Dusty Haig

Inactive

Posts
16
Last visited
August 18, 2020
Player
deTimber

About Dusty Haig

The Captain

Custom Fields

Playby
Scott Eastwood
Age
45
Occupation/Rank
Hauptmann (Captain)

Character Information
Wayne "Dusty" Haig is no stranger to violence.

He grew up in violence. A house full of drugs, booze, sex, and hate led to some very heated discussions between mother and father, brothers and sisters. The Marine Corps was an easy out, a temporary solution to the greatest of life's problems.

And the Corps taught Wayne very well how to solve problems.

Dusty's specialization was infantry. Ground pounder. He hit the ground running, never stopped moving, shooting, and he loved it. The power of a gun in his hand, of a flag on his chest, made him feel strong. He didn't need to be afraid of anyone or anything. The fact that he got one of the 'shit' assignments- protecting a US ambassador in Moscow- only bothered him in that he likely would never get to kill anyone else.

Violet wasn't his type of woman. He couldn't fuck her or fight her, so he wanted nothing to do with her. They snapped at each other like cats and dogs, but he did his damn job. He sat in front of the embassy, sometimes he sat in it, and as tensions rose, he occasionally shouted at people in very, very angry broken Russian.

Then the bombs came. Evac procedure. Everything went to shit. Wayne got separated from the group, along with Alice Gregory, the ambassador's godchild. 'Protect her', she'd said.

Fuck that.

The first chance he got, Dusty ditched Alice for dead. He didn't need dead weight- he was an American soldier deep in hostile territory, and he wasn't gonna get far with a kid strapped to his ass. He took his gear and booked it as far as his legs could carry him.

Eventually, life in the metro settled to what it is now, with settlements and towns in the tunnels. Wayne used his abysmal Russian and much better aim to make a living for himself. Currently, he uses his expertise surviving in the Metro and his Marine training to teach the newest recruits of the Reich how to operate. It's not his favorite job, but it gives him plenty of bullets, and his M27 is a very, very hungry bitch.

__________

"Can't have shit in this motherfucking Metro."

___________

Fun misc facts
- Dusty owns an MP3 player, and is fiercely protective of it.
- Dusty's favorite band is Metallica, and he owns their entire discography
- Dusty is originally from Dublin, Ohio
- Dusty's favorite food is cheeseburgers, and he is acutely aware of the fact he hasn't had a cheeseburger in 20 years.
Equipment

As a former US military serviceman, Dusty is uniquely armed. His primary firearm is "The Bitch", a modular M27 IAR with a scavenged 100-round dual-drum "Beta-C" magazine. His sidearm is a standard-issue US Marine Corps M45 'Delta'.
Possible Plots

Wayne doesn't know if Violet, Red, or any of the other members of the ambassador's entourage are alive. If he knew, he'd kill them, because he's damn sure they'd tried to kill him first.

Wayne barely remembers Alice, but he still does remember her. Perhaps she remembers him too.

The Reich needs strong young men, and while Dusty isn't a Reich's man at heart, the ammo's good and the fighting's plenty. Perhaps the newest recruits might run fair or foul of the Master Sergeant.

Topics I Participated In

King of the Faeries

Started by deTimber · August 1, 2020

It wasn't often that Dusty got special assignments. The Reich liked him, but he was an American in a Russian nationalist, anti-mutant gang. He was never gonna be at the top of the pecking order- at least, that's what he'd told himself when this all started. Post-recent events, they started making themselves less pro-Russian, more anti-mutant, which meant that good Dusty was getting a lot more respect than he figured he even aught to. Just as well- he was working hard for his MGRs.

Today's assignment, though? Didn't involve shooting anyone. At least, not yet.
"So, Hauptmann," a Reich officer stated, pointing at the map of the Metro laid out before him, "in order for us to continue our expansion unabated, we must be rid of the occupants of Oberon station. However, there is much we don't know- strength, weapons, fortification. We need someone that isn't often in our front line, someone who can pass for another wanderer through the tunnels, or a Stalker, perhaps. Can you do this?"
"Not for free," Dusty said, the cigarette between his lips shifting slightly with every syllable. "If I get caught out in hostile territory, I'm a suspicious bastard. I may be good at Russian, but they'll know I'm an American just by looking at me."
"Do you plan on going in your gear, Hauptmann? There should be no way for them to discern you from the common subhumans infesting their station."
"You can tell a lot about the person just from the way they walk, sir." Dusty took a long drag off his cigarette, tapping the ashes on the edge of the table. "I'll do it. But I want my usual rate plus half for the trouble."
"Done," the officer replied. "We will hold onto your belongings until you return. Your mission is to gather any sort of military intelligence you deem notable- troop numbers, movements, positions, armored vehicles, fortified positions, leadership, the works. Should you be compromised, I will have a panzer ready to move down the line, but it will likely not be able to reach Oberon. You will have to meet it somewhere else on the line."
"Got it," Dusty agreed. "Shouldn't need evac anyhow. This kind of thing's not too difficult. I'll report back in ASAP, but don't expect me for at least a few days."
"Very well, Hauptmann. Dismissed."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The trip to Oberon was uneventful. No longer was Dusty in his military fatigues- he looked like a stalker now, with baggy surplus gear and a tac mask that covered everything below the eyes. Made him a little bit harder to identify, ideally, although he doubted he'd meet anyone from the Reich or the USMC in Oberon. He didn't know much about the station- some of the boys dismissed it with chuckles as 'Polis Junior', and if that was the case, then hell, this would be easy as shit.
He made sure his Shambler was unloaded and safe, intent on making a decent first impression, before setting off. It wasn't an easy trek to get to Oberon while not looking like a Nazi, but he'd make do.

