Bastille Sonoram
Prefector
In a couple of sentences:
Bastille is a public figure of some renown, having risen rapidly through the galactic political space despite how many of his opponents view his humanity as a shortcoming. Secretly, his success in large correlates to his innate psionic abilities that he possessed from birth and that his people's government brought out developed. Genetically perfected and trained from an infant, Bastille takes what is rightfully his in the world around by means of mental manipulation while having what the public majority consider a flawless personality and track record in office. Bastille is careful in his actions, tackling his problems from a tactical approach, and never revealing more than is necessary to others. At the same time, he is still held by a leash by his home government for their own ends, at least for now. |
Physical Information
➘ Full Name: Bastille Isval Sonoram
➘ Aliases: Prefector Sonoram, Bastille, Bast
➘ Age (Lived Years): 47 standard years
➘ Physical Age: 47 standard years
➘ Gender: Male
➘ Race: Terran [space faring humans]
➘ Body Type: Built like a football player: square shoulders, rugged features, broad chest, and thick limbs.
➘ Height: 6'6"
➘ Weight: 265 lbs
➘ Coordination: Bastille is coordinated enough to handle himself.
➘ Reflexes: Not a trained fighter by any means, but inhuman reactions and speed give him above average reflexes.
➘ Physical Strength: With his genetic conditioning, Bastille can exert strength beyond the average human, but he is far from any league beyond that.
Appearance
➘ One cannot argue that Bastille is an individual that won the genetic lottery, because, well, he had been tailored from his conception to be everything that a human should be. At roughly six and a half feet, he has square shoulders and a jawline to match with a build that one would attribute to a football player if one were to remove the bulking muscle mass. Instead, his muscles are lean and firm, kept in shape by his personal trainer. Everything about Bastille is well groomed and manicured as he is at all moments meant to appear as presentable as possible for the twenty-four-hour newscasts: from his nails to his salt and pepper beard, to his lightly tanned and flawless complexion. Bastille despite only being in his late forties, and possessing a reduced aging cycle, has a head of salt and pepper locks, cropped short and kept neat. He attributes the elder appearance to his psionic abilities and that he'll eventually turn fully white in another couple of years, but that's simply speculation on his own part. On occasion, the man is known to wear fashionable reading glasses over his pale blue eyes when reviewing documents. When in the public eye, Bastille is often seen wearing what one would consider a traditional business suit, tailored to fit his form perfectly and crafted from expensive and comfortable fabrics. His color schemes are varying hues of grey and muted blues. When going to informal gatherings, he dresses in a more business casual, forgoing the jacket, and opting for either a button down shirt occasionally without the tie, or a wool sweater in the same shades of blue as his shirts. His slacks and shoes are typically the same and match the rest of his outfit.
Personal Life/Personality
➘ Marital Status: Divorced by his now ex-wife, Shandra Sonoram
➘ Immediate Family: Father and Mother are deceased, and his one brother is rarely kept in touch with.
➘ Allies: Numerous political and underworld connections.
➘ Enemies: Numerous political and underworld adversaries.
➘ Followers: Those working within his political cabinet.
➘ Friends: A few drinking buddies.
➘ Heroes: N/A
➘ Pets/Vassals/Slaves/etc: His hairless cat; Felix, a number of service droids to keep his home and certain parts of his business running smoothly.
➘ General Alignment: True Neutral
➘ Sociability: As a politician it's his job to hit up the people and answer whatever questions they might have for him as well as converse in a charismatic and appealing manner.
➘ Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
➘ Lures: Social events, expensive liquor, gambling, quiet moonlit nights.
➘ Savvies: Psionics, public speaking, verbal manipulation, managing business financials.
➘ Ineptities: Physical confrontations, understanding technical documents, a need to prove himself the best.
➘ Profession: Politician and businessman
➘ Education: A dual doctorate in galactic racial studies, and transracial psychology.
➘ Hobbies: Playing the piano, composing, drinking, card tricks, jogging, writing.
➘ Religion: N/A
➘ Location of Birth: Valonus
➘ Location of Death: N/A
➘ Superstitions: Believes that the void will one day consume realspace in a calamitous event.
➘ Virtues: Diligence, Patience
➘ Vices: Pride, Greed
➘ Likes: Fast rides, high stakes, a drink in hand, acting with a purpose, debates, his homeworld, the political ecosystem, hairless cats.
➘ Dislikes: Pandering to the lowest common denominator, talking just to talk, those who can't prove their worth to him, rodents, the umbra/void.
➘ Affiliations: The Galactic Federation, the political circle of Valonus, various underworld connections.
➘ Addictions: A bit of an alcoholic, which can mess with his psionic control.
