BurningCold — Roleplayer Guild

" M O R T "

M O R T I M E R  K R A K O W S K I
◄   24   ▎   MALE    ▎  5'10  ►

P R O F I L E
	Cool; like a cucumber. Or some other genetically modified variant. It's all the same to Mort. No sweat to him one way or the other. The point here is that, at least on the surface, this is a young man that exudes an aura of absolute zen. In fact this is a fellow that is so chill it's a wonder that the room doesn't ice over when he enters it. That's what it looks like, at least. Sweet, sweet indifference. There's a lot roiling beneath that frosty exterior though. Mort's seen things, you know. He knows things that other people don't. You should try talking to the guy, actually. Maybe if he likes you he'll tell you a secret. Don't worry about him, really. He doesn't bite. Unless provoked. 

Mort is not a fan of people getting their jimmies all up in a twist over minor issues. It's just so totally not the way that people ought to be. If an individual can't keep their calm over some of the smaller hurdles that may crop up in their daily routine, how could they ever hope to deal with the real, higher stakes issues that may befall them? Just do as Mort does. Practice mindfulness, be grateful that you even exist at all, and if all else fails, roll up a joint of space dust and smoke the edge off. This tactic has yet to fail our king of cool. 

Oh, and what a king he is. Young Mortimer Krakowski is well known throughout the neutral zone for hosting some of the wildest ragers and raves the glitter clubs have ever known. In the underground party circuit, he is second to no one. 

Especially dressed for success as he is, decked out in all the hippest neo-retro-futurewave gettup, from his steel tipped jump boots to his custom made lime green visor and top end wireless headset constantly playing the soft sounds of ocean waves lapping at the distant earthen shore. Mort assumes the sound file is genuine anyways. Not that it matters. What does matter is that with absolute zen comes the right disposition for making true friends. 

Now, friends are something that Mort loves having around. The right people can make any room brighter, or any task less daunting to face. In his usual haunts, you know, clubs and bars and the like, Mort is surrounded by friends. His absolute best buds, Rosco, Teacup, and Gloria, he shares a nice flat with in one of the more posh enclaves. So. We've established that Mort is an absolute social butterfly. How does one go about befriending this charming fellow? Well, beyond keep it cool, it's not too tough. 

Be real. Be comfortable with what and who you are. Mort's spent enough time around liars and self haters to know one when he sees one, and he also knows that it's not often that those folks ever want to change anyways. He would help, sure he would. If they ever actually asked. You know what they say about the horse and the water and all that though. 

D A Y S - G O N E
	There's a lot of rumors about Mort's past. Who he was and where he came from before arising from obscurity as the king of space dust and all the wonders it can provide. Some of them even come close. He knows what some people say about him you know. The nasty things about the way he looks and acts and carries himself. He usually doesn't care. I care though. So I'm going to tell you the real story of Mortimer Krakowski, no holds barred. And it will make you blanch. 

Enter young Mortimer, destitute and alone, scrounging through the grit and grime day by day just to feed himself. No parents, nobody on the entire surface of Mars that even knows who poor young Mortimer is. Now enter the Children of Mars. Enter Chekkon Zeffra. Wealthy man of middling age buys a defunct factory and refurbishes it as a home for the poor and destitute of the Kion-Za Enclave. The caretakers? Fellow men and women of faith like Chekkon himself. Mortimer is among the most eager of the young converts. For the first time in his life, he found something to believe in and was surrounding by a loving family that seemed to believe in him too. It was something like a miracle. 

Say nothing of Chekkon's draconic methods of discipline. The beatings and starvings and threats of expulsion from the sanctuary should Mortimer not get his act together. At least someone was paying attention to him. And as it pertains to the next segment of this sad tale, he did get his "act" together. He became an exemplary disciple of the Children. Sometimes he even believed the lines that Chekkon and the other priests made him repeat. Such a fine pupil was he that at the age of sixteen he was chosen to go on a pilgrimage to the nearest Happy Pets enclave and spread the good word. 

