---

n a m e ::

Maestro

d a t e & p l a c e o f b i r t h::
November 5th, 2025, Tel Aviv, Israel

a p p e a r a n c e ::
Gabby has dark features with brown eyes, black hair, and olive skin and has the fit, athletic build of someone who regularly stays active and exercises. She stands at 5’8” and weighs around 140 lbs with a pear body shape. Streaks of neon pink run through her wavy hair, and she tends to rely a little too heavily on lipgloss and eyeshadow that make her look less like a sleek runway model and more like a little girl that got into mommy’s makeup drawer. Her teeth are straight but stained a slight yellow with the telltale signs of cigarettes and coffee and her eyes have the bloodshot weariness to them of someone who doesn’t get enough sleep. A memento from her military days exist in the form of a tattoo on her left forearm that says “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in Hebrew followed by an asterisk, and her right arm is covered in an intricate web of roses and lace. Two parallel pink scars in the shape of small circles can be found on the back of her neck and she rarely removes the IDF dogtag hanging around her neck, claiming it to be “good luck”.

g e n d e r ::
Female

o c c u p a t i o n ::
Assassin

s k i l l s ::
»Pink Mist — If you need someone to quickly and cleanly put an anti-material bullet into something a mile or so away then Gabby is your girl, if you can handle the follow-up of “Did you see that? Did you see that?” shrieking over the comms. Likewise, having a person on the outside to keep overwatch and call out any incoming backup while the crew storms through swamps of cubicles is an added bonus.

»Look At Me! Look At Meeeee! — Need a distraction? The only thing Gabby loves more than vaporizing some geek from a block away is being the center of attention, and the only thing more valuable to a crew of corporate crooks than the coverfire of an expert sharpshooter is someone ready and willing to divert the attention of the guards so their partners can carry out their mission with minimal resistance or escape from a messy situation. Be it creating a scene like a nasty patron at a restaurant throwing a fit and demanding to see someone’s manager, amateurishly trying her hand at seeming seductive, or going in loud and hard with an uzi and some big booms, Gabby’s down for pretty much any plan that puts the spotlight on her.

»Au Naturel — It’s nice being all cybered up, sure, until somebody drops the EMP or starts screwing around with your neural network, then suddenly that cutting edge piece of chrome is little more than an expensive weight that is now dragging you down as the cybersquads storm in to sweep up the metallic garbage. Of course, if you don’t have any cyberware, all of that becomes a bit of a moot point. Gabby doesn’t have any of that junk. No mind hacks, no tune-ups, no going full killer robot, and no awkward moments involving metal detectors or cyber scanners. Cyber-free, it’s the way to be.

c y b e r n e t i c s ::
...are for nerds. Gabby may not have any cybernetics, but that doesn’t mean she’s a luddite. She supplements her lack of chrome with a few useful tools.

»Sony NetBuddy 3.0 — A handheld device that allows users to access the 3D space of the Net without the use of a headset, bodysuit, or having to carve out a chunk of your spinal cord so that you can jam a plug into the back of your neck whenever you want to watch cat videos. In a way, it acts as a surrogate neuralware for those who cannot or will not get one. It’s significantly slower than an actual connection through typical means, and navigation can be rather clunky and cumbersome, but it still lets the user hit up social media and combat their FOMO. Notable mostly for its terrible battery life and its lack of a 3.5 headphone jack.

»Grigori SmartOptics DX — Ultra-sleek binoculars decked the hell out with all sorts of tech that accurately predict wind speed, distance, bullet drop, and just about anything else a shooter needs to hit their target. As well, it offers thermal, sonar, and night vision, plus tagging and tracking modes that help keep a target in sight. Marketed to big game hunters, but does the job just as well for hopeful guns-for-hire. Automatically updates any information to a partnered scope (free pack-in) via Bluetooth, making it easy for shooters to put down their binoculars and pick up their rifle without losing anything. Plus, if the damn thing breaks the scope it comes with is top-of-the-line on its own.

»Mikail Second Skin — Black, form-fitting, full body armor with retractable face mask made out of the same protective nanofibers cyberfreaks put underneath their skin. Damage resistant to small arm fire and cuts from blades, and has a slightly better resistance to force than conventional bulletproof vests. The material is light and breathable, plus it can be concealed underneath a few layers of clothing and barely restricts movements. Tends to mess hair up quite a bit, so always best to carry a comb if you have a date after the firefight. A “gift” from her military days.

h i s t o r y ::
Gabby had a fairly atypical childhood in the sense that she grew up in what could have possibly been the last middle class nuclear family in Israel, let alone the entire world. She went to school and promptly slept or goofed off in her classes, watched crappy television late into the night after her parents went to bed, fought with her sister over jewelry and clothing, smoked cigarettes in a desperate attempt to appear cool, snuck pulls of liquor from Dad’s stash, went to temple on Saturday just to forget about everything she had heard by Saturday night, and generally kind of sucked as a human being. In other words, despite having a bat mitzvah, she was a kid. Of course, all of that would change when she turned eighteen and would spend the next two years in mandatory military service as part of the Israel Defense Forces. A right of passage, really. Not a big deal, though; two years of getting paid to get fit, shoot guns at paper targets, and parade around in uniforms didn’t sound so bad. Better than her current plan in life, which was nonexistent.

