Mach2

Incursions

Mutiny has officially been committed....

Incursions

[Collab post between Gonzo and Mach2]

---

Mason, seated on a small chair, sighed as he held the TV remote in his large hand and flipped between the different channels of the cell's TV. The three had been thrown in the same large, roomy, and overall comfier of the cells in District 1, as soon as the cops found out who exactly the two boys were. Cooking show? Nope. News? Nope. 'Days of our Lives'? Nope. By the way, that show has been going on forever. It needs to die soon. Nope. Nope. Nope. No- Oh wait a minute... Mason turned his head towards James and motioned his head for the TV. "Look, pop's on the news again. Looks like he was at some charity event he most likely didn't care about," Mason said with a small laugh.

James lifted his head from the pillow of one of the cots and lifted a brow as his eyes trailed over the screen. The television showed their well dressed father walking down a flight of stairs from one of the large District 0 buildings. Below the moving images, there was a line of words, describing the situation displayed. "President Elect exiting 'Help the Young of Lower Districts' gala, yesterday." James let out a scoff and looked back up to the ceiling, muttering something inaudible.

Vander had taken a seat in the very corner of the cell, and stared numbly at the ground in front of her. She was trying very hard to maintain her composure, and it was showing. If she had felt bad when she'd tried to leave the restaurant, she felt like absolute hell now. The inevitable migraine was returning in full force. Along with it came thoughts of awful anxiety.

Why had they been arrested? Lucid wasn't legal. She knew that, but had ignored the rules long, long ago. What if the law had finally decided to come down on her for using? The needles that she had stowed away in her closet, under the dirty pair of jeans. What if they'd found it somehow? Her finger tapped an anxious rhythm against her leg, and her face seemed to pale.

She raised a hand to gently massage her aching temples, and felt dampness. She frowned in confusion for a second, before it finally registered that her entire body was covered with a thin layer of perspiration. Withdrawal sweats. She'd had them before, in the long spans between doses. Vander took a shaky breath before turning to James and Mason.

"Why'd we get arrested?" she asked, the words a bit more mumbled than she had intended. Focus was difficult. For all she knew, they'd already been discussing this.

James turned his head toward the female and shrugged slightly. "You know what? I'm not really sure. I think I heard something about The Spit, but I'm not really sure." The man looked up at the ceiling and listened to the report on his father, making him more anxious and irritated than he already was. It didn't help his mood that Vander had continued with the incessant tapping. After a few moments, he turned his head back in her direction.

"Can you stop that?" He snapped, his eyes narrowed into a disapproving glare. "It's highly irritating. I mean, seriously, what's your pro-"

"Enough!"

Mason had turned around and was glaring at his brother. He turned to Vander and gave her an understanding nod before looking back to his brother. He stood and shut off the TV. He was equally irritated with his father, but he wasn't going to bitch at other people because of it. He had manners, which James should have had.

"I don't know what we are in for, but the cops should be in here shortly to talk to us. So just calm the fuck down, James."

Vander jumped slightly as James snapped at her. She hadn't even realized she was tapping until he'd pointed it out. Her problem, as James had said, was that she had been arrested in the middle of trying to leave the restaurant. Her problem was that she'd tried to push herself far longer than she should be able to go without a fix, and now she was feeling it. Her problem was that the anxious finger-tapping was the result of a far worse habit. "Sorry," she muttered, flexing her fingers before pulling both hands into a tight fists and setting them in her lap. "Bad habit...I don't notice when I do it."

The room fell into a heavy silence as soon Mason had set James straight. She pulled her legs in, sitting cross-legged, and rested her elbows on her knees. Once more, her gaze fell to the ground a few feet in front of her. She focused on a tiny speck of dirt on the ground. It blurred. It would have been clear, but her eyes didn't work right without the drug. Everything was seen through a haze. The haze of withdrawal.

