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Jens Torgny

A Swedish man once involved in gang violence in Stockholm. Moved to Zambia to stay with his father, where he learned that his Father worked as a Private Military Contractor.

0 · 358 views · located in Modern / Slight Future

a character in “PMC: Leftovers”, as played by Nevan

Description

Image

Character Name: Jens Torgny
Age: 24.
Gender: Male.

Description: Standing at 5 foot 9, Jens is of roughly average height and a toned, trained weight suitable for military operation. His medical record states his blood type is A+ and that he should not be given penicillin due to a mild allergy. According to his passport photo, Jens is a man with green eyes, a plain face with a concave nose, clean teeth (though his right maxillary canine is missing the point-tip) and no noticable freckles or moles. His chin is slightly more pointed than angular and he has a slight scar underneath it from where he once fell as a child. His hair is light brown, perhaps a little on the blonde side, but quite short, free-flowing and casual. It doesn't particularly reach his shoulders, but can get in the way of his eyes.

Outfit: Wearing the standard issue clothes of an OD jacket, leather boots and cargo pants, Jens is quite unfashionable and relatively by-the-book when it comes to his clothes, though he'll occasionally don a black beanie cat for style and to help keep his hair out of his eyes.

Personality & History: Jens was born in Stockholm, Sweden, to a 16 year old couple and grew up there with his mother - hardly knowing his Father. Life in the inner city was quite rough, but he attended School - even Pre-School, like any other boy. If you are unaware of the Swedish education system, it is worthy to note that English is a compulsory subject and that he is fluent at speaking it. When he started the second stage of his education at around 11, that's when he fell in with a bad crowd. One day, he began to talk to an older boy, who offered him a considerable amount of Krona (or SEK, the Swedish currency) to deliver packages on his bike to an apartment across town. From there, he got involved in violent teenage Gangs and became a lookout for Dealers on the streets.

According to his mother, at the age of 15 he was forced to change Schools due to an incident in which he allegedly got into a knife fight, both him and the other boy ended up taking wounds; Jens a cut on his right leg and the other boy... An abdominal stab. Several month later, a shooting incident that ended in a fire caused Jens' mother to send him abroad to stay with his Father.

That country, to his great surprise, was Zambia - a large country in central Africa that shares much of its border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo; a country ravaged with war at the time. His Father headed a small, local contractor group that often ran over the border into south-eastern DRC and when his Son turned up on his doorstep, he was in shock and awe. Jens' mother had neither told him or his father about this sudden arrangement and in fact, when Jens first arrived in the country he spent two days on the street of Kawambwa - lost and confused.

It wasn't long until Father and Son found each other, however, and given no other choice Jens was taken to stay at their designated "FOB" on the western edge of the city. Jens was 16 at the time, and Kawambwa was a United Nations refugee center for people fleeing DRC's conflicts. To the UN, the Second Congo War was a tragedy of Human Rights, but to a Private Military Company, it was a goldmine, because despite the war's status as 'officially over', heavy fighting continued in the east of the country.

Jens soon got to know his Father's fellow contractors and even volunteered to go out with them to help escort refugees back to Zambia - his Father's main source of contracts and income. As you'd expect, they initially refused. It took several months before his Father finally agreed and that was on the strict condition that he underwent drill sessions with them - for the threat of contact was very real when they crossed the border.

For the next year, Jens spent the first six months doing physical and basic self-defense training, including spending time at the range to learn how to shoot. The second six months involved the occasional trip across border, where he went unarmed and was mostly there as a humanitarian to offer aid to the refugees.

Contact with various hostile forces operating in the DRC was relatively rare, only once every five or six patrols and never for more than two hours. But during that time, Jens got used to the cracking of bullets, the zipping as they sliced through the air and narrowly missed him. There was one particular occasion where his Father ordered him to take a gun and return fire, which he often says was the transitional moment in his life where he went from civilian, to trained killer.

He soon turned 17 and slowly but surely, over the next year his combat role in these operations became more prevalent - he had even taken several lives.

