- Race: Human
- Gender: Male
- Age: 23
- D.O.B: 8 April 2245
- Birthplace: Hoyt family compound, Ceres, Sol
Tall, gangly, with bushy brown hair that defies any attempt to control it. Large brown eyes, small straight nose, small mouth, and a pointed chin; a face more pretty than handsome. Clean shaven. Well dressed. No jewelry. Often walks with a stoop, hands jammed in his pockets.
Build: Scarecrow. (He should visit a gym. Even working the door’d pump him up.)
Weight: 180 lb (80 kg)
Eyes: Light brown
Father, Renny Hoyt (Yes, the Renny Hoyt of PanWorlds Mining)
Mother, Tia Kewitt (Celebrity beauty & tri-athlete)
Sibs, None (At least that his father cares to admit.
Talents: Learns quickly. Reads people fairly accurately. At ease in social situations even with high ranking diplomats.
Strengths: Born in the asteroid belt of Sol, he quickly adapts to low G or no G situations. Trained in basic self defense, showing unusual quickness and fluidity. Pacifist at heart. Heavily influenced and protected by his mother to play it safe, he has a deep well of resolve he doesn’t yet know he has. Under physical attack, he is limber, elusive, slippery, hard to hit or grab—lithely bending, twisting, and dropping backward to balance on two feet and one hand to avoid a grab.
Limitations: Habitually playing it safe is at war with a new strong desire to take life by storm. This dichotomy leads to hesitation when he is in danger, particularly when the best way to survive is to attack someone or some thing. While he is able to block or avoid blows and stay near his opponent, he rarely counterattacks. This is because, crazily, he does not want to be rude to his attacker. When he does hit, he does more damage to himself than his opponent. He is aware of this deficit and is working to get better at hand-to-hand, though his real weakness comes from long training to avoid conflict at all cost.
Likes: Dancing, music, fine food and drink, well made clothes.
Dislikes: Responsibility. Taking risks. Being so tall. Talking about himself (because as near as he can tell he has never done anything interesting, plus women take too keen an interest in his father’s fortune and men resent him both for the fortune and the attention it gets from women).
Quirks: His newfound resolve to take risks has him tied up in knots internally. Beings sensitive to such inner states will pick up he is ill at ease no matter what his face is showing.
Hobbies: Until recently none, other than club crawling. He loved to sit in a club to chat, drink and dance. He had done this and only this to the exclusion of all other activities. His lack of interest in anything else bored would be friends and lovers to tears. Now that he has decided to quit living the safe life, he is open to exploration of things that will make him better at his new life or at least activities he naively thinks will make him better, tougher, and stronger. He’ll try smoking, drinking heavily and picking fights—all to disastrous personal effect.
Adrian Janus Kewitt Hoyt, “AJ”, is tall and gangly, the result of growing up in the low G of Sol’s asteroid belt. Self conscious about his height, he often walks with a stooped-shouldered hunch. Unfortunately, the effect makes him look like a hunched, long legged heron stalking small fry in a pond. When asked he claims it is a habitual stoop from working in the mines.
This claim is only tangentially true. His father, Renny Hoyt, owns the largest mining consortium in the belt. Adrian was brought up in the very lap of luxury. Mine tours were the closest he got to mining. The dirtiest he got was while helping his mother, celebrity beauty Tia Kewitt, plant orchids in little terracotta pots in their solarium on Ceres. The hardest he ever worked was during military physical training after he joined the Interstellar Alliance. Being so pale, thin and tall, no one believes he had hurled boulders into grav carts or flexed hard all day to keep a drilling machine against a rock. Most people assume that AJ is a rather pathetic liar.
AJ is bright, but not unusually so. He does a good job, but not an outstanding one. He has been taught basic self-defense and showed unusual quickness and fluidity, but is socially savvy enough to avoid fights—and thus has never used the skills. He dresses well, mixes with others fairly well on a passing friendly basis. Girlfriends come and go; some attracted by his youthful good looks, others because he is heir to a fortune. All leave because he is crushingly boring.
On his own at Trinidad Station, AJ had chosen to live the most routine of lives. His mother had coddled him so thoroughly, had protected him to such a degree that he internalized her penchant for playing it safe. His father had shown ever clearer disappointment that his only child was not an empire builder. In his late teens when AJ was moved by urges he didn’t understand to strike out on his own, his mother quailed he would fall into grave danger and his father hoped for it—if only to bring some steel out of the boy.
Trinidad Station was about as far away from family influence as he could get, but in an instant on one particular morning AJ discovered he had become his mother. Safe. Civil. Boring.
That morning he awoke as the station shivered violently. An explosion. Startled, he had swept out into the hall to find people running in every direction. He could tell the general direction of danger because most people ran away, terror on their faces. Some ran toward the danger with determination masking their fear. He froze a long while in his doorway. Which was he? Refugee? Rescuer? He decided to try his father’s way of living a life. He’d hurl himself at it and grapple with it when it came after him. AJ yanked tight the sash of his silk bathrobe and ran to help.