𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒔.

[ofoutlawry]

take my love, take my land, take me where i cannot stand. i don't care, i'm still free, you can't take the sky from me.

#𝑶𝑭𝑶𝑼𝑻𝑳𝑨𝑾𝑹𝒀  ,  a  private  and  dependent  rp  blog  written  for  𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒗𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒔𝒇𝒎.   written  by  𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑦  [  twenty9  /  she  &  they  ]  .  please  dni  if  not  a  member  of  the  group.

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑰𝑫𝑶𝑾𝑴𝑨𝑲𝑬𝑹   ⸻   paz navarro cruz, 32, cyborg, the syndicate.

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑼𝑵𝑹𝑼𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑹   ⸻   holden graves, 35, human, the dust runners.

[ofoutlawry]

status :  closed  starter.  location :  the  westside,  new  vegas.  with :  clementine  berry-witter  |  @veinrxt

away  from  the  neon  glow  of  the  strip,  this  stretch  of  the  city  looked  like  a  postcard  of  decay.  nothing  but  tumbleweeds,  dust  and  rust  to  draw  the  eye  from  the  human  detritus  that  called  it  home.  the  street  smelled  of  horse  sweat  and  old  gunpowder  when  paz  rode  back  in,  her  dustcycle  grumbling  as  it  had  for  the  last  hundred  or  so  miles.  three  towns  over,  the  click  of  her  rifle  had  buried  a  crooked  sheriff's  son,  the  syndicate's  message  painted  across  the  walls  loudly  visceral  red.  an  east  job  that  belied  the  difficult  ride  back.  too  many  bandits  and  broken  folk  afield  these  days.  it  seemed  the  harder  the  alliance  pressed  down  their  supposed  return  of  civilisation,  the  less  civilised  the  waste  became.  a  figure  caught  her  eye  on  what  passed  as  a  sidewalk  in  these  parts.  it  wasn't  hard  to  recognise  her.  veins  as  black  as  a  moonless  night  tended  to  make  a  woman  stand  out  amongst  a  crowd  even  at  a  distance.  as  did  the  fact  said  crowd  always  gave  her  a  wide  birth  as  if  afraid  of  catching  whatever  ailment  afflicted  her.  veinrot  wasn't  contagious,  as  far  as  paz  knew,  but  that  didn't  make  it  tender  or  kind.  as  if  anything  in  the  waste  ever  was.  it  wasn't  sympathy  that  slowed  her  dustcycle.  rads  knew  she  had  little  to  spare  for  herself,  let  alone  anyone  else.  a  twisted  sense  of  connection,  perhaps.  the  same  hollow  feeling  she'd  gotten  when  a  bullet  lodged  in  her  ribs  and  the  world  turned  numb.  having  your  body  betray  you  was  something  maría  de  la  paz  navarro  cruz  knew  a  little  about. "well  now,  aren't  you  a  tall  glass  of  water  on  an  otherwise  parched  day."  she  called  out,  flashing  a  crooked smile  ( was it genuine? even she didn't know ) as  she  pulled  the  cycle  over,  letting  the  engine  finally  sputter  to  a  grateful  halt.  her  tone  light  and  teasing,  as  if  talking  about  the  weather  and  she  hadn't  just  returned  from  putting  someone  six  foot  under.  "if  i  knew  i'd  be  finding  you  at  the  end  of  my  trip,  i  would've  ridden  a  little  faster."

[ofoutlawry]

status :  closed  starter.  location :  an  undisclosed  syndicate  safehouse,  new  vegas.  with :  antonia  harvey  |  @dustyxgrime

