Even though it's on the late side, I'll wade back in with two concepts that have vingettes and contacts ready:
Father O'Rourke
Vingette:
[ Spoiler ]
Who forgives the sins of the Father, when all have forsaken him?
This is the thought that runs through Father O'Rourke's head as he crouches upon the crumbling ramparts of a long-gutted StufferShack. He thumbs the Rosary ring upon his left hand, lips silently moving in prayer born of stretched faith. He Knew beyond a shadow of a doubt God existed, what he didn't know is if God truly cared anymore. At times it seemed as if humanity had failed their Lord, and that he had long ago abandoned them for more fruitful endevours. While God releaved himself in subtle mysteries, he cannot be the warden of all things. This Micheal must remind himself, lest he become entirely disillusioned.
The Lord God looks over all his people, but entrusts Man to watch over Man. As a Sheppard in the Lord's flock, it falls upon the good Father to serve as his eyes, and as the venerable St. Micheal the Archangel, to serve as his wrath.
In the alley across from the ruins of the StufferShack one of the fallen lights up a cigarette, drawing a frown from Micheal. Such lack of discipline from a watcher is a sign of weakness beyond faith, an outer marker of just how little regard the man has for even the work of peddling poison. Micheal waits, however, he waits until the others depart the alleyway. Two groups of men, one in the colors of the Cutters, the other in suits meant to mark them as something better, as if being tied to the Mafia were different from ties to any other gang of drug peddlers. Only when they are all present does he stand, rain alighting his brow, and raise a hand to the heavens, voice booming across the abandoned street.
`He, who heard the sound of thy holy trumpet, and took not warning. He hath clearly wandered too far from the word of God.`
The lot of them turn to face him, and a collection of firearms which would make the NRA proud to see amongst private citizens are leveled his direction, but Micheal does not quaver. His voice takes on a powerful timbre, as he stands above them.
`You are the poisoners, fallen from the path, and I have come to bring you back to the light. Cast off your wickedness, or face judgment.`
Overdramatic, yes. But the point wasn't as much to admonish their lack of faith as to buy himself some time before they shot him. He was armored in faith and magic, but that much flying ammunition was bound to hurt.
The speech had its desired effect, however, as both sets of men look to one another in confusion and muttering. Finally, one of them calls out to him, waving a fist full of chain in Micheal's direction.
`Come down here and we'll show you wickedness.`
Despite himself, the priest grins. `Wrong answer.`
From under his long coat he draws forth the instrument of the Lord's wrath, his battered off-year Ares Antioch. Even as they begin to react, a prayer comes to his lips, and he feels the light of the Lord enter him, his reflexes reaching levels beyond that of any mortal man. Even as the world takes on glacial speeds, he raises Wrath to bear, and unleashes a payload of flashbang grenades.
Leaping from his perch upon the ruined rooftop of the convenience store, Father O’Rourke lands softly, and he begins striding forward. As several of the hardier amongst the wicked start to rise, he calls forth his devotion, casting a ball of energy towards them which knocks them back and leaves them stunned. Slinging the grenade launcher at his hip, he centers himself, and begins to check on the rest of them, making sure that in his zeal he has done them no lasting harm. Kneeling before each, he removes from them their arms, casting them into the street. Those who stir are treated to further spells of faith.
As the rain grows heavier still, he adjusts his collar and cinches his coat against the inclement weather. Kneeling, he offers a prayer for the redemption of the men before him, even as he fishes a pair of reading glasses from one of his pockets, so as to cast an image into his eye when he calls for Sergeant Fynn. Normally the self proclaimed protectors of Lone Star, would have nothing to do with this neighborhood, but Patrick was of the faith, and could be counted on.
Contacts:
[ Spoiler ]
Tamara Water (Corporate Secretary, Barrens Resident, Serial Marin Apparitionist) - Tamara is one of the few people who remains loyal to Father O'Rourke's congregation even while he has given up on it himself. She is young, but considers herself to be wise in the ways of faith, as she has witnessed images of the Virgin Mary no less than a dozen times throughout her life. Despite the fact none of these apparitions have been confirmed, she feels that the Virgin Mother is guiding her, and that she has been tasked with keeping tabs on Father O'Rourke. When not cloistered away in some little self-made chapel, she works contract secretary work for various corporations around the city.
Prodigy (Ex-Ganger, Street-Artist, Youth Activist) - Ronald 'Prodigy' Marten was at one point in time on the hard and fast path to an early death or life in jail, that is until Father O'Rourke met his attempts to rob his small church with steely resolve and empassioned words. They have known eachother for a decade now, and Ronald has reformed himself, becoming an active member of the community around him in a positive light, inspired by Father O'Rourke's faith beyond the disolving of his church.
