This concept is something that I've toyed with for sometime now; what I call a transition character. Basically it's a person who, for whatever reason, has to dissolve the life they've been living and adapt to a new life running the shadows. In this case, Sheridan was a successful history professor at the University of Washington: Seattle, before he was forced to resign amidst accusations of sexual misconduct with a femal student. As it turns out, there was a more sinister plot at work, but he doesn't find out about it until it has cost him everything. From there, he vows revenge. Sheridan isn't a character for beginning players, or those unfamiliar with the game. He is a role-playing intense character, almost exclusively, as he has few combat skills and below to average attributes. His contacts and knowledge skills, though, make him a valuable research asset to any team. I haven't had a player choose him, yet, so I'm anxious to know how he turns out in a real game.
| Attributes | Body: | 2 | Quickness: | 4 | Strength: | 2 | Charisma: | 5 | Intelligence: | 6(8) | Willpower: | 5 | Essence: | 5.56 | Essence Index: | 8.56 | Body Index: | 0.8 | reaction: | 5(6) | Initiative | 5+1D6(6+1D6) | Dice Pools | Combat: | 7 | Task: | 1 | Karma: | 1 |
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| Cyberware | Type | Rating | Grade | Essence | Datajack | -- | alpha | .16 | Headware Memory 100 Mp | FIFF | alpha | .27 | Retinal Modification: display link | -- | alpha | .08 | Bioware | Type | Rating | Grade | Bio Index | Cerebral Booster | -- | Cultured | .8 |
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| Skills | Active | Athletics: | 2 | Car: | 3 | Computer: | 4 | Edged Weapons: | 4 | Electronics: | 2 | Etiquette: | 3 | Etiquette (Corporate): | 4 | Etiquette (Scholastic): | 5 | Etiquette (Tribal): | 4 | Instruction: | 5 | Negotiation: | 4 | Pistols: | 3 | Knowledge | Street | Seattle Criminal Organizations: | 4 | Seattle Underworld Politics: | 4 | Academic | Anthropology: | 3 | Archaeology: | 2 | Economics: | 3 | History: | 6 | Literature: | 4 | Politics: | 4 | Sixth World | Seattle Megacorporate Politics: | 4 | Hermetic Practices: | 3 | Shamanic Beliefs: | 3 | Metahuman History: | 4 | Background | Sorcery: | 4 | Computer: | 4 | Instruction: | 4 | Interests | Conspiracy Theories | 5 | Languages | English: | 9 | English R/W: | 6 |
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| Edges | Perceptive (+3) | College Education (+1) | Flaws | Bad Reputation (-2) | Night Blindness (-2) |
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| Contacts | Fury (level 1): | female human fixer | Dr. Richard Langstrom (level 1): | male human, head of the History Department, UW:S | Dr. Adrienne Stephenson (level 1): | female human, director of cultural studies, Seattle University | Dr. Marshall Winters (level 1): | male dwarf, assistant director of research, biotechnology division, Universal Omnitech | Assante Ma Lorac (level 1): | female human, field researcher, Smithsonian Musem of Natural History | Zalman Gephardt (level 1): | male human, assistant curator of archives, Library of Congress |
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| Gear |
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History
You remember when his name was just Roy, instead of Viceroy. When the two of you would play cowboys and indians through the winding passageways of the Arcology. When life seemed so simple and innocent, the future so bright. The two of you had such great dreams, such grandiose plans for the coming years. None of them included this scenario, though: Roy slumped against the wall while you, soaked in blood so red it seemed black, tried desperately to remember enough first aid to save him. You had no idea the savagery of modern weapons. Bloody froth bubbled from Roy's lips as he coughed.
"Forget it, Brains, I'm done for."
"Dammit, not if you'd let me call DocWagon!" You couldn't help smiling at the nickname.
"No! No meat wagon for me. Too many questions." A great shudder passed through your friend, and his grip on your shoulder turned fierce.
"Listen! Listen. Go to the Chainstorm. Ask for Fury. Tell her I sent you. She'll explain." His eyes, chrome with the stupid crown engraving he'd insisted on, bored into yours.
"Sure, sure. Now rest a little."
A smile played across his lips.
"Yeah. Rest."
For a moment everything seemed to grow silent, as if the world paused and held its breath. His hand slipped from your shoulder, falling lifelessly to his side. Tears blurred your eyes as you staggered to your feet. You'd known for some time what kind of business Roy was into, best friends don't have a lot of secrets. So you knew that you had to leave soon. He'd taken a great risk coming back to this place anyway. With a frenzy of purpose you washed and changed, discarding your bloodied clothes in a dumpster out back. The downtown streets flashed past in a blur of neon and flesh.
Without knowing quite how it happened, you found yourself in the parking lot of the Chainstorm. Never having been to a club before, let alone this one, you weren't quite sure what to expect. Moving towards the entrance amidst a crowd of other partygoers, you discovered that you were dressed very much inappropriately, having nothing made of leather, PVC, or steel on. Arriving at the door, you followed the raucous youth down a stairway set against the wall of a ten meter diameter vertical cylinder. In the center of the cylinder draped chains adorned with meathooks, sawblades, and all manner of steel meant to separate flesh from bone. Reaching the base of the cylinder, a bored looking human dressed in a black jumpsuit waved you inside the club. You emerged onto a narrow platform just two meters wide that surrounded the cylinder.
