Dante Sune

[Guest]

...........................................................................
CASE FILE: Chimerae

”See these? These are my business socks. And that means I’m here for business.”
...........................................................................

FULL NAME:
→ Dante “Barra” Sune

AGE:
→ 23

SEX:
→ Male

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Xi’an, Xing

RACE/SPECIES:
→ Cretan/Esparian/Arctic Fox

GENERATION:
→ Generation 2

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ June 28, 1988

...........................................................................

HEIGHT:
→ 170.18 cm (5’7”)

WEIGHT:
→ 63.503 kg (140 lb)

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Well, I’m a stunning 5’7”, 140 pounds, and of a lean but muscled build. My skin would best be described as “olive” in complection – that is, a very light tan. Natural, of course. I’m part Esparian, after all. How many non-Esparians do you see with golden eyes anyway? My hair is brown, and… Well, honestly, I wear it however I want. A little shaggy, usually with no rhyme or reason to it. I swear, it just looks that good naturally.

Now, I do have to make note of my adorable ears and tail. Both vulpine, I assure you. I can control both if I focus on them, but it’s honestly a pain and a bother. As such, they usually change to reflect my mood or to emphasize something. My ears flick around in general, go down when I’m sad, and perk up when I’m happy. My tail swishes around a lot when I’m happy, straightens out when something spooks me, and goes straight up when... Well, I’m a complicated man, and my ears and tail are, by proxy, complicated as well. You can figure this stuff out on your own. Now – before you ask – my ears and tail do change color with the seasons. It’s a nice, lustrous white during winter, which transitions to black in late spring. Late summer it begins to turn back to white, usually ready for the arctic weather by mid fall at the latest.

My taste in clothing, as you might guess, is practical for the occasion. See, when I’m doing my job as a fixer, I need to look the part. That means I need to look ready for business. Nice pants, button-up shirt and tie, maybe a vest and a semi-casual jacket usually does the job. My automail limbs receive a similar treatment. My legs are hidden by my pants, so I don’t need to worry so much about them. But my arms? I use artificial skin sleeves to cover them up. Automail’s distinctive – something I already have enough of – and puts some people off. The sleeves at least make me look more normal. At least, as normal as I can manage.

When I’m on a run, it’s a bit of a different story. Comfort and practicality is the key, not looking spiffy. Military-grade camouflage gear and maybe some light armor. My job requires me to move fast and be maneuverable, so packing as light as I can is key.

...........................................................................

PERSONALITY:
→ I’d say I’m a bit of an anomaly, at least in my line of work. See, I play a game of shadows. Everyone has an alias, we use code words and our own slang, and eveyrone’s rough around the edges. Except me. I’m the one guy you’ll find running in the shadows that’s polite and mellow. When other people lose their cool, I’m still sitting in the back, acting like the Fonz. But that’s because I have to be.

See, in this game, you have to be alert, but loose. I’ve seen plenty of guys wired to the brim, but they point their gun at anything that moves. Anything in the corner of their eye is a threat, and… Well, you tend not to live long that way. Mainly because of a whole “shooting an innocent bystander while waiting in line” thing. True story, by the way. I knew a guy named Freddy and… It’s a long story, and I tend to ramble enough as it is.

So, back to the point: I’m mellow, and I’m relaxed. This is why I’m still alive from my time in the field – and trust me, three years is a long time to live if you have my kind of job – and it’s also why I’ll continue to operate that way. See, I’ve got an advantage, a distinctive trait: I know my place. Every other runner I find is over-confident, talking about how they’re the best. It’s only a matter of time until they fail at what they claim to be number one at. But me? I know my limits. I know the risks. I’m sly, calculating, and laid-back enough to view the big picture.

Sure, I run into some problems. A Johnson might think he can rip me off, or someone I’m offering a job to might try to screw me over, but I treat people with respect. If they try an underhanded tactic, I’ll remind them who’s in charge. If they still don’t get it, then that’s fine. I can either spread the word about the Johnson, or I can find someone else to do the job. Unless they make me angry. Now, a Johnson can get away with it, since there’s a mutual understanding about that sort of thing. I’d be more inclined to accept a job to take him out, but that has a lot of variables in it. But someone I’m offering a job to? I’ll see to it you won’t ever work again. Why? Because “fuck you,” that’s why.

Keeping my cool also helps me do my job. Keeping cool means my nerves are cool. That means that, when I’ve got someone in my sights, my arms aren’t shaking. And, if things go to hell, then at least I’ve still got my wits with me. When you’re running in the shadows, you can only trust the gun at your side and your wits, and if you’re missing one, well… Good fucking luck getting out of there alive.

Now, despite approaching things in a laid-back manner, I am a serious person. See, when I work, I wear my business socks. And when I’m wearing my business socks, it means I mean business. It’s about getting the job done, quickly and properly, and with me alive at the end. People in the shadows know they can trust me, because I get the job done. And I can trust them, because they get the job done.

