E.V.E.

Eve (E.V.E.)

FLR Razorgirl
Discord	U_D_D_D_
Reddit	UDDD
Metatype	(Elf)
Street Cred	0
Notoriety	4
Public Awareness	0
CDP	4
D.O.B.	06/??/2059
Age	25
Character Sheet	Eve_Reloaded
Priority	Metatype - D Attributes - C Magic/Resonance - E Skills - B Resources - A
#Max IGs/Ascension	1

Character Information

Background

    "Oh, these?"

Nighttime in a Puyallup landfill. An endless wasteland of discarded junk stretched out as far as she could imagine from where she sat slumped against a scrap heap that dug into the tender skin of her back. Her muscles couldn't even find it in them to shiver against the brisk night air. She knew not who she was, nor where she was from. She recalled the smell of the Downtown smog and Athabaskan street food, the sound of teenagers bantering about where to go next over the deafening traffic and bustle of the city, the crunch of concrete and the splash of puddles that were more acid and microplastic than rain under cheap combat boots, the rumble of a motorcycle engine beneath her and the warmth of arms wrapped around her waist as wind whipped her hair and goggles. But who was that? That person in those shoes, living that life? She couldn't even remember her own name. What she did know was that metal scraping against her arms and legs shouldn't have felt like steel against steel. Something as simple as moving her eyes was a feat; she felt something warm drip from her nose and run down to her top lip as she did. She looked down at her body and learned one more thing; her limbs were not hers. Steel plates over artificial muscles, ligaments, and tendons coated in black paint scratched by the debris she rested on. Her weak heart kicked into overdrive at the visceral terror of losing one's body, being unwillingly replaced with metal joints and segments that her mind couldn't seem to connect to. But as she stared in what would be wide-eyed bewilderment were her eyelids not so heavy, she saw a simple acronym etched into the knuckles; E.V.E.

    "Hell if I know where I got 'em."

An operating table. Flashing lights. A mysterious face. Decoherence. Then, consciousness; a soft mattress, an IV in her arm, the beep of an HRM, a plate of steaming egg rolls, and a chromed-up Troll sitting at a workbench in a homemade laboratory. She saw the table she had momentarily stared at the ceiling from. A dull headache throbbed deep within her skull. Something sharp was poking at the skin on her head. "Guess I'm not as rusty as I thought," the Troll said. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't wake up." He said his name was ʔáylx, that he hadn't expected to find an Elvish razorgirl when he went dumpster-diving for a recalled Biogene product, but that in spite of his questionable profession, he had "taken an oath" and was going to follow it. She didn't know what a razorgirl was. He showed her the reason her head hurt; the surgical tools, the dud cranial bomb that had merely fizzled a bit and left a hole in her memory. She just wanted to know if she'd ever be able to move properly again. He told her about her prosthetics in great detail; custom Greyware, clearly made for combat, and a full enhancement of her nervous system. She instinctively pounced and engaged the spurs in her right arm when he tapped her leg casually with a metallic tink from his own cyberarm; she had no idea how those motions were in her body, for they were certainly not in her head, but the Troll thought nothing of it; "If I were in your shoes, I'd be a bit on edge too." He showed her a few pictures he had taken of her damaged body for the purpose of analysis, emphasizing one of her ribcage; near her left axillary artery. A small tattoo marked the spot; a capital A in a broken circle, with the number "1819" filling the break. Neither of them knew what it meant. He surmised it was a logo. She surmised it was creepy, and that if she ever found who gave her that tattoo, she'd rip their head off.

    "Wish I could tell you. Really."

ʔáylx said the two had errands to run. "Think about it, Eve. You wake up with illegal chrome that isn’t yours, a literal hole in your memory, reflexes you don’t understand, and more questions than an average plazzy in Seattle will ever have in their life. So…"
"So what?" she asked. She had decided on that name despite not knowing what hers may have been before; there was no point in dwelling on it for the moment.
"So... you go shopping," he replied.
They perused the downtown shopping malls together first; she had no money, and borrowing a Troll's clothing wouldn't suffice when ʔáylx's arms were the size of her torso. Plus, she needed a commlink, and ʔáylx insisted that she get herself a respirator of some kind; in his diagnostic process, he had found her immune system to be severely damaged, assumedly by the heavy doses of immune suppressant drugs anyone with that much chrome would have to take. She loved athletic streetwear; she somehow knew she always had. ʔáylx seemed more than willing to foot the bill; said it was "the least he could do for someone in need." The next stop, he said, was not so simple; "Let me do the talking. We need to get your paperwork in order." It made sense; as far as the world knew, she didn't exist, nor did anything relating to the symbol tattooed on her side. Or, at least, so a supposed contact had said upon doing "research" at ʔáylx's behest. A few talks with a few mysterious figures later, she had a new name to tell the authorities; "Nikita Borislava." She had come up with it instinctually when the man ʔáylx had met with spoke Russian, and she understood and responded, much to everyone's surprise.