the  dust  of  the  road  still  clung  to  paz's  boots  as  she  pushed  past  the  syndicate  enforcers,  sparing  them  barely  a  second  glance  as  she  slunk  down  the  side  passage  towards  the  offices.  they  knew  better  than  to  hold  her  up.  the  one  on  the  left  still  walked  with  a  limp  from  the  last  time  they'd  tried.  she  had  been  in  a  better  mood  then,  more  amused  by  the  attempt  than  she  would  have  been  in  this  particular  instance.  the  ride  from  dusty  creek  had  been  hard,  even  if  the  job  that  had  taken  her  that  way  had  been  anything  but.  they  rarely  were  as  of  late.  simple,  quick  jobs  that  were  likely  more  to  keep  her  preoccupied  than  to  really  challenge  her  skills.  no  witnesses,  no  loose  ends,  just  a  tally  of  blood.  if  the  target  had  been  a  good  man,  a  bad  one  or  something  in  between,  she  hadn't  really  cared  to  learn  one  way  or  the  other.  she  didn't  need  to  carry  that  weight.  not  when  she  had  her  debt  crushing  down  upon  her  as  is.  the  back  office  door  was  wide  open,  as  if  paz  was  expected.  that  rarely  bode  well  in  her  experience.  being  anything  but  expected  was  her  calling  card.  the  way  she'd  stayed  so  elusive  in  a  line  of  work  that  few  could  hope  to  match.  something,  somewhere,  had  gone  wrong.  she  clicked  her  tongue,  stepping  to  the  door,  hand  poised,  knuckles  primed...  and  then  she  did  the  most  un-paz  thing  imaginable.  she  hesitated.  hesitated  as  her  gaze  settled  on  the  woman  behind  the  desk,  hunched  over  some  ledge  like  it  was  the  holiest  of  holy  texts.  hesitated  as  she  was  overcome,  as  she  often  was  in  antonia's  presence,  but  that  strange  sensation  of  remembrance  without  actually  remembering.  she  cleared  her  throat,  fighting  to  regain  some  semblance  of  control  over  a  situation  where  she  was  already  flat-footed  as  it  was.  or  at  least  give  herself  the  illusion  of  doing  so.  forced  a  smile, forced herself to be in control, forced  her  knuckles  to  rap  against  the  door  a  tad  louder  than  she'd  intended.  announcing  her  presence  even  as  she  stepped  inside,  stealing  a  seat  across  from  the  woman  before  she  could  even  raise  her  gaze  from  the  ledgers  before  her. don't let it show. never let it show.  "i  handled  that  thing  out  in  dusty  creek  as  the  powers  that  be  wanted,"  she  began  without  fanfare,  leaning  back  in  the  seat  until  it  rested  on  two  legs  while  her  own  sought  purchase  against  the  desk.  hands  patting  down  her  duster  in  search  of  the  dog-eared  carton  of  cigarettes  she'd  purloined  on  her  way  back  through  town.  as  if  her  synthetic  gut  wasn't  doing  a subtle flip.  "so  you  can  go  ahead  and  do  that  little  bean  counter-y  thing.  cross  the  t's,  dot  the  i's,  pretend  i'm  slowly  making  progress  to  having  my  debt  settled...  you  know,  all  that  real  important  work they got you doing."

[ofoutlawry]

status:  closed  starter. location:  uptown drugs,  new  vegas. with:  dina  elashiry  |  @radborn

the  bell  above  the  door  of  uptown  drugs  gave  a  wet,  bronchial  cough  as  holden  shouldered  his  way  inside.  the  air  was  thick  with  the  smell  of  camphor,  cloves  and  bad  decisions.  behind  the  counter  cluttered  with  dubious  tonics  and  unlabelled  jars,  a  man  with  the  greasy  demeanor  of  a  carnival  baker  and  the  eys  of  a  snake-oil  salesman  gave  him  a  slow,  appraising  once-over.  holden  tipped  his  hat,  a  gesture  of  automatic  southern  courtesy  that  felt  as  out  of  place  here  as  a  hymn  in  a  brothel.  the  man  stared  at  him  with  dead  eyes  before  jerking  his  head.  motioning  him  through  to  the  back  office.  the  snake  pit.  he  was  expected,  after  all. just  another  business  transaction,  he  told  himself,  hand  resting  lightly  on  the  worn  grip  of  his  iron.  the  shadows  in  the  corners  seemed  a  little  too  deep,  the  silence  a  little  too  complete.  dealing  with  the  syndicate  always  set  his  teeth  on  edge;  they  had  a  way  of  making  a  simple  handoff  feel  like  a  trap  waiting  to  spring.  he  forced  a  smile  that  he  didn't  feel  and  a  pushed  down  his  misgivings.  syndicate  caps  spent  just  as  wall  as  any  other,  and  the  landlord  in  his  current  digs  had  a  particular  fondness  for  getting  paid  on  time.  misgivings  had  a  peculiar  way  of  vanishing  when  rent  was  due.  "elashiry,"  holden  called  as  he  stepped  into  the  back  office,  careful  not  to  place  his  back  to  the  man  behind  the  counter.  he  was  a  cynic  by  trade  and  a  realist  by  necessity.  one  didn't  survive  the  waste  by  being  anything  less.  the  man  smiled  like  a  corpse;  a  gold  tooth  flashing  in  the  light  before  looking  away. holden cast another glance over the empty shop before closing the door behind him with the finality of a casket.   "hirin' folk like that, i can see why your business is just plain boomin'." 

[ofoutlawry]

status:  closed  starter. location:  the  brimstone  club,  new  vegas. with:  eris  bell  |  @asyntheticsoul

the  air  in  the  brimstone  was  a  cocktail  of  cigarette  smoke,  desperation,  and  cheap  perfume.  it  was  early  afternoon,  so  the  clientele  was  few  and  far  between.  only  those  down  on  their  luck,  running  on  fumes  or  too  stupid  to  know  when  to  quit  were  out  in  the  strip  at  this  hour.  jury  was  still  out  on  where  holden  happened  to  fall  amongst  the  three.  he  was  waiting,  and  he  hated  waiting.  waiting  gave  a  man  time  to  think,  which  for  holden  usually  meant  cataloguing  the  exits  and  wondering,  not  for  the  first  time,  how  he'd  ended  up  in  a  velvet-draped  hellhole  at  such  a  radforsaken  hour.  his  contact  was  late.  not  a  good  sign  in  a  city  that  was  already  full  of  bad  ones.  impulse  was  to  ditch  the  meet  and  fade  into  the  perpetual  neon-soaked  twilight.  practicality,  and  the  substantial  debt  hanging  over  his  head,  held  him  fast.  his  gaze  flickered  across  the  bar  for  the  hundredth  time.  he'd  chosen  his  sight  lines  - back  to  the  wall,  door  in  full  view,  a  grimy  mirror  behind  the  bottles  to  watch  the  room.  a  woman  in  a  sequined  dress  laughed  too  loudly  at  a  joke  a  man  with  slicked-back  hair  and  nervous  eyes  could  ill-afford.  too  sauced  to  know  everyone  in  here  was  playing  an  angle.  hell,  the  whiskey  in  his  glass  was  perhaps  the  most  honest  thing  in  the  room,  and  even  that  was  dwindling  by  the  second.  couldn't  have  that.  new  vegas  was  a  hellscape  when  you  had  to  take  it  sober.  "reckon  i'll  trouble  you  for  ‘nother  whiskey  when  you  got  a  moment."  he  murmured,  catching  the  eye  of  the  bartender  as  he  raised  his  glass,  draining  the  last  with  one  smooth,  practiced  pull. the burn an all too familiar friend to give him pause.  "an'  i’d  be  obliged  if  you  went  ahead  an'  fixed  it  a  double."

[ofoutlawry]

status:  closed  starter.  location:  seven pines saloon,  new  vegas.  with:  archer yeon | @sleeperwound

