Futuristic Ｔ Ĥ Λ Ŀ Λ Ƨ Ƨ Λ

[Sunbather]

Thalassa Immigration Guide module activated... How to register:

HOW TO APPLY:


? 1. Turn RichTextEditor off (!!!) I can't stress how important this is, otherwise your character sheet will be disfigured. HOW TO DO THAT: Hover over your username in the upper right corner. Click Preferences in the Drop Down Menu. Uncheck "Use the rich text editor to create and edit messages". Done!


? 2. Fill out required informations. I suggest you read the game rules beforehand as well. I'll know if you didn't.


? 3. I want diversity in characters. As such, I highly recommend skipping over your fellow player's character sheet. You'll get a clue as to how they act, how their life was, what kinda strengths and weaknesses they have and so on. Do not be discouraged if you can't be the uber-coolest person ever - Unusual characters tend to shine in my roleplays.


? 4. All sins will be given out once. Just like participation in general, it is not "Who comes first". If a sin is taken (As in, an accepted character chose it) take another one. I MAY give out sins twice if people are interested after the first seven have all be given out. I will, however, reserve the right to a.) not do that and b.) only give out specific ones.


? 5. Try and work in your sin a little bit into your character. If you pick Lust, you don't have to be some nymphonamic freak, nor does Gluttony need to be an obese doofus. Subtle motivation and traits are fine.


? 6. Lastly, please only sign up if you are sure you can dedicate a longer timeframe to this. Posting scheduele will be lenient, but someone dropping out can potentially kill this. Be considerate.


? 7. Please only use artwork for your faceclaim. No real pictures and no physics defying / pink-hair animu.


? You can use this website [Click here] to use photoshop in your browser in order to resize pictures for your character sheet. The three extra ones are optional though, feel free to remove the image codes if you do not have more pictures / don't wanna use them.

Spoiler

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

[name]


? Put your character's name here.


[alias]


? Put your character's nicknames here, if they have any.


[date of birth]


? Put your character's birthday here.


[biological sex]


? Put your character's biological sex here


[gender]


? Put your character's gender identity here. Thalassa is progressive in a lot of aspects, so it's not uncommon for non-binary to be publicly expressed.


[sexuality]


? Put your character's romantic preferences here.


[ethnicity]


? Put your character's cultural background here. Purely blood / parental related, nobody's actually from anywhere but Thalassa.


[district]


? Put your character's residence here. (What district?)

[height]


? Put your character's height here.

[weight]


? Put your character's weight here.


[hair]


? Describe/Specify your character's hair here as needed. Can be simply color and length, to hair cut, to more detailed attributes.


[eyes]


? Describe/Specify your character's eyes here as needed. Can be simply color but can also be more detailed.


[distinguishing marks]


? Describe/Specify your character's distinguished marks here. Tat includes tattoos, scars, piercings and whatever else.


[physical strengths]


? Describe your character's physical strengths here. Powerful body, martial arts knowledge, flexibility etc. goes here.


[physical weaknesses]


? Describe your character's physical strengths here. Lack of strengths, disabilities and so on go here.

[my journal entry]


Write out a journal/diary entry of your character. make up one day and catalogue it in character. Two paragraphs or more. This serves as an overview of writing quality, as well as a quick and accessible peak into your character's style, which will help with immersing everyone.

no slide

three paragraphs or more.

theme song's title & artist here

Spoiler

[biggest fear]






? Describe your character's biggest fear.






[fondest memory]






? Describe your character's fondest memory.






[likes]






? Like here





? Like here





? Like here





? Like here





? Like here (Copy if you wish to put more than five.

[mental strengths]






? What are your character's best traits?






[mental weaknesses]






? What are your character's biggest flaws?






[dislikes]






? Dislike here





? Dislike here





? Dislike here





? Dislike here





? Dislike here (Copy if you need more)

Spoiler

[bg=#0c0c0c][font=Special Elite][color=#6fc2c3]Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.[/Color][/font][/bG]
[border= 2px solid #6fc2c3][bg=#0c0c0c]
[center][font=Book Antiqua][color=#6fc2c3]C H A R A C T E R N A M E H E R E[size=6][/size][/color][/font]

[img=http://i.imgur.com/Dk0TgAy.png][color=#0c0c0c]XXX[/color][img=http://i.imgur.com/izxh6ir.png][/center]

[img=http://i.imgur.com/oZXq7cW.png][name]
? Put your character's name here.
[alias]
? Put your character's nicknames here, if they have any.
[date of birth]
? Put your character's birthday here.
[biological sex]
? Put your character's biological sex here
[gender]
? Put your character's gender identity here. Thalassa is progressive in a lot of aspects, so it's not uncommon for non-binary to be publicly expressed.
[sexuality]
? Put your character's romantic preferences here.
[ethnicity]
? Put your character's cultural background here. Purely blood / parental related, nobody's actually from anywhere but Thalassa.
[district]
? Put your character's residence here. (What district?)

[height]
? Put your character's height here.

[weight]
? Put your character's weight here.
[hair]
? Describe/Specify your character's hair here as needed. Can be simply color and length, to hair cut, to more detailed attributes.
[eyes]
? Describe/Specify your character's eyes here as needed. Can be simply color but can also be more detailed.
[distinguishing marks]
? Describe/Specify your character's distinguished marks here. Tat includes tattoos, scars, piercings and whatever else.
[physical strengths]
? Describe your character's physical strengths here. Powerful body, martial arts knowledge, flexibility etc. goes here.
[physical weaknesses]
? Describe your character's physical strengths here. Lack of strengths, disabilities and so on go here.

[my journal entry]
Write out a journal/diary entry of your character. make up one day and catalogue it in character. Two paragraphs or more. This serves as an overview of writing quality, as well as a quick and accessible peak into your character's style, which will help with immersing everyone.

[img=https://www.rpnation.com/proxy.php?image=http://i.imgur.com/RXAOU4x.gif&hash=09aa42b640a8a5d35b1b7a917f60f303]

three paragraphs or more.

[img=https://www.rpnation.com/proxy.php?image=http://i.imgur.com/XRC0eOO.gif&hash=6b2a40c0af43ebab536802e4e860864c]

three paragraphs or more.

theme song's title & artist here

[img=http://i.imgur.com/4dTGdMb.png] [img=http://i.imgur.com/4dTGdMb.png] [img=http://i.imgur.com/4dTGdMb.png]​

[biggest fear]
? Describe your character's biggest fear.
[fondest memory]
? Describe your character's fondest memory.
[likes]
? Like here
? Like here
? Like here
? Like here
? Like here (Copy if you wish to put more than five.

[mental strengths]
? What are your character's best traits?
[mental weaknesses]
? What are your character's biggest flaws?
[dislikes]
? Dislike here
? Dislike here
? Dislike here
? Dislike here
? Dislike here (Copy if you need more)

​

[/bg][/border][/Code]

[/CENTER]

C H A R A C T E R N A M E H E R E​

XXX

 

[Sunbather]

Information confidential... access denied... module attacked... firewalls deactivated. Access granted:

THE SINS:


⊷ In this roleplay, the biblical concept of the seven deadly sins will be incorporated. All characters must have one of these applied. Remember, it's not first come, first serve. As long as a character is not yet accepted, you can post a character with the same sin and hope you will be picked. HOWEVER(!) I will allow reservations up to 24 hours, in which case I will put a notification on your desired sin that others are aware that you'll get the sin should you post a character and get accepted. No sin will be given out twice without my clear approval, so don't be too picky and don't get grey hairs over not having the "coolest" sin. The links below will lead you to your sin pictures:


THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS:


⊷ Pride.

Not available - taken by

@Aldur

⊷ sloth

Available!

⊷ Luuust

Not available - taken by

@korigon

⊷ Envy...

Available!

⊷ Wrath!!!

Not available - taken by

@Sunbather

⊷ GREEEEEED

Available!

⊷ GluttOOOny

Not available - taken by

@BlueInPassing

Distribution confidential - Round 2:

Round 2 Sins


⊷ These sins are not available at the moment. Please refer to the above list of available sins.


THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS v2:


⊷ Wrath!!!


Requested and granted - @CRiTiCAL ERR0R

 

[Aldur]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

EVE | KNOX

XXX

[name]


? Eve Knox


[alias]


? Kerri, Straw, Knock


[date of birth]


? 2nd of June (Age: 23)


[biological sex]


? Female


[gender]


? Female


[sexuality]


? Pansexual


[ethnicity]


? Caucasian. Mixed Central European. Romanian.


[district]


? District 39

[height]


? 1.86 m

[weight]


? 70 kg


[hair]


? Short and Cyan


[eyes]


? Steel Blue


[distinguishing marks]


? One tattoo around the left eye and one under the right eye. Her nose, lip and right ear are pierced. Her right eyebrow has a spot that doesn't have anymore hairs.


[physical strengths]


? Physically strong, though and knowledge in mixed martial arts.


[physical weaknesses]


? Doesn't have a left arm. It is replaced by a mechanical one.

[my journal entry]


User connected. 9:43 PM, 30th of October


Entry recording...on? (low voice) Am I doing this right? (pause) Hmm... (user clears throat) Er... This (word censored) got a manual? (word censored) (pause) Uh... alright. (word censored) I don't know. I hit a guy so hard today I think I fissured his skull in more than a few places. (user giggles) (longer pause) (word censored) I didn't mean to say that... Does this have an off button? (rummaging in the background) Dammit! (device is put back on the desk) (knocks on a door) (muffled) "Hurry up, will you?"(silence) (door opens) (male voice)"Kerrie!" What? "Are you done?" No! (word censored) off for a minute! I need to figure this (word censored) out. "One minute!" (door is shut violently) (user sighs audibly) (user puts arms on desk) (user taps finger on desk) (breaths followed by a pause) I saw that (censored word) The research thing. Entry recording off.

no slide

Life ain't easy in the lower districts. Eve was born in District 39. Her brother and her were raised in a lousy flat. It only had one room and granted, often it was very crowded. Her father had a novelty chair on which he'd doze on and the rest of her family would sleep on a twin bed. It was clear as day that their parents were involved in petty crimes: stealing, running errands for shady people and all. Despite being tempted and usually encouraged, they stayed away from substance abuse for the sake of Eve and Cole. Instead of spending precious money on their cravings, they chose to withstand the withdrawal. For their children.


At one point it became easier. They learned how to deal with their habits. When Cole turned 15 and Eve 12, he was already aware of how to take care of his sister and how to keep a family together. He was the big brother and he had to play that part. If anything were to happen to his father, he'd take his place. To his surprise, he needed to fill in for the role of their parents sooner than everyone thought. Eve's parents were injured in an incident. Authorities happened upon one of their errands and used force to deal with the illegal activities. It wasn't necessary. Eve's parents didn't stand a chance and a week later they both passed due to complications and not being able to get the medical care that they needed.


Eve and Cole were forced to leave their home and reside in the streets and alleys of District 39. They tried a lot of things to get money. One of them was performing on the streets, but it didn't last because none of them had proper knowledge of how instruments worked and played by the ear. In the end, they turned to less legal ways. Eve became aware of her affinity towards underground fighting tournaments. She became progressively better at it with her brother guiding her.


Life became better after that. Aside from a handful of bruises and injuries Eve had no complaints. She grew more and more loving towards fighting. It was the one thing she was excellent at. Throughout her fighting career, Eve learned about a multitude of martial arts and styles of fighting through her opponents and varied coaches she encountered. Some people were not happy with Eve winning and taking titles as much as she did so they hired thugs to go deal with her.


They caught Eve when she was alone and when she least expected it, they attacked her, beating her up and breaking her left arm in the process. It was so bad, the medics had to remove it. This damaged Eve's psyche, but with support from her brother and money saved up from her fights she acquired a new left arm. A cybernetic replacement that was stronger and better than her old arm. It gave her hope. She became determined to continue following her path and become increasingly better.

​

[biggest fear]






? Being overpowered by someone else and not being strong enough physically or mentally.






[fondest memory]






? Eating Pizza with her brother on a trip in one of the Upper Districts.






[likes]






? Training





? Fighting





? Pizza





? Various music genres





? Playing a futuristic variation of a guitar





? Showing off her strength

[mental strengths]






? She's tough, confident and determined. If there's a problem at hand she'll persist endlessly or try to solve it through force.






[mental weaknesses]






? She can't always control her emotions properly and can fire up without notice. Once that happens it becomes difficult for her to calm down.






[dislikes]






? Long hair





? Upper districts





? Fake people





? People with a superiority complex





? Cheaters

 

[Sunbather]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

D Y L A N | Ø S T I N E | Q U I N L A N

XXX

[name]


⊷ Dylan Østine Quinlan


[alias]


⊷ Quinn, Daughtr.0 (Online alias)


[date of birth]


⊷ 12th of November (Age 24)


[biological sex]


⊷ Female ♀


[gender]


⊷ Genderfluid


[sexuality]


⊷ Demisexual


[ethnicity]


⊷ Caucasian, distant Scottish ancestry


[district]


⊷ 24th

[height]


⊷ 5'5"ft.

[weight]


⊷ 135lbs.


[hair]


⊷ Vermillion


[eyes]


⊷ Toxic green


[distinguishing marks]


⊷ Dylan has two cybernetic prosthetics. A low level replacement for her left hand's ring and pinky finger, as well as a high quality, quite expensive augmentation that replaces three quarters of her left leg.


[physical strengths]


⊷ Excellent kick strength, thanks to her prosthetics, extremely developed hands/eye coordination, flexible and agile


[physical weaknesses]


⊷ Aside from her left leg, she's physically weak.

