PROMISES

Bing Lei Shen strode, naked save an expensive pair of boxer shorts, through the lodge's eastern door with a steadiness and sense of purpose his meticulously-careless amble usually lacked. He didn't slouch his shoulders, didn't have his hands stuffed into his pockets, didn't curve his spine to hide his elf-height and blend into the crowd better. He walked with his head high, arms swinging at his side. He was proud to be here. His body language would show them that pride, he had determined when he stepped through the doorway. His hair was black, today, his natural black so dark it was nearly blue; raven's wing black, the color inherited from his Hong Kong-born father. Thanks to his stiff spine and natural height, that slicked-back black hair was brushed against by hanging banners and small silk flags.

Shen faced two other men, both Chinese. Between them they held a lacquered wooden hoop, with jagged paper edges attached. Bing Lei lowered himself to his knees, then stooped at the shoulders to fit as he climbed through the Heaven and Earth Circle, left leg first.

Bing Lei Shen died, and was reborn.

Billy grinned, flashing elf-perfect teeth against his elf-perfect skin. His mirror shades hid his eyes, but the rest of his face was animated and obviously gleefull; he'd finally pulled ahead of her!

Shen leaned forward, low and aerodynamic, center of balance as close to the growling bike's engine as he could get it. His bomber jacket flapped open in the Seattle wind. He'd meant to zip it before the race had started, but she'd revved her engine just as he'd reached to do so, and he'd had no choice but to grab the handles of his Suzuki and accelerate as madly as possible. Katherine Kidde was a cheater by nature, every bit as much as Billy Shen. It's why she was one of the best, and he was one of the best, and why, together, they were one of the best teams.

Lone Star, CalFree highway patrol, Tir Border Guards, Knight Errant, and the dozen-or-hundred other security and military agencies the pair crossed handlebars with nightly sure as shit didn't give out sportsmanships awards. If you didn't win the race against them -- by cutting corners, taking shortcuts, and using a million and one other little tricks -- you didn't get a consolation prize. You got killed, often as not.

Just behind him and to his left (and closing), he heard her Yamaha revving, heard her own tires squeal just a bit on the Seattle pavement. No one was chasing them but them, for once. The two just had a job to do, but were too young and invincible to pay attention to speed limits on the way to that job. They raced almost everywhere they went, ever since Billy'd scraped up the noo for his own bike; they raced, and bet on those races, and maybe just maybe tonight Billy would start to dig his way out of the hole of debt he owed her for those competitions. He was lighter and his bike, supposedly, was faster. His elf-sleek body fit the top of his racing bike, visually, in ways her ork-broad shoulders just never meshed with her own low-slung speed machine. She was, though, a born cheater. The slender wire linking her datajack to her bike gave her all the edge she needed to keep up with him, aerodynamics be damned, and the hundred-and-one tweaks she'd done to her bike at least evened them out in terms of raw engine power. Billy was, at best, described as all thumbs when it came to modifying his own cycle. So far, he owed her -- should she care to ever collect -- several thousand nuyen from these impromptu street races.

Several thousand nuyen, Billy Shen told himself as he straightened his bike back out for the straightaway, Minus a hundred bucks!

He'd win this time. He saw Lo's Massage just up ahead, slid his bike to the left to make Kidde either slow down, hit him, or hit curb, and he redlined his engine. He would win, this time. The high-electric whine of her engine faded a bit behind him. She was giving it to him.

Sweat stood out on Bing Lei's chest, his forehead, a droplet slid down and dangled from the tip of his nose. His nostrils flared, not from the perspiration but from the smell; Hell Bank Notes stank when they burned, and the bitter smell was, through some trick of the room's shape and air flow, wafting solely his way. He swallowed, paused ever so slightly at the edge of the once-neat pile of faux-money. He had paid good nuyen to the Octagon Triad as a show of loyalty and a symbol of his sincerity at seeking full membership. They were giving the money back to him, after a fashion. Bing Lei Shen was dead and reborn, his money returned to him in the afterlife in the form of paper bills, decorated with Marilyn Monroe and Dunkelzahn, the Eight Immortals, the Yama King, or Yanluo, King of Hell. The money burns, he heard in his head, the voice of his Irish Catholic mother, but is not consumed.

Bing Lei Shen stepped forward, bare foot pressing firmly atop the blue-flickering and smiling face of John F. Kennedy. He did not flinch. He did not cry out. He did not gasp, or gag, or allow bile to rush up his throat at the new sickly-sweet smell of his own flesh cooking. He took another step. Another. Another. He did not look down. His brown eyes stared straight ahead, at the mass of killers standing in a half-circle around a jade altar. He kept walking, slowly but surely, and thought only of the altar and not -- not at all -- about what his toes must look like in that instant. He knew the pain was temporary, knew it was a test, and knew he must pass it.

