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"good morning, my name is R̵̲̝̦̦̯̟͉͔̔͗̄̈̈̈́̃̏́̈̕̚ȩ̵̨̛̤̱̝̥̖̖̞̩͙̊̅̾̓̍̾͜á̷̢̯̦̠́́g̴͚̳̥̩͍̙̖͉̖̠̑̈́̐̑̐̌͛̽a̷̧͙̩̖̣͖̘̝̜͗ͅn̷̢̨̯͚͓͔̳̯̲̓͜ ̴̥̙͍͙̓̽̃̏̎̄͘Ṋ̷̨͎͕͔̺̱͔̫̻̙̤̮̏͂̆̄ỏ̷̗̣̠̊̈́̃̒̀̄̍͝͝͝ͅv̷̛͖̿͒̈́́́͘a̸̡͖̹̱̳͍͍͍͉͂̄́̇̅̐̄̈́͛͐̕͜k̴̫̼̈́̅̀̽͋̔̍"
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Unimportant. Your name is irrelevant until you can prove that you
aren't. The youngest child of the brood, but not spoiled. There's no opportunity to. There's too many people in the house, too many mouths to feed. The family isn't united either. Your mother is at your father's throat. Your siblings all fight and scream and struggle for dominance. Everyone pitches in, and nobody likes each other. Dysfunctional. You learn the best way to survive is to be invisible. You bide your time. You find your strengths. Books, math, science,
the academic. That's where you find your talent. And with the burning desire to claw your way out of the shithole you'd been birthed into you set your sights on anywhere but here. [break][break][break]
"good afternoon my name is R̵̲̝̦̦̯̟͉͔̔͗̄̈̈̈́̃̏́̈̕̚ȩ̵̨̛̤̱̝̥̖̖̞̩͙̊̅̾̓̍̾͜á̷̢̯̦̠́́g̴͚̳̥̩͍̙̖͉̖̠̑̈́̐̑̐̌͛̽a̷̧͙̩̖̣͖̘̝̜͗ͅn̷̢̨̯͚͓͔̳̯̲̓͜ ̴̥̙͍͙̓̽̃̏̎̄͘Ṋ̷̨͎͕͔̺̱͔̫̻̙̤̮̏͂̆̄ỏ̷̗̣̠̊̈́̃̒̀̄̍͝͝͝ͅv̷̛͖̿͒̈́́́͘a̸̡͖̹̱̳͍͍͍͉͂̄́̇̅̐̄̈́͛͐̕͜k̴̫̼̈́̅̀̽͋̔̍"
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Inconsequential. You are a nobody, all things considered, but at least your work is impeccable. You don't acknowledge your past, or your family. You embodied the most crucial lesson of what they had taught you: survival of the fittest. You left without theatrics or waterworks. You never called or wrote. You didn't care. You saw your chance to escape and you did, and now if you end up dead and in the gutter for the risk than so be it. You put your mind to work, researching, tinkering, exploring. Anything and everything you can learn, you do. Slowly you form your niche, and slowly you began reaching out for internships and apprenticeships. You're goal is the one that paid the best. And after a couple of months, a few exhibitions, a corporation reached out to you. They promised you a job upon graduation. They were interested in your work and the ability to transport it through hand held objects. It's all very vague and very pretty words for what they really wanted: weapons technology that was easy to hide and smuggle. [break][break]
Without thinking of the consequences you agree. And after a long,
long trial period you are selected to have your education furthered. You have potential, and a lack of morality along with it. As long as they kept the money moving, you would do anything while spitting on your ethics classes. The years fly by as you further towards a master's and then a PHD. You have your fingers entwined in every step of the process. The brainstorming, the ideas, the sketches, the testing- You make bad shit, deadly shit, and from start to finish you get to tinker, refine, and perfect a new or more efficient way to inflict pain. Your work facilitates Rocket's ability to inflict agony in more ways than just torturing someone with their own hands and pokemon. And the best part? It's able to be mass produced and sold to others. [break][break]
Their blood is on your hands, but you never heard their screams. You are blinded by your greed, your comfort, and your love. Because yes. Oh yes. Even you, a woman without a conscience or beating heart, even you, grew fond of someone. He thought you couldn't enjoy the present. You thought he resented your plans for the future. Somehow you connect. And somehow, its mutual. You're both bad at communicating. You don't and well- yeah. You don't. Even in your affection there is a block, a wall. [break][break]
You never get to resolve this. The deeper you fall into Rocket, the worse your machinations and scheming gets. The more power you have, the more it corrupts. You cross the line, and you don't realize you have until you feel something thump
hard inside your chest. You try to play God in your little lab and it backfired. You hurt people with your thoughts, and your inventions. It all somehow hits right at the same time and for once in your life you're scared. You can't unshoot a bullet. So you run. [break][break]
Traitor.
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"Good Evening, my name is Kennedy Quinn."
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Who you were, does not matter. Kill her, maim her, cremate her, forget her. The League gives you a new life, promises protection under their careful eye. You do everything you can to escape. You get a new face, you learn new skills. You're moved away from your old stomping grounds and transplanted into a new, up and coming toy tech and beauty gadget company. You move as if in a dream, living this new life and hoping Rocket doesn't drag you back. [break][break]
Your new work is simple. It's clear that you're overqualified for this job, and when you run through your assignments too quickly you eventually are allowed to assist in the design aspect. You didn't have many toys growing up, but with a bit of help form your fellow scientists you switch gears more easily. You pursue innovation and excitement. Instead of thinking about the most efficient way to rip fingernails, you come up with drone that can learn routes and schedules. You learn to get along, to let down some of your guard around your colleagues. They keep you from working yourself to the brink. [break][break]
But still, you have so much time on your hands when you aren't sleeping in your lab. And so you struggle to fill up space after work. The weekends are the worst for you. Sure, you could just endlessly scroll the web and watch make up videos but that wasn't something you took joy in. Maintaining and buffing yourself was an act of survival, and the minute it was no longer necessary you would abandon it. Desperate for a hobby, but unwilling to leave your home to find it, you stumble on a paid ad read in a mascara review. [break][break]
That's all it took to fall into the rabbit of your first ever mmo. You dump every waking second into it, replacing staying up late at work with staying up late playing that stupid game. You like to blame the graphics and the buff male avatar you chose for yourself, but you know that's a half hearted lie at best. It's not easy, or intuitive at first. You've never experienced something like this, but eventually you fall into a routine and you invest into it like any other hobby. You practice, you get better. You like your character. You're drawn in by the story, simple as it may be. You think the events are fun, and you even enjoy creating a guild with a couple of friends you meet. And then time passed, and you're unsure how, but your voracity for a f2p mmo earned you rank and with that status. You become a top player, sometimes you compete. You avoid sharing your face and you get a voice change to sound more masculine. You don't care to be bothered outside of the game. You're just here to play it. And play it well, apparently.
