Character Concept: The Tricky Troll Intended role: Mage, Question Axer
Favorite Item: Her combat axe, 'Critter Gitter' Least Favorite Food: Spicy food Favorite Hobbies: Fryin' fools who think they're hot drek Least Favorite Sensation: Chipping a horn Favorite Kind of Run: The kind that helps out the Metaphorically; trolls can be the little guy toolittle guy Least Favorite Kind of Person: Those without red hair
Description: Tricky Mickey is a stereotypical troll by all appearances - muscled up to the gills, horns big enough to hang coats off of, and tall enough that the aforementioned horns have a habit of scratching up the ceiling spackle. And where would a troll be without her cultural decorations - her weapons? Mickey's a simple woman, she likes axes, and it shows. A reinforced titanium-tungsten single-edged axe affectionately names Critter Gitter adorns her back, and along her hips rest hatchets the size of a dwarf's leg, the perfect tool for gittin' critters too uppity to face her on the ground.
Her personality is suitably trollish, perhaps more so than usual, with a disdain for most that would put a misanthrope to shame, and her violent outbursts are particularly sneaky, bursting out of nowhere like an eyedrone from a cyclops. But contrary to her looks, these outbursts are extremely non-troll in origin, the temper tantrums being angry and magical in nature, often catching those expecting a physical confrontation unawares. And for any who might then believe that all Mickey has by way of pain-hander-outers is magic, they're in for even more hurt - they don't call her Tricky Mickey for nothing and those axes aren't for show, so she's just as willing to lop off limbs with her own damn hands if it gets the job done.
However, those around her for long enough will come to realize that Mickey never, ever releases her rage towards anyone with red hair. Hell, she'll be busy apologizing for any fights that happen on the job if the other party's a carrot-top like herself, although she'll still get the job done.
The Stevens were a veritable troll institution, or as much as a troll family could be. You needed the biggest, meanest looking troll to glower or maybe take a few bullets like it was nothing or break a few legs? You wanted one of the Stevens' rascals. Male, female, didn't matter, a Stevens kid would get the job done. Gods knew they were bigger than even trolls had any right to be.
So when the eighth child was born a runt, it was a little strange. Strange enough to name her Mouse, even, never mind that she was normal troll size. And she didn't grow fast to catch up with her siblings, either - she stayed a Mouse, even watched Mouse cartoons. After she got old enough, it was no longer, "a Stevens kid" you asked for. It was "a Stevens kids, but not Mouse". Between that and her red hair, a trait that did not run in the family, Mouse had it rough at home, and outside, well. She was a trog.
That kinda chip on the shoulder don't shake easy, and she didn't even try. Riding her family name would only work against her, so she did the reasonable thing and started work under a new name, Mickey. And unlike the rest of her overgrown family, she was Awakened, which helped land ugly, weird jobs. But they were ugly weird jobs that she could handle.
Slinging spells was easy enough if you were vicious enough, and the Stevens had a vicious streak that was size-independent, so maybe her family helped after all. But by the time Mickey was getting a reputation, one that focused on violence and a penchant for using the right tool for the grisly job, she was cutting ties with her family and not looking back. She was poor, dirt poor in a way that only a troll can be, but she was respected. She had found what her family had refused to give her, and she was more than willing to throw away that family, if only to make sure that she would never give up on grabbing that respect.
Or maybe it was fear? Fear that the big troll would burn and chop, and that it was better to point her at the enemy with a little incentive than potentially have her working for the enemy? That thought occurred to her occasionally, a bit of an existential crisis, but every time, she decided it didn’t matter much. Who cared if they hated or feared or respected her, in the sinful SINless circles? It was better than being ignored, better than being the timid little mouse.
'Go to the store,' they said. 'It'll be a literal milk run,' they said. Mickey grunted her irritation as she pushed up at the stupid store shelf that had fallen against her after the explosion had ripped through the front of the stupid Stuffer Shack. Canned beans, baby food, and all other colorful drek was splattered against the front of her clothes, and her scowl conveyed exactly how she felt about her Razorwired Gals merch getting ruined. If the toothy snarl wasn't enough, she pulled out Critter Gitter and deftly slammed the axe into the shelf, sending it skidding away.