And indeed, he made do. Didn't take him long, longer than it honestly should have, but still not terribly fucking up his timetable. He had no trouble infiltrating the station. Not suspicious enough to warrant too many glances.
Now he just had to make sure to stay inconspicuous. The intelligence he needed was sensitive, and someone spying on the barracks or mechanics wouldn't be viewed favorably. He had to get as much information with passing glances as he could, only taking risks when he knew the coast was clear.
It was gonna be a long couple of days.
@Dragon @Grimscythe @Morrigan
America, Fuck Yeah: Dusty

Started by Dusty Haig · July 27, 2020

For any plots involving the sleazy, conniving snake in the grass that is Wayne 'Dusty' Haig, abandoner of small children, killer of innocent people and occasionally, a Nazi LARPer. Dusty's major, overarching goal is to return to America- whether you want him out of the metro bad enough to help him get there, or want to fuck him over, all are welcome to join in the plotting and fun.
Fear Alone

Started by Dusty Haig · July 27, 2020

An Italian philosopher, one Niccolò Machiavelli, posed a question in one of his most prolific works. "Is it better to be feared, or respected?" The answer he had provided was that it was good to be feared, but one must take care not to be hated.
Signore Machiaveilli, Dusty Haig could not help but note, seemed to have a point, because being one of the most feared men in one of the most feared factions in the Metro was good.
Today was another day of patrols. While the Tagansko Line was slowly falling under the Reich's influence, his paymasters demanded more of him than a couple of stations. The sooner the Line fell under the control of the Reich, the sooner he could get the fuck out of the Metro and start fucking moving. America was his end destination.
Or was it?
Times like today, Dusty almost didn't want to go home. If there was anything left of America, he'd be just another American, an ordinary human being. They'd take his Bitch, take his uniform, take everything that had kept him alive in this dank, dirty metro for the past two decades and change. Fuck that. He wasn't Private Haig anymore. He was Dusty. And Dusty was just peachy here in these tunnels, Bitch in hand, and little toy soldiers lined up in front of him.
Today was inspection day for this little Reich outpost, and that meant that Dusty was gonna get his pound of flesh out of at least one little maggot today.
Destiny Station was currently on the list. Polyanka. He'd heard rumors of 'ghosts' haunting the tunnels, memories and wisps of a bygone age. Bullshit. Hallucinations and bad dreams of cooped-up Ivans with nothing but time to think and listen to the deep, dark tunnels. A light breeze down here made grown men piss their pants. It made Dusty ashamed. He'd always been told Russians were made of tougher stuff. The Reich even dressed for it.
Why the fuck a bunch of Russians thought it was a smart idea to cosplay as Nazis (you know, the guys they beat the everloving shit out of in the Second World War), Dusty would never understand, but hell, they paid better than the Reds, which was fine by him. If they asked him to start up a concentration camp for a whole Beta-C's worth of MGRs, he'd be sending muties through a meat grinder in minutes.
The watchpost staff stood arrayed in front of him, nine men in total, not counting the command, who stood beside him. Each man stood loaded for bear and ready for inspection, seeming to think that he was gonna go down the line, one by one, and bash them at the first sign of mutation.
Nah. That wasn't on the agenda. Yet. He had bigger fish to fry. Somebody at Polyanka had a very, very big mouth, and had a problem keeping it closed. Somebody told someone else something, and that got to someone else, and that, also, got to someone else, who passed that along to yet another someone else, and pretty soon the whole damn Metro was gonna know what the Reich was up to.

