Chiue Xu-Miao ♦ Twenty-Eight ♦ Decker

♦BIOTECHNICA S.A. REGISTRANT PERSONALITY QUIZ♦

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n a m e ::

ID Tag--Callsign :: T-372-434-93M--ARCTURUS

d a t e & p l a c e o f b i r t h ::
Новая Москва, Россия (New Moscow, Russia), 2028

a p p e a r a n c e ::
At a glance, Sariya—she prefers Sari, on the rare occasion when she speaks up about it—looks like a figure made of wax. Her skin is pale and bloodless, and almost universally the same color. Even her lips, her nose, places where there should be more blood flow, look the same as the rest of her skin. Both of her legs and her right arm are cybernetic, scuffed-up silver and black where there should be flesh and blood. When visible behind her retractable visor of transparent blue glass, her frosty blue eyes never seem to focus; despite being entirely biological and natural, they are glassy and glazed, as though something is wrong with them. Despite this, they're still fully functional. Her left arm, while not cybernetic, is encased in a thick layer of titanium armor. The purpose for this is threefold; it provides additional protection on an otherwise vulnerable body part, it augments the punching force of that limb, and most importantly, it evens out the weight of her cybernetic right arm, thus avoiding the issue of weight imbalance.

She's quite tall, breaking six feet and ending up about 6' 1", and is incredibly slender. Though she weighs nearly 260 pounds, she moves with quick, elegant precision and often in brief spurts of incredible speed, even when knee deep in blood and guts. A bar code is tattooed across her left cheek, under which is written her ID tag and callsign.

g e n d e r ::
Female

o c c u p a t i o n ::
Government Infiltrator

s k i l l s ::
Speed -- Sariya's powerful cybernetic legs give her the capability to sprint at incredibly high speeds. Though the weight of her cybernetics makes it difficult for her to change direction quickly, she can jump and run exceptionally well.

Cold Efficiency -- Trained since she was young, Sariya is a graceful yet brutal instrument of death. She is proficient in the use of many conventional weapons and martial arts, though is a master of none.

Instincts -- Sariya is skilled at improvisation and thinking on her feet, especially in regards to unconventional weaponry.

Controllable -- There have been several quite illegal modifications done to her neuralware due to her frequent and severe episodes of cyberpsychosis. These changes allowed her superiors to remotely monitor her activity, and if she begins to run wild, to inject a large amount of sedative directly into her brain for as long as two weeks, effectively shutting her down until she's able to be collected. This is currently nonfunctional, but it is indeterminate as to whether or not that is a permanent state.

c y b e r n e t i c s ::
Павликовскы Версия 12.4.10 Neuralware -- A heavily doctored version of the civilian Версия 12.1.2, the 12.4.10 not only links her to her cybernetics, but also to her superiors in Russia. It gave them the ability to, as discussed above, neutralize her, and an assortment of other functions such as blocking nerve signals and giving her predictive senses during combat. It is, in large part, what is responsible for her exact, precise movements. This particular implant also had the effect, partially intended and partially unforeseen, of dulling much emotional response on Sariya's part, unless she finds herself in the throes of a cyberpsychotic meltdown.

2x -- Павликовскы Версия 3 Subretinal Lenses -- The reason for Sariya's dulled eyes are these lenses, implanted permanently behind her retinas. While they serve the function of giving Sariya thermal and night vision, their main purpose is to, at all times, transmit a live video feed directly from her vision back to her superiors.

2x -- Павликовскы Версия 2.27 Audial Implants -- Similar in rationale to her lenses, these tiny chips are implanted into her inner ears. Again, they serve a double purpose; while they grant her significantly better hearing than an unmodified human, they also transmit sound back to Russia, giving the complete picture of her every activity to her superiors. Neither these nor her lenses can be turned off or disabled without permanently injuring the body part that they modify.

2x -- Павликовскы Версия 4.5 Modular Legs -- Sariya's cybernetic legs are what make her a useful infiltrator. These carbon fiber and titanium machines, long and elegant, black and scratched silver, drastically increase her physical prowess and lower her center of gravity, making it much easier for her to chase or escape. There are electromagnets in the soles that can be magnetized at a signal from her neuralware, allowing her to, with the aid of her right arm and with some difficulty, stick to ferrous surfaces. The heels contain exceedingly powerful compressed air canisters that are attached to and manage the explosive extension of large titanium rambolts.

Павликовскы Версия 16 Modular Arm, Type II (Military) -- Her arm is one of Sari's greatest assets. Like her legs, it is composed of a titanium skeleton and carbon fiber. Unlike a normal appendage, the mechanized hand on the end has six fingers to allow for more dexterous control of any object—usually a weapon—Sari might happen to be holding. Speaking of weapons, her arm is a weapon all its own. The hand can unhinge, dropping down below the wrist entirely. The overall strength of her arm suffers because of this, as it is more easily fractured at the wrist than most, but it seems a small price to pay. Within the wrist is housed a combustion firearm roughly equivalent to a high-caliber pistol, loaded with four rounds of .454 Casull incendiary ammunition. She is able to reload the firearm from a small port on the silver belly of her arm. Similar to the legs, it contains electromagnets. Finally, it contains a small grappling harpoon attached to a 30ft. retractable cable of woven titanium.

Павликовскы Версия 1.5c Awareness Visor -- Originally designed in Japan, the Awareness Visor is one of Sariya's personal information thefts. It is a retractable visor of blue-tinted Plexiglass-like material light with a light blue glow. Upon it is projected her vitals. Any living animal larger than a medium-sized dog is highlighted, pinpointed via an advanced algorithm that measures sound bouncing off of various points and surfaces. The 1.5c version is slightly different to the civlian 1.5b. It also has the function of displaying the status of her cybernetic augmentations such as the ammunition present in her arm, and is responsible for controlling the injectors that manage her cyberpsychosis. When necessary, it can retract into a silver plate embedded in Sari's forehead. It remains functional, albeit largely useless, when retracted. What's important is that even in "background mode," as it were, it still controls her injectors.

This enormous amount of cybernetics doesn't come free. Since her augmentation, Sariya has been the unfortunate victim of extreme cyberpsychosis, only kept under control via a supply of subdermal injectors carried on her person at all times. It's incredibly expensive, and each injector is single use. If she'd not been given a large amount of money by the Russian government, she would be absolutely screwed. When it's unavailable, her mental state will rapidly deteriorate from a nearly preternaturally calm, collected woman to someone about to come apart at the seams, displaying the symptoms of advanced paranoid schizophrenia and, additionally, extreme violent tendencies. The first warning signs come when she begins caressing her cybernetics, whether her legs or her arms, and muttering to herself, as her eyes begin to twitch erratically. A few minutes following, she begins to develop delusions of persecution and of grandeur, and severe visual and auditory hallucinations. Various images show up of hostile targets, usually with weapons aimed at her. Oftentimes, these hallucinations aren't entirely independent, but are superimposed over ordinary civilians. She then goes on autopilot and attacks them viciously. Many of the modifications to her neuralware were put in place directly following a massacre that occurred when she had an episode during her first mission. She slaughtered over twenty-five people in a small East Asian country, and only the rapid application of contractors and tranquilizer prevented Russia from both losing an expensive infiltrator and having to deal with a massive political crisis. During her episodes, she begins to breathe heavily and, on occasion, laugh hysterically. Generally this is a good sign to get out of her way, as she almost never laughs otherwise. To put it succinctly, she loses all control of her mind.

