These NPCs, if owned by a player, are safe from death and control from my Co-GMs and I. Additionally, you may not control an NPC you did not create without permission. This rule applies to all listed NPCs. Generally, just do not control unique mobs you did not create.
World NPCs
Anabelle Harriette CEO and lead developer of "Aero Core", a company purposed to the research and development of aviation and hover technology.
Arad Lugrath Bluegrass, founder of Lugrath and esteemed man of livestock, face of the Bluegrass brand.
Aralin Weldon, heiress of the Weldon farming estate, face of the Weldon brand.
Carter Wiles CEO of Peridot Incorporated, a leader in the automotive industry.
Johanan Ivoran Bueford, founder of Ivorpoint and renown entrepreneur of Bueford Wine.
Johnathan Rox, prestigious Arkhean dictator president.
Mikhael Severt, CEO of Syndustries, A leading corporation of innovative technologies and security systems.
Tobias Calvin, CEO of Calvin Industries, a leader in top of the line weapons research and development.
Vance Dewitt Racine CEO of DigiCorp, A pioneer of Digital Technologies.
Player NPCs
Lucias Caldera, Anne's estranged father, Head of Defense and famous Watchman. — Esoteric
Dr. Fairfield, lead developer and head researcher concerning bioengineering and Pyskers. — Aziraphale
The Valkyrie Sword , her old squad insignia, is tattooed on her left bicep.
Modifications:
None
Cybernetics:
None
Other:
Annelle is a smoker, and favors a brand that gives off sweet smelling blue-gray smoke.
Ann is a bit of a trend setter, favoring stylized jackets stylized with retro, aesthetic cybernetic looking pieces. Beneath that she's usually sporting a tank top, but isn't unknown to wear a shirt with a wonky pattern or design on it. Lower, she usually keeps it simple with jeans or synthetic, skin tight pants. She's not one to be caught dead in a skirt. She's a lover of dark colors, and almost always wears boots, but to contradict that statement, she favors wearing a bright red, kerchief-esque scarf. One of her most prized possessions are her goggles, equipped with visual feeds and blue vision—A form of night vision.
Anne is over average height, and build, though beneath the layers of clothes she has built up a bit of finely tuned muscle from her time as a Watchman, and consistent fieldwork as a systems engineer. Her features are rather soft and girly, and she prefers to keep her hair long, with punk styled bangs. She's also not exactly voluminous when it comes to her womanly assets, keeping with her rather dainty, girlish appearance.
Anne used to be a Watchman, part of the esteemed law enforcement officials. She passed the academy with average marks, but quickly grew on her new assigned squad. They became somewhat of a family, and Anne was quickly recruited into getting the squad's insignia tattooed on herself. Her duties were that of what you'd except of a law enforcement officer; She'd respond to crimes both petty and large, and has been in her fair share of stakeouts and firefights. Though the squad as a whole never accomplished any major achievements, her time working as a Watchman has built up her muscle and stamina, a physique which is maintained through the demands of her latest job.
Taken in beneath the Sys.Admin corporation, Anne found herself enjoying the life of a systems engineer. She had an office, and a lovable, slightly eccentric coworker by the name of Elliot Watts, self proclaimed 'Hacker Extraordinaire'. Here she developed an understanding of electronic systems, especially coding. Primarily focused towards infrastructure maintenance, the directors on the upper levels would hand out alternative tasks from time to time. Anne has done everything from installing security hubs, programming timing systems, debugging various assortments of code, and so forth. She's also partnered with DigiCorp and Syndustries engineers in order to program operable vehicle code, and has helped APD debug an error with their drone systems. She's no stranger to the inner workings of machines, which is where the engineering part comes into play.
She's handy machinery, and has traveled all over the Ark to upgrade, maintain, and repair these sorts of systems—Albeit on a temporary work pass. From the foundries and assemblies in sector five, to the water recycling pumps in sector one. In today's world, knowing how to replace a part isn't enough anymore, at times strings of code need to be updated to work in tandem with the new, or upgraded machinery. Thus the duality of her job. She's devoted her life to this job, finding enjoyment in the field work.
P S Y C H O L O G I C A L I N T E R V I E W
"Please state you name for the record Miss," A pointy nosed man in a crisp white collared shirt asked. He adjusted his glasses and pressed a hand to the table set between him and his client, opening up a computerized interface. A dossier pulled up with information about the auburn haired woman before him, including her training exams.
"Annelle Caldera," Anne replied formally, underlying tones of nervousness in her voice.
"You're the daughter of Lucias, yes? I heard he had high hopes for you," The clerk smiled reassuringly. To Anne however it looked sinister, snake-like. There had been a lot of pressure put onto her because of this fact, her prestigious father. The Head of the Watchmen, a man who escalated himself to the very top. Everybody had expected one of two things from her, to forge her own trail in a blaze of glory, or to ride her father's success. Anne watched the clerk, mustering the strength to keep her face passive as he flipped through her records.
"I see you know work as a Systems Engineer, why did you leave the watchmen?" The clerk asked, fixing his sharp eyes on her. Suddenly the weight of this interview set itself upon her. This man could put her away somewhere dark and isolated if he deemed her too fucked up to be among society, or even if he just wanted to. Who would question him? Who questions the questioners?
"I.." Anne started, picking through her words carefully, "I lost my squad, my friends. After that, I didn't feel like I could adequately perform my duties." Anne took a breath, willing her eyes to stop watering. The memory was still fresh in her mind, their faces, what was left of them.
"Yes, it says here you quit for personal reasons, in the comments you only put 'I can't do this anymore', elaborate," He demanded, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table.
Anne took a breath, balling her fists tightly to try and distract her mind, "We were the Valkyrie Swords.."
It was an average night, punctuated by a light drizzle of rain. It had been dark in the slums, but here it was practically abyssal. Anne crouched inside a rusted building, her hidden form peering through metal blinds that refused to move anymore. Her squad was lined up to either side of her, bodies barely moving as they mimicked the stillness of the night. Anne watched the rain falling, so soft it barely made a sound. Her mind pondered how it all worked, the weather, the day cycles. She always did that, lost herself in thoughts of machines of how they worked. Receiving a stern tongue from her father about how she should be training, something he'd been pushing since she had been young. Even then she only earned average marks. She could practically feel the disappointment in his eyes, but he had never showed it, he just kept pushing.
"Maybe this will be the night you get a name, huh?" The woman next to Anne said. She turned to look at her squad captain, a blonde haired green eyed beauty by the name of Madaline—But everyone just called her Sunshine. You always got a nickname after you earned a story, it related somehow. The man next to Madaline chuckled quietly, Ox, and he was built like one too.
"You think sho ah?" He chuckled again, a quiet rumbling. Anne remembered the first time she'd met Ox, a little over six foot tall he cast a shadow that should could nap beneath. That felt like so long ago, a younger version of her even though it had been a measly two years. It might as well have been a lifetime ago.
"Shut up you oaf," Marcy hissed. Despite the name, Marcy was a man, the titled was derived from the word 'mercy'. Which was something he did not give.
"Both of you quiet, look," Sunshine said, leaning a little closer. The small square lit up for just a moment before going dark again. From the first entrance two flashes signaled, which were returned by the new arrival. Anne never quite understood why a signal that was older than dirt was still used.
Car doors slammed shut and idle engines became quiet as shadowed figures emerged, loaded with duffel bags and armed. A table was quickly set up in the middle, flanked by each faction's soldiers. The two leaders stood to either side, showing their wares and negotiating deals. Anne turned on her visor's interface. She pressed the thumb of her left hand against the palm of her hands, activating the interface nodes in her glove. She moved her hand slowly through the air, manipulating the imagery on her visor, marking the targets.
"Marked," she whispered. A second later three small blips hovered at the edge of her vision, notifying her that she was linked up with her squad. A few seconds passed as Sunshine read the situation. As Anne watched another window popped up, Sunshine was profiling the two at the table. The first was a key negotiator for Sapphique, Malcolm Croyle. The dossier the department had on him popped up, Anne closed it. She had read his report at least twice. Sunshine sucked in a breath as the second window popped up, Anthony Tandon, a civil rights spokesman. He's led peaceful protests and given a number of speeches in an attempt to fight the corrupt power of the government.
"Holy shit, is he Liberata?" An unfamiliar voice asked. Anne focused on her interface, A blazing sun and chariot had appeared just below the blips for her squad. Sunshine must have linked up with the Dawn Riders, another group of watchmen posted up just across the square.
"Eyes on the price boys," Sunshine whispered through the comms, "Case is open, Axel you got eyes on it?"
"Yea I see it," A husky voice murmuered, "Looks like a weapon's deal, look like Mr.Tandon is buying something pretty big."
"Alright ladies, wait for the bang," Sunshine ordered, pulling a sophisticated canister off her waist belt. She carefully nudged the door open, though it still let out a quiet squeak. One of the nearby figures turned towards the sound, elbowing his buddy in the ribs. They took a step towards the hiding place of Anne and her squad just as Sunshine rolled the device out. It let out a shrill whine half a second before exploding into a blinding glare of light. The men screamed, falling to the ground, along with most of the others present in the square.
A door at the opposite end of the clearing flew open, The Dawn Riders simultaneously moving out with weapons ready at the same moment that the Valkyrie Swords filed out of the building. Sunshine fired two quick pops, downing the closest blinded men and the others took that as their cue. A hail of gunfire opened up in the square, ballistics pinged off the walls and orange balls of kinetic energy punctured through metal surfaces, leaving smoldering holes.
It was pure chaos as the seperate criminal forces scrambled for cover, each opening fire on any target that wasn't their own. Tandon yanked a briefcase off the table and high tailed it towards his vehicle, the tall wiry man running with reckless abandon through the torrential walls of gunfire. Anne moved steadily towards him, dropping anything flagged red that crossed her path.
"Tandon's making a break for it!" Another strange voice declared, another Dawn Rider Anne didn't know.
"On it," Anne said, slinging her weapon and turning on her mag gloves. She sprinted towards the car just as the door closed. Its rubber tires shrieked as it accelerated in reverse out of the alleyway. The driver was skilled, throwing the wheel and spinning the car just as it exited the alleyway. Anne dug down, reaching for speed. She'd never been terribly fast, but today she was fast enough. She lunged at the side of the vehicle just as it started gaining momentum, feeling her gloves latch onto its metal surface.
The vehicle began picking up speed. The rear passenger window came down and a body leaned out, pointing a barrel in Anne's face. She tapped the boot of her heel, feeling the energy kick on the magnets in her boot as she swung her leg out. The magnet caught the gun and Anne used the momentum to swing down as hard as she could. The gunner let out a cry as he was ripped from the window and fell beneath the tires. The car rocked as it rolled over the body, the driver locked the tires sending them into a squealing skid sideways up the road. Around them traffic honked in protest, trying to move out of the way.
The vehicle smashed into a transit bus. The force of the impact launched Anne into the vehicle, connecting her head into the rear passenger door with adequate force. She slumped against the side of the car, her magnets holding her upright, if a bit skewed. Tandon stepped out of the car, blood running down his face and his coat tails swaying in the light breeze.
"Foolish girl," He seethed, pulling a pistol on Anne just as she started regaining some semblance of composure. Tandon reached over and switched her gloves off, letting Anne fall to the ground. He pressed a boot firmly against her throat, rage glittering in his eyes.
"Another government dog, following her master's orders. Tell me, do you play dead?" He asked, clicking back the hammer on his gun. Anne grunted, trying to shift his foot off of her.
"Anthony, enough," Someone said. In Anne's distraction another car had pulled up, followed by several others. Anthony seemed to shrug as he stepped back, allowing Anne to suck in ragged breaths of air. The voice was owned by a large man, muscular but not top heavy, he seemed evenly proportioned. He rubbed a grizzled hand against his thick, scruffy beard.
"I could use someone with your kind of determination," He reasoned, crouching next to Anne and placing his hands on his knees. Anne pulled herself up onto her knees, rubbing her throat. The burly man stood, reaching into his pocket and dropping an electronic card next to Anne. She reached out, taking it in her hand. The display flashed to life, showing a server address.
"Who—"
"Freeze!" Sunshine screamed, charging up the sidewalk with her gun drawn. Anne looked back to see her squad coming to her rescue. Sunshine barely paused for a breath before firing a shot. Anne reached her hand up, realizing that her squad hadn't seen the other Liberata vehicles arrive, and how could they, the other vehicles looked like any old civilian car.
"Sunshine wait, he's not—!" Anne struggled to shout, but the words came out in a wheezing rasp. Return fire poured out from all around her squad. Men and women dressed in plain clothes suddenly had weapons and weren't holding back. Muzzles flashed next to Anne's face, creating still images of blinding white light, followed by the sight of her squad...
"I see, surely that would leave to some.. traumatic stress, no?" The clerk asked, adjusting his glasses as he tapped out some notes onto the table.
Anne wiped at her eyes, willing herself to keep it together, "I just.. I," Anne was on the verge of breaking down into fitful sobs. It had only been a few months, hadn't it?
"How about your home life?" The clerk asked, flipping to another screen showing flowing meadows of grass, and rolling hills bathed beneath golden light
"Not much to say there," She replied with a bit of a waver in her voice, "Dad was always at work, but we had a nice home in Sector Two. I remembering baking with my mom on cold winter days, and kicking our feet in the stream during warmer weather. Dad was always at work, but he—"
"What did your father do back then?"
"He was a part of DigiCorp, one of their Gladiators," She answered, a visage of her farther dressed up in DigiCorp armor pulling itself to the forefront of her mind. He had been so much happier back then.
"What happened?"
"Is it relevant?" Anne questioned, raising an eyebrow at him. She was sure some of the effect was lost due to her red eyes, which were still partially watery.
"In a mental evaluation, everything counts, and we have lost time to make up for," The clerk explained, folding his hands and once more fixing his penetrating gaze on Anne.
"Hey, the delays weren't my fault alright—" Anne began, trying to defend herself.
"Yes yes, You were saying about your father?"
"Ah... Right," Anne said, digging back into her memories, "He liked Digicorp, but at the end of the day it was a corporation and I guess he just, wanted to make a difference you know? Especially after my mom died."
"How did she pass?"
Anne sighed, steeling her frayed nerves and letting out a morbid chuckle, "She stepped on somebody's toes. We were walking home from grocery shopping, I was still young, too young to help carry the groceries anyways. I was dancing around her, doing kid stuff. She tried to pull me out of somebody's way, wound up bumping into another person and scuffed his shoes. He looked like the wealthy, hoity-toity type, fancy suit, dark shades, bleached hair you know? Well, he got pretty mad, looking at the scuff mark on his shoes. I still remember the sneer in his face when he shoved my mother back, she fell, right into the road."
"Was he prosecuted?"
"What do you think? They probably slapped his hand and said 'temper temper'."
The clerk nodded, "Such injustice in this world, it's a shame. Your mother was a fine woman."
"How do you?" Anne trailed off as the clerk answered her by tapping his finger on the tapping, as if to say 'I know everything'. Anne leaned back in her chair, letting out a huff of air that flipped her bangs from her face.
"Do you talk to your father?"
"Not since I left the Watchmen, pretty sure I've disappointed him but unfortunately that's overshadowed by all of this unyielding hate."
"Why do you hate him?"
"Why?" Anne responded incredulously, leaning forward, "I don't know, how about for not being there to protect her? How about for shutting down and leaving me alone after my mom died. How about for trying to force me to become his littler soldier ever since that day, always pushing me, dragging me along behind him in this grand vision of Father and Daughter cleaning up the streets? For devoting himself to his work, escalating himself all the way up into the president's lap to be hand fed his fucking biscuits and leaving me alone to lock the door and microwave frozen fucking pizza? For looking at me with disappointment in his eyes every fucking time I'm in his presence, like it's my fault, like I'm this huge fucking failure."
Anne took a shuddering breath, she hadn't realized she had been shouting. She was standing now too, her grip on the edge of the table strong enough to scatter the pixels on the table. The clerk had the same look on his face, blank, all-knowing. She swore if he had smiled just then she would have decked him.
"I see, I believe I've collected enough data for this interview."
The statement come out of nowhere, ripping away all of Anne's steam. She plopped back down in the chair, feeling worry and anxiety eating away her rage. "So, how'd I do?" She asked, her frazzled mind signaled this was an appropriate time to laugh—so she did.
"You harbor a lot of resentment, towards the Watchmen, towards your father."
"God damn Doc, I think you just cured me," Anne remarked, feeling everything drain out of her. She felt empty, purposeless.
"I'm not going to put your away, Anne, I will however recommend your employer to move you to the basement level."
"Yea? Some dungeon to lock me away in?"
"Just the opposite actually. There's a man down there named Elliot Watts, he's one of us."
"One of us?" Anne asked suspiciously, suddenly feeling quite uncomfortable.
"You'll understand, in time. Learn before you decide. You're interview has already been submitted and cleared, you've been a normal, stable citizen for at least a month now."
"What are you talking about?"
"In time Anne, In time," The clerk said. His chair screeched quietly as she stood, closing the table's interface and leaving the room. Anne just sat there, she wasn't sure for how long. Time passed as she stared at the sliver of light peeking through the partially ajar door. Her thoughts running together, smashing into each other in an uncontrolled chaos.
"What the actual fuck?" She asked the empty air.
Weapons:
Defender Mark II: a standard civilian pistol, semi-automatic with an average rate of fire and lower bullet impact. Uses ballistic ammo and holds twelve 9mm rounds.
Armor:
None
Gadgets:
Her Goggles which can transmit and record video, and utilize blue vision, a form of better quality night vision.
An Air Filtration Mask which does a handy job of allowing her to breath when the air is contaminated or otherwise unbreathable.
A Wrist Pad that Sys.Admin loans out to its employees.
Magnetic Shin Splints which allow her to travel along the magrails.
Key Items:
Miscellaneous: Blue brand cigarettes, a silver flip lighter, a black backpack
Manifested Phenomena:
Non-Applicable
Proficiencies:
Smarts, Ann may not be a brain working down in sector four, but she's been gifted with a set of wits and guile that's helped her succeed in life. She understands how to look ahead and plan according for a situation, and usually sees more than one approach to a given subject. She's a sly, cunning gal.
Coder, due to her line of work, Anne has a broad understanding of code and how to program a wide array of systems accordingly. This knowledge really centers around bigger machines, like vehicles and infrastructure, but she does have a bit of fine tuned know-how geared towards gadgets and accessories.
Engineer, also due to her line of work, Anne knows her way around workshop machinery, vehicles, and structural systems. Though she's got more put in towards the latter, she is proficient enough in the other two to fix and reprogram most things, having worked on a multitude of things from civilian and military vehicles, to industrial machines and their components, timing cycles, and so forth.
Old Habits, heavy lifting and field work aside, Anne has retained most of her physique from her time spent as a Watchman, which wasn't all that long ago. She has an exercise routine, which she does her best to keep up on, despite spoiling it somewhat with crap foods and snacks. Among this fitness she maintains, she's still not a bad shot with a gun. She's no sharpshooter, but she could hold her own.
Limitations:
Abrasive, while she may have somewhat of a tactical mind, Anne often has a poor choice of words. She calls it as she sees it, and says it as she means it. Though she's not one to purposefully to step on someone's toes, she doesn't make it a habit to sugar coat her words either. She's also a poor liar.
Critical Thinker, meaning Anne is most comfortable planning in low stress situations. She has a hard time focusing and making rapid decisions in high stress, intense environments, and prefers to calculate her plans thoroughly.
No Man Left Behind, Annelle hates leaving people behind and will usually do everything in her power to ensure she protects, or at least saves, those she cares about.
Duct Tape Bandaids, Anne is a very driven person, and likes to accomplish the goals she sets her sights on. At times she'll push herself harder than she should, even when it becomes detrimental to herself.
Likes:
Smoking, and she's not planning to quit any time soon.
Fast Food, especially New Modern Chinese Food, and Burgers.
Dark Colors, no, it's not a phase.
Flowers, especially bright and pretty ones, probably because they are so rare in The Core.
Booze, it's liquid bread it's good for you.
Boys and Girls, and sometimes she's a dirty flirt too.
Coffee, nothing like a good pick-me-up.
The smells of lavender, vanilla, and oranges.
Really likes citrus fruit, especially oranges.
Dislikes:
Her father, girl's got daddy issues.
The Watchmen and the government in general, bunch of corrupt scum suckers.
Dishonesty and Illicit dealings, especially gang members.
Injustice, especially towards the poor.
Squandering resources, leading to her dislike of most wealthy individuals.
Tart, Bitter, and otherwise Sour tastes.
Coconut, but just the meat. Smells and Coconut sauces are alright.
Important People:
Lucias Caldera, her disassociated father
Elliot Watts, her coworker from Sys.Admin
Anne met Adley during the scientists early years at the institute. Anne had been called in on a temporary work permit to run diagnostic maintenance on essential lab machinery and systems. Anne was braving the frigid winds for a smoke, when Adley joined her. Anne was a fan of Adley's eccentric, straightforward nature and the two quickly hit it off during the few days that Anne spent there. Anne had a rundown of what the lab was trying to accomplish, and was privy to their desires of formulating a cure rather than a weapon. Anne connected them to the Liberata, with Elliot's help, and helped secure a method of secretive funding for their hidden research. Anne works mostly as an informant, and often ran messages to the lab through work calls of specific request, under some guise of Anne having prior knowledge to their largely experimental systems, which was true. What started as two people benefiting their respective causes has grown into a strong friendship between the two women.
Job Title: Research Associate in Bioengineering and Pysker studies.
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 120 pounds give or take
Hair Color: Redish brown
Eye Color: Blue
Skin Color: Needs a tan.
Scars:n/a
Tattoos:n/a
Modifications: n/a
Cybernetics: n/a
Other:
Adley is obsessively clean. Most scientists who work with shards have an above average level of cleanliness to avoid shard sickness but Adley tends to takes it to an extreme.
Adley doesn't put a terrible amount of effort into her appearance sticking to jeans or shorts and t-shirts or white button up shirts, topped off with an old brown jacket. Often it won't matter what she's wearing because it will be covered by a long white lab coat which has become a bit of a statement piece to her, adorned with pens, syringes, clips and whatever else she might find in the lab. Despite her state of dress she is a pretty girl, not that she knows or particularly cares. Her hair is kept back most of the time in a messy ponytail and her build is lanky, to put it kindly. Days and nights in the lab without much thought to sustaining your self will eat away at a person's muscle and weight.
Adley works as a research associate under the primary investigator (one Dr Fairfield) in a bioengineering laboratory which is funded to work on augmenting humans with core shards without developing "shard sickness". Scientific research is expensive but, due to the nature of the work, funding comes in millions from Syndustries and DigiCorp in cooperation with the governmnt who hope to develop powerful shard-soldiers. However, Adley, and everyone else in Fairfield's lab, are not truly interested in developing what would only be a destructive and dangerous force. It is fortunate then that the Liberata also provide illicit funding towards curing Haematesta and removing the abilities of Pyskers altogether. The lab see this as a just cause, especially when helping the miners who develop the disease seems of little interest to the government and industry. Of course, to satisfy their official benefactors, the original goal must also be worked towards.
In the control centre of Sector Two, Nubbikham, life is pleasant enough. No one is particularly rich, middle managers and labourers, but most are comfortable. Aldos Underwood was a simple but happy kind of man with a pretty young wife, May Underwood, and two children; a daughter called Adley and a Son called Aldos Jr. (Aldos Sr. had an odd sense of humour and his children's names were part of that, he'd freely admit). That eldest girl, their neighbors said, was a bit of an odd one, nervous and restless as she was but all-in-all, they seemed like the perfect, hardworking, Ark family.
Aldos laboured in Nubbikham's small mines, freeing shards. The work was not easy but the miners were compensated handsomely for their effort allowing May to stay at home with the children. However, the shard-mines hold much greater danger than simply collapse. The shard sickness was an uncommon but ever present threat to the hardworking men of the mines. A creeping sickness that would start something like the flu, with fatigue and nausea and progress to something all together more horrific. Of course, most never saw a miner get to that stage before they mysteriously vanished. One day, when Adley was 15 and Aldos Jr was 13, that's exactly what their father did. For weeks now he had come home more weary and ill than the day before, unable to eat or sleep. And then, one evening he simply did not come home at all. They didn't question it, no one ever did. To question it surely meant they'd also go missing themselves.
May, now the soul provider of her family, had to take what little work she could and soon became a Seeder, sowing fields for very little pay. Life became hard for the Underwood's but they persevered. Aldos Jr.'s playful youth was lost to a serious young man who felt the burden of his family's safety well being fell to him. Adley, ever a bright girl, threw herself deeper into her studies where she was soon scouted by Nubbikham's minor laboratories for an apprenticeship where she learnt more about the genetically modified seeds which kept Sector Two's plains fertile and designing new "seeding guns" to more efficiently distribute them.
Much to May and Aldey's dismay, as soon as he was 18 years old, Aldos Jr was recruited to the shard mines, feeling it was the only way to provide for his struggling family. The mines had been recruiting more and more frequently as the shard sickness became more prevalent, a consequence of the mines becoming deeper and the demand from the Core becoming greater. It seemed Nubbikham's population shrunk by the day. But any concern from Sector Two was brushed aside by the central government, safe and content in The Core. Adley could see only one thing for it, to cure the sickness herself. It was a bold, unrealistic dream but, well, Adley was an unrealistic kind of person.
At 20, she sat the Scientific Aptitude Test and passed with ease. She was soon sent to Sector Five to intern under the remarkable weapons engineers at the King Institute due to her knowledge of seed distribution machinery (and, she suspected, that there were very few openings available at the time). She learnt a lot in her year there and made excellent connections but it was not her goal to design weaponry for the government- in fact she could think of few things more distasteful. Thankfully, her request to be moved to the bioengineering laboratories at the Queen Institute was soon fulfilled and she was sent on with recommendations attesting to her keen, inquisitive and imaginative mind if her somewhat colourful character. For the past four years she has worked under the ageing Dr Fairfield, earning her doctorate and becoming part of illicit, "rogue" science in an attempt to cure shard sickness and Psykers (see Job Description).
It should be noted that, although most in Fairfield's lab felt uneasy about the work they were carrying out, it was not until Adley's arrival and her passion for the cause that pushed Fairfield to work directly with the Liberata.
Weapons:
Sweet delicious science
Adley, by nature, is fairly passive and would rather not harm anyone.
Armor: n/a Gadgets:
Prototype #356: Originally designed as a method of riot control, this dual action prototype shield and directed energy weapon is powered by black shards and worn on the forearm of the user. When stationary it can produce a dome shaped kinetic particle shield which can fit the user and, on average, one other (height: 3 feet, diameter: 4 feet ). It can sustain most impact from armaments for approximately two minutes. The second feature is a "Blackout Wave" which produces a shockwave that can disturb and shut down all shard energy dependent devices (including "living" beings) for a short amount of time within an adjustable area. This can be for 10 seconds at 50 yards, for 4 uses, or for 40 seconds at 200 yards for one (or any adjustment between) before the shard is used up, rendering the device unusable. However, as the shield is also powered by the same shard the uses of the blackout wave become reduced depending on the amount and duration of shield use.
Key Items:
Basically special quest items you get from me, and I won't always tell you what they do. - Please give me special things Eso.
Miscellaneous: Cigarettes, a stopwatch, a lot of pens that don't seem to work, a Gilson pipette, a pair of calipers, a whole bunch of falcon tubes in different sizes and at least 5 pairs of new and used gloves that definitely shouldn't be in there.
Proficiencies:
Is anyone here a doctor?!: Due to the nature of her work Adley has an excellent understanding of human anatomy and disease. Whilst not a medical professional, she could act in the place of one.
Part time weapon smith: Whilst she would never claim to be any sort of expert, her time at the King Institute means Adley has a decent understanding of handling and fixing weaponry.
Shrewd: Adley has a discerning eye for the workings of people (ironic, considering she can scarcely behave like one herself), their wants and desires, their lies and truths.
Active imagination: It's important that scientists can look at things in new ways and come up with innovative solutions. Adley's vibrant imagination helps her think on her feet. This may just extend to survival situations.
Limitations:
Cowardly Lion: In a physical fight, Adley would scarcely hold her own, both too frightened and too untrained to try.
Overstimulated: Adley is a jittery, nervous mess. She startles easily, paces constantly and puts people on edge. She claims this is why she smokes.
No filter: Now, she's not deliberately rude or unkind but Adley will often simply say what is in front of her, the things that other people tiptoe around. It's gotten her into trouble more than once.
Wicked imagination: When you're already a highly strung individual, it's not helpful to have the world fill with colour and images you can't seem to control. Adley can become distracted, nervous, or even frightened by what her mind conjures.
Likes:
Beekeeping: some people believe the key to eternal life is in the Royal Jelly made to create Queen bees. Adley just likes bees. Unsurprisingly, it is difficult to keep bees in a frozen wasteland but the botanists at the Queen institute allow her to keep a small hive in one of their greenhouses.
Smoking: Yes, she see's the irony. No, she won't stop. She believes it calms her slightly.
Dislikes:
Disorder i.e. mess, crowded places, excessively colourful places, loud places
Big, faceless industry and the government.
Important People:
Mother: May Underwood (a Seeder)
Brother: Aldos Underwood Jr (a shard miner)
Dr Harold Fairfield, Adley's boss and friend.
Adley and Anne met during Adley's first year at the King Institute when Anne was called in to run maintenance on essential machinery at the weapon's manufacturer facility. Outside, in the biting wind and snow, the two young women smoked together for the first time. Adley appreciated Anne's candid, unreserved nature and, during the time Anne was there, it became clear to Adley that they shared similar values concerning the corrupt Arkheaus government. It was Anne who first connected Adley and her laboratory at the Queen Institute to the Liberata and helps to maintain communication between the two groups to this day, delivering messages too risky to send via electronic communications and packages containing things such as blood from shard infected miners. Anne is frequently sent to Sector 4 to set up equipment in Adley's lab such as cryo-preservation tanks, flow cytometers and automated pipette machines and if things mysteriously break on occasion, Anne is sent to repair them. Over the past few years, what started as a common interest and cause grew into a genuine friendship between the two.
A long scar that runs down the outside of her right arm, from the wrist to the elbow. It was the result of cutting herself while scavenging during the particularly low point in her life.
Tattoos:
None.
Modifications:
None.
Cybernetics:
None.
Other:
Nothing in particular.
As to workplace regulations Karen is often times sporting a formfitting orange jumpsuit complete with an admittedly decent pair of work gloves and boots. She is also given a disposable filter mask for a meager degree of protection against poisonous fumes, and a very cheaply made pair of goggles that actually make work even more dangerous so she doesn't bother to wear them.
Outside of work Karen doesn't care much for style, long as its not too ragged she'll wear it, besides finding a brand new set of clothes isn't the easiest thing to pull off, especially for cheap. Her favorite outfit is a pair of jeans which are in surprisingly good condition with a white tank top and a faded black jacket over that. Otherwise Karen would haphazardly throw on whatever random piece of clothing that also doesn't smell too bad... yet.
In terms of physical build Karen is about average, while her job does provide lots of opportunity for exercise she by no means is muscular in any meaningful way.
Karen's job is one of a foundry worker, a sort of evolution on the steel mills from way back before Arkheus even existed. While the actual work she does changes on a weekly basis such as loading ore onto an automated production line or overseeing the smelting process, the end product is always the same; high strength steel for use in construction.
Advancements in technology has made steel working fairly hands off, in fact there is a low need for human workers to be involved at all but of course the entire facility cannot be completely autonomous. It is definitely unskilled labor for the most part, however it does take someone with a few working braincells unless he wants to get killed off in a stupid accident, or god forbid screw up horribly enough to bring the entire foundry to a screeching halt. With that in mind, plus with some low to moderate hazards, the work does pay ever so slightly more than usual, not by a lot but every little bit helps.
Jack Tobin, a man who came from nowhere and had nothing expect a little girl in tow. Jack could have been described as a gentle bear, he was of large size with a beard fit for a lumberjack, yet he had a soft spoken personality. Calm, quiet and the patience to rival a saint, these were all his shining qualities. He and his daughter found their home in The Slums, it was nothing more than a glorified shack in all honesty, although it had a roof which is what really mattered. To keep them going Jack held down whatever job came around, more often than not as a day laborer since his sizable stature gave him a particular edge that employers tended to favor.
Day by day that's simply what Jack did, rise early to earn a handful of credits by moving crates, then spend his spare time caring for his only daughter. It was a terrible lifestyle, and if it wasn't for the help some of relatively good natured neighbors, people who even then weren't frankly all that trustful, who helped watching over a young Karen, the two may have not survived in the first place.
Karen Tobin grew up like any other child with the misfortune to be born in The Core, lots of gnawing hunger and a general sense of dread, yet in a way Karen had it so slightly better, all thanks to her father. Jack for reasons that still go unknown, had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of any kind of story one could imagine; Grimm's Fairy Tales, Arthurian Legends, Greek myths, a smattering of random folktales from different old Earth cultures, and much more.
On nights where Jack had the energy to spare he'll tell a story right before bedtime. In Karen's earlier years he would stick with simple ones like anything from the Grimm brothers, but as she got older he delved into much more complex tales taking weeks to finish some of the longer epics. To a child who had nothing, having a sense of imagination was at least something, and looking back on it Karen would be damn grateful for this.
Life would only prove to become all the more complicated once Karen reached the age of twelve, when she could finally watch out for herself. It was around this time when Jack started to take his stories outside of the household, it wouldn't be uncommon for him to take off in the middle of the night thinking his daughter was asleep. Out there in the overcrowded Slums he would sit down somewhere a bit secluded, perhaps a small ways down a side alley, or in the calmer areas where the few existed. There he would start reciting a story, with or without an audience present which there were certainly occasions where a stray few would stop to listen.
As these sessions continued the residents of The Slums started to recognize Jack, well as much as a dirt poor laborer can be recognized. There were those who accepted what he was doing, or simply didn't care, they weren't exactly the problem. Overtime a few local gang lords started to see his actions as a kind of takeover, or an encroachment on their territory. From that point on there was an even larger threat of attacks as the number of threats increased, fortunately with none of them carried out.
Karen picked up on what her father was doing before long, it was hard not to notice really. After asking him why he kept this up even going far as demanding a stop to it, Jack slowly shook his head, and smiled softly to his daughter. "Guess I just want to give others a chance to escape, at least for a moment... its hard for me to explain, maybe if I find the words that's when I'll tell you."
Jack never got the chance to find how to explain himself as it turned out, after Karen's nineteenth birthday he disappeared. At first Karen was caught in a whirlwind of panic, she knew something had happened to him when her father didn't return from work one day. The next few weeks were a blur of asking anyone who would bother to listen to a hysterical girl, of her poking through every corner of The Slums and even a little beyond that. It was after a month when Karen gave up her search, she absolutely did not want to admit it, but there was only one single logical conclusion she could still reach...
Her father was dead.
After that things fell apart for one her old home no longer felt safe, and so Karen imminently abandoned that tiny shack taking everything she could carry, which really wasn't that much. For a long time after that she became another one of those lost souls that aimlessly wander The Slums. She no longer had her father's income to depend on, and it came down to whatever strategies she could find to survive. Begging was hit or miss, scavenging for discarded food was just enough to keep her alive. Periods when she was especially desperate lead to thievery, although quickly she found that she fundamentally lacked the talent.
Her teetering on the very edge continued like this for at least a year until finally fortune found it proper to finally smile upon her. It started with a rare display of compassion from a small corner store owner who decided to give her a chance with a part-time job stocking shelves. The pay was criminally meager, but to have a income of credits no matter how pitiful was a step in the right direction. From there Karen's situation gradually improved, very slowly at that, but it was getting better. The hard work she poured forth of course played a large role in this, as did the continued stroke of good luck that seemed to have started to follow her.
It was about a year ago when Karen landed her first real job, a position at a foundry. After carefully saving what she could spare from her new paychecks lead to her renting a very low end apartment in Low Town. It was about the worse she could find with only about twenty square feet to live in, plus the location was in a rather undesirable part of town as well. Life still sucked, but at least she was in a marginally better position now, real walls and a roof with enough credits to eat, not to mention a little on the side for booze.
Weapons:
Nothing all that threatening as even a reliable ballistic handgun is way too much for her to afford, not to mention she would rather not go through the hell of obtaining a permit.
