Radley, B. G.

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Radley, B. G.
Crawminator
Posts: 186
Joined: Jun 27, 2011, 3:40 AM
Rank: Private First Class
Status: Healthy
Billet: 1st Section, 2nd Squad
Injuries: No injuries
Weapons: M56A2 Smartgun (3 Drums)
M4A3 Service Pistol (4 Mags)
Bowie Knife
Designation: Smartgunner
Location: New Orleans, LA

Radley, B. G.

Post by Radley, B. G. »

Name: Radley, Beaux Gabriel "Crawman"
Sex: Male
Date of Birth: 25 June 2219
Race: Caucasian
Height: 6’01”
Weight: 216lbs
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Medical Records: No allergies or cybernetic augmentations.

Physical Appearance: Born in Louisiana, Radley has a more cylindrical form than most Marines. His time in the sun has completely stained his body tan. Unlike most Louisianians, he is tall and his build is impressive--mostly from his MOS and weight training, though his stomach resembles more of a keg than a six-pack. Radley has a few tattoos: across his shoulders, Carpe Diem / St. Francis, Terra II / 2239; back of right hand, traditional Mandarin character “Bastard.” An anti-infantry mine on Armageddon left a series of white and pink scars running from his mid-bicep down to his wrist and from his hip to his knee on his thigh (both on his left side), crisscrossing in various degrees of length and color.

Personality: On the outside, Radley really doesn’t care which way or the other. Most of his career in the Marines up until the prior year had been flitting around known space and doing a large amount of nothing, so his apathetic attitude could be expected. His demeanor continued after fighting through Terra II, Antiga, Barcelona, and Armageddon, but Radley demands a clear and level head when in the hot-zone. Despite his words, he loves the Corps and has since Basic. Besides his apathetic manner and secret love for the USCMC, he’s a wild partier and has caused much grief for the locals of his liberty ports.

Personal History: Beaux Gabriel Radley was born in Lafayette, Louisiana, on the way to New Orleans. His family was well off, his mother the resource handling manager for the Universal Shell Earth/Mars Trade Lanes and his father a dentist. Radley had been a near straight-A student with all colleges accepting his applications, the most notable being Tulane University for Law. But, at the end of high school, he’d made other plans. Radley wanted the USCMC. His entire senior year was a massive fight between him and his parents, and the day after graduation he enlisted and never looked back. His dream was to fight for liberty and freedom.

Basic Training and SOI came and went in a blur, but his first two years in the USCMC dragged on forever. As soon as he left, the new Maine was attached to Company “I,” 3rd Battalion, 41st Regiment, and shipped off to Tendor V to help clean up a recently beheaded militant idealist group there. A 6-month rotation saw many patrols and no action as he was promised in the recruiting office; into the 7th month, the planet was declared clear of all hostiles. Radley was shipped off again with 3rd Battalion on the USS Ragnarok (CB-219) for two territorial deployments. After two years of service, Radley’s outward opinion of the USCMC wasn’t very high. On his 20th birthday, though, 3rd Battalion received orders to drop on New Haven. Radley’s first combat drop.

Ironically, the USS Ragnarok jumped into a finished mission. A month in orbit saw the Ragnarok off to where several colonel planets had “separated” themselves from the United State. Radley’s first drop was on Terra II, where he led a successful charge against the Planetary Defense base at the colony St. Francis. Radley continued with three more colony worlds for a total of a year and two months before he was first wounded. He was nearly killed on Armageddon, his last combat rotation, when an anti-infantry mine popped up in the center of his squad and detonated; the blast flung shrapnel into his left arm and thigh. After he recovered, he was able to take his first two months of leave ever in the military.

RP Sample: Mess Decks, USS Ragnarok (CB-219); 1800, Shipboard Time

The Ragnarok’s mess decks were lit with dying lights. The corners were dark and uninviting, like everything aboard the battlecruiser. The sailors were unhappy and the Marines of Company “I” were unhappier. Everyone sat in silence, leaning over their protein paste and vitamin bars. A malfunction in the food processing machine four weeks earlier forced the Culinary Specialists to use basic auto-food dispensers before they could either get a decent Machinist’s Mate onboard to fix them or get food from a supposedly upcoming Replenishment at Sea.

Sure.

Radley scooped up his gray, tasteless protein paste and grimaced. He long used up his cache of Tony Chacheres creole powder. Made everything taste better. But he was stuck with this. For a while, he’d used his protein powder as a meal, but he was out of that, too. And he was in a sector of space that wasn’t exactly shippable to. Begrudged, he spooned some paste into his mouth and shuttered from its texture.

