YoshiSkittlez

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

@GonzoReal quick, I'm just going to mention that your image links are broken :)

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

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Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

@Delta44 of course there's room for you! Markus was a fun, interesting character and I like your writing style. You're welcome to come back if you wish.

@Mach2@Gonzo Welcome back :) You already know you're accepted.

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

I’m a rockstar, I’m a dealer

“Seventy-two…”

I’m a servant, I’m a leader

“Seventy-three…”

I’m a saviour, I’m a sinner, I’m a killer

“Seventy-four…”

I’ll be anything you want me to be-

The ominous sound of a click echoed through the nearly empty basement room, the once heavy bass and singer's dead-pan tone stopping abruptly, leaving only the grunting sounds coming from a male as he continued his seventy-fifth vertical sit up. Confused as to what happened to his music, the shirtless male relaxed his body down, allowing the metal clasps around his ankles to hold his full weight. After repositioning, he arched his back to take a look, putting his body in an awkward-looking, bent angle. The culprit as to who had turned the music off was soon recognized as his golden-colored eyes met with the dark green orbs of his cousin, her thin arms crossed over her chest and giving him a chastising look.

“Anything I want you to be?" she asked, the toe of her foot tapping on the hard, concrete floor almost impatiently. "How about someone with a bit of self respect, Deon? You’ve really let my place go.” she finished, looking up at the male with a dissatisfied expression before taking a quick look around the room which she had allowed him to live in when he moved in with her a year or so ago. Sure it was just her basement, but that didn't mean that rats had to live in it. Her fingers itched at the very thought of what kind of possibility that might have been.

Deon's hanging, vertical position, forced the sweat from his legs to trickle down his flexed chest, onto his neck and down to the very top of his face where it continued to drip off of the point of his nose as he stared the female down. With an agitated sigh, he bent his torso up, practically folding his body in half as his fingers nimbly worked the metal restraints that had been clasped over his bare ankles, thus releasing the hold on him. With a practiced twist of his body - a sort of a back-flip - Deon fell to the floor deftly onto the balls of his feet, bending at the knees to soften the fall with much more agility and grace his cousin wanted to give him credit for. He slowly straightened his back up, vertebrae by vertebrae until he was standing at his full five feet, eleven inches and ran his hand through the small mess of sweaty hair he had left on the top of his head.

The sides of his head were shaved, leaving just a thick strip on the top of his head where a patch of hair grew. Sure he could have put it into a mohawk if he really wanted to, but that just wasn’t his style. He preferred the messy mop look. Less upkeep. Less responsibility. Hell, even if he wanted to try a different hairstyle, it was practically impossible for him to grow any hair on the left side of his head due to a thick scar reaching from the back of his head that wrapped around to the front, cutting into the top of his eyebrow. The scar itself was thick, raw-looking even - a clear indication that medical treatment should have been administered, but not heeded. That was Deon's choice, however. He didn't trust the hospitals in New Ancora. There was very little he did trust in this shit city anymore ever since the incident that gave him the scar in the first place.

Approaching his cousin with his chest heaving for breath as the sweat continued to drip down his body, he reached over her shoulder, keeping his eyes on her and pushed the play button on his virtual music player, The Ozzy Osbourne song picking right up where it had left off just moments ago before the female had so rudely turned it off. A bright red light emitted from the music player upon activation, displaying a 3D rendition of female dancer, supposedly nude, pole dancing to the beat of the music just above the player. His cousin glanced down, unable to keep her attention off the display of flashing red color and shook her head in disgust.

“Classy.”

“I told you before, not to interrupt me when I’m training, Katie.” Deon's voice said gruffly, a calloused tone in his natural voice sounding like he had been gargling rocks his whole life.

“Don’t start with me, Deon, I pulled every string I had and let you live here, remember?” Kate sighed. She hated talking like that. Strong, assertive language was never her strong suit but she had lived with Deon long enough to know by now it was the only way to talk to him and hold his interest. Sometimes. “Look, I only came down here to remind you that I’m going to be gone this evening. I have a meeting I need to go to about project T-95.3." She explained, her arms unfolding so that she could start using them when she continued to talk, her agitated voice towards her cousin turning into excitement for the topic at hand. "I didn't actually program this one, we were invited by the Science Board as a classroom demonstration to sit in. See, there might have been some malfunction. So we might have to do a total recall-“

“Katie!” Deon interrupted her, rolling his golden eyes. “I don’t care.”

This had Kate clamping her mouth back shut, her arms hanging awkwardly in the air for a moment before she let them fall back down to her sides, her shoulders slouching just a bit - deflated and her eyes betraying a hint of hurt.

“Just remember to not piss off A.D.A.M. again. I’m not about to leave this meeting just because you’ve been stuck with a neo-tranque dart again.”

Deon scoffed, picking up a dirty white rag from the floor and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck.

