Warning: This character concept includes explicit language . . .

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Prometheus, aka Pro

a character for Shadowrun®

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Building Prometheus

Initial Concept

An Ork orphaned at birth that grew up on the streets sans gang life.  A buddy of Rock (another of my PCs) that was also abducted into "The Program" which was set up by Lancer R&D to create an elite anti-Bug unit.  He was slotted into the section that created cybersoldiers to keep the magic types alive.  He was psychologically broken and crammed full of cyberware and bioware.  Shortly after his training commenced, everyone broke out, thanks to Rock.  He is not upset at The Program as yet, feeling that he was lucky to get such expensive gear.  Actually, he sorta liked it . . .

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The Rationales


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The Background

Josh settles back in the booth, takes a gulp of his beer and sets it down as if in prelude to some action.  He pulls the tails of his gray Secure Longcoat free of his leg, revealing a partial view of a heavily muscled chest, wet with sweat and lightly coated with fresh dirt and grime.  A speck of color stands out amidst the muscles in the form of a small, deep blue crystal, set in a simple silver mount, dangling from a leather thong around his neck.

He appears almost as if he just jogged in from a run just seconds before, and the glimpse of the grips of two side arms reinforces your suspicions. He bends up a leg, revealing his heavy black dingo boots, four-pointed spurs and all, then sits back in the booth, and lets out a soul-weary sigh, followed by another sip of his beer.  He looks at you, or perhaps through you, it is hard to tell, and speaks: "So ya want ta know about old Pro, huh?"  His faces cracks a wide grin, revealing small canines and an oddly uniform set of teeth for an Ork.  "Well, kick back 'cause it ain't a short story."

"My Mom and Dad were working stiffs. They plugged away day in and day out, making the bread to keep me happy, healthy, and all that drek.  Anyway, things were just friggin' dreamy when some ganger fucks capped 'em in a drive by. Cops said it was an 'accidental shooting' that they was just innocent bystanders. I give a rat's ass, dead is dead One wrong turn and five seconds was all it took for them to go from working stiffs to just plain stiffs.  I suppose you could say they were demoted, 'though mosta my chums would consider it a promotion - rather be dead than have a day job."  He lets a pained smile escape his grim visage and starts in on another beer.

"Anyway, this suit talks to this suit and that suit and so on.  Pretty soon, I'm stuck in a friggin' orphanage with Satan's bitch wife in charge.  I learned a lot about pain in a very short time in that place." [The Matron, Mrs. Meyer, was a widow of a Humanis Policlub member that was killed by Ork gangers]  He pauses, then continues: "It wasn't long 'fore I was outta there and fending for m'self on the streets of Puyallup.  I missed Auburn, but there
was nothing for me there, man. Besides it was a long damn walk from where I was."  He cracks a grin before continuing.  "Lucky for me, I found a coupla straight up friends, Jimmy "Bang Bang" Sloane and Rock.  'Course
back then they were just Jimmy and Pete.

"Jimmy's Mom was a BTL whore and he did not like talking about it.  Poor bastard had no idea who his father was and he had about thirty dealers to choose from, every last one of them rock bottom scumbags.  Pete was a weird
case.  Turned out he was Mr. Allstar in high school until he goblinized into a Troll.  His Dad tried to have him 'cured' of his 'disease' in some fancy ass hospitals.  Lots of money was blown and nothing happened, 'cept Pete getting messed with by a bunch of fucks in lab coats.  'Course what can you 'xpect from a Human Poli dickstain?  'Course Pete had no idea what his Daddy was, but it didn't matter, he ran away jes' the same.

"Pete and Jimmy had only hooked up a few months before I showed, but they had managed to find a place to hole up in an abandoned warehouse.  They took me in without givin' me any shit and we got along real well.  We started getting odd jobs to pay bills and keep some grub on the table.  Jimmy started amassing a small arsenal of guns and spent damn near all of his time taking them apart, tinkering with 'em, shit like that. Me, I washed dishes at local restaurants. Pete worked at a loading dock when they needed extra under the table help.

"That reminds me. I was working at this cozy little guido joint called Franco's Little Italy, washing dishes as usual.  A little honey of a waitress that worked there, Shonelle, came onto me strong and I didn't try to stop her.  Before I know it, we're doing the wild thing 6 to 7 times a day.  She took my cherry and stomped it into the ground!  Anyway, there I am in teenage boy heaven and some rat fuck had to go mess it up.  Turns out this punk ass Ork named Jacker used to be her old boyfriend.  She dumped him a while back, but he comes around looking to make up.  She mentions me, and this joker steps up to me at work. I clocked the bastard and beat his ass all up and down the restaurant. Franco respected my reasons, but he let me go 'cause I apparently disturbed some bigshot Mafia guy's lunch.

