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“Nice piece, how many rounds it got?” “…It’s called a six-shooter, Darce. It’s got six shots.”

NAME


Darcy Marl

ALIAS


”Darce”, “Marl”

GENDER


Female

SKILLS


Give and Take: Darcy’s a sturdy girl, tough enough to headbutt without much of a flinch, and crack a cheek without breaking her knuckles. Turns out getting pummeled frequent and early had its perks.

Clean Shot: Darcy wouldn’t be in this business if she wasn’t passably quick and accurate with a gun. Being a rookie, there’s a lot left to desire, plenty of clumsy habits to kick, but it would be a mistake to underestimate her. Not that she doesn’t love that.

A Thousand Words: In short, Darcy may not be even notably literate, but she is very receptive to faces and voices. These skills are rather useful in finding individuals who may have changed since last meeting, or seeing them.

Look Ma, Both Hands!: Simple enough, Darcy is ambidextrous. Doesn’t help her so much with writing, but it has its uses.

PERSONALITY


In old stories, people who slunk about in the shadows, or blended through crowds unnoticed, on the hunt for their fellow man, were feared and revered. They were lauded as refined yet brutal killers, prizing a code of honor and dignity, executing their contracts with deft grace and vanishing in the yet-settled dust. Possessed of high-diction and cut wardrobes, able to shift seamlessly between alley-lurker and aristocratic paragon, these hitmen and women were dark legends.

Darcy possesses few, if any, of these qualities. She’s abrasive and unsubtle, rash, loud, foul-mouthed and blunt, with a penchant for humor in humorless situations. Unlike her unsociable coworkers, she loves a good drink, and likes to make a habit of getting chummy in the saloons wherever she goes.

Her overconfidence and impulsive nature often lead her to say things she can’t back up, or do things she can’t talk her way out of. This, combined with an aversion to apologizing, led to a mostly-friendless professional life.

Still, even the people who don’t like her won’t deny she’s fun to watch, if only for the inevitable crash.

HISTORY


Darcy grew up watching trains. In the morning, when pa was still asleep, and ma was reeling from a long high, she’d go out and sit by the tracks while her sister, Sara, brewed something up. In the afternoons, once pa was done throwing his fits, she and Sara would go out on the porch to nurse their blackened eyes, or bloodied noses, and watch from there. At night, though, when the rare trains did come through, were her favorite. Ma would be sober enough to cook dinner, pa would be too drunk to yell, let alone stand, and in the fields it was so quiet, she could hear the tracks rumbling from the table. They’d have lights on them then, big and bright running every cart, like some holy chariot.

When she was ten, and Sara was sixteen, they started getting visits from New Rojas folks. Seven or eight people at a time, men and women in dusters and caps. And guns, they’d always have guns. The first time they came, pa was passed out, a few cornered ma in the living room, the others waited outside with them.

When they left, ma had bruises. Pa eventually woke up, found out what had happened, and how little money they had left, and gave them all a beating. Ma didn’t stop using though, even when Sara tried to get her to. They kept working the farm, she kept splitting the earnings between food, drugs, and debts. They debt pile was never quite big enough.

The third time New Rojas visited, they were broke. Ma begged for another month, Pa offered to let them take her if they’d square the debt. Instead they came to Sara.

“How old are you girls?”

Sara was seventeen, Darcy had only just turned eleven. They said ma could have one more month, then they broke Sara’s arm, and because Darcy was little, they only broke some of her fingers. Pa broke the rest once New Rojas had gone, though.

A month passed, Sara didn’t speak a word the whole time, even when Darcy hugged her, begging. She wouldn’t watch the trains, wouldn’t work the farm despite how many bruises she got for it, wouldn’t do anything but sit and stare, like a gargoyle. Ma tried pleading too, they needed the extra help, even if it was only one hand, and Sara would soften for just a moment, but still wouldn’t budge.

New Rojas came back, and, of course, they didn’t have the money. Pa wanted to fight them off, he’d been a guard once, and was convinced he could take six or seven if he had surprise on his side. They showed up with ten, he got on his knees and groveled with ma. The collectors just about tore the house apart looking for any hidden cash, anything valuable they could sell, but it was true, there just wasn’t enough.

