On the Maelstrom's Edge
Name: Lloyd Fergusson Player: XP: 5 Rank: Novice
Age: 36 Gender: male Race: Human (Luna)
Agility d6 Pace 6
Smarts d8 Parry 5
Spirit d8 Toughness 6(9)
Strength d4 Charisma 0
knowledge (corporate law) d4
(e)Power Points +5 power points, once per rank only
(e)AB (Psionics) use psionics, 10 power points, 3 powers, 1 on skilldie makes Shaken
(h)Code of Honor Character keeps his word and acts like a gentleman
(h)Enemy (minor) Character has a recurring nemesis of some sort
(h)Bad Eyes (minor)-2 to attack or notice something more than 5ft distant
power points: 15
Armor 2 touch 3 (1/rnd) 2 armor, raise 4 armor
Healing 3 touch instant 1 wound, 2 on raise, cast at victim wound penalty
Mind Reading 3 smarts
Advances: Spirit +1 (to d8)
MK XIV “Aggressor” – $150
Communicator – $25
100 standard bullets – $10
lighter – $2
flashlight – $10
bulletproof vest – $150
Carry: 0 lbs.
Load Limit: 0 up to 20, -1 to 40, -2 to 60, -3 to 80
Lloyd is an average-looking man- clean shaven, slightly greying brown hair, conservative spectacles, average height and build. He typically wears a slightly rumpled suit.
Once, Lloyd worked for the Cartel as an investigator, using his mental powers to root out corruption and graft. Unfortunately, he became involved with the Whitestar investigation.
The evidence against Roger Whitestar was clear and simple; whatever his motive, he was guilty. When Lloyd was asked to root up evidence against Roger’s family, he found nothing. Then he received orders to testify against the Whitestars using fabricated evidence. Instead, he produced an honest report that was buried in the slew of slanted documents used to put away Roger and Morn.
For his trouble, he was summarily fired. To this day he’s not sure if it was someone in Capitol or the Cartel he burned by not producing damning evidence; what he does know is that every now and again thugs come around to try and rough him up. Thus far, he’s always given them the slip.
Now, Lloyd wants to get to the bottom of who wanted him to lie under oath and figures the best way to do that is to get close to the target he would have been aimed at….
The first sign is usually the whispering. Soft voices just at the edge of perception, not quite making it out but knowing that it’s there. Never stops. Drives you mad, really. A lot of people don’t make it through the whispering; we’ll find them dangling from a hotel room door or spattered on the inside of a windshield, a day late and a dollar short. It’s good in some ways. If you can’t take the whispering you’re not going to make it with us either.
The first time you make out the words, though- that’s the best day of your life. That second where you finally know you’re not crazy, that you actually can hear what’s in their heads, that’s gold right there. It’s better than your wedding day or the birth of your first child, just knowing that all that time you just knew you’d lost your mind you were wrong.
My first time was in a restaurant with my ex. We’d been fighting, largely because I was losing my mind. In the middle of his soup, spoon in mouth, I clearly heard his voice: “I can’t take this anymore, Lloyd.” I let him swallow, took his hand, and told him that he didn’t have to. I got up and practically skipped outside.
Six guys in boxy suits and trenchcoats were waiting for me. “Lloyd Fergusson?” one of them asked. “You’ll want to come with us.” Somebody opened the door of a giant black car, and not really thinking I found myself sitting down. And so, in the back of a luxury sedan with two faceless minions after just dumping my boyfriend, I joined the Cartel’s psychic investigation unit.
Saving a life is better than taking a life, 8 times out of 10. We were in training; it’s like a boot camp for Cartel spooks, somewhere on Luna. Except all these spooks could read your mind. My room mate, and thus constant companion, was a kid named Burke. He was a telekinetic, and a talented one (and one of the few non-ESPers in our class). He’d been trying to teach me stuff and I’d been trying to learn, but all I ever picked up was how frustrated he was.
Sooner or later every agent needs to know what it’s like to be shot at. They broke us into two-man teams and sent us into a building mock-up to go room-to-room, with an instructor putting actual bullets around us. Safe as houses, they said. Keep your head down and you’ll be fine.
Well that was bullshit. I was almost hit in the first room, and Burke deflected another round with his mind in the second. After that I could see him get cocky, not keeping proper posture but screening himself with telekinetic force. I yelled at him to stay down, but he was in the zone.
I think the round ricocheted off his shield and then the wall; regardless of how it happened, it hit him between his jaw and his left ear. Burke dropped like a sack and his medical sensor tripped the emergency klaxons. I could hear footsteps running – not fast enough – and was paralyzed for a moment by just how much blood and brains were coming out of Burke’s head. I knelt next to him and touched his face.
And had an epiphany. It was like I could see every one of his molecules, hooked together and moving around. And in that eternal second I could reach in and move them around, line them back up, fix the giant hole in Burke’s head. So I did. I grabbed onto the cells of his skin and bone and brains and lined them back up, put them into neat little stacks like the rest of his body.
When I was done it felt like I zoomed out from him, and suddenly time began again. I had an amazing headache but Burke’s wound was closed and he was breathing. Then the paramedics stormed in and everything blurred.
I’ve healed a lot of people over the years, and it still messes with my head like that. Burke was weird after the incident; I never talked to him after we graduated. They told me he was killed a couple years ago, junkie with an axe surprised him on a routine collar. I sent his wife flowers but I couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral.