Editing APCH:Miss Fortune

=Miss Fortune=

Human Street Samurai

==Priorities:==

5 - Attributes 

4 - Stuff

3 - Skills

2 - Essence

1 - Race (Human)

==Attributes:==

Brawn 0

Observation 2

Reflexes 3

Social 0

==Cybernetics:==
 
Chest - Modified Saeder-Krupp Class IIIA Wired Reflexes (Power: going really fast. The "A" designation means it has a built-in stepped reflex trigger, so you can consciously select the degree of reaction enhancement you think you can live with. The modifications enable a "Blitzkrieg" mode which completely eliminates the conscious mind from combat and relies on a not-too-discerning IFF mode to fight. Great in ambushes, not so much when you send a knife through someone tossing you a beer.)

Head - Renraku "Tsuushin" Datajack (Power: interfacing with electronic systems and smartguns. Fairly standard. Much better than nanopaste trodes, which won't be invented for a while anyway.)

Head - Modified street Class III cybereyes (Power: expanded sensorium/smartgun interlink. The modifications are basically a recoloring of the irises from the stock model.)

==Skills:==

Athletics (Running, jumping, climbing, swimming, throwing, etc)

Close Combat (armed or unarmed)

Shooting (all sorts of guns and stuff)

Stealth (Hiding, sneaking, legerdemain etc)

Etiquette - Yakuza

==Stuff:==

Cybernetics: Body - Yamatetsu LoPro Class IV Muscle Replacements (Power: improved Brawn and Reflexes; the LoPro line is low-profile and does not significantly alter the body shape unlike the "Kyoka" series, which is much more obvious about it. They make you stronger and faster, but not smarter. Counts as 2 picks of Stuff.)

Gear: Armored Chameleon Suit (thermoptically-camouflaged full body suit with gecko tips on the hands and feet, for intruding on people)

Gear: Weapon: Savalette Guardian (heavy pistol for heavy killing. Fortune's Guardian has been modded for full auto fire and the ability to take a bigger mag. Starting gear.)

Weapon: Dikoted katana, "Dawn" (Named because life is but a dream. Street Samurai gear.)

Armor: Reinforced Trenchcoat (because there's no point making an entrance if you can't do it badassfully. Starting equipment.)

Language: Japanese

==Contacts:==

"Painless" Doc Johnson; he was Fortune's cyberdoc in the bad old days, and went legit around the same time she did. Now that she's back in the game, he's opened the back door of his clinic to her because he owes her.

Fixer: Tommy Panic

==Flaw:==

Dinochrome (Basically, Fortune's augments were bleeding edge at the time of installation, but now they're nearing the end of their service span. Still, they do the job. Life in the old dog yet.)

==Motivation:==

Make as much money as she can and send it back to her family before she croaks.

==Bio:==
My name is Yuki Ericsson and I'm a housewife. My husband, Lance, is a good man. My children, Dennis and Denise, are four this year. I guide them up the schoolbus in the morning and greet them with smiles when they return in the afternoon. It's my life.

But not my whole life.

My name is Amano Yuki, and I am a Form Eleven student. My father, Amano Ginji, is a minor functionary in the British Embassy in Japan. He is addicted to gambling, and sex with underage prostitutes. My mother, Amanda, is also a functionary at the Embassy. She knows about my father's addictions, and gambles alongside him. The Yakuza writes off their debts, because they want insider info on the FLASH traffic in the British Embassy. 

One day, I arrive home to see my father and mother sitting in the living room with several tall men in suits, wearing mirrorshades and poorly-concealed tattoos under their expensive suits. "Yuki," my father says. "This is Uncle Kenichi. You will be staying with him and his friends for a while." I am stunned. I do not understand. I do not react until Uncle Kenichi and his friends take me by the arms and drag me out of the door. I begin to scream, to shout. To thrash. It is all in vain. Uncle Kenichi and his friends are cybernetically augmented. They are Yakuza kanbu. People see me being taken away, and react as though I did not exist. I am an aberration, a disturbance in their otherwise peaceful lives. Before the van door slides shut in my face, I look to my parents, silently begging them to help. I am your daughter. Save me.

They do not even spare me a glance.

I am Snowflake, an unremarkable joro on the streets of Roppongi. I wear cheap trashy makeup and a whore's raiment. I am a nikubenki, a hole that takes the seed of men and their nuyen. Uncle Kenichi is my pimp. He and his friends watch me from a black van that cruises down the streets every half an hour. I take my clients wherever I can. Sometimes they try to rob me. Sometimes they succeed. I am beaten when they do, because it means a loss of profit. 

I am not fed much. They say it helps keep the weight off. 

