We want YOUR dead bodies!?

Or dead paper, files, twinkie wrappers, brain matter.? The current sample BG on SR:S is... well, old.? To start over on the new site, we'd like a new BG to point the newbies and monkeys towards.? So, what we are asking at this moment is if some of you out there might be willing to share a fraction of your creativity and improve your ego by offering up those tideous character histories for the enjoyment of the rest.? We might choose one or two to make the main sample, or we may take them all.? Haven't decided that part yet. ?

Please feel free to post and share.? But I do ask that it be a background that has either been played on SRS or approved in general elsewhere.? Old PCs would be better than current or recently played characters.  We (or you) may change the name of the character if you want to be famous, but not that famous.

Thanks!

This is from an approved PC I played about three years ago, he's a Combat Doc/Medic type loosely based  on no one. Hope it helps.

 Roger "Pigeon" Costello was born to Paul and Ellen Costello at Keruba General Hospital Inc. in Bayridge, Brooklyn, NY on July 15th 2026. His parents were immigrants from London, England following the VITAS Plague and the Restoration infighting who moved to Brooklyn in late 2024. Paul worked as a contracted mechanic for NYPD Inc. and his mother was a speech therapist at Keruba General. He also had an elder brother, Paul Jr, born in London 2023 who at the age of 12 underwent UGE and became an ork, and though his parents in a moment of despair had considered abandoning Paul Jr, they did not.

Roger went to a public school where he often ended up sticking up for his older brother, who unfortunately fit the "dumb trog" stereotype and was left back a few times in high school. Their neighborhood was a low middle-class area, that was slowly going to seed as gangs encroached from the surrounding areas. Paul got along with his reserved, Catholic, very "English" parents as well as any normal kid would, his mother continued to call him "Pigeon",  a childhood nickname from being an infant, because of the cooing sounds he made. They went to church, and though to Roger some of it seemed a little silly, he truly believed in God, and understood the morals He represented--though some he had grievances with. While he and his brother had their tussles they were nothing too serious. His father was an alcoholic, but hid it well, slipping up  only  once as Roger was just entering high school: As he left one morning in his freshman year he found his father passed out, outside, in his own vomit on their stoop mumbling about how his first born had betrayed him.

  Roger had excelled at Biology and had aspirations of becoming a doctor, when he graduated from Bayridge High with a full scholarship to NYU where he majored in pre-med with a minor in Electronic Applications. Paul Jr barely graduated and took off the next day leaving a note saying he had to "figure it all out". His family received over the next months vid-mails, but nothing too detailed. Typical in Roger's family, Paul absence was never discussed or hinted at; As if the man had neevr existed in the first place.  By 2046 Rog was riding high, his grades were astounding, his parents were proud, he was fit and best of all he had a college sweetheart, Angelina Romero, a deeply poetic raven haired woman who majored in Hermetic Studies... and who also suffered from deep rooted psychological problems. By the beginning of 2047 at 21, Roger had peaked. In February, Angelina committed suicide, for seemingly no other reason than that she had been defeated by her bi-polar depression-an extreme case. Rog was devastated, feeling he could never love again or would even want to-he has been right so far. His mother, whom he never really got to know, had been fighting brain cancer which eventually took her two months after Angelina's. By this point Rog himself no longer wanted to live, and at his mother's funeral Paul Jr. showed up-tanned and battle scarred, an ex-merc from whatever back water  corp war was going on. He was a rock for Rog to lean on.


         Pain can lead people down some dark roads. Roger became a recluse rarely leaving his dorm. He got hooked into BTL's within a few months and was failing classes,  rarely showing up, usually just to make sure he was even registered, "Hey pal am I still IN this class?!". He got booted out by June and was slumming in a local coffin motel in Sector 3 of Newark. His brother meanwhile was now home for good; opening up shop as a Private Investigator, "Ugly Paul's Investigations", and paying for his father's new bio-enhanced liver. Once again, Roger no longer cared nor wanted to.  Paul Sr and Roger became strangers with the same blood, the relationship switching hands to hsi brother,  his father had Paul Jr pick up Rog and force him into a cyber-detox/rehab center. By 2048 Pigeon was a new man, though he hated what he had been and more than anything hated anything else he hated how weak drugs had made him as a man. For the rest of his life he refused as best he could to let someone he cared about get involved with that drek. He was back to his old self, confident and a semi-joker, willing to make friends with those he met.
Jobless and penniless Pigeon was hungry for some action, he knew he couldn't become a doctor-but then again he never looked forward to the stuffiness and arrogance that came with the whole scene. He wanted to save lives....and kick some ass. With a little help from his brother's "friend" in public records, Pigeon got his black marks hidden and had an interview with a DocWagon Rep. He got hired. He went to DocWagon's Hoboken training facility where he excelled in not only first-aid thanks to his background, but also in basic cyber/electronic medi-care and was a decent shot as well; both with pistols shotguns, a great deal of his time there was spent at the small target range putting in his bullet time, firing away at various targets at various distances. On the VR threat assessment course, his skill at scanning a scene, putting out the combatants and applying medical help pushed him to the head of the class. Pigeon was happy, he thanked his brother everyday by vidphone while he was in Hoboken.

          His first assignment was a car-jacking gone wrong, an exec triggered his wrist alarm as he was shot in the gut by a couple of Cutters. Pigeon and his partner showed up and headed towards the scene. One of the gangers decided to stick around and get some more cash. As Pigeon was pulling out the exec and stabilizing him; the elf stabbed his partner, Chavez, then started for Pigeon. He pulled out a Max Power and shot the ganger in the face. Dispatch sent over an HTR team that took care of the rest of the vengeful gangers and helped out Chavez. Paul hated the feeling he had killed someone, but knew ultimately it was kill or be killed, and though he was sorry someone was dead-at least it wasn't him. However, the overkill that HTR doled out left him more than a little squeamish.

   Over the years he became resentful of the bureaucracy surrounding "health quotas" and DocWagon in-fighting. The pay wasn't enough for the risks he was taking out on the street, and HTR teams were too macho and too cybered for him. The last straw came in 2055, when during some MItsuhama extraction gone to drek, Pigeon received an order to only provide medical care to the R&D extract-ee and not his shot-up wife, as he trudged along with the failing shadowrunners. He lost his left hand when a stray bullet caught the corp scientist in the head hitting a cortex bomb as Pigeon was trying to keep his wife alive (who was now in pieces). After having his hand replaced as part of his severance package, he did not renew his contract and took his pension money to a former college pal, Dr. Taylor "Finchy" Finch, and spent most of his money on Alpha grade Boosted Reflexes and a Smartlink system, he felt he would need them in the future-- mainly because he had been in one too many near death dodges, or missed someone by a hair. At times he could feel the smart link pad in his right hand if he flexed his fist hard enough, it was a reminder that he had lost part of his soul. After securing some gear, he went to work for his brother.

For the next two years he acted as a general sidekick and learned the ropes of the semi-legal shadows cast within the vast NYC Megaplex. Over time his brother taught him the Art of reality lying; a fast talking style wherein, if you believe what youre saying, than the subject you say it to assumes its reality. On his own Pigeon became adept at tailing clients, and the targets of clients as well as developing a keen sense of sleight of hand and that "feeling" you get when you know someone is looking at you, that "Alertness", these stealthy skills were invaluable to the more clunky style of his brother.        As a voracious reader towards the concept and design of electronic systems, particularly Maglocks, helped him in the pursuit of B&E while on the job; going so far as to be a subscriber to TechMonthly!TM and using a small toolkit he made to play around with various bits of junk and old maglocks. He'd been on a few semi-runs, nothing youd consider outright shadow run-ish, but near enough and with just as much danger (ok save for angry gun-toting Corp guards, but definitely a few guard dogs and angry ex-husbands of divorce cases.) His father was living comfortably in a well-protected apartment courtesy of his brother who was becoming a bit of a mid-level player in the shadow scene of NYC.
   
    Pigeon felt it was time for him to "spread his wings", to move on, he felt he was ready and once again splurged all the money he had saved on various combat, surveillance and electronic gear he bought thought his brothers fixer contacts. After having been so close with his brother, and see where he could go with his skills and knowledge as a man. To try and make a name for himself. Pigeon said goodbye to Paul Jr and his father, and left for Seattle: getting smuggled with a few LTG's,  some gear, and a little luck.

    Smuggled into the megaplex  by way of Rev, a rigger hired by his brother, they got to talking. She mentions an Arnold Palmer as a man to get in touch with for jobs. She gives him his number after having dropped him off. Once he gets set up at a flat, Pigeon dials the mans number; Apparently Paul Jr had busted him, Palmer, out of some jam while "away" on business. Pigeon calls up Arnold when he arrives and meets him, they discuss various things. Arnold finds out the both are voracious readers. They've gone out to dinner twice and he's shown Pigeon the local tourist sights, the week he arrives. Recently he's hinted at some work Pigeon might be into, provided a finder's fee. Pigeons' savings are running low, he's got a hold of a fixer, and that smartlink  is burning to pull a trigger. And now:  Into the shadows.

This is a bg of a PC I never got to play. It's a decker, so it may have to be upgraded to reflect the SR4 rules. And it's bloody long. But for what it's worth, here it is.

Maybe she knew the Old Man?s name once. Gosa really can?t recall any more. When the Old Man had a woman, she?s sure the woman called him by some other name. But she just knew him as the Old Man: the guy who ran the junkyard.

She knows how she ended up with him, at least. He told her once, in one of his rare fits of talkativeness: a jug of moonshine in one hand, a cigar in the other, standing by a garbage can fire next to the rusted bulk of a fire engine on the south side of the yard. Some nicely dressed lady came to the yard one summer day, crying, with a baby in her arms. The junkyard was just outside Seattle, on the way to nowhere in particular, and the lady said her car blew its engine on her way to pick up her husband in the next town. She seemed frantic with worry. Could the Old Man help her? Now, the Old Man wasn?t exactly the helpful type. Wasn?t interested in saving the damsel in distress. If she had some nuyen, maybe he could see his way clear... But no, she had no money. He didn?t want her jewelry, knockoffs of knockoffs. On the other hand, she was very pretty. And she did have a baby in her arms. And she was obviously in distress. So, in a moment of weakness, he agreed to let her leave the baby with him, in exchange for the keys to his old Bulldog. Any mother would come back for her baby, right? The Old Man grinned his toothless grin at Gosa. ?I?m expecting her any moment,? he told her. She was nine then.

Gosa was lucky, though. The Old Man had a woman back in those days, a Philippino dwarf who called herself Pini. Gosa?s first memory is of Pini?s beautiful white smile in her dark face. Pini was the one who noticed that the baby still had a hospital identity bracelet on. No name of the hospital, but a name and birthdate for the baby. No SIN listed, maybe a security measure. The Old Man couldn?t be bothered to look into it. So Pini changed her diapers and dandled Gosa on her knee, cooing and singing to her. But the Old Man was hard on women, and Pini, like Lucia and Veronique who followed her, could only take so much. They came and went, not adding too many wrinkles to Gosa?s cerebral cortex. Like ghosts. The only real one was the Old Man, purveyor of benevolent neglect.

A lot of people passed by the junkyard. Mechanics, like Heinz, came to get parts for obsolete cars. Heinz liked tech, would sit for hours with the Old Man on the torn up sofa in the trailer at the back of the yard, talking engines and fueling systems (was hydrogen cell really the way to go?) and electronics. He?d get the keyboard out and pound out his theories on the Old Man?s Radio Shack desktop. That was when five year old Gosa, tired of running away from the Dobermans that guarded the yard, would come inside, climb up on Heinz?s massive knee (he was a fomori, after all), and watch him work. Heinz had children of his own, and Gosa was absolutely tiny in comparison with trollish children. So he chuckled while the Old Man spit with boredom and taught her first how to operate the machine, and later how to use a tortoise. He wasn?t very good. And all he wanted to look at were mechanical blueprints and troll porn. But Gosa found the Matrix exciting and pretty and wanted to spend more and more time there. So she did.

When Gosa was about 10, her Matrix presence caught the notice of an Otaku tribe. They called themselves the Matrix Memory. Even on a slow tortoise, her actions in the ?trix seemed fluid and intuitive. They tracked her down, it was easy enough to do, and attempted to contact her. An unfortunate night, because they decided to do it in the meat and they didn?t ask for an invitation. The three who went to get her met with five bloodthirsty Dobermans and the Old Man?s shotgun. A rare, but memorable, example of the Old Man?s affection for her. Or maybe he was worried they had come to steal his Blitzen, it?s a toss up. Two made it back in pieces, and one of them died within the week.

Vengeance was the name of the game after that. They went after the Old Man tooth and nail. Looking for hidden datapackets and accounts. But there were no numbered Swiss bank accounts, nothing much at all, really. A few traces seemed to lead back to the Italia army, but even those were so faint that the best among them couldn?t get more than hints and innuendo. He didn?t even seem to own the land he lived on. And that?s how they got him.

Gosa never knew who the corpers were or what they wanted. She just remembers the dogs lathering at the mouth, trying to get to the two men in sleek black suits while the Old Man yelled and waved his shotgun around. She remembers them leaving, and the Old Man coming back to their trailer, telling her to get her stuff, be ready to run. She also remembers that night: the junkyard in flames, the Dobermans bloodied and dead, the Old Man outside of the barbed wire fence, on his knees and weeping while corporate goons beat the hell out of him. The sounds of bones breaking. His voice, screaming for her to run. The sounds of herself panicking, running down the road that led to nowhere to get away. And the sound of some pimply teenaged boy, calling to her by her ?trix name, ?Hey, Spoof. Need a place to crash?? The Otaku had her. She never saw the Old Man again.

Gosa never put it all together. The Matrix Memory were pretty good to her, really, and that?s probably why. They gave her a decent cyberterminal, and showed her how to really dance the ?trix. How to react faster and pick apart the slender threads of files. That part she enjoyed. It was rough, and dirty, and sometimes frightening living with the tribe, but they seemed to think she was a rare enough gem that she was worth the effort. She didn?t feel the same way about them. Her personality by now was defined. Her model was the Old Man. She considered herself an outsider, even in the midst of outsiders. She was down to earth and practical. She didn?t buy for one moment any of the mystical crap the tribe tried to enlighten her with. No inner voices spoke to her. No Deep Resonance took place for her. As far as she?s concerned, the Matrix was and is an artificial place. It is beautiful and dangerous and utterly unreal, other than the very real information that is to be had there. She knows the difference and likes the distinction.

Even so, she stayed with the tribe until she was 15. She knew she had to make her decision, whether to join the tribe as a full member or leave, but that became a moot point quickly. Hauser had arrived. Hauser was lead of a Shadowrunner team. In his early 30?s at the time, a touch of grey to his beard, a whimsical glint to his blue cybereyes, he could be as ruthless as he was charming. She was smitten. And his team needed a decker. She got her first datajack on the same day she got her first kiss, both courtesy of Hauser.

Did Hauser actually care about her? It?s hard to say. She likes to think so, despite what happened later. The rest of the team was male, somewhat older, but not by much, and had varying levels of experience. An Ork sammie, an elven rigger, a gnome mage. And Hauser, face and brains of the operation. Gosa worked hard to keep up with them. The sammie spent a lot of time teaching her how to shoot. The rigger talked electronics with her for hours. The mage... well, he talked to her too, made her comfortable with magic. But it wasn?t exactly a skill she could master, nor did it relate to the real world as she knew it. So her theories on mojoslinging gave the gnome headaches.

Hauser seemed to want to train them up for the big time, and for years the team worked well together. They traveled around the west coast, doing bigger and bigger jobs. Gosa upgraded her decks as often as she could, developing a friendly relationship with a troll deckmeister named Pencil, who himself did a lot of work for an established Johnson in San Francisco. Some con artist work, some ?trix manipulations, some stealth and some muscle and they found themselves with enough money to cyber up pretty well.

Gosa saved enough from their penny-ante early jobs to trade in her first jack for an alpha. The next piece of ware took a little more work. She got an alpha-grade Encephalon after a neat trick she pulled for an art heist. Instead of going after the objects directly, she hacked into the shipping company, so when the exhibit closed the pieces were shipped directly to the client rather than the next stop on the exhibition tour. Instead of the ?History of Mayan Society? show, the local museum had to put on a ?History of the Quickie Soy Snak? show, since they received 14 crates of the tasty soy chips. She had enough left over to stuff some extra memory into her head as well. Hauser saw to it that she got a Smartlink for her Pred III. He paid for that himself. She had a Math SPU on her wishlist, and could only dream of a Cerebral Booster. She figured she?d never have enough for that.

And then the best job of all fell into their laps. The one that could pay for the extra lovelies Gosa wanted to pack into her cranium. And it seemed simple enough: break into a med-tech research facility in Livermore, download a few files from its isolated mainframe, feed it a worm to destroy the rest of the data. Gosa didn?t even have to write the worm. Hauser purchased it from another decker. Another female decker. Another female decker who was as feminine and lovely and sexy as Gosa was plain and ordinary. The decker?s name was Anarchy Angel. And she had a lover of her own, an elven man who called himself Ozone.

Later, Gosa thinks she should have known. She got a message from Pencil the day they were to run the job. It contained a single word: Redjack. She thought that was odd, but figured it was just a joke. They both enjoyed science fiction, and had simmed a rehash version of some old show called ?Star Trek? the last time they?d spent time together. She thought Pencil was pretty funny as Lieutenant Uhura, and she had liked screaming all the time as Mr. Chekov. ?Redjack? was one of the episodes they had played, about Jack the Ripper.

Anyway, they ran the job, got the files. Gosa uploaded the worm. Though, as it unfolded in the mainframe, she realized: it was more anaconda than worm. And it wasn?t exactly destroying the files. No, the worm -was- destroying the files. It was writing over them. But what it was writing was the problem. It was giving detailed information about the team that had deposited it. All of them except Hauser. It was also setting off every alarm in the place. While the others battled security under the gnome?s invisibility spell (thank god the facility had poor magical security), Gosa had to take an axe to the mainframe, literally ripping out the hard drive before the anaconda could complete the rewrite and start sending out data to other computers in the network. Then she torched it all, and they ran, hard and fast, as far as they could get.

