Name: Gunnar Slade. Goes by his last name; used to go by his rank, but not so much anymore.
Age: 37. Not as if that particularly matters when you're dead, but he keeps count.
Weight: 236 lbs.
Experimental Type: Necro.
Slade is a survivalist. He's always been good at eking out what he needs from his surroundings, and this still holds true. He's a trained marksman and soldier with the skills corresponding to that--in addition, now that he's a Necros, his strength has been increased to far above that of a normal human, and his sense of pain has been almost entirely wiped out. This can be an extreme liability at times, as he is, for the most part, unaware when massive injuries occur, and he has a bad habit of pushing on past that. He has a very high endurance and does not tire easily, but when he does manage to exhaust himself, it takes a good long while to get him back up to snuff. Aside from that, Slade is good at taking care of weaponry, and isn't bad at cooking, either.
His metabolism is greatly slowed, which enables him to run on very little, if anything. He does not sleep often, and instead spends his nights patrolling in order to ensure that everything is how it should be. His saliva, like all other Necros, is poisonous, but he is currently unaware of this.
Standard-issue assault rifle, pistol, and a combat knife.
The first thing you'll notice about Slade is that he's huge. Not only in height, but he's pretty well-muscled due to his combative lifestyle (though one could call it a deathstyle now, but that isn't the point) and training. His skin is an oddly pale color, and his veins are perhaps a bit more visible than they should be. Overall, it appears as if the color has been leeched from him, leaving his hair a washed-out version of the dark brown it used to be, and his eyes are practically colorless, with only the faintest tinge of gray-blue. His scars are, for the most part, hidden underneath his uniform, though there are some clearly visible on his face. He's missing the top half of his left ear and has a very noticeable slashing scar starting at the middle of his cheek and curving around the side of his head, right through where his ear used to be. A large portion of his right side is either missing or scorched due to his death--from his last two ribs to just above his hip, there is a combination of scar tissue and very roughly-healed flesh, and it is fairly obvious that this killed him. Slade has a stand-in covering over the injury for now consisting of simple interlocking metal plates, but they severely limit his flexibility. Still, they cover a weak point, and he's more than willing to give up a bit of his range of motion for that.
His facial features are heavy and solid, with his nose being visibly crooked and a variety of other scuffs still lingering. Slade's hair is regulation-cut out of habit, and he used to keep himself clean-shaven before his death. His death stopped his hair growth, so he no longer needs to do much of anything with it. He has a few tattoos, though one was not really one he wanted--a barcode on the back of his neck, coupled with a serial number underneath it. These correspond to his personnel file and experimental information, and he's long since gotten over the fact that it's there. The other tattoos are fairly simple designs consisting of interlocking geometric patterns on his arms, though they've faded somewhat, and there are a few scars breaking the flow of the entire thing here and there.
Slade carries himself with an air of command, which gives the impression of him being even taller than he actually is. His posture is straight, and it is incredibly rare to find him slouching--after all, he was trained better than that. He often stands at parade rest when idle, though he tends to zone out if left there too long. Slade keeps his uniform clean and well-pressed, the metal parts polished to a shine; he takes great pains to ensure that everything is up to regulation standards, and is very much concerned about the state of his uniform when he's not in a combat situation. During combat, he really could care less--but if there's a chance one of his superiors could run across him otherwise, he starts to care.
Slade is, above all else, a soldier. He does not have a very wide range of emotions on the outside, and is a very disciplined person who rarely has sudden outbursts. He's got a sharp mind and is a pretty decent strategist, with a penchant for quick-thinking and a talent for logistics. Slade does not waste anything that has a use, and does his best to keep himself running efficiently, up to standards, and within his given parameters. He does not necessarily need a chain of command to function, but it does help, and he is more than willing to bow his head to an authority and follow their orders--provided they've earned his respect. He operates on a strict code of honor, and is very routine-oriented, occasionally taking this to the extreme. He does not enjoy having his routines ruffled or insulted, as they've become one of the few things he can still think of as normal.