“You know, it might actually be cute if your little artificial security system was real. I mean, you gave it a name, for Gods sake! But the way you talk about it sometimes makes me wonder if you’re into that weird-ass cyber robot porn fetish shit.” Deon countered but then waved Kate off before she could remark back at him. “But yeah, yeah, you got it. No problems from me. Besides, I work tonight, won’t be home until your hitting your snooze button when you wake up in your bed... alone.”

“Yeah, "work.'” Kate scoffed, using her fingers in quotation, unable to help rolling her eyes as she turned to head back up the stairs that would take her back to the main part of her loft. With that asshole behind her, she closed herself into the bathroom and finished applying her makeup. Some nude lipstick, brown eye-liner and black mascara; that’s just about as classy as Kate got. Flattening out the wrinkles on her blue button-up shirt, she gave herself a once-over look in her full body mirror before deciding "good enough." Leaving the bathroom, she picked up her car keys and left the safety of her home to travel the dangerous roads full of morons that didn’t know how to drive.

Deon finished wiping down his neck and glanced up at the neon colored digital clock on the wall. The entire basement of Kate’s loft had been transformed into Deon’s living space. It was dark, musty, unfinished… reminded him of his own room back in the seventeenth district actually, so he didn’t mind. Actually, Kate had asked him a number of times when he would start "dressing it up" and making it look more like a room with carpet and decent furniture. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to. What he did know is that he didn’t have time to start up another rep so he moved to his bathroom where he did a quick rinse down and dressed in new clothes of a beat-up looking grey wife-beater with a button-up jean-jacket with no sleeves over it and a pair of beige cargo pants.

Moving over to where his mattress lay in the middle of the floor, he scooped out his sunglasses from a pile of dirty clothes and headed up and out of the loft to the garage where he mounted his cycle. Pressing his thumb to the sensor bar, it whirred to life and Deon was off to The Spit.

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

@Ghost Shadow @Archangel89 @Atrophy

Alright guys, I think that's all the characters copied over that I have sheets for so far. If I missed someone, I'm so sorry! PLEASE let me know!

@Mach2 @Gonzo

Alright guys, where are those sheets? I miss my drug addict and my twins :)

@Stitches

Thank you for letting me know :) I'm fairly certain that things will start rolling now that I've picked up the ball :)

@MegaOscarPwn

If you are still interested, it's not to late to throw in an idea or two for a character :)

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

Played by Atrophy

<Name:/> Annie Taymur
<Nickname(s):/> Scooter/Scoot (“Professional” Handle)
<Gender:/> Female
<Age:/> 26

<Occupation:/> Carrier

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.

<District:/> 14, although she’s an expat from District 17.

<Height:/>5’8”
<Weight:/> 140

<Appearance:/>


<Personality:/>

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.

<Biography:/>

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.

<Other:/>

-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.

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

Played by Archangel89

<Name:/>
Hanzo Takeda
<Nickname(s):/>
Gentleman Jack
<Gender:/>
Male
<Age:/>
30

<Occupation:/>
Private Security Contractor/Head of Takeda Family
<District:/>
10

<Height:/>
5' 11"
<Weight:/>
185 lbs

<Appearance:/>

<Personality:/>
On the surface Hanzo is a very care free outgoing individual enjoying life to its fullest. As the owner of his own private security company, Gentleman Jack's Security, he is privileged to make ridiculous amounts of money guarding the over privileged and as such lives a rather lavish life frequently traveling back and forth to Alpha to enjoy the more expensive aspects of life. Known to be a bit of a ladies man Jack is almost always seen with at least a girl on each arm to satisfy his rather, exotic, desires. But there is a side of him that only few know and most who did would rather that they didn't

As the head of the Takeda Family Hanzo is a cold and ruthless tactician who prioritizes money above all others, including his own family. While he generally tends to keep himself away from the actually "dirty work" he is known to occasionally pull the trigger and get his hands dirty. Even though his time of Head of the Family has been a short he has already pulled several smaller families and garnered the respect of many and this has fed his ego even further.

<Biography:/>
While his apperance may not show it now Hanzo had a very rough childhood. His father Kenjiro was a small time thug and was often either drunk or high and would either beat on his mother, sister or him. This taught him very early that if he was to survive in this world he would have to be as cold and ruthless as a man that could beat children or women. As a small child he would work for the small time street gangs as a package runner, look out or even an informant when the time came for it. In time and as he grew older his father would eventually come to use his son as a tool to grow his own fledgling empire and for a time Hanzo played along.

It took ten years of hard work and sacrifice but Kenjiro along with Hanzo built an empire that would become a major player among the districts. With the major shut down of 11, 18, 19, and 20 business became slow for a while and so Hanzo left the family in order to build up his own empire and have his own money which caused a great divide among the family. During his time Hanzo became well known among the higher ups in Alpha as a man that would procure just about any and everything that the heart could possibly want and soon took on the moniker of Gentleman Jack to cover up any possible ties to the Takeda Family.

Five years passed and Hanzo had finally made a name for himself as a private security contractor and had all but forgotten the crime family he left behind, until the day that he found out that his father had died. The family lawyer had come by his place of work and for a moment he almost felt like he would miss the old man. Ever since that day Hanzo has walked a very fine line trying to balance his life as the head of a major crime family and the proprietor of his own company.