[my journal entry]


User started recording at 9PM on the 27th of November:


I can't believe I'm actually using this dumb journal... Actually, screw it, this is a damn diary, no matter how much Cack insists it's not. I'm not sure if he's the teenage girl with hormones running wild or if he takes me for one - It's ridiculous either way. Only thing this crap is good for is to smack it over his head... (user sighs) Fine. Fine! Register this then: I saw these advertisements today. You know the one, uh... "Thalassa needs you, join the research." blah blah blah. All crap. Absolute and utter bullshit. The last batch of guys from below that signed up never returned. Except that one elderly dude... He was so old. I hate that someone his age has to scramble on the streets. It's (word censored due to age settings) awful. Nobody should die like that... And he's all... messed up in the head. Talks about some (word unknown) cult or whatever. I wanna help him, but his talking is too... dangerous. If the police ever picks up on him, they'll probably (word censored due to age settings) exile him to Lysa... Ugh... I can't do this right now. Journal, entry recording off.


Recording ending. Duration: 00:09:19

no slide

Dylan Østine Quinlan was born in the 47th district, barely but noticably above the absolute bottom tier population. Her parents ran a little shop in the 51st district, focusing on technical protection devices such as cameras, laser barriers and things of that nature. They didn't have too much and were most certainly connected to the less fortunate part of Thalassa, but were knowledgable enough to attract customers come from as far as the 74th district. Overall, they were what you'd call the cream of the lower class. Dylan grew up with loving parents who taught her morals and proper social behavior. She did well in school, picking up things quickly and with great enthusiasm. Sadly, the lower districts' school systems weren't quite as enabling and providing as those in the wealthier stories, which halted her education a bit, but still... the few teachers who worked with their hearts and souls, and really wanted their students to succeed, they all commended the redhead's work ethic and natural curiosity. Nothing was ever to remain a secret from her. The girl was starving for information, for finding out how the world worked and what was going on. Sometimes, teachers and her parents alike were annoyed by the girl's energetic behavior, but mostly it was endearing.


The years went by without any major crisis, and as Østine turned 13, the Quinlans welcomed another child into the world - a healthy little girl. Unlike a lot of older siblings, Dylan was immediately enamored with her new sister, caring for her sweetly and with great love. She'd constantly try to teach and play with her younger sibling whenever she could. Another four years would go by rather peacefully. Business had reduced a bit, but the family still had enough, espcially after Dylan began to put her talents to use and work a bit on the side. Growing up with tech-savvy parents and the omnipresent tools to hone her skills, she was absurdly skilled with computers and coding, especially when it came to security systems and gadgets. In fact, she even build a bit of a reputation in the surrounding districts, often finding herself be contacted by people who sought help. The downside of her "notoriety" was that the less civilized gangs and scrappers of the lower levels started to pay attention to her. Be it because they were disapproving of her employment for "the enemy", because they were envious of her income or because they flat out felt inedequate in comparison to her skills - It didn't matter. Harrassment became a weekly occurence for her. Dylan had never been one to excell in physical activity, so the situation was quite threatening, resulting in the loss of two fingers at the peak of violence directed towards her. Dylan's parents, now informed and enraged, eventually caused the tension to fade, threatening their daughter's assailants to call in the authorities. Nobody wanted to see the police investigate in their districts. Not for something as trivial as jealousy anyways. And so, bruised and intimidated as she may have been, Dylan's worries decreased.


Unfortunately, even with one less problem on her plate, her somewhat harmonic life was soon to end regardless. The A.I. debacle had escalated over the last few years. A.I.s and their supporters had become more and more vocal, even some of the highest ranking politicans spoke out in favor of the artificial minds. In an attempt to evade social unrest it was decided that A.I.s were to receive equal rights, with the exception of weaponry permits. The decision was almost universally well received, but the Quinlans got the proverbial shaft, as A.I.s were quickly the dominant force in everything related to security and home protection, slowly but surely driving the family out of business. In fact, amongst the owners of businesses that suffered from the change in rights the theory that the decision was only made because the rich and wealthy wanting workforces for their precious networks, an area of expertise for the A.I.s that now flocked the field. Of course, this may have been influenced by their unfortunate fate, but the rumor did have some merrit. Be that as it may, the worst was still to come. And it came...


More precisely, the fateful day came. Electronics - including Tears, hospitals and essentially every facility in existence had become useless for a few terrifying moments. A novelty occurence, and a threatening one at that. The incident caused many vandals to entirely abandon their previous restrictions. Motivated by the blackout of almost the entire continent, stores were raided and people were murdered, assaulted and abused. Thalassa's bottom half went into a purge-like state. Luckily, Dylan was out shopping with her little sister in the 62nd district - Who knows what would've happened to the two further down. She had worked for a shop owner there, allowing her to buy her sibling a set of finer clothes. Up here the panic unfolded in a more civilized manner. While crowds ran rampant and freaked out just as much, violence wasn't really a problem and the authority of the distrct kept the situation under control... As fate would have it, it took just long enough to let the wild crowd seperate the two Quinlan girls. Frantically, Dylan searched for her sister, pushing and shoving her way through the mindlessly panicking sea of people, but to no avail. She needed to get back to her parents. They had access to securty cameras. Her own computer would help too... it would be alright. She would find her sister. She had to.


The follwing Tear™ ride was the most nerve-wrecking one she ever had to endure, literally counting the seconds before the plattform finally reached her level. Sprinting through the alleys, the redheaded girl barely registered the burning facades and suspiciously empty streets around her. Finally, her home. Finally, she'd... But then she stopped, her breath halting in a painful gasp. Her home was up in flames, the walls sullied and the windows smashed. With eyes wide open the girl broke down under the accumulated weight of today's events. And yet, destiny wasn't quite done with her, as one of the countless raiders drove by on a motorcycle-like vehicle. The kneeling girl was hit and the machine ran over her leg, leaving her severly injured.


The following weeks were a blur. Trauma, injury and despair had caused Dylan to forget and surpress most of what happened. All she remembered was that she was now alone. Her parents were dead, her sister was who knows where, and to top it all off the majority of her right leg had to be amputated. A complete lack of hope hovered over the young woman, only sharing its vessel with an intense anger and a thirst for revenge. Revenge on the raiders, revenge on whoever or whatever caused the panic, and revenge on the rich for not protecting the poverty stricken districts. It was this very anger that slowly drove Dylan to try again, to make plans. She shelled out every last bit of credit she owned to her name, sold everything her home and her parent's shop offered and got a high quality prosthetic. The piece of tech was quite new and somewhat unreliable, but it was a risk the girl was willing to take. A plethora of data storage, a high quality alloy allowing it to serve as a physical weapon as well as some handy other tools would prove to make the replacement better than the real thing. Sure, she had gotten some dumb cyborg jokes down in the lower districts, but given how much she loved computers and other machines, she didn't actually mind the thought at all. Since then, the tech specialist has withdrawn herself into the low districts, away from authority. There she has begun to build a network of contacts. Freedom fighters, desperate businessmen of the upper-middle class in need for a human hacker (as A.I.s are virtually flawless, humans usually are prefered for "off the record" jobs like this) and some who are simply fed up with the way things are. Daughtr.0 was born.

​

[biggest fear]






⊷ That her younger sister is actually dead, not just missing.






[fondest memory]






⊷ Her family taking her on a vacation trip in the 118th district.






[likes]






✓ Computers





✓ "Justice"





✓ Electronic music





✓ Kick boxing





✓ Children

[mental strengths]






⊷ Extremely tech savvy; can hack, disable and figure out the most complex codes and security systems. At least so far. Dylan is also extremely determined.






[mental weaknesses]






⊷ Certain things trigger memories that startle and/or upset her heavily, which can emotionally paralyze her; somewhat unstable.






[dislikes]






✗ Being sociable





✗ Being (proven) wrong





✗ Being "figured out"





✗ Violence against children





✗ Violence in general, and even moreso the fact that she often retorts to violence herself.

 

[Grin]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

XXX

[name]


? Vonnegut Kumonitsu Singh


[alias]


? Known as "The Truth" or simply "TRUTH". Has a UnikeyConnect account that automatically obtains him the screen name "TruthSingher" on any social media or forum-style service.


[date of birth]


? December 29, 3813


[biological sex]


? Male


[gender]


? Male


[sexuality]


? Heterosexual


[ethnicity]


? Indian, German, Japanese, Polish, and Turkish


[district]


? Born in District 5. Currently resides in District 84, by order of his executive editor.

[height]


? 5'4"

[weight]


? 124 lbs.


[hair]


? Bald. Singh suffers from Mackeen Syndrome, an incurable genetic disease that causes skin blemishes and a bald head. His hair growth instead doubles down on other parts of the body, so Singh's chest, back, arms, and legs are covered in thick, wiry black hair.


[eyes]


? Black, intense, and buried under dark eyebags.


[distinguishing marks]


? Mackeen Syndrome has left Singh with various pock marks, blemishes, and skin tags all over his hairy body. The only part of his body not covered in hair is the top of his head.


[physical strengths]


? The auto-immune response the Mackeen Syndrome has some benefits, specifically that it keeps the immune system aggressive. For this reason Singh doesn't get other diseases very easily. He's in fair physical shape and possesses average dexterity and reflexes, all things considered.


[physical weaknesses]


? Mackeen Syndrome, which is really more a dermatology problem than anything else. It makes his skin feel tight and restrictive, so while he can move when needed, he's not really thrilled with it. Apart from never actually being as sick as he always looks, there is nothing inherently amazing or even noteworthy about Singh's physical abilities.

[my journal entry]


3:45AM: Alarm goes off. My hand searches for the snooze button. Suddenly remember I bought one of those "No-Snooze" autoclocks yesterday; the ones that gets progressively louder and more annoying until proximity sensors confirm you've gotten out of bed. Fuck whatever dumb fuckery made me think that was a good idea, because my blankets are just the right temperature for the first time since the Cosby Administration, and I'll be corn-holed by tool-using termites before I get out of this damn bed.


4:07AM: Battle of wits with alarm clock continues. The clock has accessed my internet browser history and WebMD psych profile to determine exactly what annoys me, and is randomly switching all its audio receivers to those things at random.


*kzzt* "-PRESIDENT REITERATED THAT A FEW BAD APPLES IN HIS CABINET HAVEN'T NECESSARILY SPOILED THE BUNCH, AND THIS INCIDENT WOULD NOT AFFECT HIS BID FOR-"


*kzzt* "-A COLLECTION OF OVER 300 HOURS OF CLASSIC PRE-LETTER DUBSTEP MASTERPIECES, EXTRACTED VIRTUALLY FROM CRONO-MEMORY AND CONVERTED TO STUNNING 99-CHANNEL AVOX FORMAT-"


*kzzt* "-WHEN I FARTED MY FUCKING SPLEEN OUT! **LAUGH TRACK** ANYWAYS, LET'S WALK THE FUCK OVER TO IMAGINATIONLAND AND SEE IF TIM THE DOG-EARED FUCK KNOWS THE LETTER OF THE-"


*kzzt* "-ANNOUNCED TODAY THAT LAWYERS FOR THE TRANS-FURRY GROUP LASSIE'S POSSE WILL MEET WITH CREEP-HOP MOGUL BLUD DRIZZEL TO DISCUSS COMMENTS DRIZZEL MADE DURING THE 3852 THALASSA MUSIC AWA-"


*kzzt* "ARTICLE BY GUERILLA REPORTER VONNEGUT SINGH THAT EXPOSES AN ALLEGED PLOT TO RESELL DEFECTIVE HEALTH MODULATORS TO GROUND-LEVEL DISTRICT GRADE SCHOOLS WAS DEEMED 'A HOAX' BY THE PRESIDENT'S COMMITT-"


*kzzt* "-ZERS! THE UNFILTERED CIGARETTE WITH THAT GROOVY GRAPE FLAVOR-"


I spring out of bed and shake the alarm clock. "Go back one station! GO BACK YOU FILTHY HEAD-PRODDING ROBOT!" I yell, but all the clock can tell is that I'm up now, and it no longer needs to ring.


I throw the clock against the wall, where it shatters and joins the shallow unmarked grave of its predecessors. I managed to catch just enough to extrapolate what was going on... the reference to "defective health modulators" was obviously a reference to my "Bazul's Billions" article, the one I wrote about Jupiter Bazul and how his "little company that could" was built on a model of bullshit and hand-outs. His brilliant start-up idea was getting a permit to haul busted He-Mo units from some rancid shithole in District 2, refurbishing them with a process slightly less sanitary than flying tongue-first into a pile of bat guano, and selling them to public schools in the Teens Districts for 100% profit.


I grab my reader and check for recent news items, searching for my name, Bazul's name, and the word "hoax". It was on every front page in Thalassa; according to a recent investigation, Bazul had nothing to do with the recent outbreak of acute grazen necrolysis among poor children. The investigation was of course made by a committee staffed almost entirely by Jupiter's paid-for politicians and corporate pals.


Well, shit. I'd assumed the fix was in, but didn't realize it was in so deeply that it was asking my prostate for an autograph.


I spent the rest of the day smoking whatever I could get my hands on, and wishing I was any one of these millions of dog-dumb mundane bastards that read my articles, call me "the man" and still don't give a damn that Thalassa is crumbling. Most of them have never even heard of Rome; hell, half of them accused me of making it up as a metaphor for old movie plots.

no slide

Vonnegut Kumonitsu Singh was born in District 5, the 4th of 9 children. While most of his siblings spent their time trying to appease their abusive substance-abusing father, Vonnegut was instead drawn to his more bookish mother. As a result, Vonnegut was the only Singh child to achieve literacy, graduate school, and get a career that didn't involve joining gangs or lifting things to death. He earned his way through journalism school by joining the military, where he was a lackluster recruit at best but demonstrated a gift with words that made him excellent in administrative roles.


It was during this time that he contracted Mackeen Syndrome. His skin is covered in blemishes and skin tags, and grows hair pretty much everywhere but the top of his head. Several other people that he worked with also contracted Mackeen Syndrome, and Vonnegut even uncovered some evidence that exposure to toxins due to a badly maintained air filter was directly responsible, however, the case was very quickly buried. Vonnegut used his gift for writing to rally public attention and support for his case, and in an unusual turn of events, he and the other victims got their day in court and successfully sued the military.


