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  #1  
Old Jan 13th, 2024, 11:33 PM
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Use your choice of the Streetrat, Edgerunner, or Complete Package options.
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  #2  
Old Jan 14th, 2024, 12:17 AM
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Bishop CainName: Bishop Cain
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Handle: Bishop has a dry sense of humorPatriot
Role: Solo

Combat Approach: Assault rifles (primarily), martial arts, grenadesClose to mid combatant

Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 200 lbs
Distinguishing Features: Deactivated NUSA-MCF model, for those who might noticeLeft Cyber arm

Personality: An ex-soldier through and through, Bishop is a methodical and tactically thoughtful individual, ingrained with training and responses from his time within the NUSA Mechanized Combat Force. He saw war across the world for many years, suffered losses and injury, and developed a detachment to violence; for him, a life or death sitch is where Bishop feels comfortable - it's like a nightmare you can't wake from, but you're familiar with and come to terms being part of. Bishop doesn't regret his service, he did his duty and did it well, but he does hold resentment for the way he was chewed up and spat out by his military. Now, Bishop applies what knowledge he has to succeeding as an edgerunner, as that seems to be the least miserable or boring use of his abilities; especially since bouncing, bodyguarding or building security are no match for the adrenaline kick of a real fight.

Unknown to most, Bishop was implanted with a Kerenzikov during his service. Throughout that entire time, for years, he lived in a perpetually slowed existence - everything was in slow-mo, from eating to walking to watching a brother-in-arms have a bullet tear through his dome and to see every agonizing second drag out - and that took a lot of time to learn to live with. When Bishop was discharged, it was left installed, and as a result conversations can take a long time for him, which might be why Bishop can be short and to the point at times.

Bishop is old school when it comes to others; he is wary of everyone, though once his respect and trust are earned, you couldn't ask for a better gun at your side. He's not much of a talker (for reasons above), but will tolerate a chat for those he knows. He'll share a drink, god knows he needs that rocket fuel to numb the Kerenzikov and sweats he gets at night. He's willing to share his thoughts on how to conduct ops, and even lead them if a crew wants that, but won't argue louder than the stupidest voice in the room and has no problem letting natural selection sort itself out.

Bishop won't admit it, but he has PTSD from his military service.

Backstory: Bishop Cain was born into a family of Combat Zoners. His life was hard, he grew up surrounded by violence, struggling to survive. Bishop developed a tough attitude and a tougher skin, he fought a lot as a kid, and the violence around him bled into him. His father died fairly early on, which left a void for a role model in his life, and hastened the taste for aggression and fighting. His mother did what she could to raise the kid, but by that point he was running amuck and disobeying well into his teens; though, when his mom died as well, a casualty of the combat zone, Bishop suddenly felt how alone he was and how screwed his life might become without her watching his back. And that was why he joined the NUSA Cybergrunts, enlisting underage with a falsified ID, so he could escape being dragged into gangs or corpo crossfire, and actually gain something for himself - to benefit from his violent personality and willingness to hurt others.

Boot camp was a breeze. Bishop didn't learn half as much as he expected, though he did enjoy the education in tactics and planning and squad work. He enjoyed having brothers and sisters in arms, a family forged by a mutual want to kill things, and while not ideal for a cohesive bond it was something he understood. Nonetheless, Bishop passed with flying colors, and was approved for his first deployment... but, before that, came time for the chrome.

Bishop was dissected, the NUSA Mechanized Combat Force jammed a Kerenzikov into his brain, he had Rippers installed into his left arm, and his Neural Link was filled with all the best Uncle Sam had to offer - sensors, pain editors and analyzers. There were discussions about installing bone lacing and Sigma frames, but all that felt like jumping the gun on raw soldiers being sent out for the first time. So, with a rifle slapped into his hand, a salute and a rucksack filled with MREs, Bishop joined his MCF platoon and flew out.

Luckily, Bishop took to war like a fire to brush, and soon he was on the front-line and doing his part for his country. His first deployment was a bloody mess, filled with a buzzsaw of violence and gore, which almost shook the youth to his core. He managed to survive with the help of his natural detachment, but the perception dilation of the battlefield - the Kerenzikov powering strong - resulted in Bishop seeing everything happening twice as slow, twice as raw, twice as jarring. His second deployment saw the loss of his left arm, but he was promoted to Specialist for the inconvenience. The arm was replaced, cost covered by the military, and he was grafted with a bunch of replacement cyberware for his trouble; the rippers were gone, along with the meat arm, but in its place came a quick change mount, a grapple hand and a popup launcher. Bishop was everything the MCF could have wanted - a soldier with a resistance to violence, who was flung into circumstances that provided opportunity to slice and dice and chrome him up... all the better to fight the good fight, of course.

However, on his fourth deployment, Bishop's squad were wiped out - though arguably due to a failure of command, from the top, and poor intel that was actioned - and being the only survivor and ranking soldier, he was blamed. The man was dishonorably discharged, abandoned by the military that had been so happy to take parts away to further their cause, and spat out into Night City. Back to his home. Only this time, his cyberware was stripped out, and he lost his danger wages, essentially leaving him with less than squat. Fortunately, because of some strings and some red tape, Bishop was able to keep the arm, but it was without all the bells and whistles of a Cybergrunt armament - so it was still less than ideal. He also kept the Kerenzikov, because his perception and normalcy were to a point that removing the implant would be detrimental to his 'quality of life', so the medical review allowed it.

Still, having your entire livelihood upturned and being left without a pension by your Government was a kick to the gut. It left Bishop with barely enough to scrape by, and before long he found himself in the bottom of bottles, not too dissimilar to other vets that were churned out of service. But, that also drained his eddies even quicker, and before long the ex-soldier was one step away from homelessness... and so, with no other choice, and a want for that adrenaline of violence, he took up a gig as an edgerunner.

The rest is history.

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Last edited by Rockerboy; Mar 28th, 2024 at 08:03 AM.
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  #3  
Old Jan 14th, 2024, 03:02 AM
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Real Name: Virgil Heikkinen

Handle: Doktor Sleepless

Role: Media

Someone Stole Your Future. Don't You Ever Wonder Who?


Appearance: Virgil looks like he stepped out of some sort of old Steampunk-Retro Sci-Fi Movie where he was most likely the villain. Like he's a fictional character somehow made real. Tightly groomed with a perfect handlebar mustache, his trademark look is strongly reminscient of a previous century mad scientist or adventurer with a pair of "welding goggles" that he wears at all times. This is all an act, "Doktor Sleepless" is ultimately just a character Virgil plays but part of the "Doktor Sleepless" character is a claim that he has no actual need to Sleep. In fact, as the Doktor Sleepless character, he has claimed that it's impossible for him to sleep without heavy pharmaceutical aid. It's not actually true, but rumor has it that if you get him to take his goggles off it's very believable.

I Stopped being Real. No-one is going to listen to a boy genius, or a philosopher, or a traveller. No-one cares about what an orphan or a rich man has to say. All the thing’s I’ve been: no-one’s ever been interested. But People like listening to Characters. Characters are safe, because they’re Not Real. So I became a Character. Doktor Sleepless. He’s something else entirely. Who’s afraid of a cartoon mad scientist? Who’s afraid of Doktor Sleepless?


Background: Broadcasting from my secret Labratory and Bunker, hidden far away from my no doubt legions of adoring fans wanting to pin me down and steal my kidneys, here comes tonight's Appointment with Doktor Sleepless. Some messages coming in asking about Me - well, Listener - first you have to ask. Do you want what is True or what is Real? You'd be surprised how often those aren't the same thing.

