Lemme know where I ruined everything!
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[b][/b] Annie Taymur
[b] [/b]Scooter/Scoot (“Professional” Handle)
[b][/b] Female
[b][/b] 26
[b] [/b]Carrier
[hider=The Carriers]A largely unorganized, semi-anonymous group of individuals that would qualify more as a network of independent contractors than as a gang. They have no hierarchy, no hideouts, and offer almost no support system for one another. The only thing that is given to you by becoming part of the Carriers is a reputable name to help you gather disreputable clients who would pay you handsomely to transport a package for them, be it narcotics, money, information, weapons, whatever—it isn’t a carrier’s job to know what they’re carrying, just for them to deliver it and to deliver it quickly. Hell, it’s better to not know what you’re holding, unless you feel like relying on alcohol and sleeping pills to put you to bed for the rest of your limited nights. Carriers often use handles so that they can keep in touch with repeat clients while still allowing for plenty of room for deniability of contact between the two parties if police, for whatever reason, decide to become involved. While there are a few people who are lifers, most people only work for the Carriers temporarily: get in, get paid, and get out. As long as you don’t do anything to ruin the brand, you’re good to go.
However, if you do fuck it up, you better be willing to be the fall guy and keep your lips shut tight, lest you want to find out what happens when carriers band together to take care of a blabbermouth. [/hider]
[b][/b] 14, although she’s an expat from District 17.
[b][/b]5’8”
[b][/b] 140
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Annie is a career carrier, and it shows in how she behaves around others even while not on a job. She’s friendly, open, and casual while in conversation and is comfortable talking with strangers, but an astute observer would notice that she often tends to keep the focus on the person she’s talking to and off of herself outside of discussing her hobbies. Annie’s easy to make smile and laugh, acts generously while in the company of others and is quick to drop grudges, and overall seems fairly easy-going. When’s she not making a new connect, she can be seen scanning the room—for exits, for new acquaintances, for people watching her, for warning signs that shit’s about to go down—and when there is trouble she’s often the first to go. In fact, that’s the thing that most people learn about Annie once they spend a lot of time around her; if she’s not getting paid, she’s not willing to stick her neck out for anybody. She’s the ultimate fair-weather friend.
On the job, Annie’s known for her punctuality, her professionalism, and her reliability. Although she may privately judge those that she works for, she does not speak negatively towards them while under contract. Likewise, while carriers have the right to refuse any work that comes towards them, Annie is known for being the kind of carrier that is willing to take on any job. Annie’s morally ambiguous at best, especially if a job is involved. While she would never directly go out of her way to hurt someone, she fails to see the hypocrisy involved through her complicity when taking a gig where she’d run drugs or weapons to another district. After all, if she didn’t do it, somebody else would; this way she can at least take care of herself. It’s a rash way of looking at things, but that’s Annie in a nutshell: irresponsible. And, well, maybe a smart part of her realizes that, but for now she’s doing her best to ignore that little tiny voice of reason.
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Annie was born in District 17 and, like all born in District 17, she has an uncontrollable urge to point out that while, yeah, sure, maybe she was poor, maybe she was less educated, maybe her parents did do drugs and maybe her brother, Art, sold drugs and maybe, that one time, she saw her brother sell drugs to their own mother instead of just giving her a fix like any decent son would, but at the end of the day at least she wasn’t one of those wannabe, doughy losers who lived in District 16. So see, from a young age Annie learned to put the world into perspective and to be thankful for what you have instead of coveting what you don’t have (because if you don’t have something you want, then you better just steal it instead of bitching to big brother for another handout because that’s just not how the world works, Annie.)
Annie’s youth was a fairly typical for somebody growing up in a broken home, embedding a whole assortment of trust and commitment issues in her that would come to bud once she began pursuing a forever downward-spiraling string of failed relationships later in life. Her father and her mother split-up when she was six for “reasons”. Her brother always said it was because she had actually a gift from the mailman, a thought that filled her with some excitement because perhaps the mailman would come back and take her to District 10 where she would live like a princess eating cake and bathing in money, or whatever it is those ritzy bastards did in District 10. Anyways, having split-up parents wasn’t all that bad; now she would have two birthdays a year where, once again, she got disappointment.
