Mars City Shadowrun
Serge "Castiron" Merkel
AGS Anarchist. Connection 3
German gnome Anarchist with a chip on his shoulder the size of a dead dream.
Yarrow Sneetch, R6, R4 License. A chef.
Cordon Bleu, Bodyguard, R4, R3 License.
Morri Stire, Language Consultant, R4, R3 License.
Gamalon Wirebottom, Lounge Singer/Deadbeat Dad, R3, R2 License. Used in Patrick Henry Hughes job.
His right arm says KILL FUCKS! (running towards him [the K starts near his wrist]) and his left says EAT LOCAL! (running away from him [the E starts like halfway down his upper arm running towards his wrist). he has a bunch of anarcho tattoos including on his face (anarchy A’s, the peace symbol, the E symbol, the chaos symbol, thick straight line bands on his arms). the only other specific tattoo he has is a red circle with a line through it and inside the circle are the letters SK, which stands for Saeder-Krupp, which is on one of his arms.
He is a 30 year old gnome but looks like a 13 year old with some gnomish features. he wears huge headphones and large goggles (think fighter-pilot goggles), both totally oversized for his face. You can’t really see much of his face because of this, just the lower half of it.
He has a cast iron attached to his belt with a metal hook that he does occasionally use for fighting, but more often than not he simply throws rocks that he has stored in a different leather pouch on his hip. He also has a bunch of cooking knives that he throws attached to a knife block that is ducktaped to his backpack.
He has a large red mohawk.
As far as clothes go, he wears leather armor but it’s pretty ratty, very punk rock, and manifests itself as a vest he wears that can zip up. it’s sort of hobbled together with the wide stiching that punks use (dental floss, typically) and has a bunch of different hues of brown and yellow strips and stuff. has a patch that says CROD STOMPAZ on it. Under the vest he’s wearing a gross shirt with bold letters reading “WE ARE THE 99%.”
He also carries a tattered backpack sporting the usual punk paraphernalia, and the knife block.
He is eastern european in origin and is a white dude.
he also loves to cook and specializes (literally) in urban ingredients and foraging, so rats and birds and shit tied to his backpack or vest.
Castiron was born Serge Merkel to an addict mother in East Berlin on March 17th, 2046. His mother was dead by his 7th birthday and he was adopted by a gang of barely competent anarchists. This first crew, whom he ran with into his teens, were a bunch of douchebag heidonist alcoholic gutter punks who would rather drink away their lives than make something of themselves. When he was 10, Serge began the transformation to gnome-hood that would later come to define how the world saw him. Understanding his unfortunate disposition could also be an advantage, he began to hone his ability to fool adults into thinking he was a child. When he was 13 he looked as old as he ever would, and that same year he killed the leader of his crew, a dwarf named Chelsae, with a bottle of beer thrown so hard at her face it crushed her skull. The rest of the crew backed off, Serge found he had a new, very fucked-up latent talent, and the kid went solo for the second time in his life.
After a year of making a name for himself in the politically active scene of East Berlin, Serge was embroiled in the political underpinnings of the plight of his fellow Berliner. Thus, when he was graciously approached by a rising groups of anarchists in East Berlin, he couldn’t say no. At 14 years old Serge officially began working with “die Nächste Fackel” – the Next Torch – a take on the name of the journal “Fanal” released by Nazi-murdered German anarchist Erik Mühsam in 1926.
Serge was at this point given his eternal moniker when a 14 year old elf named Sew’en, whom he had a deep and passionate crush on, started calling him “Castiron” on account of his use of the ubiquitous frying pan as a projectile weapon and a club and a frying pan. Castiron would later go on to burn Sew’en’s body during the Corporate Murder-Blitz that brought East Berlin to its knees.