"Anyway, as if this didn't suck enough already, she gets all maternal on him and gives me the cold shoulder for whupping up on him.  Go fraggin figure! Anyway, around 'bout this time, Pete, Jimmy, and I had noticed this black van cruisin' around our neighborhood.  We go to scope it out and some Human Policlub slots try to jump us.  Pete gets all wiggy and his hands start glowing.  Next thing I know, there's wounded and dead slots all over the place. He pulls back the lead guy's hood and gets all freaky when he sees the guy's face.  Turns out it's his Dad.  His Dad gets all
freaky-eyed and goes on about how he couldn't let such an abomination, he's talkin' 'bout Pete there, go on living.  Then he lays into me, going on about how I am agent of Hell, here to drag down God's children.  I woulda geeked the freak, but he was Pete's Dad and all.  So I did Pete a favor and cold cocked him.  Pete and I got outta there and never saw their face in our neighborhood again, but Pete was a little bit colder after that.

"One day, Jimmy shows up at yet another place where I am washing dishes and hands me a "package" containing a Spas 22.  Turns out he heard that Jacker got cozy with the Smashas go-gang, got himself a little cybered, and planned to pay me a little visit for some payback.  Thanks to Jimmy, I walked outta the back alley in one piece.  'Course I killed the three Smashas gangers Jacker brought with him and fucked him up pretty badly.  I thought he was dead, but I heard later that he made it through.  Stubborn little prick.  The Smashas ain't been too friendly ever since.

"Anyway, a few months later, this decked out, black, Bulldog, Courier step van starts cruisin' around.  Every time Pete and I tried to get near it, it zoomed off outta the 'hood. Suddenly, one day, we round a corner and BAM! We run straight into ten guys all decked out in black with stun batons and spells and shit.  Next thing I know, I am in a cage and Pete ain't nowhere to be found.

"I just sat there and ate crappy food for a few days before some suit comes to tell me how I am going to serve the greater good of metahumanity in the war against the Invae, which is what suits apparently like to call Bugs.  I ain't no Mage or nuthin', but I know when I am fucked, and I was fucked.  For months, they screwed with my head and carved up my body.  Every day, at least the few when I actually woke up for a while, there was a new pain, a fresh scar. One of the lab coat guys kept referring to me as Prometheus. Turns out he was some Greek guy who got cut up a lot or sumthin'. Anyway, it sounded cool, so I kept the name. It reminds me how I got the way I am.

"To keep us in line, they kept us caged up when we weren't training.  When they gave us weapons, they were rigged so we could not shoot the guys guarding us.  As if that wasn't enough, they implanted tiny explosives in our necks that they could trigger remotely.  One poor slot had one of his set off accidentally by a stray bullet.  Not a pretty sight.

"So, they start training me on all kinds of weapons, from pistols to shotguns to assault rifes, you freakin' name it. They also took from kick butt brawler to a real kung-fu, chop suey, thrashing machine. There was other stuff, like throwing grenades and sneaking around, too.. 'Course to keep things lively, there were daily runs through combat obstacle courses with live fire obstacles. Pretty soon I was pretty damn agile, real football captain material - yeah, right, me as Mr. Right, heh. Well, I didn' get much school past elementary, but one day I wake up with this chip thing in my head, turns out it's a skill wire plus system. Before you know it, I am chipping all kinds a shit and cracking locks, flying planes, zipping around in hovercraft, playing the medic, and all kinds a drek. By now, they had me so damn wired I didn't know which way was up." He stops and laughs to himself momentarily, as if remembering some humorous anecdote he doesn't wish to share, then quickly regains his composure.

"After a few months, I was pretty damn lean and tough, and a real fraggin' grade A ass kicker too.  When I got cut or shot, I didn't bleed much, but I had to start taking these little pills every day.  No sweat there, they set me up with this here fingertip compartment to keep an emergency stash.  Don't want no 'super soldier' dying of a heart attack in the middle of a recon, huh?  They also threw in some retinal mods so I could be that much more useful.  Actually, can't say I got reason to bitch.  I wasn't gonna have chrome like that fall out the sky and into my body, now was I?  I am glad they didn't take my eyes though, I like them."

With that last comment, you notice his ice blue eyes.  Within their depths you have a sense of tabula rasa, but you know better.  You've seen too much misery and you suspect Pro has had two heaping helpings of it.  They do strike a disturbing contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin, like two diamonds dropped on a city street.  The small flecks of emerald green and midnight blue in them set off such an aesthetic combination that you almost doubt that such a combination would occur naturally, but if Pro is anything, he isn't a liar.