Katherine Kidde glowered. Not just because her nick-name was Kidde, or Kidde-Kat, or even a part of "Billy and the Kidde" team that was earning a name for itself. She didn't even glower because Billy'd beaten her to Lo's, since he still owed her plenty of nuyen she'd probably never collect. She glowered, quite simply, because it was her job to glower right then. In much the same vein, it was Billy's job to talk.

They weren't smuggling anything tonight. Weren't running drugs or beetles across the border, weren't making ends meet like they had in the old days with the thug/pickpocket double team they'd perfected, they hadn't been speeding five minutes ago for any reason but that they wanted to speed. Tonight they were fishing, freelance. Tonight, they were getting information.

The tridshows called it good cop, bad cop. She didn't know if Billy had gotten the idea from watching buddy movies or not, but the simple fact was it worked. While Shen smooth-talked this two-bit pimp here in the alley behind Lo's Massage, she made a big show of staring right at the target; she liked to stare at their throats, it really freaked people out. She looked big and scary, while Billy milked 'em by not being big and scary. They both had jobs to do, and they were both plenty good at 'em.

In her peripheral vision, though, she kept an eye on Quick Billy Shen's left hand. He talked with his hands, sometimes, and not just the way people say they 'talk with their hands' because they wave 'em around when they run their piehole. No, sometimes Billy actually talked with them. His big brother had taught him a few Triad hand signals, he claimed, but he and Kidde had worked up their own little code. A flick of a wrist, a twitch of a thumb, a certain bend to his little finger as he had these animated conversations, and Kidde knew just when to growl, or bare her tusks a bit more, or physically lean forward to loom over their hapless schmuck target. It had been Billy's idea, like most of their good ones. It had gotten to where -- they ran this schtick so smooth -- she didn't even listen to what he said, any more. She just waited for the signals, and moved when she was supposed to move.

"...ain't happy that you're working this block, and they sent Kidde to stop you. You're just lucky I overheard, and came along, huh? 'Cause like I said, brother, no one wants that kind of trouble, do they? Huh? No sane person does, at least, y'know? Orks, man, ain't human."

She listened this time, though, mostly 'cause this guy'd pretty much already broken after two good punches and Billy started in with that silver tongue of his. She didn't have to pay attention to the mark any more, and she got bored just staring at nothing and waiting for the signals to come. So, to pass the time, she listened to Billy spin his web of bullshit. Billy had one of those silly fucking mint smokes in his mouth, but he didn't let that slow his jibber-jabber down any, he just punctuated a sentence every now and then with a puff of smoke, or paused dramatically to take a drag and make sure the mark was eagerly listening for the next word to come out.

There was an exhalation of minty-white smoke, now, as he continued, "I mean, I wouldn't want that kind of trouble, Tommy. Christ, man, you know how Orks get. You're from around here, right? The trog-ghetto ain't, what, eight blocks from here? Ten? You've seen 'em, how they brawl, how they fuckin' breed? You ever seen what their kids do, when they catch a dog?"

Kidde caught the wrist-flick, and took in a breath to fill out her chest. One set of implants kept her curvy; the other was why she needed the silicone. It was hard to be even half-assed femenine with all the vat-grown muscles she had, but Kidde was determined not to lose her looks just to get a solid street rep. The deep breath, in addition to making those assets stand out a little, stretched her leather jacket tight across her broad shoulders, accentuated her height and brawn. Billy was playing the 'us-smoothies-gotta-stick-together' angle on this Jap fuck, and it looked like it was working. She'd started the conversation with a kick to the guy's nuts and a few smacks to his face (with that silly shit little goatee just barely hanging onto his chin, what a prick); Billy'd stepped right in and ordered her off like a dog or something, introduced himself, and the prick target had broken down right there. That was the routine, in a nutshell. She came on hard, he came on nice, and the mark started yapping.

Billy didn't stop talking, though. Shit, Billy never stopped talking. "It ain't pretty, bro. Those tusks? They ain't just for show. You ever hear the sound a dog makes, when someone starts to...Shit, Tommy. Did'joo just piss yourself?"

"I...What the fuck, man?!" Billy took a half step back to avoid the puddle, Kidde caught his gesture and let herself flash some tusk in a toothy grin. She took a half-step forward and the breeder they were muscling actually mewed like a scared little kitty and scampered two steps after Billy. Billy had this jackoff, then, and everyone in that alley knew it. Hooked. Shen still didn't stop talking.

"Easy, Kidde. Easy. Now, Tommy, c'mon. That's just nasty, man. Pissing yourself. Shit. You're a grown man. What's your boss gonna say, bro, if word of that gets out? Shit, which one of those fucks you working for now, anyways? Huh? Which one told you to muscle in on this block, man? Who told you to bring your bitches here, right outside'a Lo's?"

