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Server time (UTC): 2020-02-19, 23:55 WE ARE RECRUITING
Jonathan West
Character information
  1. Alias
    Jon
  2. Mental
    Keepin' it together
  3. Morale
    Like a compass on a magnet, all over the place.
  4. Date of birth
    1990-03-07 (29 years old)
  5. Place of birth
    On a cruise ship somewhere on the Danish straits
  6. Nationality
    Estonian
  7. Languages
    English, estonian, very limited russian
  8. Family
    All deceased
  9. Religion
    Religiously opportunist

Description

  1. Height
    182 cm
  2. Weight
    80 kg
  3. Build
    Painfully average
  4. Hair
    Potato coloured, Chernarus Buzzcut aka. probably in need of a trim
  5. Eyes
    There's two of them, they're blue
  6. Alignment
    Chaotic Neutral
  7. Features
    A gnarly hole and scar tissue where once his left ear was.
  8. Equipment
    Either all black, all green or a mix of two. Can usually be seen hauling way too much stuff with him.
    Not because he's greedy, no. Because he'd give a friendly stranger all his bullets but one, he always keeps one for the worst case scenario.
    Can never decide what kind of hat to wear. Although with his newly acquired gnarly ear-hole, he'll probably be wearing ushankas or beanies for the rest of his life.
  9. Occupation
    Provider of goods, smuggler of wares

Background

Meet Jonathan West, or Jon for short.

A bit of a drifter all his life, never staying in one place long enough for anybody to actually remember or care about him.
His latest escapade, working as a cook, on one of the NATO ships that came to the shores of Chernarus. Volunteered as part of the staff for the medical research centres being set up on land.
Volunteered because his older sister Alice was an assistant working in one such research centre.

Sadly. Alice got infected, turned and killed. Jon wasn't there for her when she needed him the most, he failed her. Or at least that what he thinks because in reality, there's little that he could've done other than dying with her.
This destroyed Jon because Alice was all he had left in this world. His mother died giving birth to him. His father was a decorated officer driven to madness by his involvement in Operation Allied Force in Kosovo and the civilian casualties it entailed. From madness to alcoholism, from alcoholism to death.

Jon had a knack for following his sister to any hellhole on earth. Not grateful for it, but not for once regretting it. Chernarus was to be the penultimate hellhole for them both.

Despite not pursuing a military career like his father wanted, growing up with him still entailed much of what an army brats life is. Getting drilled from a young age because "no man in the West family is going to grow up weak!", a treatment which his sister escaped by being a girl and their father being rather old fashioned.
Due to this, Jon is no warrior, but he's not a stranger to survival, combat and weapons.
Somehow he survived the whole shebang until now, he doesn't know how. He sometimes wishes he didn't, but there he is.
What does a man who has nothing to lose do in such a situation and in such a place? He tries to atone for a lifetime of failures, that may or may not have even been his doing.

Jon became a smuggler of sorts. A gunrunner for those in need.
Trying to stay away from big groups of people that form and disband on the regular basis but who can still mostly care for themselves, he kept his ear to the ground for people truly in distress or those who would pay well and get them what they need. Be it meds, food or water. But in this day and age it's mostly guns and ammo. Everybody wants guns and ammo.
The problem with supplying everybody is that eventually you'll make enemies, because the AKM you threw in with a packfull of epi-pens and sparkplugs was used to blow out some kids brains and the kids father is none too happy.
That's how Jon found himself on the south coast of Chernarus, near Kamyshovo, kneeling in the sand, his hands in the air and the cool touch of a double barrel shotgun on the back of his head. He always liked the sound of the sea and the salty smell of sea breeze, "There are worse ways to go I guess" he mused to himself.
"Zatknis, amerikanskiy urod blyat!"
Came an angry growl from behind him..

Just as he was thinking about arguing that he wasn't even american, the growl turned into a very horrible snarl quite suddenly and then there was the unmistakable sound of a neck being crunched by infected jaws. As the shotgun dropped, Jon had but one thing he could think of. *RUN*


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