"Anyway, the surgeries had ended as well as the mindfuckin'.  I was gettin' pretty kick ass at urban insertion and cleaning house when it suddenly ended.  Pete and a coupla blood soaked buddies show up saying how they have shut down "The Program."  Someone had shut down The Program's computers and jammed their commo, and Pete and his pals struck hard and fast.  We still don't know who did it or why.

"So, it turns out I was part of a project to create cyberbuddies to escort magical chummers like Pete into battle and keep them alive long enough to kick Bug ass.  As buff as Pete was, he was not really built for kickin' off on a bunch of soldiers and Fleshforms, the puppet freaks the Bugs use.  That was to be my job - and I mean was with a capital 'what the fuck happened homey?'.  'Course I am sure us mundie grunts woulda been the disposables, seeing as how PhysAds like Pete ain't quite as common as street trash like you and me, huh?

"A couple of us convince one of the docs it's in his best interest to remove the explosives from our necks.  Turns out they were close enough to the surface that we coulda taken care of it ourselves, if we'd known better.  I grabbed some gear off of a security guard, to include his ear piece microtransceiver and a slick, urban camo, armor jacket.  I stopped by the armory and helped myself to some guns, ammo, grenades, and a coupla fists full of Skillsofts.  I still use them, seeing as how they were made to milspec and all.  Nothing worse than a flaky Skillsoft when you really need it to work.  It ain't hard to figure which is which.  They're the ones with no brand name."  He says, examining one and proffering it to you.

"Who set up the Program?  Well Pete sez that some decker fella sez it was Lancer Omega, some black ops division of Lancer Corporation, a small military R&D outfit.  More I learn about how small they are, the less I believe that,
though.  Well anyway, there I was, geared up to the gills with my thumb up my ass.  I snagged some certified credsticks and tracked down my old friend Jimmy, now calling himself Jimmy "Leonardo" Sloane, although everyone else called him Jimmy "Bang Bang" Sloane.  He is an armorer for shit sake.  Anyhow, he hooks me up with some Fixer guy named Nordak who's all kinds of helpful, especially after I slip him a few thousand nuyen to hook me up
with work.

"I bought a used Honda Viking and Jimmy hooked me up with a Secure Longcoat, and some other gear to help me sneak guns inta places.  'Course you know all about that.  To top it off, he returned my trusty old Spas 22 from that night in the alley.  Anyway, I started putting my skills and gear to use and started Shadowrunning.  I ain't got a hell of a lotta options, ya know."  Pro seems dangerously close to emoting, but suddenly he regains his composure and his icy cool street facade and rattles off a comfortable old phrase, "Damn, but I could use another beer . . ."

The evening wears on, but he reveals little else.  Humorous stories about his mischief with Jimmy and Pete fall from him increasingly more easily as time progresses and his bar tab rises, but he keeps you at an emotional distance, sprinkling in a heavy dose of bawdy jokes and grim tales of missions.  Before you know it, it's last call.  You finish your drinks and head out the door, where Pro gives you a solid, almost painful slap on the back and thanks you with his eyes for an evening of camaraderie, then you go your separate ways.

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A lean, heavily muscled, Caucasian Ork stands before you. There is little doubt he is a man, but his ancestry is not obvious, though he is clearly descended from European or Scandinavian stock.  He wears a light gray Secure Longcoat over his otherwise bare torso, black leather pants, and heavy, black dingo boots with sharp, four-point spurs.  His hands are covered by well-worn, light, black leather gloves.  His bare chest partially exposed, you can see an impressive array of muscles, coated in a thin layer of sweat and urban grime.  Around his neck, on a leather thong is a small, deep blue crystal set in a simple, silver mount.

His gaze seems to dart around a little too quickly as if scanning for threats and targets alike, and he moves with unusual grace for his mass and build. His head and face are clean shaven except for his crown, from which hangs straight, black, shoulder-length hair. He appears young, but has a world-weary look in his piercing, blue, green-flecked, apparently natural eyes.  Amidst his dark hair and tanned skin, his eyes look like a pair of gemstones discarded on a city street.

When he speaks, he seems to go from Dr. Jekyl to Mr. Hyde, cracking a wide smile that reveals small canines and remarkably uniform dentition for an Ork. He avoids eye contact and anything approaching serious conversation while cracking jokes, using lots of body language, and almost deferring to whomever he talks to, especially attractive women. An occasional weapon grip peeks out from various locations in his Longcoat when he gestures

The important question - is that a Spas under his coat or is he just happy to see someone?

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Initial Stats

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Growing as a Character . . . (how he has "matured")

  • 2 karma for background - raised Intelligence to 2.
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Current Incarnation . . . (what he looks like now)

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