She still had the worm on her deck though. She copied it, thinking it might be useful one day. So they hid, and she had Pencil take a look at it. And thereby hung yet another tale... It seems that Pencil had gotten word on the worm by way of a Johnson. Anarchy Angel wanted Hauser, all right, but that wasn?t her main design in trying to set up his team. She needed to get away from Ozone as well, and the final payload in the worm, Pencil explained, was a description, totally fabricated, of the team?s work under Ozone. Gosa tends to prefer the direct approach when dealing with meat, i.e., people. So she took the worm to Ozone himself.

Ozone is a terrorist. Nothing says democracy better than mass demonstrations of violence, Ozone always says. Angel?s actions, however, put him in real jeopardy. While he had no problem with the attack on the research facility, putting him by name in the thick of it was a completely different matter. What if his cause was successful one day and he wanted to run for office?

Gosa hacked the worm. Or rather, she tried to hack it. But Anarchy Angel?s skills were well above hers. She just couldn?t -think- as smart as Angel. So back she went to Pencil and, through him, to his Johnson, John Q. Public. She cut a deal: she?d supply infosearches and SINs as necessary to his runners. She?d even cover their tracks through the ?trix. In return, she wanted a Math SPU and a Cerebral Booster. At first, the J laughed at her. Then he said that he wanted all that, plus Anarchy Angel?s services for himself, on a more or less permanent basis.

Done. First, Gosa made sure the original client got the files requested from the research facility. After that, she stopped by the ripper doc to get her new toys installed. Then she got to work with her new and improved brainpower. She hacked the worm, taking out references to Ozone and her team, and instead inserting information on Anarchy Angel. Then she let it loose on the ?trix. She let it loose in a place that people rarely visited: the city Sanitation records. It slowly spun its way out, weaving like an anaconda throughout the local LTGs. By the time Anarchy Angel found it, it was in at least 17 nodes, and speeding up. Angel got to them all, but the last one was the J?s front. His runners were there to nab her within five minutes. After that, it was merely a matter of a mindwipe by the J?s resident mage and an influence spell and she was all his. And Gosa had only to provide the J with SINs and simple searches that were beneath Angel?s dignity. Gosa still does it, when the J has a need.

At any rate, Gosa had managed to appease the J, get revenge on Angel, and protect Ozone?s interests. But now what? Hauser was gone, her team had dispersed, and Gosa, for the first time, found herself completely alone. She had a pile of money, but was alone. No Otaku. No Old Man. So now what? Well, back to Seattle, for starters...

Sometimes I wonder how I ever got approved... note, I didn't even realize staff existed until my last character. This isn't it.

Background
Timeline
Born: 26/10/2035
Graduated Private Institutions: 04/05/2051
Net5 Junior Editor: 02/02/2054
Net5 Front-line Investigative Reporter: 24/07/2055
Net5/Bug City Violation Trial: 18/09/2056
Net5 Suspension: 04/02/2057
Net12 Employment: 26/03/2057
Net12 Senior Editor: 06/12/2059
Net12 Transfer to Seattle: 02/01/2060
Net12 Senior Investigative Reporter: 09/02/2061

Psyche Profile
Caym has been corporate groomed since birth, his father demanding and unwilling to accept him as anything else pushed him into the family business, which was the Network 5 semi-corporate world. His father?s insistence into making him into what he wanted to be lead to several childhood traumas and isolations. There were friends to be had in the various private schools he went to, however he moved around schools frequently at his father?s behest. Gathering an education quickly and garnering jealousy amongst the other students left him apprehensive in making friends until after he graduated. Moving into the Network world he found that the modifications his father insisted on, made making friends easy, none were deep connections but he was very well accepted in everything he did. His ego expanded as did his influence backed by his father, which he soon learned to resent. After stepping down from the cushy position as junior editor that his father had setup up for him into a more demanding position as investigative reporter he found his that he felt very good about himself, his new friends drifted as his lifestyle and work took a darker turn, but produced great results. After the Big City 'incident' his ego was trashed, unable to find comfort in his father or mother and his so called friends shunning him at the network, he moved. Slowly building himself up to his mental position now on a smaller network he has regained much of his self-confidence, being the big fish in a little pond has made him cocky, and yet he still understands what needs to be done to get the good stories and he often displays great deals of duality in situations. His experiences have left him wanting a bigger pond to swim in, acting almost reckless in that pursuit.

>>>>Flipping through the trid one day, you stumble upon a biography of someone that you think you've heard of. The name rings familiarity from news stories and racy expos?s. Setting your remote down the special begins.