Sgt. Timothy Fynn (Lone Star Beat Cop, Barrens-Born, Lapsed) - Despite a falling out with the Faith, Tim remains good friends with Father O'Rourke, as they are of like age and a like devotion to cleaning up the Barrens, and helping people escape from a life of crime and poverty. While he doesn't approve of Micheal's vigilante streak, that doesn't stop him from bringing in offiers to clean up the crooks the priest incapacitates.
Seta
Vingette:
[ Spoiler ]
Freedom, sweet freedom. It was good to be alive and not kicked in. The Barrens are a dangerous place, to say otherwise would be either to be stupid brave, or just plain nuts. There was always cause for watching whose turf you were on, or what border was nearby because they shifted as often as snakes in a sack and could be twice as deadly, but for Seta it didn't matter. The whole of the Barrens was his turf. He wasn't stupid brave; he just wasn't affiliated with anyone save Emerald City Knights, he was young and quick, and he had a way of making friends with anyone save the downright toxic.
Well, the toxic and the Spikes.
Word hadn't even gone out yet about the push. Sometime the night before a splinter faction of the Spikes had decided to cut a nice little chunk of turf out to rest their ugly heads down upon. A chunk of turf that just happened to be right along one of Seta's favorite rooftop shortcut paths. He'd been making good speed on the last run of the day, a cross-borough into Woodvine with something in a map case. He hadn't asked what, he didn't care what it was. There was a code, yeah, but what he really wanted to do was get back home. He had a show to go to that night, Johnny Molotov was making his return from prison and it promised to be a riot. Before that he had a MassiveGame raid to participate in, one the guild had been planning for weeks, and he still needed to hit that Little Thai Place on the way. It wasn't that he was worried about time. Hell no. He just wanted to be on his own time and to shut Normal up.
The Troll Riders of Lower Lancaster were slamming in his ears, and he was sailing rooftop to rooftop, feet barely hitting three paces before he was in the air again. He was in a zone, and his blood was pumping. He was so jazzed on the Dwarven Techno-Grunge that when he came up out of a tasty combat roll in the mouth of an alley and hooked the left that'd see him two steps from wall-hopping onto a dumpster, then over a chain link fence to the homestretch of the shortcut it took a moment for him to register a fresh obstacle in his path.
Troll. And a biggun too
He skitters to a stop, face a scant inch from a rather crude tattoo which registers picosecond-fast across his brain. The vacant-eyed face with one of its pointy ears run through with a railroad spike could only mean one thing: he needed to duck and fast.
Even as the swing of a fist came his way like a freight train made of ugly muscle he dropped under it. One hand reflexively went to stroke an ear even as he twisted out of the path of a follow-on kick. Seta used the momentum of his own twisting to flip away from the massive troll, only to come to his feet in front of another - this one wielding a bat. When the troll tried to poke him in the chest with the tube of aluminum, Seta had brushed aside the bat and couldn’t help but tap the angry bastard on the nose. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, and when he turned he saw the massive troll hefting a garbage can to throw at him. He surged forward under the arc of the can, and then stepped first onto the massive troll's knee, then hopped to his shoulder and used his head as a final step before leaping onto the dumpster beyond. Two steps and he had turned to see the pair of trolls had two times as many more companions with them. Still he'd thrown off a good old over-the-pond raspberry at them before back flipping over the chain link, and turning heel to run.
Never fight when running will do, that had always been his motto.
Now, sitting in the shadows where the security light splashing over the rest of the Stuffer Shack down the road's awning don't quite reach, he sits back, the cool rain lapping over his features, and he grins against nature's wrath. Sure as hell beats the wrath of the half dozen trolls still single-mindedly scouring the block looking for him.
He might just be missing that raid tonight. Bloody trogs.
Contacts:
[ Spoiler ]
Reagan 'Normal' Johnson (Dispatcher, Hacker, Retired Runner) - Reagan is a dispatcher for Emerald City Knights, a courier service with five offices throughout Seattle, each of which is run by a member of a retired running team. Outwardly he is a fussy, business oriented hardass, but deep down inside he is a fussy, business oriented hardass who loathes people. Still, he is more than just a courier dispatch operator, he is a man in the know, and operates as a low-mid level fixer for people trying to work their way out of the barrens, even if they are a bunch of mouth breathing cretins.
Red Eddie (Rasta, Tagger, Dope Dealer) Red Eddie is a pot-dealing Troll rasta with a heart of gold and a dislike for authority. He wanders the streets of the Barrens carefully navigating the gang-tides, and spreading Jah's love in the form of sick graphitti art.
As for games names, I like 'Nuyen for your Thoughts", and "Barrens Rising" comes to mind.