She surveyed the store, appraising the groaning-but-alive forms buried beneath their own avalanches of cheap, useless items. Worse, the fraggin' refrigerator that held the soymilk was pulped, too close to whatever caused the blast. It wasn't one of these skags, not unless they were really stupid, so she began to move, stepping onto downed shelves and kicking through cans and plasti-wrap crap. The keeb beneath one of the shelves did his best to complain at her weight, but she silenced it immediately, stomping down and spitting out, "Shut it or die," before ignoring whether he complied or not, the spike on the back of her axe dragging behind her like a rudder.
A glance out the ruined store window made it clear. Carbomb, with cleaners coming in. She fell back, groaning in frustration. She wasn't even getting paid to fight! It was a handful of orks and softies! She groaned again, adding to the chorus of other patrons. Whatever. No milk, no pay anyway. Might as well shake 'em down, she decided, before blinking three times, pulling her vision into the ether. Five life signs coming in, with one particularly bright, and one further back. A full team of pinkies. With a throaty growl, Mickey concentrates and lets the power run rampant through her, flinging it at the furthest mark, chuckling as a body hit the ground and the others outside began yelling.
In her most convincing voice (which wasn't convincing at all), she does her impression of a terrified elf wage slave. "Oh god, help! This- this mage is going crazy!" All the while, Tricky Mickey was smiling, creeping forward to the edge of the store, Critter Gitter held tight in both hands and raised up to her chest. And when the first wary foot came into range, suddenly she was there, bringing the axe across her chest and firmly at neck-level for the terrified backpedaling orc mage, catching meat and tearing through.
It crossed her mind to wonder why they set off a bomb here. What or who they were after. But all she could see and hear was the dripping of the milk behind her, spilled all over the broken cooling equipment and splattered through the wreckage. They had spilled her god-damned milk, and by gods, she was going to make them cry over it.
Placeholder. I’ll try to tweak a bit and transfer over my character from the other app thread to here later today.
Raizen, do you need me to write a summary for my backstory, since as it is it very much exceeds 700 words?
Character app:
Real name: Unknown Adopted name: Bianca Ferreira Shadow Alias: Dollhouse Age: 20 Metatype: Homo Sapien Team Role: Face/Infiltrator/Breaking&Entering specialist Character Sheet:https://drive.google.com/file/d/12S4...ew?usp=sharing
The first thought most people have when seeing Bianca for the first time is "WOW!" This 5ft 8 inch woman is a true Brazilian beauty, with full, brown hair, tanned skin, toned legs of a dancer, flat stomach, and a generous chest. Her melodious voice only adds to the effect. Even with a lot of skin exposed, she seems to be able to hide weapons on her person as onlookers are usually distracted.
She tends to favor fashionable yet provocative clothing, especially while "on-duty" working for Mama Jing. Her silver tongue, as well as her skills at melting away into the shadows, makes her confident that no ordinary riff-raff can truly harm her. People may think she is nothing more than a joy-girl, and that's exactly what Bianca wants them to think as she gets in position to steal the objective or to let the rest of the team inside.
Bianca is outwardly confident, especially when it comes to her voluptuous appearance and her ability to talk her way out of trouble. She usually has a smile on her face. Is it fake? No one can tell. On rare occasions, she shivers and frowns, as if reliving some dark memory or perhaps trying to recall something but unable to. But she usually recovers quickly, and that smile is plastered on her face again. She also *loves* attention, and sometimes can seek it even if it might hinder her or her mission. She is meant for the spotlight, and that can come into conflict with her stealth skillset.
Strangely enough, one thing that her friends and allies never see her do is get ANGRY. Annoyed at times, but never angry.
Background summary: Bianca has amnesia due to extensive time spent as a meat-puppet in a bunraku parlor. She was a covert ops trainee in one of the Big 10 corporations, and was sent out to infiltrate the Mafia. The Mafia caught on, unluckily for Bianca, and captured her. Instead of killing her, they thought this beauty could be better used making money for them in one of their bunraku parlors in Seattle. There, Bianca was brainwashed thanks to those Personachips, and spent at least a year as little more than a slave. Eventually, a bit of independence started seeping back in, but thanks to her (recently acquired) addiction to BTL chips as a form of escapism, she was still kept in line. Eventually, shadowrunners came and busted the bunraku parlor up on an unrelated run (or was it?), and Bianca escaped in the confusion.
Bianca was taken in by a Madame of a popular brothel called the Red Velvet Room, and for once in her life, Bianca had agency. Even as her life stabilized in one way, it destabilized in another. She was beginning to have Blackouts (thanks to her Scorched quality) sometimes when she used BTL chips. Sometimes after one of those episodes where she doesn't remember what happened for the past 6 hours, she'd regain some skill she didn't know she had (like using a monofilament whip). Eventually, she decided to take up shadowrunning so she can collect enough funds and allies, in order to uncover her past.
RP sample: The team had spent some effort to find out who the mistress of the head researcher is. Once that was done, it was a simple matter to use a bit of make-up here, a voice modulation there, and voila! Bianca passes for one Ms. Peggy Nunez (or so she hopes). And tonight, “bring-your-spouse-to-work” day, is the perfect opportunity to make a scene and make sure Mr. and Mrs. Head researcher are NOT in his office, where the team’s decker needs to plant a few devices onto the off-grid computer. The researcher and his wife are already in the building. Showtime.
*Click clack* *click clack* The sounds of her red 6-inch high heels repeat themselves as Bianca walks deliberately across the hard floor towards the reception. This pair of shoes isn’t quiet. But then, it’s not designed to be. Just as a magician wishes for her audience to be distracted by the obvious movements of one hand while the other hand performs the act of legerdemain, Bianca plans on attracting as much attention as she can while the rest of her team gets in position. Besides her heels, there's also the skimpy, barely-there black leather outfit, (synth-leather, of course. She’s not made of credits). It is doing a woefully-inadequate job of containing her body, but doing a spectacular job at turns heads.
As she jiggles and bounces up to the receptionist, she purrs with a practiced (and modulated) voice, “Please let Mr. Peterson know that Peggy, his *significant other*, is here for the day’s activities…” Of course she said this loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. The drek will hit the rotating blades one way or another soon. She just hopes her team can do their part quickly. Bianca doesn’t actually want to use the monofilament whip stored in her finger compartment on an angry wife!
FAQs 1. Do you have an idea of who Bianca was before?
A. I left this pretty vague on purpose. Originally, when I created this character for the other game (where the GM just disappeared during recruitment), I had planned to just let the GM make this part up and surprise me with it. For this came, I'm thinking that my Bianca was corporate-raised by one of the megacorps through and through, and brought up to one day be one of their elite covert-ops agents. She was still in field-training stage when she was taken by the Mafia, and sent to the bunraku parlor to be re-programmed.
Bianca probably grew up not knowing a lot of freedom in a sense. All she has known is loyalty to the corporation and strict training. One could argue she was just a different sort of slave even before being a meat-puppet.
2. Does she still work in the brothel now? What are her boundaries like after experiencing something like this? I think most people would be repulsed by that whole industry, but she is still hanging around.
A. Yes, Bianca still works at the Red Velvet Room. It is currently located in the Redmond Barrens (likely in or near the Touristville area within the Barrens). Starting with a Notoriety of 3 (for some reason the "Good Looking and Knows It" positive quality raises Notoriety), Bianca and her body are somewhat well-known in the Barrens I assume.
Her boundaries are a bit weird. She doesn’t really have a deep-seated core baseline of “normal” honestly. Not anymore. Thanks to her original personality being almost completely wiped out, and her mental programming involving “enjoying” being a meat-puppet, Bianca’s personal comfort zones are different than your average person. Now, don't get me wrong. She definitely hates slavery, and prizes *agency* very highly. Her beauty is one of the ways she can exercise her newfound agency. Her body lets her get what she wants, and lets her manipulate others. As long as she’s doing this for herself and her own interests, she’s perfectly ok. Bianca is anti-slavery, but sex-positive.
3. She dresses provocatively, how does she respond when someone reacts?
A. She enjoys the attention and she knows being physically admired generally gives her more power, so she generally responds positively. As long as Bianca thinks she is still in control of the situation, she doesn’t discourage such reactions. She has gotten used to wearing next-to-nothing (or nothing, on some occasions) in the Barrens, so she is pretty confident in her ability to get out of trouble.
Extended Background: "Who am I? Why am I? How am I?"
Finally found out what’s in my head has a journal function. Audio-log style. Let’s start from the beginning. As far back as I can remember (which is not very far), I’ve been owned by this bunraku parlor. Waking up on a semi-sanitary medical bed, feeling sore…and I was definitely restrained. Some sort of chip had ejected from the slot on the side of my head. Was it a Skillsoft to help train me in the ways of my new “career”? Was it some combination of a BTL and Persona-chip, set on repeat in order to wipe away my old self and install a relatively blank-slate joygirl base in my head? Whatever had happened, the end result is that I don’t remember anything of my life before waking up there. Not my name. Not my family. Nothing. However, I seemed to retain normal working knowledge of the world in general, and I can somehow speak British English in addition to Cantonese. Someone then came in and untied me, and told me that my orientation begins immediately. Ok, tired now. Will record more of my thoughts of my early memories tomorrow.
