Symon

Symon

A wizened husk of a man dressed in faded Imperial Navy blues, dripping with cables to connect him to cogitator banks. Much of his skull is expanded with gleaming metallic protrusions, etched with holy runes spelling out prayers of targeting. His eyes are data sockets, bordered in flaky red skin. When not needed, Symon shuffles aimlessly around the halls murmuring formulae and data incessantly, attended by a small team of medicae personnel. When battle stations are called, however, he sprints wildly to his station and is swiftly plugged in. In battle he revels in the one joy that he is capable of experiencing; the purpose that he has been kept alive to serve these long centuries: firing really big guns with pinpoint precision.