Not only that, but the tampering on her neuralware has led to occasional glitches, where she begins to speak and move uncontrollably. Though it may seem similar to her psychosis on the surface, it's more of a case of "I'm trapped in a body that doesn't work."

h i s t o r y ::
Sariya was born to an immensely poor family in New Moscow. While she grew up on the street, she was near-indistinguishable from the ARCTURUS-callsigned Sariya of today. She was bright and vivacious, and though of course she'd been through a lot due to having to scrounge just to feed herself and was a no-nonsense, allergic-to-stupidity girl, she'd been...normal.

That all changed when the Russian government began its infiltration program. Overseas, its rivals were growing more powerful, potentially outstripping them in technology and in governance. Young people from all over Russia were beckoned to its augmentations program with the promise of an absolutely staggering sum of money. Most were turned away, whether due to being too old to be properly retrained, too cushioned to be hard, too passive to kill. Not Sariya. She'd arrived in that perfect butter zone of between her ninth and tenth birthdays. Old enough to learn, young enough to be taught. Upon her acceptance into the program, she was subjected to an absurd regiment of training. Over the next few years, her muscles grew hard, her face grew lean, her eyes grew sharp. She was slowly turning into the perfect killer. When she was approximately fifteen years old, the higher-ups decided to take the next step. Alongside the other few that had been selected into the program and had made it through the training, she was augmented heavily.

The neuralware was installed, and just like that, everything that Sari had been vanished. No more was she a lively—if now exceptionally lethal—teenager. Her emotions had been blunted, and the deadzone where they had been was filled up with a sense of servitude to the country. Though little signs here and there showed that something might not be entirely right, the government plowed on regardless. Time was running out. The technological gap that they had perceived was widening, and they needed something now, before too much time had passed. As soon as she was judged to not be a vegetable, on went the legs, one after the other. The recommended adjustment period was ignored entirely. More warning signs began to rear their heads. Finally, the arm went on, and the sensory implants were put in place. A final tattoo was placed on her face, and T-372-434-93M was finished, and immediately afterwards was sent on her first mission into Thailand. She was never taught to bow to the new corporate overlords controlling much of the world and her country. Instead, she was made to be entirely loyal to the government itself as a failsafe.

It went...poorly. The symptoms consolidated, and instead of recovering the data on manufacture of a new, more advanced arm, Sariya went insane, killing a large amount of people before the reserve contractors were able to subdue her and return her to Russia. Her neuralware was modified, destroying an even greater chunk of her emotions as it was removed and subsequently reinserted. She fully changed into what she is now: an unmoving, implacable killer. This time, her superiors were more careful. Only after they were certain she was fully adapted to her cybernetics did they send her out again, and only on the condition that she carry the cyberpsychotic injectors that she uses still today. After her initial rough start, she became one of Russia's most trusted agents. Recently, she was sent to "assist" the American company Biotechnica. Or, in plain speech, to pretend to assist them while stealing their information and sending it right back to Russia for assimilation into the cybernetics factories.

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n a m e ::

Maestro

d a t e & p l a c e o f b i r t h::
November 5th, 2025, Tel Aviv, Israel

a p p e a r a n c e ::
Gabby has dark features with brown eyes, black hair, and olive skin and has the fit, athletic build of someone who regularly stays active and exercises. She stands at 5’8” and weighs around 140 lbs with a pear body shape. Streaks of neon pink run through her wavy hair, and she tends to rely a little too heavily on lipgloss and eyeshadow that make her look less like a sleek runway model and more like a little girl that got into mommy’s makeup drawer. Her teeth are straight but stained a slight yellow with the telltale signs of cigarettes and coffee and her eyes have the bloodshot weariness to them of someone who doesn’t get enough sleep. A memento from her military days exist in the form of a tattoo on her left forearm that says “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in Hebrew followed by an asterisk, and her right arm is covered in an intricate web of roses and lace. Two parallel pink scars in the shape of small circles can be found on the back of her neck and she rarely removes the IDF dogtag hanging around her neck, claiming it to be “good luck”.

g e n d e r ::
Female

o c c u p a t i o n ::
Assassin

s k i l l s ::
»Pink Mist — If you need someone to quickly and cleanly put an anti-material bullet into something a mile or so away then Gabby is your girl, if you can handle the follow-up of “Did you see that? Did you see that?” shrieking over the comms. Likewise, having a person on the outside to keep overwatch and call out any incoming backup while the crew storms through swamps of cubicles is an added bonus.

»Look At Me! Look At Meeeee! — Need a distraction? The only thing Gabby loves more than vaporizing some geek from a block away is being the center of attention, and the only thing more valuable to a crew of corporate crooks than the coverfire of an expert sharpshooter is someone ready and willing to divert the attention of the guards so their partners can carry out their mission with minimal resistance or escape from a messy situation. Be it creating a scene like a nasty patron at a restaurant throwing a fit and demanding to see someone’s manager, amateurishly trying her hand at seeming seductive, or going in loud and hard with an uzi and some big booms, Gabby’s down for pretty much any plan that puts the spotlight on her.

»Au Naturel — It’s nice being all cybered up, sure, until somebody drops the EMP or starts screwing around with your neural network, then suddenly that cutting edge piece of chrome is little more than an expensive weight that is now dragging you down as the cybersquads storm in to sweep up the metallic garbage. Of course, if you don’t have any cyberware, all of that becomes a bit of a moot point. Gabby doesn’t have any of that junk. No mind hacks, no tune-ups, no going full killer robot, and no awkward moments involving metal detectors or cyber scanners. Cyber-free, it’s the way to be.

c y b e r n e t i c s ::
...are for nerds. Gabby may not have any cybernetics, but that doesn’t mean she’s a luddite. She supplements her lack of chrome with a few useful tools.

»Sony NetBuddy 3.0 — A handheld device that allows users to access the 3D space of the Net without the use of a headset, bodysuit, or having to carve out a chunk of your spinal cord so that you can jam a plug into the back of your neck whenever you want to watch cat videos. In a way, it acts as a surrogate neuralware for those who cannot or will not get one. It’s significantly slower than an actual connection through typical means, and navigation can be rather clunky and cumbersome, but it still lets the user hit up social media and combat their FOMO. Notable mostly for its terrible battery life and its lack of a 3.5 headphone jack.

