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OSCAR EUGENE MURMAN III
(oz-car you-gene mer-man)
NAME OSCAR EUGENE MURMAN III
FACTION GALACTIC REBELLION
RANK REBEL
SPECIES HUMAN
AGE 13 GSY
GENDER MALE
HEIGHT 1.54m | 5'1"
WEIGHT 73kgs | 161lbs
EYES BROWN
HAIR BROWN
STRENGTH
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
DEXTERITY
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
CONSTITUTION
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
INTELLIGENCE
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
WISDOM
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
CHARISMA
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
(oz-car you-gene mer-man)
NAME OSCAR EUGENE MURMAN III
FACTION GALACTIC REBELLION
RANK REBEL
SPECIES HUMAN
AGE 13 GSY
GENDER MALE
HEIGHT 1.54m | 5'1"
WEIGHT 73kgs | 161lbs
EYES BROWN
HAIR BROWN
STRENGTH
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
DEXTERITY
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
CONSTITUTION
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
INTELLIGENCE
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
WISDOM
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
CHARISMA
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Ā̺̼̳̘͇͓̬̼̬̻̗͕̼̤͈̮ͧ̎̎̎̃̋͌̑͗ͤP̖̫̞̯͍̘̹̟̪͚̥̲ͭ̉ͭͅP̤͍̫͖ͯ͊̈ͤͫ̂͗ͧ͌͒̀̋̌͐̐̅̚Ẽ͈͈̬̠͙̰͙̦͓̻͕͔̠̠͓̜͎͙́͆̎̍̉ͪ̋ͭͯ̈̿̆ͧͧ̌̈̏̚Å͖̹̺̮͙͚̞̹̳̺͉̦̯̏̎̂̋̌R̟̝͇̤͍̩͒ͫͯ̍̉̍̓ͭ̔͗͒́A̙̫̝̜͔̗͉̼̤̯̜̹͙̰̹͓͊̄ͦ̄̽ͫ͆̾N̝̱̮͈̟̘͚̣̭̜̑ͪ̿̊̏͒̇ͮ̃̂ͫͯ́̍ͯ̊ͅČ̫̥̻̦̟̗̼̫̜̂̓̿̒͋ͬ̓̀Ĕ̤̳̺̲͎͔̫̘̟̱̮̼̞͓͓̭̫̊̀̅ͨ̔̑ ͔̟̹̪̗̹̙̺̝̤̫̹͇̙̮͖ͯ̍̇̓̈́͐͂̃͐̅̾̒͊ͨ̓̍̈́̒ͅ&̟͍͎̞̻̹̤͇̪̬͈̻̰̗͇̔ͦ͑̂̽̽̈́̇̐̋̅ ͇͍̗̣̣͎̹̼̤̰̪̻̪̳͙̳͍̰͕ͣ͊́̓͊̾P̺̦̯̼̻̪̭̣̤̺͔̱͖͙͙̲͙̔̍̓ͧ͌͗ͪ̊̊̾̽ͮ͒E̼̺̞̹̩ͨͦ̒͆ͣR̲̬̖͙͑̇ͫ̄ͭ̍̒ͫ̂̉̌S̮͕̞͓̱̥̦ͫ̃̔͆̍̍̈́̅̓ͥỎ̮̗̙̪̹͈̱̜͉̱̖̱̩̂̐̋̒̄ͮͧ̚ͅN̖̘͔̗̰̜̟̤͔̤̠ͨͧ̂̓ͅÂ̙̹̯͍̹̰̪̙̅̔ͬ̊̄̂̀͐͐ͫ͐̔ͫ͊̽̚ͅͅL̮̟̩͓̲͂̅̀ͪͫ̆̈̒̇̔ͣ̓ͣI͍̜̟̝̻͖̭̜̰̻͔̼̫ͧͩ̓ͦͧ̊̓ͫͅT̯͉̗̼͊̔͛͒̀Ỷ̠̼̣̖̙̺͚͓̩̞̗̦̺͖̰͖̺̀̇̈́ͥͅ
Overweight and unassuming, Murman certainly doesn't strike one as being the quiet genius that he is. Having lost his parents at a young age and spent the rest of his life fending for himself, his penchant for conversation is next to none, speaking only when spoken to. An unforgiving existence in Nal Hutta's sewers has lead him to care little for his outward appearance; in fact, he has all but adopted the sights and smells of his environment. The boy's clothes don't even fit-- a result of negligent social behavior. His too-small shirt clashes with a pair of pants that probably never fit properly in the first place; held up by a belt but cut too short at the ankles, he looks as if he's preparing for a flood. Eschewing footwear, Murman walks bare-foot, despite the disgusting and dangerous state of Nal Hutta's surface.