If he couldn't be trusted with information as small as the existence of Dusty Haig, in Dusty's opinion, he couldn't be entrusted with vital equipment and oxygen that could be used by someone with more than two functioning fucking brain cells.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, in practiced Russian. Once, he could barely speak the language. Now, even if he had the mother of all American accents, he was at least intelligible.
"Yes, sir!" came the response, in unison. Nervous. Jumpy. Word was travelling fast around Reich-controlled stations about Dusty, it seemed. He didn't make house calls because he found them fun.
"Good. Then I don't need to introduce myself." Dusty's eyes wandered over the group. "However, I believe you all, as loyal soldiers of the Reich, are entitled to a bit of information. There is treason in your midst. Soldiers assigned to this very outfit have leaked classified information to outside forces in Hanza. Information that could jeopardize our future operations in this very station. I do not need to remind you the punishment for treason, gentlemen, but... I am willing to be merciful. Report the men who have been leaking intelligence to our enemies, and you will not only be spared, but rewarded for your loyalty to the Reich. Refuse to comply, and I will be forced to assume that all of you are complicit in this treason. In that case, you shall be dealt with according to protocol. I will give you a few moments to consider your options, soldiers. Use them wisely."

With that said, he turned to his second - aDagestani man, Abdulvakhabov- and spoke in perfect, fluid English. It was unlikely the men would be able to understand him, especially when he used code. "Standby for Black Bravo dash Lima."

"Sir."

Good. If the men didn't want to cooperate, he could make them cooperate.

It didn't take long for the fear to crack one of them.

"It was Medvedev, sir!" one of the men stated, a wiry, short little slug with a rusted, beat-up AKS. "We went whoring in Hanza on leave. I warned him to keep his mouth shut, but he must have gotten drunk and-"

"Vitaly, you son of a bitch!" another shouted, breaking his salute. Must be Medvedev. "You lie!"

"Woah, woah, woah, woah... slow down there, cowboy," Dusty said, smiling beside himself as he carefully aimed his Bitch at Medvedev. "Get back in formation and tell me anything you think I might need to know."

The man did as he was ordered, and notably, barely even flinched. "We did go whoring, yes, and I did get fucking drunk, but we didn't go to Hanza. We stayed on the Tagansko the entire time. If Sobolov went to Hanza, he most certainly did not do it with me."

"I can attest to that, sir," another man, tall and broad, spoke up, cool as a cucumber. "Some of us would go to Hanza in plainclothes. Never Medvedev. He prefers to stay near home because his tattoos make him identifiable."

"Let me see 'em, boy," Dusty said, jerking his gun up slightly. Medvedev nervously complied, throwing off his shirt like it was on fire to reveal arms covered in fascist iconography. This was a Reich's man through and through.

"My honor is true, Hauptmann Haig," Medvedev stated, shaken, yet somehow confident in spite of it. He was scared, yeah, but anyone who told you that 'if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear' was a god-damn liar.

"So it is, Medvedev, so it is." He then motioned to the calmest man among them. "Who else didn't go on these trips to Hanza?"

"Commander Taktarov, Medvedev, and Simonov preferred to go to Schiller for recreation, from what I understand."

"That is correct," Commander Taktarov agreed. He'd already been thoroughly investigated back at Schiller. No reason for him to lie. Dusty turned his attention to the men whose names weren't listed.

"Medvedev. Simonov. Step out of formation." He then motioned to the calm giant. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Bruno."

"You as well, Bruno."

All three men called stepped out of line towards Dusty, where they were motioned on further by Abdulvakhabov and fell in behind him. Now it fell to the rest. Vitaly first.

The Beast roared, and three bullets flew, two hitting the man in the chest and one right between the eyes. He crumpled like wet paper, his head smacking against the Metro floor with a loud, wet crack. MGRs never failed.

"He seemed like the type to never shut up," Dusty noted. "Better safe than sorry. The rest of you will be taken in for questioning. Should you be found innocent of wrongdoing, you will be reassigned to surface patrol. Drop your weapons."

"Oh, you've got to be shitting me..." one of the men muttered.

"If I were shitting you we wouldn't have a dead body in front of us now, would we, son, now drop 'em. Five."

All but one of the men dropped their weapons as soon as he started counting. The one who'd bellyached held onto his shotgun for longer. Too long for Dusty's liking. He fired again, this time five shots. Each one hit home center mass, and the man dropped his gun as he fell back, landing on his stomach in the rapidly-forming puddle of blood from Vitaly's dispatch. He twitched for a bit, but soon fell still.
"I never was much good with keeping time, men." Dusty muttered, turning back to Bruno, Simonov, Taktarov, Lieutenant Mueller, and Medvedev. "You five gentlemen are my will enforced on this place. Until you are reinforced, hold this station. I'll send word to command to get you some replacements as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," Taktarov replied. "Would you like to perform a full inspection of the station?"

"That's a negative. You handle that and get me a report no later than tomorrow evening. I'll be waitin'."

"Of course, sir."

Well, that was much less violent than Dusty had honestly thought it would be. He was expecting some real resistance from the station, but it seemed either there really was just two idiots in their midst, or perhaps they were too scared of him to properly speak, unless it was to sell each other out to the wolves. Made his job a hell of a lot easier.

Seemed old Niccolò was pretty damn smart, after all.