Sekhor is a fairly typical Sontaran - brutal, militaristic and dedicated to prosecuting the war with the Rutan Host. As a member of G3 Intelligence, trained for solo scouting missions outside the Empire's borders, he's a little more lateral and flexible in his thinking than some of his comrades, but that's not saying a great deal.
Constant exposure to his captives' telepathic projections has started to take its toll on his mental balance, however. Sontarans aren't really built to be twitchy, but Sekhor's speech has an odd, staccato quality, and his tiny eyes dart around constantly as though looking for danger. He's short-tempered - even for a Sontaran - and easily distracted, but he's not insane, just a little unstable.
Sekhor uses the standard Sontaran stats from each game book. If using the FASA Game Operations Manual, he counts as an officer-class Sontaran.
Lucas Richardson is a third-generation police officer on his father's side, and wanted to follow in his father and grandfather's footsteps since he was about ten years old, but they weren't his only influences in his formative years. His maternal grandfather was a distinguished chemist and an active member of the Royal Society, who encouraged his grandson to take an interest in scientific pursuits. Richardson graduated from Oxford with a B.Sc in Chemistry before joining the Metropolitan Police's detective branch in 1906. He took an active interest in advances in the scientific detection of crime, from pathology to forensics to fingerprinting, and his relentlessly logical approach to his cases earned him the nickname "Sherlock's understudy" from several of his colleagues.
He volunteered for service in the Great War, and fought for two years before being invalided out after taking a German bullet in his leg. He wasn't as scarred psychologically by the experience as some of his colleagues, but seeing scientific progress perverted into an enabler of mass slaughter disturbed him on a more fundamental level. Hitherto, he'd always assumed that science was necessarily and inevitably a force for good; now, he was forced to admit that it could also be a force for the most terrible evil. His current case has become a personal obsession because he fears that that's exactly what's happening.
He's a tall man with broad shoulders, a muscular frame, silvering black hair and penetrating blue-gray eyes that remind many acquaintances on both sides of the law of a bird of prey. He's mostly recovered from the wound in his leg, although he occasionally walks with a slight limp if he's been exerting himself.
Richardson wants a better world. As far as he's concerned, that means a more ordered world, in which law, science and rationality work hand-in-glove to make people safer, healthier, and happier. The Great War shook his faith in the beneficial effects of one of those three pillars - science - and he's become even more dedicated to the other two as a result
Although he has the courtesy expected of a proper English gentleman of his era, Richardson will never use two words where one will do, or spend ten minutes on something when he can deal with it in thirty seconds. Everything about him, from his clothing to his movements to his speech, is precise, neat, and to the point, although he does have a bone-dry sense of humour which occasionally shows through his crisply matter-of-fact demeanour
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Mitchell's father was a cracksman, a safe-breaker, and his mother was a high-class prostitute. He grew up as a favored scion of one of London's most powerful criminal gangs, and there was some expectation that he'd eventually ascend to its leadership. But the unexpected death of its previous leader - from cancer caused by his chain-smoking habit, ironically enough, rather that at the hands of his rivals - came at the wrong time for Mitchell. He was still seen as too young and inexperienced to take the reins of the group, which was carved up by ambitious competitors, leaving Mitchell in control of a mere fragment of what he'd expected to inherit. Ruthless, clever and ambitious, Mitchell vowed to destroy everyone who had, as he saw it, robbed him of his rightful due. With Sekhor's help, he's well on the way to achieving that.
A tall, muscular man, Mitchell has short black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He dresses well, in expensive suits, but the nicks and scars on his beefy fists hint that he's only pretending to be a gentleman.
Mitchell is a small-time thug with small-time ambitions. He wants to control London's underworld, and eventually build his gang up to be the dominant criminal network in the British Isles. It would never occur to him to move beyond either the criminal community or Britain, even with an alien ally to show him that the universe is far more vast and diverse than he can imagine.
Mitchell attempts an air of quiet sophistication, but crude threats uttered in a soft voice are still crude threats, and the promise of violence is never far beneath the surface when someone is talking to him. He's smarter than his men, but of a similar mentality - he rules through intimidation, not loyalty. He has the cold and calculating ruthlessness of a shark, and it shows in his chilling disregard for others' lives and suffering.
The aren't the greatest intellects on the face of the planet, but Mitchell didn't hire them for their mental prowess. His "punishers" (Lomdon criminal argot for enforcers), are basically just attack dogs with the ability to take themselves for a walk, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous.