Boone (Paddy) Fitzpatrick

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159 One of Our All Stars

About Boone (Paddy) Fitzpatrick

  • Rank
    Nicely Seasoned


    Chris Pratt
  • RACE
    Shapeshifter, Metal Mimicry
  • JOB
    Accountant (to the public). Pharos Relic Hunter and Caretaker (and Smuggler)
  • 'SHIP:
    New York, N
    Boone, or “Paddy” as he prefers, is tall and thick. Careless strawberry blonde hair floats between being neatly shorn, or slightly longer and styled however he feels like on that day- usually not caring one way or the other. He takes impeccable care of himself, finding suits a bit tough to wear and prefers casual khakis and button-ups depending on whether or not he is at work. Either clean shaven or with scruff, it’s always manicured and never just a lazy hot mess. Eyes are light, playful, turning on a dime if his temper is tripped.
    Loyal to a fault, Boone is the Rottweiler at somebody’s side when they’ve proven they have his back. On his own, he’s incredibly adept at amusing himself, sliding just as easily into being the center of attention in a social situation. He has a great sense of humor, leaning toward playful sarcasm after a few beers. Oftentimes it comes off as arrogant, in reality he just doesn’t give a shit what people think of him. He does dangerous work, he’s been jacked up by the dice-roll that was the Resonance, and he has no time to make nice when he has a job to do.

    There are severe demons hiding under the surface- regrets and anger at the timing of moments in his fate. Sometimes he can be heard mumbling under his breath to someone named ‘Erin’, her identity known only to his closest friends. A vicious temper is layered on top of it. He has killed, as many post-Resonance have. His was before the world ended. Arrested, never convicted, justified and regretful because it didn't change the outcome of his crashing world. It haunts him, and he makes no effort to forget... cashing in on the pain at opportune moments to trigger viciousness he needs.
    Recently moved to an apartment in upper Manhattan. Simple and clean.

    Recently purchased bike workshop in the industrial Harbor District. Small and secure. Doubles as a "weigh-station" for Pharo business.

    Primer black AEV Brute

    Collection of motor bikes in various states of repair. Large collection of parts. A hobby, but again a cover for Pharo business.

    Firearms- Boone is a shotgun fanatic. Similar to "rat-rods" for a mechanic, he builds whatever suits his fancy and blows crap up. He's warned on a regular basis, but he knows what he's doing... for the most part. He'll know he did it wrong the moment one explodes. It hasn't happened yet, so... yay.


    Metal Mimicry- Iron and Copper

    Boone can shapeshift individual portions of his body to one of his two affluent metals for the purpose of personal protection. He CANNOT move that portion when it is turned. If he shapeshifts his entire arm, his elbow does not bend. His hand, his fingers will not close. Because of this, it is usually a quick change and release, and only small portions of his body. Forearms and hands are particularly useful, as well as his chest. In an occasional bar fight, jaw is a fun change of pace.

    His form can be entirely engulfed by Copper or Iron, essentially a shell- incredibly effective for personal disguise and protection. He can maintain it as long as he can hold his breath. He is conscious, alert, and can see, but cannot move muscles to breathe; eventually losing consciousness if he is unable to find a window to change back. If he is unconscious, he will revert to his human form and is most often presumed dead- something that has saved his ass more than a few times.

    When in Statue form, Boone can continue to shift and allow his entire form to become molten metal, flexible with vicious heat. He can puddle, squeeze through cracks, move and bend, but will retain the heat of the molten metal, burning and singing anything he touches. He is vulnerable to offensive attacks in this form, unable to defend himself except for the dangers associated with molten metal. When not shifted, he can withstand temperatures up to that of his molten form.
    Financial Genius- MIT grad, Finance and Accounting, was working on a PHD when the Nevus hit. It makes him extremely useful in the mundane business needs of Pharo when he's not being a gopher.

    Firearms Expert

    Survivalist- often is in the wild hunting for relics.

    Mechanic- bike specifically, but not ignorant of larger vehicles. He can fix them, with mostly some MacGyver bubble gum and toothpick skills... duct tape my be involved, but they'll run.