Hang on, let me roll up a puff. This part's even worse than the last.

So Mortimer goes on this mission to Happy Pets, eager as they come to further his search for the Ultimate Truth. Two priests traveled with him, and as they crossed the boundary into the enclave, it was one of those two priests that screamed out in agony as automaton gunfire ripped through him. The other one followed shortly after. For reasons unknowable, Mortimer they chose to capture rather than kill. Maybe these were some of Happy Pets' infamous malfunctioning bots. Then again, maybe not. Screaming to 𝚃𝚣𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚐 for protection and to Killgore for rescue, he was dragged off and away from his dead compatriots. 

The automatons kept him in a cell most of the time. He did see nor hear any sign of human life on his way into the facility, and for the nearly two years that he was trapped there, it remained as such. Usually, Mortimer was left alone. When he was not, the things done to him were strange and awful. The robots would feed him odd, foul smelling slime sometimes, strapping him to a chair until the horrendous meal was completed. Other times they would hook him up to unfamiliar machinery and shock him, stick him with needles, or flash bizarre strobing images before his eyes for hours at a time. It was torturous. The stress and isolation began to eat at Mortimer's mind, like so many rats nibbling upon a stinking, rotten corpse. His sanity unraveled. 

He began to see and hear things that were not there. At first, just brief flashes at the corners of his eye or unintelligible whispering beyond his ability to understand. Eventually however, as most things tend to do, it got worse. Mortimer came to believe the old gods of Mars were speaking to him; reaching out to him and making him their chosen. He believed that they were teaching him the Ultimate Truth. I've asked him to explain it to me before, and either he is incapable of articulating or I am incapable of understanding. 

The essence of what he believes is the only important part anyways.

Mortimer, or Mort as he would here on begin to call himself, came to believe that the old gods were rising, likely very soon, and that all would become awash in cosmic retribution. Mort believed that the end of all things was coming.

Armed with this new knowledge, he felt invincible, and began to plan his escape. As it happens, however, such a plan would be unnecessary. One day when he awoke, the door to his cell was open, and all of the automatons were simply gone. Mort left that day, and returned to his sanctuary. He lied about his experience, elaborating in grim detail upon the more horrific elements while leaving out the more enlightening aspects of his imprisonment. Mort knew the Truth, and he knew that it would not serve them. Young as he was, the others all began to seem like children to him. He wished to spare them from the harsh reality of their lives. He did not believe that they would take the Truth which as much grace as he had. Not but two days after his return, Mort stole away into the night, as much of Chekkon's wealth stowed away on his person as he could carry.

How Mort got into the drug dispersal business is probably the least interesting part of this story. He met the right people, had the right attitude, and was no stranger to hard work. That's how he made it. When you believe that nothing really matters in the end, things don't tend to hold you back as much as they once might have. 

So that's it. Mort's story. Satisfied?

M E M O R I E S
	None yet...

E Q U I P M E N T & L O Y A L T I E S

A cool high tech visor that grants nightvision, can detect heat signatures, and offers protection from the sun.

Some sick kicks that are also the latest in jump boot technology. If it's high in the air, he can get there. Cushy soles and some other techno stuff lets him land on his feet without breaking his legs.

A badass belt buckle that also happens to have a personal defense shield built into it. Press the button, green energy surrounds you, suddenly it isn't as easy to blast, pummel, or otherwise harm the user.

An actual freaking raygun that isn't good for much more than melting circuits or paralyzing organic life forms. Still, it's gotten Mort out of more than a few jams.

----

The Children of Mars are a bunch of jokers that desperately need to do something more productive with their lives. He feels bad for some of them, sure. But the ones at the top can be downright sinister sometimes.

Happy Pets Food Group is full of bad vibes. Does not come highly recommended.

Everyman Equity is alright. Some of their jobs are boring, some are more interesting, and most pay pretty damn well.
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