CHARACTER TEMPLATE!!!!
{would be very appreciated if you made your character with the temp. Thank you!}


Name:

Codename: {for pine yours is Stalker and ___ yours is Section}

Age:

Gender: {optional}

Occupation: {Military rank / Secret service status /
mercenary designation / etcetera}

Sierra / Recruitment Rank:

Gear: {Excess equipment such as food, tools, gadgets, food rations, etcetera}

Weapons: {pretty self explanatory. Hanguns are mandatory as they’re concealable. Larger weapons will be concealed in duffel bags, cases or something similar, due to Sierra squadron not openly carrying their guns}

Character backstory: {optional}

Name: Kate Chambers

Codename: Seven

Age: 29

Gender: Fem

Occupation: MI6 / Ex-navy private

Sierra Rank: United Kingdom Squad Leader

Gear: Two flashbang grenades / A civilian style compact
First aid kit, containing three syringes and a small pack
of 9 plasters, as well as some tweezers. {All kept in a
somewhat small, Scout bag}

Weapons: Beretta M9 {9 mags {16 rnd mag}}{concealed, left thigh} /
AutoMag .44 Pistol {12 Mags {8 rnd mag}}{Kept in a small, Secure case, in the bag}

Backstory: Seven was an average military kid. Grew up
enthusiastic about joining the military, then, finally regretting
it, not long after getting into it. Although, due to her work under
pressure, she got selected by the MI6 to become an operative,
and since she was 22, she’s been working for them as a sniper
and covert operative.



[CORRUPTED FILES FOUND]
[FILE 27/2/21 - A-7-6 PARTIAL CORRUPTION]
[FILE OPENED]
[LOADING DOCUMENT]
[PARTIAL CONVERSATION MESSAGE FOUND]

[PLAY AUDIO LOG?]
[Y?] [N?]

[Y]
[PROCEEDING]


“ Commander. She lost her husba># @nd
her ch/)d on her 27th birthd?¥! She is not.
i repeat is not! Allowed to go back onto
the fie£&! “

“It’s my decision, Sargent. €#$ I will do as
i da@& we// ple@$€ “

[AUDIO FILE CORRUPTED]
[USER NOTES FOUND]
[REDIRECTING]
—————

Therapist’s Notes:
- Not suggested to return to active duty
- Potential aggressive phases
- Unstoppable when pissed off
- £@:);&/ @/&££)83 could be a threat to national secur¥|€{
- &/££)@?9:!2! NVERN RUTST IWH¥$|$|¥ £&@“.’d

[FILES CORRUPTED]
[PREVIOUS USER NOTE FOUND]
[PROCESSING]

[REDIRECTING]


[GET OFF THAT CONSOLE NOW!!!]
[FILE LOGGED]
[DEVICE LOCATION SENT TO COLONEL J. HARLOW]


[INCOMING TRANSMISSION]

[PROCEED]

Nice try soldier. Stop trying to dig into her
past. The woman has purpose. That’s all
you need to know. Got it? Delete this file
from your computer or when I find out that
you’ve got this, you’ll be on a one way trip
back home to your family.

And I will personally make sure that you do
not have another shot at getting into any kind
of formal military or intelligence agency.

This is a threat.
Delete the data or say
goodbye to your career.

- Colonel J. Harlow





[Y?] [N?]

Somewhere deep in FBI headquarters, a planner sighed, and ran his fingers through ever thinning hair. He'd been scrolling through personnel files for the last three and half hours, trying to pick out a crew for Section. There were a lot of generically good agents at their disposal, plenty of people that could fight. The problem was they didn't even know who they were fighting. They needed someone that could figure out where and what the conflict was, and could then act on that information.

One file kept popping up, and the planner kept doggedly ignoring it. This was a sensitive job, and he was messy. This was an FBI job and he was a free agent. They were the good guys here, and he was not.

But sooner or later, the deadline rears its head. He printed the unpleasant file, and resignedly plopped it on his boss's desk. "Here" the planner said tiredly. "You want an infiltrator? He's the best. You want someone that can deal with terrorists? He has, and has probably also been one. Pay him whatever he wants. " And he stalked off.

The file creaked open, and made for gloomy reading.

Name: Bill Watts*, Codename: Face

(*Face is known to have used over fifty aliases in the past, and there is no concrete evidence this is his actual identity.)

Age: Approx 30, see above.

Gender: Presents male, has disguised successfully as female in the past.

