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+--- Thread: Andrew Koehler (/thread-269.html)
Re: Andrew Koehler - Andrew Koehler - 02-02-2014
Origin:
Springfield, Massachusetts, USA.
Occupation:
United States SEAL. Operator for SUBGRU, a special task force dedicated to the subversion of Custody influence across the world.
SO3 (E-4), breaching specialist. First confirmed channeler in the United States special forces community.
Psychological description:
Some might say Andrew's bravery has yet to be tempered by wisdom, but they would be liars. Raised in the roughest gang lands of a destitute Massachusetts, he has been forced to remain on the defensive since before his tenth birthday. His fearless nature and ability to ignore consequences are, to some degree, an act. He is entirely aware of the consequences for failure; he simply values the mission above all else.
Physical description:
Koehler is 6'2" tall, white, with the heavily muscled physique expected of any special forces operator. His beard is shorter than that of most other operators.
Powers & supernatural powers:
Koehler has devoted his attentions, quite understandably, to the use of channeling in war. As such, he is quite adept with fire and earth, and passable with air. However, his ability with water and spirit is abysmal. His trademark weaves include the use of razor-like weaves of hardened air to silently kill sentries and other opponents as well as combining fire and earth for explosives. He can create force fields to stop bullets for short periods of time. He still relies on gunpowder weapons in firefights, primarily because he has not yet mastered the ability to channel under duress.
Biography:
Andrew Koehler was born at the Boston Medical Center near Mattapan, Massachusetts on June 6, 2022. A few days later, his father perished in the tsunami that decimated Boston on June 10. The Koehlers were not a wealthy family to begin with, and Mattapan already had the unfortunate nickname of 'Murderpan;' not exactly the ideal place to raise a family. Andrew's father had been struggling to hold down a minimum wage job in Boston and with his death, Janice Koehler and her newborn son quickly became homeless. The first few years of Andrew's life were spent moving between various homeless shelters and the homes of friends and family members.
Although the interior of the United States fared quite well in the wake of the disasters, the east and west coasts remained practically destitute. Massachusetts, a state once known for its rapid growth, stellar health care and top-notch education system, was among the worst hit. It wasn't until 2027 that Janice Koehler was able to find work, and even then it took several months before she could find housing for herself and her son.
Andrew spent his developmental years in Springfield, an impoverished city in western Massachusetts which had managed to avoid the destruction suffered by Boston. In a town of that nature, young people are quickly forced to organize into groups for defense against larger predators. Despite somewhat innocent beginnings, their sinister ends are forthcoming: few escape the gangs.
It started with seemingly insignificant acts; borrowing money so his mother could make rent; being saved from a jump; having somebody's back in a schoolyard fight. Before long Andrew was yet another little homie running drugs for his protectors.
When he wasn't working odd jobs to help his mother hold onto their little household, Andrew was absorbed in his school's sports programs. Football, soccer, wrestling--physical activity offered the clarity the rest of his life lacked. On the field or in the ring, he could forget the stresses of his outside life and just play the game. It wasn't a coincidence that he was soon being asked to dish out beatings to rival gang members.
While certainly not stable, Koehler's formative years were at least consistent until the year 2040.
---
Central High was a shithole; the fact that Andrew could even read and write was a miracle. He wanted to get out of there quickly, before the Kings realized he was even there. Kicking a Corona's skull in didn't make you any friends, but the fucker shouldn't have tried to touch his girl. Andrew didn't even know why he bothered to go to the party--all people did at them was try to measure dicks. None of them even seemed to realize how meaningless their little lives were. Dropping out or barely stumbling out of school, lurching between minimum wage jobs and then drowning in a barrel of alcohol before thirty if they hadn't already been stabbed or shot.
He pulled up his hood against the famed Massachusetts weather, which gave the extra benefit of hiding his face from outside observers. Not that his frame was common enough to avoid the interest of anybody who was actually searching for him. Andrew tried to avoid the gangs as much as he could, but the reality was that staying out of the game just made you everybody's bitch. Hiding on sports teams and in classrooms could only protect you so much. He finally rounded the corner onto Tyler Street, and his house came into view.
The place was rundown--hell, it should have been condemned years ago--but it was the closest thing to a home he'd ever known. Mom was probably putting dinner on the stove already; they'd had a good couple weeks. He did whatever he could to help her with the bills. She'd never given up on him, no matter how much stupid shit he got himself into--not that he'd ever been caught, but mothers have a way of reading bruised knuckles and blackened eyes.
The spare key was hidden in a splintered corner of the deck, and after unlocking the door Andrew knocked loudly on his way inside. He was thankful for the meager warmth. Even with the drafty windows, at least the house was above freezing.
He greeted her as he stepped into the kitchen, his backpack held lazily in one hand. "Home in one piece, mom."
Janice Koehler was in her middle thirties, with the look of a woman who might have been pretty once. She did indeed have dinner on the stove, and it must have been a special occasion. Steak and potatoes were sizzling in oil, and it looked like she had something in the oven as well.
When she turned around, he could tell she was happy. "Your recruiter called."
