Dex isn’t remarkable to look at, a pale-skinned, dark-haired man of about 30, a little taller than average, physically fit but not dramatically developed. He doesn’t talk about his past, or even provide a real name, but his accent suggests an origin on New Alaska. A world with a chequered history, which might explain why he doesn’t like to talk about the war and whether he played a part in it. He apparently has no remaining family or friends from that period.
He’s cool and efficient in a crisis, but out of the pilot’s seat Dex seems to lack direction, as if waiting for orders. He does like to relax, singing and drinking and enjoying the company of the opposite sex, but you have never known him grow truly close to anyone. There are strange gaps in his knowledge of politics and pop culture, but there’s something else that makes it hard for him to relate to other people. If you stick around him for long enough, something doesn’t seem quite right.
One thing you know isn’t right on a simple medical level is his digestive system. Most food makes him sick, and even when drinking he prefers spirits and water. He has some kind of machine in a case that produces various mixtures he can consume. For obvious reasons he doesn’t let anyone interfere with it, but it seems to be based on gravity-shielded electronics. That would make it extremely valuable, except for the fact that no-one other than Dex has any use for it.