NAME: Pakcho (Pak Choi Pun)
ALIAS: N/A
AGE: 19
SPECIES: Saiyan/Human, Saiyan Dominant
GENDER: Male
SPECIALIZATION: Martial Artist/Dervish
HEIGHT: 6'02"
WEIGHT: 204 lbs
HAIR COLOR: Blonde
EYE COLOR: Blue
BODY TYPE: Muscular/Athletic
APPEARANCE: 

PERSONALITY: Pakcho’s personality is heavily affected by his history. He values people who are honest and keep their word. Those two things were hard to find in the environment of his youth. He despises cruelty and has a soft spot for children, especially those in his neighborhood. He is generous, almost to a fault. Pakcho is the kind of person who would give you the shirt off of his back. “If a man asks for help, you help him.” His mother had told him that at a young age and it has stuck with him ever since. He has very few vices and dislikes gambling and other games of chance. Pakcho is a teetotaler after not only being personally affected by addiction (his father’s absence) but watching it affect those around him in his community.


He is quick to anger and he often perceives his rage to be just. There is most likely a direct correlation between his saiyan heritage and propensity for ire. This established, he is quite approachable by modern standards. Pakcho is the kind of person to say hello to someone passing by and just as quick to laugh or smile as he is to yell. You might say that Pakcho lives in the extremes. There has been very little middle ground in his early life and he sees almost everything in black or white. One must also remember that despite his maturity, he is still a nineteen year old man. They all think they know how the world works.



OVERVIEW: There’s a reason poverty is circular. When you’re born into it, it’s nearly impossible to free yourself from it. Pakcho’s mother had embraced it. There wasn’t going to be an upward movement for her or her son, at least initially. Stars rarely align for people trapped there. It was not as if they could rely on the father. He had left before his son was out of the womb. Pakcho had never known his name, nor did he care much to think about it. All he had left him was a tail (courtesy his saiyan genetics) and few broken bottles of port. Pakcho’s father didn’t even have the common courtesy to give him a name.


The half-breed grew up a momma’s boy at first. Never cared much for school and found himself in trouble with authorities throughout most of his youth. Living poor and without your father sharpens a boy into a man at a younger age than his peers. The question was, what kind of decent man could be shaped by those circumstances. A young man like that needs purpose if he ever wants to amount to anything. Pakcho found his in a run-down dojo owned by a sensei who could’ve rivaled his father with unhealthy addictions.


Pakcho never fancied traditional sports like baseball. Maybe the spirit of the game had died for him when he spent most of his childhood finding new ways to turn nothing into a couple zeni so he and his mother wouldn’t starve. When he had heard that they offered prize money to fighters in martial arts tournaments, his interest piqued immediately. The halfling had never shied from a fight as a child and by the time he had gotten to junior high was already feared for his tenacity in the usual schoolyard dustups. He grew up angry anyways. Fighting was his natural outlet.


Bogdan, his sensei, was drunk most of the time. Pakcho never knew what had set the man off on that course but he almost sympathized with him. You didn’t live or work in this part of town unless you lost something. Aside from his sensei’s inebriated ranting, the man did know the craft of fighting. Pakcho started training when he was thirteen. In a few short years, he had surpassed all of Bogdan’s other pupils. The young halfing started earning enough money on the local fighting circuits to pay the bills and keep his family’s belly full.


Usually reality would kick in about now and those fights would be Pakcho’s climax in a life that most of the wealthy would deem miserable. What most people soon figured out, however, was that staying fed wasn’t the only thing that drove the young man to fight. He liked it. He possessed a genuine love for martial arts and with good reason. It had provided for him, made him strong, and taught him that if you grinded, you could get what you desired. He could be rich, or famous, or maybe even what he really wanted to be: the best.



OOC NAME: Pakcho is fine.