My days have gone pretty much the way I imagined. I didn’t have much free time as my days and nights are spent walking the streets looking for business, or as a personality of “someone else” (usually some celebrity) to satisfy some guy’s fantasy. Apparently, I’m very popular. Thinking back to how I felt back then, I think that I really should have felt anger, resentment, and an urge to escape. But, whatever they had installed as my “base” personality just seemed mostly fine with going along with the status quo. I “enjoyed” my work well enough. Not enthusiastic, but I didn’t feel negative towards it. Mostly, when not with a client, I was just…bored. Our pimps gave us lots of things to keep us in line. I stayed away from the booze and the physical drugs, but I couldn’t stay away from the BTL chips. While I was using one, I was someone with agency, doing interesting things. A single chip never lasted long enough, and I would get another chip if I satisfied lots of client a day. Motivation indeed. I…got good…REALLY good…above and beyond the rest of the girls, just so I could have lots and lots of chips. Damn, my head was…IS…messed up. Heading out now. Record more later.
I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I could slowly feel bits and pieces of my new “base” personality being chipped away. My memories didn’t come back, and I’m also not sure if what’s surfacing slowly is my original persona, but I felt…well…a bigger need for agency. It wasn’t that being a joygirl became less enjoyable (I think that part of the programming, if it indeed is programming that made me think this way, is drilled deep in my psyche), it’s that I would rather do it for myself, on my own terms, instead of being forced. And there are lots of other things I wanted to try too! Time-wise, this was probably a year after my “first” memories. As the fortunes would have it, the bunraku parlor I slaved away at was targeted by a group of shadowrunners. Guess someone wanted to send a message to the Mafia (who owned that parlor). In the ensuing chaos (amongst the many explosions), I escaped.
After I escaped, I was in a bad spot. I literally didn't have a single nuyen to my name. Heck, I didn't even have a name. Not a real one to call my own anyways. I'm not sure how long I would've lasted out there, with nothing but the clothes on my back, and whatever drek had been implanted inside of me (at the time, I only knew about the interface in my head that allows Simsense and BTL chips to be slotted in. Only later on did I discover it's a fully-functional commlink, with which I am recording these entries. I have other upgrades as well, but more on that later). As luck would have it, as I stumbled around aimlessly, I found Mama Jing, the Madame of the Red Velvet Room. Or rather, she found me, and graciously took me in. Beyond offering me a place to stay, she also offered me something far greater: choice. I had the skillset she looked for in her workers yes (except she doesn't do the whole meat puppet thing), but it was up to *me* whether I worked for her or not. And I did choose. I could come and go as I please, as long I completed my shifts. I kept a reasonable percentage of the the nuyen I earned. I made friends with the other girls, who were REAL people and not other meat puppets. I was treated like a real person!
Things were looking up for a while. Even though I still didn't have any skills outside of pleasuring others, at least I was my own person...or was I? One demon I couldn't escape is my addiction to BTL chips. Even though life was better, the time I spent in the bunraku parlor being chipped, both as part of the meat-puppet job and as part of my escapism, has left my inside a bit of a wreck. And it was getting worse. Not only do I still use these chips, but every now and then, I'd black out, and have absolutely no memories of the hours immediately following the BTL usage. I had no clue what I was doing, except what I could figure out from clues and context. Sometimes it's harmless enough, but other times not so much. As far as I can tell I hadn't murdered anyone while "chip-walking" or anything, but one time, I somehow ended up many kilometers away from the Red Velvet Room, wearing nothing but high heels, and sporting a massive headache. Getting back was...interesting, but the silver lining is that I gathered a bigger client base. Time for my next shift. Continue later.
The blackouts were getting more severe…but they seem to be accompanied by some blessings. I have no idea how I know how to do this. One time, after I enjoyed a thrilling BTL adventure as a daring cowgirl in the old wild west in the land of the gwailo, I lost 6 hours of memories. What’s strange is that, even though I tied myself down first, I somehow ended up elsewhere (thankfully this time with some clothes). I had tied myself securely, so either someone freed me, or I somehow became learned Houdini’s tricks. Another time, Mama Jing told me that I was spouting off Combat Biking commentary while I blacked out. I don’t remember that part, but ever since that incident, I’ve known quite a bit about Combat Biking.
