Character Concepts

[Wintermute]

I'd like to hear about your character concepts. I'll require a well thought out, written background from each of you. Don't worry, it doesn't need to be a novel (in fact, I prefer it be between one and three pages), but it does need to explain your character's upbringing, history, social status, friends, etc. I'd also highly recommend you guys read my article on character cliches.

http://rpg-sandiego.org/articles/cliches.html

It's okay to play a stereotype, in fact those can make the best characters. But I don't want cheesy character concepts. I find realistic characters far more appealing.

I'd like the following questions to be answered in your backgrounds (I prefer them to be worked in, but you can answer the questions separately if you wish):

1. How have the major historical events affected you?

2. What's your profession? How and why did you choose it? How long have you been at it, and what are your career goals?

3. Where do you live? Where do you hang out? Are there places in town that you avoid?

4. What do you do best? How did you get so skillful at it? Did you have any help in gaining your level of abilities? What are you worst at?

5. Where was your character born? Did you live in luxury or squalor? How did the environment surrounding you affect the way you grew up and the person you are now?

6. What personal events shaped your life? Is there anything in your past that you'd like to hide or forget altogether? If so, what is it and why would you want to hide it?

7. How did you come to be in Los Angeles? How do you make your living?

8. Who is important to you? Who are your friends, family, and associates? Do you have any enemies?

[Wintermute]

I should also probably note that there are, in my estimation, about a half million cool character concepts to play in cyberpunk. In short, if you're having trouble thinking of something, please feel more than free to ask for help.

[smartmonkey]

[quote]character cliches. [/quote]

Aw, dude, ruin my day. I was totally planning on running a lesbian asian schoolgirl who was abused as a child, orphaned, searching-for-revenge, mafia-ninja-ordained-catholic-priest. Oh, and she has a brother thats a trust fund kid, but he's also a pirate with a katana.



:roll:



So meh, I'll start up on my concept in a bit... when will the updated timeline be available?

[Neuro]

My character concept is going to vary, depending on when the split from reality happened. I'm still torn between a gang and a corporate concept. In general, I think I'm leaning towards the latter, if that's okay. I'd enjoy being a Turner.

[Wintermute]

[quote="smartmonkey"]
So meh, I'll start up on my concept in a bit... when will the updated timeline be available?[/quote]

I still don't think it's been decided that we're moving the game to a latter timeline.

[Wintermute]

One quick thing I should probably make you guys aware of... character concepts, backgrounds, and sheets all require GM approval, regardless of whether or not the rules allow it. When you submit a character, it is very likely I will ask for some revisions and explanations. This allows me to maintain the appropriate theme for my game, but may seem unfamiliar or even harsh to those used to D&D (in a lot of games you're allowed to play whatever you've rolled up). Because of this, I'd highly encourage you to talk to me early on in the character concept phase, especially since I may have story elements I'd like you to work in.

Also, I'd appreciate it if you guys work to make sure there are reasons for your characters to interact. You don't need to be on the best of terms (in fact, being on bad terms can be fun), but I'd like it if you didn't arrest, kill, etc each other on sight. After all, that's what we've got Paranoia for. :D

[Neuro]

