Sergeant First Class Matthew Weaver
Name: Matthew Weaver
Appearance: Average height, with brown hair and brown eyes, which have a tendency of turning hazel under bright lighting. When in uniform, Matthew is clean-shaven at all times, exposing a smooth jawline. Women describe him as cute, but most of the women Weaver meets are prostitutes who make their living behind the front line, and he knows better than to believe them. In his prior regiment, Sergeant Weaver had a muscled build, but months of incarceration have sapped much of his strength and stamina, and he currently has the flabby look of a strong man gone to seed--a state he plans to change as soon as he's released. He has a round scar above his left kidney, about the size of a coin. It's the remnant of an old lasgun wound that burned clean through his torso.
Quirk: Weaver has a mild obsession with personal hygiene. It was a tendency even before he joined the guard, and he vaguely suspects childhood trauma to be the cause. The military only exacerbated the issue. Now he can’t even go to sleep without brushing his teeth first, and the grit of dirt between his fingers irks him to no end. Suffice to say, being imprisoned in a dirty cell—trapped in a six-by-six foot space with his own toilet—has been quite an ordeal for him.
Background: Sergeant Weaver doesn’t have much recollection of his hiveworld upbringing—just an explosion, and then having no parents. A faultily-repaired gas line was the cause, the constables told him later, but not like that really mattered. He spent his ensuing teenage years in the local Progenium orphanage. Acne was a real issue for him—another reason for his fixation on cleanliness—and the older cadets teased him constantly. He endured their derision with as much stoicism as a puberty-ridden teen could muster, but in the end, he decided that they weren’t going to stop on their own. Snapping one day, he punched the ringleader in the nose, and crushed it flat. That boy, unfortunately, was a school star—an early pick for the Commissariat, because apparently the schoolmaster couldn’t differentiate between disciplining and bullying. Weaver was thrown out onto the street with little ado.
If the Schola Progenium had instilled in him one trait, it was the love of all things military. Weaver was comfortable in a hierarchy, with a predefined role and a delineated chain of command. Order pleased him. So nothing else would do but to tramp to the local PDF recruiting station, and sign his name on the dotted line.
Private Weaver’s education quickly proved valuable in the ranks of the local PDF. Other trainees flocked to him in Basic Training, seeking his expertise in matters that ranged from fitting their flak armor to disassembling lasguns to filling out leave request forms—an odiously difficult task, because one incorrectly-filled box meant having your weekend pass cancelled. His conduct didn’t go unnoticed, and following graduation, the installation commander personally recommended his transfer to the Imperial Guard.
Weaver adjusted well to off-world duty. His regiment had recently undergone a punishing campaign and had plenty of ‘vacant’ positions to fill, so his stint as a Conscript was mercifully brief. Even as a cherry in his infantry platoon, the new private proved his worth. He was the very picture of military bearing, and gained recognition among his superiors for unerring professionalism. Weaver found himself propelled from Private to Corporal in the space of two months. He first saw combat almost a year after joining the Guard. In the pre-deployment briefing, officers described the operational risk level as ‘negligible’. Actual on-the-ground conditions were nothing short of catastrophic. Weaver led his fire team into the meat grinder, enduring months of trench combat—the unyielding bombardment, the everpresent filth, the sheer stress. Surviving was a feat in itself. Weaver thrived. His fire team didn’t stagnate in the trenches, or grow complacent. He kept them all sane, kept them focused on the mission. They embraced the suck together. When the time came to go on the offensive, Weaver led them from right up front. It was his team who cut through the enemy barbed wire first. They fragged the heavy bolter guarding the enfilade, clearing the sector for the men behind. Then they dove into the trench and murdered the enemy with lasbolt and combat knife. Weaver, out of ammo, resorted to beating an enemy NCO to death with his helmet, smashing his face in with repeated blows.