James lay on the cot, staring up at the wall. He didn't know if minutes or hours had gone by. The TV was off, there was no clock, there were no windows. Just a white room. The man let out an audible sigh and mumbled something about being let out. Not even a minute later, the door of the cell slid open and a couple of officers came in. "James Jamison, Mason Jamison, and Vander.... um... P...P... You are all free to go. The charges have been dropped, and the investigation is over. We apologize for the inconvenience. " And with that, the cops turned and walked out, leaving the cell door open.

Mason was the first one up, and strolling out of the room, "About fucking time. Any longer and I probably would have pissed myself." A small laugh escaped the man as he walked through the police station, with the two presumably behind. James just shook his head and stayed silent, until they reached the entrance of the police station, he opened the door and then spoke, not caring anymore if the cops heard him or not.

"Something seems fishy. I bet you anything, dad was behind all of this." James said with a tinge of disgust.

"You're damn right I was behind this," answered a stoic Henry Jamison. He was standing next to a rather large limo. "Now get in, all of you."

As the cell opened and the officers walked in, Vander at first felt her stomach clench in anxiety. She couldn't bring herself to meet their gaze, too worried that guilt would show in her eyes. However, as soon as the announcement was made that the charges had been dropped, she looked up with an expression of incredulity. Whatever they wanted, it wasn't about your Lucid... Relief flooded through her.

With some struggle, and using the wall as a support, she climbed to her feet and followed James and Mason out of the cell and towards the exit. She kept her head down, fighting to focus every second of the way. The second she was through those doors, she had every intent of setting off for District 16. The sooner she reached her apartment and got a needle in her arm, the better.

However, these plans were quickly crushed. Outside of the police station was a very fine limousine, and standing beside it was the man she'd previously seen on the television in the jail cell. Henry Jamison. Vander turned to look at James, an expression of panic clear in her eyes. She couldn't get in the limo. She had to get home. Right now, that was the most important thing on her mind. She had already been pushing herself to a dangerous level of withdrawal at breakfast, she couldn't afford to wait any longer. And who knew how long she would have to wait if she got in that limo. "I...I c-can't..." she stammered awkwardly, already turning to start walking away. "I'm sorry, I have to leave, now."

Praying that he would understand, Vander quickly turned. She started walking down the street, headed away from Alpha at a fast walk, back to the slums of Beta.

Incursions

[Collab between Ghost Shadow and Mach2]

---

Havok stood in front of the bounty office patiently as a rather short, portly man was busy typing away at a computer. He finally looked towards Havok, fear coming into his squinty, wet eyes as he looked Havok up and down. "Y-y-yes, Havok? Can I help you?" He asked meekly, obviously lacking the spine to be an actual bounty hunter, settling instead for a desk job.

"I completed my mission." Havok said casually, dumping the contents of his bag onto the desk, already-decomposing ears piled atop each other. "The leader and her lackeys, as promised; now, I want my money." Havok demanded in a tone that didn't hold any sign of objection.

The man sat uneasily as he rather frantically typed into his computer. "Transferring credits to your account, Havok; it's all there!" The man laughed uneasily.
"Affirmative." Havok said simply before sharply turning and striding out.

He stepped up to his mistress, looking down at her before speaking, "450 credits transferred to your personal account, Mistress." He informed in a businesslike manner.

She smiled broadly when she saw Havok walk out, having been growing steadily more impatient while waiting. Vagrant nodded with an air of assumed authority. "It's my brother's account, technically," she answered with an offhanded shrug. "But thanks, Mr. Robot."

"So, we good to head off? You said you knew who we could talk to, right?" she asked, nearly in the same breath as her word of thanks. She was clearly ready to start making headway.