“’Nother beer?”
“No, thanks.”
“Whiskey?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” She’s tall, might have been something to look at, once, the kind of girl that turns heads. Years left her looking tired, with eyes that are hard to look at, hard to tell if they’re human or not, too intense, but that might be natural. She sits on an old porch, real wood worn smooth with weather and washing, cowboy boots stretched out at the end of almost disproportionately long legs, heels digging into soft red clay flecked with yellow, white, and greenish black, mostly chemical runoff from the shop next to the house where a massive air compressor rattles the corrugated aluminum walls. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” Shane is about the same size, but with a thicker build, a little older. No one ever looked at him twice, except maybe to stare at his two missing fingers. His sister brushes the hand as she takes the drink and mentions, “You should get those replaced.”
“What, regrown? Or like robotic claws? With lasers?” It’s an easy, laid back voice with depths of sarcasm. He shrugs, “I get on fine without ‘em.”
The sun is reaching towards the midmorning climbs, already taking on the same red as the dirt, heat starting to shimmer at the horizon where the sky seems purple and the two are quiet, watching a bird nab a half-dead lizard, swallowing it almost whole, one leg sticking out from the beak a little longer than the rest of it, before a final gulp. “I guess you do,” the woman says some few minutes later.
“Huh?” Shane refills her glass from the dusty bottle with its axle grease handprint. “Oh, the hand. Yeah. You should stay, this time, Em.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“Sure. Just like that.”
“I guess the kids’d love it and Joy’d be thrilled with you.”
“The kids would love it and Joy likes you. She just don’t know how to talk to you. Nobody much does. You don’t make it easy.”
“I don’t like to talk.”
“You talk to me. Point is, you’re getting too old for this. I can tell, this time, it’s like you’re saying goodbye. Getting ready. I don’t much want to be the executor of your estate.”
“It’s not much of an estate,” she answers, shrugging, reaching over to grab the bottle by the dusty neck, avoiding the grease-print.
“That’s not my point, you’re not just taking precautions, anymore. You’ve peaked. It’s over. Fold early, collect your winnings, get out. You drink too much.”
She sets the bottle down again. “Doesn’t do much good, otherwise.”
“The booze or the other?”
“The booze.”
“Fuck you, Em. Pass that over here.”
“Fuck you, you drink too much, too.” The lizard-eating bird is standing ankle deep in a puddle of brownish water with a yellow, shimmering film, drinking its fill. She passes the bottle and he drains the last of it down, then says, “On three. One, two,” on three, the bottle arcs out of his hand, sailing up into the air, catching red sun for a moment before shattering into uncounted pieces. The bird takes off and Em rests the butt of an old-fashioned Colt 45 on her right knee. It had seemed to come from nowhere, too fast to focus on. Too fast to think about.

“You shoot alright for a girl.”
“You talk pretty good, for a monkey.”
“Huh. Yeah. Look, Em, I’m serious. You came back looking like you’ve seen your own funeral. I can get the white house cleaned up before winter and you can spend the fall here with us.”
Em shakes her head slowly, “You don’t get it, Shane. I can’t just quit. I’m not even really on vacation, now. It’s all just waiting for the phone to ring.”
“I get it just fine. You don’t got anything else, no man, no kids, no god, no good sense. No idea what you’re going to do when the adrenaline’s gone out of your veins. More afraid to live than die.” Even the accusation seems blunted by the easy, offhanded manner of their delivery. He wipes the last remnants of grease off of his hands onto his blue jeans and then puts his thumb up alongside his crooked nose and blows snot onto the dirt, then spits.
“It’s a good story you’ve got for yourself there, buddy. You ever thought what would happen if I came here, to stay? Quit? With everything in my head? Everything in my body? You and Joy and the kids are gonna be in deep enough shit, I keep coming here. Joy knows it, that’s why she don’t want me here, and she’s right.” She’s tired, as though the effort of speech were becoming costly, “Got anymore booze?”
“Disappear somewhere else, then. I’ll swear you’re dead. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“If I had more booze? Yes, I’d tell you.”
“Fuck you, Em.” Shane stands and kicks red dirt off of his work boots before opening the creaky screen door. It slams flimsily after him.
“Twice in one morning.” Em pulls her hat down a little further to shade her eyes against the sun, higher in the sky, now. The air compressor kicks off and leaves nothing but desert quiet, the absence of life that starts with the worst of the sun. The screen door makes a last clatter and chains suspending a porch swing groan as Shane sits down with a bottle and two fresh glasses of ice. The bird comes back and perches in the shade of the porch, on the gleaming white railing.
“There has to be a way, Em. What you’re doing, it ain’t for decent folk.”
“I haven’t done anything decent in two decades. Why start now? Sooner or later, I’ll pay your devil his dues, might as well get my money’s worth. This is just how it is. I’ll play the game until I can’t play no more, then hope I get a few of them before they get me. Maybe someplace where a girl can have a good time. Thailand, maybe. Amsterdam. I liked Amsterdam. I’ve always wanted to see space, but there’s not a lot of places to run. The air, you know.” She reaches for a glass from one of his hands, the one with all the fingers.
It’s quiet for a while. The bird ruffles its feathers and turns its head sideways as though watching Shane. Em watches the horizon, looking out over the blurry patches, rolling the word “mirage” around in her mouth before muttering it.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you even remember your real name anymore, Em?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you never forget that. Not ever.”
“Does the booze even do any good?”
“No, not really. Not much. Enough of it, a little.”
Halfway down the next bottle, the bird hops to the ground, inspecting a hole where a beetle just disappeared.
“Why’d you wall yourself in like this, Em? You’re a smart girl.”
“Just happened, I guess. Didn’t much care if I lived or died after Africa and then when we went into Israel, I guess I’d had enough.”
“You could’ve come home.”
“My way’s better. Say what you want, Shane, but I like what I do. I’m good at it. Might have been the best there ever was, for some things. Other way, I’d have been just another drunk, talking to your god like a homeless person. It was the offer I couldn’t refuse. I’ve lived, Shane, and I ain’t dead yet.”
“Huh. Shouldn’t talk about God like that.”
“Fuck him anyway,” Em says, getting to her feet. “I gotta take a piss. Maybe catch a nap.” She shakes the dirt off her boots by kicking a stair before tromping into the house, boots noisy on the hollow wooden porch.
The air compressor kicks back on, covering the slow squeaking groan of the porch swing. The bird gives a sudden convulsion and collapses, beginning slowly to roast on the hard, red dirt.