    "But those engravings were one of the first things I saw."

It only seemed natural for Eve to enter the business of Shadowrunning. ʔáylx had taken her to an "old friend" to test her skills. The man, whom the Troll simply called Sokol, was much like her; an Elf with more chrome than flesh, only he was at least in his forties. Every weapon he presented her with, she could use as if she'd practiced for years. Her fists could crack bricks, the jacks in her legs allowed her to take drops that would geek a regular person, and above all, she was quiet; whoever had built her limbs knew she'd be a killer of some kind, and wanted her to be capable of doing it subtly. Sokol presented her with a simple job; steam a few go-gangers for some parts that they'd stolen from him, get paid. He gave her an old Ares Predator III, a couple of mags, and sent her on her way. While it was nothing more than a grab, it quickly became a smash-and-grab when the victims saw her rooting through their supplies for the components Sokol wanted. She didn't take too well to being called "rimbo" by a human half her size who had the nerve to wave a cheap-looking trench knife in her face, even less so to when he left a gash over her orbital socket with the weapon's attached knuckle duster. That being said, she merely meant to knock him out when she swung back. Instead, her fist went in one end, and the kid's brain went out the other. She could barely yell "I DIDN'T MEAN TO-" before the others drew pistols and smudges. As soon as the first shot was fired, all Helix and ʔáylx heard on their end was Eve's voice, suddenly flat and cold, utter one word.`
"Engaging."
What followed was the sound of bullets sparking off of steel, followed by screams of agony, the rending of flesh, the shattering of bone; then, silence. It was only because she had the foresight to mute her commlink when she snapped out of her icy, murderous trance that neither ʔáylx nor her prospective fixer heard her sobbing as she tried to scrub the blood from her steel hands. When she returned, however, she didn't just bring the parts, but a banged-up Nodachi that Sokol claimed to be the former the "pride and joy" of one of the gangsters she had killed; as a bonus reward, he let her keep the bike, and offered to acquire a false driver's license for her. ʔáylx helped her remove the encrusted blood from her prosthetics, and waited as she changed into different clothes.
"What am I?" she asked him.
ʔáylx didn't answer.
"Am I a monster?" she asked him.
"You're a clean slate," ʔáylx said. "That's up to you."

    "What I do know, is that..."

It's routine now. She gets out of the same bed she first woke up in surrounded by ʔáylx's lab equipment, pops supplements and whatever the Troll insists she eat, and waits for a call from Sokol. If it doesn't come, she looks for jobs herself, helps ʔáylx around the house and lab, explores Seattle, or finds a place to train (usually Sokol's home gym). She listens to every word of every employer she meets, and never lets anybody get too close. She doesn't try to ask for much, but she doesn't lowball herself either. Every time she does get a call, she rarely comes home without blood on her steel hands, or the spurs that are so often seen alongside them.

    "They've been the last thing a lot of people have seen since I woke up."

The second she feels her life to be threatened, she engages. It doesn't matter who she's working for, who's pointing the gun, or who's supposed to be on whose side. Her fists, spurs, and boots will be dripping when ends. And when it does, if she is alive to continue, she is left wondering once again who made her this way. Her nighttime bike rides are when she ponders this the most, and while part of her simply wishes to let her search go and live her new life, she longs for the feelings she remembers in her dreams, and the people who gave her them; the joy of being broke and able to party Downtown for the first time in months, the rush of high speed on the freeway with no cares in the world, the warmth of another person. The people behind that logo, the people she assumes took her memory and turned her into a chromed-out killing machine... she believes finding them, getting answers, and putting them in the ground to her solution.

    "And mark my words, anybody who gets in my way... if they remember me, it'll be from a hospital bed."

Narrative Significant Qualities

Positive

• Ambidextrous. Whoever gave Eve her deadly instincts wanted her to be balanced. She found rather quickly when Sokol tested her skills that there was little difference between her left and right.
• Catlike. Eve is a naturally quiet person, and her prosthetics being seemingly engineered to match this trait certainly help her to stay hidden during jobs that require it.
• Chaser. When Eve has engaged, she is rarely keen on letting a target escape; this aspect of her forgotten self shows in her ability to outrun her quarry.
• Stunt Driver. It isn't just the feeling of tires on the road that give her a rush; it's the feeling of them screeching, leaving skid marks, and leaving the ground as well. It makes her feel more connected with herself, even if she doesn't know what her "self" truly is.
• Will To Live. Die? And leave the world without finding out who she used to be? Hell no.