Over the next few months, I learned (or perhaps remembered. Not sure what the right word is) more and more tricks. Recently, I got into a similar situation as that one before where I ended up naked somewhere else. But this time, I was farther away, and in a very bad part of town. I was VERY worried, but somehow I knew exactly how to move from shadow to shadow, waiting for people to look the other way before I ran for the next spot. I almost got out of that bad area before a group of drunk thugs saw me, and tried to take me. One of them was so drunk that as he waved his pistol at me to intimidate me, he fumbled and dropped it. My body acted with instincts that I didn’t know I had (but I’m beginning to get used to this now). I rolled, got the gun, and managed to cap 2 of the thugs before they got a chance to respond. In the ensuing fight, I got away with just a scratch (scraping a trash can. Nothing from those drunk thugs). Later that day, after I returned home, I also somehow unlocked the functions of the thing in my head (turned out to be a commlink). It had a few interesting files, including various cybernetic and bioware upgrades I’ve received. It might be only a partial list, in fact.
I’ve tried to deal with the strange things that has happened to me and my body, but after unlocking that list of things done to my body (without my consent, might I add), I just can’t keep pretending everything is going to go ok. I mean, Orthoskin? Skin Pockets? Cybereyes? And lots others. I’m no ordinary girl kidnapped and brainwashed into being a meat-puppet joygirl. I was certainly made to be more than that. Someone invested a lot of money into me, and I’m now pretty ****ed up because of it. Was it the Mafia that owned me and owned the bunraku parlor? Or did the Mafia merely kidnap me without knowing that perhaps I was being groomed by some Corp to be an assassin of sort? Whatever the answer is, I won’t find it by myself. Mama Jing has agreed to let me work less shifts, allowing me time to try to find the owner of that (now blown-up) bunraku parlor. He may or may not have the answers, but he’s the only lead right now, and it’s a start. I’ll need look for allies in the shadows, of course, since no one can poke into the business of the Mafia alone, and survive…
Name/Primary Alias: Redacted and Burned / Buzzsaw or Buzz Metatype: Ork Archetype: Vat Job/Tactician/Combat leader Description:
Ork, 2.1m (6'10"), 168kg(370lbs). Buzz is big, like toe to toe with a troll big. But despite that he isn't lumbering. His movements are spare, efficient, fluid. There is something strange about the skin stretched over all those muscles. It has a waxy look and the veins that bulge out aren't purplish-blue, they are the same flat skin color as the rest of him. No obvious cyberware: no datajack, cybereyes, replaced limbs, but there is something off about him. His hair is white, high and tight in a military fashion and he carries himself that way too. His body is unnaturally youthful for an ork who is obviously nearing the end of his life. A large scar on his chest can occasionally be seen and hints at a recent surgery. Having been designed as a tool and used like a piece of equipment and having spent most of his life isolated, taking and giving orders, he is stunted emotionally. PTSD? Perhaps. But recent events or maybe this stage of his life have made him critically retrospective and, some might say, soft.
Background: Born like any other metahuman to a mother and father, Buzz could have just entered the military and retired early, had a family, maybe grandkids by now. But that isn't what happened. He did the first part, joining UCAS at the age of 13, but that's where his story diverges from a normal life. Buzz's natural makeup was ideal for a new program, a super soldier experiment. He was designed from the ground up to be the ultimate insertion operative. He was made to survive a land mine in the arctic alone with no gear and continue on to his objective within the time parameters of the mission. He was augmented with the skills and knowledge necessary to lead a team of super soldiers to overthrow regimes or even, perhaps, eliminate a dragon. But on his last mission, REDACTED
...are still keeping tabs on Buzz, waiting for the proper time to call in their favor and use this particular asset they stumbled on. Buzz for his part retreated to the Ork Underground and has resorted to Running as a way to repay the monetary debt as one of the SINless masses. He is still hunted by UCAS for either a debriefing and return to duty or a collection of expensive parts, which one of those he is not sure.
