Character History


The following is a collection of information about your character that is uncovered throughout your explorations in the game. Although there is currently no complete and simple story to relate about your character's past, most of which remains unknown even to yourself, discovering small clues about your history is still an enjoyable part of the game. This is ideally not intended for a new player who wants to know who he's playing, although obviously there's nothing to stop anyone reading this. Instead, I am putting this together as a way for experienced players to examine all the shadowy hints they've found in one place, and perhaps discover the one or two they've missed. Whatever your purpose in coming here, however, welcome to your own disturbed mind…
- The Piper


The only part of your life that you still hold firmly in your memory is your current 'position' providing muscle for employers near your apartment in southern Metroplex, most commonly business owners like your friend Mikhail who need protection against the drug dealers and other unsavory types that frequent the neighborhood. It's not a very interesting life, but it pays the rent and gives you some minimal social interaction hanging out at places like Mikhail's deli. At least it's better than sitting at home watching TV all day, which is what most southsiders who even have a home spend their time doing.

Rarely, more distant memories will surface, usually stimulated by illegal recall-drugs or malfunctioning neural chips. It may be worrying not to remember anything beyond your recent past, but that might be preferable to some of the flashbacks you've been having. Reflecting on these experiences once you've had time to calm down again, it seems likely that you were once a test subject in some extremely secret Midgard experiments, willingly or not you don't remember. You seem to have undergone incredible bodily reconstruction, enough to render you unrecognizable to your own eyes even if you still knew what your old face looked like. Oddly, while this reconstruction hasn't left any cyborg implants that you can see, your physical abilities at times seem almost unreal. You're not sure what it would take to kill this new body of yours, but the number of bullet wounds, cracked ribs, and fang marks you've patched up attests to your remarkable endurance. You've heard rumors about other men like you working for Midgard, but whatever happened in those laboratories seems to have dominated what few memories of your past you've been able to recover, and mystery still shrouds the otherworldly experiences your wounded mind has only begun to touch upon once more.

Memories of the operations that likely resulted in your current form surface now and then under the right influences, but much remains a mystery. Flashing through your brain, the short scenes of executives making deals with you or madmen directing strange-scented operations on your lethargic body tantalize more than they inform.

Your more recent experiences, besides implicating Midgard in everything from the Slags Incident to kidnapping people who react to Eclipse in certain ways for their 'pyschiatric ward' to experimenting on mutants, make you suspect that Eclipse was perhaps a central reason for your 'reconfiguration'. Not only do you seem to avoid the worst of its addictive effects, but your manipulation of etheric influences grew remarkably quickly. Like others you have met, you can use your hallucinations to affect even people not tripping on the drug. Whether or not any of this is related to your Midgard experiences has yet to be seen. Some murkier memories have also risen to the surface, but you have a hard time figuring out how memories of executive offices and seething whirlpools fit into your past.

Most ominously of all, you have discovered a bug implanted in your forehead, apparently used by a cyborg to track you (much like you, the cyborg appears nearly invincible; could you be one of them?). While easily removed once you know it's there, you have no idea why anyone would want to track your whereabouts. The cyborg let slip that 'the weavers' are apparently behind it all, but the name doesn't ring any bells. Perhaps this is all somehow related to the cobwebbed building inside the Slags?


All the information described above was gleaned from the following quotes. Read them and you may put together a different interpretation.

You are an enforcer and protector for local businesses on the south end of Metroplex.1

Uncertain of the best way to approach the dust, you snort it. After a giant blast of medical scent that sends you reeling, your mind clutters with images.

You remember that scent, over and over, in hospital rooms and cybernetic labs. From the table, you feel hundreds of diseases cured and dozens of organs replaced.

You come back to your senses, reeling with nausea, but glad your body is mostly in one piece.2

A whole life passes before you, so fast you can only remember moments.

You remember the soul-rending shriek of your alarm in Southside park, but the hand you use to turn it off is not your own. You remember talking to Mikhail about how good the good times were, a conversation you've had a hundred times, but the voice responding to Mikhail is not your own.3

You remember a boring life. You remember the endless monotony of numbers and corporate politics. You remember one moment of excitement and pain and terror framing a life ill-spent.4

You remember an operating room, all bright lights and concrete. You remember reconsidering as your mind fills with war and carnage. You remember begging for it to stop.5

You remember a middle-aged man, reeking of chemicals. You remember threatening him. You remember him promising you… something and you accepting.6

You remember the mingling smell of petrol and burning flesh. You remember the soft rocking of a needler in your hands. You remember other voices laughing while yours is silent.7