The boy is dirty from head to toe. His habitat does not lend itself to hygiene, and the years of finding refuge in the planet's underbelly has left him filthy-- not that it seems to bother him, or anybody he comes into contact with. In Nal Hutta's squalor, Murman would appear to fit right in with the rest of the slaves, refugees, spice addicts and criminals. In a word, he looks like he belongs.
This solitary existence is largely responsible for his introverted nature. Vastly more intelligent than he lets on, his lack of conversational desire has lead many an acquaintance to assume that he isn't right in his head; however, in truth he represents perhaps the best and brightest of his backwater home's intellectual depth of field. His emotional output is next to nil, given his lack of sentient interaction. Murman is particularly difficult to phase in this regard, and is nearly impossible to bring to anger or despair.
B̰͎̦͖͍͖͔͎͍̦͓̺̠̰̯̭̮̐̈́͌ͨͧ͌̽̄ͥ͑ͨ̈́I̩̯̳͉̰̳͕̋͌͑ͮͦ̇̎͐̊Ŏ̪̩̼̳͔̂ͭͦ̅̎̐ͭ̀̂̆̆̉̏̉ͨ̐ͧ̓Ĝ̩̹̠̞͍̱͈͉͎̜̜͉̌͆̋̆̐̄̃͋ͧ̈͆̑͐̉̈́ͩ̐ͅͅR͙̻̟̱̱͕͚̗͉͉̩ͬͫ̃̊̅͛̂ͪͨͭͯA̘̞̱̳̭͋̊ͮ́ͮ̾͒P͇͙̦͔̰͍̫̯͕̬͖̪̦̼̣̰̓̽͐̋̑H͕̠̦͇̬͍̤͔͚ͭͣͥ́́͂ͤ̚̚Ỳ͖̮͖̱̩̘̙͔̺͎͉̤̻̱̇ͥ̿ͥ̋ͬ͌͒̇̓̓ͬ͐͊͑
STAR WARS:
LEGACIES
A Day in the Life
An OM3 tale, presented to you by William Cork
Introduction
LEGACIES
A Day in the Life
An OM3 tale, presented to you by William Cork
Introduction
The swamp resonated with a low hum, the little pockets of noxious water vibrating gently as if an earthquake were being tempted. The same rancid smell hung in the air as the day before-- and the day before, and the one before that. Through the thick, poisonous clouds of gas in the planet's upper atmosphere, the mid day sun often came down in sickly hues of orange or green. Industry and greed had destroyed the world long ago. What civilization remained-- the gargantuan palaces; the slave encampments; the towering factories-- was a testament to the immense influence of the Hutts that ruled it.
Murman wheezed quietly as he pushed the hatchway open, covering his eyes as the light of day struck. It's first blow was always the worst, and in a moment, the young boy would adjust. Living underground in low light conditions tended to have that effect on a person. Peering back over his shoulder into the winding depths of the maintenance shaft he had just ascended, he considered a moment the prospect of turning around. Adventuring on the planet's surface wasn't exactly his idea of a good time. This internal conflict was the same one that resounded inside him every time he made the trek to the world above. In the end, his penchant for scavenging usually won out. Today however, it was hunger that drove him to take that first step into the outside. Reaching back into the hatch, he pulled a large duffle bag out of the shadows and heaved it over his shoulder. His difficulty indicated it was heavy. The pallid, soft ground depressed beneath his bare feet, and he wiggled his toes precariously before wandering out into the swamp.