Then Sara said: “Take me.”

“What for?”

“I’ll work off the debt.”

They laughed, Darcy might have too if she were them, it was ridiculous. Sara wasn’t much taller than anyone else, and she was scrawny–they all were, save for pa. One of the collectors asked if she even had the stomach for it. Sara asked for a gun.

Silence, then, for a while. One handed over a pistol, the others didn’t bother being subtle when they aimed at her, but she didn’t seem to care.

“Darce, stay with ma.”

Then Sara grabbed pa by the hair and dragged him, yelping, outside. She threw him to the dirt, told him to run, then shot the ground at his feet when he started questioning her. For how old and out of shape he’d gotten, he was fast, and be it by choice or imbalance, wavered along his way. He almost made it to the crops before she shot him clean through the nape, then he dropped like a sack.

Darcy’s heart nearly stopped, her stomach twisted up, but she stayed quiet, everyone stayed quiet. Sara gave the gun back.

“And I’m not even left-handed.”

The collectors let them say goodbye to ma. Sara, tearful, promised to send money, and if she came back and found out ma was still using, she’d shoot her too.

They got to ride a train to New Rojas, but Darcy couldn’t find joy in it. She wasn’t prepared for the city, it was loud, crowded, and every look was mean or uninterested. The collectors took them to a company building, told them they could stay while everything was sorted out, and left.

Darcy burst into tears, and Sara hugged her close, promising everything would be alright. And for the most part, this was true. They put Sara to work, and even found minor jobs running through the city for Darcy. She got savvy quick, both of them did, it wasn’t good work, it wasn’t clean work, but it was work. After a few years collecting, Sara got wrangled into a different branch of the company, publicly seen as its “bounty office.” In reality, the work was, while similar, much more sinister. She wasn’t a bounty hunter, she was a hitwoman.

Darcy started seeing her less often, but she heard plenty. Sara was a rising star, she was making a name for herself. Every time she’d come back, she’d look a little different, hair cut a new way, a new nick on her skin, even, rarely, a tattoo. Most of the stories Darcy heard came from other folks who went with her on contracts, but Sara would share a few of her solo goings with her, then swear her to secrecy with a smile.

Soon enough, Darcy was old enough to go out collecting, and she was eager to prove herself. A little too eager, sometimes. She developed pugnacious habits, offering debtors chances to pay out with fights, going just a bit too far roughing up late-payers. Many times she had to be reminded of her job, that she wasn’t with the “bounty office” yet, but she was determined to be.

It ended up taking her four years, where Sara had only taken three, but Darcy had started a year earlier, so she squared it off in her mind. Not that it was a competition, of course. She loved her sister, looked up to her like a hero, but she was twenty, it was time to bring her own stories to the table.

INVENTORY


-Wilson .45 Revolver x2

-Wilson Snub-Nose Shotgun

-Serrated Survival Knife

REASON FOR VISITING


Having just completed a contract, Darcy is currently in transit back to New Rojas through Blackfinger. However, given the haste with which she did her job, she finds herself with a little down-time, and has decided to remain there for a few days. The Free Cities aren’t so bad, after all.

RELATIONS


DARCY MARL



“Nice piece, how many rounds it got?” “…It’s called a six-shooter, Darce. It’s got six shots.”

NAME


Darcy Marl

ALIAS


”Darce”, “Marl”

GENDER


Female

SKILLS



Give and Take: Darcy’s a sturdy girl, tough enough to headbutt without much of a flinch, and crack a cheek without breaking her knuckles. Turns out getting pummeled frequent and early had its perks.

Clean Shot: Darcy wouldn’t be in this business if she wasn’t passably quick and accurate with a gun. Being a rookie, there’s a lot left to desire, plenty of clumsy habits to kick, but it would be a mistake to underestimate her. Not that she doesn’t love that.