»Grigori SmartOptics DX — Ultra-sleek binoculars decked the hell out with all sorts of tech that accurately predict wind speed, distance, bullet drop, and just about anything else a shooter needs to hit their target. As well, it offers thermal, sonar, and night vision, plus tagging and tracking modes that help keep a target in sight. Marketed to big game hunters, but does the job just as well for hopeful guns-for-hire. Automatically updates any information to a partnered scope (free pack-in) via Bluetooth, making it easy for shooters to put down their binoculars and pick up their rifle without losing anything. Plus, if the damn thing breaks the scope it comes with is top-of-the-line on its own.

»Mikail Second Skin — Black, form-fitting, full body armor with retractable face mask made out of the same protective nanofibers cyberfreaks put underneath their skin. Damage resistant to small arm fire and cuts from blades, and has a slightly better resistance to force than conventional bulletproof vests. The material is light and breathable, plus it can be concealed underneath a few layers of clothing and barely restricts movements. Tends to mess hair up quite a bit, so always best to carry a comb if you have a date after the firefight. A “gift” from her military days.

h i s t o r y ::
Gabby had a fairly atypical childhood in the sense that she grew up in what could have possibly been the last middle class nuclear family in Israel, let alone the entire world. She went to school and promptly slept or goofed off in her classes, watched crappy television late into the night after her parents went to bed, fought with her sister over jewelry and clothing, smoked cigarettes in a desperate attempt to appear cool, snuck pulls of liquor from Dad’s stash, went to temple on Saturday just to forget about everything she had heard by Saturday night, and generally kind of sucked as a human being. In other words, despite having a bat mitzvah, she was a kid. Of course, all of that would change when she turned eighteen and would spend the next two years in mandatory military service as part of the Israel Defense Forces. A right of passage, really. Not a big deal, though; two years of getting paid to get fit, shoot guns at paper targets, and parade around in uniforms didn’t sound so bad. Better than her current plan in life, which was nonexistent.

During training, Gabby became known for two things. The first was that she was the instructor’s favorite, although only if you consider constantly being yelled at for talking out of turn or stepping out of line for making a rude remark about someone favoritism. It seemed that Gabby could not go a single day without somehow challenging authority and, really, making everything about her. The second thing was that she was a damn good shot. Scary good. Like, she was less like a bratty teenager who had once stolen her best friend’s boyfriend just to prove to her that she could do it and more like someone who had grown up in a war-torn country, forced to fight with a rifle in hand since they were six. The daily routine would soon become Gabby does something stupid, Gabby gets yelled at for being stupid, Gabby hits ten out of ten shots, Gabby get praised for being brilliant, ad nauseam.

Part of the way through basic Gabby was pulled aside by an officer who recommended that, if she could keep her damn mouth shut around command and actually apply herself in areas outside of the shooting range, she could qualify for the special forces. Immediately hesitant, the officer began to convince her once he started appealing to her ego—best of the best, an example for all women, the pride of her nation, that sort of crap. So, training led into more training as she applied for Sayeret Matkal, an elite counter-terrorist and recon unit. It was harder, much harder, than basic. Hell, it was downright grueling, but she was still able to get away with her mouth as long as she picked and choose who heard her say what. A little bit of humor did the body good, and nothing formed stronger bonds between people than trying to pick each other back up after spending an entire day being beaten down.

She was just turning twenty by the time she passed her training, the same age most women dipped out of the service. Her first mission she was assigned to a strike force to deal with a hostage situation of Israeli executives—the IDF was more or less a puppet for a handful of Jewish corps by this point—located inside of a neighboring country’s borders. They were to go in quickly and quietly, take out the terrorists, secure the hostages, and dip back across the border before anyone was the wiser. They say you always remember your first kill, but what Gabby remembers most was the unbearable boredom as she laid on her belly for hours on end watching movement through windows in some shithole village as her squad slowly crept into position, the order for silence on the comms given almost immediately after she had begun chatting away to try and fight off the boredom. Okay, sure, and she does totally remember blasting some bastard in the face from over 800 meters and redecorating the drab walls with his viscera as her team stormed the building. But mostly she remembers the fidgeting and bitching while sweating underneath the hot sun.

And that’s how it went for a while. Her life became a spiral of infinite boredom coupled with moments of pure adrenaline, leaves that involved nights of heavy drinking and clubbing, and the not-so-private tryst she was having with her squad’s leader. Love makes people do stupid things, like write poetry that manages to slip into the wrong hands and get mockingly recited by the squad while they're stuck in a helicopter. It also makes people try to get neuralware implants in the back of their skull so that they can hook their brains up together as yet another attempt to try and make two become one, only to find out that their garbage body (painfully) rejects all cyberware. And, sometimes, it makes a person stakeout a hotel room while the entire squad’s on leave because their spotter let slip a little rumor that just ate and ate away at them, the scope of a .50 caliber rifle pointed steadily at their so-called lover’s head as he put his lips on those of another.

Jerk.

The thing about Gabby is that she has always been the jealous type; the whole “thou shalt not covet” thing never really sat well with her. Some people can see someone else be rewarded for good work and feel a sort of mutual sense of accomplishment; Gabby quickly points out where if it weren’t for her that person never would’ve been able to achieve anything in the first place. Some people get that the world doesn’t revolve around them; Gabby knows for a fact that it couldn't possibly revolve around them anyway, because she happens to be at the very center of the universe. She doesn’t want to be the best. She is the best, but some people are just to thick to realize it. And when some stupid, curly haired bitch comes in and tries to prove the opposite by sticking her tongue down her man's throat, well, that’s just not something that she can let slide.

So she pulled the trigger. One shot, two E.K.I.A. Point proven.

Of course, she could no longer stay in the military anymore. Killing your commanding officer slash lover and his civie whore was, technically, a not great thing to do. But, truth be told, the military was kind of cramping her style anyway, what with all of the rules and the secrets and the “Don’t go bragging about the latest mission”s. So lame! Flying solo, now that was the way to fame and fortune, and what better way to go indie than to go corporate? She said sayonara to the Promised Land and headed to America. Getting work wasn’t difficult; it seemed like everyone was looking for someone with a gun, and once they found out that you could actually use that gun work came in even faster. Sure, there were a few hiccups here and there—learned the hard way that her rule about picking and choosing who hears what still applied despite no longer being a part of the military—but overall she would consider it a positive life change.

She began living life underneath the moniker "Maestro", largely due to someone already claiming the tag "Messiah" a couple of millennia ago, the punk. Still, she proved herself worthy enough to be the chosen one when it came to handling a gun, assassinating a handful of high-level targets within her first year, not to mention a few dozen low-level wannabes for practically pennies. To Maestro it didn't matter who she was killing—if they had a family, if they were the last of their line, if they were a powerful figure, if they were some chump pusher, if they were good, if they were bad. Shooting someone from nearly a mile away was an impersonal act; it was less like watching a person die and more like seeing a marionette being cut from it's strings. Guilt wasn't even a thing to be considered. What Maestro wanted, what Maestro needed, was to be heard, to be known, and what better way to be heard than with the terrifying crack of a sniper rifle? Maestro leapt at the offer from Biotechnica, not even bothering to dig into the vague details.

