Age: 28
Born: 4th January 2021; Appleton, WI
Classification: Gamma 2
Ability: Polymorphism
Tamara has the ability to alter her body to match that of another human, mimicking their appearance, voice and physical attributes. Although the transformation is painless and takes mere seconds, Tam first has to “read” a person she wishes to mimic (Sight-based process, a few seconds suffice. It’s possible for her to read targets off of images or video, but not holograms due to their low quality.) prior to doing so. She can revert to her normal state at will without the need to read her own appearance off anything, and will also revert back if she falls asleep or loses consciousness.
Reading a new person overwrites the one she read previously. Tamara cannot replicate scent or memories of events and experiences, only know-how, and the overall mass of her body can only increase or decrease by about twenty kilograms. When mimicking another Parahuman, she will not gain access to their powers. Moreso, not only will the mimicry copy the target’s current ailments, she will always retain her current sickness’ or injuries, such as her limp and far-sightedness. Tamara cannot copy clothing or jewellery, forcing her to layer up or carry spares with her. Her attire can be damaged if she takes on the appearance of someone too big for what she’s wearing.
Skills:
Weaknesses:
Born: 4th January 2021; Appleton, WI
Height: 181 cm
Weight: 73 kg
Voice: Stana Katic (Catherine Beckett, Castle)
Weight: 73 kg
Voice: Stana Katic (Catherine Beckett, Castle)
Classification: Gamma 2
Ability: Polymorphism
Tamara has the ability to alter her body to match that of another human, mimicking their appearance, voice and physical attributes. Although the transformation is painless and takes mere seconds, Tam first has to “read” a person she wishes to mimic (Sight-based process, a few seconds suffice. It’s possible for her to read targets off of images or video, but not holograms due to their low quality.) prior to doing so. She can revert to her normal state at will without the need to read her own appearance off anything, and will also revert back if she falls asleep or loses consciousness.
Reading a new person overwrites the one she read previously. Tamara cannot replicate scent or memories of events and experiences, only know-how, and the overall mass of her body can only increase or decrease by about twenty kilograms. When mimicking another Parahuman, she will not gain access to their powers. Moreso, not only will the mimicry copy the target’s current ailments, she will always retain her current sickness’ or injuries, such as her limp and far-sightedness. Tamara cannot copy clothing or jewellery, forcing her to layer up or carry spares with her. Her attire can be damaged if she takes on the appearance of someone too big for what she’s wearing.
Skills:
- Information - Where would any journalist be without their sources? As the workaholic she is, Tamara has amassed an extensive list of people across the United States she can reach out to when she needs information or advice. Failing that, she’s no stranger to spending eight hours in a library or archive, driven by copious amounts of caffeinated beverages.
- Intellect - While by no means a genius in any field, her brain can nonetheless work in high gear. An analytical mind, the ability to improvise, a knack for languages, sharp wit and good memory can go a long way.
Weaknesses:
- Combat - Though she carries a sidearm where concealed carry is permitted, or some other self defense tool where it is not, she’s mostly useless in a straight-up fight, being forced to rely on her surroundings with escape still the preferred method. That being said, she’s a decent enough shot for a civilian.
- Mobility impairment - A shrapnel from mortar fire claimed bits of the bones in her right ankle. Despite bone implants, Tamara still walks with a noticeable limp and can’t run as fast as a healthy leg would allow.
A sixth-generation Polish American, Tamara lived a middle class life in good, or at least decent schools. She grew up close to a news station, where both her parents worked as technicians, which greatly influenced her. Soon, she accumulated stacks and gigabytes of articles and interviews with accomplished journalists, and before long was studying journalism at Wisconsin Madison university, getting an internship at the Wisconsin Center for Investigative Journalism.
Once she graduated, she got a chance to accompany a freelance group of experienced reporters covering the reignited civil war in Mali. Unfortunately for her and the small team, the local government intentionally sent them to one of the most volatile sectors so their propagandists could portray the rebels as more evil for shooting journalists. Thankfully, the experience of the group and its sole guard, a retired VDV, kept them all alive. Although the footage she and the team shot brought them some recognition, her brief stint as a war correspondent left the young graduate more than a little shaken up, disillusioned and permanently limping due to an injured ankle.
