Elliott Hasenkopf doesn't-quite-tower at five-feet six-inches tall. His dusty brown hair is a far cry from “groomed”. He looks like he could just barely pass a military physical fitness test. Discipline is not his strong suit. At the same time, he understands what needs to be done in order to survive.

Elliott's parents were very well-off in the community. Elliott was not a son to them. He was a show pony. Elliott was told what to eat, when to exercise, where to socialize, and how to make his parents seem all-the-more perfect. Elliott understood that children would kill for the privileges that he was given, but he hated all of the stipulations. He found joy in one place: the battlefield.

Elliott's hate was not manifested in rejection. No, he waited. Patiently. At age eighteen, he was free. Or so he thought. He explained to his parents that he no longer wanted the life that they so forcefully offered. His parents, surprisingly, understood. After all, Elliott was too old to be dragged to the cocktail parties of the upper-echelon. He shed his suave and urbane life.

Elliott's parents certainly “loved” him in their own way. It was simply easier for them to fund his Zoid battling habit than to have an honest conversation with him. And frankly, he could care less.

Elliott has spent the last few years battling and drifting from town to town. On his person, he keeps an old Colt-style revolver. It is simply for intimidation; he doesn't even know if it fires. Clothing is quite a contrast from what he used to wear. On average, he is dressed plain-and-simple jeans, a hilarious t-shirt, and a military jacket that he won in a friendly poker match.

Currently, Elliott battles for pleasure. His personality is quite unique. He can be laid-back or cleaned-up. Elliott's fitness is of military level because of his workout regiment that never quite faded from his past. His hair, however, is always messy. He likes to have a good time. And he loves to battle.