Beatrix "Sasha" Marshall
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"I couldn't tell you Why she felt that way She felt it every day I couldn't help her I just watched her make The same mistakes again What's wrong, what's wrong now Too many, too many problems Don't know where she belongs Where she belongs She wants to go home but nobody's home That's where she lies broken inside With no place to go, no place to go To dry her eyes, broken inside..." |
Nature: | Addict | Demeanor: | Survivor | Willpower: |
4 |
ATTRIBUTES
Strength: | 2 | Charisma: | 2 | Perception: | 4 |
Dexterity: | 3 | Manipulation: | 4 | Intelligence: | 2 |
Stamina: | 2 | Appearance | 2 | Wits: | 2 |
ABILITIES | |||||
Alertness: | 3 | Animal Ken: | 0 | Academics: | 0 |
Athletics: | 2 | Crafts: | 0 | Computer: | 0 |
Brawl: | 1 | Drive: | 0 | Finance: | 0 |
Dodge: | 1 | Etiquette: | 1 | Investigation: | 1 |
Empathy: | 2 | Firearms: | 0 | Law: | 1 |
Expression: | 0 | Melee: | 1 | Linguistics: | 1 |
Intimidation: | 1 | Performance: | 1 | Medicine: | 2 |
Leadership: | 0 | Security: | 2 | Occult: | 0 |
Streetwise: | 3 | Stealth: | 2 | Politics: | 0 |
Subterfuge: | 2 | Survival: | 1 | Science: | 0 |
Psychic Vampirism: | 2 | Pyrokinesis: | 1 | Celerity | 1 |
Presence: | 1 |
BACKGROUNDS | |||||
Allies: | 2 | Contacts: | 3 | ||
OTHER TRAITS | ||||||
Awareness: | 2 | Seduction: | 4 |
Merits | Flaws |
Flirt | Addiction: Cocaine |
Great Liar | Phobia: Wolves |
Romantic Notions | |
Criminal Record: Prostitution |
Specialties:
Manipulation: Playing People
Seduction: Whoring
Blood-Bound to Ammon Black
Allies: Her allies are Candice "Candy" Warde,
a street whore who occasionally lets her stay at her place...but only from
time to time, when the other woman's pimp doesn't know. The other one is her
heroin and coke dealer, Bret Emery Harrison, a student at Columbia
University. He's an ally because he will occasionally give her a score, in
return for a couple hours of exceptionally rough sex (which usually leaves
her with a few Health Levels worth of Bashing Damage).
Contacts: Her contacts are a beat cop, Shaun
Gallagher, who occasionally tips her off to sweeps or other notable
information in return for a trick, and Trina Houston, another whore who
keeps her up to date on all the wierd shit that goes down.
Flaws:
Phobia (Wolves): Sasha was told by her ex-boyfriend, Micah, about Garou. He
died under mysterious cricumstances, and she's convinced they killed him
because of it, and she's scared to death of anything Garou-like (even
regular wolves scare the piss out of her).
Romantic Notions: Sasha believes (perhaps rightly so) that her new life as a
ghoul is light-years better then her old one. There was too much pain and
trauma in her old life, and she's slavishly devoted to Ammon.
Addiction (Cocaine): Sasha went through most of her life as a heroin junkie.
Micah Carrington fixed her of that, but when he died, she moved in with
Alexia Rottersheim. Alexia was a cocaine user, and she soon found herself
falling back on old habits; in this case, she transferred her addiction to
Lexi's drug of choice, out of ease of availability.
Description:
Old Description:
This is what youth looks like when it's been tossed into a blender and set
to "puree." Dressed in a dingy white T-Shirt with a picture of a pixie on it
that's tied into a knot a few inches above the waist, a pair of worn jeans,
and an old pair of sneakers, the young woman is very much a child of the
streets. She can't be much older then the mid-20's, and her black hair,
stringy and a little knotted, frames a youthful face that projects a
simultaneous world-weary cynicism and innocent flirtatiousness. Her eyeliner
is a bit heavy, circling blue eyes slightly dulled by years on the streets.
New Standard Description:
This is what youth looks like when it's been tossed into a blender and set
to "puree." Dressed in a red And black lace trim cami, a pair of blue jeans,
and a newish pair of shoes, the young woman looks very much like a child of
the Modern Age, worn down by life. She can't be much older then the
mid-20's, and her black hair, shoulder-length and straight, frames a
youthful face that projects a simultaneous world-weary cynicism and innocent
flirtatiousness. Around her neck is a small, tasteful silver chain.
