The Astral world tells a different story, showing an aura of a man mostly made, not born. His essence is extremely low, most of it replaced with bio ware.

Scratch has always seen himself as the guy responsible for keeping everyone else alive so they can do what they need to do to get a job done. He's there to take the brunt of the blows when the drek hits the fan, acting as a cross between a babysitter and a bodyguard for his team. He may not be able to hack a security network, crack a safe, or outmaneveur a cop car, but what he can do he does very, very well.

Standing at only 5'9'' and weighing in at around 175 pounds, Ol' Scratch seems a little on the scrawny side for someone who's supposed to be the group's muscle. But rest assured: What he lacks in physique he more than makes up for with piss and vinegar.

From the waist up, Scratch doesn't look much different from any other guy you'd meet on the street. His nose has been broken one too many times and his lower jaw is a little larger than you might expect, but that only adds some character and a bit of charm to an otherwise conventional face. He wears his hair short with an angry sort of feel to it, and his eyes are such an electrifying shade of blue that they simply have to be cybernetic. Other than the prosthetic hands which hint at the rest of the chrome he's sporting, there's not much else to write home about.

Now from the waist down... well, that's a completely different story. You see, Ol' Scratch has the cloven hooves and furry hindquarters of a goat; no doubt a genetic gift of his Mediterranean birthright. Despite the disdainful looks he gets for being a satyr, Scratch moves with the cocky swagger of a man who's confident in who and what he is. The shaggy fur of his lower torso is extremely thick and only moderately groomed, and despite rarely wearing a pair of pants it's nearly impossible to figure out where he keeps his... err... ''equipment'' stowed. When asked, Scratch just flashes a grin and, in his deep, drink-ruined voice, offers to demonstrate how everything works if you buy him dinner and a simflick first. Oddly enough he doesn't have any horns or any of the other characteristics common to his metatype, but that could quite well be the result of all the various face work and other surgery he's had over the years. Assuming that's correct, he must know one hell of a plastic surgeon...

Anyway, as far as his wardrobe goes, well, it's about as eclectic as his genepool is. He prefers wearing loose-fitting shirts that are so loud you need to wear earplugs just to get a good look at them, though he thankfully mutes those by wearing an old but still fashionable jacket made from a rich, burgundy leather. A pair of tinted shades, the nearly constant presence of a Red Apples cigarette, and a few pieces of gaudy jewelry completes his typical ensemble. When on the clock, however, he's more than willing to dress appropriately for the situation.

The only weapon Scratch usually keeps in plain sight is a Ruger cased in pure silver right down to the grip, giving him something of a brooding gunfighter vibe. It should be noted that he displays the revolver in such a way that it's more of an indicator that you should think twice before fucking with him more than as a statement of his masculinity. Anyone who's been on a job with him in the past, however, knows that he keeps at least a few other weapons on him at any given time, including a custom pair of machete-like blades that he can seemingly pull straight out of his ass.

Overall, Scratch comes across as an old school runner who exudes the level-headed coolness that only experience can deliver. He can be a bit trying at times -- God knows people tend to either love him or hate him -- but when the drek hits the fan, he's the kind of guy you'd be lucky to have watching your back.

For those capable of piercing the veil and gazing beyond the mortal dream, your first instinct when assensing Scratch is to avert your nonexistant eyes. Dark tendrils of crackling and popping energy — or more correctly, a lack of energy — writhe throughout his aura. Mages have told him that these tendrils are migraine-inducing, and he's come to deduce that the source of those migraines was likely caused by the hazing he suffered when the Devil came to collect his due. That's Scratch's story, anyway. Unlikely as the story sounds, you'll be damned if there's even the slightest hint of a lie on him when he tells it.

That said, and if you have the fortitude to continue assensing despite the budding headache, it doesn't take long to notice the iridescent patterns laced betwixt the harrowing chaos -- a clear indication that Scratch is an adept. No, wait.... that he was an adept once upon a time. Huh, who would have thunk it? As you delve further, you come to realize that he burnt out decades ago and that he's replaced his natural gifts with unnatural ones. At least that's a safe enough assumption to make judging by the numerous grey and lifeless chunks indicative of cyberware that are scattered amid his ethereal reflection. That said, and other than the telltale signs of chronic alcoholism and the fact that he's in his 40's despite looking closer to his mid 20's, Scratch appears to be in pretty good health both mentally and physically.

Pressing deeper still, you soon discover the now-faded hints that the satyr was an artist of some kind. Possibly a musician or poet. But whatever passion he may have once possessed, it has long since been broken under the heels of a love now lost and the apathy gained though a lifetime spent on the streets and battling the myriad evils of the world. Grief, sorrow, and angst — plus a healthy dose of paranoia — all weigh heavily upon his otherworldly shoulders, and his heart is wrapped in the chains of barely-restrained fury and anguish. His ability to carry on with his life despite all that weight is a testimony to his true, inner strength.

He's certainly a very curious and surprisingly sophisticated individual, all things considered.

While Scratch doesn't spend much time in the Matrix, his main squeeze (a world-class trid pirate known as DJ Tryste) crafted a custom icon for him. She, along with some of his other friends, are constantly teasing Scratch about how much he smokes, and they've lovingly dubbed him "Mr. Caterpillar." As a result, his icon is that of a cartoonish caterpillar smoking a hookah while sitting atop a psychedelic mushroom. His utilities manifest as different shades of living smoke that hiss forth from the hookah (an agent program) and perform whatever actions are required of them. When he needs to move, the mushroom shrivels and regrows at the destination with him still lounging atop it.

Scratch isn't exactly thrilled about the comical nature of his icon, but considering he knows fuck-all about programming and can barely stand this new Matrix environment to begin with, he can't be bothered changing it. (Not that he would even if he could. Despite his protests he's actually touched that Cheri cared enough to make one for him. He just can't let her know, else God only knows what he'd wind up with.)

Scratch has been working the shadows since the early 50's. Tough as nails and a survivor by every definition of the word, he's earned a reputation as a man who'll do whatever it takes to get a job done, even doing a bit of wetwork when it's deemed a true necessity. He's always jumped at any opportunity that involved the decimation of ghouls and other paranormal threats that feed off of metahumanity (often taking long breaks in between runs to hunt down some bounties in the wild), and has on more than one occasion not even bothered to show up to collect his fee once the job was completed. He does have scruples, however, and has also been known to completely abandon any job involving the harming of innocent bystandards, or even putting together his own runs to save others (such as when the Renraku Shutdown took place a few years back).

The satyr's tactics can be crude and direct, but they are nonetheless effective. While it is indeed true that he loves a good brawl, he is not a blood-thirsty killer, nor is that the summation of his talents. He's known for being quite adept at stealth and infiltration jobs, and his senses have been honed to nearly paranoid if not supernatural levels -- so much so that no one can really remember the last time he was surprised by an ambush. Unlike most hired muscle, Scratch knows how to work a crowd when he needs to... yet more often than not he prefers to get under your skin and really piss you off instead.

If there's one thing that his reputation demonstrates, however, it's that he has a definite hatred for what other runners refer to as ''professionalism.'' In his mind a more apt term for that mentality would be a ''ticking time bomb.'' His experience has shown that you have to let your emotions thrive in this line of work, and you have to care about what you're doing. Those who don't are usually the ones who end up getting you killed because they're more likely to double-cross their partners at the drop of a hat in order to save their own worthless hides. To him, emotion is the embodiment of life. If you don't allow them to influence your actions, you quickly forget about all the important things life has to offer. And in this work environment, you never know when that life is going to come to an abrupt end, so you damn well better enjoy it while it lasts.

Considering the fact that Scratch is still running after being in the shadows all these years, well... maybe he's on to something.