the  sun  was  a  dirty  brass  coin  of  old,  casting  this  side  of  the  city  in  a  tawny  haze  of  dust  and  bad  memories.  holden  saw  them  first.  a  figure  in  the  warped  glass  of  the  saloon  window.  a  silhouette  that  shouldn't  have  made  his  old  wound  twinge,  but  did.  the  kind  of  reaction  that  saw  his  hand  fall  to  the  iron  on  his  hip  with  the  practiced  ease  of  a  man  that  knew  the  price  of  a  careless  moment.  a  flash,  a  burn,  a  hole  in  his  side  and  a  grudge  carved  into  his  bones.  yes,  a  price  he  knew  all  too  well  and  had  paid  in  full  more  times  than  he  cared  admit.  the  hammer  clicked  before  he  caught  himself,  thumbing  it  back  before folk drew their gaze his way.  peacekeepers  were  up  and  about  in  this  side  of  the  city  as  of  late.  no  need  to  draw  attention  to  himself. not yet, anyway. sides, the  figure  moved  different  from  what  he  remembered.  less  smooth,  less  practiced.  less  measured  in  their  steps.  the  gait  of  the  lion  replaced  by  that  of  the  lamb.  still  he  knew  it  was  them.  sure  as  the  rad-soaked  dirt,  he  knew  it  was  them.  knew  it  even  before  they  pushed  through  the  rickety  doors.    "well  now,"  holden  drawled,  not  moving  from  his  spot  in  the  corner,  his  voice  a  dry  rasp  of  gravel  and  smoke.  his  gaze  a  sheriff's  appraisal.  people  didn't  change;  his  pragmatism  and  years  running  on  the  fringes  of  what  passed  as  the  civilized  world  these  days  told  him  that.  folk  just  got  better  at  hiding  what  they  were.  and  yet  here  they  were,  attempting  to  disprove  just that. no, they weren't no lion. a rattler, perhaps. languishing in the cold before the sun warmed them back to devilish means.  "i'd  say  you  were  a  sight  for  sorry  eyes,  but  i  think  we'd  both  know  the  lie  for  what  it  was."  there  was  a  beat,  a  pause  before  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  'course,  last  i  seen  of  you,  you  weren't  much  for  conversatin'  on  account  of  you  bein'  passed  out  in  the  back  of  my  cargo  hold."

[myrcella]

The roads are the dustiest, the winds are the gustiest…

[transgarrett-moved-blog]

Fallout: New Vegas DLC Retro Postcards

[ofoutlawry]

a  whistle  fades  in  the  dusty  air,  as  the  sound  of  spurs  on  their  boots  meet  the  gravel.  they’re  known  on  record  as  THE  GUNRUNNER,  but  a  few  who’ve  shared  a  foxhole  or  the  occasional  bottle  with  them,  are  allowed  to  call  them  -  HOLDEN  GRAVES.  they  are  a  HUMAN  who  looks  a  hell  of  a  lot  like  BRANDON  SKLENAR  if  you  squint  your  eyes.  At  THIRTY - FIVE  they’ve  learned  how  to  survive  the  wild  wild  wasteland  making  their  living  as  a  SMUGGLER.  They  carry  CYNICISM  with  them  like  an  old  wound  but  their  GALLANT  nature  keeps  them  alive  against  better  judgment.  honor  ties  them  loosely  to  THE  DUST  RUNNERS.  if  you’re  paying  any  mind,  you  can  see  them  in  the  crossfire  between  STANDING  BENEATH  THE  WIDE  OPEN  SKY  and  THE  BITTER  TASTE  OF  WHISKEY  IN  YOUR  MORNING  COFFEE.  anyways,  their  presence  is  a  walking  reminder  that  out  here,  the  old  world  never  really  died.

𝙸.  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜.

