Solo

"Why'd I join up? I was tired of being hungry and poor. When Militech offered me three squares a day and a cot, you better believe I signed up. The first few actions weren't bad. The third one went pear shaped. Don't know why, but they sent a squad of greenies against a bunch of full body conversions. Just two of us survived. After the War, I took the new chrome the Corp medics gave me and went local. Turns out, when a city's blown to hell and rebuilding, there's plenty of folk who'll pay for a certain set of Skills. Good thing I have them."

You were reborn with a gun in your hand—the flesh and blood hand—not the metallic weapons factory that covers most of your other arm. Whether as a freelance guard and killer-for-hire, or as one of the Corporate cybersoldiers who enforce business deals and the Company’s “black operations,” you’re one of the elite fighting machines of the Time of the Red. Most Solos put in military time during the 4th Corporate War, in a Corporate army, or in one of the government’s current “police actions” around the country. As the battle damage piles up, you start to rely more and more upon tech: cyberlimbs for weapons and armor, bio-program chips to increase your reflexes and awareness, Combat drugs to give you that edge over your opponents. When you’re the best of the best, you might even leave the ranks of Corporate samurai and go ronin—freelancing your lethal talents as a killer, bodyguard, or enforcer to whoever can pay your very high fees. Sounds good? There’s a price—a heavy one. You’ve lost so much of your original meat body that you’re almost a machine. Your killing reflexes are so jacked up that you have to restrain yourself from going berserk at any moment. Years of Combat drugs taken to keep the edge have given you terrifying addictions. There are few people you can trust anymore. One night you might sleep in a penthouse condo in the City, the next in a filthy alley on The Street. But that’s the price of being the best. And you’re willing to pay it. Because you’re a Solo.