    Brawler- Boone is big, and there isn't anything he won't do to come out on top of a fight. He does have some sort of honor code, if there is no weapon he prefers to keep the fight fair. The moment his opponent pulls crap, all bets are off.

    Bullshitter- most fights and conflicts never happen, he can talk himself out of almost anything.

    Beer Connoisseur- Boone's mother was Irish and owned a pub before disappearing after the Nevus.
    He was still sitting in the interrogation room when the world ended. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. Not him. He was guilty as hell. Shot two people in cold blood, after he’d beaten them within an inch of their life with a metal pipe. Everything, he’d told the police everything because he simply didn’t care anymore. He was numb, completely an utterly dead to the world as he stared out the window into the sky. He saw it coming, the Nevus. At least he thought he did in the death that he wanted so badly. If he had a weapon, he would have ended his own life. It was why he'd been handcuffed to the table. Mentally incompetent was being whispered everywhere around him as he remained unresponsive to everything and anyone.

    Truth, was that if they let him go he would kill them too. It was their fault. THEY didn’t respond to Erin’s calls for help. THEY lollygagged at the coffee shop (coffee still in their hands when they arrived). Nothing ever happened in neighborhoods like his, of course. A gated community. Security.

    Nothing was safe when the people who killed her WERE the security. Because of him, because of his money. Of course it would have to be in the house- or so they thought. Or Erin would know where it was. They shot her. For not being able to put in the code fast enough to the safe.

    Then the cops did nothing. Said she had let them in, or she knew them, or she was fucking them.

    He was done.

    He took it into his own hands. Knocked their smug faces in with a pipe when he returned home to key into the gate after he identified her body. When he killed them, he killed his existence

    Everything was once at his fingertips. Only child. Sports star, college scholarship. Degrees. Wealth. Even a white picket fence and a dog. They had taken everything when they pulled the trigger and now his world sat in the hands of the morons that failed him. If he was freed, he’d kill them too. The Nevus did it for him. Powers did it for him.

    Eight years a blur, he was approached by "Pharo". Believing he indeed was an artifact, they eventually employed him as a relic hunter. His unique shapeshifting skills, fearlessness and immunity to bullshit made him attractive for their field needs. It was hard to shoot someone that could deflect a bullet. It was even more difficult for zombies to bite through metal. Boone had the brains, brawn and rugged charm they were looking for to snag their wares.

    Recently he’s landed in New York as the world regains some sort of financial stability, "employed" on the budding baby steps of some sort of "Wall Street". For the most part, he’s found equilibrium again, but like anyone else… he struggles with demons- anger, guilt- hoping an old friend can help bring him back from the dead as he finds the interesting toys the changed world has given him to hunt for.

Profile Fields

  • Primary
    Bodhan "Triska" Marin
  • Typist's Interests
    Cookie Dough Ice Cream
  • Typist's Role Play History
    Since when most were in diapers
  • Role Play Sample
    See Primary Character
  • How did you hear about us?


  • Are you over 18+?

