[b]Name:[/b]
Devi Rana


[b]Nickname:[/b]
Yet to be earned -- though the casual racist and sexual harassment of the Syndicate's lower-tier employees has given her plenty already.


[b]Age:[/b] 
26


[b]Physical Description:[/b]
Devi was born in Nagpur, India, and educated at Cambridge, absorbing a pronounced British accent in the process.  Her heritage is unambiguous, giving her vivid hazel eyes brought out by a little too much eyeliner, angular features, coffee-colored skin and long, straight black hair.  She dresses smartly and professionally, having spent much of her advance on the services of Regalia's more fashionable tailors.  Pencil skirts and sharp suit jackets, chic leather waistcoats and designer heels so basic and unremarkable that they must have cost a fortune.  She always seems to have a slim, white, current-model tablet at hand, the ledgers ready to be consulted or redacted at a moment's notice.


[b]Syndicate Class: Financial[/b]
A somewhat recent acquisition to the Regalia branch, brought on board after her predecessor suffered a tragic accident involving a Swiss bank account and an eleventh-floor window, Devi's role is that of a traditional corporate accountant -- but with the responsibility of balancing two sets of books instead of one.  There are the books... and then there are [i]the books[/i].  The black books, dripping with blood money, that people would kill for.  The accountant's equivalent of the fucking Necronomicon.  Every figure in [i]those[/i] books, every transaction, expense and liquidation, is entered using a personal cipher; a cryptographic shorthand understood only by Rana herself, as natural to her as a second language, and which on close inspection would seem to require a terrifyingly dense decryption key.  This quirk makes her both a highly valuable asset and a twenty-four hour security case.  Her fashionable apartment is riddled with bugs.  There is always a car parked outside.  She is never not followed.  She has no idea.