I'm charming, at least that's what they think.
But they don't know I am not, I am really kinda mean.
Name: Rarely offers up her legal name.
Alias: BBYGRL
Age/Appears: 20's
Appearance: Black hair, fair skin, prefers black clothing to blend in the shadows and dark better.
Nature: resilient, conscientious, temperamental
Demeanor: guarded, polite, persistent
Flaws/Weaknesses: She hordes small bits of string, of all colors and textiles. She prizes this collection so much she cut off the hand of a friend who tried to finger her pieces of string. She petrified this friends hand and uses it as a paperweight to this day.
History: Her mother died when she was 8 years old. She was raised by her alcoholic father who was more absent than present for nine years of her life. When she was 17 years old she killed her drunkard father in a heated argument and fled the west coast. Hitchhiking she moved as far east as the cash in her pocket would carry her. BBYGRL found herself in New York and out of funds. She started doing some odd jobs for a crime syndicate called The Old School Elite. After a few small jobs successfully pulled off she found herself face to face with Zeitgeist offering her more permanent work. A war broke out and Zeitgeist the man who took BBYGRL off the streets was killed leaving her back on her own looking for work. BBYGRL took off leaving the empty city behind her, she hit the highway her thumb out and a small amount of cash in her pockets. Hitchhiking across country again. Finding herself in Detroit she spent her last coins on a cup of coffee. As she sat there drinking the warm liquid letting it her sooth her dry throat she was approached by the Right hand of a crime organization offering her work. She looked up to him and asked simply for a poem. He sat at the table near and grabbed a napkin he took a moment while scrawling his prose on the tissue. He handed her the napkin with the black ink scrawled across its white surface reminding her of ying/yang as a smile briefly crossed her face. "Sadly, a poem I cannot give to you, at least not in the form of rhyme.
Prose is more my style, but I have no inspiration now."
To: BBYGRL
From: Billy_Mastrosimone
Sent: Jan 21, '19 16:46
Subject: Hello
I feel that we are all lost in the wilderness of the urban landscape.
The almighty dollar fueling the greed and desire of the powerful.
The bloodshed becoming the embodiment of the bold nakedness of the truth of this life we chose.
Crimson, and thick, and unyielding, just as are we.
Always known, always returning, always prepared to shed further blood.
For we know what this life is, and where it will take us one day.
She folded the prose on the napkin and tucked it into a pocket. Looking Mr. Mastrosimone in the eye she stated , "Very nice. I can not offer anything to you in exchange for what you have laid out except, myself. I have no name around here and no connections that could help anyone. If this okay I would gladly accept employment with you and the outfit you work for."
Money
