Trivval

Dead Presidents

Thank

Dead Presidents

Hey guys, sorry should have asked before. Could you treat Wesley as kind of an outsider. Not one of the crew, but a known member of the criminal underground. Just someone who comes and goes between different crews depending on the needs of the jobs. Some of y’all may have already thought that way, just clearing it up.

Dead Presidents

I'll wait until things get going, I don't need to be at the brief. Cheers.

Dead Presidents

Ah I thought my character was already on-site and is "letting them in" so to say. No matter, I'll make it work.

Dead Presidents

Wesley Data

_{W E S L E Y D A T A
◄ 48 ▎ MALE ▎ 178cm ►}

_{P R O F I L E}

---

Old school. When you're up shit creek and you ask that guy you don't want to owe a favour for an assist, Wesley is the guy they know to get it done. The fixer, the man that the consigliere entrusts to ensure that things stay to plan. Able to act as anyone, from anywhere, Wesley has a knack for being able to ghost his way through any corporate detector - technical, or social. Average height, average build, with a face that could change to be anyone - literally - in his later years Wesley has found himself in the ideal position to slip in labs, branch offices, depots, warehouses, any assume the role of anyone ideally placed to extract information, or allow more direct crews an easy passage.

Wesley was an old quantum cowboy, in one life several generations ago he used to live the life of a corporate hack. Not the grueling existance of some plebian - he had aspirations, a future. Stock Analyst, window office, 89th floor - taking home a peon's average yearly wage every week, every day if the market played nice. Connecting dots that no-one else can see - some, perhaps, less legiitimately obtained but no one cares so long as there are profits. There are three ways to win: be first, be smarter, or cheat - Wesley endevoured to do all three.

Things changed, computers got faster, smaller, implants and upgrades became more common. Deadly afraid of the affect that cybernetics has on the human psyche, Wesley avoided corrupting his soul as much as possible. He fell behind, his peers plugged in and connected had the compute to see patterns he couldn't. So long as your output remained high, any eccentricy was overlooked by the overlords. As soon as the numbers started to drop he found himself staring up at his old window view, alongside the peons he once looked down on.

Now he maintains bare minimum upgrades to scrape by in the modern world, and absolutely nothing that directly interfaces with the core of his being. What he lacks in cybernetics, he makes up for in subtle bio-modifications: high-tensile nanocarbon fibers at the base of every muscle group. Not extensive, not for strength like some of the champion meat-gladiators who parade across legal and illegal entertainment... subtle but numerous enough that with a throbbing constant pain he can literally wear any face that he desires.

_{D A Y S - G O N E}

---

Wesley was raied in a sheltered and gated community. Not wealthy, just lacking bullet holes on the interior walls. But such an environment does allow the bright to thrive rather than merely survive; hard-study, extra-curricular exercises and a unlocked server rooms allowed Wesley to find himself studying alongside the children of the corporate elites. He put himself on the fast-track to success, and was due to find himself on top of the work if simple fear didn't get in the way. He knew how easy it was to break into trivial systems, everything held a certain pattern and once you studied it enough you could find the one thread which would unravel the entire shirt. Having seen, and beat, the best of corporate security on his meteoric rise on the corproate ladder Wesley hardly felt he could trust any computer to sit inside his skull, any system to interface directly with his nerves. Data wasn't just a cool name, it was the essence of his being - everyone always had to be right 100% of the time, he only had to be right once. Before cybernetics became commonplace, being able to visualise and contexualise these vast streams of information was a skill. Now, anyone jacked in can do the same.

Cast down from his ivory tower, Wesley did what he did best: assessed, analysed, processed. He had enough money to live comfortably the rest of his life, yet that wasn't enough. Data wasn't just a namesake, it was an addiction. To see a pattern, to bet against it and to validate your success - thats what he lived for. The only reason he used to be able to afford to live like a king was because the corporation had their fingers pressed against the scale, tipping it in the favour. If that pressure was to be aleviated for a second, everything would get really fair really quick - and no one wants that. If you know whats coming, if you can form the right leverage, you can jump off the scale at the arc of it's swing and come out ahead. Wesley resolved to do just that.

For the last twenty years he's been slowly tipping the right scales. Sometimes hired, sometimes for his own amusement. Identfying the right fulcrum to generate the most profit. It's been a while since he last dealt with the Dead Presidents, apparently they're getting out? Well this should be hell of a last job for them.

_{M O R A L S}

---

See in OOC.

Dead Presidents

Alternatively I can create a CS for someone less involved. A turncoat inside the bank, rather than someone who has worked their way inside. Up to you, I don't mind.

Wesley Data

_{W E S L E Y D A T A
◄ 48 ▎ MALE ▎ 178cm ►}

_{P R O F I L E}

---

Old school. When you're up shit creek and you ask that guy you don't want to owe a favour for an assist, Wesley is the guy they know to get it done. The fixer, the man that the consigliere entrusts to ensure that things stay to plan. Able to act as anyone, from anywhere, Wesley has a knack for being able to ghost his way through any corporate detector - technical, or social. Average height, average build, with a face that could change to be anyone - literally - in his later years Wesley has found himself in the ideal position to slip in labs, branch offices, depots, warehouses, any assume the role of anyone ideally placed to extract information, or allow more direct crews an easy passage.

Wesley was an old quantum cowboy, in one life several generations ago he used to live the life of a corporate hack. Not the grueling existance of some plebian - he had aspirations, a future. Stock Analyst, window office, 89th floor - taking home a peon's average yearly wage every week, every day if the market played nice. Connecting dots that no-one else can see - some, perhaps, less legiitimately obtained but no one cares so long as there are profits. There are three ways to win: be first, be smarter, or cheat - Wesley endevoured to do all three.

