Classes¶
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| Name | Description |
|---|---|
| Cybermancer | After the Razz, reality is more of a suggestion than a hard fact. No one knows what the Promethius Cloud unleashed, whether this is some new quantum state of reality in which everything is in a superposition Schrodinger state or some new rules of physics that we just don’t fully understand , but the result is that the old rules no longer apply. More than anything the new state of reality has made it clear that the universe runs I'm a complicated system and the source code has been laid bare to your eyes.And that’s where you come in. You can see the shifting patterns of quantum probability, they are everywhere. Yeah, some people like to call them “mana”, “spiritual energy”, or some other mumbo jumbo, but you recognize them as the echoing resonances of the original Resonance. Some Cybermancers love nothing more than to encourage and amplify the chaos that has come after the resonance and others seemed to make it their mission to try to return things back to normal” (whatever that means). But regardless they are all grabbing twisting and manipulating something that they really don't understand. |
| Netrunner | You move through systems like smoke—quiet, graceful, inevitable. The code bends to your touch, never realizing it’s been rewritten until it’s already yours. Corporate vaults crumble behind polite smiles and phantom keystrokes, and somewhere an IT director feels their career dissolving with the data. But the real thrill isn’t just in the silicon. You know the human mind runs on softer code—fear, pride, loneliness—and you can rewrite that too. Machines are simple; people are the exquisite challenge. |
| Rigger | You don’t just build machines—you raise them. The Rigger is the Maker, the Tinkerer, the Engineer—the soul who sees the world not as it is, but as it could be with the right parts and enough time on the bench. Every Rigger has a workshop somewhere: for some, it’s a pristine cathedral of tools and precision, where every wrench gleams under fluorescent light and nothing is ever out of place. For others, it’s organized chaos—wires draped like ivy, half-built drones humming in the dark, and a workbench only they can navigate. Every Rigger starts by asking one question: what kind of builder are you? And what does your workshop say about you? Most Riggers keep a “day job” that funds their obsession—a cover story that keeps the corporate auditors from asking why so many unregistered servos, capacitors, and prototype AIs keep showing up on their expense reports. Maybe you’re a licensed mechanic, maybe a tech salvager, maybe you just “repair” things that don’t technically belong to you. At the heart of every Rigger’s identity is their Primary Drone—their masterpiece, companion, and canvas. It’s never finished. It grows, evolves, and mutates with each new breakthrough or bad idea. Some are elegant—chrome-winged and graceful as birds. Others are ugly, heavy, loud, and perfect. What does your drone look like? What purpose—or personality—did you design into it? And when the fight starts, who’s really piloting who? |
| Street Samuri | Steel is honest. Flesh lies. You walk the line between the old world’s honor and the new world’s circuitry. Some call you a mercenary, some a relic — they’re both right. You move through the sprawl like a storm wrapped in human skin: clean, efficient, and devastatingly precise. The Street Samurai doesn’t talk about strength; they demonstrate it. Your body is a weapon — sculpted, reforged, upgraded, and tuned past the edge of human tolerance. Every scar is a story, every implant a lesson bought in blood and chrome. You’ve seen what happens when code and conscience mix: it’s not pretty. That’s why you live by your own code — maybe ancient, maybe self-written, but always yours. Corporations build armies; gangs build legends. You build reputation. You fight because someone has to — and because deep down, you still believe that mastery of the blade, the gun, or the body means something in a world that’s sold its soul to machines. Some Street Samurai operate like ghosts, silent and unseen until the moment of violence. Others are thunder — explosive, unstoppable, and poetic in destruction. Neither path is wrong. Both are beautiful. What weapon have you made an extension of yourself? What line will you never cross — and what happens when someone makes you? |
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