➘ Handicaps: Any political scandals that one might somehow find out and use against him.
➘ Medical Conditions: Cat allergy
➘ Full Name: Bastille Isval Sonoram
➘ Aliases: Prefector Sonoram, Bastille, Bast
➘ Age (Lived Years): 47 standard years
➘ Physical Age: 47 standard years
➘ Gender: Male
➘ Race: Terran [space faring humans]
➘ Body Type: Built like a football player: square shoulders, rugged features, broad chest, and thick limbs.
➘ Height: 6'6"
➘ Weight: 265 lbs
➘ Coordination: Bastille is coordinated enough to handle himself.
➘ Reflexes: Not a trained fighter by any means, but inhuman reactions and speed give him above average reflexes.
➘ Physical Strength: With his genetic conditioning, Bastille can exert strength beyond the average human, but he is far from any league beyond that.
Appearance
➘ One cannot argue that Bastille is an individual that won the genetic lottery, because, well, he had been tailored from his conception to be everything that a human should be. At roughly six and a half feet, he has square shoulders and a jawline to match with a build that one would attribute to a football player if one were to remove the bulking muscle mass. Instead, his muscles are lean and firm, kept in shape by his personal trainer. Everything about Bastille is well groomed and manicured as he is at all moments meant to appear as presentable as possible for the twenty-four-hour newscasts: from his nails to his salt and pepper beard, to his lightly tanned and flawless complexion. Bastille despite only being in his late forties, and possessing a reduced aging cycle, has a head of salt and pepper locks, cropped short and kept neat. He attributes the elder appearance to his psionic abilities and that he'll eventually turn fully white in another couple of years, but that's simply speculation on his own part. On occasion, the man is known to wear fashionable reading glasses over his pale blue eyes when reviewing documents. When in the public eye, Bastille is often seen wearing what one would consider a traditional business suit, tailored to fit his form perfectly and crafted from expensive and comfortable fabrics. His color schemes are varying hues of grey and muted blues. When going to informal gatherings, he dresses in a more business casual, forgoing the jacket, and opting for either a button down shirt occasionally without the tie, or a wool sweater in the same shades of blue as his shirts. His slacks and shoes are typically the same and match the rest of his outfit.
Personal Life/Personality
➘ Marital Status: Divorced by his now ex-wife, Shandra Sonoram
➘ Immediate Family: Father and Mother are deceased, and his one brother is rarely kept in touch with.
➘ Allies: Numerous political and underworld connections.
➘ Enemies: Numerous political and underworld adversaries.
➘ Followers: Those working within his political cabinet.
➘ Friends: A few drinking buddies.
➘ Heroes: N/A
➘ Pets/Vassals/Slaves/etc: His hairless cat; Felix, a number of service droids to keep his home and certain parts of his business running smoothly.
➘ General Alignment: True Neutral
➘ Sociability: As a politician it's his job to hit up the people and answer whatever questions they might have for him as well as converse in a charismatic and appealing manner.
➘ Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
➘ Lures: Social events, expensive liquor, gambling, quiet moonlit nights.
➘ Savvies: Psionics, public speaking, verbal manipulation, managing business financials.
➘ Ineptities: Physical confrontations, understanding technical documents, a need to prove himself the best.
➘ Profession: Politician and businessman
➘ Education: A dual doctorate in galactic racial studies, and transracial psychology.
➘ Hobbies: Playing the piano, composing, drinking, card tricks, jogging, writing.
➘ Religion: N/A
➘ Location of Birth: Valonus
➘ Location of Death: N/A
➘ Superstitions: Believes that the void will one day consume realspace in a calamitous event.
➘ Virtues: Diligence, Patience
➘ Vices: Pride, Greed
➘ Likes: Fast rides, high stakes, a drink in hand, acting with a purpose, debates, his homeworld, the political ecosystem, hairless cats.
➘ Dislikes: Pandering to the lowest common denominator, talking just to talk, those who can't prove their worth to him, rodents, the umbra/void.
➘ Affiliations: The Galactic Federation, the political circle of Valonus, various underworld connections.
➘ Addictions: A bit of an alcoholic, which can mess with his psionic control.
➘ Handicaps: Any political scandals that one might somehow find out and use against him.
➘ Medical Conditions: Cat allergy
Abilities
➘ General Overview/Limits: Bastille would hardly call himself a traditional fighter, despite being physically stronger and faster than the average humanoid he is never one to seek out conflict. As a politician, it is his job to save face, and fistfights are hardly beneficial to his image. That said, with his suite of psionic abilities, Bastille is not often placed in a situation wherein physical confrontation is required, his fights are ended before they can even begin, and with his mental strength, he has seldom found himself tiring from extended use of his psionics.