Well, which do you want? What is True, or what is Real? Because in Night City, those are *rarely* the same thing. Some have figured that out better then others, and few better then Doktor Sleepless. According to his advertizing and word-of-mouth, Doktor Sleepless is one of the DJs for a pirate radio/podcast station "BlackFlag Radio" where he's known mostly for two things. One is that you have to stay up until at least 2 AM if you want to catch any of his broadcasts live, and the second being that he fancies himself a Journalist of the Weird. Specializing in Conspiracy Theories and Alleged Weirdness around Night City, he describes his style as True-But-Maybe-Not-Real. A throwback to the old Gonzo style. Doktor Sleepless's name is to be taken very literially, he's claimed on his show to have no natural need for Sleep. He's hinted at both neurological conditions and top-secret brain implants to explain it but never has laid the whole story out.

The Real Story is that he was born a Virgil Heikkinen, the son of a couple corporate lawyers who thought they were more important to their company then they really were. Virgil's first exposure to the conspiracies that float around Night City came with a firmware update in their home. Something, there was something in the screens. First came the Static, then the Nosebleeds. Virgil spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out what was going on - but answers never came. Officially it was a murder-suicide that killed his parents, but he saw their eyes when it was happening and - it was like there was nothing behind them.

With the money he inhereted he did a bit of travelling, did a lot of drugs, and got in touch with some interesting people. Turns out the Screens in his Home and trying to figure out what was going on got him pretty good at asking the interesting questions. Virgil Heikkinen created the Doktor Sleepless character in part from a love of old movies, and just as much because somewhere along the line he did have a drug-induced epiphany and from it he knows something about Night City that people twice his age often don't figure out - that what is True and what is Real can be very different things. Makes you wonder what else he can find out. Also makes you wonder something else, is it True that someone can burn this whole sick system down, and can it be Real?
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File Type: pdf CPR-DoktorSleepless-Fillable.pdf (1.64 MB, 9 views)
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Last edited by GleefulNihilism; Jan 21st, 2024 at 12:14 AM.
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  #4  
Old Jan 14th, 2024, 11:29 AM
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Name: Ricky Fortune
Handle: Buckshot
Role:Lawman



Appearance:Ricky Fortune always loved the Cop shows from the bygone era of the early 20th Century, his father often propping him in front of a screen with the old black and white stylistic cops and robbers, just to occupy him whilst he went to work. Whatever his work was, he never really knew. His early fascination lasted all though his youth and into adulthood, his drea set on being a man of justice and truth. Modelling himself on such an old style, Ricky is often seen in a long trench coat, of Kashmir material, a white shirt, sometimes sporting a tie, and his dark brown Trilby hat which was once his fathers. At forty years old, Ricky's once handsome and chiselled look is now giving way to middle age; his dark brown hair now mottled with grey, more grey in the stubble which so often frames his face which bares the lines and scars from someone who has seen and experienced far too much. Or maybe he relied on the bottle a little too much.

Background:Ricky sat in the office of his boss, Eddie Goldstein, silently chuffing on a cigarette, admiring the blue smoke slowly dancing up to the ceiling as he exhaled. It was not long before the old wooden door rattled open, Goldstein standing in the entrance, taking a moment of pause to look at the figure sat in the armchair in front of his oversized desk.

"Rick." he said as he shut the door and twisted the blind to prevent any prying eyes peering in". I'd offer you a seat, but you've already made y'self at home." he said with a flustered sigh and shuffled around to his side of the desk, dumping a mountain of paperwork onto its mahogany top.

"Chief." He acknowledged as he leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on Goldsteins desk.

"What is it, Rick? I can't give you a raise, we discussed this. The precinct is scraping the barrel of its budget as it is, we just don't..."

Ricky raised his hand to interrupt.

"No, thats not it." He said in his usual husky voice.

"Then what?" demanded Goldstein, his attention on sorting through the paperwork now sat piled in front of him. "I don't have the time or the energy...
"

"Chief..." Ricky said has he placed his iron and his badge on the desk and slid it over towards Eddie Goldstein. "My time here is done. I've ridden my luck too many times and the streets are gettin' worse, y'know?"

Eddie stopped fingering through the papers and looked at Ricky dead in the eye. "Whatcha sayin', Rick?"

Ricky felt a lump become firmly lodged in his throat; the words seemed so simple to say in his mind, but after all this time, it was hard to let go. He swallowed hard and sat back in his chair, drawing another cigarette from its pack and tapping the end on the arm of the chair before lighting it.

I'm out. he said simply. There was a long moment of silence as Eddie looked at Ricky and Ricky stared back at his Chief.

F**k off! Eddie suddenly spat. Request denied!. Eddie turned back to his task at hand.

I'm serious, Eddie! Ricky shot back. I'm forty years old, married to a job and been in the force 20 years! What have I gotta show for it? A few old wounds and a shitty condo in Heywood?

Once again Eddie stopped his chore, thumping the papers down. "Rick, you've been an integral part the the precinct, the rookies look up to you, man! Your accolades speak for themselves! You know I'm gonna put you forward for senior, I just don't have the budget..."

"No. Eddie. No. It ain't about that. "Ricky retorted as he scratched his stubbly chin.

"Its the Kid, aint it?" Eddie asked. Ricky turned to stared out of the window. "It is! Listen Rick, it wasn't your fault, he just..."

"Wasn't it!?" he bellowed back, losing his composure briefly. "Nineteen he was. Nineteen! I had to go and explain to his Ma how her baby boy got zero'd on a routine f****ing traffic stop! Had enough of this sh!t, Night City can go to hell."

"Come on Rick..." Eddie had now taken a soften tone. "We need you. I need you. That kids family needs you. What was his name, Raymon?"

"Ramirez."

"Ramirez, thats it, a good kid."

"Too good for this hell hole. That boy had a bright future, taken away from some iced up cyberpsycho. I gotta leave Night City. Im gonna go it alone for a while until I can scrape together enough eddies." Ricky stood from his seat and took a long draw from his cigarette.

"Come on, Rick. "Called Eddie in vain as his friend turned the handle on the door. "Besides, you gotta give 20 working days notice!"

Ricky paused for a moment and his shoulders slumped slightly. "How much leave have I taken in the last three years, chief?"

"Err...I dunno, 10 days maybe? You have accumulated quite a lot of leave, i can tell ya" he said with a chuckle.


"Then I am on leave. With immediate effect."

"What? No! Rick, wait!"

The door slammed shut and the office fell into silence, except for the blind still rattling against the window.

Ricky Fortune, or Buckshot as he is known by his fellow officers due to the shotgun he usually carries, was a decorated NCPD veteran but has become disillusioned with Cop life due to the loss of a young rookie on his watch. He wants to start afresh and leave NC for good, and upon leaving the force has set up a Private Investigation firm to bring in some eddies in order to fulfill his dream. It was sat in his office one day when he received a mysterious call from an unknown fixer...
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Last edited by Drifter One; Jan 15th, 2024 at 11:11 AM.
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  #5  
Old Jan 14th, 2024, 11:33 AM
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Handle: Tracepoint
Role: Netrunner

Appearance: A young Eurasian woman with her hair dyed pink and cut above the shoulders, loose and comfortable clothing, and usually a backpack slung over her shoulder. Not frail, but with delicate features and quick eyes and hands. She always looks at people as if she just realized that they gave something away about themselves. Pretty, in a tomboyish way, and has never applied an ounce of makeup in her life, something she is fiercely proud of.

Background: Tracepoint (often called Trace or Tracy) was born Ainslee Uchishiro in 2023, just before the bombing of Arasaka Towers, where her father worked. Fortunately, her mother had been visiting relatives well away from Corporate Center to show off the new baby, and both were spared immediate death. Her mother had been a highly successful lawyer previously, though her husband's association with Arasaka, especially after the company's purge from North America, made her persona non grata among Night City business. Her husband's family had connections to the Yakuza, who are always on the lookout for good lawyers, and so the family came under the organization's protection.