Billy leaned forward, lowering his voice. He was Tommy Ito's best friend, his saint, his confidant, his lifeline, all in that instant. He half-whispered, eyes behind mirrors in the blue-white light of the neon sign overhead. "C'mon, Tommy. Which asshole sent you down here to steal business from Lo, huh? I don't see him gettin' kicked in the balls by a trog, do you? Just tell me who it was. I'll call her off. You can wash up, go home, get a drink and a blowjob."

"Just tell me, Tommy. Who told you to set up shop over here?" Billy Shen's new best friend started crying, and talking. Mission accomplished.

"I will never squander the resources of the Octagon Triad, or my fluids will escape from all of my body's five holes."

Bing Lei Shen spoke after the sandpaper-raspy old man's voice did, repeating whatever that man said. The incense had him half-dizzy, the pain in his feet had vanished in a heartbeat nine vows ago, the candles and lanterns didn't give even his elf-keen eyes enough light to focus right -- or was it the incense that did it? -- but Bing Lei Shen knew that the old man speaking was a man of power, both literally and metaphorically. A leader and holy man of the Octagon Triad, a mage of repute and experience. Bing Lei Shen spoke after the man, reciting oath after oath, promise after promise. He felt each one bind him, just a little more. He breathed in incense, breathed it out with each promise. He and the incense mixed. He and the incense were one.

"I will not betray my brothers to any man, or a hundred swords will find my empty heart."

"I will never reveal the secrets of my initiation to anyone, not even for money" he said, throat smokey and rough, doing his best not to think of the one person he might have told these details to, if he could, "Or my skin will open with a thousand and one cuts, and my eyes cry crimson tears."

Billy Shen's blue jeans, t-shirt, and bomber jacket were gone. He wore a new suit, as armored as it was stylish, instead of the street-runner clothes that had once been his trademark. The old Billy was dead; the reborn Billy was a better dresser. He wore red and gold, mirror shades and a grey trenchcoat. He sat in the back of a van. In his hands was a pistol gripped shotgun, held belly up as he loaded it with alternating buckshot and EX-slugs. The twin holsters we wore bore his flashy Kimber-Morissey 1911's, each magazine (and the spares he carried) full, similarly, with manstopping EX rounds.

"Be carefull, Billy Shen. That stuff, it'll go bang-bang if it gets lit up." The toothless old Chinese man that served as a quartermaster to this group of the Octagon Triad warned him, gravely, as he'd handed over the boxes of volatile ammo.

Billy had just grinned, tossed his head to flick his hair out of his eyes, "I'll be extra carefull not to get lit on fire, then, okay?"

The Yaks had Kidde four blocks away, in a bunraku parlor. Tommy Ito'd run his mouth about who'd roughed him up to get the info on Yak whoring in the old neighborhood, and even while Billy and The Kidde were getting their pay, he'd been signing their death warrants. The Yaks could be trusted to go after the woman first; the ork, the mundane, the razorgirl. There'd been signs of a struggle at her doss, naturally, and while the Japs hadn't left any bodies behind, Billy was pretty sure she'd done for two of 'em at least, maybe three. The ozone smell in the apartment told a story about tazers, stick-and-shocks, or zap-gloves, or stun batons. Maybe all four. She'd put up a fight, but they'd gotten her.

That had been four days ago. Three days ago, he'd spoken with a member of the Octagons, really spoken with them, for the first time about signing up. He'd worked with them on and off for two years. His big brother was in. His father'd been in. He was an adept; those were points towards him. There weren't enough points against him. He'd spent the last three days high on incense and bliss, dizzy from magic and dehydration, throat going raw with smoke inhalation and the exhalation of oath after oath. He'd spoken 36 of them. He'd felt each one as it left his mouth, binding him. He was in, now. That made him theirs, forever. But it made them his, too. Part of his talking with them -- they'd never called it a negotiation, but he'd turned it into one, him and his silver tongue -- was that the first job he'd take with them would be hitting the Yaks. Hitting them to try and get Kidde back.

The eighth round was loaded into his Remington, and he worked the slide. His earbud spoke to him about a half-dozen other shooters being ready, and he nodded for the benefit of anyone watching. The van moved, tires squealed, and just-like-that their little drive was over. Their van, and a second just like it, screeched to a halt. Killers piled out of them, some taking cover behind their nondescript grey transports, some behind parked cars in the street in front of the bunraku parlor, some already firing at the bouncer out front or the barred windows. The chatter of autofire filled the night air.