➘ General Overview/Limits: Bastille would hardly call himself a traditional fighter, despite being physically stronger and faster than the average humanoid he is never one to seek out conflict. As a politician, it is his job to save face, and fistfights are hardly beneficial to his image. That said, with his suite of psionic abilities, Bastille is not often placed in a situation wherein physical confrontation is required, his fights are ended before they can even begin, and with his mental strength, he has seldom found himself tiring from extended use of his psionics.
- Telepathy: In a broad sense, telepathy allows the user to be able to read minds, sense emotion/general thoughts, send psychic messages, and access the memories of sentient creatures. In Bastille's case, he is able to easily to empathically sense unguarded individuals within several hundred feet of his location, and in close proximity, he can read thoughts and potential actions. If given unfettered access to an individual, he would be able to dive into the depths of their mind and peer through the sea of their memories. In terms of telepathic messages, they are not of Bastille's forte, but he is capable of sending out his thoughts to those he's formed empathic bonds with over relatively long distances, but never more than a planet's surface away.
- Mind Control: The user can control the minds of others with targets being completely subject to their mental control. If the victims were placed into a semi-conscious state, they may not have any recollection of the previous actions that they performed while under its effect. Bastille can dominate numerous individuals of weak willpower with this ability and has been known to captivate entire rooms filled with people at a time. Those with sufficient mental resilience/training in psychic attacks/outright greater willpower can resist his control; it would still be a highly unpleasant experience.
- Psionic Shock: Psionic energy is cast from the exterior of one's body and delivered to a target. Against organics, it shuts down an organism's brain temporarily without any lasting damage.
- Psionic Sense: Bastille is sensitive to the use of psionic abilities within his vicinity, depending on the severity of the psychic event he would be able to better pinpoint where exactly where and who it occurred from.
- Genetic Alteration: Experimented on as a child, Bastille's physiology was enhanced to further bring out and develop his psionic abilities and mental acuity, the added benefits were extended longevity and increased physical strength. All of this was obtained at the low cost of a rather traumatic childhood and upbringing.
Weapons/Gear
➘ Hold-out Blaster: A highly concealable blaster pistol military grade in design. Effective for up to eight shots and packing no less damage potential than a traditional blaster pistol, Bastille keeps this gun hidden within a sewn holster in most of his jackets and coats just in case of emergencies.
➘ Hold-out Blaster: A highly concealable blaster pistol military grade in design. Effective for up to eight shots and packing no less damage potential than a traditional blaster pistol, Bastille keeps this gun hidden within a sewn holster in most of his jackets and coats just in case of emergencies.
A Little Snippet of Their Life:
Prefector Sonoram never discussed his childhood, those that wished to delve into the politician's past were able to so on their own time. There existed digital archives and holo-footage of his youth, his schooling, family outings--all fabricated. His actual upbringing was hardly one that any would wish upon their worst enemy.
A candlelight dinner, Bastille surrounded himself with his supporters; those that significantly support his campaign efforts financially were rewarded with private outings here and there. A wide smile on his lips as he sipped his glass of Merlot, Bastille's thoughts were elsewhere, not particularly on his childhood, but it was hard to remove such disturbing memories from the background completely. The crowd continued as if oblivious to the Prefector's presence because that is what Bastille desired of his sheep, this was all a photo op for the masses and these patrons would walk away from the event none the wiser that the psionic removed any desire to converse beyond his introduction to each of them.
The government on Valonus has a specialized program for raising and developing psionics throughout the surrounding systems. Terrans, which are essentially space faring humans that have settled across the stars from Earth were discovered to possess a baseline innate aptitude for psionic development. The gift was hardly noticeable as the majority never produced a significant showing of psychic abilities, but the program saw potential in investing into experimentation. Bastille was developed at the embryonic level, to bring out his psionic traits to the fullest extent and to provide the perfect growth for peak physical and mental conditioning. His parents were not truly his, but a duo of government soldiers to watch over him and pass on daily reports to the institute; scrunching his brow, Bastille realized that he was unable to recall their names, not that it mattered ultimately.
Rigorous regiments day in and day out for years on end, bringing out the best his body could be. Allotted breaks were few and far between used for meals and rest, though some used these opportunities to socialize with the other children in the program. If only this was to be the worst of their training. The children were allowed access to one another for a reason so that bonds would be formed; if only to test how easily they would break when pitted against one another. Bastille never forgot his first psionic battle, his strengths were not in telekinetic manipulation, but in controlling one's mind with his own. Psychic barriers and other metaphysical means to defend when facing an attack on one's psyche were a sound defense, as long as the attacker was at a similar or greater level. The strain such methods of security put on the brain had the potential to riddle it with aneurysms. His opponent screamed in agony for minutes as their brain all but liquefied, streams of crimson pouring from every orifice on their face.
t
Those were the sort of sounds that haunted a seven-year-old Bastille, even to this day.