Ainslee hated the Yakuza. Though they had ostensibly 'saved' her family, it was closer to indentured servitude. Ainslee saw the effect it had on her mother to legally aid the Yakuza, not to mention the various members that claimed her mother as a mistress or concubine. When she learned some of the players behind the destruction of the tower, such as Rache Bartmoss and Spider Murphy, she became obsessed with programming and netrunning. It wasn't hard to convince several of her Yakuza 'uncles' to grant favors: gear or money for such, entrance into local meetup locations, introductions to certain connections, and Yakuza passcodes. By the time she was fifteen, she'd been embezzling from Yakuza front corporations for years, building up a nest egg to get her and her mother out.

Of course, these favors, and her skills, came at a cost. She was noticed by the Yak and, like her mother, forced into using her skills in to their advantage. It wasn't all bad, really. She got to practice and build up her skillset without much fear of reprisal, because who was going to come after the Yak for trying to hack them? It's also how she got the Yak access codes; direct deposit of stolen funds. It just never occurred to them that the codes could be use to withdraw as well.

Eventually, she had enough to get herself and her mother out. She falsified some tickets for a flight out of Night City, false IDs, the whole nine. But when she told her mother about what she'd done and encouraged her to escape, she found to her horror that her mother had 'gone native' and now considered herself a full Yakuza member. Ainslee was locked in her room while her mother contacted the Yak, but Ainslee was able to escape with nothing but what she was wearing and could stuff into her pockets and backpack.

Since then, she's made Night City her home, earning enough from netrunning to survive. Her good gear and passcodes were all left behind, and the money recovered by the Yak, but Tracepoint isn't worried. She was smart enough to stash some emergency funds, just in case, and was able to acquire a replacement rig. Eventually, she'll get it all back.

Then it's time to make some gonks pay.
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Last edited by The Rat Queen; Jan 14th, 2024 at 04:29 PM.
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Old Jan 14th, 2024, 12:17 PM
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Handle: Temple Solomon

Role: Medtech

Appearance: Solomon is somewhat gaunt in the face, with his well cut goatee doing nothing to draw attention away from the sunken look in his cheeks and the various lines of scarring scattered across his face, long since healed but still angry in their pale persistence against his dark skin. The shaped fade at his sides accentuates the ordered tangle of dreadlocks atop his head, stylized for his own pleasure while still remaining practical and out of his vision. There is an ever-present slouch in the man's posture which makes him seem significantly shorter than his already unimposing average height, and combined with his lean build and too-long arms and legs, one could be forgiven for coming away with the feeling that they are dealing with an awkward and uncoordinated individual, with the stylish pair of glasses worn by the man only adding to this image while simultaneously giving him the air of an intellectual. The signs of his awkwardness being a suggestion rather than fact only come to the fore when he is called to demonstrate his ability with his tools of the trade and when the task at hand demands his absolute focus, hazel eyes behind cosmetic eyewear dissecting the problem piece by piece and vowing to see the challenge through to the end.

Background: It would not be until he was much older that Solomon would grasp just how fundamentally the events of the 4th Corporate War had changed the trajectory of his family's life, let alone the lives of his Kenyan brothers and sisters. All the young boy would know was the great technological boom which built itself ceaselessly before his eyes, and the songs of his people as they professed their claim over the stars.

Father, mother, aunts, uncles, cousins twice and even thrice removed, all would share their stories with the young Solomon and his siblings about the work they had done in building the bridge to space and the parts they had played in claiming it for themselves from powers too broken to keep a firm grasp, their optimism unbothered by the red skies as they worked diligent to build a better future for their children. Indeed, even as the skies reclaimed their color and the blood-red glow retreated to the rise and fall of the sun, the promised progress of the Highrider Confederation never seemed to fade, rich nations of poor transformed into modern centers of innovation, shared prosperity turning conflict over resources into a shadow of the too recent past, children who would once have gone hungry in their sleep now being educated to protect their new birthright and and see their home soar to skies unknown. Solomon took this progress to heart and excelled, holding tightly to the hard fought knowledge with which the future was being built so that he too could honor his people and contribute to the prosperity of his homeland. Knowledge which was meant to be cultivated and used for the betterment of others, to make for a strong people who would never again be held under the dominion of others. But with greater knowledge came deeper questions, and when the book had closed on his first foray into reading on the world at large, he could not help but wonder how other denizens of this war torn world had survived in all this time. Before he himself deigned to reach for the stars, he decided he would find some work out and about in the world to experience it for himself, and there were always opportunities for young and talented individuals looking to make a name for themselves in the Confederation by protecting its interests planetside. One of those opportunities eventually led to Night City, for a job on behalf of the Mumbasa based Tumaini Syndicate to track down and deal with a rogue element before they could sell off the fruits of their corporate espionage of Tumaini tech, leading to the young man crashing face first into the foul smelling wall of reality which was New Westbrook.

And it was not just the smell which hit him like a mag-lev train, but the ugly, nearly endless rows of tents, the people in their threadbare clothes and barely functional chrome, the palpable air of abject misery as the people huddled around fires and cobbled together heating units for warmth. The frequent ring of gunfire in the background added a perfect capstone to the whole oppressive atmosphere, and Solomon's curiosity quickly gave way to a deep disgust with this state of affairs. The Combat Zones were reportedly worse than even this, the urban areas were merely quaint in comparison to home, and Solomon doubted he could be overly impressed by whatever playground the local corpos had made for themselves in their walled off communities. He had barely stepped into the outside world before already being sick of it, and was counting down the days before they could return to Mumbasa with the stolen tech in hand, but the locals kept making things complicated. Namely, the broken and bleeding bodies Solomon kept patching up because these savages had the gal to continue abandon their own to a slow and painful death within his line of sight. It was their fault that he had to spend every waking moment not tracking down the thief fixing cyberware issues, treating the symptoms of various local illnesses, fishing bullets out of people's backsides, and then some folk had the nerve to insult him further by offering eddies they clearly could not spare for the work he did. Money was money, but he would die of shame if he charged a one armed child growing up in this filth for the privilege of just being alive. It was stupid, this entire system was a disorganized mess whose sole purpose appeared to be to perpetuate the suffering of others, and none of the powerful of this so-called society seemed to care. The longer they remained in this backward place, the more Solomon felt like he was going mad. This place could be better, should be better, what was wrong with all of them?!

Eventually one of Solomon's many walk-ins, a Nomad who'd escaped a close call in one of the Combat Zones, was able to provide the Confederation team a tip on their elusive thief and a supposed deal that was about to go down. Everything that followed was like clockwork; they came, they saw, they zeroed a bunch of no good punks and one slippery corpo agent. And that should have been it, take the tech, pack up their supplies, and head back home to actual civilization... except Solomon was not quite ready to leave. Now that he had gotten a taste of what the outside was like, his dreams of joining his fellows above the skies was tainted by the knowledge of the misery he would be leaving behind on Earth. History and trauma and plain human pettiness argued that this was not his problem to solve, that if the downtrodden of Night City wished to become something more they should not look to people who not even a century before they would not have given a second thought, but the juxtaposed images of his own home over the squalor before him was an insanity the medtech could not let go. He surrendered his gear, his commission, and even his name to his commander before the team headed back home without him, items all ready and waiting to be reclaimed once he came back to his senses and left this mess of a megaslum behind. That was years ago now, with barely any progress made in the interim to improve the lot of locals, intensifying his jaded perspective of this far off land but simultaneously hardening his stubborn resolve to bend this place to what he believes it should be. He picks up odd jobs to earn the eddies he needs to keep his clinic running, and the end goal is to get enough like minded folk together to establish a school that will properly serve the have-nots of this society and give them the tools they need to grow and thrive beyond the system which has abandoned them. Then, and only then, would Solomon be able to reach for the stars he holds so dear with his head held high.


Last edited by Crocodile; Jan 16th, 2024 at 08:00 PM.
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