You remember working until your muscles burn. You remember sneaking into buildings in the dead of night, killing everyone in the name of training.8

You remember a metal arch filled with green light as bright as the sun. You remember a dark figure standing behind you, speaking words of encouragement he does not mean. You remember the instant of pain as you enter the light.9

You remember a dark figure, nothing but a perfectly tailored suit and inhuman hunger. You remember him promising you… something and you accepting.10

You remember the bright lights, flashes of color and pain. You remember that rocked the entire world around you. You remember blood and realizing you'd spilt it for no good reason.11

You remember the pains of growing up… of parents rarely there and distant when they were. You remember being groomed for something greater, but wanting none of it.12

You remember… a filthy alley. It's far too vivid for one of those chips. It's difficult to keep yourself outside the stream of memory.

Your eyes water as the alley's scent hits you. It's nothing compared to the pain in your right side, though, or the fear of the drones chasing you.

You pull at your bandages, then discard them. When you started running, there was a terrible mess under there. Skin, bone, muscle, and blood were mixed into an incoherent mass.

Now, it's covered with a fresh layer of skin that's smoother than the highest class spas. It still hurts, but like you were hit by a baseball bat, not like needler rounds had shattered your rib cage.13

You remember… a containment suit. It's far too vivid for these chips to ever replicate and hard for you to keep yourself seperate from.

The suit is stifling and hot, recycling your air but never cutting down on the heat. You don't dare take it off or turn on the air intake now, though.

A few feet below you is a churning whirlpool of shimmering lights and green fire. Looking down, you can see foam washing up on the rocks, each bubble containing a tiny world and each tiny world screaming as it dies.

With a deep breath, you hurl yourself into the maelstrom. Your screams join those of a million tiny worlds as your awareness shatters to dust.14

He holds up a sketch of you. It's so perfect it's kind of eerie, particularly with the staring whirlpool of flames in the background.15

You remember… an executive office. It's vivid… far too vivid for one of these chips. It feels like a memory, but that might just be the chip talking to your brain.

Still, you can feel the gentle comfort and alien smell of the real leather chair. A waterfall tumbles past the windows, sending wavering shafts of light through the room. The man across the mahogany desk from you is wearing a monocle, as though to emphasize the old world comforts.

He's looking you over passively, like the engagement is a game of chess he intends to win. He speaks slowly, letting no emotion enter into his voice. "So, have you considered my offer?"

You struggle to stay polite. "I've told you before. I have no intention of being your guinea pig." A corner of his mouth twitches up, somehow encapsulating more malice than any mere dictator or serial killer could muster.

"Well," he starts flatly, "I guess that decides that, doesn't it. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."16

You remember… an office. It's both far more vivid and far more boring than what you'd expect from the chip. It gets hard to resist falling into the strange memory.

You rest comfortably in your ergonomic chair, perfectly supported to work on the giant stream of numbers you're formatting. Sun lamps give the room a warm glow, even though you can't see the nearest window.

Three men come onto the floor, looking almost like brothers. Each is too well-dressed to be welcome here and the leader wears a monocle. You've heard people are going for retro clothing, but that's ridiculous.

They stop on the far side of your cubical wall and the last thing you hear before the pain is "that crazy raven is building an army."

The gunshot is understated, leaving you almost disappointed with the soft 'thwip' of magnetically driven needles ripping through the cubicle wall and into your right side.17

You remember… a diner. It's Mikhail's… far too vivid to be the chip but still not anything you remember. Still, it's hard not to imagine yourself sitting at that bench.

The bench… is actually in pretty good shape, compared to what you remember. No fire damage from hooligans and a few less years wear and tear. The Jumbo Platter sitting in front of you untouched smells way better than you remember, too.

Lo sits across from you, his slightly younger face marred by a look of terror.† Your eyes flicker down to the gun sitting on the table between you. It's a top of the line Midgard needler pistol. The magnetics are cooking, strong enough for you to feel the interference buzz in your cybernetics.

You sit silently for a few minutes, watching him sweat. When you finally speak up, the voice is your own, but weighed down with years of dissapointment and smoking.

"How long did you think you could get away with it, old man? Give me one good reason not to kill you." His eyes flicker a little behind his glasses, like he finds something terribly amusing.

He finally responds, his voice even, almost like he's presenting to a lecture hall. "I know you didn't call in backup. There's only one reason you'd come to me openly… because you want something only I can offer."

He waits a few moments, then reaches forward and powers down the gun on the table. "An old friend of mine once said… 'we never die, just give up when our burdens are too great to bear.' " There's no shame in what you're doing."18

†This sentence is replaced by "A kind-faced old man sits across from you, a look of terror plastered across his face." if you don't have Lo as a contact.

