Nathan Buchanan was born to a rich family in New York City. They had made a good chunk of change through intergalactic trade. The Buchanan's made their fortune trading in a few different avenues. Many of them were far from legal but no one ever seemed to care. The Buchanan's were old money and that meant old friends and old friends always looked away from illegal activities. The whole family had been taught that being rich meant that you could get away with anything.

Ever since he was young, Nate loved scientific pursuits. He always loved doing little experiments. Since his parents were always distant at best, Nate was raised by the family servants. Their influence taught him to be kind to everyone and taught him to be self sufficient. He learned how to cook and he still loves to cook. He excelled in school and was always the top of his class when it came to academic pursuits. He enjoyed being the best and tried to appear that he did not care for anyone else. In his senior year, he met a very important friend. Claud Yang was not exactly the brightest guy in the world but he did have a skill to keep Nate from doing anything too insane. The two of them became quite a pair and were nearly inseparable. Claud could charm anyone into buying a bridge. Nate used his family's influence and wealth to continue his studies of genetics.

When they graduated, the pair were both accepted in the Genetics Program at Cambridge. It had the best program on the planet so of course they had to go. As soon as they arrived, they gained a bit of a reputation. The rumors were that they were up to something wicked in the abandoned building that they called home. The rumor gained them both nicknames. Nate was called Victor and Claud was called Igor. As usual the two ignored it. Nate wanted to create usable hybrids for the Earth governments. He wanted to design new animals or animals that no one had ever seen. His plan was to design living weapons for the the army. Mother nature was quite good at living weapons. His first creation was a larger version of the Alpheidae shrimp (pistol shrimp). It didn't work since there was no real use for it outside of the water. The American Navy bought the creature to protect what navy bases they still had. His next project was to make a slime mold that could be used to catch criminals. It was simple but effective. It was nothing flashy but Buchanan & Yang Laboratories finally had a bit of fame under it's belt.

One night a few years later, Nate decided he wanted to make a human hybrid even though it was illegal. He needed a project to get the fame he so desperately desired. Like most of his family, he thought the rules did not apply. Something went wrong and there was an explosion in the lab that killed Claud. Nate was arrested for murder and his crimes against nature. He was given an option of either going to jail for life or joining one of the criminal crews. He chose the second option and has been with the Marauders for almost two years now. He loves his new family and all the freedom he has finally gained.

8-ball has a humanoid shell with thin arm and legs. The legs have a hock, similar to a hound. 8-Ball has a artificial "skin" that feels more like rubber and acts as protection from scratching the metal underneath. On his back, a third eye pops up, used to help see in ducts without having to fully enter the small corridor.

Bio:
In the beginning, 8-Ball was created with the intention to be security for a small group that operated long ago in a traveling merchant vessel. It was odd due to his design was created as a remote controlled drone that was designed to fix vessels or larger space ports, but in his case he had more advanced framework placed in his shell.

Some time he was heavily damaged and left underground a small abandoned shack on a backwash planet. A Marauder found him by chance, while looking for a hide out for a deal gone bad. When he found the underground tunnel, there was pile of broken part and electronics. The pile turned to a trail, leading him to 8-Ball standing offline at a charging station that must of died decades ago. Thinking him lucky to find such a valuable piece of scrap metal.

Day's later 8-balls lifeless husk was brought upon the Marauder's ship and reactivated, only due to the interest of a few tech heads. What they found was strange and unsettling. This Bot had advanced combat subroutine, protocols, and even a list of targets to be "ASSAS". They could only assume he was actually a fabled Murderbot, but before the thought of trashing him before he became more of a threat then a assets, they also found many programs subroutines, and functions that held hundreds of ship designs and ways to fix or Jerry rig any problem they could have.

The Bot has been with the Marauders for some time now, being a extremely efficient mechanic. One that doesn't need to be fed and better yet. Paid! Now in days, only the commander knows the shady past and potential for damage he could cause. Although his skill much outweighs the cost.

Personality:
Whoever created 8-Ball had a sense of humor and probably wanted a body to talk too. While most bots have per-programmed sayings, 8-ball can actually hold a conversation. While some might be disappointed if they try to ask him his view of life, he could strike a keen interest in anyone who has never met a bot of his caliber. He also can drink and smoke, using the fluids to cool down his body, or act more human. One of the most impressive features is him understanding humor and can even detect when most are being sarcastic by the tone of their voice.

Weapon(s) :

-Tool set: Anything from a wrench to a Promethium Blow torch. Almost never used for combat, but a screw driver to the head would hurt most.


-88 Special: Found already holstered to his body upon his discovery. This 5 shot revolver hold some sentimental value to 8-Ball as it never leaves his mechanical hip, no one really knows why. It fires basic ballistic rounds.

Family/Relationship?:
The Creator- Before being reactivated 8-Ball, A single memory was created by the original creator of him. In this memory the Creator tell him only one thing. "You are now free..". 8-Ball only can remember the man being younger looking, but with Gray hair, depicting him to actually be older. He is most likely dead, but for some reason 8-Ball thinks he may meet his maker soon enough.

Stun's existence started like that of every Pho Arghos - thrown into life, fully adult and ready for a war that was already a forgotten relic of the past. After the initial years of integration ended, the Pho Arghos scattered all over the universe, and so did Stun. The integration program set a group of Arghos up as a security task force for commercial frighters, but after a few years the company went bankrupt, and the hybrids had to reorganise.
Stun served as an enforcer in a small private army for about a decade, before being hired as a personal bodyguard for a Yhei scientist. This only lasted a few months however, as the lab was attacked and overrun by an organised group of marauding pirates. They killed nearly everyone, but took great interest in the hybrid guard that had decimated several of their squads, before ceasing all resistance after the death of its Yhei protégé.
Being part of the Vah'Jra Yan, a marauding band of pirates that fought small-scale wars against other military groups and law-enforcers describes the longest part of Stun's life. During the time in their guerilla raid squads, Stun witnessed the ascension and fall of three generations of pirate leaders, perfectly content to simply continue existing as a valued raid troop member. The hybrid refused to rank up beyond a role as second-in-command, to avoid responsibility and the often unhealthy competition among its power-hungry pirate mates. Decades of fighting every conceivable battle and foe turned the Pho Arghos into an experienced veteran, but also fed its ego way past the point of healthy confidence. And so Stun never saw the end of the Vah'Jra coming, when their zealous leaders ran their entire fleet into the grinder.
When the pirate group was shattered by only a fraction of the military forces of the galactic committee, Stun was smart enough betray some of its pirate comrades, using them as a distraction to disappear in the chaos of burning space ships. But the Arghos was not fit for an entirely independent life, so it started working as a hired gun for merchants and smugglers soon after, staying in the shallow waters of mildly illegal commerce.
To Stun's great humiliation, the galactic law eventually caught up. By sheer coincidence, no less. One unlucky day, several years after the downfall of the Vah'Jra, the Arghos ran into some old pirate 'friends'. Coincidentally they were the exact 'friends' Stun had 'persuaded' to help facilitate it's escape back then. The pirates were not happy about their reunion with the Arghos who essentially left them with their pants down on the wreckage of their burning pirate fleet. While the hybrid ended the ensuing brawl fairly quickly, it did so right in front of the law's ever-observant eye. They managed to connect the Pho Arghos to its old reputation, and suddenly Stun's charges went from double homicide to capital war crimes.
But Stun didn't want to stop existing. So it chose the only acceptable option - borderline-suicidal space exploration. And they even allowed the Arghos to keep it's rifle, so life really wouldn't be any worse than before.