That said its also too stupid not to have a weapon of any kind while living in The Core, and to this end Karen does keep an old fashioned switchblade on her, if nothing else its at least a slight deterrent against any potential attackers.
Armor:
Nothing, only the clothes on her back and that's definitely not enough to stop a bullet.
Gadgets:
A very well used Phoenix Smart Watch, its seen better days for sure but it works... kind of.
Key Items:
None, yet.
Miscellaneous: A simple paper back journal which was a gift from her father, so of course it holds great sentimental value despite how little she actually uses it. A metal flash for carrying booze, and a small collection of books that also once belonged to her father.
Manifested Phenomena: None.
Proficiencies:
Storyteller: While not properly educated per say, its fair to judge that Karen knows a lot more about classical stories than most. She holds knowledge about all those old legends on ancient gods and kings; about the mortal heroes who fight tooth and nail to challenge fate itself; she even knows a stray few pieces of folklore, all of this coming back from Humanity's old cradle, that of course being Earth.
Open Minded: Karen is naturally open to new ideas, and is willing to try something new. This is not to say she'll accept anything without question, but if one were to present a different way of thinking she would at least hear him out.
Resilient: For her whole life Karen has been treated like worthless scum, now nothing will change how much it stomps down on her very being, she however has somewhat adapted to these unforgiving circumstances. It simply takes more to knock her down, kick dirt in her face? Well she'll just laugh back.
Limitations:
Soft Heart: Despite the many hardships she has experienced that would have left someone else's heart hard as stone, Karen actually has remained quite the softy, and it really doesn't take much to tug at her heartstrings. For those who might want to take advantage of her emotions can do so fairly easily.
Alcoholic: As like anyone who lives or dies on every paycheck, Karen leads a very stressful life. Any sort of healthy options to handle stress are out of the question, proper therapy costs credits she doesn't have, and she doesn't exactly have the friends to rely on, well no other friends expect the bottle that is. Karen needs at least one drink to even get through the working day, and that's just the minimum.
Jack's Legacy: Despite the number of years since her father's disappearance, Karen is still occasionally recognized as his daughter from time to time. On one hand a few people held respect for Jack, and thus might rarely help Karen during particularly dire times. On the other her father made a lot of enemies, many of who would gladly make Karen's life a even worse living hell for whatever petty reason. While having a name isn't necessarily a bad thing, its definitely not all that desirable while out there in The Core.
Likes:
Alcohol, anything will do.
Books or just straight up storytelling.
Discounts, the less credits she has to spend the better.
Hot food, nothing calms the soul like a hot meal.
Dislikes:
The entire system in general, especially the corporations and government.
Organized crime and gangs; the bastards who continue to bring The Core further into ruin.
Anyone insulting her father, no matter the reason.
Important People:
Jack Tobin, her father, a man who's been missing for six years now.
Rachael's vision has been vastly improved through the use of a specially designed head visor that connects straight into her optic nerves. The visor itself usually rests up upon her forehead but will lower itself in front of her eyes when she wishes to see the outside world, giving the appearance that she has part of a face shield equipped.
This visor is designed with an array of cameras and sensors that can easily switch between night vision, infra-red, and regular sight; although normal sight can appear somewhat digitised and lacks the typical colour range.
Assisted Aim
Class: Military
Due to the limitations of Gaze's visor, whenever she uses any firearms she has to retract the face shield and aim manually like any other militant. Since she is normally unable to see what is down the scope, her personal weapon is equipped with a camera and a short range transmitter that sends the video signal into a receptor located behind her right eye. The result is a shooter that has precision and accuracy of a marksmen so long as the camera and barrel line up.
Other:
Blindness
Rachael was born with almost zero vision. She has a rare condition where the natural receptors and nerves at the back of the eye deteriorate over time and by the time she was old enough to walk and talk it had reached a point where she could only make out the shadowy figures of someone and the difference between night and day. This crippling illness made it extremely difficult for cybernetic engineers to grant her sight and thus when they added the neural links, they had to delve deeper into her skull and latch onto the optic nerves directly.
Rachael is a rather fairly attractive young woman who unfortunately has had some of her beauty spoiled by those that have harmed her over the years. Her skin is covered in an array of scars and marks through either drug abuse, violent customers or Julius himself. Julius was also the one who gave her the cybernetic visor and while it can be removed for cleaning and maintenance, the nodes that are implanted into her skull and neck are there to stay.
Her clothing attire, while stylish, completely resembles the lower class of people that live or work around the Slums and Neon. She doesn't have a real shortage of clothes as the best dressed women always attracted the most income, however she does have her favourite styles.
Gaze was once a worker at the Leeches' home turf, servicing the various customers that would enter into Julius' establishment. As she grew older, and thanks to the augmentations that he placed on her, she became less useful at the business end of things and was instead moved into a position that resembled more of a gun for hire. Gaze somewhat welcomed this change but it allowed her to venture away from Neon and gave her some freedom. While she still hates Julius for his treatment of her, she still remains loyal because of the fear of what he might do if she betrayed him.
These days she picks up the random jobs of people that need to be removed from existence and will do so without a second thought.
Julius the Leech was a powerful yet dangerous man that resided within the hub of Neon. A man who owned a series of establishment full of beautiful women, all of which unwillingly sold their bodies to the city's paying customers. His reputation increased when the word spread of how he had the ability to suck the humanity out of his workers, leaving them first as husks of their original selves, and also leaving them covered in a variety of scars and brandings from his sad and sadistic ways. It was a dangerous game that he enjoyed playing; evading the Watchmen, risking his life, and overpowering the weak. A man of this much infamy needed his own protection and that came in the form of Rachael Morton, the killer known as Gaze.
Rachael was one of his favourite girls, an abandoned child he collected from the slums in order raised in his own twisted and distorted way. There was something about her that he found quite beautiful, unique, and even mesmerising and that was her ability to see the world from the darkest of shadows, to live with little fear of what she could not see.
This didn't change her feelings towards the parasite as she hated him to his very core. The hatred increased yearly, monthly and daily, eventually to the point where she pulled a knife on him during one of their private sessions and attempted to kill him. The foolish maneuver was thwarted as he was able to avoid the attack and instead pin her down carved a scar across her exposed chest and stabbed her in the lower abdomen. He could have killed her in that moment but instead opted for an even greater punishment, the gift of sight.
The crime lord knew that Rachael's strength came from her ability to not see the world. He collected a team of cybernetic engineers and together they forcefully augmented the girl, adding neural implants into her skull and attatching them to her optic nerves. It was a living nightmare as she screamed from the burrowing pain inside her head, a result of Julius instructing them to use less anesthetic than normally required.
On the day that she awoke she could see the world for the disgusting nature that it truly was, and worse of all she could see him. The strength that she once had disappeared as the very sight of his face pierced into her memory, filling her with an element of fear that she had never felt before. This time instead of being forced to work for him, she chose to serve by his side as one of his henchmen.
Magazine Size: Clip size of 45 rounds. Additional 5 shots for the Grenade Launcher
Scope: Custom (Digital scope with a short range video transmitter)
This wonderful machine is a Frankenstein of several different, military grade weapons with the added bonus of a digital scope that has been specially fitted for Rachael's use. While the rounds are of a common type, the grenades are of a HE design making them difficult, and costly, to replace whenever used. Whenever the Tarkus is not in use the weapon can be mechanically collapsed and stored on one's back for easy transit.
Armor:
None, however her visor can act as a makeshift guard for any light damage towards her face.
A simple wrist piece that doubles as a communication device.
Mag Rail Boots
Boots with Magnetised soles that allow for travel to other areas.
Key Items:
N/A
Miscellaneous:
A shoulder sash that can be used to hang her rifle on her back
An extra magazine of ammunition.
An additional 5 grenades for her launcher, attached to her Shoulder Sash.
A quick drug injector filled with a chemical concoction (Sedative and Purple Dust) that can be used to hinder the paranoia for a while.
A secondary false ID card for ease of travel.
Proficiencies:
Superior Accuracy:
The design of Rachael's weapon makes it pretty hard for her to miss a target, so long as the one being shot as is within the crosshairs. This however only applies while she is scoping as her hip fire aim is absolutely atrocious.
Fearless:
The lack of sight means that any dangers that are presented to her are quite often missed. Crossing the road and almost being struck by a vehicle, having a gun pulled to her face and even venturing into areas that are classified as dangerous simply don't phase her. It's not that she's not scared by them but simply isn't aware of the immediate threat.
Observant:
As odd as this sounds, Rachael is highly observant all of her other four senses. She has the hearing that can pick up slight changes and fluctuations, the ability to smell the faintest of smells, to feel and memorise changes in texture, and taste any abnormalities in her food.
Backstreet Specialist:
Growing up in a world of crime, Rachael is well aware of the hell hole she lives in. She has several contacts through her owner, Julius, and is quite comfortable moving around many of the hubs in The Core on her own. If you ever need to know a back route to get to a location then Gaze will be your person of choice. She just can't guarantee that it'll be safer...
Limitations:
Submissive:
Julius owns Rachael, and Rachael is his slave. She has been granted a fair amount of freedom but if he instructs her to perform a task, then she simply has to obey. Failure to do so often results in a backlash, either through torture or forcing her to activate her visor for hours at a time.
Migraines:
Rachael's visor is a wonderful creation, a gift that has granted her the sight that she never had, but the vibrant images and continual inputs into her mind do cause her migraines. The intensity of these headaches will vary depending on the length of time that the visor has been used, with each use causing her some eventual discomfort.
Paranoia:
This is a condition that presents itself once Rachael starts to use her visor. The overload of imagery and inputs that she experiences overpowers her fearless nature, causing her to freak out about the world around her. Eventually it can get to a point where it breaks down the female, causing her to collapse under her own weight.
Range of weapons:
Rachael is severely limited to what weapons she can use and her Tarkus Rifle is the one one that has been set up for her. This creates a huge problem if she gets into a heavy fight as she does not have te ability to switch up guns like many others.
Known to Authorities:
While Gaze doesn't have any warrants out for her arrest, she is known to the authorities due to line of work. This does sometimes present challenges when moving to different locations and sometimes has to utilise a false identity in order to avoid questioning.
Puncture wound through the right of his chest and his back
Three bullet wounds in his stomach
Tattoos:
A blazing fist on his right shoulder, the insignia of his old Guardian squad.
Modifications:
N/A
Cybernetics:
N/A
Other:
N/A
Raen is a rather drab dresser, wearing outfits that are plain and quite close fitting. He usually wears a t-shirt adorned only with the Bastion Defence logo imprinted on the centre of the chest. His pants are usually tan or dark cargo pants which sit above a pair of combat boots.
His physical build is medium athletic toned by over a decade of military training and mercenary work.
Following his departure from Syndustries Security five years ago, he founded his own private security company, Bastion Defence to utilise the only skills he’d ever been trained for. Five successful years of contract work grew it from a one-man operation to a firm of fifteen people total, ten operators and five support staff. While much smaller than many of the larger private security firms, they have a reputation for being highly trained, discipline and professional when under contract.
The vast majority of the contracts they receive are in the core, from government bounties to protecting corporate assets or wealthy individuals conducting interviews there. Despite being the owner of Bastion, Raen still feels far more comfortable being an operator than sitting nice in a head office or boardroom.
After the disastrous first contact with the Advents, Bastion was one of the many firms hired by the government to bolster the ranks of the Watchmen in the Core.
Raen followed the footsteps of his father as a Syndustries Guardian, living in Low Town in a modicum of comfort relative to the Core. His father had ambitions for the finer things in life, hence why he switched from Watchman to Guardian, hoping the private sector would bring his fortune. In truth all he managed was to become was a guard in the Syndustries Tower. He was a sole child but found friends amongst the kids of Low Town. He was steady but unspectacular at school but did find some success with athletic adventures which guided his development to a physical career.
His dad had passed on most of his own skillset before Raen had even graduated from high school and secured him a trial to become a Guardian for Syndustries. He’d excelled at the job, being steadily promoted to higher and higher ranked squads until he found himself leading one of the premier Guardians in the many corporate orders he followed. The next step was an invitation to join the Reaper program; to become the best of Syndustries’ soldiers. A year of intensive training had followed, there was gruelling physical and psychological exercises along with extensive tactics lessons.
However, he’d always been a square peg in a round hole as a Reaper; where the others were cold, calculating and ruthless, Raen was warm and had empathy for others. Though Syndustries had programs to ‘condition’ potential candidates with ‘mental inhibitions’ such as his own, they only proved helpful in teaching Raen how to hide these emotions rather than removing them. It was under this pretence that he was accepted into the ranks of the Reapers, yet on his first mission he was undone by his empathy. He was assigned a mission to hunt down a group of Anon lead by a former Guardian John Calvin, which had killed numerous Guardians and destroyed swathes of Syndustries’ assets.
When he’d finally tracked John’s group down they were preparing to execute a squad of captured Watchmen. Raen made an instantaneous decision to save the squad but in doing so, allowed John Calvin to escape into the Core. He was severely reprimanded and removed from active duty for failing his mission, then dismissed from the company when a Syndustries Executive was assassinated by Calvin and his men. The termination destroyed Raen as working for Syndustries was all he’d known and all that he’d ever been good for; what was worse that it was his own character failings that Syndustries had invested in fixing which had undone him.
It took a few months of broken living and an intervention from his father and some of his former Guardian squad to turn his attention into something productive again. Though the first two years were tough work on his own, with a blacklisting from Syndustries severely decreasing his customer base and access to suppliers. The turning point in his fortune was a mission rescuing a Calvin Industries executive from kidnappers in the Core, which yielded access to military grade weaponry as a ‘field test contractor’ and a bevy of new wealthy clients. From there Bastion security grew into one of the more reputable small private security companies in the Core, with a recent aspirational boutique office in Aetherdale.
Hailed by Calvin Industries as the last hurrah of military grade ballistic weapons, it was developed for fast moving fireteams that needed lightweight firepower. While capable of using standard single core ammunition it is at its most effective with an experimental dual-core bullet which utilises a second red shard core that detonates on impact with a target. Weapons testing revealed that the weight reduction and streamlined design left it under-powered with standard ammunition but nearly recoil-less and a perfect mobile weapon. Clip size of 30 rounds with fully adjustable fire.
A laser pistol designed for shot power over anything else, it uses an almost obscene amount of energy to form a hard hitting laser bolt. With a large recoil, low capacity and low rate of fire due to the massive heat dissipation they were a weapon that didn’t make it far past the prototype stage. Clip size of 4 shots.
A lightweight, Mag Rail capable power armour that sacrifices some protection for enhanced speed and manoeuvrability, the suit comes equipped with a compact but powerful jet pack suitable for short flights. The suit seals with a filtered air system in the case of exposure to toxin or gas and the visor provides a weapons integrated HUD with targeting assist to streamline information to the occupant. The use of too many systems exposes the suit’s other major flaw, a lack of significant power storage which makes it less suitable for extended firefights. The suit has been customise into a grey and black colour scheme imprinted with the Bastion logo.
Gadgets:
Two Red Shard explosive grenades
Two remote detonated high power explosives
Wrist attached personal computer
Key Items:
N/A
Miscellaneous:
Turretless “Hunchback” All Terrain Assault Carrier
3 spare dual-core assault rifle magazines
1 spare LC-4 laser core
Master passkey for Bastion Defence facilities.
Manifested Phenomena:
N/A
Proficiencies:
Combat Trained
As a former Guardian and Reaper, he has received some of the finest combat and tactical training available on Arkheus. He’s accurate with a gun, fit as a fiddle and more than proficient in hand to hand combat.
Cool Under Pressure
As a veteran of many firefights, he’s as cold as ice in combat and as he was taught in training, fight smart not angry. This calm allows him a little more time to assess and react to dangerous situations.
Physically Fit
Even the luxuries of being a successful contractor haven’t broken his fitness as he maintains a training regime with his employees. Despite his propensity for a drink, his exercise along with medical assistance keeps a physical decay at bay.
Limitations:
Weight of His Past
His failure as a Reaper and his subsequent decline have left him second guessing himself and prone to self-destructive tendencies.
Internal Conflict
After his time in the Reaper program, he was conditioned to view his empathy and warmth as a weakness, yet he was never able to purge himself of those emotions. Thus he feels driven to help others when he seems them struggle but also feels doomed to fail whenever he does so.
Functional Alcoholic
While on the job he maintains an aura of professionalism but in the downtime, he finds solace in the bottle. While he is capable of resisting it while working, downtime sober will start to tear away at him.
A Few Cogs Short
While good with a weapon or his hands, when faced with an engineering or technological based challenge he’s as useful as a priest in a brothel. His idea of a technological solution is a bullet into a control panel.
Likes:
Independence
Alcohol
Friendly banter
Dislikes:
Syndustries Security
Cybernetic Augments
Organised Crime
Important People:
Hugo Alvez: Decade old friend and commander of Bastion’s Beta squad. Isabella Turin: Girlfriend and Alpha team squadmate
Name:Bastion Security
Locations:
Main Office: Aetherdale, Sector One
Barracks and Munitions Warehouse: Gray Wall, The Core
Influence: Moderate
Primary Services: Asset Protection, High Value Target Elimination, Personal Security Solutions.
Colors: Grey and Black.
Insignia:
Personnel: Isabella Turin
Interdictor Rifle
BP-15: A standard issue, military grade ballistic pistol with average rate of fire and average hitting power. Carries 15 rounds.
Raider Light Assault Armour
Konrad Waxen
Interdictor Rifle
BP-15
Raider Light Assault Armour
Albert Fouran
Interdictor Rifle
BP-15
Raider Light Assault Armour
Maximus Erinhoff
Calvin Industries Annihilator Rifle: A highly experimental Kinetic Energy sniper rifle which acts more as an anti-material rifle than anti-personnel. In order to curb the massive recoil and weight of the weapon, it must be set up in a secure firing position.
Freddy The Landlord Slum King The Bottle Man Mason Teddy The Teddy Bear of the Slums King of the Core Angel of the Slums Poor Man's Martyr The Rat Prince The Lowesman
G E N D E R :
Male
A G E :
41
J O B T I T L E :
"Landlord"
H E I G H T:
6'4".
W E I G H T:
201 lbs.
H A I R C O L O R:
Brown.
E Y E C O L O R:
Blue.
S K I N C O L O R:
Caucasian, pale.
S C A R S:
• Scar across left side of forehead.
• Scar on left side of neck, towards torso.
• Many scars, varying size, across back.
• Scar on right shoulder.
• Mass of scarred tissue along upper torso, reaching down towards abdomen.
• Scar across back of right hand.
T A T T O O S:
• N/A
B O D Y M O D S:
• N/A
C Y B E R N E T I C S:
• A counterfit cybernetic heart.
• A pair of counterfit cybernetic lungs.
• A civilian prosthetic liver.
O T H E R:
• Missing middle finger on right hand.
Freddy, though he may appear to be rather behind on the current fashion trends, is very aware of his appearance at all times. He makes his best efforts to both blend in with his common folk of the Core, while still keeping appearances up so as to set a good standard for his underlings. He tends towards suits and dressy attire in dark, earthy colors -worn and weathered clothes, never anything crisp and new. He accents these with warm colored scarves, ties, and cummerbunds when appropriate.
Already sharp and angular features are only accented further by a lack of solid nourishment, and dark circles of stress highlight his eyes. His wiry flesh clings in thick layers over his bones, a man made burly by years of work and labor. It's far easier to count the areas of his skin that aren't heavily scarred and calloused than vice versa -his many many years in the core have chiseled him into a rough figure, more muscle and blood than man.
While the official title behind Freddy is "Landlord", that is a very simple and tame term for a profession regarding far more. As one might find many of the well-to-do in The Core, Freddy's job description as "Landlord" is a sugar coating of his true title -Gang boss, Kingpin, and Arms Dealer are far more appropriate terms. Among his 'gang', Freddy has fallen back to an overseer position. He keeps the logistics logistic, and the operations operational. That's not to say that he doesn't enjoy taking matters into his own hands, should matters prove to be difficult.
"You wanna 'ear about me, then? Roight, take a seat. All started back when I was a lad down in the core. Weren't the shithole slums, mind ye. I was born and bred in Low Town, not the best upbringin' for an upstanding young gentleman like meself. My paw was all tied up in some bonkers ring -called 'emselves the carnies or somesuch? Anyways, 'ese Carnie jokers, they ran all sorts of behind the scenes racket. They 'ad all sorts of business that 'ad me and pop runnin' all the fuck around. Seen just about every corner of the Core up and down, from Neon to High Town. Never found much excuse to stir up the Gray Wall, now I think 'bout it. Me pops was in deep with 'em, but I never saw 'im do much of the administrative persuasion, ya roger? More kept around for a good laugh now 'n' again, and the like."
Chaos has struck the slums of the Core, as news hits that no less than six leaders of the infamous 'Carnie' gang were found dead this morning. Violence and rioting abounds, as people scramble to fill the vaccum of power left over. More on this story, at eight."
"By 'at time, I'd made myself quite the name 'mongst my fellow Carnies. Afta all 'em official gangbanger types went for a Burton, I 'opped in, and kept the others in line 'till we could figure somethin' out. Took us a couple years wif all th' infighting and whatsnot, but we ended up decidin' on a gentlemans vote to get business up 'n runnin' again. Odds'd'have it, the boys all liked the way I was runnin' things while the big guys were out of business. Folks gave me their vote -now I'm thinkin' about it, I don't think I was even in the runnin's for it.
Now 'till then, we Carnies were bangin' about the streets takin' the piss outta the streets. We 'ad our share in the businesses, mostly takin' rent in from the slums an' low time an' the like. 'Till I took ovah, we weren't too deep in the drug business. 'Lil shocker here, 'lil huff there, no big heaps of nothin', though. But then me and me mate Foal got to talkin' and we figured -folks are already stewin' up all sorts of jazz wif the Core Dust -heroin, coke, the like. We got a run down distillery right under our noses -why not toss some dust in the booze, make somethin' like a new revolution. We threw some money at it, an' soon enough we were cookin' up all sorts of new shit -went over real well in the Neon. If booze is a hard drink, our shit was hard booze. Made a right killin', it did.
Me an' Billy, soon we was on top of the Core, and we realized we were stuck in a dead fockin' end. So we scrapped together our spare funds, and skipped the fuck out. Found a quaint bit of home in Aetherdale, made our livin' as respectable business men. It was 'en and 'ere Foal and I parted our ways. Needless to say, I was a tad me more sucessful than he. Love the man to death, but not a thought in 'is head for business. He burnt through 'is scraps of cash right quick, asked me for a loan, 'en went back down to the Core -'is heart always did stay down there. Me, I found my 'eart right there in Aetherdale. Woman by the name of [NAME OMITTED]. Charmed me little 'eart as soon as I met 'er. Wasn't long afore we sat down, 'ad a son, built a right family."
Tragedy has struck the streets of Aetherdale. Six were found dead at the hands of a serial killer, still at large. Watchmen are putting forth their best efforts into finding this killer. Among the deceased are Joeseph Williams, [OMITTED] Copperfield, and James Wylder, as well as three others currently unidentifiable. Stay tuned for updates.
"Then, then it all fell to shit. Junior blamed me -hell, even I blamed me. I should've been there for 'er, and I wasn't. Junior ran off that same day -hadn't had a chance to 'ear from 'im. It was 'en I realized, I never was cut out for all this hoity toity Aetherdale life. Born in the Core, made for the Core. That's what they all said the day I got out, and those bastards were fokin' right. Not two days later, I made it back down to the Core -bollocks easier gettin' in than out, seems. 'Course, I made myself quite a shiny pile up in Aetherdale -a businessman's a buissnessman, 'aint he? Not much for Aetherdale standards, but when I got back to the core, I was a gorram king!
Funny enough, even before I flashed my coin, seemed people were still loyal. Might've felt a bit bad 'bout me when I skipped th' core, but me comin' back put me in some good light. In my leave, some jackhole by th' name of Johnny Glare or somesuch took over the gang -we were callin' ourselves the Bottlers around 'en, since we did so good wif the Core Dust Liquor. Anyways, me men who stayed loyal offered to put a cap in the poor bastards 'ead for me, but I collared 'em in. Ol' Glare was doin' the same thing I did so long ago, I weren't about to quarrel wif that. Just tossed him some coin, told 'im to skip town, which he did. Nice and simple.