Negative

• Flashbacks. Much like with her fighting skill, Eve's mind may not remember what got her where she is, but her body does. She appears stable at most times, even in the trance-like state she seems to enter during combat; the moment someone or something tries to physically restrain her, though, she loses all sight of reality. The people around her become blurry-faced corporate hospital personnel; surgeons holding scalpels, forceps, retractors, and the like, security personnel armed with stun batons and rifles, even administrators, replace the likenesses of those around her. The one commonality these hallucinations share is a patch on their garb, regardless of position; that strange logo ʔáylx found tattooed on her ribs. These hallucinations send her into a frenzy in which she cannot discern between friend and foe until either someone manages to snap her out of them, or they subside naturally.
• Social Stress. The way her mind- the way she knows it, anyway- was introduced to the world was a bit harrowing. As a result, she doesn't do well around people; when she's with a team, she makes it her job to stand behind whoever's doing the talking and look intimidating.
• Weak Immune System. ʔáylx theorized during Eve's initial medical examinations that she had received more immunosuppressant medication than her body could handle, and her immune system suffered permanent damage as a result. She wears a respirator over the lower half of her face nearly everywhere she goes as a preventative measure against airborne toxins and pathogens.

Run History

Name	GM	Metaplot	Date of Run
Redmond Rage	Sample Text	Compound Interest	31 December 2084
Hot Potato (Chips)	Sample Text		9 December 2084

Affiliations

Contacts

Contact	Connection	Loyalty	Archetype	Profession	Aspects	Chips
ʔáylx	3	4	Service	Paramedic Ripperdoc	Rippocratic Oath, Doctor's Prowess, Shadow Medic, Meat and Metal Shield	Even
Sokol	5	2	Custom(-2,0,4,8)	Fixer	Back in the Game... Again., Cyberware Connoisseur, Respected in the Shadows, Family Connections, Like Sensei, Like Student	Even

Allies

• ʔáylx. This Troll took an oath, and even though he left the legal side of medicine long ago, he follows this oath far more closely than any corporate doc he's ever met. It was because of this that he saved Eve, and allows her to live in his home; she owes him her life.
• Sokol. While Sokol isn't so much an "ally" as he is a retired Shadowrunner who owes an emotional debt to ʔáylx, he sees himself in Eve, and part of him does genuinely wish to help her. However, in the end, he is a fixer, and nothing gets in the way of business.

In Character Information

Matrix Search Table

Threshold	Result
1
3
6

Shadow Community Table

Threshold	Result
1	"The razorgirl with the bangs? She popped up out of nowhere a while back and started picking up runs like no tomorrow. Not much of a talker, though."
3	"She gets her jobs from Sokol, and this ripperdoc named ʔáylx is usually the one doing her tune-ups."
5	"Sometimes, she asks people if they've seen a certain symbol; the letter A inside a circle with a number on it. And based on the fact that she's continued asking, she probably hasn't found a solid answer."

Assensing Table

Threshold	Result
1	Mundane, with a faint signature; not much flesh left on this one. If assensed while in combat, she will seem to have no emotion whatsoever.
2	FLR, with some additional full-body mods and a Datajack.
3	The FLR is Greyware, and she has Alphaware wired reflexes. No bioware.
4	1.3250 Essence, 0 Magic. Her immune system is actively malfunctioning.
5	She has no idea who she is, but her body has healed from many wounds, which she presumably does not remember receiving.

SINs

"Nikita Borislava" (Rating 4) | False Restricted Cybernetics License (Rating 4), False Firearm License (Rating 4), False Driver's License (Rating 4)

Appearance

Standing at six-foot-two, covered in scars, and sporting an FLR that would impress most, Eve is daunting in her looks even if not much else. Her eyes are perpetually alert, she moves like she could strike at any moment, and her bangs combined with her respirator ironically put her in a constant state of RBF despite hiding most of her face. However, looking past this surface-level front will reveal that she navigates through the world as if everything is new to her, and that anything new could be a threat. Her movements, her style, her demeanor, are a mishmash of imitations and loose extrapolation of what little memory she has that attempt to cling onto the remains of what she might have been.

Clothing

Eve tends to dress in all-black athletic wear with warm highlights on casual occasions, or tactical gear of the same color when she's running. This color palette matches the dark paint job on her prosthetics. No matter what she wears, if she can't move in it, it's nixed; she finds restrictive clothing to be anxiety-inducing.

Matrix Persona

Because Eve prefers to interact in Meatspace and attracting Matrix attention makes her anxious, her avatar is simply what she theorizes she would look like without her augments, wearing full biking gear.

Character Plot Hooks

Here are characteristics of the character that GMs may take advantage of to add complications to runs, or to otherwise use when in use. If you want to use them in unrelated to runs, please ask first.

Aspect	Information	Related Run(s)
Aspect 1
Aspect 2
Aspect 3
Aspect 4
Aspect 5