Billy blasted an explosive slug at the ballistic-plas window as he ran across the street. He worked the slide, peppered the spiderwebbing glass/plastic with buckshot as he kept running. Another slide pump, another trigger pull, and the explosive slug finally sent pieces of impact-resistant window flying. Billy tucked and rolled, planted his back against the wall below the window with a thud. One hand strayed into a coat pocket, came out with a milsurp grenade, swung backwards over his head and launched the drab green ball through the shattered window. He heard shouts in Japanese right before hunkering down and pressing his free hand over his non earbud-protected ear. Sound dampening software worked overtime to keep the noise down in one ear, his palm squeezed tight against the other, and he still felt like the whole world exploded just behind him. He racked the slide, raised the shotgun over his head, nearly broke his wrist blasting backwards into the window just to keep imaginary heads down. He worked the slide again as he scrambled to his feet and reared back to kick a damaged door off it's hinges; he wanted to be the first inside.

"I will give my life and death to the Octagon Triad, or my life and death will have no meaning." Bing Lei's voice was hoarse with smoke, eyes red-rimmed from drug inhalations and lack of sleep. Bing Lei Shen couldn't tell how long they waited between vows, had lost track of how much time he's spent kneeling and swearing. The old man was speaking again, and Bing Lei Shen parroted him without giving it a second thought. His throat was raw, but his voice was deep with purpose despite the scratchiness. "I will kill for the Octagons, whenever they wish me to. I will spread their name and their shadow, obey without question, act without hesitation, or my enemies will find me and I will die a thousand deaths."

The shotgun blast caught one of the leather-and-denim wrapped Yakuza thugs just below the throat, and turned his upper chest into a mess of hamburger and splintered bone. Billy worked the slide again, raised the shotgun, and tore out a fist-sized chunk of wall as the barrel was knocked aside before he could pull the trigger. Sparks flew as the Yak-kid swung the katana around again, long blade barely intercepted by the gunblued barrel of Shen's Remington at the last instant. Billy let the shotgun fly out of his hands that time, balled his fists, rushed in. Left-right-left, left, snap-kick, elbow-to-backfist. He hit the Yak like a waterfall. Magic backed up each strike, bone splintered beneath half his hits. The man's katana fell from a broken arm, he stumbled back two steps, and Billy had the distance he needed to get in a stutter-step of momentum in before the shout and the side-kick. Ribs crumpled, drove inward, and when the Yakuza soldier fell to the floor he didn't make any move to get back up.

By then, Billy had a pistol in each hand and was halfway up the stairs. An astral scouting job had told them roughly where to find Tommy Ito and Katherine Kidde; Shen wasn't wasting any time getting there. Billy's 1911's barked and spat death at the man that faced him from the top of the staircase. His fire was sloppy and rushed, none was by itself a kill-shot but he sent enough lead downrange that his opponent slumped and fell before he did. Billy felt a trickle of hot blood rolling down his left arm, heard rather than felt that pistol slip from his grip and clatter to the floor. The upstairs shooter was, limp, rolling down the stairscase at the same time, though. Billy called it a win, tightened his grip on his right-hand gun, hopped the body and made it the rest of the way up the staircase. High on adrenaline, he forgot which room they'd said Kidde would be in. He kicked in the first door he saw, let the hand-cannon and it's laser sight lead the way. Then the next door. Then the next.

His gun barked twice, a pair of holes opened in Tommy Ito's face. The first shot was a little low, just above the lip and just below the tip of his nose. The second was off to one side a bit, right through his left eye instead of cleanly between them. Either one would've been a kill shot, though, and Billy was too busy moving to Kidde's side to worry about the tiny imperfections in his shot placement. Tommy Ito's slackening left hand held an Ares Predator, but his right gripped a bloody straight razor. Kidde-Kat lay strapped to a bed, broad leather belts holding her in place, a black BTL-chip snugged obscenely into one of her dataports, her throat wide open. Billy stared, swallowed. Ito's body tumbled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

He turned a bit to one side, blinking, and fired his pistol into Tommy Ito's corpse again and again. Eventually, the slide locked back. Billy thumbed the magazine release, slapped home a fresh mag of explosive rounds, worked the slide release mechanically and kept firing. By the time the other Triad hitters finished sweeping the first floor, basement, and made it upstairs, there wasn't much left of Tommy Ito's torso. They found Billy sitting with his back to his best friend's bed, a crumpled cigarette in his mouth and a second one nestled between Katherine Kidde's cold lips. When he saw them, he just sighed, stood up, and brushed his knees.

"We're done here," he'd told the pair of experienced killers, and neither one could think of a reason to disagree with him despite the age difference. When, a few minutes later, the Triad soldiers drove away in their nondescript vans, the building blazed behind them.

Height: 5'5" Weight: not telling Age:29 Hair: red/black eyes: grey
Noise likes leathers and tight fitting clothing. She enjoys showing off her frame for herself more then for anyone else.

Gen was born in some small Russian town, but that doesn't matter, she was only 6 years old when she was given away to the Vory in exchange for some kind of debt or another. Her benefactors had her moved from city to city throughout Europe and North America until she was 18 years old, she was a Vory play thing and used in more ways then one. Growing up like this was not been good to her psyche and some time in 2063, she can't quite remember anymore, she ended up in Seattle.