When he turned 18, Jens approached his father to formally join the company. As an adult, Jens underwent a full two-year official training course under the team's licensed trainer, specialising in demolitions and explosives. After his training was complete, he continued to operate with this group for two years; in Africa for a while, then seeing action in the oriental countries, where he was inspired by east-asia's love for fireworks and tried to mimic that in his practical work. His father was killed in action when Jens was 21, then Jens left the group at 22.

A couple of years later, Jens had relocated to Maine, The United States, on recommendation from one of his father's old colleagues to join up with a certain Private Military Company in the area...

-

Jens is a relatively laid back guy. He enjoys the thrill that came with being a Soldier, though to say he is an Adrenaline junkie may be a little innaccurate. When the time came for him to either 'get used to it' or 'snap', Jens did a little of both. One can never get used to seeing friends injured and killed, nor do the horrors of war ever truly fade; but like so many others, Jens developed a mental shield - an emotional visor to keep him sane.

He has a fascination with fire and explosives, which is often portrayed when the practical joker inside all of us takes ahold of him and gives him a rather violent sense of humour. He loves to scare people with small 'bangers', which rarely harm physically, unless fright-induced heart attack counts!

When it comes to work, explosives especially, Jens is a believer in not only practicality, but creationalist expressionism, improvisation and artistic value - he's a massive showoff, essentially. He loves to leave people in awe at his work!

Physical Condition: Like many soldiers, Jens is quite the athelete. He is fit enough to do his duty, strong enough to carry his kit and so far has lacked the injury to stop him from performing at his full potential. He is neither the fastest nor the strongest, but he can get the job done as well as any other man.

Strengths & Weaknesses: To ask him this question, he would likely say that his Strengths are his sense of humour, bravery on the field (though every time one faces Death, he feels a little differently) and his artistic ability with explosives. His weaknesses would be his fundamentally human nature and his fear of Snakes. Naturally, he is able to list more naturally visible "good points" than bad ones.

Training: Demolitions.

Bio-Boost: His selected boosts are the Combat Lifesaver and the Tranquilizer.

Equipment: Jens has no personal trinkets except for his Beanie Hat. His field equipment also varies, depending on the mission and what's available.

So begins...

Jens Torgny's Story

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#, as written by Nevan
The great thing about Maine was its forests, in which Jens loved to wander in obscurity. There were some really isolated places under those trees and the Swedish man found sanctuary there, where he carried out some of his rather... Violent hobbies. He had his own little trailer set up there, with a kitchen and all - everything he needed, really.

It's amazing what you can do with soap if you know the science. At least, that was the story line behind Fight Club, anyway. To him, the lye seemed a little unnecessary. While it was true nitroglycerin was a by-product, messing with all those disgusting liposuction throw-outs was simply a bad idea. Jens preferred the way he had been taught in Africa, because the subtraction of blood, guts and icky fat from the equation was simply the way to go. With a salted-ice water filled bath-tub, a fish tank with an aerator pump, a thermometer and some commercially acquired liquids, he had a much better way of blowing shit up.

First, you had to measure out two beakers of acid together equaling 100%. 62% of this must be sulfuric acid, while the remaining 38% should be nitric. Slowly, pour into the fish tank the sulfuric acid first. Then, carefully add the nitric while keeping an eye on the thermometer you SHOULD have placed in there - because that mixture is going to get pretty hot as it nitrates. You also gotta turn the pump on, because that compressed air is the most least dangerous way to stir the mixture. Eventually, you're going to notice this acid mixture cooling from the nitration process and at that time, you've gotta add your glycerin. It should equal about 1/6 of the total weight of the acid. Then, with your eye on the thermometer, you have to add the glycerin to your cocktail of loud delight. Slowly. Because if that mixture gets above 25 degrees celsius, then there's a good chance it's going to go bang.

Still alive? Good. After a while, the mixture's going to cool and you're going to see the nitroglycerin form at the top of the tank's contents. Carefully remove it with a glass basting syringe, then add it to a beaker of water. Then, you neutralize the acid by adding sodium bicarbonate until it stops fizzing, at which point you should have your explosive oil settled nicely at the bottom of the baker. Remove this with a second, clean syringe and it's ready for use!