During training, Gabby became known for two things. The first was that she was the instructor’s favorite, although only if you consider constantly being yelled at for talking out of turn or stepping out of line for making a rude remark about someone favoritism. It seemed that Gabby could not go a single day without somehow challenging authority and, really, making everything about her. The second thing was that she was a damn good shot. Scary good. Like, she was less like a bratty teenager who had once stolen her best friend’s boyfriend just to prove to her that she could do it and more like someone who had grown up in a war-torn country, forced to fight with a rifle in hand since they were six. The daily routine would soon become Gabby does something stupid, Gabby gets yelled at for being stupid, Gabby hits ten out of ten shots, Gabby get praised for being brilliant, ad nauseam.

Part of the way through basic Gabby was pulled aside by an officer who recommended that, if she could keep her damn mouth shut around command and actually apply herself in areas outside of the shooting range, she could qualify for the special forces. Immediately hesitant, the officer began to convince her once he started appealing to her ego—best of the best, an example for all women, the pride of her nation, that sort of crap. So, training led into more training as she applied for Sayeret Matkal, an elite counter-terrorist and recon unit. It was harder, much harder, than basic. Hell, it was downright grueling, but she was still able to get away with her mouth as long as she picked and choose who heard her say what. A little bit of humor did the body good, and nothing formed stronger bonds between people than trying to pick each other back up after spending an entire day being beaten down.

She was just turning twenty by the time she passed her training, the same age most women dipped out of the service. Her first mission she was assigned to a strike force to deal with a hostage situation of Israeli executives—the IDF was more or less a puppet for a handful of Jewish corps by this point—located inside of a neighboring country’s borders. They were to go in quickly and quietly, take out the terrorists, secure the hostages, and dip back across the border before anyone was the wiser. They say you always remember your first kill, but what Gabby remembers most was the unbearable boredom as she laid on her belly for hours on end watching movement through windows in some shithole village as her squad slowly crept into position, the order for silence on the comms given almost immediately after she had begun chatting away to try and fight off the boredom. Okay, sure, and she does totally remember blasting some bastard in the face from over 800 meters and redecorating the drab walls with his viscera as her team stormed the building. But mostly she remembers the fidgeting and bitching while sweating underneath the hot sun.

And that’s how it went for a while. Her life became a spiral of infinite boredom coupled with moments of pure adrenaline, leaves that involved nights of heavy drinking and clubbing, and the not-so-private tryst she was having with her squad’s leader. Love makes people do stupid things, like write poetry that manages to slip into the wrong hands and get mockingly recited by the squad while they're stuck in a helicopter. It also makes people try to get neuralware implants in the back of their skull so that they can hook their brains up together as yet another attempt to try and make two become one, only to find out that their garbage body (painfully) rejects all cyberware. And, sometimes, it makes a person stakeout a hotel room while the entire squad’s on leave because their spotter let slip a little rumor that just ate and ate away at them, the scope of a .50 caliber rifle pointed steadily at their so-called lover’s head as he put his lips on those of another.

Jerk.

The thing about Gabby is that she has always been the jealous type; the whole “thou shalt not covet” thing never really sat well with her. Some people can see someone else be rewarded for good work and feel a sort of mutual sense of accomplishment; Gabby quickly points out where if it weren’t for her that person never would’ve been able to achieve anything in the first place. Some people get that the world doesn’t revolve around them; Gabby knows for a fact that it couldn't possibly revolve around them anyway, because she happens to be at the very center of the universe. She doesn’t want to be the best. She is the best, but some people are just to thick to realize it. And when some stupid, curly haired bitch comes in and tries to prove the opposite by sticking her tongue down her man's throat, well, that’s just not something that she can let slide.

So she pulled the trigger. One shot, two E.K.I.A. Point proven.

Of course, she could no longer stay in the military anymore. Killing your commanding officer slash lover and his civie whore was, technically, a not great thing to do. But, truth be told, the military was kind of cramping her style anyway, what with all of the rules and the secrets and the “Don’t go bragging about the latest mission”s. So lame! Flying solo, now that was the way to fame and fortune, and what better way to go indie than to go corporate? She said sayonara to the Promised Land and headed to America. Getting work wasn’t difficult; it seemed like everyone was looking for someone with a gun, and once they found out that you could actually use that gun work came in even faster. Sure, there were a few hiccups here and there—learned the hard way that her rule about picking and choosing who hears what still applied despite no longer being a part of the military—but overall she would consider it a positive life change.

She began living life underneath the moniker "Maestro", largely due to someone already claiming the tag "Messiah" a couple of millennia ago, the punk. Still, she proved herself worthy enough to be the chosen one when it came to handling a gun, assassinating a handful of high-level targets within her first year, not to mention a few dozen low-level wannabes for practically pennies. To Maestro it didn't matter who she was killing—if they had a family, if they were the last of their line, if they were a powerful figure, if they were some chump pusher, if they were good, if they were bad. Shooting someone from nearly a mile away was an impersonal act; it was less like watching a person die and more like seeing a marionette being cut from it's strings. Guilt wasn't even a thing to be considered. What Maestro wanted, what Maestro needed, was to be heard, to be known, and what better way to be heard than with the terrifying crack of a sniper rifle? Maestro leapt at the offer from Biotechnica, not even bothering to dig into the vague details.