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  1. Hands had been on his hips for several moments, head cocked slightly. Empty beer on a side table, he’d been staring at everything, gears turning, glancing at the board. He knew the ideas were sound, based in tech that had been going forward before the world went to hell. The goal was getting it to be useful and able to not fail when it was needed most. In the middle of nowhere with big-ass trolls trying to stomp your head. “I want to try to keep the weight down too, brought in a few frames that might be useful.” Gesture was toward each of the sections. “The hard part is going to be to calculate how heavy it’s going to be once we figure out how the technology is going to work. We can’t place it on a frame until then. Your schematics give us a great place to start. I think we should refine that first, then get it on a bike.” He left the circle of awesome and moved into the warehouse, rolling a large bright red tool cabinet close to the lead table. He opened the top, then went to retrieve several stools as he talked. Clip lights. “So… tell me about how much you know. I mean, obviously you came to me for a reason… what kind of mechanical or electrical experience do you have? This is going to be yours, I want you to be involved as much as possible.”
  2. Everything was coming together... super excited for the build... Though, he really wanted more time to chat with his old friend... errrr bullshit rather. Every time that man left he wondered if it would be the last time he saw him. Weren't any more left from the D if any. Endangered species they were. Ah well. Time to build stuff. Without blowing themselves up. He was pretty sure that was going to be possible. There may be a slight bit of electrocution involved. Shit, he didn't think about that... he was sort of a walking lightning rod. Crap. Ah well, came with the territory. "First. Beer." The array of boxes weren't daunting, well maybe... but things were always better with beer- plus he'd just moved a crap-ton of stuff. Jacket was pulled off and tossed on a hook near the door, flicking more lights on with a metallic 'clink' as the old school bulbs snapped to life and warmed up. The concealed carry harness and the SIG in it came off too and he secured it, wandering off to a beat up fridge in the corner- cracking one open and no qualms about downing half. Surveying everything, it wasn't just a smartass WTF let's build shit moment, the gears were actually turning... building was his specialty. "Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Two rules, don't drink the last one and let me know when it's running low." With that, he started moving things around like a puzzle, the tables forming some sort of circle that resembled Stonehenge. Several boxes per table. "Unload everything from the boxes next to the tables onto the tables. I like to have everything out and around me. Easy reach. Lets me look and think." He broke the circle to drag over one of his portable bulletin boards, flipping it over to the blank side.. little alphabet magnetic letters still stuck to the old school chalkboard. "Blueprints can go up here, ideas... failure and success notes. We're probably going to end up offroading into our own direction, but it's nice to have reference." With that... he started ripping tape off boxes.
  3. Color her interested huh? This was either the easiest hire in a fucking century or his ass was getting set up... probably both. Could it be both? Ya... it could be both. At that moment, his phone rang. He was always working. Suity suit suit, and whatever the hell this was. Pharos good guy that did all the dirty work and got a little on the side. They couldn't miss what they didn't know about. He NEVER messed with anything he was supposed to get for them, well... he didn't interfere... wut. No. He GOT it where it needed to go in the Pharos vault. He never promised he wouldn't play with it first. Phone flipped open. He liked flip phones. Flat touch screen phones were dumb. All they did was crack and accidentally video chat while you were taking a piss... "Yah," greeting was brief, a stern look at his new employee while he listened to the bullshit on the other end. "Alone and Ryde Park." He cocked an eyebrow at her, then laughed sarcastically at the caller on the other end, "Your team of three and just me? I'm not that stupid... last time you shot me in the ass..." Fingers scratched the back of his neck as he kept listening, the simple expression turning to something a bit more intentional. "Okay. I can do that. Be there in twenty." Phone clicked shut. See. Cool. "Can you shoot?" He climbed on the powerful but battered Triumph and kicked it to a start. "Cuz I need someone that can blow a hole through someone before they can shoot me... besides me."