'The Children of Aylv', 'The Lost Boys', 'Space Rats'...
Roughly ten years ago, these names surfaced on the news following reports of acclaim regarding the successes of the Triganavia corporation. Their 'new-man' project, this creature that could survive hostile conditions and trauma, all based on the exposure of their pharmaceutical end. Making human clones wasn't enough, it was about the 99.5% accuracy in their treatments. After pushs from military backers to produce something more substantial than a morally questionable ration supplement, strides were taken to enhance and test the intelligence of their specimens to serve on front lines in measures to rival simple artificial intelligence. This challenge was taken farther than expected as the specimens were edged on with no actual goal, mostly to see how far beyond human limitations technology and science could reach without the chains of limitation.
It only took Triganavia three years before their security couldn't keep up with the creations who had learned to 'play dumb' and even 'play defective' after trial and error. What humanity saw as failure, these 'Children of Aylv' knew as exploitation.
A clock ticked over to 3:50pm and the revolution was born. Triganavia was dismantled overnight as two batches of one-hundred with fifty being in formidable condition incited a collective uprising against those who would otherwise use them for cosmetics, medical testing and meat supplements.
In a statement against humanity, after years of piracy after utilizing the escape pods to inhabit and take down other ships, the 'Children of Aylv' pried the remains of Triganavia from Mars, adding their birthplace to a hive which they call 'The Spire'.
This citadel was made from hobbling together a few light-speed capable crafts with shield-integration, it is likely to drift in the Terran neighboring clusters, though its whereabouts are widely unknown. The established fear is in the stolen genetics technology in their possession which they call 'The Nightmare Machine' for its use to create abominations who serve most roles. In these ten years, few actual sightings of the fifty or so Aylvs have been made...or the survivors of raids are reluctant to speak of it.

Androgynous, Kaite stands at a physically unimposing 4.7ft. A small black tattoo of T4-073 is printed into the left side of his neck which his hair covers. His hair is sheen with what seems like white but fades to a light blonde-ish pink as the hair length continues; the follicles holding a mild bioluminescence. It holds a slight wave to it and is usually worn about 6-7 wavy inches long, covering an eye. From that protrudes long bunny ears with similarly colored fur, though the short hair is mainly white with little bioluminescence. The bushy fluff of his tail shares these qualities. Heterochromatic eyes, with a similar glow as his hair, leave the left amber and the right a brilliant sapphire, though this is obscured by an eyepatch which they alternate between eyes. This relays sensor diagnostics and trajectory, flourishing in the waves of aim assists granted by simple objective input. This input is fed through Kaite's eyepatch...though he simply looks on with the HUD listing irrelevant information.
Kaite's taste in clothes is a tad eccentric and often accentuate his slim figure. (example with mid-thigh stockings and knee-high boots)

There were five of us, and I suppose I am the oldest, now. We were made with no purpose, cooked up just to show it could be done. Rigorous training and even sleepless nights of tasking built us up for some unseen goal. I could only wonder why, as speaking wasn't allowed outside of tests and punishment for noncompliance was doled out the same way regardless of the offence. Thankfully, I only had to be beaten senseless to understand my design wasn't to offer suggestions.
Whoever the display was for did not seem particularly impressed by us as three of my brothers died from health complications. The fourth started with chewing his nails, though his appetite...changed. By the time the guards came in response to the sounds coming from our cell, I had already choked the life out of the creature who my brother became.

Then it was me.

I was assumed defective, what with the murder and all, and Doctor Jericho sold me to a suicide squad bound for who knew where. Likely, they didn't know, either, but it was made clear that I had little say in how badly my previous keepers wanted to be rid of me.
This 'Raymond' has been nice enough, though I have a feeling that he does not like me as I have been mostly assigned to cook for him and the crew. Though it is a necessity for survival to have sustenance, I hope I can have a chance to be more useful.

On paper, '073' has a violent streak of disproportionate tendencies where they could come off confrontational and hostile. In all actuality, '073' is conditioned to be fairly timid and polite, if anything. With little social experience to base interactions on, 073 tries to compose himself to in order to accommodate their disposition.
He is caring and determined, though distant and vicious if there should be an upset in his goals. Limitations to cells or testing chambers has dulled his perspective of reality, and the world outside of the walls fascinates him to no end.
In spite of their otherwise composed and even innocent demeanor, Kaite is a fear-biter and won't hesitate to defend himself and any others he deems worth it. Fickle as his temperament can be, he seeks direction and a frightened animal is best had on your side than left to roam free. Kaite does what hes told, often to the letter. Skittish around robots.