Her make-up is just a hint toward overdone, with a vague impression toward
being fairy-like. Her eyeliner is a bit heavy, circling blue eyes slightly
hazed by whatever designer drug she's taken, desperate to have a good time.
Weapons:
A knife, about three-inches long, that she uses in defense, in a last-case
scenario. (Str+1L damage)
Equipment:
Several sets of "sexy" clothes (bought by Ammon Black)
Her knife
Cell phone
Usually, a tap or two of ecstacy
History:
"What, you wanna know my life?"
She
took a drag off of her cigarette, leaning against the wall of the subway
stop, and looked my way. Christ, the girl's only 21, 22 tops...how much can
it be? My eyes passed over her, and I couldn't help but appreciate. Was she
attractive? No, I wouldn't go that far. But she wasn't ugly, either, and she
obviously knew the game. The way she leaned, hips jutted out slightly...that
slightly-impish look in the eyes. Yeah, she was a pro, however long she'd
been out here. I nodded to her.
"Yeah, I do." An index finger pushed the glasses up my nose, and I looked
around furtively. "I'm doing an article for the Times about teenage
prostitutes, and their reliance in the drug culture."
"Ah ha." She nodded, smirking a bit. "And what makes you think I'm into
drugs?" She looked me up and down, a little derision in her face. "What, the
poor little whore must've been a druggie to get where she is, is that it?"
"N-n-no," I stammered out, shaking my head. "I'm sorry, I just...that was
wrong of me. Sorry to take up your time."
I turned, starting to leave, but her voice stopped me. "Price is the same,
whether you're fucking me or coughing up my autoibiography. A hundred
bucks."
I blink...that was unexpected. I was hoping she'd go for fifty, or even
twenty. At my hesitance, though, she gets that look in her eyes...that
derision and self-pity. She must think I have no respect for her
whatsoever...after all, I just assumed she was on drugs. A nod, and I fish
out a couple fifties, handing them out. They're gone before I totally extend
my hand, snatched up and stuffed into a pocket.
"Perfect." She grins, taking the last drag off her cigarette and flicking it
away. "So, you want from just the drugs onward, or the whole shebang?"
"But...you said you didn't do drugs."
"No, I asked what made you think I was into them." She grins like the cat
who has the canary right in her mouth. "You assumed I didn't."
I blink, as I realize she's right. Damn, she's good. Guilted me into paying
up. With a sigh, I look at her. "For a hundred bucks, you'd better give me
the whole story."
She smirks, and nods. "All right, Poindexter. You asked for it." She flicks
the cigarette away, out into the street, and begins.
"First off, my name ain't Sasha. You're probably not surprised by that,
right? I mean, I'm hardly the first girl you've run into and
interviewed...few of us actually us our real names. Name's Beatrix Marshall.
Born and raised in Belmont, New York Population 952. That's big enough to be
the County Seat for Alleghany County, if you can fuckin' believe that shit.
Mom was a lawyer, Dad was the mayor. Yeah, we had it good...as good as
anyone in piss-fuck suburbia can have it, at least. Oh, except for Mommy's
cocaine habit. Yeah, that wasn't quite so good. Or Daddy's fucking his
scretaries on the side. His male secretaries. His 16 and 17-year-old male
secretaries. Yeah. That kinda sucked."
She grins a little and reaches toward me. I frown and start to back away,
but she's too fast, and she plucks the pack of cigarettes out of my shirt
pocket and steals one, before putting the rest in the pocket of her black
hoodie. I could protest, but it's kind of pointless at this point. She
lights the cigarette, and moves on.
"So, anyway. Mayor Daddy Marshall got himself caught with his dick in the
ass of an intern--this one was 15, by the way--and that was pretty much it
for the fam. Daddy went away to jail, Mom lost her law practice. And we
found ourselves, very quickly, livin' on the streets, doing what we could to
survive. I was..." She pauses a moment, thinking. "Nine, I think? Something
like that."
"Why didn't your mother try and get another job?"
"Oooh, good question." She rolls her eyes. "The woman was a cokehead,
retard. She was too busy looking for the next fix to actually give a damn
about paying for the fix." A drag off the cigarette. "Anyway, we found
ourselves on the street, and pretty soon, Mommy Dearest forgot all about me.
Of course, maybe it was the massive bleeding from the gunshot wound to the
head that did it. Mom tried to steal some coke...dumb bitch. And she found
herself in a dumpster. I was ten now, and I had no way of surviving, except
for the obvious. Of course, that wasn't obvious to me. It was obvious to the
guy who took me in and pimped me out, though."
"At ten??"
