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Pslyder
Location: SeaTacEve Metroplex
Year: 2056
Date: Late August, 03:35, overcast
"Ah, th' Sprawl. Nothin' like revvin' up th' ol' Thunderbucket and goin'
fer a thrill ride right after a good acid rain. "N' if Ah'm lucky, some squat'll
pop up 'n mouth off so's Ah c'n ease a li'l stress. . ." With that in mind,
the young elf packs up his gear and heads down for his ride. Homo Sapiens
Nobilis. The Media tagged his kind "Elfs" way back in the twenties, right
after the VITAS plague. He never paid that distinction much mind. What he
did pay mind to was the price on his head. Yaks, Mafia, Lone Star, it really
didn't matter. "When yer best chummer dials ya up at oh-dark-fraggin'-thirty
in th' mornin' squawkin' abou' more zeroes than he c'n ever remember seein'
bein' on yer hide, ya jus' head fer th' hills an' hang low fer a while" he
thought.
He casually yet stealthily made his way down to the parking garage where
he kept his "baby", a cherry red 2055 Kawasaki Mystic Racing Cycle, which
he nicknamed "Thunderbucket" after the wonderful roaring sound it made when
he started it. Not much for stealth, but its tweaked-out engine practically
guaranteed that nothing short of a jet would be able to catch him. He grinned
as he smashed the local speed laws to up-quarks on his way out of the Sprawl.
He chuckled to himself as he paraphrased a quote from an old 20th century
flatvid. "It's a couple hunnert clicks ta Tir turf, Ah gots a full tank o'
juice, a carton o' smokes, it's dark, an' Ah'm wearin' mirrorshades. Hit
it."
Once on I-5 southbound and screaming past the local Eye-Fivers gogang, he
kicked on the autonav and relaxed a bit. He checked his weapons out of reflex
and settled in for some shut-eye. The onboard "dog-brain" shouldn't have
any problems, even at 250 kph, or so he thought. He awoke a short while later
to a piercing alarm, and saw a weird bluish fog that enveloped him before
he could hit the brakes. When he finally careened to a smoking halt, three
things
immediately struck him as out of the ordinary. One was the unpolluted sunlight
filtering through the forest canopy, two was the sudden absence of the blue
fog, and three was the road, which just moments before was black ferrocrete,
but was now only packed earth. He sat there and blinked for a while, then
mentally called up his phone display. He wasn't surprised when he saw that
both his local and long distance functions reported no carrier, but had a
slight hit of relief when he saw the connection to the bike still up and
running. He checked over the rest of his gear in rapid fashion, weapons first,
of course. He noted with only slight dismay that neither his DocWagon band
nor his telecom had service, but he'd expected as much.
"Well, Toto. . ." he drawled, "looks like we ain't in th' UCAS anymore's.
. ." He sighed, then his cyber-enhanced vision picked up a small plume of
smoke about five clicks up the road. He gunned the throttle, slewing the
bike around in that direction and spraying the forest with dirt clods and
white smoke. He continued to glare at the road in front of him, then he muttered
to himself "When Ah fin' th' drek-suckin' sewer mage who fragged me this
time, Ah'm gon' nail his sorry hoop to th' mothafraggin' wall. . ."
Pslyder, AKA Frederick Thomas Alexander. 5' 9" tall, around 200 lbs, slender
build, all rebuilt muscle, purple cat-slitted eyes, and carries himself with
a casual grace. Appears in his mid 20's, but is actually closer to 45, due
to his natural longevity. He spent some time in the military, but was honorably
discharged after an accident crushed both his forearms. Arms below the elbow
are cyber-replacements covered in RealSkinn. One contains a grapple gun,
the other a "Pocket Secretary", a combination portable phone/answering
machine/personal data assistant which is directly interfaced with his nervous
system to show incoming and outgoing calls as well as other relevant information
in his field of vision. It also holds his personal collection of retro (to
him) style music, mostly rock, techno, and some relaxational tunes from the
later part of the Twentieth Century. He has the classic build and pointed
ears of those normal to his race, but the easy-going laid-back style and
southern drawl marks him the instant he opens his mouth. His hair is
waist-length, black with purple streaks and highlights, and usually drawn
back into a ponytail, revealing the chromed datajack and 4-slot softlink
arranged over his ear. He's always found wearing his standard armored jacket,
with the logo "Born in the UCAS" stylized on the back. He also favors nylon
t-shirts, synthleather jeans, combat boots, and his special Kevlar underwear.
He is always carrying some of his weapons, listed here in order of frequency:
Combat survival knife (always), right boot. Dikote katana (always), back
sheath. Dartgun loaded with sleep neurotoxin (most of the time), left boot.
Large caliber pistol with integral aiming system (half of the time), shoulder
holster. 500 lb. pull Compound bow with Dikoted arrows (only on special
occasions), over the back. He's had extensive reflex and quickness enhancements,
resulting in a reaction time of right around 1/12th of a second to readiness
from a resting state. He's also had additional armor implanted under his
skin and additional modifications to his eyes, resulting in both his natural
ability to see in the dark and his cyber-enhanced ability to read a street
sign at 10 kilometers distant. He's skilled in both armed and unarmed melee
combat, as well as a crack shot with his bow and guns. He tends to smoke
flavored cigarettes frequently.
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