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d a t e & p l a c e o f b i r t h ::
Riga, Latvia; 2013

a p p e a r a n c e ::
Dr. Kalniņš is a fairly typical man for his age and background, if not a bit on the leaner side. At 5'11 and 158 pounds, his movements carry a combined quickness and subdued athleticism, betraying the ever-present conflict between tranquility and neuroticism in his mind. The suits do some good to cover this, of course; Andrejs is hardly ever seen sporting anything less than a full suit, tailored to a slim fit and decorated—sometimes modestly, though more often not—with a complimenting tie, pocket square, and lapel flower. Bolstering and bolstered by the confidence exuded by his suits is Andrejs' face, a bit aged by a decade of taxing work both physically and psychologically, but nonetheless adorned with a sharp gaze held in brown eyes and muted half-grin, hanging on frequently-chapped lips.

Andrejs' manual cybernetics are nearly unnoticeable to the undiscerning eye, notable only by a thin black line wrapping around each wrist, and several hair-thin separations in the flesh trailing up to and along his fingers. His skin subtly reflects a pale blue sheen in hexagonal patterns under intense light.

g e n d e r ::


o c c u p a t i o n ::
Security Engineer

s k i l l s ::
Systems Engineering: Software - Andrejs has an extensive knowledge of systems engineering, specialising in security and antivirus programming.

Systems Engineering: Hardware - Andrejs is also quite adept with physical tools and, having a near-encyclopedic knowledge of security systems, is rather skilled both in anticipating security systems' construction and in their assembly, disassembly, circumvention, and manipulation.

Wit - Between a native quickness, inscrutable pokerface, and cerebral efficiency enhancements, Andrejs possesses a razor wit, as useful for quick deception as it is for telling off coworkers.

c y b e r n e t i c s ::

Myrmidon A5.113V5 Neuralware Processor — As a combined aspect of the company health insurance policy and their Employee Integration Program, all employees are "gifted" with a free Neuralware Processor, directly connected to Myrmidon company servers until severance. While not the most impressive hardware on the market by any stretch of the imagination, it is equipped with several ports for modular additions, which Andrejs has fully outfitted with various connection and cerebral efficiency boosters, allowing him to execute precision work with his other cybernetics and slightly boosting his cognitive speed.

IBM E.Derm.3b — Marketed towards company engineers, IBM's E.Derm.3b is a slightly updated version of the E.Derm.3a: a graft of insulating fibers into and over the flesh of the recipient. As such, it renders the engineer in question resistant to medium levels of electrical and thermal conduction, allowing them to handle potentially dangerous components and environments without bulky equipment.

IBM E.Dex.2f — Another tool for engineers, the E.Dex.2 series replaces the hands with externally identical machines, which in addition to having marginally greater grip strength and dexterity, can shed their plating to reveal dozens of concealed precision tools. From variable-bit screwdrivers, to a soldering iron, to a low-intensity CO2 laser, the hands are designed to be the engineer's best friend, replacing a tool box with one's own hands.

h i s t o r y ::
Cold, was its first experience. The welcome was not friendly. It was not joyful. Love was nowhere to be found in this place; in its stead, only screams of pain from the woman and lamentation from the man. Its parents didn't want it; they couldn't have it. Living only in a small village outside the capital of Latvia, they were left behind during the rapid technological growth of the 21st century's increasingly globalised, corporate, digital world. The child's birth was an unwanted, yet unavoidable consequence of incaution, with its parents being deeply religious and fearing divine retribution if they'd attempted to terminate the pregnancy. So, the child was born into cold. Yes, the wind outside raged and yes, icicles hung like teeth from the hospital window, but the room itself was well heated; outside was a fleeting cold, a cold that does not scar. This child was born into a different type of cold.

In order to feed this unwanted mouth, the family's patriarch ventured into the modern business world and found occupation with ExxonMobil, rising through corporate management positions as his son learned to walk and speak. Eventually, in order to continue his career's progression in an increasingly competitive world, the father had to make a difficult decision; he took his family to the United States.

Here, the family continued rising in prosperity, reveling in the new and novel world of corporate America and its curious emerging markets. Still, though, they held on to their cultural heritage, oft recalling their fond days in the cooler, quieter villages of Latvia. All of them, save one.

The boy, now accustomed to the warmth of a southeastern American city grew a disdain for the cold, and rejected it. Despite having little interest in its spiritual implications, he began to go by his more Anglican middle name. He hardly spoke to his family. Thus, a terrible irony struck as the unwanted child, only now beginning to be loved by his family turned his affections instead to his studies. He came to love the numbers. As the boy learned, numbers were not "cold," as so many described them. They weren't anything. Numbers didn't care. They didn't feel. They weren't warm, but they certainly weren't cold. No, the boy knew the cold well—better than these egocentric, Romantic Americans, at least—and there was no cold here: only a tranquil nothing.

Accepted to a university of little prestige or renown, the boy—now a young man—was nonetheless ecstatic to accept his emancipated status and begin autonomous living as a productive member of the corporate engine. When he said his final goodbyes, his father wept. The young man paused. For a moment, he was blank. His mouth opened to speak, but instead hung agape for a few seconds before curling into a nervous smile, bouncing in a single, uncertain chuckle, and disappearing from view as he turned and left.

Exceptional academic performance earned the young man transference to Carnegie-Mellon University, where he concluded his undergraduate studies in systems engineering and programming. Feeling liberated from that freezing gale that he had caught and unwittingly clutched throughout his early childhood, the young man's expression exploded, he believed. Bright colours began cropping up on his breast and collarbone in the form of pocket squares and flowers, adorning immaculate suits, the fit of which could only be attained through the combined efforts of excellent tailors and a suitably obsessive client. Seeing his personal tastes flourish, the young man felt emotionally liberated; he was finally able to emote, express, and be. Classmates and professors, of course, saw him for what he was: a frigid mirror of his earliest memories, which regardless of all the bright colours and polish remained just as wintry.

Years later, the man concluded his graduate studies in system engineering, dabbling in psychology and military studies in preparation for a career offer as a security engineer at a young arms company. Following several years of service, he rose in position, until eventually, a superior made an odd request.

"I need you to go with one of our data recovery teams and aid them in bypassing certain security systems."
"What? Data recovery—you mean corporate espionage?"
"There is certain information that a rival company possesses that would be incredibly valuable to us. Call it what you like, however regardless of what name you assign the task, it remains the same, as do the consequences for refusal to perform your obligations as my employee."
"Consequences?"
"Failure to accept this task will make you a company liability. Your employment will immediately be terminated and all references will be denied. The higher-ups will make some phone calls, and all tax history pertaining to us will be deleted. You will have never worked for us, and I suspect you'd find some difficulty finding employment elsewhere at your age and with zero confirmable work experience."

