Not even close to done, just here so i can save it



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[SUB][COLOR=cecece][b]Nicky "Cuts" Lee[/b] 
◄  [color=995e63]AGE[/color] 44  ▎[color=995e63]HEIGHT[/color] 5'6" ►[/COLOR][/SUB][/CENTER]
[SUB][color=995e63][b]F A C E[/b][/COLOR][/SUB][hr][color=bcbcbc]
	This section is for appearance description, notes on personality and behavior, or anything else you might think of that is related. A note on character images: I prefer 'realistic' images of people. I know that everyone has their preference and some are uncomfortable with one or the other. I ask that you try, at least, and then we can speak if there is an issue. I can help you with finding an image, if that makes it easier.[/color]

[SUB][COLOR=995e63][b]R E C[/b][/COLOR][/SUB][hr][color=bcbcbc]
Nicky Lee was born to Mike and Trinity, a couple low-level employees for one of the local construction corps that made money off renovating the neon-and-glass structures that the super super-rich to live in. They weren't roofers or electricians but desk jockeys, given the privilege of air-conditioned cubicles with vending machine access in exchange for long hours spent staring at screens. It was Mike's job to figure out how many pennies had been wasted each month on injury-based absences and other frivolities while Trinity had the honor of firing the perpetually unenthusiastic and replacing them with scabs.

It was soul-crushing work. Nicky grew up watching the life drain from her parents and knew that she wanted no part of what they did. She was set on helping people and making the world a better place, driven by that delightfully naïve optimism that children had. She'd work hard in school and get real smart so she could go to college and become a veterinarian, giving her a wonderful future filled with grateful owners and puppy kisses.

Reality put that dream in check pretty quickly. Recessions, market crashes, ecological disasters and migrant crises at home and abroad put more strain on the working man than it did the rich. The Lees had already been closer to the gutter than away from it and the poverty line just kept rising and rising throughout the 2010s and into the 2020s. The stream of migrants from California brought people willing to work longer hours for less, forcing Mr. and Mrs. Lee to burn themselves out just to put food on the table.

College was not happening, not without some serious support from a benefactor. Even in the face of technological progress, societal decay and a changing climate one thing stayed the same: the Unite States Army would cover college costs for those willing to sign up.

Nicky joined to the delight of no one, saying goodbye to parents that had grown distant and a few friends. She had hoped to work as an army vet but Uncle Sam had more need for emergency caregivers than he did doggy doctors. After boot camp she was put through sixteen weeks of combat medic training, given instructions on morphine shots, intraosseous infusions and plugging up bullet wounds while still under fire.

After training came active service. Nicky's first active tour was in Yemen where she was deployed in peacekeeping operations as well as active hunts for sectarian extremists. The rising temperatures threw oil on an already roaring fire, the decades-long civil war now over dwindling water supplies as much as it was politics. Nicky treated more civilians caught in the crossfire than she did wounded soldiers, those lacking arms or armor always suffering more than those with.

After Yemen and a too-short stint stateside she was shifted southwards into Mexico as part of the expansion of the Mérida Initiative, one of the few thousand American troops assigned to assist Mexican military, law enforcement and intelligence agencies in combating the various drug gangs running rampant in an attempt to stop the flow of narcotics across the border. 

This went nowhere, as was to be expected. Nicky was attached to a unit of the Mexican National Guard in Michoacán, performing triage after fights with cartel gunmen.

By the time her service was up in 2030 she was jaded, exhausted, and very much a disbeliever in the idea of human kindness. She had seen corruption firsthand, watched corporate interests get rich in the poorest parts of the world with their execs guarded by private militaries making four times her salary. She had seen the lines of refugees signing up for visas in exchange for indentured servitude and had to treat uncountable cases of sepsis caused by third-rate cybernetics built for the lowest cost possible. The Nicky that returned to Houston was a hollow wreck who hadn't gotten enough sleep in years.

But she still wanted to help people. The veterinarian dream was long dead, too far removed from her experiences and training but the army was willing to pay for her to become a proper surgeon. Within a month of returning to Houston Nicky applied to university, throwing herself into the process of becoming an emergency surgeon. While she would never claim that her studies were easy she was undeniably more prepared than most of her fellow students, taking to the coursework well.

In addition to her studies she was working as an EMT, putting herself through college by performing emergency medical care in unpleasant conditions just as she had been ever since she left home. She had just gotten her bachelors of surgery when Hurricane Whitney hit, the masses of qualities pushing her to her limits.

She weathered the storm but found herself stretched thin by her continued studies and lack of support, the already fragile public health system rapidly being abandoned in Whitney's aftermath. The ambulances were aging without upkeep, the equipment given to her outdated. Medication refills were often late or expired, the good stuff usually rerouted to private companies looking to protect their staff over everyone else. Nicky's salary stayed stagnant as the cost of living climbed, her expenses only increasing as she tried to make up for shortages with her own money.

She had never wanted to become a criminal but made the choice all the same. It was slow at first, filling "prescriptions" for junkies looking for low-strength pain meds to try and wean themselves off the stronger stuff, making off-the-clock house calls to illegal immigrants scared of being listed in hospital records. She built a reputation as someone that could be trusted to keep her mouth shut, and that was when the bigger fish came knocking.

As Nicky finished her bachelors and entered med school she began working with stick-up crews and professional mercenaries, putting the medical and martial training she had received to work ripping off corpos. It was easy to justify to herself. Her patients needed treatment and the corps had what she needed to treat them. While she tried to avoid harming desk jockeys like her parents execs and security were fair game. 

She was a professional crook right up until she finished her residency, putting away the guns and mask when she signed on with the Houston Medical Center at the age of 35. Her life had not gone the way she had expected it to but she had succeeded in her goal! 'Cuts' (as her criminal contacts called her) was a doctor, the poster child for helping her fellow man.

And she hated it. Working in a hospital met dealing with staffroom politics, unfair practices and distraught families blaming her when their loved ones died. She made a go of it, too stubborn to quit after sinking so much time and effort into the profession but everyone has their limits. She lasted five years before she gave up, falling once more into back alley operations to pay the bills. At least she only had to deal with clients who sought her out specifically.

The idea came to her one night as she tossed out her bloody gloves. If she wanted to tend to the poor, the desperate, the downtrodden, why wasn't she living with them? She sold her what few possessions she had moved to Relief, setting up her private practice in the same parking lot she had performed triage care at nearly fifteen years ago.

As one of the few medical professionals in the slum Nicky does a little bit of everything and always treats civilians for as cheap as she can. Get mugged and she'll treat your concussion in exchange for dinner, if you overdose she'll jab you with Narcan and make sure you don't choke on your vomit. But if you catch a bullet from a Blue while playing gangbanger or get some corporate samurai's steel lodged in your chest you can expect to pay a premium. It's more than what a trip to the hospital will cost but you won't be leaving her operating theatre in handcuffs.

Or you could always cut her in on a job. Her supplies aren't cheap.[/color]
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