Since then, not much's gone on. Been workin' my best to clean up the Slums. Usin' proceeds from the booze to cut down on rent, make folks lives just a mite better. Takin' out the other gangs, who 're workin' to make my job that much 'arder. Gotta keep these folks safe."
W E A P O N S:
• The Chunder- An illicit gun in the prototype stage -it fires massive slugs one might expect from a shotgun, made of a brittle material with very high heat capacity. This means that, not only do the bullets splinter on impact, causing maximum damage, but they also stay red-hot for almost hours on end for additional agony. Due to the experimental nature of the weapon, it only chambers one round, and is rather difficult to safely reload.
• Combatant Suppression Guard- Worn like a bastardization of brass knuckles, this military-grade stun gun can be dialed anywhere from a painful .01 amps to a lethal .1 amps., and sends a shocking current through the body of any on the wrong end.
A R M O R:
N/A
G A D G E T S:
• Multiple small tablet based computers, all connected remotely to a larger mainframe.
• A decryption device to attach to computers -allows swift and relatively safe hacking of anything short of military grade, at which point it's capabilities are hit and miss.
K E Y I T E M S:
• Spooky
M I S C:
• Cigarettes.
• Simple steel lighter.
• A flask full of something foul scented.
• Two or three bottles of Core Dust Bourbon.
• A small pocketbook containing a list of names, and various notes.
• Nine rings, of various style. One per finger.
P R O F I C I E N C I E S :
• Business Man- First and foremost, Freddy is a man of business. His people skills are his pride, and he has yet to fail to cut a deal.
• Stamina for days- Thanks to his prosthetic lungs and heart, Freddy's body is capable of working for far longer than the average person. He can run, jump, and dance around for hours on end without feeling fatigued.
• Masochist- Freddy can take more than his fair share of pain, having extremely high pain tolerance.
• Street Rat- Growing up in the slums of the Core, surrounded by gang activity, Freddy is good with his hands, and more than adept at the various trades of the street -all sorts of pilfering, plundering, pugilism, and philanthropism. The back alleys and dark streets of the Core, Freddy knows better than his own face in a mirror.
• Money Man- Especially by Core standards, and even by the standards of other sectors, Freddy is by no means short on funds. His business is a lucrative one, and a gift that simply keeps giving. Though he doesn't show it in appearance, his pockets may as well be lined with gold and green.
L I M I T A T I O N S :
• Scrapper- Freddy is a scrappy man, and can be relied upon to hold his own in a fight, if not just for his pain tolerance. However, he is in no way a trained fighter -far from it in fact. Anyone with a scrap of formal combat training can likely sweep the floor with Freddy, be it in hand to hand or firefighting.
• Dull Knife- Freddy is clever, and quick on his feet when it comes to social situations; however, he is very far from a bright intellectual. Solving problems in the physical world, be it based in mechanics, computational, or mathematics, Freddy is lost.
• Clean Hands- Freddy considers himself a good person, and goes to lengths to uphold this image. While he has harsh mood swings, these are largely offset by his gentle personality. This tends to hold him back in his illicit dealings, and the upholding of his leadership role.
• Small Picture- Planning ahead doesn't really fall under Freddy's skillset. He prefers to roll with punches as they come, and improvise -mostly because he can't put together a plan for shit without it falling down on his head.
• Shiver me timbers- Due to drug use, stress, and years of muscular use, Freddy has slowly been losing control of his body over the past years. He is extremely clumsy, and very much unsuited for any delicate handiwork with his perpetually shaking hands.
• Pop goes the gangbanger- While his less than official prosthetic organs allow him to operate at double-time, Freddy must be aware of his use. Abuse of the artificial organs could lead to their failure -a death warrant.
• Flame-retardant pants- Freddy doesn't lie if he can help it. He hates people who lie to his face.
Amias’ left eye has been replaced by a cybernetic equivalent.
Both of Amias’ arms have been replaced by cybernetics, his left being replaced with a Civilian grade Perkins XM1, and his right being replaced with an Illicit grade Medi-Arm. His left hand has been fitted out with its own holographic/touch screen wrist computer, concealed by a cover when not in use. In the palm of his left hand, there are also concealed cigar lighter and cutters. His right hand is a medically-outfitted arm, with a screen showing him a plethora of medical information, timing and alerts for his medication use, and a syringe and IV system that has been used for more questionable reasons than medical ones.
Other:
Amias is an avid drug user, drinker, and smoker, who has managed to avoid addiction for the past few years. Or, at least, he thinks.
When wandering around his scenic Sector One Mansion, Amias usually chooses to don any assortment of above the knee shorts, patterned crew socks, and when he feels like it, an unbuttoned button up shirt. Always sure to be covered in any assortment of dazzling colors and patterns, often clashing with each other, Amias is hard to miss.
When taking his usual trips to his favorite bars and drugs dens in The Core, Amias isn’t afraid to wear his more lavish, expensive outfits, or even some of the more outlandish pieces of avant-garde fashion stashed in his closet, but most of the time, he choses to wear his favorite tan pants, polished black boots, black shirt and jacket. Nice and fashionable without drawing too much attention. Picture for reference. No matter what, though, Amias makes sure to be dressed nicely in the best clothing money can buy. Wearing cheap or tattered clothing (unless that’s how he bought them) is far from Amias’ taste or style.
Amias is an artist, mainly a painter, who got his introduction to the industry through his father’s many connections in the art industry. He’s made a majority of his living painting different pieces and selling them to the highest bidders. Ever since his fall from fame after his accident, he has taken a pseudonym and has tried to sell his art again, not finding as much success as before.
For the majority of his young life, Amias was always told one thing: ”You were meant to be an artist.”
Amias was the product of two people already deeply involved in the art community. His father owned an art gallery in one of the more high class districts of Seremere, and his Mother was part of an Art Preservation Society based in the Core, leading to a cushy life of affluence.
Avant garde art, long dead painters, scenes of nature and Renaissance themed death all congealed together to make a rather sheltered childhood which molded Amias into the artist he would grow to be. Going outside, playing with other children? Not for our young artist. Instead, he submersed himself in a sea of water colors and oil pastels, swimming to lonely tropical islands, or to the clouds among the gods. Through the art he spent his days making and staring at, he left the white washed mid town apartment he spent all his days in, releasing his boredom and frustration out on his sketch pad. His first graces with the pad and canvas of course weren’t of the quality or skill they would eventually reach, but they were good enough to lay the foundation of Amia’s love of art for the rest of his life.
Skills improving rapidly, it became more and more and more apparent that Amias not only had the best pair of parents to lead an art influenced life, but he was also rich in natural talent. As this natural talent became more and more obvious, the role Amias’ parents played in his life became slightly more authoritative than before. Instead of leaving Amias to his own devices when he got to drawing or painting, suddenly had always had at least one pair of eyes over his shoulder, scrutinizing every stroke or line he put down. More and more often, an intrusive hand would come in to correct mistakes or change things that didn’t suit their tastes. Before he knew it, his parents were taking more and more charge of what he painted, inviting painting and art teachers over to correct his mistakes as he made them, teaching him new techniques and making the whole process more of chore than the hobby it once was.
As his talent was brought out by his parents monitoring and his tutor’s mentoring, the thin walls of his apartment slowly came down, and the world was opened to him, as his father began to take him and his art to the family's gallery to exhibit to colleagues and art enthusiasts alike. No longer were his paintings simply mystical imaginary lands, they began to be people, landscapes, images of life. His paintings took an unmistakable character to them, a sort of charm that no one could recreate. As if Life itself had planted itself still image on the canvas.
Amias aged, and he began to take little adventures all over Ark, going wherever the Mag Rails would take him. He saw the core for the first time when he was 18.
Poverty, disease stricken ghettos and street corners full of criminals, all set against a backdrop of large, foreboding skyscrapers dripping in neon lights and spray paint graffiti. To the young artist, who had never seen much other than the scenic forests and idyllic villages of Sector One, it was overwhelming. The smells of outdoor bathrooms and suspicious corner food paired itself with sights of wandering drug addicts and women of the night, leading to a delightfully horrifying change of style. Out of his fingertips flowed an entirely new life, a life that showed that something didn’t have to appeal to the eyes to be beautiful. The dying urban strife interweaved with the rising criminal underground was all so gorgeously ugly. Beauty in tragedy had absorbed the young artist.
His new subject matter was accepted well by his affluent counterparts, who enjoyed being able to see the pretty side of poverty from the comfort of their living rooms or the art galleries. Amias provided a glimpse of what everyone else was afraid to see with their own eyes: The Core, in all its splendid horror. He, alone, was brave enough to leave the cushy villas and hamlets of Sector One to explore not only The Core, but the burning souls toiling their life away in Sector Three, the depressingly lonely ice of Sector Four, the high rising triumphant cities of Sector Six, and everything else.
In his travels and his art, Amias found something profound in the Ark. The Ark, in its divided and compartmentalized sectors, was the Human Experience, starting, ending, and existing all in the same moment. It’s quaint and humble beginnings and long stretches of peace, its ice cold loneliness when you least expect it, warm and awesome peaks, it’s rocky and rough patches, its fiery and miserable end, and evens it’s rotten, sinning core, which can take over it all in the blink of an eye if not contained. Even in it’s darkest and ugliest depths, some glimmers could be seen, some thing could be learned and there was always something beautiful, even it’s misery.
Emancipated.
Amias had been emancipated from Life’s heaviest task: finding one’s purpose. He found his purpose in his brush and pencil, showing all of the bitter suffering and sweet love that life had to offer, often mere steps away from each other. Before, art was something he loved to do and it freed him from his mundane sheltered life in a shut away apartment, but now, crafting a piece of art was him translating life itself, hoping someone, somewhere could understand it.
Fame amongst the art community became the least of his concerns, but he garnered immense amounts of it. Soon enough, anyone who was someone in the art world wanted a Darrieux original, clammering to see every new creation that left Amias’ hands. His name was now work more than he ever imagined, but he wasn’t even the first to take notice of his growing fortune; it was his parents.
As Amias created new scenes of life on whims, his parents would gleefully take them and sell them to the highest bidder. Amias always made sure he got his fair cut, but the numbers never really mattered to him. Until he started actually looking at them.
Amias had already discovered the power of finding one’s purpose, but he was yet to find out the power that could be bought. As he began to take note of the exorbitant prices people would pay for his pieces, he also began to think of the things he could buy with the money. Fancier, more high class art equipment sure, but what about treating himself? He had found his purpose in life, so why not live a little? Soon, he would turn to the finer things in life, jewelry, designer fashion, women.
His art took another turn again, incorporating a strange sense of indulgence, happiness with material things. Even if the meanings and stories behind his pieces stayed about as intriguing and deep, his works also took more superficial approach too.
Parties until the wee hours of the morning, all the finest women he desired, a little recreational drug use and some some occasional near alcohol poisoning, Amias had begun living vanity. It all ended when this vanity attracted the wrong kind of attention.
Poverty stricken, cold and hungry, most citizens of the Core are always hunting down new ways to scratch out a living. Whether it be honest, hard, poorly-paying work, or risky and most of the time fatal criminal work. Not surprisingly, a large amount of Core residents tend to choose the route of well paying criminal work at the cost of not only their lives, but often, the lives of others. One particularly popular line of work is the kidnapping and ransoming of important people, the reward is high, but the risk is even higher. Plots of this ilk tend to fail, but none as spectacularly as the one involving Amias.
While having one of his famous raging parties at his new villa, Amias was accosted by a psyker who had snuck in the party, knowing some dumb ass painter worth a fortune would be there. Not being the dumbest man in the Ark, Amias had security, whom quickly apprehended the psyker, but the incident was far from over. Quickly, it was noticed that this may not have been an ordinary Psyker. As it struggled to escape the grasp of the security, it became increasingly more rabid. They expected the handler to barge in at any moment and activate it’s Black Shard collar, but that hope was quickly dashed when they realized that the Psyker had no collar. It was loose, it was rabid, and it seemed to quickly losing control. This was no mere psyker, it had somehow escaped, and it was now seconds away from savagely losing its cool. Amias and his entourage tried to flee, but it was all in vain.
Before he knew it, the Psyker has broken out of the grasp of security, and began tearing its way through the party, towards Amias The then 24 year old Amias stood little chance against a Psyker in full rage. It tore into the artist's arms with Core Shard claws it drew from its hands, as Amias tried futilely to block the clawed hands that tore into him. A claw missed its mark and cut the artist’s eye, adding only the immense pain. Before security were finally able to kill the Core Fiend, a mess had already been made of Amias’ arms and eye, including an assortment of wounds in other places.
His arms and eye were irreparable. The other cuts and slices would heal on their own, but if something wasn’t done about the mangled mess of arms and bleeding eye, there was little hope for survival. Amias made the call himself, he was to take cybernetic replacements.
When he woke from the surgery, there were no visitors. No bouquet of flowers at the bedside. Not even a card. After 2 lonely weeks in recovery training with his new arms, Amias went home. His villa was empty. The mess from the party had been cleaned, but nothing else had changed. No visitors, no one except his new butler Bules. Amias tried for days to contact someone over his wrist computer, now built into his hand, but to no avail. Not even his parents. The profound sadness and loneliness he felt was only exacerbated as he gazed at the blue shaded icy paintings that hung on the walls of the villa. The ones of warm and triumph spoke little to him anymore, but the ones of death and despair shouted at him louder than they were ever meant to. The halls echoed with silence, and his ears shattered hearing it. It took days to finally realize.
He looked down at where his arms used to be, but saw metal imposters. He tried to draw, to paint, he wanted so desperately for form icy glaciers with lone figures stood atop the, but nothing that came from his fingertips could do it as before. His new arms could not paint. His art was done. His life amongst the affluent, rubbing shoulders with other artists of his caliber were gone. No one would want to be near the part robot man, with arms that could tear any human apart or an eye that could see through their skin and bone. Once again, Amias sat behind white washed walls, trying to teach himself how to escape them through the canvas. His mind demanded a clean stroke, but his arms provided a sloppy one. It was as if he had to learn to walk again. Something that came so naturally to him before, he now had to relearn all over again. His arms could not paint what they once had, and the view that they used to paint saw a world in a different, more digitally filtered view.
They stopped buying his art after the operation. No one wanted to own art made by a cog.
They stopped speaking to him after the operation. No one wanted to be associated with a cog.
They abandoned him after the operation. No one wanted a cog.
Amias took a pseudonym in hopes of being able to sell his art anonymously, one he got a feel for his new hands. His work didn’t have the same undeniable character as before, but it still looked unique enough, so it sold somewhat well. He wasn’t making the thousands to millions he had been making before, but it was still a start. A new start.
Needing inspiration, Amias began to take his trips into the core deeper and deeper, risking his life more and more as he dug. Soon enough, he was able to find the secluded drug dens and red light districts deep in the Core, and tried his hand at the new substances that flew around. The intense highs and new sights took their embodiment in his paintings, as they became more surreal, dealing less in the literal images of life, and focusing more on the abstract colors and shapes that formed it. His new style had a new, unique character that he hadn’t had before, and it meant only better for his sales on the market.
Spending large amount in drugs dens makes you friends and enemies, but luckily, all his friends are much more powerful than his enemies. Any man that comes in their den, spends a fortune on drugs, and leaves without causing problems is the friend of any drug lord or crime boss, meaning Amias had a bit of a special pass to the dens, and usually didn’t have to worry about anymore unwatned accosters. Painting by day, drug binging by night, Amias has withdrawn himself from the art community for the most part. He spends his riches on drugs and other fancy things, while practicing and honing the skill he once had mastered, hoping for a return to his days of glorious art.
In his lone manor, he sits, cigar smoke filling the air, paints, easels, canvases scattered everywhere, Bules walking around, tidying what he can, providing someone for Amias to bounce ideas and random rants off of. It is a lonely life for Amias, but he’d rather be lonely than to be surrounded by false friends and hopes.
Just like he thought of with the Ark, the dark core of his life is beginning to seep out, leaving him feeling more miserable and drained as time has gone by. He has surpassed the humble beginnings and victorious peaks of life, has tumbled and fallen in the sharp gravel of its rocky path, and is lying, shivering in its lonely, desolate ice. Though, slowly but surely, something is rising from beneath the ice.
Heat.
Weapons:
Class: Civilian Rounds: Approx. 50 Shots Before Shard Change Impact: Medium Shot: Laser Mode: Semi-Automatic R.O.F Medium Shard: Red
The PLW M6A2 is the top of the line in Laser personal defense weapons sold to Civilians. With it’s best in class accuracy at close range, lower than average recoil and decent punch, it is one of the best weapons money can buy. Legally, that is.
Armor:
None, unless you think fancy, expensive clothes have any more protection than other clothes.
Gadgets:
Amias’ left arm has a touch pad wrist computer built into it. It has a holographic display along with its high definition touch screen, built in high quality speakers, 1 TB storage space, and other expensive accoutrements. In the palm of his left hand there is a cigar cutter that can be removed to sharpen or replace the blades, and his index finger contains and butane lighter for his cigars.
Amias’ right arm has a second computer in it, but that is one is built solely to give him information on his vitals and health, alerting him when it is time to take his medication, and making sure he does not overdose on the various drugs he does. His right arm is a medical model, which is usually military, but it was bought illegally from the Underground, so it also has a small IV system in it, which Amias does usually use for his own medical reasons, but he often also uses it to inject fluid drugs as well.
If he has a pocket big enough, Amias almost always carries around one or a few of his increasingly expensive cigars.
Amias owns a Aero Two-Seater for the rare times he doesn’t feel like using Mag Rail transportation.
In case the lighter in the palm of his hand runs out of butane, Amias always carries his favorite S.T. Dupont Gold Butane Lighter.
Since it’s his best way to relieve stress and vent his emotions, Amias always carries around at least a pocket sized sketchbook and drawing pencils.
Fuck Psykers.
Proficiencies:
Silver-Tongued: Having spent a considerable amount of time amongst the more affluent and well-to-do, Amias has honed the craft of charm and speaking in front of people. At this point, charisma comes natural to Amias. He’s a smooth talker, even if he doesn’t have anyone to charm anymore.
Photographic Memory: You don’t always have your canvas and easel with you when you spot the perfect picture to paint, but luckily, Amias always had a pretty good photographic memory to serve him well. All he needs is a few good moments to commit something to memory, and it’s with him for good.
Fists and Firearm: After being left almost entirely alone with a set of new arms that were no good for painting, Amias needed a new hobby. Unlike most rich bachelors with nothing else to do, Amias picked up some mixed martial arts and target shooting. While not particularly great with a gun, his arms do lend themselves in physical confrontations, even if Amias is one to avoid them altogether.
Tolerance: Doing enough drugs over a long enough time, one tends to build up a bit of a tolerance, obviously. Amias, being the war horse he is, needs a bit more than the next guy to start feeling it.
Limitations:
Stay Away! Amias may be a charmer, he may be a talker, but it’s really just to keep things calm and civil. Amias isn’t into making friends or wooing partners. He doesn’t trust you and doesn’t care about your feelings. The last friends he tried to keep all left him on a dime, so he isn’t very fast to try and trust anyone else new.
Muddled Mind Painting and drawing are the best and almost the only ways for Amias to clear his mind and vent his emotions. If he can’t do either for along time, his thoughts will begin to become unclear or hard to manage, he has a hard time thinking out situations and can’t make decisions easily. He’s prone to explode or shut down emotionally when the stress becomes too much to handle.
Staying Medicated Due to the extent of the injuries he suffered and the amount of cybernetics he has to use, Amias needs to take medication regularly to make sure the pain from his surgeries doesn’t flare up and that the artificial nerves in his arms work correctly and that his body doesn’t reject them.
Good Ol’ Prejudice! Most of everything Amias hates about himself and his life can all be traced back to the actions of a single, crazed Psyker and his desire to get rich. It was all a Psyker’s fault. Unlike most people who would realize that it was just a lone psyker, Amias hasn’t had any particularly good experiences with Psyker’s to balance out, so, naturally, he tends to hate them. He doesn’t want to be around them, doesn’t want to talk to them, no contact at all.
Interface Augmentation: Grafted onto her cheekbones, particularly fashionable and practical.
Other:
Smoker. Her favourite brand is Huldra Lite(tm), with it's sweet taste and mild anesthesic effect.
Lilyth is a simple person, she favours mobility and practicality above looks. Thus, her wardrobe consists mostly of dull military uniforms and work-out clothes, with a couple trenchcoats in varying styles and colors. While off-duty and off the grid, she prefers a plain white tank-top and jeans, but oft-times switches it up with purple-hued t-shirts and black synth-leather pants, specially when she's going out to have a good time. On the other hand, while travelling to and from work, she dones a skin-tight suit, her slate blue trenchcoat and bike googles. Her footwear of choice are military grade armored boots with integrated shin plates to connect to the Mag-rail; that is to say, she owns 7 pairs of these and only one other pair of stilletos.
Lilyth is quite imposing with her 6 feet slender, but powerful, figure, which she doesn't bother hiding. Her daily personal and mandatory workout regimes keep her in tip-top shape. Years of intensive training and a grief-striken life, these things have molded her face into a sharp and hard ice sculpture, while it holds a certain beauty, it most often comes across as cold and intimidating. Ever since graduating the ranks of detective, she's let her hair grow back to shoulder-length.
Lilyth had wanted to be a doctor since the tender age of 5, but her father, Lieutenant Hector Ruskin, had other plans for her. Despite her efforts to aim her carreer towards medicine, she ended up taking the academy's entry exams to become a Watchman. With flying colours in both physical courses and obligatory studies, she was offered positions in several units shortly after graduation, and in an attempt to escape her father's influence, she joined the anti-terrorist division.
At first, as expected of a frustrated physician, she tried to reduce the lethality of raids and gunfights on both sides. She would often avoid taking lethal shots on the assailants and was quick to cover for her teamates, she made it her top priority to tend to her wounded allies first. Her unusual dedication earned her the respect of her fellow watchers, despite her introverted personality, and soon enough her unit became a second family to her, going as far as convincing her of tattooing their insignia onto her arm.
After a terrible tragedy that left her scarred in both mind and body, and a long recovery process, she's climbed the ranks to the top of her unit, and now lead them in an ever more aggressive campaign against the Liberata.
Lilith was born the eldest daugher to a man of military carreer, Colonel Liutenant Hector Ruskin. As such she was forced from an early age into the family tradition, and the curricula that entailed. However, all she wanted was to become a doctor and find someone to share her life with, she was a sweet little girl dreamer forced onto a path of violence.
It was around her 15th birthday that she was allowed to enter the APD training programme, under a request of her father. Five years later, she was graduating egregaria cum laude, having completed not only the standard curriculum (as per her fathers orders), but also the medical carreer, with incredible results. From there it was a predictable matter that she would be accepted into the force, and it quickly became reality as she was assigned to the role of field medic at the Heimdall unit (anti-terrorism).
Her days were spent fighting the Liberata in the streets, patching up her loyal comrades-in-arms and fileing paperwork before heading out to the local bar. She would often go there with her teamates, drink something light and sweet and then head to her appartment. On a particularly rainy night, when the crew had decided to skip the bar, she went to have a drink and relax. It was then that she met the new bartender, Malachy O'Connor. A sweet young man, who struck Lilith as a kind soul, worried about the lonely girl at the bar. It was love at first sight for both of them, and soon after she was visiting the bar just for him.
Fast forward five years, Lilyth had proposed to Malachy and gotten engaged just a month past, when they were struck with the notice that Lilith was pregnant. Soon after, she was taking a leave from work to focus on her health and taking test after test to verify the growth of her child. A girl, was what the tests determined, and she would have her mother's white hair and her father's green eyes.
However, as fate would have it, while Lilith and Malachy were out having a coffee with the Heimdall unit, celebrating the soon-to-be-born Dalyah, a Liberata cell attacked the nearby building. In the hell that broke loose, Lilith took a bullet to her abdomen, which immediately killed her child, and left her bleeding and broken in the ground.
Soon after, she broke her engagement with Malachy, took a undefinite leave from work and went into therapy with Dr. Salazar. It took a whole years before she was even functional, and yet another before she went back into the force. Even with treatment, the tragedy left her with a terrible whole which had been filled with vengeful bloodthirsty rage.
For nine years now, she's been fighting the Liberata with tooth and nail, her mercilessness and fearsome leadership gained her the nickname of Banshee as she climbed the ranks. Now she's in charge of her unit and has been leading a overly-agressive anti-terrorism campaign within the core. People complain about the constant raids and traffic deviations, but to her it's only over-indulgent pigs that would stand on the way of rightful retribution.