While recovering at home, Tamara contacted the Wisconsin Center for Investigative Journalism again and started working for them. Her name became known throughout Wisconsin in 2047, when she and one other journalist followed a trail of unnecessary spending from the reconstruction of Austin Straubel Int’l Airport all the way to Green Bay’s mayor, making them indirectly responsible for the premature end of her term in office. This accomplishment led to her switching from the Wisconsin to the country-encompassing Center for Investigative Reporting based in Emeryville, CA. The Straubel Int’l investigation was the first time she ran across the words “Lorne Corporation”, one of the overpaid parties supplying construction equipment, in relation to her work, but paid them no attention since getting paid more than your stuff is worth is not a crime.
In 2049, Tamara was tasked to look into alleged tax evasion by several members of Lorne board of directors. She had been in Marlon for three months at the time of the explosion, finishing up research into the allegations that were either about as real as Atlantis or hidden so well she couldn’t even find scraps and was set to head back home a few days later when The Tower blew up.
Tamara was fortunate enough to be in her hotel room when her mutations manifested the following night. She was reading an article about the Tolmachevy sisters and thought what she would give to live a single day of their high life. Much to her horror, her body began to lose form, like a chocolate figure someone left in their car on a hot day, eventually mimicking the article’s photo of one of the twins.
The next day, she lied her way past the maid, claiming the explosion caused her nightmares about Mali to explain the horrified screams her neighbor complained about. In truth, she hadn’t slept a minute that night. It took her hours to calm down, make sure she wasn’t dreaming and become herself again, figuratively and literally speaking. Once she got back home, she took out as much of her vacation as she could, claiming she needed time to sort out some personal issues, which was a monumental understatement.
Once she came to terms with her new self, she spent the rest of her vacation experimenting in her apartment, learning what she could and couldn’t do while keeping a lid on the whole thing, at first out of irrational fear for her life and later out of a justified fear for her freedom.
When the hubris died down a little, questions began to grow in her mind like mushrooms after rain. What on Earth was Lorne doing there that, when something went wrong, caused such varied mutations in Humans? Why only in Humans? Why did whatever was going on there go wrong, and how? And in a dark corner of her mind, where the most insane and paranoid neurons lay gathered, an almost impossible, yet frightening question surfaced: Given some of the previous questions, was it an accident at all?
Once she graduated, she got a chance to accompany a freelance group of experienced reporters covering the reignited civil war in Mali. Unfortunately for her and the small team, the local government intentionally sent them to one of the most volatile sectors so their propagandists could portray the rebels as more evil for shooting journalists. Thankfully, the experience of the group and its sole guard, a retired VDV, kept them all alive. Although the footage she and the team shot brought them some recognition, her brief stint as a war correspondent left the young graduate more than a little shaken up, disillusioned and permanently limping due to an injured ankle.
While recovering at home, Tamara contacted the Wisconsin Center for Investigative Journalism again and started working for them. Her name became known throughout Wisconsin in 2047, when she and one other journalist followed a trail of unnecessary spending from the reconstruction of Austin Straubel Int’l Airport all the way to Green Bay’s mayor, making them indirectly responsible for the premature end of her term in office. This accomplishment led to her switching from the Wisconsin to the country-encompassing Center for Investigative Reporting based in Emeryville, CA. The Straubel Int’l investigation was the first time she ran across the words “Lorne Corporation”, one of the overpaid parties supplying construction equipment, in relation to her work, but paid them no attention since getting paid more than your stuff is worth is not a crime.
In 2049, Tamara was tasked to look into alleged tax evasion by several members of Lorne board of directors. She had been in Marlon for three months at the time of the explosion, finishing up research into the allegations that were either about as real as Atlantis or hidden so well she couldn’t even find scraps and was set to head back home a few days later when The Tower blew up.
Tamara was fortunate enough to be in her hotel room when her mutations manifested the following night. She was reading an article about the Tolmachevy sisters and thought what she would give to live a single day of their high life. Much to her horror, her body began to lose form, like a chocolate figure someone left in their car on a hot day, eventually mimicking the article’s photo of one of the twins.
The next day, she lied her way past the maid, claiming the explosion caused her nightmares about Mali to explain the horrified screams her neighbor complained about. In truth, she hadn’t slept a minute that night. It took her hours to calm down, make sure she wasn’t dreaming and become herself again, figuratively and literally speaking. Once she got back home, she took out as much of her vacation as she could, claiming she needed time to sort out some personal issues, which was a monumental understatement.
Once she came to terms with her new self, she spent the rest of her vacation experimenting in her apartment, learning what she could and couldn’t do while keeping a lid on the whole thing, at first out of irrational fear for her life and later out of a justified fear for her freedom.
When the hubris died down a little, questions began to grow in her mind like mushrooms after rain. What on Earth was Lorne doing there that, when something went wrong, caused such varied mutations in Humans? Why only in Humans? Why did whatever was going on there go wrong, and how? And in a dark corner of her mind, where the most insane and paranoid neurons lay gathered, an almost impossible, yet frightening question surfaced: Given some of the previous questions, was it an accident at all?
On a night like this, even the native Wisconsinite felt the damp cold despite a coat, gloves and a warm cap, and the streets were void of pedestrians. Outside a donut shop, a police officer and another man were leaning against the wall, taking cover from the rain. “García, you know the worst thing about this bucket?” the cop complained loudly to the civilian while tapping his helmet.
“No idea, Abe. Helmet hair?” the other guessed.
“It allows the smell to get in, but doesn’t let the donuts follow! It’s torture...” he was still droning on when she shmabled past far enough for the rain to drown him out. Tamara had to chuckle at the sound of the deep, booming voice of the cop’s voice filter complaining about not being able to pig out on duty. She paused and turned her head to take a better look at them, looking the civvie over before continuing on her way. Before long, she reached her destination for the night - an apartment complex in the good part of town. No Hilton, but still a step up from the rest of the suburbs. A whisper on the street, or rather in her workmail, told tales of a charity owner’s private retreat worth a considerable amount of money more than the humble non-profiteer he presented himself as should afford.
She walked back a couple blocks and disappeared into the alley, loitering in the darkness to let her eyes adjust. She expected the back entrance to be secured, but with a Master Lock mechanical five digit code lock they might as well have left the door open. The young woman sighed. She’d asked an associate of hers to figure out a way to bypass an electronic lock she expected to find and now owed him a bottle of Żubrówka for nothing.
Tamara pulled down her balaclava, which had until now been rolled up to look like a cap, braced her cane against the door and knelt down beside the lock. Pulling on the shackle, she got a shim between the lock body and one of the code wheels, turning the wheel one position at a time until she found the ‘true’ gate for that wheel, repeating the process for the other four. The lock clicked open without a hitch. ”1-8-6-4-7” she muttered under her breath as she closed the door behind her, the padlock in her pocket.
The door led into a garage belonging to the apartment building. Closing her left eye, she retrieved a flashlight and walked along the parking row until she found what she was looking for: a parking space with a sign announcing it was reserved for one ‘Leonard Church’. Parked there stood a white generation 10 Impala with mismatching driver’s door and front left quarter panel. Tamara snapped a few photos where the sign and the vehicle’s shoddy repair and license plate were visible to identify it was indeed the car Church publicly used. Something caught her eye in the adjacent parking space. It, too, was reserved for Church, and housed a vehicle covered with a tarp. Overcome by curiosity, Tamara pulled down the tarp, revealing a 2009 Bentley Continental GT. ”Someone has taste here. And undisclosed income.” she muttered as she took pictures.
“Which is none of your goddamned business!” a voice thundered behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with a security guard. They were about 10 meters apart and the guard was already reaching for something on his belt.
Immediately backpedalling, she shone the flashlight directly at the guard’s head to blind him before shutting it off and plunging the garage into darkness. Unless his eyes were somehow augmented, he should be unable to see anything at all for a few minutes in the darkness. Meanwhile, Tamara closed her right eye and opened her left one, which was still adapted to darkness and hurried out of the garage before the guard could recover or turn the lights on. She burst into a service room, taking an immediate left to hide behind a large AC unit. Good thing she thought to take adose of painkillers before she came here, which let her put a little bit of extra strain on her ankle.
The guard stormed into the room, cursing her and her family several generations both past and future as he fumbled for his flashlight. Tamara waited for him to pass, holding her cane like a baseball bat. Once he passed, she swung at the back of the poor sod’s knees, uttering a hasty ”Sorry!” as she pushed him on the floor with the cane and took off in the opposite direction, slamming the door shut behind her. A few seconds after she secured it with the lock she pawned off the back door, furious banging from the other side reminded her to expedite her exit.
The guard rushed out the front door onto the street, looking for any sign of the intruder. Spotting a figure across the street, he drew his baton. “You there, HALT!”
The hispanic male turned to the guard with his hands up and a surprised expression.
