Steel

Real Name:
Eric Romano
Assumed Identity:
Vincent Herum
Super Hero Name:
Steel
Title:
Lead Head
Alignment:
Chaotic Good
Age:
31
Gender:
Male
Race:
Caucasian
Hair:
Brown
Eyes:
Brown
Height:
6'2”
Weight:
585lbs

Personality:
Some what of an egotist, especially when it comes to anything related to mechanical knowledge or engineering. He is sarcastic, cynical, and moody on his typical good days. Even with this obvious dislike for the rest of humanity, when given a choice of helping himself or someone in need, he always chooses the latter. You could say hes a gentle giant under a cold, metal exterior.

Vincent is a heavy drinker when appropriate. Which, in his eyes, is seven days a week. Ironically, this borderline alcoholism makes his tolerance for bull shit and stupidity climb, which makes him a much more enjoyable person to be around. He almost always has a cigarette in his hand, regardless of where he is or what hes doing.

Being an avid motor head and having a heavily focused engineering mindset, he tends to look at things with less humanity and more mechanically. Vincent has a very straight forward 'right and wrong' point of view.

Pray you're never on the wrong side.

History:
Born and raised in the mid west near Cincinnati, he grew up in a fairly typical, red blooded American environment. His father was a civilian contractor for the air and space engineering department at the Wright Patterson Air-force base, and his mother was a very suburban soccer mom.

Growing up, he practiced and competed in martial arts events from the age of 6 to 13, at the same time regularly showing interest in engineering. In the 6th grade, he took home a state science fair prize with the making of a working, scale replica of a military style air tunnel, inspired by his fathers work.

When he reached high school, he transitioned from martial arts to high school wrestling. His first year he made it onto the Junior Varsity, and sophomore year making it to Varsity, despite the traditinoal ruling in the school.

Around the same time he started high school, he started to become obsessed with cars and motorcycles. Always having a curiosity of how and why things worked, he naturally wanted a closer look. For his freshman year, his father bought him a motorcycle, though the state he bought it in was miserable. It was for him to use after his 16th birthday, provided he was able to fix it. His father would supply the funding, but he would do all of the wrenching.

The day before his 16th birthday, his father arrived at the storage unit they had housed the motorcycle in. Immediately upon opening the door, an ear shattering rumble came from the center of the room, with Eric sitting on top of the rebirth of his 1975 Honda CB750. To his fathers surprise, it had not only been returned to working order, but the conversion to a traditionally inspired cafe racer from the 70's was perfected.

After high school, Eric began working at an automotive factory, welding chassis' together, running them down powered rails. This was, however, against his mothers wishes, as she viewed this line of work dangerous, even compared to the military. Everything was fine for a while, however it changed rapidly a few weeks into his second year. A poor weld from a previous line snapped, the chassis crushing his arms.

Immediately rushed to the hospital, though with little hope his arms would be salvageable, let alone recover. Almost immediately after entering the hospital, his arms were said to be too far gone, and they would be amputated. Weeks later, while still in recovery, a woman approached him with an opportunity. She was conducting an experimental program using neurological connections to give patients mobility with prosthetic limbs.

Without hesitation, Eric accepted. He and his family was warned that with the infancy of these experiments, there was a possibility of fatality. While his mother, after insisting this was the reason she was against his profession in the first place, declined, his father agreed it was for the best. He was carted off, flown by air away from the hospital, and from the last time he would see his family.

Vexus had a new projec.

11 years later
He awoke to the sound of sirens. Slowly lifting himself off the wet concrete, he held his head, shocked to find no feeling in his hands. He looked down, staring blankly at the large metal hands where his grease stained flesh should be. Confused, he reached into his pockets frantically. He pulled out a wallet, filled with six 100 dollar bills, a bank card, and a New York ID.

“Vincent Herum.” He said quietly to himself. On the other side of the alley, a motorcycle sat propped up on its kickstand. Vincent reached into the pocket of the brown leather jacket around his shoulders, and pulled out a key that read “Honda” in large gold letters.

Mounting the bike, he turned the ignition and the racer came to life. He slowly pulled out onto the street, with no knowledge of where he was, or who he was.

Powers:
His arms have been replaced with a hardened titanium alloy, allowing for light weight and strength. Steel plating lies directly under the first 10 layers of skin in a mid-evil scale layout, allowing full mobility as if it wasn't their. As well as super strength, the addition of the plating and fusion with his skeletal structure, this has made him borderline impenetrable to most man made objects such as bullets or blades. He still bleeds from the first layers of skin, but these wounds, unless in great amount, are usually superficial.

Power Grid:
STR: 6
SPD: 3
END: 5
INT: 4
EP: 0
FS: 4

Power Grid colors:
Dark brown background, Gold

Character Image/Description:
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Motorcycle:
Pending equipment approval
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Roleplay Sample:

Classic country music plays quietly in the corner, occasionally distorted by the 20 year old speaker found in the unloved jukebox. A light film of dust settled on the light fixtures. The air is hard to breathe with the stench of diesel fuel and tobacco flooding the small dive bar. Smoke rolls out of Vincents nose as he sits calmly at the bar, eyeballing the first cigarette of his second pack and the half empty bottle of Jameson sitting in front of him.

“Same as every other Tuesday.” He said to the bartender, giving him a light smirk. The bartender was elderly, but obviously came from a tough neighborhood. 'Maybe from the Bronx?' Vincent thought, sipping on his drink.

“Sure is, sure is. Tell me, son, why is a young gun like yourself wasting your life away in here?” The man asked, casually cleaning a glass with the stereotypical white wash cloth. “It seems like almost every night your in here. Hell, I have to order more of those, just since you started comin' in.” He said, gesturing towards the bottle.

“Honestly, old man, I couldn't really tell you.” He said, looking at the bottom of his empty glass.

“Hey, ol' timer! Open the register!” A voice shouted harshly as the doors to the small bar flew open. “Make it quick!” The dim lighting barely gleamed off the small pistol the thief was flashing.

“Alright, alright, I don't want any trouble.” The bartender said, walking over to the register slowly with his arms raise. Vincent lifted the bottle and took a swig out of it, before standing up and walking towards the robber.

“Stay back man! I'll shoot yo' ass!” He said, turning his aim to the 6'2” drunkard holding a half filled bottle of whiskey.

“Heres whats going to happen.” He said, continuing his pace. “You're going to shoot me, probably in the chest or stomach because its the only thing you can hit when you're shaking like that.” He took another swig as he approached. “And then, I'm going to break your arm. And then...Well, you'll see.” Vincent ran towards him, immediately catching a bullet to the chest. He grinned as he reached out for the mans arm.

“WHAT THE FUC-AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!” The would be thief's snapped under the pressure of Vincents grip, bone sticking through the sleeve of the robbers sweat shirt. The bartender was already on the phone at this point, calling the cops. “W-WHAT ARE YOU?! OH MY GOD!” The man screamed in agony as Vincent lifted him up into the air by his shattered forearm, taking a swig with his free arm.

“What did I tell you? I gave him fair warning. Right, Bruce? You heard me, RIGHT?!” He said yelling into the face of the crook.

“Clear as day, Vincent. Clear as day.”