Age... 21
Gender... Male
Origin... Netherlands, Europe


Soren stands slightly above average height - at five foot ten or eleven. He sports short, light chocolate tresses that often drape just past his ears. He has some color to his skin, though his complexion is far from dark or deep. His chin and jaw are peppered and decorated with short hair just able to pass as facial hair as opposed to peach fuzz. Thinner lips sit in the center of his face, and above that sits a nose of angular description. With high cheekbones, his face is much like his body in build, thin and refined with sharp accents. To complete his face, he has two emerald eyes topped by brows a shade darker than his hair. All in all, he is a generally handsome man depending on who one asks.

Keeping him thin is his active lifestyle, but keeping him from being built is his detachment from more strenuous activity and assignments. Sparing him from that action is the distance from the action hidden safely behind his computer console. The way he unconsciously acts with his body supports these claims, as he is often physically aloof and able to find comfort in the most uncomfortable of situations. He keeps himself groomed; maintaining his not-peach fuzz, hygienes, clean cut and comfortable way of dress, all the way down to manicured and well taken care of hands and nails.

In spite of his prim and proper way of presenting himself - in a way - he is not without his physical faults. Life in the rough, tumble, and dark streets have blessed him with many scars along his body. The most notable of which run across his neck near his windpipe where a run in with an unsavory person left him for worse. The scar is perhaps the most sensitive of topics, should one bring it up, and it’s memory remains fresh in the tinkerer’s mind despite how many years ago the incident occurred.

Soren dresses clean and comfortably. He can often be seen in more or less loose fitting jeans held onto his tight waist lazily with a belt. As tops, he often wears simple pullover tees and sweatshirts that provide him warmth in the chilled buildings downunder. If the situation should call for it, he does have fitting, lightweight armor of civilian-grade to protect him should he ever need to be in the field.


Soren, at his core, is a relatively calm person. He isn’t excitable, nor is he very impulsive. He is the cautious sort, one to look both ways three times before crossing a street. That said, he isn’t what someone would call brave either. He keeps his head low and doesn’t seek to catch the attention of any who he passes on the street. Cold and seemingly aloof at first, he is actually very warm and compassionate to those he cares about, but also extends that warmth and care of wellbeing to strangers in many circumstances. Though he can hardly scrape the funds to get by himself, he is charitable and often donates what little free time he has to help others. All that said, deep down he is someone who seeks to be recognized and commended for all that he’s done. He yearns to be stable and to no longer be forced to lean on less than savory work to get by day by day.


Soren Solberg was born in the Netherlands, Europe to an up and coming family as an only child. His father was an astute businessman who used dedication and hard work to bring his family from poverty levels to that of a respectable height. His mother was an attentive one, and her job allowed for her to give Soren the love and attention he needed and desired as a growing child. Once his father obtained a reputable position as chairman of a blooming corporation, Soren’s mother forfeit her job to stay at home and look after the growing Solberg estate and Soren, too.

In time, Soren was stripped of his only child status and his family welcomed a sister to the then-young boy. During this time, Soren found himself being enrolled in a private school that would act as the prerequisite to eventual attendance to another private and prestigious institution. Soren was a dutiful, responsible student and constantly finished near the top of his class, earning him much attention in the form of academics. When it came time for him to attend the prestigious institution for his secondary education years, he was chosen and admitted without hesitation.

It was in this school that his passion and love of technology came into play. He found himself gravitating towards any device in the school that would allow him to practice the skills he was beginning to tap then. He grew those skills, and towards the end of his secondary years, it was clear where he was going to specialize after he graduated and attended a university. Given his good marks and diligent way of being, Soren had a plethora of schools at his beck and call.

Soren eventually graduated from secondary school and began to choose where he wanted to attend for his tertiary and higher education. However, the choice was never made. Soren’s father accepted an offer from the company that would transfer him and his family to New Hong Kong. The venture was important for the business, and would further solidify the Solberg name in Europe and allow them to branch their influence out into East Asia. For the sake of the name and the familial prestige, Soren’s future was shifted dramatically and he was forced to choose a university near his new home.