A Thousand Words: In short, Darcy may not be even notably literate, but she is very receptive to faces and voices. These skills are rather useful in finding individuals who may have changed since last meeting, or seeing them.

Look Ma, Both Hands!: Simple enough, Darcy is ambidextrous. Doesn’t help her so much with writing, but it has its uses.

PERSONALITY


In old stories, people who slunk about in the shadows, or blended through crowds unnoticed, on the hunt for their fellow man, were feared and revered. They were lauded as refined yet brutal killers, prizing a code of honor and dignity, executing their contracts with deft grace and vanishing in the yet-settled dust. Possessed of high-diction and cut wardrobes, able to shift seamlessly between alley-lurker and aristocratic paragon, these hitmen and women were dark legends.

Darcy possesses few, if any, of these qualities. She’s abrasive and unsubtle, rash, loud, foul-mouthed and blunt, with a penchant for humor in humorless situations. Unlike her unsociable coworkers, she loves a good drink, and likes to make a habit of getting chummy in the saloons wherever she goes.

Her overconfidence and impulsive nature often lead her to say things she can’t back up, or do things she can’t talk her way out of. This, combined with an aversion to apologizing, led to a mostly-friendless professional life.

Still, even the people who don’t like her won’t deny she’s fun to watch, if only for the inevitable crash.

HISTORY


Darcy grew up watching trains. In the morning, when pa was still asleep, and ma was reeling from a long high, she’d go out and sit by the tracks while her sister, Sara, brewed something up. In the afternoons, once pa was done throwing his fits, she and Sara would go out on the porch to nurse their blackened eyes, or bloodied noses, and watch from there. At night, though, when the rare trains did come through, were her favorite. Ma would be sober enough to cook dinner, pa would be too drunk to yell, let alone stand, and in the fields it was so quiet, she could hear the tracks rumbling from the table. They’d have lights on them then, big and bright running every cart, like some holy chariot.

When she was ten, and Sara was sixteen, they started getting visits from New Rojas folks. Seven or eight people at a time, men and women in dusters and caps. And guns, they’d always have guns. The first time they came, pa was passed out, a few cornered ma in the living room, the others waited outside with them.

When they left, ma had bruises. Pa eventually woke up, found out what had happened, and how little money they had left, and gave them all a beating. Ma didn’t stop using though, even when Sara tried to get her to. They kept working the farm, she kept splitting the earnings between food, drugs, and debts. They debt pile was never quite big enough.

The third time New Rojas visited, they were broke. Ma begged for another month, Pa offered to let them take her if they’d square the debt. Instead they came to Sara.

“How old are you girls?”

Sara was seventeen, Darcy had only just turned eleven. They said ma could have one more month, then they broke Sara’s arm, and because Darcy was little, they only broke some of her fingers. Pa broke the rest once New Rojas had gone, though.

A month passed, Sara didn’t speak a word the whole time, even when Darcy hugged her, begging. She wouldn’t watch the trains, wouldn’t work the farm despite how many bruises she got for it, wouldn’t do anything but sit and stare, like a gargoyle. Ma tried pleading too, they needed the extra help, even if it was only one hand, and Sara would soften for just a moment, but still wouldn’t budge.

New Rojas came back, and, of course, they didn’t have the money. Pa wanted to fight them off, he’d been a guard once, and was convinced he could take six or seven if he had surprise on his side. They showed up with ten, he got on his knees and groveled with ma. The collectors just about tore the house apart looking for any hidden cash, anything valuable they could sell, but it was true, there just wasn’t enough.

Then Sara said: “Take me.”

“What for?”

“I’ll work off the debt.”

They laughed, Darcy might have too if she were them, it was ridiculous. Sara wasn’t much taller than anyone else, and she was scrawny–they all were, save for pa. One of the collectors asked if she even had the stomach for it. Sara asked for a gun.

Silence, then, for a while. One handed over a pistol, the others didn’t bother being subtle when they aimed at her, but she didn’t seem to care.

“Darce, stay with ma.”