Around and below you stretched the Chainstorm: seven stories laid out in a figure eight planform filled with thirteen different stages, half a dozen performance areas, twice as many food counters, and an untold number of kiosks selling everything from water to synthesized methamphetamines to spare body parts. Movement from place to place was accomplished by using any number of haphazardly constructed ladders, walkways, slides, poles, chain ropes, or gangways. You stared in amazement at the horrifying variety of humanity displayed before you. Moving among the throng of modern primitives, you began to overcome your initial fear, but the wrongness of the sights and sounds still beat upon you. Moreover, you had no idea who to ask about Fury.
A hand on your arm brought you to a halt. Turning, you confronted a woman as tall as you, dressed in a body hugging black latex dress with matching knee high boots. Half of her face, though, was concealed by the hood of the stylish long coat she wore. The smile she flashed at you was genuine enough. Wordlessly, she took your hand and began to lead you through the club, and you let your eyes admire the play of her muscles as she moved. Shaking your head, you thrust your sudden lust aside.
"Listen, miss, I'm very flattered, but..."
Your statement died in your throat as she glanced back at you over her shoulder, stunning you with her smile again. Approaching two huge speaker piles, she disappeared between them, pulling you in behind her. You found yourself in a narrow passage between the equipment, a place nearly invisible from any other vantage point in the club. The woman pushed you up against one of the piles with surprising strength, pressing the length of her body against you. Again you tried to speak, only to be silenced by her tongue invading your mouth. Her hands slid across your shoulders and arms, down your sides to your back. As suddenly as it had started it was over, the woman stepping away from you. She smiled again, tilting her head further down the narrow passage.
"Good evening, Dr. Hassenpfeffer. Fury will see you now."
You gaped in surprise, running the last few minutes through your head. In a flash of clarity you realized what happened: Fury saw you come into the club and sent this woman to find you, and when she did she'd searched you for any sort of weapon or transmitter. You coughed to hide your embarrassment, hunching your shoulders as you moved down the passage. You had much to learn about this dark life that your friend lived. Ahead, the passage jogged to the right, and when you turned the corner you were confronted with an unmarked doorway. After your knock, a voice bade you enter. The room inside was remarkably well appointed, with a dark tiled floor and wood paneling. Seated behind a large oval conference table was a slight woman. Dark, flowing red hair framed a heart shaped face, with eyes of warm emerald. The beauty of the face was accentuated, some would say marred, by a pair of twin tracks of scar on her left cheek.
"Fury?"
The woman smiled in answer, standing and coming around the table to greet you. Again, you were shocked by how she could carry a submachinegun in an assault sling and still seem so feminine.
"Dr. Hassenpfeffer, I presume. Please, come in and sit down. Viceroy told me that you might be coming to see me. I take it this means that he has left my employment?"
Her tone seemed to soften some, but there was a hardness underlying it, underlying her that continued to strike you oddly.
"Ah, yes, I'm afraid so. He won't, ah...I mean...."
"It's all right, Doctor, I know this is a difficult time for you. Viceroy didn't trust easily, and you should be proud to have been counted a friend of his. He would not have taken such a chance for anyone else."
Her words had a crystallizing effect on you.
"What do you mean? What chance? What are you talking about?"
"Didn't you know? No, he wouldn't have told you. Well the little problem you had with an over-affectionate student wasn't all due to teenage hormones. No, the child who cost you your job was employed by a series of unscrupulous people who sought to recruit you into their corporate stable. Not that you'd enjoy working for Novatech or anything, but then that was a secondary concern of theirs. Viceroy discovered their plot to acquire you once the University forced you to withdraw from your position. With a little help from me, he took on their snatch team. Less successfully than hoped, though, from what you indicate. Ah well, he was a good man."
You think her eyes grow a little distant, but that might be just your imagination. Her news, though, is stunning. A corporate plot? Against you? Why hadn't Roy said anything?
"On to business, though. Do you have anything intensely personal that you'd like retrieved from your apartment? I can send some of my people to get it before you leave on your flight."
"Leave?" A sudden fire blazes to life in you.
"Of course. It's no longer safe here for you. I have friends in Boston, though, who say it's lovely this time of year."
"I'm not leaving." At first you don't believe your own voice. Neither does Fury.
"What?"
You stand, feeling for the first time in your life as if you're committing to something that you truly believe in. Something that has meaning. Something worthwhile.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm not running away anymore. Those bastards killed my friend. I'm going to make them pay. You can help me. You will help me. I will have my revenge." Your voice is quiet, but the rage behind it is palpable. Fury regards you with disbelief mixed with amusement.
"All right. It's your funeral, I suppose."
She taps briefly at the data terminal in front of her, and you have a moment of self-doubt.
"I have some people coming by later who can help you. Now, let's get you some equipment."
You nod your head; equipment, yes. And weapons. Especially weapons.