard-faced Puerto Rican, was facing backwards, backstepping carefully, pulse rifle up and at the ready, the weapon jerking with every creak of metal and crackle of electricity. The leader looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

“Relax, Jorge. It’s an old base. It does that.” The Puerto Rican didn’t respond.

“Okay, then. Jump at shadows all you want. Fine by me.” Jorge glared over his shoulder at the leader.

“This ain’t no old base, man. Did you see some of the shit we passed earlier? All that funk on the walls?”

The leader snorted. “Yeah, Jorge, it’s called blood. You might’ve seen it once or twice in your lifetime.”

“Bullshit, man. Since when is blood fuckin’ green? And since when does it burn shit?”

“Since you started hopping up on stims. For Chrissake, chill out.”

Beso mi culo, you pinche gringo. All I know is I ain’t letting my guard down.” The leader shrugged. They were almost at the end of the hallway.

“Fine by me. Drive yourself crazy if you want. I just wanna hook back up with the platoon. How’s your comms?” The Puerto Rican keyed his radio.

“Still jammed. I don’t like this, man.”

“You don’t like anything, Jorge. You were pissing and moaning on Hawaii, for fuck’s sake.”

“Man, don’t even start. We should’ve never gotten separated from Third Herd.” They were at the elevator. The tall man took a knee next to the control panel.

“Yeah, well, now we’re gonna get ourselves unseparated.” The Puerto Rican took a look over his shoulder at the elevator. There was a rusted-over logo at eye level next to the doors, what had once been a large yellow W superimposed over what had been a grey Y.

“Wey…huey…land Yu-tan – hey, college boy, what the fuck does that say?”

The leader chuckled. “Jesus, Jorge, how’d you ever get your green card if –“ there was a loud THWACK. “ – OW! What the fuck, Jorge?”

“You think this is funny, puto? Us on our own inside a creepy-ass base with creepy-ass blood on the walls?”

“Well, I sure as shit don’t think it’s sad. Don’t get your panties in a twi-“ Another THWACK. “ – OW! Fuck!

“Man, shut up!” Jorge whispered. “You got a fuckin’ plan or what?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a plan, if you’d just stop fuckin’ hitting me.”

“So? What’s your plan?” The tall man produced a screwdriver from his web belt and started unscrewing the maintenance panel.

“Plan is, we hotwire the elevator, take it up to the third floor, and link up with Third Herd. That’s their LKP.”

“Yeah, it was their LKPeight hours ago. We get up there, all we’re gonna see is more empty-ass hallways, and you know why? ‘Cause you ditched the fuckin’ locator chip locator.”

“Yeah, because it broke.. Now shut the fuck up and let me work.”

Jorge looked at the hallway, then back over his shoulder.

“Where’d you learn to hotwire elevators, anyway?”

McCready shrugged as he rooted around in the wires. “Stick around electrical engineering majors long enough and you pick things up by osmosis. Now watch the hall.”

“Oswhat?

Osmosis. Now watch the goddamn hall.”

Jorge shrugged and took a knee, pulse rifle at the ready. After a few minutes worth of sparks, curses, and angry mutterings, the elevator doors finally opened with a ding.

“Heeey, whaddaya know, it worked. Jorge! We got our ride!” Jorge wordlessly stood up and backed into the elevator alongside McCready, whose face was spread wide in a toothy grin. McCready tapped the button for the third floor, and the elevator doors slid shut.

“No need to thank me. I just kick ass like that.”

“Whatever,” Jorge mumbled. McCready looked at Jorge, his smile gone.

“Jesus, Jorge, were you born with a stick up your ass, or did you have to work on it?”

“Man, don’t even start.

“No, I’m serious. We’re finally linking up with Third Herd after like a whole day of wandering around this base on our own, and you’re not even a little bit excited? No ‘oh boy, I wonder what dumbass things Baker did while we were gone’, or ‘man, I’m really looking forward to swiping some of Cannonball’s PX rations’. Nothing?

Jorge sighed. “Look, man, best-case scenario, the LT and Staff Sergeant Jaeger are gonna chew us out for being so fucked-up. Worst-case scenario, they’re not there.”

McCready grinned. “C’mon, Jorge, lighten up. ‘least we won’t be wandering around this place by ourselves anymore.” The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. “See what I mean? Third floor,” McCreary said, stepping out of the elevator. “Right where…we…should…be.” He paused as he took in his surroundings.

“Jorge?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re gonna wanna see this.”

“Really?” Jorge asked. After a moment’s pause, he shrugged and joined McCready. “And what makes…you…say…” Jorge’s sentence trailed off unfinished as in he took in the room.

It was vacant, all right. Above waist height, anyway.

What was left of Third Platoon was sprawled over the floor, either decapitated or the not-so-proud host of a facehugger. Organic mush, black and slimy, lined the walls, and a nest of facehugger eggs were in the far corner of the room, some still unopened.

“…Jorge?”

“…yeah, man?”

“…we’ve got a fucked-up Battlefield Sanitation duty ahead of us.”
Last edited by McCready, J. on Jul 11, 2011, 10:32 PM, edited 1 time in total.
On chestplate: LIGHTS, CAMERA, COMMENCE FIRE below a crude drawing of a movie camera
On helmet: PEACE THROUGH SUPERIOR FIREPOWER, last name on brim
Back of armor: KISS MY ASS, IT'S FROM PRINCETON with arrow pointing downward
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