Before the Blitz but after the name, Castiron lived in a haze of self righteous rhetoric, passionate nights of music, sex, drugs and writing, endless mornings of picking up pieces, long breakfasts, and hangovers; days filled with patching squats, building community, tending gardens, and hearing lectures. By the time Castiron was 17, Die Nächste Fackel had become the second-most influential anarchist group in East Berlin. Thinkers from around the world came to lecture and learn from the community lived by Castiron and his compatriots. All metatypes, all ages, all backgrounds were welcome.
Underneath the rhetoric of the struggle, though, was the actual struggle; which sounded like the rhetoric except with actual murdering and realistically real tragedy. Castiron and freinds raided West Berlin when they could, fucked with anything they could, but mostly played defense. The sad truth, that no one wanted to face, is that the world was moving past their anarchy – East Berlin was poised to become just another corporate democracy awash in exploitation.
When Crash 2.0 happened, Castiron and the rest of East Berlin was thrown into chaos – the bad kind of chaos. Food, electricity, and wireless shortages frayed the lines holding the “utopian” state aloft. It turned out that it was much harder to have no formal structure of power when you were trying to convince strong people not to rob essential things like food from weak people. In this churning nightmare of idealism smashed against the strongest test reality could give it, West Berlin saw its chance and began to push harder than ever against the anarchists. Desperate to find a way out of the struggle, die Nächste Fackel teamed up with all the other major East Berlin anarchist groups to put an end to the West Berlin problem. They put together a team that went into the corporate zone and never returned, a team that feigned an attack with a nanotech weapon on the EMC/Ford corporate sector.
Castiron was on guard duty in East when he heard that the Corps were moving a veritable army into the city. He and his compatriots fought the Corp soldiers for as long as they could, but in the end Castiron was, unlike some of his friends, smart enough to know when he was defeated. Sew’en was by his side when she was killed by a powerbolt from some corporate wage mage, and when he returned to find her body three days later, her head had been ripped open – the comm removed, her face grisly and ghostly with her cyber eyes torn out. Somewhere some corp fuck could watch through Sew’en’s eyes as Castiron had his first kiss, his first hangover, his first morning with a lover – all of his best memories had been seen through her eyes.
East Berlin signed a peace treaty with West Berlin on March 17th, 2066 – Castiron’s 20th birthday. In his 20 short years he’d lost his mother, his home, his community, his partner, and his war. He left East Berlin on March 18th, 2066.
Castiron soon found that the way he looked would define much of the rest of his life. In East, his metagenic qualities had teetered on either not being important, being a boon, or something inbetween. The anarchism of his youth demanded that all be treated equally, and his entire peer and social structure was based on the idea that his gnome-ness was not a disability. When people were introduced to his community, a simple test of their fitness to that community was their metatype bias. If they displayed a problem with orcs, trolls, gnomes, elves, etc they were asked to leave. In this way Castiron grew up among some of the few people on earth who could’ve skewed his perception as dramatically as it was.
In the rest of the world, a 13 year old boy who was over the legal age limit of sexual consent was good for very vew things. Castiron quickly found out what society expected his role to be. After leaving East Berlin he travelled the AGS, not knowing what to make of himself, awash in guilt and regret and depression. He often thought about suicide. He made his money by stealing from johns who solicited him. Few times did he actually harm those sorry souls, but it did happen that he felt such loathing for them it seemed easier to smash their rib cage then let them go on fucking up the world.
While some men wanted to fuck him, others wanted to kill him. To hang him up, to make an example of him, to rid the world of its freaks. Castiron continued to work on his adept abilities in the train stations, in the streets, in the forests and the pubs. He was becoming instinctually deadly with any object he could pick up. More and more throws meant just to bruise limbs instead severd them. It felt good to him to have that. He didn’t need a gun, he didn’t need a spell formulea or a spirit. Just hand him a bottle, a pen, a coin, a rock. By the time he was 26, he was hunting Goliaths with his rocks, and he needed no sling.
Castiron found a new home among the poltical activists of the Free Hanseatic City of Hamburg. For the last five years he’s been running with a group of metatypes that specifically do runs to fuck with pro-human groups and people.