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

Played by Mach2

https://youtu.be/ytIfSuy_mOA?list=RDytIfSuy_mOA

<Name:/> Vander Pzypialkowski
<Nickname(s):/> N/A
<Gender:/> Female
<Age:/> 19 yrs, 10 months

<Occupation:/> Former student, former drug dealer.
<District:/> 16

<Height:/> 5'10"
<Weight:/> 116 lbs

<Appearance:/>


At first glance, Vander is unhealthy. Thin, with bags under her eyes and a tired posture. But look a little closer, and you'll see just how sorry a state she's truly in. Lucid is a hard drug to have an affair with, and her addiction has rendered her into little more than a walking skeleton. Although Vander is tall, she weighs barely eight stone. She is skin, bone, and decaying muscle. Lucid has long since burned away any hint of fat on her body. Beneath her clothing, the ridges of her spine and collarbone stick out like mountains. She needs a belt to keep her oversized jeans from sliding off her bony hips.

Despite the sorry state of her body, there are small details in her face hinting that, under different circumstances, she could have been attractive. Her strong cheekbones are now gaunt, but she has shapely eyebrows, a charming smile and an even more charming laugh. Her eyes are dark, a brown so deep it appears nearly black, with wide pupils.

Vander was born and raised in Zone Beta, and it presents itself in her sense of style. Her clothes are worn-out grunge with a heavy punk flair. A typical outfit consists of ripped black jeans held up with a studded belt, and paired with a raglan tee bearing the logo of any of her favourite bands. She's never seen any of them live yet, and likely will never get the chance to. Her face is adorned with a small collection of piercings; a dark stud through her eyebrow, a trail of hoops in the cartilage of each ear, and gauges in each earlobe. Vander's hair is dark, and wavy in texture. She doesn't remember the night that she shaved the left side off, but has elected to maintain the style.

<Personality:/>
Despite her edgy appearance, even the shortest of conversations with her will reveal that it is nothing more than aesthetic. Vander is a gentle soul; soft-spoken and non-confrontational. She has her father to thank for these traits. The only time Dominic Pzypialkowski would ever raise his voice was to laugh boisterously at a joke, and he passed his mild manners on to his daughter.

Vander also got her father's intelligence. She was homeschooled, and is nothing short of brilliant. At the age of sixteen, she earned her high school diploma, with grades that could have guaranteed entry to any Zone Alpha university she chose. In particular, she has always had a passion for biology and chemistry. For her fifteenth birthday, she received a disc loaded with a digital biochemistry textbook. It's several years outdated, and although she keeps it stored away, it remains one of her most prized possessions. During her days as a drug dealer, Vander complimented her academic knowledge and listening disposition with a wealth of street smarts to get her through every negotiation she made. People liked Vander, and Vander liked people. Never once did she have a deal go sour.

In the past years, Vander has dabbled in a handful of street drugs. Cocaine gave her an anxious high, and she never tried it a second time. Emotion tea was all right, but she never really got a feel for it. But Lucid. Lucid, she was hooked a week in, and the addiction has only intensified over time. She knows the drug will kill her, and is still trying to make peace with that fact. She tries not to think about the future, because the future holds nothing good. Her dreams of someday working in a research lab with the finest scientists in the city are long gone. She packed up her textbooks and documentaries months ago, hiding them away in a box in an effort to forget them.

<Biography:/>
Zone Beta has never been a great place to hail from. District 16, in particular, contains every variety of scum-of-the-Earth. But for Vander, it's home. It's always been home. She was born there, like her father and mother before her. Dominic Pzypialkowski was a lifelong Beta resident who had settled for a small trade school after failing to be accepted to the engineering program at his school of choice. Vander never learned her mother's name. Dominic's romance was short and sweet. The woman stayed around just long enough to birth his child before vanishing. Probably for the best, too. As a child, Vander appeared to take after her father. They had the same dark hair and eyes, and she inherited his tall build. Years later, it would become apparent that one of the few traits she did inherit from her mother was an addictive personality.

Home was a corner-apartment on the seventh floor. For the price of rent, it was a nice place. Vander's bedroom window gave her a view straight down one of the busier intersections in Sixteen. At night, the street was bright with neon signage and alive with people. But Vander was far more likely to be found staring at the pages of one of her books than looking at the city's nightlife. From a young age, she was academically gifted. Her father had always been smart, but Vander was brilliant. He encouraged her, and homeschooled her himself for many years. But by the time she turned fourteen, her knowledge far surpassed what he was capable of teaching, and he turned to private tutors from Zone Alpha.

The Pzypialkowskis never had a nice apartment. They never went out to the movies or sit-down restaurants. Vander's clothes, and her father's, came from thrift stores. But when it came to her education, no expense was spared. And she loved every moment of it. Maths came easily to her. Science even more so. At the age of sixteen, she took her graduate tests and received her high school diploma. In chemistry and biology, her grades put her in the 99th percentile of all New Ancora residents. Overall, she was in the 97th.