RP Sample:
It was early morning and, judging by the time, the sun hadn't even started to crest the Cascade range to shed it's light on the barrens. You wouldn't know it from where Buzz walked in a conduit-lined passage in the belly of Seattle. Except for a few areas where residents trailed fiber optic cables to shed just a little uv light to counter the odd instance of Seasonal Affective DisorderSAD, the original Ork Underground was bathed in a dim artificial glow 24/7/365. Though his metahumanity was made for it, Buzz was surprised how comfortable he felt down there in the dark having lived most of his life as humans did. Buzz had been born an ork and so he didn't cling to his human past the way his parents had in Boston. As far as he knew, they were still blissfully living out their suburban life outside of Boston, unlike him, granted the long lifespans of the humanity they once knew. The Program effectively ended his relationship with them, but he heard news every once in a while. His sister for example, he knew, had died in a gunfight. Living on the streets was a tough life, but she had chosen it after Buzz had disappeared in the Program rather than live out the weird hybrid human/ork limbo of their parents. He wished he could have talked with her before... He shook his head from the thoughts and took a deep breath.
The smell too was like a home he had never known he was missing. It was the odor of food stalls and uncollected garbage, yes, but the undercurrent was the concentrated smell of ork (and the occasional troll); not unwashed b.o. or sweat, just the natural pheromones of homo sapiens robustus. It was something you would never notice above ground, diluted by open air and other races. Buzz found himself loathe to leave it, even if he knew it was only for a short while. If it took almost dying to find his new life here, maybe it was worth it.
He took the last corner in the twisting passage to come upon the guard station, manned by two orks with automatics. Nine months ago, Buzz had entered the OU via the tourist gate, no better than the people who came to see the Disneyland-like markets that the mayor set up for them to spend the day and say they had seen "the real thing" with their own eyes. Back then, he was a SINless immigrant. Now, he was a SINless citizen and he used the entrances reserved for them.
A kid, no more than 9 years old and just starting to get his facial hair, caught sight of Buzz and straightened up, throwing his hand up to his brow in the sloppy salute of a civilian who had never served. Nudging his partner with his other elbow and not really hiding a stupid grin over his protruding tusks, he said, "Sir, good to see you Sarge, sir!" Buzz used this entrance to the subway a lot. And he was not a sergeant, at least not when his service had quickly ended.
He barely acknowledged the two with a grunt as he slipped out the door to a disused subway platform. Melinda was waiting for him at the diner before her shift started and he quickened his pace. The sooner to get this monthly meeting over with, the better. He liked the woman, but she was a little clingy. Saving her from some gang thugs soon after arriving in Seattle on her son's birthday meant more to her than anything had ever meant to Buzz and she was not afraid to show it. But she had the word on the street and occasionally a serendipitous warning or two for him so he intended to keep up the relationship even if it was inherently a dangerous one.
He bounded the subway stairs three at a time and felt the synthcardium in his chest pulse slightly faster against his rib cage. The rest of his implants were a seamless mesh and he had never noticed them beyond the normal aches from working out, even now in his advanced age. But this one was different...foreign. Every beat felt like a grain of sand slipping down the neck of an hourglass and there was no telling how many grains were left.
Not many, that was certain. And not enough.
Character Sheet: I've marked everything that is non-core (Chrome Flesh and Run Faster + martial arts from R&G)
Name/Primary Alias: Morgan O’Caiside/ Cassidy Metatype: Orc, you breeder, and proud of it! Archetype: Razorgirl
Description:
Cassidy is fiercely independent and proud of both her Orcish and Irish heritage. She refuses to be denigrated for being either, and will happily scrap with anyone who refuses to acknowledge her as an equal. She recognizes how short life is, particularly for an orc, and is resolved to live the drek out of every minute of every day. When she laughs, it’s from the gut. When she hates, it’s from her soul. When she makes a friend, she’ll kill herself to defend them and when she makes an enemy….well…
She’s a little quick to spout pro-orc manifestos, but once you get past the bluster, she’s actually a deeply passionate, intensely dedicated woman. She’s determined to prove herself and make her mark on the world, but is smart enough to have learned patience, though some of that education came at a very dear cost.
Appearance & Personality. About average height for an orc, which makes her fairly tall in a crowd. Her short cut red hair helps her stand out a bit more, though you shouldn’t fall for the green eyes…they’re fake. Probably a good idea not to call her out on that, though. Well toned and in good shape, she also has the look of intelligence in her eyes, which also glimmer with pride bordering on cockiness. She’s got a chip on her shoulder for good reason; life hasn’t been easy for her, so she doesn’t have any intention of going easy on Life. She goes at everything she does full throttle, but she’s surprisingly accepting of anyone, including humans (and even elves), who treats her with respect and dignity. She loves a fight, but she doesn’t have a death wish, and isn’t too big on grudges…most of the time.
