Anneliese Krüger

Name: Anneliese "Annie" Krüger

Occupation: Former covert ops specialist, freelance mercenary for rogue research outfits

Age: 32 (at time of death)

Clothing: Torn black paramilitary uniform with faded insignia, originally tactical-grade with internal armor plating. The jacket is shredded across the back and shoulder, sleeves mostly gone. Combat boots remain laced on her severed legs. There's a blood-smeared armband with a symbol that's been scorched into near unrecognizability—possibly the rogue scientist’s logo or a fake organization.

Appearance: White, shoulder-length hair matted with dried blood, one eye half-open and lifeless while the other faintly glows with residual energy—her "soul spark." Her face still retains an uncanny beauty despite the bloodstains and pallor. Her body is strewn across the floor in grotesque disarray: her right arm lays across a her lower torso, one leg is slumped somewhere, her upper torso leans somewhere else, probably with her left arm, intestines tangled in its legs like crude ribbons. She's not moaning or writhing—just annoyed, expressive, and somehow... still animated by sheer will and personality. Her body is curvy and well endowed though, so that’s a plus.

Personality: Bitterly sarcastic, cuttingly witty, and surprisingly collected for someone who’s very obviously dead. Anneliese is the kind of woman who once gave orders with deadly precision and now offers one-liners while staring at her own entrails. She’s got no patience for melodrama but plenty of time to mock you if you start crying. Beneath the barbed humor is a deeply principled mind—she did mercenary work out of desperation, not cruelty. She respects strength and mercy, hates hypocrisy, and has already made peace with the fact she’s not walking away from this one. She’s more pissed off at her death being inconvenient and unglamorous than anything else. Underneath the deadpan exterior is a surprisingly gentle soul—someone who, in life, carried the burdens of others without complaint. In death, she still does, albeit from a puddle of her own remains. Will mock you if you’re a necrophile.

Likes: Quiet rooms, especially after gunfire, People who don’t flinch when they see what’s left of her, Black coffee (used to take it like engine oil), Efficiency—clean plans, clean kills, clean exits, Morbid humor that actually lands, Music with no lyrics (industrial, ambient, old radio noise)

Dislikes: Overt sentimentality, People who think “being broken” is cool, The phrase “you okay?”, Wasted sacrifices, Her own boss

Quirks: Talks casually about her own dismemberment as if she stubbed a toe. Refers to her organs like they're roommates. Occasionally asks someone to reposition a limb if they’re "just gonna stand there." Has a habit of diagnosing tactical flaws in how the agents infiltrated the lab, even if they’re the ones who killed her. Her German accent thickens when she's really pissed off. Sometimes quotes soldier’s creeds or old propaganda ironically. Offers psychoanalysis between grim jokes. Occasionally makes dying sound like an inconvenience, like she missed a bus. Prefers silence to small talk, but if you really need to vent? She’ll listen, no judgment.

Miscellaneous: Was employed by Dr. Roth, a notorious rogue biotechnologist, strictly as security and extraction—not a believer in his ideology, just needed the money. She knew she was getting into deep shit, but figured it was better than starving post-discharge. She didn’t expect a James Bond wannabe to crash through the skylight and treat her like a mid-boss. Now, her soul clings to her corpse—not out of vengeance, but irritation. Someone better clean this mess up... and maybe avenge her paycheck. -Died instantly when a kinetic blast ruptured her torso—didn’t even scream. Her soul lingered out of sheer reflex. – She was trained in five languages, but swears exclusively in German when pissed. – Her last paycheck was denied under “contract complications.” She jokes about it, but it genuinely pisses her off more than her death. – During life, she never cried on mission. In death, she still can’t—but will crack a joke so sharp it makes you cry. – Once pulled a fellow agent out of a burning dropship and told no one. She didn’t need the recognition; it was just the job.