Then Sara grabbed pa by the hair and dragged him, yelping, outside. She threw him to the dirt, told him to run, then shot the ground at his feet when he started questioning her. For how old and out of shape he’d gotten, he was fast, and be it by choice or imbalance, wavered along his way. He almost made it to the crops before she shot him clean through the nape, then he dropped like a sack.

Darcy’s heart nearly stopped, her stomach twisted up, but she stayed quiet, everyone stayed quiet. Sara gave the gun back.

“And I’m not even left-handed.”

The collectors let them say goodbye to ma. Sara, tearful, promised to send money, and if she came back and found out ma was still using, she’d shoot her too.

They got to ride a train to New Rojas, but Darcy couldn’t find joy in it. She wasn’t prepared for the city, it was loud, crowded, and every look was mean or uninterested. The collectors took them to a company building, told them they could stay while everything was sorted out, and left.

Darcy burst into tears, and Sara hugged her close, promising everything would be alright. And for the most part, this was true. They put Sara to work, and even found minor jobs running through the city for Darcy. She got savvy quick, both of them did, it wasn’t good work, it wasn’t clean work, but it was work. After a few years collecting, Sara got wrangled into a different branch of the company, publicly seen as its “bounty office.” In reality, the work was, while similar, much more sinister. She wasn’t a bounty hunter, she was a hitwoman.

Darcy started seeing her less often, but she heard plenty. Sara was a rising star, she was making a name for herself. Every time she’d come back, she’d look a little different, hair cut a new way, a new nick on her skin, even, rarely, a tattoo. Most of the stories Darcy heard came from other folks who went with her on contracts, but Sara would share a few of her solo goings with her, then swear her to secrecy with a smile.

Soon enough, Darcy was old enough to go out collecting, and she was eager to prove herself. A little too eager, sometimes. She developed pugnacious habits, offering debtors chances to pay out with fights, going just a bit too far roughing up late-payers. Many times she had to be reminded of her job, that she wasn’t with the “bounty office” yet, but she was determined to be.

It ended up taking her four years, where Sara had only taken three, but Darcy had started a year earlier, so she squared it off in her mind. Not that it was a competition, of course. She loved her sister, looked up to her like a hero, but she was twenty, it was time to bring her own stories to the table.

INVENTORY



-Wilson .45 Revolver x2

-Wilson Snub-Nose Shotgun

-Serrated Survival Knife

REASON FOR VISITING


Having just completed a contract, Darcy is currently in transit back to New Rojas through Blackfinger. However, given the haste with which she did her job, she finds herself with a little down-time, and has decided to remain there for a few days. The Free Cities aren’t so bad, after all.

RELATIONS



(Approved via PM)
C E L I N A J A C K S P A R



“Would you like to see a demonstration of absolute loyalty?”







NAME
Celina Jackspar

ALIAS
”Chief Minister”

GENDER
Female

D - O - B
January 1st 2627 (50)

ORIGIN
Smith’s Rest






PERSONALITY & MOTIVATIONS
There are statues which reveal more in conversation than Celina Jackspar, if such interactions with her could be considered that. To be face-to-face with her is rarely a pleasant experience, but they often feel necessary.

She campaigned promising to strengthen New Anchorage, and as far as one could tell, that's what she appears to want. Her iron will and lack of tolerance for insubordination invoke a sense of duty, and many assume she may even have some vendetta against the corporations, for how vehemently she promised they would not tread down the same road.

But there is something more, something terrible, that never has and likely never will see the public surface. In the end, whatever Celina is, whatever Celina wants, whatever drives this abyssal woman towards her ends, no one, not even her own blood, is meant to know.

PERSONAL HISTORY
There isn’t a person still alive in New Anchorage that could tell you about who the Jackspars are, how long they’d lived in the settlement of then-Smith’s Rest, or why they’d holed up in a ratty old building and filled it with books. No one knew, moreover no one cared.

Some can recall the daunting woman attending town-hall meetings, rallies and the like, well before the birth of her daughter. Others might tell stories of venturing into the shadowed library, and finding no one no matter how extensively they searched. Indeed it was rare for anyone to actually check a text out, but then, in so tumultuous a time, most agreed that immediate survival came before the immersion of dead history.