  4. The lift came down for a final time, settling before the smuggler kicked the lock on the pallet cart and pulled the last load off. The worn metal beast rolled into the dock under his overhead door. It was offloaded quickly and returned, hands on his hips as Al brought it back into the trailer proper. The man was getting old. Ten years since D had imploded and the world had gone to shit, the trucker was worn then. He hit the side of the trailer twice, signalling he was finished. Al climbed back into the cab, Boone not far behind. "If you happen to wander back to the old stomping grounds or come across any of that Fordite... grab me some." Al nodded, "pining for home?" "A bit, but I'm out and I'm building a new bike. It's good luck. Figured I'd do the guy right." "Traditions...." Al huffed, fired up the engines and was off. The man played gruff, in reality he was a nostalgic just like Boone. He'd find him that Fordite. After the truck was out of sight, he pulled down the overhead door and set to start organizing the boxes onto tables. Frame parts, electronics, wiring, mechanics. Hands on his hips and surveying their wares, he cocked a brow at Dika. "You ready for this?"
  5. Boone’s pause stifled a snort. "No sé exactamente lo que está diciendo, señor. Sólo estoy aquí para ayudar de cualquier manera que pueda por favor no me importa, no soy muy importante para nadie. Cualquier cosa que pueda hacer para ayudar a Boone, estoy feliz de hacerlo. Estoy seguro de que eso es lo que estás aquí para demasiado ¿sí?" The look on Al’s face was priceless. Boone blinked. Al’s cigar shifted in his mouth, glancing to him. The pseudo-Colossus snorted slightly and flat out laughed. *npc* Fuck you Boone. Dumbass. Chortle continued as the platform hit the cracked pavement and he stepped on the lock to pull the pallet jack down and hand it off to his companion. “Dika’s the brains of this operation.” *npc* You’re both gonna die playing with all this shit, you know that. “I’m going to die of a heart attack, preferably in the company of red headed twins that have just given me a full body massage.” It was Al’s turn to laugh, raising the platform to grab the second skid. Boone cast a serious glance Dika’s way. “This one’s the electrical components, I have a corner set-up over there,” he nodded toward it. “Needs to be sorted out on the tables. Have no idea how it’s packed. I’ll grab the second load and get Al on his way. You open up your Red Rider BB Gun. Don't shoot your eye out.”
  6. “Evening Boone” He was just human after all, sort of. His senses were good, keener than most, but sometimes just so damn lackadaisical it made him wonder why he was still alive. Brute stupidity? Naw. He really was a clever bugger. This time, nah. He’d seen her because he knew where to look. He owned everything in the area even though it screamed forgotten and desolate mess. He wanted it that way. “Found a dead hooker in that dumpster a month or so ago,” he was a lot more alert than people pegged him for out of the monkey suit. He tossed her the other bottle and stood up from his bike, other hand stuffed in his pocket as he finished his and twirled the bottle in his palm before dropping it into a leather side saddle bag next to the seat. “Had nothing to do with that by the way.” Eyes watched the buildings a moment, an old over-the-door light squeaking quietly. He slicked around well in the corporate world, but this dress down suited him just as well, as did the grease still under his nails he hadn’t bothered to scrub off from an hour ago. “I need somebody to house-sit.” Getting’ right down to it. “Someone that can shoot a bastard in the face for merely setting foot in the place, who I don’t have to worry about ending up dead. Can get rid of a body. No questions. No answers. Decorating potential. Pay is negotiable.” It was ludicrous sounding, but for a rare moment in his life he was absolutely serious. “Still interested? The last tenant was not the dead hooker, in case you were wondering....”
  7. All responses this weekend.  Woot.

    1. Zeph


      WOOT WOOT!!! Pinches his butt and scampers off.

  8. November 30th Midnight Harbor Warehouse District He sat on his Triumph, one foot on the ground, the other cocked up on its peg. Drinking a beer. A beer! Not like he would ever get arrested for it. Maybe he would, maybe not. That would suck. With all the crap running amok through New York would they really? They hadn't yet. Worn brown leather jacket was pulled around him a bit more. Believe it or not, the chill from the water did bother him sometimes. It was a helluva lot different than the water rolling off old school Lake St. Clare or the Detroit River. Windsor was on the other side, land, and even in the winter it stayed somewhat warm although windy as hell. The Atlantic ocean was another beastie. Salt. Cold. He pulled his mind away from the dark, scanning the snarls of chain link fences and dirty cracked driveways and access roads between the mass of warehouses that he knew were either empty or discretely full of all sorts of fun things. Maybe she would show. Maybe not. The suit had been checked in for his rough and tumble, armed self. If she didn't, ah well. Sleep, a long winter's nap, and visions of yoga butts dancing in his head.
  9. He really needed to... really needed to.... fuck, he was forgetting something. Eyes watched the light through his eyebrows, making a mental checklist of everything he was supposed to have gotten. Contacts, promises, delivery of loose parts and all sorts of cool shit on its way- which might even make it to his shop before he did. Snacks. Drinks. Lost of drinks. Lots more drinks than anyone in the new world probably needed, but he was a functioning drunk and it kept the pissed off side at bay. Hell, if he really stopped to think about the fact he was occasionally screwing over his employers for the sake of him having his little toybox of fun he would probably feel like complete shit. But he didn't.... cause, toybox of fun shit. Light green, he picked up his foot and made the trek into maze of harbor fun, mildly aware there was a truck in front of him by about a half mile. It wasn't a big truck. Bikes weren't big things, but it was full of things they could potentially use. If Mr. Bike wanted an exact replica, where the hell would the fun be in that? Blueprints.... blueprints were just guidelines in his mind. What he could create, was so much fucking cooler he could barely stand it. The banged up Triumph turned the corner just as the back-up beep of the truck was moving into position by his warehouse overhead door. Dika was already there. Shit. He checked his watch, on time. Cool. "Hola and shit.,," he grinned. "I come bearing gifts... and a whole lot of fucking cool stuff. Guns, there may be some guns in there too I think. I can't remember." Stand kicked, he flipped the shotgun off his back and punched the code to his personal door, leaving it open for Dika to follow. Shotgun nestled back where all his other rat-rod shotguns lived and he trotted across the warehouse, unlocking and rolling up the steel garage door. Light flooded in, revealing a huge sectioned off chunk of his work space ripe with tables and all sorts of other tools. He'd showcased the spot this thing was going to be born. *npc* What'cha going to build now? The cigar chomping driver hopped to the ground with a thud, flipping down the platform on the back of the truck and hitting the button to raise it to the cargo door level. "You know how this works Al... I tell you I have to kill you...." The old man chucked, adjusting his worn Detroit Tigers baseball cap a few times as the slower than molasses platform rose and he pulled up the back door of his truck. *npc* Ya you UofM loving shit, I know how this works. "Typical Spartan wanna be cool and into everybody's business bullshit again Al," he quipped with a grin as he climbed up into the truck like a kid on Christmas morning. "This is Dika. Dika is building some kickass stuff with me, he's cool." The old Detroit delivery driver peered at the tattooed man. *npc* You don't usually work with people. Explains all this electric shit. "I need more friends, you can't be the only sunshine in my life Sparty," Al chuckled again, rolling a skid of towering things wrapped in plastic to the platform and beginning the slow lower down so it could be wheeled into the warehouse. Deliveries took forever... and he enjoyed the talks with the hard as nails old Detroit trucker. Only person he knew from D that was still alive. *npc* Dika, eh? Sounds like... Chicago. You from Chicago?
  10. He was impatient. Always this crap. The brute set the price, set the time and place, if they didn't agree... fuck em. There were always more bidders, always more buyers. Still, he was entertaining their bullshit. Why? No clue.. maybe he was going soft. Arms crossed and he sighed as he leaned on his propped bike, squinting up at the sky. "This could happen some time today... or not. Your choice douche canoe." Now he was getting pissed. He checked his watch, he had made an appointment, one he really wanted to get started on. "Fuck this, I'm out." Time was already pushing...there was another stop to make before he made it back to his warehouse. Mr. Bike would be there just as he got there at this rate. Leg swung over the beat up Triumph, and the engine roared to life. *npc* Wait! He revved it two more times and started to lift up his foot. *npc* Wait! Foot came down, the shotgun slung on his back spun off and cocked on point. "You fucked the deal. This was not a negotiation. My price stands. Don't call. I'll call you." He fired, but not what they expected. A tire hissed. "Have a great day gentlemen." Shotgun secured, he rode off. They could shoot him and take that fucking ugly thing, not likely. These jerks were newbs. Newbs thought they were badass and try to negotiate. Fuck that shit. He had much more fun to deal with at the moment, and it certainly wasn't these crackerjacks. Plus, he was pissed. He'd be on time back to the warehouse to meet his "partner", but barely.