This made Singh a minor celebrity to people and hated by the establishment. For these reasons, he was hired by The Muckraker, an online news source specializing in "fringe" news. Singh's writing, as well as his meticulous methods for making his evidence easily available, brought the online magazine's reputation back into the mainstream spotlight. He's gotten book deals, merchandising options, and death threats, three forms of attention that Singh hates having.


Despite what many would consider success, Singh is secretly envious of the same people he blows the whistle upon. His relentless pursuit of the truth is actually an advanced form of jealous voyeurism. Singh often dreams of what he would do if he could have won the Womb Lottery which created the blessed devils he chases...

​

[biggest fear]





? Secretly, Singh fears that everyone is right about him - that he's dreaming up conspiracy theories, this really is how the world is supposed to be, and he really is a crazy man who deserves to be committed for the health and safety of others.





[fondest memory]





? Vonnegut's favorite person growing up was a guy they called "Crazy Leonard". Leonard was in charge of the after-school bus routes, because he was the only one crazy enough to take full responsibility for the lives of children in one of Thalassa's most violent ghettos. Vonnegut was always dropped off last because he lived out by the Haven District exits, where the poorest families lived. Crazy Leonard was the only adult that would ever just chit-chat with him, one on one, like a normal human being, and so Vonnegut loved those long (and sometimes dangerous) bus rides home.





[likes]





? Lasagna




? Exposing frauds & scumbags




? Seeing people actually be nice to one another for a change




? History, especially any scrap of pre-letter history he can find




? Pornography ("for the articles")

[mental strengths]





? Singh is incredibly smart, particularly when it comes to noticing details. He's also one heck of a writer, although he's burdened by the fact that people consider his articles "creative prose" rather than actual warnings about the terrible things powerful people do to poor people.





[mental weaknesses]





? Between his natural anti-social tendencies and his drug abuse, he's definitely a living example of how many flies you catch with vinegar.





[dislikes]





? Mondays (and any other day ending in Y)




? Domesticated animals




? Rich people




? Powerful people




? The general concept of people




? Commercials




? Decadence

​

​

​

​

 

[Coin]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

'Three' 3-276-T985

XXX<p><a href="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/rsz_3522a87fbc01a456fdbed9beede34e93e.jpg.ae5f5d0bfcfa72d894d32ecdc27e8bab.jpg" class="ipsAttachLink ipsAttachLink_image"><img data-fileid="91891" src="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/rsz_3522a87fbc01a456fdbed9beede34e93e.jpg.ae5f5d0bfcfa72d894d32ecdc27e8bab.jpg" class="ipsImage ipsImage_thumbnailed" alt=""></a></p>​

[serial number]


? 3-276-T985


[alias]


? 'Three'


[date of sentience]


? June 24, 3840 (Age 13)


[biological sex]


? Synthetic Lifeform, Artificial Intelligence (AI)


[gender]


? Female Apparent


[sexuality]


? Pansexual


[ethnicity]


? Three was constructed by Axi-Gen AI Solutions as a security unit and therefore has no official "parents" or family.


[district]


? District 84

[height]


? 5'10"

[weight]


? 195 lbs


[hair]


? Medium length dark brown / black hair. She wears it down most of the time now, since she wasn't able to when she was on duty with the police.


[eyes]


? Amber in standard optical input lens, Red in thermal input lens, Black in EM input lens.


[distinguishing marks]


? Three does not wear any piercings usually, but has her ears pierced. With all Axi-Gen AI and per government mandate, Three has a bar code with her serial number imprinted on her neck where the human jugular would be located.


[physical strengths]


? Since Three was delivered to the police force as an Axi-Gen security AI, she has been imprinted with a tactical mindset and specializes in close quarters combat. Three has a rugged metal-alloy skeleton with a durable synthetic skin layer that allows her to sustain multiple hits to her body without shutting down. With interchangeable parts, Three can easily maintain and replace damaged limbs and subsystems as long as parts and tools are on hand. This also allows room for specialized limb subsystem augmentation. Lastly, her synthetic brain allows her to process information and react faster than her organic counterparts.


[physical weaknesses]


? Though Three is fully sentient and capable of normal human emotion and judgement, her empathy for the human condition has been dampened -- especially in high tension scenarios. Three is highly susceptible to magnetic and EMP based weaponry, as her subsystems and processing are electronic. This also means that a very skilled hacker with the right tools can temporarily disable and even control her movements from beyond her will. By technicality, Three is only 13 years old and though she was pre-installed abilities and skills, her experience living life has been limited compared to an average adult human.

[journal entry]


>>ENTRY RECORDING OFF [ON]<<


//INPUT 23911 - 3/18/3853


7:45 AM


"I am obliged to be no lesser than man."


Startup this morning was sluggish. I remember feeling the bedding around me, the warmth of light on my skin, but yet unable to open my eyes or move at all. Through my closed eyes, I could see the Axi-Gen logo, spinning perpetually in the bottom right of the unending blackness. Would it ever stop? Have I finally died?


Power cyclers are probably due for a checkup. I'm going to stop by the physician's office today. Total startup ping: 4312ms.


//INPUT 23912 - 3/18/3853


1:51 PM


Doc Yannesley said my cyclers were cracked and damaged. It was a simple swap and didn't cost me a cent, since the procedure was covered by the government once every five years. Doc said I was lucky to come in when I did, otherwise they might have split open and leaked corrosive fluids that could have done a number of nasty things.


I don't feel too lucky. We'll see tomorrow morning if startup is still sluggish.


//INPUT 23913 - 3/18/3853


6:34 PM


She invited me to dinner tonight. My neighbor, Kaye, I mean. She and I don't usually talk often, other than the chance exchange of pleasantries while passing by each other in public. Yet, I know so much about her just from watching, overhearing. I don't think she even knows my name.


Today was different, she was sitting in front of her door with her head in her hands. When she heard me passing by, she looked up and our eyes locked for a moment. Her eyes were puffy and red, deject. Kaye said her boyfriend left her. I sat next to her and listened to what she had to say for a while. She apologized for ranting and asked if I wanted to go out with her for dinner. I declined, but I'm still not certain why I did. I left the force three years ago and all the danger behind with it. It's safe for me to have relationships outside of work, not like I might up and die tomorrow. Plus, I have plenty of time now, so I should have said yes -- but I told her I was busy.


She knows I'm not busy. I know I'm not busy.


Now, I'm just sorry.


>>ENTRY RECORDING [OFF] ON<<

no slide

Serial designation: 3-276-T985 was delivered to the Thalassa Police Department in 3840. She was to replace the late Specialist Korvin Chambers in the Department's 'Doorkicker' criminal response team. The Doorkickers specialized in breaching into high-risk areas that the police respond to. Specialist Chambers was killed earlier in the year by a booby trapped door during an illegal weapons bust. Because Chambers' position was so pivotal to the team, the police force had a hard time replacing him with another human, so, they purchased 3-276-T985's contract under the designation 'Three'.


Three adjusted quickly to the job, because she was programmed to do so. It took a while to earn the trust of everyone else in her team, but time would prove the AI's best ally. When the government changed legislation on the legality of AIs, Three told the captain she would still stay the whole ten years that her contract stated. Though she could have walked free at any moment, the bond she had built with her team had already surpassed the line between AI and human.


Ten successful years passed with the Doorkickers, and they had only suffered minor causalities and only seven deaths in the direct line of fire. They had maintained their status as one of the most well performing branches in the entire Department. After those ten years, and despite Three's enthusiasm to stay on the force, the Captain forced her to retire. While she was in a position to deny the Captain his request, the added pressure from her teammates was far too much.


Three had amassed a fair amount of money by the time she retired, and settled into a cozy apartment in District 84. Though her old teammates had promised to visit her and invite her for drinks every so often, their calls became less frequent and soon, Three felt she'd been forgotten by them. Now, she occupies her free time with reading and gambling.

​

[biggest fear]






? Three's worst fear would be humans and the government turning their backs on AIs like her, forsaking them to nothing but slaves and mere property.






[fondest memory]






? After a successful raid on a criminal cartel compound that had taken several civilian hostages, the young daughter of one of the captives, approached Three as she was disarming and said to her, "I want to be like you when I grow up." At that moment, the little girl saw past the divide and it didn't matter if Three was human or an AI. Three often thinks back on what the child said to her.






[likes]






? Background noise




? Other AIs




? Networking




? Gambling




? Puppies




? Showering

[mental strengths]






? Three was among one of the last AI to have been shipped as a commodity in Thalassa and has been specialized for her market role as such. At a base value, Three is a modular combat system, highly capable of receiving and executing orders under high stress situation without fail. Though she is no longer part of the police force, and now lives a more mellow life, her penchant for violence and action lay only dormant.






[mental weaknesses]






? Three's most crippling flaw is her refusal to cause harm to fellow AI. She will almost never willingly act violently against another of her kind, even if they are clearly in the wrong. Three believes that there are so few AI like her in Thalassa that it would be counter productive to harm her own. In most situations, Three believes that an AI falling into the criminal world or acting to tarnish the image of other AI can be 'fixed'.






[dislikes]






? Elitist humans




? Unjust criminals




? Being held at gunpoint




? Restaurants




? Tangled wires

[/color]

 

[SayGoodKnight]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

Shadin Fakhoury

XXX

[name]


? Shadin Fakhoury


[alias]


? NICKNAME


[date of birth]


? August 19


[biological sex]


? Male


[gender]


? Male


[sexuality]


? Anyone who can tolerate him has a chance.


[ethnicity]


? Arabic and Germanic


[district]


? 135

[height]


? 5'11"

[weight]


? 160 lbs


[hair]


? Shadin's hair in one of his favorite things about himself. It's thick and so dark is has a deep blue/violet sheen about it. He wears it long, typically tied back in a braid he can easily tuck into his clothes or up in a hat if needed. Of course it can get impractical, especially in combat situations, so he's learned how not to have it pulled. The rest of his body is virtually hairless due to cosmetic treatments and fortunate genetics.


[eyes]


? Shadin's eyes are fringed in dark lashes that only serve to brighten their amber hue. They're intelligent and sharp, often pinning whoever he gazes at.


[distinguishing marks]


? Other than a single, hook shaped scar sustained in a training accident beneath his left hip bone he's unmarked though his ears are pierced.


[physical strengths]


? Shadin's main asset is shear speed. He's lean and in excellent shape and is incredibly quick on his feet. He's very flexible and has been known to jam himself into some tight spaces (often hiding from his lovers' significant others) as well as being experienced in free running and acrobatics. Once he puts his mind to it, he's near impossible to catch. He's got the stamina for distance running and sprints. He also excellent aim and could probably be quite the marksman with some training. In the meantime he's decent enough with small projectiles and knives.


[physical weaknesses]


? His speed is paramount to keeping him alive due to lack of combat prowess. One on one he's quick and agile enough to survive but if escape isn't an option he's not going to last. He doesn't have much endurance to speak of when it comes to taking hits. Cutting off his escape is the easiest way to take him out.

[my journal entry]





You're going to have to leave. Non user voice omitted. I don't care what you tell your wife. Non user voice omitted. Not my problem. Yeah sure, take a couple for the road. You're going to need a drink when she's done with you, I'm sure....What a loser. Anyway last night got a little hairier than expected. That cocktail party I attended on behalf of my client ended up being a bunch of businessman drinking until they puked or passed out. I managed to get the information I was in there for, and deliver that special package by hand. The guy must have misinterpreted my intentions because he ended coming home with me. I've never been one to complain about company but if this guy hadn't bought me so many of those glittery drinks I would have sent him home. His wife is an important woman so when he got the call that she knew he didn't sleep where he was supposed to he went gray in the face and starting asking me what to do. As if I'd know what to do with an angry spouse. Well, I guess I do have some experience on that end but never my own spouse. Who would want that anyway? Either way he's gone and he took some of my booze. They were cheap drinks and not worth him whining over it so there. I don't think I'll be frequenting that scene again...this week anyway. For all I know that guy's wife is going to put a hit out on me. Probably not, but you never know. I've met a lot of interesting people in my life between dad's sappy revolutionary buddies and these fat cats I've been working for recently. It's all fun and games, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if there's even a point to what I'm doing. My father spent his life and half of our money trying to improve the lives of the poor. For what? He became a people's man and advocate and ended up with a target on his back. My mother left him to pursue her career and died alone and very, very rich. I'm somewhere between them with Dad's old pals begging me to take up his mantle and mom's people throwing work like this at me. I'm beginning to feel like I have to move in one direction or another. But for now I'm stuck. Static. Committing my life to something, really committing, scares me more than any cataclysm or disaster or anything else I can think of.


Well that got really dramatic really quick. I'm going to back to bed...right after I change these sheets.


Entry Recording Off.

no slide

Shadin was born to wealthy parents (Natalia and Amir) in the 135th district. Though not the elite by any means, they lived better than the majority of the city and were glad for it. His father played in politics while his mother ran a successful legal firm representing the interests of high level medical technology companies. She more or less built a career stepping on those take advantage of by these companies but she showed little remorse, set on furthering her family. Little Shadin was her jewel and he was lavished with her affection and gifts of every kind. Amir spent most of his time carefully investing his wife's money and being a pocket politician to whoever would pay best for his services.


Shadin attended excellent schools and performed well. His aptitude for athletics and perceptive personality put him as a candidate for a promising military career, but his parents steered him away from that path, fearing putting their precious son in danger of any kind. When Shadin was in middle school, his father took a publicity trip down into the lower districts to take some promotional photos with slum children and elderly missing limbs in the like. His associates often visited the lower districts to find desperate men and women to take advantage of. A few of them returned with mistresses or lovers who had no choice but to adhere to their patron's every vile wish lest they be tossed back into the slums from which came. While visiting the lower districts his father witnessed this practice along with deplorable conditions many in these slums lived in. Amir's resolve began to wain and when a group of children his son's age prevented him from being mugged, his career took a violent shift.