Left with little choice, the man complied. Assigned the mocking callsign of Kakapo 1 by the professional operatives, he served as an on-site expert in security engineering, trailing behind the men with guns only to open a door here or deactivate a motion detector there. Unfortunately for the man, the mission went off without a hitch. His new position was set. Every five months, perhaps, the same conversation would ensue, and he go somewhere dangerous, do something illegal, and cash an exorbitant bonus check the following weekend.

"I have another assignment for you," started the last conversation.
"Actually, I have some news. I don't think I'll be going on this assignment."
The Chief Security Officer signed and rubbed his eyes. "Just because you've proven yourself competent doesn't mean that you've gained some sort of leverage. You may be good, but you're replaceable."
The man chuckled, and for a rare moment, his eyes flashed humour. "Then replace me. I have a new job offer. Maybe they won't have me doing this stupid, crazy shit."

With that, Andrejs left, clutching in his heart a warm glint of optimism that this new Biotechnica job would be wonderful and insipid.

---

n a m e ::

Some call me DJ. Others call me boss. When a client is unhappy, he calls me Hey Asshole, and I call my guards. But you can call me Damian.

d a t e & p l a c e o f b i r t h ::
May 21st, 2021. Mariehamm, Åland Islands, Finland

a p p e a r a n c e ::
5’ 10” (178 cm) and 180 lb (82 kg). Blue eyes, light brown hair, all that shit. Those who see me can tell I'm a man of the world, dressed to the nines and stacked with tech. What they don't know is most of what looks like implants is actually just cosmetic. People tend to expect a certain flair from those who run this sort of business. They expect a man to be intimately connected to the world of entertainment. So, I comply. Small price to pay when you get the creds like I do.

g e n d e r ::
Male

o c c u p a t i o n ::
I run one of the best-kept-secrets brothels around. You need a girl, a guy, or anything in between, I can get what you're looking for. Obviously, to get in a position like mine without being sniped or absorbed by the corps, I need to be business savvy, charismatic, and able to pay off the right people at the right time.

s k i l l s ::
Networking: By that, I mean the good old-fashioned definition of the word. I know almost everyone important, or can weasel my way into their worlds easy enough. If someone has a vice, it's my job to know it and sell it to them.

Phantoms: Where most people pride themselves on physical combat, my skills lie in deception. I can create illusions on someone's neural net. If they have any sort of VR tech, I can exploit it. Sometimes they see things that aren't really there. Sometimes they see something that is there, just wearing a different skin. And sometimes, I tap into the neural net and force a feedback loop that drives them insane or kills them.

Charm: What can I say? People tend to be drawn towards me. Whether it's a girl looking for work, some muscle needing a target, or a suit yearning to take it off, they flock to me. I usually can BS my way out of any situation, since they often give me the benefit of the doubt. Even if they're being paid to kill me, we usually can work something out.

Luck: Most people say there's no such thing as luck. I'm here to tell you that's complete bullshit. Ever trip a security alarm while balls-deep in a megacorps boss’s mind, surrounded by a dozen of his best guards? You ain't getting outta that alive without some god-tier luck. I did. Twice.

c y b e r n e t i c s ::
Droid Nu Yu: cybernetic uplink and persona augmentation. With the Nu Yu, you can modify your avatar and alias names on the fly while plugged in, without having to go through standard protocol. In a virtual world where clients want to see you face to face, having a believable and disposable face is a massive boon. This rare augmentation is usually available only to the highest echelons of corpdom, but I got a... let's call it a “discount” in return for services.

Geordi Cybernetic Eye: visual augmentation and virtual reality overlay. These eyes show me everything I want to know. One eye is still real, so I can avoid some of the same trickery I pull on others. The other eye has a thermal overlay, minor adjustable x-ray penetration (wood up to an inch thick, most clothing types, but no metal), and of course, all the standard VR augments, accompanied by a virtual assistant named Angel. I know what you're thinking, but no, she's no AI. She's mostly just a pretty voice and face that reads my email. Think Siri or Cortana from those old computers, and you've got an early prototype.

Cybernetic Leg Braces: mobility augmentation and neural actuators. Yeah, so... I can't walk very well. The docs wanted to completely replace my legs, but I said fuck that shit. Instead, I have braces. The upside is I get enhanced movement with more speed and precision than those with normal legs without most of that psychoshit that messes people up. The downside? I don't wear shorts on the beach. Most people never know, or just think they're complete replacements. But no, with a little effort, I can take them off and still get around. Slowly and with a cane, but it's still me.

h i s t o r y ::
The Islands were one of the last places in Finland to ban homeschooling, so I never quite got sucked into the corporate indoctrination that most kids my age did. We also traveled a lot as a family growing up. I learned more on a summer cruise in my Dad’s boat than I did all year in school.

I grew up with money. Gave me a lot of advantages most people never see. Also meant people listened to me a bit easier. I had my pick of whatever I wanted in life, whomever I wanted. Then my parents got killed in a corp raid. I never really learned why or what shit they had dug up. I wasn't smart enough then to be able to figure it out, and I'm too smart now to try.

I drifted for a year after that. I still could get almost whatever I wanted, but I had to rely on my wits instead of my cash. Turns out, there's no money in revenge if you aren't any good at it. So that led me to coming across this brothel. Got to know the old man who ran the place after visiting a few times. He said he was getting too old for it, wanted a vacation. I gave him the vacation he was looking for one night in his sleep and took over the place. Made a few upgrades, hired a few new girls, kept the same style. Soon, I was serving clients the old man would never dreamed of meeting.

---

Birth Name





"Some people wished it stopped raining, I don't think I could live without it."
Monterey, California - April 22nd, 2000.


Goonster stands at about six feet tall, he wears a cheap bland black suit with black tie. He has no hair, as the man is old and balding at his day and age. He appears to be of a skinny build, on the back of his head are various ports - jacks for jacking into the net. He has wrinkles, of course, crows feet on his eyes. He has a nice pair of designer dress shoes on and a digi-watch on his wrist. Upon his face are a plain, bland pair of spectacles. He appears to be of 180 pounds, and facial features that would indicate him being of Slavic descent. He speaks with a slight Russian accent.


Male



"Life is simpler in the net."




Cyberdeck Building - Having been a career deck-jockey, Goonster knows how to maintain, kit and upgrade decks.

Electronic Security - He's skilled in cracking, defending, anti-personnel attacks. You name it, he can do it - in the net.

Pistols - He's handled handguns in his youth when he use to be in a gang, but that was a long time ago.



Neuralwear Processor - the baseline for neural wear cybernetics

Model 100 Plugs - plugs that fit into the back of the head, they provide some physical defense against BLACK ICE.

