Recruit Alastair Edmund Vogt
Alastair Edmund Vogt walks the perimeter of Camp Hope with a soldier’s steadiness and a watchman’s patience. Every motion is measured, every glance deliberate. He isn’t the sort to speak loudly or act rashly—his authority comes from composure, not command. Even off duty, there’s a quiet vigilance about him, as though he’s always listening for trouble just beyond the horizon.
Caution defines him, but so does clarity. Alastair notices the small things others overlook—the way someone hesitates before answering a question, the shift in posture that precedes a lie. He doesn’t brag about it, but his memory for faces and movements is uncanny. It’s made him one of the Town Watch’s most reliable scouts, the kind who can recall a thief’s limp or a liar’s twitch weeks after the fact. When lost in thought or pacing the camp walls, he unconsciously taps his thumb against his belt in steady rhythm—a habit born from long hours of drill training that he never managed to shake.
He is polite to a fault, his tone clipped and professional when dealing with most adults, but there’s a gentler side buried beneath that disciplined exterior. He softens around the elderly and the children of Camp Hope, finding small ways to make their lives easier—helping with repairs, sharing food rations, offering calm reassurance. Few see it, but those who do know that Alastair’s stoicism hides a deeply protective heart.
I’m not fighting for the world. I’m fighting for what’s left of my family in it.
His belief in order isn’t about control—it’s about survival. “Order gives people a chance to breathe,” he says. “Without it, we drown in chaos.” To him, peace is fragile, like glass underfoot, and maintaining it requires vigilance and sacrifice. He respects those who bear that burden alongside him: medics, guardians, and anyone who chooses to stand between danger and the defenseless.
Yet there are lines he will not cross. He harbors a deep distrust for those who exploit others—the black marketeers, the smugglers, the ones who profit from fear and scarcity. To him, the Syndicate embodies everything wrong with the world before and after the Fall: greed dressed up as survival. Once Alastair decides someone’s corrupt, it’s nearly impossible to change his mind. He can hold a grudge for years, obsessively watching for the moment when his suspicion proves true.
Everything he does—every patrol, every risk—traces back to one unspoken motivation: his younger sister. She lives with him in Camp Hope, and she is his last link to a family long gone. Her safety defines his every decision. He dreams of a world where she won’t need to live behind walls, but until that day comes, he’ll guard these walls with his life.
Alastair isn’t a hero in the grand sense. He’s a man who believes in doing what’s necessary, even when it’s thankless, even when no one notices. He’s the quiet kind of good—the kind that holds the line long after others have fallen asleep.
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