It may have appeared, to an outsider, that Murman were simply meandering. They didn't see the little things that he did-- the guidance and warnings of past excursions. Lengths of wire wrapped around tree trunks and carefully constructed piles of debris signaled the limits of his explorative history, and often danger. A direct line from the sewers to the surface powered a series of sonic emitters that kept his usual scavenging routes clear of predators, and the carefully concealed cables that linked his perimeter acted as his unbeaten trail. Some days he had to venture beyond the sonic barriers that were his ramparts, usually when his projects demanded components that were in short supply. Today he was making the rare trip to bargain, which would lead him to the very precipice of the wilds.
The now defunct Shag Bootana hospital, which translated roughly to Slave's Garden, was little more than ruins. Murman had asked himself previously whether or not it ever had been-- he didn't know the Hutts of the upper world to care for the well-being of anybody but themselves, least of all their subjects. The Evocii were perhaps the easiest example to cite. Long ago, the Hutts had subjugated them and their entire species in the process of taking their homeworld from them, and their warrior heritage had given way to sheepishness. Now, millennia later, the Evocii were all but extinct, and their homeworld was a chemical wasteland of mutation. Historical record cites that the Vong came to Hutta, as well-- and not even they could overturn the sickly ecosystem the Hutts had created.
Given this train of thought, Murman couldn't help but find the hospital itself to be rather ironic: its crumbling foundation stood in strange juxtaposition to the planet's sickness. To have built it in the first place must've been like trying to slap a band-aid on a tumor, thinking it would rid the body of cancer. The hospital itself stood no higher than a dozen feet off the ground, its upper reaches having come down years ago. Instead, the boy proceeded down, into the shadowed catacombs of the structure.
"Watch your step, Master Murman," a synthetic voice sounded from behind him.
The lad said nothing, but he appreciated the words of caution. The voice had emanated from the misshapen head of a droid that hung strapped to his back, like a pack. Once a hospitality and protocol droid in the palace of one Jorr'gota the Hutt, R3-DF had been scrapped following some sort of affront-- he maintained that all he had done was spill wine in the lap of a guest. When Murman had dug him out of the trash left behind by one of the massive garbage freighters that frequented Nal Hutta, he had found nothing but his severed head, still active. Playing anagram with his name, he came to the conclusion that he would simply call him 'Fred'. Fred amounted to the closest thing to a friend that the boy had.
They were getting close. Murman only ever traded with one person, and they always met in the exact same place. He was a gangster for the Hutts; a large, brutish man who when first met, surprised Murman with his understanding of the boy's creations. Once every few weeks he would get a message to the boy's sewer sanctum with a list of items-- requests, really. His requests were mostly of the mundane sort: blasters, refurbished armor, valuable metals, etcetera. The man had taken a particular liking to his makeshift, improvised explosives as well. The man was in all likelihood a murderer, but Murman had never known him to be a liar or untrustworthy. It wasn't until he and his mechanical companion were almost at their destination that Murman realized that something was wrong.
The low-oscillating hum of his emitters was gone.
It was quiet.
It wasn't supposed to be quiet.
Malfunctions in the jerry-rigged equipment he had set up were nothing new to him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small flashlight and flicked it on, shining it around on the floor. This deep into the hospital basement, he found himself in almost absolute darkness, and he had to shield his eyes as the light glinted off small pieces of metal debris. It only took him a moment to find the cable that ran the length of the large chamber he found himself in, and following it to its end, he came to the final emitter in the line. As he rested the beam of light on it, it arced dangerously, little trails of smoke rising out of the metal enclosure.