Even when her daughter became one of the handful of pilots vowed to lead Smith’s Rest to prosper, she was an enigma. Only, she was becoming a public figure, an enigma of person and politics alike. She no longer sat silently throughout public meetings, but argued the plans expressed by the council in power.

It became quickly evident that she was no dissenter, but a learned contender, wise not only in the machinations of politics present, but past as well. She had an arsenal of campaigning platforms tucked away in her mind, and before long she was no spectator, but a speaker at rallies urging change. So much spent on the protection of New Anchorage, and yet the city had fallen victim to attacks twice within the year of the NC program’s foundation. People were hurt, afraid, angry.

When Smith’s Rest became New Anchorage, when things finally looked to calm, Celina made her move. It was not the time to settle, to grow comfortable in the wake of assisted stability, but rather it was time for the settlement to establish itself. New Anchorage must be a force. Those who thought them weak for their meager history should not be rewarded, but punished to the fullest extent for their transgressions.

At first she was met with resistance by the settlement’s officials, perhaps because of her seemingly radical ideals, or perhaps just because she was a nobody come with the threat to take control. People had begun to support her, even if the vocal were few, but it would take more than raw intellect to gather the push necessary to get her in power.

It is an odd thing to be thankful for tragedy, but when New Anchorage was attacked a second time, Celina smiled. The chaos that ensued was mostly subtle, there were no fearful riots, and in fact the NC facility had clearly been the primary target. Nevertheless, the governing power began to collapse on itself, torn between its former views and a sudden jerk towards support for Celina. With the citizenry uproariously at her back, she was elected into an executive position by the end of the following day.

INFLUENCE & RELATIONS








APPEARANCE
Celina is a menacing spire. Tall and narrow yet immovable, there are few she does not cast her shadow upon, even if their eyes level. Despite her position of authority, her attire has remained humble and plain, often bound in a deep coat and heavy boots that suggest she does not mind who hears her approach. Her face is sharp and cut with lines of thought, and her glacial eyes rest in pits behind thin glasses.

Most look away following a furrowed glance, and so to match gazes with her for long is tantamount to war. She has the look of one who understands their power, thoroughly.

TRAITS
Orator/Manipulator: Celina is good with words. She’s good with words that inspire, words that rally, condemn, threaten and terrify. She negotiates mercilessly, never yielding much in return, and what cannot be resolved civilly, can almost always be handled by other means.

Historian: Celina is well-read in many topics largely lost to the interests of the public. Her knowledge on subjects of ancient and modern history, politics, psychology, medicine and many more speak to a lifetime spent buried in books. The ability to arise from nothing with the apparent experience of a professional has proved invaluable in her political rise.





“You feelin’ this song? I’m feelin’ this song.”







NAME
Vera Jackie Voloshyna

CALLSIGN
---

ALIAS
“Vi”(Elizabeth)

GENDER
Female

D - O - B
April 30th 2664 (13)

ORIGIN
Smith’s Rest






PERSONALITY & MOTIVATIONS
Equal parts easily excitable and hard to bring down, Vera displays more happiness than anyone likely has a right to given the state of the world, and especially the state of her home. The type to view every day as a new, wonderful opportunity, every stranger as a friend she hasn’t met yet. She isn’t quite dense to the natural cynicism of the world, though she doesn’t often try to assert her optimism as better, rather she tends to accept the views of others and present her own in kind. To her, bringing a few happy moments when necessary is more important than trying to outright change another’s philosophy, and even in the hardest cases, Vera always manages to find a silver lining, be it in situations or people.

While generally light hearted, Vera can at times display a caretaking maturity. Still unrefined and more reactionary than anything, dealing with trauma is something she learned growing up in the Jackspar home. Often times Elizabeth would end the days a broken wreck, and Vera was glad to be a source of comfort for her. The reclusive Ms. Jackspar never saw her daughter’s breakdowns like she did, never woke up to find Eli in a fit of silent panic, or clawing at her skin like she couldn’t feel it. Celina learned the signs to Eli’s problems, how to order her into preventing them, but Vera learned how to fix them, at least temporarily, and for better or worse, this is largely why the older girl never received professional help.

