Sterling Davis
The Mechanic
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Height: 6 foot
Weight: 190 lbs
Position: Dave is the best damned mechanic in this hemisphere. He started off sleepily tinkering with the power box in his PJs, trying to steal free Dust power for his apartment, and sent the whole city into a blackout. Now he risks life and limb getting oil stained up to the elbows in order to mine magic. It's a good life.
His scruffy black hair is wiry and short, cut by hand (usually not his, thank God), and usually by knife. Thickset eyebrows cling above his gray eyes, which catch the light and reflect it in peculiar ways, nearly reflective. His cheekbones sculpt a rather slender face, almost girlish, but ground with dirt, oil, a horrible complexion, and honeycombs of scars and burns, most noticeably a welt on his forehead and down the side of his cheek that still looks red and painful, when in reality the hot metal that scorched him had destroyed the nerve endings in seconds; he can't feel his face in the spots where the burns shine. Sleepless circles bag beneath his eyes. He stays up late, often, improving and fixing an endless parade of broken mechanics from lanterns to entire vehicles and suits.
Personality:
Though Dave is inclined to be a quieter guy, leaving his emotions up to broad grins and head nods rather than volume, he is an extroverted guy. He has a flair for the dramatic with little self-discipline; his spontaneity and risk-taking makes him a rather boisterous character, though in an odd muted sort of way. He's not a troublemaker, simply determined. His life is driven by doing, being. He is an action-oriented person. Dave likes goals to work towards, dreams to accomplish-- in fact, he's a bit of a glutton for pain in that way, as his objectives are usually bottomless greeds that cannot be filled. The futility does not bother him. He's not the kind to tarry too long on the future. He takes care of the now.
The mechanic is a friendly type, though he hates interference with his precious machines. This isn't to say that he doesn't like people-- no, he loves people; he's extremely people-oriented and is always happy to be a listening ear or adviser. He doesn't mind company so long as they're not bothersome, but the true kind of friendship in which he feels completely at ease, in which he wants to disclose secrets and trust-- well, that's something else. For all of his loud laughter and smiles that could put anyone at ease, it would take a lot to get him trust you as a friend, even as he's loyal enough to take all your secrets to the grave. He can put you at ease; somehow, when people pour out their problems into him, he can feel his leeching away, at least for awhile. It's easier to worry about others' lives than his own.
He can be a bit surly and gruff, but truly he just puts it on so that people don't expect too much for him; he defaults to a generally happy state, living in the moment and enthusiastic. He is certainly a go-getter. For God's sake don't let him around you if anything is malfunctioning, even barely; he will bother you. Most of the time it's less for the machine's sake as it is that he wants company. Hey, it gets lonely.
Dave is a straight-forward guy. He has strong personal beliefs as to right and wrong-- though they mostly pertain to things such as loyalty to friends; honor must be put in perspective as Dust collectors would as soon as shoot someone in the back of the head as ask what they're doing by the Dust deposits. Dave knows it to be true. He likes taking care of things. Machines, people, animals. He's one of those pesky fixing types. With a hard life behind him, sadly, he's come to be one of those who likes to latch onto projects with reckless abandon, pouring his all and accepting punishment in an attempt to fix a person or project. He isn't one for whining or self-loathing. He can take some punishment.
All in all, he needs goals, needing to fix everyone else's life is one of them. He takes big risks for big returns. He needs to feel that adrenaline in his body, that thrill of monsters and foe Dust collectors alike falling in the bloody race. This junkie side of him frightens himself. Working with mechanics calms him and gives him some solace from regrets. He just loves his team. Friends are good, even though he does not often disclose his own thoughts with them, he likes people. He's a smiler and a laugher and an easy-going-er, even as he works hard to accomplish goals.
Combat:
Dave can fight like any other man his age, good at throwing punches and using his body weight, but he is no black belt. He keeps several knives on him that are, well, pointy, but he can do much more damage with his standard mechanics' drills. Imagine having one of those elbow-to-wrist long bits plunging into your abdomen. As the mechanics whiz he is, he keeps on him many small mechanical gadgets of all sizes, however, magic is one of his best (and truly only, if we're being honest here) offenses.