name.  wyatt bartholomew kincaide, jr.  aliases. holden graves.  birthday & age.  september 21st & 35.  birthplace.  lexington, kentucky.  species.  human.  gender & pronouns.  cis man & he/him.  orientation.  bisexual.  marital status.  divorced.  occupation.  smuggler, captain of the aces 'n' eights.  affiliation.  the dust runnners, the ashen legion. faceclaim.  brandon sklenar.  eye colour.  blue.  hair colour & style.  sandy brown, rugged, short-to-medium length.  height.  6’2”.  tattoos.  a former ashen legionary tattoo on upper right biceps, partially obscured by scarring.  piercings.  n/a.  scars.  burn scar on upper right biceps, three bullet wounds on torso in a diagonal left to right pattern, scarred knuckles, faint scar in left eyebrow.  clothing style.  frontier casual. long coat. cattleman hat.  signature scent.  old leather, sandalwood, faint tannins. moral alignment.  chaotic good.  mbti.  istp-a.  zodiac.  virgo.  enneagram. type 9 (the peacemaker).  temperament.  sanguine-choleric.  archetype.  the warrior.  primary virtue.  justice.  primary vice.  wrath.  strengths.  authentic, daring, just, practical, resourceful.  weaknesses.  cynical, haunted, impulsive, private, unapologetic.  tropes.  the ace, the anti-nihilist, badass longcoat, beware the nice ones, broken hero, combat pragmatist, the cynic, farm boy, the gadfly, the gunslinger, honor among thieves, the lancer, shell-shocked veteran, signature headgear, sole survivor, venturous smuggler.  character parallels.  han solo (star wars), malcolm reynolds (firefly), nathan drake (uncharted), raylan givens (justified), roy goode (godless), starbuck (battlestar galactica).   disorders.  undiagnosed ptsd.  allergies.  none.  sleeping habits.  sporadic. sleeps maybe three, four hours unbroken each night if he's lucky. catches a nap where he can to make up the difference.  eating habits.  a former soldier, he's learnt the value in eating quickly and whenever he can.   sociability.  prefers to linger on the edge of crowds, though is fine with one-on-one encounters. has a habit of talking around issues rather than addressing them directly.  addictions.  none.  alcohol use.  borderline. frequently used to self-medicate.  drug use.  none.  likes.  collecting books, flying, spending time with his daughter, live music, playing cards,  dislikes.  sweet food, mixing business with pleasure, the desert, talks about his past, regulations squashing the little folk.  fears.  the  loss  of  his  daughter,  being returned to the ashen legion.    habits.  chews the inside of his cheek while in thought, creases and folds pages instead of using a bookmark, leans with his wrist on his pistol.    weapon of choice.  10mm pistol, hunting knife.  weather.  X.  color.  X. beverage.  whiskey, neat. two fingers. food.  brahmin steak, medium rare. all the fixin's.  animal.  dog.  season .  late autumn.     mother.  winona  kincaide, née  graves.  father.  wyatt  kincaide, sr.  siblings.  n/a.  significant other.  _____ (ex-wife).  children.  temperance kincade (daughter).   

𝙸𝙸. 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.

you came into this world the same way you intend to leave it: kicking and screaming. 

you weren’t called holden back then. that name, that facade, was something you would come by later in life. an act borne out of necessity. one designed to stave off that aforementioned departure from occurring prematurely. 

no, when you were born, you were named wyatt. wyatt kincaide. the junior to your father’s senior. his first and last gift. Perhaps it is foreshadowing your relationship to know that you would ultimately throw it aside. Wyatt Kincaide, sr. wasn’t an easy man to love. Lord knows your mother tried for decades without much in the way of success. They say hardship builds character, but they conveniently never tell you what sort of character actually comes about. He was a decent man, all the same. Not good, not great, but decent. the kind of man that put food on the table, a roof over your head and tried to objectively ignore your existence unless you happened to endanger one of the two. 

Your mother, though. Your mother was good woman. A great woman. Unlucky in love, certainly,  but a great woman all the same. She taught your letters and how and when to use them. Taught you to speak your mind and stand up for your convictions, no matter the cost, no matter the hell to pay. Truth, justice, courage. In hindsight, perhaps it was her fault you ended up the way you did. Why you thought you needed to fix what was broken with this world.

You were sixteen when the ashen legion came recruiting. Old enough to catch their eye, too young to know better. They filled your head with dreams of doing exactly what your mother taught you. That you’ll fight for what was right. What was necessary and just. If you were smart, if you’d really paid attention to what your mother tried to teach you, you’d have caught on that they really just wanted you to fight. An idealist stops a bullet just as sure as a pessimist. sadly, son, no one’s ever really accused you of being smart. Your name was already drying in their ledger before the second thoughts could form. That day was the last time you saw your mother. Last time you saw your father, too, though that don’t sting quite the same. 

It took you a year, maybe two, for the idealism to wear off. By that time, you’d seen enough that all the fancy lies and gilded propaganda of the recruiting officer had begun to ring hollow. the ashen legion wasn’t much better than a bandit group, leveraging numbers and weapons as a means to exert control over the hollers. Turns out unification is a fancy word for subjugation.  Fancy uniforms or no, the legion was just another boot searching for a neck. It didn’t really matter who it belonged to. If you were a good man, you might have sought to affect some change within their ranks. If you were a great man, you might have tried toppling them. But you were just a man, and barely that.

you spent another five years with them. seven in total; three short of the decade you’d been tricked into signing away. Seven years of fighting over dead stretches of irradiated dirt. Seven years of bleeding and being bled for a cause that meant nothing, amounted to nothing, and would have seen you return to much the same. Folk around you weren’t so lucky. You buried more than your fair share of friends and comrades in those very same stretches of dirt you’d end up quibbling over before the month was through. Not good folk, not great folk, but folk of the same ilk as you. Folk just looking to make do with the hand they’d been dealt. The hand the ashen legion had stacked against them.

You don’t know why you finally snapped, you just remember the sound of your heart hammering in your ears. Remember the officer’s face turning purple with an apoplectic rage you felt in your bones. The smell of cordite on the air as your pistol discharged once, twice, three times in rapid succession. And then twice more, because while your mother might have seen fit to teach you right from wrong, your father taught you to see things through. Few things in this wasteland get up after five rounds are put through it. And when the dust settled, you didn’t. 

Just as sure as that officer, wyatt Kincaide also died that day.

To commemorate the fact, you took the name Graves. Your mother’s surname. Holden from the grandfather you never met. Perhaps if you’d been given a bit more time, you’d have leant some more thought to it. Maybe you’d done a lot of things better. Couldn’t have done much worse. Should’ve put a few more down, or at least done it without so many witnesses to the fact. The privilege of hindsight.

You lost yourself on the road for a while. Or maybe you found yourself on it. Either way, you kept moving. Kept between the cracks of what is and what was, taking jobs if and where you could. Escort jobs, mostly. Convoys heading west and away from the purview of the legion. Some of the jobs might have been on the up and up, but you would be lying if you’d said it bothered you when they weren’t. Your mother’s ethics were one thing, but you can’t eat a figurative high horse. 

You started running shuttles out of colorado for a while. Earning your keep with a quick hand on the controls, an even quicker one on the big iron on your hip. Made a name for yourself amongst certain, less upstanding circles. Folk that didn’t mind looking past your nebulous history and saw the money you could make them. Called themselves Dust Runners. You supposed after a life in the ashes, a life in the dust wasn’t too far of a stretch.

𝙸𝙸𝙸. 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜.

two signers ⸻ has been married once. divorced once, too.  He has few regrets, save for how it ended. If nothing else, it gave him a daughter, temperance. she’s six years old going on forty and too smart for her own good. he doesn’t see her nearly enough. That, he does regret.

valuable history ⸻ east of the rockies, there’s likely still a bounty out for one wyatt kincaide. the ashen legion aren’t known for playing nice with contractors, however. Or playing nice with anyone, really. good luck getting caps out of the ashen legion, padre.

an ungentleman and a scholar ⸻ thanks to his mother, he’s surprisingly well read for a farm boy from the former kentucky region. He has a habit of collecting books during his stopovers, amassing a small, highly flammable personal library in his quarters aboard the eights.

there's no serenity in the valley ⸻ while he is quick to play off his time with the ashen legion should it arise, those years still haunt him. the loss of his friends, his comrades, and what he did under their banner has left him with a degree of ptsd that he self-medicates with alcohol.

blockade runner ⸻ captain of the aces’n’eights, a small yet deceptively quick shuttle that will be with holden until the day he dies. most likely being the cause of said death, too. officially it is assumed to carry passengers and a few metric tonnes of light freight for a logistics company registered out of new vegas. assumptions, huh?

[ofoutlawry]

a  whistle  fades  in  the  dusty  air,  as  the  sound  of  spurs  on  their  boots  meet  the  gravel.  they’re  known  on  record  as  THE  WIDOWMAKER,  but  a  few  who’ve  shared  a  foxhole  or  the  occasional  bottle  with  them,  are  allowed  to  call  them  -  MARÍA  DE  LA  PAZ  NAVARRO CRUZ.  they  are  a CYBORG who  looks  a  hell  of  a  lot  like  MELISSA  BARRERA  if  you  squint  your  eyes.  At  THIRTY  TWO  they’ve  learned  how  to  survive  the  wild  wild  wasteland  making  their  living  as  an  ASSASSIN-FOR-HIRE.  They  carry  a  VINDICTIVE  streak  with  them  like  an  old  wound  but  their  PERCEPTIVE  nature  keeps  them  alive  against  better  judgment.  honor  ties  them  loosely  to  THE  SYNDICATE.  if  you’re  paying  any  mind,  you  can  see  them  in  the  crossfire  between  THE  LINGERING  SCENT  OF  GUN  OIL  AND  CIGARETTE  SMOKE  and  THAT  DAMNABLE  SMILE  THAT  BELIES  THE  DEATH  IT  HAS  WROUGHT.  anyways,  their  presence  is  a  walking  reminder  that  out  here,  the  old  world  never  really  died.