That could only mean--"The waiver came through!"
He dropped his backpack on the floor, and almost lost his balance too. When he went down to the station they offered him everything short of blowjobs to get him to sign up. Then they saw his grades.
Still--"I can't just leave you, mom. What the hell are you going to do when I'm gone?"
The Navy offered everything he could ask for--pay, status, education, the chance to serve his country--but he'd have to leave her behind.
That earned him a smack that left his ears ringing. She was livid. "Don't you ever try that self-sacrificing bullshit with me again!"
Amazing how moms could go from sweet as sugar to rage in a blink of an eye. "You're going down there tomorrow and signing those papers."
It wasn't worth fighting her. He'd figure out what he was going to do later. "Yeah, sure mom. I will."
Even as obviously insincere as it was, it seemed like that weight had been taken off her shoulders again for the time being. She went back to being happy, he guessed even a masquerade of glee was better than constant misery.
Her cooking was great, as usual, and as they sat down at their rickety little table to discuss their days he felt a rare moment of security. That little house was the only place he'd ever felt he could let his guard down. Apparently she'd been doing so well at the hardware store they were going to give her a raise.
"That's great mom, I--"
The bullets ripping through the thin walls of their home cut the sentence short. His mother toppled out of her chair, and she wasn't bleeding. He was in a daze as he sprinted through the house. The car was revving its engines. It was a nice car.
A masked man screamed from the rear window, "Fuck you, Andy! You're dead!"
Emmanuel Garcia. Same bastard he beat up a couple days before. In that moment, Andrew experienced the worst feeling he had ever felt in his life: powerlessness. Left to watch the creatures who murdered his mother drive away. Every muscle in his body was tensed, and his breathing was ragged. Then, to the surprise of him and every single one of the bastards in the car, something wonderful happened.
Flames burst from under the hood as the car seemed to be crushed in the hands of a giant. The screams only lasted a moment. But the satisfaction was only momentary. When the police found him holding his dead mother in the kitchen, he was barely coherent.
He woke the next day in a hospital, apparently having suffered a severe fever. He'd lost the only person tying him to Springfield.
---
Graduating BUD/S was the single greatest achievement of Andrew's life. He still wasn't entirely over his mother's death, but at least he knew she'd be proud of him. She probably would've yelled at him for not making Honor Man, but at least she would have been half-kidding.
He had the stupidest grin on his face when he shook hands with the Senior Chief and received his trident, but the man understood. Andrew had lost everything to be there, and he made it through.
Edited by Andrew Koehler, Feb 4 2014, 10:47 PM.
Re: Andrew Koehler - Andrew Koehler - 02-04-2014
Meditation. Who would have guessed that some new agey hippy shit would be the greatest weapon for making war ever discovered. Andrew looked up from the bullets orbiting above his fingers in lazy ellipses. The mission was stupid--everyone in the room knew that: drop into Custody territory in stolen suits of custody combat gear and blow up some hajis. Still, the orders came from the top. Dawson wanted it done, and whenever the stubborn bastard thought he could play Machiavelli the Subversion Group were the first people to get dunked in the shit bucket. Andrew wondered if the so-called commander in chief had even heard of the word blowback. Probably not since his last visit to a porn theatre bathroom.
The first time Andrew channeled the power--yeah, the words were cheesy but he couldn't figure out any better ones--on record, it'd been on a special reconnaissance mission in Argentina. The Custody had been field testing some new weapons tech and his squad was tasked with observing its capabilities. Long story short, they were spotted and Andrew had to save a few lives. Now that was an interesting debriefing. "So you're telling me you killed twenty-two Custody soldiers. With magic."
That wasn't exactly true--they'd had to use some bullets too. He still almost got a medical discharge before they realized five SEALs couldn't all have the exact same hallucination at the exact same time. The fact that they'd managed to secure twenty-two experimental Custody combat exoskeletons was just gravy.
After they proved he hadn't gone crazy, shit just got worse. All that shit about BUD/S being mental, not physical? Try being locked in a cell for days until you finally figure out how to blow the door out with your mind. Still, as he watched the bullets continue their orbit of his fingers, he had to admit the training was worth it. Now all he had to do was convince the most conservative bastards in the country that magic was a thing.
They’d gone over the plan dozens of times, and his input had already been taken into account. Command had them sitting pretty on one of America’s last military bases on the African continent, within spitting distance of Mogadishu. Mohamed Al-Hasan had more than enough followers crossing through Somalia, but there was an old saying about not shitting where you eat. Besides, the intel was solid: they knew where the big guy himself was going to be. A little mosque at the King Saud Bin Abdulaziz University outside Mecca. Al-Hasan was, by all accounts, an effective little rabble rouser. He’d make a much better martyr. It’d almost be worth the risk just to see Custody fucks and arabs blowing themselves and each other up.
That said, Dawson still wanted the impossible made real, and General Delhi had already decided to send Andrew on a suicide mission. It didn’t matter what country you were in, the military hated change. Magic, sorcery, "psychokinesis"--that kind of thing didn’t get far. Even if you had the best kind of proof.