Character name: Gwen Raiden
Player (nickname, handle): Patrick
Over 18? (y/n): Yes
E-mail address (if you don't want this public, e-mail the mods at whedonverserpg AT gmail.com): jupitersdruid16@hotmail.com
New character LJ name (if already created): As yet uncreated, though I've got some ideas ;)
Base of operations: Nice ass loft in a shitty ass building, L.A.
Sample Post:

((This sample takes place before the whole I-got-an-electro-condom-and-did-the-nasty-with-Denzel, but I totally have plans for her in the game's canon/timeline))

The woman panted heavily as she ran down the wet streets. It was curious, she thought as she ran, how the streets were always damp even though it never rained in L.A. Really though, if you thought about it, it probably wasn't something you wanted to think too much about--ew. Anyway, her thick rubber soled military boots slapped loudly against the pavement as she ran down the alleyway, her french braid swinging between thrusting, pumping shoulder blades, and her eyes growing more and more angry with every sodden step. "Kellogg!" she shouted out between burdened breaths. "You know," gasp.

"I already called dibs," wheeze.

"On that shiny," pant

"Toy," choke.

"Surprise," retch. Damn, for a short, skinny, Kurt Cobain wannabe boy could run. If this kept up she was going to lose him.

Improvising a new tack, the woman reached out a gloved hand for the nearest trashcan lid, and flung the metal disc all Ultimate Frisbee style at the grody, tow-headed brat. The disk missed its intended mark--being a trashcan lid, not an actual Frisbee, and thus less aerodynamically sound than T.V. made it appear--but succeeded in tripping him up by glancing his right leg. He rolled to land half on his back, and half on his side, as not to damage the package tucked underneath his arm inside his jacket. Within seconds he was scrambling to get back on his feet, but seconds was all she needed.

The young man let out a guttural screech, whimpered, and shuddered into the fetal position, the reinforced tip of her boot having found that magical place between a man's scrotum and rectum. That magical place of pain, and suffering, and incapacitation; oh, how she loved that place. Rolling him supine, the leather-and-PVC clad thief took the brown paper package, and tucked it into her saddle bag. "See," she said, chest still heaving, "that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

However, as she turned to walk away she couldn't help but hear the little whelp mutter out some pointless, quasi-defiant, face-saving, macho-bull remark, which was going to make things so. Much. WORSE. freak.

"Excuse me?" She said, turning back around to glower down at the unfortunate waste of an embryo.

"You heard me," he squeaked out, more clearly now, and started to stand. "I saw you in there, with the lasers and stuff. You're a fr-" Pop! The sound of a satin covered fist smacking full force into the jaw of a clueless young man. He lay plastered, sprawled out against the ground. The shock hadn't worn off yet, both the literal electric and figurative shock. Even with the opera gloves Gwen had a tendency to discharge on contact, especially when pissed.

"Nobody," she managed to splutter out betwixt clenching jowl, "and I mean no-body calls me a freak. That's MY word you inbred, uptown-playing-downtown, wannabe heroin chic ditch crawler!" Kneeling down, her knee in his gut, she took off one of her gloves, and grabbed a wad of hair, drawing his head painfully level with hers. "What's the matter? Did mommy and daddy not give you enough hugs as a kid? Or maybe they just didn't give you that new limited edition whatthehellever you wanted for X-mas." She paused, as clarity flashed across his eyes, "yeah, that's right," she said, patting the saddle bag, "this? This was just my payment, though I'm starting to think it's a little on the light side. Someone wants you out of the game but good.

"You. I hate you. You and people like you. You have everything, you have EVERY-THING! Everything you could ever want, and half of everything you don't, but it's not enough is it? No, you've always gotta find something to bitch about, don't you? Otherwise it's just not life, right? It's not 'real' enough, or something. Well I've got news for you, Kellogg," her voice dropped, and slowed ominously. "You don't know what real suffering is. I can make you snap, crackle, and pop, and you-" her tirade was cut off by the squeal of tires, and the wale of sirens ebbing louder as they drew closer. She threw a dirty look over her shoulder, back down the alley she'd just run. It would only take seconds, and they were at least thirty of those away...but they'd know it was her--the clients--it'd be too obvious. Turning back to look at the kid, Gwen smiled a crooked, hate-filled smile, "Saved by the bell.

"But," she added, reaching for his right, Rolex bound wrist, "I'll be taking that overtime payment." He screamed out in pain as her bare hand held his arm, while the gloved one slipped the watch off and into her bag. Leaning down, Gwen whispered in his ear, "I'm a freak because of how I was born. What's your excuse?"

Tucking the package back inside her bag, Gwen walked off into the darkness of the Los Angeles night, a glow of red and blue flashing in her wake.