[Neuro]

I'm going to play Em, by the way. Details pending conversation with Wintermute. I won't be posting details of the character concept in this forum, but that shouldn't stop y'all. It's time to get this rollin'. I didn't figure it'd hurt to try and get the "flavor" of the character out a little bit. I won't be able to answer all of the background questions until I have the revised timelines.

[smartmonkey]

[quote]until I have the revised timelines.[/quote]

Thats more or less why I haven't typed mine up. I'm also kinda see-sawing between paying a corprate security officer (a'la, rydell from VL), or an Israeli surveillance expert that just retired from Mossad and is currently freelancing... I have images of [url=http://www.eyespymag.com/WEBSITE%20SCANS/predcia.jpg]predator[/url] drone type things being used.



Edit: Nice fiction, Liz! Sounds like a fun character...

[Neuro]

IIRC, and if Winter is using that part of world history, you should speak with him re: the Israeli idea before you put it together. I'm not deliberately trying to be cryptic, but I know we discussed making Israel a parking lot, which is why it's mentioned specifically in the story above. That's a part of the timeline that's pretty crucial to me, too. Cypress Hill, I mean, Winter, I'm looking in your direction.

[Wintermute]

[quote="smartmonkey"][quote]until I have the revised timelines.[/quote]

Thats more or less why I haven't typed mine up....[/quote]

I'm workin' on it, kids. Got another page done today. Trust me, 20 years of futuristic history ain't so easy to write. :)



[Edit: Those of you with half a brain and too much time will surely find the Aleph Null website, and can watch it take shape over the next week or so.]

[smartmonkey]

[quote]Those of you with half a brain [/quote]

Aw, shit.


[quote]if Winter is using that part of world history, you should speak with him re: the Israeli idea before you put it together. I'm not deliberately trying to be cryptic, but I know we discussed making Israel a parking lot, which is why it's mentioned specifically in the story above.[/quote]

Well, just cos Israel got the shit nuked out of it doesn't mean a -few- nationals aren't floating around somewhere. Like I said, nothing is concrete yet.

[Digital_Boy]

My half brain must be missing, because I can't remember the link off of onosendai.org

I do recall seeing that link with a pic of LA cops congregated near a skyscraper, but that's all I can remember

[Wintermute]

[quote="Digital_Boy"]My half brain must be missing, because I can't remember the link off of onosendai.org



I do recall seeing that link with a pic of LA cops congregated near a skyscraper, but that's all I can remember[/quote]
It's been moved to [url]http://rpg-sandiego.org/alephnull[/url]. That pic is actually being used on the setting page. No information up on the site that isn't on the forum right now, however.

[Digital_Boy]

Wakefulness came to Reiji on the last day of paradise like a slow, warm tide rolling in on a tropical beach, tickling his bare toes first with the warmth of the tropical sun, and the puff of the ocean breeze, tanged with salt, methodically inching it's way upwards, in no great hurry, until eventually, even the forearm slung across his eyes was no match for the insistent warmth. It was a thing not to be denited, conciousness, and by god it was going to have it's way.

With a sigh, Rei, as he's known to friends (and enemies too, at times), heaves himself up from the tatami mat, and sits, legs akimbo, while the cerebrum and it's symphony of intellect scurrying to catch up to the hindbrain. Memories of the previous days and nights slowly filter in as he rubs his eyes, swimming in the impossibly clear water, spear fishing with nothing more than a face mask and bamboo spear, like his oji-san taught him to do so long ago when his parents left him in grandpa's care to work an assignment in Israel for Royal Dutch Shell.

With the thought of oji-san, the memories return,... Reiji Dylan Mamoro, only son of Mercedes Simone DuBois-Fotaine and Hikaru Mamoro. Mom widely published and regarded in the world of nanotech medicine, bachelors in computer science from Sorbonne' at 14, Masters in genetics from the Universty of Bonn just a month shy of her 17th birthday, doctoral thesis in directed nanotechnological gene and neurotherapy at 21 from UCLA, naturalized citizen of the California-Nevada combine,. She's the brainy one, mom. She wrote the book, literally, on repairing damaged nerves with micromachines and co authored a chapter or 10 about nano assisted retroviral gene therapy. She's old world nobility, according to Dame Mimiuex (don't you dare call her grandma), and I think her side of the family still hasn't quite forgiven her for taking dad's last name instead of having a hyphenated mishmash for a last name.

Okasa. Dad. Company man through and through. Did the usual school thing, damn near killed himself studying in primary and secondary schools to ensure acceptance into U Tokyo, but unlike his classmates, he wasn't interested in the 4 year party and job in middle management that all but guaranteed if he minded his p's and q's and didn't get booted out of school. He actually wanted to study. Whereas okama sometimes looks like she's permanently jacked in to her Sendai running sims or Frankensteining this or that microscopic monstrosity, dad had an eye for history, and how to avoid repeating it. Alexander, Gengis Khan, Kaiser Willhelm, Tojo, Pol Pot, MacArthur, Miloscevic, Bush Jr and Kerry (aka Tweedle Dumbshit and Tweedle Dipshit). He got noticed very quickly by the higher ups at Royal Dutch for some articles he wrote about the food riots of '15, and a rather controversial analysis of Mitsu-Citi's response to the outbreak of violence, this being not too long after things went boom, and half the city became a perpetual warzone. Of course, having 20 years in the JSDF can give you a unique perspective on that kind of thing. I still remember dad bending regulations and taking me for rides in the new spider tanks, and how their gait is eerily similar to a horse's. He's now the head manager of R&D for RSDW's ambulatory vehicle development. The old coot is having the time of his life. He gets to play with the state of the art in military hardware and gets to dream up all kinds of real world scenarios to test them in. Guess knowing the finer points of how the Athenians held off the Spartans at Thermopylae can pay off sometimes.

And this lovely stroll down memory lane brings us back to yours truly... Since I now remember who I am, now it's only a question of *where* I am, or more importantly, where I was prior to being here.... And now it's starting to come back. I followed in Dad's footsteps. I couldn't see myself living in a lab like mom does, but I've always had a knack for thinking my way out of a fight, or giving myself the advantage in a fight. I considered the JSDF, but ever since the megcorps started buying up large portions of formerly soverieign nations, and fielding standing armies (sure, they're called security personnel, but I don't remember rent-a-cops ever having chameleon suits, flechette rifles, VTOL gunships and troup transports, spider tanks, and so on), it seemed only natural to follow in dad's footsteps. That, and I'm sure he mentioned my interest over tea and sake to a few people in personnel. Not that nepotism got me anything but a foot in the door. He chews me out more than anyone else. But I can see the pride in his eyes, even when he's making the platoon run 4 miles carrying a telephone pole (not like anyone's gonna miss them.. can't believe the old USA was such a huge superpower, but neglected such basic necessities like telecom infrastucture) for missing a weapons cache in a mock urban combat exercise.

Now for the denoumonte... Where the hell am I? You remember I hinted earlier that I had some idea where I was? The Matrix has us! Even now, in this very room! Chuckle. Seriously, golden oldie movie quotes aside (you see they dusted that thing off and are remaking it in tri-dee? talk about a lack of creativity! Hollywood, sheesh), that's not far off the mark. This lovely little cottage on the beach, that comfy tatami mat, the sunlight that's warming my forearm and leg, the coffee cup that I'm holding and the coffee in it that I'm drinking are all part of an elaborate simstim. Why am I apparently living day to day life in a stim, you say? Aren't I afraid of becoming a stim addict like the wireheads you see zoned out in the DMZ? Simple. This stim is designed to keep me from going cuckoo while all the kings horses and all the kings men put humpty dumpty back together again.

