James
A pallid chimpanzee, with a barcode tattooed upon his forehead. Sarcastic. Pensive. Bitter. Knows more than you. Talks philosophy round revenge. He smokes old-fashioned, paper cigarettes—to dull the pain of his cheap, testbed implants. He can't stand direct eye contact or physical touch. It stresses him to the point of rage; a fact he finds embarrassing. Virtuoso netdiver, one of the best in the business.
Jame's Crew
Modish ecoterrorists, five in number. Their skin is a sallow-green colour, the result of gene-splicing for photosynthesis, which they show off via transparent raincoats. Carry boltcutters, bombs, and 3D-printed submachineguns in duffel bags. Flippant, haughty, cruel toward mankind but reverent of of nature.
The Hotel Suite
High up, overlooking the city, curtains drawn to let the light flood in. The crew sprawls out across room, some napping in the nude, others loading magazines bullet by bullet. A computer's picked-over entrails are spread across the carpet. The wet bar is buried in takeout containers.
Jobs
Plant this bag in this fenced-off location then walk away and don't look back; get us dirt on an executive, the kind of thing we could use to blackmail them; there's a rare plastic eating fungus being studied in this lab, steal it; we're going to assassinate a politician during his commute, and we need you to run interference.
Payments
Money, for the small stuff. Information and services, for the big stuff. Anything you could want to know, Jame's can find. Anything you could want opened, Jame's can crack. It only ever comes in exchange for helping further his and his crew's agenda.
The Hit Squad
The company still owns James, and occasionally they try and collect. Their hitmen live in a permanently altered, HUDs-and-all, gamified reality, where they get XP bonuses for smoothly executing the board's enemies. The hitmen dress in ill-fitting suits, mirrorshades, and carry colourful, compact assault weapons. During missions, they idly trash talk the opposition like a Call of Duty lobby.