But really, besides that it was pretty rad. She and her brother would switch every couple of weeks or so between her mother’s rundown apartment and their father’s cramped studio. They would meet all sorts of strange “friends” of their parents who would never be seen or mentioned on their next visit. They would learn how to cook, because mom was often too high or dad was often too not-at-home to make dinner, and they got pretty good at fending for themselves. They learned how to rely on themselves as well as others, joining together with friends from school to form a sort of “youth group” that would help each other out in gathering supplies and protect one another from other “youth groups”. They learned that if they really wanted to make it in life then they should start selling a good that was in high demand.
They realized that, even if they were hardly educated, they needed to be smart and to not fuck this up.
Her brother was the one who came up with the idea that they should sell drugs, really. He was older by three years, and smarter, and stronger, so he was in charge. He made Annie agree that while they would sell it, they would never become users—they didn’t want to be like their parents, did they? She was happy to make that agreement. They convinced their friends to get involved. Annie would talk to those who were reticent to change their mind—she was more outgoing, patient, and even-tempered than her brother—and, if she failed, her brother would threaten them until they agreed to go along with it. There was no more beating around the bush, they were running a small gang. Well, Art was running a small gang. Annie was just complicit with it, although to this day she would deny having anything to do with naming them the eyeroll-inducing “One Sevens”.
The shitty name did little to reduce their business, and the Taymur siblings soon found themselves with more money than they knew what to do with. Well, Art found himself with more money than he knew what to do with; Annie found herself, for the first time in her life, with an allowance. Still, from day one Annie had issues with her brother holding onto most of the money. Eventually, she called him out for being greedy; he called her out for being irresponsible, citing the rusting, extremely overpriced “antique” sportbike she had purchased after their first big deal. She called him out for being an asshole. He called her out for being a bitch. She stormed out and went for a ride, an act that would become habitual over the years as the rift between the two of them began to grow.
Riding became her solace. If she wasn’t pushing, she was riding. Rather, if she was supposed to be pushing, she was riding. Annie lived for the feeling of wind rushing past her, the wrenching of her gut as she took a turn just a little too slightly, the neon blur of the world as she went faster, faster, faster. Annie began spending more of her time with people outside of her gang, other motorcycle and hoverbike enthusiast who introduced her to the street racing scene. Eventually her brother cut her off completely—she was no longer helping the One Sevens expand their drug empire, so she was no longer getting her meager morsel of the cut—but by then she was already racing for cash and for pink slips.
However, the One Sevens sparked tensions by pushing their product on a rival’s turf it wasn’t long before Annie began to feel unfriendly eyes on her whenever she took to the streets. Yet, there was no full on war and in Annie’s mind it didn’t matter either way; she wasn’t with the One Sevens anymore and she didn’t give a shit who about who stabbed who over the right to stand on a corner. She continued racing and living her life as usual, going for rides on a variety of bikes. She had a few bikes now thanks to a handful of fortunate wins, and her most favorite one was a bright yellow hoverbike that had been decked out in all sorts of pulsating neon lights. Super flashy. Super recognizable.
One night she lost that hoverbike in a race. There was nothing she could do about it; the other racer was just better. As she watched her beloved bike ride away into the night jealousy gave way to horror as a black van peeled out from a side street and collided at breakneck speed into the bike. The bike was mangled; the rider went flying, shattering on to the ground several yards away. Any question on whether it had been an accident or not was erased as a squad of gangbangers piled out of the car, grabbed the body, and jumped back into the van as it squealed away. Annie’s racing friends always chided her for wearing a helmet; now, she was thankful for the anonymity. When the kidnappers figured out that they had gotten the wrong person she knew that they would come back for her.
She also knew that if they were planning to try and use her as blackmail to get her brother to lay off his expansion then both she and the gangbangers would be thoroughly disappointed. Annie packed up what little she had, jumped upon her old junker, and fled the District. She could’ve gone to her brother and seek some form of refuge, but she knew she couldn’t go groveling back to him. Pride, mostly, but she liked to believe it was that she just didn’t want to continue to have ties with someone who so enthusiastically hooked people on drugs. Nah, okay, it was just pride. Annie spent the next few nights more or less homeless before she found a room for rent over a liquor store in District 14.
She only had enough money for a month of rent, and the racing scene in District 14 was either nonexistent or extremely good at being elusive. Perhaps the cops here cared more. Regardless, she needed to find a way to make some money, but with no work history, no reputable references, and with no real desire to work the counter at a coffee shop while some pimply manager four years younger than her tells her that she really needs to work on her customer service. Instead of joining the mindless deluge of shift workers, Annie decided to become a carrier. She would get to ride her bike all night while acting as an overpaid delivery boy; it sounded like a pretty sweet gig.
Of course, saying you’re a carrier and actually being a carrier were two different things. Normally, someone became a carrier by being brought in and introduced to a few potential clients by another carrier until they could prove themselves and expand their base. Doing so without any connections was tough, but not impossible. Plus, Annie had an upperhand—years of working for her brother left her with the knowledge of where to find unscrupulous types. She knew how the work the angles, she knew how to speak their language, and she knew how to fuck off and become scarce when signs began pointing towards an imminent knifing.
Better still, she knew how to conduct herself around people who weren’t like that, meaning she didn’t scare the shit out of normies. It was only a matter of time before she was able to get a steady gig running packets from some back alley pharmacist in D15 to university students in D10 looking for something to help them with their late night studies. It wasn’t the best paying job, but it paid the rent and put her in contact with the future burnouts of New Ancora. Most importantly, it gave her plenty of opportunities to ride, and the anonymity of the job prevented word from leaking back to D17 that she was still alive in case her brother’s enemies decided to get any more grand ideas. In Annie’s mind, she was set.
In fact, she was more than set: she was a lifer. For the next five years, Annie formed a web of trusted contacts that she would regularly work for and occasionally accept offer from one of their many “friend of a friend's” types that would show up once and never be heard from again. Work would dry up every now and then—some hotshot kid from the BoD would try to stir up the status quo and try to make a move against the otherwise regularly ignored questionable types that loitered around Zone Beta, or a carrier would be caught with a package and begin running their mouth before one of their own could shut them up. Still, the dry periods would end, and Annie would find herself back in work with relative ease once the tensions died down
Yet, despite the success, she’s lately begun to feel as if she has become stuck. When her brother called her irresponsible all those years ago she took it as a compliment, but now she’s no longer so sure. Who knows, maybe he was right, maybe she should take some responsibility. Like, isn’t part of the reason D17’s such a dumpster fire because she helped her brother with his childish “let’s start a gang!” plan? Maybe she could do something about it.
Or, fuck it, she could just go for a ride instead. It’s not her problem.
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-Despite not liking the bastard, Annie has kept her promise to her brother: she never became a user. She has enough horror stories about baseheads and Lucid dreamers to know that a little bit of fun isn’t worth it, and if she was going to get herself killed she’d rather do it quickly by losing control of her bike at a hundred mph and slamming into a wall then slowly atrophying until she was nothing a pile of loose flesh and bones feverishly searching for the one uncollapsed vein in her body. She doesn’t even fuck around with cigarettes, and has a hard two-drink maximum when it comes to alcohol.
-As a carrier, Annie’s not in the safest line of work. There’s always somebody looking to make a quick buck or score some free shit by jumping a carrier. When it comes down to flight or fight, any veteran carrier knows that while the latter is unavoidable, it is best to follow the former any time you can. So while Annie is capable of defending herself—she carries a stun gun and a knife—she’s more proficient at simply escaping, and can often outrun, outjump, and outlast most pursuers on foot. If she gets to her bike she’s pretty much uncatchable. Years of street racing has shaped her into an extremely capable driver, and her work has helped craft a mental map of most of Zone Beta in her head. [/hider]