Drats.
Hunkering down over it on his hands and knees, he flipped the front compartment open to expose the wiring. Taking a flathead driver from the harness he wore to carry Fred around, he poked around inside a moment, looking for a short circuit.
BZZT.
He found it. He patted down his frazzled hair and exhaled quietly. He was no stranger to small electrical shocks. He had taken to calling them 'the wake up call', after shocking himself out of so many drowsy, fugue states first thing in the morning. When he watched a drop of liquid fall from above and into the device, he cursed quietly, pulling it a few inches toward him before continuing. It was no wonder there was a short.
But another drop fell, hitting it again.
Murman querked an eyebrow up high.
Another. And another. And then, a steady stream; pouring not just on the device, but meandering around it as well.
He wiped some of it off the ground and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, spreading them and watching it string between them like ooze.
It wasn't water.
Murman picked up his flashlight and slowly arced it upwards. Four powerful, stocky legs; oily fur that glinted in the light. Yellowed fangs and bright red reflective eyes. As he pointed the light above him, the open maw of the biggest chem-lizard he had ever seen hovered over him, it's terrifying, mutated visage staring down at him. As it shrieked, Murman screamed, throwing the screwdriver at it before scrambling to his feet and running.
He could hardly breath as he bounded down the winding, dark corridors. Behind him, he could hear the thunderous tromping of the beast's feet; could hear it crashing around corners and through debris. Murman's short, stocky legs pumped furiously as he pressed forward, never sparing a look over his shoulder. He could gauge it's distance by the sound of its powerful legs propelling it across the stone floor.
"It's gaining on us, Master Murman!" Fred proclaimed, his backseat view probably unimaginably terrifying.
"I KNOW!" The kid screamed as he rounded a corner. He could hear the beast lunge for him, but as Murman turned left the beast careened into the wall and then the floor, bringing down some of the building with it. Of course, the rubble wasn't about to slow it down, either. The boy hadn't really been paying attention to where he was going, but he knew the structure relatively well, and in a moment they found themselves emerging into the central interior courtyard of the building. In the light of broad day again, Murman collapsed a few feet from the door, falling to his hands and knees and panting. Reaching frantically for something attached to his harness, he pulls his inhaler out and takes a long, deep puff from it, and then again; and another, and another.
In a moment, his breathing had slowed.
"That was close," Fred remarked.
CRASH!
The beast roared as it slammed into the half-collapsed doorway, trying in vain to fit its massive form through. Murman scrambled to his feet and backed away from the door, and then stood there watching. He could see the beast stressing the cracked stone, and in a few moments, he imagined it would give way. Finally dropping the large duffle bag slung over his shoulder and hugged to his chest, he unzips it and begins rummaging around inside.
The beast comes crashing through finally, and a terrified Murman coughs up whatever he had retrieved from the bag, fumbling it and watching the small metal ball roll toward the creature and come to a stop between them. The creature slowly moved forward, snapping loudly in anticipation of its meal. Murman, looking around, determined he had run out of places to hide.
And it crept closer.
Murman slowly started backing up.
And it crept closer.
And closer.
And---
KKKK-BANG!
The creature's weight pressed down on the little object as one of its large, clawed paws landed on it, and the thing exploded in a rising fireball. The beast shrieked as it's front right leg severed from it's body, and a million little pieces of shrapnel buried themselves in it's soft underbelly. Cringing and covering his eyes at first, when at last Murman viewed the devastation, the creature was flipping around on the ground, spinning out like a helicopter that was missing a rotor.
"Not bad," another man called out from the gaping opening the creature had made upon entry. It was him; the gangster. "I take it you're a little light on the order now, but I'll chalk that up to demonstration. Just the cost of business," he joked as he made his way out into the courtyard. Unslinging his blaster rifle, he unloads it into the agonized creature's face, putting it out of its misery at last.