LOVE:
→ Money
→ Information
→ Runs
→ Terrible puns
→ Bacon
→ Collecting and saving favors

HATE:
→ Hats (other than fedoras)
→ 1337 5p34k
→ Transparency
→ Greenhorns
→ Traitors
→ Getting favors called in on him
→ Dog whistles


IDOL:
→ Riza Hawkeye. For her shooting abilities, of course.

...........................................................................

HISTORY:
→ So… You still want to know more about me? Fuck, you’re nosy. A guy like me has a job to do, people to see…

No? Not going to get you to go away? Fine. Listen to my clusterfuck of a tale. Your decision to figure out how much drek I’m feeding you, though.

It all started in September, 1980. My mother met my father at a university in Creta, and it was both of their senior years. My mom was a biologist, inspired by the wildlife found in the Esparian jungle. My father, so I’m told, followed his family’s tradition and was learning alchemy. Really, it all happened by random chance. My father was interested in the mythical “chimera.” Small bits of information were leaked some time back about some Amestrian alchemist that made a talking chimera. Made the guy famous, helped him live comfortably. Thing is, there were only second-hand reports. No hard evidence, no research notes for him to grab. So my father was working blind, and needed help.

My mom was a bit… traditional. Not too much, but enough. Didn’t like alchemy, and didn’t want to touch it with a ten foot pole. Luckily for me, I suppose, she had her hands tied. She to collaborate, and… Well, she hated him. “Loud, rude, and obnoxious,” as she would recall. But that’s just the separation talking. Long story short, by helping each other out, they completed their respective senior projects. By then, I suppose, they had grown fond of each other, since they moved to Xi’an, Xing shortly after graduation. While my mom helped catch, identify, and categorize Xingese wildlife, my father did independent research. I’ve scanned over some of the remaining notes, and he was… Well, he was going for some animal hybrid at first. The next “super animal,” a domestic animal of a million uses. Kinda like the Schmoo, I guess… Right, you see, the Shmoo is… You know, just look it up yourself.

Anyway, so this continued on for years. My mom worked a legitimate job, and my dad delved further and further into his research. But he seemed to be obsessed with this Tucker fellow. Maybe it was fame it could bring him, or possibly the money. If you ask my mother, she says he slipped further and further into madness. That might be true, but I think he was driven by simple curiosity, the want to do something considered impossible. The rules said, “You can’t do this,” and my father crossed his arms, gave a smug look and replied, “Challenge accepted.” Now, skip ahead to 1988. It was a hot and dry day in Xing, and the baby of to foreigners is brought into the world. Let’s just say that, uh, it wasn’t exactly a joyous occasion.

Now, I’m not sure if you’ve notice or not, but I sort of have animal ears instead of human ones, and a bushy tail. See, I don’t have any tragic story to tell. Wasn’t some prisoner, or kidnapped off the street. As long as I can remember, and as far back as pictures of me go, I’ve always had them. Never knew what it was like to live without a tail, honestly… Right. So, I was either born this way, or it happened by the end of ’88. By the time ’89 rolled around, my mother said goodbye to my father. Haven’t found anything to suggest he stuck around afterwards, and I certainly don’t remember him. Instead, my mother married an Aerugese businessman in ’92, and we moved there in ’93. Guess he didn’t mind having a bastard child as his step-son, and he seemed amused in my ears and tail to grace me with his last name. Still have to get around to changing that…

So, was growing up as a child a problem? Well, how about you tell me? A Cretan-Esparian born in Xing, then having to go to school in Aerugo? Like nothing was out of the ordinary? Well, I guess it could’ve been worse, but I got used to it after a while. People pulled my tail, tugged on my ears, and annoyed the hell out of me with dog whistles. Seriously. Those things are annoying as FUCK. Just… Just give me a moment, before I have to flip a table…

People eventually got used to me. I was still an oddity, but I had my uses. As it turns out, sensitive senses of hearing and smell weren’t the only useful things I got. I’m sly as a ninja, I tell you. Some things just… They just clicked for me. It’s like a sixth sense. It’s… It’s hard to explain. It’s just instinct. So, I did what anyone else would do when they’re seven: I claimed I had super powers and I went on a childish crime spree. You know, little things: candy bars, sodas, and the like. Sure, I got caught, but I’m a wily one. Gift of the silver tongue, golden eyes, and a father more amused by my antics than angry. My mom, not so much, but… Well, that’s to be expected.

High school was… Well, that was a defining time for me. We moved from Kyoto to Tokyo, which started the hazing process all over again. Again, I had to find my niche in the world. And, well… It was a mixed blessing. See, my problem was that school didn’t interest me. My mind kept wandering back to how things were when I was young, swiping trinkets from the dollar store down the street. It helped solidify me as being one of the group. So, I turned to some shady members of the school for help. Wasn’t hard tracking them down, honestly, so all I had to prepare for was the offer: I’m sneaky, they’re thugs. They protect me, and I get them shit. It was a simple deal, and quite lucrative.