Now you got your nitroglycerin, you want to be able to blow stuff up with it in a more controlled manner than an in-face detonation, right? Well, that parts a little simpler. Mix some smokeless powder with some ethanol until it becomes gummy and putty-like, then add to this your nitroglycerin. In weight terms, it's important to keep 8% powder and 92% nitroglycerin. The ethanol doesn't really factor into that little bundle of maths, but try to keep it reasonable in proportion. Then, with gloved hands, you knead this mixture as carefully as you possibly can and after a while, you'll have a Plasticine-like substance - otherwise known as a plastic explosive.

He had been making this particular bundle for around two days now and had the rather small amount of mixture wrapped in a brown-paper covering and tied with string, as though he planned to send it as a rather vicious joke.

He didn't, though. Instead it found itself on the back seat of his car, while driving along the back-roads and towards the Raven Defense company building. He had no violent intent, he simply hadn't had the chance to dispose of the explosive properly and besides - without a blasting cap to detonate it, he was quite sure he'd be safe unless some dick came along.

Obviously, Jens didn't bother to remove it, or even hide it, so should some unwary security guard begin peering through his car windows, they were going to notice a brown package, suspiciously marked in red with "don't let explode"; while Jens made his way into the front-desk reception area on the 15th January, 2015.

"I'm here for the contract. Jens Torgny," he would say with a slightly Swedish accent to the receptionist.

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#, as written by Nevan
Jens had a busy couple of days in Maine. Alongside the briefings, the meeting and chatting with fellow Third-Platoon members and generally getting the feel for his new job, he also had to carefully dispose of a very illegal home-made plastic explosive substance he had stashed in the back of his car.
The only safe way to do that was a quick twenty minute run into the nearby woods during an off-hour in order to detonate it himself - get rid of the evidence, y'know? It's also worth mentioning that by 'safe', I mean highly dangerous to his life, but at least it wouldn't get him thrown in the Prison showers.

Anyway, to detonate his explosive, he needed a blasting cap. He couldn't risk just stealing one from the armoury, so he made one himself. With a bowl of water, a campfire and an empty cartridge filled with a mixture of picric acid salts and lead tetroxide powder, this was both relatively harmless and pretty easy to make, as most of the ingredients he used in home-made explosive development were acquired through 'questionable' sources and stored in that abandoned campervan he had in the forest.

Anyway, having found a safe spot, he built an unlit heating fire and placed a metal bowl filled with temperate water directly on it. Then, he taped the newly-sealed cartridge (filled with the crystalline picric acid and lead tetroxide) to his explosive package and then placed them both carefully in the bowl.

Lighting the fire, he then legged it like a fucker right back to the base. After several minutes, that fire heated the water; boiling it. Once it got hot enough? The picric salts inside the cartridge melted, reacted to the lead tetroxide and exploded - taking the bowl, the fire, the package and, as a result, a chunk of woodland with it!

Ahh! That was an interesting day, it was! He made it back just in time for Victor's briefing, stumbling in with barely a minute to go before the scheduled start. But, free from his worries, he was able to enjoy the flight to Africa relatively peacefully.

---

He then slept through the night, quickly got up at the early morning call and, once told he should help to reinforce the perimter, did what any sane man would do in the same situation!

With an old 80's stereo and a music tape, he placed it in a self-designated safe-zone, set it to his favourite song and then set about his work for that morning; helping to replace detonated PROM-1 mines at an average of 50-meters apart, while singing Edwin Starr's War with a loud, still-Swedish accent.

The work was tiring, but fun. Using a map of the mine locations and some ingenuity, he not did some pretty good work at filling in the spaces, but got ahold of some old wiring and began to link up the central 'prongs' of some of the Anti-Personnel mines to average Tent prongs which were hammered into the ground perhaps ten to fifteen meters away from each one, which would act as 'trip wires' and widen the detonation range. He filled in the map with a pencil as he went, with the intention of handing it to a commanding officer when he next saw one.

