CHARACTERS

Character write ups to come...

The following will represent the ICOR side of things to start. Others will come, but these are the main characters.

Name: Peter Stance (last name is to keep track of DNA batches)

Age: 11

Type: Synthacan-Genomorph

Appearance: Peter has a thin, weak-looking frame which deceptively hides his athleticism. He has short, dark hair and pale gray eyes that often have a glassy, lost look about them. He is about 4'5" and about 80lbs.

Personality: True to his Synth-Gen nature, Peter is quiet, obedient (if one has established himself as an authority figure), and stand-offish. Plagued by random visions, he is also very guarded and his vigilance is easily mistaken for anxiety. While extremely reluctant to speak his mind, Peter is incredibly intelligent, able to reason and retain facts well beyond his years. He also reads very quickly but this is mostly due to practice as it was a favorite activity during his off-time at the Sector facility. At the same time, Peter has still spent his entire life being trained as a soldier. He is rigid and mostly fearless and will not hesitate to fight or kill if he feels he has to. Due to his creation and exacerbated by his personality, Peter's social skills are minimal. He is unable to read subtle social cues and almost never makes eye contact.

Bio.: Peter was created at The Sector and trained like any other child in his cohort. Always introverted, he often withdrew from the others and was frustratingly quiet and blank in his demeanor. Naturally, his omegapathic abilities manifested very quietly at the age of 7 as he was watching two other boys viciously fight. His vision suddenly began to flash in between other images as though the world were jumping back and forth in time right before his eyes. He quickly realized he was seeing the outcome of the fight and pieced the facts together. Unsure of what to do, Peter remained silent until he had figured out what exactly he could do. Unfortunately, that night brought him some disturbing images that did not coincide with what he had been taught his whole life. Over time, he was forced to believe that what he was seeing was the truth. The images were sporadic and brief, often hard to read, but Peter chose to keep his manifestation a secret, even if it meant continuing to undergo the cruel tests attempting to bring them about and delaying his entry into Phase II.

One day, however, his abilities seemed to jump ahead in the middle of his lessons one day. Peter's body stiffened and his head pounded painfully. His vision went white and he found himself sucked into what could only be described as an old, poorly preserved film. He could hear snips of conversation, see grainy, broken images. Pieces of facts seemed to be shoved into his consciousness, many making no sense. He remained locked in this "seizure" for a few minutes only to come out foggy and disoriented. It was then that Peter was forced to reveal his omegapathic abilities and was then marked with his first Psy tattoo and moved onto Phase II.

For the past four and a half years, Peter has been trained in advanced combat and "coached" in developing his powers. Most of this "coaching" consisted of long sessions in which Peter as forced to try to use his powers and push them to their limit. The training sessions were painful and often lasted days in between seizures, fainting, and other side effects. Finally, unable to stand the training anymore and now unable to trust the Sector thanks to his own visions, Peter decided to escape. Stressing his body to its very limits, Peter tried to form his escape by piecing the tiny snippets of his visions together and make a route. One night, with his vague map in mind, Peter barely managed to escape the facility by sneaking around guards and climbing over the fences. Scratched and bleeding, Peter ran into what would to him be a completely foreign world where he skulks around the Sub Core trying to learn how to live while avoiding detection by the Sector.

Name: Sinclair Dreyfous
Age: 36
Weight: 87 kg
Height: 1,73m

Once an up and coming young man, now an unemployed husk still living with his mother, Sinclair Dreyfous was very much a failure. He’d mind his lack of success, was it not for other things featuring more prominently on his list of suffering. For one, he was plagued by headaches, had been for over a decade. The pounding his head was taking day in and day out had pretty much changed him and made him a humongous failure. He had little patience and was quickly agitated besides lacking the ability to concentrate properly for any length of time. But after a while even failure doesn’t bother a man much anymore, but it sure did at first. Nowadays there’s more of a hubbub concerning odd headaches and their possible cause, but when he initially went to see a doctor they said there was nothing wrong with him. Clearly they were all a bunch of idiots and he required invasive brain surgery, but perhaps they realized he nor his mother could pay for such a thing and they’d prefer him to suffer instead of suffering late payments themselves. Regardless he wasn’t going to go back to them now, he just lived with it. Though he wondered if things had changed…

Another thing high on his list of insufferable nuisances was his mother. From whatever hell pit she spawned Sinclair did not know, but as it happened it was her ugly teat he had to suckle until she’d finally leave this world, hopefully by some kind of huge explosion. What he’d actually do with himself afterwards he could not tell, because clearly he had no income, but at least he’d starve in peace. Luckily his mother did hold a job, which was also kind of miraculous. How a woman like Maud Dreyfous managed to survive working in a miserable little clinic all the way down in the ‘Subs’ he did not know. Clearly if her own son couldn’t stand her she would certainly gain the ire of many a lowlife down there who’d shank her good. Apparently however this was not meant to be, and she kept coming home, day after day. Filled with stories of puss filled wounds and what not. Surely she was the greatest conversationalist of her time…

