The BlackHammer CyberPunk Project

Cargo , a CP2020 Character by Fada domfada@yahoo.com


Johnny Cargo
aka Cargo

Characteristics :
INT REF TECH COOL ATT LUCK MA BODY EMP
5 7 4 6 5 5 5 6 7

Skills :
Combat Sense 3 Handgun 5 SMG 4 Brawl 2 Awareness 4
Operate H. Machinery 5 Drive Truck 3 Endurance 6 Resist Drugs 4 Intimidate 4

Cybernetics :

None.

Equipment :

Not much, really. Army-surplus and discarded clothes, over which he throws a SP14 armored brown duster. Icon America SP10 combat boots, knee-high. A few vidchip and a battered pockeTV, a few packs of NicoBars, a handful of random Uppers (stimdrugs). And the guns, too.

Weapons :

Smith & Wesson Combat Magnum PST +1 J C 3d6+1 (.357m) 6 2 VR 50
Browning GP35 PST +1 J E 2d6+1 (9mm) 13 2 VR 50
Mini Uzi SMG +0 J C 2d6+1 (9mm) 30 35 ST 50

Description :

Cargo's just 22, altough his bleached-white skin and deep-set eyes makes him look five years older. Dressing in scrounged clothes, often blood-stained or ripped, he fades into the Street background amazingly well. His voice is disturbingly expressionless, kept flat and low at all times. He keeps his hair red and spiky.

History :

"He ? Name's Cargo. Came around a year ago. My best bet is he's from South, from his accent. He sure must've been in some trouble there - notice the prison barcode tatoo on his neck ? He does jobs here'n'there, kinda anything goes, but he's good with a gun. A mean little bastard. Rumor is he never sleeps... Creepy, huh ? I mean, even with those new cyber, everyone's gotta sleep, no ?"

bar talk at the Skimmie's

"I was born in Mississipi. It was none too good - still ain't. Don't believe the crap they show on TV, about everyone being happy-go-lucky and hard-working nice farmers. It's back to the slavery days there, obey or die, a police-state with Asshole Gardener running the show. Work fourteen hours a day, get your cash, spend it all on state-taxed food, sleep and start again. We got a name for that : it's the Grind. Slowly breaks your mind, you're a fucking zombie by age 20. I did my part, till I was 13. Then I got into the Aryan Nation."

"Ok, that wasn't the smartest thing I did in my life. I mean, of course two Black guys ain't worth a proper White, and I wouldn't trust one with my money, but it's not like there's use killing them. Not all of them are bad, too. But hey, I was young and bored, and they had guns, and in the South, mon ami, having one is having power. Fuck, I felt so much better, like I could really decide for my life myself. Someone bothers you, ya break his knee. He bothers you again, pop a cap in his sorry ass. The Political Police arrested me the day of my 16th birthday."

"They took my name away. Gave me a number instead, 459982, and erased my name from my mind. Still can't remember it. Messed up with my mind, my feelings. Tried to turn me into a robot, then sent me to the factory. You never sleep there, drugs making you daydream while you work, body rests but not the mind. Chemicals turns skin white. Never see outside, and never speak. Ever. Five years in there, and I had forgotten how to talk. The fumes eat at your thoughts and organs. Still can't eat anything solid. Lungs' pretty good, though - had injections for that. One day, something breaks in my mind. I kill the foreman, gun others down, escapes. Flees here."

Things are getting better since I arrived. 'Course, I still have short-term memory problems, and I sleep only two hours a day, with eyes open wide. But my head thinks allright now, and I don't feel that pain in my chest no more. Heck, I'm even making some money with random jobs. Pays for the Nicobars and the drugs. I hear people complaining all the time, but really, life ain't that bad around here."

Art by Matt Henderson (scapegod@hotmail.com)