  11. He could feel the phone buzzing in his back pocket as his eyes scanned everything that had been laid out, brain already ticking. The notification stopped. Taking another drink, it buzzed again. Fuck. He had most definitely missed something. A meet-up. That crazy ugly ass charm that had almost gotten him killed several months earlier if he’d not called in an Arma favor. He was going to have to wiggle his ass out of this one, technically…. he’d been shot over this thing so they owed him. They were probably not going to agree, they didn’t have to agree… the fucker had shot him. Double pay. They could wait. "Actually, it would be used more as a dick magnet, but you've got the right idea." He choked slightly on his beer, swallowed down hard as the crinkles next to his eyes perked in a rather naughty smirk and he raised the bottle in acknowledgement. This guy had sass. "So, when can we start and where are we headed?" “Let me call in a few favors, I can pretty much get my hands on anything. Gotta clear a space in here, check on the…” eyes followed something on the ceiling, the place was grounded and had a substantial alarm system- illegal activities and all. His jump to take on a completely crazy project had left out a few details. He liked machines, electrical was secondary. The stuff he got pumped on was all mechanical and shit, very few electrical components…. it was why he liked a good old fashion build. He was not exactly sure how working on something with this kind of tech was going to impact HIM, and whether or not it would be dangerous for his companion here. He was a walking lightning rod… Phone was suddenly snapped out from his back pocket… he was annoyed with the continuous calling. Phones were a fucking ball and chain, yet necessary. “If I don’t pick up… it means I’m not available dipshit,” …brow frowned. “No… yes… Fuck off.” It snapped closed and slid back into his pocket. “Let me clear a work space… there are some modifications I need to make here to ensure safety. Electricity and I sometimes don't mix." He didn’t give a shit about his safety… really. He just didn’t want to blow this guy up. Pharos would probably frown on that. Yup. That would probably be more than another demotion. “Call in a few favors. Tomorrow. We can start tomorrow.” Cheshire Cat grin preceded the last tip of the bottle, phone snapping out again to make a few calls.
  12. He listened again to the request for help… this guy really had a hard-on for this bike. The currently demoted Pharos was sought out a lot for assistance, he usually told them to fuck off. This guy was lasting longer than most, the project interested him when so few rarely did. He took another drink, brow cocked at him in the odd questioning that made him so unpredictable. Fingers rifled through the mop that really needed a haircut to continue to pass believably through the white collar world he navigated in by day. Why did this guy want this so badly? Why did he not care what the Irishman did for Pharos? He should, tangling business with the resident troublemaker could tarnish a career. I’ll tell you what I do for Pharos anyway, probably will get me demoted again… but I’m gonna be honest because most people will just try to bullshit you… He shrugged, it was relevant. I am everything you’ve heard, good and bad. I’m the guy they don’t want influencing the good agents. But, I go out to places nobody is willing to…. it’s a fucking shit-storm out there… I fetch dangerous stuff in dangerous places and shoot dangerous crap in the face. I get in trouble, I tell my superiors to fuck off, get demoted… reprimanded… but they keep me around because I will do all the things they ask without complaint. He finished the bottle and clinked it on the table, the rough and tumble Irishman was actually being serious. I’ve seen you around. You’re a nice guy, you’re new, to me anyway… shiny. You’ve had people send you to me, which means now you and I are connected in their minds. I just want you to understand what you’re getting into. I’m their fetch boy. This screams more than just a bike to tool around town in…it has potential to be sent out into the deep field and you with it. Believe it or not I care about what happens to you. I want to keep you alive, and I don’t want to ruin your reputation with mine. I don’t give a shit about mine, I’ve made my bed. This kind of tech, ideas… you have a great future with Pharos and I don’t want to see it snuffed by dying bloody in the middle of nowhere because this type of tech could get you deeper into the wild than any gas guzzling beastie. He retrieved another beer. This was going to be a six-pack day… he just knew it. If you’re okay with the expectations and needy bullshit they might put on you because of this… I’m game. This guy was passionate about his ideas. He could respect that. Plus this thing will be a fucking chick magnet. Eyebrows flicked upward once in a surly grin as he finished his sentence. Chick. Magnet.
  13. Well darn tootin', here I be all shiny and new

  14. Well darn tootin', here I be

  15. Beware of drunk Irishmen

    1. Zeph


      ...likes drunk Irishmen..........