Height: 5'5

Weight 122lbs, 55.3kg

Hair Color: Dark Auburn

Eye Color: Chocolate Brown

Skin Color: Light White

Scars:

• Faded scar on the middle left of her abdomen, where she was stabbed some odd years ago.

Tattoos:

• Dandelion and Birds tattooed on her right shoulder, up towards her neck.
• The Valkyrie Sword , her old squad insignia, is tattooed on her left bicep.

Modifications:

• None

Cybernetics:

• None

Other:

• Annelle is a smoker, and favors a brand that gives off sweet smelling blue-gray smoke.

Weapons:

• Defender Mark II: a standard civilian pistol, semi-automatic with an average rate of fire and lower bullet impact. Uses ballistic ammo and holds twelve 9mm rounds.

Armor:

• None

Gadgets:

• Her Goggles which can transmit and record video, and utilize blue vision, a form of better quality night vision.
• An Air Filtration Mask which does a handy job of allowing her to breath when the air is contaminated or otherwise unbreathable.
• A Wrist Pad that Sys.Admin loans out to its employees.
• Magnetic Shin Splints which allow her to travel along the magrails.

Key Items:

Miscellaneous: Blue brand cigarettes, a silver flip lighter, a black backpack

Height: 5'7"

Weight: 120 pounds give or take

Hair Color: Redish brown

Eye Color: Blue

Skin Color: Needs a tan.

Scars:n/a

Tattoos:n/a

Modifications: n/a

Cybernetics: n/a

Other:

• Adley is obsessively clean. Most scientists who work with shards have an above average level of cleanliness to avoid shard sickness but Adley tends to takes it to an extreme.

Adley doesn't put a terrible amount of effort into her appearance sticking to jeans or shorts and t-shirts or white button up shirts, topped off with an old brown jacket. Often it won't matter what she's wearing because it will be covered by a long white lab coat which has become a bit of a statement piece to her, adorned with pens, syringes, clips and whatever else she might find in the lab. Despite her state of dress she is a pretty girl, not that she knows or particularly cares. Her hair is kept back most of the time in a messy ponytail and her build is lanky, to put it kindly. Days and nights in the lab without much thought to sustaining your self will eat away at a person's muscle and weight.

Adley works as a research associate under the primary investigator (one Dr Fairfield) in a bioengineering laboratory which is funded to work on augmenting humans with core shards without developing "shard sickness". Scientific research is expensive but, due to the nature of the work, funding comes in millions from Syndustries and DigiCorp in cooperation with the governmnt who hope to develop powerful shard-soldiers. However, Adley, and everyone else in Fairfield's lab, are not truly interested in developing what would only be a destructive and dangerous force. It is fortunate then that the Liberata also provide illicit funding towards curing Haematesta and removing the abilities of Pyskers altogether. The lab see this as a just cause, especially when helping the miners who develop the disease seems of little interest to the government and industry. Of course, to satisfy their official benefactors, the original goal must also be worked towards.

In the control centre of Sector Two, Nubbikham, life is pleasant enough. No one is particularly rich, middle managers and labourers, but most are comfortable. Aldos Underwood was a simple but happy kind of man with a pretty young wife, May Underwood, and two children; a daughter called Adley and a Son called Aldos Jr. (Aldos Sr. had an odd sense of humour and his children's names were part of that, he'd freely admit). That eldest girl, their neighbors said, was a bit of an odd one, nervous and restless as she was but all-in-all, they seemed like the perfect, hardworking, Ark family.

Aldos laboured in Nubbikham's small mines, freeing shards. The work was not easy but the miners were compensated handsomely for their effort allowing May to stay at home with the children. However, the shard-mines hold much greater danger than simply collapse. The shard sickness was an uncommon but ever present threat to the hardworking men of the mines. A creeping sickness that would start something like the flu, with fatigue and nausea and progress to something all together more horrific. Of course, most never saw a miner get to that stage before they mysteriously vanished. One day, when Adley was 15 and Aldos Jr was 13, that's exactly what their father did. For weeks now he had come home more weary and ill than the day before, unable to eat or sleep. And then, one evening he simply did not come home at all. They didn't question it, no one ever did. To question it surely meant they'd also go missing themselves.

May, now the soul provider of her family, had to take what little work she could and soon became a Seeder, sowing fields for very little pay. Life became hard for the Underwood's but they persevered. Aldos Jr.'s playful youth was lost to a serious young man who felt the burden of his family's safety well being fell to him. Adley, ever a bright girl, threw herself deeper into her studies where she was soon scouted by Nubbikham's minor laboratories for an apprenticeship where she learnt more about the genetically modified seeds which kept Sector Two's plains fertile and designing new "seeding guns" to more efficiently distribute them.

Much to May and Aldey's dismay, as soon as he was 18 years old, Aldos Jr was recruited to the shard mines, feeling it was the only way to provide for his struggling family. The mines had been recruiting more and more frequently as the shard sickness became more prevalent, a consequence of the mines becoming deeper and the demand from the Core becoming greater. It seemed Nubbikham's population shrunk by the day. But any concern from Sector Two was brushed aside by the central government, safe and content in The Core. Adley could see only one thing for it, to cure the sickness herself. It was a bold, unrealistic dream but, well, Adley was an unrealistic kind of person.

At 20, she sat the Scientific Aptitude Test and passed with ease. She was soon sent to Sector Five to intern under the remarkable weapons engineers at the King Institute due to her knowledge of seed distribution machinery (and, she suspected, that there were very few openings available at the time). She learnt a lot in her year there and made excellent connections but it was not her goal to design weaponry for the government- in fact she could think of few things more distasteful. Thankfully, her request to be moved to the bioengineering laboratories at the Queen Institute was soon fulfilled and she was sent on with recommendations attesting to her keen, inquisitive and imaginative mind if her somewhat colourful character. For the past four years she has worked under the ageing Dr Fairfield, earning her doctorate and becoming part of illicit, "rogue" science in an attempt to cure shard sickness and Psykers (see Job Description).

It should be noted that, although most in Fairfield's lab felt uneasy about the work they were carrying out, it was not until Adley's arrival and her passion for the cause that pushed Fairfield to work directly with the Liberata.

Weapons:

• Sweet delicious science
• Adley, by nature, is fairly passive and would rather not harm anyone.

Armor: n/a
Gadgets:

• Prototype #356: Originally designed as a method of riot control, this dual action prototype shield and directed energy weapon is powered by black shards and worn on the forearm of the user. When stationary it can produce a dome shaped kinetic particle shield which can fit the user and, on average, one other (height: 3 feet, diameter: 4 feet ). It can sustain most impact from armaments for approximately two minutes. The second feature is a "Blackout Wave" which produces a shockwave that can disturb and shut down all shard energy dependent devices (including "living" beings) for a short amount of time within an adjustable area. This can be for 10 seconds at 50 yards, for 4 uses, or for 40 seconds at 200 yards for one (or any adjustment between) before the shard is used up, rendering the device unusable. However, as the shield is also powered by the same shard the uses of the blackout wave become reduced depending on the amount and duration of shield use.

Key Items:

• Basically special quest items you get from me, and I won't always tell you what they do. - Please give me special things Eso.

Miscellaneous: Cigarettes, a stopwatch, a lot of pens that don't seem to work, a Gilson pipette, a pair of calipers, a whole bunch of falcon tubes in different sizes and at least 5 pairs of new and used gloves that definitely shouldn't be in there.

Height: 5' 6"

Weight 120ish pounds.

Hair Color: Black

Eye Color: Brown

Skin Color: White

Scars:

A long scar that runs down the outside of her right arm, from the wrist to the elbow. It was the result of cutting herself while scavenging during the particularly low point in her life.

Tattoos:

None.

Modifications:

None.

Cybernetics:

None.

Other:

Nothing in particular.

As to workplace regulations Karen is often times sporting a formfitting orange jumpsuit complete with an admittedly decent pair of work gloves and boots. She is also given a disposable filter mask for a meager degree of protection against poisonous fumes, and a very cheaply made pair of goggles that actually make work even more dangerous so she doesn't bother to wear them.

Outside of work Karen doesn't care much for style, long as its not too ragged she'll wear it, besides finding a brand new set of clothes isn't the easiest thing to pull off, especially for cheap. Her favorite outfit is a pair of jeans which are in surprisingly good condition with a white tank top and a faded black jacket over that. Otherwise Karen would haphazardly throw on whatever random piece of clothing that also doesn't smell too bad... yet.

In terms of physical build Karen is about average, while her job does provide lots of opportunity for exercise she by no means is muscular in any meaningful way.

Karen's job is one of a foundry worker, a sort of evolution on the steel mills from way back before Arkheus even existed. While the actual work she does changes on a weekly basis such as loading ore onto an automated production line or overseeing the smelting process, the end product is always the same; high strength steel for use in construction.

Advancements in technology has made steel working fairly hands off, in fact there is a low need for human workers to be involved at all but of course the entire facility cannot be completely autonomous. It is definitely unskilled labor for the most part, however it does take someone with a few working braincells unless he wants to get killed off in a stupid accident, or god forbid screw up horribly enough to bring the entire foundry to a screeching halt. With that in mind, plus with some low to moderate hazards, the work does pay ever so slightly more than usual, not by a lot but every little bit helps.

Jack Tobin, a man who came from nowhere and had nothing expect a little girl in tow. Jack could have been described as a gentle bear, he was of large size with a beard fit for a lumberjack, yet he had a soft spoken personality. Calm, quiet and the patience to rival a saint, these were all his shining qualities. He and his daughter found their home in The Slums, it was nothing more than a glorified shack in all honesty, although it had a roof which is what really mattered. To keep them going Jack held down whatever job came around, more often than not as a day laborer since his sizable stature gave him a particular edge that employers tended to favor.

Day by day that's simply what Jack did, rise early to earn a handful of credits by moving crates, then spend his spare time caring for his only daughter. It was a terrible lifestyle, and if it wasn't for the help some of relatively good natured neighbors, people who even then weren't frankly all that trustful, who helped watching over a young Karen, the two may have not survived in the first place.

Karen Tobin grew up like any other child with the misfortune to be born in The Core, lots of gnawing hunger and a general sense of dread, yet in a way Karen had it so slightly better, all thanks to her father. Jack for reasons that still go unknown, had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of any kind of story one could imagine; Grimm's Fairy Tales, Arthurian Legends, Greek myths, a smattering of random folktales from different old Earth cultures, and much more.

On nights where Jack had the energy to spare he'll tell a story right before bedtime. In Karen's earlier years he would stick with simple ones like anything from the Grimm brothers, but as she got older he delved into much more complex tales taking weeks to finish some of the longer epics. To a child who had nothing, having a sense of imagination was at least something, and looking back on it Karen would be damn grateful for this.

Life would only prove to become all the more complicated once Karen reached the age of twelve, when she could finally watch out for herself. It was around this time when Jack started to take his stories outside of the household, it wouldn't be uncommon for him to take off in the middle of the night thinking his daughter was asleep. Out there in the overcrowded Slums he would sit down somewhere a bit secluded, perhaps a small ways down a side alley, or in the calmer areas where the few existed. There he would start reciting a story, with or without an audience present which there were certainly occasions where a stray few would stop to listen.

As these sessions continued the residents of The Slums started to recognize Jack, well as much as a dirt poor laborer can be recognized. There were those who accepted what he was doing, or simply didn't care, they weren't exactly the problem. Overtime a few local gang lords started to see his actions as a kind of takeover, or an encroachment on their territory. From that point on there was an even larger threat of attacks as the number of threats increased, fortunately with none of them carried out.