"Where the heck were you a minute ago?!" Murman queried.
"I was running a couple of minutes late," he said nonchalantly.
Murman folded his arms. "Just give me my food," the boy retorted plainly.
The man dropped a similar bag on the ground next to Murman's, exchanging parcels before lifting it back over his shoulder. "Aw, don't be rubbed so raw by all of this. I mean, you can take care of yourself, obviously."
Murman said nothing, but he spared the man a precarious glance.
The man was given a moment's pause as he thought quietly. "Y'know, come to think of it-- where the hell are your parents anyways, kid? And why do you live out in the swamps instead of in a settlement?"
Murman still said nothing--- he simply went about unzipping his new parcel, taking stock of the delivery. He didn't live in the swamps, but this callous man didn't need to know that.
"... Alright, kid. Have it your way. You're weird, you know that?" he said with a laugh before taking his leave of the courtyard. There was always a jump in his step when he left-- probably because he knew he was making a fortune off the boy trading food for munitions and tech. Murman, who remained, sat down in the cool grass, pursing his lips slightly as he perused the canned and boxed goods in his bag. With an opener provided he pried the lid of a can of stew back and retrieved a small spoon with a wood handle with which to eat.
Epilogue
Eventually he found himself back home, crawling back into the maintenance shaft he had emerged from hours earlier. Something had unnerved him during his journey. It hadn't been the giant chem-lizard, or the fact that his sonic emitter had been broken. He hadn't thought about his parents in a long, long time. The memories were just pictures of things, like paused scenes in a holo. He couldn't exactly remember their faces anymore. As he descended into the sewers and began navigating, he recalled what he could of them. They were poor folk that worked in one of the Hutt palaces above-- he had no recollection of which.
He had been an observant six year old. He remembered watching his mother toil in the slave pens. He recalled less of the man he had assumed was his father, as he was never around. It wasn't until he was older and he could reflect that he realized that the man hadn't been his father at all, just his mother's most frequent male caller. He had never known his real father, and he never would. His mother had died young from the same fever that plagued every poor soul that had to exist in Nal Hutta's rancid yellow atmosphere. Even when she had been alive, he had mostly occupied himself with the scrap tech in the palace's basement levels, rummaging through the garbage compactor for odds and ends and intently watching the more tech-savvy slaves as they toiled to maintain the structure; the droids; the security systems. Of course, they worked under the supervision of Hutt enforcers, but they had always seemed to pay Murman little mind. He never said anything or bothered anybody. He recalled fondly the construction of his first flashlight-- the first thing he had ever made that actually worked. When he flicked it on for the first time it had been like somebody had lit a fire inside of him. He had created light in one of the darkest corners of the galaxy. Every spare moment since he had dedicated to honing his craft. When he was finally thrown out on his own, it didn't stop him-- he simply found refuge, and worked; and worked. The odd adventurous soul that traversed the sewers returned to the surface with stories of Murman, and over the years, these urban legends had evolved to portray him as a mysterious man, capable of building anything from nothing-- 'The Wizard', they called him. This of course was an exaggeration, and he was just a kid, but it's not like he was around to dispel rumor. Most people didn't actually believe he even existed, anyway.
As he finally came to the archaic mechanical door that led to his small antechamber of a home, he craned his neck to look up at the automated gun he had installed discretely in the rafters above: it was the sentry that stood watch over his little abode; protected his vast hoard of hobbyist material within.
Hobbyist material. Murman sneered at the notion, dismissing it immediately. It was demeaning-- he was no hobbyist. He fancied himself a consummate professional.
He was the Wizard. The best.
And that gangster? He never seemed to argue.