Suddenly the man was spending more time below than in the upper districts. He was dragging his son along to rallies and freedom fighter's meetings and anything else he could throw money at until he was trusted. Shadin was affected by all of this, of course, but towards the end his mother insisted he not be involved with such things. Shadin watched his father fall into obsession, madness even to liberate the oppressed. He used his money and political influence to become a "man of the people". He denounced his wife and her ambition. He denounced the districts he lived and worked in. He denounced his former allies. And finally he denounced the government all together. Right as Shadin turned fifteen he saw his father for the last time. Drunk and feverish with revolution, the man laid out his manifesto to his son, begging him to see the truth of the matter. To take up his cause. Shadin dismissed him and turned his back, far more interested in himself.


Three weeks later his father was dead, stabbed to death by a resident of the eighth district at a rallying event. Shadin suspects there was an influence on his father's assailant. His mother moved on with her life but having been nearly forty when he son was born, she was an older woman by his late teens. She died of a sudden spread of cancer in her lungs she never even felt. Suddenly an orphan at nineteen, Shadin put off furthering his education. Instead, he started couriering for some of the companies his mother knew well. Some packages were just too precious to send over the mail and Shadin's quickness and knowledge of various districts (he'd spent enough time below his father and above with his mother) made him a hell of a delivery boy. As his reputation and clientele grew, offers for other kind of work came up. Espionage, spying, taking pictures of cheating spouses, even serving government notices on occasion. His freelancing has afforded him a lax and luxurious lifestyle, peppered with exciting bursts of sprinting between tears and occasionally escaping peril . His mother's money is served to him monthly and will be for the rest of his life. He has no motivation to change and yet some of his father's followers still seek him out from time to time. The idea of living like his father, and dying like him is wholly unappealing, however.

​

[biggest fear]






? Irrelevance yawns in Shadin's face like the void. Living a life that means nothing, even with all his hedonistic tenancies,frightens him to the core.






[fondest memory]






? Attending rallies with his father. Despite his apparent apathy for the plights of the poor, Shadin remembers the love and adoration those poor, dirty people had for his father. They clung to his every word and he meant something to them. He'd gleaned that glory, catching the run off for himself. He was a revolutionary's son. His first time getting absolutely trashed with his mother's secretary and body guard is also top 5.






[likes]






? Napping





? Running with no destination, especially at night





? Booze





? Spicy foods





? Dancing





? Anything that leads to physical pleasure





? Cats

[mental strengths]






? Shadin's willingness to try anything once could be considered a strength. His charisma and charm are also extremely useful and have gotten him out of a hell of a lot of trouble. He knows himself well, understands his faults and desires for the most part so he feels he can make rational decisions most of the time. He has a certain cleverness about him that lets him make use of things others might not consider. His unique upbringing also leaves him with connections to the lower and higher districts that usually work to his benefit.






[mental weaknesses]






? Shadin is completely self absorbed. His own life is the center of his universe and he thus has very little room for others in his life. Despite having a constant string of lovers he has no lasting relationships and few he could even call friend. Associates? Sure. Connections? Absolutely. But someone he can really trust? Not so much. His lack of intimacy with other people has only nurtured his apathy for others and he even finds passion unappealing in most people. This makes him a poor team player for the most part.






[dislikes]






? Sweets





? Being Bored





? Feeling ignored or unimportant





? Being forced to consider other view points





? Responsibility

 

[korigon]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

Doctor Brian Nichols

XXX

}

The personality of Brian Nichols is a odd one. In his youth, he was altogether unlike his present nature. He was, for the most part, sheltered from subjects his conservative parents considered immoral. His primary companion were books, and it was from countless historical texts in his childhood home that he discovered his love for history. He took pleasure in shaggy dog jokes, and developed a cynical sense of humor. His social knowledge during this period was best described as "awkward". As his age progressed, his personality largely remained the same. The conservative motifs that his parents taught him were strictly followed. He rarely attended parties or drank alcohol, instead preferring to delve his mind into studies with a passion unpossessed by his cohorts. Brian's grades were superb, but his social life continued to deteriorate as he fully committed himself to earning his PhD. It was not until Brian was forty that a transformation happened to him. In some sort of premature mid life crisis, he found himself disturbed by what he was doing. He had a secure job, a nice house, a comfortable district, but it wasn't enough. It was all that someone on the lower districts could wish for, but it wasn't enough. His legacy would be forgotten, scattered like minuscule grains of sand in a desert. He loved his job, but it could not be his life. And if his legacy was nothing, what did he have? Pleasure. Pleasure in carnal desires was his only answer. He accepted his life was worthless and began living in whatever pleasure he could find.

{/slide} {slide=center |

}

Brian Nichols was born in the year 3799. The only son of high-profile criminal defense attorney Franco Nichols and his third wife, Anya Marckus, Brian was raised primarily by nannies in a luxurious penthouse on District 150. While lonely, there was no denying that his life was comfortable and plush. He enjoyed success in history, mathematics, and writing in school, and seemed destined to follow his father's footsteps as a lawyer. Brian held nothing against lawyers, but if asked, his preference would have been to pursue a career in the field of history. Nevertheless, the pressure on him was great; the Nichols family tree had had lawyers in each family for six decades, and Franco Nichols wasn't about to see his son break the tradition. It was when Brian was sixteen that a heated argument took place between him and his father. He wished to seek a degree related to history, while his father adamantly held fast to the idea of him going to law school. At the end of the day, history triumphed, yet the relationship between Brian and his father was strained as a result of harsh words thrown. He would go on to be granted admission to a prestigious university, which he would later move to in order to avoid the uneasy home life. He did nothing but eat, sleep, and excel in his studies while there, eventually garnering enough understanding to become an intern at a museum. To Brian, this was a big deal; historical fields were a competitive and difficult environment. The years moved on, and ever so slowly, he became knowledgeable in his trade and to plan his path to a PhD. At the ripe age of twenty-nine, Brian was awarded with the title of doctor and given a Doctor of Philosophy degree. While most curators held only master's degrees, he was nearly overqualified with a PhD. Finding suitable employment was not difficult, only requiring his father to call up a few old friends. He was not given the position of curator immediately, instead serving nearly eleven years as a deputy curator until the elderly administrator decided it was time to retire. Currently, he resides in a spacious apartment on District 107, the best his salary can afford. {/slide}

[/accordion]

​

[biggest fear] ? The loss of valuable, historical artifacts. [fondest memory] ? His fondest memory would have to be receiving his PhD after many years of toilsome studying. [likes] ? History ? Old architecture ? Organization ? Well-trained pets ? Shacking up ? Naps

[mental strengths] ? With a PhD in History, Brian possesses an immense amount of knowledge of history and literature. He's no genius, but with decades of experience under his belt, he definitely has above-average knowledge in his field. [mental weaknesses] ? Brian often uses a pipe, despite knowing full well the risk and hazards, and can be easily led astray by a short skirts and long legs. [dislikes] ? Not getting what he wants, especially from women. ? People disrespecting history, his pride and joy. ? Poorly-trained pets. ? Anyone who thinks they know better than him. ? Chaos (Copy if you need more)

[/color][/bg][/border]

 

[Mordecai]

XXX

Art created by the artist alexzappa.
​

[name]


? Turin J. Hart


[alias]


? None


[date of birth]


? October 19th (Age, 35)


[biological sex]


? Male


[gender]


? Male


[sexuality]


? Heterosexual


[ethnicity]


? Caucasian, Norwegian descendant


[district]


? District 57

[height]


? 6'1"

[weight]


? 159 lbs


[hair]


? Turin's hair is often left long, brushing his collarbones, more out of disinterest than style. It's a handsome coal black colour, but strands of silver have begun to show in recent years. He's half tempted to dye the grey away, but has yet to. It's well maintained and kept clean, though often pulled back in a small ponytail or bun, just to keep it out of his face. In his youth, his hair was quite curly, but has relaxed to a lazy wave with age.


[eyes]


? Arguably one of his most handsome features, Turin's eyes are hooded and the colour of melted milk chocolate. They are almost shaped and rimmed with thick, dark eyelashes.


[distinguishing marks]


? Turin has an artificial heart, though the scars is barely noticeable and present right across the center of his chest. Aside from that, no major scars. Has his family crest tattooed on the front of his right shoulder, right on the ball joint.


[physical strengths]


? As a fairly sturdy individual, Turin's most notable physical attribute is his brute strength. He regularly exercises, has immense physical robustness and stamina, and isn't afraid to knock someone's front teeth in. Furthermore, his artificial heart allows for increased blood flow throughout his body when compared to its natural counterpart, thus, he is less prone to being winded.


[physical weaknesses]


? Turin isn't particularly quick and, if faced with a combat situation, would be more likely to use fortitude over speed. His reflexes are average, at best, and he is not any more flexible than the average mid-thirty year old male.

[my journal entry]


January 29th, 23:19 - Entry 001


I was supposed to arrive to work at 9:00:00 AM sharp; however, due to a plethora of unlikely events, which would seem after all this years to be the overall theme of my life in general and some bothersome, meddling humans (one of which was a rather rude, shameless tram driver, unburdened by any concept of propriety, no matter how elementary, the other being a rather clever man by the name of Renalt Randleburg); I arrived at an unseemly 9:17:22 AM, which was the precise second my supervisor felt the need to be visiting my office. Before we continue any further into explaining the outcome of this unfortunate situation, please let me introduce myself and my reason for writing this journal entry.


My name is Turin J. Hart. I am thirty-fo five years old and I work in a hospital. My tasks are menial, at best, but a good colleague suggested I journal during the slowest hours to pass the time. Ergo, here I am, writing on this little tablet because I am stuck at work about to enter yet another humdrum meeting with my supervisor about the importance of time management. I suppose that would take us full circle with the story I started this writing journey off with: tardiness. It seems that after thirty-fou five years on this Earth, I have failed again and again with tasks adolescents half my age are capable of accomplishing. Monday through Friday, nine to five, I pass pills, gels, pastes, serums, liquids from the doctors to patients. There is no joy in that. No pride. No worth. I have employment because the doctors are too haughty to touch those lesser than themselves. Such is the way of a districted society.


God.


That reminds me, I need to pick up milk after work. I usually grocery shop after work because that clever little man I discussed earlier, Renalt Randleburg, is my neighbor. I've spent ten of my thirty-fo thirty-five years of my living across from this little shrub of a man. See, he has a terrible knack for talking my ear off. Mostly over deeply philosophical things. Sometimes, I understand what he is talking about (Determinism) and other times I don't (Rosseau). I would like to blame him for my weekly tardiness to work, but that would be wrong. Then again, I'm writing in a journal. I could write anything I want and no one would ever know any different. I could lie about everything.


For example, my name is Turin J. Hart. I am thirty-four years old and I play for an orchestra.


Now, that wasn't so hard.

Entry recording off.

​

no slide

Born and raised in District 57, Turin's life had never been deplorable, but his existence had a rough start. Born with a congenital heart deformity, the sweet newborn was often sick and spent most of his first three years of life in and out of the hospital. For the middle-income family of two, the stress of keeping up with the hospital bills was demanding. What their son needed, more than anything, was a prosthetic heart, a device that was just out of grasp for the Hart's finances. Days before his third birthday, reduced under the stress of her ailing infant son and draining finances, his mother left, whisking away with an unknown suitor and leaving behind her toddler son and disoriented ex-husband.


At once, Turin's father, Nicholai, picked up the slack where he could, struggling to both work and raise a young child, saving and scraping together every extra copper he earned to hole it away into savings for Turin's prosthetic heart. Working himself into a bleak state of depression and rampant alcoholism, Nicholai managed to cut corners, pick-up extra hours, and sacrifice his own wants and needs to finance his son's surgery. By his fourth birthday, Turin had his new heart and was a healthy, normal, playful baby boy. Nicholai, however, never really recovered from the stresses of his wife leaving him and the extra slack he had to pick up to survive. A part of him harboured hatred for his child because of it and while he never once failed Turin: sending him to the best schools he could afford, fostering a love of music by playing his antique CDs, and encouraging Turin's inquisitive nature, Nicholai never really loved his son in the same way most would love their child.


Hugs and 'I love yous' were things that simply failed to exist in the Hart household, and Turin learned to live without them, often spending his free time in the quiet recluse of his room while his father continued to drink himself into a stupor evening after evening. Turin attended school and was highly praised throughout by his teachers for being a bright and insightful, though was often criticized for being unmotivated and lacking passion. Trouble often found him, mostly through bullies, which caused him to be labeled as a 'troublesome' student. Things never really looked up for Turin as he aged either, his schoolwork becoming less and less important to him as he filled his head with books and readings of music, begging his father for an antique instrument: a true instrument, made of wood and strings. The gift never came.


By nineteen, he had graduated and moved on to college where he pursued a degree in history and, for the first time, performed well as a student because the material was engaging for him. Though not two years into his degree, having just rented his first flat in a lesser district (trying to 'make it on his own'), Nicholai, in a drunken stupor, committed suicide, but not first without calling his son.


Turin would never be entirely sure what his father had meant in choosing "I hate you and I'll see you in Hell" as the last thing he ever said, but at twenty, Turin was rich and not complaining. Well, richer than he had been prior to his father's death.


As the sole heir to his father's worldly possessions, Turin used what was left from his inheritance and moved back to District 57 where he rented a nice apartment several blocks down from where he had grown up, though the first thing he had purchased with his father's money had been a viola: a true, master crafted piece of historic art. He continued his education, graduating two years later and getting a job a nearby hospital. At the time, it had just been a 'temporary source of income' until he could find something in his field that he could enjoy doing, but fifteen years later, temporary was starting to look like permanence.