That time never came, though. Soon after the Solbergs moved to New Hong Kong they found themselves on uneven footing. The ground was new and unknown to them, and thus any business-fluency Soren’s father had found itself out the window and borderline useless. Time and time again Soren’s education was postponed because of his father’s necessary business dealings, and soon Soren became disenchanted with the idea of continuing his education. To both aid his family and forge something of his own, Soren took a job as computer technician for a no-name company to earn his own income. He began to figure if he wanted his path to be his own, he would have to distance himself from his family, regardless of how much weight their name may have carried. Then again, since moving, that weight seemed less and less with each passing day. In Europe, they may have been of hefty consideration, but in East Asia, they were a few notches above no one.

Soren was on the cusp of independence when a bad business deal made by his father reared its ugly head and bit at the Solbergs. Tragedy stuck them financially and soon the bad deal turned a flesh wound into a hemorrhaging catastrophe. The Solbergs were ruined, and any attempts as salvaging the name and finances was met by a brick wall of opposition. Soren’s father was stripped of his job, and because of the loss, divorce in the family followed suit. Soren’s mother split from his father and took his sister with her. Soren presumed they returned to Europe but his own troubles began due to his association with his father at the same time. Because of their shared surname, Soren lost his position at the company he was working at and was forced to find his own means of surviving in New Hong Kong.

Moving to the underbelly of the city and away from his family, Soren took a job at the Mavericks, as they were the only company willing to hire a reject such as himself. Under their employment, despite the work, he was able to secure himself an abode in the Valhalla District and live in a less than comfortable position.

• SHK Bat - similar to a police baton, the weapon holds a static charge and discharges upon being used as a blunt force weapon. It delivers a jolt strong enough to temporarily stun, if not incapacitate, who hit by it.
• Wrist WCH - Soren has developed a custom communicator that is strapped to his wrist. It possesses a decent sized display screen and allows him to take video and audio calls. A moderately sized storage unit is hosted on it as well, allowing him to store a hefty amount of files. Many hook-ups and cords are housed in the system as well, allowing him to hook up to other computer mainframes through it.
• JNX Backpack Prototype - the JNX Backpack is a personal project of Soren’s. Similar to the Wrist WCH, it is a mini-computer mainframe of its own, able to hold many terabytes of storage. With several bells and whistles, it’s a blessing to have when needed but a pain to lug around due to its weight. It’s very much a work-in-progress.

Name: Óscar Guijarro.

Age: 29 years old.

Sex: Male.

Origin: Born in Sweden, lived most of his life in Spain, moved to Hong-Kong shortly afterward.

Appearance: Óscar is simple at first sight, his body being that of an average male of his age, but it seems that he takes care of his health and body, shown by is slightly muscular body: Nothing too crazy, but he's fit. Except when he removes his clothing, revealing that both of his arms are indeed augmented, totally deprived of biological mass and exclusively cybernetic. He tends to wear dark, baggy clothing, choosing black amongst all other colors. He also seems to be a fan of numerous video games and comics, which is shown by his shirts. He also dons a full beard, complete with a black pompadour that he takes care of, sometimes putting it softly under the protection of his hoody. His right eye is brown, the left one being of an almost pitch-black red, sometimes having some sort of "tick" on the left one, caused by yet another augmentation, more than likely related to some sort of accident. He has baggy eyes, possibly related to his unscheduled sleeping time and/or insomnia.

Nickname/Handle: Stoned or Ohm.

Psychological Analysis: He isn't the smartest guy in the world, that's for sure. He also isn't the most kind-hearted person either, seemingly taking care of his own before others and more than once running away from a situation, but once you get to know him, you can see that there is more that catches the eye. If you take care of him, he will take care of you. He's a believer of the status-quo and the karma, meaning that if you do something to him, he will do exactly the same to you, good or bad. Since stuff happened while he was a child, Óscar feels the need of love: Not just sexual love, but friendship and overall care. Most of the time you can find him listening to music, trying to get away from everything, so he doesn't think about anything and just be there. If he finds someone that needs him, he'll be there for them, but most of the time they don't return the favor, sending him into a spiral of sadness and drinking, thinking that nothing in the world would change if he wasn't here. He tends to hide under humor, most of the time being unfunny and/or offensive, but getting the job done and making him look like a normal unemotional idiot. Also, his movements are sudden and really... "special", often making use of his hands while talking to give them more emphasis; this also affects his overall actions, such as singing while walking on the street, dancing to a song without actually knowing how to dance, etc...