It was a city like any other really, nothing special about it to her, not like she got to go out and see it anyways. She was offered up to some politician or something for a night as a bribe so some Vory hotshot could get his hands on some tech or another. Or so the politician was supposed to believe. Gen wasn't exactly just an Ivanna, she also did some wetwork for her friends. She didn't enjoy the work, it just was, and she didn't know any better. It did give the benefit of getting some free ware stuck in her at least. Well, on this one particular engagement she messed up, and good, Apparently the mark had been on to the Vory's plot and had a welcome mat laid out for her. The details of what went down aren't important. What is important is that she ended up in lockup with her employers disavowing all knowledge of her very existence, the bastards wouldn't even post bail.

She got lucky though. Crash 2.0 came while she was in trail. The prosecution had been relying so heavily on stored data that they didn't have any hard copy proof. Got her off on a technicality, and with the Crash, the Criminal SIN she'd been assigned went up in smoke too. She was a free girl for the first time in her life that she could remember.

She did have problems of course. She had no real clue of the outside world or how it worked, she couldn't do a real job if she wanted to. She fell back into the only things she knew, picked up a new identity and though she ended up working with the Vory again, those that knew where she actually came from had moved on. In the last 8 years she's picked up English quite well and has a pretty good idea on the local scene, and has even managed to distance herself a little from organized crime, and gotten into some of her own projects.

Martial Arts 10BP
(+1DV Blades, reduce opponent friend modifier by 1)
Tough as Nails 5BP
Vindictive -10BP
Prejudice Outspoken (Men) -15BP
Thrill Seeker -5BP
Incompetent (First Aid) -5BP

Body - 3
Agility - 5 (7)
Reaction - 4(7)
Strength - 4 (6)
Charisma - 3
Intuition - 4
Logic - 2
Willpower - 3
Edge - 4

Active skills
Gymnastics - 3
Dodge - 3
Blades (Swords) - 6 (+2)
Automatics - 3
Influence Group - 3
Intimidation - 2
Infiltration - 2
Shadowing - 2
Perception - 2
Pilot Ground - 2
Language Skills
Russian - N
English - 3
Knowledge Skills
Criminal (Vory) - 5
Politics (Underworld) - 3
Procedures (Knight Errant) - 2
Hangouts (Criminal) - 3
Club Music - 2
Martial Art Maneuvers
Two weapon style
Off-hand training
Multi-strike
Full offense

Synaptic Booster 1
Muscle Augmentation 2
Muscle Toner 2
Reaction Enhancer 2
Enhanced Articulation

Armour
Form-Fitting Body Armor Shirt - Auto Injector - Biomonitor
Steampunk Overcoat
Steampunk Corset

Weapons
Monofilament Sword - Qty 2 - Personalized Grip
Vibro Blade Sword - Personalized Grip
Ares Alpha - Airburst Link - Electronic Firing - Gas Vent 3
Steyr TMP - Smartgun Top Mount - Gas Vent 3 - Electronic Firing - Silencer

High Explosive Grenade qty 5 - Ares Alpha
Fragmentation Grenade qty 5 - Ares Alpha
Fragmentation Grenade qty 3 - Hand thrown
Regular Ammo qty 200 - Ares Alpha
Extra Clip Qty 2 - Ares Alpha
Regular Ammo qty 100 - Steyr TMP
Extra Clip Qty 2 - Steyr TMP

Stuff
Fake SIN Rating 4 (Genevieve Monroe)
Push 10 Hits
Goggles Rating 3
*Smartlink
*Low Light
*Flare Compensation
Glue Sprayer 2 Cans
Maglock Passkey Rating 3
Autopicker R6
Certified Credstick Qty 2 (Balance evenly split currently)
Inline Skates
Commlink - Novatech Airwave - Novatech Navi

Vehicle
Nissan Jack Rabbit

Nose (Drug Pusher) Loy1/Con2
Nose is Noise's supplier for drugs and link to the base happenings of what's going down on the streets.
Samantha (Vory Prostitute) Loy3/Con4
Noise get's most of her information from Samantha who's still deeply involved with the Vory, she's placed high though and gets to mingle with some of the main names.
Shelby (Knight Errant Data Entry Clerk) Loy2/Con2
Noise can't remember how she first met Shelby, but she was a former Lonestar rep who got picked up when Knight Errant took over, and it gives Noise a way to find some info out on what the law is up to.

Essence: 4.1
Physical condition track: 11
Stun condition track: 10
Lifestyle: Low 2 Months
1000 (starting cred 3d6+9*50= [3,4,4] =1000 )

Body - 7
Agility - 5 (7)
Reaction - 4 (6)
Strength - 4 (6)
Charisma - 3
Intuition - 4
Logic - 2
Willpower - 3
Edge 4

High Pain Tolerance 1
Guts

Criminal SIN
In Debt 5000 (To 10000 Daggers)
Computer Illiterate
Flashbacks (Uncommon)
Buggy Ware 2 (Wired II)

Active Skills
Unarmed Combat - 2
Blades - 3
Firearms Group - 4
Heavy Weapons - 2
Demolitions - 1
Pilot Ground Craft - 2
Throwing Weapons - 1
Survival - 2
Intimidation - 2
Athletics Group - 3
First Aid - 2
Shadowing - 2
Infiltration - 2

Language
Mongolian - N
Cantonese - 3
English - 2
Or'zet - 3

Knowledge
Miltech Manufacturers - 2
Merc Organizations - 2
Desert Wars - 5
Wilderness Survival - 2

Dermal Plating 1, Used Standard
Muscle Replacement 2, Standard
Datajack, Alpha
Simrig, Alpha (The simrig is disabled, but if it were ever somehow reactivated it could potentiallly lead the network back to Mongol)
Wired II, Used Alpha

Helmet
Armoured Jacket
Meta-Link running Vector Xim
100 rounds regular ammo for the AK
60 rounds regular ammo for the Preadator
3 frag grenades
Rating 4 fake SIN
Glasses with Smartlink, image link, vision mag
earbuds
Yamaha Growler

10000 Daggers Loyalty 2/Connection 10 (National 4, 1000 members 4, Low Magic 1, Low Matrix 1.

Essence 0.04
Physical Track 12
Stun Track 10
Lifestyle Squatter 1 month.
Starting Nuyen 1d6+2=5 x 20 = 100

Melissa Stein wanted nothing to do with her the magic traditions of her family. They were outcasts in the city of New York because of a age old curse put on them by what some call a demon. While the extended family were accidentally immolating themselves, Melissa left to find her own fame and fortune in the city of Seattle. Unfortunately, what she thought was a sure thing turn out to be a nightmare as she was abducted into the sex trade. A Mafia sponsored gang was setting up a prostitution ring, and the sponsor was a man who ask no questions about where the girls came from..

For two years, Melissa work the streets with the ever watching pimps keeping tabs on her. She learn how to survive on the streets as well, seeing that some of the clients were no better than the people forcing her to work. She learn how to manipulate people seducing them with words and actions to get her way. It wasn't long before she rig the fall of the gang, whom their sponsor was replaced after he accidentally fell thirty stories to his death. Several gang member also disappeared before the rest got the hell out of town. The Mafia were stuck with what to do with the girls. The only man who actually cared about them was Rudolph Bettino, who piece together what the gang was doing and the future consequences. He instigated the purge and offer the young women a chance to start new lives as long as they promise to keep silent about what happen to them.

As the others left to return or restart their lives. Melissa was offered an opportunity by Rudolph to develop her gifts. She knew she had arcane abilities like most of her family, and Rudolph wish to expand them in the art of social manipulation. She would work for him while she learn, in return she was free. Melissa took him up on the offer. The teachers were informal street hoods who taught her how to con people and mages who taught Mel how to meditate and to focus her arcane skills. While she wasn't working for the mob, she would maintain a cover as a adult trid-star named Dawn. She found this a little more to her liking and used her skills to create characters that actually made the features more interesting.

It wasn't long before she was making a halfway descent living working for the mob and as a trid-star. It lasted a good five years before Rudolph received a very important promotion in the Mafia ranks. One that Melissa would not be able to follow him. So after thirteen years, Melissa was given her freedom.

She finished her side projects and left the porn biz next. Using Dawn as her street name, Melissa sought to make a life for herself using her hard learn skills.

ATTRIBUTES (200 bp)
Body 3
Agility 4
Reaction 3
Strength 3

Charisma 6
Intution 4
Logic 4
Willpower 4

Edge 1 (Current Edge Pts: 1)

QUALITY NAME (0 BP)
Adapt(5) -- positive
Curse(5) -- negative
Pacifist(5) --negative
Poor self control(10) -- negative; Nymphomania
Records on file(10) -- negative; Horizen has records about Melissa Stiens 'professional' career.
SINer(5) -- negative; Melissa Stien of New York.