His death did affect him greatly--after all, he died. When he was revived, he panicked and was restrained for a few days until he'd calmed down; still shaken, Slade did his best to cope and move on. While this wasn't as effective as he would've liked, he managed long enough to be able to throw himself back into his job without a second thought, thinking that allowing someone else to give the orders would be just what he needed. He likes having somebody to fall back on for that, but he's a good deal more opinionated now, making it easier for him to go on with his un-life without a superior officer. Even if there isn't much by means of command anymore, he still lives a militaristic life, doing everything as he did before his escape, albeit with a few changes. Slade is adaptable to conditions and strategies, but not so much to ideas and thoughts--he is very stubborn and very set in his ways, and it is unlikely that trifling words will change his mind. He knows that he will most likely have the misfortune to live long past the changes, and he is not willing to risk upsetting things. He is a creature of habit, and is incredibly reluctant to try new things without given extremely good reason or orders.
The fact that he's dead is a very sore spot for Slade, and any negative remarks pertaining to that will earn a harsh response. He has no qualms with roughing people up, but killing people has always taken a toll on his conscience. He does not enjoy the taking of life, but if there is no way around it, he will do it. He values his duties above most else, and will not break his promises or disobey orders of a trusted commander. Think of him as a large, undead guard dog, really; he will fiercely defend what he's told to, is obedient, and really doesn't care as to what else is happening beyond the scope of his orders. His main focus is his orders, and until he's finished carrying those out, everything else is second. This kind of persistence is something he takes pride in, despite not being a prideful man. Slade is not one given to large displays of...anything, and much prefers to save his time and energy for more useful things, such as actually getting to the point. That's what's important.
Slade doesn't remember a time when he wasn't being groomed for the military. Even from a young age, military doctrine was instilled in him by his father, a colonel with every intention to make his son into an ideal solder. Slade didn't mind, and took to the near-brainwashing quite easily, which led to him being sent off to bootcamp. He did quite well, and was, later on in life, accepted into Division 17's platoon of soldiers. Though his life was fairly uneventful before this, being raised by a single parent and running the gamut as far as 'useful' training went, it started getting interesting here.
He came into D-17 as a sergeant and was promoted over time due to success in his missions, and earned a few distinctions. Slade was actually content with this, settling down at the rank of first sergeant quite comfortably. He was not fully aware of the experiments occurring not far away, and it never bothered him. Of course, there were rumors and odd, unexplainable sounds, but he never thought too much about it. What use would it be to concern himself with something that he, as a mere soldier, would never gain access to? Pursuing the rumors was nothing more than a waste of valuable time and energy, and Slade was never a man to do that with either commodity. And so, he went on with his life, doing his missions and his routines without question. Over time, he grew a bit disquieted with the fact that some of his men were disappearing--his commander claimed that they were reassigned, but upon inspection with the other squadrons, they had simply vanished. He received a warning when he began to stick his nose in places it didn't belong, and abandoned the search...for the time being.
His last mission was a simple excursion into an almost-collapsed bastion of civilization--if rampant gangs and 'us vs. them' mentality could even count as that. Due to an oversight, three newly-assigned members of his squadron were sent out with him instead of three more experienced troops, and Slade decided to play it safe. He went ahead by himself for a bit, just intending to scope out the area to make sure that there wasn't anything that would kill his men.
It was a simple enough booby trap--a pressure plate that, when stepped on, fired a medium-power explosive charge straight ahead. He had been too focused on his thoughts to realize what he'd triggered until it was too late, but he managed to move enough to where the trap didn't hit him dead-center. The result was still fatal in the end, and for a while, that was that. First Sergeant Gunnar Slade was announced dead shortly after being brought back by his squad, and his remains were sent off to another sector to be cremated, as the official announcement said. He was not, in fact, cremated, as may be obvious now; he was instead sent to the experimental sector, and one serum was all it took to bring him back. He was disoriented, frightened, and just about hysterical, a condition that he is not proud of. The serum hadn't quite managed to heal him fully, and he still bore the mark of his final mission. After a few days spent in isolation as he adjusted to un-life, Slade was introduced to the underbelly that had been hidden right under his nose: the experiments. It was almost too much for him to handle at first, but he reacted with decreased feeling to try and preserve his sanity. There was no way this was happening. He had died--this was hell.