That could come later, though. He had finished several hours of hard work - there was perhaps a little bit more he had yet to do, but he was hungry and it looked as though the Sun was already past the mid-day mark. So he slipped the map into his pocket of his shirt, took the stereo back to the original owner and then made his way into the cafeteria area for some chow and a conversation with his new 'buddies'.

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#, as written by Nevan
The first day had been busy for the Swede, the morning filled with hard physical labour and the afternoon spent in the cafeteria with as many calories as he could fit on his plate and a platoon roster so he could try to match names and faces. Jens often thought himself a pretty sociable guy, yet aside from the odd chatter with passing personnel, he hadn't actually had any meaningful interaction with his platoon mates. This was a bad thing, because he was about to go into combat with these guys and he barely knew what to shout to get their attention.

He peered around him and ate his last sausage, then took a drink of coffee - yes, it was nearing the evening, but so what? At that particular time there seemed to have been several people whose faces he recognized further down the table, or a table across from him, but once again he didn't go out of his way to speak. Ah well, he would do all that 'socializing' lark when they got back to their "sleeping quarters" for the night. Come to think of it, he had forgotten the correct English name for that place... 'Tent' sprang to mind, but that didn't sound right. Eh, nevermind!

By the time he had finished going over the roster again and wandered outside, a contact involving mortars seemed to be ending. Well, he was sure they had it handled, otherwise he'd probably be dead.

Pondering why that thought didn't bother him, he slid into the portable shelter, dropped down on one of the bunks and got an early nights sleep.

Next day, the briefing went pretty well. He took a few notes, made mental plans in his mind and the moment they were done, he got up and rushed off to prepare for the oncoming mission. He took the standard Demolitions kit gear. His flak vest, his russian helmet (which he thought looked incredibly awesome; wearing it proudly around the base with no shirt on for ten minutes until a superior officer yelled at him) and his weapons: he took both the Uzi and the M79. He also settled on three infantry grenades and added two anti-tank to his arsennel as replacement for the rest. With the Clacker, two blocks of TNT, four blasting caps and his bomb kit, he was planning to put on at least one good show in the coming day.

With his food rations, ammunition and all prepared, he settled down to get a few hours sleep before the fabled ten hundred hour meetup.

He was probably the first to arrive; kitted up, locked, loaded and looking extremely dangerous (also sexy, if you were to ask him on a personal level). If he DID have a tooth-pick and a pair of sunglasses, no doubt he would wear them so they could serve to compliment his attempted 'action movie hero' style.

As the rest began to turn up, he wondered if he could have taken more kit and whether he would need it in the coming hours. Oh well Jens, it's a little too late to worry about that now.

"In the spirit of friendly rivalry, how about we keep a kill-count like that girly-boy and the fat bearded one in that Peter Jackson film? The man - or woman - with the most kills gets... Say... Ten dollars each from the rest of us?" He asked, with a slight grin.

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#, as written by Nevan
Jens took to the fight alongside Mack and Farin; his personal load-out, with his main weapon being the Uzi and his secondary being the M79 grenade launcher, he knew he would be most effective at closer ranges. From what he had heard, Mack seemed to be quite the CQC specialist and Farin was quite the medic. With him in charge of any explosives work that needed doing, they would likely make a formidable team even without the others who who decided to go in with them. He hadn't spoken much, but he couldn't help but feel a natural comfort in the presence around him, expecting them to watch his back and trust he would do the same for them. He definitely planned on it, even he understood the concepts of teamwork.

Crawling up alongside the two, he peered up towards the two story building the Scotsman had warned about, before returning his gaze to checking for more firing positions. These militia groups were sneaky bastards and he wouldn't put it past them to have a Sniper or two hidden out there, so he went back to checking the map he had spread out against the side of the ditch to note and memorize areas of interest. He would follow Farin's orders when they finally moved in, but couldn't help himself from planning a route away from open-areas just in case things got hairy. He'd rather face an enemy at five meters than a Sniper he couldn't see at a hundred.