A snort comes from her. "What, you think that's young? Shit, I've seen
eight-year-olds pimped out, to the right people who can afford them. Yeah,
ten. And I stayed with my pimp for a good six years, too. 'Big Ace,' he went
by. Honestly, not a bad man, if you get past the fact that he was profiting
off a pre-adolescent's snatch. Kept me safe, gave me food, never fucked me
himself. He was a fairly honorable man, as pimps go. Only even ever hit me
once. Sure, he hit me hard enough to break my arm, but at least he got it
fixed."
I do my best not to look disgusted. "So why did you, ah, leave?"
She shrugs. "Didn't leave. Big Ace found out that a Full House beats
Ace-High. See, the full house was the gangbangers he pissed off by trying to
deal in his neighborhood. And Ace and I both were high as a kite hanging off
the Stature of Liberty's big ol' flame when they busted in. They capped Ace,
beat me senseless. Docs said I was raped five or six times...I don't recall,
though. Probably a good thing, if I stopped to think about it." The
casualness with which she's saying all of this is just stunning. "Stayed in
the hospital for about two months, before being released to Child Services.
They were able to hold me for about a week before I got away."
"Why didn't you stay with the CSD?" I frown. "They could have helped you."
She snorts again. "Oh, yeah, 'cause foster care's where it's at, right? I
tell you want, Smart Guy. Why don't you take a survey of how many kids in
foster care are still virgins, thanks to their new parents? How many don't
have broken bones from not cleaning up the dishes right?" There's an anger
there, suddenly, that surprises me. She shakes her head, expression dark.
"No, bullshit. At least on the streets, I had a say on who got my ass, and
made money off of it. Not some drunk 45-year-old electrician named Steve
with a wifebeater and one too many Hamm's in him."
"All right, all right." I try to be calming, but I sound more scared. "So
then what?"
She takes a drag of the cigarette, quickly calming. "Well...I was in Albany
by this point, but not making shit. There's a certain market for the young
types, and oddly, Albany didn't have it. So I hitch-hiked my way into New
York City. And once here, I found a LOT of work."
"Uh huh." She actually seemed pleased at that...how sad. "And when was
this?"
"Five years ago."
"Got it." He nods. "And since then, you've been prostituting, and on drugs,
as well, I assume?"
A shrug, as if it should be obvious. "Well, yeah. Not much else for me to
do. Don't have a skill. And drugs are just a part of the business, you
know?" She glances around the subway stop, then back to him.
"I see. And what drugs do you use, as a general rule?"
"Smack." There it is, just like that. The girl just tossed off that she was
a heroin user, as easily as one might say that they say that their eyes were
blue, or their hair was black. "Also a little coke on the side."
"Why heroin?"
"Why not?" She looks me over, that defensiveness flashing back into her
face. "What, would it be better if I just did pot or X? Shit, man,
sometimes, you get hurt. Bad. Heroin kills the pain."
"Until you get hooked on it."
She just responds to that with a shrug, and flicks the second cigarette butt
away. It flies onto the subway tracks. "So, here I've been, since 2000,
working and trying to make a living. Not the most fun job in the world, but
hey, you survive however you can, right?" Her eyes flick back to me. "We
done here?"
I nod, with a sigh. "Yeah, I think we're done. Thank you, Sasha. You have a
nice day."
A derisive chuckle escapes her lips. "Yeah, you two, Poindexter. Have fun
with writing that article." She watches me as I head off, shaking my head.
Poor girl. She's had a rough life, it sounds like. I can't help but feel
pity for her, as I head back home, to do some research. This was going to be
one hell of a story.
Article in the New York Times, dated 6/18/93
BELMONT MAYOR COMMITS SUICIDE OVER MOLESTATION SCANDAL
Belmont Mayor William Marshall committed suicide, one day after allegations
came to light that he had sexually molested his adopted daughter for several
years. Marshall took his own life with a .38 revolver during a press
conference, with his wife Alice and daughter Beatrix nearby, after claiming
Beatrix had 'sucked his will dry and turned him into a monster.' Mother and
daughter were under police protection following the incident...
And so Sasha found herself in New York City, the homeless junkie, selling
herself for a high. Things progressed along normally, until a streak
of bad luck hit. After insulting an albino woman at a carnival, she
found herself in a rash of horrible luck. She was tripping, clients
weren't calling...she nearly got raped by a Voodoo priest who was trying to
get her to work for a pimp he knew. She found a friend of sorts,
though, in Gunther Berg, a dealer who was willing to sell her shit.
Through Gunther, she met Ita, a well-known prostitute...and through Ita, she
became re-acquainted with an old friend, Micah Carrington.
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On her way to NYC |