He is compassionate and caring, though objectively so...almost to the point of it seeming disingenuous at times, which it may very well be.
Much of 'His' disposition is disgustingly skewed and based off racial disposition, especially directed towards humanity. Without the common grounds of his free brethren, 'Kaite' has faded into an estranged religion invented by the Aylv.
'Distant Fish' is the name which they have given what they had supposedly seen within emotional turmoil and time spent staring into the one-way windows of their enclosures. Strangely, this behavior is shared throughout his kind, even years after the founders of the faith faded into obscurity...and without outside influence or contact.

Ashley's boots fastened to the surface of Cloud-9 with a thunk audible only through the sleek shell of her sleek, stylised space suit. She took a moment to appraise the space station she had landed upon alongside the endless starscape of space from which she was separated by little more than a bulletproof pane of glass. For a moment all was peaceful, then the pilot's drawling Texan accent sounded starkly across her com-link and Ashley was snapped violently from her reverie.

"Alllrighty then boss... You're on your own from here on out." came his voice to which she replied:

"Understood Falcon." Her own voice soft, carrying with it the tonalities and mild gruffness of the Irish working class. "Be ready to extract back here in 20 or via the observation deck if things go tits-up."

"Roger that." Came the reply, efficient and trustworthy in it's delivery.

Any idiot could simply blow a hole in the surface of a space station and charge in guns blazing. To enter without so much as changing the air pressure as Ashley was trying to do took specialist equipment, extensive experience and patience. Ashley had truly taken advantage of the lack of gravity in space when packing for this job and her modular rucksack, if it could be called that, was disproportionately large compared to her form; in earth gravity it would have weighed an easy 80 kilos. She slipped it off her back and fastened it to the surface of Cloud-9 on using magnetic clamps. Next came a little construction work.

Setting a circular device beside her rucksack Ashley set to work with a welding iron, securing the 3 foot wide and 6 inch thick disc in place on the surface of Cloud-9. Once unfurled the tube of plastic sheeting within would form the temporary air lock Ashley needed, allowing her to infiltrate the space station upon which she stood without compromising the air pressure and, thereby without giving away her presence. Ashley broke into a sweat as the clock kept ticking. Fifteen minutes remaining. She unfurled the tube of sheeting from the device and connected a hose from her rucksack to the base of the plastic airlock she had created. This would later flood the airlock with air and equalise the pressure of it with that within the space station.

Clambering into her makeshift airlock with only the equipment she would need for the next leg of her robbery, Ashley pulled the lid closed behind her and let it pressurise, biting her tongue as her ears popped from the quick change. Thirteen minutes remaining, no time to grumble about the discomfort caused by accelerated repressurisation. Even with the considerable reduction of equipment between landing and climbing into her air-lock, space was tight. Ashley was grateful she had insisted on pushing so much of the last robberies take towards equipment for this job as her miniature circular saw set to work, carving a hole into the surface of Cloud-9 just big enough for her to clamber through into the space station beyond. Eleven minutes remaining.

Cloud-9, originally known as Space Station 9 for it's position orbiting Pluto, the 9th planet (or planetoid) orbiting the Earth's sun, was now the solar system's premier tourist satellite. Home of the solar system's classiest casinos, hotels, art exhibitions and of course, the system's largest diamond, Cloud-9 was the perfect front for it's criminal run conglomerate to run it's operations from. Yakuza, Mafia, Triads; If they did crime and they did it organised, odds are they were based here. Of course, Ashley cared little about that beyond the fact that her victims could afford the loss they were about to take, she was here for the diamond.

"Staying focussed in there Ashley?" Came that all-too-familiar Texan accent down the com-link.