ACTIVE SKILLS (118 BP)
Assensing 2
Con 5(7)
Dodge 3
Etiquette 5(7)
Groundcraft(Car) 2(+2)
Leadership 2(3)
Negotiation 5(7)
Perception 3
Pistol 2


KNOWLEDGE SKILLS (Free BP 24)
Mafia Politics 3
Fine Resturantes 3
Wines 3
Sports(Urban Brawl) 3(+2)
Prostitution Biz 3

ADEPT POWERS
Astral Perception
Commanding Voice
Cool Resolve
Kinesics L2 (+2 making or resisting Social tests)
Improved Ability L2[Con, Etiquette, Leadership, Negotiation]
Linguistics
Reaction Boost R1

Fake SIN R4(Elizebeth Steiner), Fake License R4(carry conceal), Fake SIN R2(Heather Strauss), Fake SIN R2(Leona Davis), low-light flashlight, disposible commlink x2, Nanopaste disguise(sm) x2, hidden arm slide, concealable holster(-1 con), white noise generator R6, Tag eraser, Regular pistol[500 rds], Gel rounds[pistol, 500], Ex plosive rds[pistol, 200], Elan clips x5, Alta clips x5

Commlin: Transys Avalon/Novatech Navi OS[res 4, Sig 4, Fire 3, Sys 4]
Ar gloves, subvocal mic, Sim model, trodes, Glasses[flare comp, Image link, smartlink], Earbuds[Select sound filter R3]

Weapons
Morrissey Elan[4P, SA mode, 5©, smartlink]

Morrissey Alta[5P, -1 AP, SA mode, 12©, smartlink, laser sight]


Armor/Clothes
Actioneer Business Clothes 5/3 (neo-japanese exec)
Moonline Silver Evening gown 4/1
" " Cocktail dress 3/1
Second Skin Line 4/1

Form-fitting Body armor(suit) 6/2
Lined Coat 6/4

Rudolph Bettino(Mafia Consiglieri) Loy 3/Con 4
The made man who pick Dawn out of sex trade and taught what she needed to know about influencing others. He saw Dawns' potential and made sure to direct her life out of the gutter and was the one who bought out her contract and set her free. Dawn views him as a father figure, but knows better than to rely on him for favors unless absolutely nessacary.

Trixie(Fixer) loy 2/Con 3
Dawn fixer on the streets. Like Dawn, Trixie use to work the streets as a prostitute but made very important connections that allows her a far more comfortable life. They understand each other in a lot of ways.

Dale Ritual(Trido Producer) Loy 2/Conn 2
One of the few people that Dawn still talks too after her life in the porn biz, and only because he's a nice guy; one of the few. Dale has his hear in the exciting world of celebirties and still attempts to sign Dawn onto a featurette for her unique talents; think of the money!

Danielle Nagisaki(Detective) Loy 1/Conn 4
Dawn met her while the detective was in deep cover, chasing after a serial killer who was making his own snuff features. She help her but really didn't like the cops attitude once the job was over. Dawn tends to do the odd job when the Detective needs something from the streets that the good criminals would not part with willingly.

Mr. Fixit(Street Doc) Loy 2/conn 2
Dawn used him a few times after a client got too rough with her. Now she uses him when the Corps. get too rough with her. Runs his own personal clinic and tries to be on the up and up with runners.

Louis Donatello(Shark Lawyer) Loy 2/conn 2
A lawyer that Dawn met when working the steets. He has his uses for his legal services, even if he's so slimey that she has to take a shower even after talking on the phone with him.

Cool Handz Chill(Blogger) Loy 2/conn 2
Chill went from annoying fan to a girl who can give Dawn the low down on matrix news. She also is happy to do small matrix jobs for Dawn as long as she promises to keep her updated on her own exploits. The cash helps too.

Essence 6
Initiative 2
Magic 5
Init Passes 1
Pys track 10
Stun Track: 10

Lifestyle: Middle 1 month
Starting Nuyen: 4d6[5, 5, 2, 2,] x100 = 1400¥

Carl had always knew he was going to be a member of the Crimson Crush. He was an ork born in barrens in an orphanage nominally supported by the Crush. The best he could hope for in life was the honor of doning the red. In the chaos of the second Crash he got his chance to prove himself. Though he was a bit small and not as skilled a fighter as his brothers and sisters (both in the gang and otherwise) he possesed a tenacity and a love for the drugs that drove him to succeed. Rumor reached his leutenant that some ancients were going to come into the barrens to rob an old troll that lived in one of the tenements along the south side. The troll wasn't a member, no one really knew much about him but that wasn't important. No one fucked with an ork or troll in the barrens, especially not some pointy eared daisy eaters. Carl and a small gang were sent to guard the old trolls place. Armed with clubs, chains, knives, and three guns between them they were no match for the ancients who had better gear and guns. Carl was the last survivor as the team broke in, ransacked the place and took off leaving two of the Ancients behind to keep watch and try and beat the old man's location out of him. Carl was just about ready to tell them whatever they wanted to hear when the old man came back. The ancients sprung at him but the old man's spirit was ready for them. At that point Carl passed out from blood loss. He awoke to find his wounds mostly healed and the two elves bounds and tied back to back in the center of the room.
"Why didn'tcha kill em?" He asked confused of the old troll who was over at food processor tinkering with it to try and extract a bit of nutrisoy. He looked a little suprised and disapointed to hear the question.
"Three reasons pug, first I've killed more people then the ghost dance and I've kinda lost my taste for it. Two i believe fundamentally that we're all connected and that we have to move past our differences to get anywhere in this life. Three: I'm hoping their boss will be suprised when they come back with the Knick-nack they came here looking for he'll listen to my terms."

