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| .: Jack In :. | wrx://characters/handle | ||||||||||||||||||||
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.: Caesare :. | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Player | GM |  |
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| Name | Ceasar DiMarco | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Streetname | Caesare | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Archetype | Mafia Soldier | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Race | Human | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Sex | Male | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Date of Birth | 16/01/2032 | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Status | Healthy | ||||||||||||||||||||
| SIN | None | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Description | Caesar DiMarco is built like a brick shithouse. His shoulders are broad and rounded by all the natural muscles and his neck is as thick as a normal man's thigh. It doesn't look like things are out of proportion though, due to his respectful 6 foot 4 inches he has the physique of a gymast instead of a body builder. Caesare [Che-za-reh] a third generation immigrant whose great-grandfather came from North Italy has very solid Italian genes which is prominent in his appearance. His olive coloured skin, deep brown eyes betray his heritage. He keeps his hair fairly short and unkempt. His face is rather crude and unrefined. In a time where beauty is affordable through accessible, reconstructive surgery, there's something very attractive and heroic about imperfection. |
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| Personality | Caesare DiMarco is a sociopath. He feels on the most extreme emotions. He has no grey area when it comes to emotions. Completely detached, or loving like there's no tomorrow. At a point in his life, after swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other end for the bazillionth time that week, he decided that he had enough. Enough of the emotional rollercoaster he was on all the time. Black, white. Stop, go. On, off. Up, down. He knew what was wrong. He had long since realized, together with all the other odd things about him, like his unnatural ability to take a severe beating without too much problem, that he had the ability to pick up people's feelings. It was just something he was always good at...reading people. In reading people he could react well to people. If people were in a good mood, he'd be in a good mood and if the weren't, he wasn't. Meeting as many people in the Sprawl as you do, there was no rest for him. He decided to shut it all off, ignore it all. He decided to force himself into detachment. Only every now and then, either when he's angry or comfortable, does real emotion come through. His sociopathic behavior was born and cultivated in his childhood. Losing his father, seeing his mother deteriorate, all the violence. Caesare has a rapsheet that fills several security corps files, here are some of his aliasses: He's known as "Knuckles diMarco" in New York, for winning the Golden Gloves Championship. In Boston, he's known as "Ceasar the Blue" for always being so apathetic. Sometimes known as "Ceasar the Babe" for his rugged handsomenss, or "Baby Blue". In Seattle, he's known for the "Barstool Basher", or "Barstool", for beating a man to death for interrupting a caporegime's pleasant conversation with a woman at a bar. Also known as "The Bomber" for his penchant for explosives, or "Caesare the Linguist" for his uncanny ability to pick up a language. He's known to speak several languages nearly fluently, due to his excessive involvement with other ethnic syndicates. Here's a list of the languages we know he speaks: Cantonese >>>>>[Chinese guys like to fuck with you by talking Chinese in your face while they are discussing you with a buddy or while they are telling you what to do. It's a superiority thing. Solution: learn their language. I was around Fong, God bless him, long enough to pick it up. I dunno, I just have a knack for languages.]<<<<<English >>>>>[Do we need to discuss this?]<<<<<French >>>>>[Good way to charm the ladies, it's easy enough since it's a lot like Italian...I've got the means to learn it, so I thought what the fuck?]<<<<<Italian >>>>>[My daddy's tongue.]<<<<<Japanese >>>>>[Inescapable as soon as you get in touch with the Yaks. It's been a while since I've spoken it but being in Seattle helped rekindle the flame.]<<<<<Russian >>>>>[I did some work for the ruskies, it was looking like I'd work for them for a while, so I thought I'd pick it up. It went fairly easy...they don't call me the Linguist for nothing, you know?]<<<<< Very ambitious, but not very obvious about it, and judging by his linguistic skills he has the brain to match the brawn. If he doesn't get clipped, he'll make a great leader some day. |
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| History | Ceasar DiMarco was born in a fourth floor walk-up in Hell's Kitchen, New York City, on the sixteenth of januari, 2032 to Guiseppe and Anna DiMarco. For the twelve years of his life, Ceasar made his home between 14th and 52nd Street and 8th Avenue and the Waterfront. His father, a SINless, worked himself to death at the docks for scraps and his mother was doing a lot better as a dancer at one of the clubs in China Town. Life was...shakey...but managable. When Guiseppe suffered a terrible accident where a crate fell on him while unloading one of the large cargo ships that frequently sailed into the harbor, he was patched up by a local streetdoc. "Patched" is the right word to use in this instance because the doctor did nothing but make sure Guiseppe didn't bleed to death. For the longest time Guiseppe was at home recuperating from his wounds. Guiseppe, being a fairly handsome and strong individual, recovered from the injuries quite quickly, seemingly without permanent damage and he went back to work soon. After a couple of weeks he began noticing that both his legs didn't immediately react to his commands. When he would decide to take a step his legs would only follow half a second later. Also, he began losing feeling in both of his legs...but he attributed both to the freezing weather that had been terrorizing New York City that winter. After his condition worsened over the next couple of weeks, Guiseppe stayed home with an internal infection to his spine. He couldn't work anymore so Anna decided that it became time to follow up some of the customers' offers for paid sex. Apparently in a world where sex is but a few Matrix commands away there are still people willing to pay good money for real flesh, even with the chance of catching some of the many sexually transmitted diseases that are plaguing the lower rungs of society. During all this time Ceasar was left with his father as he grew more and more emaciated. He had refused food for nearly two weeks and threw up constantly. He had cracked several ribs and lost control of most of his lower body due to paralysis...that includes his bowel control. Ceasar tried to clean up after him, but there was only so much an eight year old was able to do. His mother would come stumbling in early in the morning, weak, completely strung out, tired. Sometimes the needles were still sticking out from the inside of her arm, sometimes she had cuts and bruises. Ceasar would have to take care of her as well. It was more than he could handle. He left. When he came home, several days later, his father had died and his mother wasn't there. He, together with a neighbour brought the body to the large dumpsters a little down the street. The city trash collectors would take the garbage to the dump in Cattaraugus County and that would be his father's burial ground. Two days later his mother walked in the door, surprisingly sober. When asked, Ceasar told that his father had died. His mother turned around and left. Ceasar was a handsome, strong and intelligent child, so he didn't have anything to fear from the neighborhood gangs, since they knew him well. Also, he was lucky that some of the neighbors were sympathetic towards him. He could be left alone for a couple of days. He didn't see much of his mother over the next couple of years. He'd find her passed out in the hallway, in the middle of the night and he'd take her cred from her and hid it, she'd wake up later and forget she was even supposed to have cred. He used the money to buy himself clothing, food and some weapons to protect himself with. One night, Ceasar's walking the streets of New York, looking for his mother in the usual places. He's hungry and desperate for some food, most of the markets have closed for the night and regular Stuffer Shack stores are just to damned risky. You never know when some old Korean guy sudden pulls out a Warhawk and blows you away, so he decided to search for dear ole mommy. He found her in the backroom of one of the stripjoints she worked at, together with a colleague, another strung out junkie like his mother, putting on a show for eight guys. She was "servicing" them with about as much enthusiasm as a wet screamsheet and as he was watching the depraved thing unfold he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He felt the excitement of the men standing around the two while they were laying naked on the floor stuffing Fizzy Pop bottles where they didn't belong. He felt the emptiness in the girl his mother was with. Then he felt his mothers...she was longing...longing for it to be over...longing for her next fix. She couldn't wait to get these guys off, get her cred and get to her dealer in order for her to take a dirty needle and further poison her already infected, track-marked, bruised right arm. At the age of 12 Ceasar left...for good this time. Ceasar jumped an automated cargo train and headed for Boston. He took whatever belongings were worth anything and took them to the local pawn shop. With the little money he had, he'd be able to survive on the streets of New York for a bit, but he was sick and tired of Hell's Kitchen and all the memories it carried. He hoped Boston would be a place where he would find some work. The first thing he tried was getting work at the waterfront, but he found himself vying for the same job as many other young boys, but these guys were Trogs mostly, a lot stronger than he, and more capable of pulling their load. After a couple of days of wandering the streets Ceasar was aproached by an older Chinese man who asked him to run an errant for him. He did so and the man took him to a small restaurant and gave him food and a little bit of