You see, we've been having problems with organized acts of sabotage at a number of interrelated facilities here in good ol' LA. Sat photos, insect cams and other intel points to some of it being done by the 18th Street Unlimited, others by some very professional individuals. I was point man for my squad in the DMZ on an assault we were coordinating with LAPD SWAT on a building that we had hard intel was producing guns, ammo and explosives, which we naturally assumed were being used against not only Royal Dutch interests, but Mitsu-Citi, Universal Motor, et al. More or less if it had a corporate logo on it, it had good chance of getting shot, blown up, or in one case, having an automated cargo jet crashed into it. Not the work of your usual street gang. Anyway, I'm on point, we all get in place, all camo'd out so we blend with the brickwork (I wish it worked like it does in an anime', it's nice, but far from perfect), we get the go signal, and storm the place. for the first 2 minutes it was beautiful. like watching a tridee or an action stim. Then it went to shit fast. The fuckers didn't have a lot of notice, but they had enough to set a few booby traps and setup some sniping positions and evac the brains. The good news is, as my presence here attests to, they didn't kill me. The bad news is, I, being on point and not quite invisible took a round from what looked to be an old 20MM recoilless rifle. Not directly mind you. The only ones in the building were local muscle,so they don't have a lot of experience handling heavy weapons. Homeboy didn't realize that they have tripods on them for a reason, though he had boosted muscles and retinals, he missed with the recoilless, but the claymore didn't. The reflex armor and trauma plates kept anything from piercing my heart or lungs, and the helmet system kept my head attached. That's the "good" part. The bad part:? Both arms gone, one at the shoulder, the other just above the elbow, faceplate shattered, right leg gone below the knee, left leg was still attached, mostly with happy thoughts and chewing gum. To put it bluntly, I was this >< far from being a red stain on a wall.

So, for the last few months, I've been jacked into this rather pleasant stim, with all the comforts and pleasures I could ever want to pass the time while they patch me back together. I'm either floating in a medical vat, or am in a life support pod getting cybernetic limbs fitted. Cheery thought, huh?

[Wintermute]

Nicely done!!

[Neuro]

Well done, Terry!

[smartmonkey]

Two fingers, ciggarette perched between them, come down on the flatvid screens play button. A pillar of ash crumbles onto the scuffed counter surface. I'm looking at my old job site. European United Holdings - Los Angeles Office hangs over my on-screen self. The readout in the corner tells me it was 0645, pacific time. I'm behind the desk. My partner is standing, doing the routine checks of employee ID's. Me, I'm keeping an eye on the sniffers - watching out for the standard explosives, biologicals, chemicals, drugs, guns, knives. Y'know, the usual for a corprate branch office. The last of the morning operations team checks in. Things should be quiet until about 0900, when the work-a-day office types show up. Didn't matter to me then, I was supposed to be off shift at 0700.

I take another drag on my smoke, brushing the ash off the counter and onto the apartments floor. On screen, I watch myself running a hand through thinning blonde hair. I remember being bored as hell. The timer ticks forward, its 0656. The next person through that door should be the fella that'll take over for me. Only it ain't. This woman - well, girl, really - walks in the door. On the flatvid, all you can see is her back. I can see my reaction as the sniffers light up like a christmas tree.

The girls wearing clothes that went out of fashion about the same time my parents were banging in the back seat of a camaro. Baggy jeans, heavy jacket, and what's probably an antique NY Yankees hat. I hit pause on the flatvid, and take another drag, examining the scene.

On screen, I can see my brows furrowing, a hand darting toward the alarm button on my left. My partner, oblivious, is writing something down on our shift-log. I advance the film a few dozen frames. The girl has a gun out now. My mouth is in an O. My right hand is jabbing downward, toward my sidearm. My partner is turning to look. If there had been sound, you'd be able to hear the klaxons starting up.

Another dozen frames. The girls pistol is a blur, snapping upward with recoil. My partners head is thrown back. You can see the blood spraying on the pastel green wall behind him. My piece is coming up fast. Big ugly mother of a gun. Enhanced reflexes provided by an old boss of mine during a job in Brazil are probably what saved my ass. Her gun is already tracking in my direction.

Skipping ahead a dozen more, and the girl is laid out on the floor, grasping her belly and blood going all over the place. You can't see me or my partner. I'm checking for a pulse. Standard procedure. Poor bastard took a round to the forehead. Company response officers are pouring into the lobby after that. The girl dies before an ambulance can show up.

Contractor I work for gets the lawsuit from the girls parents. Drug addict. Paranoid, possibly schizophrenic. Runaway. The journal the cops turn up with is full of shit about the evil of EUH. It gets settled out of court.

Me, I get fired. Just about what I expected. No charges get pressed.

So here I am. Alone in this piece of shit apartment about 200 yards from the DMZ wall. Unemployed, for now, but something always comes up for a guy with the skills I have. Corprate security was just a way to pay the bills.

I take a deep breath, ,stubbing the cig out in the sink next to me. The surveiilance camera footage I had wasn't anything special. Half a dozen news-channels in LA had access to it. Nothing special at all. Don't know if any of them even aired it. A rent a cop and a druggie going down ain't nothing new.

I tap the power button off. Closing my eyes and rubbing them numbly - mind tracing over some old employers and fellow contractors. All the way back from when my uncle got me started in the "security consultant" buisness when dad got shot robbing a liquor store, and mom dissapeared into rehab. Remembering the way he taught me how to shoot. Got me a job with a crew of Mercs doing guard duty down in Texas. First firefight with a crew of corprate espionage types. Remember shitting myself and hiding behind out patrol vehicle. Remembering putting a bullet in the brain of the poor suprised tango when he came around the vehicle at me. I remember my uncles funeral. Running gun battle somewhere in Nippon. Went out the way he always wanted to.

Then the first big gig. Signing on with a crew doing high risk protection work down in Brazil. Signing a contract with a big Russian fella for a reflex job in exchange for a couple years duty. I remember being in the vat, simstim keeping me occupied for a month or so. Waking up. Keeping an eye on the bosses interests. Sniping guerillas that try to hop the compounds perimeter. Dating some girl from Rio. Can't for the life of me remember her name. Getting promoted. Setting up the defenses for a new compound down south. I remember the night my boss got killed. Single assasin got in, put two in the back of his head, and got out before anyone even noticed the perimeter breach. I go back stateside. Get a nice job checking corprate ID.

And then that girl walked in the front door.

I step out onto the apartments balcony, all 3' x 5' of it, light another ciggarette, and watch the sun come up.

I have a months rent paid. I can live off cheap fast food for twice that long.

Something will come up.

Something always comes up.

It's going to be a beautiful day..



NOTE: Yeah. So I didn't proof read this. Characters name is Jacob Riley. Jake to his friends. Former freelance security consultant retired into corprate security, capped some poor addict, and is back on the market. I figure thats a pretty good hook to get me into the group. *shrugs* I'll go back and fix some of the errors when I'm not in deathly need of sleep.

[Wintermute]

Very nicely done, Morgan. I gotta say, reading this thread is really getting me amped to play. Knocking the rust off my GM muscles and getting down to business, I think this is going to be a very cool game.

[smartmonkey]

[quote]I think this is going to be a very cool game.[/quote]

Seriously. Dusted off my copies of VL, Neuromancer, and Count Zero in the past few days. Forgot how much I love Gibsons work.


[quote]Very nicely done, Morgan[/quote]

Thanks. Hope I have y'all a good feel for my overall concept.

[Digital_Boy]

yep. I'm borrowing freely from VL, Burning Chrome, Neuromancer and Idoru... Didn't want to do a straight Turner clone, nor a Case or Molly Millions.

All of Gibson's protagonists were street hustlers or criminals, and the corporate types always got portrayed as negatives. I figure the corporates can't be 100% bad, and that there are a lot of REALLY talented people who can hang with the best of the best of the underground types.

[Neuro]

Hot damn, Morgan. I'm impressed.

[smartmonkey]

[quote]Hot damn, Morgan. I'm impressed.[/quote]

:oops:



Thanks.