Carl Richter

Character Name: Carl Richter

Nickname(s): Agent Richter, Johnny LaFontaine, Various other aliases

Race: Ghoul

Sex: Male

Age: 249

Birthplace: Georgetown, Washington D.C., United States of America



Height: 6'1

Weight: 189lb

Eye Color: Formally Green, Now Orange

Hair Color: What remains of it is tarnished grey

Hair Style: Tatters scattered across head

Facial Hair: None

Skin Color: Intact flesh is pale, although green lesions, sores and exposed muscle tissue are present

Build: Agile, but scrawny

Distinguishing Features: Bandages around head, Partial Amnesia, Often loses track of place during conversation (i.e. "What was I saying...?), Vacant/Distant Gaze



Profession: Survivor, Wanderer

Skills:

Guns, extensive
Stealth, extensive
Melee Weapons, masterful

Training: CIA Weapons Training, CIA Intelligence Training, CIA Hand to Hand combat training, CIA Melee Weapons and Defense Training

Other Abilities: Radiation, like most ghouls, heals Carl but unlike most ghouls the regeneration rate is slightly faster due to having been in prolonged contact with high levels of RADs while in a coma

Apparel: Off-White/Cream Stitiched Woolen Jumper (bloodstained), Torn Denim Jeans (dirtied), Hiking Boots (dirtied and bloodied), Bandage Around Head (dampened and moist)

Weaponry: Carl always has a concealed balisong knife on him, as well as a silenced 10mm SMG

Other Equipment: 10mm Ammo (6 mags), Army Green Duffel Bag (1), Stimpaks (4), Med-X (2)



Affiliation: CIA formerly, nobody currently

Religious Belief: Atheist

Sexual Preference: Heterosexual

Relationship Status: Unavailable

Personality: Carl's personality is fractured due to his amnesia and brain damage. Where as once he was charming, suave but delicate with a large amount of cynicism and bitterness, he is now confused, angry and resentful to whomever put him in this state of being. His skills in combat however have not changed since the accident which put him in a coma, making him still sharp and deadly as ever, but with these skills and no recollection of why he has them, he feels lethal, exposed and fragile; feeling that his sanity is slowly slipping from him.



Carl Richter was born to a middle-class family in Washington, D.C. His upbringing was disciplined but sheltered, so the lessons he learned from his father couldn't be put into practice. He was an only child and grew up with an elitist sense of being, giving him excellent prowess in terms of school and extra curricular activities (i.e. Sports). His father was a prominent member of the United States Military Intelligence Division, and so when the time came and Carl earned all the necessary grades and requirements he was put into the United States Military. After serving for two years, he was spotted by one of his commanders and recommended for a higher-grade job. And so, his CIA career began.

In the beginning, he was nothing more than a low-level rookie agent learning the ropes and remained so for the first few years. All of his assignments were simple of often involved bugging a certain phone or delivering a message to a specific drop-off location. This area of his career would be unimportant and generally uneventful, but this was to be the most key part of his career. While delivering a package to a drop-off, he was captured by a Ruso-Chinese Coalition of agents who were living in the country at the time. Much to his surprise, he was taken to his home in which he was brainwashed and his home was bugged (including the phone and the terminal). After a long night, they went there separate ways and Carl had no memory of that evening...

His career blossomed soon after due to a promotion, in which he became an agent whose job was to root up double agents or spies within the CIA and within the United States. This was a job he was extremely good at, having caught countless Russian and Chinese spies (as well as American traitors who had defected to the opposing side). The CIA was pleased, and life seemed like it was reaching it's high point. But then, a phone call reached Carl in the middle of the night...

"Hi! It's Dan, from the Washington Waterworks Company. We've got a burst pipe on 7 Wisconsin Avenue. The client is complaining of water leaking everywhere, so you better get there fast! And bring all of your best tools, don't be too sparing now... *click*

Before he knew it, he was in a trance state. Unknowingly, he retrieved a metal suitcase full of weapons that had been hidden in his basement and got into his car. It was 2:37am. He reached the house mentioned in the message, opened the suitcase, retrieved a large metal axe and entered the building. It appears to be full of agents of some sort, most likely members of either the CIA or FBI. The men in the first room were unarmed and ran as Carl chased all three of them down and chopped them to pieces. The remaining men hidden about the house received the same fate, and as Carl killed the last one at the top of the stairs, he snapped out of the trance. As he left the house, disgusted and blood-soaked, he was forced to look upon the damage he had done. He blamed himself, thought himself worthless and sick. Every few weeks, three agents wearing masks would take him to an abandoned warehouse and mentally torture him with questioning his morals, his dignity and trying to wear him down.