As time went on, he found the missing members of his squad, altered in ways that he didn't even think possible. His second-in-command reappeared, appearing normal; save for the fact that his weaponry could now fuse to him. Things like this put more and more stress on Slade's mind until he finally couldn't take it, going on another patrol and breaking away from the group and into the wasteland. He knew how to survive, and his body was now much more resilient to the unforgiving environment of the Outlands. He is only just now coming to full terms with his condition, and there are still some things he isn't aware of--the Necro's poison saliva, for one.
His primary concern is to survive, and he will do so by any means possible. If you stand in his way, you best make peace with your gods early.
"Are you absolutely sure this is a good idea?"
Slade looked over his shoulder, his exasperated expression hidden by his full-face combat helmet. He sighed, the sound whooshing out of the air filters quite audibly, earning a nervous fidget from the recruit who spoke. What had he done to get stuck with a couple of greenhorns? This wasn't what he'd been looking forward to when he was allowed to go on patrol topside. They were near a long-dessicated city filled with gang-like militias, which was not the best place to be--but he'd known that the likelihood of being assigned to a mission like this would be high when he took the job. Slade had been given orders to foray a good deal further than usual, taking what he'd thought to be a small squad of equally experienced soldiers for backup. He couldn't help but wonder if somebody had bungled their paperwork again; last time, it had resulted in a supply shipment of ladies' undergarments sent to the men's barracks. This time, it could cost them their lives.
"First sergeant...?" The same recruit spoke again, and Slade's head jerked up, tearing him from his thoughts. He flipped up his visor, the lower half of his helmet still in place. What was this one's name again? Gray-blue eyes narrowed, trying to get a better look at the other man's uniform. Corporal Vandinsky...the name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. Right now, it didn't quite matter.
"We were given orders, Corporal." Slade's voice was muffled through the heavy layers, giving his voice a distorted feel he didn't quite like. "Besides, I'm sure you rookies can handle a quick walk." He chuckled, trying to reassure his squad. It wouldn't do to have them go into a live fire zone all wound up--with their levels of experience, such a thing would be catastrophic. "We just need to go a little further and we can head back." With that, he flipped down his visor and edged from around his cover, rifle held at the ready. The three soldiers followed him a bit reluctantly, and Slade definitely noticed this, frowning. That wasn't good. The area seemed...unusually quiet, and he glanced around, eyes adjusting to the darkness. "N-V on, boys." he ordered, voice hushed as he tapped the proper button on the visor. He blinked when everything suddenly jolted green, the overlay coming on just in time to prevent him from tripping over what couldn't be much besides a corpse in the alleyway. He gestured down at it to make sure his recruits saw it as he passed, and, hearing no muffled cursing or sounds of panic due to tripping over the body, continued on, signaling them to wait behind.
This was where it started to get tricky. They didn't have much information on this city, other than that it was a powder keg of petty conflict and idiots with high-power weaponry. Slade knew this was a place to be cautious, and going in by himself was really a stupid idea. Still, it was better than leading a corporal and two PFCs into dangerous terrain without any prior knowledge of what they were going into. He wrinkled his nose as he came across another body, glad that his helmet filtered the incoming air. The smell was undoubtedly overpowering, given this one's state of decay--which didn't really bode well for the rest of this alley. Why were there corpses just sitting here? There had to be something here...either that, or it was a dump site. Slade didn't like either option.
He took another step. His combat boots crunched on broken glass and something else, and he had a split second to look up as the booby trap's explosive charge was hurled at his torso.