Pacemaker Coprocessor - A pacemaker that will restart the heart against ICE. This won't work for BLACK ICE.




_{Goonster Nato, 2020}



It wasn't a messy process for the Natos to move to the states, jumping out and away from the Russian Federation had been done before and the Natos were not the first. Both farmers, they weren't ready for the journey that awaited them. Taking a cargo ship to Seattle cost the family most of its money, smuggling was expensive back in 2000. The ship landed and the immigrants scattered, California wasn't as strict as it use to be. The Natos traveled to Monterey where they eventually found cheap housing in - a combat zone. On route to the land of the free, Goonster was conceived and he was born in April.

The combat zone was harsh on everyone and the Natos were no exception to this life rule, his father Robert Nato found himself joining a corp at the age of forty-five. His mother worked the soup kitchen in her spare time, she did have a child to raise. If only she knew her son would pick the life of crime with his father, which when he was old enough at a young teen age took up the way of the gun. He joined the Tsars - a prominent gang from the Russian Federation. The Russian gang was one of the smaller gangs plaguing the combat zone, Goonster soon found himself in combat but found a distaste for being a grunt, frontline soldier. He wanted something more, edge running comes with a risk - doesn't it?

That's when he got his first deck, it was shitty, small, didn't have many programs. Jacking in was a blast though, the net was something to be damned about. A coming from nothing kid fell in love with cyber space, like most deckers he spent most of his down time jacked in. The gang took notice when they lost a troop for patrols, then they realised his potential. Egging on his addiction to the net, the gang helped him acquire chips and gear to help boost his decking capabilities. They used Goonster to hit small corps, banks, bypass security. Despite being a means to an end, Goonster liked it - the net, not the work. It was the thrill that kept him on hopped up on life.

Under the handle Jack Frost a befitting name for a black ICE user, Goonster began to move his operations out of the combat zone. This attributed to an NCPD raid that crippled the gang as NCPD started it's operation to "recover" the district. That's when Goonster fled with his gear, he moved to Seattle where the heat would be off him. In Seattle, that's where he made a name for himself. Jacking into corps, taking their data and selling them. That was mostly his game, sell the info for the highest price. It's how he became wealthy, with the wealth he moved his parents over to Seattle with him. Over the next thirty years, Goonster would work for various corporations, gangs - anyone that would pay.

In this time, he's killed or crippled countless deckers. Some say Goonster packs only BLACK ICE for his anti-personnel setup, of course, first-hand witnesses are hard to come by. Partly because of these witnesses, the frontal lobe is liquid or their hearts stopped. His custom deck usually out guns the other deckers, he claims to be the best in Seattle but that's up for debate. Isn't that why Biotechnica hired him? He's the best, after all, he's the cyber expert you'd expect them to be begging for.

Wrong.

_{Mrs. ████, Mr. ██████████████, and Mr. ████████}


The man jolted in his seat, his hands unconsciously gripping onto the arm rests of his chair. His body breaking into spasms as blood rushed out his mouth and nose, two men in lab coats ran to the man while a technician in a jumpsuit began typing on a computer. It was too late, the man succumbed to his injuries. Black Ice had crushed his heart, it was evident when the flat line hit his machine and the dull audio cued. This was the second Decker to get flat lined this month, it was then that the suits came in. Executives of Biotechnica, it had been decided this Deckjockey attacking Biotechnica would be grabbed by their security teams.

Maybe Goonster had been sloppy, he was verging on the age of fifty. Rocking forty-nine years of age in his Seattle penthouse, he went through the documents he had lifted from the mega Corp. While he ran his decrypter, he got out of the menu. Leaving the net and back to the real world, that's when he saw twelve men in security gear around him. His hands raised in the air, he was swiftly beaten to the floor and restrained before he was hauled off, down and out his apartment to Biotechnica.

It took forever, but when the had the bag removed from his head he has faced with three executives a contract. "Nato, if only you understood the problem you've just created. Those Deckers you flat lined? They were working on an important job, a mission of ours. Now we need replacements, understood? Work for us, for this job - maybe even more if you like making money. Or, we'll send you back to the net right here - and Ice you." The woman on the left says, in a kind voice just before she switches to a deeper more serious tone when she brings up "Icing Nato."

Without looking at the contract, he signed. Dotting the I's and crossing the Ts. He still had the net to live for, his family, his future. Whatever it was that needed to be done, he'd do it. Only time will tell if he'll flatline out, or cash out. One thing for sure, he'll need a new deck.

---

n a m e ::



d a t e & p l a c e o f b i r t h ::
May 12th London

a p p e a r a n c e ::
Sporting a thin Mohawk, tattoos can be seen from his short prison stints on his shaved head. Slightly above average height he is physically well built. He has short stubble on his defined chin, more so due to a lack of care instead of style. His clothes are often simple, worn and ragged, opting for functionality above all else. Further tattoos and scars line the bare skin of his muscular chest and torso, both a reminder of past battles.

He mostly appears 'clean' in regards to cyber-ware but his wrists hold concealed sub-dermal induction ports that feed to his neural ware. On very close inspection one might notice his left eye is cybernetic.

g e n d e r ::
Male, _{wanna check?}

o c c u p a t i o n ::
Jacob tried the monotony of modern day slavery known as work. He dabbled as a trade assistant or bouncer among other things but failed on many occasions. His short temper, violent tendencies and dislike for authority proved to continually be troublesome. Illegal street brawling and crime were his main source of income until he joined the military.
For a short time after that alcoholic or bum best described his occupation. That was until Damian Jansenn came across him and built him up, giving him a job in security. Jacob excelled here.

s k i l l s ::
He can take a punch like its nobody's business. The guy just keeps going. He has a natural tolerance, almost excitement, towards pain. He can also dish it back out, having high experience in mixed martial arts and underground brawling.
He has all the basic military training and enough live combat experience to haunt his dreams.

Beside that and being physically fit he's not skilled at much else. In fact he could be considered a bit of a slow learner. Lucky for people like him, you don't need to be a tech expert to benefit from tech.
Still bearing his military Neural chipware socket he can 'buy' and plug in skills. He currently has a chemistry skill chip installed, allowing him to understand and identify chemicals.
Thanks to the neuralware processor and additional implants, Jacob now has an extraordinarily enhanced sense of smell. He can track scents and analyse chemicals with the aid of his chemistry skill chip.

c y b e r n e t i c s ::

h i s t o r y ::
Jacob grew up without a father in the slummiest of slums. Many abusive father figures came and left throughout his child hood. Surrounded by constant gangs at war, it was no surprise when he eventually slipped into that lifestyle. As a young kid Jacob wasn't the biggest, toughest, or the fastest but he was the meanest.
Intimidation became his survival tactic. He would always 'one up' his rivals. Jacob eventually got an armour mesh implanted under his skin. There was something extra terrifying about the nonchalant's of appearing unarmored.