"Of course I am Dilla... What did I say about names over unsecured coms Falcon? Stop being a wanker. I'm doing my job. You focus on yours. Get your professional hat on." Ashley barked back down the line, glancing around to catch her bearings.

As planned Ashley had found herself in a junction within Cloud-9's extensive labyrinth of long forgotten air vents and maintenance shafts. The station's artificial gravity had taken effect now and so, somewhat disorientating, Ashley now stood upon the opposite side of the same sheet of metal she had moments ago been clinging to in the vacuum of outer space. The shaft led forwards, backwards and upwards. Ignoring the ladder Ashley took a grenade launcheresque device and fired it directly upwards, revelling in the quiet whirring of climbing ropes unfurling until the magnetic hook met it's destination with a muted thunk. Ashley hooked herself to the mechanical winch and began her assent at speed. Eight minutes remaining.

With a jolt Ashley stopped and climbed into a side vent, colours becoming more vivid by the moment and her pulse accelerating as adrenalin kicked in. Only moments to go now. She crept down the tight vent in miniscule motions to avoid making even the slightest sound if it could be avoided. Each second dragged, seeming to Ashley to become an eternity until at last she could see through a grille into the room below, her target in sight. She fastened a cable above the vent and took a moment to notify her getaway driver of the situation.

"Falcon... The egg is in the nest... Magpie is ready to go." She hissed into the microphone before drawing her handgun and firing three near silent flechette rounds into the screws keeping the vent in place on one side. No delicacy here, four minutes remaining, alarms would be triggered but by the time a response team had arrived she would be halfway back down the vents again and Falcon would be in place to retrieve her. The rest of the bullets in her gun were tranquilisers in case of emergency. At least that was the plan. Cold dread set it's icy tentacles into Ashley's heart as she rappelled through the now open grille only to see bewildered faces looking up at her masked figure. Fuck... The vault was not supposed to be open to the public today.

Suddenly everything was a frenzy of motion. Screams erupted from a crowd of pampered looking patrons wearing everything from pompadours to pretty polka dot dresses and they fled in every direction one could possibly think of to run, someone got tangled in her rappel line and with a crunch Ashley heard the sickening sound of her winch breaking, the vents were no longer an option. Ashley slapped a plastic explosive to the glass of the diamond's display tank and crouched as the glass fragmented into a million tiny shards, sparing no time in reaching within to grab the hefty diamond within. She stuffed it into her utility belt and screamed down her microphone. "PLAN B FALCON! WE'RE USING PLAN B!"

If Falcon replied Ashley certainly didn't hear it, she was already running out through the vault door and into the arts gallery beyond. To her great fortune the guards hadn't seemed to identify the threat as of yet but that quickly changed as she bolted past them and someone shouted. "THAT'S HER! GET THAT ***T!"

A torrential downpour of fully automatic gunfire sounded as Ashley bolted around a corner, sensing the proximity of the bullets by the force they exerted on the air around her and goading her to run even faster. Plan B was sloppy, the definition of an emergency exit. Whilst planning her raid Ashley had checked the visitor checklist for the VIP Observation deck on this floor. It was deserted, no bookings for the entire day, which was in fact a large part of why they had picked today. Ashley would get to the VIP Observation deck and then Falcon would come crashing in through the window, the bulkhead would seal protecting those inside Cloud-9 and Ashley would be protected from the vacuum of space by her spacesuit as she clambered aboard Falcon and hopefully, to safety. Of course, as Ashley rounded the corner Ashley's heart sank. The observation deck was full and, judging by the guards uniforms, of Galactic Committee members no less. Ashley screeched to a halt, hands held high as a dozen firearms drew on her in the observation deck.

"FREEZE BY COMMAND OF THE GALACTIC COMMITTEE!" Ordered a red-faced guard down the barrel of his gun.

Ashley nodded to the guard and, quietly, with calm moderation, Ashley spoke down her microphone.

"Abort extraction Falcon. Civilians on deck... this is Ashley Hunter, out."

-END-