Okay, PMed you the concept. And here it is on the thread as well.
[ Spoiler ]
Tad is not a racist, a sexist, or even a culturalist. He firmly believes that, given a proper education, the right social backing, a modicum of propriety and the ability to delay gratification, anyone in the world can become a decent human being. But without all those ingredients, might just as well hand them over as ghoul-feed. Which makes it especially ironic that that's what almost happened to him.
Given his views, it should come as no surprise that he despises almost everyone he's met so far in the shadows. But that doesn't really matter, because Tad is the kind of guy who will only ever show you what he thinks you want to see.
Tad was born Patrick Henry Foster, in 2032, Seattle. His parents, Thomas and Felicity, were both upper management at Boeing, and had put off marriage and children for a long time in favor of their careers. Tad was their first and last progeny - Thomas was 52 when he was born, Felicity 48.
Patrick was raised "corporate-comfortable." To this he added the Holy Trinity of teen popularity - he was one of those genetic lottery winners that enjoyed a formidable intellect, athletic prowess, and striking good looks. He could have coasted through his youth on these qualities, but his parents encouraged him to make the most of his talents, and while no workaholic, he set his sights high and disciplined himself to do the work to reach them. He was valedictorian of his high school class, student body president, and naturally captain of several sports teams.
He had only two disappointments from that period of his life. The first was that he had not tested postive for magical talent. That would really have been the icing on the cake. The second was that he was unable to have a datajack. A sort of a key to the corporate elite, he had been fitted for one at the age of 16, but his body had soon rejected it. But really, that was okay, because he had already decided that his greatest skills were not in research or number-crunching, but, naturally, on the people side of things.
Once he got to Stanford, he had already decided that while he would not exactly neglect his formal studies, he would focus the bulk of his efforts on his classmates. He realized that real power lay in manipulating others, preferrably those with useful skills. And so he became president of his frat, and reveled in all the attendant perks - a succession of hot coeds, and an ever-widening circle of social contacts among the elite that were the parents of his fraternity brothers.
Graduating with his degree in economics, he was off to Oxford for advanced certificates in Organizational Behavior and Conflict Dynamics. Unlike North American schools however, at Oxford one had to actually study, which he did, though he still found time for numerous female companions, as well as getting into skydiving and rock-climbing.
Well before graduation he was snapped up by Malaysian International Bank for its European operations. He joined a negotiation team handling M&A work, and as a junior member, the work was rigorous. It was during this time that he heard of the death of his mother. His father had already succumbed to cancer when Patrick was in his teens, and upon being diagnosed with a degenerative nerve disorder, his mother had chosen not to tell him. Her death, following months of agonizing illness, came as a complete surprise to Patrick. In her final letter to him, she explained that sacrifices were necessary for success in this world, and that she could not have borne for him to jeopardize his budding career to be by her side.
This event solidified two attributes in Patrick's personality that had already been building for some time. First, he now had absolutely no sympathy for anyone that was not successful. In his mind, he had sacrificed the chance to be with his mother in her last hours to keep his place at the corporate table, and he wasn't going to hear anyone else's sob stories about bad luck or lack of opportunity. Second, his mother's sacrifice would NOT be in vain - in other words, he would succeed in this life, and it would now never matter who he stepped on as he climbed to the top - her death became the ultimate justification for anything he might do in the future to advance his own interests.
Following a successful tour in Europe, MIB moved him home to Seattle, where he quickly became the point man on key bank merger negotiations. As his success rate rose, so did his pay - which led to women, cars, and everything else a young, narcissistic man in his thirties could want. But it also brought rivals. And Patrick was naive enough to believe that as long as he kept outperforming them, the company would have his back. If only the world was so just....
It all went to the dogs on January 1st, 2068. Patrick was enjoying his first day off in three months, two elven cuties in his all-too-rarely-used hot tub, when the phone rang. He was being sent to head up emergency negotiations for the takeover of a small regional bank in Redmond. Redmond? He was being called in for a pissant acquisition in Redmond? But he bit his tongue and accepted the relevant data, got dressed, and said goodbye to the party favors - and his life as he knew it.
Touristville, as everyone knew, was the last bastion of civilization in Redmond, the last place not overrun by the barbarism of the Barrens. A small, heavily policed area was home to a handful of corporate facilities tasked with the exploitation of all the remaining resources and untapped consumer potential of the giant slum. The distance between glass buildings and war-ravaged gang turfs was measured in meters, and the address Patrick was sent to was at the very edge of the abyss. When he entered the building, he was not surprised at the lack of people around - it WAS New Year's Day, after all. He crossed the spotless lobby, nodding at the lone security guard, and took the elevator to the designated floor.
Entering the meeting room, he was surprised to find it empty, but had little time to think about it. The assassins that appeared out of nowhere behind him were too professional to waste time on cute quips. He barely had time to recognize them as faces he knew from the company's Special Security Projects division before one pointed a long-nailed finger at him and he was thrown across the room against the plate glass, full length window, shattering it and depositing his body on a narrow ledge. He was sure he was bleeding internally, and that was his last thought before two pairs of gloved hands picked him up and threw him over the edge to the street below - 26 stories down. Time slowed and he somehow had time to be surprised he didn't black out, and then he hit the pavement and everything went black.
His sense of small was, unfortunately, the first shred of consciousness he regained, and what a smell it was. Indeed, he had never imagined such an olfactory nightmare. Purtifying garbage and rotten flesh and...something else. Then hearing - mad, cacophonous shrieks and gurgles, syncopated with some sort of strident chanting - no, two sets of chanting.