His father on the other hand was… Dead. Sinclair didn’t even have much of a memory of his father. Whoever Milton Dreyfous had been, either Sinclair was too young or his ailing brain could no longer remember. Asking his mother was pointless, not that he’d ever contemplate actually starting a conversation with her, she had made it clear she was no fan of the subject. And no one in the neighborhood even seemed to know who his father was, but then again, Sinclair didn’t know his neighbors either. One thing his father had left behind was a case that held the infamous Magnetic Matter Accelerator Mark 6. Not that this particular specimen was all that special, but the entire line of coil-arms had made a name for itself several decades ago as the deadliest thing to hit the streets since… H-bombs! Well, perhaps not quite as devastating…
Regardless, Sinclair was under the impression his father had been into weapons for one reason or another, and this one was kept to be looked at. Maybe he had also used it, but ever since he had been young there had been this case with the Mark 6 in it. If there was a key for the thing, it was lost, the weapon could not be removed, so that’s all it was, a trophy sitting in the far end of the room left by his father. Since Sinclair had little else to do, it was not uncommon for him to stare at the weapon for an hour or so, while his mother was at work. What else was he to do with his time? Watch television? If anything, an unemployed, single man living with his mother knew there was nothing on that thing, ever. Also, it made his headaches worse, so he preferred to sit quietly in a corner contemplating things and generally doing as little as possible.

Something else which made his headaches worse was honest employment. Heck, even dishonest employment. The pounding inside his skull did not distinguish between the two it seemed. He knew, because he had tried his hand at both, but either his headache warped personality made his honest employers deem him ‘not a team player’ or those with a far more honest opinion, though dishonest profession ‘a wretch without any merit what-so-ever’. He couldn’t really argue with them, but if he could productively pass the time he’d have liked that. His mother would often come home with stories of ‘reputable’ employers looking for able hands, but more often than not these people were more likely to get him killed than paid. There were some times of weakness and he’d do a job once in a while, but nothing would ever stick.

Holding down the fort was pretty much his full-time job, as well as occasionally doing grocery shopping. Why his mother needed the most difficult to find things for reasons he did not want to ask about, he’d never know, but it meant he had to travel all over Niagara to get it. Getting out of the particular smell of his neighborhood wasn’t so bad, especially when it rained. The cold drops dripping onto his skull was pleasant to him, unlike getting a face full of sunlight which only made his pain worse. Still, going out of the quiet confines of his house and into the fray of society was more often than not a hellish task. Today being a case in point….

“Watch where you’re going, numbnuts!” Sinclair shouted after some prick who walked into him. Perhaps he could have avoided the situation if he was actually paying attention, but clearly, these things were never his fault, so shouting and sticking up a middle finger was warranted.

He made his way onto the train, after the annoying, brain-pummeling bleep which indicated his payment for travel was accepted. He sat down and closed his eyes for the duration, at least that way he could focus properly on his breathing and wouldn’t get as many cues to inflame his headache.

Today he’d get out of the train at some dank ‘Subs’ station, from which he’d have to walk a bit until he’d be able to get his errand over with. Maud had arranged for him to pick up a case of scotch. Sinclair preferred thinking of her less as his mother and more as some woman named Maud, it strained his imagination how she could have given birth to him in the first place. Regardless, besides nagging she liked to drink scotch. Actually she preferred drinking scotch and THEN nagging, which was far worse. She supposedly had a ‘refined’ taste for the amber liquid, because this particular batch was hard to find and he had been given cash in order to pay for it. His mother would once in a while get cash instead of being paid in electronic credits, not because she did anything shady, but because she’d sometimes have to nurse shady customers who had nothing else to pay with. At least, Sinclair didn’t think she did anything shady. It didn’t really matter, as it happened the little shop he was visiting preferred cash, so that’s what he’d have to use in order to get the scotch and that was pretty much it. The makers of this fine liquid probably weren’t completely up-and-up regarding the rules and regulations regarding the making of scotch, so paying for it with cash to get rid of any paper trail made sense to Sinclair.

Eventually he reached the establishment, which wasn’t much to look at. All it said at the front of the window was ‘Floyd’s’ and there was a little sign in front of the door which said ‘open’. Once inside a little bell rang, as if the place had never heard of electronics, though clearly they had, because there were cameras in every corner. The actual store was filled with the usual junk, but it was to tiny that this was clearly not their main business. The little window where the shopkeeper would soon appear was well barricaded and no doubt the real heart of the operation was in the back. There they’d keep all sorts of things, both rare and illegal, which they’d sell to those who asked no questions and got no questions in return.