Ĕ̹͓̭̩̬̫̝̜̲̬̲̤͐͊̓͊ͅQ̜͈͈̠̻̤̪͛̽̅̆̆̾͂̚Ü̱͇͔͍̓ͪ̃̿ͧͣͤ̿ͬ̊̓̚I͙̥͓͚͚͔͖͈̺͙̺̥̜̱̮̫͛̉̾̏̇ͭͦ̓ͫͅP̤̗̲̹̤͓̪̰̟̖̬͚̫̺̹ͣ̔̈̊̓̋ͧ̂͌ͩM̱̫̤͉͎̳͍̻̥͉ͭ̽͂̓͑̎͌͆̚̚Ẹ̻̪̱͕̖̪̅ͦ̾͂̄ͅN̗̲͙̳͇͙̹̙̮͐́̽̋ͤ͆̋̄͑͂̿̑͂̚ͅT͈̩̯͉̺̮͈̥͙̱̤̟̫̼̣̟͕̣͕͑͆ͭͫͭ͆̌̔̊̀̅͗̄͒ͣ̆ ̩̲̜̰͉̖̰̦̩̱ͬ̃̔ͥ͋̂ͧ̓ͦ͆ͮ͛͊ͩ͑͑̄͌&̜̣͇̲͍͙͙͎͎̹͔̻̘̟̜̘̝ͯͮͭ̒̓̂̂̇̔̌̓ ̪̭̭̯̩͙̻̞̝̬̪͕͂͌ͪͅG̜̠̠̤̝̰͚̮̭̺͔̖̼̖̳ͥ̔̌̐̒͆͑̀ͯ̈́̂̓̇́͛ͬ̑͆͐ͅÃ̗̙̠̓ͪ͐ͤḒ̠͎̰̮̐͐̏̚G̞̪̪̥̦̹͍̩̾̾͌ͭͧ̆̓̄̓E̖̱̰̮̻͔̮͎̦̙͕̬͍͙ͨͪ̾̈̋̎ͯͅT̯̣̠̖͉̘̮͋̑̃͐ͩ́͗ͣ̓̃ͥ͐ͪ̿̚R̺̘̼͓̙̪͔̗̜͚͕̘̰͛͑̂̓̓̆ͥͪ͗ͥͥ̿̉ͩͯ͋̇̍̃Y̤̦͇̗̻̮̺̞̝̯͖̦̱͓̼̼̹̪̾ͧ̇̐ͥͣ
Coming soon...
S͓̜̠̠̼̹͖̺̗̳̳̓̂ͩ̂͊̃ͫ̔̓̄̾ͯ͛̇ͣ̽T͉̠͙̲̳̮͇̫̼ͮͤ͗ͩ̏ͬ̒̈͐̂͌ͤ͋R̳̞̥ͨ̅͑̄ͣ̏ͯͥ̄E̩̟̤̮̤̺͚̗̣̫̙͎̳̗͖͐̈́̍̍̅̾̂̓́͋͌̔̒̏́̾͐̚N̻̹̲̬̘̲̻̝̼̱͖͍̈ͯ̔̅ͯ̍̌ͮ͒̍G̙̮̼̟̙͚̹͈̩̮̮ͦͩ̀͑͌͌̅̚ͅT͈̤̟̮̜͒͗͊ͮ͆̊̑͂͛͒̋̿ͫͫ̉͋H̘̘̬̝̜̟̻̠̥̖̰̜̭͍̦͍̝ͮͪͬ̎ͧͥ̃͊͊ͥͨͩͥͫ̀̀ͅS͇̬̭̞͉̆̒̋ͦ ̼͉̲̘̻͙̫̗̦ͦ͆͒ͮ͋̑̏̉͆̒ͅ&̟͙̠̠̰͓ͤ̓ͥͭ͒̃̉̇̅ͧͤ̒ͅ ̬̲͇̩͓̪̻̣̬̘͔̹̻̮̰̖̣͛͑ͭͯẀ̩͙͔͍̱̱̟̱̱̻͔̜͕̪͈͎́̓ͫ͒E̺̳̱̞̜̜̙͈̙͗̇ͥ̑A͙͓͙̟͚͔̞̮͇͆͐̅̈ͧͪ͊̀͗̏̽͒ͧ͋K̩̼̬͙͓̱̟̱̟̟͕̘̼̯̻̙̭ͧ͋̆̅̒̑ͩ̉̒͛ͭ̓̄̎͒̚N͙̺̤̫̱͙̫̳̠̜̙̦̓̉̌̐ͮ͌̊̌̈́͑E̱͍͉͙͉͈̩͚̖̰ͨ͆ͯͪͪ̋̾̃̀ͩ͌̃̑ͤS̫̦̜͈̰̙͌ͪ̃ͩ̂̐̋̅̒͑̏̔̏S̠̲̰̭̯̣̖ͭ̾͂̒̌ͬ̍̉̇̀Ě͓͚̠ͦ̍ͩ͌̔̾ͨ̓̇̀ͭ̐̃͌͛̃ͅŚ̲̺̼̲̬̤͇̺ͤͤ̊̅̇̍̓ͦ̂ͦ̾ͮ͂ͣ́
BENCH WARMER || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Murman lives a sedentary existence, faced with little to no physical demand. A tinkerer by night and hibernating animal by day, his idea of exercise is soldering switchboards. His inability to complete a hundred-meter dash or lift anything that constitutes more than a third of his own weight would imply that in the face of danger he is helpless, and without the aid of a companion or his gadgetry, he largely is. Thrown into the wild, he is quite literally chum for attracting prey.
THRILL-SEEKER || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Never one to be a daredevil, Murman is about as unadventurous as thirteen year old boys come. Having never been prone to setting foot outside the safe confines of his hidden burrow on his home world of Nal Hutta and the technological marvels that protect it other than to scavenge for material, even his means of sustenance-- exchanging scavenged tech for food deliveries-- speaks to an utter lack of explorative desire. The sort of person who frequents the same restaurant every day, he has no thirst for the unknown. That is, not unless the unknown is densely packed code or foreign technology.