Somehow, lying there, he instinctively knew he had fallen victim to some sort of corporate rival. What he would never know was the way the hit team's mage had, using astral sight, been incredulous to see that after hitting the ground he was still alive. Loathe as they were to expose themselves in the security zone, the killers were about to finish the job, when out of the sewers a dozen ragtag ghouls and emerged and disappeared with the target's body. They shook their heads at the irony, and reported a confirmed kill to their superiors.
So there he was, blurred vision returning, horrified at the emaciated, rotting faces of his flesh-eating captors. They were in some large, ill-lit underground chamber, and the ghouls were arrayed in two groups on opposite sides, many holding up placards of some sort. Barely conscious and too weak to resist, Patrick felt himself being tied to a chair and placed on some sort of dais.
To this day he is not sure how he pieced it all together - all the data that was being thrust on his senses. On one side of the room was the "Pro-Choice" faction - they waved roughly made signs emblazoned with graphics and logos appropriated from the UCAS's neverending abortion debate, but hideously modified - apparently, the 'choice' was to eat people. They shouted things like, "Keep your laws off our dinner," and "Feeding rights are ghouls' rights."
The other side, a much smaller group, waved similar signs from the pro-life side of the debate, though instead of aborted fetuses, they sported blown-up digital images of people being eaten alive. "Rights for the unborn" had been transformed into "Rights for the uninfected."
Meanwhile, a somewhat better-spoken ghoul was rapidly hissing in Patrick's ear that he was his advocate, that all food had a right to try to prove that it was more useful to humanity alive than eaten, and he should prepare some remarks. There would seemingly be little time allowed to do so, much less time to recover from falling out of a building. But just in case he needed any more motivation, his gaze was directed to the last "defendant," some poor woman screaming in agony as the ghoul young fed on her still-warm flesh.
"I am afraid the prosecution's conviction rate is 100%," the advocate was lamenting, and Patrick could see that there were few commodities more useful than food. Somehow, his stunned mind went into overdrive. He started recalling all his economic knowledge about comparative advantage and the greater efficiency of indirect means of production. Both these principles would apply here, but then economic theory depended on the assumption of a rational actor, and he didn't see many of those around. No, he had to keep it simple. Think, dammit, your a world-class negotiator, surely you can...that was it! IF he could just put it in compelling enough terms to assuage their hunger for the moment.
He wasn't sure how he did it, but he managed to win his life by convincing them that what they really needed, what could double or even treble their standard of living, was someone that could interface between them and the outside world. As it was, they spoke with no one - they had nothing to offer more valuable than the bounties on their heads. But he showed them how he could not only end wars with local gangs, but get the gangs to bring food to them. How they could manipulate liberal rights groups to flock to their cause, even litigate against the city authorities that put prices on their heads.
Naturally, he would remain their prisoner. All the communications he carried out for them would be by commlink or, if he could get anyone to come down to them, in person in their lair. But for now, that was enough. That, however, was all fine with him, because he didn't want his face known - who could say whether anyone was still trying to kill him?
By commlink, he negotiated only by (modulated) voice, and he was careful to allow no cameras in his personal negotiations. And within a year he had kept all the promises he'd made the ghouls and more. Now in the media spotlight, professional activists were more than willing to come in and take over for the 'anonymous' ghoul spokesman, and he was allowed to slip away and back to his old life.
Except, free from the ghouls, there was no life to go back to. While with them, he had managed to hire a hacker to find out what had become of his SIN. He had expected to have been reported dead, but was surprised - and in view of circumstances, delighted - to find that his identity had been deleted entirely. This suited him just fine, since he had, over the course of the past year, concluded that there was no going back to the corporate world. He still planned to accumulate vast wealth and power for himself - for what was a man without those things? - but it would now have to be through the shadows. And he had found that after manipulating corporate sharks, the jackals of the shadows were a piece of cake.
Another thing he pieced together while with the ghouls - partly with the aid of their astral sight - was that he had somehow Awakened. Of course he had heard of previously unTalented individuals whose abilities emerged under extreme stress, so it wasn't totally unbelievable. His latent Power had saved his life at the last possible moment, and delivered him to his new life, where it would certainly be a great benefit.
Leaving the ghouls, he took the name Tad - a self-mockery of his privileged, blue-blooded background. But he did not renounce his old attitudes - if anything, they were more pronounced. His time with the ghouls, his ridiculous advocacy of the 'rights' of murderous cannibals, had reinforced his views that the lower classes were nothing but filth, and he would have no compunction about manipulating them to his ends as he made his fortune among them.
Over the past few months he has established himself as a mediator in gang conflicts and also as a ransom negotiator in cases where the kidnappers are fringe, barrens types that may not always do the smart/profitable thing. Through these efforts, he has earned enough for a passable fake SIN and a good commlink, the minimum requirements to move his work out of the Barrens.
Mister Juan, if you like this, I will make up the character sheet. If you don't think it fits your campaign, well, I had fun writing it. If you do give me a green light for the character sheet, I do need you to approve conversion of the Free Fall adept power from SR3 to SR4, as that is intrinsic to the concept. I would convert it per the sticky at the head of the SR4 discussion page.
. If things go well, I could very well turn this thing in an actual campaign, so people interested in one shots, please don’t bother. 
).