Name: Josef Wagner
Species: Scatteran
Race: Azri-Belkan
True Age: 55
Apparent Age: Mid-fifties, some mistake him for older
Gender: Male
Eye/Hair Color: Eyes: A steel blue that takes on grey tones the closer you get to him. They’ve been described by friends and enemies both as “ice-cold”.
Hair: A shock of dark salt and pepper hair, looking as if it could absorb the rays of the sun itself.
Rank: Feldwebel
Skills:
Militant: Josef is a competent and deadly soldier with a lack of morals. He is a crack shot with a standard infantry rifle, but his true talent comes in close range fighting. He is fast, able to switch from his primary weapon to his secondary in a blink of an eye, more than capable with his combat knife, and has the lungs of a racehorse when sprinting short distances.
Extra-Curricular: Josef likes to knit Kevlar, although it’s a dead art in today’s day and age. In his youth he found a shipment of the obsolete armor, and likes to reshape it to form a variety of wristbands or necklaces. His dog tags and neck are currently sheathed in it.
Occupation: Soldier in the BWK.

Physical Description:
Height: Six-Five
Weight: 255 standard Terran Pounds
Physical Build: He stands as a broad-shouldered frontline soldier should; broad chested, bulky legs, and thick neck. He represents everything fine about the BWK training program, and represents it well.
Hairstyle: A lifetime of service and helmet use has starved his scalp and made hair loss an unflinching reality in Wagner’s life. It now is wispy and flaps in the breeze, making him look ridiculous from the shoulders up.
Hair Length: As stated above, it’s wispy and short, flopping about on top of his head. He usually wears his uniform cap or helmet.
Discerning Facial Hair: A full black beard, that frames his entire face and neckline. He trims it in accordance to Naval regulatons.
Discerning Scars or Physical Deformities: He has dozens adorning his entire torso from bullets and bayonets, as a career of fighting Kobolds has left him with an extreme amount of experience with the ferocity of the beasts. With this experience comes the inevitable scars.
Discerning Tattoos: He has “Kampf” tattooed in Gothic font between his shoulder blades, on his back. On both shoulders he has a tattoo, in full colour, of the Belker Weltraum Korps insignia in front of the Hegemony triangle. Down the inner part of his arm spells out “Rache”, in big black letters. He never discusses this second tattoo.
Discerning Augments/Prosthetics: None to speak of.

Biography: Josef was born as an average citizen – at least, as far as Belkans are concerned. He was raised off of training videos and the glory of the Belkan military, always paid special attention to any lessons in public educaton where military battles were mentioned. His father was a successful helmsman for the Belkan Navy, and his mother was a successful researcher in the Military department of Hegemony’s high command. Coming from such a prestigious line of Belkans, Josef immediately felt the pressure to excel, especially being the eldest of four children at the time he was 15. Josef knew that there was no other placement for him but Military, a conviction his father supported and his mother was wary of.
When it came time to take his test, however, Josef panicked. Instead of answering the questions honestly, like he was taught and reminded time and again to do, he answered them in what he thought the military would want to hear from an up and coming Helmsman of the navy. When his test was submitted, the Hegemony suspected bullshit. Judging by his aggression levels in related schooling tests throughout the years, an educated guess was made.
Josef found himself among the most lethal killers in the Military; the BWK.
The first year of training, specifically the first six months, was hard for him. Despite being a big and easygoing young man, he found himself being very submissive from the first day. The other recruits, equally bitter at their placement, found him an easy target. At night, during the quiet hours, he would taste a rag in his mouth as they carved things into him, little letters on his chest that spelled his weakness. He had trouble breathing for a long time, always terrified at what the night would bring. He threw himself into his training, becoming one of the fastest runners of the unit, one of the strongest jumpers, one of the greatest marksmen. The Hegemony took notice of this, took notice of his treatment, and made an executive decision.
To do nothing.
Eventually, the pressure climbed to an insurmountable height. One of Josef’s main torturers, a scrawny prick by the name of Gerhardt, took offense to his fellow recruit’s high scores. In private, Gerhardt and his gang dragged Josef from his bunk by restraints, held him against the wall of the bathroom facility, and drew a practice pistol they had stolen from the armory. With live ammunition.
Josef couldn’t define what had happened next. But suddenly he had the little sunuvabitch by the throat and was feeding him his own teeth, his voice raw and ragged from yelling. Two of the other boys lay incarcerated, one with a broken nose shoved into his cranium, the other with a broken arm. The remainder of the gang ran to the offices of the drill sergeants, reporting the incident.
It was written off as self defense, Josef was sentenced to isolation. Two of the three boys died. In his isolation, Josef realized two things.
One, that he was a ruthless and efficient killer. And two, that he didn’t hate it.
He didn’t hate it one bit.
The rest of his training was spent with a renewed eagerness to learn. He felt young again, sitting in class, listening to a general talking about the war with the Kobold adversaries, explaining in great detail how they dealt with the threat. Except now he got to go out and do it, rather than just dream of transporting battle hardened marines there. He was the battle hardened marine. And he couldn’t wait to get started.
His first combat was when he was 18 years old, and the Kobold had been discovered on a desert planet within Hegemony space. He remembered the sweat on his palms as he fingered the rifle, barely acknowledging the C.O’s orders and briefing as he sat in the small shuttle, twitchy and anxious.
When he landed, it was everything he’d feared it would be. And it was everything he’d dreamed it could be.
Screams of men behind him. Strange pained noises of the creatures in front. The rippling of his forearm under the aim and care of his rifle, then railgun, then heavy machine gun. He didn’t realize he was laughing until an hour into combat, and when the battle was over and he stood among the survivors, celebrating a narrow victory, he had red in his eyes and a smirk in his face.
Now he’s had thirty years of combat under his belt, and is as efficient and ruthless a killer as any the BWK has seen in years. His ability to improvise and his non-marriage to any weapon choice has made him adaptable, too. He’s considered a great asset to any squad, and a nearly perfect example of Hegemony efficiency. Why waste a bullet, when you can use your hands?

Persona: Someone once called Josef crazy. This is inaccurate. What Josef is is what every army needs; a complete moral-dead monster. The only thing he needs to know is which side not to shoot, and he goes from there. Utterly ruthless. Incredibly bloodthirsty. In combat, he becomes a robot, moving from target to target until there isn’t any ammunition left for him to eviscerate his foes with. The only trademark he possesses is his dead laugh that emanates from his throat once his kill count racks high enough, more a sound of satisfaction than anything else. This doesn’t mean, however, that all he wants to do is murder. He can be extremely tactical when the situation calls for it – he didn’t achieve his rank through favors – but ultimately lacks the bigger picture when it comes to overwhelming odds. This has prevented him from rising to a Commanding position in battle, but makes him ideal for a leader of small squads.
Off the battlefield, this mentality changes quickly. He is a mild-mannered and quiet person, submissive when talking to CO’s, only speaking in a contained and strangled whisper when asked a question. It’s as if he bottles up a beast when he’s not entrenched in the shit, only unleashing it when he is among violence and chaos, when it benefits his brethren and himself.