Calvin Industries ABOP (Ballistic Bolt Pistol). Personal Usage.
Armor:
Standard Issue Lieutenant Watchmen Armor
Gadgets:
Interface Augmentation: A cybernetic grafted directly onto the cheekbone. Can be synched with a computer to project holograms directly in front of your eyes. Perfect for overlaying information on the go without the need of a helmet. Doubles up as a holo-mask.
Key Items:
None
Miscellaneous:
Packs of Huldra Lite(tm).
Vintage zippo lighter with a lily carved on it.
Locket with two pictures: (1)Lilyth and Malachy and (2) Computer Generated image of daughter.
Peridot ZR-Series Neon Bike "Thunderbird"
Manifested Phenomena:
Not applicable
Proficiencies:
Field Medic: The role she first adopted when she joined her unit. While she's moved onto a more confrontational role, but nothing learnt is ever truly wasted. She's taken to keeping her unit on tip-top shape while off-duty; making dietary plans and work-out routines. She always takes a emergency-kit with her on all missions.
Keen Marksman: Years of waging war against terrorism have left her with three dinstinct qualities: a famously good aim, perfect control under pressure, and a life-time supply of wounds that requires near superhuman resilience. She takes pride in her great pulse and is one of the reasons she had originally been approached to become a medic.
Tactical Thinker: Hundreds of missions planned and executed, some much better than others. A tactician's number one tool is their experience, and of that Lilyth has plenty: urban raids, underground raids, urban pursuit, undercover infiltration, etc.
Titanium Will: It take hard work and talent to join APD, but it takes real determination to continue to dedicate your entire life to the cause, even after losing your beloved to traitors and cowards. Her iron will is well known within the force.
Limitations:
A Field Of White Lilies: Ever since the accident that ended her pregnancy, she's had a single recurring nightmare that haunts her even in the waking world. Children wear the faces of a ghost, white lilies whisper cries of pain and fear.
One Track Mind: Has trouble diverging from the plan, and easily loses her way when there are no goals in sight.
Vengeful Wrath: While she usually aims her anger towards terrorist-hunting, she has anger issues and a strong sense of justice, which leads to trouble with people in general.
Death Is Relief, Not Punishment: She has very little sense of self-preservation and a warped sense of morality, specially regarding how to treat criminals. In her words: "I'd shoot a thief's hands off and make them walk all the way to Sector 3, but then how would they mine granite for my floors?".
Likes:
Huldra Lite(tm) cigarettes, you can't call it a day without their lingering tingle in your tongue.
Whiskey, her drink of choice and a miracle cure for nightmares.
The color puple, she finds it extremely relaxing.
Bikes, they never were meant to be confined to the mag-rail.
Dislikes:
Terrorists and anyone who'd even hesitate to bash them.
Strawberry-flavoured and/or bitter foods.
Children, too painful to look at.
White lilies.
Important People:
Malachy O'Connor, her ex-fiancé.
Dr. Anthony Salazar, her psychiatrists.
Sir Theodore Mathew of Riverside, her beloved German Shepherd.
"Call me Alex. 'Marcus' is just too uptight for my liking." Name: Marcus Alexander Solidor
"I deserve this name..." Aliases: Whirlwind, Lunatic Pysker
"Put 'overwhelmingly'." Gender: Male
"Old enough to know better, young enough not to care." Age: 21
"I'm not sure if fugitive is a job, but it certaintly is a full-time occupation, amIright?" Job Title: Fugitive, formor Pysker
Height: 6' 4"
Weight: 165 lbs
Hair Color: Blonde
Eye Color: Pale Blue
Skin Color: Tan
Scars:
Surgical Scars from Experimentation
Several all over from various accidents like falls from buildings, crashing into walls, getting shot, and once from being mauled by a dog.
Tattoos:
N/A
Modifications:
N/A
Cybernetics:
N/A
Other:
Loves Coffee
Knows how to play a guitar, and is moderately good at it
Fond of any kind of music.
Has a hard time remembering names, so he gives out nicknames, usually insulting ones.
He is always wearing his white vest/coat, and a pair of googles around his neck. Other clothing is whatever he can beg, borrow, or steal.
His shards are few in number, he has one big one on the right side of his face, two on his back, and one on his forearm.
Alexander is currently on the run from the government for being a rogue Pysker. Not much to say, except the only reason he has lasted so long, is that having a precious Pysker on the loose is such a massive potential embarrassment, they are taking great pains to not let the information go public.
Alexander was born to a rapidly rising middle-class family. His father was a very sucessful entrepreneur, he single handedly brought them from living in the slums of the Core to living in moderate comfort in Aetherdale. His mother worked odd jobs, but mainly his father supported them. Alex went to school and had a very normal life growing up.
When Alex was old enough, he became a police officer. The pay was crap, but he joined because he enjoyed helping people. He also had a nack for the foresic science which helped. However, he didn't fit in with most of the other officers. They were rich and spoiled kids from the uppercust of society. Alex frequently mouthed off to them, and to his superiors, which did not endear him to them.
Life was pretty good, until his father's business prospects earned the wrath of one of the wealthier businessmen. The detals are unimportaint, but his father's business was an obstacle to one of this man's businesses. At first, he tried to get Alex's father to sell out. When he refused, the man resorted to more violent methods, he sabotaged his business, he bought off most of the workers, and beat the ones that refused. He pulled strings, and had Alex's mother fired from her job, and had Alex kicked from the police force. In the span of a month, they were financially ruined. His father met with the man, and tried to reason with him, but on his way back, he died in a car wreck. An "accident" of course.
With debts looming, and no way to support themselves, they were force to move back to the core. They were hardly there for a week, when Alex's mother fell ill. Desperate for work to pay for her illness, Alex got hired as a core miner, along with several small jobs on the side.
Sadly, the small amount of income he made barely scratched the debts they owed, and dispite what medical treatment she got, his mother died of the sickness.
Alexander was all alone now, he had more debt then he could pay in a lifetime, and no chance of ever making anything of himself. Still, he smiled, and went to work every day.
However, fate still had plans for him.
He had been working as a core miner for almost a year before he started showing signs of core sickness. A week later he died in a random cave in.
Or so it seemed.
He was actualy kidnapped by govorment officals, and taken away to top-secret research labs. There he was tested and examined. They found that he was remarkably resistant to the deterioration that came with the core sickness, they predicted that he could live for a good thirty or forty more years, with treatment.
However that was not to be.
Seeing his power and resilience, he was selected for weaponization. He had no choice in the matter, but if he had, he would have volunteered for it anyway. He underwent numerous treatments, experimentations, and intense forced physical and mental training. In short, he became a Pysker.
The atrocities he did, and went through at their hands are numerous, and too painful to dwell on. And somewhere along the way he became jaded and ruthless. He has personally killed 309 men, woman, and children (he keeps count), and is responsible for the death of hundreds of others. He would fight and kill with a smile on his face, and occasionally a maniacal laugh. Some feared that his sanity was breaking, and so they called him the Lunitic Pysker, and they feared him.
He spent three years like that, an attack dog of the government, but he also spent those three years planning, laying the groundwork for his escape.
And one day, he did.
What he did, or how he did it is a mystery, but he accomplished what should have been impossible. He escaped, and now he is living in the core, constantly hunted.
Weapons:
N/A
Armor:
N/A
Gadgets:
Goggles (They have infrared, zoom capabilities, and are highly durable)
Multitool
Gas mask
A radio
Key Items:
Miscellaneous: Literal fluff, in his pocket.
Manifested Phenomena:
Gravikinesis: Subject appears to have a type of gravity-based telekinesis. Further information pending.
Gravity Manipulation: Subject can generate, absorb, shape, increase, decrease. and redirect the forces of gravity with a range of .8km (0.5mi). The strength, complexity, or number of uses are limited to subject's physical endurance as the sickness releases Element C9. Further Experimentation recommended.
Density Field: Subject can generate a field roughly 20 yards or less, with increased gravitational density which effectively stops motion. This appears to be quite taxing. Maximum recorded sustain was timed at half a minute. Objects released from the field will not continue previous momentum, bullets will fall to the ground and optical weapon blasts will dissipate. Further Experimentation recommended.
Gravity Well: Subject can create a pinpoint zone of intense gravity, simulating the effects of a blackhole. Surrounding objects will be drawn towards the central point. With enough energy, these objects will be crushed into a ball. Personal drain depends on the strength, and duration of use. Further Experimentation recommended.
Shift: Change an object's perceived gravity, causing it to fall in that direction. Gravity apears to be normal 10m/s. Phenomena is unheard of, and should be impossible. Further Experimentation recommended.
Binding: Bind two or more, up to five, objects together with gravity, no matter where they are, they will be drawn to each other, duration and strength of the bond varies on the amount of energy used. Highly intriguing, surprisingly versatile. Further Experimentation recommended.
Gyrisajutsu: "Martial Art" made up and named by the subject. Dispite the sillines of it's name, it proves undelably effective. It involves enhanced combat abilities by reducing or increasing the effective weight of themself or objects for Subject's advantage. Quite ridiculous, ability is accepted as one of the subject's qurks.
Density Pulse: Subject displays the ability to emit an outward burst of energy in a sphereical radius of twenty yards or less. Unlike the sustained field, this is a quick burst that will push objects depending on their mass in proportion to how much power subject uses. This can knock over people, throw them violently, stop bullets, and shatter walls. Further Experimentation recommended.
Note: Subject is extremely clever, may have invented more ways to utilize their ability. Recommended use of Extreme Caution.
Breakthrough: Subject can force body into...the effect of...rapid degeneration in...certainly fatal. --here blood staining obscures much of the text-- Ability is classified as top priority. Further Experimentation mandatory.
-From a missing file labled "Top Secret". File is suspected to have been stolen, then disposed of.
Proficiencies:
Gingerbread Man- Very hard to catch, and very good at not getting caught. Powers aside, he is strong, agile, fleet of foot, and slick as an eel.
Elementary, Watson- He has a naturally keen and curious mind. (It often gets him into trouble, but thats another thing.)
🎶Last known survivor🎶- He will do whatever it takes to survive, no matter how humiliating, or amoral.
Sticky Fingers- He has had to steal to survive, and so he is a sucessful thief.
To be or not to be. How know, brown cow?- He is an really good actor, with a flair for the dramatic, a ham, as it is called.
Deadpan Snarker- Armed with nothing but his wits, and a wisecrack or two, he will take on the world.
Limitations:
Renagade- He is on the run so he has to maintain a low profile.
🎶He's just a poor boy...🎶 He owns nothing but the clothes on his back, and what he carries with him.
Curiosity has killed...- He is curious, and meddlesome, where he goes, trouble is not far ahead.
Lone Ranger- He tends to act first, and plan later. He will dive head and heels first into danger, with a grin on his face and not a care in the world.
Loose Cannon- He does not have full control over his powers yet, sometimes he uses them on accident, sometimes he can't use them when he wants to.
Incurable Flirt- Dispite that most see Pyskers as abominations, he will still flit with almost anyone of the opposite sex.
Ack, Kryptonite! Anything that disrupts Core energy will shut his powers down.
Limitation #1: His power does not replace the original forces of gravity, but overpowers them. If he is too weak, or doesn't use enough power, his manipulation may not be strong enough to affect anything.
Limitation #2: More mass requires more power. At maximum effort, Alex could reasonably use his powers on most vehicles, including buses, but not for long. Things proportional to a human target are easier to sustain his abilties agaisnt.
Limitation #3: Complexity and Size, The larger the attack, or the higher volume of power use through multiple manipulative forces, causes a larger drain on Alex. This includes lifting more than a single object, but is exempt from the density field, as that has its own limitations.
Limitation #4: Of the four conventionally accepted forces, Gravity is the weakest. In theory, this means Alex is likely to lose out against another Pysker manipulating a stronger force. It is also theorized that Alex's powers simulate warped space-time, and that actual, direct manipulations of space-time may ovveride his powers.
Likes:
Coffee
Music
Freedom
Dislikes:
Cages
Assholes
Authority
Important People:
Dead, all dead.
He had an interesting, possibly romantic relationship with his handler that may or may not have had something to do with how he escaped.