Havok only 'blinked' at her, his yellow photoreceptors flaring for a moment. "Do I look like a walking, talking map to you, Mistress? My job is to facilitate communications and terminate hostilities. How do you expect me to locate an information broker all the way out here? Do you know why you never hear of information brokers? Because all the smart ones are hidden! The dumb ones were terminated. Which may or may not have been part of a contract I was...somewhat involved in." Havok finished hesitantly.
"There is one my databanks to turn up...the Datacore she's called. Insane, so I hear; obsessed with information. All the best ones are. Perhaps we could find information there. And if you're especially cheap, Mistress, I could always just blast her; would that please you?" Havok asked, slight enjoyment in his voice.

"No wonder I ain't been able to find no one who knows nothing," Vagrant muttered, her speech a rush of double negatives. "You going 'round killing all of 'em."

She had never heard of this 'Datacore' that Havok spoke of. Insane? The thought was slightly discouraging. Would they be able to trust information from a source like that? Still...it was better than what she had so far, which was essentially nothing. "Datacore sounds like a good place to start. You know where she is, or is she one of the hiding ones?"

She paused for a second, and then quickly added on, "And no blasting unless I say so."

"Oh, but, Mistress!" He began in despair, "I haven't harmed organics in minutes! My behavioral core is growing anxious. And while my databanks don't hold much information on 'the Datacore'..I know someone who does. Perhaps they will listen to reason...or the barrel of a gun staring them in the face. I remember my first contract..." Havok let out a nostalgic sigh, "My contract was your typical 'tough guy', wriggling little informant. Cracked as soon as he knew what I was there for. I went from assassin to 'shoulder to cry on' within minutes. He lost control of his bowels at least two times." Havok informed.

As Havok spoke, the expression on Vagrant's face seemed to take on a slightly confused look. His speech patterns were beginning to be a headache for her to follow. She raised an eyebrow at the last sentence. "You mean he crapped himself?" she asked.

She shook her head, smiling slightly at the android's overly complex vocabulary. "Then why not just say "he crapped himself"? Who says bowels? And can we go soon? You can tell me about guys you scared the shit outta on our way to find whoever you're taking us to see."

Havok sighed audibly, this time in irritance. "Mistress, I will not sink to such repugnant organic vocabulary. I would rather put a blaster pistol to my core computer and pull the trigger rather than misuse the potential of my optimum engineering. My vocabulator is top-of-the-line!"

With that, he began walking in a random direction. "This is a one-time deal, Mistress. Usually, I follow my masters; not the other way around. You are a strange mistress, Mistress - I like you." He complimented before continuing to walk.

She grinned proudly at the almost-compliment. "Thanks, Mr. Robot. You ain't too bad, either."

"Anyways, where was I? Ah, yes, my first contract. The man was a complete mess, even for an organic! 'Oh please don't kill me' he cried, 'I didn't do it, I swear.' I noticed in my time that organics will lie as much as they can if they believe it will save them from punishment. In this case I suffered his blubbering enough and promptly shut him up with an energy bolt to the neck." Havok finished, talking as if he was discussing a regular day's work.

Vagrant listened intently, walking alongside the robot. Whoever had programmed him, she wanted to shake their hand. This machine was murderous and merciless. He was exactly what she needed to go after the men who'd done her brother in. "How many folk you killed? How come the government don't come after you and shut you down?"

"Oh, please, Mistress; you wound me. Do you really think that the government could catch me? I'm the best assassin droid ever built!" Havok exclaimed with a sudden flare.

"Let me run a scan on my databases...my platform has slaughtered over 153 organics. No, wait, that was last year...Total kill count: 726 organics slaughtered in this platform's existence." Havok stated proudly.

Her eyes went wide as she turned to look up at Havok. "That's a helluva number," Vagrant replied, her voice filled with awe, and perhaps the slightest hint of fear.

Even though she tried to go through life without getting too sentimental...she couldn't help but wonder how many of those deaths had been people like her brother. A misunderstanding, or a deal gone wrong. How many of them had families and close friends to grieve their deaths? After a moment of hesitation, she voiced her unease. "They didn't all deserve to die...did they?"