<<The Network 12 logo, bright yellow, is followed on to the screen by various action shots. Gun battles, flying creatures, cops in uniform, etc, etc. The bombastic music shakes with an upbeat tempo, ridiculously.>>

<<There is a blond elf, thin, dressed in a short light blue blouse and skirt, she smiles into the camera and beings to speak>>

"Good morning! And welcome to Network 12 Biography! My name is Jannie Alexander and today we'll be looking at the life of our premiere reporter, Caym Belenvier. Caym has been with us now for almost four years and we've finally gotten him to agree to join us now for a look into his life! Welcome, Caym!

CB: "Thank you Jannie, you've finally nail me down for this, so let?s get it started" <<he chuckles good naturedly, he is a tall man dressed immaculately looking quite comfortable in the chair across from his host, his hands are folded neatly on his lap as he prepares for the onslaught of questions>>

JA: <<she laughs>> "Well, this must be quite the change; you're usually on this side of the chair aren't you? Well, our editors, behind your back have assembled a quick rundown on your life up until now, and we'll do our best to dig into every aspect of your life. We'll make you proud Caym."

CB: << he smiles, for the first time looking slightly uncomfortable >>
JA: << notices the uncomfortable posture and looks up to the display screen behind her >> "Shall we begin?"

<< The display lights up, a series of profile pictures runs across, showing Caym in his various stages of his life. The narration begins >>

Born October twenty-sixth, 2051 to parents Elizabeth, a house wife, and Maxamillon Belenvier media mogul of Network5, his life began as any other humans, two loving parents and a life full of opportunities ahead of him. His early childhood was spent with tutors of all types. His father, stressing education above all else, pushed him to excel, and excel he did. Caym came out in 99th percentile in computers and math at age 5. At age six he began his first private school where he became a reporter for his school news paper, with the encouragement of his father. Featured on Network 5 his academy was able to report like the big boys do. His career in media didn't stop there of course. As he progressed through schooling at an accelerated rate things began to fall into place for the young Belenvier. Graduating as academy editor and taking a job quickly at his father?s media empire, there was no limit to what Caym was capable of.
<< The display goes dark, and return to the two sitting on the stage >>

JA: "Caym, can you tell us what your schooling was like?"
CB: "Of course, I spent a great deal of time with my head in the books, but when I was doing that I was brushing up on what is now my career. Little did I know that stores about pudding nutrients would follow me all the way here" << he laughs >>

JA: << smiling >> "We'd like to thank your mother for those fabulous pictures of you as a child. There are some claims that you had certain bioware and cyber implants in your youth?"
CB: << nods >> "That wasn't uncommon for our area, or class, living where we did the competition for schools was tough and any edge you could get helped you in the long run. My mother wasn't too happy about it, but my father insisted. They've certainly changed the way my life would have turned out."

JA: "Would you describe your childhood as happy, Caym?"

CB: "Happy? That actually isn't the first word I would pick, of course I enjoyed myself and there was plenty of challenge, there isn't a day that I can remember where being the best didn't matter. I moved around a great deal from school to school, often studying only a single subject where the best education was available. I spent a short time over in Europe that was when I was happiest."

JA: "Fascinating, at age 16 you graduated from what would be your final academy, correct? You went on shortly after that to work for Network 5."

CB: << nods >> "Indeed, it was Brighton. My father got me a job in sports reporting, as a junior editor. I never knew as much about sports then when I worked there. I stayed there for over a year before I realized what it was that I wanted to do."

JA: "Which was investigative reporting?"
CB: "Yes! It was some of the greatest times of my life, and some of the worst."
JA: "Let's take a look...?

<< The display again lights up behind her and the narration begin. Screens of Caym as an anchor, then a field reporter, then hosting his own weekly investigative report appear as the narrator drones on. >>

Off to a shaky start as an anchor his first reports were met with less then positive enthusiasm, shortly after taking his first investigative assignments he hit upon his sweet spot, which was obvious getting information where it wasn't usually found. After several expos?s on local companies billing practices, local drug rings and administrative errors from local governments and police authorities. Caym began to build a reputation for getting information at any costs. After several darker reports network officials began to curb his activities. The decline lead to his eventually suspension from network 5 and trial after violating the Bug City quarantine and bringing out footage which led to a three week reports on the status of Bug City.

<< The display goes dark >>

JA: "Quite the history with Network 5 wasn't?"
CB: "You could say that, it was quite a ride."

JA: "How did you fare through the trial, with your father being head of network 5?"

CB: "Interestingly enough, I had been apprehended leaving Bug City, the footage I had shot however remained Network 5 property and only after the entire series had been shown were any charges brought against me, via network 5. Some of the best ratings ever for the network and I got the brunt of the damage for that violation."

JA: "Even though all charges were dismissed you were still suspended from network 5? Rumors have it your father hasn't spoken to you since?"