cred. Over the next few months Ceasar started doing more and more errants for the man. The man's name was Fong Wan and he seemed like a nice enough fellow. He gave Ceasar a packages and the packages had to be delivered throughout the sprawl, sometimes even in weird suburbs where only the rich people lived. One day Fong Wan gave him a package that was supposed to be brought to a warehouse in a market district close to the harbor. He found the place easy enough...he had seen the market a lot of the times when he needed to steal food during the days he was still looking for a job at the docks. The street was lined on both sides with stalls whose proprietors sold virtually anything they could get their hands on. It was always crowded and it made for a good environment to steal things. Also, if you were fast and nimble you could make a good getaway without getting caught either in the crowd or the many patch-cables that run everywhere. At the side of one of side streets was the warehouse, no longer in use, he walked up to one of the large metal, grafitti covered doors and knocked on it. He didn't really expect the door to be opened, seeing as how it had weather beaten posters up for performances that had been scheduled three or more years ago at clubs that had either been closed down, burned down or shot up. Surprisingly the door opened and there was a heavy set, short man with a fat cigar sticking out of his mouth behind the door. He looked at Ceasar and said: "You look Italian, kid? Where ya from?" "Hell's Kitchen, New York." "Heh...a paesano, eh? Well, I never knew ole Fong used white kids. Ya got sumthin' for me?" he said while scratching himself behind the ear. Ceasar handed him a small package wrapped tightly in a bunch of ducttape. The man took it and turned away from him. Before closing the door, the man hesitated and turned around. "Whacha name, kid?" "Ceasar, sir." "Caesare? Good name, kid. A good name." and the door closed. Ceasar walked out of the sidestreet into the crowded market street. He was about a hundred yards into the market street back towards the main street when he suddenly heard a terrible, thunderous roar. He whirled around and saw a barrier of distortion in the air shoot out from the sidestreet, shattering all the glass windows it passes, knocking over people and sending debris flying through the streets as if a hurricane had hit the coast of Boston. A riot broke out in the market street. People holding their heads, blood spilling out of their ears, people taking the opportunity the chaos offered to steal things. Awestruck, Ceasar looked at the chaos. At the damage. At the power of such a little package. Slowly as the years crept by, Ceasar climbed in rank and got more and more opportunity to show his skills and intelligence off. Old Fong got geeked and Ceasar moved to the Russian mob for a couple of years. He never got involved too deeply in any one of them. He was always "a friend of mine" instead of "a friend of ours". He shaked people's hand, but never talked to them, preferring to work through middle-men he could halfway trust. Everytime his middle-man got geeked, dismissed or the entire gang or organized crime syndicate took a dive, he moved on to the next group that were willing to pay for his services. One such group, the Japanese Hanada Clan, wanted him to go back to NYC to take care of some business. Reluctantly he went. He looked up what had become of his mother and was not surprised to find out she was found two years earlier, frozen to death in an alley, beaten and kicked, raped and pumped full of hallucinogens. Ceasar was a man now...a grown man with a reputation. And quickly after his job was done, he was noticed by the Capriani's. The Capriani's initially wanted him for muscle...and he didn't mind that. He was fairly certain he would work his way up pretty soon...and besides, it was good to be among the paesanos for a while. Good food, good women, good company. As expected Ceasar - or Caesare, among the paesan's - ascended fast through the ranks of the Capriani's. He quickly had a group of muscle underneath him and he became the right hand man of burrow luitenant Giorgio Capriani, the youngest son of Pappa Capriani, underboss of the Andolini family ruling family of West Side Manhattan. They got along well and became friends. Together they entered the Amateur Golden Gloves Championship, which Ceasar won with Giorgio becoming third. Within two years, Ceasar, who by that time was known as Caesare and introduced himself as Caesare, was a made man for the Capriani family. His title: troubleshooter. His hobby: explosives. In 2056 Giorgio, who had slept with the wrong woman...again, was "promoted" to Seattle to work under Don Bigio. Of course Caesare and a few men went along. Though technically the Andolini's and the Bigio's were two familia's working against eachother, the cross-over was a sign of good faith [and a good way to get a bad element out of New York City]. It worked well for a long time, very well. Too well. |
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| Comments |
>>>>>[Extremely dangerous and not burdened with an abundance of scruples. This guy almost makes me believe my outfit's press about being the most civilized of the ethnic groups.]<<<<< |
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