Personal Record: He was born in Sweden, 2128. His mother was Swedish and his father Spanish, so the cultural exchange between the two helped him to start talking two languages at an early age. In 2131, when he was only 3 years old, his family moved back to Madrid, so his father could show him what was Spain like. On his 5th birthday, he got his first video game handheld console, and he became an "addict" to it, playing it nonstop and usually replaying the same games over and over, feeling that this was an unlimited source of fun. They didn't live in the best neighborhood of the city, numerous cases of vandalism and overall violence ran through the city, but he didn't experience anything out of the ordinary life of a happy, happy boy.

When he was 8 years old, his mother experienced a very painful headache while having a family dinner: 3 days later she was dead, a very tiny vein on her brain had exploded and left her in a catatonic state, so the doctors had no reason to not unplug her. When his father told him, he of course cried, but he was far too young to understand the true consequences of his mother's death. On the next few months, his father contracted throat cancer, which was literally eating him from the inside: Even with his vocal cords removed, it wouldn't stop. Óscar saw his father getting weaker and weaker each day, the hole in his throat getting bloodier and bigger each day, until it happened: At 3 am, on his summer break, he woke up to find the dead corpse of his father on the bed, entirely covered in blood as he could only associate it to another vein that broke, this time the one on the neck, connecting to the brain. He was only 12 at that time.

Afterwards, he went to live with his uncle and grandmother, in yet another neighborhood and another school. Shortly after graduating, around 2147. Being old enough to live alone, he decided to retreat to the exotic yet dangerous and unknown parts of Asia, most specifically: Hong-Kong. After barely having enough money to rent a place to live in, he stayed there for around 5 years, training his Chinese and doing common and legal jobs, for the time being. After a while, the factory he had been working on was raided by some sort of terrorist group, which demanded that the workers united to their cause to take the "Throne" of the company as if it was a kingdom or something. Óscar knew these guys were just psychos and didn't mind them, and indeed they were psychos: Armed psychos. After their demands weren't fulfilled, they decided that the best course of action was blowing the factory to pieces, with fucking everyone inside. The Spaniard heard the explosions and the yells, and when he attempted to escape, everything went black.

Fast forward six months, to the HKSH (Hong Kong Sanatorium & Hospital), where Óscar had been taken care of until he was fully recovered. He was in shock, as he realized that the attack had made both of his arms useless: The nerves and most of the muscle destroyed as well as his left eye, which had been hit by some shrapnel that the explosion caused. Although he didn't have much money, due to his low-salary job, he did make some friends back in the streets, shady friends. They helped him pay for the hospital bill and even some official augmentations, to make up for what he had lost, but it all had a price: Work for them. Shortly afterwards, Óscar was greeted in a luxury restaurant by a man named Juo-Shing, which was the leader of the so-called "Shinahu" clan, a branch of the Triads that took care of most of the menial work: Take thing to X place, maybe take care that X establishment doesn't get robbed...or even rob X establishment yourself. He had no choice but to accept, slowly learning the insides of the "Underworld" as he slowly ranked up in the clan, getting the alias of "Stoned" due to his surname being "Guijarro", which in Spanish is a type of rock.

Years passed and the clan slowly dispersed, a new corporation taking most of the members as it had a more "official" manner of doing things, alongside better security and recognition. Óscar couldn't abandon the clan, so he had to wait until it died off. And he waited. And waited. And boy, did he wait, until finally the leader himself gave him his part of the deal and was finally free to join the Maverick's group. Since they already had a bunch of thugs running around doing jobs, he had to go into the most "technical" part of the job, controlling the security of the quite expensive tech that the group had alongside getting taught how to do the basic hacking routines: One can't be sure about anything when it comes to gangs with online networks. After some time, a co-worker of his', Tommy DeGarro sent him quite an unusual message: Óscar, being the man that he is, couldn't pass out an opportunity to help out a friend in need, specially if it meant getting away from the menial routine and with cash at the end: A lot of cash.

Equipment: Óscar wields augmentations on both of his arms, no longer having any kind of biological mass on them and being literally entirely mechanical. He isn't a ranged fighter, fuck, he hates guns, and that is why he always prefers to go into close quarters combat to attempt and subdue the opponent in the fastest way possible, that is, without killing, and that is why he sometimes wields an "electrified brass knuckles": Basically, brass knuckles that he has tinkered with to give electric discharges, not very effective against armored or covered target, but holy crap does it hurt.
He also has lost his left eye, which is now replaced by yet another cybernetic augmentation. With enough tinkering and mechanical knowledge, it can be upgraded to allow him to have better vision or reflexes but, as of now, it's just a regular eye.
But made of metal.
And electronics.
And it glows.