CB: "That's true, I speak with my mother often, but my father, now retired, still refuses to speak with me. I believe my suspension was politically motivated, as I was never presented with any official charges." << He shifts comfortably in his chair >>

JA: "So, what happened after that?"
CB: "I took a job at a smaller Network 23 affiliate, Network 12. Stuck mostly to a desk for a few years, after that my prior experience let me take a job as senior editor, I have no doubt my clout with Network 5 helped me with that. I only held that job for a few months before I realized that I missed investigative reporting. I hadn't lost my touch apparently, and Seattle is full of stories, no doubt after all of this time. So, here I am..."

JA: "How do you like it here at Network 12?" << She smiles >>
CB: "I'm at the top of my game, lined up for almost anything. It's great here; I don't know where I'd be without you guys."
JA: "We'd like to thank everyone for watching, and close up with this...? << she motions back to the display >>

<< The display lights up, it shows various shots from all the reports that Caym has done while with network 12, plugging the corporate logo over and over again. Shots eventually center in on Caym allowing a good look at him. Sculpted, immaculate ...chin line. Words you'd find etched onto a trio ad with this man's face on it. The precisely sliced hair line, red, full, and not a single hair out of place; his shoulders are broad and well proportioned for a human. His green eyes, far to green to be real, somehow his nose intones intelligence, and sharpens the features of his face to a tee. His physique, strong and balanced obviously toned and enhanced. He is dressed in the latest fashion, as the final profile shot goes over, his magnificent stage smile beaming out of the screen.
<< END TRANSMISSION>>
<< Network 12 >>

One more one more...

Bio:
Name: Teron Brealis
Born: 4/12/2038
Race: Elf
Location: Ireland ? Eastland?s
Educated: K-12
Relatives:
Mother: Diane Brealis (47) - Human Loc: Europe, Western
Father: Mark Brealis (42) - Human Loc: Europe, Western
Brother: Joseph Brealis (27) - Human Loc: Europe, Western
Aunt: Mary-Anne Westin (44) - Human Loc: Eastern UCAS

Timeline:
Born: 4/12/2038
Graduated High School: 2056
Entered UCAS: 2060

Profile:
Summarizing, Teron is pathetic, his actions, reactions and motivations are all misplaced due to severe doubt about any physical abilities. Continually under motivated with the outside world drew him in to the typical Decker lifestyle. High isolation, low physical contact, severe self-confidence problems. With the notable exception of his persona, that in drastic contrast is up-beat, confident and strong. He is a practically worthless elven being. Fear of his parents and relatives keeps him out of contact with family, and he has some difficulties making acquaintances that don't share his deep-seeded feelings of inadequacy. Self-abuse is often the quickest route to his escape, which is always, the matrix. His feeling stem from his parent?s rejection of his very being and their attempts to hide his physical representation of elven race that resulted in the physical and mental scars.

Somehow the dim black and white display screens looks sticky, just by association to the rest of the building. Displayed on it is the same scene as the other twenty small ten inch monitors lined up neat and organized, in front of which a fat ork sits with fries in one hand, and a fizzypop in the other. She glances idly from one screen to another; a big red button sits below them written on a piece of white tape above it reads: Security.
The fourteenth monitor displays nothing usual for a Saturday night; a tall looking human with long hair and some nasty scars on his ears and neck sits half naked on a bed with a skinny elf with obviously fake long silver hair. She looks bored, and as the monitoring ork looks on with amusement, not just regular boredom... she knows the little elf has got "a talker".

The audio spool runs on as the small nuyen indicator above the bed clicks on and on, the tall human looking man drolls on...
"I lived in Ireland, for the most of my life. One of pissy little areas, liked to piss off the rest of the area by pretending it?s its own "country". Pretty much only good thing that ever happened to me is that the country fell apart..." he scratches his head and sighs, "my parents, we?re not very happy I was born the way I was... elf and all." The hooker makes a faint "mmhmm" noise and pretends to listen. "They had my ears clipped when I was young, but they didn't have the money to do it right. I got infections and well, you can see the rest, they had to clean out a lot of the infection, and they were sloppy." He rubs the long scar on his neck the camera?s don?t show it well and it appears you?d have to be close to see them completely, his hair covers it quite completely the majority of the time. "Well, my brother you see, he wasn't... like me." He continues to talk; as if someone is listening, the wispy elf has almost fallen asleep as the meter above the bed keeps climbing. "So, he did okay in school but I didn't have much luck... my parents bought me all this matrix gear, because in there it didn't matter what I looked like. It's not like they showed up for my parent-teacher conferences... So, I guess that?s where I went when I needed to get away" He makes another pathetic sigh noise and she responds with yet another uncaring "mmhmm" noise.