𝙸.  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜.

name.  maría de la paz navarro cruz.  aliases.  paz, asset #47, the widowmaker.  birthday & age.  unknown & 32 (presumed).  birthplace.  mexico (presumed).  species.  human (cyborg.)  gender & pronouns.  cis woman & she/her.  orientation.  pansexual.  marital status.  single.  occupation.  assassin-for-hire.  affiliation. herself, the syndicate.  faceclaim.  melissa barrera.  eye colour.  dark brown.  hair colour & style.  dark brown, wolf cut.  height.  5'8".  tattoos.  none (removed).  piercings.  both lobes, double helix.  scars.  none (removed).  augmentations.  near full body cybernetic replacement.  clothing style.  x.  signature scent.  cordite, spiced honey, jasmine with a hint of gun oil. moral alignment.  lawful evil.  mbti.  istp-a.  zodiac.  scorpio.  enneagram.  type 8 (the challenger).  temperament.  choleric-melancholic.  archetype.  the huntress.  primary virtue.  diligence.  primary vice.  wrath.  strengths.  diligent, direct, independent, observant, spontaneous.  weaknesses.  critical, impulsive, insensitive, unforgiving, vindictive.  tropes.  the ace, affably evil, ambiguously evil, beauty is bad, brain in a jar, covered in scars, dark action girl, the gadfly, friendly sniper, full-conversion cyborg, i just want to be free, improbable aiming skills, living weapon, meaningful name, single stroke battle, smoking is edgy.  character parallels.  amélie lacroix (overwatch), kusanagi motoko (s.a.c.), the salesman (sin city), song so mi (cyberpunk 2077), yelena belova (marvel).   disorders.  dissociative amnesia, monochromacy.  allergies.  none, save for perhaps an emp.  sleeping habits.  as a cyborg, her need for sleep is reduced somewhat. sleeps four-to-five hours every two days.  eating habits.  "consumes" a specially formulated nutrients packet via iv once a day.  sociability.  surprisingly social. enjoys blending in with the crowd, losing herself for a moment or two before resurfacing. enjoys teasing and pressing people's buttons to see how they'll react.  addictions.  none.  alcohol use.  rare.  drug use.  none.  likes.  desert flowers, smoking, tracking a quarry, puzzles, being challenged.  dislikes.  being reminded of what she is or more importantly what she isn't, her nutrient iv, being called 'widowmaker', taking orders.  fears.  losing herself to the machine, never regaining her memories, being outclassed.  habits.  clicks her tongue when irritated, flashes a lopsided smile when she thinks she's got the upper hand, cracks her joints before settling down for any length of time.  weapon of choice.  hécate II anti-materiel rifle.  weather.  scorching sunlight.  color.  storm grey.  beverage.  tick blood tequila margarita.  food.  unknown.  animal.  cat.  season.  height of summer.     mother.  milagros cruz de león.  father.  joaquín navarro marquez.  siblings.  ______ (older sibling), ______ (younger sibling).  significant other.  n/a.  children.  n/a.

𝙸𝙸. 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.

this is the part where you would usually open up on your humble beginnings.  act one, scene one, our heroine takes the centre stage. cue the exposition. describe all the trials and tribulations you went through during those formative years you survived for better or worse. engage the audience, give them something to root for, something to invest in, something to compel them from one word to the next. everyone has a story to tell. 

or so you’d like to believe.

truth is, you’re not sure what yours is. not really. you know your name. maría  de  la  paz  navarro  cruz.. you know you were born somewhere south of what was once a border. know you had a mother, a father and two siblings. know you fell in with the wrong crowd at some point, for some reason, for some presumable return. know you did some bad things, sometimes to bad people, sometimes not so much, but you know you were good at it. real good at doing real bad. good enough, and bad enough, that you found a place within the syndicate. you were valued. you were needed. you were…

a multitude of things, you suppose.  at least, you hope. 

