Enrico Juarez

Street-Smart Dishwasher

Description:

Seeming: Elemental

Kith: Waterborn

Motley: Los Locos

Court: Summer

Mental Attributes: Intelligence 1, Wits 3, Resolve 2

Physical Attributes: Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2

Social Attributes: Presence 3, Manipulation 2, Composure 3

Mental Skills: Computer 2, Investigation 2

Physical Skills: Athletics 1, Brawl (boxing) 4, Stealth 2, Weaponry (switchblade) 2

Social Skills: Empathy 1, Persuasion 3, Socialize 2, Streetwise 4 (rumors), Subterfuge 1

Merits: Mantle 1 (summer), Allies 2 (Bethany Wolfe), Contacts 2 (Hispanic community, gangsters), Language 2 (English)

Contracts: Elements (water) 4, Fleeting Summer 1

Willpower: 5

Clarity: 7

Virtue: Charity

Vice: Greed

Initiative: 6

Defense: 3

Armor: Bomber Jacket (1/0)

Weapons: Switchblade 0 (L), P

Speed: 10

Size: 5

Health: 7

Wyrd: 1

Max Glamour: 10

Pledges: 1 (The Motley Pledge)

Frailty: Can’t swim without wearing a crucifix

Seeming Blessing: Once per day, spend a point of glamour to add the Changeling’s Wyrd to their Health Score

Seeming Curse: No 10-again on dice pools involving the Manipulate Attribute.

Kith Blessing: Waterborn hold the Gift of Water: the player can spend one point of Glamour to allow the changeling to swim at a terrific rate (twice the character’s speed rating) and breathe water. The changeling cannot breathe air for the remainder of the scene, but an additional point of Glamour may be spend to end the effect.

Bio:

Bethany walked into the foggy kitchen of the Bellagio, and her sunglasses fogged up. She was momentarily blown away by the smells: her nose was, after all, a bit more sensitive than those of the people who worked there. She walked with purpose, like she knew where she was going. The short skirt and showy blouse drew a few glances from the Hispanic dishwashers turning to catch an eyeful of the good-looking chica in the kitchen. She stopped short at the industrial-sized dish-dryer, next to a young man reeking of chlorine.

“Como esta, Enrico?”

The man turned around, and his face broke into a grin. The sweat on his head beaded off and trickled down light green arms. His eyes were pupil-less pools of dark water. His teeth were the light pink of living coral. And the Mask hid all of it from his camaradas in the kitchen.

“Como esta, Lobo? You need something, am I right?”

Bethany nodded. Enrico looked at the clock pinned above the steaming line of dishes. A quick exchange with his neighbor in Spanish, and the two stepped outside through a door labeled “Emergency Exit Only”. Enrico propped it open with a brick left to the side for exactly that purpose.

Bethany (she hated being called ‘Beth’, so I guess I should oblige her) fumbled in her purse for a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to Enrico, but he declined, seemingly content to suck in the polluted, 105 degree air of the Las Vegas strip.

“It’s about Pat. He’s dead,” Bethany mumbled around Marlboro, “and all I’ve got for who did it was that same fucking graffiti from that ‘squito case eleven months ago.”

She blew out the smoke. “Lamb of God. Any thoughts?”

Enrico chewed his lower lip for a moment, staring into the middle distance. He steamed, more than anything else around them. Water puddled at his feet.

“Well, there’s one thing. A friend of my cousin Paolo, okay? He’s usually with the Tijuana group, right? But lately he gets himself some armas, si, from Los Zetas? And he wants to get rid of them, si? And he finds a buyer…”

Bethany was listening intently. Enrico tended to ramble his way to the appropriate answer. You just had to let him go.

“So he sells these weapons, right, to this padre from down in Henderson. Not a Jesuit padre, you know, a Protestante. This guy, he has one of those big old megachurches, right? And he buys these escopetas from my cousin’s friend, and he knows him because his nephew goes to his church.”

Enrico paused, and looked intently at Bethany. “This was maybe two months ago. And he paid cash.”

Bethany ground the cigarette butt under her heel, picked it up, and threw it in a nearby trashcan. “Well, that’s kind of helpful, but not tremendously. There’s about five thousand motherfucking stadium churches down South, filled with would-be Ted Haggards. You know the name of the church?”

Enrico told her. Wolfe’s whiskers twitched and she growled in the back of her throat.

“Oh, shit.”

“Well said, seƱora.”

Enrico Juarez

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