"I can't help but notice this op isn't the most organized of missions," he whispered quietly. "But it's fine. We'll improvise, right? Oh yeah, in a run down place like this, even a pretty shitty booby trap can be hidden well in plain sight, so keep an eye out okay? Though I'm 90% sure even they're not stupid enough to plant a trip-wire inside their own base, so when we're in there we should be fine. Be careful on the run in though, I don't have enough intel to be sure but there's a chance they might have anti personnel mines set up in the hundred or so meters around the perimeter. Any word on which route we're taking in?"

He pulled a pair of binoculars from his pack and got his eyes accustomed to the zoom. At that moment, he began to scan the ground for signs of disturbances, though it was near impossible to see properly. He would just have to take his time and make do.

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#, as written by Nevan
Jens decided to stay close to Mack. That guy, with his strange British accent, looked tough. Much tougher than the Swedish man, actually; he'd definitely hate to have that man's fist aimed at him without a good old trip-wire set up in his path. Well, he didn't have to worry about that, so he focused on the task at hand. He gave Mack a couple of seconds to run out and put some distance between them before pushing off himself and following fast. The guard nest on the right received around three rounds from his Uzi as inaccurate suppression fire and coupled with the fact the whole place had suddenly gone up in a flame of chaos, the sentry didn't seem too keen to stick his head back up and return lead. This gave the Swedish man enough time to get to the building and into cover, at which point he slid along the wall to the left of the breach door to check the street on the other side for a possible flanking.

Jens had made it a habit for the muzzle of his gun to follow his gaze closely. It was common practice with some soldiers, he believed. At least this way, the moment he spotted a 'tango' he could pull the trigger without worrying about swinging his arms around to aim. This habit got him his first kill of the night though, so it wasn't something he planned to stop; he had turned the corner and there they were, two guys running out of a shack.

He held down the trigger and sprayed, the muzzle drift covering a larger area than he would have liked. That couple of seconds took the first man down with a cry, before a round cracked the wall besides him and Jens span back behind cover while the second runner returned to where he came from. There had definitely been a third man in that shack, considering that's where he saw the flash of gunfire. He had probably covering the other two as they crossed the street, but even with one down, two against one still put Jens at a disadvantage...

The two men in the shack were high on adrenaline. Their brother-in-arm had stopped his whimpers already and blood stained the ground... Dark without crimson in the night. Their shack was run-down, built of wooden frames and several sheets of that thin, zig-zagged metal. They had no idea what type of metal, they didn't care. They weren't even sure if it could stop a bullet, which was why they were reluctant to let their enemy poke his head out from that corner and fire at them. Every couple of seconds, one man would fire two rounds into the sand to let him know they were still there, while the other checked a second direction in case he came around from another way. Oh man, they needed to get out of there... This whole thing was going badly for them already and they knew if they didn't get out of there soon, they were probably going to die. "You see him?!" One asked loudly in their native tongue, over the fire of another two rounds.
"No, we need to head back and regroup with the others!"
"Yeah, but how? Hang on, I've gotta reload!"

"Sug på min stora svenska granaten!"

The Swede yelled as he turned the corner while the sentry messed with his magazine and fired a grenade into the shack from his M79. The explosion almost brought tears to his eyes and after that... He was pretty damn sure they weren't getting up. People spoke French in Niger, did you know? And Jens knew enough French to know what 'Attendez, je besoin de recharger' meant. Using that opportunity, he took them down. Those guys weren't trained enough to cover each other sufficiently enough and it had been their downfall.

Half a minute later, around the same time Mack sat down in his chair on the ground floor, Jens approached the breached entrance and called out "friendly, coming in! Unless you're an enemy, in which case I am going to blow you the fuck up! Prepare!" He span around, coming face to face with the fellow Third Platoon member. With a sigh, he said "good, this thing wouldn't work in here anyway."

"Sorry, got held up outside."

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Character Portrait: Jens Torgny Character Portrait: Mackenzie "Mack" Sinclair Character Portrait: James Foy
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Mack looked up at Jens as he entered the building. Sorry, got held up outside. Mack made a nonchalant gesture. "Don' worry 'bout it, mate. I heard the party yer were haven' outside." He gestured over towards the dead militia man splattered on the wall behind him. "Don' worry, I had one meself." Mack stood up and stretched. The pain in his side was less now, although that was probably just the leftover adrenaline in his veins. Shouldering his shotgun, Mack walked over to the corpse. he reached down and grabbed the spare clip for the AK the man had been wielding and pocketed it for himself. He continued to check the body for anything useful. Mack also found a half-pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and even a few francs stuffed into the man's left shoe. Mack got back up and looked at the door just as Foy entered the building.

Nice entry mucker. Jens, nice backing. Any good vantage points upstairs? Mack remembered that Foy smoked, and tossed him the pack of cigarettes. Mack also tossed him the lighter and then jerked his thumb in an upward motion, towards he floor above. "there's a few windows that overlook the town, if ya want ter set up that LMG up ther." Mack then motioned over to Jens. "While I am not technically in charge of this operation, perhaps ya could set up a few of them explosives ya got outside. Make sure the bastards don't try ta flank us and what not." Mack looked back over to Foy. "When yer ready upstairs, let me know. From the looks of things, we are the advance team, so I think we should push up inter the town and clear a way for the rest ta follow." Mack watched Foy light up one of the smokes he had tossed him, and nodded. "Let's move out in about ten minutes, mates. We got a company ter impress."

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#, as written by Nevan
"Now, you'll be a good boy and get them to come out, won't you?" A whisper asked in the night.
"Y-Yes sir pleas- I good. S'il vous plaît ne me tuez pas!"
"Shhhh! Now, let me just stick this on your head and hide around that corner and you'll be all set... And done! Remember, I'll be watching you so you'd best put on an Oscar winning performance. Though, just to make it a bit more believable I think I'll just-" crunch.
"AGGHH!!!"
"SHH! Förbanne! Right, go on and start."
"Oui?" The second voice said with a painful whimper.
The first man rolled his eyes, figures he didn't speak English. Well, whatever. He nudged the man harshly forwards and then stepped back into the darkness before dawn.

The dark-skinned male, with his hands bound and several fingers broken, looked around fearfully for a few seconds until he was sure the man had gone. Was he really just letting him go like that? His eyes fell across a closed shack not far to the north, where he had been forced to watch several of his unaware comrades take shelter during the firefight earlier. He had to get to them, warn them!

The moment he reached that half-rotted wooden door, he hammered on it with with both hands while whispering harshly to the inside, "permettez-moi en! Il ya l'un d'eux ici! Je vous en supplie!"
The sharp pause was terrifying; half expecting them to just put a bullet through the door to make sure it wasn't a trap... And he wouldn't blame them, he wasn't entirely certain it wasn't himself. After all... The guy had stuck that thing to the back of his neck and tied his arms up tightly to the elbow, making it impossible for him to take it off. That didn't matter right now, though. His own safety was more important! They had to help him!

Eventually, whispers inside that he couldn't quite hear seemed to weigh the options and after a short while, the door opened a little and an eye peered through at him. "Merde! C'est François!" He whispered back inside, before stepping out to tend to his injured comrade.

"François, qu'est-ce que sur votre cou?" He asked, noticing something strange... In English, that translates roughly as "Francois, what is that on your neck?" A phrase which triggered a grin on Jens' face, who hid just around the corner. He gave him three more seconds to reach out and physically examine the blasting cap stuck to the top of the spinal column with the aid of some chewing gum, before pressing down on his clacker.

The bound man died instantly in the miniature blast, while his comrade lost a hand. Blood seemed to explode with flesh and bone and a loud, terrified scream of pain rang out. Jens turned the corner, raised his Uzi and put the handless man down with a quick squeeze of the trigger.

Two more men were inside, but they were so shocked and focused on the area their two friends had just been killed that they failed to notice that Jens had waltz back around to the side, stuck his gun muzzle against a poorly barricaded window and sprayed the rest of his clip inside in wide sweeps, before vaulting over the window-still himself.

