Asmodeus Wolsingham
Medic / 362
/
Strength / 4 /
Dex / 4 /
Toughness / 4 /
Charm / 8 /
Attractiveness / 5 /
Empathy / 8 /
Tech / 5 /
Intelligence / 8 /
Cool / 8 /
Storytelling / 3 /
216 /
Skills
Awareness/Notice / 5 / 5
Martial Arts / 2 / 2
Pistol / 2 / 2
Stealth / 2 / 2
Resist Torture/Drugs / 3 / 3
Human Perception / 7 / 7
Social / 7 / 7
Etiquette: Corporate / 5 / 5
Etiquette: Street / 5 / 5
Style / 3 / 3
Seduction / 7 / 7
Paramedic / 7 / 7
Expert:Surgery / 2 / 4
Doctor / 7 / 14
Persuasion / 6 / 6
Initiative / 2 / 2
Shadow / 7 / 7
Bribery / 5 / 5
Interview / 7 / 7
Interrogation / 4 / 4
Finance/Business / 5 / 5
/
Computer Programming / 3 / 3
112
Backgrounds /
Allies / 7 /
Status / 2 /
Contacts / 7 /
/
/ 16 /
/
Advantages /
Zeroed / 5 /
Well-Connected / 6 /
Multiple Identities / 4 /
Animal Magnetism / 3 /
18 /
Disads /
Secret Identity / 8 /
Dark Secret / 3 /
Snob / 10 /
Superstitious / 5 /
Selfless / 10 /
Cosa Nostra / 14 /
Hunted / 17 /
War Wound / 4 /
Background
You always have to pay the piper. It was funny to asmodeus, that the girls at the brothel had been the ones to say it. Even at the time he had scoffed at their uneducated slang, their superstitions, their silly sayings. But now, at the end of it all, with the layers peeled back, it was true that the piper had come calling.
It started like any story: Asmodeus bright, fast, athletic, charming, but poor, poorer than dirt. Every city has its slums, and Asmodeus had roved through them, organizing other children to try to better their lot. It worked, a little, and would have been the end, in most cases. But this time, somebody noticed. Not a big somebody, a gang slum lord, but a little somebody with big plans. So instead of becoming a low level drug pusher, Asmodeus' name got mentioned to the lord's boss. And that boss made asmodeus an offer. A roof. Food on the table. And most importantly, an education, if he could hack it. Not a rich boy's education, nice and slow and interesting. 12 hour class days, every day, plus 4 hours of work for the boss, filing, counting, calculating. If he slowed down, lost it somewhere, it was over.
But Asmodeus could hack it. So the story went on, like all the stories. He learned. He was best in biology, so the boss sent him to medical school. He was good there too, so in his free time, the boss' boss asked him to take a few more classes: even gave him a car and an apartment to help smooth the way. The extra work stopped, so that Asmodeus even had some free time. Still no money, so not much to do other than study, but it was a start.
After graduation, the boss and the boss' boss pulled up in a shiny hover-limo and took him for a ride. They drove past all the corp checkpoints, past the skyscrapers, the endless lights, past the hotels where the cost of a room for a night could house a family for a year: even the boss was impressed. Then they stopped in front of the hospital. The boss said Asmodeus had a choice: They'd educated him, and that had cost a lot. He was good, good enough for them to get him a job at the hospital, and there he could work it off. Of course, there'd be interest, and they might have some special assignments for him. But he could still have enough money for a nice little wife, maybe some kids, maybe even enough to educate them, if he was willing to live a little threadbare.
Or he could have another job. A little more exciting, a little more dangerous. Still medicine, still a doctor, of course. But with a different focus. If he took it, the payment of his debt would be the “starting bonus”. Then he'd make that much every year, for the next 10, and then he'd retire.
You always have to pay the piper. He knew it now, but then the choice had been obvious. They shipped him off to Diomedes the next year, after his training. Mostly like a second residency, really, although a strange mix: pathology and a lot of psychology. They gave him a whole set of identities, and told him to make some friends from a list they gave him.
They didn't call it spying at first, but after working at the small clinic for a month, when the first assignment came in, it was obvious what it was. His part of the work was a woman who came to the clinic, discreetly. He put a few tracers in her, took some DNA samples from her clothes and person, started her “file”. By the end of the year, he had two dozen files and was working on another ten. In some ways it was intoxicating: with the team he had put together, he knew almost more about these people than they did themselves. Bank records, family records, personal lives, everything. Then came the first op. A black-op, when whispered between the superstitious brothel girls, but just an op to him. Calls were made. Favors called in. Blackmail delivered. But really, it wasn't much. It felt a lot like trying to break up with a girl to him: a little bit of uncomfortable silence and words in a forced voice. The next morning he got the call: the mission had been a success. Only nine years to go.
You always have to pay the piper. His team was good, and he never switched anyone out. He'd picked them all, and he'd picked well. But in talking, some things came out. Most importantly, that nobody made it ten years. Nobody. They'd heard of five. Even seven. But never ten. They were all free agents: pulled in from other, similar types of jobs by the money, or the glory, or the power. Mostly the money. But he could see how they looked at him: at first with pity, but later, by year six, with fear, and in year seven, finally, with respect, and even worry. He'd seen them through a lot: saved most of their lives a dozen times. But they all knew it: nobody did ten years. Everyone from corporate signed on for it, but nobody finished it.
Two months before the end of year seven, some counter intel team got a lead on him. They killed his secretary and beat him until he fell unconscious. Then woke him up and beat him again. It should have been the end, but they were too young, too eager: they woke him up again to beat him a third time when his team's cavalry showed up. It took him 3 months to walk again, four to talk or hold a scalpel. Five until the meeting.
The meeting was in another shiny limo. The boss' boss, riding with a new boss, told him they were sorry for his injuries, and that he was being relocated: not off planet, but to another city. Of course, his injury time would be deducted from total time served, it was only fair. Of course.
You always have to pay the piper. But Asmodeus had done the math, and he was pretty sure he'd paid. Probably twice. But that was always the gig, wasn't it? The story was always the same. Nobody made it ten years. He'd had a good run.
Run. He didn't even realize he was doing it until his things were packed. Until he'd called up his best teammates and asked them in a roundabout way if he could “Stay with them awhile”. And then he was gone. But even on his way out of the office, he was planning, trying to zig when they thought he'd zag: they'd taught him, after all, and they'd guess his moves. In the lobby, he saw a strange fellow, asking about a surgeon, a fellow with a privateer ship. New, unknown, maybe unregistered. Fast? Sure, fastest you could find. Perfect.
Now Asmodeus has a new team. They've got trouble, but not like him. Some disagreement about K-tech. Bullet wounds. Straightforward stuff. Then they take off and jump. Now it's not so simple, but it gives Asmodeus, for the first time, hope that he might actually get out of all this. A jump ship! It's exciting enough to give him the old rush. Then they get boarded by the men in black, and he's sure their after him. When they all wake up and the men are gone, he laughs at himself. Maybe they've even forgotten about him.
From there on out, he gets to be a doctor, just a doctor, for the first time. It suits him well. Disease, injuries, making people well rather than trying to hollow them out and turn what's left into a puppet. He could get to like this.