truth is, you don’t remember any of it. not really. a few scattered memories here, a few sights and sensations there. the feeling of your father’s hand wrapped around what was once yours. warm, safe, loved. the taste of your mother’s ill-fated attempts at cooking. bitter, sour, comfort. yet these memories - if you could even call them that - are more echoes than reality. residual fragments, misshapen puzzle pieces, parts of something that will perhaps never be whole. that’s something of a recurring theme when it comes to you. 

no, your life, for all intents and purposes, began with the procedure.

a life saving operation to, well… save your life, you suppose. what little was left of it, at any rate. by all accounts, after the accident there wasn’t much left of you period, let alone enough to be worth remembering. and what they did recover, they quickly discarded. paring the salvageable grey matter and nerve endings from the broken bone, mangled muscle and gnarled gristle that had spent the better part of two and a half decades making up paz navarro cruz. 

you did the math once. ninety percent. that’s how much of you they deemed expendable.  ninety. fucking. percent. conservatively. ninety percent that they cut away and threw to the crows. replacing muscle with nanoweave, bones with carbon titanium alloy, skin with something grown nightmarishly in a vat. synthetic blood for synthetic veins, pumped by an artificial heart for an artificial existence. no expense spared, top-of-the-line, all the bells and whistles (mercifully not literally) a girl could ask for.  you didn’t. ask, that is. you’re certain of that. you’re not certain of much, but you’re certain no one would’ve asked for… you don’t even want to label it. don’t even want to breathe that word into existence.  you went in a person, you came out something else. something less. something barely human. a product. a commodity. an investment. 

and you were just that: an investment. the syndicate didn’t spend money on you to see it wasted. they didn’t bring you back from the brink out of the goodness of their hearts. they certainly didn’t do it out of the goodness of yours. as with all things in this life, you were a transaction. one life spared so it could reap a dozen more. two dozen. three. perhaps a hundred, perhaps more. all investments need to see a decent return, after all. and every debt has its interest due. 

if you were a good person, maybe you would’ve found a way to refuse. found a way to spit in their face and tell them where they could shove that new halflife they’d forced upon you.

if you were a good person… fuck, maybe if you were a person … but you’re not. good. a person. take your pick, but you know deep down you were borderline on either even before the scalpels came out. no, you don’t know who you were, but you know enough. you know the crack of the rifle. know it feels more true to you than almost any part of your new artificial existence. know that another name, another hundred names, added to your ledger wouldn’t make much of a difference.

they invested in you for a reason, widowmaker. fine, you’ll play their game for now. bide your time. let them think you feel nothing but the recoil. you've always been patient. always known how to wait for your shot. put another face in the crosshairs for them, killer. sooner or later you'll turn it around on them.  

𝙸𝙸𝙸. 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜.

a life filled with shades of grey   ⸻   literally. due to the particular design and function of her artificial eyes,  though she retains the concept and memory of colours, paz is utterly unable to perceive colour in the world around her. her world is black and white and varying blends of the two. probably a metaphor in there somewhere.   

a pack a day habit  ⸻  she smokes, though she doesn’t necessarily enjoy it anymore. the nicotine is filtered out by her body before it can even take effect. it is more comfort reflex, however. a way of connecting to the person she once was. a way of feeling human when she often feels anything but. at least it won’t kill her.  

stripped for parts ⸻  her actual estimate of ninety percent is fairly conservative. if she really did the math, she’d realise that ninety four, maybe as high as ninety five percent of her has been replaced by some form of synthetic or artificial component. her brain, parts of her spine and her adrenal system are most of what was retained, and even that was not without some degree of loss. there’s a reason she stopped carrying the ones.   

trouble shooter ⸻ true to her rep, even before she was augmented, paz was an exceptional shot. she can’t quite remember it now, but she was taught by her father from an early age, helping him hunt and forage. she quickly made a name for herself within the syndicate when she turned those skills towards less honourable ends, and now is something of a wasteland legend as a result. a legend that has only grown these last few years. just don’t call her the widowmaker to her face. 

[dirbenaffleck]

BRANDON SKLENAR as SPENCER DUTTON 1923 ‧ War and the Turquoise Tide

[campmiasmas]

MELISSA BARRERA The Copenhagen Test - S01E02 "Glass House"