With the discovery of a potential future as a pilot, Vera has come to realize that she’s spent much of her life thus far as an emotional lifeline to her sister. She doesn’t resent this, and wouldn’t for a heartbeat consider abandoning her, but she can’t help the gnawing lust for an adventurous life not tethered to another. If she could have that, and still be close to Eli, it would all work out. Right?

EFFECTS OF POLARIS SHIFT
Currently N/A.

PERSONAL HISTORY
Vera was too young to remember her parents leaving, but knows that she was born in what was then Smith’s Rest. Over the years she’s come to understand that the Voloshyna’s were in fact the only family close to the Jackspars, which to her was enough to explain why she was given to them. It never seemed to affect her, even when she was old enough to understand the implications of her situation she never harbored any anger against her parents. She had a home, a mother, and a wonderful sister, to her that was plenty to be happy about.

Eventually however, Vera started to notice cracks. The once warm and caring Celina Jackspar slowly discarded her façade, revealing a cold, calculating woman who shunned her in favor of focusing on her daughter, Elizabeth. And yet Vera was still not deterred. She’d grown attached to the girl, who had in turn grown attached to her, and by the time Vera was cresting nine the two were all but inseparable. So it came as no surprise that when Eli was accepted into the NC program that Vera was brought along as well.

What did surprise them was the possibility that Vera might end up in the cockpit of an NC too. Having been at the facility through vicious assaults and quiet lulls, she’s at least been made aware of the many risks the job entails, yet she’s signed herself on all the same. Now over a month out of surgery, and under the near constant watch of her sister, for the first time Vera is at least somewhat certain of her future, a future she chose. Even through the post-op debilitation, the girl has never been happier.

INFLUENCE & RELATIONS








APPEARANCE
Standing on the shorter end for her age, with blonde hair nearing her back and wide, lively green eyes, Vera is not an imposing child, which is more than fine by her. It’s rare to see her without a smile on her face, and rarer still to see her frown. Even in darker situations she always appears to at least be trying to smile, if for no other reason than to offer a warm look to anyone who might need it.

She tends to dress similarly to Elizabeth, if not a bit brighter. Jackets over bright shirts with a scarf on occasion draped ‘round her shoulders. However, the girl’s staple is without a doubt the ushanka that rarely leaves her head. A memento from the family she never knew.

TRAITS
Your talents, interests, and skills.

INVENTORY
General equipment used or educated with.






MANUFACTURER
Origins of NC.

TYPE
Size; small, medium, or large.

SQUAD ROLE
Support, Sniper, or Assault.

ARMAMENTS
Modules and weapons applied to your NC.

OBSERVATIONAL NOTES
Command notes of the NC's attributes.





“It’s a knife, it doesn’t have a story.”







NAME
Elizabeth Jackspar

CALLSIGN
Blur

ALIAS
Eli

GENDER
Female

D - O - B
May 1st 2656 (20)

ORIGIN
Smith’s Rest






PERSONALITY & MOTIVATIONS
Cold and dismissive to all but her superiors, but unerringly dutiful and devoted to the protection of New Anchorage. Elizabeth is a good soldier, a great soldier even, but little else. Growing up in what was essentially a ruin of a library, and being rarely permitted to leave, shaped Eli at a young age less like a person and more like a lump of clay. She feels no sense of loss for any would-be social life, no sorrow for being deprived a childhood, only a sense of duty, and a longing for the fulfillment of that duty.

The protection of New Anchorage is without a doubt the most important thing to Eli, and anything that could be perceived as a threat to the people of her home should not be tolerated. It matters little that she’d met none of them, less that until she stepped into her mech next to no one even knew she existed. What matters is defending her home from all threats, foreign and domestic.

