Difference between revisions of "Tears"
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Short term:- Upgrade his 'ware from the cheap drek off the van he smuggled in on in to something that makes him comfortable in his own (ortho)skin. | Short term:- Upgrade his 'ware from the cheap drek off the van he smuggled in on in to something that makes him comfortable in his own (ortho)skin. | ||
Long term:- Find somewhere he fits in, people who accept him, and move on from the trauma of his past. | Long term:- Find somewhere he fits in, people who accept him, and move on from the trauma of his past. Keep the light alive. | ||
==Background== | ==Background== | ||
''The rain was unending as it battered the pockmarked roads and | ''The rain was unending as it battered the pockmarked roads and monolithic plascrete apartment blocks. Here in Seattle on the western sea board of America, rain. Not unlike home. Wherever home was didn't matter anymore - a lie that perhaps he was beginning to believe. No, home held nothing but shattered glass and bitter, bitter memories now.'' | ||
Rembrandt "Hearts" Taylor had been born in 2053, in a small village in the United Kingdom - for whatever passed as a village now. An exurb of Greater London that stood as stark contrast to what many would think of as a village - in place of community were shattered families and abuse. There were no prospects here, no employable skills to be gained, no hope of a better life, even one in service to a corporation. People would sooner rob Peter to pay Paul than do something, anything, that might help raise them from the malaise of a village that the world had left behind. And escape? Well, escape was absolutely possible - moving to London, begging on the streets, working some dead-end job to pay for a squat and counting every NuYen - but people thought themselves better than that. Simple men and women, living side by side in mutual self-loathing, those were the ties that bound them, | Rembrandt "Hearts" Taylor had been born to ashamed, clipped ex-JIS first generation Elves in 2053, in a small village in the United Kingdom - for whatever passed as a village now. An exurb of Greater London that stood as stark contrast to what many would think of as a village - in place of community were shattered families and abuse. There were no prospects here, no employable skills to be gained, no hope of a better life, even one in service to a corporation. People would sooner rob Peter to pay Paul than do something, anything, that might help raise them from the malaise of a village that the world had left behind. And escape? Well, escape was absolutely possible - moving to London, begging on the streets, working some dead-end job to pay for a squat and counting every NuYen - but people thought themselves better than that. Simple men and women, living side by side in mutual self-loathing, those were the ties that bound them, | ||
And Rembrandt was born. Born an Elf. The luckiest of metahumans - naturally graceful, elegant, beautiful. Too good for the village. Too arrogant by half to have the temerity to exist. He was shunned, by the adults first of all, for being different - for being one of those that had everything handed to them on a plate, one of those who's kind pulled the strings of the world. Then by the children, somewhat for their parents views, but because he was better than them at some things - quick on his feet in soccer, a half-passable singing voice. It was easy for them to justify their parents hatred. | And Rembrandt was born. Born an Elf. The luckiest of metahumans - naturally graceful, elegant, beautiful. Too good for the village. Too arrogant by half to have the temerity to exist. He was shunned, by the adults first of all, for being different - for being one of those that had everything handed to them on a plate, one of those who's kind pulled the strings of the world. Then by the children, somewhat for their parents views, but because he was better than them at some things - quick on his feet in soccer, a half-passable singing voice. It was easy for them to justify their parents hatred. | ||
That was childhood. An only son to two people who hated him for how the others looked at them. | That was childhood. An only son to two people who hated him for how the others looked at them. For how they reminded him of what they had endured, escaped, and now had to relive. | ||
''It was raining like this - a downpour, as if the heavens had opened to hide his tears as he fled, or indeed, to wash away his guilt.'' | ''It was raining like this - a downpour, as if the heavens had opened to hide his tears as he fled, or indeed, to wash away his guilt.'' | ||
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===Positive=== | ===Positive=== | ||
First Impressions | First Impressions - Tears knows what a bad impression can do for his relationship, and he intends to do things right this time | ||
Biocompatibility, Agile Defender - Tears' body is somewhat more elastic than most - whether it be taking chrome or dodging lead. | |||
===Negative=== | ===Negative=== | ||
Bad luck - The only explanation for it really, being an Elf is considered a blessing to most regular metahumans (their views on that blessing notwithstanding) but for Tears, it's been an albatross around his neck. | |||
Family Curse, Prejudiced (Common, Biased, Elves.) - And that albatross has spread its wings. His upbringing was one of drug-fuelled beatings by his mother, and the scorn of his neighbours. It's hard for him to see past that hate even now he has "moved on." | |||
==Run History== | ==Run History== | ||
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|Name= Ace Powers | |Name= Ace Powers | ||
|Loyalty= 1 | |Loyalty= 1 | ||
|Chips= | |Chips=1 | ||
|}} | |}} | ||
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|}} | |}} | ||
{{HasContact| | |||
|Name= WRN3 | |||
|Loyalty= 2 | |||
|Chips=Even | |||
|}} | |||
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{{AssensingTable| | {{AssensingTable| | ||
|Result1= Mundane. Eyes are a bit dimmer than the rest. | |Result1= Mundane. Eyes are a bit dimmer than the rest. | ||
|Result2= | |Result2= Sinews, brain, eyes, lots of 'ware, and not particularly well made. | ||
|Result3= | |Result3= Incredibly low essence, it's a wonder he can muster a smile. | ||
|Result4= Bioware | |Result4= Bioware in his brain baby - and his musculature is entirely synthetic. | ||
|Result5= | |Result5= No genetech. | ||
}} | }} | ||
Latest revision as of 04:06, 4 October 2023
| Archetype | |
|---|---|
| (Short Blurb) | |
| Discord | @Discord#Tag |
| [1] | |
| Metatype | Elf |
| Street Cred | 0 |
| Notoriety | -1 |
| Public Awareness | 0 |
| CDP | 4 |
| D.O.B. | 17/12/2053 |
| Age | 31 |
| Folder | [2] |
| Priority | Metatype - D Attributes - C Magic/Resonance - E Skills - B Resources - A |
| #Max IGs/Ascension | 1 |
Character Information
Summary
Mundane elf face who has been broken by life and is turning those lessons in to something worth living for, even if it costs his flesh, mind and soul.