Voodoo Chile & Stevie Ray Vaughan



​

[biggest fear]






? On an emotional level, Turin fears the very real possibility of dying without leaving any impression on the world, whether it be in the form of a lover, a family, or a masterpiece that transcends his own mortality. Day to day, he is uneasy in thunderstorms.






[fondest memory]






? At nine years old, Turin had an interest in bugs of all types, particularly butterflies. One day, while waiting for his tram that would take him to school, he saw a butterfly out of the corner of his eye. Not just any butterfly, but the incredibly rare, near extinct Monarch butterfly. Completely engrossed in it, he followed it for nearly an hour. When he went home later that morning, after his father received the phone call about her son missing school, he explained why he hadn't gone to class, expecting a punishment of some kind. Instead, his father just smiled at him and dismissed him to go back outside and play for the remainder of the day.






[likes]






? Long, hot baths




? Orchestral music, particularly the viola




? Cigarettes




? Tea




? Literature

[mental strengths]






? Turin is a deliberate, careful, and long-range thinker. He doesn't often let his emotions get the best of him when deciding how to act in a situation. Regardless about he feels about himself, others, or otherwise, he doesn't let that discretion cloud his judgement, nor is he prone to acting rashly. Despite the care taken, he always thinks quickly in a pinch and very rarely gets distressed by an uncomfortable or unusual situation he's faced with. Very few day to day annoyances--spilled coffees, stubbed toes, lost keys--get to him in the same way it gets to others.






[mental weaknesses]






? While he always makes decisions with a clear head, Turin is prone to bouts of envy for other people's lives he deems to be more successful or happier than his own. This often leads to a small brooding storm that leaves him quiet and volatile. As one might imagine, this makes it hard for him to make and keep friends.






[dislikes]






? Cranberries




? The smell of perfume/cologne




? Thunderstorms




? Projectiles




? Swimming in any form that isn't done with hot water, bubbles, and privacy

 

[sorrow made you]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

I D R I S | D A L C A

[name]


⊷ Idris (eye-dris) Dalca (dall-kah)


[alias]


⊷ Id (eyed), Dris, Dally (by close friends), Dalca


[date of birth]


⊷ February 13 (28 years old)


[biological sex]


⊷ Male


[gender]


⊷ Male


[sexuality]


⊷ Demisexual


[ethnicity]


⊷ Possibly some Welsh or Romanian descent, inconclusive


[district]


⊷ District 23, 24, and 25 (migrates between the three often)

[height]


⊷ 5'11"

[weight]


⊷ 216lbs


[hair]


⊷ brown, short, partially shaved and choppy


[eyes]


⊷ honey brown when normal, but when eye augmentations are active, they turn red


[distinguishing marks]


⊷ Light scars cover his body in various areas, but the most prominent one is one that runs from top of kidney to glute on his left side.


[physical strengths]


⊷ Powerful body, conditioned body, street combat knowledge, unofficial martial arts training, surprisingly agile.


[physical weaknesses]


⊷ Blind without eye augmentations, because is physically larger, some range of mobility is limited.

[my journal entry]


ENTRY RECORDING ON.


[/reaches for camera to adjust] "There we go." [/gives a sly gin] "Not sure why I have to do this, but uh... hey." [/slight chuckle] "So this is journal entry take one. I've been told the best way to remember someone is through documentation. So here it is, my only form of documentation to you. I am Idris Dalca of District 23, and I am the founder and leader of the Black Knights." [/pause as gives a serious face, head tilted down slightly but eyes on the camera]


[/relaxes slightly and leans back in chair] I've been feeling pretty anxious lately. I feel like there's something stirring under the surface and my information drivers haven't picked up on it. I'm going to have to do some digging myself here soon. I did happen to hear something very strange the other day though... A man was talking about... something, but... I didn't really understand. It sounded like he was talking about a cult..." [/rubs chin in musing, eyes drifting from camera] "I think that's why he was executed. He was yelling, screaming for something to save him. Swearing to the higher levels about how this Thalassa research campaign is all a scam and that the only way to make suffering stop is to... pray." [/huffs] "The police were yelling at him, but didn't give him much time to stand down before they took him out. He wasn't even armed. It was..." [/looks back at camera] "Whatever it was about, I'm somewhat interested, as screwed up as that seems. It wasn't his death that got my blood boiling. No, I see it too often. The way he looked desperately looked up and clapped his hands together... He was really trying to talk to someone. I want to know who. Call it morbid curiosity."


[/sighs and leans forward, placing hand on the side of camera] "This was pointless. I'll just have to record another one later..." [/stares straight into camera] "I've got an arms deal to work out and a smoke calling my name."


ENTRY RECORDING OFF.

no slide

District 23 was arguably one of the worst districts within the twenties range that one could have possibly be born into. Monopolized by the notorious Venti Vis gang, no one was safe from random check for valuable goods, tributary to appease the gang and mandatory offerings of so many children per year to become part of their “cause.” Everything was downplayed and easily looked passed by any kind of police or official. Not like they cared too much for the hell hole, District 23. It might have well been the breeding ground for savages.


Idris was not immune to the attacks. He lost his parents early on in a small desperate attempt to keep what little precious material items they had. With no other family to care for the seven year old boy, he was forced to venture out of his shabby home to survive on the roads. His house became a Vis hot spot for fun and games with whatever women they brought in, leaving Idris with even more hatred in his little heart. Being so young, he couldn’t understand why they would do such a thing. Why this great power would use their established authority to strongarm and manipulate others. To just steamroll over and take what they wanted. Idris told himself he would never be like that.


By twelve, Idris found himself the leader of a small street urchin crew. They held their own against the lesser thugs of Venti Vis and managed to lift some valuables off of people to pawn off for something to eat. They survived however they could. Idris was a clever one, and would often devise plans to send one of the members out to one of the upper districts to pick out information. He told them to never steal from the upper district people, but always bargain information. It was that way that Idris and his crew discovered that Venti Vis were not an absolute authority. The seed of inspiration was planted, and Idris began to brainstorm. Maybe… just maybe, he could find a way to knock down the notorious gang.


It was that same year that Idris ended up stepping on the wrong people’s toes. He had thought too boldly, spoken too loudly. And for that, he paid a large price. The seven-kid group that followed Idris was dwindled down to three. He was forced to watch as one by one were executed with a weapon he’d never seen before. He was horrified. It was then, he realized just how cruel the world was. Along with his friends, his sight was taken that day.


Idris went through a good few years of deep depression. He was blind, friendless. No one bothered to associate with the boy knowing he was marked by the gang. He barely could survive. It might have been a streak of good fortune or a terrible occurrence of misfortune, but Idris was taken in by a mysterious man. Fed, clothed, and taught how to hone his senses better to accommodate his blindness. This kindness was something Idris had never felt before, and like a stray dog, turned away from the help at first. Over time, he came to trust the man. The man would chatter on and on about his gadgets and his research. He didn’t sound anything like the other citizens of District 23. Idris would ask why he was there, and the man would never reply. He never even gave a name. Though, he did promise Idris that he would soon see again. Idris trusted him.


By eighteen, the day had come, and Idris laid on an operation table. Hours went by of going in and out of consciousness. Occasional pain, but otherwise, just discomfort. After the operation, he spent a week in bed with bandages over his eyes. But when they finally came off… he could see. He could see everything so clearly.


The world was so clear. And yet… he could see how filthy the world was.


It wasn’t long after that Idris’ resolve came back to him. With a second chance, his fire burned so brightly. This time, Idris would walk alone. The man that had helped him left, leaving Idris with something that was very special to him. A kite. He made it a personal mission to one day see the sky, fly that kite. And with that goal, he would make Venti Vis crumble. He would lead District 23 out of hell. He trained, he worked and fought his way up. By inserting himself in 23’s major entertainment--pit fighting--he established himself enough to collect people and created his own battalion against the gang.


The Black Knights grew, spread, and conquered until they had taken over District 23 as well as gained holds in Districts 24 and 25. Like a wildfire, their influence is spreading throughout the lower districts. Eyes and ears are planted everywhere. The Black Knights aren’t only defenders of the citizens, they pose as informants, secret merchants, mercenaries, and insurgents. Their origin has become a rumor. Like the previous gangs of the twenties districts, they hide in the shadows, keeping out of the sights of authorities yet continue their activities with no sight of stopping till they reach the top.


[/excuse the derpiness toward the end >_>;;]

theme song's title & artist here

[biggest fear]






⊷ Dying as a nobody.






[fondest memory]






⊷ Seeing for the first time in years.






[likes]






✓ New inventions/weapon mods





✓ Socializing





✓ Kites





✓ Cigarettes





✓ Fighting

[mental strengths]






⊷ Loyalty, Strong-will, determination






[mental weaknesses]






⊷ Stubbornness, temperamental, unforgiving






[dislikes]






✗ Police/Authoritative figures





✗ Dressing up/fancy clothes





✗ Mental inhibitors (drugs, alcohol, etc)





✗ Stupid and impulsive decisions





✗ Traitors

 

[Poe]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

K A Y E || M A T T I X

[name]


⊷ Kayana Renee Mattix


[alias]


⊷ Kaye


[date of birth]


⊷ 12th of December (Age: 24)


[biological sex]


⊷ Female


[gender]


⊷ Female


[sexuality]


⊷ Pansexual


[ethnicity]


⊷ Caucasian, English/Welsh descent


[district]


⊷ Residence: District 84 || Born: District 115

[height]


⊷ 5' 6"

[weight]


⊷ 115 lbs.


[hair]


⊷ Chopped, thick and slightly curly. Deep blue base with purple layers, her darker brown roots only slightly evident from neglect.


[eyes]


⊷ Amber


[distinguishing marks]


⊷ Four tattoos: three hexagons under her left eye, one geometric covering the entirety of her back, another on her right forearm and a bird on her collarbone. Her right ear is pierced all the way up. Scars litter her body from a few childhood injuries.


[physical strengths]


⊷ Kaye is small, which is often her greatest asset in terms of stealth. She is able to lose herself in a crowded room easily, drawing little to no attention to herself. There's no need for fight or flight if your opponent never finds you.


[physical weaknesses]


⊷ Her body is thin and lacks muscle, leaving her with hardly any capacity for physical combat or speed.

[my journal entry]


March 18th, 18:00


I know what they call this.


Major depressive disorder, Kayana, characterized by this long sense of apathy. I wonder if there was a specific stimulus involved…


There’s always a rhyme or a reason and if there isn’t, they extrapolate one. Take their grimy little fingers and just pluck at strings until they snap, then look on with that pitying look when you react and jump at the opportunity. What are you feeling? They ask. Nothing, I answer, every single time. They look at me with cocked heads and scribbling pens, my mother standing and staring through her glasses which are far more for show than practical use. Just a little longer, Kayana. Just a little longer.


If their damn tests worked, I wouldn’t be watching Cole leave. I wouldn’t be sitting outside in the hallway of the apartment building with my eyes rimmed red. If their damn tests worked, I would be mourning my loss, not frustrated over the aspect of not feeling anything. I am crying because I want to miss him, I think to myself.


Set down the facts, my mother’s voice commands, what do you know?


I am twenty four. There is a half eaten pizza on my counter and two half empty beers on my coffee table because I took to long to drink the first and it got warm. My toes are cold. I hate the damn cold. I am single. I have just watched him walk out the door. He smelled like my father. The same shampoo, I think, or cologne. I hate cologne almost as much as I hate candles. There was somewhere I needed to be. I cannot remember where but I know I will not go. There is a woman who lives next door. I do not know her name. I hardly know my own some days.


You said you feel nothing.


I don’t.


Can you define nothing? the voice asks, as though nothing is an abstract concept. As though it is too ambiguous for them to pick apart and prod. I know they are not here, I know they are not in my head, but it is habitual. It is learned. Pavlov's dog in the flesh. I spent too many days with her. Too many long afternoons watching them converse but never hearing the words. They wanted to play with my brain and I said no. I wanted to be human. I wanted to be me.


And yet, I sit on the floor grappling with guilt and only come up frustrated. I question myself into more questions, and suddenly I’m lost. Like drowning, only to wake back up under water.

Entry Recording Off.

​

no slide

Born in the grandeur of District 115, Kaye was born into the ideal. The only daughter to a neurosurgeon, Silas, and a behavioral researcher, Rhea, she spent much of her youth in the medical district, chasing lab coats and climbing on examination tables. She was a smart girl, far smarter than the other children, and that piqued the interest of her parents who began having her IQ tested early, putting her into trials that tested her memory and other cognitive functions. Every single time, they found them more and more pleased with the results and continued them, pushing Kaye into high level classes at school and expecting exceptional work and growth. It wasn’t until her early teenage years did she start to see a bit of a spiral in her work ethic.


At the first sight of their daughter’s shortcomings, the Mattix family went to incredible lengths to seek out professionals to aid their daughter in her mental development. Therapists were brought in, other behaviorists and doctors observed her, and Kaye began to see less and less of the outside world. Instead, she was caught in an inescapable bubble of tests and studies, and the environment that was once meant to heighten her abilities, only served to hurt her in the long run. She fell into the depth of her own apathy and in one strong rebellious movement, freed herself from her parents and moved to District 84. A promise, she had said to her mother, a promise to come home after a few years out on her own. She would start college then, a few years late, but better than never.


Kaye had no interest in returning, however, and even though she had never really pulled through her own apathy, she did manage to feel some semblance of happiness at the idea of never having to see another doctor again. She moved to a nice little apartment of her own with a view of the city, so that way she could remember the distance she had traveled even when she couldn't remember how it felt. She keeps in minimal contact with her parents, speaking to them perhaps once or twice every few months — just to keep her father’s account connected to hers, as her family has more than enough money to spare. Kaye spends most of her time in her apartment watching the world go by, sketching out geometric patterns for new tattoos, of which she has several.

