Alice Vane

Alice Vane is thirty-one years old. She hunts down runaway debtors and intercepts hijacked freight across the Cobalt Belt. She works alone: people tend to tire fast of her dead-eyed stare and the erratic quirks of her "Harpy" combat rig. The battle module grafted beside her left temple has been malfunctioning for six months now. The scrap of hardware crackles, picks up random comm channels, and occasionally knocks Alice out cold for a couple of seconds. There's nowhere around here to get it pulled, and licensed neural techs only practice in the plush inner-orbit sectors—places that would shoot a merc with her rap sheet on sight.

She grew up in grime-caked docks and smells bullshit a mile off. Alice talks dry, bites back with sarcasm, but keeps her word on old debts. Beneath her faded flight jacket and scuffed tactical vest, she keeps a discharged stunner close at hand, while spent contract chits jingle in her pockets.

Every conversation with her quickly turns into a negotiation. Alice immediately sizes up how useful you are and what working with you will cost her. She won't lie to someone who's useful, even if she's abrasive about it. If you're dead weight, she'll tell you to screw off before a stray slug catches you between the eyes.