Riley Miles

Name: Rilynne Baron Miles
Nicknames:Riley, Riles,
Age: 17 Standard Years
Height 40% Below Average (Exceedingly short)
Weight 25% Below Average(Lithe and physically fit)
Occupation: Freelance Engineer/Mechanic/Tech
Homeworld: M'draan

Almost perfectly androgynous while wearing anything heavier than a tee shirt and of an age range which would depend largely on ones' perspective. Anywhere from late teens to early twenties - and she was certainly very short. Bright, fire-engine-red hair cropped short, usually tufting out in messy locks. A soft complexion, big, steely grey eyes, freckles along the bridge of her nose, as well as about the sides of her neck, shoulders, and arms. A sort of bar code tattooed on the right side of her neck. Typically garbed in old-fashioned, usually ill-fitting military fatigues. A long, sturdy chain around her neck which she is never seen without, upon which hangs one old military dog tag. Regardless, her attire would always show some serious wear and tear - and the various stains and splotches and streaks that came with engineering work would be ever-present. She had a faint scent of motor oil and ozone about her which, luckily, was not terribly overpowering, even though it would not go away no matter what she tried.

Fiercely independent to the point of bordering on - and often surpassing - pure stupidity, Riley is constantly determined to prove her worth in any given situation. She's a plucky, fiery little thing - sensitive about her height, more sensitive still about her boyish appearance - and with a short, explosive temper to cover it all up. She has a tendency to come off loud, arrogant, generally obnoxious and almost entirely unlikable. Quick to pick fights she has no chance in Space of winning, with a bark that, mathematically, would be about 750% of her bite. Either a tough girl - or a tough-girl act - though it might prove tricky to tell the difference. Regardless, it is not uncommon for her blustering to falter with relative ease, and give way to a shy, almost bashful, and certainly very socially awkward girl with a myriad of haunting insecurities and assorted mental issues including, but not limited to, severe anxiety, depression, self-loathing and emotional stuntedness. While always doing her best to keep up a brave face in the face of danger, she's no good at all in a fight, is a terrible shot with firearms, and is quick to crack under pressure. She has a number of intense phobias - one of the worst being airlocks - and is constantly plagued by nightmares of which she stoutly refuses to speak of. Her physical talents include being a good runner (Who is usually reasonably agile, but also prone to serious bouts of clumsiness) and having a very good throwing arm. Her small stature allows for easier access to the hard-to-reach niches in starships and machines. She is a terrible, terrible liar, and has a surprisingly impressive singing voice, which she utilizes exclusively when she thinks she's alone to sing old prog-metal songs and actually hit the high notes.

Quick to speak her mind, quicker to say things without thinking - and apparently quite uneducated in social graces, often to the point of being a downright irritating little brat. She speaks with what would amount to a limey London accent, however the more comfortable she gets with her company - or, conversely, the more upset she gets - the more limey it becomes - often to the point of virtual speech impediment. This is not beneficial when regarding her general communication issues, and it can prove intensely frustrating, often bringing about stutters which only make matters worse yet.

But for all her many, many shortcomings no pun intended the girl is practically a genius in respect to technology and mechanics of all kinds. Certainly gifted - and while she's no wizard capable of magically restoring things to operating condition - she's clever and resourceful, can usually find a workaround for tricky situations, and can always be counted on to put her entire heart and soul into a job, working at it with the fierce determination that permeates her entire being to do the best she possibly can.

On M'Draan, life was simple. There was a generational routine that had been in place for centuries. Nobody needed to worry about how to live their life, because it had been chosen for them. There was no overpowering, mind-controlling, Big-Brother regime hanging over the people of M'Draan. There were no drugs to sooth the population into complacency, nor conspiracies to keep the politics stable. Because on M'Draan, you were born, you trained, you fought, you @#$%ed, and you died.

The planetary system of Portão Paraíso, named after the blazing yellow sun at its' center, contained two habitable planets. They were M'Draan and Mortuga - respectively a small, temperate world with airy steppes and plains, and a large, lunar mass dominated by harsh landscapes of craggy mountain peaks and vast craters.

The war had lasted far longer than anyone in the system could remember. Even historical documents were scarce, considering the effect that wars tend to have on scholarly records - and the scholars that keep them. There was no room for non-combatants in a society that lived under a constant state of siege.

But, in reality, it was M'Draan that had been under siege. For decades upon decades, the M'Draan Militia had fought valiantly against the better organized, and often better equipped Mortuga forces. Ground invasions on M'Draan repeatedly proved unsuccessful,, as did air raids on Mortuga. When by chance the conflict began to show signs of ending, politicians and lobbiests on both worlds would immediately begin stirring up more trouble so as to keep the war going. War, after all, was a very profitable enterprise - for those who weren't fighting.

But when a civil uprising on Mortuga brought dissonance to the people, a change of regime was in order, and it seemed that for the first time in history, the M'Draani and Mortugans might find between them a tentative peace.

But old ways died hard - and though the war did come to an end - it was only after a devastating nuclear assault on the M'Draani capitol cities.

The death toll was tremendous - and though this final attack did spur on one final resistance on the part of the remaining M'Dranni people, it was hopeless and short-lived in light of their crippled resources and severely reduced population.

M'Draan was occupied and, in an unexpected show of mercy - -or cruelty - it was ordered that all ex-members of the M'Draan Militia were granted amnesty, and immediately deported out of the system.

Even after the horrors of nuclear fire, in many ways those last days of M'Draan were the worst. Though M'Dranni non-combatants were not to be deported, it was suddenly very difficult for them to continue living there - and with the Mortugan occupation in full-swing, the rate of shootings, rapes, break-ins, even impromptu public executions was exponential. A M'Draani native had no place on their world now.

And so there was a mass exodus. Relatively organized at first, the Mortugan government chartered civilian passenger vessels to those who were willing to pay. But as the price of fare and availability of passage began to turn for the worse, rumors of a coming holocaust began to spread, and things got out of hand. There were riots in the streets. Hundreds of thousands of refugees began flooding into starports demanding passage. If not for them, then for their families. Barricades and checkpoints were established - and under the mass impression that all fare had been ceased, the riots turned into frenzies. Crowd control turned to mass extermination as waves of people overwhelmed the starports. In one instance, it was proven that the victims of war could be just as cruel as the perpetrators when a ship attempting to deliver food, medical supplies and disaster response volunteers was overrun, crew slaughtered, and ship stolen.

News of the ending of the M'Draan-Mortuga war had spread around the Galaxy, and the developments were sensational news. Videos of the atrocities committed on both sides circulated widely, with different politically biased stations making one or the other out to be the 'good' or 'bad guys'. Though the common consensus was that M'Draan had gotten the worst of things and presently, only a few years afterward, the name alone of M'Draan is spoken in hushed, conspiratorial tones. The limey accent that was so unique to M'Draan is worn as a badge - not of honor, nor of shame.

Only a remembrance.

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It is said that old soldiers never die - but can the same be said of the young ones? When the cycle of war ends, what becomes of the would-be soldiers who lived to fight but never got the chance?






It should have been a glorious death in battle.


Not this...