Magic:
Dust is in Dave's blood-- well, literally. Who can say if it's cyberkinesis or not when the bolt comes unscrewed a little too quickly and cleanly than it should have-- did Dave's hand really even touch it at all? It was hard to see. However, nobody can doubt his metalworking skills, and that's not in the craft sense of the word. Metal crumples like tin foil in his grasp. He might break his hand trying to punch somebody, but somehow metal bends at his touch, as if anticipating his will. It has come in handy in his many short sprees of crime in his rebellious youth. Unfortunately, this can come with many drawbacks. If he uses it too much without enough Dust in his diet, he can end up sweaty and pale-faced on the floor, no longer a whiz mechanic but just a trembling kid too small to be there. But then he'd come back to his sense and return to that wizened mechanic who can make metal walls fold like accordions.
He doesn't care for or even really like his abilities. After all, they're useless for any of the delicate stuff.
Gear:
'Francesca' Techscanner: Helps identify problems deep within mechanics where the eye cannot see.
Biotechnica Bioplastic Mask: Keeps dangerous schrapnel out of his face. The helmet also enhances his vision to the point where he can see perfectly in the dark, albeit with a green glow.
Holoscreen Viewer: A small portable object which allows the user to pull up the blueprints of many objects.
Wire-Guidance Option: When he cannot get his hands inside because it's too small, he can send a wire in and direct it from the outside.
Colt .38 Detective: The only pistol he owns.
Three or four heavy knives of various sizes with ragged blades.
Background:
Sterling hasn't had the most conventional life at twenty-seven. He is of upper-class, some people say "noble", birth, the fifth child of an extremely wealthy courtesan. When his father was promoted to this position, they abandoned their quiet old life moved to a large city, full of smog and people and politics and secrets. He was never comfortable there, especially since there were plenty of people ready to stick a knife in your back, literally. He learned weapon usage in order to protect himself-- and his father. His father dreamed to use him as a weapon or an assassin; unfortunately, Sterling spent more time fiddling with machines that turning into a killing machine himself. He had much contempt for his father, who was not a kind man. He didn't intend to be evil, but he was moralless and ambitious. With his father whispering and coaxing behind the scenes and his own strong sense of family honor, Sterling ended up killing a certain craftsman who had crossed his father; the next to go was his own great-unce. Neither of these assassinations were performed by his own hands, but set up by his doing with clever traps of mechanics.
At this point Dave packed up and traveled abroad. He explored many places and suddenly found himself in with a group of cutthroat Dust collectors. This was when he officially stopped being called Sterling. He was Dave. Criss-crossing the country, they pulled up plenty of Dust and were showered in money. For the first time, Dave, Dave himself, was rich. He enjoyed the gruff and stark life of a Dust collector. He didn't mind the danger-- he reveled in it, though he himself did not often have the chance to slay monsters. He enjoyed knowing that his doings saved the life of his team many times. Fierce loyalty bloomed for them. They slayed many rival Dust collectors in several memorable bloodbaths, but this time Dave didn't feel like someone else's assassin puppet. But in one of these altercations, for once, his team wasn't the larger. They were scattered and ripped to shreds by monsters and Dust collectors alike; tectonic activity split the earth and made many people fall into chasms. Dave's middle, fourth, and pinkie fingers on his right hand were bitten off. At this point he was twenty. When he woke, he had either been left for dead or he was the only survivor, he didn't know.
After a few uneventful years of causing crime in various cities (he especially enjoyed directing credits from other peoples' accounts to his), he was conscripted for military service. He liked this. It reminded him of Dust collecting-- crouching in filthy, dangerous spaces with men and women ho were like brothers and sisters to you, waiting to attack others. It comforted him by its familiarity, but also raised grief that he wouldn't deal with. He wasn't the kind to ignore problems, but he never let himself grieve correctly: he looked at the problem squarely, like he was wont to do. They were dead. He wasn't. He needed to move on.
If he hadn't been hardened to loss of human life before, he certainly was now. A life just didn't seem so important anymore. After all, if he died, the world wouldn't stop turning; he didn't see how it was any different for anyone else. But the military game was a little to selfish for his tastes. Nobody truly made any bonds with each other; they were worried for themselves, and though they might like each other, there was an understanding that if it was a choice between you and me, you'd be thrust out in the enemy path to make some time as a pincushion while I ran away. He didn't so much care for heroism as he missed the simple gruff brotherhood of Dust collecting. It was in his blood now. He breathed Dust, talked Dust, thought Dust. So eventually, again, Dave simply packed up and went AWOL. The Dust collecting community was not eager to give him a second chance, but he threw around some metal things and fixed some tanks, and, long story short, his usefulness was seen and another team took him in. Now twenty-seven, Dave is pretty happy with his life. He's back where he belongs.