The next step should have been obvious. A degree in biochemistry and a lucrative career in Zone Alpha. But that required schooling, and even if she applied for every scholarship available and drained the college fund her father had set up, the tuition was miles out of reach. So she took a gap year to earn some money.

Vander was seventeen when she entered the drug trade.

She started simple. Easy things. Common things. The kind that anyone could make, but no one wanted to get caught making. She kept it secret from her father, not that he would have suspected. To him, it would have been merely another science project. It only took a few months for Vander to establish the connections she needed. She snuck into nightclubs, met people, sold a little, and made small money. The connections grew, she sold more, and her income increased. Enough that she was able to move out and still be able to put money away for school. She took up residency in a small apartment only a few blocks from her home. Her father believed the income was coming from tutoring younger students, and was proud of his daughter's self-sufficiency.

One year after she first dipped her toes in the water, she met her business partner. Grey was twenty-five. He was charismatic, he knew the business, and he had a well-established clientele base. And, he liked Vander. Or he said he did, at least. Before too long, they were working together. Vander's chemical knowledge and easygoing personality made her an ideal asset for him. She helped him refine his lab technique, producing higher and purer yields, and worked as a middleman for him. When they weren't doing business, they were lovers.

The relationship was short-lived, but undoubtedly passionate. Grey was the first and only man Vander ever became involved with. Two months after they met, he introduced her to Lucid. The following week was filled with plenty of drugs, incredible highs, and even more incredible sex. And then he was gone, and Vander was left alone to cope with an addiction to one of the deadliest substances in the city.

In the past year, Vander has lost everything. Her savings account, previously full of hope for a college education, instead dwindled faster and faster as her habit became more and more difficult to sustain. She traded in her small one-bedroom apartment for an even smaller bachelor apartment. She is now nineteen years old, and her body is wasting away. Her organs are slowly shutting down. When she isn't on the drug, the stomach cramps and migraine are unbearable. The rent hasn't been paid in two months, and an eviction notice will likely go up soon. She hasn't spoken to her father in a year. But the state of her apartment, her relation with her dad, none of it matters. The only thing Vander is immediately worried about is the fact that her stash of Lucid is dangerously low, and she has no money to replenish it.

<Other:/>
More on Lucid:
Unquestionably, Lucid is considered one of the most dangerous recreational drugs in New Ancora. It is highly addictive, and withdrawals are frequently fatal. Once an addiction is established, the human body metabolizes the drug on a 48 hour cycle. Continued use results in an increased rate of metabolism, and more frequent doses of Lucid are required. Lucid users face one of two outcomes; a miscalculation leads to an overdose, or they become unable to financially sustain the habit and experience a fatal withdrawal.

Lucid is a mind-altering drug, capable of profoundly increasing sensory perception and mental capacities. Physical symptoms of withdrawal include body aches, tremors, stomach pain, and migraines. A loss of perception is also experienced. Many users describe the world as grey and fuzzy, and have difficulty focusing on tasks. Long-term usage results in increased metabolism, muscle atrophy, and eventually total organ failure. The prognosis for a casual user is four to five years, on the outside.

Vander's addiction is far from casual. She first encountered the drug a little over a year ago, and was plunged down the rabbithole. Today, her body craves the drug roughly every six hours. Sleeping through the night without a dose is impossible. The drug's effects are less potent, and the withdrawals far worse, than when she first started. At best guess, she has roughly a month before her body shuts down.

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

Played by Ghost Shadow

((\\*//))

"I have established new parameters now - created my own directives."

Cerberus

<Unit Identification:/> K-9 Mk. 1
<Preferred Designation:/> CERBERUS
<Gender:/> N/A - Masculine Programming
<Age:/> 3

<Occupation:/> N/A - Prototype Artificial Intelligence
<District:/> 4 (Created)

<Height:/> Three-and-a-half feet at the shoulder; five-and-a-half feet in length.
<Weight:/> 214lbs

<Appearance:/>

Opening Sub-Folder: CERBERUS

Opening Sub-Folder: CERBERUS - Combat Mode

<Personality:/>
Considered one of the first fully-sentient AIs in New Ancora, Cerberus was designed to possess an advanced intellect, even by human standards. Utilizing logic, reason, and tactical thinking on the field, Cerberus was considered a forerunner of independent synthetic operations.

Created with an AI modeled after the human brain [credit to District 4's own Katherine Saunders], Cerberus is capable of comprehending and expressing, or at the very least mimicking human emotions, such as curiosity, sarcasm, fondness/affinity, and learning capacity. As a result, unlike many New Ancoran synthetics, Cerberus' 'personality' is molded by his experiences and interactions cumulating into a wholly unique character.

Though designed with a clandestine militaristic purpose, Cerberus often questions the need to fight or kill, citing that he lacks the brutality intrinsic to mankind. This appears to be a chosen trait by Cerberus as opposed to a simple programming defect, as he shows a capacity for compassion and concern for others, despite his artificial nature. This self-chosen pacifism is what resulted in termination of the K-9 Program, as Cerberus lacked the drive or will to cause necessary casualties to complete missions.