“Hey, pal, have you seen a chick in a black coat, maybe with a balaclava?” the guard inquired. The civilian nodded, pointing in the direction of the industrial quarter “She went that way, seemed in a hurry.” The guard took off in pursuit, confident he could catch up to the limping intruder while the man continued down the opposite direction.
Some time later in a different part of town, the man pulled out a black coat and a cane disassembled into two pieces out of his backpack as he turned back into a woman, sporting a smug grin.
“No idea, Abe. Helmet hair?” the other guessed.
“It allows the smell to get in, but doesn’t let the donuts follow! It’s torture...” he was still droning on when she shmabled past far enough for the rain to drown him out. Tamara had to chuckle at the sound of the deep, booming voice of the cop’s voice filter complaining about not being able to pig out on duty. She paused and turned her head to take a better look at them, looking the civvie over before continuing on her way. Before long, she reached her destination for the night - an apartment complex in the good part of town. No Hilton, but still a step up from the rest of the suburbs. A whisper on the street, or rather in her workmail, told tales of a charity owner’s private retreat worth a considerable amount of money more than the humble non-profiteer he presented himself as should afford.
She walked back a couple blocks and disappeared into the alley, loitering in the darkness to let her eyes adjust. She expected the back entrance to be secured, but with a Master Lock mechanical five digit code lock they might as well have left the door open. The young woman sighed. She’d asked an associate of hers to figure out a way to bypass an electronic lock she expected to find and now owed him a bottle of Żubrówka for nothing.
Tamara pulled down her balaclava, which had until now been rolled up to look like a cap, braced her cane against the door and knelt down beside the lock. Pulling on the shackle, she got a shim between the lock body and one of the code wheels, turning the wheel one position at a time until she found the ‘true’ gate for that wheel, repeating the process for the other four. The lock clicked open without a hitch. ”1-8-6-4-7” she muttered under her breath as she closed the door behind her, the padlock in her pocket.
The door led into a garage belonging to the apartment building. Closing her left eye, she retrieved a flashlight and walked along the parking row until she found what she was looking for: a parking space with a sign announcing it was reserved for one ‘Leonard Church’. Parked there stood a white generation 10 Impala with mismatching driver’s door and front left quarter panel. Tamara snapped a few photos where the sign and the vehicle’s shoddy repair and license plate were visible to identify it was indeed the car Church publicly used. Something caught her eye in the adjacent parking space. It, too, was reserved for Church, and housed a vehicle covered with a tarp. Overcome by curiosity, Tamara pulled down the tarp, revealing a 2009 Bentley Continental GT. ”Someone has taste here. And undisclosed income.” she muttered as she took pictures.
“Which is none of your goddamned business!” a voice thundered behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with a security guard. They were about 10 meters apart and the guard was already reaching for something on his belt.
Immediately backpedalling, she shone the flashlight directly at the guard’s head to blind him before shutting it off and plunging the garage into darkness. Unless his eyes were somehow augmented, he should be unable to see anything at all for a few minutes in the darkness. Meanwhile, Tamara closed her right eye and opened her left one, which was still adapted to darkness and hurried out of the garage before the guard could recover or turn the lights on. She burst into a service room, taking an immediate left to hide behind a large AC unit. Good thing she thought to take adose of painkillers before she came here, which let her put a little bit of extra strain on her ankle.
The guard stormed into the room, cursing her and her family several generations both past and future as he fumbled for his flashlight. Tamara waited for him to pass, holding her cane like a baseball bat. Once he passed, she swung at the back of the poor sod’s knees, uttering a hasty ”Sorry!” as she pushed him on the floor with the cane and took off in the opposite direction, slamming the door shut behind her. A few seconds after she secured it with the lock she pawned off the back door, furious banging from the other side reminded her to expedite her exit.
The guard rushed out the front door onto the street, looking for any sign of the intruder. Spotting a figure across the street, he drew his baton. “You there, HALT!”
The hispanic male turned to the guard with his hands up and a surprised expression.
“Hey, pal, have you seen a chick in a black coat, maybe with a balaclava?” the guard inquired. The civilian nodded, pointing in the direction of the industrial quarter “She went that way, seemed in a hurry.” The guard took off in pursuit, confident he could catch up to the limping intruder while the man continued down the opposite direction.
Some time later in a different part of town, the man pulled out a black coat and a cane disassembled into two pieces out of his backpack as he turned back into a woman, sporting a smug grin.
EDIT: Addressed the issue of clothing. Changes marked in red.