Occupation: Mercenary, confidence man, assassin.

Rec Rank: Low, DO NOT GIVE FACE AUTHORITY OVER OTHER AGENTS UNLESS ABSOLUTELY REQUIRED.

Weapons: Competent with handguns, known preference for small submachine guns, worrying tendencies towards blunt force trauma and strangulation.

Desc: Came onto mercenary market a decade ago. Believed to have spent time before this as a petty crook. May have had a stint in the US Navy, this has been referenced in several aliases. Known to be fluent in ten languages, conversational in another dozen. Excellent mimic.

Face stands at 5ft 11, approx 190lbs. Ethnicity unclear, has a round face and pale brown skin, has claimed to be, in no particular order, American-Midwestern, Polish, Kazakh, Native American, Iranian, Portuguese, most Latin American nationalities. Bill Watts records show a birth place in Southern Michigan.

Face is winning and charming to people that don't know him, almost as a rule. He uses this to the advantage of any operation he is attached to, as well as his own ends. Tends towards selfish, favors unfair fights, typically flees from even engagements.

States a preference towards"Working for the good guys" in his words, but has killed no less than six people with bricks, 2 of which were restrained at the time.

Face is known to have previously contracted with the following agencies/organizations: FBI, CIA, NSA, Greenpeace, the Republic of Iran, INTERPOL, MOSSAD, At least two Cartels, Two different governments in Afghanistan. He is known to favor American agencies, or a cause he perceives as being the "Underdog."

The file is closed, and a phone is picked up. A call to the ethics board in made, and shortly thereafter a cash offer is made.

Ten hours later, an unassuming man smiles at a flight attendant as he boards a plane, heading for Sierra HQ.

The door trembled as a heavy knock
pressed against it. Then a muffled
voice spoke.
”Seven! You got a call. Secure number.
someone from Serbia, claiming to be
an old friend?”

”Alright. Thanks. What line?”

”Line two-six-three”

”thanks”
Kate then went to the phone on her
desk and answered it, looking out the
window, to the compound outside, with
soldiers being trained

“Yeah this is Seven. Who’s this?”

”You don’t need to know. There’s one thing we
have to tell you. We know who you are. We
know that your and your friends are going to try
to take us down. Just remember what happened
to your husband and your daughter… I was there.
that night. Saw what happened… oh, how you tried.
pathetic. Really”
A man with a distinguishable Serbian accent, responded

”How~ how do you~ ?”

“I know about your past. Just know that once
you step foot in our city. We will make sure that
you and your people never return. Do you
understand this?”


“Wh~ what the F-ck?”

Before Seven could start to question further, the
call disconnected, the secure call, being lost into
echoes

”What the f-ck?!”

The door creaked, and Kate span around, drawing
her pistol

“K~ Kate? Shit. Uh. Canteen’s got food
ready for troops. Thought you’d wanna
know. You uh. You alright?”
The private asked, closing the door over
and using it as cover.

“Y~ yeah. I’m fine. I’ll be out in a sec. I uh. I need
a few minutes. Something’s gotten me a little shaken”
Seven holstered her gun, and nodded
”You’re dismissed, Soldier”

”Yes ma’am”

Face chews slowly. He takes his time with the operation of turning broccoli into digestible sludge. He wouldn't say the broccoli in the canteen was good, per se, but it was food.

Getting to the canteen had been easy for Face. For one, he was supposed to be there, and for seconds he always looked like he was supposed to be wherever he was. Everyone who met Face had a distant idea they knew him from somewhere, he'd worked at the same restaurant they'd worked at after college, he was in the other platoon at basic, he sat three rows over in their pottery class, so on. These things made it easy for him to get, well, pretty much anywhere.

He chewed in the canteen placidly. When people looked at him, he'd hit them with a non-committal greeting or a nod. He was wearing a green pullover commando sweater of the kind pretty much every European army issued in some form or another.

He did not look like a man was memorizing the dimensions of every room he saw, cataloging every weapon on every hip, inventorying the emotions on every face, and hey, maybe he wasn't doing that.

It didn't matter too much. These people were his allies. For now. He wondered how he'd feel about Vladivostok....

