Trey

If you came looking for trouble, he found you. If not, you best not piss off Trey.

Description:

Gear:
• Assault rifle (Matilda) – (3-harm close loud autofire)
• Hunting rifle (Bessie) – (2-harm far loud)
• AP ammo – adds AP to all guns
• Machete (Slick) – (3-harm hand messy) – Missing :’(
• Torn Teflon coated bulletproof SWAT vest
• Chrome covered Harley Davidson Fat Boy model – Barter 1

Gunlugger moves:

• Fuck this shit (Hard roll – 10+ escape, 7-9 escape with consequences, fail means I fucked up)
• Insano like Drano – bonus 1 hard
• Battlefield instincts – when in combat, roll hard when you would normally roll weird

Bio:

In a hostile world full of random malice and cruel twists of fate, Trey is on a mission to bring order, his variety of justice, to these wild lands care of as many bullets he can squeeze off before rolling off this mortal coil.

Trey doesn’t recall much about his mother. His memories of her are painted by what his father told him. “You had to come along and kill her.” “No way a shithead like you could be my son.” “Take everything that’s fucked up about you, reverse it, and then you’ll know what your mother was.”

Old Man Mack provided Trey with just enough sustenance to keep him mobile as they trekked across the wasteland. Mack kept the father-son duo distant from others. Mack’s paranoia was their third, unnamed companion.

While compassion was an unknown to Trey, he was constantly schooled in bravado. “Hit them harder and faster than they can manage.” “Don’t matter who starts a fight, only who ends it.” “If you got the shot, they should already be dead.” “Hesitation means you don’t want to live anymore.”

Mack’s school was always open. Every broken down shack was a hamlet filled with cannibals. A cave opening was a breeding pit of face ripping beasts. A ramshackle car was a death machine, awaiting its insane owner’s call to destruction. “The only safety you get is knowing you can die at any time.”

Trey wasn’t allowed to touch any weapons, at first. Best he could do was to strip down, clean and oil the guns. If Trey got his hands on anything resembling a weapon, Mack found out – he always did. The beatings were fast and efficient, no spilling blood and no lasting injuries. As far as the eye could see.

Trey

AW: Chippewa, Population: 202. PeteSylvain