After the engagement, nothing else would do but a battlefield promotion. The man found himself Sergeant Weaver. Then Gunnery Sergeant. Then Sergeant First Class. With each increase in pay grade, he took on a new squad. Each time, the Guard got a little better. Weaver prided himself in that.
One relic from a past life: A tattoo—well within regs, of course. Guardsmen are issued one square foot of ink, as the saying goes, but Weaver hasn’t come close to spending it. The tattoo is on his upper right arm—the word Lena, written in loopy cursive script, long since faded. It was the name of the first woman he’d slept with.
Soldiers are champion drinkers; it’s more important than marksmanship. His soldiers had foisted Lena on him at a bar when it came to light that he was a virgin. He suspected she’d been a prostitute, but his men would always swear otherwise. Either way, soon as he came out of the room, doing up his fly, the cheering soldiers enveloped him. They proceeded to pulverize his liver with shot after shot of liquor. Then they’d bought their passed out Squad Leader his first tattoo.
He’d been pissed when he saw it in the mirror the day after. His men had paid dearly for their fun. But they were all dead now. Blown to red bits. Yet another reason to hate his tattoo, and avoid looking at it at all times.
Reason for induction into the penal legion: The guard took his soldiers away. Or more accurately, one confused lieutenant had. Hopelessly disoriented in the labyrinth of mines, Weaver’s platoon leader had directed his lead squad to enter an unsecured tunnel, surmising that it might bring them closer to the surface. How wrong he’d been, and the sergeant had known it—argued over the vox for a solid minute, too. His nine years of experience hadn’t mattered worth a damn against an officer. The newly-commissioned LT would not be cowed.
Weaver did as he was ordered. He led his boys into the tunnel. Straight into the jaws of the rebels’ ambush.
A tremendous explosion collapsed the far end of tunnel, killing his point man and the two nearest. Before the squad could retreat, a second detonation had sealed the far side. And the rebels—the fucking bastards—just dropped frag after frag through the ceiling vents, emptied dozens of clips of autogun rounds in after.
After half an hour of deafening hell, Sergeant Matthias Weaver no longer had a squad.
When the rest of the platoon finally blasted their way in, they found the sergeant curled beneath the bleeding corpses of two of his soldiers—the only cover he’d been able to find. The Lieutenant, pale and watery-eyed, had helped him up. Weaver promptly brought up his spent lasgun and slammed the butt into the LT’s jaw, knocking out half his teeth.
Anyone else would have been put up against a wall and shot. But given his exemplary military record, and the extreme events surrounding his crime, the company commander had chosen to spare his life—for the time being.
A sympathetic guard, passing Weaver his daily gruel through a slit in the cell door, whispered that a certain Commissar was coming to ask him a few questions. Great, Weaver thought. He hated those fuckers. Even if he would never say so.
Reaction to induction: Flippant, resigned. Weaver is a soldier, and well-accustomed to authority. He knows nothing else but to bow to the dictates of his superiors.
Specialist skill: Tactical knowledge. Weaver knows it all: individual movement techniques, rifle marksmanship, cover and concealment, vox communication protocol. He’s licensed on pretty much every standard vehicle in the Imperial Guard arsenal, from a forklift to a Leman Russ. Can he hit a stray dog with a battlecannon from five thousand yards? No. Can he floor the accelerator and mash said dog into bloody pulp? Absolutely, given orders via the proper chain of command. He won’t like it, though. Not one bit. The intent of war is not annihilation, but rather measured, purposeful violence, aimed to achieve a predetermined end state. Therefore, running over a dog with a tank is stupid.
Equipment: An Imperial Guardsman, upon taking his oath, is issued with the following:
- 1 set combat fatigues
- 1 pair combat boots
- 1 lasgun (variable pattern)
- Exactly 2 fucks.
Sergeant First Class Matthew Weaver spent his first when he smashed out his Lieutenant’s molars. He will use the remaining one wisely.
Last edited by maelstrom48; 11-27-12 at 06:31 AM.