Steam Name: The Nazi Who Played Yahtzee

Steam ID: STEAM_0:1:441154451

Notable RP Experience (Servers you've played on, moderated, etc.): Generation Roleplay SuperAdmin, MPF Faction Leader, Resistance Leader and Medical Leader on FORP
Administrator/Founder of (formerly) Apex Roleplay. You probably know it now as Requiem Gaming.
Metropolice Unit (didn't reach high-ranks because I had to take an OOC break) and (assistant) developer on UnderWorld Gaming
Nebulous-Cloud Unity Party member (when it existed)
On-and-off LemonPunch player

Recommendations (Does not necessarily have to be from an admin): metwad

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Character Name: Charlotte Migûard

Character Age: 24


Desired Traits/Items (You must provide specifics, including whether or not you want something like a unique item): Migûard is capable of mechanical repairs/tinkering overall - not augment-based, as that'd require medical knowledge, but moreso with machinery, weapons and electronics overall. While she's not necessarily an expert - she didn't study a PhD, or anything - she's been on the streets long-enough to work on these things, her speciality being generally bypassing them. Basically, if you have a lock, she can crack it - whether it be on a gun, on a machine, or on a door.

Migûard is, in addition, a decker, and a damned good one. Goes without saying that someone who is capable of breaking into computer-aided locks is competent in hacking in some form - however, her life spent on the street has left her with enough contacts to make a small living on selling the equipment needed for such behaviour. Not to say she has access to implants or augs, instead she can source Deckboards, HackSofts and BeGones - for a price. In case you couldn't tell, this is the primary way of actually making a living on the character, outside of any contracts they take part in.

Able to sell them, she'd probably have one, too. Nothing fancy - a T4 neural implant to use it, alongside a basic-bitch (or higher, I guess, if allowed) Deckboard. In addition, I'd also really enjoy if she was given a PDA that's untraceable - not so much for any IC reason (outside of avoiding the cops), but moreso because it'd make sense, again.

Finally, Migûard was born-and-raised on the streets. As a result, she's proficient in hand-to-hand combat - knives, blunt-objects, fistfighting and the like. Not to say that she could take on an augmented person, moreso that she could hold her own against a mugger, or anything similar.


How are you going to use aforementioned traits/items?: I intend to use the character's ability to break locks and systems overall to partake in events (something I'm not really capable of doing on my other, non-combat character), as well as to potentially work for-hire for a PMC, or something similar. This isn't intended to be the character's main source of income - simply something to do if there's no work selling items.

The main usage for the given scripts/flags is to sell hacking equipment - I haven't actually seen anyone do this as-of-yet in the server, and I'd like to open up the market somewhat by having a character solely focused on it. I'd ask that - if the admins think this'd be something that is scarcely used - the character be allowed to do tinkering on weapons and such, too - nothing aug-related, because that'd be against the backstory - but simply to modify guns and the like.

I'd also like to use her inate ability to hack stuff to make opportunities for events using the new Discord channel. I think that would be a benefit to the server moreso than myself but I'd still very much love to try my hand at creating something with it that'd actually benefit everyone for once.

Finally, the whole 'hand-to-hand' combat shtick is partly because it'd make sense in the backstory, and partly because I wouldn't want my character getting destroyed the instant a do-gooder sees them trying to pawn off a BeGone.


Roleplay or Writing Example: **A locked door. Behind it, assumedly, some riches to be gained. There’d be no other reason for a corp to call in someone outside their own people – everyone knew that – and given the security of this door, there was quite the riches to be gained within. Enter Charlotte Migûard – her attire’s not that of your typical comic-book ‘hacker’ – she dons a white, businesswoman-esque blouse, which’d seem formal if it wasn’t for the worn-out, rolled-up cuffs and the undone top-button. She approaches, her gear-stuffed, ‘Gendarmarie’-branded Kevlar-vest jingling loudly under the weight of keys, tools and ammunition alike, the brunette coming to stop before the door. Electronically sealed, the handprint-scanner beside it had already had enough external damage done by the brutish squad staring dumbly at her, the European coming down onto a knee before the device. Her eyes glare over it, before she turns, her vibrantly-blue stare coming to flourish over the crowd surrounding. “Don’t you ‘ave somezhing *else* to do? A perimeter to ‘old?”, she quizzes, the lacing, French-ish accent being imminently noticeable – almost making it hard to understand her, if anything.

**The comment doesn’t seem to go unnoticed, regardless. The grunts bumble off, leaving her alone with her impromptu bodyguard, the woman’s brown hair coming to sling up in a ponytail as she sets to work. A singular screwdriver’s withdrawn from her vesting, the screws holding the panel in place starting to one-by-one clatter to the floor. Wrenched away moments later, the handprint-scanner is left attached by the wiring behind it, the display smashed-to-bits from the evident brunt of the trooper’s assault – weapon-butts and kicks, seemingly. She reaches forth, her fingers clasped onto the interfacing-jack-thing used to connect, her hand jutting it forward. The port sparks, and it seems – for a very tense moment – like it’s not going to work. But, of course, it does – Charlotte knows this, evidently, judging by her composed, cool expression. Her PDA flickers on, and after a few moments of indiscrepently flickering her wrist, the doorway begins to sputter open, the hydraulic locks of the heavy, metallic, almost vault-like entryway started to undo, heaving it ajar for her to enter in. She looks at the guard for a moment – a gaze exchanged with a vigour in it almost tailored to make him back away, before she reaches for her armour. She swipes a flashlight from atop it, before clicking it to light, the blinding beam casting across the interior to illuminate it for any potential threats.

