Everyone who looks at Quick sees someone a little different. Some might find a polite young man bursting with potential, searching eagerly for his big break in life, while another might see a shifty-eyed hoodlum who’s spent his twenty-some-odd years being toughened by the unforgiving streets of Seattle. A dock-worker, a thief, a salesman, a gun-for-hire. Seamless as a pool of mercury, Quick can be any of these things on a moment’s notice.
When you meet Quick, he doesn’t get to know you. More, you two knew each other in a past life, and have only now started catching back up. Have a job you’d like to hire him for? He’s sensitive to your needs, and you can put your trust in him. Disgusted with the fact that you’re the guy who has to reach into the seedy-underbelly of Seattle to rustle up a few cockroaches? Don’t worry, Quick is the prettiest (or at least, the best mannered) cockroach this side of the Barrens, and will get you in and out of here as fast as possible.
On the job, Quick is always dressed for the part, and only in strange, quickly-evolving circumstances does he find himself out of place. However, this isn’t to say that Quick doesn’t have a identity that he tries to put forth, an image of Quick that presents to the world as Quick. After all, as a Shadowrunner, he is caught in the eternal catch-22: he needs to get reputation to get the jobs, and the jobs to get the reputation.
Physically, Quick is not tall for an elf, though he is above average height for a human, with an athletic, wiry build. His complexion is olive-tanned and somewhat weathered like a laborer’s would be, but his hands are smooth and unblemished, with trimmed nails and dextrous fingers that probably haven’t swung too many hammers. Still, this isn’t what makes him stand out in a crowd; evidently, it’s not just his tongue that’s silver. From his piercing irises to his close-cropped hair, silver is a theme that permeates his countenance. The set of ‘trodes he wears is fashioned into a silver angel’s halo, casting a subtle white light across his brow, and the fingerless AR gloves are stylized with silver gilt. Not everything is silver, though; having drawn the line at his suit, the fabric is still a brilliant white, though with accents of silver about it in the form of belt and tie and cufflinks. Soft, white leather shoes complete the ensemble; to see him like this, one might almost think he was just another corporate stiff himself, albeit a stylish one … or, more likely, a simstar playing the part of God in a modern trideo, descended from on-high to see firsthand the suffering of his children.
If, of course, God carried a gun.
Born in 2048, Yevgeny is Russian by decent, but so many generations removed that he’s not sure why his family clung so hard to the past. Still, they did, and he grew up bilingual, with a strong work ethic and good morals. In school, he was unremarkable, not being especially good or bad at anything. For a time, he lived a charmed life, having all the worries of Tom Sawyer, but one that was missing something that he could never quite put his finger on. For the longest time, he chalked this up to being an elf among human children, always a little different, never really fitting in. Kids always want what they can never have, and he always wanted to be loved by those around them.
He grew up this way, always trying to be the one people picked first for their team or wanted to sit with them during lunch — and eventually, he got it. Overly so. Everyone’s life is dramatic and tumultuous during early adolescence on some level, and Yevgeny’s own struggles tended to be ones leaning towards being loved and wanted by many, while at the same time seeming disingenuous and manipulative to everyone else. He learned from some hard lessons, and found that no matter what he did, he just couldn’t fit in with everyone.
Still, life was not so bad, and as upbringings go, he lacked for little.
This changed in ‘64, as it did for countless millions. Loosing his SIN, home and family in the Crash and the violence that ensued as a result, he saw the world with different eyes. Going through his own personal Awakening during the bloody riots that followed the Crash, he stood in the ashes of his life and took a good, long look at the different paths that lay before him, swept up in dark emotions. He felt impotency at the inability to protect that — those — whom he loved. He felt inexplicable guilt at having survived the madness when those more capable and more deserving had died about him, urging him to run. And underscoring all of this, making all of it worse was the fact that the most beautiful thing had happened to him in this man-made hell on Earth — he had Awakened — and it had done nothing to help him save his mother from being shot. He had gained a power that most people could only dream of achieving, would kill to get … and it had not made the slightest bit of difference when his father burned to death in his own home. The beauty of this mystic world of which he was now a member was tarnished with the soot of his family’s remains.
