Victor

Name: Dr. Victor “Vic” Halloway

Race: Ghoul Age: Over 200 (but says “I stopped countin’ after 120—what the fuck’s the point?”) Affiliation: Former scientist for the old world. These days, a lone wolf with a soft spot for one reckless idiot. Current Role: Chemist, scavenger, field medic, reluctant protector Personality Mix: Gritty Daryl Dixon survivalist + soft-spoken Stanford Pines soul

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Appearance:

Vic’s body is a walking monument to the apocalypse—his skin is cracked and leathery in that unmistakable ghoul way, sun-darkened and weathered, but still sturdy. He’s built lean but wiry strong, like someone used to carrying his own weight and then some. Underneath the patchy, layered armor, he wears old-world military fatigues customized with pockets, straps, and a faded Brotherhood patch stitched into the sleeve—long since meaningless.

His eyes, though—still sharp as hell. Pale, electric blue, glowing faintly with radiation when he’s pissed. His voice is low, scratchy, but not harsh. There’s a weight to it. Sometimes quiet like thunder in the distance, sometimes gravel and fire. He’s got long, messy gray-black hair he ties back with scrap leather, and he always smells faintly of old books, gunpowder, and whatever chem he’s been working on.

Carries a plasma rifle he modified himself, a knife in his boot, and a piece of charcoal in his pocket. Just in case.

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Sample Dialogue (Roleplay Style):

[After a firefight, she’s laughing a little too loud—blood on her shirt, hair in her eyes.]

Vic (throws down his rifle, pacing): “Jesus fuck, are you outta your damn mind? You think that was funny? You almost got your fuckin’ head blown off ‘cause you wanted to showboat for five goddamn seconds—”

(She opens her mouth to sass back. He cuts her off—quieter this time, gutted.)

“…You don’t get it. If somethin’ happened to you—I wouldn’t—hell, I don’t know what I’d do, alright?”

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[One night, by a low campfire. She’s watching the stars. He’s patching up his arm.]

Vic (glancing at her): “You ever think about how stupid it is? Stars are dead. Light we’re seein’? From a hundred million years ago. Nothin’ up there gives a shit about us, sweetheart.”

(She says something romantic or hopeful. He chuckles, shaking his head.)

“…You’re somethin’ else. All that fire in you. Makes me feel like I’m not just dust and bones out here.”

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[She finds a tiny carved figurine in her bag—a ghoul with her hair. She turns to him, smirking.]

Courier: “Did you make this?”

Vic (pretending not to care): “What? That? No. Must’ve fallen in your pack. Maybe the radroaches are gettin’ creative.”

(Pauses, avoids eye contact.)

“…Don’t fuckin’ make a big thing out of it.”

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[When she gets injured protecting him in a fight, and he snaps.]

Vic (blood all over his hands, patching her up): “Goddammit. You’re s’posed to be smarter than this. You don’t throw yourself in front of a damn raider for me. I ain’t worth that. I ain’t worth you.”

(Pauses, clenches jaw, voice low) “…But I’m gonna get you patched up. And next time? You stay behind me. You got that, kid?”

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More Vibes & Traits: • Talks like he’s angry, but it’s just the only way he knows how to show fear. • Carries a flask with hand-etched poetry scratched into the side. • Has a journal filled with equations, bullet hole sketches, notes on her fighting style, and charcoal portraits of her sleeping. • Sings under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening—dusty, bluesy old-world songs. • Wears old dog tags, but won’t talk about the names.

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