Background: Morgan was born an orc, in the Orc Underground of Seattle. Her father, a merc for Ares, goblinized into an orc, but was able to continue functioning. He met, and married, her mother, an orc. She grew up listening to the sermons of Preacher, and followed The Church of the New Baptism. During her turbulent teen years, she ran with several orcish/metahuman gangs, mostly the Skraacha and the Trogs, and joined an anti-Humanis branch of the church. She was arrested several times, suffering from anti-orc prejudice from the mostly human police who incarcerated her, which did nothing to improve her tolerance or demeanor. Eventually, through the guidance of her father, and several humans who managed to earn her trust, she lost most of her anti-human sentiments, and returned to the comparatively tolerant views of the New Baptism teachings, though she eventually distanced herself from religion in general. Being an orc with an arrest record limited her opportunities, so she called upon several of her dad’s contacts, and was able to break into the world of running shadows.
RP Sample: Cassidy laughed, tossing her head to flip the shock of red hair. The elf and his buddies glared contemptuously at her, and the orcs and trolls behind her audibly cracked knuckles or drew melee weapons. Nobody drew a gun…not in this stretch of the Plex…that would bring the heat down. But Knight Errant didn’t care much if a bunch of metas ripped each other apart, as long as the breeders didn’t get dragged in.
"Oh, you poor, stupid, dand-"…she stopped herself. No sense in getting all racial if she was going to give this moron a chance to walk away. "Poor, stupid, fragstick. Don’t you see? The corps, the police, the public in general…they want us to fight. It keeps us busy…keeps us weak. They’re scared that if you and me team up, we’ll be too strong. They’re scared we’ll take power from them. They’re scared that we’ll take over. We’re in the same boat, you and me…we’re fighting the wrong people! We’re brother and sister, comrades in arms against…"
The elf had heard enough. "Perhaps it keeps you weak, you inbred, ill-mannered, unwashed blight," the elf retorted, to the chortles of his elven chummers. "And I assure you, if you and I were on the same boat, I would happily scuttle the wretched craft and say a prayer on behalf of the poor fish who were unfortunate enough to feast upon your bloated, green-skinned corpse, (Sperethiel) Willfully stupid fornicator of swine.makkanagee morkhan."
So much for diplomacy. "(Or'zet) Please, say that again.Bi’ce, s’azate ‘om p’oni", she spat back, reaching back to draw a long, curved blade from its sheath. As she did, the elves burst into motion, quick and precise.
They were good, Cassidy had to admit. Skilled, smart, and quick. But there was something to be said for raw hatred and determination.
"Look at you," the older ork said, with unconcealed disgust.
Cassidy scowled, but was unable to meet the older ork's eyes. She sat, bruised and bleeding, on the rough wooden bench in the man's office, fiddling with a button on her jacket.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?!" the ork said...not quite shouting, but somehow his deep, resonating voice filled the room, making Cassidy jump. "A brick through a Knight Errant windshield?! Did you think you would right all the wrongs of the past by angering the police, bringing them to your doorstep? How did that work out for you??" The ork stalked across the room in front of Cassidy, looming over her, seething in contained rage.
"He called me a trog!" she yelled back, her young voice not quite filling the room, eyes brimming with tears. "What are we supposed to do? Just sit back and take abuse?? You don't want me to use a brick?! Give me a gun!"
The older ork twitched a moment, though whether it was in favor, or against, the younger's statement, Cassidy couldn't tell. Something burned in the man's eyes...but Cassidy lacked the wisdom to read the savvy activist enough to tell what it was. She'd sure struck a nerve, though....and she found herself wishing she could take it back. Not just because the old man was still formidable, despite the gray in his hair and beard, and the lines on his face, but because Cassidy not only respected the hell out of him, but loved him as a second father.
"I don't want you to use a brick," he said slowly, deliberately, "but they do! They want you to be a monster! They want you to be what they say you are!" He shook the girl once, a rough jerk that set her teeth rattling, before he composed himself again. "If you act like a monster, you will become a monster," he said, staring intently into the young girl's eyes. "Don't let them turn you into a monster. Do you understand?" When the girl just stared, he shook her again, "Do you understand?!"
"Don't let them turn me into a monster," Cassidy said with a nod, staring back. The older ork watched her for a moment, then set her down, laying his hand against the side of her head, stroking the long red hair. "Dead heroes can't help anyone," he explained. "Sometimes, you have to lose several battles, in order to win a war." The girl stared intently back, not defiantly, but absorbing every word. The older ork sighed and gave a light cuff to the girl to send her on her way, "Go home, Morgan. We'll keep this between us."
