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Dossier

  • DESIGNATION 5T3PF02D (Stepford).
    ALIAS Chip, Charlie, Charles, Charlton.
    MODEL H.I.T. Android, Infiltrator.
    CREATED February 2nd, 1954.
    MANUFACTURE Technocratic Union.

    APPARENT AGE Late twenties to early thirties.

    SEX Masculine build, lacks genitalia.
    GENDER Identifies and presents as masculine. (He/him).
    ORIENTATION Confirmed bachelor.
    STATUS Emphatically polyamorous.

    HEIGHT Six feet, eight inches.
    BUILD Broad mesomorph, classic v-shape.
    COMPLEXION Fair, cold undertones.
    HAIR Champagne blond. Neatly coiffed.
    EYES Pale, luminous blue. Glow can be reduced or eliminated when necessary.

    DISTINGUISHING FEATURES A bronze endoskeleton which shows through artful gaps in his synthetic skin. Can be covered with more when necessary.
    SCARS Nicks here and there. A scattering of buckshot across his hip, repaired with sealant but still visible.

    MALFUNCTION(S) Some form of damage to his vocal processor has left him with a distinctly synthetic sounding voice. It is low and gritty, characterized by an uncomfortably electronic reverb and pneumatic whine. Has an occasional tendency to mechanically click and stutter, and will sometimes skip syllables.
  • Chip stops pacing. He pauses—wondering, rather transparently, when he'd even started.

    He presses a fist to his mouth, audibly and artificially clearing his throat. His Adam's apple doesn't bob in the slightest, and the sound has more than a little in common with a static burst.

    It's Ginger who pulls him out of it. She always does. Her casually cutting remark brings an equally cutting grin to his face. Quick. White. Sharp as a knife. He rests a hand on his hip, leaning down to address her, where she's perched atop the mattress. "Oh, always. But you have to make it-t-t-t really filthy, d-d-darling. You know how I am. Really slut it up." There's such a naked acidity in his tone that it's easy to assume he's taken offense—but his smile is unwavering, and there's something like humour in his eyes. Neither he nor Ginger, at least, seem troubled by the way his voice skips.

    He straightens, brushing the front of a rust-and-goldenrod cardigan that even the most avid retroist designer should never have brought back. "Silas," he says to the man on the bed, sounding perilously carefree. "You're paying me back already. You're mine for a month, pet." Something clicks coldly in his neck, when he cocks his head, fixing an unblinking stare on the unfortunate vagrant.

    A long moment passes.

    "Glitter, definitely, " he concludes, turning back to Ginger.

  • Be gay, do crime!