Faintly, you remember watching something like the box shift and open, revealing… something.19

A tablet made out of dense, black metal and covered with indecipherable writing wouldn't feel safe under the best circumstances. Knowing it was stolen from some secret Midgard facility definitely doesn't help.

But the worst part is looking at the writing and feeling like you saw it before… not on a strange relic, but in a sterile lab.20

You look over the runes. They don't mean much to you, but… there's something deep in your mind that they call to.You feel connected to an inner strength you weren't aware you had, like a memory of being a god among men.21

You almost seem to remember chess being important to you a long time ago.22

You quickly tune a signal analysis circuit to pick out the bug's frequencies. It flickers faintly as you move it around your body, brightest near your head.

You're ready to make a cut, if need be, but push the circuit past its limits trying to find out where. Looks like the bug is under the skin of your forehead, right against the bone… although how it got there, you'd rather not think about. As you contemplate whether to cut into yourself, the circuit dies, releasing a whiff of blue smoke.

Taking one final glance around to make sure the cyborg is out of sight, you make a quick cut and peel a small, flat disc away from the skull. Whatever it was, it tore in the removal process.

You hear a harsh voice not far off. "No signal? What the hell do you mean, no signal? That's not even possible!" A long pause follows. "Damn it, the weavers are gonna be pissed."23

"The Vigilante would call us Freaks. They say we're immortal. I'm not so sure… but you seem to stay together better than me. Maybe you're the new model year." He opens his mouth like he's about to start laughing, then winces and closes it again.24

You remember… hundreds… maybe thousands of surgeries. Although all of them were performed on you, you're pretty sure you could apply the lessons if you needed to.25

You faintly recall some doctors standing over you talking about an IV drip of it… must've been a scene from a TV show or something.26

Also, and I apologize if this is a touchy topic, but Mikhail's mentioned you have a certain… talent, we'll say. You get beating, shot, stabbed, set on fire, whatever sort of physical trauma the world can dish out and you come back for more. He calls it your "lucky streak."

Well, about… god, almost three years ago now, I was living in Oldtown, working as a pharmacist under a false name. A man, I assume from Midgard, came after me. The owner of the store shot him twice in the head… I went home to pack my things and disappear.

I rigged a trap on the door, expecting him to have a partner, but he just strolled in like nothing had happened. A dozen explosive charges and almost a liter of nitric acid… he got knocked through the wall, on fire, and hit the sidewalk ten stories down. I'm still not sure if he got back up…

So, I guess what I'm saying is that I disagree with Mikhail's hypothesis. I'd say you're not lucky at all, but that you need to find out for sure before Midgard finds out about you.27

It's hard not inhaling this stuff most of the time, so you just let nature take it's course. The scent of medicine… perhaps a specific medicine… curls up your nostrils and tickles the inside of your brain. )

You remember that scent… lying on your back, strapped to an operating table. You were faintly aware that it should bother you, but couldn't motivate yourself to care.

Doctors stood all around you. Strange machines rattled and beeped faintly, pumping liquids into and out of your body through dozens of tubes. The whole room reeked of this scent.

The memory overpowers your senses. You can hear the doctors' excited chatter, feel the needles digging into your skin, smell that chemical stench, and see through parched, unblinking eyes as though you were there now.

One of the doctor's chimes in "differentiation at point five and dropping!" It… sounds bad, but she's smiling, and it seems like an awful lot of effort to ask them what it means.

You hear a door open and a wash of fresh air dissipates some of the scent. A new voice echoes from the door. "What class?"

The lead doctor in the room answers equally cryptically. "Probably E, but I wouldn't bet my job on it." The man at the door… you feel like you should recognize him somehow, chimes in "you better figure it out, the brothers are coming downstairs right now."

You see an expression of mixed anticipation and terror creep over the lead doctor's face. "Alright," he commands. "Add another drip of the anxiety cocktail. I don't want any surprises."

One of the younger doctors presses a button, which answers with a soft beep. As the room fades away, three men walk in wearing dark suits. The last thing you see before returning to consciousness is one of them flashing you a grin, showing you the joy and abandon only the truly mad can feel.28

You remember… a room. It's far more vivid than any experience you're supposed to have with these chips. It gets hard to keep yourself distant.

The room is harshly lit, but immaculately clean. The harsh scent of antiseptics almost covers the scent of old blood.

Restraints have chaffed your arms and legs, cutting almost to the bone, but you don't remember struggling. IVs run into your arms the left one dripping something that numbs your entire arm and the other filled with what looks like liquified Eclipse.