Karen picked up on what her father was doing before long, it was hard not to notice really. After asking him why he kept this up even going far as demanding a stop to it, Jack slowly shook his head, and smiled softly to his daughter. "Guess I just want to give others a chance to escape, at least for a moment... its hard for me to explain, maybe if I find the words that's when I'll tell you."

Jack never got the chance to find how to explain himself as it turned out, after Karen's nineteenth birthday he disappeared. At first Karen was caught in a whirlwind of panic, she knew something had happened to him when her father didn't return from work one day. The next few weeks were a blur of asking anyone who would bother to listen to a hysterical girl, of her poking through every corner of The Slums and even a little beyond that. It was after a month when Karen gave up her search, she absolutely did not want to admit it, but there was only one single logical conclusion she could still reach...

Her father was dead.

After that things fell apart for one her old home no longer felt safe, and so Karen imminently abandoned that tiny shack taking everything she could carry, which really wasn't that much. For a long time after that she became another one of those lost souls that aimlessly wander The Slums. She no longer had her father's income to depend on, and it came down to whatever strategies she could find to survive. Begging was hit or miss, scavenging for discarded food was just enough to keep her alive. Periods when she was especially desperate lead to thievery, although quickly she found that she fundamentally lacked the talent.

Her teetering on the very edge continued like this for at least a year until finally fortune found it proper to finally smile upon her. It started with a rare display of compassion from a small corner store owner who decided to give her a chance with a part-time job stocking shelves. The pay was criminally meager, but to have a income of credits no matter how pitiful was a step in the right direction. From there Karen's situation gradually improved, very slowly at that, but it was getting better. The hard work she poured forth of course played a large role in this, as did the continued stroke of good luck that seemed to have started to follow her.

It was about a year ago when Karen landed her first real job, a position at a foundry. After carefully saving what she could spare from her new paychecks lead to her renting a very low end apartment in Low Town. It was about the worse she could find with only about twenty square feet to live in, plus the location was in a rather undesirable part of town as well. Life still sucked, but at least she was in a marginally better position now, real walls and a roof with enough credits to eat, not to mention a little on the side for booze.

Weapons:

• Nothing all that threatening as even a reliable ballistic handgun is way too much for her to afford, not to mention she would rather not go through the hell of obtaining a permit.
• That said its also too stupid not to have a weapon of any kind while living in The Core, and to this end Karen does keep an old fashioned switchblade on her, if nothing else its at least a slight deterrent against any potential attackers.

Armor:

• Nothing, only the clothes on her back and that's definitely not enough to stop a bullet.

Gadgets:

• A very well used Phoenix Smart Watch, its seen better days for sure but it works... kind of.

Key Items:

• None, yet.

Miscellaneous: A simple paper back journal which was a gift from her father, so of course it holds great sentimental value despite how little she actually uses it. A metal flash for carrying booze, and a small collection of books that also once belonged to her father.

Manifested Phenomena:
None.

Not much in current outstanding relationships.

Height: 157cm (5" 2')

Weight 67kg, (148lbs)

Hair Color: Silver Blonde

Eye Color: Haze Grey

Skin Color: Caucasian

Scars:

• Chest scar that extends from her left shoulder to under her right breast.
• Several slash marks across her back.
• Puncture scar in her stomach region.
• Multiple puncture marks on her inner elbow from needle injections

Tattoos:

• A small barcode on her hip, indicating her property number to Julius.

Modifications:

• None

Cybernetics:

• Military Grade Tactical Visor [x]
  
  • Class: Military

  Rachael's vision has been vastly improved through the use of a specially designed head visor that connects straight into her optic nerves. The visor itself usually rests up upon her forehead but will lower itself in front of her eyes when she wishes to see the outside world, giving the appearance that she has part of a face shield equipped.
  
  This visor is designed with an array of cameras and sensors that can easily switch between night vision, infra-red, and regular sight; although normal sight can appear somewhat digitised and lacks the typical colour range.
• Assisted Aim
  
  • Class: Military

  Due to the limitations of Gaze's visor, whenever she uses any firearms she has to retract the face shield and aim manually like any other militant. Since she is normally unable to see what is down the scope, her personal weapon is equipped with a camera and a short range transmitter that sends the video signal into a receptor located behind her right eye. The result is a shooter that has precision and accuracy of a marksmen so long as the camera and barrel line up.

Other:

• Blindness
  
  Rachael was born with almost zero vision. She has a rare condition where the natural receptors and nerves at the back of the eye deteriorate over time and by the time she was old enough to walk and talk it had reached a point where she could only make out the shadowy figures of someone and the difference between night and day. This crippling illness made it extremely difficult for cybernetic engineers to grant her sight and thus when they added the neural links, they had to delve deeper into her skull and latch onto the optic nerves directly.

Height: 179cm

Weight: 82kgs

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Grey-blue

Skin Color: Lightly tanned

Scars:

• Puncture wound through the right of his chest and his back
• Three bullet wounds in his stomach

Tattoos:

• A blazing fist on his right shoulder, the insignia of his old Guardian squad.

Modifications:

• N/A

Cybernetics:

• N/A

Other:

• N/A

Raen is a rather drab dresser, wearing outfits that are plain and quite close fitting. He usually wears a t-shirt adorned only with the Bastion Defence logo imprinted on the centre of the chest. His pants are usually tan or dark cargo pants which sit above a pair of combat boots.

His physical build is medium athletic toned by over a decade of military training and mercenary work.

Following his departure from Syndustries Security five years ago, he founded his own private security company, Bastion Defence to utilise the only skills he’d ever been trained for. Five successful years of contract work grew it from a one-man operation to a firm of fifteen people total, ten operators and five support staff. While much smaller than many of the larger private security firms, they have a reputation for being highly trained, discipline and professional when under contract.