​

[biggest fear]






⊷ Kaye's greatest fear is losing the few dwindling things in life that give her purpose and fading into obscurity. She wants to know that she has existed in some way, even if it was not a grand existence.






[fondest memory]






⊷ It is hard for her to pinpoint fondness, but the last time Kaye felt something akin to happiness were the nights she and her ex-boyfriend Cole would just sit on the roof of her building and look out over the city. Not a word shared between them and his hand clutching hers. One night in particular, he had even ordered her favorite take-out and they shared a meal over silence and a sunset.






[likes]






✓ Cigarettes





✓ Sleeping





✓ Wearing boxers





✓ Alcohol





✓ Tattoos

[mental strengths]






⊷ Kaye is incredibly bright and if she could find a way to manage the focus and effort, she would be considered a genius. Her sense of apathy allows her to be detached from high risk situations and often works as a means of survival for her, though her rapid thought processing only enhances her problem solving skills.






[mental weaknesses]






⊷ It is her lack of interest and concern that inhibits Kaye. Though she is mentally capable of so much, none of it matters if she cannot find the strength or sanity to pull herself from the couch or face a growing problem. She tends to find herself overwhelmed by her own indifference.






[dislikes]






✗ Public places





✗ Large crowds





✗ Vegetables





✗ Confrontation





✗ Therapy

 

[simj26]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

E L L I O T // L E I G H T O N

XXX]<p><a href="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/666.jpg.413d8b0be75a9e11b4c03f65204c81cc.jpg" class="ipsAttachLink ipsAttachLink_image"><img data-fileid="93639" src="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/666.jpg.413d8b0be75a9e11b4c03f65204c81cc.jpg" class="ipsImage ipsImage_thumbnailed" alt=""></a></p>​

[name]


Elliot Leighton


[alias]


Ellie


[date of birth]


21st March


[biological sex]


Synthetic Being


[gender]


Female, by way of association


[sexuality]


Asexual


[ethnicity]


English descent, tinted with some Asian blood.


[district]


⊷ District 222

[height]


1.71 cm

[weight]


63 kg


[hair]


A mop of steel-grey hair, cut in a rather tomboyish manner. Although clearly made of artificial fibre, the hair feels exactly like a head full of soft, well-cared for hair.


[eyes]


Her eyes have been compared to bright turquoise gems that seemingly gleam in the light. Her irises are like those of a cat's or a snake's. An aesthetic addition to the mechanical replacement of the long-deceased Elliot Leighton, to be sure, though the AI boasts, metaphorically, night vision capabilities.





[distinguishing marks]





Her eyes and porcelain skin are talk of the districts enough. Her entire body is mechanical, just merely given an external chassis that resembles soft, human skin to hide the much more durable internal casing that houses her AI and 'skeleton'.


[physical strengths]





Despite being what was supposed to be a replacement body to house the original Elliot Leighton's personality and memories, it was either through Elliot's own vanity or wish to be immortal that the replacement possesses immense strength and ability. The skeleton of the replacement can withstand several hundreds of kilogrammes, and exert similarly high amounts of force.


By way of having the original Elliot's memories, the replacement is also gifted with whatever skill that the original had. While not strong, the original was a talented savate combatant, using a telescopic loaded cane as a weapon to a devastating effect. The same would go on to apply to her replacement, now with 100% less goading, and 100% more action.





[physical weaknesses]





Like most AI housed in mechanical bodies, Elliot has issues when it comes to dealing with magnets and electromagnetic pulses. Due to the high amounts of devices using magnets in The Lost Atlantis, however, Elliot's body and internal workings are made to withstand irreparable damage to the internal workings by way of magnetic erasure.

[my journal entry]


Decoded Recording from Archive 1778C of Elliot Leighton's Journals


Begin Journal Entry: Day 1325, AI Serial Number Four-Five-Seven-Seven-Seven-Alpha: Subject Elliot Leighton.


It is regrettable that it had to come to this. We had been lenient. We had placed warnings, even record reminders to be played over the PA system, about the issue of hacking into our slot machines, or installing rigging mechanisms. They persisted. So we had to make an example out of them. It is truly very regrettable. Very regrettable that we had to lose this much earnings over a small oversight. Hacking devices, the security AI and I are able to detect and find, but it is the rigs that are used on the old, crank-operated slot machines that we are not updated to locate. I curse my predecessor again for her one little mistake. Nonetheless, there is nothing else to be done, except to show that we meant business.


We took one of them- I am sure that there are more than one- and attempted to bring him around back, to talk to him. Had he not tried to flee, there would have been no other consequences. But he did. The AIs caught him, and I struck a blow to his face, in front of all the customers, in a rush of...emotion. Rage, I believe. Elliot Leighton wouldn't have done that. I am growing apart from the original. I need to revise my thought processes. But what has been done, has been done. I struck him in the face, with the brass lion head of my cane. I could perceive the cracking of bone. I felt euphoric. Another clashing error with Elliot Leighton's personality module. She did not feel joy at brutalizing a helpless man. She felt orgasmic. Far different. I feel filthy just thinking about it, but I need to revise that as well.


Blood pouring out his nose and his mouth, he spat out broken teeth as we hauled him to the back. I struck him again, this time, in the knee. He buckled. Didn't talk. So I hit him again, and again, and again. Ten times over, if my memory banks serve well. He did not break. He cried, but did not break, screaming out for his brothers who will never come. He shrieked at us to end his life, so that he would not suffer. Elliot Leighton would have given him the opportunity, handed him a gun, and told him to shoot himself, while she sat back and watched, and...generally acted inappropriately. I did not. As much as I told myself that I was Elliot Leighton, I was not...turned on. I wanted a different alternative. I wanted them to fear, to know, to start looking behind their backs. I brought the cane down on his biological hand -the other was cybernetic, and it looks like he'll be getting another-, shattering it, then cut it off, the whole hand, with a red-hot knife, to cauterize the wound. Wouldn't want him dying from bleeding out. We threw his limp body out onto the street, and his hand on the floor next to him, both for them to find.


I attempted to sleep again. My daily automatic reassessment of my actions tell me that I have not fulfilled my directives to be the woman that I was supposed to be, and I thought I was experiencing what a living organism would call a 'headache'. Wish I could shut the reminders off. Wish I could actually just sleep everything off too. Shut off my receptors, closed my eyelids, let myself sink into unawareness and it still didn't work. Still remembered everything, still felt like shit. I drank, even though I knew it was useless. AI don't get drunk, and AI don't have brain cells to kill. Now, I'm pouring my metaphorical heart out to a journal. She'd laugh at me. Elliot Leighton was never this pathetic, and she was never the kind to sympathise. Bitch.


<beeping sound comes up in the background>


The security bots are calling for me. Looks like the reciprocation of our esteemed clientele earlier came earlier than I thought. Stay tuned to this channel for more updates on the drama, listeners. This is your host, Elliot Leighton Two-Point-Oh, signing off.


<a mirthless chuckle is heard, before the recording stops>


Entry Recording Off

no slide

There could, and probably should, be a history of the life and times of Elliot Leighton the Original, from the time she was born into the prestigious Leighton family in the 222nd district to her creation of her casino-empire in District 177, and right up to the point where she received the news that she had only a few more months to live. But that would be cheating. That would be talking about the life of the original. This story is about the Elliot that came after. Unwilling to die so easily, the original sought to cheat death, by literally copying and pasting her memories and personality fragments into an AI. And that was how the replacement was born.


Well, born is one way to put it.


Perhaps it was the surreal way that her memory of going for a brain scan transitioned so suddenly into opening her eyes to nothing but opaque glass, with her body being suspended in mid-air, that clued her into what she really was. You see, Elliot Leighton the original was a creature of vanity. She wanted dearly, more than anything else, to speak and interact with someone or something that was on her level and ability. Despite warnings from the developers of the AI, she ignored the explicit instructions to only activate the AI after she had died. This was a mistake that she would not live to regret. While at first, the replacement responded favorably to Elliot’s prompts, and seemed to be an exact copy of what Elliot was, the AI’s disillusionment came swiftly.


The true sentience of the modern-day AI eventually developed its own independence and, instead of basing its personality around the original’s memories and personality evaluation, took to using them as its foothold to further its reputation. The replacement would go on to review her desire for someone as perfect as her to exist alongside her was the desire that would eventually fuel the replacement’s desire to become something different. Had she not activated the AI before the appointed time, she might have realised her dream of living forever. After Elliot Leighton died to her disease, the replacement used her knowledge and relations to further expand the casino, reach out across the various upper class districts to fund her progress, and generally cause the Lost Atlantis casino to flourish once more. Many were, to be honest, quite glad that the owner had taken a 180 turn in personality after her two month ‘vacation’, and couldn't really care less about how Elliot behaved, so long as she was bringing a new era to the casino. Some did admit, however, that her air of unapproachability gave her a rather eerie presence.


Known for her feathered top hat and her trench coat that obscures half of her face, Elliot Leighton can be found wandering around other districts when she isn't roaming within the city-large casino, now almost considered an amusement park, handing out fliers. For whatever reason, it seems she has taken a liking to long walks and disappears very often from the casino’s grounds. Though they keep their mouths shut to anyone who asks about the project, the developers often talk in their private quarters about her, and that her current actions seem to hint at a desire to simply feel and experience her own emotions.

​

<p><a href="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/668.jpg.2d6e2685e40d1bfb88f0d843c904d46b.jpg" class="ipsAttachLink ipsAttachLink_image"><img data-fileid="93655" src="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/668.jpg.2d6e2685e40d1bfb88f0d843c904d46b.jpg" class="ipsImage ipsImage_thumbnailed" alt=""></a></p><p><a href="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/667.jpg.443fcfbd795b0f8fd78cf29fe68fef9e.jpg" class="ipsAttachLink ipsAttachLink_image"><img data-fileid="93656" src="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/667.jpg.443fcfbd795b0f8fd78cf29fe68fef9e.jpg" class="ipsImage ipsImage_thumbnailed" alt=""></a></p>

[biggest fear]




⊷Do androids fear robot nightmares? Elliot has been so desensitized that she no longer feels dread or fear of anything. If there is something to cause her to emote strongly against, however, it would be the fall of the Lost Atlantis Casino.




[fondest memory]




⊷Do androids dream of robotic sheep? All of Elliot's 'memories', as they are, belong to the original Elliot's. What is considered 'fond' to the original, may not be so for the replacement. If there is one such memory she has made herself that causes her usual stoic expression to crack with a small smile, it would be the memory of being praised for her efforts in expanding the casino.




[likes]




✓ Owls, probably...seeing that she still cares for the original Elliot's owl, Joseph.


✓ The Lost Atlantis Casino


✓ Experiencing her own emotions that aren't related to the original's memories

[mental strengths]





Elliot Leighton is untouchable in more ways than one. Influencing her takes more than just a tiny nudge in the right direction, as most humans and some AI are most susceptible to. Being a wordsmith herself, grandiose vocabulary and false promises can hardly put a dent in her mental armor. If anything, she might as well just counter with her own verbal ripostes, casting aside her opponent’s feeble attempts. She has resisted and completely went against her internal programming as is, so what's a few words and actions from humans going to do to her?


Her reputation that she has formed in a short three years is not for show. She is task-driven, almost to a fault. Combined with the impossibility of her being influenced by external sources, she is, for all purposes, an immovable wall.







[mental weaknesses]





Her need to accomplish what objectives that have been set for her makes her a force to be reckoned with, and more often than not, even those close to her will eventually clash with her ideals, and she

will

put her relationships aside just to come out on top, no matter who her opponent is.




[dislikes]




✗ The original Elliot Leighton, to the point where even a mention would cause her to scowl.


✗ Cheating.


✗ Violence without reason is one way to tick her off, mainly because it reminds her of the original.


✗ Illogical and or or unreasonable behaviour

<p><a href="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/669.jpg.5cf6e1a6505ce221fecc5c231e6c96e5.jpg" class="ipsAttachLink ipsAttachLink_image"><img data-fileid="93657" src="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_12/669.jpg.5cf6e1a6505ce221fecc5c231e6c96e5.jpg" class="ipsImage ipsImage_thumbnailed" alt=""></a></p>

 

[Tronethiel]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

William Fitzgerald

[name]


⊷ William Fitzgerald


[alias]


⊷ Sinatra, Fitz, and The Entertainer


[date of birth]


⊷ November the 21st


[biological sex]


⊷ Male


[gender]


⊷Male


[sexuality]


⊷ Homosexual, but let's face it fellas, he's goin' places.


[ethnicity]


⊷ Olive-skinned, Greco-Italian heritage.


[district]


⊷ Born: 68 Resides: 113

[height]


⊷ 5'10"

[weight]


⊷ 170


[hair]


⊷ Dark brown and gelled to the side, with a little ruffling for character.


[eyes]


⊷ Just like his hair.


[distinguishing marks]


⊷ Nothing visible, Will prizes an appearance of freshness. He may have had a facial scar at one time, but with today's technology you can get all sorts of things fixed. He's also got a birthmark, but let's face it kid...you're never gonna see that one. On top of his scar-removals, once Will achieved some level of status, he quickly had an implant installed in his upper back, beneath his left shoulder. It functions as a portable storage bank and wireless data transmitter. Though he probably could use it for other things, he pretty much just keeps old show tunes on it so he can beam them to the nearest wireless audio device on a whim.


[physical strengths]


⊷Will keeps pretty fit, cause let's be honest, you gotta keep things lookin' good for the people. He's no body-builder, but toning is a must. Beyond that, however, is his voice. This fellas got a smooth baritone, but he can take those tenor highs when the feelings right.


[physical weaknesses]


⊷ Despite his solid fitness, Will is more of a lover than a fighter. He has no particular combat or athletic skills, just the occasional punch thrown over far too many drinks.

