TRISTAN "KAT" CAMPBELL - NOMAD
Head Armor: 7 | Body Armor: 11 | Shield: 0 | HP: 45
INT: 5 | REF: 8 | DEX: 8 | TECH: 5 | COOL: 7 | WILL: 7 | LUCK: 3/3 | MOVE: 7 | BODY: 7 | EMP: 3/5
Humanity: 26 | Wounds: | Critical Injuries: | Addictions:
Mustang Arms Mk IIIHvy. Handgun 3d6 | ROF 3 | Hands 1 | Concealable
Shots (12): ◊◊◊◊◊ / ◊◊◊◊◊ / ◊◊ Reloads (5): □□□□□ | Big KnucksMedium Melee Weapon 2d6 1/2 AP | Brawling3d6 | Arasaka Kuma LRVCompact Ground Car - CHOOH2 Powered
Seat 6
Combat Speed 20
Narrative Speed 100 MPH
SDP 70 / 70
Upgrade:
>Seating Upgrade
>Heavy Chasis (+ Tow cable)
>Housing Capacity (RV for 1 w/ toilet, shower & kitchen)
Ramming Attack: 6d6
The Kuma growled along the blacktop, rumbling through the congested urban arteries of the City - halting at the construction clots and vering off into the back alley capillaries with the other mercantile traffic - a rust red blood cell spewing CO2 into the body civic. Views of the bay over the barrier walls of US16 faded into the shadowed snarl of high rises and then lower, older construction mingled with the industrial remnants that once dominated the old port district.
The smell didn't fade tho. Day old noodles. Not the cat crat, oddly, just the noodles, which would probably be worrisome if he knew the stall. Some synthetic sesame and scallion gone to rot in the NC heat clung to the seats; held at bay only by the air rushing through the half open cab. Left him in the odd position of having to be grateful for the ozone and saltwater algae funk of the harbor.
Impatient fingers and cyber-hardened knuckles tapped a staccato on the steering wheel as the Kuma pulled northbound onto Castille. He was running analogue this trip - as he had every trip, since Rache. The Kuma might have been wired for DNI but with her gone he didn't trust himself to debug the systems if whatever she'd been running had been . . left, there. And so long as that CPU maintenance required icon on the dash stayed lit he -
Cat killed the thought as he caught sight of the corner, his relaxed face shifting closed into a professional mask. Firing up his agent he sent a local-area ping, mirroring the pastor's own.
Might as well tell 'em the ride was here.
A mottled rust red and gunmetal grey Kuma swung out of the driving lane into the gutter, kissing the curb and in true Night City fashion mounting it with two tires for want of an actual parking space before halting into a parked idle. Where the red paint had not been rubbed down to the base metal or hastily painted over in a rushed hurry a few fragmentary spray-painted words were scrawled and visible - nothing cohate save a neon blue question a decade late and some eddies short. The man inside the rollbar framed cab killed the engine with a jerk below the steering column but didn't move, instead folding lanky, armor-jacked arms over the wheel and turning a deadpan cyberoptic gaze towards the smoking men and lingering women at the corner.
"You the pastor's lot? If'n you wanna roll 'n talk, hop in, otherwise point me where you want me. Rather not park on a main."