|Full name||Maynard Kraiklyn|
|Date of Birth||4 May 2503|
|Spouse||No one's crazy enough|
|Children||No one's -that- unlucky|
|Eyes and Hair||Dark, but fading hair. Eyes nearly black.|
42nd Light Infantry Brigade, Core World Security and Counterinsurgency Task Force, 2521-2528
Born in the Westerham Arcology on Londinium, Kray grew up well below the poverty line, one of a countless number of street urchins and ne'er do wells. Fates were not kind to him. Neglected by his parents, except doing beatens and forced child labour, he learned early on that the only way he'd ever get something was to take it from someone else. Gangs were his family, and cruelty his entertainment.
He quickly learned to drop the name Maynard. Kraiklyn often starved in his youth, eating from the trash dumps when the picking from muggings was slow. Pride had an altogether different meaning for him than it did for most folks. Pride was punching a guy in the mouth when he was mocked for his scavenging. Pride was tuning out all the well-to-do's and privileged people with jobs and security and relationships.
It took two attempts for Kray to be successful in enlisting. On the first attempt his odorous presentation and rebellious bearing made him an out and out reject. Learning from his mistake, and needing a mealticket badly, he moved town and tried again, but only after searching the poorer, less secure residential district to break into a home, shower, and steal some almost presentable clothes.
Army life proved to give him the education his youth lacked. At first, as a private on a small policing action vessel, he and his squad went through a quick succession of Customs and anti-piracy operations. It was there that Kraiklyn learned the value of team work. He wasn't a friend to his team, and was never really trusted. Friendship was something he'd grown up without and the army hadn't been able to instill it in him. But he always covered his corner, and more than once took up the slack when a comrade couldn't cope. Until he beat a sense of coping into the man, anyway.
Getting the job done, he was promoted to corporal, and received in depth training in handling the small patrol vessel he crewed. He found the academics of the task almost overwhelming, but somehow muscled through. It was when he was promoted to sergeant things started to go wrong. His squad leadership was deemed too heavy handed and inhumane, and on one occasion, shooting prisoners, he only narrowly avoided a murder investigation. He was busted. Twice.
Realising that he would never advance to his desired heights in the military, he mustered out on his first opportunity, and returning home, to his parents home, he discovered they'd moved on without even telling him.
It was no loss. He'd been considerng more murder anyway.
The Rim! That was where to be. Out there a man could take what he wanted, and with some ingenuity a small group of determined and well armed buccaneers could build themselves a nice little corner of the 'Verse to live in. Out there were fewer voices to criticise or railroad him where he didn't want to go. He'd make his fortune there. At Persephone he boards a decommissioned warship. The Wulver, signing on as security crew. It'll do, at least until he gets to the Rim and finds that spot that's waiting for him.
The crew are odd though, and wholely unexpected. More than once he's he's been forced to reassess his methods.
Kraiklyn's main motivation is self serving. His thick cockney accent defines his street upbringing. His gaze and expression are malicious by default. He's nurtured his look over years of practice. It screams, 'back off!'. Humourless, hobbyless, friendless and mostly heartless, he's defined by his 'withouts.' Without love, without compassion, without remorse, without conscience.
At least, that is what he was. Recent events are trying to break through to him, to wear done his hostile coccoon. He brazenly resists and chastises himself in the face of these seeded weaknesses, and given time he rebuffs them to reassert his mission and goal of stamping on anyone who gets between him and his destination. But some people have started working on the chinks, worming their way through. And though he doesn't admit it to himself, the experience isn't always unpleasant.