Goals
Short term:- Upgrade his 'ware from the cheap drek off the van he smuggled in on in to something that makes him comfortable in his own (ortho)skin.
Long term:- Find somewhere he fits in, people who accept him, and move on from the trauma of his past. Keep the light alive.
Background
The rain was unending as it battered the pockmarked roads and monolithic plascrete apartment blocks. Here in Seattle on the western sea board of America, rain. Not unlike home. Wherever home was didn't matter anymore - a lie that perhaps he was beginning to believe. No, home held nothing but shattered glass and bitter, bitter memories now.
Rembrandt "Hearts" Taylor had been born to ashamed, clipped ex-JIS first generation Elves in 2053, in a small village in the United Kingdom - for whatever passed as a village now. An exurb of Greater London that stood as stark contrast to what many would think of as a village - in place of community were shattered families and abuse. There were no prospects here, no employable skills to be gained, no hope of a better life, even one in service to a corporation. People would sooner rob Peter to pay Paul than do something, anything, that might help raise them from the malaise of a village that the world had left behind. And escape? Well, escape was absolutely possible - moving to London, begging on the streets, working some dead-end job to pay for a squat and counting every NuYen - but people thought themselves better than that. Simple men and women, living side by side in mutual self-loathing, those were the ties that bound them,
And Rembrandt was born. Born an Elf. The luckiest of metahumans - naturally graceful, elegant, beautiful. Too good for the village. Too arrogant by half to have the temerity to exist. He was shunned, by the adults first of all, for being different - for being one of those that had everything handed to them on a plate, one of those who's kind pulled the strings of the world. Then by the children, somewhat for their parents views, but because he was better than them at some things - quick on his feet in soccer, a half-passable singing voice. It was easy for them to justify their parents hatred.
That was childhood. An only son to two people who hated him for how the others looked at them. For how they reminded him of what they had endured, escaped, and now had to relive.
It was raining like this - a downpour, as if the heavens had opened to hide his tears as he fled, or indeed, to wash away his guilt.
On his 14th birthday, a boy he liked held his hand out in the woods. On his 15th, that same boy called him a monster, and many worse things besides. Turning 16, his father gave him a gun and kicked him out of the "family" home. At 17, he'd been arrested for trying to return to that home, begging his parents forgiveness, eventually being allowed to return. And when he turned 18, a crowd had gathered at the door step of his family home demanding that he be given over to them, a sacrificial lamb to make them feel better about their stasis. A dark motive force, impetus, at least, against the static decay they had endured. The real betrayal was when his father pushed him out the door toward them.
Gunpowder ignition. The sound barely made him wince anymore, not after the things he'd done. Not after the things he'd heard. Gunshots were nothing compared to the scream that follows. There was no scream this time at least. A clean shot to a lonely soul. He would not be here when that mourning scream came, he was sure.
The crowd had planned to hurt him, that much was sure. How? He didn't know, and he was as terrified as he had ever been - as he thought he could ever be - of the myriad ways that his debasement could take place.
The Gun.
They hadn't taken it from him. For all the things they had - his dignity, his safety, his love, they did not take his gun.
The Trigger.
Steeled nerves were the gift they had given him. A glib tongue to escape responsibility for some perceived wrongdoing one more time. An inescapable guilt and self-pity that lay where his heart did. It made the decision slightly easier. Only slightly.
Looking around, no one else had brought a weapon. Beating him to death with their bare hands was the punishment they had in mind. Senseless. Barbaric. Apropos. He could see his father, still in the doorway as they pushed him in to the middle of the street. Still there as the crowd formed a circle around him. Still there. And as Rembrandt's first love, that boy from the woods, stepped toward him with his fist held high, the horrible calculus solved itself. There was only one way this was going to end well for him.
The Gun. The Trigger. Recoil. That scream that for as long as he lived, he would never escape, never forget, never unhear. The face of the boy he had loved, and that awful scream.They say that 'ware takes away a part of yourself - eats at your soul, wears away at your humanity, detaches you from those concerns. It just made the scream louder. Tears. Rain. Lead. No, Seattle was not terribly different from home at all.
Narrative Significant Qualities
Positive
First Impressions - Tears knows what a bad impression can do for his relationship, and he intends to do things right this time
Biocompatibility, Agile Defender - Tears' body is somewhat more elastic than most - whether it be taking chrome or dodging lead.
Negative
Bad luck - The only explanation for it really, being an Elf is considered a blessing to most regular metahumans (their views on that blessing notwithstanding) but for Tears, it's been an albatross around his neck.
Family Curse, Prejudiced (Common, Biased, Elves.) - And that albatross has spread its wings. His upbringing was one of drug-fuelled beatings by his mother, and the scorn of his neighbours. It's hard for him to see past that hate even now he has "moved on."
Run History
| Name | GM | Metaplot | Threat | Date of Run |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| The Run Where They Carve Pumpkins | Fangblade_ | And Love You Shall Find | Low | 3 October 2084 |
| Change of Vocation | Asmodeus | Medium | 29 September 2084 |
Affiliations
Contacts
| Contact | Connection | Loyalty | Archetype | Profession | Aspects | Chips |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Ace Powers | 6 | 1 | Fixer | Horizon Talent Agent | Musical Talent, Corporate Deals, Keep it Classy, Fake SINs, Insider Knowledge, Horizon Agent, Hired Muscle | 1 |
| Dr. Nightshade | 4 | 2 | Custom(G,A,N,K) | Ancients Cyberdoc | Sleep is For the Weak, Awakened & Emerged Specialist, Global Supply Network, Criminal Connections, Trust Me, I'm (Actually) A Doctor, First One's Free, West Coast Wanderer | Even |
| Freya | 5 | 2 | Custom(G,A,K,N) | Hacker Extraordinaire | Master SIN Maker, Burner ID, FAKE is my Middle Name!, My Search Function is Powered by Nuyen, Hacking is my other middle name, I eat Hosts for lunch. | Even |
| Amelia "Millie" Carter | 2 | 2 | Custom(N,K,A,G) | Bartender/Waitstaff at the 'Bolt & Brew' | Always Working, She's for the streets, An unspoken Union, Like a fine wine, Rumor Mill | Even |
| WRN3 | 4 | 2 | Service | Feedback Seer | Technomancer, Matrix Search, Electronics Hardware, Reticent, Hosts, Infected Sympathizer, Vision through the feedback | Even |
Organizations
Allies
Enemies
In Character Information
Symbols and Signatures
Matrix Search Table
| Threshold | Result |
|---|---|
| 1 | <<TEARS HAS BEEN CIRCUMSTANTIALLY LINKED TO A NUMBER OF THEFTS, PARTICULARLY BIOWARE>> |
| 3 | <<RUNNER OPERATES UNDER THE SIN OF MARTIN CHERIE, REGISTERED TO HORIZON ADDRESSES IN THE UK>> |
| 6 | <<BELIEVED TO BE LINKED TO A MASS MURDER IN AN EXURB OF GREATER LONDON, DNA DOES NOT MATCH RECORDS ON SIN>> |
Shadow Community Table
| Threshold | Result |
|---|---|
| 1 | Yeah he's fresh faced, been sniffing around about certain augs and clinics. Whatever he's got probably ain't cutting it for him. |
| 3 | Hey chummer, just make sure you get paid up front if you're doing work for him - its been a while since, but he's skipped out on a few debts since he popped up. |
| 5 | I just feel sorry for him, omae, I see him sat at some of the clubs chatting people up, and he's got a sharp tongue mind you, but there's an emptiness in those eyes we all recognise. |
Assensing Table
| Threshold | Result |
|---|---|
| 1 | Mundane. Eyes are a bit dimmer than the rest. |
| 2 | Sinews, brain, eyes, lots of 'ware, and not particularly well made. |
| 3 | Incredibly low essence, it's a wonder he can muster a smile. |
| 4 | Bioware in his brain baby - and his musculature is entirely synthetic. |
| 5 | No genetech. |
SINs
Appearance
Clothing
Well-tailored black suit (but whatever colour he fancies at the time in AR, usually magenta, if he's at a club.) Fine, well made synthleather boots. Again, black, irl. Occasionally a pair of rounded tortoiseshell glasses. If he's partying, especially.