Havok looked down at her, stopping abruptly. "Mistress, I must recommend that you learn to keep control of your emotions. Mercy and compassion are tactical weaknesses, Know that your opponents will use it against you as soon as they can. I do not think of who I kill, it is my prime directive. I am given a contract and I execute it - there's no point in asking yourself foolish questions to clog up your memory banks." Havok advised cooly before beginning his trek once more.

She shrugged, trying to retreat back into her stoic shell. "I ain't compassionate," she said defensively.

"You're organic - you're always compassionate..." He interjected.

"But sometimes people don't deserve to die. Sometimes stuff just goes wrong, and they end up dead 'cause of it. That ain't right."

"The guys we're goin' after, though, they do," she said firmly, sounding just as much as though she was reassuring herself as she was informing Havok. The hint of anger in her tone was clearly distinguishable.

"Mistress, tell me, who's job is it to dictate what is *right* or *wrong*?" Havok asked, looking at her. "Was it right of you to live in the slums? Stealing for food and supplies? Is that *wrong*? Is it right for our 'heroic' government do treat those less influential as though they are dirt?"

"I am ever your loyal droid, Mistress. Just point me where to shoot - and I'll shoot." Havok reassured.

"I don't see nothin' wrong with me stealing stuff when there's extra. Not like I ever stole from someone who couldn't spare. But you see some drug lord, sittin' his butt on more coin than some people will see in their lives, you telling me he can't spare some? Me and Austin, we never took more than we needed. That's right, way I see it."

She was more than ready to drop the discussion on ethics and morals. "Who we going to see about the Datacore? We gonna get there soon?"

"We will locate one of her agents and, through torture if need be, extract the information out of him, then I shall proceed to end his miserable existence. A word of caution though, Mistress: the Datacore is one of the most successful information brokers out there, they typically have countermeasures and failsafes against potential assassins." Havok informed, his tone remaining deathly serious for the moment.

"Well if she's one of the best, she better know about the guys we're lookin' for. And hey, what'd I say about killing people?" she chastised the android. "Maybe his existence ain't miserable. Maybe he's a happy guy. And hey, maybe if you don't go around shooting everyone, then we won't have to worry about the countermeasures and all that!"

She shook her head again. For a superior machine, he wasn't so great with putting together the pieces. "If you don't go looking for trouble, the chances of trouble finding you go down a helluva lot," she told him, reciting a lesson her brother had drilled into her head for as long as she could remember. "Shooting folk, that's looking for trouble."

Havok gasped, "Oh, Mistress, I am *so* disappointed in you right now! Do you think I go looking for trouble on a regular basis? You are solely incorrect. In fact, I have an 87.9% chance to be the one *starting* trouble, not looking for it! Do you think I was built as a training dummy for a civilian militia? I have only been defeated once before going freelance, and even then I still believe my assailant was cheating by using heavy artillery weaponry." He finished indignantly.

"Aw, someone a sore loser?" Vagrant teased with a smirk.

"All the same. No killing folk unless I tell you. Deal? Because I got five guys I wanna see dead. That's it, that's all. We ain't gonna kill people just 'cause you feel like it."
She fixed him with a serious look, taking on an authoritative tone. "That's a straight-up instruction, as your Mistress," she told him. Though the word 'mistress' was spoken with derisive mockery, she tone of the order was clear.

"Of course, Mistress; I shall completely disregard the prime directive programmed into me upon activation and serve as your loyal butler to carry your things, make meals, and provide punny, unhumorous commentary on your adventures. That's me! I am a no-violence assassin droid, who's only purpose in life is now to sully my good name and fearful reputation!" He began to rant, flinging his arms about wildly as he did so.

"Damn right you are!" Vagrant confirmed with a laugh. "Wouldn't mind having me a butler droid. Be all fancy like the guys up in Alpha."