Cutting into his steak, a waitress greeted him politely with a bottle of wine in hand, asking if he would enjoy a filled glass. A quarter inch nod, she went about to do so, only to spill the contents on the table top and splash Bastille's suit. Apologies came quick, but her voice hitched moments in as the entire table ceased their conversations to stare blankly at the duo. The psionic's hand was raised while he glanced upward at the waitress with impassive silver hues. "Clean up your mess." He vaguely stated only to correct her while she made to blot the spill with a rag from her apron. "With your tongue." There was only the slightest of hesitation, silence filling the room as the short-haired blonde went about licking the tablecloth, the floor, and eventually Bastille's pant legs. Eventually, the politician tired of these ministrations and rose from his seat. "Thank you all for your support, I look forward to our next outing. Good night." He was greeted with vacant stares, as he had no intention of removing them from his hold until he vacated the premise and they were admitted a return their boring lives. As he departed, the waitress remained in step behind him without a care in the world visible on her face, her fate for the evening a privilege in her head.
Prefector Sonoram never discussed his childhood, those that wished to delve into the politician's past were able to so on their own time. There existed digital archives and holo-footage of his youth, his schooling, family outings--all fabricated. His actual upbringing was hardly one that any would wish upon their worst enemy.
A candlelight dinner, Bastille surrounded himself with his supporters; those that significantly support his campaign efforts financially were rewarded with private outings here and there. A wide smile on his lips as he sipped his glass of Merlot, Bastille's thoughts were elsewhere, not particularly on his childhood, but it was hard to remove such disturbing memories from the background completely. The crowd continued as if oblivious to the Prefector's presence because that is what Bastille desired of his sheep, this was all a photo op for the masses and these patrons would walk away from the event none the wiser that the psionic removed any desire to converse beyond his introduction to each of them.
The government on Valonus has a specialized program for raising and developing psionics throughout the surrounding systems. Terrans, which are essentially space faring humans that have settled across the stars from Earth were discovered to possess a baseline innate aptitude for psionic development. The gift was hardly noticeable as the majority never produced a significant showing of psychic abilities, but the program saw potential in investing into experimentation. Bastille was developed at the embryonic level, to bring out his psionic traits to the fullest extent and to provide the perfect growth for peak physical and mental conditioning. His parents were not truly his, but a duo of government soldiers to watch over him and pass on daily reports to the institute; scrunching his brow, Bastille realized that he was unable to recall their names, not that it mattered ultimately.
Rigorous regiments day in and day out for years on end, bringing out the best his body could be. Allotted breaks were few and far between used for meals and rest, though some used these opportunities to socialize with the other children in the program. If only this was to be the worst of their training. The children were allowed access to one another for a reason so that bonds would be formed; if only to test how easily they would break when pitted against one another. Bastille never forgot his first psionic battle, his strengths were not in telekinetic manipulation, but in controlling one's mind with his own. Psychic barriers and other metaphysical means to defend when facing an attack on one's psyche were a sound defense, as long as the attacker was at a similar or greater level. The strain such methods of security put on the brain had the potential to riddle it with aneurysms. His opponent screamed in agony for minutes as their brain all but liquefied, streams of crimson pouring from every orifice on their face.
t
Those were the sort of sounds that haunted a seven-year-old Bastille, even to this day.
Cutting into his steak, a waitress greeted him politely with a bottle of wine in hand, asking if he would enjoy a filled glass. A quarter inch nod, she went about to do so, only to spill the contents on the table top and splash Bastille's suit. Apologies came quick, but her voice hitched moments in as the entire table ceased their conversations to stare blankly at the duo. The psionic's hand was raised while he glanced upward at the waitress with impassive silver hues. "Clean up your mess." He vaguely stated only to correct her while she made to blot the spill with a rag from her apron. "With your tongue." There was only the slightest of hesitation, silence filling the room as the short-haired blonde went about licking the tablecloth, the floor, and eventually Bastille's pant legs. Eventually, the politician tired of these ministrations and rose from his seat. "Thank you all for your support, I look forward to our next outing. Good night." He was greeted with vacant stares, as he had no intention of removing them from his hold until he vacated the premise and they were admitted a return their boring lives. As he departed, the waitress remained in step behind him without a care in the world visible on her face, her fate for the evening a privilege in her head.
Theme Song: