Anovaoo'o

Anovaoo'o is a name that more often than not gets mispronounced by people who learnt it through reading, whereas those learnt it by hearing usually have no idea how even begin to spell it.  To the latter group it comes across as Anno-waah, although the finer nuances of the true sounds are lost on most.

Her age is most likely in the mid twenties, though as always with these things one cannot be completely certain.  She stands approximately five foot four with a slender built, quite handy no doubt for the more cramped spaces she has to access sometimes.

The hair, straight and black, is more often than not worn in a quickly assembled bun or a more relaxed ponytail, only on rare occasions allowed to flow freely, such as when she have some time off work -- at which time she often tinker with something of her own instead of something to do with work.

The skin shows a slightly tanned tone, suggestion she is not of Caucasian descent and the darkness of her eyes further helps to underline this.  To anyone with a bit more insight into such matters it is evident that she belongs to one of the indigenous groups of people found throughout the New World, or at least the ones that were there before the appearance of the white man in what they named North America.

This heritage is also displayed in her garments, as far as it goes with her customary pair of coveralls that are usually more or less greasy and with more pockets than you can shake a three-legged cat wielding a pneumatic hammer at.

To anyone well versed in the origins of tribes they could potentially deduce that she is Tsitsistas, or Cheyenne as the common misconception is, given the name and the manner she dresses in, plus anytime she talks to something inanimate giving her problem she tend to speak to it in her native tongue, no doubt a good thing as few will understand it, except said piece of machinery of course.

Socially she appears to prefer machines to people, even if she is not a complete loner.  A private person is probably a more fitting term.

Ashikaga Kimiko

Standing over five and a half feet tall, Kimiko is a trifle taller than the national average for women of her country of birth.  Naming convention aside, her style, bearing, and gentle, accented voice mark her of nihonjin origin.  She eschews the popular fad of dying her hair, and has no obvious tattoos or scars.  Expressive, sharp features often settle into an unthreatening smile, and she maintains a demure disposition regardless of whom she faces.

Kimiko usually dresses in upscale clothing - Image designs, Cryo-max, Pearl Eye - over which she wears a long, high quality coat.  For the few times she needed to move about the construction area itself, she purchased Gibson battlegear clothing, reasoning it cheap, resistant to tears, and ultimately discardable.

The irony is not lost on her.

Bernadette "Bernie" Jenner

Small and thin, with dark hair and eyes, Bernadette Jenner looks far younger than the twenty five years she claims.  The outsized jacket and baggy jeans that she always wear, together with the heavy makeup, which looks to have been applied with a squirtgun, from about fifty metres away, just add to the general impression.

As does the way she constantly shifts her weight from one foot to the other, often while gnawing at her nails, and the way she never seems to look anybody in the eye.

Frankly, she looks like a kid, dressed up in her older sister's clothes, and worried about getting caught.

Then she opens her mouth, and streams of technical data pour out, together with occasional outbursts of language that would make a sailor blush, and the impression of childishness is gone.  Until she stops talking.

Damascus ''Hyena'' Messiah

Hyena, so named for his infectious laugh, seems very much a "Jack of all trades". Intelligent, quick witted, tough and gifted with the kind of looks some women melt over he isn't easily definable.

Just edging 6' tall, the lithe 20-something, is always confidant. A slightly rough look to him telling of an outdoor upbringing only adds to his rugged charm. Always tanned it's obvious this young man dosn't stay indoors too long if the opportunity to get under the sky presents itself.

His cheeky confidance and rugged looks would seem out of place for someone raised in a Corpzone and his smooth voice a subtle blend of several accents.

JJ

JJ Anderson stands about 5'9" tall and weighs about 165 lbs.  He appears to be a relatively lean and fit cosmopolitan male (of mainly northern European descent) in his mid-twenties.  His blond hair is short, spiky, and closely cropped and he doesn't have any facial hair.  He has his US military barcode tattooed onto both of his forearms near the wrist.  The 2-D barcodes are right next to double sets of plugs (one set of interface and smartgun plugs on each wrist).   JJ favors simple clothing, fatigues or one piece coveralls and jumpsuits.  When on station he is rarely seen without a tool belt.

JJ speaks with rather softly and often appears to be distant; he could be said to have the thousand yard stare.  While he doesn't appear to be overly strong, JJ is wiry and preternaturally fast - inhumanly so.

While not an avowed techie, JJ is fairly facile with a wrench.  He is also an accomplished pilot.  He claims that his training comes from the US Military, as a small ops team's pilot.  He has certs for Ground, Aerodyne, and LEO shuttle transports; so, you aren't real sure what type of unit JJ was in - and he is not very forthcoming with more details.  JJ also doesn't talk much about his time before the military.

Joshua Furness

Joshua Furness is not a pleasant person to spend time with.  Two minutes with him will show that to be true.  He is rude, arrogant, obnoxious, and definitely has a chip on his shoulder regarding the world in general.

He's small and thin, with a face that even his mother probably hates the sight of.  Add to his generally scruffy appearance and whiny voice a variety of tics, twitches and irrational compulsions and it all adds up to a very unsavoury package.

Usually he doesn't even bother trying to be friendly.

Which all makes it sort of odd, why somebody with such a deep (and mutual) dislike of humanity would ever become a medic.

"That's easy.  The job lets me legally hang round people who are in pain."

Killed in a (possibly) drug-related gun fight in Pacifica.

''Melbourne'' Quinlivon

Tall, broad shouldered and thickly framed, Melbourne Quinlivon presents an imposing figure for a Doctor. In the shade of a wide-brimmed, cowhide suede hat with a pinched crown, his features are full of crags, cliffs and crooks as rugged as the mountains of his homeland and tell a tale of heartache and violence: a broken nose, three parallel scars interrupt his square jawline, a pale line running from below the left eye and up through one of his bushy eyebrows. A coarse, black goatee dusts his chin.

A gleaming chrome hand pokes out from one sleeve of his battered old duster with whispered clicks and whirs. The hand's bulging frame describes a custom package buried within the metal.

A .44 Magnum revolver rides low on his right hip, and a long, thick bush knife strapped tight to his upper leg, just below that.

Mingo Vazir

Part pirate, part shaman, part scientist, all medic. Mingo is short and stocky in the Polynesian way, with large golden eyes in a bald head. A blonde goattee decorates his tanned face, the cheekbones ridged with precise rows of tribal scars.

He wears short-sleeve cammo fatigues, patterned with the blue-and-black tigerstripes of the Tamils. On a chain around his neck dangle dog tags, finger bones and a celluar phone. Most of his posessions are tucked into canvas bag and webbing around his waist, with the grip of an X-22 smartgun peeking out of its holster.

He speaks in a patois of street slang and Indonesian, which causes many English-speakers to underestimate his sharp mind and ability as a healer. Mingo's medical expertise is all the more impressive considering he learned his craft on rusty pirate freighters with scant facilities.

"Stop squirmin', bro. Bullet crabbed you good, no? No kya, no kya, small wound, big scar. Yush! Pass me the spray skin, double-quick."

Patrick Wright

Totally into Hi-fashion chic, neat short hair, often adorned with mirror shades.

Anglo-american grown up in Night City, the only child of a Corporate Technician.

He grew up in a decaying, once up-market suburb.

Patrick is stable and serious, his cool demeanor only a cover for a tragic past.  Although he loved his parents, in the past year, a tragic accident occurred, which he suspects was not an accident, claiming the lives of his parents.  Ever since he constantly relives the tragedy with nightmares, often waking up in his upper Corporate apartment screaming.  He holds precious to him an old photograph in a silver frame, it is of him and his parents when he graduated.