"Cheer up, Havok. I'm givin' you five guys to kill. And you can have as much fun doin' it as you want." She meant it, too. There was nothing she wanted more than to see those five dead. Hell, she might even be able to stand the sight of their blood.

"Oh, but, Mistress; only 5 organics. My combat initializer would have just been warming up! Dammit, I'm an assassin droid!' He cried out. "Or, perhaps, I know a deal that could help the both of us, Mistress. The more contracts I am hired for; the more organics I get to slaughter and the more credits you get to make."

"So what, take on side jobs while we're tracking these guys down?" she asked, clarifying what Havok meant. Vagrant shrugged. "Yeah, that'd work. You'll still be able to help me track 'em down, though, right?"

"Why, yes, of course, Mistress. My secondary directive is to serve you! But my calculations suggest that we'll need much more credits in order to locate our 'friends'." Havok suggested. "I can make us quite wealthy."

She groaned audibly, impatience clawing at her mind. Just when Vagrant had thought she'd been so close to finally finding a little bit of justice. "How wealthy do we gotta get?" she asked in annoyance. "You're friends do exist, right?"

"Mistress...why would I lie to you about killing someone?" Havok asked in an irritated tone. "If I knew our search would lead us closer to the unrestrained brutal murder of innocent civilians, I would be moving at an exceptionally fast rate. However, you organics are so greedy - and the best information brokers have a high fare for knowledge. Of course, the option of shooting them in non-lethal body parts so as to 'bargain' has a high statistical probability of working quite well, I understand." Havok responded, almost wishful.

"Stop it with your big words," Vagrant muttered in obvious frustration. "What's the fastest way I'm gonna see these guys dead? If we need to go after more folk to get the money, I'll help you out. If we gotta shoot your contacts in the knee, fine, I'd do that, too. I just wanna see the guys who killed my brother dead on the ground in front o' me..."

"Ahh, revenge. One of the most admirable of organic traits, I can respect that. First, we can see how much the Datacore costs. The sooner I get to kill, the better. We are nearing our contact." Havok stated, approaching a rather well-dressed, if not tired looking young man.

"You!" Havok began, aiming his rifle towards him. "I know you work for the Datacore, organic! Give me everything you have on her, or I will be happy to retaliate with violence!" Havok threatened,

"Subtlety at it's finest," Vagrant muttered under her breath.

"No! Please don't hurt me!" The man cried out, backing up against a wall and slowly shrinking down.

"Such cowardice..." Was all Havok muttered. "Come now, out with it, before I paint the walls with your blood!"

"Ok, ok, I'll tell you everything." The man whimpered, a dark stain appearing in the front of his pants.

"I can see you really hold dignity in high regard, organic." Havok commented, sounding quite irate.

"The Datacore lives in a seemingly abandoned building here, the old bank. She converted it into her own private little hub for information and espionage. She keeps traps littered everywhere. The woman's paranoid!" The man cried out, fear still ever present.

"Thank you for the information." Havok said, his finger beginning to pull on the trigger...

Vagrant listened intently to the man as he spoke. When the dark stain appeared, her face bore a smirk somewhere between pity and mockery. She wouldn't have pissed herself, even if she'd had a gun pointed at her face.

But the second she saw Havok's finger tensing on the trigger of his rifle, she spoke up. "Hey!" she yelled sharply, turning angrily to face the robot. "What'd I say? About killing?"

"But, Mistress, the whelp is incoherent! I've already gotten all the necessary information I need out of him. Look, it's as simple as this!" Suddenly, without looking away from her, Havok aimed the gun down and promptly shot him in the foot.

Crying out in both shock and fear the man rolled over onto his side, clutching his searing foot in pain.

Havok looked quite proud of himself. "Quit callin' me 'Mistress' and don't shoot people!" Vagrant reprimanded him, accompanying the order with a sharp slap to the back of his head. She was fully aware that it was pointless, but it made her feel better.