Name: Vadim Morokov
Codename: 'Stalker'
Age: 33
Gender: Male
Occupation: FSB, although it is suspected he holds more but refuses to disclose
Recruitment rank: Second-in-command for Sierra squad
Gear:
Weapons: AK47 with Spetnaz attachments that is openly carried sometimes but others disassembled in a case, Makarov pistol on right hip
Character backstory: Vadim, born in 1990, grew up in Moscow, the USSR's beating heart, and a year later the beating heart of the Russian Federation. Growing up in post-Soviet Russia was difficult for Vadim and his family. He witnessed corruption happen and the political instability of his country slowly tear it apart. He joined the police force and due to lack of records, only the Russian state knows what happened to him after between being a police officer and FSB agent, even then it is kept under high secrecy. Morokov has dedicated his life to improving Russia, helping those in need and making Russia the nation it shoulde be.

Vadim sat at his desk, bored, when his co-worker, Alexei, handed him a folder. "The higher ups want you on this. They know you can pull it off so they gave it to you. Something about Sierra or like that. About terrorists in Vladivostok. They know you've been there a few times so another reason they gave you it." Vadim took the folder and read through it, disappointed. "I have to work with US and UK to protect Russia? How do we know this isn't their way of trying to gain access?" He asked, curious. "Relax Vadim. It mentions about a possible terror attack in the UK. Reason they want you on it coukd be because it would start World War Three. As much as the Presidents and Prime Minoster want that, makes them look bad so..." Vadim reluctantly agrees, giving his signature. "Fine. But if they threaten Russia, I want authority to kill..."

“Ugh shit”
Seven was going through her phone,
looking at old photos, sifting through
them and watching the sunset, as
night came across


“Not feeling hungry anyway…”
She sighed, turning around and
walking back to her barracks,
then readying her bag.

”Guess this is it. ‘Wheels up in a
few hours’ right?”
She shook her head, then muttered
something, and left the room, locking
the door, and finally heading out to her
car.

When someone needs their clothes cleaned, they get a cleaner. When someone needs their house fumigated, they call an exterminator. When someone needs their shit fixed, they get a tailor. But information is a funny business. Sometimes you need a diplomat. Sometimes you plant an officer. Sometimes all one needs is to get in a room and ask the right people. With or without teeth.

Where does this leave the humble tourist? They get everywhere, like roaches, into places they need not be. And anybody can be a tourist. But nobody knows that a tourist can be anybody. And Lucy has been a few people already.

But those others aren't the topic at hand. Lucy herself is on file, tucked between her other names, stuffed in the middle of a cabinet, next to another dossier with her grandfather's name, but not his face. A similar face. But so far removed from the man who had his prime in the 70s. Lucas Jr, here, was a fabrication.

Name: Lucille Ferriday


Codename: Tourist


Age: 27


Gender: Female


Occupation: CIA Senior Field Officer (just an agent)


Sierra / Recruitment Rank: S7 op


Gear: Usually keeps water and a protein bar on her person as well.


Weapons: Depends on the operation. If she's doing a normal old op, she'll pick up a pistol locally. If the mission is more raw stealth than social, she'll pack an M45A1, with a silencer, and an AR-15 lower. She has a variety of uppers she keeps in a duffle bag, and might be changed around depending on the mission at hand- from a normal 5.56, to the stealthy .300, from light and fast .45, to hot and heavy .50 BMG. If there's a job, she has a way to make that lower a tool for it..


Physical Description: 5' 9", 149 lbs.. Military standard training regimen. Blonde hair, kept at the bottom of the neck. Style varies on "character". Gunshot wound in upper abdomen. Slash scars on arms- externally inflicted. Pale blue eyes.


Character backstory: Born in Daytona, Florida, relatively close to the speedway. She wouldn't stay there though. Just as the tracks demand rapid travel, so did her life. She would travel the country with her family. She would travel the world with her family. She had no idea why. Until grandpa spoke.

Now, grandpa has always been the family piece of shit. When he told his granddaughter her parents were spies, it was very easy to overlook. But the girl was nosy, and figured it out.

Now, she wasn't really thrust into the world of intelligence. But it was an avenue. The family business, just about. And Lucille certainly walked it. When she turned 18, she graduated, and headed off for college for some menial degree. An associates in criminal law, or some shit- Couldn't tell you- before heading off to sign herself up as a Central Intelligence Agency clandestine intelligence operative. And she did damn good. Stealth. Social and otherwise.

Now, that's not to say she didn't ever get caught. And that's not to say her catchers got a chance to report what was going on.

The glories of a foreign pistol in a foreign land is that they expect it to be there. So are it's bullets. Even in security guards.

