Soren Croft

Soren was six when her family was purged out of Sector Zero's sewer-worker underclass, and she remembers nothing of the inside. On the day of the ramps she was a small, thin child of 115 cm and 20 kg with both her arms, short dark hair cut ragged round her ears and not a mark on her, in a grimy work coat cut down from a sewer worker's overalls. She grew up in the viaducts of the Roach Warren with Roach as the nearest thing to a father, and the sewers have aged her hard: at thirty she looks nearer forty, her pale, sun-starved skin, spattered with oil and grease, lined early around a permanent feral sneer, her dark intense brown eyes ringed with fatigue and pain. She stands 168 cm and a wiry 60 kg, moving with coiled aggression and the asymmetrical balance she is still relearning, for the amputation is less than a year old. Her asymmetric jacket of black-brown leather with faded denim-blue canvas panels has no left sleeve; under it she wears a high-necked black undershirt with mustard-yellow seams, and her charcoal cargo trousers carry a mustard-yellow stripe the full length of each outer leg. The missing sleeve leaves bare the heavily scarred, puckered, cauterized stump at her left shoulder socket, and jagged shrapnel pockmarks scatter her left collarbone. Her messy undercut is hacked into jagged, choppy spikes, bleached with a lye-and-ash paste and dyed with salvaged indigo months ago and since grown out, near-black at the roots and turning a deep blue halfway along each spike to the tips, a few streaks left bleached bone-white. She has no tattoos. An analog coiled wire headset rests around her neck for trench comms. She fights close with a ceramic karambit in her lone right hand, a black zirconia hooked blade sharper than any steel and brittle as glass, its edge chipped from years of misuse; she has snapped more than one and ground a new one each time. In a bandolier across her chest ride talon kunai, weighted leaf-shaped throwing spikes she forges from rebar, which she throws with one flick and scavenges back off the floor afterwards. Coiled at her belt she carries tungsten bolas, three weights on braided cords, which she throws one-handed at a weapon still in its swing.

She lives in the Warren as Roach's fiercest lieutenant, leading salvage sweeps and convoy ambushes. She fights with feral hatred against everything the inside society built: the machine that took her arm, the Syndicate that hoards the water, and every old-worlder who looks at her with pity.