Cassidy went home in a daze, trying to reconcile the older man's wisdom with the anger inside her. Why? she thought, avoiding her parent's house entirely, though she knew Manny would contact her family to tell them to watch for her. As she pushed open a sewer grate that led to the Outside, she thought, "Why wait for a win? It's time to act now!"
Cassidy slipped through the gate, not hearing her mother call her name.
Description: A Dwarf from Germany, she's taken to dying a little red into her hair to escape the stereotypes a little bit. Would probably clean up very nicely if she wanted to but usually does not, instead she prefers to slap her welding helmet on and work on her drones. Antje used to be what was referred to as a "Spider" in the Shadowrunning Business, a special kind of decker/rigger specifically skilled to interact with a building's automatic defenses. Codes a little bit thanks to training from her last job, and while she's not exactly a Novahot Decker she can usually do what is needed in a pinch. Would prefer not to be the face, not really shy just finds most people not worth the trouble.
Usually very practically minded and surprisingly funny for a German, her street handle is the German word for Gear or Cog as a play on her previous lifestyle. Actually is very prone to sarcastic quips and jokes, it's just that she usually gives them in German so nobody really notices. Her accent is still very thick but she does speak passable English even without langsofts. Treats everything like an engineering problem and it kind of shows.
Background: There's probably no surprise that someone like Antje has a history with Saeder-Krupp. There's very little question that, with the possible exception of some small pockets of Berlin, Saeder-Krupp pretty much owns the country. And just as you'd expect most wage-slaves are ultimately fine with that. The Jäger family was one of them, and Antje got quite the easy ride when her aptitude for drone engineering was found out.
More practically minded then most researchers, Antje eventually got a job as what's referred to as a "Spider" in Shadowrunning circles. And, frankly, she loved it. On paper she was working 80-90 hour work weeks but her job duties were to spend about 10 hours a week tinkering with the drone parts and systems the more theoretically inclined researchers came up with and the rest to hang out in her apartment, play video games, read, tinker, and when there's a security issue at a Saeder-Krupp holding be ready to jack in and assist the automated security systems. From a distance, where her meat was perfectly safe. Able to both Deck and Rig with passable skill, her future in the company looked pretty bright.
Or at least she thought it did. She's still not sure exactly when it happened but one day she discovered that she'd been put into a storage container built to look like her apartment that she couldn't get out of. Fortunately, she didn't panic. Instead she treated it like an engineering problem and improvised some drones out of her home projects and home electronics to escape. On the outside she discovered that her SIN had been burned for no reason she could find.
Apparently a target of some sort of bizarre conspiracy, she took to the shadows to survive. The shadows of Germany aren't as deep as they used to be, but while her criminal knowledge is shallow her engineering knowledge could get her through the day. Now she's ended up in Seattle trying to get a base going to start fighting back to solve the mystery.
RP Sample: "Ich habe die Schnauze voll Scheiße" Antje grumbled after yet another lap around her cage. No, that was how she'd put it, a cage. It was a clever cage, made to look like her apartment in Munich but it was a cage. Antje first noticed it when her "home" network was about 5% slower then it was supposed to be. The "windows" actually trid-screens was a big one too. Finally the front door doesn't open. She almost chuckles that the 5% thing was what tipped her off that something was up but now's not the time to think of it.
Alright, stop - what is she going to do about it? How was she going to escape. Calm, deep breath - think.
"One - Arbeitselektronik. Sie dachten, ich würde es nicht bemerken." she starts with a quiet whisper to herself as she starts fumbling for her toys. The video games were still working, she seemed to even still have limited Matrix connectivity. So clearly the plan was for her to not notice that her meat was trapped. Alright, a weakness in their system.
"Zwei - Niemand hat mich schon unterbrochen. Sie beobachten also nicht sehr genau." she continued. Nobody's interrupted her yet, so whoever did this isn't watching very closely. Maybe they trusted their illusion that much, maybe there was just a lot of Spiders-In-Boxes. Either way, there was some freedom. A quick look and she discovers that she didn't have her own tools, but they did give cheap knock-offs to keep the illusion going. Knock-offs that were still kind of functional.
"Drei - ich habe immer noch Kraft."
Third, this cage had a steady power supply. Maybe it's own batteries or a massive power station. Either way, she just had to tap into that. The start of a plan forms and it's almost a little sad. Because she might be able to get a bypass going by sacrificing her game controller.