Until, of course, I found myself working for a gang. I’d be out of the apartment for days at a time, running through the back alleys of the slums, a knife in one hand and a crappy pistol in the other. It wasn’t easy work, nor was it clean most of the time… But I had the time of my life. Pick pocketing, outright stealing, intercepting packages, and arson were all in a day’s work. By the time I was seventeen, I had added the more refined art of lock picking to my repertoire. My hands were already trained in light touches, and my hearing allowed me to get past some security features that would fool most normal people. My aim wasn’t bad, either. Got a hold of an old hunting rifle, and started being support during important turf battles. Had a natural knack for hiding, too. Then again, it helps when most people don’t have the good sense to look up…

Of course, my luck didn’t last very long. Like ancient tribes, we conquered our opposition one by one, assimilating their surviving members into our group. This, in turn, made us more flexible, freed up our resources, and allowed us to dominate even more. We grew larger and larger. It was only a matter of time until our ego got the best of us…

And, let me tell you, karma is a major bitch.

The high-ranking members gather up while we all keep our ear to the ground. Eventually, our chance of a lifetime popped up: a weapons shipment. Legitimate, of course. But this was… This was big for us back then. We were used to petty crime, and some shootouts that would make drunkards blush with shame. We were all novices, but we felt like we could take on the world. So, we planned. We knew where, we knew when, and we knew how to strike. Unfortunately, they knew exactly what we were planning.

To be honest, the entire operation is mostly a blur. All hell broke out when the teams of runners showed up. Yes, teams. As it turns out, we were manipulated by one group of runners, trying to sabatoge the shipment. We’d be a valuable distraction, and they didn’t care what happened to us. Unfortunately, the company hired a different tea of runners for protection, on top of the security detail. So, a bunch of kids caught between a rock and a hard place?

We fucking dropped like flies.

Again, I don’t remember much. I remember… running. Guns going off. Everywhere. Hearing my friends scream in agony, even with a couple buildings between us… Maybe it’s best I don’t remember what exactly I saw, what I heard, or what I did. All I know is that I’m running down an alley, my right arm useless due to some shrapnel, and, suddenly, a guard shoots me with a shotgun. Some of the pellets hit me in the torso, but most of them shredded my left arm beyond repair. And there I was, lying on the ground, about to get another shell pumped into my face.

I’m not the religious type. I don’t believe in an afterlife, or god, or spirits. But for those few moments I prayed. Hard. Seventeen year’s worth, it felt like, done in a few seconds. And… Maybe there is something out there. Maybe some force in the universe looked at me and, for some reason, decided to spare me.

Because there he was, my step-father, yelling at the guard to get the gun out of my face.

Like I said, my step-father is a businessman. He’s not the shady type, at least not more than he has to be. He just plays the game like everyone else, and he told me the rules. He also made me an offer: get his protection in exchange for work, or die. Now, need I remind you that not only was this man my step-father, but was a businessman involved with the criminal element? I honestly can’t blame him for giving me that offer. In fact, I’m grateful. I’m not this man’s kid, AND I was just trying to steal from him, and here he was giving me a chance to continue living? Needless to say, I took his offer.

A trip to the hospital, a couple amputations, and months of surgery and rehabilitation later, I was back on my feet with two brand new arms, making runs for my father. After I paid him back for the chrome, I continued working. Honestly, I loved running in the shadows. It was like the old gang, except with higher stakes. Also, being incredibly profitable didn’t hurt.

From eighteen to twenty-one, I was an active runner. I’ve built up a reputation for myself in those years, collected a significant network of contacts, and I’ve only gotten better. I go on runs myself every now-and-then – helps keep things interesting – but I’m moving to the safer job of being a fixer. Some Johnsons pay a pretty penny for me to find the right people for the job, and if I don’t have to risk my life in the process, then all the better.

But now, where do I end? Where do I even begin with the opportunities? Drachma’s regime change leaves it ripe for new business-minded people such as myself to move in, and Amestris’ destruction has left some people selling property for dirt-cheap. For now, I’ll just stick to what I know, and I’ll stay out of politics. It’s not a runner’s job to get mixed up in politics, after all.

...........................................................................

TRIVIA:
→ Being a fox chimera has given him a more sensitive sense of hearing and smell.
→ When he's expecting trouble, or while on a run, he goes around barefoot.
→ His automail legs are the result of a separate run-gone-bad incident. He was shot in the kneecap and, facing a replacement leg already, decided to get his other leg replaced as well. Certain upgrades did lead to him shattering his thighbones, requiring yet another round of surgery and rehabilitation.
→ Heavily inspired by the tabletop game Shadowrun.
→ Fluent in Xingese, Esparian, Cretan, and Aerugese.

...........................................................................

ALIAS:
→ Izzy, of course

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Isabella Galicia, Viktor Stalin, Dietrich, Zinaida Tarasov, Valentin, Nevada Vervada

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ I love foxes. I really do.

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]Dioptrie[/b]/[i](Unnamed original character)[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ Zorro de las Sombras

...........................................................................

[Guest]

Application done. Now at your mercy.

As a side note, I'd like to say that if "Zorro de las Sombras" is too long for a Custom Rank, then "Fixer" or "Business Time" will suffice. I keep trying to roll to determine which should be the backup, but I keep getting a crack die.

[Guest]

APPROVED

<3

[Sponsored content]