She crouched down next the man, resting her elbows on her knees. "Sorry 'bout that. Now listen, it's clear that I can't control this guy," she told him quietly, pointing over her shoulder at Havok. "So take it on my advice, you best keep quiet about us. No telling your 'Datacore' lady we asked about her. 'Cause otherwise, I can't guarantee my bot ain't gonna come after you. Got it?"

The man only whimpered and looked up at her. "I won't tell, I swear!"

"Good, now scamper, monkey!" Havok retorted, shooting the ground around his feet. The man only squealed fearfully and sprinted off, tripping his feet up as he did so.
"Oh, it amuses me so to see organics in such a panic that they forget how to function their platform." Havok said happily.

"Yeah, that's called 'terror'," Vagrant answered bitterly, standing up as the man ran off. "It's what we do when we're scared out of our minds."

She inhaled deeply, letting her breath out in a huff. Shaking her head, she quickly expelled the image of the man's mutilated foot from her mind. "You don't shoot a guy if he's told you what you wanna know. There ain't no motivation in that. Come on, let's go find that bank he mentioned," she grumbled.

"Of course, Mistress! I can't wait to see how the Datacore reacts to us barging in. I would love to crush her neck...just a little. Please, Mistress?" He asked, much like how a small child begs for a piece of candy.

"You called me 'Mistress' twice there!" Vagrant replied in an exasperated tone. She shook her head. "Come on, Mr Robot. Let's go find that bank. We ain't gonna barge in, we'll knock like polite folks. And maybe she'll answer. And if she don't, then we can barge in. No neck-snapping unless it benefits me, got it Mr Robot?"

"Very well, Vagrant. I shall concede." He finished in a defeated tone, making his way to the bank.

Incursions

Holy crap that is so epic. I love it, Roman. :D

Incursions

Name: Ariette “Vagrant” Forge
Age: 17. Though when asked, she always claims older.
District: 13
Occupation: Pick-pocket, smuggler, full-time low-life.

Appearance
Picture:


Physical Description:

Vagrant is fire and ice. She is a hurricane, bundled into the body of a 5’2’ girl. Though her stature is tiny, she walks with the confidence of a giant, and looks down on those who stand head and shoulders above her. She is sturdily built, with muscle visible through her arms and shoulders, and a solid core.

She wears her hair short, strands of dark red often falling into her face. Vagrant’s expression is often one of easy confidence, often bordering on arrogance. She has pale blue eyes, capable of turning icy when her temper is evoked. Though she is pretty, Vagrant is neither aware of this fact, nor does she care.

Clothing and Equipment:
Vagrant’s usual attire consists of simple clothing. She dresses in white tank tops and dark pants, often stained with dirt and grime, but never blood. She keeps her clothes free of blood at all times. Her feet are protected by a pair of steel-toed boots, a size too large and stolen from a street fighter several years ago.

She lives out of her backpack, an old leather object that never leaves her shoulder. It contains her most prized possessions. Her changes of clothes; a crumpled photograph of her and Austin, taken when they were 4 and 11 years old; a set of spiked brass knuckles, previously owned by her brother; strips of cloth for wrapping her knuckles; and whatever money she happens to be in possession of, usually very little.

Personal Details:
Ariette Forge was born in District 15. Her family consisted of parents Scott and Jeanine Forge, as well as her brother Austin, seven years older than her.

From the time Ari was born until she turned four, the responsibility of looking after her fell largely to Austin. Their father, Scott, was a heavy drinker, and was constantly trying to find work. When he was at home, he was either drunk or hungover, and abusive to his wife and children. Jeanine, their mother, often committed acts of infidelity, cheating on her husband with other men. Austin saw his family disintegrating, and swore to save his sister from a life of domestic violence. When she was four, and he was eleven, the two of them ran away.