MAGNETIZING MURMAN || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
The term magnetizing is a misnomer, in this case-- unless, that is, you mean to say that his polarity pushes everybody else away. With absolutely no charisma to speak for, Murman's utter lack of gravitas in most situations is off-putting enough to steer most people away from him. In the absence of any real companionship, his relationships with his projects consume most of his attention. Socially awkward, he commands little respect outside of the common urban legends that surround him. Having come from the Evocii, however, even they are subject to ridicule.
LEVELHEADEDNESS & COMPOSURE || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Murman's ability to remain calm under pressure is very much dependent on the type of pressure. Under time constraints he works exceptionally well-- however, he is less than conditioned to perform under the threat of mortal danger. Quite the contrary; rather cowardly, he often finds himself short of breath when confronted by any sort of unfavorable odds that he cannot solve. With surprisingly steady hands though in all circumstances, he finds himself uniquely suited to the delicate procedures involved in operating and repairing complicated tech.
LEADERSHIP QUALITIES || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Don't kid yourself. He's a socially awkward, out of shape teenager. Largely soft spoken unless angered, he is more likely to keep a good idea to himself than to share it with anybody around him. With all of the charisma of soggy cereal, he has little to no following, and his mysterious nature does not lend itself to garnering respect.
MURMAN, M.D. || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
No more medically trained than is required to apply a Band-Aid, or disinfectant. Murman has limited knowledge of kolto application, due to the many defunct and abandoned hospitals on Nal Hutta that he frequents for supplies, but without a full-submerge tank, that knowledge is useless. Without any sort of formal training, even the technological know-how that extends itself to the field of medicine is laymen-level at its best and woefully inept at its worst.