That began his friendship with Dirty Rivers, troll shaman of dog. Dirty dusted off the young Ork's spirit and set his feet on the path of knowledge and service to the spirits and his fellow metahuman feeding him neo-anarchist propaganda in the process. The Crush were a bit disapointed that their guy had to be saved by the target he was supposed to protect so they more or less told him he was Dirty Water's bitch, which suited him find as it allowed him more time to learn from the old man. Dirty Rivers tried to teach him the way of spirits but Carl couldn't call to them with the same chants and prayers, but when he performed the prayers devoutly enough the old mans busted trid crackled to life and low end food processor would ready to crank out the finest krill burgers money couldn't buy.

Years have passed and Light Rivers works to live simply bettering the lives of others, free of the taint of materialism as his mentor taught him. Dirty Rivers advancing age is catching up to him and Light must spend more and more time caring for his old mentor but he certainly doesn't mind. Light still maintains good relations with the Crimson crush and still lives in the barrens but he starts to look further afield to test his skills and earn some nuyen to start improving his neighborhood.

Positive:
Analytical Mind (May change)
Paragon(Flow)
Negative:
Scorched(Hacker Version, Recovering BTL addict)
Prejudiced(Common, Biased) Elves
Dependant(easy) (Dirty Waters: DW requires a fair amount of checking up on due to his advancing age but his command of magic means he's not really an invalid. Carl is extremely devoted to him and would do much to secure his safety. The only thing that keeps this from being higher is DW encourages Carl to accept the inevitability of his death and live his own life.

The real stars of the show in Desert Wars Mongolia are the tribes of steppe gangs that inhabit the countryside. Fierce warriors, they are the primary combatants of the Desert Wars. Utilizing heavy choppers and rough and tumble trucks they spend their time fighting like offroad go-gangs making them hugely popular with the racing junkies and gear heads. While the atmosphere of the Desert Wars Mongolia is generally a lot rougher around the edges than the wars in North Africa they are no less stage-managed. The hand is just a bit tougher to see.

Among these tribes Orks and Trolls have a privileged position at the top of the food chain. Their size, roubustness and general durability are all assets in the primitive lifestyle that they lead. For the audience back home these ‘techno barbarians’ fit a lot of stereotypes about Ork’s Trolls and their culture. Ork tribes in particular due to their high birthrates and the ease that most low grade cyberware can be adapted to their bodies almost operate above the smaller gangs, only concerning themselves with each other and a sprinkling of other more mixed race gangs. They also quite often operate as mercenaries among the other tribes. If a village or other small tribe scrapes together enough to hire them they’ll fight for them just as soon as raid them.

The networks encourage this, oftentimes supplementing a villages ‘defense’ fund and awarding victorious defenders with ‘extra’ treats like cyberware and specialized equipment. Viewers will often adopt ‘their’ tribe as a favorite almost like a sports team and whenever a major tribe goes down PPV subscriptions skyrocket. The number of tribes that the Networks focus on are usually limited to a dozen or so and the shows are heavily edited, always focusing on the good bits.

A key feature of this are the Combat Correspondents. They are the middle men, the link between the tribes and the fans. They provide the fans with context (most of it imaginary), and the tribes with ‘intelligence’ and bribes. For the most part, they are the only outsiders who have regular contact with the tribes. Dressed in a variety of distinctive styles and personalities, everything from a hardened German war-vet to a suited man who narrates the action. The CC’s also work behind the scenes, keeping in contact with the top tier tribes (and a lot of the lower ones) by radio and over a dedicated matrix system that lets them arrange fights through a combination of bonus’ penalties and other stuff.

If a tribe gets too powerful for too long the networks will first slowly cut down their aid to the tribe, not really enough for anyone to notice except that the tribes battles seem a little tougher than before. They’ll run low on ammunition, medical supplies and other necessities forcing them to right harder just to keep a float. Eventually the networks will begin to cut off control, they stop giving the tribe intelligence, and most importantly starts cutting them from the air, letting the gang slip off peoples radar before making up a reason to wipe them out and having a team of professional mercenaries go in and remove them as a destabilizing influence. A lot of effort goes into keeping the conflict going, carefully playing the tribes off against each other but keeping them well enough off to trap them in an unending cycle of violence. Part of that cycle is ensuring that no one tribe becomes dominant. Executives and producers refer to this as ‘pruning’.

*this brings up at least one very interesting possibility for Mongol. It’s entirely possible that his tribe (without his knowing) had a dedicated following. That means that Mongol might have a few fans, and once his face gets seen around end up with a sort of weird Truman show vibe going. Be particularly interesting when that comes up against Mongol’s hatred of the Desert Wars.[/quote]