Good soldiers follow orders.

Jeremiah Flick still hears the words, sometimes. But he isn't a soldier anymore.

When the Empire decided they didn't want him or his brothers anymore, he drifted. Eventually ended up on Ord Mantell- whatever credits he had were gambled away, and he was booted out of the city after occurring quite a bad reputation for his temper.

Wandering the desert, he found himself in one of the outlying towns, and after drifting through, he found a few marauders roughing up a local bar.

Flick didn't like that very much.

After "Sorting" the dispute, the town took a liking to him, made him their marshal- and once again he had a reason to serve with pride!

After several years, though, the Empire came sniffing about the town. When Flick started asking questions, they found themselves at odds with each other.

Once the Empire decided to crack down, Flick found himself in the cargo hold of a supply freighter, headed for who-knows-where.

Is he a coward? He thinks so.

One of his Generals once told him "Sometimes, Victory doesn't mean winning. It means living to fight another day."

Coward or not, Flick plans to.

Flick wants to help whoever he can, wherever he can. He also isn't a fan of the Empire, and usually will go out of his way to ruin a Buckethead's day.

Flick feels a deep sense of duty as a result of his upbringing. He feels dutybound to protect the weak, even when inconvenient.

Standing at 1.83 meters, Jeremiah is just as tall as the majority of other clones. He keeps his head shaven, but sports a short, black goatee with grey flecks. He's been known to let stubble build up around it, but he trims it "When he has a minute." There's a long, shallow scar tracing the left side of his face, and the story he tells for it is different each time.

He sports a long coat, and a wide brimmed hat that supposedly keeps the sun out of his eyes in a fight. It wouldn't be out of place to find a cigarra in his hands, either.