The vast majority of the contracts they receive are in the core, from government bounties to protecting corporate assets or wealthy individuals conducting interviews there. Despite being the owner of Bastion, Raen still feels far more comfortable being an operator than sitting nice in a head office or boardroom.

After the disastrous first contact with the Advents, Bastion was one of the many firms hired by the government to bolster the ranks of the Watchmen in the Core.

Raen followed the footsteps of his father as a Syndustries Guardian, living in Low Town in a modicum of comfort relative to the Core. His father had ambitions for the finer things in life, hence why he switched from Watchman to Guardian, hoping the private sector would bring his fortune. In truth all he managed was to become was a guard in the Syndustries Tower. He was a sole child but found friends amongst the kids of Low Town. He was steady but unspectacular at school but did find some success with athletic adventures which guided his development to a physical career.

His dad had passed on most of his own skillset before Raen had even graduated from high school and secured him a trial to become a Guardian for Syndustries. He’d excelled at the job, being steadily promoted to higher and higher ranked squads until he found himself leading one of the premier Guardians in the many corporate orders he followed. The next step was an invitation to join the Reaper program; to become the best of Syndustries’ soldiers. A year of intensive training had followed, there was gruelling physical and psychological exercises along with extensive tactics lessons.

However, he’d always been a square peg in a round hole as a Reaper; where the others were cold, calculating and ruthless, Raen was warm and had empathy for others. Though Syndustries had programs to ‘condition’ potential candidates with ‘mental inhibitions’ such as his own, they only proved helpful in teaching Raen how to hide these emotions rather than removing them. It was under this pretence that he was accepted into the ranks of the Reapers, yet on his first mission he was undone by his empathy. He was assigned a mission to hunt down a group of Anon lead by a former Guardian John Calvin, which had killed numerous Guardians and destroyed swathes of Syndustries’ assets.

When he’d finally tracked John’s group down they were preparing to execute a squad of captured Watchmen. Raen made an instantaneous decision to save the squad but in doing so, allowed John Calvin to escape into the Core. He was severely reprimanded and removed from active duty for failing his mission, then dismissed from the company when a Syndustries Executive was assassinated by Calvin and his men. The termination destroyed Raen as working for Syndustries was all he’d known and all that he’d ever been good for; what was worse that it was his own character failings that Syndustries had invested in fixing which had undone him.

It took a few months of broken living and an intervention from his father and some of his former Guardian squad to turn his attention into something productive again. Though the first two years were tough work on his own, with a blacklisting from Syndustries severely decreasing his customer base and access to suppliers. The turning point in his fortune was a mission rescuing a Calvin Industries executive from kidnappers in the Core, which yielded access to military grade weaponry as a ‘field test contractor’ and a bevy of new wealthy clients. From there Bastion security grew into one of the more reputable small private security companies in the Core, with a recent aspirational boutique office in Aetherdale.

Weapons:

• Calvin Industries Interdiction Rifle
  
  Hailed by Calvin Industries as the last hurrah of military grade ballistic weapons, it was developed for fast moving fireteams that needed lightweight firepower. While capable of using standard single core ammunition it is at its most effective with an experimental dual-core bullet which utilises a second red shard core that detonates on impact with a target. Weapons testing revealed that the weight reduction and streamlined design left it under-powered with standard ammunition but nearly recoil-less and a perfect mobile weapon. Clip size of 30 rounds with fully adjustable fire.
• Calvin Industries LC-4
  
  A laser pistol designed for shot power over anything else, it uses an almost obscene amount of energy to form a hard hitting laser bolt. With a large recoil, low capacity and low rate of fire due to the massive heat dissipation they were a weapon that didn’t make it far past the prototype stage. Clip size of 4 shots.

Armor:

• Raider Light Assault Armour
  
  A lightweight, Mag Rail capable power armour that sacrifices some protection for enhanced speed and manoeuvrability, the suit comes equipped with a compact but powerful jet pack suitable for short flights. The suit seals with a filtered air system in the case of exposure to toxin or gas and the visor provides a weapons integrated HUD with targeting assist to streamline information to the occupant. The use of too many systems exposes the suit’s other major flaw, a lack of significant power storage which makes it less suitable for extended firefights. The suit has been customise into a grey and black colour scheme imprinted with the Bastion logo.

Gadgets:

• Two Red Shard explosive grenades
• Two remote detonated high power explosives
• Wrist attached personal computer

Key Items:

• N/A

Miscellaneous:

• Turretless “Hunchback” All Terrain Assault Carrier
• 3 spare dual-core assault rifle magazines
• 1 spare LC-4 laser core
• Master passkey for Bastion Defence facilities.

Name:Bastion Security

Locations:

• Main Office: Aetherdale, Sector One
• Barracks and Munitions Warehouse: Gray Wall, The Core

Influence: Moderate

Primary Services: Asset Protection, High Value Target Elimination, Personal Security Solutions.

Colors: Grey and Black.

Insignia:

Personnel:
Isabella Turin

• Interdictor Rifle
• BP-15: A standard issue, military grade ballistic pistol with average rate of fire and average hitting power. Carries 15 rounds.
• Raider Light Assault Armour

Konrad Waxen

• Interdictor Rifle
• BP-15
• Raider Light Assault Armour

Albert Fouran

• Interdictor Rifle
• BP-15
• Raider Light Assault Armour

Maximus Erinhoff

• Calvin Industries Annihilator Rifle: A highly experimental Kinetic Energy sniper rifle which acts more as an anti-material rifle than anti-personnel. In order to curb the massive recoil and weight of the weapon, it must be set up in a secure firing position.
• BP-15
• Raider Light Assault Armour

6'4".


201 lbs.


Brown.


Blue.


Caucasian, pale.


• Scar across left side of forehead.

• Scar on left side of neck, towards torso.

• Many scars, varying size, across back.

• Scar on right shoulder.

• Mass of scarred tissue along upper torso, reaching down towards abdomen.

• Scar across back of right hand.


• N/A


• N/A


• A counterfit cybernetic heart.