Surprisingly enough he is clueless and continues. "So, I did what I had to do to get though school, my brother out striping me in everything, I can't stand the guy, just because he wasn't born... like me. Everything in his life was easy." His face contorts with a nauseating frustrated look. "So, when the government fell and my parents got out, they went to some of the better parts of Europe and just to get me away from them they shipped me off to the UCAS. Some reward... working crap jobs, with a SIN can barely get an apartment with. That's why I keep my hair long" he brushes it back and then quickly replaces it covering his ears. Completely oblivious to the sleeping prostitute he still continues to babble. "It took me fourteen months to get out here from Chicago and now I'm here, I got nothing. Funny neh?" He turns over in the bed, waking the girl, who looks up at the nice fat readout on the meter, 700 =y=, easy money. "Yeah sugar, funny. That's 700 for the fun and love" He looks blankly at her, and smiles weakly. The ork monitoring the screens knows that look immediately, and before the male image on the screen can finish fastening his pants there is a knock on the door. Not that the sprawling black and white images that adorn the small booth are outputting sound, but the image of the door shows clearly the impact of the person "knocking" behind it. The elf girl pushes a small button near the meter at the head of the bed and the door swings open. What seems like a nine-foot troll walks in the room. Grabbing the pathetic looking man and beating at least fifty-dollars out of him before he hit the ground, the hooker smiling broadly. Fishing what he has out of his pockets she finds almost nothing. "Two-hundred Granage, that's it. Two-hundred" Says the elf. "I seriously think you need to beat the rest out of him." With that she kisses the large troll on the cheek.

The black and white video shows the last of the now unconscious customer being dragged out of the room. The ork watches left-to-right progression of him being dragged down the hallway on her monitors, just another night. Behind the ork are four larger monitors two pointed at what appears to be the entrance and two at the exit. The troll comes out of the exit with the man and proceeds to seriously redefine the word impact against his slight frame. After a short time the troll walks back into the club, leaving the man unconscious, bleeding, and broken.

A few hours after, the dull flash of LoneStar cars checking on activity reported, finds the man. He is tagged and identified, a medical cab is called and he is taken away, the ork watches the scene unfold without as much as a care in the world. After some expensive recovery at Seattle General Teron is released back on to the streets with a heavy bill and a vicious payment plan.

This is making me feel bad. I have wanted to post up one of my BG's, or maybe even write one just for this but my BG's are always at least 8 - 20 pages long it seems like...

So... you're saying.. ours are short.. eh...

BG Envy..

Work in Progress...

   Life's funny, in a not too terribly funny sort of way.  Never does turn out quite like you hoped it would...hell, sometimes things go deep six and things don't turn out at all.  Somewhere in the middle...you find me.
   My name is Michigan Andrew Stahl, and I was very smart...once.  Not book-smart like those nerds on gameshows...but you put a peice of busted electronics in my hand, and I'll make it do backflips and beg for a treat. 
   I graduated high school with a just-passing gpa.  Luckily, my high marks in shop class and a blue ribbon science project got me noticed by U-dub's electrical engineering department.  My folks were thrilled.  Hell, as long as I graduated, I could have worked at a Stuffer Shak for the rest of my life they would have been thrilled.  Truth to say, it didn't sound like a bad gig.  Full ride scholarship, life away from home, and lots of busted machinery to play with.
   And it wasn't.  I put in my four years, rising to the top of the class in electronic engineering, mainting my "just-barely" gpa in everything else, and talking my way out of a couple of scrapes with administration after a few practical jokes got out of hand...some people just dont find it funny when you reprogram their phones to speak Cantonese.
   After my bachelors came the master's degree program, paid for largely by my after hours job at an electronics reapir shop.  The shop boasted that if it couldn't be fixed, they'd replace it.  Turns out I was worth twice what I was paid in unclaimed replacement vouchers.  Four years later and I'm on top of the academic world.  I graduated with honors in electrical engineering, was on track for my doctorate.  I was even dating a nice pre-med student who would end up washing out like so many did. 
   My P.h. D. came when I was 29, at least that's what the calender said.  Truth to say I had stopped counting.  My mind was too busy with schematics and electromagnetic theory.  I had published once or twice, but the only people who ever read any of it was other professors.  With the exception of a very influential member of the Board of Trustees at BaronTek security, who I would later learn was a subsidiary of Knight Errant.  Raymond Carlson was his name, and he got me the highest paying job I could ask for.  I worked in a thinktank for B.T. designing and improving maglocks.
   Of course, Raymond's recommendation wasn't my only in with BaronTek.  They ran this yearly contest where they brought out the newest high-technology maglock safes, and promised the contents to anyone who could crack it.  The list of people who have claimed the 20,000 nuyen purse is 3 names long, mine's the third.
   And then things got shaky, or rather, I got shaky...