Solomon is third-generation military. His grandmother, Alma, helped overthrow the government and establish Stronghold. Alma was more than a survivor. She was a true believer: she saw Stronghold and its militarized society as humanity’s only hope. Before Alma died of a heart attack, she made sure her son - Solomon’s father - was on track to follow in her footsteps.

Solomon’s parents died when he was four. They were both Specialists. One day they left to conduct a nest elimination and just never returned. Solomon was raised by his grandfather, Chaim. Before the outbreak, Chaim Zissel was a rabbi. The opposite of his late wife, Chaim considered Stronghold a tragedy: he saw it as backward. To him, Stronghold was the end of humanity, so long as its abuses could continue unchecked. Chaim always believed there was more to being human than survival and he wasn’t so different from his wife, in that way: he was a true believer, too.

So Chaim spoke out against Military rule. He wasn't influential but he talked beautifully and eloquently of other ways, and of respect for life. And that went about as well as one might expect. Chaim Zissel disappeared when Solomon was eleven. From his parents - dearly departed, long forgotten - Solomon learned to let sleeping nests lie. From his grandparents, he learned a subtler, if no less obvious lesson:

It doesn’t much pay much to believe. Everyone ends up dead, eventually.

Alone, Sol learned to be a thief, and he excelled. Small and terrified senseless by Chaim’s loss, Solomon made himself scarce. He thought whatever - whoever - had his grandfather would come for him, next. For the next four years, Solomon survived like a street rat, learning to be whatever and whoever he needed to be, to survive. He developed an impressively nasty vocabulary for a kid and some even worse humor. Sometimes he survived on his own skill and sometimes at the mercy of more powerful criminal elements, who found the little rat amusing.

At fifteen, Solomon was picked up for a bit of petty thievery. He got a slap on the wrist - considering his age, and out of respect for Alma and his parents.

He was settled in a military-run orphanage.

Sol didn’t like it. But he didn’t fight it, either. When Rome is the last city on earth, he told himself, you fuck Romans. Sol had a lot of catching up to do but he was always quick on the draw. He was a born soldier and a born showman. He could fight like his grandmother - or he speak beautifully and eloquently as his grandfather, when he wanted.

He also knew a lot about setting up punchlines for jokes, and a lot about the makings of a long con.

Or maybe he would just carve out a good honest living in the military. Nothing wrong with that.

So Sol tested into the academy. And excelled there, too.

He made a good sniper. Sol started his military career as a Specialist (nest elimination - fucking fantastic). He survived. Enjoyed it, even, though as soon as he could - and however he could - Sol moved up in the ranks. He tried to make it look natural but he put hard dodgy work into climbing that ladder. Four years ago, he reached Lt. Col., where he's resting, for now.