Name and Alias: Clayton "Clay" Matthews; Some know him as "Fingers"
Age & Gender: 22; Male
Race: Human
Height & Weight: 4'11"; 102lbs.
Type: Adept Gunslinger
Appearance: A thick, brown, and messy crop of hair covers his head, though he manages it well enough to prevent it from becoming a nuisance. He has a small, narrow frame with an athletic build and light muscle definition. One thing that people tend to notice quickly is that he has two thumbs on each hand. While most would see this condition as a birth defect, he sees it as an extension of his skill, allowing him an even greater level of dexterity as it functions as an independent appendage.
As for clothing, he's usually seen wearing a form-fitting t-shirt, sometimes with a faded logo of some obscure band, but usually plain, and a pair of black denim pants. On his hands, he wears a pair of black, fingerless leather gloves (he had to cut holes in the sides to make room for his extra thumbs) which he is almost never seen without, same as his black, reinforced, bulletproof leather
jacket. Another thing he is never without is his pair of
goggles which have been heavily modified to scan people and items of interest with the lenses displaying specifications on a HUD (only visible inside the lenses), greatly increasing his situational awareness and accuracy with a built-in zoom function (up to 10.5x). On his feet are a pair of black running shoes with specially-compounded soles that give him extra bounce for increased agility.
History: Growing up in the slums hadn't provided Clay with the best set of values, always having been a liar and a thief, and being damned good at it too. He often thinks he could've had it better, having lived with his alcoholic, chem-addicted father, whom always blew whatever money they had for rent to feed his addiction, up until his late teens. They moved from run-down apartment to run-down apartment more times a year than even
he could count on one hand. He's only known his father, and the only thing he knows of his mother is a
pendant his father wore around his neck.
Throughout his childhood, Clay grew up with an unruly group of tramps, generally having to scrap and steal for their next meal. There were times when he found himself at a disadvantage, for he was always a bit of a runt and was easily overpowered by the bigger kids, but there were times when his stature proved to be advantageous. His size made him light on his feet, allowing him to outrun most other kids, but he discovered something about himself when he found he could outrun those that should've been as fast as he was. It was as if he had found a way to will himself to run faster, like there was some dial within him that he could crank to unbelievable levels. It wasn't just running either, he discovered he could climb faster, traverse alleyways with leaping bounds - it was like his adrenal glands became bottomless reservoirs he could tap into whenever he so desired.
In Clay's mid-adolescence, he had nearly perfected his abilities which he used to best the best of thieves and couriers. Needless to say, this attracted much unwanted attention and it was soon made apparent that he needed some way to protect himself. Procuring a defensive weapon did not prove difficult, he managed to pocket a
Colt Asp and a box of ammo right from underneath the clerk's nose, and so began his self-training in the art of Gun Fu, as he'd heard it referred to. He started spending more time inside, learning the ins and outs of his prize pistol and getting creative with different methods of drawing, loading, and holstering. In a matter of days, he knew the gun better than most would with years of experience. However, he knew he couldn't just start unloading bullets into whomever became a threat so he plucked himself a
butterfly knife for a more quiet line of defense.
It hadn't dawned on Clay just how dangerous the life he was living could be until it had hit home, and quite literally. It was one night, at the age of seventeen, when he arrived home to see that the front door was broken off its hinges. When Clay entered, he found what little possessions his father had strewn about the apartment and his father's corpse slumped against the kitchen against the wall.
As Clay stood there, looking into his father's cold and lifeless eyes, between which rested the hole that a .38 had bored through, he didn't feel a single sliver of sorrow. It wasn't that he hadn't cared for his father, after all he was the only family he'd ever known, but he felt relief wash over him. No longer would his father be tormented by his inner demons - being put out of his misery was likely for the best. That did not, however, excuse the killer of the cold-blooded act which had been committed in his home. Clay promised himself he would find whoever pulled the trigger, along with anyone else that might have been involved, and ensure they meet the same fate as his father. As he had been making his father decent, he noticed his mother's pendant gleaming from beneath his father's shirt collar. He knew how his father never removed it, let alone let it show. But sometimes Clay would catch his father staring at it, no doubt barely conscious from all the alcohol going into his system, without word before giving a lecture Clay had heard from him hundreds of times.
"Clay," he recalled his father telling him during some countless nights of heavy drinking.
"I want you to promise me something. When I die, I want you to to make sure they don't put me in some hole in the dirt. You hear me? That don't mean I'm gonna let you leave me to rot either. So help me God, if I'm left to rot, I swear I'll claw my way through the bowels of Hell itself and beat you, do you understand?"
As a young child, hearing these words from his father made Clayton weep, almost to no end. As he grew older, fewer and fewer tears were shed until he just became tired of it. He remembered those words clearly as ever, he could swear that he heard his father speaking to him at that very moment. Tears began welling up in his eyes, though they were swiftly blinked away as he just refused to shed any more. Before setting foot from his home he took his mother's pendant, made his father's body as decent as he could - wrapped him in sheets, put him on his bed - then set fire to the remains. With the body of his father undergoing cremation (along with the room and, before long, the whole apartment) he grabbed what little things he had and set off to make a life for himself.
Settling in another abandoned apartment, far from his most recent home, he was left to think about what may lie ahead in his future. He knew the usefulness of his skill, he knew that they could be used for more than just 'getting by' - the only obstacle he could see was being introduced into the unforgiving world of contract killing. He figured there'd be no easier way than by putting his skills on display for the world to see. Finding the absolute worst cesspit of gambling, sex, and drugs, he set up a simple Cup Game stand using five plastic cups, two ball bearings, and a cardboard box. It was nothing new, such things have been done billions of times over, but what people came to see was an unaugmented human with so deft of hands, shifting and sliding the cups at such blinding speeds as he was.
Some local club owner, an Elf by the name of Ewa Kozyra, heard of this kid with hands quicker than a bullet and saw for himself just how true that claim proved to be. Quite impressed, Ewa offered Clay a job as a sort of tax collector, picking money and valuables off those who tipped lightly or just appeared to have an overbearing pocketbook. Months into his 'career', Clay was given an opportunity to take a more dangerous position on Ewa's roster which meant a lot more money; an offer Clay had no intention of turning down. The increase in pay would bring him that much closer getting the information he needed to find his father's killer. For years he's been working and earning, chasing leads in his spare time but always being met with dead ends and empty searches. If nothing turned up from Ewa's informants soon, he would just have to cut loose for better prospects.
Reason to be here/things to do: To bring closure to the injustice done to his father, then give himself the life he never had. Of course if he grew to like the work, he'd probably do so until retiring in one way or another.
Personality: Clay can be quite cocky at times, but he never lets his attitude affect his work. A loud, foul-mouth who's always quick to make a joke and usually has something to say about everything. He won't give a shit if you didn't want his two cents, but he'll give them regardless. He constantly feels the need to test his own abilities to their fullest, but he knows his limits as they stand and isn't stupid enough to push them too far.
Notable skills: In combat, he has speed unlike anything seen before, being able to unload a full cylinder into enemies and reload in just a few seconds. His speed isn't just with guns; on his feet, he's fast as the wind and his hands alone can be as fast as greased lightning, having the prestidigitation to outmaneuver most machines. He's a natural-born liar and quite the smooth talker when he needs to be, and his quickness in his wit only enhances his abilities all the more. He's a master in the art of Gun Fu and is not at all afraid to let it be known. He also has basic knowledge of computers and vehicles, along with minor experience in explosives, primarily knowing how to handle them and how to make them go boom.
Equipment: Aside from his goggles, enhanced running shoes, and armored jacket (as listed in Appearance), he keeps with him his trusty Colt Asp and butterfly knife holstered to his left hip (both shown in History) along with a more recently acquired
Remington Roomsweeper in a sling on his back. He keeps his ammunition (.357 Magnum cartridges with hollow-point rounds for Colt, 12 ga. armor-piercing slugs and double-aught buckshot for Remington) in various pouches and within the webbing of his
messenger backpack. Within his pack, he also carries around a lockpicking kit, a datapad with advanced security encryption (should it ever be 'misplaced'), a firearm maintainance and cleaning kit, blade sharpening kit, and a couple extra sets of clothes.
Contacts:
Ewa Kozyra (Elf) - Owner of The Fen of Fire, a nightclub in one of the more dangerous parts of town. A harsh and ruthless businessman, will go to extreme lengths to ensure that he has his way. Clay's current employer and main source of income.
Karol Reeds (Elf) - Ewa's personal assistant, tech specialist, and hacker. Spending most of her time at a desk and behind a wall of computer moniters, she manages nearly all aspects of Ewa's legitimate and illicit business. Clay's go-to girl for assistance getting into secured systems through his comms (when manual hacking is required) and datapad (for every other instance, when jacking into a network and letting Karol work her magic through it is easier).
Reuben Gaff (Orc) - Ewa's personal arms dealer, does most of his dealings in Black Market arms. He keeps Clay supplied with munitions, as per Ewa's request, and is always willing to cut Clay a good deal for weapons that his employers budget won't cover.
Russel Kibisiac (Human) - An old friend, at least the closest thing to a friend, of Clay's from his youth. A man struggling with a chem addiction that he's been trying to ween himself off from since meeting up with Clay. Assists Clay (for a small fee) with the occasional bounty, usually with tailing from another angle, diversions, and just about any other way he can be useful.
Augustus "Gus" Weyler (believed to be an alias, race is unknown) - An informant, private investigator, and overly paranoid (for good reason), fast-talking well of information. Currently the man Clay has been paying to find leads to his father's killer and occasionally a source of dirt and other info on high value targets. There is very little that Clay, or anyone else for that matter knows about him - Clay has yet to even see him in person.
Danyel Goodhart (Elf) - Operator of Ewa's own chopshop and highly skilled mechanic. Don't let her name fool you, she's cold-blooded and won't hesitate to put a bullet through you if you become a threat to her or her employer's business. Occasionally allows Clay to use the shanty living quarters in the back as a temporary safehouse for when he needs to lay low for a while.
Mickey Magri (Human) - Ewa's drug, arms, and assorted contraband runner. A speed-demon at heart, pilots his heavily modified
2056 Benson Rampage and makes it look as easy as riding a bike. He's always happy to give Clay a lift or act as his getaway driver whenever he has the time for it. Keeps his craft locked up in the chop shop owned by Danyel, whom he mostly works with.
Other: Clay doesn't take too kindly to being ridiculed for his stature and is generally quick to prove the offender wrong to judge him for it. Although he has a tough exterior, he has a soft spot for a good meal.