Name: Gary Magnusson
Age: Forty-nine years of age.
Gender: Male.
Origin: Dundee, Indiana.

Appearance: Standing at 5'8", the fellow may not seem intimidating at first glance. Quite thin and long-limbed, with a somewhat cat-like stature, wide shoulders. He lacks several fingers on his left hand, instead replaced by a scratched, metallic augmentation containing built-in pens and razor-sharp wires. His face is angular, a work of a cubist; with jutting cheekbones, full, dry lips, a smile so big it makes lines look like a cat's whiskers. His eyes are tired, vocal cords so damaged by chemical fumes that he had to implant a cheap voice-module that crackles and drones. He's usually wearing an aged, grey military jacket tailored in Kashmir for the UN military police; a gift from an old friend.

Nickname/Handle: Croaker.

Psychological Analysis: Magnusson tends to associate himself with an ancient school of thought - stoicism. He's a slacker, a complete fatalist, jaded to the bone, so much that it may seem absurd. Cash is a resource that makes the world go 'round, but the only thing driving him is the need for a change of scene. The thrill of finding yourself in an alien environment, unknown and unwanted, only to make use of each little sprinkle of salt and half-chewed fishbones to create creme brulee and make everyone choke to death on it - that is the sole thing he respects and desires. At least, that's one of the tales he's been pushing to disinterested strangers ever since his retirement; slumped over the bar counter, sucking on cigarettes, suffering. He's an enterprising freelancer at best, and a deadbeat trickster vagrant at worst. Magnusson doesn't believe in honor among thieves, nor does he wait for the foe to throw the first punch, resorting to dirty fighting and getting the jump on the bastards.

Personal Record: Born to a family of Ingrian addicts pushing howler dust out of a nuclear-fueled trailer park, he was taken away by child protection services and put into foster care alongside his younger siblings Mango and Butts.

He was transferred to a cadet facility after setting his pillow on fire, and then placed under a specialized training program put in place by the Department of Homeland Security with the help of a few private investors.

Lacking in skill with arithmetics and other sciences, the only place he showed promise in was dirty business in the slums. Just barely passing the academy, in an ironic twist of fate, he was assigned to the narcotics unit in the local police precinct. Day one, on the streets, he began to get on his superiors' nerves.

Work as a patrolling officer is bad as it is, but when you're sent to progressively worser places, you tend to develop a certain method to dealing with scumbags and screwheads who want to gut and leave you bleeding like a dog in an alley.

After seven years of gruelling, but efficient work, Gary transferred to Alaska, the habitation of which made much more bearable by global warming, now assigned a case involving weapons smuggling across from Kamchatka. The routine of life in the north slowly began to catch up to him. He married his girlfriend from Dundee, and became too bogged down in the paperwork to properly track the culprits transporting guns stolen from Russia's Kalashnikov Concern. When he found his wife sucking off Ted from finances, things took a dive. He willingly went deep undercover, posing as a potential buyer in Vladivostok. Having made friends with some of the associates of the smuggling ring, he was figured out in the process of making the fateful transaction.

Beaten and tortured for hours, his crew finally managed to pinpoint his location and storm the compound. Unfortunately, he lost a good chunk of his left hand in the process, and chemical burns damaged his lungs and vocal cords. To avoid death, his team found a local drop-out from the medical institute, who filled Magnusson to the brim with vodka, and improvized on the spot. Gary's management later paid for a better augment in his hands, but he refused to change the half-assed voice-module, having grown to like the eery sound and its' effect on people; an eccentricity of his.

He could not, however, return to office work after this, even though promotion and a more than average pension was on the table.

He went on to serve as a UN peacekeeper in the Pakistani-Indian border for a while, before quitting once more and leaving to find new prospects elsewhere. He seems to have gotten used to the lifestyle of a wanderer getting by with the use of his skills and mindset.

Equipment: Three metallic fingers on his left hand with a built-in pen that can shift into a detractable and detachable blade, as well as a roll of wire that could be used as a garrote. Hard leather plating over vital organs hidden under his jacket. A dagger placed in his boot with a special spring mechanism that serves to make a kick much more bloody and scary than one would expect. And of course, a trusty eight-chamber revolver.