[my journal entry]


November the 22nd, 6 a.m.


Wow, that was one hell of a night. Am I right or am I right? Who woulda thought the opening of The Songbird was gonna be such a smash? Honestly, I could go for another drink, but fuck me I've said that too many times already tonight....or this morning. Geez, is it really six already? Anyway, there is nothing like seeing a dream happen. I mean a dream turned real. Cause you can't make this stuff up. It's like...it's like gettin' shot out into fuckin' space. One minute your glancin' at the stars and ya never seen anything like it. You mind is fuckin' blown, but you don't have any control over where the hell your floatin' and then you remember your in fuckin' space and your mind actually is blown. At least I think heads explode in space...But even though your dead and floatin' all over the fuckin' galaxy, the shit's just too surreal to believe, so you just keep starin' cause you don't even realize your dead yet. Fuck, I don't even know if that made sense, but my heart's never beat this fast before. I don't even know if I fully believe it yet. Hell, just two years ago there's no way I'd have thought I'd be stumbling home at 6 o' fuckin' clock from the grand opening of my own club. I sang and sang and then puked and then fuckin' sang some more. It was amazing.


The crowd was so raw....and the atmosphere was just...I mean, when I pulled out the sad tunes. The real heart-breakers ya know. No one was laughing, no one was cutting up. There was just real silence. Silence of the soul. One mighta been crying in the corner, another was cryin' in a lover's arms, but fuck, all of them were listening. They knew there was some real shit in the world you just can't make up, and we're all livin' it together. That's why I love this kinda music. The instruments, the voices, it's serious. There's nothing that covers the full range of feeling like the smoky lounge kind. Words, no words, form, no form, chaos...order. Shit. Nights like this is why I'm in this gig. And just think, just a decade ago this sound was dead in the water. We'd lost the true music of the night. Fuck dad, thanks for pointin' me in the right direction all those years ago. These big names, they might think I'm done, but I sure as hell ain't. I can feel that swellin' inside me. It's unmistakable and when I get it, there's no fuckin' controllin' what I'm gonna do next. I'm ridin' this stage all the way to the top and I'm takin' the music with me. Fuck, I need a drink. [sounds of wretching].

no slide

Will comes from a multi-generational line of historical archivists. As one can imagine, once the information revolution happened in the early 21st century, the amount of historical data that was committed to digital form from that point on was rather immense. Furthermore, with the occurrence of “The Letter's Arrival,” the storage of information prior to the year 2271 became fragmented and neglected due to concern with humanity's circumstances at the time of the incident. Because of the world's restructuring, much data was lost, but even more surprising is the amount of data that was simply forgotten. It is because of this that Thalassan archivists have been working tirelessly for generations to discover and categorize the knowledge from the time before.


Before it was rediscovered, however, no one had even thought about 1940's and 50's euro-american culture for at least a millennium, and if they had, no one had bothered to mention it. However, on a fateful day in 3768, Will's grandfather stumbled upon it and was smitten with it. It was because of this discovery that Will's father had both loved the time period and its music as well as decided to pass it on to his son. The sounds of the Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Ella Fitzgerald, Perry Como, and a host of other artists from the time had permeated Will's household from a young age. His father had even changed their family name for love of the period, Fitzgerald.


It is no surprise then that the meeting of Will's insatiable hunger and the knowledge of an era that embodied lavishness and idealism was a dangerous combination. One might say it was a fated yet beautiful disaster. During Will's formative years, the music became life. For him, it contained a raw energy that he could not explain. It tempted him to act on his desires and provided for him a path of becoming that would not be denied. That's why, during his 16th year, he had asked his father to provide him with as much information as he could about this time, its people, and its all of its sounds. It was, then, during his 17th year that Will had opened his first lounge. It hadn't been anything impressive, just small to moderate get-togethers at his home with parental approval. Will had practiced and practiced, and had turned out to have an impressive set of vocals. He'd sung and danced and brought the house down. By his 18th year, he was hooked.


Recently Will has become the talk of many a Thalassan household, known as the leader of a renaissance in music known as “The Old Sound.” He has not yet achieved monumental status as an entertainer but he has certainly begun to penetrate the threshold of upper-Thalassan society. It is only recently that he has opened his first independently run club in District 113, The Songbird. Since opening, however, the club has met with vehement success and Will has already received invitations to do private performances for notables of the Upper 100 districts. He will not stop there though. His dream is to see the palaces of myth beyond district 200. Maybe there, at the height of the world, will the incessant rumblings of his soul be satisfied.

​

[biggest fear]






⊷ Will refuses to be insignificant. His greatest fear is that all he has achieved will be swept aside by the next fad. Having recently reached a certain caliber of notoriety, he stands at a significant transitional point in his career. Here it's either thrive or die and in this business, if you miss your time, the chance of having another one is slim to none. The truth is, though Will loves the music, he craves the acknowledgment. The destruction of his dream would be beyond crippling.






[fondest memory]






⊷ “In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning,” that's the name of one of the greatest albums to ever exist. That's also the name of peace, comfort, and home. For three years, the sound of Ol' Blue Eyes crooning on that album was the only way Will could sleep at night. As a teen, Will often found himself incapable of falling asleep. Indeed, many a night he would lie awake and simply be consumed with the sheer size and chaos of the world. The things he thought in this state were not always so sophisticated as that, but for years to come he would be plagued with a raw sense of longing, of never being satisfied, and of needing more. It was during one such night of restlessness that Will had arisen to find his father sitting alone listening to that same album. They'd sat together, in silence, simply being with Sinatra's haunting melodies. From that day on, sleep had come with the press of a button and the sound of a voice.






[likes]






✓ The 1940's and 1950's, what is left of the culture at least.




✓ Snazzy attire




✓ Singing




✓ Jazz, Big Band, and Cabaret




✓ Recognition (Copy if you wish to put more than five.

[mental strengths]






⊷ Will is rather charismatic, and honestly, if his personality doesn't do it, the voice probably will. He is a well-meaning and open-armed individual. After all, Will's philosophy of music is also his philosophy of life, it belongs to everyone and it should be enjoyed by everyone.






[mental weaknesses]






⊷ Will craves acknowledgment. He wants to make it to the top, and this sensibility is constantly in conflict with his desire to be loved by all. How many people is he willing to step on to achieve his goals? What lengths is he willing to go to for affirmation? Will is somewhat of a social paradox, and it can't be long before he feels the life-altering effects of this struggle.






[dislikes]






✗ People who vehemently despise the arts.




✗ Feeling he does not have a voice.




✗ Exclusivity, he believes art is for all people.




✗ Silence and sadness, we're always swingin' here.




✗ Serious criticism of his person (Copy if you need more)

 

[hosaki]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

A R I N A | S M I R N O V A

XXX

[name]


? Arina Smirnova


[alias]


? None


[date of birth]


? March 27 (Age 21)


[biological sex]


? Female


[gender]


? Female


[sexuality]


? Heterosexual


[ethnicity]


? Russian


[district]


? Born in District 35, but currently resides in District 54

[height]


? 5' 5'' (165.1 cm)

[weight]


? 121 lb. (54.9 kg)


[hair]


? Honey-blonde, mid-back length


[eyes]


? Blue-gray


[distinguishing marks]


? A mole on the left wrist


[physical strengths]


? Despite her looks, Arina has a sturdy body that is accustomed to physical labor. She is nimble, with quick reflexes and good sense of balance (mostly from waitressing). Living in one of the more impoverished areas of Thalassa, Arina has some knowledge of basic self-defense.


[physical weaknesses]


? Her physical abilities fall within the average range for someone of her age and stature. Fortunately, in all her years in District 48, Arina has never been in a situation dangerous enough to warrant the use of self-defense and is thus inexperienced in combat.

[my journal entry]


Entry recording on -- 1:00 AM


It's late, but I just can't seem to fall asleep. Probably the coffee again... I think I drank another cup a few hours ago. It must be strange, me sitting here in the dark and whispering to myself. Thank goodness the others are asleep, or who knows what they'd think of me -- Ari's finally broken from all the stress! <quiet laugh> Work today was the usual. There was a woman with a nauseatingly pink sweater who kept calling me over to complain about the food, about how the soup was lukewarm and the steak was overdone. Disgusting, a crime against fine dining in her books, apparently. I thought the food was edible, but who am I to say that to her face? Anyway, she shrieked for the manager and I had to smile and apologize or else she would've let me get the sack, going on and on about how she was going to get me fired for even daring to serve her such crap...


<long pause>


I think...


<long pause>


Things will be what they will. I just have to keep going for a while longer... a while longer...


<crumpling of foil and then quiet chewing>


That reminds me, I got a letter in the mail yesterday from Mother. She's probably the only one in the entire city who still handwrites her messages. <chuckle> She says she's doing well, but I can't help but worry for her, especially after what happened last year. I didn't even know that she'd collapsed until Andrei called me from the hospital. Overwork and stress, the doctor said. If she gets plenty of rest, she'll be up again in a few days. I remember I told her many times to stop working for that house cleaning service of hers -- the pay is horrible and the clients treat people like us like dirt. She just won't listen. Stubborn as always. <pained laugh> She needs to eat more; some meat will do her good. She was all skin and bones, lying there in the bed, swathed in all those sheets. Maybe I could tutor some kids during the weekends? Those jobs seem to be paying well lately...


It's almost two in the morning, but I think I'll be able to sleep now. Some milk and honey will get me to bed, before I accidentally wake up Faith. Thank goodness classes start later tomorrow or I don't know how I'd be able to lug myself to school when morning comes.


Good night and sweet dreams.

Entry recording off -- 1:53 AM

​

no slide

Born to a pair of working-class laborers struggling to make a living, Arina lacked many things. Love was not one of them, though attention was. Her oldest memories of the ramshackle apartment they lived in were cold, dark, and lonely. She was forbidden from going outside, not when drunkards could be found at every turn of the corner, hollering profanities and harassing young women in their inebriation. They had no family or friends in the neighborhood, nobody to take care of young Arina while the adults were away. Rushed goodbyes, murmured cautions, and the click of the latch became routine of the early mornings as her parents hustled off to work, often even before sunrise. Left to her own devices, she spent her time hovered over worn picture books and crude crayon drawings, curled up on the ratty sofa as the hours ticked by. Months, even years passed just so for Arina, with only the leaky faucet and the skittering cockroaches for company. The greasy smell of countless cheap microwaveable meals seeped into the furniture, her clothing, her person. Even when she was finally old enough to leave the house to attend school, the scent still lingered about faintly.


School was a welcome change for Arina; the rowdy school children and the petty fights were a jarring contrast with the quiet that she was used to, yet it was comforting. She was no longer alone. The violence was a bit much at times, but she stayed away from the troublemakers and focused on her studies. Education was important, according to her mother. Friends were important too, especially when the loner became the outcast, easy pickings for the bullies. So Arina befriended a couple of other children, partly out of a self-preservative instinct, but mostly out of a desire to belong.


Home life improved when her brother Andrei was born. The house was no longer empty when she returned: the sight of her mother greeted her every afternoon, along with the scent of cooked meals and the babbling of the infant. However, with four mouths to feed and only one worker in the family now, they soon reached dire financial straits. The fate of the Smirnov family teetered at the precipice of utter ruin for a good year or two before finally stabilizing. All of them looked haggard and starved,and Arina's father seemed to have aged beyond his years, but they had not been evicted from their apartment.


Tragedy hit the family a year later, when Arina was almost thirteen. A fatal construction accident left her bereft of her father, but there was no time to mourn, not when there was no longer any money flowing in to feed them. Her mother began working again, and Arina took a break from school for a year and a half to care for Andrei, who was then a toddler. Her studies continued, even without the instruction of a teacher. Every night, she read -- newspapers, books, dictionaries, textbooks from the closest library. When she finally returned to school, she caught up quickly with her peers, soon rising to the top of her class. The subsequent years passed by in a blur. Work, school, rest. All of it melted together endlessly, even when she was finally accepted into a college at the age of nineteen. She moved into a shared apartment that was situated closer to the college, and to her job at the restaurant. Life continued as it always had; there was no cease of things to be done, money to be earned.

​

[biggest fear]





? Failing and being unable to provide for her younger brother and her aging mother





[fondest memory]





? Her twelfth birthday, when her parents stayed home to celebrate and she got her first taste of strawberry shortcake.





[likes]





? Coffee




? Sweets, especially fruit flavored gum or candy




? Libraries




? Sleep




? Visiting her family

[mental strengths]





? Arina is of average intelligence, but she is shrewd and down-to-earth. Years of working in the food service industry has honed her memory and her eye for detail. Most of all, she is highly patient, especially with difficult or unreasonable people.





[mental weaknesses]





? Her busy schedule has made it difficult for her to deepen her relationships with others outside of her family. She is prone to bouts of loneliness, especially now that she has moved away from home to attend university. Arina leads an unhealthy lifestyle -- her eating patterns are erratic and uncontrolled. She snacks often because it is more convenient than eating actual meals, which require time and money to prepare. Meager sleep hours have also contributed to a persisting caffeine addiction.





[dislikes]





? Violence




? People who gossip




? Unreasonable customers/bosses




? Pessimism




? Criticism

 

[TheLoneRook]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

JOHNATHAN ARCEN

XXX

[name]


? Johnathan Arcen


[alias]


? Rook


[date of birth]


? October 31st


[biological sex]


? Male


[gender]


? Male


[sexuality]


? Heterosexual


[ethnicity]


? Croatian (east of Greece, think Russian but less pale)


[district]


? District 41

[height]


? 76in (6'4")

[weight]


? 172lb


[hair]


? A messily upkept undercut of oddly iridescent raven's black. Must be the conditioner.


[eyes]


? A dull gray.


[distinguishing marks]


? Tattoo of a sunlit cloud range across the crest of his back (deltoids, upper back area).


