Sebasa Brakov was not a complicated man, nor did he ever claim to be.
The man, as he was now, was first of all one-armed. His left arm was completely and fully metal, bulky and dense – perfect for battle but little else. Though most of the rest of his body was scarred flesh and hard muscle, his right hand was also replaced with a metal gauntlet-like installation, also hard enough for battle but with a little more fine motor control involved. His strong-jawed face was heavily scarred, perhaps handsome in the low, disguising light of a cantina but little else. He typically wore a leather jacket with trousers, casual but layered with padding so as to protect him somehow. As a stance, he wore himself cockily and casually, but with a firm enough foundation for a perceptive eye to notice.
He was born on Nar Shaddaa to deadbeat parents, who taught him the only way to live was to fight. And so fight he did. He fought with his family, his enemies, his friends. There was no one who didn’t answer to his fist.
As Sebasa grew up, he was even given a nickname. ‘Steel Fist Sebasa’, his prepubescent fans would crow, ‘cause his fist was like steel!’ His was a small niche, knocking out other little teens in a single punch, as the immature watchers would glower as if that were an accomplishment. No, in the grander scheme of things, Sebasa was but an asteroid in the universe.
He was later forcibly recruited – press-ganged – into another crew, forced to work for other men and women who took over the chief position as gang boss, each one dying because of grand delusions and petty greed. It was a continuous cycle – his leader is killed, another leader comes in, that leader is killed, and so on.
The turmentuous and unstable political environment of petty gangs was how Sebasa truly grew up. He no longer thought of himself as the best, as ‘Steel Fist Sebasa, the one with the fist of steel!’ No, he was just another stupid teen who ran from his family, one who was just a better fighter than most other teenagers. What an achievement, right?
Eventually, the boy became a man. In a gang raid gone wrong, Sebasa lost his left arm to a rival gang member, one infamous for his vibroblade skills just as he was for his supposed ‘steel fist’. In the world of might makes right, there existed only three people: the Leaders, the Workers, and the Useless. Without an arm, Sebasa was quickly becoming the Useless. Before he were to be thrown away by his Leader, the man went under the knife. Though he owed a debt to some black market doctor, Sebasa regained his arm in the form of a giant metal limb.
His luck had changed then. ‘Steel Fist Sebasa’ was back, throwing wild haymakers and uppercuts like there was no tomorrow. Though he did not dare think of himself as the best, his confidence had returned, and he was looking to become a damn good Worker before he could be another Useless. In the midsts of all this, he had broken his other fist when he tried to punch through metal (look, a reprogrammed droid was attacking and things happened). On the fly, Sebasa chose to get another metal fist, this one a little sleeker and versatile, so as to allow him basic motor control. A smart choice, but an expensive one.
Though he was soon making another name for himself, his luck has swerved once more. His debt had racked up, and his doctor had finally given up hope on recouping his losses, instead choosing to send a message that no one was to ignore what was owed – a message in the form of Sebasa’s death. Bounty hunters were sent after the man, but he managed to somehow fend off the first attempt. Quicker than hyperdrive, Sebasa fled the planet and took on jobs as a freelance merc for many years, for many people, for any cause that gives credits.
A failure and a runaway, from both his family and his affiliations, making a living off of what he does best: punching people. Hey, he never said he was a complicated man.