• A pair of counterfit cybernetic lungs.

• A civilian prosthetic liver.


• Missing middle finger on right hand.

Freddy, though he may appear to be rather behind on the current fashion trends, is very aware of his appearance at all times. He makes his best efforts to both blend in with his common folk of the Core, while still keeping appearances up so as to set a good standard for his underlings. He tends towards suits and dressy attire in dark, earthy colors -worn and weathered clothes, never anything crisp and new. He accents these with warm colored scarves, ties, and cummerbunds when appropriate.

Already sharp and angular features are only accented further by a lack of solid nourishment, and dark circles of stress highlight his eyes. His wiry flesh clings in thick layers over his bones, a man made burly by years of work and labor. It's far easier to count the areas of his skin that aren't heavily scarred and calloused than vice versa -his many many years in the core have chiseled him into a rough figure, more muscle and blood than man.

While the official title behind Freddy is "Landlord", that is a very simple and tame term for a profession regarding far more. As one might find many of the well-to-do in The Core, Freddy's job description as "Landlord" is a sugar coating of his true title -Gang boss, Kingpin, and Arms Dealer are far more appropriate terms. Among his 'gang', Freddy has fallen back to an overseer position. He keeps the logistics logistic, and the operations operational. That's not to say that he doesn't enjoy taking matters into his own hands, should matters prove to be difficult.

"You wanna 'ear about me, then? Roight, take a seat. All started back when I was a lad down in the core. Weren't the shithole slums, mind ye. I was born and bred in Low Town, not the best upbringin' for an upstanding young gentleman like meself. My paw was all tied up in some bonkers ring -called 'emselves the carnies or somesuch? Anyways, 'ese Carnie jokers, they ran all sorts of behind the scenes racket. They 'ad all sorts of business that 'ad me and pop runnin' all the fuck around. Seen just about every corner of the Core up and down, from Neon to High Town. Never found much excuse to stir up the Gray Wall, now I think 'bout it. Me pops was in deep with 'em, but I never saw 'im do much of the administrative persuasion, ya roger? More kept around for a good laugh now 'n' again, and the like."

Chaos has struck the slums of the Core, as news hits that no less than six leaders of the infamous 'Carnie' gang were found dead this morning. Violence and rioting abounds, as people scramble to fill the vaccum of power left over. More on this story, at eight."

"By 'at time, I'd made myself quite the name 'mongst my fellow Carnies. Afta all 'em official gangbanger types went for a Burton, I 'opped in, and kept the others in line 'till we could figure somethin' out. Took us a couple years wif all th' infighting and whatsnot, but we ended up decidin' on a gentlemans vote to get business up 'n runnin' again. Odds'd'have it, the boys all liked the way I was runnin' things while the big guys were out of business. Folks gave me their vote -now I'm thinkin' about it, I don't think I was even in the runnin's for it.

Now 'till then, we Carnies were bangin' about the streets takin' the piss outta the streets. We 'ad our share in the businesses, mostly takin' rent in from the slums an' low time an' the like. 'Till I took ovah, we weren't too deep in the drug business. 'Lil shocker here, 'lil huff there, no big heaps of nothin', though. But then me and me mate Foal got to talkin' and we figured -folks are already stewin' up all sorts of jazz wif the Core Dust -heroin, coke, the like. We got a run down distillery right under our noses -why not toss some dust in the booze, make somethin' like a new revolution. We threw some money at it, an' soon enough we were cookin' up all sorts of new shit -went over real well in the Neon. If booze is a hard drink, our shit was hard booze. Made a right killin', it did.

Me an' Billy, soon we was on top of the Core, and we realized we were stuck in a dead fockin' end. So we scrapped together our spare funds, and skipped the fuck out. Found a quaint bit of home in Aetherdale, made our livin' as respectable business men. It was 'en and 'ere Foal and I parted our ways. Needless to say, I was a tad me more sucessful than he. Love the man to death, but not a thought in 'is head for business. He burnt through 'is scraps of cash right quick, asked me for a loan, 'en went back down to the Core -'is heart always did stay down there. Me, I found my 'eart right there in Aetherdale. Woman by the name of [NAME OMITTED]. Charmed me little 'eart as soon as I met 'er. Wasn't long afore we sat down, 'ad a son, built a right family."

Tragedy has struck the streets of Aetherdale. Six were found dead at the hands of a serial killer, still at large. Watchmen are putting forth their best efforts into finding this killer. Among the deceased are Joeseph Williams, [OMITTED] Copperfield, and James Wylder, as well as three others currently unidentifiable. Stay tuned for updates.

"Then, then it all fell to shit. Junior blamed me -hell, even I blamed me. I should've been there for 'er, and I wasn't. Junior ran off that same day -hadn't had a chance to 'ear from 'im. It was 'en I realized, I never was cut out for all this hoity toity Aetherdale life. Born in the Core, made for the Core. That's what they all said the day I got out, and those bastards were fokin' right. Not two days later, I made it back down to the Core -bollocks easier gettin' in than out, seems. 'Course, I made myself quite a shiny pile up in Aetherdale -a businessman's a buissnessman, 'aint he? Not much for Aetherdale standards, but when I got back to the core, I was a gorram king!

Funny enough, even before I flashed my coin, seemed people were still loyal. Might've felt a bit bad 'bout me when I skipped th' core, but me comin' back put me in some good light. In my leave, some jackhole by th' name of Johnny Glare or somesuch took over the gang -we were callin' ourselves the Bottlers around 'en, since we did so good wif the Core Dust Liquor. Anyways, me men who stayed loyal offered to put a cap in the poor bastards 'ead for me, but I collared 'em in. Ol' Glare was doin' the same thing I did so long ago, I weren't about to quarrel wif that. Just tossed him some coin, told 'im to skip town, which he did. Nice and simple.

Since then, not much's gone on. Been workin' my best to clean up the Slums. Usin' proceeds from the booze to cut down on rent, make folks lives just a mite better. Takin' out the other gangs, who 're workin' to make my job that much 'arder. Gotta keep these folks safe."

• The Chunder- An illicit gun in the prototype stage -it fires massive slugs one might expect from a shotgun, made of a brittle material with very high heat capacity. This means that, not only do the bullets splinter on impact, causing maximum damage, but they also stay red-hot for almost hours on end for additional agony. Due to the experimental nature of the weapon, it only chambers one round, and is rather difficult to safely reload.

• Combatant Suppression Guard- Worn like a bastardization of brass knuckles, this military-grade stun gun can be dialed anywhere from a painful .01 amps to a lethal .1 amps., and sends a shocking current through the body of any on the wrong end.


N/A


• Multiple small tablet based computers, all connected remotely to a larger mainframe.

• A decryption device to attach to computers -allows swift and relatively safe hacking of anything short of military grade, at which point it's capabilities are hit and miss.


• Spooky


• Cigarettes.

• Simple steel lighter.

• A flask full of something foul scented.

• Two or three bottles of Core Dust Bourbon.

• A small pocketbook containing a list of names, and various notes.

• Nine rings, of various style. One per finger.

When wandering around his scenic Sector One Mansion, Amias usually chooses to don any assortment of above the knee shorts, patterned crew socks, and when he feels like it, an unbuttoned button up shirt. Always sure to be covered in any assortment of dazzling colors and patterns, often clashing with each other, Amias is hard to miss.

When taking his usual trips to his favorite bars and drugs dens in The Core, Amias isn’t afraid to wear his more lavish, expensive outfits, or even some of the more outlandish pieces of avant-garde fashion stashed in his closet, but most of the time, he choses to wear his favorite tan pants, polished black boots, black shirt and jacket. Nice and fashionable without drawing too much attention. Picture for reference.
No matter what, though, Amias makes sure to be dressed nicely in the best clothing money can buy. Wearing cheap or tattered clothing (unless that’s how he bought them) is far from Amias’ taste or style.

Amias is an artist, mainly a painter, who got his introduction to the industry through his father’s many connections in the art industry. He’s made a majority of his living painting different pieces and selling them to the highest bidders. Ever since his fall from fame after his accident, he has taken a pseudonym and has tried to sell his art again, not finding as much success as before.

For the majority of his young life, Amias was always told one thing: ”You were meant to be an artist.”

Amias was the product of two people already deeply involved in the art community. His father owned an art gallery in one of the more high class districts of Seremere, and his Mother was part of an Art Preservation Society based in the Core, leading to a cushy life of affluence.

Avant garde art, long dead painters, scenes of nature and Renaissance themed death all congealed together to make a rather sheltered childhood which molded Amias into the artist he would grow to be. Going outside, playing with other children? Not for our young artist. Instead, he submersed himself in a sea of water colors and oil pastels, swimming to lonely tropical islands, or to the clouds among the gods. Through the art he spent his days making and staring at, he left the white washed mid town apartment he spent all his days in, releasing his boredom and frustration out on his sketch pad. His first graces with the pad and canvas of course weren’t of the quality or skill they would eventually reach, but they were good enough to lay the foundation of Amia’s love of art for the rest of his life.

Skills improving rapidly, it became more and more and more apparent that Amias not only had the best pair of parents to lead an art influenced life, but he was also rich in natural talent. As this natural talent became more and more obvious, the role Amias’ parents played in his life became slightly more authoritative than before. Instead of leaving Amias to his own devices when he got to drawing or painting, suddenly had always had at least one pair of eyes over his shoulder, scrutinizing every stroke or line he put down. More and more often, an intrusive hand would come in to correct mistakes or change things that didn’t suit their tastes. Before he knew it, his parents were taking more and more charge of what he painted, inviting painting and art teachers over to correct his mistakes as he made them, teaching him new techniques and making the whole process more of chore than the hobby it once was.

As his talent was brought out by his parents monitoring and his tutor’s mentoring, the thin walls of his apartment slowly came down, and the world was opened to him, as his father began to take him and his art to the family's gallery to exhibit to colleagues and art enthusiasts alike. No longer were his paintings simply mystical imaginary lands, they began to be people, landscapes, images of life. His paintings took an unmistakable character to them, a sort of charm that no one could recreate. As if Life itself had planted itself still image on the canvas.

Amias aged, and he began to take little adventures all over Ark, going wherever the Mag Rails would take him. He saw the core for the first time when he was 18.

Poverty, disease stricken ghettos and street corners full of criminals, all set against a backdrop of large, foreboding skyscrapers dripping in neon lights and spray paint graffiti. To the young artist, who had never seen much other than the scenic forests and idyllic villages of Sector One, it was overwhelming. The smells of outdoor bathrooms and suspicious corner food paired itself with sights of wandering drug addicts and women of the night, leading to a delightfully horrifying change of style. Out of his fingertips flowed an entirely new life, a life that showed that something didn’t have to appeal to the eyes to be beautiful. The dying urban strife interweaved with the rising criminal underground was all so gorgeously ugly. Beauty in tragedy had absorbed the young artist.

His new subject matter was accepted well by his affluent counterparts, who enjoyed being able to see the pretty side of poverty from the comfort of their living rooms or the art galleries. Amias provided a glimpse of what everyone else was afraid to see with their own eyes: The Core, in all its splendid horror. He, alone, was brave enough to leave the cushy villas and hamlets of Sector One to explore not only The Core, but the burning souls toiling their life away in Sector Three, the depressingly lonely ice of Sector Four, the high rising triumphant cities of Sector Six, and everything else.

In his travels and his art, Amias found something profound in the Ark. The Ark, in its divided and compartmentalized sectors, was the Human Experience, starting, ending, and existing all in the same moment. It’s quaint and humble beginnings and long stretches of peace, its ice cold loneliness when you least expect it, warm and awesome peaks, it’s rocky and rough patches, its fiery and miserable end, and evens it’s rotten, sinning core, which can take over it all in the blink of an eye if not contained. Even in it’s darkest and ugliest depths, some glimmers could be seen, some thing could be learned and there was always something beautiful, even it’s misery.

Emancipated.

Amias had been emancipated from Life’s heaviest task: finding one’s purpose.
He found his purpose in his brush and pencil, showing all of the bitter suffering and sweet love that life had to offer, often mere steps away from each other. Before, art was something he loved to do and it freed him from his mundane sheltered life in a shut away apartment, but now, crafting a piece of art was him translating life itself, hoping someone, somewhere could understand it.

Fame amongst the art community became the least of his concerns, but he garnered immense amounts of it. Soon enough, anyone who was someone in the art world wanted a Darrieux original, clammering to see every new creation that left Amias’ hands. His name was now work more than he ever imagined, but he wasn’t even the first to take notice of his growing fortune; it was his parents.

As Amias created new scenes of life on whims, his parents would gleefully take them and sell them to the highest bidder. Amias always made sure he got his fair cut, but the numbers never really mattered to him. Until he started actually looking at them.

Amias had already discovered the power of finding one’s purpose, but he was yet to find out the power that could be bought. As he began to take note of the exorbitant prices people would pay for his pieces, he also began to think of the things he could buy with the money. Fancier, more high class art equipment sure, but what about treating himself? He had found his purpose in life, so why not live a little? Soon, he would turn to the finer things in life, jewelry, designer fashion, women.

His art took another turn again, incorporating a strange sense of indulgence, happiness with material things. Even if the meanings and stories behind his pieces stayed about as intriguing and deep, his works also took more superficial approach too.

Parties until the wee hours of the morning, all the finest women he desired, a little recreational drug use and some some occasional near alcohol poisoning, Amias had begun living vanity. It all ended when this vanity attracted the wrong kind of attention.

Poverty stricken, cold and hungry, most citizens of the Core are always hunting down new ways to scratch out a living. Whether it be honest, hard, poorly-paying work, or risky and most of the time fatal criminal work. Not surprisingly, a large amount of Core residents tend to choose the route of well paying criminal work at the cost of not only their lives, but often, the lives of others. One particularly popular line of work is the kidnapping and ransoming of important people, the reward is high, but the risk is even higher. Plots of this ilk tend to fail, but none as spectacularly as the one involving Amias.

While having one of his famous raging parties at his new villa, Amias was accosted by a psyker who had snuck in the party, knowing some dumb ass painter worth a fortune would be there. Not being the dumbest man in the Ark, Amias had security, whom quickly apprehended the psyker, but the incident was far from over. Quickly, it was noticed that this may not have been an ordinary Psyker. As it struggled to escape the grasp of the security, it became increasingly more rabid. They expected the handler to barge in at any moment and activate it’s Black Shard collar, but that hope was quickly dashed when they realized that the Psyker had no collar. It was loose, it was rabid, and it seemed to quickly losing control. This was no mere psyker, it had somehow escaped, and it was now seconds away from savagely losing its cool. Amias and his entourage tried to flee, but it was all in vain.

Before he knew it, the Psyker has broken out of the grasp of security, and began tearing its way through the party, towards Amias The then 24 year old Amias stood little chance against a Psyker in full rage. It tore into the artist's arms with Core Shard claws it drew from its hands, as Amias tried futilely to block the clawed hands that tore into him. A claw missed its mark and cut the artist’s eye, adding only the immense pain. Before security were finally able to kill the Core Fiend, a mess had already been made of Amias’ arms and eye, including an assortment of wounds in other places.

His arms and eye were irreparable. The other cuts and slices would heal on their own, but if something wasn’t done about the mangled mess of arms and bleeding eye, there was little hope for survival. Amias made the call himself, he was to take cybernetic replacements.

When he woke from the surgery, there were no visitors. No bouquet of flowers at the bedside. Not even a card. After 2 lonely weeks in recovery training with his new arms, Amias went home. His villa was empty. The mess from the party had been cleaned, but nothing else had changed. No visitors, no one except his new butler Bules. Amias tried for days to contact someone over his wrist computer, now built into his hand, but to no avail. Not even his parents. The profound sadness and loneliness he felt was only exacerbated as he gazed at the blue shaded icy paintings that hung on the walls of the villa. The ones of warm and triumph spoke little to him anymore, but the ones of death and despair shouted at him louder than they were ever meant to. The halls echoed with silence, and his ears shattered hearing it. It took days to finally realize.

He looked down at where his arms used to be, but saw metal imposters. He tried to draw, to paint, he wanted so desperately for form icy glaciers with lone figures stood atop the, but nothing that came from his fingertips could do it as before. His new arms could not paint. His art was done. His life amongst the affluent, rubbing shoulders with other artists of his caliber were gone. No one would want to be near the part robot man, with arms that could tear any human apart or an eye that could see through their skin and bone.
Once again, Amias sat behind white washed walls, trying to teach himself how to escape them through the canvas. His mind demanded a clean stroke, but his arms provided a sloppy one. It was as if he had to learn to walk again. Something that came so naturally to him before, he now had to relearn all over again. His arms could not paint what they once had, and the view that they used to paint saw a world in a different, more digitally filtered view.

They stopped buying his art after the operation. No one wanted to own art made by a cog.

They stopped speaking to him after the operation. No one wanted to be associated with a cog.

They abandoned him after the operation. No one wanted a cog.

Amias took a pseudonym in hopes of being able to sell his art anonymously, one he got a feel for his new hands. His work didn’t have the same undeniable character as before, but it still looked unique enough, so it sold somewhat well. He wasn’t making the thousands to millions he had been making before, but it was still a start. A new start.

Needing inspiration, Amias began to take his trips into the core deeper and deeper, risking his life more and more as he dug. Soon enough, he was able to find the secluded drug dens and red light districts deep in the Core, and tried his hand at the new substances that flew around. The intense highs and new sights took their embodiment in his paintings, as they became more surreal, dealing less in the literal images of life, and focusing more on the abstract colors and shapes that formed it. His new style had a new, unique character that he hadn’t had before, and it meant only better for his sales on the market.

Spending large amount in drugs dens makes you friends and enemies, but luckily, all his friends are much more powerful than his enemies. Any man that comes in their den, spends a fortune on drugs, and leaves without causing problems is the friend of any drug lord or crime boss, meaning Amias had a bit of a special pass to the dens, and usually didn’t have to worry about anymore unwatned accosters. Painting by day, drug binging by night, Amias has withdrawn himself from the art community for the most part. He spends his riches on drugs and other fancy things, while practicing and honing the skill he once had mastered, hoping for a return to his days of glorious art.

In his lone manor, he sits, cigar smoke filling the air, paints, easels, canvases scattered everywhere, Bules walking around, tidying what he can, providing someone for Amias to bounce ideas and random rants off of. It is a lonely life for Amias, but he’d rather be lonely than to be surrounded by false friends and hopes.

Just like he thought of with the Ark, the dark core of his life is beginning to seep out, leaving him feeling more miserable and drained as time has gone by. He has surpassed the humble beginnings and victorious peaks of life, has tumbled and fallen in the sharp gravel of its rocky path, and is lying, shivering in its lonely, desolate ice. Though, slowly but surely, something is rising from beneath the ice.

Heat.

None yet.

Height: 6'0"

Weight 160lbs

Hair Color: Ultra Light Slate

Eye Color: Steel Blue

Skin Color: Pale

Scars:

• Small calliber bullet wounds on chest and abdomen.
• Burn scars spanning diagonally from her left buttox to her right shoulder.

Tattoos:

• Ouroboros, surrounding a bullet wound in her lower abdomen.
• Valknut, her unit's insignia, on her left arm.

Modifications:

• None

Cybernetics:

• Interface Augmentation: Grafted onto her cheekbones, particularly fashionable and practical.

Other:

• Smoker. Her favourite brand is Huldra Lite(tm), with it's sweet taste and mild anesthesic effect.

He is always wearing his white vest/coat, and a pair of googles around his neck. Other clothing is whatever he can beg, borrow, or steal.

His shards are few in number, he has one big one on the right side of his face, two on his back, and one on his forearm.

Alexander is currently on the run from the government for being a rogue Pysker. Not much to say, except the only reason he has lasted so long, is that having a precious Pysker on the loose is such a massive potential embarrassment, they are taking great pains to not let the information go public.

Alexander was born to a rapidly rising middle-class family. His father was a very sucessful entrepreneur, he single handedly brought them from living in the slums of the Core to living in moderate comfort in Aetherdale. His mother worked odd jobs, but mainly his father supported them. Alex went to school and had a very normal life growing up.

When Alex was old enough, he became a police officer. The pay was crap, but he joined because he enjoyed helping people. He also had a nack for the foresic science which helped. However, he didn't fit in with most of the other officers. They were rich and spoiled kids from the uppercust of society. Alex frequently mouthed off to them, and to his superiors, which did not endear him to them.

Life was pretty good, until his father's business prospects earned the wrath of one of the wealthier businessmen. The detals are unimportaint, but his father's business was an obstacle to one of this man's businesses. At first, he tried to get Alex's father to sell out. When he refused, the man resorted to more violent methods, he sabotaged his business, he bought off most of the workers, and beat the ones that refused. He pulled strings, and had Alex's mother fired from her job, and had Alex kicked from the police force. In the span of a month, they were financially ruined. His father met with the man, and tried to reason with him, but on his way back, he died in a car wreck. An "accident" of course.

With debts looming, and no way to support themselves, they were force to move back to the core. They were hardly there for a week, when Alex's mother fell ill. Desperate for work to pay for her illness, Alex got hired as a core miner, along with several small jobs on the side.

Sadly, the small amount of income he made barely scratched the debts they owed, and dispite what medical treatment she got, his mother died of the sickness.

Alexander was all alone now, he had more debt then he could pay in a lifetime, and no chance of ever making anything of himself. Still, he smiled, and went to work every day.

However, fate still had plans for him.

He had been working as a core miner for almost a year before he started showing signs of core sickness. A week later he died in a random cave in.

Or so it seemed.

He was actualy kidnapped by govorment officals, and taken away to top-secret research labs. There he was tested and examined. They found that he was remarkably resistant to the deterioration that came with the core sickness, they predicted that he could live for a good thirty or forty more years, with treatment.

However that was not to be.

Seeing his power and resilience, he was selected for weaponization. He had no choice in the matter, but if he had, he would have volunteered for it anyway. He underwent numerous treatments, experimentations, and intense forced physical and mental training. In short, he became a Pysker.

The atrocities he did, and went through at their hands are numerous, and too painful to dwell on. And somewhere along the way he became jaded and ruthless. He has personally killed 309 men, woman, and children (he keeps count), and is responsible for the death of hundreds of others. He would fight and kill with a smile on his face, and occasionally a maniacal laugh. Some feared that his sanity was breaking, and so they called him the Lunitic Pysker, and they feared him.

He spent three years like that, an attack dog of the government, but he also spent those three years planning, laying the groundwork for his escape.

And one day, he did.

What he did, or how he did it is a mystery, but he accomplished what should have been impossible. He escaped, and now he is living in the core, constantly hunted.

Weapons:

• N/A

Armor:

• N/A

Gadgets:

• Goggles (They have infrared, zoom capabilities, and are highly durable)
• Multitool
• Gas mask
• A radio

Key Items:

Miscellaneous:
Literal fluff, in his pocket.

He had an interesting, possibly romantic relationship with his handler that may or may not have had something to do with how he escaped.