This was the first of many instances, six in total, sparking a mass investigation and manhunt. Carl wasn't caught, but saw himself as a monster, asking himself, "Why would I commit such horrible acts...?". He never got his answer. The spies, seeing as Carl had served their purpose, visited him three weeks before the nuclear fallout began with one thing in mind; Kill Carl. Unfortunately for them, the CIA had finally been able to track their movements and had a counter attack planned. Carl's home became a battle ground and eventually after a small firefight an explosion occurred due to a bomb let off by one of the Chinese operatives, knocking Carl unconscious and leaving rubble everywhere.

Carl was put into a coma, and left in the hospital. The weeks went by the the world ended while he slept... and slept. A year went by, and he finally awoke. His memories were sore, fractured and bare; his body decrepit, weak and just as sore. It seemed that the world was... gone. Everything was in ruin; pillaged and robbed of every last detail. Frightened, confused and looking for answers, he searched the immediate environment for clues as to who he was and why he was here. In the medical file at the end of his bed, he discovered his name and all other relevant info as to why he was in the hospital, as well as other personal details. However, the question remained as to what had happened to the world. Skeletons, torn clothing and mutated insects were abundant, geiger-counters ticked heavily. Eventually after some deep thought, Carl ventured out of the hospital and into the world. It was dark and baron, the sun was blocked by a foreboding thick green smog and the ground was burnt.

After adjusting to this new world, Carl concluded that some kind of nuclear disaster must've happened, but hadn't bothered to wonder whether or not it was exclusive to America, or even to D.C. In the years that passed, he ventured across the Capital Wasteland and even beyond there sometimes, looking for civilisation and hope, but only finding denizens of a former world and broken dreams. He experienced migraines frequently, suffered from amnesia constantly and had episodes where he'd pass out and wake up in places he'd never seen before... or at that he didn't remember seeing. Life seemed pointless, but nonetheless he kept himself maintained, armed and sharp as ever.

When he revisited D.C. after several decades of traveling, he came across the crime scene where the battle between CIA agents and communist spies had taken place. It was still a mess; chalk outlines of bodies, dried bloodstains, chalk markings of weaponry, explosion residue and debris. As soon as he walked in, Carl collapsed to the floor, his head in great pain and memories haphazardly flooding back to him, broken and unfinished. He eventually left the building, heading to the police station nearby and finding a recent file on the database concerning this incident.

"...victim seems to have been threatened or in some way manipulated into committing acts of violence..."

"... connections to Ruso-Chinese spies operating in D.C. are currently being followed up..."

"...victim needs to recover from brain damage and coma before further investigation can be carried out"

As well as this, recordings and transcripts of the calls directed to Carl's home were on a set of holotapes in the police station. Unaware of the effect they'd have, he listened to tape marked "Call #3" and then something awful happened...

"...It's John from the Real Estate Office..."

"...showing down at SW 121st street, apt 35..."

"...open house..."

"...dress to kill!"

Carl was forced to repeat what had happened before. He went to the house mentioned in the phone call in a trance like state and killed all living things in there. It was full of feral ghouls, radroaches and a few refugees, and all of them were dead within the hour. The horror Carl felt was the exact same as the horror he had felt before... so, to prevent this from happening again, he hid all of the tapes deep within the station and ran; out of D.C., into the wasteland. He traveled around again, keeping to himself, scavenging and surviving, and this process continued like a routine for many years to come. He'd settle into communities every now and then, but would often leave due to the fact that he felt too lethal to trust himself around innocent people. The flashbacks and violent headaches were becoming too much to bear, and he often contemplated suicide.

Factions went in and out of the capital wasteland, but nothing changed really. Whether it was the Enclave or the Brotherhood of Steel, many factions would shoot him on sight, leading to a slight dislike of humans but mainly a disliking of the factions themselves. His memories kept on waxing and waning, leading to him becoming bitter and angry.

In the present day, he wanders aimlessly, finding despair and confusion where ever he ventures.