Snoop

Some people just never learn.

One Michael Stone, hoped to turn out a prim and proper UCAS SINner, had an equally tough and boring start in life. Mr and Mrs Stone had a problem with Novacoke. Yelling, pushing away, blaming - no environment for a child. No surprise Michael, or Mickey Bricks how he would insist on being called after a fictional British grifter from the 2010s, he preferred spending time either at the (shitty) public school or wandering where no "respectable" kid should. ASKING QUESTIONS, ALL THE QUESTIONS. Aged 8, he was taken away and ground by the national foster care system; he didn't find any adoptive family, but instead threw himself to working hard, hard enough to get a scholarship and a chance
at the Department of Journalism, a long-time object of fascination for the boy. He performed well, however did not exactly endear any potential employers to himself, being the nosey little bastard with delusions that in the 2070s you can be a journalist of integrity, a whistleblower, a muckraker, all that jazz. He did get the diploma and all was good... until he trumped his internship at NewsNET over being a mouthy little chicken arguing about work ethics. Meaning word got out, he couldn't get stable employment, and while he
still hounds a good story (investigative journalism is his thing), being able to actually sell it anywhere is far and between. So he mostly has to take shadowruns now, but does not exactly complain. Survival is one thing; what if you can mix business with pleasure of pursuing a story?

Snoop has just a datajack with image/sound link and smartlink for work, but a year ago, he was forced to get some muscle toner after an accident involving investigating Humanis ties to the Seattle government (he still suffers below-average strength and reaction, which will take rehabilitation to set straight). He had to fix himself up over snooping around where he should not have, then not managing to stay out of trouble. People serving as contacts between the two groups meant to teach him a lesson; that said, Mickey Bricks wouldn't learn. Upton Sinclair was dead, but people still needed Truth with a capital T and a middle finger to the ones involved. Despite serious limb injuries forcing him to pay through the nose at a black clinic whose staff would not care, he got back on his feet and still proceeded with his investigation. Word got out. Those who care cheered, those who didn't resented the little slitch. Mickey tried not to pay attention to either, solely focused on following his trail, making him quite... neglected by the corps. Because "work ethics" is a thing now.