Axon needs to make credit, any way necessary, before his debts catch up with him.

Axon considers himself the protector and muscle of the group, though he is oddly under- and over-qualified for these position, respectively. Once in the employ of one of the AA corporations, Axon now calls the office of an antiquated gas-station garage “home”. Though he has insinuated that he worked on at least some high-end projects towards the end of his technical career, the only stories he tells of his former life revolve around maintenance work on machinery older than his grandfather, or gutting an early-model Americar and rebuilding it from the tires up. These are stories only a fellow mechanic would find charming, but he keeps them relatively brief.

It isn’t readily clear where Axon acquired his martial prowess. He seems to have had little more than rudimentary training, but his strength, speed, and accuracy go far beyond natural limits. A data-jack on his left temple is the only visible enhancement, although glimpses of his upper-arms or back-ordinarily clothed-show extensive scarring. One of his fangs is a fake and his nose is slightly crooked, as if set wrong after being broken, and it seems there have been other more-successful facial reconstructions, noticeable only by close inspection or familiarity.

To sum up his possessions in three words, Axon lives “like an ork”. His bedroom was once an office, with a cot being the only addition to the furniture. He is not entirely without luxuries, though: one wall has been recently whitewashed to better display trideo broadcasts from Axon’s comm, and the old filing cabinets are now all-but-bursting with gear and ammunition.

The workspace is rigidly organized, but with an odd-enough assortment of tools as to seem cluttered. A single long, steel table houses a set of mechanics tools on the left, a clear workspace in the middle, and on the right an assortment of glassware, burners, and a pair of latched cases. On the left-the side near the office door-the tools are laid out by size from a blasting torch to an ultra-fine Flathead screwdriver, with five different pry-bars and other heavier items hanging from hooks on the wall above. On the right is chemistry equipment, ranging from fairly-high quality to a few pans that were deemed too rusted for use with food. There is a spot for Axon’s medkit-when it’s not on his person-and an odd red-painted metal case that houses the smaller chemistry implements. The latter has writing on the sides in a foreign language (with modified-Latinate script), and a picture of a blond boy playing with a now-obscured experiment. The lid also features a title or slogan in the same language, and another line in English and larger font, apparently a translation: “Super Cola Go Rocket, Fast!”

The wall to the right of the table holds a few shelves with five or six detonator caps and a few stored chemicals (farthest away from the sleeping area). The wall to the left of the table is bare save for an outlined drawing done in charcoal of a large gear. A few feet of this area has been drawn up in a runny brown paint—the product of a failed test-run of homemade paint, acrylic base and motor-oil pigment.

The wall facing the long table has a couple garage doors that lead to the outside world. It only gets worse from there.


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