Doctor Christopher Abrasier
Core IX… let me tell you a little something about Core IX. It doesn’t care for people who can’t work the work or walk the walks. It thrives on one things: fear.
The wars met a young Christopher Abrasier when he was naïve and willing to believe that a bit of fighting could bring some honest food on the table. A lot of people sought to make ends meet, and he was one of them. He wasn’t particularly strong or particularly smart or even particularly handsome, and he somehow convinced himself that despite the cruelty that arose in his world, it was all fair game.
Despite the initial draft for combat, he was soon moved to a medical division and that was when his trade started. When the battles had come and gone, however, it was hard to find a reliable job that could sustain a family as big and numerous as his. The more the years passed the more cutthroat the industry began until eventually he found himself broke, homeless and starving.
Deep in the underground of Core IX, however, he found salvation amongst a group of people that had also faced the cold reality of their existence. With a lifetime of unfortunate experience behind him and the sudden emergence of a particular kind of drug trafficking, he took on a new path. The ones that stood besides him considered him a mentor for the needy and poor while those that sought control above all else thought he was nothing more than an ant that would ultimately face demise. It was only a matter of time. Nobody could have imagined the impact he would have on the scrawny planet.
For the most part he treated the wounded workers that couldn’t afford good medical care, much less an insurance. Christopher owned a number of pop up centers in deep caverns and rotten basements. It was a weak salvation for many, but salvation nonetheless.
It was around the time he had turned forty that a group of chemists managed to run away from their own cores, seeking asylum in the webbing underground that the medic knew all too well. They had developed an art form and an escape that corporate moguls and pharmaceutical behemoths struggled to crush. The procedures were simple and thus easily masked. Tattoo artists would practice their craft on willing skin with special dyes that pushed antibiotics, painkillers but mostly hallucinogenics into their customers. It was all difficult to trace and too costly to even prove. Christopher found himself working with the gang and soon his makeshift clinics half the time worked as inconspicuous tattoo parlors.
But there was a time to end it all. After numerous years of controlling the business flow and after more than a few threats to his own person, family and friends, enough was enough. Now Christopher seeks to find a job that could save him enough good and honest money for retirement. The show was over.
He knew he couldn’t very well make it as a doctor anymore. With a name too tainted and far too many young and brilliant minds taking over the industry, the so called mafioso chose to turn to the scrapjacks.
It don’t take a genius to work out how to fool the big man
Years of working around the system has made Christopher more than a little aware that a good heart, sincere intentions and truthfulness wound never get him far. He knows how to drop a lie on the spot. He had created a number of personas for himself in case revenge seeking sociopaths would come running after him. As for Mao and his team, the medic has decide to start off on a trustworthy path, leaving no stone unturned. If he wanted to trust the rest of the crew then he would expect the same in return and as such amongst them he is pretty open and honest about his life. The authorities, however, can go suck it.
If you’re one of the few that has learned to lean on people and not drugs, then I salute and envy you…
The addiction first started early on, before the arrival of his trusty tattoo artist drug dealers. First it was alcohol, then Spider Weed and Hash, then it evolved into a need for hard drugs that would fry any person’s brain. The tattoo drugs, however, had proven to be harmless despite frowned upon and of course after a few weak attempts at sobering he would fall back onto those instead. The bottles of alcohol, however, seem to always remain by his side.
Take it from me, kid; you make it as far as retirement, you dig yourself a comfy hole in the ground and die in it. Peacefully. It’s the best anyone can ever hope for.
Christopher has long since accepted the fact that he can no longer control the so called ‘empire’ back home.
“ I’m going to need more compound for the medi-printers…”
His little medical shopping list item signified that somewhere in his drug-addled, broken mentality, he felt a permanence here. Rather than take the money, if there really was going to be any money from this salvage, and run, he had given voice to an assumption that he would be sticking around.
However, he suddenly realized that ‘home’ wasn’t where he came from, it was where he was right now. Aboard the Calypso with a pack of scrapjacks.
Now, if he could just make this work, things might not be so bad. In fact, they weren't that bad.
Provided nothing from the ‘empire’ back home doesn’t come looking for him.
by CB Ash with Artbreeder
Currently Boarded Vehicle
Species
Age
39
Children
Eyes
Brown-hazel
Hair
brown-black
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
beige toned
Height
5'10"
Weight
172 lbs
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