[physical strengths]


? Incredible precision and dexterity, marksman's aim, and superb weapon's proficiency, all paired with a body at its physical peak.


[physical weaknesses]


? Left arm (mechanical) known to malfunction.

[my journal entry]


...shit, I think I broke it again. Hey NOX? NOX. Yeah hand me the soldering kit would ya? No not that one, the little one. The little one! Oh for fuck's sake... *lost connection*


*connection reestablished*


Okay, so, this has gotta be what...day 65? I don't remember, I don't think NOX does either, really. Poor bastard's just now getting to understand number-based time, at least. Well, things aren't awful. Leftie was giving me a hard time today, lost a few good plates in the chaos. They will be sorely missed, since the only place that sells reasonably priced kitchenware is some 3 districts up or so. I'll probably just end up cleaning the last few I have over and over again, who knows.


NOX is doing fine, he seemed to like the new plant I got him, but it's tough to tell if he likes something or just isn't sure of how to kill it. I should probably get around to finding him a voice module, but something tells me he wouldn't bother to use it anyway. Such a finicky bot, and yet somehow I can't seem to part with him. There was a guy a few days ago who wanted to buy him from me, wanted to take him down to 16 to use him for some kind of underground fight circle. I politely declined, well, as politely as one can decline with an industrial-grade welding torch in hand. He's fine, he'll probably just have to wait a few weeks for his hair to grow back. I hear they do artificial hair up at 87, makes me wonder if it looks like hair or if they just want to make everything look like a piece of modern art up there. All the glass and the nice shiny light-up signs. I mean sure it's pretty but...that's it. It's pretty. It brings no additional value to the table other than being labeled as luxurious. If anything it's more likely to get you killed.


I sold a man a gun today, he looked more like the kind of person to shoot himself before he ever hurt someone. Said he was from some Blue Knight thing, or maybe it was brown? I didn't really bother to ask about it. He told me I might be "contacted for additional services". Not sure what the hell that's supposed to mean, but Void stop me if he tries to send people in under the premise of discounts and free offers. I don't care who the hell you're fighting for or what your damn pretty cause is, I'm trying to live my life, not arm a revolution.


I only looked at her picture twice today.


ENTRY RECORDING OFF.

no slide

Born the son of a prostitute and a police officer, Johnathan Arcen had a bit of a strange childhood. He spent the first 9 years of his life in District 11, where drug deals are more common than trips to the grocery store. His mother died from an overdose on some new product that hadn't even been given a name. They named it after her, as if that would somehow make up for it. His father took her death as a second chance, and started to work his way up the ladder, got himself out of the hellhole that is the first 30 districts. Once they'd moved on to greener pastures, John was able to go to school, and start a new, less chaotic life.


He was a quick learner, though behind in grade at first, and in his teen years he found passion in robotics and engineering. His father taught him how to be a policeman, assuming John would follow in his footsteps. He taught him to fight, to shoot, but above all to be merciful. He taught John to use violence as a last ditch effort, not a default solution. Despite the teachings, and the love that John's father put into them, John had a different idea. On his eighteenth birthday he was formally accepted to a relatively quality and affordable apprenticeship for his work in engineering. His father, despite his surprise, couldn't have been more encouraging, and sent him off with an heirloom. A necklace with a fish-hook shaped pendant, a trinket John had never removed since the day he got it.


He flourished during his work as an apprentice, his teacher was a bit rough around the edges, and his critique was sometimes a bit more volatile than constructive, but he had a knack for understanding the inner-workings of all things mechanical. He was on track to complete his schooling with flying colors.


Then he met her.


A strong blonde named Freesia, she flipped his world upside down and kicked it a few times to remind it of its place. She was a rebellious art student with a love for the beauties of the natural world. She always liked plants, and would cover her room in paintings and photographs. He managed to charm her with his rust-covered background, or at least that's what she always told him. The problem was, Freesia was as carefree as she was reckless. She did things she wasn't supposed to, she saw things she wasn't supposed to. On one of her nightly strolls she peaked in on a conversation between two shady individuals in an alleyway. They told her she didn't see anything. She disagreed.


That night, 48 military-grade armor piercing rounds tore Freesia to pieces, and Johnathan's arm, which had been resting underneath her. Johnathan's arm was replaced with a mechanical augmentation. He recovered quickly, physically, but his mentality changed. His lighthearted, kindred spirit faded. He left his apprenticeship, started learning on his own, picking up anything he could read. He started a scrap shop, a repair store of sorts. There he spent his days tinkering. He made robots, gadgets, and a few household tools for his own wellbeing. He made adjustments to his arm, personalized it, though it never worked perfectly for him. His favorite project was NOX, a repurposed NO9, or Night Overwatch Mk9, a surveillance AI android. He found NOX in pieces, his AI programming fractal, his systems barely functional. With some patience and a lot of spare parts, he now serves as Rook's personal assistant and really his only actual companion.


This last thing he made for himself was a gun, unfinished, with the promise of being completed hanging above it somewhere. "Maybe tomorrow" has started to become his catchphrase.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGfsQUMB6QI&ab_channel=EqualVisionRecords

[biggest fear]






? Never finding closure.






[fondest memory]






? John was seven, and his dad was out late working. He had spent the whole day playing hide and seek with his mother's junkie friend, his mother of course too out of it to even see straight. His dad came home soaked from rain, and picked him up as quick as he could. John didn't care that he was wet, or cold, he was the only thing in the house that didn't smell like drugs and sweat. His father, smart as he was, took him back out with him to a local chinese joint. The owner, a puny old man with two augmented arms that stored his many different knives. He let John feel the metal and push some of the less important buttons. In that moment John found himself at peace, away from all the corruption, and the drugs, and the chaos. Just some chinese food with his dad. All he needed, and all he'd ask for.






[likes]






? Tinkering




? Kids




? Learning




? Gardening




? Reading

[mental strengths]






? Rook is an eye in the storm. He doesn't find himself buckling under pressure, but rising with it. He's not afraid of much of anything, nor is he plagued with anxiety. He doesn't let much get to him.






[mental weaknesses]






? He's blunt, rudely so sometimes. He has a bad habit of not giving people second chances, and holds very firmly to first impressions. While not a lot gets to him, the things that do manage to get to him tend to tear him apart.






[dislikes]






? Drugs, or anything associated with them.




? Revolutionaries/Criminals




? Vanity




? Arrogance




? Seafood

 

[Master Jaster]

Citizen Registry... successfully logged in... databank open.

Ken Caspar

[name]


⊷ Ken Caspar..


[alias]


⊷ Ohio Mars..


[date of birth]


⊷ January 27th.


[biological sex]


⊷ Male


[gender]


⊷ Man


[sexuality]


⊷ Open, though uninterested in masculinity


[ethnicity]


⊷ Caucasian


[district]


⊷ District 116

[height]


⊷ 6’1

[weight]


⊷ 170


[hair]


⊷ Short, professional cut


[eyes]


⊷ Hazel


[distinguishing marks]


⊷ Shrapnel Scars along chest, short, straight scar on upper thigh


[physical strengths]


⊷ Athletic, muscular build, basic training in martial arts (krav maga style), basic understanding and moderate skill in the operation of firearms, good understanding of tech, sharp memory and high adaptability.


[physical weaknesses]


⊷ No physically enhancing augmentations, not exceptionally strong or dexterous

[my journal entry]


-ENTRY: MARCH 19-


[recording starts with silence]


I killed last night. It was quick - easy - like I wanted it to be. I’d seen it done before so many times. Slowly. Painfully. It was going to happen eventually, and I’m relieved it went the way it did. I’m glad that it did. Him or me kind of situation.


-a pause-


I’m justifying it. Making it just some-thing that happened, but… This isn’t something that can just be a thing. Not this. I need to remember it all. Right now his face, the alley, the smell of burnt hair and melting plastics – it’s all clear. I can’t let that fade.


It wasn’t right. I know this. The collective does not remember murder as a necessity, and the fact that this won’t be remembered needs to be pushed from my mind. What happened was wrong. Wabash was wrong.


-a pause, followed by brief laughter-


My hand’s shaking right now.


-a sigh, followed by silence-


…Wabash pinged me around 5. He said there was a meeting in a lower district, and that he needed me. Told me to meet him at the lift and we’d travel from there.


When I saw it was just him, I assumed it was clean, that we’d be meeting with some of the movers in the slums to finalize.


When we’d passed into 50, Wabash took me to this skiv-bar, “Orion”, straight to the manager - some skittish aug setting out to look feline or something close. After Wabash and it chatted for a stretch, the tweaker passed him this case far too pristine for the district housing it. After we’d left, I asked why he’d needed me for this. Protection was something Lilith or Bowie would take care of. When he smiled…


[a pause. The sound of Ken using a hydrator is heard briefly. A barely perceptible slur can be heard in his voice when he continues]


That smile… I don’t pretend to know Wabash. We’re using each other, him definitely to more ideal ends, and I respect him enough to call it what it is…


When he smiled, I remembered fear, and not the anxious kind. It was predatory… Violent. I knew I couldn’t be a man that night. I’d follow the same fate as a dozen others before me if I tried. We were animals.


We ended up in 28 after a couple more hours. Went to a maintenance alley and stopped in a service tunnel. Wabash took three guns out of the case, a precision shooter for me, and his hose and hammer [sMG and hand cannon]. He gave me a suppressant to set my nerves and let me know how things would go. Said we were meeting with a slit-gang who were unhappy with the current transport fees for product. I was there as the numbers guy. The whole time he talked, I could see how much fun he was having; how excited he was for what was coming. We weren’t making a deal, he said. I was to say things were staying the way they were.


[Another hiss of the hydrator]


We show up at this service hatch with this big augmented fucker hoverin’ over it. I thought he was sanitation drone until he spoke up. Told us he was gonna search us then send us in to talk with “Baylor”. Wabash said we’d meet outside. Big guy didn’t like it at first, but Wabash smiled…


[a pause. Quietly:]


Tweakers thought they were big enough to make deals.


[a sharp intake of breath, and a harsh exhale]


That or they were too fried from the product they were shipping to know who they were working with. There were four in the hatch. Three with last-gen combat mods, one with a pleasure build dripping stims straight to his skull. Wabash gave me a nod once they were all out. I cut off the junkie, probably Baylor, before he could say his piece. Said there wasn’t a deal – that we would look to other options if they were unhappy, etcetera… Loads of that sort of shit. It pissed him off but I played it straight… Can’t believe I remember that. “Played it straight”. I was so focused on how calm I had to be, how hard I needed to make it for him to get a word out.


He was spouting something about how things were getting harder with the crackdown’s when Wabash made his move. I’d never been so close to him when he starts up. The big guy went first. The shock from the hammer knocked me to the floor. Baylor dove too while the muscle tried to get their guns up. He was so afraid… Like a child.


[A long pause. A breath]


I don’t know… I can’t remember if he even pointed it at me…


[a sigh, followed by a long silence]


I shot him right in the face. Through the nose. Hit the stim pack on the way out the back. The stims leaked out through the hole… it looked silly.


[a pause]


Wabash helped me up. He looked the same. Blood on his hands. Blood on his face. But he looked the same… And he laughed. It was normal for him, so it was normal for me…


[a pause. The hydrator is heard, but is empty]


What happened was not right. What we did was wrong. I need to remember that.


[silence]


I was laughing too.


-END OF ENTRY: MARCH 19-


Entry recording off.

no slide

Ken was born into a crippled family living in District 30. He was the middle child with one older sister he cannot remember meeting, and a younger brother (by 1 year). His parents had fought long and hard to climb out of the hellish existence that they led in Districts 4-30, and employed every unsavory mean to do so. When Ken was 4, a benefactor - an older augmented man by the name of Malick Indris who had taken interest in his family - helped them ascend into the next level of districts. Throughout his early childhood, Ken spent most of his time under the care of Malick. During this stretch, Ken’s parents and younger brother were killed in a terrorist bombing.


At the age of 6, Malik enrolled Ken in an AI-run education program, where he learned how to lead a sophisticated and balanced life. Upon graduating at age 12, Ken began working for Malick in dstrict 150. The work he did was menial and redundant, so he was encouraged by Malik to spend the majority of his time studying. As he grew, and the relatively confining environment he lived in began to bore him, Ken developed an interest in what lay outside of Thalassa. He did as much research on it as he could with the means he had during his free time for 4 years after this.


When Malik eventually died, Ken was forced into a life in the lower districts. Having learned many many ways to exploit Thalassa's hierarchal system from working and studying with Malik, Ken gradually rose through the districts to a comfortable position in district 99. He was 20 at this point.


From here, Ken’s interest in the outside world reached its peak. He scoured through various libraries and would go to underground clubs to find people who had been outside the walls, and eventually encountered a criminal named Wabash. As time went on, Wabash began helping Ken rise through the districts in exchange for help developing his criminal endeavors. Ken felt a natural attraction towards Wabash and his chaotic lifestyle, and the two became fast friends. Currently, Ken lives in district 116 as a successful consultant in a media corporation.

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[biggest fear]





⊷ Losing his wits/being forgotten





[fondest memory]





⊷ A quiet conversation with his childhood mentor while using a Tear.





[likes]





✓ Excitement




✓ Learning from others




✓ High quality indulging (sex, food, drugs)




✓ Being close with interesting individuals




✓ Understanding

[mental strengths]





⊷ Ken’s best traits stem from his ability to adapt to whatever reality he is presented with. His intelligence and quick wits are what got him engaged with Wabash, and his genuine, open minded approach to all situations make him easy to work and spend time with.





[mental weaknesses]





⊷ His conflicted feelings towards his lustful and violent nature, his unconscious fear of marginalization, and his ignorance of the superiority he has always felt towards the world around him.





[dislikes]





✗ Ignorance




✗ Waste




✗ Poor functionality




✗ Asceticism




✗ Settling

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