Uncle Kenichi is angry. I have only entertained three men tonight. The makeup does not hide bruises well. He is shouting at me. I meekly lower my head. Resistance leads to further beatings, and I do not wish to scare off more men. A black van rolls down the street. I glance aside through the torrent of abuse. The door on the side slides open. I look at it. A gun protrudes. Kenichi raises his voice and grabs me by my choker. The gun spits fire. Kenichi falls away from my chest in a spray of blood. A flash of pain blooms over my throat, then the choker breaks. I drop to the ground, heart racing, as bullets fly overhead. Something tells me to stay down there, to curl up and hide, to ignore the gun in front of me and close my eyes and plug my ears and scream.

I ignore the voice.

I rise from the street, mind and heart and nerves as cold as my name. I see movement in the van; someone is turning on me. I flick the safety off, not knowing why, and squeeze off a burst. Fire lights up the interior and a man falls back, chest red, his SMG spitting lead into the interior of the vehicle. I advance, not knowing how or why. I step up to the van, turn my gun on the first man I see. He dies with his gun in his hand. I shoot down the second man, already wounded from my first burst. I turn and kill the driver from behind. I finish off the man in the seat beside him as he attempts to dismount. 

I am still standing there as Kenichi's friends approach me with guns drawn. They look at me not with contempt, but with fear. 

In their eyes, I am no longer a whore. 

I am Bielye Smiert. That is the Vory's name for me, the White Death. I kill them. In their cars, in their homes, in their places of business - I kill them. With the pistol, blade and axe - I kill them. A constant dance of bullets, blood and death. Strong and fast and cold and ruthless, a perfect killer, born to do the job. So good that doing otherwise would make no sense. Why else would they turn a common street whore into a cybered murderer? For the longest time the Vory did not know of me. They saw a weak, pitiful little half-breed girl and a pile of bodies and did not make the connection. They did not see that girl bypass their locks and gates, lie her way into their fortresses, murder their men while pretending to be nothing more than armcandy or a streetwalker. 

I walk in legend's shadow. My name is written in the deaths of men. At Boss Tanaka's command, I go forth and carve a crimson road for the gumi.

Why this should be, I have long since ceased to wonder.

I am Baixue Gongzhu. I pretend to be Chinese. I do not speak a single word of it. I am a shadowrunner. No questions are asked. I kill people. I am good at it. I break into houses and secure facilities. I am good at that too. Boss Tanaka is dead. I did not kill him. The ones who did, wanted me to join him. I killed them. I fled Japan. Too many bad memories. I came to the United States, a shattered oland for a shattered soldier. I work with professionals. It is good to have decent colleagues. I take on high-risk jobs, the kinds that involve extraction, liberation and recovery. I plow the proceeds back into myself. 

I am a tool. I have been made into a tool. I have come to live as a tool.

And the best tool is one that hones itself.

I am Miss Fortune. I am a body in the back of an ambulance. My team is dead. We killed ourselves. We tried to hit Mitsuhama. We paid the price. Tank flung me clear of the car before the rocket hit. I lie in a ditch for a day before someone finds me. His name is Lance. 

He is kind.

I am Yuki Ericsson. I am in a chapel. I am wearing white. My husband is kissing me. It is perfect.

I am in the back of Painless Doc Johnson's clinic. He is a colleague from my running days. He tells me that I have cancer. I ask him what kind. He says it's the kind you don't get better from. I ask him how long I have. He tells me that I have about ten months.

I am Miss Fortune. I work for the cartel. I wear a lined coat. Underneath it, I carry a taser, a dart gun, and two pistols. My husband sleeps in our bedroom. Our children sleep across the hallway from him. I mount my bike, my effects already balanced on the back of the gyrostabilized vehicle. I have left a note. It is on our nightstand. 

He promised not to ask about my past. I did not tell him. The note says that I have to leave, and that I will never come back. It says I love him. I said I loved him. I said it to him while he slept. I saw the trip to the Bahamas he had planned for us. I forced myself to leave. If I had stayed, I would never have been able to leave. If I had stayed, he would have found out about my cancer. He would have bankrupted himself, ruined his life, or family's lives, to save mine. 

I am Amano Yuki. I see a house broken by sin and debt and addiction. 

I am Snowflake. I see an endless stream of johns who mount me, pay me, and leave.

I am Bielye Smiert. I see silhouettes which fall to the ground when the crosshairs of my smartlink pass over them.

I am Baixue Gongzhu. I see ways past and through obstacles and men, paydata and objectives and kill zones and extraction routes.

I am Yuki Ericsson. I see a house where my children laugh and my husband smiles.

I am Miss Fortune. I see the road, and my future, stretching off once again into the shadows.

I am Yuki.

And I wish I had more time.