When Jacobs gang antics eventually drew his younger sister into his lifestyle he decided to clean up his act. Hungry for a life better than the one he had, for his little sister and dear mother more so than himself, he tried to go straight. Failing at many jobs he
shortly after enlisted for the military. This lasted longer than all else but eventually even this too came to an end. While there he did well. His anger and aggression focused towards a Poitier outlet. He completed training and earned his neural ware. Did a tour that cost him his eye but was ranked up and given a cyberoptic.
It was in his new ranking position that he was kicked out for questionable behaviour and defiance. Disagreeing with corporate interjection and all the red tape.

Failing this it put him back on the streets. An angry failure, a lost wild man now trained to kill with upgrades to do just that.
Luckily for most, Jacob now spent most of his time debilitated by excess consumption of alcohol. His life quickly spiralled downwards and out of control before his past decided to catch up with him and kick him while he was down.

In his younger, dirtier gang days before joining the military Jacob had unknowingly, or uncaringly, messed up. He had ruffled the wrong people the wrong way. After overdoing another 'warning' beating and sending some punk kid to the infirmary, Jay realised his mistake. It wasn't just some wanna-be gansta trying to extend his territory. Things were different, he should have realised. This new kid on the scene came with fancy corporate parents who were connected to some pretty high up important people.

During his time in the military Jacob had almost forgotten all about that day and the cursed promises spat at him.
That punk kid didn't though.
Shortly after his discharge from the service Jacob got an urgent worried call from his mother.
Upon arriving home Jacob walked right into a trap. Ambushed and blind sighted he was beaten to near death, his jaw mangled beyond normal repair, face kicked in. The life near beaten right out of him. They stole or trashed nearly everything in his mother's house. His distraught mother was forced to watch the whole thing while Jacobs sister was went missing.

Left for dead, lucky to still be alive, and in a real bad way, Jacob was in desperate need of some immediate medical aid and surgery. Having just lost nearly everything and with not having much to begin with, Jacobs mother began her frantic bleak search for a cheap black market surgeon.

She never found one, but who she did find was Damian Jansen. And that was even better.
Still for reasons unknown to Jacob, Damien covered the costs and had the work done by one of his own guys. This is where Jacob got his Power jaw and shark tooth smile as well as an Oral factory boost. It was beyond simple healing or repair, it was a surgical upgrade.

The generosity was not for free of course, but a loan. A loan worth Jacobs life. Jacob could not argue with that. To top it off the prices were more than reasonable and Damien even offered him a job to make the money back. That was the start of a beautiful partnership that is still running today.

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» Allycat «

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» Female «

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» August 17, 2036 «
» London, The United Kingdom «

◟▬ ▬ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬◞ :: i m a g e :: ◟▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ▬ ▬◞
Brilliantly tanned, colorful eyes, crazy hair, grungy clothing and a fuck off look on her face sums up Alejandra, or Alex, pretty well. The most obvious piece of chrome is an obtrusive contraption hitched to her left arm that serves as a detachable arm aug. The cybereyes don't seem too special, despite their glowing, technological glory. However, these eyes also change just as often as her colorful rocker-chick clothing and the wild styles of her hair. The method behind the choice of clothing tends to be rather simple. Pick whatever looked cool to the kids in the late 20th century that she finds in a thrift store, and mix it with some modern flair. The hair shifts so much overnight that it couldn't be natural. It isn't, but it's a near-perfect representation. The only tell is a how the hair feels like woven nanofibre instead of the oily strands that naturally grow out of your skull. She mostly sticks to long hair, as that's the part that takes the longest to change, but she styles and colors it in any punkish fashion that she wants on a given day. The last noticeable thing about her on first glance is how she's perpetually chewing gum.

◟▬ ▬ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬◞ :: j o b s :: ◟▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ▬ ▬◞
» Black Market Robotics Supplier «
» Underground Cyberware Tech «
» Professional Vigilante «
» Junker «

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» Inventive «
Her primary skillset is her affinity for all things hardware. If she's got the tools, she can fix your cyberarm, improvise a weapon, build a death machine out of a scrap heap, or design a modern art-piece.

» Resourceful «
True to her grungy upbringing, Alejandra is capable of making the best out of a drekked situation. She's a quick learner and knows how to leverage her advantages. Professionally, this mostly manifests in her ability to jury rig moderately advanced tech.

» Improvisational «
Flying by the seat of her pants is how Alejandra gets things done.

» Balanced «
Working with many things at once, at many jobs at once, has given her invaluable multitasking experience and capability.

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» Control Rig Implant «
Surgically implanted into the skull, a control rig plugs into the visual, aural and motor control facilities of the brain to create an interface. This interface can be used to wirelessly pilot vehicles and robotics that are paired to the user, and are adapted for rigging. This has varying levels from simple driving to mentally 'sleeving into'
the vehicle, which happens to render your own body unconscious. It is possible to pilot multiple vehicles in either fashion, though the multitasking ability required is extensive, leaving skilled drone pilots a top commodity. Alejandra's control rig in particular also acts as a typical neuralware. External versions of this technology exist, using a visor, headphones and haptic gloves, meaning that rigging adaptations are fairly common, though not universal.

» External Cyberarm «
Having no need for a full replacement, but certainly a need for an upgrade, Alejandra installed an 'exoware limb augmentation' on her left arm. While less effective than a full cyberarm, it functions more or less the same by assisting the user with lifting strength and fine motor function. The unit plugs directly into access jacks placed on and around her left shoulder plate. It hooks under the natural limb, following the same movements, until it opens into a reinforced glove that the user must physically sleeve their hand into. Within the glove, Alex installed a tazer system that allows her to shock an object in her grasp while leaving her unharmed.

» Cybereyes «
Of course, the first thing to go were the eyes. It wasn't only for the everyday convenience of AR overlays, but for the fascination of what the world might look like with them. They prove to be invaluable for diagnostics, as well as picking out the neat junk from the plain junk. Alex actually has a whole set of them by now, changing out entire ocular interfaces like contact lenses.

» Artificial Glands «
Systems in place to administer drugs, of the medical sort, directly to the user, from inside the user. A recent addition, Alejandra main uses the augmentation while on the job in stressful situations. A healthy dose of an adderal, dopamine and adrenaline cocktail will get you out of that stressful situation quicker than a bullet to the head.

» Personal Mods «
Alex has installed several modifications simply for the nonessentials.

A media access jack lies behind the temple and beneath the hairline, and acts as a direct plug to her brain. This allows for direct sense feeds from VR as well as a method to hard-plug into a console without wireless.

Pheromone enhancers help mask the olfactory toll on the body from long nights in the steamy workshop. They also help lots with the ladies.

Nanowire hair fibres ended up becoming Alex's wholesale replacement for hair. They're capable of shifting color, style, thickness and length in a matter of time that progresses from former to latter. About five seconds for a simple color shift to a week or so to grow about a foot. The tensile strength of these wires are about as flimsy as real hair, and thus have no use other than for cosmetics.

