An old man appearing to be in his 50s sits at the far end of the bar in Landing Pad 46; the local hot-spot of Garcia Station. dressed in a Federal Navy working uniform with no rank markings. A non-lethal weapon is holstered on his left thigh. a scar runs across his left eye, which is clearly cybernetic. His other eye bearing the signs of performance enhancers. The tell-tale circuitry tattooing of combat stabilizers mark his face. Every time he moves his legs you can hear the faint sound of the cybernetic muscles actualizing.

He is quietly drinking Bast Snake Gin and smoking a Kamitra Cigar, largely ignoring the bustle of people around him. while he's obviously respected, he simultaneously exudes the air of nonchalant freelancer and that of a prickly officer squared away by years of regulation. when he is approached his speech is terse and sarcastic solidifying the supposition of the abrasive yet flippant quality of his character. On occasion a phrase or topic of discussion will ignite a long winded rant from the old man. these impassioned tirades can often be on the edge of angry as he struggles to communicate his deep-seeded opinions. the more drunk he gets, the more frequent the outbursts.

He rarely talks of himself or his past, preferring instead to listen to the stories of others; if they are yarn or truth makes no difference. He has alluded to having, or more likely "had", a family and that he is an august warrant officer of the Federal Navy having since retired a few years ago just before the cold war started. He now works as a freelance local enforcer and Navy Auxiliary for whoever has the creds to hire him.