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you came into this world the same way you intend to leave it:Ā kicking and screaming.Ā
you werenāt 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.Ā
no, when you were born, you were named wyatt. wyatt kincaide. the junior to your fatherās senior. his first and last gift. Perhaps it is foreshadowing your relationship to know that you would ultimately throw it aside. Wyatt Kincaide, sr. wasnāt 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, butĀ 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.Ā
Your mother, though. Your mother was good woman. A great woman. Unlucky in love, certainly,Ā 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 youāll fight for what was right. What was necessary and just. If you were smart, if youād really paid attention to what your mother tried to teach you, youād 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 oneās 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 donāt sting quite the same.Ā
It took you a year, maybe two, for the idealism to wear off. By that time, youād seen enough that all the fancy lies and gilded propaganda of the recruiting officer had begun to ring hollow. the ashen legion wasnāt 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.Ā Fancy uniforms or no, the legion was just another boot searching for a neck. It didnāt 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 youād 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 werenāt so lucky. You buried more than your fair share of friends and comrades in those very same stretches of dirt youād 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 theyād been dealt. The hand the ashen legion had stacked against them.
You donāt know why you finally snapped, you just remember the sound of your heart hammering in your ears. Remember the officerās 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 didnāt.Ā
Just as sure as that officer, wyatt Kincaide also died that day.
To commemorate the fact, you took the name Graves. Your motherās surname. Holden from the grandfather you never met. Perhaps if youād been given a bit more time, youād have leant some more thought to it. Maybe youād done a lot of things better. Couldnāt have done much worse. Shouldāve 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 youād said it bothered you when they werenāt. Your motherās ethics were one thing, but you canāt eat a figurative high horse.Ā
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 didnāt 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 wasnāt too far of a stretch.
two signers āø» has been married once. divorced once, too.Ā He has few regrets, save for how it ended. If nothing else, it gave him a daughter, temperance. sheās six years old going on forty and too smart for her own good. he doesnāt see her nearly enough. That, he does regret.
valuable history āø» east of the rockies, thereās likely still a bounty out for one wyatt kincaide. the ashen legion arenāt 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 āø» thanks to his mother, heās 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 aboardĀ the eights.
there's no serenity in the valley āø» 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 āø» captain of the acesānāeights, 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?
this is the part where you would usually open up on your humble beginnings.Ā 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.Ā
or so youād like to believe.
truth is, youāre not sure what yours is. not really. you know your name. marĆaĀ deĀ laĀ pazĀ navarroĀ 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 wereā¦
a multitude of things, you suppose.Ā at least, youĀ hope.Ā
truth is, you donāt remember any of it. not really. a few scattered memories here, a few sights and sensations there. the feeling of your fatherās hand wrapped around what was once yours. warm, safe, loved. the taste of your motherās 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. thatās something of a recurring theme when it comes to you.Ā
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 wasnāt 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.Ā
you did the math once. ninety percent. thatās how much of you they deemed expendable.Ā 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.Ā you didnāt. ask, that is. youāre certain of that. youāre not certain of much, but youāre certain no one wouldāve asked for⦠you donāt even want to label it. donāt even want to breathe that word into existence.Ā you went in a person, you came out something else. something less. something barely human. a product. a commodity. an investment.Ā
and you were just that: an investment. the syndicate didnāt spend money on you to see it wasted. they didnāt bring you back from the brink out of the goodness of their hearts. they certainly didnāt 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.Ā
if you were a good person, maybe you wouldāve found a way to refuse. found a way to spit in their face and tell them where they could shove that new halflife theyād forced upon you.
if you were a good person⦠fuck, maybe if you were aĀ person ⦠but youāre 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 donāt 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 wouldnāt make much of a difference.
they invested in you for a reason, widowmaker.
fine, youāll 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. Ā
a life filled with shades of greyĀ Ā āø» Ā Ā literally. due to the particular design and function of her artificial eyes,Ā 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.Ā
Ā
a pack a day habit ⸻ she smokes, though she doesnāt 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 wonāt kill her.
Ā
stripped for parts ⸻ her actual estimate of ninety percent is fairly conservative. if she really did the math, sheād 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. thereās a reason she stopped carrying the ones.Ā
Ā
trouble shooter āø» true to her rep, even before she was augmented, paz was an exceptional shot. she canāt 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 donāt call her the widowmaker to her face.Ā
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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