Sad guy; hates everything; wants you to feel the same way.
Personality: He's a depressing soul. Having been trampled on by life for the past few years, his outlook just isn't that optimistic anymore, to say the least. He feels like the harshness of his life has grounded him and shown him what life really is; given him perspective, maybe. This, mixed with the deep cynicism that's built up in him of late, often drives him to hurt others as a "gift" of sorts, or a lesson. He rationalizes it by saying he's "showing them how life really is." He hates the world and thinks he's helping people by opening their eyes to his point-of-view.
Deep down, he really is a good person; just broken.
Weapons: He carries a thin knife most of the time, but not much else. Metal is hard to jump with, so he stashes most of the things he finds in secret places around the domes and hopes he remembers where they are. Like a squirrel... There's a rifle somewhere and a bunch of other cheap junk.
Personal Belongings: A pare of binoculars and an oxygen filter to help him breathe if he has to go outside. That's about it. A fake leg?
History: Crip (we're just forgetting what his original name was) was bred to be a model citizen. Not only with perfect health and strong intellect, but a firm moral backing and high spirits towards his country and his life. He was taught to be happy and see life in all the best ways. Sure they taught him about the malformed humans that killed hundreds and brought anarchy to the world so long ago, but they always reminded him that all those "tainted criminals" were sent far away and couldn't hurt anyone anymore; thanks to their glorious and wise government, of course. The world was good and he had a full life ahead of him. He looked forward to working hard and supporting continued prosperity.
That is until he wondered why he couldn't be on the other side of the wall, in his friend's room. He found himself there very quickly and screaming at the searing agony in his right leg and the lighting pain shooting through the rest of his body, too. He fell to the floor and tried desperately to kick the steel chair off his leg, but his leg just went right in the top of the seat and out the bottom; there was no removing it. Crip could remember seeing his friend standing on the bed screaming too, but at that time all he could think about was the unbelievable pain. They screamed for at least five or ten minutes before he passed out.
When he woke up he was in his room again and the pain was still there, to a lesser degree. The chair had been roughly cut away so there was just a sharp metal ring circling his leg just below the knee. Crip tried to remove his shoe to see if his toes would move, but he couldn't feel anything below the metal ring and that terrified him, so he left it on. Instead, he began ripping his pant-leg away from the top of the ring to see beneath. His pants had fused to it as solidly as his leg. The leg just ended in metal. There was no bleeding or swelling, just what looked like light burns where the two met. He touched it and winced at the pain.
Maybe it was a good thing he didn't have time to think about it; maybe it wasn't, but a couple guards came in right about then. He once looked up to those guards; they were perfects. Now they grabbed him roughly by the arms and dragged him out the door. He screamed and fell the moment his right leg hit the floor, it hurt so much, but the perfects didn't slow, or even say a word. One just balled a fist and punched him hard across the face while the other pulled him back to his feet and pushed him forward again so his muscles would instinctively walk even before his head returned from the far off place it had been knocked to. Crip got the message; he would walk wherever they pushed him. Each step just hurt so much. Like rubbing his bones down a hot stove with every step. He tried to hop for a bit, but couldn't keep up and each time he fell, they just beat him again: harder and longer. His pain annoyed them, so they beat him till he was too dazed to feel it.
He only barely remembers the ship. No faces, just lots of other people. He passed out for most of that too; probably from a concussion or two. His memory clears for a moment when someone in a uniform shook him and carried him out of the ship. They futilely tried to make him eat and then left him in a bed. Not that he woke up in that bed. He woke up in some wet tunnel under the dome unable to use either leg. one was dead and the other was torn to pieces by the sharp metal sticking out of the first, although the uniformed person had apparently bandaged that. The next few weeks seemed to be a never ending Hell; made no better by the smell his foot before it finally fell off.