Four figures stand in the room around you, covered from head to toe in containment suits. You hear a woman's voice… Dr. Amundsen?

"Alright, this one… seems to be ready to go. Get transit ready to the bridge, we may not have a lot of time."29

You remember… a room. It's far more vivid than any experience you're supposed to have with these chips. It gets hard to keep yourself distant.

The room is harshly lit, but immaculately clean. The harsh scent of antiseptics almost covers the scent of old blood.

Restraints have chaffed your arms and legs, cutting almost to the bone, but you don't remember struggling. IVs run into your arms the left one dripping something that numbs your entire arm and the other filled with what looks like liquified Eclipse.

Four figures stand in the room around you, covered from head to toe in containment suits. You hear a woman's voice.

"Alright, this one… seems to be ready to go. Get transit ready to the bridge, we may not have a lot of time."30

A shipment is passing nearby, through Metroplex, so you reroute it to near your place and pick it up after the mail drone has left. You remove the packing materials to reveal a single monocle. It reminds you of… something. A cold stare, completely without emotion.

You blink a couple of times, having come out of a daze. The monocle lies powdered underneath a chunk of concrete that… apparently got torn out of a nearby building.31

You're not sure why you went into the public files. It's just page after page after page of Sari O'Connor complaining about parents, teachers, and popular kids.

You chuckle for a second, but it's hard to empathize. You try to remember your parents, but all you can come up with is a faint, misty memory of shouting and panic.32

Doing a quick search of the machine, all you can find is a chess game. You settle in to play a match.

The game displays a banner "Difficulty Level: King" and the game begins. The computer lets you play white.

As you watch the AI's last desperate struggles, you feel a strange sense of deja vu.

Your fingers were on a keyboard, just like this one, and you remember trying to play chess, but there were too many distractions. Your head itched like dozens of tiny points were burrowing into your scalp and the people behind you kept talking.

"This is all you have to show for it!" one boomed in anger, "Three months of failures! I can find idiots on the streets!"

A soothing voice began to disagree. "We're trying to find an appropriate trigger… Even your brother." The voice was interrupted by a shower of sparks and shattering glass.

You remember pain… your hand holding a glass shard, your blood mingling with another's. The booming voice laughs, a sound blending malice and honest amusement.

When you shake out of your… whatever that was, the computer has checkmated you.33

The secured files haven't changed since you looked last, so you open the next one in the list. This one is titled, slightly ominously, "Patient 2946." None of the other documents seem to have anything to do with patient records so this one must be special.

The record picks up with a team finding a young woman washed up on the nearby beach, covered in the toxic sludge Lake Metroplex has become known for. After a strange altercation where the team's drone misidentified her as a target and had to be put down, she was brought in for treatment.

Aside from two factors, she was found to be in perfect health and sound mind. She suffered from a mild case of "Slags Toxification" after exposure that would have melted the average person. And, more interestingly, she suffered from a strangely functional amnesia.

The report goes on for almost a dozen pages discussing her resistance to toxins and swift recovery from the drone attack, but leaves the amnesia mentioned only as a passing irritation until several weeks later.

She'd been allowed access to the lab's break room between tests. Returning from one break, she flatly requested to see someone. The request was granted and he arrived to take her away within the hour.

Unfortunately her request is recorded as "I need you to contact REDACTED from REDACTED. Tell him REDACTED passed through REDACTED. What… what's REDACTED?"34

You could probably live your entire life without touching a non-OmniTech product and, from what you've heard, many of their employees do just that. Similarly, nobody really likes their actual soda, but it's everywhere and you get used to it after a while.

Which is kind of weird, now that you think about it, because nobody in Southside can afford the stuff. You must have made a little money once.35

"<…>Then these three bastards in suits come in… nice fucking suits, like the handmade kind people three paygrades above my mom get."

He stops and squints his eyes a bit, obviously concentrating on something. "The middle guy, huge guy, obviously was running things. He reminds me a bit of you, actually, kinda… I dunno, badass, I guess. I remember his huge fucking hand over my face then… even weirder dream, waking up in a hospital bed."
<…he sketches him…>
He looks a bit familiar, but you can't quite place him.
It depicts a truly massive man of European stock wearing a suit. The artist even managed to capture the fire in his eyes, but you just can't place him.36

This sword is old, but looks familiar somehow. Maybe you saw it in a museum once.

All along the blade is a flame pattern and strange carvings that look faintly like letters or jagged teeth.37

Although you don't remember going to elementary school, television assures you that making snowflakes is an important rite of passage. <…>38

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