He looked around, immediately noticing that one of the two men was still whimpering on the floor, with a cigarette slowly burning out on the ground besides him. The Swedish man made his way up and used his foot to turn the man over on his back. With several rounds in the chest, he doubted this guy was going to last long. "Sorry about your comrade," he stated while reaching down for the death stick. "But y'know, this is a war zone. It was really unprofessional to let himself get disarmed like that... Get it? Hahaha! You don't have aids, do ya?"

He wiped the remnants of saliva from the cigarette, re-lit it, stuck it in his mouth, then watched the sun rise while sitting on the top of a half-dead soldier.

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#, as written by Nevan
Each Third Platoon member's radio would crackle for a moment, then come alive with the voice of the Swede; Jens Torgny, who immediately began to speak with his not-quite-diluted accent. "Look," he began, "I have no fuckin' idea as to the co-ordinates of my location, but I'm inside a shitty little shack with some green aerosol graffiti on the east-facing wall, in the shape of... A dog or something, I don't know. Just keep that tank-thing from blowing me up while I'm inside for two minutes and I can turn it into spare parts, alright? I'm making it a shaped charge and by god, I'm still not sure whether I'll gift wrap it first."

He put the radio down, then set to work. Out of his backpack came a small steel tube, a small copper cone, a roll of duct tape, two RKG anti-tank grenades, a small metal rod and finally, some C4. He placed these down on a wooden table along with a blasting cap and his clacker, then was ready to go!

Keeping his head down as the sounds of battle raged outside, Jens covered the outside of the copper cone with C4 and then placed it into one end of the steel tube. He turned the tube around, then put the rest of it into the other end and pushed it down until it was almost completely filled. Then, he stuck his blasting cap to the C4 so that one end of the tube showed the inside of a copper cone and the other the white, plastic-explosive mould and accompanying cap.

Finally, he created the stands for the tube, two RKG grenades and a third rod to give it extra standing support. He tied the three around the outside of the tube with duct-tape, the one essential ingredient to any DIY scenario, whether civilian or military.

With the charge now complete, he took off his backpack, left his Uzi, his M79 and his remaining grenades and magazines on the table and then radio'd in once more. "I'm ready... I could use some smoke and whatnot while I run in, I'll be ball-naked out there except for my Clacker, so I'm counting on you guys to keep my ass free of more holes than necessary."

He set the radio down, picked up the charge and detonator, then readied himself by the door for the right time to strike.

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Character Portrait: Jens Torgny
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#, as written by Nevan
Well, it had indeed been an interesting first mission. After they had returned to base, the first thing Jens did was drop off his weapons, then make his way to the medic. Swollen, bruised and in quite a bit of pain, he was immediately lectured on a rather nasty abdominal contusion, while being fed Ibuprofen and pressed against with a slim ice-pack. It was rather tricky to hold it in place manually as the Doctor tightly bandaged him so he wouldn't have to, but they eventually got it done.

"You're lucky you didn't break any ribs," he was told as he pulled on his jacket. He rolled his eyes, only truly thankful that he was still alive and his penis was intact.

He quickly left the tent and walked awkwardly to nearest bar, ignoring any twinges of pain and the instinct to limp (even though his legs were fine). Once he was in the establishment, he took in the musky smell of smokers and booze and dragged himself a chair over to the bar counter. The difference in size between the chair and the stools meant that at best, his chin could only just sit there on the counter-top. He didn't care about looking silly, however, as he was merely thankful that his chair had something he could lean back into and ease the pain.

"Now, what should I have to drink?" He asked himself, while distant memory of the Doctor saying "clear liquids only!" ran through the disposal unit of his mind. "Beer's a clear liquid, right?"

The urge for alcohol was overtaken by the side of him that worried - better follow the doctor's orders, and all. So, although reluctant, he settled on a glass of water and sat there drinking it in distaste; whilst wondering if he would be allowed on Third Platoon's next mission...