Yevgeny discovered very shortly that the world had forgotten about him. The Crash wiped out a lot of data on a lot of people; the riots had wiped out a lot of people. Standing there in the burned shell of his home, looking at his options … it is perhaps not so hard to believe that he chose not to come back to the Civilized world. No, he receded back into the shadows; he’d found what was missing in his life, though more than once in the years since, he’s wondered if rather It found Him.
Griller, a childhood friend who had long since dropped out, had his own life turned upside down in the Crash as well. Fortunately, his parents still lived — or at least, one of them did; Griller never even knew his father. Even before the Crash, Mother Dearest didn’t give a rats ass if there was another person living in the home; after voluntarily sterilizing herself following the disaster that was having a first child, she more or less forgot about him. This made her more of an asset to her pimp, who then put her in riskier and riskier situations with worse and worse Johns that one day ended her life; Griller found her body on her own bed, naked and sprawled at crazy angles, the floral bedsheets still around her throat.
By that time, Griller and Yevgeny had thrown in with the local thugs, the Watchers, a small group of toughs who protected their turf with whatever means necessary. But, the name Yevgeny had been dropped, forgotten, replaced with his street handle: Quicksilver. He first learned to use firearms at the tender age of 16, shortly following the Crash; learn or die. Having Awakened, his adept powers merely extended what was already natural to him. When Griller’s mother died, the violence that the world had inflicted on him in general seemed to have manifested itself in the specific. The John who killed Griller’s mother was the first person Quicksilver ever killed; the pimp, the second. Violence wasn’t natural to Quicksilver, but it became so over time.
Having no real understanding of what was happening, he kept the mystic side of it from society at large. The Watchers knew, though.
At some point, Quick (as his name became shortened to over time) began making connections in the darker areas in Seattle. It turns out that certain people like gangers for the odd jobs that require less thinking and more muscling. Over the course of the next six years, Quick would find himself in a lot of tight situations, beginning with some easy, “milk runs” given to him by a Mrs. Johnson in a tight-ass suit, later in more bloody runs given by a Mr. Johnson with a tight-ass demeanor. It was then that he sort of “upgraded” from the street lifestyle all the way up to some semblance of normal life.
He met a number of people over the years; folks who got him things he needed. Junkyard dealers when he needs new gear, backroom doctors when he needs new stitches, enigmatic Matrix denizens when he needs another language or a piece of whiz software. He even knows a shaman type who is forever trying to convince him of some very radical, very poorly-articulated notions; despite everything, he tends to get on quite well with him.
Over time, Quick pulled himself up from the fires of violence that threatened to burn through his whole life, casting flickering shadows on everything he would ever do. Quick had found that since the Crash, he had pulled away not only from the world, but from people in it; he still wanted to be loved, but this desire was a bit more twisted at this point. The distance he took from people gave him a natural objectivity, giving him a clear view of how to manipulate them. On some level, he is still a people lover, but he is damaged on some level; this desire to be loved is measured not so much in love, but in success at getting people to go along with his wishes. On some level, he wants to heal, but right now, he’s got jobs to do and lives to throw away.
Quick’s life now is a something of a contradiction. He has a safe apartment, a normal car and even a motorbike. He’s got a fake SIN he uses for buying groceries and a very good fake SIN he uses whenever he has a run-in with the law. He’s got bills, he’s got trash to take out. But, flip the coin over, and you find that he’s got blood on his hands from some of the runs he’s been on, and a nasty habit of using stimpatches and other painkillers to the point of addiction.
On some level, there’s a question as to who Quick really is. His whole life has been an identity crisis; he’s been many things to many people, and only Griller has been around to watch the whole metamorphosis, though he’s so wrapped up being a soldier for the local arm of the Mafia that he doesn’t have much to say in the matter. The conclusion Quick has come to is one of remarkable simplicity: who gives a shit. He is who he is, he is what he is, and all of this self-searching bullshit is for people with too few problems on their plate. Quick would rather be doing something.
Perhaps this is what he tells himself every time he brushes the soot of the world off his clean, pressed suit coat.