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Player: @Silent Sniper
Origin: Natural.
Archetype: Blaster, Assault rifle.
Security Level: 50
Personal Data
Real Name: Kleist S. Strig
Known Aliases: Stiller-Schütze, Sack-Vigilante.
Species: Human.
Age: 40
Height: 5.9
Weight: 160
Eye Color: Green
Hair Color: Black
Biographical Data
Citizenship: Confidential
Occupation: Long range deliverer of justice.
Place of Birth: GreenPoint NYC.
Current Residence: Confidential
Marital Status: Single.
Known Relatives: None/Deceased.
Known Powers
None, Kleist is a normal human.
Known Abilities
Kommando Spezialkräfte, KSK marksman training, extreme tolerance for severe pain and discomfort, superior situational awareness, two years of stealth oriented KSK martial arts programme. Robotic levels of physical discipline.

wide range of investigative skills.

Sackcloth patchwork marksman outfit, flashbangs, smoke grenades, grappling hook and wire, various bipods, tripods, m9 pistol, claymores and a .338 bolt action rifle.
"They had a choice. All of them had a choice."

"Leave no secrets."

-- Strig.


Military Life

Strig was in love with the idea of military service. He was so in love, that his dedication was noticed, noticed and taken advantage of. But he never realized this, he was the receptacle to which bad things were taken, and he did them with a sort of pride that would imply psychosis. When his spotter began to treat him in a way he didn't understand, with looks of derision between their bouts at survival, when the brotherhood faded from the look of tired in his eyes, he knew something was wrong.

He knew, and he left.

Beginning as a Vigilante

At the age of 39 Kleist had served a total of 18 years and 7 months overseas, with only two months at home in Munich. His obsessive nature belied a distinct misunderstanding of humanity, and when he'd finally gone to settle down, he couldn't help but notice the innocent impression he'd left society with was so warped by his preoccupation with military service, that he saw people-- those who didn't fit into his mind as the people he'd left eighteen years ago as well, rats! Rats that screwed and bred and propagated crime and misery upon those who didn't deserve it. Kleist broke the law several times himself to gain access to all the weaponry he'd had access to in war, his rifle, his equipment, everything. He made a garb from the uniform he'd so proudly worn but it was distorted and wrong, and went to work in the night at what he thought was the only 'work' worth doing.


Kleist awoke on his fortieth birthday, he'd had a moment of clarity that didn't often occur to him through the masmia of hatred that usually fogged his mind. He'd long ago lost the chance at a normal life through the sights, sounds, and episodes that had inspried his ideals, His beliefs had brought him to this moment, nothing but a short man, a short and filthy man stinking in the basement of the lowest apartment in brickstown. In two days he boarded a train to Zigursky Penitentiary. Kleist enjoyed the ride amongst people he hated, even though his roughhewn garb made him freakish amidst the crowd, he watched the rare few happy people going about their lives, seemingly uninterrupted by the criminal element he had fought so ruthlessly against. It almost made it seem as if his fight was confined to him alone, and for once he enjoyed his walk from the train, everything was quiet. There was breeze and there were birds chirping, there was no sound of automatic fire, no sneer of alleyway predator, no screams.

Kleist approached the gate and the guard that attempted to identify him took a bullet tot he knee. Then another when he fell. Climbing the wall on hook-bound rope, he loaded his rifle with rubber and the men in their towers fell silently into their posts. Inside the prison, his bony hands pulled back at the cowl, exposing pasty sun-untouched ears. He opened them to the backwards community of innmates, as he breached the canteen, it was the 'superhuman' in his reflexes that dropped the guards on his way. When he dropped the duffel, he had already set a protective timer for his exit. The hood went back up, feet on concrete, door after door down the stained and broken lucite hallway. The blast propelled him out the last set, and he could feel bone splint and crack beneath the plate carrier and ballistic mask. It was a physical and 'superhuman' effort to drag himself to his feet, to drag his useless leg to the concrete bank on the far side of the prison yard. The detonation should have killed him, but it was with superhuman rage that the rifle came up, against a crux of elbow, down at the survivors emerging in the mid-collapse of the prison.

Moments later he stood on the embankment of concrete, desperate hands on the bare of the smooth concrete walls, their makeshift weapons clicked and clattered with broken and battered fingernails. Cracks of the rifle broke open air. The surge of prisoners pushed its way up the slope, a stinking tide of unwashed flesh and furious face, eventually reached the top of the embankment. Ammo depleted he turned the rifle around in his hands, his gloved palms curling about burning barrel, he barely felt his skin crackle and twist when he smashed the weapon into the head of the nearest face to clear the breach. The tide of orange made it to the top, and were moments from surrounding him.

The pain in his burning hand dulled on the surface the lone grenade at his belt. He felt the cool breeze against his aching body, the edges of the cowl fluttering against his cheeks, the smell of the crisp spring air polluted only by his sweat and blood stinging at his smothered nostrils. He could almost hear the striker spring landing upon the detonator, then he was no more.

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