Player name: Vincent
Character number: One
Faction: Soldiers of Fire (Applying for it, maybe?)
Full name: Vincent Armbard
Occupation: Pilot, Recruit for the Soldiers of Fire, Ex-manager, currently unemployed
Birthplace: Toulouse, France
Citizenship: French, originally
Personality: As an ex-workaholic, Vincent is somewhat of a detached man. He knows pretty much a life of work from the restaurant he had built and run nearly all upon his own hands and has difficulty letting go of that lifestyle. In fact, he often finds himself holding doors open for nearly anyone and exchanging niceties in the oddest of places. A blessing and a curse, maybe? The older folks seem to appreciate it.
However, as with all people of such a degree, everyone has a key of sorts to unlock that inner-animal within, so to speak and Vincent’s happens to be alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. It’s a side of the man that breeds ideas not of this world and often walks, not within or along the edges of the box, but in a literal fucking circle. Interestingly enough, it seems to be how the inspirations to his becoming a mobile suit pilot arose. A spur of the moment type deal like that has recently led to a clear decline in Vincent’s previous lifestyle.
Height: 1.72 meters
Weight: 56.69 kg
Hair Colour and Style: Red hair with a now care free, anti-haircut. Vincent kind of just brushes it out as needed. The sunglasses aid in keeping it held above his eyes for the most part.
Eye Colour: Blue
Identifying Marks: None, really, aside from a burn on the back of his hand from an incident in which he was firing one of the chef’s in his restaurant for making a dish just a bit on the spicy side. Insulted, the employee hurled a sauce pan that had been resting on a burner at Vincent. Fortunately for him, the pan had been empty at the time and it had merely burned In contact with his hand.
Skin Tone: Caucasian, kind of tan now with all the bumming around as of late.
Build: Lean. He never did much working out and can credit his low body fat to a higher-than-normal metabolism that runs through his family.
Clothing: Loosely dressed these days, Vincent prefers the white polo shirt on his back and the dark blazer on his shoulders combined with a pair of pants that match that very same blazer. While uniforms have become a pain in the ass to wear (much to high on the crotch for his tastes), he knows from experience as an employer it’s better not to complain about them.
Mother: Natalie Gurrier-Armbard
Father: Saul Armbard
Wife/Girlfriend: None, although he did have that stand with the girl in Mexico. Things itched between the legs slightly after that for a few days. He made certain to note in further cases that alcohol tended to make women look a little better than was true.
Personal History: While he’s not quite sure what went wrong or where, Vincent found himself in Mexico and of all places one of the dankest bars in all of Cancun, drinking it out with a total stranger under rules that were only vague and probably misunderstood on his part from his very loose grasp of the local tongue. Only hours before he had been told his restaurant back in Toulouse had been foreclosed on for some stupid accusation of tax evasion during the second Bloody Valentine War and his father had had his second heart attack in three months at the news. Vincent had lost it and really couldn’t remember what had happened before the time he had put the shot glass to his lips other than this strange encounter with a man in a trash can asking, at least from what he could decipher in Spanish, as a dirty mop. Confused, he had wandered his way into the safety of the bar and wallowed in his own self-pity in the company of a glass of “Mexican Wine”.
“Fuck, I have a brilliant mother fucking idea!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he slammed his fifth glass of the hour down upon the table to his drinking companion’s glazed capture in attention?
“Does it involve a bathtub full of ice? I hear those take your kidneys out here…” remarked the man in a slight dialect the Frenchmen couldn’t quite discern.
“No, no, no, God dammit! It’s…. Uh…” he stumbled for a moment as his brain appeared to run out of fuel for the second before he erupted in body language and bolted onto the table whilst striking a pose.
“Mobile pilots for that…uh… Man on Fire Group! You and me, buddy!” he announced to the bar, many of its patrons looking at him as if maybe they should have called the cops an hour ago before this had all begun.
“Can I keep my kidneys?” the man, interested as it were, questioned as he squinted up at the idiot of a tourist that stood upon the table above him.
“We’ll inquire when we get there!” decided Vincent as he looked down at the man still seated below and offered him a place next to him atop the table. Of course, being piss drunk, the stranger took his stand next to the unemployed foreigner and they each struck a pose on the badly maintenance table.
“By the way, what’s your name anyhow, asshole?” laughed the French patron as he slapped his buddy on the back like they were old friends and struck another heroic pose afterwards.
“It’s Julius, bitch and don’t you forget it!” he cried out as the table gave way and they landed in a pile of splintered wood and spilled tequila.
“We’ll apply… right after a nap!” commanded Vincent as he thrust his arm weakly into the air, the index finger pointing randomly upwards before he passed out on the floor.