It did not become apparent until her teenage years that Eli had developed identity issues, though any outward eyes could have foreseen it. This is only heightened by a high sync-rate, something the girl is silently but immensely thankful for. When connected to her mech, and only then, does Eli feel certain of herself, like she’s stepped out of her constricting, ill-fitting skin. No doubts, no twitches, no shakes, only a unification of mind and body. And so, the inevitable disconnection never fails to leave her mentally ajar, a fact that would be unmistakably evident were she not so good at hiding it.

EFFECTS OF POLARIS SHIFT
Elizabeth is an odd case. Where most pilots suffer some sort of lasting mental deficiency as a result of their NC's past, or the past of previous pilots, Elizabeth does not appear to be changed at all. This is of course not actually the case. The fact that the Blur is a "fresh" NC, combined with her being burdened naturally by identity dissociation, create instead a sort of mental unification.

Elizabeth is a weapon, but the strain of humanity has always ravaged her mind fighting this reality. Perhaps it is a trick of psychology, perhaps it is because in such high sync with Blur, she can be both a person and a weapon, perhaps it is merely luck. Whatever the case, the harmonious effect of her Shift is a blessing, to her, the only time she can feel whole is in the pilot's seat.

PERSONAL HISTORY
”Eli”

Eli was eight years old when she learned her name was short for “Elizabeth”. Her mother, the librarian recluse Celina Jackspar, had used it once, the first time she’d cried during her training.

”Get up, Elizabeth. Now. And never cry in front of me again.” And she never did.

The Jackspars might have been lepers for how little they interacted with the world. Confined to a modestly sized “library” nestled in the corner of what was then “Smith’s Rest”, few ever visited, and fewer were actually aware the spindly woman had a child. With little to their name aside from cases and piles of books, collected from far and unspoken edges, it would not have been unreasonable to assume the family would contribute nothing great to the world. They would exist quietly amidst a sea of old knowledge, and overtime the Jackspar name would peter out.

Celina would not it.

The training began early, and never slackened. Eli learned from a young age what she was, and would be, that the good majority of her life would be spent inside the cockpit of a mechanical behemoth. She did not attend school, she did not socialize with peers, she rarely left the library at all. Her life was dedication, she had to let go of the urges to want, and focus entirely on the future.

”Up.” And she got up.

The Jackspars could afford no firearms, and so forewent practicing them. Instead it was decided that Eli would master the art of melee combat in their absence. Lyosha Voloshyna, a carpenter and one of the family’s only “friends”, happily supplied them with wooden models of various swords, ranging from the typical and familiar, to the foreign and unique.

Eli was made to train with them day in and day out. They would not be weapons held, they would be extensions of her own body, or she would fall short. Countless other prospective pilots had the advantage of proper training, they could afford to be merely “adequate” so long as they rounded out a checklist and passed the neural exam.

”I don’t want you on-par, I want you better. Keep going.” And she would.

Hour after hour Eli practiced, submitting herself to the forms and tests of balance. By the time she was in her middle teens, picking up a sword felt like raising her hand, swinging felt like punching. Her threshold for pain was pushed further each day, and every time she kept her mouth shut, kept her face calm, she would catch the ghost of a smirk flicker over her mother’s face. Moving had become a dance, and she was the prima.

When she was fifteen, a practice sword broke in her hand, splintering midway down the blade. It was old, nothing unexpected, and the shattering caused her no physical harm. All the same Eli froze, wide eyes fixated on the broken blade, and her arm, then the girl collapsed in a fit of agony.

Celina watched, shocked.

”Get up.” But she didn’t. ”Elizabeth, get. Up.” But she couldn’t. It took all of her strength not to cry.

It was her first major incident, and the only one Celina ever saw. It took a few years to realize they weren’t going to stop, and seeking professional psychiatric help would murder Eli’s chances at becoming a pilot, so Celina resolved to handle the situation in her own way.

Eli knew Eli. Celina knew Elizabeth.

”Stop shaking.” And she would.

The final years leading up to application were smooth by Celina’s standards. Her daughter was sharp, fast, resilient, and above all, obedient. She would protect Smith’s Rest, she would protect its people, and she would do so under the instruction of whosoever commanded the forces.