All he could do to keep himself from hurling was thinking about his transfer options. There were several in his range, especially since LT didn’t want him around. And neither did their Skipper. He’d become too...accustomed to blaming the Marines for a life of inaction. He’d signed up to protect his nation and this is what he got. But, he’d met some good people in his time, enlisted and officers alike. But new chain of command... It was time to go. He willingly put in for a new unit.

It was his time, anyway.

Shrugging mentally, he put another spoonful into his mouth and shuttered. Mo’ options, mo’ options... he thought to himself as he squelched the paste between his teeth.

Those last few months were a trip, though. He could never forget his first time in combat and each drop after the next. Four months on that blasted rock Terra II, another three on the Earth-like Antiga, two on the mountainous and desert-covered Barcelona, and five months on Armageddon with beautiful and lush rainforests. The hardest had been Armageddon, naturally, with its jungle warfare and angry indigenous people. He’d lost a lot of friends there. Armageddon was also why there was a new Captain and Bravo Platoon leader. A sudden feeling of helplessness washed over him; the skin on his left arm and leg tingled uncomfortably. His hand went to his scarred arm, feeling the ridged and cuts on his skin. Yeah, he’d lost a lot of good friends, right there, when an mine popped up in his squad’s midst. They all fought like bastards to the very end, and for that Radley was proud. There was hardly anyone left that he knew anymore. They were transferring, getting out, or dead. He tried to concentrate on something else.

Another scoop. Another lurch in his esophagus.

He still searched for those units, all company-strength, who had seen and fought the mythic xenomorph. Or, allegedly. He went through the names he heard the most: Company “C”, 11th Marines. Company “E”, 4th Marines. Company “O”, 22nd Marines. Company “B”, 21st Marines. Now, that last one was the one to come up in more topics, across more space he traveled, than any other he’d heard. He heard about Company “B” when he was on Antiga, and then again on Armageddon. And again a few times while on leave on Spaniard’s Paradise in the Vega Sector; he’d talked about it to a few SEALS and Marines from the 88th Armored Battalion. He’d found his choice. He submitted weeks ago.

He was waiting for the confirmation, though, and was keeping his options open. The Corps had a way of not giving you what you wanted more often than not.

Boots tapped on the metal deck snatching Radley’s attention. It was his Lieutenant and the irritated expression on the young man’s face made Radley happy. There was a little red that crossed over his nose bridge from cheek to cheek, his flush of anger. Something wasn’t right in his day. The LT was coming Radley’s way; he was the only reason the junior officer came down to the enlisted mess decks at all.

LT,” the Marine acknowledged.

Lieutenant. Or 2nd Lieutenant,” he replied smartly.

LT,” Radley said again.

The Lieutenant ignored him. “You got what you wanted. You’re going to the 21st Marines.

There was a moment where Radley thought the man was lying. But, as the anger on the Lieutenant’s face became more apparent, Radley realized it was true.

His own smiled grew and grew on his face. Standing, he came half a head taller than the junior officer and looked more like a brick wall that a man. His BDU’s were rolled up to the middle of his powerful biceps, showing the messy skin on his left arm. His round midsection made his blouse roll outward, slightly. The enlistedman was one of the bigger Marines in the platoon; for his Louisiana upbringing, his nick name would have been Kodiak, not Crawman. Radley looked formidable. Still, LT showed he wasn’t completely intimidated by stepping closer to the big Marine.

Well, ain’t dat great news!” Radley exclaimed, loud enough for Marines and sailors to look up.

The Lieutenant grunted. “Don’t get your hopes up. Those poor bastards are on training rotation for a long, long time. You’re not going to see any action for a year at least.

Radley’s face fell.

The Lieutenant chuckled, his expression brightened. “You’re still holding onto that fucking retarded dream, huh? Xenomorphs? Stupidest shit I ever heard. They don’t exist, swamp bumpkin.” His laugher was cruel and made Radley’s blood boil; he could feel his gaze becoming darker. “Don’t look so hurt!” the Lieutenant said, smiling, “You’ll get to see something, right? You’re a hero! You led the charge at St. Francis for fuck sake! The Corps wouldn’t let someone so prestigious as yourself rot away.

The Marine’s platoon leader turned and left, laughing. Radley watched him go, shoulders slumped forward, fists clamped from anger. He forced himself to sit down and glare at his food. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

Radley knew that the Lieutenant was trying to get under his skin. It was working.
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