Ork Mechanic, Rigger, Runner
Tall gray-skinned male ork with small lower tusks. Short scar on his right cheek. Bulky build and a bald head.
Pup is just a stray from Glendale. Best home he never knew as a child was the squat he was whelped in. Lana, Pup’s mum, was a workin’ girl on the streets. Just like any parent she didn’t want nothing for her Pup but a better life than she had been dealt. If she could see him now, tall and strong with a reliable roof, she’d have a toothy, tusky grin from ear to tattered ear. Doesn’t take much to find a better life than a prostitute in Glendale can provide.
She kinda liked me I think. See, I’m the John who knocked her up. I’d always smile real big when I came around and rub her big belly. Can’t say I ever came around none after her belly went away, though. She always told Pup I loved him more before he was born, but maybe I got picked up by someone I wronged. “He was a decker,” she’d tell him. She was right. I listened in on her commlink now an’ then, but me getting close to Pup is ‘bout the worst thing that could happen to him. “Always up to no good trying to find a payday that never came,” she’d tell him ‘bout me. Only payday she ever wanted was for Pup to do good and his Da’ to come back. All I want is for my boy to live.
None of that lasted, though. Family ain’t somethin’ you can depend on in L.A. Lana died when Pup was five or so. He ran off and, without a commlink, it was hard for me to track him much. He was mostly running from anything bigger than him, stealing scraps, and survivin’ the only way a little whelp can like that. There was a few times I wudda taken him in, but damn if Pup couldn’t outrun anybody who came at him.
Pup hung around a chop shop that didn’t treat him too poorly. They gave him scraps sometimes, but I kept my distance. His mum got geeked by people tryin’ to find me and I didn’t want him to lose the only other people he had.
He copied them best he could. He had this stolen bike that he strapped an electric engine onto. Everybody thought it was cute at first. He’s been upgrading that same damn bike for over 10 years and now it’s a full-fledged motorcycle. I swear it’s the same damn one, but you couldn’t tell just’a lookin’ at it.
He’d find parts here and there and leave ‘em on the curb outside the shop. In turn they’d leave him nutrisoy scraps and wouldn’t run him off when they closed up. That sort of grew over time and they one day took him in as an apprentice. He got pretty damn good as a mechanic along the way, too.
The quake of ‘69 destroyed half of L.A., including his shop. His friends all scattered and I could barely keep track of him. A few months later I was diggin’ around in a NAN database lookin’ for post-quake L.A. refugees who maybe didn’t need their SIN no more. I sorted by family name and damned if his crooked face wasn’t almost at the top. They gave him some sort of number for a last name and that stuck him above just about everybody the corp tracks. I guess he figured the military would keep him fed and maybe give him a chance to work with some world-class rigger tech. He didn’t last too long, though. He got booted after a few months for assaultin’ an officer. Turned out the only reason he stayed out of the joint was because he knocked the officer on his ass for mistreating a colonel’s classic POV.
Pup kinda dropped outta site for a while after that, but he got rigged up in the military so I could track him alright. I never wanted him to be no runner, but if he’s gotta be that way I always hoped he’d get a deck like me. I guess I don’t get much say bein’ that I never even introduced myself to my own boy. He’s seen me a time or two, but he ain’t know it. He got into racin’ junkers out by a scrap yard off of 210 between Pasadena and Covina. I’d go watch him put his life on the line for a magnetocarburetor, maybe put money on him now and then. He’s a damn good driver, but never had the gear to make it big. I guess that and some pressure from the Pasadena Punkers, some 2-bit go-gang, is what sent him back to the only thing he knew. Egger’s chop shop — sorry, “Egger’s Customs Garage.” Yeah. Right.
He went back to find Egger just about by himself tryin’ to rebuild the last quarter of that god forsaken garage. After that I swear I knew Pup could never think of me as a dad. That damn half-man was it for him, no two ways about it. And why shouldn’t he be? I never did nothin’ for Pup but keep the heat off ‘im once or twice, but he don’t know that. Egger gave him an office to sleep in the back of the garage. That office wasn’t nothin’ but an indoor shed for wasted parts, but it was better than any place Pup had to himself.
Since then Pup’s been workin’ in the shop and runnin’ milk jobs. Hell, he didn’t even know he was runnin’ for the first few months. la Timadora bought the rights to half the block the shop sits on and worked out some kinda deal with Egger. Pup would be sent off in the middle of the night to fix crashed wrecks ASAP with instructions to duck out if the heat came down. Half the time there’d be a coupla’ bloody no-goods in the shadows waitin’ for him to finish the job so they could run off with whatever they ganked from whoever la Timadora had an issue with that week.
That sorta escalated for a while as he got deeper in the shadows. I saw a trid of him on channel 9 last year. I swear you could see it in his eyes. That moment he learnt he was a runner. Security cam caught him rollin’ up on a scene, goddamn toolbox strapped on the back of his bike. But this time there wadn’t no wreck. Naw, this time there was a bleedin’ razorgirl takin’ fire from a coupla Knight Errant P5s who jumped on his back, screamin’ some nonsense at him. He took off outta instinct with big round eyes. He always did know when to run. By the time they ramped off the levee onto the river, though, his eyes was focused as a laser scope. P5s could run the river and when he crossed the other side the news drones couldn’t do the alleys neither. Yeah, that’s when he figured out what he was.