“What you want mistah?” A voice sounded through a crude speaker. Sinclair could see the outline of a person standing behind the window, but it was dark on the other side, so he couldn’t quite see much.
“I’ve come to pick something up. It’s for Maud.” He said, while pretending to be very interested in whatever junk they had in the front of the shop.
“Pick-up fo’ Maud? Ah yes, pick-up fo’ Maud…” The voice crackled through the speaker, giving Sinclair a worse headache than he already had. “Coming up, one moment please.”
“Just hurry up, you mongrel.” Sinclair muttered and proceeded to rub his temples while he waited.

He felt inside his long coat where he kept the envelope with the cash, which his mother should have counted to be the precise amount, so all he’d have to do was hand it over and then take the case back home. All very simple.

“Pick-up fo’ Maud! Money please!” The voice announced while a little drawer opened by the window. Sinclair deposited the envelope and before it had even hit the bottom of the drawer it was already retracted.
“Could have lost a finger…” Sinclair complained under his breath.

While the shopkeeper counted the money the door opened and the nostalgic bell rang once more. Sinclair didn’t expect these places to see a lot of business on a day, and didn’t ever think about someone else walking into ‘Floyd’s’ while he was there, but he’d even less expect this person to know him.
“Well, well, Dreyfous.” He said. Sinclair wasn’t sure who this person was or why he knew him, but the least he could do was as pleasant as he could bear for as long as he had to wait.
“Hello…” He muttered dryly.
“Didn’t expect to see you after that… Well, that one time.” The man said.
“Nor did I.” He said with all honesty. The man was probably one of those ‘reputable’ people he did a single job with, but who he had simply forgotten.
“Pick-up or delivery?” The man wanted to know. Perhaps out of professional curiosity.
“Pick-up.” Sinclair replied.
“Good for you.” The man said, though he quickly continued, “For whom if I might ask?”
“Maud.” Sinclair continued his honest streak, though he wasn’t sure what good any of this was to the man, “But I doubt you know her.”
“Maud? No can’t say I know any broad named Maud.” The man couldn’t help but laugh at his own joke. Though he quickly came to his senses and went back to business. “What you got for her then?”

“Ok, money good.” The voice behind the window said while a larger drawer opened towards Sinclair with the case in it. “Thank you. Goodbye.”
Sinclair brought his attention towards the case instead of the inquisitive man and picked it out of the drawer.
“Next!” The voice rang through the speaker.
“Well, perhaps we’ll chat some more at some other time.” Sinclair said, since this seemed like the best opportunity to get out of the conversation and back home.
“Hold on, Dreyfous, you’ve piqued my interest. What you got there?” The man was relentless.
“Something Maud needs, I suppose.” Sinclair said. That was pretty much honest, though one might view it as a lie of omission, but what did he care?
“What’s this Maud into then?” The man continued.
“Next, please!” The voice became rather irritated by the conversation going on in the shop.
“What’s Maud into?” Sinclair found that an odd question regarding his mother. What if she was some kind of shady character? What would his mother be into if she wasn’t just a nurse? Narcotics maybe? Well, obviously she wasn’t and saying that to the man might make him even more interested. So that was hardly an option.
“You know what, why don’t you just give that to me?” The man decided it was easier that way.
“What? No!” Sinclair was not about to get robbed by some mobster in a store called ‘Floyd’s’, he had SOME pride left and he’d like to keep it that way.
“It wasn’t really a request.” The man said while drawing a shiny pistol at him.

Perhaps pride was overrated…
Holes in your body the size of a bullet were not the kind of thing you’d want to receive in return for keeping your pride. Not even if your mother would be very upset about not getting her scotch.

“You go now!” The man from behind the window said, though he had rushed out of a door and carried a large shotgun like gun. “You not welcome! You go, else I shoot!” As if the man’s voice through the speaker wasn’t bad enough, it was actually worse hearing it in person.
How the hell did Sinclair manage to make a single trip to the ‘Subs’ and get stuck in between the barrels of two guns and his mother made the trip every day and never had to deal with any of this crap? This was very unfair!

Before Sinclair knew what had happened a shot had been fired, though the inquisitive man remained upright. Floyd on the other hand, if that was his name, was less fortunate and collapsed to the ground.
“Where were we?” The man said pointing his gun at Sinclair once more, though his voice as somewhat faint and his expression suddenly turned quite surprised. Sinclair couldn’t imagine why, though for some reason, he felt very light, he couldn’t even feel his headache.

But that was only for a split second. The next moment he was staring at some people on a train with his package still in hand. How he got there wasn’t really his problem, at least there were no guns pointed at him. Though, really he wasn’t very concerned with any such things, he was more concerned with what he felt in his head.
There was no headache. Or rather, there wasn’t the usual pounding, there was in fact an abundance of stabbing pains jabbing at his grey matter from all angles and with a frightening frequency. Sinclair had never felt the need to cry or shout over his crippling headaches, but this one. This stuff, this was too much.
Stab-stab-stab stabbity-stab.
The pain was too much and after a short but powerful cry of pain Sinclair collapsed in the middle of the train walkway, his mother’s scotch clunking on the ground next to his fainted body.