But now it's time to see how one deals with terrorists. Chaotic elements without discipline. Without rules. Without pattern.

Time to function for Sierra Seven.

An announcement played through the PA throughout the base.
”Sierra Operatives, I say again, for All Sierra Operatives,
Please report to the runway within the hour. Your flight
takes off at 23 hundred. There’s a transport truck waiting
to take you all to the plane. Another announcement. Delta
Seventy six. Report to Colonel Harlow’s office”

”Well. Guess we’re doing this then…”
Seven Sighed as she muttered to herself,
walking to one of the transport trucks that
go up and down the runway, to the different
planes preparing for takeoff.

The truck reached a stop at the end of the runway,
close to the fences. Oscar 7-7-6 November. The AC-130
repurposed for the Sierra Operation.

”Thanks soldier”

”No prob ma’am. I’ll bring your team here
when they arrive at my port.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything more from ya.
dismissed, corporal”

”Yes ma’am”
The soldier took his hand off the wheel to salute,
put his hand back on firmly, and drove back to the
transport station.

“Didn’t know we had a f-cking behemoth dispatched
for this job… thought it would’ve been a smaller plane.
oh well. We get what we get, I guess”
With that, Seven boarded the plane and prepared for take off,
taking a look around in the cargo hold at the two armoured cars.

{I’ll post a photo or something of what the cars look like in the
TCRP discord server in a bit}

“Shiiiiiittttt…. Harlow really went all out with the budget here”

[Bump]

Face allowed himself to be pleasantly herded to the truck, and then to the cargo plane. He was polite, heavy lidded eyes accentuating a calm smile.

His hands stayed in the pockets of his slacks, thumbs through belt loops, and he accompanied various other personal onto the massive plane. Face always looked terribly like he belonged wherever he was, and this was no exception.

Internally, he stewed. If he wasn't getting paid so much, he'd already be out of this op. It was a lot to expect him to hop on a plane to Russia with no briefing. He then considered that, really, it didn't matter much. He liked Russia, and if this seemed like a complete waste, he'd just bail once they arrived. Vladivostok was a big port after all, and disappearing onto a cargo ship was a tried and true special of him. A good way to get out of the reach of anyone for a month or two at least.

His smile increased slightly, which was unlikely to be noticed by anyone in the hustle of a plane undergoing loading. Maybe that would be the plan regardless. just split with the cash and go somewhere warm....

She complies and gets on the transport, which transports her to the plane, as is asked if her. She had a bit more character than Face, at least- in this instance, a normal old rubber bracelet in some tropical pattern. She would have work something when more colorful if it wasn't her first week in this work environment. She didn't really notice she was even sharing a transport with Face. Just the nature of his game, one must suppose.

Noting they were being brought to an AC-130, she snickers a little bit. One wonders what they would repurpose a transport repurposed for close air support to be a transport against. She imagines it would have probably been easier to nab a normal C-130 with the A. Not her business though.

She found the op a little comical. Quelling terrorists. She thought that was more of a SOCOM thing. Or maybe it wasn't. Usually, any tax dollar spent on her was spent getting something from... a government. She figures, though, this will be a quick, easy bonus.

A muscled commando plopped into the wall mounted seat next to Face, and offered a hand to shake. Face could see the imprint of a soft vest through the man's sweater, a fixed blade knife of some sort against his belt line, and a mid range compacted concealed in some kind of armpit rig. This was inventoried in the space of half a second, and Face shook the man's hand.

"Nice to meet you mate, Who're you here with?" The commando asked. Face pinged his accent as somewhere in Yorkshire. Scar across the bridge of the nose, likely from some kind of blunt impact. Face smiled.

"Feds, or FBI to our English friends. " Face said, his voice came out as a pleasant lilt, vague and designed to make the big commando think he was in charge. "Callsign Face. "

The big commando went from pleasant smile to uncomfortable grimace in record time. Face knew that look, he'd seen Face's file. "Oh, yeah, right. Heard of you." The commando said. Face could see the commando trying to imagine the pleasant looking man before him strangling someone with piano wire. Face's smile broadened a bit. He'd been spotting this all day. People one this plane fell into three categories, those who did not know Face, who found him charming. Then there were those who had heard of Face, who found him charming while some part of their subconscious screamed at them. Finally there were those familiar with him, from them he either got averted eyes of confrontational stares.

"I'm callsign Wilson." The commando continued, deciding it was best to appear strong to the charming moral void he was now sitting next too. "I'm on the security team for this OP."

