I would love to play this as a technomancer mainline Rigger/back-up hacker (I won't be hacking everyone's smartgun system as my main offence, but I will thread a lot and use the Matrix as a secondary offensive technique). Ideally, however, you'd at least through some Karma in on top of the 350 BP to help us out. Even as little as 20 would give the extra plus needed to make BP heavy builds like Combat Mages and Technomancers the Initiation/Submersion they need to be viable.
I'll drop my background, and see what you think. Bear in mind I'm modifying a hacker character I wrote up not too long ago that I've wanted to use for a bit now.
JaX@77@X
Male
Elf
Hacker, Back-Up Rigger
JaX is neither big nor small, sitting at 5'10" and 158 lbs, but he stands out as a pasty caucasian in the middle of Hong kong. What noteworthiness he loses in stature, he makes up for in pale, gaunt, unhealthy pallor. He doesn't sleep much, and when he does it's sitting in a chair auto-logged from fatigue, surrounded by empty soy-caf cups and takeout wrappers. This lifestyle based around the latest in health and nutrition studies shows, as his muscles are wirey, his ribs poke at his skin, and his skin carries the lovely shade of pearls. That said, he still has the natural looks and swagger of an Elf, and while fairly distracted and meek in the real world, he always gets a little bit more confident when he has a buzzing auto-drones loaded with exploding rounds hovering behind him.
The fairly young elf wears a leather trenchcoat and red-tinted goggles, with greasy black hair that stays out of his eyes seemingly of its own accord. His hands are gloved, and a weightey revolver graces his hip, styled after none other then Guts Gardener, Alien Menace's own sub-ether blaster. Despite this semi-steampunk retro-look, he's more prone to drop smoke and bolt then he is to stick up for himself in a fight, and despite being none too shabby with a gun, he knows he's got neither the skill, the 'ware, nor the balls to be a street-sam.
Jax loves cracking. Plain and simple, he lives for what he does, and no matter how much it hurts or how close to a BlackHammer wipeout he comes, he'll always come back for more. He cracks nodes for money, he cracks them for new programs to drop on the market early, the latest games and trid flicks to leak for higher 'trix-cred, and sometimes, just to prove he can. He doesn't much like real people, with only a few friends he's met face to face, but he maintains a network of contacts via the Matrix that are as close as family. Jax is not an overly vengeful person, but people who take advantage of him or his friends tend to find bad things happen. Spammers get a hold of their 'Link digits, Taxi companies block their calls, their SIN can never get approved for a loan, etc. He never says no to a showdown of skill in VR sims, or even better a display of whose the better hacker, but he's not so dumb as to advertise what he does unless there's a damned fine getaway trail of trick-filled nodes awaiting his hasty exit.
Jack Sperethiel was born in the UCAS, 2050, to the troubled and turbulent city of San Fran Cisco, right smack-dab in the middle of the reign of General Saito, back in the good old days when he answered to the JIS, to a pair of Elves who found comfort and love in each other in the middle of a xenophobic and hateful city, run by worse then exploiting militant rulers. Of course, come 2061 and Saito's seizure of the JIS forces running San Fran as his own personal troops, the inevitable furthering of metahuman restrictions and abuse drove the Sythriel line out of CalFree, and straight over the ocean into Europe. Of course, with all the destabilization and militant tensions rocking that part of the world in the wake of the Eurowars and Nightwraith's definitive but certainly unpleasant resolution, they kept on the move, and eventually wound up in Tír Tairngire, where the Elven superiority had been deeply ingrained in everything from politics to the private sector, and the hardworking and long abused and neglected pair of parents found the whole thing a glorious relief from the stress and fear of humanity. Jack, however, did not. The racially segregated lifestyle of the elven nation was stifling, and his voraciously technological appetites were hard to satiate in a land where spirituality and newly formed "ancient" traditions took precedence. Jack went underground, to the black market tech-world, and picked up the best hot-sim jailbroken module he could find, and delved the worlds of the Matrix with a vigour and recklessness managed only by the arrogance of youth.he discovered BTLs, and his already reclusive life became one devoted to the electrodrug and finding better ways of running them, granted with little success - despite his fervent desire, he would never be more then a sub-par slicer. His parents despised the habits they saw forming, and through punishment, confiscation, and finally a complete severing of ties, they tried to drive him off his drug of choice. They failed, and he left, cursing the glitched bastards as he wandered the less repressive parts of western Europe, trying more BTLs then his brain would have liked.
On the day of The Crash 2.0, things changed, as a Hot-Simmed Jack frantically scanning the frequently illegal nodes he always searched for a fix got abruptly cut off from his mind. He woke up a three days later in a beeping, sterile white room filled with computers and monitors displaying the fact that he was alive. They couldn't show the doctors the extent of the rift that had seemingly opened up his brain to the fires of hell, as the most intense, vision-blurring headache of his 16 years of life wracked him. He was practically thrown out after he woke up, however, with a bottle of percocets for the pain, to open the bed up for another Crash-victim. He wrote it off as the migraine, but the whole cab ride back to his ruddy little apartment, he swore he heard voices. Jack got home and plugged in his emergency chip - to drown out the pain - and passed out. He woke up six hours later, with dried blood running from his nose to the caked on patty of it covering the right side of his face. Looking in that mirror, at the pale, wasted frame, ribs poking out, lips cracked and red-rimmed eyes framed by the sort of bags he might have packed for a two week trip, he realized what he was, why his parents had bailed. He was a junkie. more then that, he was the worst kind of junkie - one who did it out of pure mental weakness. A drug addict can tell you, it isn't just the mind that needs the hit, in fact that desire is put there and reinforced biochemically by a physical need for his drug, and driven too deep to ignore by the wracking effects of withdrawal. BTLs, however, just let you be what you wished you were. He was done. No more of this drivelling, beggar of a weakling, sucking the world of it's generosity and burdening it with a useless waste.