They stuck to the lower districts for the following years, losing themselves in the immense city. Austin quickly learned how to be streetwise. He mastered petty thievery, lying, arguing, and fighting. As Ari grew older, her brother became her hero. He was everything to her, best friend, brother, and father. He taught her how to survive, how to steal, and above all, how to fight. By the time she was ten years old, petite little Ariette could hold her own in a fight against an adult. Even her brother, a giant of a man by the time he was seventeen, would lose a fight against her on rare occasion.

She began to go by the nickname of Vagrant. It was the name people spat at her when she begged for change at street corners. It was the name that shopkeepers hissed when they realized that she had left with some of their wares. And it was the name that Austin laughingly called her whenever she completed some impressive task.

Despite the skill that the Forge children had, Zone Beta was still a massive slum, heavily populated with all sorts of shady folk. People died. Deals went wrong. No one was really safe. Not ever.

Vagrant was sixteen years old when her brother died.

Austin was a giant, nearly 6'6" in height, and weighing in at 250lbs. His build was solid muscle, and his icy gaze could strike fear into the hearts of those who tried to cross him. But even the strongest man has little chance when the fight is three on one. It was the simple result of a deal gone wrong. Weapons they had stolen for money to be spent on food. The deal turned sour, and a fight broke out.

Two of the men held Ariette roughly; she was forced to stand by and watch. The other three took on Austin. His life ended with a knife in his throat. Everyone ran before his heart had even stopped bleeding. Ariette’s brother died in her arms, bleeding out with her unable to do anything.

Months later, she has vowed to hunt down the men who killed her brother, and end their lives the same way they ended his.

Personality
Vagrant is a confident person, to the point of arrogance. She tends to overestimate herself, and will take on tasks above what her skills allow her to do. However, she is fiercely determined and always performs to her fullest. Backing down from a fight, to Vagrant, is the highest level of cowardice.

Though she is instinctively sceptical and distrusting, Vagrant is loyal to the death when she becomes close to someone. The only one this has ever happened with before was her brother.

Vagrant is clever, though not intelligent. She likes to pick a fight against larger opponents, if only to prove that she can take them on. Her fiery temper is easily sparked, and she can hold a grudge.

Surprising, for one so prone to violence, Vagrant suffers from terrible hemophobia. The sight of blood brings back powerful flashbacks of the night her brother died. A nosebleed is often enough to make her useless in a fight.

Incursions

Lol. There's just going to be this huge flood of collabs over the next few days.

Incarceron Character Stash

Name: In the Dragon tongue, her name is pronounced as a whistle, sounding through three polyphonic notes. Most species cannot pronounce it, so she has adopted the common tongue translation: Moon, of the family Razor.
Age: 20
Race: In the common tongue, Moon's race is known simply as the Dragons, due to their obvious resemblances.

Appearance:
In addition to the photo, Moon also has small vestigial wings on her shoulders. When fully extended, they measure a meager two feet from base to tip. Far too small to be functional, but large and muscled enough to deliver a beating. Her body is covered in half-healed scars, a result of her spacecraft crashing.
Gender: Female
Height: 5'6"

Abilities: Dragons are a blind race, their eyes having become vestigial millennia ago. Moon relies on two other systems in order to 'see'. First, echolocation. This is used primarily for enclosed spaces and her immediate surroundings. Secondly, all Dragons have a degree of extrasensory perception. Any life forms within a 150 metre radius can be sensed by a Dragon. Moon can identify someone's presence by their distinct 'life imprint' as easily as most races can identify a face. ((Figured the life sensing would be a nice little opportunity for supernatural twists in the plot.))
Skills: Dragons are not raised as a fighting race. They are not taught how to handle weapons. Everything Moon has learned, she has learned in the weeks since arriving in the Ebolorian imprisonment. She is now competent at fighting, though far from proficient. She is strong enough to handle herself, and learns fighting techniques quickly. However, the instinct for violence doesn't exist, and fighting is a learned skill.
What she lacks in combat instinct, she makes up for with her diplomacy. Moon is intelligent, and can easily reason her way out of a case.
She also has a lovely singing voice.

