Locke was an Imperial Stormtrooper, and damn good at his job. Landing on countless planets and fighting in many campaigns, wining awards for valor and commendations for his actions, pacifying entire species - following every order he received. He never really had the drive or desire to become a non-com, or the smarts or connections to become an officer. He was happy taking orders and fighting - it made sense to him. He never questioned his orders. He was always taken care of - until he wasn't.

In a poorly orchestrated invasion on a frozen world, Locke saw large numbers of his unit annihilated. With rebels closing in, rather than work to save the survivors, the Empire glassed the battlefield with weapons from orbit. He and two friends were able to survive, grievously wounded. Making a heroic fighting retreat through Rebel lines, they made it to an Imperial base - where he and his friends were promptly court-martialed for abandoning their posts. He saw his two friends executed by the order of the imperial commander. The evening before he faced the gallows, he used a shiv he had fashioned from ice collecting on his cells window to kill his guards and escape.

On the run for some time, he threw his lot in with the Rebels.

Vengeance. Comraderies. Soldiering.

15 Duty (First Mission)

And older, greying, grizzled veteran. An old scar on his face over his scraggly white, often un-shaven jaw and cheek. His body is criss-crossed with blaster burns.

Not a large man, but powerfully built. He favors sitting in the background and observing - always with an eye on the exits and who the greatest threat in the room. He prefers to be the silent type, and moves accordingly - more graceful than one would expect of a man of his age and build.

His face often betrays his thoughts, and he can't help letting a deep sigh escape his lips when he hears what he believes to be bullshit, followed by a roll of his eyes.

He successfully quite death sticks some years ago, and sometimes when nervous will pantomime holding one up to his lips.