**And, sure enough, there is one. A singular man pops up – knife-in-hand, shirt-torn and stained with blood. He’s wounded, judging by the bullet-sized hole in his shoulder, and the streak of scarlet dashed across his form, but from whatever chemically-induced miracle, he’s not feeling it. So much so that he’s willing to go head-first toward the rentable-locksmith, the woman quickly ducking her head downward to avoid a horizontal swipe-from-the-side. The blade skims up, narrowly clashing over her brown locks – close enough so that it’d tear a few off, which’d be enough to elicit a quiet, pained grunt from the woman. Thrown-off, the drug-hazed man soon finds himself falling. Charlotte’s arms grasp his waist, the European tossing herself forward with a mighty howl to tackle him downward. She’s not ridiculously heavy, but her movement is sudden and jarring, and the assailant soon finds himself flat-on-his-ass.

**Knife still in-hand, Charlotte acts fast. A palm comes to grasp his knife-wielding wrist, snagging it away, whilst her other flashlight-holding-hand raises up, and up, and up. The flashlight spins, coming to be held akin to a baton in her hand, before the brunette slams down onto his mug. *Smash* - the end of the flashlight shatters, and the bulb-and-glass sprays across his visage, dragging cuts and streaks onto his cheek. Not enough to knock him down, but he’ll certainly be feeling it in the morning. It’s more likely he’d be feeling the next few blows that she delivered using the blunt, shattered end of the device, the woman starting to repeatedly batter into his head again-and-again. His grip on the knife loosening, Charlotte took her chance as he was still reeling, reaching for the pocket of her chestrig. She fumbled for a few moments, searching about for something, before finally withdrawing it from her pocket – her screwdriver, the same one used to enter.

**She twirled it in her palm, the tool her newfound blade. It didn’t match the ability of the combat-knife carried by her foe to most, but it did for her – the brunette plunged forward, the tool held in her fist to knife down into his jugular, the man giving off a loud, blood-curdling gurgle as his windpipe collapsed inward. Unaugmented and weakened by the mangling she’d delivered to his face, his neck was quick to collapse from the sudden stab of the relatively sharp-end of the screwdriver, blood beginning to spurt out overdramatically from his wound. He reached up, the knife dropping to the floor with a metallic ‘clang!’ as he darted toward his wound, Charlotte using the opportunity to scramble back a few paces. As if the wound wasn’t enough, she found herself doubling-back into the guard from outside, the soldier quickly raising his weapon to put a final, mercy-killing shot into the attacker’s forehead. His head splattering as the PDW fired off the final, killing blow, Charlotte pants a few breaths, her top-half-garment sprayed with a thin layer of viscera and scratching alike. A quiet, disgruntled “merde” escapes her lips as she paces off toward the end of the vault-like room’s corridor, the brunette peering down toward the end of it. A door laid there – this one wasn’t locked, luckily, and thus she needn’t hang around much longer. Swiping up the knife from the ground, a small two-finger, offhanded salute is offered up to the guard as she paced past, almost mocking in nature as she walked toward the door.

**The squad of corporate-slaves sprinted past in tandem to her exiting – lucky to not get knocked over by them, her eyes cast behind her to watch the madly-flashing headlights and the branded armour-vests of her paid-to-be comrades fade into the darkness, the European setting off. She tapped a quick text into her PDA – the job was complete, and it was time for her payment – and once she was sure that she had received it, she, naturally, hauled ass away.


Backstory (Preferred, not inherently required): --Same disclaimer applies as my other application - I prefer my backstory to be discovered IC, etcetera - here's a rough outline of key events, how the character came to be, and such --

Born in an incredibly run-down district of former Paris, Charlotte was raised into a family similar to herself. Crooks and conmen for the most part, her mother-and-father were entwined into trouble from the start of her life. Uncommon for most in the area, they’d been involved in gang-trouble, and, as a result, had found themselves stealing money from a rival for years upon years. An embezzlement scam, her father had convinced an investment out of them, with the intention of running away with his new daughter, and his new money, to start a safer life – preferably one inside the safer inner-city (basically anything past the Peripherique).

This seemed entirely viable for a while. Charlotte did well in the education she could get, and her mother and father were actually able to escape with her. They rented a car, packed what little possession they had, and ran as far as they could. Across borders, out-of-cities – whatever would get them free of the impending doom that awaited them back home. Out of Paris, they found themselves holed-up in Geneva after a rather strenuous journey from train, car and foot alike. A small apartment would be their accommodation for the next few years – Charlotte grew up, and her mother and father found themselves returning to a more natural life – one that left them free of the chaos and carnage that inner-city France had become notorious for throughout Europe. Of course, all good things must come to an end.

And they did, eventually. Charlotte doesn’t disclose the details much – a nighttime raid on her apartment – masked men with guns dragging her and her parents screaming into the night – and, nothingness. Never seen again, her parents are assumed dead by all – including her – and the girl was left on her own. Accustomed to a more civilized lifestyle, her captors found it more than adequate to dump her onto the streets of her old home, and she soon found herself slipping back into old habits. Even joining a gang, the brunette had nobody and nothing save for the clothes on her back, and set to work on making a name for herself – something to get her credits to survive on again. Mechanics and computers had always been her forte – she had been learning such skills from a young age, given that it was really the only education she ever had – and, as a result, managed to gain quite a bit of a reputation in her commune for her work.

Of course, that never lasted. Europe, alongside the rest of the world, slowly degraded, and she found herself having to move again. She didn’t have anyone to run from – the group she had run with had been more than welcoming to her, and she was actually on good terms with them all before she left – if anything, she left because she had no reason to stay. The continent was crumbling, and rumours of Aetherstone’s ‘Metropolis One’ out East were spreading wind. She packed what little possession she had, and left without a word – a new start to be found, and a much needed one.