Second to her, of course.

INFLUENCE & RELATIONS







APPEARANCE
Eli is pale as a ghost, chalky from hair to toe, most wouldn’t hesitate to describe her as “haunting”. However, what people tend to notice first about her are her eyes. Icy, both in color and gaze, she always appears to be judging her surroundings, be they people or otherwise, and it’s rare that they hold even a glimmer of levity in public view. Rarer still are smiles, laughs, slouches, but an attentive eye wouldn’t struggle to spot wayward twitches, restless legs, and tapping fingers.

Her attire leans towards casual however, often wearing hooded jackets and rarely caught without a scarf wrapped up her chin. Beneath everything is the pilot suit, worn near constantly. She’d claim this as common sense, practical for quick response, but she’s as attached to the piece as her own skin.

TRAITS
CQC: Both in and out of the mech, this is Elizabeth’s strongest skill. Growing up without the means to practice with firearms, she learned quick and learned well to trust her two hands and what she could swing with them. Eventually this translated much more elegantly into a form of swordplay in anticipation of a melee-oriented NC piloting career, and so her prowess with most things what can be held and cut with is highly refined. Unfortunately, if not predictably, she is untrained and unskilled with guns, having only operated a firearm outside of her mech, and in the context of a test.

Reflexive: Elizabeth is quick, both in body and mind. While this doesn’t necessarily equate to a proficiency in tactics, she is able to form appropriate reactions in combat, and in prolonged engagements–especially in close quarters–is able to begin analyzing offensive and defensive patterns in her opponent.

Driven: Perhaps not explicitly a skill, but doubtless one of her most notable traits. Elizabeth does not shy from completing a mission or fulfilling an order, be it in combat or otherwise. Her fierce loyalty combined turn many scenarios to “do or die” in her mind, something that, while sometimes advantageous, can be equally dangerous.

INVENTORY
General equipment used or educated with.






MANUFACTURER
Red Star

TYPE
Medium

SQUAD ROLE
Melee Assault

ARMAMENTS
  • NA01 Energy Sword: Blur’s primary weapon, the blade is projected from the handle. A contingency, physical blade, carried onboard, can be attached as well with edges able to sustain similar heat.

  • NA02 Energy Pata: Attached to Blur's left forearm is a deployable secondary gauntlet, which cups over its hand to be grasped for added stability. From the front, a shorter blade projects, though it lacks the physical backup of the NA01.

  • Deployable Claws: Blurs fingers are overlaid by sharp attachments designed to latch on and stay on. Can be activated and retracted.

  • Explosive Charges: For breach scenarios and other situations that require the close-proximity planting of explosives. Housed in two separate pieces to prevent accidental detonations due to trauma/weapon fire.


Its notable equipment is as follows:

  • OMNI Propulsion System: Blur's key assets are speed and maneuverability and these owe largely to the propulsion system which served as the foundation for the NC's design. Four powerful engines on Blur's back act as the central piece, sleek and jutting like stagnant wings. Firing at once they allow for rapid acceleration and a tremendous peak-speed. As well, each can adjust direction independently, which, in addition to the thrusters at the base of Blur's legs, grant the NC fantastic directional control.


  • Flare Cache: Typical of any evasive NC, but nonetheless crucial, Blur houses a small volley of deployable flares.

OBSERVATIONAL NOTES
The Blur is a lightweight, standard-height NC based on Red Star designs, which were later scrapped in favor of more generally practical and less specialized models. It is Stark white with only a few wayward cerulean lights and the bright azures of its jets to stand out. The frame is lithe and sleek, lending to its aerodynamic nature. However it is thinly armored, built for speed, but lacking the ability to take much punishment.

Blur is an embodiment of the “high-risk-high-reward” philosophy. With its primary function being the melee engagement of high-priority targets, many of its maneuvers, both combative and evasive, necessitate a hyper-reflexive sync rate, and even then it’s rare for the NC to emerge from solo engagements unharmed. In reality, Blur is designed to work alongside a team and is often even dependent on one, despite that the pilot may deny it.

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