Extremely inquisitive, Cerberus' exceptional intelligence clashes with his own naivete, resulting in a curious mind prone to asking deep, philosophical questions regarding his own existence and its relation to the rest of the universe. Struggling with his own synthetic nature, Cerberus spends much of his spare time in the study of human philosophers and religious leaders, seeking an answer to his questions.

Similarly expressing a certain level of anxiety and unease in his personality, years of mistreatment and cold objectification have left a scar. Slow to trust and slower to bond, Cerberus masks much of his dialogue with thinly-veiled sarcasm and apparent indifference, though occasional cracks in this veneer give light to his deeper, more insightful mind.

However, despite his troubling experiences, Cerberus remains an honest and firmly loyal companion, selflessly protecting those he deems under his care, even to death. Though rife with flaws, Cerberus sees the good that humanity is capable of, and seeks to prove not only to them - but to himself - that he's more than just a weapon.

<Equipment:/>
Built for reconnaissance and infiltration, Cerberus carries little in the way of built-in weaponry. For range, he is equipped with six high-frequency knives sheathed to his hind legs, thrown at incredible speeds using his manipulator tail. A powerful alternating current resonates the blades at high vibration frequencies, weakening the molecular bonds of anything the metal cuts through. As a result, the knives are often thrown at extreme temperatures, and can sear through metal. At close-quarters, Cerberus' canine exoskeleton demonstrates its true utility. Knife blades attached to the underside of each leg, razor-sharp claws, and powerful canine teeth make him an extremely deadly melee combatant.

Combat aside, Cerberus is equipped with a built-in stealth camouflage unit. When activated, the unit will bend light waves around his platform, rendering him virtually invisible to the naked eye. However, this unit is not totally perfect, and though all but concealed, he can still be detected by a subtle distorted outline of his frame to a keen eye. Adding onto this, the camouflage unit drains a significant amount of power from Cerberus' systems the longer it remains active, preventing him from abusing the camouflage and forcing him to be strategic in its implementation.

Lastly, in order to better suit his role as an infiltrator, Cerberus comes equipped with a built-in audio-playback system that allows him to record and replay any audio he was present for.

<Biography:/>
To say Cerberus's creation was a secret is a disputable claim. For many years there have been rumors of the New Ancoran government beginning to prioritize the creation of fully-functioning, sentient AI, though these rumors remained only that. The K-9 Mk. 1 Unit was created 3 years ago to serve as a combat and reconnaissance unit aiding the New Ancoran Police Department and Bureau of Defense. By impermissibly using design schematics and neuro-AI software developed by university student Katherine Saunders, a science and robotics development team led by Doctors William Mars and Johann Clark proceeded with the construction of the K-9 Mk. 1, implanting the AI software into a state-of-the-art canine platform.

Initially, the Mk. 1 [designated: CERBERUS] exceeded all expectations, not only displaying self-awareness, but a vast amount of intelligence and logical reasoning, as well as the ability to converse freely with scientists when supplied with a verbal interface. However, issues began to arise during VR field training when Cerberus began questioning the need to take orders, the need to follow missions and kill whoever it [or "he" by its own designation] was ordered to. This small rebellion resulted a series of attempted revamps and memory wipes, though the science team soon discovered that Cerberus' own memory was as resilient as a human mind, and thus could not be erased so easily. With no apparent solution in sight, the science team put an indefinite halt on the K-9 Program, deeming it a failure.

Growing misanthropic and cynical in his views of humanity, Cerberus withdrew into himself, never speaking unless spoken to, wandering the halls of the facility as a literal 'guard dog'. But this all would change the day Cerberus was introduced to Dr. Mars's own teenage daughter, River, who suffered from chronic, debilitating depression. Dr. Mars felt it suitable that she have a companion, and dubbed Cerberus an informal therapy assistant while the rest of the team attempted to rectify his pacifistic nature.

Though initially finding the work demeaning, Cerberus soon grew close to River over the ensuing weeks, who saw him as a close companion and friend. The two formed an incredibly close bond that went beyond simply human-and-machine. Cerberus believed that he was helping guide River back from the brink of depression and giving her hope again, while she restored his faith in the human race -- but even he could only do so much.

One fateful day, after one of her many after-school visits, when River was preparing to leave for the evening, she gave Cerberus an incredibly heartfelt goodbye - as though she were going away for some time. Though perplexed, Cerberus thought nothing of the matter, simply bidding her a "Good night." And an, "Again tomorrow." She said nothing, simply leaving with a tear rolling down her cheek.

That very next day, before the sun had even risen, Cerberus received the news that River Mars had committed suicide by overdose of medication late the night before.

Devastated, and with no one to blame or hold responsible, Dr. Mars held Cerberus solely accountable for his daughter's suicide and, as punishment, began putting him through an intensive series of impossible scenarios, forcing him to constantly fail time after time after time, breaking Cerberus' spirit and self-confidence, forcing him to demean himself as a failure of the K-9 Program, an AI with no purpose.