MURMAN'S METTLE || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
When it comes to completing his work, Murman has the willpower of a dozen lesser men. The unforgiving lower atmosphere of Nal Hutta, and often a lack of food, have hardened Murman in very particular, immaterial ways. No stranger to losing sleep, his work and his active imagination regarding new technological applications often induces insomnia. His drive to find solutions to complex problems has molded his brain into the most tireless organ in his body. Although he is certainly not an anchor in life-threatening scenarios, his calculating nature makes him react with logical poise-- even if logic dictates that he turn and run the other way.
MURMAN'S MONKEYSHINES || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
When it comes to hacking a data network he is nigh undetectable. However, in terms of real world furtiveness, he is about as covert as a three-headed Krayt dragon. Even the very act of keeping a secret is difficult for Murman-- the thought of sending him on a clandestine mission of any kind is utterly ridiculous. No real-world application of breaking-and-entering will ever be within his wheelhouse. Other than a penchant for setting traps and security measures, he has no grasp of the term stealth.
MURMAN'S MIGHT || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Completely out of shape, Murman is more likely to hurt himself pulling something than he is to hurt anybody else-- at least, with his bare hands. Thrown into an unarmed cage match, his life expectancy would dwindle to approximately five seconds. (Give or take a second to allow a margin of error.) The boy's physical prowess is non-existent; he is completely reliant on the technological marvels he creates for protection. Far from the safety of his burrow, Murman would be made easy prey for predators, if not for the array of impressive gadgetry he employs while scavenging: high-frequency sonic emitters, blaster technology and ray shields are the only things that make his usual routes navigable.
ART OF WAR || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
They say that history is written by the victor. If that's true, then Murman would've left his eternal mark on Nal Hutta already, having conquered the chem-lizards and womp rats. When it comes to the warfare of the greater galaxy, however, he is underprepared strategically. His broad intellect gives him the ability to read situations rather well, but his complete lack of knowledge concerning military formation and tactics leaves him woefully inept at times. Only quick thinking and intuitiveness make him a relatively useful pair of eyes to have watching your back in a firefight. Just don't ask him to protect your back, or anything.
MURMAN'S MIND & MACHINATIONS || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
The galaxy simply wouldn't function without the constant assistance of computers and technology. Devices all over the universe are linked together and coordinated by computers and droids. Those talented in computing can sometimes exploit these resources, and thankfully for Murman, he isn't just talented-- he's a bloody savant. Much more than being capable of operating complex devices, he can make them sing whatever song he wants them to. No security system is too complex for him to break; no data too encrypted for him to unravel; no software too advanced for him to manipulate. Perhaps the most devastating tool in Murman's arsenal is his ability to overcome immaterial obstacles such as these.
MACHINIST MURMAN || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
He can assemble and maintain all but the very most complex and advanced mechanical devices-- and without in-the-box instructions, no less. Incredibly savvy at discovering workarounds when presented with a missing or damaged component, he can do just about anything but jump to hyperspace without a hyperdrive. Capable in starship and speeder maintenance and systems repair, automaton construction and upkeep, and even some structural design philosophy. He can probably take your rifle apart and put it back together blindfolded, or inlay a mesh into your body armor. Even what he doesn't already know, he can pick up in a heartbeat. The only thing that limits Murman is what is made available to him; the swamps of Nal Hutta aren't counted among the most renowned tech graveyards in the galaxy, and in truth, most of it is junk. The fact that he can make something out of nothing is remarkable in and of itself.
SURVIVAL OF THE FATTEST || ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
As at home in inhospitable environments as he is, he has little to no survivalist training. Murman is a survivor, but has uniquely adapted to call Nal Hutta his home. Other than a basic grasp of the urban environment, Murman would quickly find himself at the mercy of a jungle or tundra, a lack of dietary knowledge the least of his concerns. Even at home, he is dependent on trade to sustain himself. Because of his inability to forage for any type of sustenance when presented with anything more arcane than a pizza parlour menu, he isn't exactly charting new frontiers.
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Sounds of the Y'Toub
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