Name
|
Miguel Martillo
|
Human?
|
Yes
|
Archetype
|
Partner
|
Age
|
26
|
Handedness
|
Right
|
Career
|
Skill Trade
|
History
Origin
|
Second Generation
|
Education
|
Graduate
|
Politics
|
Hegemonist
|
The War
|
Too Young
|
Ambition
|
Mastery
|
Motivation
|
Responsibility
|
Vice
|
Envy
|
Virtue
|
Diligence
|
Lifestyle
Employment
Rank
|
Skill Trade (Automotive Repair)
2
|
Residence
|
Martillo's Automotive Repair
|
Class
|
2
|
Transportation
|
Walk
|
Equipment
Clothing
Zoot Suit
Fedora w/ feather
Work Overalls (-$10)
Beat Vest (-$50)
Padded Barrier Armour: Left Shoulder, Right Shoulder, Left Arm, Right Arm, Left Thigh, Right Thigh (-$10)
Welding Helmet [Hard Hat] (-$5)
Weapons
P&D Wyvern (-$45)
Mirabel Dragoon (-$35)
Miscellaneous
Knapsack (-$10)
10 Buckshot 8-gauge rounds (-$10)
10 Lead .38 rounds (-$10)
Pocket Money ($70)
Augmentation
Eyes
|
Back-Alley Bifocals (Unsettling Appearance)
|
Right Arm
|
Ears
|
Left Arm
|
Brain
|
Right Hand
|
Throat
|
Left Hand
|
Chest
|
Left Leg
|
Torso
|
Right Leg
|
Spine
|
Other
|
Traits
Language: Anglic
|
Cynic
|
Friend Indeed
|
Machine Empathy (+3)
|
Lean On Me
|
Unsettling Appearance (-3)
|
Rally the Troops!
|
Short Fuse (-1)
|
Grit
|
3
|
Intelligence
|
2
|
Slickness
|
1
|
Fisticuffs
|
2
|
Dexterity
|
3
|
Stature
|
2
|
Steadiness
|
3
|
Sleuthiness
|
1
|
Connections
|
1
|
Derring Do
|
2
|
Covertness
|
1
|
Contacts
|
0
|
Hardiness
|
5
|
Sharpness
|
4
|
Resolve
|
3+
|
Vitality
|
11
|
Endurance
|
10
|
Resilience
|
Perks
|
Perks
|
Perks
|
- Double Tap (-6)
- Center Mass (-4)
- Combat Reflexes (-4)
- Stay Down (-3)
- Fortify (-4)
|
- Trade: Automotive Repair (Free)
- Knowledge: Vehicle Engineering (Free)
- Knowledge: Aerocraft Engineering (-5)
- First Responder (-5)
- Battlefield Medic (-5)
|
- It's a Wash (-5)
- Networking (Our Patriots of the Blood)
|
Advancement
When Ricario Martillo and his family finally arrived in Union City after the harsh and unforgiving journey from Aztlan, their eyes were filled with wonder and relief at the miraculous Silver City that promised to lend them a better lifestyle than decades of farming under the glare of the burning eternal sun. The wonder and sparkle in their eyes faded slightly, however, when they became aware that for all its glory and miracle Union City was a harsh and unforgiving mistress in its own right. The small money they had brought with them quickly evaporated, the large family they had also brought packed into a slum apartment, and their hands forced towards manual labor and menial work, the Martillos nonetheless vowed that one day they would make it in Union City. If not them, then their children and grandchildren.
One of the grandchildren of Ricario, Miguel Martillo was one of those lucky few to rise from life in the slums to join the ranks of the lower middle class. With an affinity for machines at an early age, he quickly took to working with his fathers and uncles at their jobs repairing appliances, automotives, and other labor-intensive machines before making just enough money to allow him to attain a public education - one of the first in his familial line. His father had received several work bonuses, he was attending public middle school, and fortunes in general for the Martillos seemed to be improving. Samuel Martillo even bought a small run-down automotive repair shop in the Gotham Borough, a second step on the road to the Silver Dream.
The Vitelian War, however, interrupted things. Samuel Martillo, as was his duty, joined with the Union Marines. Maria Martillo, in order to ensure that at least one Martillo stuck around on the home front, oversaw patriotic scrap drives and civilian automotive refits to donate to soldiers without cars serving overseas. Miguel's uncles and aunts joined up in the Air Force, the Navy, the Marines, and he helped as best he could at only eleven years of age. The years were filled with a constant overtone of hope, fear, anger, and anxiousness...until the War ended, and Samuel Martillo came back a war hero and a dead man, and Maria Martillo found herself a grieving widow. For several years, Miguel helped his mother run Martillo's Automotive Repair, until by the age of 19 he was able to take it over entirely. He fixed cars, motorcycles, bicycles, even the odd Marine half-track on the side. His dreams didn't lay in cars and automobiles, however: in his dreams, falling asleep to the smell of grease and the hum of neon signs, he could fly. Great machines of iron and rivets and hot paint, engines roaring and wings slicing the air clean in half and the choke of diesel smog in his face, no flying fortress or aerostat would he pilot but an honest-to-Founders airplane. He read about them in books, cut pictures out from newspapers and hung them on his wall, and feverishly knew that one day, one day, he would own one for his very own.
And then, one day while 24-year old Miguel was bent over a customer's Lemon, trying to figure out where all the bullet fragments from the gunshots had gone, there was an accident.
Miguel wasn't the poorest of folks, but he didn't have much to his name beyond the shop and his clothes. Augmentations were out of the question - those you needed money for, those you saved up for, those you got if you really needed an edge over the competition and Miguel had prided himself on his skills alone. But when your eyes were nothing more than a mass of white dripping tissue and blood, when everything went dark and you were writhing on the floor screaming because the fragments from the engine were piercing your skin, there was no other option. Even if you didn't have the money, even if you couldn't find a licensed anthromechanist, even if in the end your only option was a back-alley surgeon with unsterile tools and a public school textbook on the subject for advice. Even if, from then on, your new eyes would forever cause you irritation, the cheap and shoddy implants digging in and cutting the skin, regularly causing a release of fluids, blood, and lubricant that made you look like you were crying reddish-black gunk.
That was Miguel's option, and from then on Martillo's Automotive Repair stopped being so successful. From then on, he stayed close at home, cleaning his tools and checking for customers and wiping the blood from his face and wincing every time the augments dug into the tender flesh where his real eyes had been. He made some friends with Our Patriots of the Blood, where several Servos who had once worked with his folks volunteered their time and tried to ease tensions on the streets, though they could do nothing for his new eyes. He stayed in his shop, and only when he saved a Servo from certain death at the hands of some thugs did he think about doing something more. He fought off gangbangers, helped solve some cases with that very same Servo, and cracked a few skulls along the way. He found himself known, if only a little bit.
And when that same Servo, Ford Audington, informed him about a little outfit in the 34th known as the Gangster Squad, he found himself craving more action.