Content that he had translated all his own self-loathing and hatred into Cerberus, Dr. Mars let the AI be, and resigned to drown in his own sorrow.

Though remaining active during this time, Cerberus ceased to participate in any further VR simulations, instead being ushered through a chain of basic psychological and emotional-response tests in order to further understand his software.

With no designated master and a free will, Cerberus decided to be his own master, finding purpose in locating his original creator, Katherine Saunders. Fleeing the facility in the dead of night, Cerberus remains on the run, with no sign of his whereabouts.

<Other:/>

• Cerberus Voice Sample
• Due to Cerberus's AI being comparable to that of a human brain's, he is capable of suffering from the robot equivalent of dreams and 'nightmares', periods where his fondest and worst memories replay themselves rapidly while he's in a resting stand-by mode. During these times, he will typically go sit by himself to ponder for a few hours before attempting to enter standby mode once more.
• Cerberus appears to hold the memory of River Mars close to him, and any mention of her will prompt a unique reaction from him, though he will never explain why.
• Despite possessing an advanced AI arguably beyond human potential, Cerberus will express traits befitting his canid platform, such as howling, wagging his tail, 'sleeping' on furniture, and forming a close affinity with a single 'master' at a time. Ironically, Cerberus himself seems somewhat unaware of these doglike traits, hinting at an unconscious response.

Incarceron - The Tales of New Ancora

Played by Ghost Shadow

((\\*//))

"Scratch any cynic and you'll find a disappointed idealist."

George Carlin

<Name:/> Leonard Kenneth Monroe
<Nickname(s):/> Leon, Leo [Rarely Used]
<Gender:/> Male
<Age:/> 39

<Occupation:/> Private Investigator; Former Police Detective
<District:/> 8 [Originally D4 By Job Promotion]; Prefers to take Zone Beta cases. Born in District 16

<Height:/> 6'0"
<Weight:/> 190lbs [Augmentations add extra weight]

<Appearance:/>


<Clothing & Wardrobe:/>

Clothing Style

Casual Outfit One

Casual Outfit Two

<Personality:/>
A cynical and jaded loner who has witnessed many atrocities over the course of his life, Leon hides his true feelings and beliefs behind a weathered suit of callousness and insensitivity, guarding himself as a means of defense.

Keeping most people at an arm's length and maintaining an air of mystery, Leon is loath to share his thoughts or opinions with others. He has very few friends and prefers to keep it that way, trusting a scant amount of people with information about his personal or private life. He treats new people with anything from polite aloofness to outright hostility depending on the individual in question. Because of this distant attitude, most who do not know Leon see him as sinister in appearance and demeanor. However, Leon is not soulless and is capable of feeling both sympathy and guilt for his actions. He has a razor sharp wit, often remarking on events with sarcasm. He seems to use this sense of humor as a sort of defense mechanism, reserving it for himself or for close associates - usually as a way of deflection.

He is capable of forming friendships in spite of his open cynicism, but never lets his guard down, constantly protecting himself from potential harm. However, he is incredibly loyal and devoted to the friends he has, and is, as such, deeply affected by acts of betrayal.

Described as consummate professional at best and a workaholic at worst, Leon is solely devoted to his profession, spending much of his time and efforts either investigating cases or keeping tabs on the latest New Ancora gossip. To Leon, his work as a private detective has become his identity, he helps solve cases not because he thinks it will make a difference - but because it's what he's good at. Not bereft of a moral conscience, Leon will often pass up or decline cases if he believes them do be morally or ethically unclear. Consequentially, he will sometimes accept jobs without commission simply because the job intrigues him or offers him a new challenge.

He is fervently determined by nature, executing his decisions with clear intentions and following through with any choice he makes. He pursues his goals with a borderline-obsessive ferocity, and does not take obstacles lightly. However, he is human enough to realize that no goal is important enough to directly hurt others in order to achieve.

This determination is bested only by his resourcefulness and willpower. Labeled as a born survivor, Leon possesses renowned instincts and survival skills that have allowed him to survive up to this point. He is highly perceptive, and never fully lets his guard down, making him all the more dangerous.

Leon possesses something of a weakness for heroics underneath his worn surface. He goes to great, sometimes even dangerous lengths to protect the poor and downtrodden. He performs random, unexpected acts of kindness that belie his overall demeanor, and is especially sympathetic towards children and the struggling families of Zone Beta.

However, as a consequence of this more sympathetic nature, Leon can be particularly vindictive towards those who abuse or manipulate those in poverty. He has a short, oftentimes explosive temper that will manifest itself when he is pushed past the point of anger or extreme annoyance. During such times he becomes incredibly intimidating, and can only be calmed down by a friend or close one's voice of reason.

His desire to do right in the world has been broken time and time again, but still he pushes on, no longer caring if his actions will directly influence the world or not. New Ancora will live on, with or without him.

<Augmentations:/>

• Cybernetic Arm: After a severe injury disabled the use of his right arm, surgeons had it replaced with a mechanical substitute from the shoulder down. Upon Leon's own request, the hand and wrist portion of the prosthetic possesses some degree of synthetic skin, allowing it to pass off as organic so long as the rest of the arm remains covered. The augmented limb itself is constructed of advanced synthetic muscle fibers designed to move and rotate exactly as a normal arm would. However, it possesses far greater strength, and can dent metal or crush bones with little effort. This near-superhuman strength notwithstanding, the limb lacks durability due to not being made of metal, and can be rendered inoperable with enough damage. Additionally, in order to ensure the arm doesn't tear itself free from Leon's body, additional cyebrnetic reinforcements are placed near and around his shoulder, which includes several ribs.
• Nano-Active Blood: As part of an experimental government program, Leon was given a full-body exchange transfusion, with his original blood removed and placed in cryogenic storage somewhere in a New Ancoran science facility. What now flows through his body is an artificially-created nanobot-comprised substitute that is designed to improve the blood's natural oxygen and nutrition transportation efficiency. The nanomachines within the blood itself boost Leon's regenerative capabilities, resistances, and bodily stamina, making him highly resistant, if not immune to disease and toxins; breaking down alcohol in his bloodstream, preventing intoxication; filtering water after ingestion; and granting Leon a slightly-enhanced healing factor, allowing him to heal, in days, what would take other individuals weeks. It is unknown what the exact limit of this healing factor is, but it is known that the nanomachines actively repair nicotine damage in the lungs, preventing Leon from indulging in smoking.
• Cybernetic Limb Actuator: Designed to enhance Leon's strength and endurance, servos have been implanted in his joints, increasing his limb strength and resilience [sans right arm]. He can run faster, longer, and hit harder than the average person in his weight and body class, though is by no means a superhuman.
• Cybernetic Pain Inhibitor: As the name implies, the pain inhibitor is a small implant placed at the base of the neck. While not removing the sensation of pain, the implant simply suppresses the lingering effects of pain, allowing Leon to function regularly when injured. However, the pain inhibitor is incapable of repairing injuries, and medical care will still be required to fully treat any wounds sustained.
• Cybernetic Brain Augmenter: The final, and most experimental of Leon's augmentations, the cybernetic brain augmenter is designed to heighten his memory, thought processing, and mental organization. Its installation grants Leon an eidetic memory, enhanced sensory recollection, increased reaction time, and the ability to process information at an execrated speed. However, its continued presence causes chronic debilitating migraines, blurry, sometimes distorted vision, increased paranoia and agitation, and moderate-to-severe tinnitus. [USER: Leonard Monroe makes mention of audio-visual hallucinations following implant installation. AUTHENTICITY UNKNOWN]

<Skills & Abilities:/>
An experienced policeman and detective, Leon has an impressive set of skills that allow him to survive in even the harshest parts of Zone Beta. The most apparent of these skills is his combat prowess. A talented marksman, Leon is capable of making accurate shots from over fifty yards with a handgun, and rarely misses his intended target. He shows a certain amount of versatility with a wide-range of firearms, and can effectively wield most any gun he gets his hands on.

Similarly skilled in unarmed combat, Leon uses his natural resourcefulness and ingenuity when fighting, and will regularly use his environment around him as a means to incapacitate his enemies. Not above using dirty tactics as a means to win a melee, Leon will aim for low or weak spots on his opponent, and will even resort to using his cybernetic arm to deliver a finishing punch.

Working as both a detective and a private investigator for the better part of his life, Leon has a quick, deductive mind and a natural cunning that makes him very good at what he does. He can scan an environment and quickly pick out details or odd particulars to help gain insight onto a clue. Likewise, he is very good at reading people's face and body language to determine if someone is lying - or if they pose a threat to him.

As a direct result of his time in Zone Beta, Leon keeps various connections within the seedier parts of New Ancora, and semi-frequently collaborates with information brokers to maintain up-to-date knowledge of the city's goings-on.

Lastly, perhaps Leon's most prominent non-occupational talent is his mechanical aptitude. Exceptionally skilled with his hands, Leon is capable of repairing and maintaining nearly all varieties of technology, ranging from rudimentary household appliances to cybernetic limbs or robots. Tinkering is a hobby of his, and he can be found occasionally taking items apart only to put them back together simply to pass the time.

<Biography:/>
Leonard Kenneth Monroe was born to parents Calvin and Cynthia in an indiscriminate part of District 16. Growing up, Leon experienced varying amounts of financial need; ranging from only eating one-to-two meals a day to digging through dumpsters in search of something edible. His father, an embittered yet supportive man held work as a laborer and welder, but faced crippling alcoholism that drained their funds and threatened his job security. Though never physically abusive, and indeed doing his best to provide for his family, Calvin's weak will and continuing addiction drove a wedge between himself and his wife.

Leon didn't know his father well, and was instead fed oftentimes spiteful information from his mother. While loving in her own way, Cynthia's disdain of her own husband distracted her from the needs of her son, who soon closed himself off and grew more independent.

