Name: Schmidt, Casey R
Date of Birth:
Place of Birth:
Race and Ethnicity: Caucasian
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Brown
Casey has a bad right ankle that gives him trouble when running for long distances (1 ½ miles to 2 miles or more). He also has left over shrapnel from a det gone wrong in his chest and abdomen as well as some minor (and unnoticeable to the naked eye) cybernetic repair to his left arm. As stated before, he also is an alcoholic.
Casey is balding, pale, and wears glasses. He has a large frame and broad shoulders. Casey is in good physical condition except for his beer belly. Casey has somewhat of a widow's peak (when not shaved to the skin) and (much to his annoyance) fast growing facial hair. He is fairly tall with a bruiser's type of body. Scar on left arm inside of elbow, shrapnel scars on left chest and abdomen, gunshot scar on lower back, large tattoo of Christian cross on back. Celtic sleeve tattoo on left arm.
A mostly Type B personality, Casey is a polite individual. If the person he is talking to his respectful, Casey returns the favor. Casey rarely yells if angered, but will unleash smartass comments if truly angry. Thankfully, it takes a lot to anger him to the point that he shows it. Casey is a introverted individual and rarely approaches people. He is often described as not very friendly. In reality, if someone makes the effort to get to know Casey he is a talkative, friendly, and loyal individual, once someone breaks his outer shell. Casey is a self-admitted alcoholic. Rarely does an off day go by that Casey doesn't get at least tipsy. When drunk, a whole new side of Casey is shown, depending on what he drinks. Most whiskeys turn him into a quiet, sad person, while vodka makes him fairly happy and and talkative. Saki, on the other hand, makes him violent and angry. For this reason, he tends to drink alone. It should be noted that Casey never lets his drinking get in the way of his duty, be it an operation, force protection duties, or formation.
Casey had a fairly normal childhood. He was kind of a problem child in middle school and high school, with failing grades and a hostile attitude. His grades weren't a reflection of his intelligence, he just didn't like doing homework. His test scores were magnificent. He spent his weekends and summers during his child hood tinkering with the family computer, blowing things up with household items, and riding 4 wheelers.When he turned 19 he enlisted in the Marine Corps. He scored normal marks during basic training and just did his best to stay unnoticed. At his first command he started crawling in the bottom of a bottle on his off time and eventually got busted for underage drinking by military police. He was busted down from E-3 to E-2. That seemed to make his drinking problem worse and made it difficult for him to trust his overhead leadership. He recently earned his stripe back and requested orders for a new start.
As he walked down the road he breathed in heavy, savoring the stink of the world around him. The plaster dust from the ruined buildings, the ruined, run-down sewers. The air smelled of smoke and burning rubber from the smoldering vehicles. Bodies lay in the street, former members of every race, creed, and nationality. All of these men and women have fallen... except for him. It used to bother him. Why him? Why did he live? After awhile he got used to it. He knew he would die sometime, but for now he would have to fight and suffer.
He did a check of his rifle. He had killed with this rifle for years. It never failed. The people that feared him weren't actually scared of him... they were scared of his rifle. That rifle was death itself. It was one of the Four Horseman. He didn't know what kept the rifle going, what evil spirit possessed this beast of metal and plastic. It was scraped, dirty, dinged, dented, and the hand guards were melted and broken. He loved one thing on this earth... and it was his rifle.
He continued to walk down the street, scanning the road in front of him, side to side. Dusk was setting and that scavengers would be out soon. He toyed with the idea of staying outside and doing a little hunting. He continued to muse over the idea. As soon as he decided to make his way back home, He caught movement in the concave doorway into an old hotel. He squared off on the door and brought his rifle up. As he pie'ed the corner he heard a feral growl. A Freak. Before he knew it the Freak burst from the doorway, quickly closing the gap. He pulled the trigger. A hollow click. Nothing. He checked the Freak with the rifle, staggering the barely humanoid figure back. As the creature staggered to regain it's footing, he flipped the rifle around and caught the barrel in a baseball bat grip. As Freak rushed again, the man sidestepped and swung. The rifle connected, knocking the Freak on his ass. For good. It wasn't getting up.
He dropped the rifle. After all the killing that gun had done, it was finally tired. It needed rest. As he started to walk away he felt a tug at his heart. He already missed that rifle. His best friend for all these years. His walk slowed. All the killing he had done sprung to the forefront of his mind. All the screams, all the pain, all the pleading, all the death. In a flash he saw every man and woman he had killed. It was as if, when the rifle died, all it's baggage got dumped on him. He fell to his knees and wept. It started small, but soon he was racked with guilt and lying on the ground, bawling. As he cried, it started to rain. Just spitting at first, but soon it was a full on rain storm. It hadn't rained in over a year. As he lay in the fetal position, rain soaked him. It was so cold. It felt good, but still he cried...
After ten minutes of this, his tears turned to laughter. Soon he was on the ground rolling and howling with laughter. He had snapped. His mind, gone. As he continued to laugh, he saw sickly looking people approach him. One of them held something long and metal. The one holding the long metal thing pointed it to his head and held it close. He felt the tip of it on his temple. There was a loud crack... and he saw no more.
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