Things changed, computers got faster, smaller, implants and upgrades became more common. Deadly afraid of the affect that cybernetics has on the human psyche, Wesley avoided corrupting his soul as much as possible. He fell behind, his peers plugged in and connected had the compute to see patterns he couldn't. So long as your output remained high, any eccentricy was overlooked by the overlords. As soon as the numbers started to drop he found himself staring up at his old window view, alongside the peons he once looked down on.

Now he maintains bare minimum upgrades to scrape by in the modern world, and absolutely nothing that directly interfaces with the core of his being. What he lacks in cybernetics, he makes up for in subtle bio-modifications: high-tensile nanocarbon fibers at the base of every muscle group. Not extensive, not for strength like some of the champion meat-gladiators who parade across legal and illegal entertainment... subtle but numerous enough that with a throbbing constant pain he can literally wear any face that he desires.

_{D A Y S - G O N E}

---

Wesley was raied in a sheltered and gated community. Not wealthy, just lacking bullet holes on the interior walls. But such an environment does allow the bright to thrive rather than merely survive; hard-study, extra-curricular exercises and a unlocked server rooms allowed Wesley to find himself studying alongside the children of the corporate elites. He put himself on the fast-track to success, and was due to find himself on top of the work if simple fear didn't get in the way. He knew how easy it was to break into trivial systems, everything held a certain pattern and once you studied it enough you could find the one thread which would unravel the entire shirt. Having seen, and beat, the best of corporate security on his meteoric rise on the corproate ladder Wesley hardly felt he could trust any computer to sit inside his skull, any system to interface directly with his nerves. Data wasn't just a cool name, it was the essence of his being - everyone always had to be right 100% of the time, he only had to be right once. Before cybernetics became commonplace, being able to visualise and contexualise these vast streams of information was a skill. Now, anyone jacked in can do the same.

Cast down from his ivory tower, Wesley did what he did best: assessed, analysed, processed. He had enough money to live comfortably the rest of his life, yet that wasn't enough. Data wasn't just a namesake, it was an addiction. To see a pattern, to bet against it and to validate your success - thats what he lived for. The only reason he used to be able to afford to live like a king was because the corporation had their fingers pressed against the scale, tipping it in the favour. If that pressure was to be aleviated for a second, everything would get really fair really quick - and no one wants that. If you know whats coming, if you can form the right leverage, you can jump off the scale at the arc of it's swing and come out ahead. Wesley resolved to do just that.

For the last twenty years he's been slowly tipping the right scales. Sometimes hired, sometimes for his own amusement. Identfying the right fulcrum to generate the most profit. It's been a while since he last dealt with the Dead Presidents, apparently they're getting out? Well this should be hell of a last job for them.

_{M O R A L S}

---

See in OOC.

Dead Presidents

Yeah, inside man works for me. Question - long time member of the crew, or recent asset?

Dead Presidents - A Funky Cyberpunk Heist Gun Blazing Adventure

Sounds fun. Anything still available?

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

Rekt :p

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

Now this is quitethe eclectic bunch you’ve found yourself in, John. The familiar voice pulled at the back of his mind, formal and lilted like a public-school teacher from his youth. Rather at odds with its owner, a young Punjabi lass that had haunted his dreams for the past decade. The old man couldn’t help but agree; all ages and all walks of life. Hayes felt particularly… stonewall-ish, a black spot on a bright canvas. The young thug felt as tumultuous as his story sounded, the young blond girl saw earlier was… conflicted, probably another one of those lost university students who thought they were entitled to the world. Most interestingly was the force that which thelost projected himself – all encompassing, almost filling the room. Dreymund, the doctor said? Yesnoyes.

He stilled his shaking arm – his real arm – as Alex spoke, gripping the head of his cane tighter. Sometimes Herb almost wished that he had two prosthetic arms – after all he could afford the best. Nimble, accurate, never shook; but then he would watch the other unlucky ones who attended the clinic he owned cry over their lost limbs and the thought was banished. He smiled wistfully as Alex finished introducing herself, he had lost a lot of people we’re still with you and alcohol only lasted for a while. Then you move to something stronger and stronger, but eventually you find that nothing can remove the madness. If only alcoholism was the least of his worries.

“I do want to do an exercise,” the Doctor continued, after thanking Alex for her contribution. welove games – Herb, on the other hand, did not. He’d wait the doctor out, but if this is how sessions start it would prove to be an unproductive recommendation. The man seemed a little hurried – half the people in the room hadn’t even introduced themselves. What was the drive that kept him going? He frankly didn’t know, that’s half the reason why he came here. He could have anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers, but without the risk, without the challenge… his money was perpetually safe, tied up in hundreds of companies and squirreled away across the earth. He had as much as he could ever want… he just didn’t have the body to keep brokering the deals he used to. Maybe it’s time to go legit…

Lightly Herb tapped his thumb against his cane as he leant back in his chair and surveyed the group through dim eyes. Legitimately everything around his was dark, with pinpricks of light trying to pierce his clouded eyes – the doctor must have lit candles, there was a faint scent but nothing he could make out. What would the group expect him to say? Money? Possibly. Some trite shit about his kids? Live as long as I can to keep them away from doing damage to the world.

Pain shot down his right arm and he unconsciously clutched it. Phantom pain as severe as when he lost it – dimly he heard laughing in the back of his mind. Rubbing the join above his prosthetic he realised one of the few things that still brings him joy was seeing those that he was able to provide mobility to again. Legs for veterans, arms for car crash victims.

His mind was tickled with a cold splash as he submersed at the end of the slide.