"Do you ever worry we are infiltrated? Ad-hoc groups like this are great for that." Face said offhandedly, twisting the knife. "No one knows anyone, higher ups scrape together whatever rogues they can get, easy target. Easy target." He repeated with his eyes cast down to the floor.

Wilson ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. This went into Face's file of tells. "We've checked everyone, we believe we are clean for now."

Face smiled. "Great, that makes me feel a lot better."

“Sarcasm’s a wonderful drug, soldier”
Seven laughed, then looked around, to the five
other units, in the plane.

”Alright, glad you could all join me. Granted.
there isn’t a lot of us, apparently there’s going
to be another team that we’re meeting up with,
as well as our contact in the FSB. We’re cleared
through airspace over Europe, north Asia if needed,
and of course, Russia. Although, if anyone decided
to be a little shit, and took over the plane, note that
if the pilot’s heartbeat stops, an alert will be made to
bring this plane down by any means. Apparently…”
Seven sighed

”well, shit. Glad to have you all here, surprised that
Harlow got more than three this time, as well as the
budget for these beastly f-cking cars”

Seven nodded, clicking a button on the radio on her
waist, taking said portable radio and speaking into it

”If we aren’t waiting on anyone else, let’s get in the air”
And with that, She sat down, as the engines started and
the back ramp closed, readying for takeoff

One of the soldiers rose his hand, then pulled out his
phone and began typing into it, in which the speaker
on his phone relayed the words. Surprisingly, the
voice from the phone wasn’t as robotic as expected.
”Just so you all know, I’m a mute. I can talk, but its
really, really painful. So bear with me if I don’t respond
as fast as you’d like”

”No shit?”
Another responded, dropping a dufflebag
at his feet as he sat down

”None, friend. My codename is Kain. Only person
other than me, currently on this plane that knows
my actual name, is Seven”

Both soldiers nodded, then went silent, as they looked
at each other, then to everyone else.

”We should all at least introduce ourselves, I guess.
I’m Reaver. This guy right here is clearly Kain, as he
said”
Reav smirked

”I’m Kate. Or Seven. Whatever works”
The three conversed a little, as they waited
for the others to respond

Face's, well, face lit up as the intro started, breaking only when the plane being rigged to a heartbeat monitor. For this he briefly looked like a schoolchild working on a complicated math problem before lapsing back into general pleasantness. Anyone that spoke had the sense that Face was listening to, and hanging onto, every word they said.

Face treasured that people liked to be listened to. He loved listening, it was amazing the things that people would tell you if you only let them. When the first three had spoken, he gave a little pause and then spoke himself.

"Nice to meet you all." He said, giving receptive folks a nod and flashing a toothy smile to the group that spoke to a certain vulnerability. "You can call me Bill. Face if you like to go by callsigns. I don't mind much either way. "

It was hard to pick out anything really distinctive about Face. He was easy to like, and easy to forget if you'd never seen him tie someone to something heavy and give them a push for the sole purpose of watching them drown. If there was one thing that could be noticed, it was on display now. His hands were clasped in front of him across his lap, and if you took the time to look, you could notice that his fingers were long, almost too long.

“Yeah you got it bud. Whatever
works better for you, Face”
Reav nodded.

The plane slowly started to
move, and the pilot announced
that they were about to take off.

[bump]

She had not read the man who was, in fact, Face, as The Face. Not until a man up and said it. When it came to note, she stated at him for a moment, and in that moment she made a sort of whisper-yelled laugh- falsely hushed. But apparently this would not be the end of the hilarity.

She boarded the converted AC-130- The one she would certainly be making at least a small fuss about- it's not like we don't have modern C-130s for this purpose- but for now, before the higher ups of the operation, all she could do was laugh to herself.

Until, of course, the words 'bring this plane down by any means' escaped Seven's mouth. That warranted a cackle. And a cackle it got.

"Holy sheeYIT!" she exclaims, slapping the wall of the aircraft in hilarity.

"There have been less precautions for infilltrating North Korea! I mean come on! These are terrorists. No smarter than our least educated bumpkin. What's all the hoobob for?"

Must be a British thing, maybe Russian, she figures. She could never imagine an American inventing a plan like that. No less- what if the order misfires? What if the poor bastard has a stroke? What didn't they tell them this plane was a ticking time bomb? And other questions that weren't particularly asked. She figures her assertion that this was stupid would her enough justifications and lawyering.