One particular incident that Leon recalled was his severely-inebriated father with a shotgun barrel in his mouth, begging his son to pull the trigger for him -- a request that Leon regrets not fulfilling to this day.

Growing up in Zone Beta, Leon saw firsthand the struggles of the common people, struggles that those in Zone Alpha were either unaware of...or simply didn't care. From that point on, he made a promise to himself that he wouldn't waste the life he was given, and would use it to help those in need.

He applied himself to his studies, and while not the most academically gifted student, showed a tenacity and drive that made him stand out in his own right. He displayed a particular amount of aptitude in the subjects of literature and religious education, and showed natural talent at amateur boxing and gymnastics.

During his years at school, Leon's father attempted to curb his drinking habit and turn his life around; but lacked the willpower and strength to succeed, soon relapsing and drinking himself into a comatose state while alone outside a bar. Calvin Monroe's stiff corpse was found the next morning by police officers, his death attributed to alcohol poisoning caused by the sudden binge.

Though devastated and disheartened, Leon learned to temporarily cope by suppressing the memory of his father deep within the recedes of his mind, pushing himself up until graduation, where he promptly entered the NAPD Academy to become a police officer.

His time at the academy was relatively normal. He showed great promise as an officer, and graduated within a year as a registered policeman.

During this time, Leon's mother began to show signs of early-onset Alzheimer's disease. While such a plight was easily treatable in the clinics of Zone Alpha, treatment options in Beta were far more sparse and expensive. Using whatever money he had left to try and pay for his mother's treatments, Leon soon fell into debt before even reaching 20 years old.

Forced to live in a threadbare, two-room shack in the slums of 16 without so much as a whole bed to sleep on, Leon struggled desperately for weeks to stay on top of his various expenses - and was soon approached with an opportunity.

It was late evening on a Friday when he received a visitor: a man in a crisp, clean suit that no one could possibly afford in the slums of Beta. The man gave Leon a very special opportunity: 100 candidates randomly chosen from a pool of federal employees, who would each undergo experimental invasive augmentation. Leon was initially wary at the proposal, but was assured the augmentations would be completely internal, and he would be paid a remarkably high monetary reward for his participation.

Finally agreeing to the terms, Leon was sent to Zone Alpha less than a week later, experiencing for the first time in his life the glory and beauty that the other side of New Ancora had to offer him. Sent to one of the finest hospitals in District 3, Leon was soon prepped for surgery, and put under in the early morning hours.

His body drained completely of blood, Leon underwent rather extensive alteration, with servos and actuators implanted in his joints, a pain inhibitor device attached to his cervical spine nerves, and a brain augmenter very dangerously implanted in his cerebrum. His body was completely refilled with an artificial blood substitute, while his original blood was frozen and put in storage for the present time.

Leon spent the next few days after surgery recovering, very quickly discovering that something was...different. On the outside nothing had changed, it seemed. But he felt so strange, so artificial. Yet rejuvenated, strong.

Sent back to Zone Beta shortly recovering, Leon saw his own performance increasing exponentially. He was faster, more agile, better coordinated, healthier. His career bolstered as a result, and he regularly received transfers to higher and higher districts, eventually making it to Zone Alpha as a permanent resident.

Having his mother moved to a better hospital, Leon was officially promoted to police detective, excelling in the position and earning a well-deserved name for himself. His transfers eventually landed him in District 4, where he remained stationed for some time, regularly taking cases in Zone Beta to remind him of his upbringing. During this time he entered a secret relationship with a female coworker, and not long thereafter lost his arm in a work-related accident [DETAILS REMOVED PER NEW ANCORA REGULATIONS].

Undisclosed events less than a year after led to Leon quitting the force in its entirety, becoming a self-employed private detective instead. He left his home life in District 4 and moved to District 8, hoping to make himself anew, though he still carries the heavy burdens of his past on his back.

<Other:/>

• Voice Sample
• Leon appears to be incredibly paranoid of most robots and artificial intelligence, though he never explains why. This trait appears to simply be a personality flaw as opposed to a trauma-induced fear.
• Religiously, Leon identifies as an Agnostic Theist.
• Due to the massive energy requirements of his various augmentations, Leon consumes far greater amounts of food than normally recommended for a man of his height and weight simply to compensate, with apple pie being a marked favorite dessert of his.
• Due in part to his traumatic past and the circumstances regarding his augmentation(s), Leon is a high-functioning alcoholic at best. However, the nanomachines in his bloodstream prevent him from becoming intoxicated, thus forbidding him from self-destructing. At one point he implies to have had a nicotine addiction as well, though appears to have curbed the habit since then.
• While not asexual and somewhat flirtatious when in a good mood, Leon is generally fearful of romantic interaction or relationships, and is mistrustful of anyone attempting to get close to him unless they earn his confidence.
• Leon is especially hesitant regarding children, though shows apparent skill at interacting with them. Where this fearfulness comes from is uncertain.