Rank: Class C.
Brief Bio and History: Dragons hail from a planet with one side always facing the star. Originally, life evolved on the light side of the planet, and their eyes served a purpose. But the Dragons migrated to the shadowed side, and over time lost their vision. They evolved their pseudovision, consisting of echolocation and extrasensory perception, as their eyes grew useless. In comparison to humans, Dragon technology evolved quickly. In the span of 1600 standard years, their society surged from primitive to advanced. Medicine, technology, and even spacecraft were developed. A curious race, they began exploring the universe. The Dragons spread, claiming a few new planets as their own, and their numbers grew.

Fate was not with the Dragons, as the first race they came across were the Ebolorians. Soon, Ebolorians were sending raiding parties to the home planets of the Dragons. Hundreds were abducted, and transported to the earliest of these death games. It was the start of a genocide, and continued for well over a century. The Dragons were a gentle race, and had little concept of war or fighting. They were some of the weakest in the games, and most never rose above a rank of C.

Now, Dragons have retreated, claiming a new home on a distant planet. They are not endangered, but they are rarely seen. Save, of course, for the odd curious traveller. Moon is one of these types. She became the captain of her own space vessel at the age of sixteen. For four years, she travelled the universe. She learned the common tongue, soaking up the language quickly. Whenever she returned home, she brought stories for her two younger sisters. They adored Moon, and wanted to grow up to travel like their older sister.

Dragon spacecraft function as an extension of the captain's mind. The machinery uses an artificial form of Dragon ESP, allowing the ability to sense life forms and objects to be greatly expanded. The view links directly to the captain's mind. As a result, no other species is capable of piloting these ships. However, technological malfunctions can be deadly. Moon's equipment was damaged by a tiny asteroid, and she found herself miles off course, unable to steer her craft.

She crashed down on the Ebolorian homeworld, and barely survived. It very well may have been better if she'd died in the crash. Injured, alone, and terrified, she was immediately thrown into the arena.

Incursions

There is not a single part of me that wants to go to school today....

Incursions

No worries, Gonzo. As soon as you've got time. :)

Incarceron: A Sci-Fi Intergalactic Imprisonment

The pursuit was fast. Moon darted in and out of the crowd, weaving between the various people and races like an obstacle course. She could sense the Ebolorian guards chasing her, and knew their positions at any given second. In a crowd this dense, this fluid, it was impossible to catch a Dragon. In less than twenty seconds, she had managed to wind her way back to the post where the Rhevarian woman was tied. Only a quick sonic gaze informed Moon that she wasn't tied, not anymore. Another Ebolorian stood near her.

She didn't wait to see the results of her actions, as the guards in pursuit were once more gaining on her. Moon turned, facing them with a wide grin across her face, and let out a high-pitched, whistling, note. Yet another taunt for the guards. Turning once more, she dashed away again.

This time, she truly let herself become lost in the crowd. People were leaving now, being ordered towards the exits. Moon dodged her way to the front of a group of much taller humanoid males, her sonic vision revealing that they had Dragon-esque horns atop their heads. Not quite as impressive as her own. These were more like pathetic little stumps. But it was enough to allow her to blend into the group. She ducked her head down, as inconspicuous as she knew how to be. The echoes of footsteps bounced off of the humanoids' figures, revealing to her ears that some of them had fixed her with a wary glance. "I am safe," she assured them, her voice bearing the faintest hint of an overtone as she spoke, the consonants sounding awkwardly through the musical vowels.

It was true. She had no quarrel with them, and if they kept her hidden, no blood would be shed. Moon smiled slightly to herself, proud of her actions. She was unaware, of course, that the guards had continued to assault the Rhevarian girl after she left. In Moon's eyes, she had aided someone in need. And had gone on to successfully lose herself in the crowd. If she was going to die, it wouldn't be because one of the guards caught her. It would be at some later day, in the arena.