A hermaphroditic adaptor is basically what it sounds like. While unused, it appears as an unassuming chromate disc stationed over the pubic area.

Sadly, medical reasons weren't why Alex installed the easy access I.V. port in her arm.

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Alex was a curious kid. She had a mind that enjoyed taking things apart and putting them back together in new and interesting ways. Without a hands-on problem to solve or a new toy to tinker with, she was utterly bored and unyieldingly rowdy. Even as an adult, she's much like that loud backstreet London kid who had more fun getting things to move with a car battery than with any doll or 'action figure'.

She seemed to take from her dad in this way. He was a top-notch robotics engineer who earned himself a one-way ticket to the pits with his alcoholism. At least, that was until he had his only daughter. At that point in his life, he was too sick to land a well-paying job, dying painfully of disease and holding on by the thin thread of his cyberware. He earned enough with odd jobs to keep his family mostly aloft. With some slips.

It was all the same to Alejandra, though. Her father was her idol, despite his numerous, monumentous flaws. Perhaps it was helped by the environment of her schooling. She was the one ratchet-racket kid on the block, in the neighborhood, or in the schoolyard. She wasn't quite bullied, per-se, or at least not after she thwacked a boy on the nose with a socket-wrench that she borrowed from her dad's 'garage' (meaning the back room of the bar her dad frequented with the permission of his buddy, the owner). Friends, on the other hand, were quite rare.

This developed a sort of 'fuck-off' attitude with her that stuck; as it was ever an effective, if destructive, coping mechanism. Oddly, this didn't do much to her relationship with her father other than enrichen it. Her mum didn't have the patience for her impudence, but her dad thought it was what made her unique. And that it was hilarious.

But, when Alejandra was nine, after years of being basically inseparable with him, her dad died.

So, she acted out. She started fights at school and snuck out of the house to vandalize things. She did this until she was about eleven. That was when a boy, one that she befriended on the street while tagging buildings, was picked up by go-gangers as a child soldier of sorts. That scared the hell out of her.

For about a year she muddled around in her school life. Not really doing much. Always alone. At home she was uncharacteristically lethargic, like the energy had been bled from her. Her mum, despite all the shit she put her through over the last couple of years, eventually took her back to her dad's workshop. As it turns out, his old buddy didn't have the funds to refurbish it and didn't have the heart to hawk all the junk, so he left it intact. With the addition of an improvised poker table.

The change wasn't immediate, but by the time she hit thirteen, she practically lived in the back of that pub. She got into scavenging for junked commlinks and other everyday accommodations and learned how to patch them up through trial and error. Mostly error. It would've been impossible if it weren't for the fact that net access was so readily available. There were how-to's for everything on there! So many, that she was amazed that people were willing to pay her to fix their broken stuff, or simply buy off the junk she'd already learned to fix.

At fifteen, Alex dropped out of school, much to her mother's very vocal discontent. She'd landed a gig with a mechanic that gave her the money to help pay the steadily rising rent; she simply didn't have the time for school. Her mum was willing to take more jobs, make more sacrifices to her own health, but Alejandra didn't allow it. Whether or not this was a selfish or selfless decision was something she didn't yet understand.

Side-gigs were always something she looked out for. If it involved solving things, especially chrome things, with her hands, she was on top of it. By the time she was seventeen, she had been introduced to three of her greatest loves in life: Sex, drugs and robotics (she figured out rock n' roll at five). At least one of them she was certainly gifted at, and it was the clunkers.

Hooked up with a job making bots with guns for the local mob, Alex had the pay to pursue her dreams and her vices at once. She moved across town, got a new place, a shiny new workshop, and a bunch of new chrome. When she was nineteen, she met Trixie. That girl put a whole new spin on addiction for Alejandra. Maybe it was the thrill-filled nihilistic approach, maybe it was the cheerful disregard for all social convention, or maybe it was the drugs, but Alex was hooked.

Of course, addiction always turns bad when you're indulging it with someone else. Of course, this got Alex dropped from her job. Of course, that meant that she was evicted and her workshop foreclosed. And of course, it could only end when one of them overdosed. Alejandra will never forget seeing Trix lying there, wigging out, direct sense feed plugged into her skull, eyes rolled back all pus-coated and venous, vomit idly burbling from her mouth. She'll never forget the abject terror of not knowing if pulling the plug on the sense feed would kill her or not, and not having the time to think it through.

She was twenty then, and unplugging Trixie was easily the hardest decision she'd ever made. Trix survived, barely. But Alejandra was still too late. Pulling the feed that far into the overdose ended up shocking Trixie's system to the point where it couldn't recover, and she was stricken with permanent and overwhelming psychosis.

Just like when her friend got kidnapped by those go-gangers, this sobered Alex right up. But a piece of her was left behind at a London asylum.

Having, rather loudly, cut ties with her mother a few years prior, Alex went back home with her tail tucked between her legs. Her mum wasn't there, of course, after the neighborhood had all but fully gentrified by then. Guess the vibrant culture of junkyards and rat houses was appealing or something. Alex was a quick name-search and a bus ride away from her mum anyhow. Luckily, she hadn't blown it so badly that her mother wasn't willing to take her back and help her recover.

After dealing with the constant, everyday shitshow that was withdrawal, Alex threw herself back into her work. This time, however, she started doing charity work as well. She had a reputation in town at this point, so the paying side-jobs were plentiful. Most of her time by then was spent hooking up the locals' cyberware either on the cheap or in exchange for parts. Techs of her skill usually couldn't do it so cheaply, but she had a knack for refurbishing junked parts and using them for this sort of thing. Over the course of a year, people from around the country with the creds to head into London, but not enough to get their chrome fixed, ended up paying her shop a visit.

Maybe the public image got to her head. Maybe it was because she kept thinking about Trixie, and how she would've wanted to make a difference if she wasn't so dependent on stimulation and escape. Either way, she made a really stupid, life-risking move. Alex started hooding. A vigilante for the common people, without any form of combat training to keep her face off the pavement. By all means, she should've died in her first couple of months, but she found some friends. A team.

There was a whole underground movement of skilled folk doing essentially paramilitary work out there. Some of them did it for the creds, some for the exhilaration, and some did it for the 'cause', whatever that cause may be for them. Alejandra didn't exactly find a like-minded team, but they were willing to work along with her goals. Hell, they even got along most of the time.

To keep their little operation afloat, they often had to take jobs from corps. Alex famously reviled the corps, but even her knack for scraping at the bottom of the barrel wasn't enough to keep the team running in the shadows without creds. The b i o t e c h n i c a job wasn't supposed to be any different, but the corp picked Alex. Just Alex. Her sense of principle demanded that she didn't take the job, but the team insisted. The payroll was too huge to pass up.

She knew they were right, in the end, so she went with it...